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"  The  Story  of  our  Lives  from  Tear  to  Tear." — SHiusp«A«i. 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


CONPDCmi  BT 


CHAELES   DICKENS. 


VOLUME  XSXifl. 

Pbom  Novembeh  24,  1883,  TO  April  26,  1884.' 
InOuding  No.  762  to  No.  804. 


LONDON: 

PUBLISHED  AT'26,  WELLINGTON  STREET,  STRAND. 

1884. 


fTHEKE'-V  YORK 

iOEIi  ^ARV 


%■ 


9 


OKABUS  nlOKHla  ADD  KVAlffi, 

AND  OBTaMI.  P&UCC 


ABBkuoaWsUi   . 
AodtM  Iriib  DuretUKKS    . 

Aoolnl  Ml  Weill 

AidiM  d«l  Sum,  the  Fainter 

ADdrt,  Uijor 


BI7U1,  WntUnghiitinldre   . 

BmhUds  Houas  Somutsa.    A 
BUS/ 


B/raD  (Oil  Chuwocth  Datl 
^rm'i  VunilrTmUtloiis 


Cluriai  the  Fint,  An  loddtnt  (0 
ObtIm  tba  nnt,  KsUUa  lU 

gtudanl  M  NoCUnghun 
Cluria  Ibe  SeaoBd  it  BoKobol    ■ 


ChMpulciths*,  Wortenit       .  421 

CbMUrAeld  VwUt  at  Shelfoid  .  IM 

(Alml  Uie  Fold  .       ...  233 

CUDuun,  Tba  Foot  la  Lonilon  4W 
CUu.    The  IiJplDg  BebelllDn 

"GUiMM Gordon-'    .        .     iM,ni 
OitddIoIm  ol  BngUabCoimtlaa : 
Dtrbnhln      ....    104 
HMthigbuiiailn    .         8ff,  I3,ll>0 
BbnpAlra  .     M6,<9T,  COS 


Cw&ble,  tba  Pib)t«r 

CortiaU  (rf  Shlopafalre 

CMtiga  Ulnlon.  Tbe     !»,  U»,  STS, 

«l^  410,  tet,  4*1,  «14 


CONTENTS. 


CuHlTBtloa  ti  Prult  la  Fnnca  . 


Dhd  WhATtDna  Sugbter.     i. 

BU)i7        ....    t70,  SH 
M  roe,  Daniel  .  . '      .    ao 

Dalacrei  Abbaj',  t«c<nd  of       .    MM 

DaAy «I6 

Darby  China  .  .  .  .  toa 
DerbTgPrinosChariaa'aArniTln  £05 
IMrbT^n,  Chconlclei  at .  .  ttU 
Ibd^'s  vine  to  WiUer  Hall  4XS,  448 


iklorpln'g  1 
met*  lor  tbt 


iiotan.  An 


doltii  Fenanoe 


But  LanitoD,  TraTsls  In  .    tat.  SIB, 

XoeaDtric'caoiora '   .  '    .  '    .  '   Ui 
KogUih  Ooontlaa,  (^mralolsa  of 

tte    ai,  Ts,  uo,  SM,  MS,  va,  sw, 

4eT,  GW 
BiploratloDainSUDi  et 


nb.  Handbook*  Xbont    .       .  826 

life  Italian  Dog*              .       .  IM 

Flitch  at  Baoon  Ciutoni    .      .  Boe 

FlfawHlaok.    K  Story  .      .  ITS 

Tooli,  The  Court                ,       .  t8S 

FDre*t  at  Shenrood  ...  SO 

Forealer*  of  WUlay  Hall        4i£,  448 

Toaawar.    NotUughanuhire  .  4S 


Fraacb,  The,  aud  TonqBlx  M 

rrlToloiu  Gamplalnl*  13 

Frog!  of  India    ....  438 

FnJt  Farming   ....  ISO 

Fruit  Oarden,  A  French    ,       .  ISO 

OioUIII :  An  Artlif  1  Lore  W3,  STS, 


aonmmaat  OlBca  Work  . 
Ureek  Gomod]r,  An  Old  . 
Orub  Street 


HutchUwan,  Colonel . 


Import*  and  Biportt 

India,  Leafing  Loodou  for  ■>: 

India,  FolaoDoai  KapUle*  ol  ISO,  4S» 


ii.,141,  iei,lST,  ^.. 
Jevi.    Legeiut*  at   the   Byna- 

John  Dolbr'i  Qohi  Secret    A 


JohoiOD,  Dr.,  Doljig  Fanaaca  . 
KmiS'Taad.    A  StOTT    . 


LandMotTo-diT 
landlord.    "  Mr.  Ont-Yon-Oo 
Landlorda  and  Tenanta 
L' Angel;,  the  Court  Foal  . 
Leek,  HUtorr  and  iTKUtiona  i 
Legend!  o(  the  Brnagrigae 
"  Leproo*  King,"  The 
UobSel "-'--' 


jiegool      '. 
Ken,  Bacreatlon 


li^Zihn,  ibe  Grave  ot 

"  UttJe  Biitoiv  of  the  Poor  " 

Uairellrn,  Prlnoe  o(  Wale* 

Lombe,  John,  tbe  Inrentor 

London  Clearlngi 

London  WaU 

Lord  Bjron  and  hi*  Uother 

Lord  Lo«el . 

I«ire,  The  Ser.  Kobeit     . 

lUCDLisrinD,     Lord     Chlat 

Jottlce    . 
Magniu,  Thonu 
Uauneia      . 
Manx  Yam  A 
Margaret  of  Va 
Marriage  In  America . 
Marriage  of  the  Ooe 
Malcb-Iioi  UaUnK 
Matlock 


MedlUUoni     In    1 

home 
Mercantile  Maaher 


KlH  Seott'a  dumber  4 

NsvukCuUs    ...  4 

Nswuk-Dpon-Traiit  .  4 

MairMe^Abbay        ...  8 

NottlngbMn  Cutis     ...  IS 
Notllnglum  Market  uid  If uiQ. 

lactnra It 

yotUnghuiuhln,  Chtanldia  of 

W,  7a,  IB 


Uld  Greek  Corned}  Revlycd  .  Ztt 
OldMutenBtBarUiigtaiiBaiue  341 
One  Dtaner  r  Week  — 


Oui  Krench  EVult-aitdeli 
'■  Ont-Yon-Oo  ■'  . 
Owen  Oloadwr  . 
Owthorpe,  Catooel  : 


Paroota  Poet  I>op«ttIn 
Fukjtu,  Str  TbomM . 
Futon  at  Cbalsirortl 
Peak,  Diittlct  ol  the  , 
Peak.  PiTetrii  oI  tbe , 
Potrolemn  . 
Pbeipe,  Mr.,  u 


400.  419.  444,  4«4, 4^,  Sit 
Fortlmd,  Tbs  lata  Duke  ol  81 

FortUnd  Vaee.  Tha  .  .  .MI 
Port  ol  Londao.  The  ...  67 
Poet  Office.  Fuwii  Poet .  .  109 
FolUiiea  ol  StalTonbhln  .        .    IM 

Qanui  Seanoi.  Plaoaa  ^here 
Cmiua  ware  nleed  to  Her 
Memar; 44 

Qneeniluu),  Black  LaboiIT  in   .    BIO 


KABBUli  and  Bnuciiiat   . 
Rannlphthe  "Good" 
EMcWI  Highway 
Beclalnied  bj  KlgU.    A  a 


RsTUOlda,  Sir  Joahaii,  Worki 


Klchard  the  Thlid,  The  Dairi  ol   ts8 
KoUn    Hood   and    Skerwood 

BeUnYBae.    Aatoiy 
Bogw  Uortlmei,  Caplnn 
Boman  Pottenee 
Kamae},  Plctunt  by . 
Jtvbeni,  Plctoraa  br  ■ 
KoHordAbbej  ....      80 
Ro^uBaltie.   SloiTotYitkob    a 


BoiantUc 

Sto^ 
8oorplaiia 


. . ..  Motisten  Ui . 

aheltord.       Tbe     Cbaterfleld 

Vault  Starr  . 
Bbanroed  FiBHt 
Bht[ia  LsBTlna  tbe  Dod 
Shlrt-maksr^nie  Poor 
Bhrewaborr,  Abber  of 
Shrewabmy  Bcbool  . 
Shnnbiu7,  Siege   ot.  In   the 

Shrenbiu;.  The  Battle  of 
abntpehlre,  Chronlelee  ot 
aiameae  PabloB  . 
SUm.    Mouhota  Xxslonttno. 
Stbtlot  the  Fool 


Saako  of  India. 

Borne  Londoa  Clsarluga 
Southwell  Hlnter  ChitfOb 
Sniden  to  India 

of  WlUsr  Halt 


fe  Specalatlana 


Between  Two  Stw 

Boeidinf  Hanae  B, 

Daao  Wtiarton'i  D 

So*  . 

Slrawar  Jack . 

Oeoigle  :    An  Arosi  ■  u>n 

BBS,  879,  104,  428 
Jobn  Dalbjr'i  Oold  Beotet  "* 
rToad  .. 


BoUi  Y  Kee  . 

SdentUo  Biperlmen 
UnDolBhed  Tuk      . 

atrtklogf  Oil      , . 

3tmtt,3ededlah,thel 


Swtbvland,  Lake  DwelUnga  of     1(Q 
SfnaBogns.teeendaof  the       ,    IM 


Thonw  the  Fool  .  :  .  1 
Tbrllt  Had*  CompolMnr  .  .  1 
Tobacco  Ptpea  ....  1 
Tobuae. 'TOe  KOtea  ol  .    I 

Trade.  Xunnd  In    .  .1 

TraTelalntheXaat    .    tm,Stfl,ff.», 
400,  410,  444,  404,  401,  »J 
Trent,  Mottlnaliam,  FIshI-  - '  - 

Trlcjrole  Rundae  .... 
Tndlope,  Aulhoor,  BeonMtloot 


Van  Rrck,  Picture*  br 
Venibn,  Bit'  Oeo^e  . 
Tlnararda,  Tbe  naach 

WAIURQ  Street. 

Wedgwood  Familjr    . 

Wdbeek  Abbey  . 

Welib  Bordw  Towni  and  l.'aeue 

WWtOngtoi^  VUlofle  o(    . 

(Vlgbtman  Biunt  for  Hereay    . 

Wllley  Han,  The  Foreelera  of  424,448 

wniooghlv,  The  Foaiewar  at .    '"* 

WUwD.  Richard,  the  Palntat  . 

Wlnrteld  Manor  H6aae  ' . 

WltcVstatTota      ■      ■ 

WoUitoD,  NottlnghanuIilTe 

Wolieilumpton 

WolTOe  ol  Sherwood  Foreet 

Workup  Manor. 

WnUn  CouDUy,  Aboat  tbe 

WrtaUer.  Bli  T.  Tukjat . 


VuoB  tbe  Fiddler   . 


Swarkeatone  Bridge  . 


fflUlng    . 
WlodVoK 


THE  EXTRA  CHRISTMAS  NUMBER  FOR  1883 

WILL  BE  FOUND   AT   THE   END   OF   THE   VOLUME. 
CONTBNTS    OF   THB   CHRISTMAS    NUMBER. 


n,gt™-..yG00glc 


CDTember  "H,  ISSS-i 


ALL  THE  YEAK  ROUND. 


of  the  head,  he  addresBed  hkn  vitb  focetioos 
deference : 

"I  beg  yere  honour's  parding,  Muter 
Snobby,  but  I  wished  fur  to  ax  you  oa 
yoor  osth,  Bir,  ia  them  the  clothea  yoa  was 
robbed  of  1 " 

The  boy  blinked  sleepily. 

"  I  thought  so,"  looking  again  up  and 
down  the  road.  "  Oh,  the  yonng  varmint  1 
to  take  the  very  clothes  from  his  bonoor's 
back.  Off  with  'em  this  moment  Boots 
first,"  with  a  endden  change  to  savageneas, 
which  set  Archie  unlacing  hia  boots  with 
trembling  fingers. 

Meanwhile  the  tramp  kept  a  sharp  look- 
out on  the  road, 

"Cpat  and  rescoU.  Gome,  sharp's  the 
wopd." 

As  Archie  was  taking  off  hia  coat  and 
waistcoat  the  tramp  caught  &  glimpse  of 
the  blood-atains  on  his  Siixt  He  turned 
the  chUd  round,  and  afber  &  moment's 
examination,  cried  out  with  extorted 
admiratioB : 

"  The  cat  I  Well,  I  never  1  you're  a 
yonng  'un." 

Moved  in  part  by  deference  to  these 
early  ear&ed  marks  of  distinction,  and  in 
part  by  sympathy  with  a  victim  of  their 
common  foe — the  law,  he  turned  to  his  boy 
who  waa  grinning  at  the  spectacle  of 
Archie's  scared  face,  and  bid  him,  with 
another  cuff  on  the  ear,  "give  the  kid  his 
coat."  The  coat  was  not  much  of  a  gift.  It 
was  filthy,  in  rags,  and  a  world  too  wide 
for  Archie,  hut  perhaps  it  was  better  than 
nothing,  and  it  waa  at  least  a  disguise. 

"  It'll  Mde  them  trade-marka, '  he  said, 
handing  Archie  the  bundle  of  rags.  "  'Tian't 
every  policeman  would  be  as  Mnd  as  me. 
When  they  aee  them  brands  on  such  cattle 
as  yon,  they  take  'em  back  to  where  they 
strayed  from,  they  does.  Keep  clear  of 
'em,  do  ye  hear  1  Keep  clear  of  the  police, 
or  they'll  tramp  you  back  to  where  you've 
run  from,  and  get  yon  another  dozen." 

Archie  took  tms  not  altogether  disin- 
terested advice  vary  much  to  heart 

"  There,  cut" 

"Wfaatt"  like  the  esap  of  a  savage 
dog. 

"  Oh,  please,  may  I  have  the  letters  t " 
in  a  faltering  but  imploring  tone. 

The  tramp  sprang  up  ao  suddenly,  and 
with  such  a  tTDmendoua  oath,  that  Archie 
shot  oft'  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow,  while 
the  tramp  looked  afl«r  him,  muttering  ex- 
clamatory curses,  which  waa  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  lai^h  he  allowed  himselt 


Having  then  looked  critically  at  the  boots, 
waistcoat,  and  jacket,  he  rolled  them 
together  in  a  bundle,  gave  an  admonitory 
kick  to  the  woman,  who  was  ataring  still 
straight  before  her  with  a  glisay-eyed 
despair,  and  set  forth,  followed  by  her  and 
the  children,  on  the  road  by  which  Archie 
had  coma  When  he  had  gone  two  miles 
he  met  no  less  a  person  than  Bildad, 
who  stopped  him,  to  ask  excitedly  if 
he  had  seen  a  little  boy  about  nine, 
with  fair  hair,  grey  troneers,  blue  eyes, 
black  jacket  and  waistcoat,  in  hia  night- 
ahirt,  and  withoat  a  cap  1 

The  tramp  might  have  taken  reasooabla 
objection  to  thiB  description  as  at  once 
incoherent  and  inconaiatent,  but  he  didn't. 
On  the  contrary,  he  was  extraordinarily 
polite,  and  said  sullenly,  without  the  use 
of  a  single  curse,  that  "  he  hadn't  met  no 
such  a  boy,  nor  no  aoch  a  man  neither, 
nor  nothing,  nor  nobody,  that  morning 
but  ill-lac^"  scowling  at  Bildad  in  an 
uncomfortably  pwsontd  way. 

"  What  has  he  been  adoing  of,  gaffer  1 " 

"  Runaway  from  school" 

"lionued  away  from  schooil,  boa  hel 
Bad — bad  I  There's  the  police,  now," 
reflectively. 

"  We  sent  at  once  to  the  police,  and 
they're  on  the  look-ont  by  now." 

"  Give  'em  my  compliments,  and  tell  'em 
to  lay  their  noses  along  yon  road  till  they 
run  him  in,"  jerking  hia  thumb  over  hu 
shoulder  and  wi^dng  facetiously  at 
Bildad.  "  They  can  send  the  reward,  post 
paid,  to  my  address — Bight  'Ooable  'Ookey 
Talker,  The  Castle,  York."  Haviog  thus 
convinced  Bildad  of  the  fmitleasneaa  of  all 
search  in  this  direction,  the  tramp  hurried 
on  till  he  waa  well  out  of  sight  of  BUdad, 
when  be  chucked  his  incriminating  bundle 
over  the  nearest  hedge,  viciously,  with  a 
volley  of  oaUia,  and  aa  far  as  he  could 
fling  it 

'The  bundle  happened  to  fall,  and  in 
falling  to  get  somewhat  scattered,  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  just  where  in  dry 
weather  there  was  a  practicablo  ford — a 
shortcat  to  Dozhaven — now,  how«ver, 
BO  swollen  by  recent  rains  that  even  a 
man  attempting  it  wonid  probably  have 
been  swept  away.  Here  an  hour  lat«r  the 
clothes  were  found,  and  their  discovery 
stopped  all  further  search  for  the  child. 
It  left  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  the  police 
and  of  the  boys,  and  even  of  Kett,  that 
Archie  had  either  been  drowned  in  an 
attempt  to  cross  the  ford,  or  had  drowned 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


(NOTKDbar  U,  1881.1      3 


Cochin's  ontepokea  evidence  u  to 
tonnentn]  life  Kett  uid  Skunk  had  led  the 
lad  for  tvo  months,  uid  of  his  illness  and 
fsnrishnew  a  d&y  or  two  before  lus  flight, 
mad*  many  shake  their  heads  over  the 
affiur  u  a  eertun  owe  <tf  soicida 

That  ha  had  bean  drowned,  however,  do 
one  doubted  bat  Mrs.  John,  wbo  o&ljr 
donbted  it  Nor  was  this  ahnost  nnireml 
wrtainfy  that  he  waa  drowned  in 
l«ait  ahakan  hy  the  faihire  of  all  efforts 
to  reoorar  the  body,  aa  in .  the  preient 
flooded  state  of  tbe  river  it  must  have 
been  awept  far,  and  may  have  been  even 
carried  oat  to  eea  six  mUes  o& 

In  this  way  Archie's  casual  encounter 
with  the  bwnp  came  to  affect  the  whole 
eonne  and  cnmnt  of  bis  life^  How,  it  is 
theporpose  of  this  story  to  show. 

Wboi  Archie  ventured  at  last  to  look 
round,  to  his  immense  relief  be  found  the 
tramp,  so  far  tnm  pntming  him,  slouching 
off  in  the  opposite  direction.  Taking  heart 
of  grace  he  sat  apon  a  he^  of  Ivoken 
■fames  to  get  bis  bieaUi  and  his  thoughts 
togetiier.  From  his  reckless  race  for  life 
Us  feet  were  already  cut,  bruised,  and 
bleeding,  and  he  most  therefore  take  to  the 
fields. 

Having  rested  a  little  ha  clambered  over 
s  wall,  limped  Ismety  across  a  stubble-field, 
thence  over  another  wall  into  green  and 
pleasant  pastures,  guarded,  however,  like 
tbe  gardens  of  the  Hesperides  by  a  dragon 
in  the  shape  of  a  bull.  The  boll  was  a 
dieeinsh  brute  enou^,  but  seemed  to 
Archie  to  look  at  him ;  first  curiously,  and 
then  fefodoasly. 

He  fied,  therefore,  to  the  next  wall  tad 
tonbled  over  it  wi&'suoh  precipitation  that 
be  rolled  down  a  high  and  steep  railway- 
ntting  at  tbe  other  side. 

He  lay  stunned  and  senseless  at  the 
bottom  for  how  long  he  could  not  tell,  but 
was  at  last  Tonaed  by  three  pieroing  and 
borriUe  screams  in  his  very  ear,  as  they 
soonded.  He  <q>eBed  his  eyes  and  saw  a 
gigantic  expieea-engine  sweeping  towards 
hmt  swiftly,  and,  aa  it  seemed,  without  a 
■osad. 

He  was  in  no  danger,  aa  he  was  just, 
tbongh  only  just,  clear  of  engine  and  train, 
bat  he  thought  that  they  wonld  have  been 
over  bim  in  another  moment,  and  yet  he 
could  not  more.  He  seemed  paralysM  with 
iha  same  feelings  which  had  stupefied  him 
on  the  approach  of  Kett  last  night 

The  engine  polled  up  within  a  yard  of 
him. 

"  Wlut  the  devil  are  vou  doinar  beret" 


asked  the  stoker  wratbfblly,  shaking  Archie 
ronghly, 

"  Easy,  easy,  mate,"  said  the  driver,  vbo 
was  lookmg  round  the  "  cab"  of  his  engine. 
"  He's  hurt,  I  reckon." 

The  stoker  lifted  Archie  to  his  feet, 
bat  he  staggered,  and  woold  have  fallen  if 
he  hadn't  been  held  np. 

"  He'a  not  fit  to  leave  on  the  road,"  said 
the  driver.  "  Here,  ave  us  hold,  mate, 
we  must  take  him  with  as." 

The  stoker  lifted  Archie,  while  the 
driver  caught  him  by  the  coat,  which,  as 
being  too  wide  and  all  rags,  came  off  in 
his  hand.  Throwing  it  on  to  the  tender 
he  pat  his  hands  under  Archie's  arms, 
lifted  bim  to  tbe  foot-plate,  and  set  him 
sitting  on  a  lump  of  ooi^ 

For  tlie  first  minute  or  two  he  was  too 
bosy  with  his  engine  to  take  any  further 
notice  of  Archie.  When,  however,  he  had 
gob  her  well  into  swing  again,  bad  eased 
the  regulator,  palled  his  reversing- lever  ap 
a  notch  or  two,  and  given  a  good  look 
ahead,  he  turned  round  to  glance  down  at 
Archie  while  wiping  the  oil  off  his  hands 
witii  a  bit  of  cotton  waste. 

A  short  time  ago  there  was  notiiing  in 
the  world  Archie  so  longed  for  as  a  ride  on 
an  express  engine  going  fifty  miles  an 
hour,  but  there  was  not  now  any  interest 
or  excitement  in  tbe  forlorn  little  face 
looking  with  an  old-fashioned  depth  of 
sadness  into  the  stormy  fire,  which  swept 
with  the  noise  and  force  of  a  whirlwind 
throngfa  the  forest  of  boiler-tubes. 

Ai'aoie's  winning  and  woefol  faoo  touched 
the  kind  heart  of  the  driver,  and,  when  he  ' 
had  taken  uiother  good  look  ahead,  he  | 
tamed  to  stoop  and  shout  into  the  child's  < 

As  he  did  so,  he  saw  the  blood^stains 
on  his  shirt,  cauaed,  he  thought,  by  his  fall 
on  to  the  line. 

"Much  hart,  lad t" 

"  Not  much,  tiiank  you,"  with  a  voice 
and  manner  so  refined  that  the  driver 
glanced  first  at  the  heap  of  rags  on  the 
tendsr,  then  at  Archie's-ehirt,  booseis,  and 
braces,  and  drew  his  own  conclusions, 
which,  however,  he  could  not  express  at 
Hhe  moment,  as  he  had  to  whiaue  off  a 
signal,  and  then  give  his  engine  "tlie 
stick  "  at  a  stiff  gradient,  and  tnim  on  the 
sand-tap. 

Tlien  he  turned  again  to  say : 

"  Yon  coat  noan  ^ine  % "  nodding  at  the 
heap  of  ra^ 

The  foot-plate  of  an  engine  is  ^e  best 
school  in  the  world  to  learn  terseness  of 


4     INoTamlw  »,  18 


ALL  THE  YEAK  BOUND. 


The  driver  pat  hu  ear  to  Aiohie's  lips 
for  tiie  repl7.  Poor  Archie,  in  his  nn- 
naired  state,  thought  he  irai  beiDg  again 
Mcosed  of  theft ;  and  moh  a  theft ! 

"  He  gave  it  to  me,"  earnestly. 

"Whol" 

Bat  staged  not  for  the  answer ;  fw 
the  engine  being  now  tm  a  level,  and 
having  to  make  ap  for  tlie  time  lost  in 
stopping  for  Arobie,  was  going  at  each  a 
bliiiaing  rate  that  the  signals  seemed  to 
come  close  together  as  telegraph-posts. 

When  the  driver  had  a  moment  to  tarn 
sgain  towards  Archie,  he  fonnd  him  in  a 
faint. 

The  shock  of  his  fall,  the  reaction  aftier 
delirious  excitement,  and  the  wild  motion 
of  the  engine  had,  together,  so  npset  him 
that  he  slipped  off  the  lump  t4  wti  to  lie 
in  a  heap  on  the  foot-plate. 

The  driver  threw  some  water  in  his  face 
and  pat  some  to  his  lips,  and  bad  jnst 
brought  him  to,  when  both  he  and  the 
etoker  had  to  g^ve  all  their  attention  to 
the  engine,  now  doe  to  stop. 

When  they  drew  tip  at  Horseheaton, 
the  driver  lifted  Arclue  oat,  pat  him  on  a 
seat,  asked  the  guard  to  see  if  there  was  a 
doctor  with  the  train  who  wonld  examine 
the  child,  and  promised  to  be  back  himself 
when  he  had  mo  his  engine  into  the  shed 
— fbr  the  train  was  to  be  taken  on  by 
another  engine. 

The  guard  had  hardly  time  enough  to 
look  uter  his  passengers  and  parcels, 
without  bothering  about  Archie,  for  the 
train  was  almost  -a  minute  late,  and  the 
child,  therefore,  was  left  alone  till  the 
ticket-oollectoT  came  to  ivoiry  him  for  his 
ticket,  and  at  last,  in  despair,  to  bring  the 
etatjon-master  to  bear  apon  him. 

Jnst  then  the  drivw  retomed  to  explain 
that  he  had  picked  the  boy  up  off  the 
road,  and  had  taken  him  on,  as  he  was  not 
able  to  etand,  and  might  have  been  run 
over  by  the  next  train. 

"  You'd  better  pat  him  baok  where  you 
got  him  from,"  said  the  station'master 
gruffly.     "We  can't  do  with  him  here." 

Meantime,  Archie  had  sank  into  a  kind 
of  stupor,  too  sidi,  daeed,  and  dizzy  to 
answer  or  even  to  understand  what  was 
said  tobim. 

As  they  could  not  find  out  from  him 
who  he  was  or  vhere  he  lived,  the  ticket- 
collector  fiiggeeted  that  he  shoold  be  taken 
to  the  infirmary,  and  if  he  coold  not  be 
admitted  there  vithont  a  recommend«ti(m, 
to  &»  workhonse. 

It  «u  not  to  lonx  since  a  brother  drivn 


had  had  his  leg  cut  off  in  this  infirmary,  and 
died  under  t^  shock ;  henceforth,  tJiere- 
fore,  after  the  manner  of  poor  folk  and 
women,  our  driver  regarded  the  infirmary 
as  a  sUughtar-hoose.  As  for  the  work- 
house, no,  tlist  wasn't  the  place  for  soch 
a  child  as  Anshie.  The  child's  wan,  win- 
ning, innocent  face  at  tiiat  moment  pleaded 
doquently  to  the  kind  heart  of  the  driver, 
while  fais  "dumbness  mu  the  very  oratory 
of  pity."  He  thought,  as  he  looked  at 
lum,  of  his  dead  child,  a  little  girl,  three 
years  in  her  grave,  who  Toold,  if  she  bad 
lived,  have  been  about  the  age  of  this  boy. 
He  would  have  liked  to  have  taken  him 
home,  and  had  him  nursed,  till,  at  least,  he 
had  so  far  reoovered  as  to  be  able  to  say 
who  and  where  his  parents  were.  Bet 
there  was  his  wife,  who,  if  she  wasn't  the 
Government,  was  at  least  the  Opposition, 
and,  like  a  tntly  oonstitntional  (kiposition, 
felt  in  duty  bound  to  find  fault  wiUt  every- 
thing originated  by  the  Government,  as  on 
that  accoont  alone  not  for  a  moment  to  be 
listened  to.  She  was  a  very  Strang  Oppo- 
sition, too,  eloquent  and  eaostic,  wiui  a 
sharp  tongue  belying  a  soft  heart.  Our 
driver,  meditating  these  things,  had  a 
sudden  inspiration  on  which  he  acted.  He 
put  Archie  into  a  hand-barrow,  wheeled 
him  to  hie  house,  which  was  but  a  stone's- 
throw  {torn  the  station,  and  went  in,  leaving 
him  at  the  door. 

"Whesr's  ta  been  while  nabt"  asked 
Mrs.  Schofield  sharply. 

This  was  a  great  compliment  to  her  hus- 
band's pancttuUty,  and  indeed  he  was  the 
"crack  of  the  "crack"  drivers  on  the 
London  Express  Servioa 

"There  was  a  bairn  on  t'  road,"  said 
Ben  shortly. 

"  Hast  ta  numed  owec  him  1 "  in  some 
consternation. 

"  Aw  didn't  mell  of  him,"  said  Ben — who 
talked  English  on  his  engine,  but  York- 
shire at  home.  "  He  was  lining  on  t'  road. 
Aw  doant  think  he  wor  runnea  over.  Fell 
daan  t'  catting,  aw  reckon.  Fetch  my 
drinkin',  lass." 

"  Not  deead  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Schofield, 
horrified  at  her  husband's  heartlessness. 

"  Not  deead  yet  Aw'm  bahn  to  tak' 
him  to  t'  infimury  wbm  aw've  had  my 


Why,  wherever  is  he  nab  1 " 
"He's  at  t'   door  hoile   in  t'  barrow. 

Fetch  my  drinkin',  wilt  ta  1 " 

Mrs.  Schofield  hurried  to  Hm  door,  and 

was  moved,  and  was  wroth. 

"  Fetch  thee  drinldn'  I    Isn't  the  seet  of 


A  DRAWN  game: 


[November  M,  IBSt]      6 


that  pnir  bairn  drinkiB'  enea  for  thee;  let 
aloan  having  bis  doeath  at  thee  doorl  f^etch 
tliee  drinkia' !  Ha  can  ta  fashion  1  Think- 
ing of  nowt  bat  thee  gnrt  cavf  b  carcase, 
and  t'  batm  left  to  dee  on  t'  canseay." 

"  Hell  dee  a  wet  sooiner  in  t'  infirmaty 
if  they  tak*  him  in ;  if  not  awm  bahn  to 
tak'himtol^  bastile^" 
"  Why  net  tak'd  him  hooam  1 " 
"  Nay,  aa'  can  mak'd  nowt  on  him.     He 
knawa  nowt." 

All  thia  time  AiebJe'a  sweet,  refined,  and 
plaintiTe  face  was  working  its  way  to  the 
toSt  heart  of  this  childless  mother. 

"  Here,  tak"  him  in,  wilt  ta  I  "  she  said 
impolsiTely,  "  tha  knawa  he's  somebody's 
faaim,  thou  gait  lompheead." 
"  I  knaw  he's  nooan  ahra,"  sarlily. 
"What'acoomedtotiieet''  turning  npon 
him  sharply,  f<w  indeed  Ben  was  over- 
doing his  parti 

"  A.w've  hod  bother  enen  wi'  him  already, 
He  kep't'  train  laf .  Therell  be  a  minnte 
dakn  agen  ma"  This  was  a  sore  point  the 
wily  Bn  was  working  on.  His  missus  was 
iastifiaUy  jealona  of  his  engine,  to  which 
Ben  gare  almost  as  much  time.and  thought, 
and  affection,  aa  he  gare  to  herself ;  and 
be  knew  that  his  mention  of  it  as  embitter^ 
ing  him  against  the  boy  wonld  not  only 
fan  the  fire  of  her  opposition,  bnt  endear 
the  ohild  the  more  to  her. 

"Tha  snd  hev  numed  ovrer  him,  tha 
■nd,  only  he'd  happen  bev  mnckied  thee 
engine,"  widi  extreme  bitterness.  "T'pnir 
Wm  1  thowt  DO  more  oQ  nor  a  stane  on 

V  road,  an'  his  mother " 

Here  Mrs.  Schofield  practically  ex- 
pressed har  pathetic  apostopesis  by  hurry- 
ing from  the  house,  taking  Archie  up  in 
her  Btet>nK  arms,  and  bearing  him  in  with 
su  air  which  said  as  plainly  as  words  that 
iWd  have  hot  own  way,  let  Ben  say  what 
he  liked. 

"  Nah  1 "  she  said,  facing  Ben  defiantly 
with  arms  akimbo,  after  ^e  had  laid  the 
Mki  on  a  bod  in  the  next  room ;  "  nah  I 
tha  wanU  thee  drinkin',  does  ta  1  Thall 
get  it  when  tha  gets  a  doctor — thear  I " 

Ben,  thoa  utterly  defeated,  beat  a  snlleo 
retreat  to  the  door,  bnt  cheered  op  a  bit 
when  he'd  got  oat  of  sight  of  the  honse, 
and  before  he  reached  the  station  he  had 
to  pnt  down-^e  barrow  to  get  his  bands 
into  Us  troasers-pocket  in  onier  to  laugh. 
He  never  eonld  laugh  properly  without 
first  ainking  his  clenched  fists  into  his 
trouara-po^eta. 


They  alius  runs  tender  first,"  he 
chuckled,  allndtng  to  the  contrariness  of 
the  sex^  Leaving  the  barrow  at  the 
station  he  went  for  the  doctor,  and  left  a 
measage  for  him  to  call  on  his  return  from 
his  round. 

He  expected  to  be  paid  the  balance  of 
abuse  due  to  him  when  he  got  back ;  bnt 
he  wasn't.  When  Mrs.  Schofield  had  un- 
dressed Archie — getting  his  shirt  off  by 
sponging  his  wounds  with  warm  water — 
she  saw  that  he  had  been  brutally  beaten, 
and  was  stirred  to  a  deeper  pity  than  she 
had  felt  at  first;  and  this  pity  was 
quickened  into  a  more  than  womanly 
tenderness  when  she  had  eat  by  him  for  a 
bit  as  he  lay,  sunk  still  in  stupor,  in  bed. 
She  thonght,  as  Ben  had  thought,  of  the 
litUe  girl  she  had  lost  three  years  before, 
who  had  lain  where  he  lay  now,  and  as  he 
lay  now,  insensible.  A  breath  of  sad,  yet 
sweet  associations,  like  far-off  plaiutive 
music,  came  up  from  the  past,  "like  the 
sweet  south,"  warfai  and  heavy  with  tears. 

"  Nay,  lass,  what's  to  do  1 " 

"  The/Te  thrashed  him,  they  have,  whOe 
his  back  is  all  mashed  up  and  then  flang 
him  on  t'  rails." 

"  Nay  for  sewer  1 " 

"  An',  Ben,  aw  couldn't  see  him  lig  thear' 
like  that  baat*  thinkin'  <tf  ahr  llttie  lass, 
aw  couldn't." 

"Aw  thowt  on  her  mysen.  Us,  when 
awbrowt  him,"said  Ben,  completely  thrown 
off  his  guard  by  his  wife's  emotion  and  his 

"  Tha  did,  didst  ta  1 "  said  Lis,  looking 
up  sharply  with  a  sudden  certainty  that 
she'd  been  tricked.  It  waBu't  the  first 
tame  she  hod  detected  Ben  pig-diiving,  to 
speak  ungallantly.  "  An' t'  tostile  an  f 
infirmary  an'  that  wor  all  nowt  t " 

"  Nay,  lass,  tha  knaws  tha'rt  a  bit  con- 
troiry  nah  and  then,  on'  aw  thowt  aw'd 
reverse  to  get  thee  ower  t'  deead  point  "- 
a  metaphor  from  engine  driving. 

"Tha  sod  bev  knawn  me  better  nor 
that,  lad,  an'  aw  sud  bev  knawn  thee  better 
nor  to  think  tha  thowt  no  more  on  t'  bairn 
Dor  muck  on  t'  road,"  said  Liz,  crying 
quietly,  too  much  overoome  to  scold. 
"  Shoo'd  bev  been  abaat  his  age,  Ben ; 
nine  year  old  t'  fifth  of  next  month.  Eh, 
my  puir  Madge— my  puir  Madge ! " 

"He  favours  her  a  bit  abaat  t'  eeo.  Dost 
ta  think  he's  bahn  hoamt,  Liz  t " 

"  I  can  mak'  nowt  on  him.     He's  been 


imbraU,  UBK) 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


fe&rfol  bad  osed  ui4  that  w«t  as  though 
he'd  coomed  aat  t'  river.  It's  aome  mak'  of 
fever,  aw  reclcoti.  Ib  t'  doctor  bahn  to 
coom  1 " 

"Shoo  Baid  shoo'd  und  him  vhen  he 
coomed  in  from  hia  rahnd."  "  Shoo  "  being 
the  doctor's  hoaaekeeper. 

When  the  doctor  came  he  confirmed 
Mrs,  Scbofield's  euspicion  of  fever,  only, 
like  most  second-rate  doctors,  he  used 
terms  so  tremendoas  in  describing  it  and 
its  symptoms,  that  the  poor  woman  had 
little  hope  of  a  mere  child  like  Archie 
making  head  against  snch  gigantic  powers. 
He  pronoonced  the  chiltrs  illnesa  to  be 
"  Fythoeenetic  fever,  aiising  from  a  lesion, 
or  morbid  condition  of  the  agminated 
glands  of  the  small  intestine."  In  trath, 
Archie  was  snfferiiiK  from  a  low  fever  of 
the  typhoid  kind,  which  had  been  for  some 
time  coming  on,  and  was  only  brought 
to  an  earlier  head  by  the  excitement, 
hardships,  and  exposure  of  the  last  few 
hours. 

He  had  a  good  nurse.  As  Mrs.  Schofield 
sat  by  his  bed,  old  feelings  seemed  to  come 
back  with  old  associations,  and  she  tended 
htm  day  and  night  as  devotedly  as  she  had 
tended  her  own  child  three  years  before. 
It  somehow  seems  that  a  sharp  tongue  in  a 
woman  is  as  commonly  correlated  with  a 
warm  heart,  as  long  horns  in  a  oow  are 
correlated,  according  to  Darwin,  with  a 
warm  coat.  Anyhow,  thej  went  together 
in  Mrs.  Schofield's  case.  She  so  devoted 
herself  to  the  child,  that  even  Ben  began  to 

Sumble,  and  said  she  had  mn  hers^  that 
F  that  there  wasn't  steam  enough  left  to 
blow  the  whistle.  In  truth,  she  didn't 
scold  much  in  these  days.  Now,  the  more 
she  did  for  Archie  the  more  she  was  drawn 
towards  him,  of  course.  It  ia  human 
natoifl,  not  only  to  like  our  creatures, 
whether  they  be  children,  books,  or 
prot^g^s,  but  also  to  like  Uiem  in  pro- 
portion to  what  they  cost  ns.  "Those 
things  are  dearest  to  us  that  cost  us  nioet," 
sayaMontaigne. 

Moreover,  as  we  have  said  more  than 
once,  Archie  was  intrinaically  loveable,  and 
at  a  loveable  age.  Therefore,  Mrs.  Schofield 
began  to  fear  his  convalescence  only  less  than 
she  had  feared  his  death,  for  hia  recovery, 
too,  meant  parting.  Archie,  aa  she  and  Ben 
knew  from  the  first,  waa  no  beggar's  brat. 
He  was  a  genUemED,  there  was  no  mistake 
about  that,  and  must  be  restored  to  his 
parents,  when  he  could  say  who  they  were. 
But,  when  at  last  he  coold  say  who  they 
were,  both  nurse  and  patient  shirked  the 


subject  Archie  shrank  from  the  ban 
idea  of  being  tossed  back  into  Ketfi 
clutches,  with  a  horror  that  waa  at  first 
even  deeper  than  his  longing  to  write  to  or 
hear  from  his  mother — a  hoiror  almost 
maniacal  in  its  intensity.  Mrs.  Schofield, 
on  the  other  hand,  when  she  had  told  him 
how  her  faosband  had  picked  him  up  on 
the  line,  gave  the  subject  then  and  thence- 
forth a  wide  berth. 

Their  failnn  to  identify  Arehie  with 
the  boy  who  was  supposed  to  have  been 
drowned  in  esctqung  from  QntstaiH  CoU^e 
is  accounted  for  by  Ben's  line  ntnning, 
not  through  Duzharen,  bnt  tiiroogh  Sit- 
well,  Otteribrd,  and  Rirkhallows,  and  by 
Ben's  knoiriedge  of  geogr^)hy  being 
limited  to  his  line.  He  pioked  the  boy 
up  between  ^twell  and  Horseheaton — a 
ran  of  forty-eight  milee  —  "  twenty-three 
minutes  from  Hoiseheaton,"  as  he  told  the 
doctor,  which  that  gentleman,  thinking, 
perhaps,  more  of  the  one-horse  power  of 
his  own  carriage  than  of  Ben's  eight-foot 
driving-wheel,  translated  into  five  or  six 
miles  It  is  doubtful,  indeed,  if  Ben  him- 
self had  heard  anyttiiiig  of  the  boy,  though 
the  case  was  in  all  the  papers,  for,  if  tliere 
wasn't  aa  aooonnt  of  a  r^wi^  accident  in 
the  papers,  or,  at  least,  of  a  new  brake,  there 
waa  nothing  in  them.  Few  men  in  England 
knew  more  about  an  engine  and  less  about 
anything  else  than  Ben  Schofield. 

Neither  Ben  nor  his  wife,  therefore,  had 
the  least  idea  of  who  Archie  waa  or  where 
he  lived,  and  Mrs.  Schofield  waa  quite  con- 
tent to  remain  ignorant  But  Ben  wasn't 
He  began  to  regard  the  child  as  something 
he  had  stolen,  which  was  probably  all  tlte 
world  to  someone,  and  would,  therefore, 
be  given  back.  When  Archie  was  oca- 
valescent,  he'd  say  as  be  set  off  on  a  trip : 
"  Think  on,  lass,  to  az  him  where  he  comes 
thro' ; "  and  on  his  return  he'd  ask  first 
thing,  "  Hast  ta  fun'  a&t  whear  he  comes 
thro'l" 

"  Nay  ;  he's  noan  so  weel,  mun,  yet,  he 
isn't  ^  doctor  says  he  mun  her  some 
strong  support  in  til  him." 

"  He  wadn't  turn  on  t'  feed  baat  there 
wor  pressure  eneu  in  t'  boiler  to  stand  it" 

The  "feed"  is  the  teohnical  name  for 
the  water-supply  of  on  engine,  and  Ben's 
mets^hoi  precisely  e^tressed  the  state  of 
the  case.  However,  as  the  mere  idea  of 
losing  the  child  seemed  to  dislxess  Liz  so 
much,  he  didn't  press  the  matter  more  for 
a  day  or  two  longer.  Thea  he  spoke  again 
more  urgently : 

"  It's  noan  reet,  Liz.     If  it  freats  thee 


A  DEAWN  GAME. 


(HoTambCT  »,  ISBB.)      1 


BW  to  I<nM  t'  baini,  it  man  freat  them  that 
bahuigs  it  a  de&l  more,  tiui  knawa.  AVm 
capped*  fri'  thee,  an  Mr'm  capped  wi'  him, 
too,  that  he  oe'er  says  oowt  abaat  'em 
UsMn." 

"  Happen  there's  noan  belanee  him."  _ 

"Nay,  he'a  nat  like  nobbody^  bairn," 

"  Tha  mnn  az  him  thysac" 

"X&y,  lass,  tha  mnnnot  tok'  on  so.  Air 
nl  miaa  t'  lad  myeen  aB  veel  as  thee ;  but 
tiiere's  them  that  miss  him  more  nor  atther 
on  na,  an'  vi'  more  raison.  Boot's  reet, 
tha  knawa,  and  we  mnn  dn  aa  we'd  be 
done  by.  lliink  on,  nah,  tha  spak'  till  him 
toJay." 

It  was  a  cnrions  rereraal  of  the  normal 
■nd  natntal  state  of  a^ba  that  the  husband 
should  venture  to  lecture  the  wife,  and 
peremptorily  too ;  bat  Liz  was  low-spirited 
m  these  daya  Archie  himself,  however, 
spared  her  the  pain  of  broaching  the 
sabject.  He  was  now  oat  of  dtmgor,  but 
weak  still,  not  in  body  only  but  in  mind. 
Even  grown  men  are  cnildish  in  their  con- 
Tslescence  from  typhoid  fever,  miich  more 
Archie.  The  chfld  had  grown  very  fond 
of  his  devoted  nurse,  whom  he  coolly  called 
"liz,"  as,  indeed,  it  was  the  only  name 
he  heard  her  called  by,  for  the  doctor 
addressed  her  invariably  and  deiWentially 
as  "ma'am." 

"  Liz,"  he  b^an  on  the  day  of  Ben's  last 
lecture.  Liz,  whose  back  was  towards  him, 
for  she  was  bending  over  the  fire  stirring 
some  beef-tea,  amiwered  withoat  turning 
round: 

"Ay,  doy." 

"  I  should  like  to  write  to  my  mother, 
Liz." 

Uz  dropped  the  spoon  and  f  aeed  round 
roddenly. 

"  Thee  mother  I " 

"I  must  tell  her,"  said  Archie,  on  the 
"iiaak.  of  tears.  He  thought  that  his  flight 
from  school,  whidi  was  in  eveiT  newspaper 
in  England  a  month  ago,  would  be  neVs  to 
Ids  mother — news  that  would  give  her 
pain  and  send  him  hack  to  Eetf  s.  It  waa 
only  after  a  hard  struggle  that  he  made  his 
mind  op  to  write  this  fatal  news,  and  a 
struggle  in  which  it  ihta  not  bo  much,  of 
course,  a  sense  of  'duty^,  as  a  longing  to  see 
his  mother,  that  prevailed.  Liz  was  sad 
and  Hilent  for  a  moment,  smoothing  back 
his  hair  from  his  forehead. 

"  For  sewer  tha  end  write  to  thee  mother, 
doy.     Whear  does  shoo  live  t " 

"  Chimside  I "  in  the  surprised  tone  of 


a  very  little  child,  who  expects  everyone, 
and  especi^y  his  seniors,  to  know  what 
are  the  first  facts  of  life  to  himself!  Liz 
had  no  idea  where  Chimside  was,  hut 
supposed  it  must  be  near  where  Ben  picked 
him  up.  Now  that  Archie  was  inevitably 
lost  to  her,  she  was  free  at  least  to  gratify 
her  curiosity. 

"  Wliat  do  they  call  thee  mother,  doy  % " 
Liz  knew  the  child  only  as  "  Archie." 

"Mrs.  PybuB,"  said  Ar<iie,  still  sur- 
prised. 

"  Is  shoo  a  wida  t " 

"  She's  my  uncle's  wife.  He's  a  olergy- 
mao,  you  know." 

Thu  was  ratiier  c<Hifa«ng,  but  Liz 
gathered  from  it  that  the  reverend  gentle- 
man was  Archie's  stepfather  (who  had  out- 
raged the  law  byamarriage  with  hia  deceased 
wife's  sistOT),  and  ^e  at  onoe  put  down  to 
his  stepfathaily  mercies  Arebia'a  mangled 
back. 

"  Has  he  been  oonin  on  thee  t "  Archie, 
though  Yorkshire,  did  not  understand  this 
expression  "oomn" — La  treating  shock- 

■  i'j"- 

Be  looked  pozzled  untD  Liz  explained : 
'  Thrashing  thee,  aw  mane^  if  aw  may 

spak  reet ;  wor  it  he  cut  thee  b^ck  soa, 

doyt" 

He  1 "  in  amazement.  "He's  my  uncle, 


Who  wor  it  then,  ArchieT'  Archie's 
horror  of  Kett  made  him  fearto  confide 
even  in  Liz.  He  thought  his  enemy  was 
but  a  few  miles  off,  and  might  come  to 
hear  of  his'  whereabonta  any  momenta  He 
looked  up  helplessly  at  his  kind  nurse  till 
his  eyes  filled  and  overflowed  tiirough 
weakness,  and  his  terror  of  Kett,  and  ma 
shame  at  withholding  fh>m  Lie  the  con- 
fidence she  so  deserved.  But  the  kind- 
of  his  nurse  was  greater  even  than  her 
curiosity.  "  Thear,  thear,  doy,  tha  munnot 
think  abaat  it,  tha  mnnnot,  Tha  mun 
write  to  thee  mother  when  tha's  had  thee 
beef  teah." 

Lie  was  more  perplexed  than  ever,  hnt 
she  thought  the  child's  tears  too  dear  a 
price  to  pay  for  the  secret  But  Archfe 
was  not  happy  in  his  mind.  If  Liz  had 
been  his  mother  she  conld  not  have  been 
kinder  to  him,  and  this  distrust  of  her  was 
a  poor  return. 

"liz,"  he  sMd,  suddenly  sitting  up  in 
bed,  and  so  giving  emphasis  to  the  con- 
fidence, "  I  ran  away  from  school,"  with  a 
look  at  once  appeiding,  apologetic,  and 
anxioaB. 

He  was  ItmneDselT  relieved  to  see  her 


8     l>OTei>ib«r  M. !».) 


ALL  THE  TEA£  ROUND. 


look  of  siirprue  give  pUoe  to  mw,  not  of 
diupprovat  but  of  sympathy. 

"Tbro'Bohooill" 

"  You — you  won't  aend  me  buk,  Liz  1' 
in  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Send  thee  back  I  eh — doy,  aw  wish  aw 
mud  keep  thee  alios,  aw  dn.  Thall  ooan 
hev  to  goa  back  to  yon  place  where  they 
oonin  thee  soa.  It's  not  like  thee  own 
mother  '11  aend  thee  thear  agean.  Shoo's 
gooid  to  thee',  isn't  shool " 

"  She's — she's "  Here  Archie  in  his 

weakness  broke  into  a  pasnon  of  teara, 
and  could  say  only  between  his  sobs,  "  I 
— must — write  to  her." 

"  For  sewer  tha  mnn,  doy.  Eh,  but  shoo 
.  will  be  in  a  way  abaat  thee  1 " 

For  Liz  understood  Archie's  tears  in  their 
tnte  sense,  and  was  prieked  with  remorse. 


A  BOABDING-HOUSE  ROMANCE 

A  STOST  IN  ELEVEN  OHAFTBRa.  CHjLPTER  IZ. 

It  was  too  late  to  take  any  ihrther  ac^on 
in  the  matter  that  night,  but  immediately 
after  breakfast  next  morning  Mr.  Trevelyan 
made  a  bold  move. 

The  Von  Rolandsecks  were  to  leave  the 
pension  at  two  p.m. 

At  eleven  a.m  he  sent  in  his  card  to 
Grafin  Rolandseck  with  a  few  words  on  it 
in  pendl,  begging  her  to  grant  him  a  abort 
interview  on  important  bosineas. 

The  maid  retomed  with  a  message  from 
the  Grafin  to  the  effect  that  she  was  much 
pressed  for  time,  but  could  receive  Mr. 
Trevelyaa  for  a  few  miiiates  if  it  was 
absolutely  necessary. 

Trevelyan,  undeterred  by  the  tone  of- 
the  permission,  hastened  to  act  upon  it. 

GraGo  Rolandseck  received  him  with  a 
vary  slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  an 
expresaioQ  of  unconcealed  surprise  that  was 
intended  to  be  sufficiently  embarrassing. 

It  was  quite  thrown  away  upon  the 
audacious  ^etican. 

She  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  glancing  at 
her  watch  aa  she  did  ao. 

Trevelyan  bowed,  seated  himself,  paused 
one  moment  with  his  eyee  fixed  upon  her 
own,  then  said  with  the  alisht  drawl  which 
be  unoonsdously  afi'ected  men  under  any 
strong  emotion  which  he  did  not  wish  to 
betr^: 

"  I  come,  madame,  to  propose  formally 
for  your  daughter's  hand.  I  feel  that  I 
am  under  a  disadvantage  as  a  foreigner  in 
such  a  case,  bat  I  can  refer  you  to  my 

friend  the  American  consul  at  B for 

corroboration  of  my  statemeata  regarding 


position,  and  so  oil  I  belong  to  a  tolerably 
old  family,  though  I  am  an  American;  oar 
branch  was  among  the  earliest  eolonista; 
and  I  am  well-off,  1  may  say  rich,  according 
to  European  ideas  of  wealtL  I  am  a  com- 
parative atranger  to  you,  and  I  expect  no 
lady  to  promise  her  daughter's  hand  to  a 
man  about  whose  character  she  knows  as 
little  aa  you  do  about  mina  AlUiougb 
there  ia  nothing  whatever  in  my  past  which 
I  need  conceal,  I  know  the  world  and  the 
necessity  for  caution  in  the  moat  plausible- 
looking  cases  too  well,  not  to  be  willing  to 
aabmit  to  any  reasonable  period  of  pro- 
bation that  you  may  suggest,  before  asking 
you  to  give  your  consent  to  my  marriage 
with  your  daughter.  I  await  your  answer 
with  Buspenae,  madame,  and  I  entreat  yon 
to  act  as  leniently  as  your  duties  of  guardian 
to  your  daughter  will  allow." 

Grafin  Rdandseck  heard  him  to  the  end 
with  a  perfectly  ezpreasionless  Tao&  He 
could  read  nothing  in  it,  not  even  die 
familiar  pride. 

' '  Permit  me  to  thank  you  for  the  honour 
you  do  my  daughter  and  myself  by  your 
proposal,  to  which,  however,  I  can  only 
give  an  unqualified  refusal  Ton  will  not  see 
my  daughter  again,  Wt.  Trevelyan,  so  I 
trust  this  auddrai  fancy  may  paas  away 
sooner  than  you  expect  at  this  moment 

this  is  my  beat  wish  for  you." 

Trevelyan  turned  perceptibly  paler,  but 
loat  none  of  his  self-command. 

"  May  I  beg  you  to  favour  me  with  your 
reasons  for  this  decision,  madame  t " 

"  I  regret  that  I  cannot  give  tJiem.  To 
do  so  would  only  pave  the  way  to  naelesa 
argument  on  your  part.  Enough  that  I 
have  reaaona,  and  sufficiently  atrong  ones. 
You  will  observe  that  my  decision  ia  only 
a  repetition  of  my  daughter's ;  both  are 
unalterable." 

"  Pardon  me,  madame,  for  venturing  to 
remind  you  that  if  the  purport  of  your 
daughter's  answer  to  me  yesterday  were  the 
same,  the  manner  was  different  I  drew 
my  own  conclusions  from  that  manner — 
conclusionB  that  I  would  apeak  <tf  to  no 
one  living  but  yourself,  her  mother.  There 
was  that  in  your  daughter's  manner  which 
seemed  to  say  that  I  was  not  wholly 
indifferent  to  her,  I  even  succeeded  in 
drawing  from  her  an  admission  that  her 
objection  was  not  to  me  personally.  Under 
these  (drcumstances  you  will  forgive  me 
if  I  decline  to  allow  the  subject  to  be 
dismissed  in  the  summary  maimer  yon 
"osire." 

It  was  the  GiaGn'a  turn  to  pale  now. 


A  BOARDING-HOUSE  ROMANCR 


(Narembu  £4,  Un.) 


TnyaljKi't  worda  brought  a  scene  of  last 
i^ht  vividly  before  her  eyes. 

She  8&W  her  daughter  seated  before  a 
table,  her  bee  baried  in  her  hande,  her 
attitade  one  of  utter  grief.  As  she  looked 
up,  startled  by  her  mother's  enhance,  for 
it  was  after  midnight,  she  had  disclosed 
a  face  so  pale  and  tearstained  as  to  be 
usrcelyrecogniBableforherowi).  Unnerved 
by  her  emotion  and  her  lonely  watch, 
she  had  thrown  herself  upon  her  mother's 
neck,  and  sobbed  out  the  whole  tale. 

She  told  her  that  the  sins  of  tJiie  father 
hui  been  terribly  visited  npon  the  child  that 
night.  She  tdd  her  that  Trevelyan  loved 
her,  and  that  she  loved  him  widi  ner  whole 
heart  and  sooL  If  they  most  part  life 
wonld  be  intolerable  to  her  Crom  henceforth. 
She  slid  to  the  gronnd,  still  clinging  to  her 
mother,  and  b^ged  her  on  her  knees  to  have 
mert^  upon  her,  and  let  her  marry  Trevelyan 
in  spite  of  everything.  She  besought  her  to 
confess  that  she,  Qabrielle,  was  fi-ee  from 
blatne,  that  she  had  not  incurred  the  fearful 
pimiahment  she  had  meant  till  now  to  bear. 

Ghrafin  Bolandseck,  with  bleeding  heart, 
had  bad  to  tell  her  that  strong  and  blind 
as  love  might  seem  in  its  first  ardour,  a 
whb^>er  of  dugrace  in  connection  with  the 
adored  object  had  power  to  deatrOT  it  in  a 
moment  Was  Gabriellevon  Bolanaiwck  the 
ffiri  to  pave  the  way  to  mwriage  with  a 
hamiliating  confession  which  in  itself  wonld 
be  tfirowing  herself  npon  the  generosity  of 
tiie  man  she  loved  1  Let  her  reflect  that 
even  in  tiis  event  of  hu  feeling  bound  in 
honour  not  to  withdraw  his  offer,  nay,  eves 
■apposing  that  he  still  cared  for  her  in 
^te  of  everything,  a  day  wonld  surely 
come  when,  tiie  first  glamour  of  love  having 
paved  away,  her  husband  wonld  come  to 
dwell  more  and  more  npon  that  disgrace 
iridch  he  might  have  been  able  to  forget 
lay  upon  his  wife,  but  which  he  could  never 
fotvet  lay  upon  his  children. 

ft  was  a  line  of  argument  to  which 
Oabrielle^s  prond  instincts  made  her  pecn- 
Variy  sosoeptible.  A  sharp  dlent  conflict 
bad  ended  m  her  renouncing  her  hopes  and 
wishes. 

As  all  this  flashed  before  Grafin  Boland- 
seek's  mental  vision  she  blanched  visibly. 
9be  looked  at  Trevelyan  with  sternness; 
she  almost  hated  liim  for  the  sufi'ering  he 
had  brought  npon  her  darling. 

"  I  repeat,  Mr.  Trevelyan,  that  I  intend 
to  settie  tbia  matter  at  once  and  for  ever. 
My  daughter  and  I  refaae  to  consider  yonr 
proposal ;  as  a  gentieman  ^on  will  accept 
thk  answer  «i  what  it  u — final.     My 


daughter  told  me,  with  regret,  last  evening 
Uiat  she  feared  she  had  not  been  sofScienUy 
decided  in  the  manner  in  which  she  declined 
your  offer  yesterday.  You  see  you  took 
her  at  such  a  disadvantage." 

The  blood  rushed  into  Trevelyan's  face 
at  the  sneer. 

"  Then,  madame,  your  dauf;hter  shall 
have  another  and  a  uirer  hearing.  I  ask 
yon  to  allow  me  to  see  her  now,  here,  in 
your  presenca" 

The  Griifln  smiled  bitterly. 

"  That,  sir,  is  impossible.  My  daaghter 
left  this  village  early  this  mommg,  and  is 
a  long  way  from  here  now.  It  was  her 
wish,  as  well  aa  my  own,  that  yon  should 
not  see  her  again." 

Trevelyan  rose  excitedly. 

"You  have  condescended  to  resort  to 
stratagem,  madame )  Good.  I  shall  follow 
your  daughter  at  once.  Yon  will  find 
the  world  too  small  to  hide  her  from  me, 
Grafin  Rolandeect  Yonr  daughter  is  not 
iudifl'erent  to  me,  and  nothing  but  indif- 
ference should  come  between  us.  I  tell 
you  plainly,  but  with  all  respect,  that  I 
shall  make  it  my  busineBS  from  this 
moment  to  follow  you  wherever  yon  ma,j 
go,  until  yon  consent  to  give  me  a  fair 
trial  in  this  matter.  From  the  day  tliat 
yon  agree  to  appoint  a  term  of  probation, 
long  or  short,  yon  will  find  me  not  only 
courteous,  but  devoted  to  yon ;  and  if  the 
day  ever  comes  on  which  yonr  daughter 
gives  me  her  hand,  you  will  gain  a  son  who 
will  know  how  to  fulfil  his  duty  towards 
the  mother  of  his  wife.  Till  then,  and  not 
without  real  regret,  I  must  regard  myself 
as  yonr  opponent  at  a  game  of  skill  This 
last  time  that  you  do  me  the  honour  to 
receive  me  as  an  acquaintance,  may  I  take 
your  hand  in  token  of  respect  and  good- 
will 1  Thank  yon,  Grafin.  Thon^  you 
have  hit  me  veiy  hard  this  morning,  I 
cannot  forget  that  yon  are  lier  mother.   - 

His  voice  was  not  perfectly  steady  as  he 
spoke  the  last  words,  and  he  left  the  room 
precipitately. 

CHAPTER  X. 

It  was  an  easy  matter  for  Trevelyan  to 
learn  the  name  of  the  place  for  which 
Grafin  Gabrielle  Rolandseck  and  maid  had 
tcjcen  ticjkets  that  morning.  The  next 
train  thither  left  at  three  p.m.,  eiad  George 
Trevelyan  was  the  first  person  to  take  his 
seat  in  it. 

He  withdrew  into  the  farthest  comer  of 
the  carriage,  not  wishing  to  thrust  himself 
unpleasantly  upon  the  old  Grafin,  who,  he 


10     [NaTembw  U,  Utt.] 


ALL  THE  TKAS  BOUND. 


knew,  was  leaving  by  the  same  tnun.  To 
hU  Burprise,  however,  ehe  did  not  arrive, 
and  be  almost  began  to  give  iiw  credit  for 
having  wilfully  muded  him. 

It  was  niae  o'clock  when  he  reached  his 
destination.  His  first  act  was .  to  purchase 
a  Baedeker's  Guide,  and  eeek  out  all  the 
best  hotels.  He  then  called  a  carriage 
and  drove  Irom  one  to  the  other,  strolling 
Into  the  coffee-room,  ordering  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  casually  asking  if  two  ladies  had 
arrived  by  the  early  train  from  C        . 

None  of  the  answers  he  received  would 
apply  to  Orafin  Galmetle  BoUodeeck. 

As  he  had  no  intention  of  TnaVing  his 
|H:flseDce  known  to  her  until  the  next  day 
in  an^  case,  he  gave  up  the  qoest  at  eleven, 
selec^g  a  very  oentnu  hotel  for  his  nighf  s 
lodging. 

He  was  up  betimes  the  next  uoroiog, 
and  scoured  the  town — in  vain.     He  met 

the  two  trains  from  C in  the  course  of 

the  day,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  the  Gr&fin 
descend  from  one  of  them,  also  without 
result 

Nevarthelesa  Mi.  Trevelyan  was  not 
nustaken  in  supposing  Gabiielle  to  be  in 
the  town,  he  was  only  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing her  to  be  in  uiy  of  the  hotels. 
While  he  was  searching  high  and  low  tta 
her,  she  was  safe  behind  theiron  bars  of  the 
Convent  of  Notre  Dame,  pouring  oat  her 
troables  to  a  little  old  lady  in  the  dr^  of 
a  nun.  The  lady  was  the  superior  of  the 
convent,  and  Oabrielle's  grealranntt 

The  sister  anperior  received  guests  for  a 
few  weeks'  ret>«at  occadonally,  and  in  the 
present  position  of  affairs  the  convent  had 
seemed  to  offer  the  safest  shelter. 

Trevelyan,  having  wandered  aboat  Ute 
whole  day  without  success,  began  to 
wonder  whether  the  Grafin  had  deferred 

her  departure  from  C ,  or  bad  gone  in 

an  altogethw  opposite  direction. 

To  settle  the  matter  he  telegraphed  to 
his  servant,  asking  if  his  old  rooms  were 
now  vacant.  In  case  they  were  still  occu- 
pied the  man  was  not  to  mention  his 
question  at  the  pension,  but  moat  telegraph 
ac  once  either  way. 

He  waited  m  the  office  till  the  t^ly  came. 

"  Old  rooms  occupied ;  lady  too  ill  to 
leave  as  arranged." 

So  that  was  the  explanation.  Then 
depend  upon  it  Gabrielle  vould  soon  be  on 
the  spot,  if  indeed  she  were  not  there 
already. 

It  must  be  admitted  with  regret  that 
Mr.  Trevelyan  did  not  exhibit  any  great 
humanity  towards  his  foe  at  this  ortsia  He 


forgot  to  speculate  upon  the  nature  or 
severity  of  the  Grafin's  illness,  or  how  far 
he  bimaelf  might  have  been  the  cause  of  it. 
He  contented  himself  witJi  taking  a  seat  in 
the  midnight  express  on  the  return  journey. 
It  was  not  quite  seven  o'clock  liie  next 
morning  when  he  walked  into  the  pension 
dining-room,  where  Friiulein  Sommerrock 
was  superintending  the  arrangement  of  the 
breakfast-table. 

His  first  questioB  was  about  Grafin 
Bolandseck'setate,  and  whether  her  daogbter 
waa  with  her. 

"No,"  was  tlie  uuwer.  "  Although ^le 
fran  Grafin  has  been  so  ill  that  she  might 
have  died,  she  would  allow  nobody  bnt  her 
aont  to  be  telegn^thed  for.  We  cannot 
understand  it  at  alL  The  aunt  is  the 
superior  of  a  convent  somewhere,  and 
could  not  leave  herself,  we  sappose ;  uiy 
way,  ^e  has  only  sent  two  of  the  nuns  to 
norse  the  Grafin,  and  mother  and  I  believe 
that  the  Grafin  Gabrielle  knows  nothing  at 
all  about  her  mother's  illneas." 

The  news  fell  onTrevelyan  like  a  thunder- 
bolt. It  seemed  to  him  that  he  incurred  a 
heavy  reqxMiBibility  by  preventing  the  giri's 
being  summoned  to  her  mother  at  such  a 
moment,  for  he  had  no  doubt  that  his 
presenoe  in  the  house  was  tlie  obstacle  to 
her  coming. 

He  went  to  his  lOom  perplexed  enough. 
It  soon  became  clear  to  him  that  if  he  were 
the  obstacle,  as  a  gentleman  he  had  but  one 
coarse  open  to  bim.  He  most  leave  the 
fiehl  dear.  It  was  uncommonly  disagree- 
able, bnt  there  waa  no  other  way  oat  of  the 
difficulty. 

Now  came  tiie  question,  how  to  oonvey 
his  decision  to  Giafin  BoUuadaeck  i  It  was 
necessary  that  she  ahould  be  informed  of  his 
intention  to  go  away,  and  to  remain  away, 
otherwise  ^e  would  not  be  likely  to  run 
the  risk  of  allowing  her  danghter  to  c(»aie 
back.  His  plan  waa  evidently  to  send  a 
verbal  meseaKO  to  the  GraGn  through  one 
her  attendants,  aa  she  would  probably 
not  be  atrong  enough  to  read  a  written 
one.  He  asked  ftan  Sommerrock  to 
procure  him  an  interview  with  the  aister 
aa  soon  aa  possible. 

The  nun  came  down  into  the  drawing- 

om  immediately.  Trevelyan  looked  at 
her  narrowly.  He  wanted,  if  possible,  to 
get  some  idea  of  her  character  before  saying 
what  he  had  to  say. 

He  saw  a  tall,  tJun  woman  before  him, 
a  woman  no  longer  young,  whose  sad  eyes 
and  lined  brow  told  him  that  she  had  not 
been  able  to  shut  sorrow  out  of  her  convent 


A  BOARDING-HOUSE  ROMANCE.        iNo«mi«,a.ig*.|    n 


call  HerayMbrighteDedalightlfUBhec&st 
s  penetntisg  glasce  at  htm,  and  there  was 
deddon  as  'veQ  as  gcaoe  in  her  oonrteoiis 
bow. 

"Keenneas    and    goodnass  combiDE 
a  valuaUe  mixtaie.    I  Bhall  be  able  to  talk 
to  her,"  thought    the    cool-headed 


"I  owe  joa  an  apology  for  having 
leqneBted  txie  favoar  of  this  interview, 
midame,  but  I  liad  an  important  reason  for 
doii^  so^"  TrevelTan  epoke  in  German. 
"I  only  learnt  the  grave  natore  of  Grafin 
BolaodBock'a  iUneaa  on  my  retam  here  this 
morning.  This  illness,  for  certain  reasons, 
is  a  KKirce  of  special  regret  and  anxiety  to 
me.  I  am  partaonlarly  tmeasy  <hi  aoconnt 
at  the  absODoe  of  Grafin  Gabrielle 
Bolandseck ;  it  is  on  this  snbject  that  I  wish 
to  i^keak  to  yon.  Certain  cironmstances 
may  make  tw  Fraa  GriLfin  unwilling  to 
nunnon  her  daogbter  to  her  aide  however 
ill  she  may  be,  but  while  I  admit  the 
weightinesB  of  theee  reasons,  it,  neverthe- 
leos,  seems  to  me  an  anadviaable,  I  might 
alnuwt  say  a  cmel  proceeding,  to  keep 
the  young  GraBn  in  ignorance  of  her 
mother's  illoeeB,  or  if  she  has  been  informed 
of  it,  it  is  eqoally  inconsiderate  to  condemn 
hsr  to  a  state  of  nnbeuable  suspense  by 
forbidding  her  to  take  her  place  by  her 
mothor's  sick-bed,  a  place  that  is  adanghter's 
sacred  right  at  snch  a  time." 

"It  is  certainly  a  daughter's  privilege 
to  wait  npon  her  mother  in  illness  under 
ocdiBsn  cnconutaDces,  but  there  are  cases 
in  whieh  the  most  affectionate  daughters  are 
eilled  upon  to  renounce  this  privilege  from 
h^m  oottfidera^oiis.     This  u  anch  a  case." 

Trevdyao  knitted  his  brow,  and  oonld  not 
npnm  a  alight  movement  of  impatience. 

"Pardtn  my  saying,  madame,  that  I 
imagine  there  most  be  a  temptation  in 
numbers  of  any  religious  order  to  demand 
from  oidinai7  humanity  sacrifices  that  only 
a  Ufe  of  devoUon  and  self-denial  has  made 
possible  for  themselvea  It  seems  to  me 
dutyoadosointluBeaaa  Probably  yon  do 
not  know  OraSn  Qabrielle  Bolandseck. 
She  is  young,  is  endowed  with  warm  and 
deep  feelings,  and  idolises  her  mother.  I 
believe  she  would  be  capable  of  «iy  heroism 
to  pndoag  her  life  or  alleviate  her  suffer- 
ings, bat  I  do  not  believe  that  she  would 
be  capable  of  the  heroism  that  demanded 
absence  from  her  mother's  sick  chamber, 
and  the  risk  of  absence  from  her  mother's 
dyiiw  bed." 

"Z  know  Qrafin  Gabrielle,  sir,  and  I 
csaaot  aeree  with  von." 


"Then,  madame,  you  may  have  seen 
her,  bat  I  question  whether  you  know  her. 
But  be  the  young  lady's  duty  in  the  matter 
what  it  may,  I  believe  the  obstacles  that 
prevent  her  being  summoned  can  be 
smoothed  away  if  you  will  kindly  deliver 
a  message  from  me  to  the  Frau  Griifin.  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  my  presence 
here  is  the  chief  difficulty  in  the  way  of 
Grafin  Gabrielle  Rolandseck's  return.  I 
will  therefore  beg  you  to  do  me  the  favour 
to  present  my  compliment*  to  the  Prau 
Grafin,  and  to  tell  her  that  I  shall  hold 
mjrself  in  readiness  to  leave  this  neigh- 
bo&rhood  whenever  she  may  deau%,  and 
that  I  pledge  my  word  not  to  return  daring 
her  daughtm^s  stay,  be  it  long  or  short" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  sister  spoke  at 
last  with  some  nesitatioit : 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  doing  wrong  when  I 
venture  to  say  that  I  know  enough  of  the 
cironmstances  to  be  able  to  appreciate 
your  sentiments.  I  wUl  give  the  message, 
and  bring  the  answer  as  soon  as  possible." 
"  That  would  be  troubling  you  too  much. 
A  Use  on  a  card  is  all  that  is  necessary." 

-"  To  say  a  word  takes  less  time  than  to 
write  it.  If  you  shonld  happen  to  be  in  the 
garden  about  dinner-time — it  is  deserted 
then,  and  I  take  a  few  minutes'  exercise 
there — I  will  give  you  your  answer." 

The  interview  left  Trevelyan  with  an  un- 
accountable sense  of  relief,  almost  of  hope. 
He  iielt  attracted  by  the  sister ;  he  gathered 
that  she  knew  something  about  the  real 
state  of  affaire,  and  he  did  not  think  she 
was  inclined  to  be  veir  hard  upon  him. 

He  was  waiting  in  the  garden  long  before 
dinnet^ime.     The  sister  did  not  appear 
until  the  gong  had  Bounded. 
Both  bowed. 

"Shall  we  sit  downl"  asked  the  nun, 
with  a  glance  at  the  bench  that  stood 
against  the  wall  of  the  house,  jost  under 
the  window  of  Frau  Sommerroclrs  room. 

Trevelyan  moved  towtu:ds  it  without 
speaking. 

"The  Grafin  thanks  yoa  for  your 
meesi^^ — ^it  touched  her." 

Trevelyan  looked  up  in  surprisa  The 
little  casement  window  overhead  was  softly 
opened,  but  so  slightly  as  to  be  scarcely 
perceptible. 

"  ^e  will  not  take  advantage  of  it,  how- 
ever, as  I  thought  She  sends  yon  word 
that  she  is  so  much  better  as  to  look 
forward  to  joining  her  daughter  very  soon 
now;  until  she  can  do  Uiat  she  would 
rather  deny  herself  her  company  than  in- 
convenience Herr  Trevelvan.     She  wished 


12     [KaT<mbcrU,un.l 


ALL  THE  YEAfi  BOUND; 


me  to  uy  that  jou  moat  not  think  her 
decision  implied  the  slightest  doabt  of 
youT  word,  ahe  U  Bure  ;oa  would  keep  that, 
but  it  ia  her  wiah  that  neither  she  nor  her 
daughter  should  ever  put  you  to  incon- 
venienoe  again,  although  you  are  good 
enough  to  look  upon  this  as  t^iSin|^" 

Trevelyan's  colour  deepened.  He  bent 
towards  the  nun,  and  spoke  impulsively. 
His  voice  was  low,  his  emotion  vibrated 
through  it : 

"Madame,  yon  are  vowed  to  a  life  of 
good  works,  of  sympathy,  and  charity.  I 
may  surely  venture  to  ap«ak  to  you  with 
more  openness  and  sincerity  than  I  should 
do  to  a  woman  of  the  world.  I  believe 
you  would  feel  soiry  for  me  if  yoa  knew 
all,  as  I  see  you  know  a  little  of  thia 
matter.  Do  not  coBsider  ue  impertiDent 
if  I  beg  you  to  let  me  confide  my  di£B- 
culties  to  you;  all  I  ask  in  return  ia  a 
word  of  sympathy,  if  yon  do  not  see 
your  way  to  give  me  a  word  of  advice." 

Be  waited  a  moment  The  eiater'a 
silence  encouraged  him  to  proceed. 

"I  am  very  unhtqipy.  I  love  Grafin 
Gabrielle  Kolandseck  devotedly,  and  she 
refuses  my  suit  I  may  tell  you,  madame, 
that  she  alleges  no  adequate  reason  for 
doing  so,  and  I  cannot  but  believe,  loving 
her  as  I  do,  that  I  could  have  brought  her 
to  care  for  me  in  time,  if  her  mother 
would  have  couDtenwiced  our  engagement 
The  Frau  Oriifin  will  not  listen  to  it, 
however,  and  three  days  without  seeing 
Gabrielle  have  sufficed  to  show  me  how 
desperate  my  case  is.  I  am  not  the  same 
man  since  this  disappointment,  and  if  I 
cannot  overcome  Gabrielle'a  objections  I 
shall  never  be  the  aame  again.  Life  b  not 
worth  living  without  her,  I  must  win  her 
or  I  am  mined.  The  world  thinks  lightly 
of  such  matters  and  would  laugh  at  the 
statement,  but  my  words  may  have  meai 
ing  for  you.  Madame,  if  the  salvation  of 
soul,  more  or  less,  is  a  matter  of  any 
moment  to  yon,  I  entreat  you  to  open 
Gabrielle'a  eyes  to  what  she  is  doing. 
Surely  she  cannot  persevere  in  her  present 
conduct  1 " 

Frau  Sommerrock's  casement  began  to 
move  curiously  as  if  held  by  a  hand  that 
trembled  violently,  but  how  could  Tre- 
velyan  and  the  nun,  sitting  with  their  backs 
to  it,  suspect  than  they  were  overheardt 

"  She  mu^t,  she  has  no  choice.  You 
Duly  see  things  as  they  appear,  not  as  they 
are.  One  thing  I  may  tell  you  for  your 
comfort,  you  have  escaped  certain  sorrow  as 
well  as  uncertain  happinesa  by  her  decision." 


The  nun  spoke  rapidly  and  in  a  low, 
agitated  voice,  aa  if  the  words  escaped  her 
in  spite  of  her  better  judgment 
"  Madame ! " 
Your  story  has  interested  me.  I  know 
the  family  welt,  and  I  know  the  reason 
that  made  it  impossible  for  Gabrielle  to 
accept  you  though  she  lov — if  she  had 
loved  you." 

"  And   that    reason }      You   will   not 
stop  short  there  1    You  would  never  leave 
in  this  hideous  suspense  1    Pray  speak, 
you  may  trust  me." 
"I— I  ought  not" 

"  That  reason  is " 

"  Since  you  will  have  it,  that  reason  is  a 
great  stain  npou  hei  father's  name.  The 
Rolandsecks  are  a  very  old  and  a  very 
proud  family,  but  for  all  that  the  last 
count  degraded  himself  to  commit  a  crime 
— forgery — and  he  died,  a  common  criminal, 
in  a  common  prison.  The  only  ezcoaes 
that  can  be  made  for  him  are  further  blots 
on  his  character.  He  was  weak-minded 
and  a  gambler.  You  know  what  you  liave 
escap^  DOW.  Do  your  blight«d  hopes  look 
so  terrible  by  the  light  of  this  revelation  t 
Don't  you  rather  congratulate  yourself 
on  having  been  saved  from  pledging  your 
honour  to  Graf  Eolandseck's  daughter  1 " 

Trevelyan  drew  a  long  breath.  He  had 
not  a  single  word  to  say,  the  statunent 
had  stunned  him. 

Here  was  a  reason  indeed  I  Even  in 
his  present  excited  state  he  could  not  deny 
that  for  a  moment  The  name  he  bore 
was  not  a  distinguished  one,  but  it  had 
been  unsullied  tlmiugh  many  geoerationa, 
and  it  dawned  upon  him  in  this  moment 
how  jealous  he  was  of  its  honour. 

A  mad  longing  possessed  him  to  win 
Gabrielle  even  in  spite  of  this,  but  it  was 
held  in  check  by  a  shilling  sense  that  lie 
owed  it  to  himself  and  to  those  of  his 
name  to  look  this  wretched  fact  steadily  in 
the  face  before  pressing  his  suit  farther. 
The  sister's  woms  had  impressed  him, 
a  miserable  conviction  was  stealing  over 
him  that  even  blighted  hopes  were  not 
the  worst  evil  that  could  befall  man. 

"  Gabrielle  acted  kindly,  not  cruelly,  yon 
see,"  said  the  sister  softly. 
.  "  Perhaps  die  did — Heaven  only  knows  1 
But  don't  imagine  that  what  you  have  told 
me  lowers  her  one  tat  in  my  estimation, 
poor  girl  1  The  ciicumatanoe  that  you 
have  confided  to  me  is  a  very  serious  one, 
and  we  are  all  the  slaves  of  circumstances, 
even  when  we  believe  tiiat  we  have  risen 
into  another  and  a  higher  world  through 


A  BOARDING-HOUSE  EOliANCK      lUoTBmber  m,  issii    13 


love.  Thia  fact  has  floog  me  ^om  heaven 
to  earUL  rather  roaefalj,  but  I  lore 
O&brielle  still,  and  ahaU  love  her  aliraye, 
however  this  miserable  knowledge  may 
affect  mj  BctionB." 

"That  is  no  concern  of  mine,  nor  of 
ben  either  now.  My  end  ia  accomplished, 
I  have  reconciled  yon  to  your  fate  by  open- 
mg  yonr  eyea  to  the  truth.  We  have  no 
mora  to  s»y  to  each  other,  you  and  L 
Good-bye,  and  Heaven  bless  yon  1 " 

Trevelyan  wonld  have  replied,  bnt  ehe 
tamed  and  left  him  before  he  could  do  so. 
He  was  not  very  aorry ;  he  hardly  knew 
i^at  he  ooold  have  said. 

Fran  SommerrocVs  window  blew  to 
loftly ;  Uia  band  tliat  had  held  it  open  was 
withdrawn. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

All  that  night  Trevelyan  waa  racked 
with  tortores  of  doubt  and  indecision.  He 
believed  that  he  would  have  little  difficulty 
io  praaoading  the  woman  he  loved  to  con- 
tent to  become  hia  wife  if  he  choae  to 
preaa  hia  suit,  bat  the  question  that 
ttmUed  him  was  how  hx  ae  would  be 
acting  wisely  to  preaa  it,  onder  the  circnm- 
itaacas.  Gabriella  was  very  dear  to  liim, 
but  honour  was  very  dear  to  him,  too,  and 
whatever  threatened  to  dim  the  Instre  of 
that,  it  seemed  to  him,  could  not  be  really 
denrable,  longed  be  for  it  never  bo  wildly. 
TMvdyan  was  a  true-born  Amerioan; 
oation  and  keenness  were  part  of  his 
vBiy  nature,  though  tiat  nature  was 
eapaUe  of  noble  disintereatedneas  and 
enthusiasm  on  occaaion.  He  brought  all 
his  senae  to  bear  upon  the  difGcnlt  matter 
that  be  had  to  setUe  at  once  and  for  ever. 

It  ended  in  his  gaining  what  be  believed 
to  be  a  most  piuseworthy  victory  over  bim- 
ttit.  Before  gMng  down  to  breakfast,  he 
looked  round  his  room,  and  collected  hia 
thinga  together  one  by  one  wit^  a  dismal 
determinatioa  to  lose  no  time  in  leaving 
tile  place  and  its  associations  behind  him 
for  ever.  He  dared  not  trust  himself  here 
any  longer.  He  told  Fran  Sommerrock  his 
intention  at  breakfast,  and  received  her 
load  lamentations  with  a  calmness  that 
wounded  ber  considerably. 

As  be  was  going  to  hia  room  later  he 
was  startled  by  a  sound  from  Grafin 
Bolandaeck's  sitiing-room.     What  was  itt 

A  band  being  swept  ao^y  and  linger- 
ingly  over  the  keys  of  a  zither,  two  or 
three  chords  of  an  air  he  knew  well. 
Then  sudden  silence. 

Bverv  vasttze  of  colour  forsook  bis  face. 


All  the  strength  of  hia  fine  resolutions 
melted  away.  He  was  foadnated  to  the 
spot,  be  could  not  move. 

Id  a  single  instant  a  dozen  memories 
and  considerations  rushed  into  hia  mind. 
Her  face  came  before  him  as  he  had  seen 
it  that  first  time  in  the  carriage,  with  the 
strange  sadness  shadowing  its  beauty. 
Her  character  came  before  him  in  all  the 
proud  nobility  that  prompted  her  to 
sacrifice  every  chance  of  future  happiness 
because  of  her  father's  sin.  Her  lonely, 
unprotected  youth  came  before  him,  and 
— mingled  with  all,  rising  above  all — her 
tove  for  bimsell 

Had  he  been  mad  that  he  had  dreamed  of 
letting  anything  in  the  wide  world  keep  him 
fromherl  Looked  atbythelightof  her  noble 
self,  what  were  the  obstacles  that  stood  in 
Ids  path  but  mean,  selfish  oonsiderations. 
Did  he  not  know  that  be  possMsed  the 
priceless  treasure  of  her  love,  and  was  she 
not  very  unhappy,  very  helpless  T  Was 
George  Trevelyan  the  man  to  forsake  the 
woman  he  loved  in  such  an  bour  t 

He  did  not  wait  to  knock  at  the  door,  or 
to  do  anything  else  respectful  and  proper. 
He  walked  straight  in,  and  was  rewarded 
by  seeing  Gabrielle's  own  eyes  fixed  sadly 
on  her  e^ent  zither. 

As  she  looked  up,  a  sudden  wave  of 
scarlet  swept  over  her  face,  mJdng  even 
her  forehead  pink,  and  new  life  flashed 
into  her  wan  eya 

"Gabrielle,  Gabrielle,  yon  are  here, 
thank  Heaven  !  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
that  all  that  is  no  excuse  for  breaking 
my  heart  You  are  dearer  to  me  than 
ever  you  were,  now  that  I  know  all 
Promise  me  that  you  will  make  my  life 
blissful  with  yonr  preseuce,  and  I  wUl 
swear  to  charm  all  your  own  troubles 
away.  They  are  things  of  the  past 
alr^y,  my  leva  We  will  take  your 
mother  with  us  to  my  country,  and  you 
will  learn  to  love  it,  as  my  people  wilt  love 
yoa  You  will  only  be  my  wife  there, 
Gabrielle;  there  will  be  no  shadow  on 
Mxe.  Trevelyan's  name  1 " 

He  had  taken  her  in  his  arms. 

The  proud  heart  that  had  been  frozen 
BO  long  was  melted  at  last,  and  hot  tears 
were  falling  like  rain  upon  his  breast 

"  I  ought  to  send  you  away  even  now 
for  your  own  sake,  Mr.  Trevelyan,  but  I 
cannot,  I  cannot  I  waa  in  Fraa  Smnmer- 
rock'e  room  when  you  spoke  to  the  sister 
in  the  garden,  and  heard  all;  it  was  I  who 
told  her  to  tell  yon.  Are  you  surprised 
that  I  am   hern  I      I  roald  nnt  atav  awAV 


14     INannibar»,Un.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  EOTTND. 


vheo  m;  mother  wu  so  ill,  bnt  I  did  not 
tneftn  to  see  you  again.  I  persosded  my 
aunt  to  lend  me  a  uo&k,  and  a  long  thick 
veil  of  one  of  the  nuns,  to  tnrel  in,  so  the 
people  here,  who  hare  never  oanght  sight 
of  me  since,  put  me  down  for  a  aister  from 
the  convent.  What  I  hare  suffered  since 
I  returned  I  I  thought  I  had  quite  made 
up  my  mind  to  our  separation  before.  It  is 
very  wicked  and  selfish  of  me  to  cling  to 
you  because  I  love  yoa  so,  but  I  have  been 
trying  to  face  life  without  you,  uid  it  was 
terrible,  terrible  !  Yon  sacrifice  veiy,  very 
mach  in  making  me  your  wife,  but  tny 
love  shall  make  it  all  up  to  yon.  It 
shall,  indeed  I " 


"WILLING." 
Tke  wlDd  wuIb  sadly  hom  the  distant  Mas, 
The  wind  aobs  lowly  tbrouaii  the  leafless  treea, 
Their  voice,  the  Qnl7  Bound  that  Btin  the  gloum. 
That  shadow-like  han^s  o'er  tho  silent  room  ; 
And  in  my  solitude  I  sit  and  muae, 
How  all  would  cbsJige  for  me,  ao  I  could  ehooia 
One  hand  Co  turn  the  lock,  one  voice  to  choar. 
One  Btep  to  lueaaiirD  music  for  my  ear  I 
Dear,  the  great  chur  atanda  empty  by  the  hearth, 
The  blaie  you  love  leapa  np  in  ockle  mirth. 
How  the  dark  ourls  would  allow  agaJnM  Ute  red. 
If  'Kaitut  yoa  cushion  leant  the  proud  young 

How  Uie  blue  eyes  would   'neath   their   lashea 

And  the  rare  smile  Sash  out  to  annwer  mine. 

If  tho  strong  yearninit  cxiuld  but  prove  its  might. 

And  brii^  you  to  me  for  an  boor  to-nlgbt. 

I  have  so  much  to  ask,  so  much  to  eaj. 

I  tire  of  dreanung  night  and  haunted  day ; 

Tia  not  so  very  muob  to  ask  of  Fate. 

I  know  her  bonds  are  strong,  her  law  te  great ; 

I  make  no  atmggle  'gaitut  her  stem  decree. 

I  ask  one  hour,  no  more,  for  yon  and  me ; 

The  whole  world  narrows  to  one  paaaionate  wish. 

A  pool  makes  ocean  for  one  little  fiah. 

I  push  BS:ide  the  curtain  ;  in  the  skies, 

Pale,  'mid  the  driving  clouds  the  pale  moon  lies. 

Steadfast,  or  shining  lone  in  gleamy  apace. 

Or  when  the  blackness  eweope  across  har  face  ; 

So,  amid  hope,  care,  trouble,  joy,  or  pain. 

Unshaken  monarch  of  my  life  you  reign. 

Does  the  deep  longing  make  its  power  known ! 

The  centrea  will  call  to  you:    "Come,  mine 


A  KAITIR  TOAD. 

A  STORY  IN  TWO  CHAPTEBS.  CHAPTER  IL 
WiSDBH  lent  his  guest  a  mounted  Hot- 
tentot, under  whose  direction  he  rode 
Btrught  across  the  veldt  to  New  Rush, 
with  the  purpose  of  ezaminiiig  Sinclair 
before  visiting  Pmel.  The  moon  rose 
early,  the  hotses  were  good,  and  by 
nine  o'clock  they  brou^t  him  into 
camp.  The  first  passer-by  directed  him  to 
Skinner's  tent,  a  fabric  of  three  rooms, 
Burronnded  by  canvas  dependencies,  stable, 
cookhouse,  servants'  quarters,  store-room. 


Bang  was  entertBining  friends,  as  nsual, 
UuMigh  his  blacks  had  bat  just  begun  to  wash 
the  driving  cart  In  which  he  had  returned 
from  Annandale — for,  travelliog  at  leisure, 
he  had  stayed  the  night  at  Puiel.  Sindair, 
a  big  fat-faced  half-breed,  showed  in  the 
visitor.  Half-a^OEUi  men,  flushed  with 
drink  and  excitement,  eat  round  tlie  taUe  in 
a  room  Imed  with  green  baize,  carpeted, 
handsomely  furnished.  Heaps  of  gold  stood 
at  every  man's  elbow ;  the  cards  set  out 
before  Skinner  were  piled  with  sovereigns. 

"  Are  you  all  on  1  £h,  who  is  it  t "  to 
Sinclair.  "You're  as  welcome  as  drink, 
Hutchinson.  Take  the  bank  a  moment, 
Spud" 

As  th^  entered  tlie  comfortable  bed  room 
Skinner  said : 

"  I'm  driving  care  awayvriUi  a  mild  faro 
to-night  for  a  change.  What  Is  it  brings 
you  hcret  All  well  at  Annandalel  That's 
right  1     What  is  it  tiien  1 " 

Hutchinson  told  his  purpose,  whit^ 
Skinner  could  not  aasiBt  in  any  way.  He 
oaUed  Sinclair,  who  had  never  heard  of 
Stump.  Oh,  the  Kaffir  he  talked  to  at 
Annandale  damt  Never  knew  his  name 
till  now,  though  thay  had  been  acquainted 
ever  since  SincUiir  arrived  on  the  fields. 
For  the  rest,  he  had  nothing  to  teU.  Each 
went  his  way  after  that  gossip. 

The  "  hotels "  of  Kew  luish  were  not 
abodes  of  peace  at  that  time,  but  Hutchin- 
son was  weak,  and  worried,  and  tired. 
He  turned  out  at  dawn,  and  rode  to  FnieL 
If  Stump  had  walked  thither  at  a  com- 
fortable rate  he  had  probably  anived  about 
nightfall  of  the  day  before,  and  though  he 
had  left  the  place,  people  who  saw  him 
would  still  have  a  clear  reeoUftetion  of 
the  toothless  Kaffir.  But  if  Stump  had 
travelled  at  full  speed,  he  might  have  left 
Pniel  fifty  milea  behind.  Hntdiinson 
reached  Jardine's  at  evening.  In  the  bar  sat 
an  acquaintance,  Mr.  Bean,  late  trooper  in 
his  own  r^;iment,  now  ui  inspector  of  the 
Frontier  Police.  Most  fortunate  it  was. 
Mr.  Bean  would  understand  the  sitoatiMi, 
and  would  follow  instmctionB,  Forthwith, 
taking  him  apart,  Hutchinson  consulted 
tlie  iospectw. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bean,  "  I  think  I 
may  say  your  business  is  settled,  and  so  is 
Meinheer  Stamp's.  Unless  I'm  greatly 
mistook,  you'll  find  the  man  you're  looking 
for  in  ihe  police  hospital,  if  he's  not  yet 
been  taken  to  the  dead-housa  We'll  see, 
sir,  if  yon  like." 

Going  along  Bean  told  what  he  knew.  At 
early  dawn  on  the  day  previous, "  old  Davy," 


A  KAFFIR  TOAD. 


[Narcgnbar  »,  IBM.]     1 5 


the  keeper  of  a  Bmall  canteen  at  Uie  Drift — 
the  ford — brooglit  word  to  the  station  thftt 
a  woonded  Kaffir  la;  outside  his  door. 
He  w&B  carried  to  the  hospital,  where  the 
doctOT  pnmonnced  him  dead  dmnlc  and 
mortallj  hark 

They  ccoesed  the  river,  and  Bean  pointed 
ODt  a  miaerable  shed  of  oanvas,  some  twenty 
feet  from  tise  path. 

"  Tliat'a  the  place,"  said  he. 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  ia  old  Davy  % " 

"Why,  I  should  say  svea&gb,  for  hia 
sort  One  don't  look  for  mock  virtae  in  a 
canteen-keeper.  Davy's  not  a  chap  you'd 
efavge  with  mnrder,  nnleaa  you'd  lome- 
thing  to  go  on.  But  in  a  general  way  hia 
Bort'a  a  bad  'no.  If  yoa're  going  to  ask 
him  questions,  I'd  wait  till  the  morning  if 
I  was  you." 

They  reached  the  police  hospital  The 
&ce  of  the  wounded  man  was  so  swathed 
with  bandies  aud  sticking-plaister  that 
HatdkinsoD  would  have  scarcely  rect^^nised 
it  But  fail  ill-formed  jaw  was  not  to  be 
miitaken,  aad  a  strained  withdrawal  of  ^e 
1^  sliowiMl  it  to  the  foUoit  Stump  had 
I«n  insMisihle  for  thirty-six  hours  or  more, 
HutchiDBon  waited  on  the  doctor. 

"  I  say  frankly,"  replied  that  pleasant 

rtleman,  "that  I  can  form  no  opinion, 
the  patient  were  white,  be  would 
be  in  hia  grave  by  this  time,  but  I've 
not  been  long  enough  in  the  country  to 
diagQoae  a  Kaffir.  £zperience  aa  yet  has 
Mdy  proved  my  ignorance.  Your  boy's 
■kuU  is  fractoreo,  and  he  has  two  or  three 
kilHiig  wounds  besides;  but  I  should  be 
not  at  all  surprised  if  be  got  over  it" 

"How  long  wiU  it  be  before  ha 
recoTerat" 

"  Mind  yon.  It's  a  hundred  to  one  hell 
die^  bat  if  he  doesn't — then  I  have  no  idea 
wlMt  will  happen." 

Hutchinson  returned  with  the  inspector 
to  PnieL  He  asked  what  clothes  Stump 
w<»«,  and  wheUiet  anything  had  been 
fosfid  about  hiuL 

*<  Oh,  didn't  I  tdl  yon,  air  I  He  hadn't 
a  neon  his  body." 

"Then  of  coarse  he  had  been  robbed." 

"  Well,  we  didn't  know  he  was  any 
body's  boy,  so  the  nakedness  was  not  par- 
tieoWiy  noticed.  It  would  be  a  stnmge 
tiling  in  this  camp,  if  a  man  lay  senseless 
for  an  hour  at  night,  and  was  not  robbed." 

Next  day  Hutchinson  visited  Uie  canteen. 
Aa  I  have  said,  it  was  a  rag  of  canvas 
atrot<^ed  on  boughs.  Behind  the  board 
on  tressels  which  crossed  its  width,  the 
sleeoiiiE  eear  of  Mr.  Daw  lav  bideoudv 


conspicuous.  A  blear-eyed,  towsled  giant 
was  he,  cunning  and  brutal,  but  he  did  not 
look  a  murderer. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  you  know 
about  that  Kaffir.     He  is  my  boy." 

Mr.  Davy  had  told  all  he  knew  to  the 
polica  He  mixed  a  drink  for  the  enquirer, 
another  for  himself,  and  held  out  hia  hand 
for  the  money. 

"  Kwe's  a  half-eovereign,"  stud  Hutchin- 
son. "  You  may  work  out  the  change  if 
you  like — on  oath " 

"  Tliis  ia  a  lonely  place,  mate,  after  dark, 
though  it's  'twixt  the  two  cau^  I  don't 
know  nothin'  as  would  harm  anybody,  an' 
I  can't  lie.    What  is  it  you  want  1 " 

"  Had  you  seen  that  Kaffir  before  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  had.  He  came  here  to  ask  a 
drink  in  the  afternoon " 

"  In  the  afternoon  t    At  what  hour ) " 

"  As  near  three  o'clock  as  might  be,  for 
I'd  just  tumbled  out  of  a  snooze  which  I 
take  artei  dinner.  He  asks  a  drink,  I  say, 
an'  he  cuts  away  smart  when  I  asks  him 
what  he  means  by  showing  his  nose  inside 
a  'spectable  canteen.  Bu^"  he  continued, 
"  the  ni^^  got  hia  drink  at  some  black- 
guard hole,  an'  more'n  one  or  two;  for 
when  I  see  him  again,  just  at  dark,  he 
was  in  deep  water,  aa  they  say." 

"  And  that's  all  1     On  your  oath  1 " 

"  Have  ye  another  of  them  little  things, 
mate}" 

"  Yea,  if  you  earn  it  1 " 

"  Well,  what  I  say  can't  do  no  one  any 
harm  unless  they  deserve  it  When  that 
Kaf&r  was  hanging  round  at  nightfall,  a 
man  came  to  him,  a  coloured  man — I  can't 
■ay  more^  that,  I  swear.  An'  they  cioBsed 
the  drift  to  Pniel.     There,  I've  done." 

"  You  wooldn't  know  the  coloured  man 
again  I" 

"No,  mate;  I  tell  yon  fur  I  would 
not" 

Hutchi&Bon  paid  the  sovereign,  and  went 
to  enqoire  about  Stomp.  Not  the  least 
change  was  reported.  For  three  days  he 
employed  himself  and  Bean  in  seekmg  a 
due  to  his  boy's  uovenentB,  but  none 
tamed  up.  Out  of  patience,  and  satisfied 
now  that  Stump  was  a  thief,  Hutchinson 
thought  of  leaving  him  where  he  wa& 
Bean  and  the  doctor  coonaelled  him  in 
a  friendly  way  to  deposit  a  sum  for 
expenses  and  for  the  borial  At  this 
suggestion  he  rebelled. 

"  If  I  have  to  pay  for  the  fellow,  I'd 
rather  have  him  under  my  own  eye.  Can 
be  travel,  doctor  t " 

I  don't  know  that  he  can't     We  want 


16     IHanHnbarZi,!! 


ALL  THE  TEAK  BOUND. 


hiB  bod  badl^,  Yoa'll  take  him  in  a  wi^od, 
of  course  1 " 

So  gna  day  HatchinwD  carried  off  the 
interestiog  patient,  a  BenBelesB  bag  of 
bones.  In  the  Bervaats'  qoaitera  at  Annan- 
dtle,  a  group  of  hate  not  too  near  the 
main  bmldiDg,  a  pensioned  old  Hottentot 
was  Teiy  glad  to  take  chai^  of  Stamp, 
and  she  confidently  promised  to  bring 
him  roimd.  Then  Hutchinson  sooght 
Mr.  Wisden,  who  did  not  object  in  the 
least  A  Kaffir  more  or  leaa,  sick  or  well, 
made  no  difference. 

Stump's  adventure  was  not  very  inter- 
estinz,  when  all  believed  that  be  lud  mefc 
withluB  deserts ;  bat  the  problem  of  his 
arrival  at  Fniel  within  nine  'hours  of 
leaving  Annandale,  challenged  the  wit  of 
the  Bopper-party.  It  was  a  lonely  road  to 
buvel,  and,  besides,  what  farmer,  digger, 
or  trader  woald  give  a  seat  to  a  black  t 

"  One  of  m^  ne^hbonn  bu  lost  a  horae, 
I  expect,"  said  Wisden ;  "  that's  what  it 
comes  to." 

"  And  a  near  neighbour,  too,"  Hutchin- 
son added. 

The  next  nwbt,  when  they  sat  in  the 
study,  in  which  Graee  alone  was  allowed  to 
take  a  chair,  she  said : 

"  This  matter  interests  me  so  mach, 
father,  that  I  have  sent  all  round  to  enquire. 
No  cme  in  the  neighbouthood  has  lost  a 
horse." 

"  Then  Stump  flew,  that's  all !  When 
he  recovers,  hell  tell  as  the  trick,  perhaps," 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  Grace  asked : 

"By-tbe-bye,  father,  has  Sinclair  sent 
back  Cherry  Ripe  1 " 

"  One  of  Jaidine's  people  brought  her  in 
yesterday." 

Hutchinson  was  startled  by  a  sudden 
thought. 

"  Did  Sinclair  go  on  horseback,  then  1 " 

"Skinner  had  left  his  cart  at  Pniel,  and 
they  rode  here.  Hia  boy's  horae  fell  lame, 
and  I  lent  him  Oherry  Bipe  to  retnm." 

"May  I  ask,  sir,  whether  yeu  saw 
Sinclair's  horse,  or  whether  yoa  took  his 
word  for  its  lameseaa  t " 

"  I  didn't  see  tt.  !^ad  I  this  snggestM 
a  commoner  trick  than  flying  1  Your  boy 
has  adiamond — Eclair  borrows  a  horse, 
takes  him  to  Fniel,  and  then  robs  him  1 
It's  as  plain  as  could  be." 

"  Yon  foivet,  sir,  that  Bang  Skinner  was 
there.  Did  Sinclair  start,  leading  his  own 
horse  t " 

"Yes;  I  Bee  the  difficulty.  He  pre- 
tended to  leave  hia  own  horse  somewhere, 
I  expect" 


"Sinclair  didn't  leave  him  anywhere 
along  the  road,"  said  Grace  quietly. 

"You  have  sent  to  enquire  t"  asked 
Wisden,  rather  astonished.  "  Well,  we 
may  take  it  for  granted  that  t^e  fellow 
deceived  his  master  somehow." 

"  And  he  was  not  long  in  working  the 
trick  either,"  Hutchinson  aaid.  "  It's  clear, 
if  you  reckon  the  time,  Uiat  Stnmp  most 
have  tnvelled  very  qaick.  That  Skinner 
should  not  have  observed  him  on  that 
veldt,  which  is  as  smooth  as  a  floor,  nor 
noticed  that  his  lame  horse  had  been  hard 
ridden,  seems  strange." 

"  Wiiat  do  you  mean  by  that  look  I 
Upon  my  honour,  Hutchinson,  I  would  not 
have  believed  Uiat  one  of  yoiu  name  could 
hint  such  a  charge." 

"  I  hint  nothu^  air,  bat  I  mean  to 
enquire." 

"As  deep  as  you  please;  but  don't  insult 
my  friends  with  your  jealous  fancies  ] 
There,  my  boy,  flit  down ;  I  can  make 
allowance,  but  you  must  do  the  same." 

Hutchinson  sat  down,  and  talked  for  a 
few  moments  constrainedly ;  then  he  said 
good-night  An  hour  later,  just  before  the 
bolts  were  drawn,  he  dropped  his  rack  of 
clothes  from  the  bedroom  window.  In  that 
lai^  honsehold  it  was  easy  to  slip  through 
the  front  door  unperceived.  When  all  had 
gone  to  theirrooms,  Hutchinson  spread  his 
mg  on  the  stoop  and  lay  down. 

Sleep  would  not  have  come  to  him  that 
night  though  he  had  lain  on  rose-leaves 
without  a  crumpled  petal  in  a  yard  of 
thickness.  Since  Skinner  was  chosen,  he 
would  go,  never  to  return.  But  to  him, 
feverish  and  distracted,  came  a  vision  white 
in  the  moonbeams,  beautifol  as  love. 

" Dear  Mr.  Hutchinson,"  Grarapleaded, 
"  I  beg  yon  to  come  in.  We  don't 
allow  even  a  Kaffir  to  sleep  hen  beneath 
the  level  of  the  dams.  You  are  ill !  Pray, 
pray  return  to  your  room." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  could  have  refused 
yon  an  hour  ago.  Miss  Wisden.  If  this 
spot  is  dangerous,  I  beg  yon  not  to  stay." 

"  Then  I  wUl  fetch  father.  Please  listen 
tome." 

Hutchinson  felt  that  his  host's  arrival 
would  make  the  situation  ridiculotu.  He 
had  been  sitting  on  the  rug,  but  now  he 
got  np,  and  instantly  became  aware  of 
racking  pains,  of  phantasms  in  his  sight,  and 
singular  indecision  in  the  use  of  his  linjbs. 
Grace  saw  him  falter  and  caught  his  arm. 

' '  You  have  taken  the  fever,  Mr.  Hutchin- 
son !  Oh,  how  dreadful  1  Can  you  walk 
in )    Lean  on  me  ! " 


A  KAPPIR  TOAD. 


M.i     17 


"I  eui  mlk,  bnt  not  imdoon,"  be 
uuwered  with  tiie  vehemence  of  betted 
blood.  "I  wouU  die  in  the  veldt  Booner! 
rm  bouest,  Miss  Wisden,  &nd  it  was  not 
JHloosf  made  me  speak.     God  bless  70U 1 


ieuoosf  ] 
Let  me  g 


know  it  was  not  jealooar.  When 
tatiier  thinks  the  matter  oat  be  will  own 
there  is  cause  for  suspicion.  Don't  give 
him  mors  pain.     Ob,  pleasa  oome  in  I " 

"  Do  yoa  nupect  Skinner  t  Then  yon 
do  not  lore  him  t  " 

"  I  do  not,  and  I  nerer  sbalL" 

"  Love  me,  Grace !  Try  I  Promiae 
that,  01  I  would  rather  die  here  Haa 
hve." 

"  How  can  I,  Mr.  Hntebinaon  1  It  ia 
migmeroos  to  ask  when  yon  are  in  thia 
state." 

"I  will  go  in  and  get  weU.  It  yon  ate 
free You  love  no  one  ( " 

"No  one  in  the  world — like  that." 

"  Then  I  will  win  yoar  love.  Now  I  obey 
yon." 

As  Graee  oaotionaly  fitted  the  bars  of 
the  door,  she  watdied  his   feeUe  pn>- 

rthtoQgb  the  dusky  room.  Presently 
Wisden  came,  with  those  nmple 
medicinea  that  alleviate  the  common 
fever.  Bat,  on  retaniing  at  dawn,  he 
foond  this  was  another  kind.  To  the 
hot  and  eager  fit  bad  succeeded  terrible 
depreeaioa,  and  the  pain  of  bis  limbs  was 
neb  that  Eatchinwn  conid  not  repress  his 


I  am  afraid  yoors  is  rhenmatic  fever," 
Vnsden  said  compassionately. 

"  Give  me  something  that  will  kill,"  be 
answered.  "  In  the  other  world  a  man 
cannot  suffer  worse  than  tlus." 

"Cheer  up,  my  boyl  I've  known  lots 
of  fellows  who  worried  through  a  bout 
of  it." 

"  Thev  had  something  to  live  for,  then. 
Vn  had  misery  enough,  and  there's  only 
misery  before  ma" 

When  Wisden  made  bia  report  down- 
stairs, the  gii'ls  all  cried  over  their  work. 
They  picked  wool  for  a  bed,  but  when  it 
was  fiiiished,  Hutchinson  refused  to  ex- 
change bis  bard  mattress.  The  doctor 
came,  but  be  would  take  no  medicine.  To 
tnat  a  man  in  that  state  forcibly  would 
be  to  kill  him  with  sheer  pain.  Wisden 
atgued  and  adjured,  the  girls  pleaded  and 
wept — to  no  purpose.  In  that  mood  and 
that  agony  Hutchinson  wanted  to  die,  as 
a  relief  from  present  aufTerings  oncbeered 
W  hopes  for  the  future ;  and  be  was 
uelv  to  have  his  wish. 


At  evening  Grace  oame  to  her  father. 
She  said: 

"  If  I  aak  Mr.  HatohiuMin  to  be  patient 
he  will  submit." 

"  Then  go  at  once." 

"  If  be  recovers  he  will  expect  me  to 
mar^bim." 

"  'Tbaf s  absurd !  However,  save  the 
boy's  life,  and  refer  him  to  m&" 

"I  will  not  do  that,  father — whatever  I 
do,  not  that ;  but  I  will  beg  Mr.  Hutchinson 
to  be  patient." 

"  Manage  it  your  own  way,  dear.  Why 
ia  t^e  lad  BO  uqIucI?  1  He's  worth  twenty 
thinners,  after  all" 

So  Grace  appealed,  and  even  in  that 
agony  the  aiek  man's  brow  cleared  at  her 
wordis.  Then  she  had  Stump  removed  to 
the  hoose^  and  noised  him  cuef  ally.  The 
Hopetown  doctor  examined  him  and 
re|mrted. 

"  Why  is  that  Kaffir  like  a  toad.  Miss 
Grace  I  '  he  began,  entering  the  room. 

"Is  he  like  a  toadi  Im  sure  I  don't 
know  why." 

"  Because  he's  awftill^  ugly,  and  he  bears 
a  precious  jewel  in  his  head.  Look  at 
that  I "  The  doctor  displayed  a  fine  macle 
diamond.  "It  was  jammed  between  his 
broken  teeth  at  the  back.  Ill  bring  my 
tools  to-morrow  for  an  operation,  and  be'U 
tell  us  all  that  baa  happened  in  a  day  or 
two." 

More  experienced  and  more  attentive 
than  his  confrere  of  Klipdrift,  the  doctor 
fulfilled  his  prediction.  When  Grace  had 
laboriously  transcribed  the  wandering 
narrative,  she  went  to  seek  her  eldest 
brother,  and  found  him  chatting  with 
Skinner,  who  had  just  arrived. 

"  Will  yoa  read  that.  Jack,"  she  said, 
whilst  we  take  a  stroll  in  the  garden  t " 

Jack  received  the  paper  wonibring,  and 
Skinner,  wondering,  led  Grace  oat 

"  What  I  have  given  my  brother,"  she 
began,  "ia  Stump's  declaration.  He  says 
that  he  told  your  groom  bow  he  bad  foond 
a  diamond  which  he  was  taking  to  his 
master.  Sinclair  assured  him  that  Mr. 
Hutchinson  had  gone  to  New  Buah,  and 
offered  him  a  mount  as  far  as  Poiel.  Allow 
to  finish  1  At  the  first  outspan  Stump 
oame  up  with  yon,  uid  you,  Vtr.  Skinner, 
asked  to  look  at  bis  diamond.  But  you  told 
Mr.  Hatobbson  you  bad  never  seen  his 
boy,  and  Sinchdr  said  be  had  left  him  at 
the  dam." 

I  can't  believe  that  yoa  take  thia 
drunken  Kaffir's  word  before  mine." 

I  do.  Mr.  Skinner,  and  evervbodv  will. 


18        [KOTB 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EOTTNl). 


tODBdonttd  bf 


For  he  do«s  not  knov  your  luime  now,  he 
ii«Tflr  saw  you  before  that  day,  but  hs  will 
identify  you  when  the  time  comea  as 
SiDclau^B  master  who  rode  with  him  from 
Annandale." 

"  And  you  charge  me  with  waylaying 
this  brate  1 " 

.  "  He  does  not  acense  you  of  thak  Bnt 
he  accuses  Sinclair,  and  my  father  will 
issue  a  wammt  and  execute  it  within  ten 
minutes." 

"  I  swear  to  you,  Miss  Wisden,  that  I 
knew  notiiing  of  Sindair's  villainy  till  next 
day.  The  rest  I  confess,  and  it  makes  no 
matter;  I  wanted  money,  and  I  hoped 
Stump  would  sell  the  diamond  cheap. 
Mr.  Wisden  had  made  me  a  loan,  fbr  a 
apeonlation  as  ha  nnderstood.  Ifs  all 
lost,  and  my  bastneea  bow  was  to  borrow 
mora  The  game  is  up  t  It's  useless  now, 
Qrace,  to  say  that  I  loved " 

"Quite  useless.  What  shall  yon  do 
nowl" 

"I  can't  go  back  to  the  fields,"  he 
answered  sullenly,  "  with  this  oharge  over 
me.     I  shall  run  to  the  Free  State." 

"  Are  your  chums  clear  t " 

"Yee,  except  some  business  debts  and 
your  father's  loan." 

"  Will  you  transfer  them  to  Mr.  Hntchin- 
son  for  fire  hundred  pounds  down  I " 

"  Yes." 

"Then  wait  in  the  arbour  for  ten 
minutes." 

Jack  was  approaching,  very  grave.  Grace 
met  and  turned  him,  whilst  she  fetched 
writing  materials. 

"Now,  Mr.  Skinner,  here  is  a  cheque 
for  five  hundred  pomids,  and  my  bromer 
will  witness  the  transfer." 

He  wrote  it  and  annexed  the  licences. 

"Ifs  a  good  day  for  Hutchinson,"  he 
eud  vidonsly.  "A  man  might  spare  the 
price  of  a  wedding-ring  out  of  uiat  pOe. 
Good-bye,  Jack  1  Keep  clear  of  the 
cards." 

Twenty  minutes  later  Bang  rode  off,  not 
gaily,  but  not  uncheerfully,  to  try  his 
fortune  in  other  scenes. 

Mr.  Wisden  does  not  know  the  truth  to 
this  day,  and  Hntcbinson  did  not  know  it 
till  long  afterwards.  They  understood  that 
Skinner,  in  remorse,  broken  with  debts 
and  embarrassments,  maxle  over  his  claims. 
Mr.  Wisden  readily  advanced  what  was 
needful  to  free  them  of  lawful  encumbrance, 
for  it  was  gambling  that  swamped  the  first 
owner. 

In  twelve  months'  time  Hutchinson 
married,  and,  final  proof  that  his  vein  of 


ill-luck  had  passed  away,  he  revised  his 
clattna  in  time,  and  bought  a  farm  near 
Annandala  De  Kuyter  received  his  macle, 
but  he  is  not  to  be  persuaded  that  Hutchin- 
son's fortune  is  not  due,  in  some  mysterious 
way,  to  his  temporary  possession  of  that 
taltsman.  Stump  is  fat  and  very  much 
married.  The  last  news  of  Skinner  reported 
him  to  be  winning  and  losing  fortunes 
daily  at  Pilgrim's  B«st,  on  the  gold-fields. 


DOCTORS  &HD  THEIR  PATIENTS 

It  has  often  struck  me  tiiat  a  very 
curious  book  might  be  written  b^  any 
member  of  the  medical  profession  in  the 
habit  of  noting  down  whatever,  either  in 
the  course  of  nis  own  pnwtice  or  in  that 
of  his  colleagues,  may  have  appealed  to  him 
worthy  of  remembrance.  Mr.  Jeafl^^son's 
work  on  the  subject  of  doctors  is  excellent 
as  fsr  as  it  goes,  rich  in  anecdote  and  of 
sufficiently  varied  interest  to  take  its  plaee 
among  the  most  attractive  compilations  of 
its  kind ;  there  stilt  remains,  however, 
much  to  be  gleaned,  especially  as  regards 
foreign  practitioners,  from  the  innumerable 
collections  of  "ana "within  the  reach  of 
the  miscellaneous  reader,  and  it  is  possible 
that  the  following  selections  from  different 
sources,  mostly  iUustrating  the  humoroos 
side  of  the  question,  may  not  be  unaccept- 
able, as  being  less  generally  known. 

The  Abb6  Brueys,  author  of  the  comedy 
Le  Qrondenr,  who  had  been  for  some 
years  afQtcted  with  ophthalmia,  was  asked 
one  day  by  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  with 
whom  he  was  a  great  iavoarite,  how  hia 
eyes  were.  "Sire,"  he  replied,  "my 
nephew,  the  snrgeon,  assures  me  that  I  see 
considerably  better  than  I  did." 

Among  Uie  celebrated  Falconet's  occa- 
sional patients  was  a  lady  in  the  enjoyment 
of  perfect  health,  bnt  as  confirmed  a 
"malade  imaginaire"  as  Moll^re's  Ai^an 
himself.  Annoyed  at  being  continoidly 
summoned  to  listen  to  her  frivolous  com- 
plaints, "  Madame,"  he  said,  "  as  far  as  I 
can  see,  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with 
you.  By  your  own  confession,  you  eat 
well  and  sleep  well ;  so  that,  if  you  insist 
on  my  prescribing  for  you,  all  I  can 
possibly  do  is  to  give  you  something  that 
will  make  you  really  ill,  in  which  case  I 

Eromise  that  henceforward  you  will  neither 
e  able  to  do  one  or  the  other."  Whether 
this  suggestion  brought  madame  to  her 
senses  or  not  is  not  recorded,  but  she  never 
called  Falconet  in  agatn. 


DOCTORS  AND  THE[R  PATIENTS.     tHor^bw «,  wsfci     19 


His  eoUeagae,  Malooln,  one  of  the  ableet 
and  moflt  jnstly  Mteemed  practitionera  of 
hii  day,  waa  aomewliat  eccentric  in  his 
habtta,  and,  when  coaanltod  by  a  patient, 
only  consented  to  attend  to  his  cue  on 
eoDditaoD  that  his  directions  should  be 
blindly  followed,  and  no  qaeationB  asked. 
He  ms,  moreover,  so  sensitive  with  r^ard 
to  the  dignity  of  his  profession,  that  the 
ili^test  depreoiat(»y  atlnaion  to  it  even 
{ram  hla  beat  friends  mads  him  their  enemy 
fet  life;  One  of  Uiese,  who  had  offended 
liim  in  this  particular,  fell  dangerously 
ill,  and  on  the  tidinM  ooming  to 
Malooln's  ears,  he  imme£ately  repaired 
to  &«  sick  man's  house,  and  told 
him  that  he  woold  cure  him,  becanae 
it  was  his  daty  to  do  bo  ;  but  that,  the 
mabdy  once  vanquished,  he  would  never 
erosB  his  Uireahold  again ;  and  he  kept  his 
word.  He  was  visited  one  day  by  a 
stranga*,  irtio  a^ed  if  he  did  not  reoogniae 
him,  and  «i  the  phyaician's  replying  in  the 
aegative, "  Do  yoo  not  remember,"  he  said, 
"  emieioing  me  four  years  ago  to  follow  a 
^leeial  tresbnent  indicated  by  yoa)  Well, 
I  have  done  so  cMucientioauy,  and  it  has 
eored  me  at  last"  Maloain  surveyed  the 
speaker  admiringly.  "  Yon  have  done 
that ! "  he  exclumed.  "  Allow  me  to 
embrace  the  <Bily  man  I  ever  met  with  who 
was  worthy -of  being  ili." 

Hia  emfnimoe,  the  notorious  Oardinal 
Dahoiu,  when  infferine  from  the  compli- 
cated malady  which  lUtimately  caused  his 
death,  sent  for  Boadon,  the  surgeon-in- 
diisf  of  tlie  Hdtel  Dieu,  and,  after  explain- 
ing his  symptoms,  gave  him  haughtUy  to 
nndwstand  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
being  treated  like  the  poor  wretches 
in  the  hrapitaL  "  Monseignenr,"  gravely 
aaawered  Boadon,  "you  seem  to  fo^et 
ibat,  in  my  professional  capacity,  the 
poorest  of  iita  pom  wretches  you  speak  of 
n  aa  onineaoe  to  me." 

Frederick  tb»  Great,  wlule  disoossing 
with  two  of  his  favourite  officers  the 
ehaoeea  of  snoeess  or  failure  at  the 
^aproaching  battle  of  Boabach,  remarked 
^at  if  he  lost  it  he  shtmid  have  no  re- 
sooree  left  but  to  retire  to  Yenice,  and 
gain  his  living  by  practising  as  a  physician. 
"What  do  yon  think  ofmyplan,geBeraIt" 
he  asked  one  of  them.  "  Sire,"  ^miliarly 
responded  the  personage  addressed,  "  I 
think  it  a  very  good  one,  for  yon  will  never 
be  easy  withoat  killing  somebody."  On 
teoHtBT  occasion,  turning  to  the  Court 
Escoh^oi,  "Tell  me  frankly,  doctor," 
Bud  tim  kin?,  "how  manv  men  in  the 


eoarse  of  your  life  have  you  sent  into  the 
otiier  world!"  "Abont  three  hundred 
thousand  leas  than  your  majesty,"  was  the 
reply. 

A  French  nobleman,  happening  to  fall 
dangerously  ill  in  a  remote  part  of 
Anvei^e,  it  was  suggested  to  him  that  as 
:  the  renowned  pbyaioian  Bonvard  was  on 
the  point  of  arriving  at  Clermont,  it  might 
be  advisable  to  send  for  hint  "  On  no 
account,"  he  objected,  "it  woidd  be  too 
great  a  risk.  I  prefer  sending  for  the 
village  apothecary,  for  there  is  just  the 
chance  that  he  may  not  have  the  court^e 
to  kill  me."  The  same  Bonvard,  whwi 
asked  by  a  lady  of  rank  if  she  might  try  a 
certain  newly-invented  remedy  then  in 
fashion,  replied:  "By  all  means,  madame, 
bat  make  haste,  and  try  it  before  it  ceases 
to  cure." 

A  celebrated  Paris  surgeon,  one  of  whose 
pataents  had  recently  undergone  a  painful 
operation,  was  taken  aside  after  visiting 
the  sufferer  by  a  relative  of  the  latter,  who 
asked  if  there  were  any  chance  of  his 
recovery.  "Not  the  slightest,"  iie  answered, 
"  there  never  has  been."  "  Then  why 
torture  him  nnneeessarily t  "  "My  good 
sir,"  coolly  observed  the  operator,  "it 
woold  be  downright  barbarity  to  tell  him 
the  truth.  As  long  as  he  has  strength 
to  hope,  let  him  hope ! " 

"  What  profession  do  yoa  intend  choos- 
ing t "  enqnured  Voltaire  of  a  young  man 
who  had  juat  been  presented  to  him.  "That 
of  physician,"  was  the  answer.  "  In  other 
words,"  said  the  phUosopher  of  Ferney, 
"you  purpose  introducing  drugs  of  which 
you  know  little,  into  bodies  you  know  still 
less." 

The  first  Napoleon's  great  medical  antho- 
ri^,  Conriaart,  was  deploring  one  day  in 
the  midst  of  a  circle  of  friends,  the  prema- 
ture death  of  a  yooug  colleague  who  had 
already  attained  a  briluant  reputation.  "  It 
was  certainly  not  for  want  of  proper  care 
and  attention  that  we  lost  him,"  he  said ; 
"for  during  the  last  days  of  his  illness, 
Ktm,  Port^,  and  I  never  left  him  for  an 
instant"  "  That  accounts  for  it,"  pithily 
remarked  one  of  the  bystanders.  "  As 
Comeille  says  in  Horace,  "Que  voultes- 
vooB  qu'il  fit  contre  trois  t " 

A  &shionable  Parisian  doctor,  more 
celebrated  for  his  agreeable  and  witty 
conversation  than  for  medical  skill,  was  in 
the  habit  of  paying  a  visit  every  afternoon 
to  a  dowager  of  the  Faabonrg  St  Qermain, 
and  retaihng  to  faer  whatever  news  or  gossip 
he  had  sicked  ud  in  the  coarse  of  the 


20     [NoTsmlMr  »,  un.B 


ALL  THE   YEAB  BOUND. 


monung.  Arrivuig  on«  day  at  hii  oaaal 
boar,  he  was  informsd  that  madame  had 
eiren  strict  orders  that  nobody  should 
be  admitted.  "  Very  possibly,"  ho  replied, 
"  but  that,  of  coarse,  does  not  concern  me. 
Take  in  my  name,  I  am  certain  she  will  be 
at  home  to  me."  The  servant  did  as  he 
was  bid,  and  enqatrsd  if  his  mistfess  woald 
receive  Dr.  X.  "Him  least  of  all,"  was 
her  answer.  "Tell  him  I  am  too  ill  to 
talk." 

Boardaloae,  when  asked  by  a  physician 
how  he  had  hitherto  contrived  to  keep  oat 
of  the  clutches  of  the  faculty,  replied,  "  By 
taking  only  one  meal  a  day."  "  Let  t^ii 
be  a  secret  between  you  and  me,  I  en- 
treat you,"  said  the  oibei,  "  for  if  people 
knew  how  easily  they  could  do  without 
us  we  should  not  have  a  single  patient 
left." 

A  somewhat  similar  anecdote  is  related 
of  the  celebrated  H^uet,  who  invariably 
maintained  that  the  most  valuable  patron 
of  the  medical  fraternity  was  a  rich  man's 
cook.  "  Without  his  assistance,"  he  was 
wont  to  say^  "nature  would  be  too  strong 
for  us." 

Dr.  Veron,  the  clever  aathor  of  tiie 
Bourgeois  de  Paris,  and  ez-manager  of 
the  Opera  in  the  Bue  Le  Peletier,  was  not, 
as  he  himself  tells  us,  particularly  fortunate 
as  a  professor  of  the  heaUng  art  "  I  be^m 
well, '  he  says,  "  by  coring  a  porter's  wife 
in  my  neighbourhood  of  a  uight  illness, 
and  as  she  happened  to  be  both  grateful 
and  loquacious,  the  news  spread  about  in 
the  quarter,  and  in  a  very  short  time  I  had 
no  less  than  three  patients.  One  of  these, 
an  elderly  and  remarkably  stout  lady,  on 
hearing  of  my  supposed  ability,  had  dis- 
missed her  own  doctor,  and  caUed  me  in. 
She  had  a  fancy  for  being  bled,  and  had 
made  up  her  mind  that  I,  and  no  one  else, 
should  perform  the  operation,  assoring  me 
that  she  would  recommend  me  to  all  her 
friends,  and,  consequently,  make  my 
fortune.  Now  I  must  confess  that  when 
tiie  moment  for  distinguishing  myself 
arrived,  I  felt  horribly  nervous,  and  by  no 
means  confident  in  my  skilL  I  had  been 
told  by  an  experienced  colleague  that  the 
first  attempt  at  blood-letting  was  generally 
a  failure,  and  had  a  growing  conviction 
that  I  should  be  no  exception  to  the  rale. 
However,  I  summoned  up  all  my  coorage, 
and  boldly  plunged  tiie  lancet  into  me 

EDuderoua  arm  held  out  to  me.  I  must 
ave  missed  the  vein, forno  result  follotred.  I 
tried  a  second  time,  and  once  more  ineffec- 
tually, upon  which  the  old  lady,  who  began 


to  see  how  the  land  lay,  overwhelmed  ine 
with  a  storm  of  reproa^es  and  injurioua 
epithets,  bidding  me  bandage  her  arm 
without  an  instant's  delay,  and  never  pre- 
sume to  set  foot  within  her  doors  again. 
Had  she  contented  herself  with  this  abrupt 
dismissal,  I  might  still  have  had  a  <^unoe 
of  redeeming  my  character  in  the  eyea  of 
my  neighbours,  but,  nnfartunately,  she  did 
not  stop  there.  Thanks  to  her  implacable 
tongue  the  story  got  wind,  and  ^though 
my  old  patient  the  porter's  wife  spoke  up 
bravely  in  my  defence,  she  was  listened  to 
with  incredulity,  and  public  opinion  was  ao 
manifestly  against  me  that  I  bad  no  altar- 
native  but  to  submit  to  the  insvitaUe,  and 
have  never  practised  since." 

The  following  anecdote,  whether  strictly 
authentic  or  not,  is  sufficiently  nun  using  to 
merit  reprodaction.  Muiy  yeara  ago,  i^en 
a  certain  French  m*r«tiisl  was  a  candidate 
for  the  Chamber,  he  was  enjoined  by  his 
physician,  being  of  a  sanguine  tempera- 
ment, to  avoid  all  unnecessary  excitement, 
and  not  to  interfere  personally  in  the 
electtoo,  but  to  leave  the  deUils  to  the 
managing  committee.  In  order  to  ensure 
obedience,  the  Esculapiua  even  went  ao 
far  as  to  purge  and  bleed  his  patient, 
who  was  conseqaently  obliged,  from 
sheer  weakness,  to  keep  his  room, 
and  ultimately  his  bed.  On  every  visit 
of  the  medical  man  he  was  rc^pilarly 
asked  by  the  marshal  how  mattera  were 
progressing,  and  invariably  replied,  "Ad- 
mirably well ! "  The  eventful  day  arrived 
at  last,  and  on  the  ensuing  morning  the 
marshal  heard  from  one  of  his  supporters 
that  he  had  been  beaten. 

"  By  whom  1 "  he  enquired. 

"  By  that  scoondrel  of  a  doctor  ! " 

It  is  related  of  Chine,  the  celebrated 
physician  of  the  Begent  Duke  of  Orleans, 
that  once,  when  summoned  to  attend  a  lady 
patient,  he  heard  some  persons  in  her  ante- 
chamber incidentally  mention  that  the 
shares  in  Law's  bank — of  which  he  hap- 
pened to  possess  a  considerable  quantity — 
were  going  down  in  value.  This  so  pre- 
occupied him  that,  while  sitting  by  tJie 
lady's  bedside  and  feeling  her  pulse,  he 
involuntarily  repeated  to  himself  the  words, 
"  Going  down,  going  down,  going  down  J " 
Suddenly,  to  his  astonishment,  hia  patient 
gave  a  loud  scream  of  terror,  which  her 
servants  overhearing,  they  rushed  into  tbe 
room.  "  It  is  all  over  wit^  me,"  she  cried, 
"  I  am  about  to  die  I  M.  Chirac  has  just 
felt  my  poise,  and  said  three  times, '  Going 
down'r' 


"  Uadune,"  mtemipted  Chiiac,  who  had 
bj  this  time  recovered  his  compotDre, 
"joa  aUnn  fonreeli  unnecessarily.  Your 
lolie  is  perfectly  healthy,  and  you  will 
IM  as  weU  to-morrow  as  ever  yoa  were. 
I  osly  wish  I  could  say  the  samo  of  my 
■ham  I" 


It  iBpresi 
e  of  toe  a 


acknowledged  leaders  of  fashion 
belwgiiig  to  the  L^timist  party  io  Fiance, 
Qonddered,  like  Dr.  Fangloss,  the  world 
she  lived  in,  "the  best  of  all  possible 
vorids,"  for  she  particularly  disliked 
boi^  reminded  Ihat  she  must  some  day 
leave  it. 

Nothing  waa  more  obnoxious  to  her  than 
the  slightest  allusion  to  t^e  common  lot 
of  humanity,  and  any  casual  reference 
to  the  forbidden  subject  in  her  presence 
was  equivalent,  as  her  servants  well 
knew,  to  the  immediate  dismissal  of  the 
offender. 

She  never  changed  her  residenee  without 
first  satufying  herself  that  no  one  had  ever 
died  in  the  house  she  proposed  inhabiting ; 
and  on  one  occasion  abandoned  her  inten- 
tion of  hiring  a  villa  in  the  Soath  of  France, 
having  discovered  that  a  mason  employed 
in  its  construction  had  been  killed  by  a 
fall  from  the-  roof  Hearing  of  the  dan- 
genms  illness  of  an  intimate  friend  for 
whom  she  professed  a  great  attachment,  she 
sent  for  her  medical  attendant,  and  requested 
him  to  ascertain  for  her  how  the' dear 
connteas  really  was ;  but,  if  the  news  h^>- 
pmed  to  be  bad,  on  no  account  to  agitate 
oer  nervous  system  by  abruptly  disclosing 
tb  The  doctor,  not  much  Hkiog  the 
errand,  but  unwilling  to  nm  the  risk  of 
dimleamg  a  wealthy  patient,  consented, 
aad  repaired  to  the  invalid's  house,  where 
Iw  leanit  that  she  had  expired  a  few  hours 
before. 

On  his  rettim,  while  meditating  in  what 
roondab&ut  w^  he  had  best  commusicate 

the  tidings,  Madame  de relieved  hie 

embarraannent  by  enquiring : 

"  Is  she  aa  ill  as  they  say  T  Can  she 
eatl" 

"No,  nadame^" 

"She  can  speak  at  all  events  1 " 

"Not  a  word." 

"  Nor  hear  1 " 

"N«hear." 

"Mercy  on  nst  Then  she  must  be 
deadl- 

"Allow  me  to  remind  you,  madame," 
relied  the  doctor,  "that  if  anyone  has 


FEB.  .  (Narambn U.lt»l     21 

In  one  of  our  large  provincial  towns  a 
middle-aged  individual,  suffering  from 
indigestion  and  rarJoos  other  ulments, 
having  been  advised  to  consult  the  leading 
physician  of  the  locality,  was  ushered  into 
the  latt«r's  private  room.  When  he  had 
detailed  the  symptoms  of  his  malady, 
loss  of  appeUte,  sleepless  nights,  and  so 
forth, 

"  Ah,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  see  how  it 
is ;  you  require  plenty  of  air  and  exercise, 
but  we  will  soon  bring  you  round.  Nothing  so 
bad  for  the  digestion  as  sedeDtary  habits, 
desk-work,  and  that  sort  of  Hdag.  You 
must  manage  to  walk  aa  much  and  aa  often 
as  your  bnsinesB  will  allow.  By-the-bye, 
what  is  your  business  1 " 

"Travelling  pedlar  for  the  last  five-and- 
twenty  years,"  replied  the  patient 

Some  few  months  ago  one  of  our  medical 
celebrities  was  walking  down  Bruton 
Street  one  afternoon  with  a  friend,  when 
they  perceived  coming  towards  Uiem  a 
strikingly  handsome  woman.  Dr.  Z. 
immediately  seized  his  companion's  arm, 
and  without  saying  a  word  crossed 
rapidly  over  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street 

"  What  is  that  for  t "  enquired  the 
other. 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  stammered  out 
Hippocrates,  "  I  don't  particularly  wish  to 
meet  that  hAy.  I  attended  her  husband 
last  year — a  vary  bad  case  indeed — 
and " 

"  I  understand,"  interrupted  his  friend, 
"  he  died  under  your  cara" 

"  Worse  than  that,"  replied  the  physi- 
cian, "  a  great  deal  worse.  I  cored  him, 
and  from  what  I  know  of  her,  she  is  not 
likely  to  forgive  or  fo^^t  it." 


JENIFER. 

BY  ANNIK  TH0ICA5  <UBS.  FKNDBK-CTrDLm 

CHAPTER  XXVII.  JOT  OE  PAIN  1 
"  You  build  too  much  on  the  fact  that 
I  had  a  succeas  at  my  own  conceit, 
given  in  a  private  house,  under  favour- 
able conditions,  to  a  picked  audience," 
Jenifer  said  more  than  once  to  Captain 
Edgecomb. 

"  You  rely  too  much  on  the  conventional 
professional  jargon  Madame  Voglio  talks 
to  yon,  darling,"  he  answered.    "  Whittler 

says " 

"  Don't  tell  me  what  he  says.  I  distrust 
and  dislike  that  man." 


23     [XaTember!!,  U8t.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


"Any  way,  h«  KcogaiKi  your  great 
■talont,  and  ta  ready  to  offer  yon  a  capital 
eng^ement  next  year  in  New  Tork." 

"  Vm  not  going  on  the  stf^" 

"  That's  rather  prejudiced,  isn't  !t  t "  he 
asked  with  affected  careleasneso.  "  Yon 
don't  mind  Binging  before  the  public" 

"Nor  shonlal  mind  acting,  if  I  had  it 
in  me,  but  I  feel  I  haven't  it  in  me.  Do 
be  contented,"  and  she  laughed, "  with  the 
failure  I  may  make  on  the  concert-boarda" 

"Jenifer,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  speak 
of  failure ! "  he  sud  with  a  sharp  accent  as 
if  he  were  in  pain. 

"  Don't  stake  too  niany  hapm  on  me, 
Harry,"  she  said  kindly.  "  The  blow,  if 
I  fail,  will  be  very  bitter  to  me.  Don't  let 
me  feel  that  it  will  hnrt  yon  too  mach." 

"No,  no;  don't  feat  that,"  he  sud 
earnestly ;  but  for  all  the  eameBtQess  of 
the  disclaimer,  she  felt  uneasily  conscious 
that  her  future  husband  was  Btaking  very 
high  hopes  upon  her  future  success. 

Whether  tnose  hopes  were  fostered  by 
ambition  of  the  higher  sort  or  by  mere 
greed  of  gain,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
question  for  a  moment.  She  took  it  for 
granted  that  as  it  concerned  her,  it  must 
necessarily  be  ambition  of  the  higher  sort 
Still,  it  distressed  her  that  he  should 
nourish  it  too  assiduously,  knowing,  as  she 
now  did,  that  the  chances  of  her  ultimate 
success  were  pretty  nearly  balanced  by  the 
chances  of  her  ultimate  ^ore. 

Jenifer  was  sore  beset  with  countless 
sQ^estions,  offers  of  advice,  aid,  etc.,  in 
these  days.  She  was  also  harassed  and 
worried  by  the  way  in  which  Captain 
Edgeeumb  and  her  own  relations  com- 
menced polling  the  strings  of  her  life  in 
opposite  directions.  According  to  Cinitatn 
Edgeeumb,  her  whole  duty  was  plainly 
put  before  her.  Her  obvious  straight- 
forward course,  he  argued,  was  to  marry 
him,  and  let  him,  as  became  a  man  and  a 
husband,  manage  all  the  business  part  of 
her  career. 

On  the  other  hand  Effie  protested  frankly 
that  if  Jenifer  was  likely  to  make  the 
colossal  fortune  which  Captain  Edgeeumb 
had  nnguardedly  permitted  himself  verbally 
to  anticipate,  then  it  certainly  was  her 
bonoden  duty  to  realise  a  portion  of  it 
before  she  married,  and  to  let  her  eldest 
brother  and  his  wife  have  a  share  in  it. 
"  What  she  owed  to  Flora,"  and  throngh 
Flora  to  Effie,  was  impressed  upon  Jenifer 
with  such  persistency  that  the  gtrt  begf 
to  feel  as  if  she  nerer  would  oelong  ' 
herself. 


Still,  worried  as  she  was,  she  worked  on, 
and  worked  so  well  that  Madame  Voelio 
made  strenuous  exertions,  and  succeeded 
in  getting  her  pupil's  name  so  prominently 
before  the  giver  of  some  of  the  best 
concerts  in  London,  that  at  last  he  con- 
sented to  hear  Miss  Ray,  and  having  beard 
her,  he  held  out  hopes  that  at  no  distant 
day  she  should  be  well  placed  in  one  of 
his  programmes. 

To  Jenifer  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
real  joy  in  the  prospect  this  promise 
held  out  to  her.  She  had  grown,  as  often 
happens  to  people  who  take  up  a  favourite 
art  as  a  profession  in  maturity,  to  identify 
herself  more  eutirely  with  the  artist-worlcl 
in  her  imagtnation  than  do  many  of  those 
who  are  brought  up  with  the  intention 
and  expectation  of  belonging  to  it  from 
their  childhood.  The  idea  of  going  back 
to  mere  domestic  and  social  life  presented 
a  picture  of  dreary  blankness  to  her.  In 
fact,  she  was  in  love  with  her  art  in  its 
professional  aspect,  so  what  wonder  that 
she  had  little  time  for  falling  in  love  with 
Captain  Edgeeumb  1 

But  be  made  up  for  any  deficiencies  on 
her  side  by  the  ardour  with  which  he 
proffered  his  love  and  pressed  his  claima 
Fortunately  for  Jenifer  he  had  begun 
the  dnttes  of  his  secretaryship  at  ttie  club. 
And  though  these  duties  were  not  arduous, 
they  still  occupied  a  certain  number  of 
hours  which  would  otherwise  infallihly 
have  been  spent  in  well-meant  but  futile 
endeavours  to  make  himself  more  essential 
to  the  girl  of  his  choice.  As  it  was,  she 
grew  to  feel  that  the  earlier  part  of  the 
day  was  her  time  ot  happiness  and  free- 
dom. About  the  evening  hours  there  was 
apt  to  creep  in  a  feeling  of  constrainL  She 
felt  that  she  took  leave  of  her  better 
self,  and  became  the  object  of  Captain 
Edgecumb's  adoration. 

About  the  time  that  the  omnipotent 
concert-giver  held  out  the  daezUng  hope  of 
an  engagement  to  Miss  Bay,  Captain  Edge- 
cnmb  pressed  the  matter  of  the  marriage  on 
Jenifer  more  ardently  and  pertinaciously 
than  ever.  He  got  het  mother  on  his  sidle 
by  specious  arguments. 

"You  see  when  we  are  married  yon 
will  have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  Uiat 
Jenifer  is  always  protected  when  she's  oat 
singing  at  these  late  affairs.  Imagine  your 
own  ^elings  waiting  for  her  night  after 
night,  till  perhaps  one  or  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  knowing  that  she  was  alone !" 

"  It  wonld  kill  me,"  Mrs.  Bay  murmured. 

"  Kill  you !    Of  course  it  would ;  you'd 


dis  a  dozen  deatlu  a  day.  Why,  mj  dear 
Mra.  Rsf ,  Jeoifsr,  with  all  her  sweetness 
and  gentle  breMin^  would  soon  degenerate 
bto  a  thoroagli  Bohemian  if  shiB  euiie 
befiffe  the  pabUc  immaiTied." 

"  WhafB  that  I "  Mrs.  Bay  asked. 

"Ob,  it's  the  generic  term  for  artists, 
uthon,  and  actors  of  Uw  looser — not  that 
ezaotlj — of  the  freer  type.  Jenifer,  with  her 
naxmw  experience  and  wide  sympathies, 
would  rash  unawares  into  all  sorts  of 
dangeroos  acquaintanoeships  and  sitnations 
ifshewerelefttoherseli  Whereas  with  me 
to  protect  and  look  after  her,  she  will  soon 
learn  to  draw  the  line  sharply,  and  her 
profeaaiODal  career  will  never  interfere 
with  her  home  life." 

"  Yon  mustn't  expect  too  ranch  of  my 
poor  child,"  Mrs.  Bay  stud  in  one  breath, 
and  in  tiie  next  she  added,  "My  dear 
Hury,  I  am  thankful  dear  Jenny  has  you 
to  take  care  of  her,  for  hers  will  be  a 
periloos  place,  a  perilous  place  indeed,"  the 
mother  added  proudly,  thinking  that  life 
was  going  to  be  one  long  round  of  intoxi- 
catiog  success  on  the  concert-boards  for 
her  cherished  child. 

While  the  matter  was  being  thus  debated 
fbave  and  below  board,  Jenifer  had  no 
young  woman  friend  to  torn  to  for 
sympathy.  It  is  tme  EfGe  was  dead 
aguQst  the  manriage,  but  that  was  for 
■neh  obrionaly  nelfi^  reasons  that  Jenifer 
inclined  more  kindly  and  warmly  towards 
Captain  Edgecnmb  after  a  half-hour's  chat 
witti  Effie,  than  at  any  other  time. 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Hubert  Ray  spoke  her  views 
on  the  mbject  very  plainly  to  both  her 
husband  and  Jenifer. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  him,  Hugh,  that  as 
he  owea  knowing  Jenifer  at  all  to  me,  he 
Odght  to  have  the  decency  to  consult  my 
wishes,  and  not  huny  on  the  marriage 
mitil  Jenifer  has  had  time  to  make  some- 
tiung  and  settle  with  herself  whom  she'd 
like  to  help  with  it." 

"I  can  hardly  remind  Edgecnmb  that 
the  £ict  of  my  wife  having  jUted  him  for 
me  was  the  indirect  means  of  making  bim 
acquainted  with  my  sister." 

"  Nonsmse,  Hugh  I  You  could  do  it 
vary  welL  You  needn't  have  any  false 
delicacy  about  it.  Captain  Edgecumb  fell 
in  love  with  me  when  he  saw  me  with  Flora, 
Hving,  dressing,  riding,  enjoying  life  as 
Flora  did  ;  he  fell  into  the  error  of  fancy- 
ing that  I  was  as  rich  as  she  is.  When  he 
tbond  out  his  mistake  he  cooled,  and  as 
ioon  M  I  met  yon  I  relieved  him  of  all 
difficulty.    I've  no  faith  in  Captain  Edge- 


^R  iKoremberM,  IB81.]      23 

cumb's  disinterested  affection ;  he's  making 
a  romantic  love-lorn  ass  of  himself  now 
about  Jenifer,  I  admit,  but  I  don't  believe 
he'd  do  it  if  he  didn't  think  she  was  going 
to  make  a  lai|^  fortune." 

"  I  certainly  can't  interfere  now,"  Hubert 
said  decidedly;  "  there  was  a  time  when  a 
word  from  me  would  have  weighed  with 
Jenny,  but  I  have  neglected  her  too  long." 

"  Hell  grab  at  everything  she  gets,  and 
we  shall  never  be  a  penny  the  better  off 
for  it,  after  all  Flora  haa  done,"  Effie  said 
indignantly.  "She's  so  dazed  at  present 
that  she's  just  dreaming  and  letting 
things  drift.  But  she'll  wake  up  one  day, 
and  then  see  if  she  thanks  you  for  having 
let  her  slide  into  matrimony  with  Captain 
Bdgecumb  I " 

For  once  Efiie's  eloquence  did  not  preraU 
with  her  husband.  The  reflection  that  he 
had  left  his  sister  to  herself  too  long 
restrained  him,  and  at  last  the  wedding-day 
was  fixed  without  Hubert  Bay  having 
interp(Hed  a  word  of  objection  to  it. 

During  all  this  time  Mrs.  Archibald 
Campbell  had  been  assiduous  in  her 
attentions  to  her  brother's  betrothed. 
Bat  old  Mrs.  Edgecnmb  had  never  found 
it  convenient  to  «U1  apon  her  ^tnre 
daughter-in-law. 

It  is  a  fact  that  the  omisrion  of  this 
courtesy  did  not  jar  npon  Jenifer  in  the 
least.  Had  she  been  devotedly  in  love 
with  the  man,  it  is  probable  that  the 
manners  and  customs  of  his  mother  would 
have  been  deeply  interesting  to  her.  As 
it  was,  she  thought  nothing  at  all  ahont 
the  unknown  lady. 

But  when  the  marriage  was  an  inevi- 
table thing,  both  Captain  Edgecnmb  and 
his  sister,  Mrs.  Campbell,  brought  their 
mother  to  the  fore  dutifully. 

"  In  the  usual  order  of  things,  it  would 
be  for  my  mother  to  call  upon  you,  I 
understand,"  Captain  Edgecnmb  said  to 
his  bride-elect,  whose  mind  was  in  a  chaotic 
state  between  the  constant  caUs  made  npon 
it  by  the  connter-olaims  of  the  concert  and 
the  ewning  wedding;  "  but  you  know  she's 
rather  peculiar,  so  I  will  take  you  to  call 
on  her,  and  you'll  see  shell  appreciate  the 
attention." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  Jenifer  said  acquies- 
cently, and  so  a  day  came  when,  accom- 
panied by  her  betooUied  and  his  sister, 
Misa  Bay  found  herself  in  Uie  presence  of 
her  future  mother-in-law. 

Mrs.  Edgecnmb,  a  large,  well-nurtured, 
"  Burpiisinsly  young  •  mking  "  matron, 
whose  fixed  belief  in  the  supenority  of  her 


24 


ALL  THE  YEAE  SOUND. 


[Kofamlia  S4,  un.) 


own  locality,  fubiona,  set,  ■onoandingB, 
and  social  btatna  generally,  was  never  du- 
pated  by  any  metnlwr  ot  her  own  &mily, 
received  Jenifer  kindly  enough  after  « 
fiultion,  but  it  was  very  mnoB  after  the 
fathion  in  which  the  Queen  of  England 
might  receive  a  Tahitan  princeBs.  She 
regarded  Jenifer  with  looks  of  cnrioos 
amosement,  and  remarked  affably,  bat 
aadibly,  to  her  daughter  Belle,  that  it  was 
really  "  funny  that  a  little  country  girl 
should  want  to  rush  into  publicity  in  the 
way  she  did," 

"  Not,"  she  added,  "  that  Ineed  mind  it 
at  all  if  Harry  doesn't,  and  1  suppose  he 
doesn't,  as  he  wants  to  marry  her.  Still, 
it  strikes  me  as  singular,  and  I  feel  I  shall 
have  some  difficulty  in  assimilating  her 
with  my  circle." 

"  She's  a  very  nice  girl — much  too  oood 
and  bright  for  any  man  I  know,"  Mrs. 
Campbell  said  wonuly,  as  Captain  Edge- 
cnmb  took  Jenifer  on  a,  tour  of  inspection 
throogh  some  of  the  chief  objects  nnder 
the  paternal  roof. 

"  Yon  don't  include  your  brother  in  that 
sweeping  assertion,  of  course  t  Harry  has 
excellent  qualities  and  admirable  abilities. 
If  she  makes  him  a  good  wife,  he  will 
develop  a  very  fine  character." 

"She'll  make  him  a  good  wife,  nsver 
fear ;  but  I  don't  think,  mother,  that  Harry 
will  develop  into  anytUn^  very  remarkabla 
He  has  got  the  best  of  it  in  the  bargain 
they're  making." 

"  That  I  never  shall  allow,"  Mrs.  Edge- 
cnmb  said  decidedly,  and  &om  that  day 
she  resolved  to  try  and  keep  her  daughter- 
in-law  down. 

"  What  sort  of  persoD  ia  her  motfier  I " 
she  asked  presently. 

"A  sweet,  simple-minded  old  lady; 
vanr  nnworidly,  very  devoted  to  Jenifer, 
and  very  much  inclined  to  accept  Han;  at 
bis  own  valuation." 

"No  pretension  to  fashion  or  s^le,  I 
suppose  1 " 

Idrs.  Edgecnmb  glanced  complacently 
at  the  skirt  of  her  own  lich-toxtored  w^- 
eat  robes  as  she  spoke. 

"  There's  no  pretension  of  any  kind 
ahoat  her,"  Belle  said  carelessly ;  and  Mrs. 
Edgecnmb  heaved  a  sigh  of  reJief,  which 
she  presently  explained  by  saying  : 

"I  most  say  it's  a  burden  off  my  mind 
tiut  I  shall  not  have  to  make  parties  for 
her,  and  introduce  her  to  my  ourde.  A 
msUc  old  lady  would  hardly  be  in  pUee  in 


this  district  Where  does  Hany  think  of 
hving  1 " 

"  Harry's  plans  are  very  sketchy.  I 
think  he  will  live  iu  any  neighbonzhood 
where  his  wifo  will  be  likely  to  make  moat 
money.  In  fact,  if  he  could  get  lodgings 
in  the  doorway  of  St.  James's  Hall,  I 
believe  he  would  take  them." 

"  It's  to  be  fervently  hoped  that  aha  will 
make  a  great  deal  of  money  by  her  sing- 
ing, but  it's  a  shocking,  shocking  way  of 
making  it,"  Mrs.  Edgecumb  said  piously. 

Then  the  yoQthful  pair  under  discussion 
came  back  from  their  tour  of  inspeotioo,  and 
Mrs.  Jklgecumb  was  courteously  kind  to 
her  future  daughter-in-law,  in  a  half-curioua, 
half-amuaed  way  as  before.  . 

"When  you've  token  a.  house  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  give  you  any  hints  and  help 
I  can  about  furnishing  it,"  Mfs.  EdROComb 
said  to  Jenifer  before  she  left.  ^  Harry's 
tast«  is  exquisite — exactly  like  mine,  and  he 
will  like  to  have  things  in  his  new  house 
OS  much  like  his  old  home  as  possible." 

"  You're  very  kind,  but  I  think  I  shaU 
carry  out  my  own  idesa  as  far  as  I  can  iu 
furnishing,"  Jenifer  said  firmly.  She  was 
a  little  overpowered  by  the  portly,  pleasant, 
well-preserved  matron,  but  she  knew  that,  if 
she  suffered  this  feeling  to  grow,  the  mother- 
in-law  would  overpower  her  altogether. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  own  ideas  won't  help 
you  much  in  furnishing  in  London,"  Mia. 
Edgecumb  sud,  wagging  her  head  affably, 
"  Harry  has  not  been  accustomed  to 
rusticity,  you  must  remember ;  but,  when- 
ever you're  in  doubt,  come  to  me,  and  111 
put  you  in  the  right  path  to  please  him." 

"  I'd  rather  displease  him  ul  the  days  of 
my  life,"  Jenifer  said  mentally,  and  evea 
as  she  thought  it  Captain  Edgecumb  said  i 

"My mother's  is  about  the  best-ordered 
house  I  know.  If  yon  keep  things  e<Hi>g 
as  well  in  ours,  dear,  you'll  aa  well  indeed." 


Tit  KJaAtn^n 


THE    EXTRA    OHRrSTMAS    NUMBER 
ALL  THE  YEAE   EOUND, 

"A  GLOEIOUrrOHTUNE," 

WALTER     BE8ANT 

(Anthoiol  "TtaB  Cu>Uliu'  Booio,"  "Let  Kothlog  Tea 

DlsiiUT,"sW.  etc.), 

AND  OTHBK   ST(HtIB5. 

rdce  BIXFENCE,  ud  eontalnlu  tb«  UKvnt  ol  Tims 

OMlSiiT  Knmnn. 


CHAPTEE  Vm.     MBS.  PTBOS's  TRIUMPH. 

Wqen  Hrs.  John  heard  of  Archie's 
^■Bappearutce,  hie  aapposed  horrible  death, 
ill  circomBUnces,  and  it«  cause,  she  vaa  at 
first  demented.  She  went  np  to  the  child's 
looiQ,  gathered  together  what  things  of 
hit  were  left,  set  them  forth  on  the  aresa- 
iDg-table,  made  hia  bed,  then  unmade  it 
becMue  the  sheets  were  tmaired,  all  nnder 
a  confused  impresaion  that  he  had  left 
school  for  some  Bad  reason — whether 
illness  or  wildnesa  she  was  not  sure— and 
woold  be  home  that  evening.  She  went 
about  (haonted  helplessly  by  tiio  Bev.  John) 
with  a  kind  of  somnamboliflt  look  in  her 
face,  not  an  absolutely  vacant  look,  but  a 
look  in  which  the  mere  shadows  of  two 
expressions  chased  each  other — of  per- 
plexity and  of  expectancy. 

"John,  I'm  bewildered  abont  Archie. 
Ifa  very  stapid  of  me ;  bnt  didn't  the  letter 
say  he  left  very  early  in  the  momioz,  and 
without  his  tmngst  Have  vou  it  uieret 
Just  read  it  ^ain,  will  you  t ' 

The  Ber.  John  was  silent— the  picture 
of  perplexed  misery, 

"  What  is  it,  John  1   What's  happened )  ^ 

I  know  aomething  has  happened  to  him.  of  dashes,  drowned  Mrs.  Johns  cries  with 
'  It's  in  your  face.  You  didn't  read  all  the  cries  of  his  own.  He  was  as  incoherent, 
letter;  or  did  you — did  it— it's  like  a  with  wrath  as  Mrs.  John  had  been  wiUi' 
dream  to  me  that  you  said  he  left  in  grief,  and  e:^ressed  in  a  great  many  words' 
illness,  or  was  it  in  disgrace^flo^ed  t "  and  ways  hu  conviction  that  Archie  had 
Bpeaking  nob  at  all  excitedly,  but  in  the   died  as  wickedly  as  he  had  lived,  and  that 


send   to  ask  Dr.  Grice  to  call   in    this, 
evening,  or  if- 

All  this  tJme  her  mind,  which  having* 
been  as  one  who  faints  at  a  frightfol  sight, 
was  slowly  recovering  conacioasnesa,  now 
agun,  OS  it  were,  opened  its  eyes  to  see 
tus  thing  in  all  its  horror.  Screaming  out 
in  a  frantic  voice,  "Archie  !  Archie  !"  as 
if  she  saw  the  child  reel  on  the  brink  of  a 
precipice,  she  fainted. 

In  truth  no  mother  ever  loved  her  own 
child  more  than  Mrs.  John  loved  Archie; 
and  the  news  of  hia  death,  so  horrible  in 
itself  and  in  its  circnmatances,  quite  broke 
her  down.  She  lay  for  ten  days  seriously  ill, 
and  Dr.  Grice  was  at  a  stand  with  her  case. 
But  at  the  end  of  ten  days  the  patient 
ministered  to  herself.  She  discovered  and 
applied  to  herself  a  counter-irritant  of  the 
most  drastic  and  effective  kind.  She  wrote 
a  fierce  letter  to  Mr.  Tuck,  in  which,  in  a 
breath,  she  accused  that  gentleman  of 
Archie's  mnrder,  and  asserted  that  he  was 
not  murdered,  or  dead  at  oil,  but  lost ;  and 
wound  up  by  insiating  that  Mr.  Tuck  should 
set  the  police  in  motion,  offer  great  rewards, 
and  make  all  other  legal  efforts  for  his 
recovery. 

Mr.  Tuck's  answer  came  in  due  time — a 
forcible-feeble  letter  of    eight  pages 
which  Mr.  Tuck,  with  all  the  pedal  powerlt 


i  mechanical  manner  of  one  whose  mind 
j  was   not   behind    her  words,   but    away 
I  searching  for  aomething  it  had  lost 
V      "  Yon  d  better  lie  down,  Mary,  and  let 
I  me  send  for  Dr.  Grice." 

a  mi  I  knew  he  was  ill.    But  he'll 
I  not  be  here  till  evening.     If  you  would 


:ked  life  and  death  were  due  to  his  ■ 
wicked  training — i.e.  to  Mrs,  John.  He  f 
begged,  in  a  postscript,  to  enclose  a  letter  1 
from,  as  he  had  supposed,  Mra.  John  Pybus,  1 
and  to  tranafer  to  the  writer  all  then 
crimina)  responsibility  so  foicildy  and! 
falsely  fixed  upon  himself. 


2G     IDecembei  I,  ISSL] 


ALL  THE  TEAS  ROUND. 


[CondniitBd  by 


Mrs.  John  read  the  enclosure  fint,  as  it 
came  iirst  to  hand,  and  as  she  reco^iaed 
Mrs.  Fy bus's  writing  with  a  misgiving  that 
the  old  lady  was,  as  neual,  at  the  bottom 
of  all  the  mischief.  Having  read  Mrs. 
Fybus'a  letter  half  mechanically  at  first, 
and  a  second  time  intelligently,  she  had  no 
appetite  for  Mr.  Tuck's  epistle,  and,  indeed, 
forgot  it  altogether.  They  were  at  break- 
fast, and  the  old  lady,  who  made  her  eyes 
do  the  duty  of  her  ears  in  addition  to  their 
own,  took  in  the  situation  at  sight  of 
her  writing.  She  made  at  once  preparations 
for  war,  closed  all  the  gates,  and  manned 
all  the  walls ;  or  in  other  words,  suddenly 
became  stone  deaf,  bo  that  no  word  of  Mrs. 
John's  could  force  its  way  into  her  ears,  and 
at  the  same  time  prepared  to  act  on  the 
offensive  at  a  moment's  notice. 

But  this  was  no  war  that  words  oould 
wage.  A  fierce  and  almost  fell  ex- 
pression in  Mrs,  John's  worn,  wliite  face 
frightened  even  the  unobservant  Rev.  John, 
as  she  handed  him  the  letter. 

"John,  you  must  choose  between  your 
mother  and  me,"  riainff  to  leave  the  room. 
This  from  his  loyal  and  long-suffering  wife, 
who  all  these  years,  for  hie  sake,  had  home 
the  bitter  yoke  with  divine  meekness  1 
And  she  meant  it  toa  About  this  there 
was  no  mistake.  Nor  did  he  wonder  at  it 
when  he  read  the  spiteful  letter — the  source 
of  all  this  sorrow. 

"  Mother,  you've  killed  Mary  as  veil  as 
the  boy,"  tossing  her  the  letter. 

"Guardati  d'aceto  di  vin  dolce,"  or,  as 
old  Fuller  puts  it,  "  Some  men,  like  a  tiled 
house,  are  long  before  they  take  fire ;  but 
once  on  flame,  there  is  no  coming  near  to 
quench  them."  Such  was  the  Rev.  John, 
hard  to  kindle,  hard  to  quench.  He  was 
kindled  now,  to  his  mother's  amazement 
and  indignation. 

"  I'm  a  mnidereEs,  am  It"  cried  Mrs, 
Pybue,  rising  to  shake  metaphorically  the 
dust  of  this  ingrate  house  from  her  feet,  her 
head  and  her  luinds  quivering  as  with  palsy. 
"I'mamurderess,amI1  The  child  that  I've 
mdled,  and  toiled,  and  slaved  like  a  black 
negro  slave  to  bring  up;  and  washed  him 
and  diesled  Mm,  when  those  who  had  it  to 
do  knew  no  more  than  the  baby  where  a 
pin  was  to  go.  And  who  was  it  taught 
him  t  Who  taught  him  Sunday  and  week- 
day, morning,  noon,  and  night!  The  hours 
and  hours  1  gave  to  that  child,  and  idl  to 
be  thrown  away  1 " 

At  this  pathetic  presentation  of  Arohie'a 
Boioide  as  a  wicked  waste  of  all  her  time 
and  toil,  the  old  lady  was  moved  almost  to 


tears;  but  the  Rev.  John  not  being  as 
penitent  as  she  looked  for,  she  suddenly 
reseated  herself  with  the  resolved  air  of 
martyrdom. 

"You'd  better  go  and  ask  her  if  the 
police  are  to  be  sent  for,  and  if  I'm  to  ba 
taken  to  prison  as  a  murderess.  This  is 
my  reward  for  all  these  years  I've  been  a 
servant  in  my  own  son's  house,"  with  a  burst 
of  team.  "And  my  own  dear  daughter 
Margaret  might  beg  and  pray  on  her 
bended  knees  for  me  to  stay  with  her;  but 
'no,'  I  said,  'you  are  well  off,  you  are  happy, 
you  made  a  happy  marriage,  you  don't 
want  me;  I  must  go  where  I'm  wanted, 
and  do  what  I  can  to  make  my  poor  son's 
life  less  unhappy ;'  and  this  is  my  return ! " 

Here  Mrs.  Pybos  paused  to  be  appeased 
by  an  apology  and  soothed  into  a  week's 
Bulk,  as  the  least  she  could  let  her  son  com- 
pound his  offence  for ;  but  the  Rev.  John 
remained  obdurately  and  moodily  silent, 
whereon  the  old  lady  wazed  more  pathetic 

"  John,  I  see  how  it  is ;  because  I  am  old 
and  can't  now  do  the  work  of  two  servants, 
she  grudges  me  the  bit  I  eat,  and  would 
turn  me  out  to  starve.  Well,  it  can't  be 
for  long.  I  shall  not  be  here  much  longer, 
and  you'll  be  sorry  when  I'm  goii&" 

"When  do  you  think  of  going,  moUierl" 
ashed  the  Rev.  John  coldly. 

After  his  manner  he  had  heard  all  this  as 
in  a  dream,  and  imagined  his  mother  wa«, 
as  usual,  threatening  him  with  a  flight  to 
Margaret  It  certtunly  was  exasperating 
to  be  asked  with  a  sneer  by  your  own  son 
when  you  intend  to  die,  in  the  tone  of 
an  undertaker  anxious  to  be  punctual  with 
the  hearse.  The  shock  of  this  unexpected 
barbarity  flung  the  old  lady  into  hysterics, 
or  a  very  good  imitation  of  them ;  and  the 
Rev.  John,  in  much  distress,  first  tore  at 
the  bell,  and  then,  upon  the  servant  coming 
and  applying  restoratives  succflsafidly,  he 
hastened,  helplesa,  to  find  Mrs.  John.  He 
found  Mra  John  sitting,  as  though  turned 
to  stone,  in  her  room. 

"  When  is  she  going  1 "  she  asked  as  he 
entered. 

"  She  is  ill,  Mary ;  in  hysterics,  I  think. " 

Mrs.  John  smiled,  a  smile  which  was  as 
near  an  approach  to  a  snoer  as  had  ever 
disfigured  her  face. 

"Mary  dear,"  said  the  Bov.  John, 
sitting  by  her  side,  taking  her  cold  hand 
in  his  and  speaking  hesitatingly,  but  yet 
with,  for  him,  a  singular  concentration. 

Mary  dear,  I  know  the  burden  I  have 
put  npon  you  all  these  years,  and  I  knov 
how  you  navB  borne  it.*    Then,  after  % 


A  DRAWN  GAMK 


[DeMmberl,  ISSt.]     27 


8%ht  pause,  he  continued  in  a  voice  that 
bremUed  under  the  weight  of  feeling  it 
conveyed:  "I've  never  said  to  you  all  I  fait 
about  it,  Mary,  but  I've  said  it  to  God.  I 
never  forget  it  night  and  morning  in  ihanb- 
bg  Qim  for  all  you  have  been  to  me,  for  your 
bwng  all  to  me,  dear — all  to  me.  But, 
Mary,  my  mother  was  all  to  me  once,  aod 
had  her  heavy  burden  to  bear.  I  never  told 
you,  for  I  couldn't  bear  to  apeak  of  it,  or 
think  of  it,  that  my  father  was  a  drunkard — 
killed  himself  with  drinking.  He  would 
have  killed  me  too,  if  it  hadut  been  for  my 
mother.  He  hated  me,  I  think,  becauae  I 
was  so  afraid  of  him.  I  couldn't.  Bleep,  for 
terror,  unless  mother  locked  me  in  and  hid  : 
the  key.  And  he  came  to  know  this,  and 
would  ask  for  the  key,  and  beat  her — I 
uiuld  hear  him  beat^  her — I  can  hear  bim 
DOW,"  with  a  trouUed  and  faraway  look  in 
his  dreamy  eyes. 

Poor  Mary,  clinging  with  both  arms 
ronnd  his  neck  like  a  litde  chili),  sobbed  out, 
aa  she  kissed  him,  "Oh,  John,  forgive  me," 
This  glimpse  into  the  Kev.  John's  heart 
stirred  her  deeply,  as  much  from  its 
rarity  as  from  its  pathos.  He  was  at  once 
the  most  reserved  and  inarticulate  of  men, 
uid  neither  woidd  nor  could  express  half 
what  he  felt 

Mrs.  John,  having  dried  her  eyes, 
hastaned  to  b'aoslate  penitence  into 
penance  by  hnnying  down  to  minister  to 
the  old  lady.  It  was  a  penance.  It  wasn't 
in  honum  nature  to  regard  it  otherwise; 
bat  it  waa  a  penance  endured  to  the  end, 
as  bravely  as  it  was  undertaken ;  yet  it  was 
aa  difBcult  aa  it  was  disagreeable  Peace 
cannot,  any  more  than  war,  be  made  by 
one  peiaon,  and  if  it  can  hardly  he  called  & 
battle,  "abi  tu  pnlsaa,  e^o  vapulo  tan- 
torn,"  neither  can  it  wall  be  called  a 
recondliation  when  the  reciprocity  ia  of 
the  Irish  sort,  all  on  one  side.  Upon  Mrs. 
John's  ^pearance  Mrs.  Pybus  suddenly 
became  deaf  and  dumb  as  a  stone.  She 
was  aa  much  moved  by  Mrs,  John's  atten- 
tions aa  Sydney  Smith's  tortoise  by  the 
little  nuud  stroking  its  shell.  It  was  no 
am  for  Mrs.  John  to  aak  her  how  she 
was,  to  b^  her  to  lie  down,  or  to  set  a 
glasfl  of  wine  beside  her.  In  truth, 
Hra.  Pybus's  natural  BullcamQsa  had  been 
■o  intensified  by  the  childishness  of  old 
age  as  to  be  impregnable.  Mra  John  had 
at  laat  to  retire  for  reinforcements,  returning 
with  the  Bev.  John,  Upon  the  Bev.  Joha^ 
appearance  in  the  field  the  old  lady  changed 
ber  taoticSb  Sulk  was  the  most  ineffeoiive 
of  weapons  aoaiast  him.  since  it  onlv  irave 


his  mind  the  leave  of  absence  of  which  it 
waa  always  in  search.  She  rose  to  receive 
him,  therefore,  with  a  dignified  apnlogy  for 
being  found  still  in  hia  house.  Sbe  had 
not  been  very  well,  and  did  not  feel  quite 
equal  to  the  labour  of  packing.  But  bhe 
was  better  now,  aud  thought  she  might  he 
able  to  get  upstairs  if  the  servaut  could  be 
spared  to  assict  her. 

'But  why  should  you  pack,  mother} 
Mary  won't  hear  of  your  going.'' 

Thia  M*ry  heraelf  cooHruied  by  saying 
simply;  "It  would  be  a  great  trouble  to  me 
if  you  left  us,  Mra,  Pybus." 

The  old  lady  being  thus  importuned  to 
stay  became,  of  course,  importunate  to  go. 
"If  Mtrtha  can't  be  spared,"  she  con- 
tinued, ignoring  abRnlutely  nhat  w^is  said 
to  diHsuwIe  her,  "I  tliink  I  c~n  muiinge 
wirhoui  her,  th-mk  you,"  tottering  t-wards 
the  door.  '■  No,  John,  no,  not  the  arm  of  a 
murderess,"  waving  off  his  proffered  help 
with  a  melodramatic  gesture. 

Aa  Mrs.  John's  a-^sibtance  would  have 
been  still  more  iuouppor table,  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  ring  for  Murlha,  aud 
bid  her  help  the  old  lady  to  her  room. 

"  Will  she  go,  Mary  1 "  asked  the  Kev. 
John  anxiously. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  What  did  yon  say 
to  her ) " 

"  I  said  something  about  her  killing  you 
as  well  as  the  boy." 

Mrs.  John  only  looked  her  amazement  at 
this  tremendous  outburst  of  the  Bev.  John's. 
"It  was    your  face,   dear,"   ha  added 
apologetically  in  answer  to  her  look. 

"  I'm  Borry  I  looked  so  wicked,  but  I  felt 
wicked." 

"  She's  made  you  very  unhappy,  Mary," 
remorsefully. 

"She's  been  so  nnhappy  herself  it  has 
soured  her,  John.  I  might  have  been  so 
if  I  hadn't  had  the  best  husband  in  the 
world,"  looking  up  with  moist  eyes  into 
his  wistful  face. 

Ah,  Maiy ! "  was  his  sole  reply,  but 
the  tone  expressed  that  she  endowed  him 
with  the  wealth  of  )uir  own  goodness. 

always  saved  you  from — from  your 
father,  John  1 "  teemulouslv,  for  Archie's 
tormented  school-life  was  also' in  her  mind 
at  the  moment. 

Always  when  she  could ;  but  eho 
conlda't  always.  I  had  a  terribU  time  of  it, 
M«ry,  and  my  nerves  never  recovered  it 
You  must  make  allowances  for  ma  too, 
dear,  for  my  shyness  and  awltwardness," 

Mrsk  John,  with  her  heart  full  of 
Archie's  wretchedness,  realised  bo  vividlv 


(December  1,U81.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


the  vretchednesB  of  the  R«v.  John's  child- 
hood, that  she  clasped  and  pressed  hia 
hand  soothingly  in  both  of  hers. 

"  He  wasn't  &  good  man,  dear,"  continned 
he.  "It  wasn't  only  that  he  was  a  dnmksrd 
and  profligate,  bnt — I  may  as  well  tell  yon 
all— he'd  been  a  Quaker,"  in  a  low  voice, 
and  as  though  he  said,  "He'd  been  a 
burglar," 

Mrs.  John  saw  nothioe  ludicrous  in  the 
manner  and  matter  of  this  confession,  for 
she  accepted  her  husband's  baptismal  theory 
implicitly,  Tom  Chown  notwithstanding.  It 
could  not  escape  her  that  Tom,  though 
slow  in  wit  and  work  and  walk,  was  not 
in  other  respecta  a  eainl^  rather  the  con- 
trary. But  his  imperfections  suggested  to 
her  that  Tom's  baptism,  not  her  husband's 
theory,  was  in  fault  As  the  Rev.  John 
was  nervous  and  short-sighted,  it  was  very 
probable  that  Tom,  like  Achillea,  had  not 
been  wholly  immersed  j  some  part  of  his 

tierson,  his  heel  perhaps — tor  he  was  the 
aziest  of  youths — had  escaped. 

Here  it  may  be  in  place  to  say  that 
Mrs.  John's  acceptance  of  her  husband's 
superstition  was  not  due  altogether  to  her 
wifely  loyalty.  The  Rev.  John  was  really 
a  very  learned  man  in  all  that  kind  of 
learning,  which,  according  to  Plato,  may 
make  a  man  a  very  wise  philosopher  and 
yet  leave  him  "so  ignorant  that  he  hardly 
knows  whether  his  neighbour  is  a  man  or 
some  other  animal."  In  fact  the  Bev.  John 
would  have  made  a  model  Realist  in  the 
days  of  the  Schoolmen,  for  be  lived  among 
abstract  unrealities. 

Now,  if  any  man  wUl  let  any  theory 
whatsoever  take  entire  possession  of  his 
mind,  it  is  astonishing  what  confirmations 
of  it  he  will  find  in  all  he  hears,  sees,  or 
reads.  His  theory,  like  certain  diseases, 
absorbs  and  assimilates  all  the  nourishment 
he  takes,  rejecting  what  it  cannot  digest 
"  To  what  side  soever  a  man  inclines,"  says 
Montaigne,  "  so  many  appearances  present 
themselves  to  confirm  hun  in  it,  that  the 
philosopher  Chrisippns  said,  '  he  would 
learn  the  doctrines  only  of  Zeno  and 
Cleanthes,  his  masters;  for  as  to  proofs 
and  reasons  he  should  find  enongh  of  his 
own.'"  All  the  Rev.  John's  learning — itself 
of  the  moonshiny  kind — went  to  ^ed  this 
absorbing  theory,  and  was  brought  to  bear 
upon  it  to  the  conversion  of  Mra.  John. 
Now,  Mra.  John  had  all  the  higher  idea  of 
the  Rev.  John's  learning,  because  of  his 
ignorance  of  practical  matters.  The  fixed 
stars  give  us  less  light  Ann  the  planets, 
becanse  tliey  ate  so  much  hieher  above  as ; 


yet  the  fixed  stars  are  suns  in  their  own 
spheres,  while  the  planets  are  but  dark 
earthy  worlds  like  our  own.  Rewooing 
from  some  such  analogy,  Mrs.  John  came 
to  regard  the  Rev.  John's  childish  ignorance 
of  worldly  matters  as  presumptive  evidence 
of  high  unworldly  wisdom.  Therefore,  she 
accepted  implidtly  his  baptismal  theory, 
and  was  not  in  the  least  disposed  to  smile 
when  he  stud,  in  the  low  tone  of  a  terrible 
coniidence,  "  He'd  been  a  Quaker." 

"  Had  she  1 "  asked  Mrs.  John,  thinking 
she'd  got  the  clue  to  the  old  lady's  tempers. 

"  She  1 "  exclaimed  the  Rev.  John,  rather 
hurt  by  the  snggestion.  "She  was  a  clergy- 
man's daughter,  Mary.  There's  no  doubt 
at  all  of  her  having  been  baptised  in  her 
infancy,  none  at  uL  It  is  true  she  will 
never  tell  me  where ;  but  that  is  beeaose 
she  got  it  into  her  head  that  I  wished  to 
verify  her  age." 

Mrs.  John  smiled,  for  Mrs.  Pybus  took 
liberal  discount  off  her  age  in  a  bosinesa- 
like  proportion  to  the  amount  of  her  debt 
to  time — five  per  cent  ^m  fifty,  ten  per 
cent  from  seventy  years. 

"  She  may  have  been  baptised  late," 
added  the  Rev.  John  meditatively,  more  to 
himself  than  to  Mrs.  John.  "  'They  were 
BO  careless  in  those  days."  He  couldn't 
conceal  from  himself  that  Mary,  reasoning 
inductively,  might  have  inferred  her  to 
have  been  a  Baptist  at  least  "  But  I  think 
it  was  her  married  life,"  be  mused  aloud 
after  another  pause.  "  It  was  terrible.  I 
should  like  to  make  the  end  of  her  days 
happy,"  he  sighed  wistfully.  "She  is 
miserable  with  Margaret" 

"I  shall  do  all  I  can,  John,"  said 
Mary  penitently. 

"You  cannot  do  more  than  you've  always 
done,  Mary.  But  I  was  afraid  she  had  got 
boj'ond  even  your  patience,  dear.  You 
thmk  she  won't  go  1 " 

"  I  think  she  won't  if  I  offer  to  help  her 
to  pack,"  said  Mrs.  John  hetitatangly,  as  if 
rather  ashamed  of  the  stratagem. 

But,  indeed,  Mrs.  Pybus  was  already 
repentant,  and  needed  less  than  this  to 
decide  her  to  stay.  When  she  had  got  all 
her  things  together  and  had  set  Martha  to 
pack  them  according  to  her  directions,  she 
began  to  cool  ana  to  relent  If  she 
evacuated  the  citadel  she  might  never 
be  able  to  re-enter  it  It  was  easier  to 
keep  than  to  take.  At  this  point  of  her 
repentance  Mrs.  John  appeued,  to  ask 
"  May  I  help  you  to  pack,  Mrs.  Pybus  t " 

"Martha,  go  ask  your  master  if  it  is 
by  hia  order  I'm  turned  out  of  this  house. " 


CbvlM  Iiloteiit.| 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


IDeoMiba  1,  un.1     29 


Mm  John  felt  keenly  the  degrad&tioii  of 
hftTin^  B  semmt  drtned  into  the  Kffur, 
but  sud  only  (inaadlb^  to  Mn.  Pybna) : 

"  Muthft,  yoa'd  better  help  Jemim&,  I 
don't  think  Mn.  Pybns  will  mtnt  yon 
igiin." 

"  Yee,  mtun." 

Martfaft  wonld  have  gone  to  Jericho  for 
Hts.  John^  but  hudly  to  heaven  at  Mrs. 
IVboa'e  invitation.  Martha  being  gone, 
an.  John  henelf  loaght  ont  the  Aer.  John 
and  sent  him  to  make  apolo^ea  and  peace, 
which  were  made  accordingly. 

Aa,  however,  Mn.  John  nad  warned  her 
hoaband  against  mendoning  her  name  to 
hii  mother,  the  old  lady  imagined  it  was 
her  message,  sent  to  him  by  lurtha,  which 
bnmgfat  him  to  her  feet,  and  that  she 
had  countermined  Mrs.  John's  malevolent 
maehinationi.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  anceeeded  in  winnii^  over  het  son  to 
herdde,  and  her  triumph  waa  as  "insolent" 
in  the  modem,  as  it  was  in  the  obsolete, 
■enae  of  the  word.  Instead  of  a  Trappist 
eoatae  of  ailenoe,  fasting,  and  the  Book  of 
OommoD  Player,  she  amazed  Mrs.  John, 
amaaed  even  the  unobservant  fiev.  John, 
by  her  almoat  boisterons  spirits,  and  by  tlie 
ceaiMJesa  flow  of  information  which  she  im- 

Cd  to  her  aon  ezolnaively  daring  dinner. 
John  ahe  not  only  ignored,  bnt  annbbed 
ostentatjoosly ;  chiefly  Dy  taking  care  to 
addresa  her  son,  ana  aecore  his  attention 
iriienever  his  wife  attempted  to  speak  to 
him.  If  Mra  John  had  been  in  less  wretched 
Bptrita  ahe  most  have  cried  with  laughter, 
not  so  much  at  the  old  lady's  incongraona 
aisnmption  of  the  character  of  an  agreeable 
lattie,  aa  at  the  iscon^mity  of  her  per- 
fonnance  of  the  part  For,  indeed,  Mn. 
Pyboa  attempted  to  express  simtdtaneouBly 
ineongmons  attitudes  of  mind — a  buoyant 
sense  of  being  perfectly  at  home  in  her  own 
son's  house,  and  a  stern  sense  of  Mrs.  John's 
parriddal  attempt  to  evict  her.  Therefore 
her  nodding  of  the  head  from  side  to  side, 
her  light,  ean',  airy  conversation,  ber 
jokea,  and  ber  Uughter,  were  ^aftod  on  a 
manner  stifi',  stem,  austere,  gnm.  It  was 
a  dance  of  death. 

Even  the  Bev.  John,  as  we  aaid,  was 
amasad  by  her  demeanour — indeed,  alarmed 
by  it,  as  Olivia  was  amaaed  and  alarmed  by 
the  fimtaatic  affectations  of  Malvolio  He 
took  it  for  a  continuation  of  what  seemed  her 
hysterical  attack  that  morning,  and  waa  so 
duqoieted  by  it  that  be  resolved  to  put  her 
TUider  Dr.  Grioe's  oare  when  he  called  to  see 
Mrs.  Jolm.  Meantime  he  must  advise  her 
to  take  can  of  henelf  and  keep  her  bed. 


Now,  though  Mra  Pybns,  when  in  the 
sulks,  was  given  to  burying  heraelf  in  the 
"Order  for  the  Visitation  of  the  Sick," 
there  was  nothing  she  hated  more,  next 
to  being  thought  old,  than  to  be  thought 
tlL  Therefore,  this  idea  of  putting  her 
into  Dr.  Grice's  hands  was  not  a  happy  one 
of  her  son'a  Nor  was  he  happy  ei^er  in 
his  well-meant  cantion  to  her  to  take  more 
care  of  herself!  When  she  was  in  tiie 
middle  of  a  sprightly  description,  sparkling 
with  wit  and  point,  of  her  discomfiture  of 
a  Mrs.  Sellen;  in  the  midst,  we  say,  of 
this  irresistible  description  and  of  a  bant 
of  forced  laughter,  the  Bev.  John,  with  a 
face  of  grave  concern  and  in  a  ^oat  that 
might  luive  waked  the  dead,  pulled  her  up. 

"  You'd  better  go  to  bed,  mother." 

If  the  Bev.  Jolm  had  permitted  himself 
toshoot^  "GotoBath,mother,"ehecoaldn't 
have  been  more  direly  ofTended. 

"I  shall  not  go  to  bed,  John,"  she 
shoutod  back  with  a  fierceness  which 
seemed  to  confirm  hu  diagnosis  of  her  case. 

Upon  Dr.  Grice's  calling  a  lit^e  latw, 
the  Bev.  John  asked  him  to  see,  and  if 
necessary,  prescribe  for  his  mother,  who 
seemed  in  a  very  excited  and  hysterical 
state.  The  doctor,  who  bated  the  old 
lady  for  her  hatred  of  Mrs.  John,  was  not 
going  to  flatter  her  by  considering  her  ill — 
for  a  docto^a  flattery  takes  this  odd  form. 
He  pooh-poohed  the  idea  of  her  being 
hysterical  as  preposterous;  but  consented 
to  put  her  son  out  of  the  ptun  of  anxiety 
by  seeing  ber.  He  found  hex  in  the 
drawing-room  alone,  nuninatjng  moodily 
over  her  eon's  insult,  nowise  excited  now, 
bub  sulky  and  moroae.  When  the  doctor 
asked  her  how  she  did,  she  replied  con- 
ventionally and  of  course  that  she  was 
quite  well  Whereupon  the  doctor  thought 
it  necessary  to  prescribe  only  rest,  which 
would  at  least  put  and  keep  her  out  of 
Mrs.  John's  w^. 

"  Tou'd  better  go  to  bed,  Mrs.  Pybna," 
he  shouted  with  more  than  bia  oeual 
brasqneness. 

"I  shall  not  go  to  bed,"  she  cried  in  a 
paroxysm  of  my,  for  now  she  bad  no 
doubt  that  it  waa  Mxs.  John  who  had  set  her 
son  and  the  doctor  to  bait  her  with  the 
same  insult.  When  the  doctor,  now  con- 
vinced that  she  really  was  ill,  would  have 
felt  her  pulse,  she  snatched  her  hand  from 
him  and  hissod  out :  "  She  wants  to  have 
me  locked  up  in  a  madhouse,  does  she  I 
Not  while  there's  law  in  the  land  I " 

The  doctor  bwan  to  think  that  this  was 
not  at  all  a  bad  suggestion,  and  brought 


30     [DnwDtMr  1,  UK.) 


ALL  THE  TEAS  BOUND. 


back  m<^  a  report  to  her  son  that  he 
maddened  hia  mother  for  a  Dumth  by 
his  treatment  of  her  u  a  j)ati«Dt  in  the 
most  critical  condition  of  mmd  and  body. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOTTBTH, 
PART  THE  FIRST. 

The  History  of  King  Henrf  the  Fourth, 
"  with  the  BatteU  of  Shrewseburie  betireen 
the  KiD|  and  Lord  Henrie  Percy,  Bomamed 
Henrie  Hotspur  of  the  North,  with  the 
humorous  conceites  of  Sir  John  FaUtaffe," 
was  first  published  in  quarto,  in  169S. 
Other  quarto  editions  were  iasoed  in  1599, 
1604,  160^,  and  in  1622,  before  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  folio  ooUeobion  of  1623. 
Shakespeare  founded  iiis  two  parts  of 
King  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  also  his  King 
Henry  the  Fifth,  upon  an  early  drama, 
very  rude  of  form,  entitled  The  Famous 
Victories  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  which, 
although  first  printed  presumably  in  1C94, 
bad  been  for  some  years  in  possession  of 
the  stage.  The  comedian,  Kiohard  Tarleton, 
who  is  recorded  to  have  personated  two  of 
its  characters — Derrick,  the  clown,  and  the 
judge  who  was  struck  by  Prince  Henry — 
died  in  the  year  1588.  This  eld  play  has 
been  much  condettmed  by  modem  criticism ; 
the  comic  parts  have  been  pronounced 
"  low  buffoonery  without  the  slightest  wit," 
and  the  tragic  passages  "monotonous 
stupidity  without  a  particle  of  poet^." 
Yet  &om  this  worthless  work  Shf^e- 
speare'a  magic  conjured  those  very  noble 
historical  dramas,  unless,  indeed,  we  arc 
to  suppose  that  he  also  employed  as  his 
materials  certain  old  plays  of  which  oopiee 
are  no  lon^r  extant 

Davies,  m  his  Dramatic  Miacellanie,  states 
his  opinion  that  "the  original  performer 
of  Falstaff  was,  doubtless,  that  excellent 
comedian,  W.  Lowin :  the  praise  and  boast 
of  his  time  for  variety  of  comic  parts," 
Davies  intended,  no  doubt,  to  refer  to  John 
Lowin,  an  eminent  actor  of  Shakespeare's 
time,  and  the  actor  commended  by  the  old 
cavalier  Trueman  in  Wright's  Historia 
Histronica,  1699 :  "  In  my  time,  before  the 
wars,  Lowin  used  to  act,  with  mighty 
applause,  Falstaff,  Morose,  Yolpone,  I^n- 
mon  in  The  Alchemist,  and  Melantius  in 
The  Maid's  Tragedy."  But  Lowin  was 
bom  in  1576;  he  was,  therefore,  too  young 
an  actor  to  be  originally  entnisted  with  the 
part  of  Falstaff  in  Henry  the  Fourth,  first 
printed  in  1598,  and  probably  brought 
upon  the  stage  some  time  before.  More- 
over, Lowin  did  not  become  a  member  of 


the  eompany  called  Uie  King's  Players, 
with  which  Shakespeare  was  aasomted, 
anUl  1603.  It  seems  more  likely  that 
Falstaff  found  his  first  peisonator  in  John 
Heminge,  an  actor  many  years  the  senior 
of  Lowin,  although  there  is  no  evidence  in 
anpport  of  this  proposition  beyond  Malone's 
rather  vague  statement  Htht  "  in  some 
tract,"  of  which  he  had  foigotten  to  pre- 
serve the  title,  Heminge  was  said  to  lure 
been  the  original  performer  of  Sir  John. 
Davies  further  permits  himself  to  guess  that 
the  Prince  of  Wales  was  represented  by 
Bichard  Burbadge,  "who  was  tall  and 
thin" — an  nnwarrantable  assertion — and 
that  Hotspur  was  played  by  Joseph  Taylor, 
"whowaafatandscantof  breath,"anequdly 
bold  assumption ;  but  Davies  takes  it  for 
granted  that  Taylor  was  the  first  Hamlet, 
and  that  the  actor's  physical  characteristic 
obtained  therefore  mention  and  apology  in 
the  poet's  text.  But  this  arranzemeot  of 
the  first  cast  of  Henry  the  Fouru  is  purely 
conjectural. 

On  the  last  da^  of  December,  1660,  Mr. 
Pepys  records  his  purchase  of  a  copy  of 
the  play,  and  hia  visit  to  the  new  theatre, 
Kill^^w's,  to  see  Henry  the  Fourth  acted. 
"  But  my  expectation  being  too  great,"  he 
writes,  "it  did  not  please  me  as  otherwise  I 
believe  it  would ;  and  my  having  a  book,  I 
believe  did  spoil  it  a  littla"  Eighteen 
months  later  he  attends  another  periormanoe 
of  Harry  the  Fourth,  as  be  calls  it ;  and  now 
he  pronounces  it  to  be  "a  good  play."  On 
the  2nd  November,  1667,  he  sees  the  play 
again,  "and,  contrary  to  expectation," 
he  notes,  "was  pleased  in  nothing  more 
than  in  Cartwriglit's  spealung  of  Falstafi's 
speech  about  'What  is  honour } ' "  The 
house  was  full  of  Parliament  men,  it  being 
holiday  with  them ;  "  and  it  was  observ- 
able," Fepys  records,  "  how  a  gentlenuui  of 
good  habit  sitting  just  before  us  eating 
of  some  fruit,  in  the  midst  of  the  play  did 
drop  down  as  dead,  being  choked ;  but 
with  much  ado  Orange  Moll  did  thrust  her 
finger  down  his  throat  and  brought  him 
to  life."  The  cast  of  the  play  at  Inbis 
time  was  probably  as  stated  by  Downes  in 
his  Roscius  Anghcanus,  1708 :  King,  Mr. 
Wintersel ;  Piinoe,  Mr.  Burt ;  Hobspor, 
Mr.  Hart ;  Falstaff,  Mr.  Gartwright ;  and 
Poyns,  Mr.  Shatterel  Gartwright  nad  been 
one  of  Killtgrew's  company  from  its  earliest 
date,  and  seems  to  have  been  an  admirable 
comedian,  personating  such  characters  as 
Corbaccio  in  The  Fox,  Morose  in  The  Silent 
Woman,  Sir  Epicoie  Mammon  in  The 
Alchemist.   He  also  appeared  as  Brabantio, 


KING  HENRr  THE  FOURTa 


u  M^or  Oldfox  in  Wychuley'a  Pltin 
Dealer,  and  as  ApolloniuB  in  Diyden's 
Trmoic  Lare.  By  tuB  will,  dated  1686, 
he  left  his  books,  pictures,  and  fornitiirQ 
to  Dalwioh  College,  when  hia  pmtnit  still 
lemains.  The  diaiaetor  of  f  alstaff  ira> 
also  played  nprni  KilUgrew's  stage  bj  tha 
faroorite  actor,  John  Zjacy ;  hia  perfbrmanoe 
"nevBT  &iled  of  onirenal  applatue,"  write* 
Oeraid  Laugbanne,  in  1691.  In  his  later 
yaazB,  Kynaston  seems  to  have  been 
■ngoed  the  part  of  the  King.  Gibber 
writes  of  the  "real  majesty  of  the  aotor, 
and  of  the  terrible  menace  of  hui  whtsper 
to  Hotspur,  '  Send  na  your  prisoners,"  and 
specially  Kfoastoa's  acting  in  the  scene 
between  tiie  King  and  the  Piince  of  Wales, 
bi  Jannary,  1668,  Mr.  Pepya  la  foand 
fiiiting  the  two  playhoases  in  quest  of 
uttrartahunent  "and  to  gaze  np  and  down," 
"and  there  did  by  thia  means,"  as  he 
eonfeasfls,  "  for  nothing  see  an  act  in  The 
SdLocd  at  ComplimentB  at  the  Duke  of 
Tork's  boose,  and  Henry  the  Fonitii  at 
the  King's  honse;  but  not  liking  either  of 
the  plays,"  he  took  his  coach  again  and 
ratnniea  home.  In  the  same  year  be 
Titits  the  Kiilg's  house  ^ain,  and  sees  a 
piece  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  at  the  end  of 
the  play ;  he  owns,  however,  that  he  had 
gone  to  the  theatre  "thinking  to  have 
gone  abroad  irith  Knipp."  But  it  was  too 
late,  and  Uie  actress  luul  "to  get  her  part 
against  to-morrow  in  The  Silent  Woman, 
and  so,"  says  Pepya,  ''  I  only  let  her  at 
home  and  away  homa'' 

At  the  end  of  1699,  or  the  beginning  of 
1700,  titete  occurred  a  revival  <rf  Henry 
tiie  Fourth,  at  t^e  theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields.  Battsrton  had  soma  years  before 
soceaeded  Hart  in  the  character  of  Hotspur ; 
he  now  appeared  aa  FalstaS  His  Hotspur 
liad  won  great  admiratioa  Cibber  applauds 
the  ^propriateness  of  his  "  wUd  impatient 
starts,  his  "fierce  and  flashing  fire." 
Steele  extols  the  gallantry  of  his  perform- 
ance aa  Fabtaff;  "his  power  of  pleasing 
did  not  forsake  him,"  says  Daviea.  The 
critics,  his  contemporariei,  allowed  that  he 
had  hit  the  humour  of  Falstaff  better  than 
any  that  bad  aimed  at  it  bef(»-a  The 
revival  of  Henry  the  Fourth  was  said  to 
have  "drawn  all  the  town  more  than  any 
new  pUy  which  had  been  produced  of  late. " 
HolspQT  was  now  represented  by  Ver- 
-bn^gen,  and  the  King  by  Berry,  The 
acting  verdoD  of  the  play  was  prepared  by 
Bettwton,  who  contented  himtelf  with  some 
few  omissions  and  To-arrangementa.  The 
of  Glendowec  was  retained  with 


great  part  of  the  aoene  opening  the  third 
act  i  tJtese  have  twoally  been  among  the 
auppressions  of  the  modem  etaga  The  play 
was  reprodsced  at  the  large  titeatre  in 
the  Hayntarkat,  when  Betterton  probably 
appeared  aa  Falstaff  for  the  last  time.  The 
Prince  of  Wales  was  now  represented  by 
Air.  Robert  Wilks,  and  with  signal  success. 
Davies  accoonted  the  performance  "  one 
of  the  most  perfect  exhibitions  of  the 
theatre."  Barton  Booth  undertook  the  sub- 
ordinate character  of  Sir  lUohard  Vernon. 

In  relation  to  other  perfOTmances  of  ths 
play  at  this  time,  and  in  later  years,  Davies 
writes  that  in  the  part  of  the  King  ijie  aoUir 
known  as  " the  Elder  Mills"  hwked  that 
dignity  of  deportment  which  was  so 
enunently  aupplied  by  the  tragedian 
Bohema;  that  Habard  was  decent,  but 
without  spirit;  that  Bemley  waa  chiefly 
deficient  in  power.  While  Betterton  still 
lived,  George  Powell,  "  who  was  malicious 
enoi^h  to  envy  the  great  actor,  and  weak 
enough  to  think  himself  capable  of  supply- 
ing his  place,"  acted  Falatatf  after  Mr. 
Batterton'a  manner,  with  imitation  even  of 
Mr.  Betterton's  occasional  air  of  suffering 
when  acutely  attacked  by  the  gout,  "which 
sometimes  surprised  him  in  the  time  of 
actioa"  Probably  Mr.  Powell's  efi'orta 
were  not  very  well  received  by  the  public. 
After  Betterton's  demise  other  of  the  Drury 
Lane  players  attempted  the  part  of  Falstaff, 
"birt  most  of  them,"  says  Daries,  "with 
very  indifferent  aucoess."  By  the  par- 
ticular command  of  Queen  Anne,  Booth 
appeared  as  Falstaff  for  one  night  only. 
He  did  not  repeat  the  experiment;  he 
was  perhaps  conscious  of  his  own  deficiency 
in  the  character,  or  he  preferred  to  appear 
as  Hotspur.  The  Elder  Mills  was  permitted 
to  try  his  akill  for  a  few  nights  in  the  part. 
It  was  agreed,  however,  that  "his  sober 
gravity  could  not  reach  the  inimitable 
mirth"  of  Fabtafi'.  The  next  essay  was 
made  by  the  comedian  Harper,  who  ob- 
tained some  aucoess  in  the  character,  less, 
it  waa  aaid,  by  his  inteUigenca,  than  because 
of  hia  plump  person  and  round  face,  his  full 
voice  and  honest  laugh. 

When  Booth  played  Hotspur  at  Drury 
Lane  in  1716  to  the  Falstaff  of  Mills 
and  the  Prince  of  Wales  of  Witks,  the 
comedian  Johnson  and  Joe  Miller,  of  jest- 
book  fame,  played  the  carriers,  and  the 
lady  who  waa  afterwards  known  as  Mrs. 
Booth,  appeared  as  Lady  Hotspur.  Booth's 
Hotspur  obtidned  extraordinary  ^plausa 
Daviea  describes  his  strong  yet  harmonious 
vine  in  reachiniE  "the  hishest  note  of  excla- 


tBeeamtMiIiUau 


ALL  THK  TEAS  BOUND. 


nutorjr  nge  withoat  hardng  the  mane  of 
its  tone."  Hia  geatares  wen  uid  to  be 
"  ever  in  tuioa  with  hia  atteraaioe,  while 
Ma  eye  cotutanUy  oombined  with  both  to 

S've  a  con«Bpon<lent  force  to  the  pucdon ;" 
s  port  wu  "  quick,  yet  ai«iificftnt,  aooom- 
pamed  with  princely  gnu^eor."  At  the 
theatee  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  in  1721, 
the  play  was  repreaented  with  the  low 
comedian  Bullock  as  Falataff,  and  the 
famous  Mr.  Qain  as  (he  Sing,  A  year 
Uter,  and  the  warm  applanao  bestowed  npon 
hia  F&lstsff  of  The  Merry  Wivea  of  Windsor, 
enconraged  Qain  to  euay  the  aaparior 
Falataff  of  Henry  the  Fonrth,  which  became 
one  of  his  moat  esteemed  impenonationa. 
The  actor  was  found  to  pOBaess  in  an 
eminent  degree  the  ostenuble  or  meohanioal 
part  of  the  character.  "In  person  fae 
was  tall  and  bulky,"  writes  Daviea,  "his 
Toioe  strong  and  pleasing,  his  coonte- 
nance  manly,  and  hia  eye  piercing  and 
expressiTe."  His  performance  waa  animated 
thronghout,  bat  not  eqaally  happy ;  "  his 
sapercilioaa  brow,  in  spite  of  assamed 
gaiety,  sametimes  onmasked  the  aorliness  of 
his  disposition."  Generally  he  waaregarded 
as  the  moat  intelligent  and  jadidoas  Falstaff 
■eon  upon  the    atsge  aince  the  daya  of 


At  the  close  of  1746  and  the  begiiming 
of  1747  occaiT«d  riral  performances  of  the 
play  at  Dmry  Lane  and  Govent  Garden 
Theatres.  Spranger  Barry  was  the  Drory 
Lane  Hotspnr,  with  Berry  as  Falstaff,  the 
beaatifal  Mrs.  Woffington  lending  her 
Msistanoe  as  Lady  Percy,  and  Thsophilas 
Gibber  appearing  as  Glendower.  At  Covent 
Garden,  Garrick  and  Qain  met  apon  the 
stage  as  Hotspnr  and  Falstaff,  Ryan  repre- 
senting the  Frinoe  of  Wales,  with  Mrs. 
Vincent  aa  Lady  Percy.  Qoin's  triumph 
was  the  more  complete  in  that  Oarrick's 
Hotspur  greatly  diuppointed  expectation. 
He  was  foond  to  lack  presence ;  "  his 
person  was  not  formed  to  give  a  just  idea 
of  the  gallant  and  noble  Hotspnr ; "  and 
his  dress  was  objected  to — "  &  Land  frock 
and  a  Bamilies  wig  were  thought  to  be 
too  insignificant  for  the  character."  Fault 
was  even  found  with  his  delivery.  The 
fine  flexibility  of  his  voice  coold  not 
entirely  conquer  "  the  high  rant  and  con- 
tinued race  of  the  enthnsiasdo  warrior." 
It  was  early  in  his  career,  and  he  had  not 
yet  aoqnired,  we  are  told,  "  tiat  complete 
knowledge  of  modulation  which  he  was 
afterwards  taught  by  more  experience." 
He  appeared  as  Hotspnr  npon  four  or  five 
occasions,  when    he  was    seiied  with  a 


vicdent  cold  and  hoarsoneai.  He  rs- 
linqoished  the  part,  and  ha  did  sot 
reenme  it.  Dnring  his  illoess  the  public 
expressed  as  much  concern  for  him  "as 
though  he  had  been  a  prince  of  the  blood, 
greatly  honoured  and  beloved."  The  door 
of  hia  lodgings  was  every  day  "  crowded 
with  servants  who  came  horn  persona  of 
the  first  rank,  and  indeed  of  all  ranks, 
to  enquire  after  his  healUi.''  Barry's 
Hotspur  was  judged  to  be  "  plesaing 
and  respectable,"  because  of  his  noble 
figore,  rapid  and  animated  axpresdon,  and 
lively  action;  yet  his  performance  was 
thought  to  lack  something  of  "military 
pride  and  camphnmoor."  A  like  deficiency 
was  discovered,  at  a  later  date,  in  the 
Hotspur  of  "Gentleman"  Smith,  albeit 
his  personation  ma  otbenrise  held  to  be 
"  well  marked,  with  fine  impetuosity  and 
dignified  deportment."  As  Falataf^  Berry 
"was  neither  axact  in  his  outline  nor 
warm  in  his  colonriag."  His  was  "the 
Falstaff  of  a  beerhouse ; "  the  while  Quin'a 
Falstaff  was  "the  dignified  president 
where  Uie  choiceat  viands  utd  Uie  bast 
liquora  were  to  be  had." 

At  Drory  Lane,  in  1762,  Love  was  the 
Falstaff— a  comedian  who  "wanted  not  a 
good  share  of  vis  comica,  and  laughed 
with  ease  and  gaiety."  Holland  was  the 
Hotspur  and  John  Palmer  the  Prince  of 
Wales  at  this  date.  Twelve  years  later, 
and  there  was  a  new  Falstaff  at  Coyent 
Garden  in  the  person  of  the  popular  Ned 
Shuter,  who  waa  said  to  supply  by  aroh- 
neaa  and  drollery  what  he  lacked  in 
judgment.  "  He  enjoyed  the  effects  of  his 
roguery  with  a  cbnckle  of  his  own  com- 

Sounding,  and  rolled  his  full  eye  when 
Qteoted  with  a  most  laoghable  effeck" 
Smith  was  the  Hotspnr,  and  Lewis  the 
Prince  of  Wales  of  this  performance. 
The  actors  Woodward  and  Yatea  are  aaid 
to  have  "pat  on  Falstaff's  habit  for  one 
night  only."  They  were  not  encouraged 
to  repeat  their  ventures,  which  were  of 
rather  a  di£Sdent  character ;  otherwise,  it 
was  thought  that  repeated  practice  would 
have  enabled  them  to  reach  the  mark 
"  which  they  modestly  despaired  to  hit." 

Wfl  then  arrive  at  the  performance  of 
Falstaff  by  Henderson,  first  seen  in  London 
at  the  Haymarket  in  1777,  James  Aikin 
appearing  as  Hotspur,  Younger  aa  the  King, 
and  John  Palmer  aa  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

The  success  of  Henderson  as  Falstaff  was 
very  great  It  was  admitted  that  the  actor 
had  many  difllculties  to  contend  with,  that 
neither  in  person,  vdee,  orooontenanoe  did 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH.  (Deeemb« i,  imi    33 


he  seam  qualified  for  the  part  Hia  aniina- 
tioD  uid  jadement,  howevar,  enabled  him 
to  mpply  all  deficienoiea.  He  had  not 
Qnin's  force  and  arrogance  of  manner;  but, 
in  the  more  frolicsome,  ^f ,  and  humorous 
■itnatioss,  Henderson,  m  the  opinion  of 
Daviea,  was  saperior  to  all  the  Faktaffs  he 
had  ever  seen.  His  deliver;  of  the  solilo- 
qniee  iras  especially  applanded  for  its  art 
and  tme  humonr.  He  was  engaged  at 
Dnuy  Lane  on  the  closing  of  the  Hay- 
market  in  1777,  and  in  1779  he  was  playing 
Falttafi  ftt  Covent  Garden.  At  this  period 
the  text  was  strictly  followed,  and  Falataff 
was  required  to  take  the  dead  Hotspur 
upon  hia  back,  a  proceeding  which  never 
failed  to  move  the  galleries  to  extraordinary 
mirth.  Quin  had  been  able,  with  little 
difGcoIty,  to  porch  Garrick  on  his  shonldera, 
vbD  in  that  position,  looked,  it  was  said, 
tike  a  dwarf  on  the  back  of  a  giant  It 
was  no  light  task,  however,  even  for  Qoin 
to  raise  the  tall  grenadier-like  figure  of 
Spranger  Barry ;  and,  of  couBe,  f^lBtafTs 
wman  were  much  iacreaaed  when  the  dead 
Hotapnr  would  lend  him  no  assistance. 
The  teoable  Henderson  experienced  in 
raising  "Gentleman"  Smith  tmm  thegroond 
and  placing  tiiat  robust  actor  npon  his 
sbonlders,  led  to  an  alteration  in  the  tra- 
ditional stage  bnsiness  of  the  performance. 
"  So  mnch  time  waa  conanmed  in  this  pick- 


a-back  bnainesB,"  we  read,  "  that  the  Bpecta- 
grew  tited,  or  rather  disgusted.    It 

thOD    '■■■-"'■ 


Uaa  grew  tited, 

was  thought  best  for  tiie  future  that  some 
of  FalstafTs  ragamoffina  ahoold  bear  ofE  the 
dead  body." 

At  the  Haymarket  in  1786,  on  the  occa- 
non  of  her  benefit,  Mra.  Webb,  a  prodi- 
goosly  stont  lady,  ventured  to  represent 
FklstaC  In  the  same  year,  at  Covent 
Garden,  Mr.  Thomas  Byder,  from  Dnblin, 
essayed  the  port,  with  Lewis  as  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  and  Holman  as  Hotspur.  John 
Palmer  waa  the  next  FalstafT,  at  the 
Opera  House,  whither  the  Dniry  Lane 
Company  had  moved  during  the  reboUd- 
iog  of  their  theatre  in  1791,  when  John 
Kemble  appeared  as  Hotspur,  Bensley 
as  King  Henry,  and  Wronghton  as  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  Of  Kemble's  Hotspur, 
&  Walter  Scott  has  written  in  very  lauda- 
tory terms,  greatly  commending  the  actor's 
delivery  of  one  passs^e  in  particular,  as  an 
instance  of  luwpy  interpretation  of  the 
author's  text  Hotspur  is  endeavouring  to 
recall  the  name  of  a  place  in  England : 

la  Ricbsnl'i  time — what  da  yon  call  the  place  T 

A  pli^e  upon  t ;  'tie  in  Glouceetenhite. 

Twaa  where  the  madcap  Duke  his  unale  kept — 


As  Sir  Walter  states :  <'  Through  all  thia 
confusion  of  mangled  recollection,  Kemble 
chafed  and  tumbled  about  his  words  with 
the  furious  impatience  of  an  angry  man 
who  has  to  seek  for  a  pen  at  the  very 
moment  he  is  about  to  write  a  challenge. 
Then  the  delight  with  which  he  grasped 
at  tiie  word  when  suggested — 'at  Berkeley 
OasUe.'  '  You  say  true  I '  The  manner  in 
which  Kemble  spoke  those  three  words, 
and  ruahad  forward  into  his  abuse  of 
Bolingbroke,  like  a  hunter  surmounting 
the  obstacle  which  stopped  his  career,  was 
electncal.  The  efTect  on  the  audience  was 
singular.  There  was  a  tendency  to  encore 
HO  fine  a  piece  of  acting."  Scott  was  sensible, 
however,  that  Kemble's  biatrionic  method 
was  apt  to  err  on  the  side  of  elaborateness. 
"John  Kemble  is  a  great  artist,"  he  wrote 
to  Miss  Bailtie ;  "but  he  shows  too  much  of 
bis  machinery.  I  wish  he  could  be  double- 
capped,  as  they  bav  of  Watches."  Kemble 
was  ambitious  of  playing  Falstaff,  and 
professed  to  have  formed  an  original  concep- 
tion of  ^e  character ;  but  he  felt,  perhaps, 
that  his  efforts  in  comedy  were  not  very 
favourably  viewed  by  his  public.  He  left, 
therefore,  FalstafF  to  be  personated  by  his 
corpulent  brother  Stephen,  who  acquired 
fame  in  that  he  performed  the  fat  knight 
"without  stuffing.^  He  first  played  Falstaff 
in  London  at  Drury  Lane  in  1802.  He 
wrote  a  prologue  to  introduce  himself  to 
the  audience,  and  entmsted  the  delivery  of 
it  to  Bannister.  He  jested  freely  on  the 
subject  of  bis  own  size,  and  professed  to 
have  been  brought  to  town  from  Newcastle 
in  "  a  broad-wheeled  wa^on." 
For  in  a  chatra  the  varlet  ne'er  eauld  enter, 
And  nomaii-coiwh  on  anch  a  fare  would  renture. 
If  the  public  should  find  him  deficient  in 
the  wit  and  humour  of  the  part,  he  pledged 
himself  to  return  to  the  North. 

He  then  tn  better  men  will  leave  hia  aack. 
And  go,  as  ballMt,  in  a  collier  back. 
His  Falstaff  drew  several  excellent 
houses,  although  many  of  the  audience  may 
have  been  inclined  to  agree  with  Boadeo, 
that  "natural  bulk  on  the  sta^e  dis- 
tresses with  an  unlucky  association  of 
disease,  and  that  the  made-up  knight  ia 
the  only  agreeable  Sir  John.^  Stephen 
Kemble  was  said  to  be  a  man  of  reading, 
and  an  actor  of  vigour  and  firmneas.  His 
voice  was  loud,  overpowering,  and  deficient 
in  modulation.  "  He  was,  perhaps,  best  at 
The  Boar'a  Head  after  the  robbery,  though 
he  was  good  also  at  Shrewsbury."  Charles 
Kemble  did  not  attempt  tiib  part  of 
Falstaff  in  London  until  1824.  when,  at 


34     [December  l.IBBS.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


(Condncled  b)F 


Govent  Crtirden  Theatre,  he  was  assisted 
by  the  Hotspur  of  Young,  the  King  Henry 
of  Egerton,  the  Prince  of  Wales  of  Cooper, 
and  the  Lady  Percy  of  Miss  F.  H.  Kelly. 
It  was  said  that  the  actor  had  "  endeavoured 
to  rescue  the  character  from  the  coarae- 
neas  with  which  it  had  usually  been 
represented ; "  and  that  in  the  presence  of 
the  King,  and  in  the  conversation  with 
Westmoreland,  his  Falataff  was  iarested 
with  gentility  and  courtly  bearing.  Genest 
remarks  that  those  who  remembered  the 
FaUtaff  of  Henderson  were  not  likely  to  be 
gratified  by  Charles  Kemble'a  re  lined 
Falstaff. .  "Henderaon  made  Falstaff  neither 
very  vulgar  nor  very  polite;  FdlstafTs 
replies  to  Westmoreland  are  evidently 
familiar." 

The  part  of  Falstaff  in  the  First  Part  of 
King  Henry  the  Fourth  was  first  played 
by  George  Frederick  Cooke  for  his  benefit 
at  Covent  Garden  in  1802.  Cooke  said 
himself  of  his  assumption  of  the  three 
Falstafi^a — and  he  played  them  each  in 
turn — that  "he  never  could  please  himself 
or  come  np  to  his  own  ideas  in  any 
of  them."  He  remembered  Henderson, 
accounted  him  the  beat  of  FalstafTs,  and 
endeavoured,  as  he  said,  "to  profit  by  the 
remembrance."  Cooke's biogntp her,  Danlap, 
observes:  "Whatever  his  own  opinion  was 
of  his  performance  of  this  character,  it  is 
certain  that  he  had  no  living  competitor, 
and  that  those  who  sever  saw  Henderson 
or  Cooke  can  form  no  adequate  idea  of 
Falstaff."  In  the  memoirs  ot  Cooke  men- 
tion is  made  of  a  versatile  country  actor, 
who  succeeded  in  "doubling"  the  two  very 
opposite  characters  of  Falst^  and  Hotspur. 

One  or  two  earlier  Falstaffs  must  not  be 
overlooked.  Tom  King  had  essayed  the 
character  at  the  Haymarket  in  1792,  with 
Bensley  as  Hotspur,  and  James  Aikin  as 
the  King.  The  original  representative  of 
Lord  Ogleby  and  Sir  Peter  Teazle  hardly 
possessed  the  physical  qnaliti cations  for 
such  a  part  as  Falstaff.  Mrs.  Pitt,  a  retired 
actreae,  who  had  played  with  many 
Fdlststffs,  wrote  to  her  grandson,  Thomas 
Dibdin  :  "  I  went  the  other  night  to  see 
King  in  Falstaff;  I  suppose  it  was  great., 
but  I  liked  it  not ;  he  undoubtedly  under- 
stood the  author  well  j  the  rest  was 
wanting ;  I  well  knew  his  physical  inability 
for  the  character."  Three  years  later,  at 
Covent  Garden,  Fawcett  first  played 
Falstaff,  and  with  fair  success.  Macready 
writes  of  him,  in  1621,  as  "the  best 
Falstaff  then  on  the  stage,"  but  Is  careful 
to    add,    "he    more    excelled    in    other 


characters."  At  the  Haymarket,  in  1803, 
Blissett,  a  comedian  from  Bath,  represented 
Falstaff,  with  Elliston  as  Hotspur.  On 
May  11th,  1826,  at  Dniry  Lane,  Elliston 
played  Falstaff  for  the  first  time,  Macready 
appearing  as  Hotspur,  and  James  Wallack 
as  the  Prince  of  Wales.  Macready,  in  his 
Reminiscences,  writes  of  the  occasion : 
"  Elliston  was  an  actor  highly  distinguished 
by  the  power  and  versatility  of  bis  pertorm- 
ances,  but  of  late  years  he  had  some- 
what fallen  from  his  high  estate .  . .  His 
rehearsal  gave  me  very  great  pleasure.  I 
watched  it  most  earnestly,  and  was  satisfied 
that  in  it  he  made  the  nearest  approach  to 
the  joyous  humour  and  unctuous  roguery 
of  the  character  that  I  had  ever  witnessed, 
giving  me  reason  to  entertain  sanguino 
hopes  of  its  great  success  in  its  perfor- 
mance. But,  alas !  whether  from  failure 
of  voice,  or  genuine  deficiency  of  power, 
the  attempt  fell  ineffectively  upon  the 
audience,  and  the  character  was  left  as  it 
has  been  since  the  days  of  Quin  and 
Henderson,  without  an  adequate  represen- 
tative." The  play  was  repeated  on  the 
1 5th.  "  Before  the  curtain  rose,"  Macready 
continues,  "  I  was  in  the  green-room,  and 
spoke  with  Elliston,  who  complained  of 
being  ill,  and  appeared  so,  smelling  very 
strongly  of  ether.  As  the  evening  wore 
on  ha  gave  signs  of  extreme  weakness,  was 
frequently  inaudible,  and  several  voices 
from  the  front  called  to  him  to  'speak  np,' 
There  was  not,  on  this  occasion,  even  the 
semblance  of  an  effort  at  exertion,  and 
in  the  fifth  act  he  remained  dlent  for 
some  little  time,  then,  in  trying  to 
reach  the  side-scene,  he  reeled  round 
and  fell  prostrate  before  the  footlights.  It 
was  a  piteous  spectacle  I  A  sad  contrast 
to  the  triumph  of  his  earlier  popularity  1 
The  audience  generally  attributed  his  fall  to 
intoxication,  but  without  just  caUEO.  He 
was  really  indisposed,  and  the  remedy  from 
whichhesougbtsupportwaa toopot«nt^  He 
was  conveyed  to  his  dressing-room  almost 
insensible,  and  never  appeared  upon  the 
stage  again."  Macready  had  personated 
Hotspur  at  Bath  as  eariy  as  l&H.  He 
was  a^in  representing  Uie  character  at 
DmryLane  in  1833.  He  writes  in  his 
diary  :  "  Acted  Hotspur,  I  scarcely  knew 
how.  I  could  and  should  have  done  it  well 
if  I  had  had  rehearsal  to  prove  myself,  and 
a  few  days  to  think  upon  it  Received  a 
severe  blow  on  the  eye  and  cheek  in  falling, 
which  I  apprehend  will  be  a  large  black 
eye.  Cooper  thinks  I  am  so  furious  and  so 
strong  I "     Two  months  later  he  repeats 


YAKOB  THE  FIDDLER 


[Decembar  1.  ISSS.1      35 


the  chancter  and  notes  ooncenting  his  per- 
fonnmnce:  "I  took  more  time  over  the 
opening  qteecb,  bat  foand  as  I  proceeded 
the  not  of  study,  and  how  very  little 
puns  woold  make  it  good.  I  sIbo  found 
in  ^  progteu  oi  tho  scene  the  vast  benefit 
derived  fromkeopingTchemence  and  eSbrt 
ontof  pasdon.  It  is  eTery thing  for  natura 
The  reading  of  the  letter  was  not  bad 
chitflfon  that  accoant."  Other  Fahtaffs 
of  distiiKtian  were  Dowton  and  Bartley. 
Dovton  was  considered  to  be  sonnd  and 
jodicioDS  in  the  character,  but  withoot  the 
indispensable  "  rolling  jocund  eye  and  the 
rieh  orerflowiag  hnmoiir  which  should 
pour  oat  inTolontarily,  constitationally, 
and,  as  it  woto,  in  spite  of  itself."  Bartley 
«u  playing  Faktaff  at  Dmry  Lane  in 
1S15,  and  long  remuned  in  possession  of 
the  character.  It  was  as  Faktaff  he  took 
leave  of  the  stage,  on  the  18th  December, 
13S2,  the  fiftieth  annirerBary  of  his  first 
i^>pearan<ie  in  London.  The  Hotspur  of 
1352  was  Mr.  Charles  Kean,  and  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  Mr.  Alfred  Wigan. 
BarUn^s  farawell  benefit  was  nnder  the 
^ledM  patronage  of  the  Queen  and  the 
Priace  Consort.  Criticism,  however,  did  not 
Kcept  Bartley  as  an  actor  of  the  first  class. 
Mr.  Cole,  in  his  Life  of  Charles  Kean, 
writes  of  Bartley,  that,  "althongh  unt- 
fmnly  correct,  judicious,  hearty,  and  in 
eamest,  with  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
mechanism  of  his  art,  there  was  an  appear- 
UKe  of  labour,  a  wfuit  of  that  utter 
cooeeaiment  of  study,  and  of  the  rich 
onaffecled  colouring  which  marked  the 
acknowledged  masterpieces  of  some  three 
or  four  of  hts  predecessora  and  con- 
tempoTariea,  such  aa  Munden,  Dowton, 
Fawcett,  and  Williiun  Farren." 

During  many  yeua  Sir  John  FalstafT 
WIS  a  very  favourite  character  with  the 
late  Mr.  Phelps,  an  actor  who  was  able  to 
obtain  pftrbicolar  saccess  both  in  tragedy 
and  comedy.  Charles  Young  and  £dmund 
Kean,  Macready  and  Charles  Kean,  made 
o^isriments  now  and  then  in  the  direction 
of  comedy,  but  they  rofrained  from  attempt- 
iaS  the  &tt  knight.  Mr.  Phelps  first  ap- 
peared as  Falstaff  in  1846,  during  his 
tnansgement  of  Sadler's  Wells,  Mr.  Cres- 
vick  appearing  as  Hotspur,  Mr.  Marston 
ss  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  Mr.  George 
Bsnnett  as  King  Henry.  In  186i,  Mr. 
PhelpB  was  represeating  Fahtaff  at  Drury 
Lane,  with  Mr.  Walter  Lacy  as  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  and  Mr.  Walter  Montgomery  as 
Hotmnir ;  tiie  King  being  represented  now 
by  Ur.  Manton  and  now  br  Mr.  Hrder. 


The  play  was  carefully  represented  with 
nnnanal  regard  for  scenery  and  costumes ; 
the  scene  with  Clendower  at  the  opening 
of  the  third  act,  often  omitted  in  the  acting 
editions  of  the  drama,  was  restored,  the 
stage  was  strewn  with  rushes  in  compliance 
with  the  allusion  of  the  text;  and,  perhaps, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  period  of  Shake- 
speare, Lady  Mortimer  appeared  to  sing 
her  Welsh  song,  the  singer  being  Miss 
Edith  Wynne,  a  lady  of  Welsh  origin.  Mr. 
Phelps's  Falslafi*  was  abundantly  forcible 
and  humorous  if  it  lacked  unctuousneas 
somewhat.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  Falstaff  of  a 
man  who  was  lean  by  nature  and  only  arti- 
ficially fat.  In  his  Journal  of  a  London 
Playgoer,  Professor  Mo rley  highly  applauds 
the  performance,  however  :  "  If  Mr,  Phelps 
played  nothing  else  than  Falstaff  it  would 
be  remarkable ;  considered  as  one  part  in 
a  singularly  varied  series  it  is  unquestion- 
ably good.  He  lays  etreaa  not  on  Falstaff'a 
sensuality,  but  on  the  lively  intellect  that 
stands  for  sool  as  well  as  mind  in  his  grosa 
body,  displays  hie  eagerness  to  parry  and 
thnist,  his  determination  to  cap  every  other 
man's  good  saying  with  something  better 
of  Ms  own,  wMch  makes  him,  according  to 
the  manner  of  the  actor,  thrust  in  with 
inarticulate  sounds,  as  if  to  keep  himself  a 
place  open  for  speech  while  he  is  fetching 
up  his  own  flagon  of  wit  from  the  farthest 
caverns  of  hia  stomach.  And  the  fat 
knight  who  so  familiarly  cracks  his  jokea 
with  the  Prince  or  upon  Bardolph  is  not 
vnlgarised  in  Mr.  Phelps's  reading.  When 
the  Prince  and  Westmoreland  meetFalstafi" 
on  the  road  near  Coventry,  and  the  Prince 
hails  his  old  comrade  with  a  joke,  the 
change  from  the  gay  jesting  answer  to  the 
courteous  salutation  of  "  My  good  Lord  of 
Westmoreland,"  is  marked  by  the  actor 
with  a  smooth  delicate-  touch  that  stamps 
the  knight  distinctly  as  a  man  well  born 
and  bred." 


YAKOB  THE  FIDDLEK. 

A  SKBTCH  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN   BAUIC 

There  was  a  ramour  abroad  that  the 
great  Kubinstein  was  going  to  give  us  a 
concert  in  Tukkam.  How  it  reached  us 
on  our  secluded  estate,  which  lay  eome 
leagues  from  tliat  dirty  little  town,  I  know 
not,  but  &om  a  rumour  it  soon  became  an 
established  fact,'until  the  whole  province 
of  Oourland  rang  with  the  news.  Such  an 
event  in  such  an  outof-the-way  spot  has 
lashed  up  the  whole  of  our  tranquil,  sleepy 
neiehbouriiood  into  a  state  of  unparalleled 


36 


ALL  THE  TKAB  BOUND. 


exdtemaat  Nothing  is  talked  of,  notluDg 
ia  thought  of,  bat  BabiiiBteiii,  and  the  days 
are  Gounted  and  "  ticked  off  "  with  infinite 
BatiBfacUon,  until  here  we  are  at  last  on 
the  ere  of  the  great  treat,  dressed  in  gala 
array,  being  bome  through  the  still,  sweet, 
golden  beaatr  of  an  aatumn  twilight,  with 
the  mellow  tinkle  of  Yahn  the  coachman's 
holiday-bell  in  oar  ears,  meetmg  carriige 
after  carriage,  with  more  bells  and  more 
excited  people,  all  moving  in  the  same 
direction. 

We  Bcucely  exchange  greetings,  bat 
"  Groing  to  hear  Rabinstein  1 "  "  Ja,  ja  I " 
And  on  we  dash  past  the  Lettish  charoh- 
yard,  with  its  files  of  black  croBses ;  they 
do  not  speak  of  death  and  the  tomb  this 
evening,  bat  of  peace  and  hope.  Li  the 
pine-wood  the  spotted  woodpecker  paasei 
at  his  work  to  look  at  as.  "  Going  to  hear 
Rabinetein  t "  he  seems  to  say.  "  Every 
man  to  lus  tast&  I  infioituy  prefer  a 
wood-loose. " 

So  we  leave  him,  to  whirl  past  qoiet 
Lettish  homesteads,  where  half-ni^ed, 
white-haired  children  ran  to  hide  behind 
the  house,  where  storks  stand  solemnly  on 
barn-tops,  with  the  callow  heads  of  pro- 
mising families  peeping  oat  of  Qests.  Then 
past  baronial  estates,  their  ramblioK-look- 
iog^pictaresqne  mansions  half-hidden  in 
trees,  and  at  length  past  the  Jewish 
cemetery,  looking  doubly  desolate  and  for- 
saken in  the  rich  glow  of  the  cloudless  son- 
set  As  we  dash  past,  I  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  edge  of  a  weather-stained  bourd  pro- 
jecting from  the  shifting  sandy  soil,  and 
turn  from  it  with  a  shadder  as  I  remember 
that  the  Jews  bury  their  dead  two  feet 
deep.  And  ere  I  am  aware  we  are  in 
Tukkum,  and  our  horses  are  ahaldiig  their 
heads,  and  pawing  the  ground  at  the  door 
of  the  concert-room. 

We  are  early,  but  already  the  room  is 
filled.  ETeryhody  is  here,  from  the  pale, 
distrngoished-looking  Princess  Lieven,  in 
an  ancient  court  dress,  to  the  fat  little 
Fran  Apothekerin,  in  her  best  barege  and 
cherry-coloored  ribbons.  The  ladies  are 
seated,  bat  the  gentlemen  stand  packed  as 
close  as  herrings  in  a  barrel  in  the  rear. 
Most  prominent  amongst  tiiem,  from  the 
gleams  which  emanate  from  his  spectacles, 
and  the  beaming  contentment  which  lights 
u^  the  good  old  face,  stands  the  pastor. 
We  wait,  fanning  our  hot  faces,  what 
seems  an  age,  when  the  door  is  at  lengtii 
opened,  and  the  whole  room  looks  round 
to  see  enter — not  Bubinstein,  but  a  tall, 
lanky  young  man,  dressed  in  the  hlue-grey 


homeapnn  clothes  and  high  boots  of  a 
Lettish  peasant  He  is  shock-headed, 
heavy-jawed,  and  tanned  with  ezposnre 
in  the  fields.  A  pair  of  absent,  dreamy 
blae  eyes  look  out  from  overhanging  brows. 
There  is  a  restless,  frightened  look  dawn- 
ing in  them  now,  as  their  owner  marks  the 
sensatioD  he  is  creating.  He  nervously 
twists  his  cap  in  his  brown  fingers,  and 
turns  as  if  to  retreat  There  is  a  general 
titter,  and  lorgnettes  are  raised  to  aristo- 
cratic eyes. 

The  pastor  poshes  his  way  through  the 
crowd  to  the  young  man's  side. 

"  All  right,  Yakob,  my  lad,"  he  says  in 
his  cheery  voice,  as  he  lays  a  hand  on  the 
square  shoulder.  "  Do  not  go ;  yoa  have 
pud  your  money  and  shall  hear  the  momc 
See,  there  is  a  inag  comer  bedde  ths  stove 
for  yoa" 

Yakob  darts  a  shy,  grateful  glaiwe  at  his 
friend  and  sidles  into  his  comer. 

"  What  a  strange  idea,"  I  hear  someone 

y,  "  for  a  Lette  to  come  here.  Who  is 
he,  Herr  pastor  T " 

"  Who  IS  he  1 "  repeats  the  pastor  with  a 
chuckle.  "  A  natural  genius — Yakob  ttit 
fiddler,  people  call  him.  It  is  a  p^cho- 
logioal  experiment  of  mine.  Iwanttoti7tb« 
effect  of  real  music  on  this  child  of  nature." 

The  conversation  is  oat  short  by  the 
sudden  entrance  of  the  great  mnrician. 
This  time  there  is  no  mistake  about  it; 
everybody  knows  the  dark,  square-cut  face. 
A  burst  of  applause  greets  him  as  he 
quickly  passes  throagh  Uie  dividing  crowd, 
and  mounts  the  plawmn. 

Then  Bubinstein  plays. 

Was  ever  mnsio  like  this  1  We  sit  spell- 
bound, with  suspended  breath,  to  catch 
every  note  as  it  rises,  clear  and  true,  from 
the  master's  fingers ;  the  faithfal  echoes  of 
an  inspired  souL  There  is  a  moment's 
silence  at  its  completion,  the  spell  is  still 
on  us ;  then  the  room  trembles  beneath  the 
ever  renewed  applause.  The  pastor  vehe- 
mently blows  ms  nose  and  wipes  his  eyes 
and  spectacles  in  defiance  of  society,  and 
I  steai  a  look  at  Yakob. 

He  stands  with  his  back  agunst  the 
stove ;  his  blue  eyes  stare  vacanti^  at  the 
musician,  his  lips  are  apart,  and  hia  whole 
appearance  presents  a  picture  of  utter 
bewilderment 

"He  cannot  understand  it,"  I  think. 
"  The  scrape  of  a  beer-house  fiddle  is  more 
in  his  line. 

Bat  Bubinstein  is  striking  the  first 
chords  of  Beethoven's  Moonlight  Sonata, 
and  I  forget  Yakob,  and  the  people,  and 


YAKOB  THE  FIDDLER. 


ID««ml)er  1, 


a.1     37 


KulKnsteiD  himself.  I  am  awar  nndei  the 
■tariit  heaTsns,  on  th«  lonely  shore,  where 
th4  mooD  looki  down,  still  and  beautifuL 
I  watch  the  qniTeriiie  arrows  of  light  flash 
along  the  ciuiing  billows,  and  hear  their 
aootbiog  splash  aa  tbej  break  on  the  glit- 
tering pebUea. 

The  last  vibrating  note  dies  away  like  a 
ngfa  of  relief  from  a  haman  breast. 

No  one  moves  until  the  pastor's  etick 
thandors  on  the  floor. 

"  Bravo,  bravisBimo  ! "  he  cries,  and  if 
noise  is  gratifying  to  the  master,  he  is 
getdng  plenty  of  it,  for  we  are  nproarions 
for  Boveral  minntea  He  bows  and  smiles, 
aod  verily  I  believe  that  Babinstein  still 
remembers  hie  warm  reception  in  that  poor 
little  Bussian  provincial  concert-room. 

Now  that  the  cessation  of  the  mnsic  has 
recalled  me  &om  my  all  too  romantic 
wanderings  on  the  lone  seashore,  I  think 
again  of  YakoK  He  is  still  in  Ins  comer, 
bat  I  cannot  see  his  face;  he  keeps  it 
covered  with  his  large  work-stained  fingers, 
over  which  a  shock  of  tawny  hair  hangs 
heav^y,  for  his  head  is  bowed.  In  all  the 
din  of  applaose  he  never  stin,  for  I  watch 
Mm  eononsly,  and  leave  him  thos  to  lose 
myself  anew  in  the  dim  enchanted  region 
of  sablime  melody. 

I  do  not  retoin  thence  until  oxir  pro- 
gramme is  at  an  end,  and  I  am  conscions 
of  the  frisky  intractable  legs  of  old  Prince 
Lieven  carrying  him  op  the  steps  on  to  the 
platfomL  He  congratulates  the  performer 
with  many  flourishes  and  old-world  court 
mancBarres,  and  asks,  in  French,  of  coarse, 
for  be  scorns  the  guttural  accents  of  his 
homely  mother-tongue : 

"  Une  faveur,  one  tr6s  grande  faveur  de 
If.  le  grand  maltre,  Kubiustein." 

It  is  granted.  I  can  see,  aa  Rubinstein 
turns  thougbtfdiy  to  the  iastroment  For 
a  mioate  his  hands  wander  over  the  keys. 
Tba  notes  blend  and  mingle,  rolling  away 
like  showers  of  pearb,  and  throngh  th!e 
mue  comes  the  plaintive  strains  of  the 
Bed  S*Tftf*n,  Another  stream  of  ex- 
quisitely blended  notes,  and  oat  of  it  come, 
one  afboi  another,  the  songs  which  have 
Bprmig  from  the  great  throbbing  heart  of 
Boasis.  They  plmd  and  wail,  and  tell  the 
listener  of  a  thousand  longings  which  cannot 
besdlled. 

Instinctively  I  turn  my  eyes  in  the 
direction  of  Yakob,  He  has  uncovered 
his  eyes,  and  unconscious  tears  are 
oouning  each  other  down  his  rough  cheeks. 
He  no  longer  heeds  the  uncongenial 
crowd;  he  is  not  here ;  and  I  know  that 


Yakob  has  found  his  way  to  that  shadowy 
land  of  song,  and  is  wandering  the  fields 
Elysian,  whose  flowers  are  phmted  by  the 
hand  of  genius. 

The  grand  tones  of  the  Bussian  National 
Anthem  burst  on  us  like  a  volley  of 
cannon,  and  one  of  the  greatest  treats  of 
my  life  is  at  an  end. 

The  rush  of  cool  night  air  which  meets 
me  as  I  leave  the  heated  room  is  grateful 
to  my  tired  senses,  uid  it  is  a  relief  to  be 
driving  into  the  dim,  uncertain  landscape 
on  my  way  home.  The  frogs  croak  in  the 
ditches  as  we  go  by;  the  dogs  rush  out  to 
bark  furiously  as  we  pass  the  different 
homesteads ;  and  the  storks  stand  motion- 
less on  the  bam  -  roof^,  looking  like 
silhouettes  against  the  clear  moonUt  sky. 
In  the  wood  the  tall  pines  look  like  rows 
of  dark  silent  sentinels,  and  below,  oat  of 
the  dark,  shine  myriads  of  glow-worms, 
whilst  from  the  distance  a  solitary  owl  is 
hooting  a  hoarse  good-night. 

Autumn  is  getting  ruddy  and  more  than 
middle-aged.  Her  prime  is  past.  Only  at 
rare  intervals  she  brightens  up,  dimpling 
and  blushing  under  the  returning  homage 
of  the  sun,  until  she  looks  almost  as  fair 
as  in  those  early  days  of  full-bloom  and 
ripe  matronhood.  She  is  patting  on  her 
best  appearance  to-day,  and  I  am  glad  of 
it,  for  it  is  a  wedding-day,  and  I  am 
invited  to  thd  house-warming. 

After  a  long  and  silent  coortBhip,  con- 
sisting of  solemn  and  speechless  lingeringa 
together  on  the  bench  outside  the  kitchen- 
door  in  the  summer  %hta  and  autumn 
twilights,  Yahn,  the  coachman,  has 
brought  Marri,  the  cook,  to  a  fall  com- 
prehension of  the  fact  that  he  has  chosen 
her  to  be  his  wedded  wife.  How  he  did  it 
I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  conceive,  as  he 
was  never  heard  to  address  Iilarri  at  any 
time,  bat  it  is  done,  and  the  pastor  has 
married  them  ae  they  stood  on  a  Turkey 
mg  in  the  centre  of  the  saloon  in  face  of 
the  whole  estabUshmenL  I  was  present 
myself,  and  Marri  invited  me  to  the  house- 
wanning  At  this  moment  husband  and 
wife  are  mutely  preparing  the  marriage- 
feast  at  their  new  homa 

The  early  shadows  are  creeping  around 
me  as  I  bend  my  steps  through  the  bare, 
shorn  fields,  and  enter  the  decorated 
porch  of  the  log-homestead.  Already  a 
ooncoarse  of  guests  are  assembled,  princi- 
pally Lettes  from  the  estate  and  neighbour- 
hood, and  the  two  rooms  will  soon  be 
crowded  to  soffooation.     The  long  tables 


[Denmber  1,  U8t.J 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOtfilD. 


groan  nnder tbeir  load — roaat snckmgpiga, 
seethed  kid,  boiled  rice,  milk-cheese,  and 
lioliday  bread.  I  am  led  to  the  top  of 
a  row  of  Bolemnly  moving  jaws,  and 
Opposite  aiiother,  from  whence  I  have  a 
view  of  all  that  is  going  on.  For  two 
mortal  hours  the  meal  continues  in 
profound  silence.  One  pig  disappears 
after  another.  The  air  is  laden  to  heavi- 
ness with  cheese,  pig,  peat-smoke,  and 
leather.  "For  men  may  come  and  men 
niay  go,  bat  they  go  on  for  ever,"  I  think  as 
I  listen  to  the  regular  action  of  the  insatiable 
jaws — champ,  champ,  chew,  chew. 

I  have  almost  arrived  at  the  conclnsion 
that  the  Lettish  peasant  is  provided  with 
an  extra  stomach  in  reserre  for  each 
festive  occasions,  when  the  order  is  given 
to  dear  the  floors.  Some  rise  with  jaws 
still  moving,  others  decamp  to  comers  to 
finish  the  intermpted  meal  with  their 
plates  on  their  knees.  The  tables,  which 
are  temporary  constructions,  consisting  of 
boards  supported  1^  cross  -  beams,  are 
speedily  removed.  The  "kobiaa"  (over- 
seer) lights  his  long  china-howled  pipe,  in 
which  he  is  imitated  by  others  of  the 
non-dancing  husbandmen ;  the  women 
get  into  comers  for  a  gossip,  and  bury 
their  noses  in  each  other's  broad  cap- 
frills,  and  Umpie,  the  dwarf,  monnts 
the  window-seat,  fiddle  in  hand.  Umpis 
stands  four  feet  two  in  his  high-heeled 
jitck-boots,  hot  his  every  inch  is  impoFtant 
He  is  regarded  in  the  neighbourhood  in  the 
light  of  a  great  scholar;  ha  is  letter-writer 
to  half  the  Lettish  communityj  and  is  arbi- 
trator, best  man  at  weddings,  musician,  a 
crack  shot,  and  a  host  of  other  things.  He 
U,  moreover,  the  baron's  amanuensis  and 
right-hand  man,  the  plaything  and  p)ay- 
fi^Uow  of  the  young  folks,  and  the  neatest, 
joUiest,  little  apple-faced  mannikin  that  was 
ever  bom  a  dwar£  His  twinkling  grey 
eyes  seem  to  shine  out  of  narrow  slits  in 
his  ruddy  fat  face  ;  he  darts  them  hither 
and  thither  as  he  fires  off  little  crackling 
jukes  amongst  his  admirers,  chuckling  to 
himself  meanwhile  as  he  tosses  back  his 
long  yellow  hair. 

And  the  dancing  begins.  Yahn,  who 
ha^  got  to  the  length  of  a  broad  grin  though 
not  to  the  use  of  his  tongue,  leads  off  his 
new  acquisition;  other  couples  follow. 
They  stsmp,  whirl,  snap  their  fingers,  and 
finally  whoop.  The  fiddle  squeaks,  groans, 
quavers,  achieves  effects  before  unheard  by 
my  astounded  ears,  and  the  little  fiddler  is 
bathed  in  perspiration ;  his  body  sways, 
his  elbows  jerk,   his  long   yellow  mane 


hangs  in  wild  disorder  over  his  fiddla  He 
has  long  since  ceased  to  bear  any  resem- 
blance to  Umpie;  he  is  metamorphosed 
into  a  galvanised  frog,  and  winds  up  stand- 
ing on  the  window-seat,  his  wiry  little  lega 
far  apart,  his  eyes  closed,  his  face  illu- 
minated by  an  unctuons,  self-satisfied  smile, 
and  his  body  thrown  bacJt. 

After  this  we  require  a  rest,  and  the 
fumes  of  Karria  Yaak*  rise  peacefully 
around  us.  At  this  juncture  there  is  a  atir 
at  the  door,  the  men  are  going  out  and  in, 
hut  this  sounds  like  a  scuffle. 

"Come  on,  what  are  yon  afraid  ott 
Keep  hold  of  him,  Yiirri ;  don't  let  him 
go,"  I  hear  from  different  mouths,  tii« 
door  is  pushed  open,  and  a  tall,  lanky, 
sallow-faced,  tawny-hatred  young  man  ia 
jostled,  pushed,  led  into  our  midst,  and  I 
recognise  Yakob  the  fiddler. 

"Yakcb!  Yakob  the  fiddler  I  Now  we 
will  have  a  tune,"  borsts  from  several  lips. 

Yakob  looks  shyly  and  sheepishly  out 
from  under  his  hand,  which  he  holds  to 
shade  the  light  from  his  dazzled  eyes.  His 
nervous  band  clutches  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
under  which  something  bulky  ia  bnttoned. 

"See,  he  has  got  his  fiddle  with  him. 
Come,  Yakob  sonnie,  sit  down  here  and 

{>lay  us  something  sweet,"  says  a  motherly- 
ooking  women,  drawing  forward  a  chair. 

"  No,  no  ;  I  cannot,  Lat  him  play,"  he 
replies,  pulling  himself  away  and  throwing 
a  half-sullen,  nalf-respectfiil  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  dwarf. 

That  mighty  personage  takes  the  word 
of  command 

"Play — play,  Yakob, and  don't  bean  ass  1" 

Yakob  sinks  into  the  chair  and  begins 
slowly  and  reluctantly  to  unbutton  hie 
coat.  He  takes  out  his  fiddle,  lays  it 
against  his  tanned  cheek,  and  Phases  the 
bow  lightly  across  the  steinga  The  fiddle 
gives  forth  a  strange,  weird  sound.  In  the 
stillness  that  has  fallea  upon  us,  it  aoonda 
like  the  wail  of  a  little  child. 

Yakob  starts  violently,  a  tjonbled  shade 
passes  over  his  face,  his  hand  drops,  and  he 
half  rises  to  his  feet. 

"I  cannot  play;  let  me  go,"  he  saye, 
with  a  pleading  look  at  Umpis. 

The  dwarf  descends  from  his  perch  and 
marches  solemnly  towards  the  refractory 
musician.  He  pushes  him  gently  back  into 
his  seat,  and  the  decisive  fiat  goes  forth  : 

"  You  shall  play,  and  no  more  nonsense. 
'Lovely  Minka,  we  most  lerer;'  that  is 
what  yon  will  play." 


'  Native  tobacco. 


CHEONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa    [D«»mb«  i,  isss-i    39 


Yakob  bites  his  lip  and  looks  at  the 
ground,  then  with  a  long,  indrawn  breath, 
he  onoe  more  raises  his  fiddle. 

I  notice  the  trembling  of  his  hand  which 
guides  the  bow.  The  first  notes  rise 
shaking,  almost  toneless,  to  die  half-created 
mto  silence.  His  breast  heaves,  he  grasps 
the  bow  more  firmly  in  his  oeirous  fingers, 
and  wavering,  then  more  and  more  surely, 
the  sweet  pleading  of  the  simple  fong  of 
parting  steals  on  the  enraptured  ear,  and 
finds  a  passage  deep  down  into  tiii  listener's 
heaib  It  is  finished,  and  a  spell  of  silence 
is  npon  as  which  it  seems  a  sacrilf^e  to 
break.  I  know  tiie  grim  old  kobiss  is 
furtirely  wiping  something  oat  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye,  snd  Umpis,  who  has  sat 
on  his  perch  during  the  performance  with 
a  critical  head  on  one  side,  has  tamed  a 
deep  crimson.     Ho  is  the  first  to  speak : 

"  Good,  good ;  very  well  done,  Yakob  ! 
Fairly  well  done,  my  boy." 

But  bis  voice  sounds  moffled  and  strange. 
There  is  a  stir  and  commotion  amongst 
the  wt>men ;  they  all  talk  together. 

"  Beaotifnl !  beautif nl  I  A  sweet  song 
Oh,  hot  be  has  the  giR.  He  will  play 
Eomething  else." 

Um[us,  who  seems  to  have  constitated 
himself  master  of  the  ceremonies,  here 
throws  the  weight  of  his  word  into  the 
midst  of  Uie  wclamations, 

"Yes,  we  must  hear  you  again,  Yakob, 
my  friend  ;  yoa  can  handle  a  bow  in  truth 
not  badly,  but  a  little  uncertain.  If  I 
might  advise,  however,  I  should  say  first  a 
dance  and  then  for  Yakob." 

"Yes,  yes,  now  for  a  dance,"  says  a 
round,  bright-faced  damsel,  and  the  dwarf 
is  already  Bcrewi^  at  his  strings.  In  a 
trice  I  have  to  take  flight  into  a  comer 
from  the  whirlwind  of  petticoats  and  boots. 
Yakob,  for  the  time,  is  forgotten ;  he  stands 
against  the  wall,  looking  in  bewilderment 
at  the  wild  scene.  His  cheeks  are  flashed 
with  excitement  and  the  intoxication  of 
praise.  Presently  he  glances  down  at  his 
fiddle  which  he  holds  in  his  hand,  then  at 
the  door  to  which  be  cautiously  ateata 

And  I  discover  that  I  am  very  weary, 
and  gasp  for  the  outer  air.  My  watch 
tells  me  that  the  evening  is  far  advanced, 
so  I  follow  Yakob'fi  example  and  slip  un- 
noticed away.  The  October  moon  stands 
high  in  the  heavens  as  I  take  my  way 
through  the  silent  fields.  Down  below 
me,  in  the  valley,  the  mist  stands  like  a 
sheeted  ghost,  but  here,  on  the  upland, 
the  air  is  sharp  and  clear.  I  can  distinctly 
see  to  count  the  stars  on  the  eolden  rod 


which  rears  its  unbending  head  in  my  path, 
and  mark  the  outline  of  the  slowly  moving 
figure  m  advance.  At  the  gate  which 
divides  the  fields  he  stops.  I,  in  the  rear, 
have  reached  the  mountain-ash  tree,  whose 
wealth  of  crimson  berries  I  had  marvelled 
at  a  few  hours  ago.  As  Y^ob  turns  his 
moonlit  face  towards  me,  I  shrink  into  its 
shadow.  He  leans  against  the  gate  and 
seems  to  take  into  his  spirit  the  beauty 
and  calm  peace  which  lie  on  the  landscape, 
then  he  takes  out  his  fiddle  and  begins  to 
play  very  softly. 

I  cannot  catch  the  melody  at  first ;  the 
strains  are  bo  low.  I  bend  forward  and 
listen  attentively.  It  is  something  be  is 
trying  to  catch  and  cannot^  He  falters, 
hesitates.  I  recognise  a  few  broken  bars 
of  the  Moonlight  Sonatv  Again  it  is 
vague  and  uncertain.  He  waxes  more 
determined,  the  notes  rise  harsh  and  ever 
harsher  until  they  suddenly  tenninate  in  a 
distwrdant  squeak. 

In  a  moment  I  see  him  dash  the  offend- 
ins  fiddle  to  the  ground,  and  with  a  sob, 
half  anguish,  half  passion,  he  flings  himself 
after  the  instrument. 

There  is  a  deep  silenoe,  a  pause  which 
seems  very  long  to  me,  for  I  am  chilled  by 
the  keen  night  mt,  when  Yakob  slowly 
rises  and  gropes  for  his  fiddle  amongst  the 
wayside  weeds. 

He  examines  it  anxiously  in  the  moon- 
light, then  lays  it  once  more  against  his 
cheek,  and  out  into  the  still  night  flow, 
full  and  trae,  the  melting  strains  of  the 
Red  Sarafan. 

And  the  cra^  old  fiddle  can  tell  that 
story.  There  is  the  soft  beseeching  voice 
of  the  young  girl  with  its  untold  longingK, 
the  grave,  pathetic  tones  of  the  mother 
admonishing,  until  the  song  has  sighed 
itself  out.  Yakob  buttons  his  coat  over 
bis  fiddle,  but  as  he  turns  to  go,  I  catch  a 
glimpse  of  his  upturned  face.  The  blessing 
of  the  calm  evening  seems  to  rest  upon  it, 
lending  rapture  and  peac& 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH 
COUNTIES. 
NOTrmaUAUSHIBE.      PAHT  I. 
Lincolnshire  changes  to  Nottingham- 
shire with  no  very  definite  borders  —  flat 
fields  and  level  roade,  watercourses  and 
willow-trees,  with  here  and  there  a  village 
church  rising  over  the   plain  like  some 
great  ship  riding  upon  ao  ocean  of  verdure. 
We  are  now  upon  the  great  north  road, 
which  runs  from  Grantham  to  Newark. 


40     (Deomber  1,  Utll 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


(Oo*ABC*MbT 


and  the  wide,  almost  deBert«d  track  is 
chiefly  Doticeable  for  the  big  wayside  iniiB, 
with  open  spaces  before  them  as  lai^  u 
Tilli^  greens,  where  sometimes  a  market- 
cart  draws  up,  or  a  wandoriag  pedeBtriaD 
or  bicyclist  takes  his  cap  of  ale  in  solitary 
state.  There  are  hidf-nuDoos  stables 
behind,  no  doubt,  aboat  a  hnge  paved 
courtyard,  where  the  solitary  fox-hound 
pnp— at  walk,  we  will  say,  from  the  Vale 
of  fielroir  pack — gambols  aboat  at  his  own 
sweet  wilL  Perhaps  a  covey  of  partridges 
whirrs  across  the  road,  or  a  hare  may 
spring  up  from  the  hedge-bank  and  ran  a 
bye  M  to  himself.  It  is  difficult  to  realise 
the  time  when  yoa  could  hardly  pass  over 
this  levol  reach  of  road  without  seeing  a 
four-horse  coach  bowling  along,  or  perhaps 
three  or  four  postrchaises,  whUe  every  now 
and  then  some  coroneted  carriage  rolled 
proudly  past,  with  its  roof  packed  with 
^iigK^^  *°d  servants  occupying  the 
nimble;  when  this  quiet  inn  was  m  fall 
swing  of  traffic  all  day  long,  horses  always 
ready-hamessed  io  the  stables,  and  post- 
boys all  in  a  row,  with  brown  frocks  over 
their  scarlet  jackets,  with  their  tall  boots, 
fended  with  iron,  and  their  odd  spur,  all 
waiting  for  the  call,  like  the  knights  in 
Brankaome  Hall 

Nor  is  the  matter  ranch  nuoded  when, 
with  a  loar  that  grows  louder  and  louder, 
and  an  earthquake-like  shaking  of  the 
ground,  there  rashes  by,  close  at  hand,  the 
Great  Northern  express.  It  is  here,  it 
is  gone;  it  is  now  thundermg  through 
Newark  station  in  a  cloud  of  dost.  But 
it  no  more  enlivens  the  country,  or  wakes 
it  up,  thui  do  the  rows  of  tel^praph-wires 
overhead.  Both,  perhaps,  detract  a  little 
from  the  appearance  of  tranquility  and 
seclusion,  hut  the  effect  is  only  on  the 
surface. 

To  reach  the  county  we  are  entering 
now  we  cross  a  little  stream  by  a  bridge 
several  eises  too  large  for  it,  judging  from 
the  summer  aspect  of  the  brook — it  is  the 
shire  bridge,  and  we  are  in  Nottingham- 
shira  This  county  is,  perhaps,  as  little 
altered  as  any  by  modem  innovations 
— a  county  of  villages  and  hamlets;  of 
pleasant  swelling  hills  and  quiet  fertile 
dales ;  villages  where  people  have  dwelt 
since  the  days  of  the  Heptarchy,  without 
very  much  alteration  in  their  circumstances; 
with  ancient  tenures  and  old  customs  still 
clin^g  about  them,  and  something  of  the 
old  English  spirit — the  humour,  the  jollity, 
and  possibly  a  little  of  the  coarseness  of  it 
— stul  nrvniDK  in  their  midst, 


But  already  the  tall  graceful  spire  of 
Newark  is  wul  in  sight,  and  soon  we  are 
rattling  over  the  stones  of  its  narrow 
streets  into  the  wide  and  cheerful  market- 
place. Cheerful,  that  is,  on  a  market-day, 
when  the  open  area  is  full  of  stalls  and 
stands,  where  the  potter  has  spread  out  his 
wares,  and  where  cabbages  and  curly  flowers 
(the  local  and  poetic  title  for  caulMowera), 
and  carrots  and  turnips,  with  their  vivid 
green  tops,  brighten  ap  the  show.  The 
countrywomen,  with  their  geese  and  poultry, 
stand  under  the  shelter  of  the  market-hidl, 
and  there  is  the  butchers'-row,  where  all  the 
prime  joints  are  displayed.  Over  all  rise 
the  roof  and  pinnacles  of  the  parish  church, 
and  the  unrivalled  tower  and  spire — the 
lower  stages  of  the  tower  displaying  a 
charming  Early  English  arcade,  adorned 
with  the  stone  trellis-work  that  is  said  to 
show  the  work  of  Bishop  Hugh,  of  Lincoln. 
Within  rise  the  noble  aisles  of  a  later 
Gothic  period,  when  spadousneas  and  light 
were  the  great  desiderata  of  church-builders 
— when  civic  processions  and  the  banners 
of  guilds  and  brotherhoods  mingled  with 
the  ceremonies  of  the  Church  and  the 
emblems  of  its  faith. 

Newark,  no  doubt,  owed  ite  origin  to  its 
position  upon  the  point  where  the  great 
British  trackway,  nnltii^  the  two  ancient 
cities  of  Exeter  and  Lincoln,  touches  upon 
the  Kiver  Trent  This  trackway,  known 
along  most  of  its  conrae  as  the  Foeseway, 
was  utilised  by  the  Romans,  at  any  rate 
between  Leicester  and  Lincoln,  as  a  military 
road,  and  hneabouts,  near  Newark,  these 
same  Romans,  probably,  built  a  bridge  over 
the  Trent ;  at  all  eventa  there  is  a  station 
marked  dose  by,  in  the  Roman  itinerar}',  as 
Ad  Pontem.  Now,  at  the  present  day, 
although  styled  Newark-upon-Trent,  the 
town  is  not  actually  upon  the  working  bed 
of  the  river,  which  flows  a  couple  of  miles 
or  so  to  the  westward,  bat  on  an  artificial 
cttt  or  navigation.  Still,  there  is  abundant 
evidence  to  show  that  tiie  present  bed  of 
the  river  is  an  innovation  of  times  com- 
paratively recent,  and  somewhere  on  Uie 
isthmus  then  ezisting  between  the  audant 
bed  of  the  river  and  the  creek  fonned  by 
the  junction  of  a  littie  tributary  called  the 
Devon,  stood  no  doubt  the  andent  Saxon 
settlement,  protected  by  its  earthen  fort, 
the  old  wark  or  fortification.  And  thus 
things  remained  till  after  the  Norman 
Conquest ;  when  a  bishop  of  Lincoln,  one 
Alexander — warlike,  as  befitted  his  name- 
recognised  the  site  as  an  important  one, 
and  began  to  build  a  strong  castle  there, 


CHEONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  C0T7NTIES.   lD~«mb«  1,1881.1    41 


the  "S«w  wuk."  Probftbl7  the  bishop 
i^Terted  the  cdum  of  the  stroamlet  to  fiU 
the  moat  of  hU  cutle,  and  then,  as  io  the 
conrae  of  some  snddea  flood  the  Trent 
broke  its  way  into  a  different  channel, 
threatetiing  to  leave  the  castle  high  and 
d^,  this  nosfortune  was  averted  by  bnild- 
ing  a  strong  veir  at  the  entrance  to  the 
new  channel,  eo  that  the  bulk  of  the  river 
■hoold  still  flow  by  the  castle,  and  the 
New  wark  should  still  remain  Newark- 
npon-Trent 

Am  a  cnnoas  and  yet  credible  witness  to 
the  aceniacy  ot  the  above  account,  may 
be  called  the  Trent  salmon — a  fish  of 
tenadoos  memory  and  traditional  lore. 
For  when  the  fish  have  spawned  in  the 
npper  waten,  and  insttnot  bids  them  seek 
(he  sea  once  more  to  recaperate  their 
axhaosted  enerffiea,  they  glide  down  the 
river  swimmingly  till  they  come  to  the 
joDOtioa  of  the  watets  above  Newark,  and 
then,  -wo  may  imagine,  time  is  debate. 
The  memory  of  the  oldest  salmon  is 
appealed  to.  He  knows  the  vay — the 
ancient  way  he  travelled  when  a  silvery 
grilse — and  the  big  fish  swim  down  to 
Newark  town,  where,  nnhappily,  there  is 
a  lock  whioh  no  salmon  will  enter.  And 
there  they  stop,  floundering  abont  in  the 
pools  in  a  sort  of  piscatorial  pnrgatory, 
BO  lean,  and  wan,  and  wicked-looking  that 
poachers  even  leave  them  nnpoached,  till 
the  next  flood  opens  the  way  to  the  sea. 

It  ia  from  the  river-side,  by  the  way,  that 
the  best  view  of  tlie  town  is  obtained,  where 
the  big  oom-mills  stand  among  a  network 
of  wateroonnes,  and  the  damp  of  red  roofs 
an  crowned  by  Uie  tall  spure  and  hemmed 
in  by  the  lofty  castle  wall  with  its  flanking 
towers.  The  interior  of  the  castle  is 
interesting,  although  rednoed  to  a  mere 
■fadl,  with  its  Norman  gateway  and  one  of 
Bishop  Alexander's  strong  towers.  The 
great  curtain-wall  of  the  castle  on  the 
river-aide  seems  of  later  date,  though  not 
latw  than  King  John's  time,  probably, 
Ym  here  within  these  walla  King  John 
bnitiied  his  last — whether  dying  from 
poison  or  indigestion  it  is  bootless  now  to 
enquire  Beneath  the  site  of  the  banqnet- 
iog-hall  is  a  fine  old  crypt  with  a  postern- 
gate  leading  down  to  the  river,  while  in 
the  cnrtain-wall  above  is  a  handsome  oriel 
window,  an  insertion  probably  of  the  Tudor 
period,  from  which  there  is  a  pleasant  view 
<rf  the  meadows  beyond  the  river,  with  the 
great  north  road  running  stndght  on  end, 
nke  a  narrow  sUoe  cut  completely  ont  of  the 
landacaoe :    the  road   carried   on    arches 


across  the  flats,  to  be  clear  of  the  winter 
floods— a  great  work  of  the  posting  and 
coaching  days,  engineered  by  Smeaton 
more  than  a  hundred  years  aga 

In  thu  pleasant  oriel  window,  looking 
over  the  river,  and  the  mills,  and  the  green 
plain  of  the  Trent,  we  may  conjure  back 
the  figures  of  the  past  Wolsey  stood  here, 
no  doubt,  fallen  from  his  high  estate,  but 
still  a  Prince  Cardinal  of  the  Church,  still 
Primate  of  Eugland — Wolsey  on  his  way  to 
his  favourite  retreat  at  Southwell.  Here 
he  must  have  stood  gazing  on  a  landscape 
that  he  saw  not  as  he  mused  on  the 
instability  of  princes'  favour,  or  perhaps 
turned  over  in  his  subtle  brain  we  poa- 
sibilitiea  of  revenga  And  then,  after  a 
long  interval,  comes  the  curled  and  Mzzed 
Frenchwoman,  with  her  artificial  face — the 
Queen  Henrietta  Maria.  The  queen 
lingered  hare,  and  in  her  train  was  the 
handsome,  courtly  Charles  Cavenduh,  soon 
to  find  a  soldier's  grave.  It  is  sud  that  the 
ladies  of  Newark  were  pressing  in  their  in- 
vitations that  their  royal  visitor  should 
spend  a  longer  time  among  them,  and  that 
the  queen  prettily  replied  that  she  was  under 
her  husband's  orders,  which  she  dared  not 
disobey,  while  she  counselled  them  all  to 
pay  their  husbands  a  like  obedience.  At 
which,  no  doubt,  the  manied  cavaliers 
stroked  their  beards  and  looked  magnifi- 
cent, while  the  married  women,  including 
the  queen,  enjoyed  a  good  laugh  among 
themselves.  The  fiery  Rupert,  too,  is 
there,  with  his  dark  saturnine  face — 
Bupert  who  has  routed  the  Parliament 
squadrons  and  sent  them  flying  from  their 
entrenchments — Bupert  on  his  triumphal 
march  towards  Marston  Moor. 

But  more  familiar  and  germane  to  the 
place,  perhaps,  is  one  who  comes  imme- 
diately alter  wolsey,  of  comparative  insig- 
nificance as  an  historical  figure,  compared 
with  the  great  cardinal,  but  of  much 
greater  importance  to  Newark  town.  This 
IS  Thomas  Magnna,  a  homely  but  dignified 
person  in  his  doctor's  robes,  one  of  the 
diplomatic  stents  of  the  king  and  Wolsey, 
who  rotained  office  and  favour  long  after  the 
cardinal's  fall  Tradition  has  it  that  he  was 
found  as  a  babe  on  a  door-step  in  Newark 
bysome  Yorkshire  clothiers  passing  through 
with  their  goods,  and  that  these  gave  him 
the  name  of  Thomas  Amang-us,  because  they 
all  contributed  to  his  support  If  there  is 
any  truth  in  this  story,  iba  doctor's  mag- 
nanimity is  to  be  praised  in  respect  of  his 
benefactions  to  a  town  which  mve  him  suoh 
a  limited  hoepitality  on  his  first  entrance 


42     [DMMmbn  1,  uffi.) 


ALL  TEE  TEAS  BOUin). 


into  life.  For  Magniu  endowed  the  town 
with  free  -  Bchool  and  chuitiea,  with 
revenuee,  amoonting  at  the  present  time  to 
upwards  of  two  thousand  a  year. 

Finally,  to  make  a  tremendous  bound 
into  the  middle  of  the  preeent  century, 
who  does  not  connect  Newark  with 
Mr,  Gladstone  I  who  began  hia  political 
career  aa  member  for  the  borough,  and 
whose  portrait  rood  after  waa  -painted 
by  8  local  artist,  and  presented  to  the 
Conservative  club  of  the  town. 

We  may  now  leave  the  caatle  and  may 
wander  sJI  over-  the  town  without  dis- 
covering any  relics  of  the  ancient  town 
walls,  within  which  a  strong  garrlsoB  held 
stoutly  oat  for  King  Charles  up  to  the  last 
moment  of  the  civil  war.  During  all  that 
time  Newark  and  Nottingham  held  hostile 
garrisons,  and,  like  Italian  cities  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  they  levied  fierce  war  against 
each  other  with  sallies,  alarms,  retreats, 
desperate  fights,  and  cnnning  ambnscadea. 
Sometimes  it  was  atont  Sir  John  Byron, 
an  ancestOT  of  the  poet,  who  led  the  broils 
for  the  king,  sometimes  Lord  Bellaeis; 
whUe  Colonel  Hutchinson,  of  the  Memoirs, 
commanded  for  the  Parliament ;  and  then 
when  King  Charles  was  a  prisoner  among 
his  failbfol  Scots,  and  all  resistanoa  was  at 
an  end,  the  oomitry  people  were  sammoned 
from  far  and  near  to  demolish  castle  and 
walls,  a  work  which  they  executed  with 
great  good  will — for  the  garrison,  with  its 
foraging  parties  levying  contributions  from 
all  round,  had  long  been  a  thorn  in  the 
side  of  the  coontry. 

Descending  the  Trent  from  Newark  we 
come  upon  the  little  village  of  Holme,  with 
the  remains  of  a  manor-honse,  where 
once  lived  the  Lord  Bellasis — ^just  referred 
to  as  governor  of  Newark  for  the  kmg — 
who  snrvived  to  see  the  Restoration  and 
another  revolution,  and  who  lies  buried 
in  the  cbnrch  of  St  Qiles-in-the-Fields, 
London.  The  church  at  Holme,  it  happens, 
is  also  dedicated  to  SL  Gilea,  and  is,  or 
was  not  long  ago,  most  intereetJng  in  itself, 
and  also  from  its  having  apparently  been 
untouched  by  the  hand  of  man,  except 
for  an  occasional  dab  of  whitewash,  for 
many  centuries.  Everything  ie  absolutely 
just  as  it  was  left  after  the  BeformatioD. 
The  original  altar-stone  lies  on  the  floor  just 
where  it  was  thrown;  there  are  the  original 
rood-screen,  piscina,  and  sedilia;  it  would 
not  surprise  one  to  see  an  old  mass-book 
in  the  stalls.  You  can  trace  the  work 
of  the  iconoclasts  in  the  painted-glass 
roughly  repaired  with  plun  i^ass,  bat  the 


fragmwta  are  left.  Then  there  are' monu- 
ments defaced  and  dnat-oovered,  and  all 
about  ia  seolptnred  the  rebus  of  the  great 
benefactor  of  the  chnrch,  a  bear  and  ton, 
for  Barton,  who  was  a  Londtm  woolstapler 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  whose  estates 
passed  by  marriage  to  Lord  Bellasia. 
Observe,  too,  the  poreh  with  a  snug  little 
chamber  over  it,  as  is  common  enough  in 
sixteuith-century  churohee  which  were  built 
at  a  dme  when  the  church-porch  was  re- 
garded as  the  centre  of  village  life.  This 
particular  little  room  is  known  aa  Kan 
Soott's  Chamber.  For  here  in  the  time 
of  the  plague,  which  visited  Nottbgham- 
shire  in  16€6,  and  carried  off  a  third  or 
more  of  the  inhabitants,  an  old  wonum, 
called  Nan  Scott,  took  refuge,  with 
a  store  of  provisions,  and  her  bedding, 
which  last  she  stowed  in  a  big  parish  cheat 
where  she  alept  at  nights.  The  old  woman 
watched  &om  a  little  window  the  funeral 
processions  that  came  in  constant  succes- 
sion to  the  churchyard,  but  when  these 
had  ceased,  and  she  judged  that  no  death 
had  occurred  for  some  time,  she  ventured 
down  into  the  villaga  Bnt  there  was  no 
one  left  there  except  another  old  woman  tike 
herself;  all  the  rest  were  dead  or  had  fled. 
And  old  Nan  Scott  went  back  to  her 
chamber  over  the  porch,  and  never  came 
out  of  it  till  she  was  carried  to  her  grave. 

Another  village  etory  of  a  less  melan- 
choly cast  is  connected  with  the  notorions 
Dick  Turpin.  -  In  a  cottage  in  the  village 
the  outlaw  is  said  frequently  to  have 
foimd  shelter,  when  his  usnal  resorts 
became  too  hot  to  hold  him,  and  the 
story  tells  how  on  Dick's  fammis  ride  to 
York  he  here  gave  his  mare  Black  Bess 
a  cordial  There  is  something  very  con- 
vincing about  this  story,  which  also  tends 
to  cOTToborate  the  popular  account  of  the 
rida  For  Holme  is  distant  barely  a  mOe 
from  the  great  north  road  along  which 
Dick  would  certainly  have  passed,  and  yet 
.separated  from  it  by  a  broad  and  rapid 
river,  which  is  nevertheless  fordable  close 
by — a  ford  that  would  hardly  be  suspected 
by  a  stranger.  The  village,  too,  is  a  very 
secluded  place  to  this  day.  The  atory  is 
recorded  in  the  History  of  Collingham  by 
Dr.  Wake,  a  local  antiquary  of  repute,  who 
was  told  the  particulars  by  a  member  of 
the  family  which  had  given  Dick  shelter. 

From  Holme  a  byway  leads  to  Lang- 
ford,  a  htUf-deserted  village  by  an  old 
marshy  channel,  where  the  cows  wade  knee- 
deep  in  summsr-time,  and  which  is  called 
— as  Bueh  channels  usually  are  in  Una  county 


OHRONIOLBS  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIES. 


43 


— the  Fleet  This  chumd  so  doabt  repre- 
santi  the  andent  bed  of  the  Trent,  a  ford 
0T8t  -which  gave  a  name  to  the  viUage ; 
and  traces  tS  ancient  earthworks,  od  the 
mry  banks  of  the  Fleet,  point  to  a  B(»aan 
post  that  protected  tito  passage. 

From  Langford  we  strike,  past  Langford 
Hall,  to  the  Fosseway,  that  here  runs 
throogh  great  fields  of  iMirley,  whieh  go  to 
■apply  the  red  malt-kiliu  of  Newark  town. 
Bat  here  the  ooontry  changes  a  little ;  we 
have  crossed  the  dead  allavial  plain,  the 
bed  ot  the  ancient  estuary,  and  hare  reached 
the  ahora  Low  sand-banks  ran  out  on  to 
the  plain,  and  against  the  sky  ia  the  roll 
of  a  landy  wold.  And  as  we  reach  the  top 
of  a  low  hill  there  lias  before  na  a  Ut  of 
wild  En^and.  The  son  has  gone  behind 
a  cloud,  a  cold  and  chilly  breeae  springs 
1^  BUkbg  a  hoarse  mnrmar  among  the 
trees,  and  the  roadseems  to  lose  itself  in 
tike  forest.  This  ia  Enxlacd  as  the  Roman 
legionaiiaa  saw  it :  wiM,  nnenclosed,  with 
the  oak  scrub  feathering  the  sides  of  the 
hiUs.  That  sparMe  of  Ught  from  the  dark 
vndarwood  yon  may  fancy  is  the  glint  of  a 
barbarian  spear.  The  forest,  after  all,  is 
only  a  clomp  ot  trees,  and  the  barbarian 
turns  ont  to  be  a  yelret-jerkined  game- 
keeper, while  the  glint  ot  light  ia  from  the 
poluhod  doable-barrel  npon  his  shoulder ; 
but  ^e  scene  brings  as  into  accord  with  tbe 
associations  of  onr  next  atopping-place. 
Thia  ia  Brongh,  a  hamlet  which  oonatsts  of 
one  fsTMihaiiae  and  a  small  Wesleyan  chapel 
staadiiig  soUtaiy  among  the  wide  fields ; 
it  ia,  howerer,  the  site  of  a  Boman  station 
of  conaidnable  extent,  jndging  from  the 
fbondiUiona  and  lines  of  streets  that  have 
been  tamed  ap  by  the  plongh.  Boman 
coins,  too,  abound,  indeed  Boman  brass 
and  aopper  coins  seem  to  bare  been 
sown  broadcast  over  all  this  district  In 
some  places  these  coins  are  found  in 
Tooleaox,  mated  together ;  and  tbe  conntry 
people  cAlled  them  onion-pennies ;  and  there 
IS  a  atcffy  of  a  giant,  one  Onion,  to  whom 
they  belonged.  It  is  difficult  to  account 
for  thia  leddessness  in  the  way  of  small 
cbange  among  Uie  Bomanised  popnlation 
of  those  days,  but  a  likely  explanation 
is,  that  the  ^opkeepers  and  traders 
of  the  Boman  towns  most  hare  kept  a 
eondderable  part  of  their  capital  in  coins 
of  small  ralue ;  and  when  the  Saxon 
inradMY  eame,  Uiese  poor  creatures  could 
tmly  bary  their  treasure,  too  curobroui  to 
remore,  and  fly  for  their  lires.  The  fugi- 
tives probably  mostly  perished  or  had  no 
oppottanity  of  zetoinine,  and  their  buried 


hoards,  tamed  np  at  last  by  plough  or 
spade,  would  be  scattered  orer  the  land 
by  peasants  who  had  a  auperstitious  dread 
of  anything  belonging  to  the  people  thoy 
bad  supplanted. 

If  anybody  recdly  has  a  fancy  for 
breaaure^eeking  —  and  there  exists,  no 
doubt,  an  immense  deal  of  buried  treasure 
lying  idle,  if  one  only  knew  where  to  look 
for  it — ttus  solitary  village  of  Brough,  the 
ancient  Orocolana,  would  be  a  promieing 
place  to  begin  at,  for,  with  such  heaps  of 
loose  coppera  on  the  surface,  surely  there 
must  be,  deeper  down,  snudry  hoards  of  a 
mcHe  valuable  metal  But  the  subject  is 
too  fascinating,  and  broadena  out  as  we 
advance,  eo  let  us  return  to  the  Fosseway. 

A  curioos  circamatance  is  that  when  we 
get  to  the  eastward  of  the  Fosseway  into 
a  more  breezy  and  open  kind  of  country, 
nobody  knows  the  road  by  that  name. 
"  Yo  mean  the  Bamper,"  says  a  fine  young 
Saxon  matron,  conung  to  her  garden-gate. 
And  capital  gardens  they  have  in  these 
NottinghamsUre  rillages,  with  roses  and 
hollyhocks,  and  all  the  flowers  that  Mary 
Howitt  used  to  chronicle  in  rerae;  and 
capital  young  women  too — deep-bosomed, 
tall  and  strong,  fit  mothers  for  a  race  of 
warriors  —  only  the  sona  do  not  take  to 
the  buaineaa  But  it  was  a  pleasant  expe- 
rience to  listen  to  that  young  matron 
expatia^ng  on  the  Bamper.  The  name 
itself,  BO  fresh,  so  racy,  and  the  scene— the 
Tillage,  with  its  anug  cottages  and  pleasant 
gardens,  the  rillage^reen,  the  lads  at  play, 
and  abore  the  fine  rolling  clouda  and  breezy 
sky.  The  road,  at  the  point  where  it 
crosses  the  bordera  into  Lincolnshire,  ia 
appropriately  named  the  Bamper,  for  here 
it  is  a  raised  way,  a  regular  rampart,  in 
fact,  with  projecting  bays  here  and  there, 
that  may  have  been  meant  for  defence,  or 
perhaps  aa  receptacles  for  materials  for 
repair  of  the  road.  And  this  way,  which 
is  still  the  highway  between  Newark  and 
Lincoln,  has  been  used  as  such  for  untold 
centuries — a  trackway  of  tbe  Britona,  a 
military  road  under  the  Konuma,  one  of  the 
great  highways  of  the  kingdom  underSaxon 
and  Norman  laws,  where  the  king's  peace 
must  be  kept  under  heavier  penalties  than 
else  where,  while  no  man  might  plough  or  dig 
a  ditch  within  two  perches  of  ita  borders. 

But  here  we  must  take  leave  for  a  time 
of  the  venerable  Fosseway,  and  visit  a 
remote  outlying  comer  of  the  county 
through  tiirton,  which  ia  known  as  G-rin- 
ning  Girton.  Thia  village  life  and  village 
lore  are  the  most  ioterestins  featores  of 


44     (DecaobcT  1,  uni 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


IGWdMMtar 


NottinghuuBliire,  aad  hence  it  is  pleuing 
to  be  told  that  the  neigfaboniing  vilUgaa 
make  it  still  a  subject  of  reproach  to  the 
men  of  Girton,  that  "  the  cow  ate  the  bell- 
rope."  The  tradition  is  that  the  Girton 
people  were  roused  one  night — in  the 
ciril  wars,  it  is  said — by  the  noarss  sum- 
mons of  the  village  bell,  and  that  when  the 
able  men  of  the  village  had  miutered  on 
the  village-green  in  answer  to  the  sum- 
mans  of  the  tocsin,  it  was  discovered  that 
the  author  of  the  alarm  was  a  cow  which 
had  Btra;red  into  the  church,  and  began  to 
champ  up  the  hay-bands  which  formed  the 
grasp  of  the  bell-rope,  that  hung  loosely 
down,  country  &shion.  Anyhow,  there  is  the 
joke  against  the  Girton  people  to  this  day, 
and  an  allusion  to  cows  or  bell-ropes  is  as 
likely  to  be  badly  received  in  that  parish,  at 
the  mention  of  Marlow  Bridge,  or  the  pies 
that  were  eaten  there,  by  a  Thames  bai^e& 

Beyond  Girton  is  Clifton,  north  and 
south,  the  name  indicating  red  aandstone 
cliffs  that  overhang  the  river,  the  northern 
village  enjoying  a  curious  franchise,  as  its 
inhabitants  are  free  of  toll  on  crossing  the 
Trent  by  the  ferry.  In  acknowledgment 
of  this  privilege  it  was  the  immemorial 
custom  that  at  Christmas  the  ferryman  and 
hie  dog  sboold  dine  at  the  vicarage  on 
Gbristmaa  fare,  the  vicar's  d*^  being 
rigorously  shut  out  of  the  house  upon  the 
occasion.  A  little  to  the  east  of  Clifton 
lies  Harby,  a  secluded  hamlet  on  the  very 
border  of  Lincolnshire,  and  qiute  out  of  the 
way  to  anywhere.  But  Harby  is  notice- 
able as  the  commencement  of  that  royal 
funeral  wocession,  whose  various  stages 
towards  Westminster  were  marked  with 
beautifully  sculptured  crosses,  the  last  of 
which  gave  an  abiding  name  to  the  village  of 
Charing,  and  has  been  reproduced  in  our 
own  day  in  the  courtyard  of  Charing  Cross 
terminus.  For  here  at  Harby  died  t£e  good 
Queen  Eleanor.  Tradition  long  preserved  a 
memory  of  the  qneen,  vaguely  and  in- 
correctly as  of  a  good  Qaeen  Catherine,  who 
had  lived  and  died  there,  but  tradition  was 
right  in  the  main,  whOe  historians,  for 
centuries,  had  placed  the  event  at  quito  a 
different  locahtr.  But  the  critical  investi- 
gation of  onr  own  days  has  shown  the 
chroniclen  in  the  wrong,  and  justified  the 
oral  tradition  of  the  ploughmen  and 
cottagers  of  Harby. 

For  in  that  year,  A-D.  1S90,  King 
Edward  came  to  Sherwood  Forest  to  hunt, 
and  summoned  a  Parliament  to  meet  him 
at  the  royal  palace  of  Clipstone,  not  far 
from  Welbeck  Abbey,  and  tae  queen,  then 


in  Hi-health,  and  suffering  from  a  wasting 
fever,  accompanied  him  as  far  as  Harby, 
where  she  established  herself  in  the  manoi- 
houae  of  a  knightly  family  named  Weeton, 
one  of  the  member*  of  wluch,  it  seems,  waa 
an  ofScer  of  her  household.  Here  she 
grew  suddenly  worse,  and  news  was  brought 
to  the  king,  at  the  council-board  among 
his  nobles,  Uiat  his  dear  wife  and  faithfm 
consort  was  claimed  by  a  mightier  kins 
than  he.  King  Edward  left  coondl-boaia 
and  Pariiament,  and  rode  away  to  the 
death-bed  of  his  queen.  A  whole  week  he 
watched  by  her  bedside,  and  tiien  the  end 
came.  Twwkty  years  before  tbey  had  sailed 
hither  to  the  Holy  I^nd,  and  during  all 
that  time  die  had  always  been  with  him.  In 
lus  hnnttng  expsditionB,  in  his  prcvrenea, 
in  his  wan,  i^eanor  wia  always  ly  his 
8id&  Hie  sad,  stem  king  took  one  more 
journey  by  hat  tide.  From  tbia  little 
viUage  the  fimenJ  procession  set  ont,paBBixiig 
through  lordly  IJnooln,  throng  Grantham, 
Stam£ird,Geddington,  Northampton,  Stony 
Stratford,  Wobom,  DonsUUe,  St  Albana, 
and  at  each  of  these  plaoes,  where 
the  coffin  rested  for  a  night,  a  richly 
sculptured  cross  wsa  afterwards  raised. 
And  all  this  way  the  king  rode  by  the  side 
of  his  dead  wife,  and  only  left  the  sad 
procession  at  St.  Albans,  where  he  rode 
on  to  see  that  all  was  prepared  for  the 
interment  at  Westminster  Abbey.  H« 
met  the  coffin  sgun  at  East  Ohepe  amoug 
his  sorrowing  citizens  of  London,  and  here 
the  spot  was  marked  by  anoUier  cross  of 
stone.  FinaUy  the  body  rested  at  Charing 
Cross,  and  on  tJie  I7th  of  December  waa 
entombed  in  Westminiter  Abbey,  where 
still  may  be  seen  the  stately  tomb  and 
the  e£Ggy  of  the  good  qoeea 

But  bie  we  back  once  more  to  the  Trent^ 
and  following  it«  course  upwards  from 
Newark,  a  pleasant  walk  throngh  meadows 
and  oom-nelds  with  the  brimming  river 
dose  at  hand,  and  the  red  sail  of  a  batge 
perhaps  teen  gliding  among  the  treea, 
brings  us  to  Faradon  with  its  picturesque 
little  church.  Here  the  river  spreads 
oat  over  a  wide  gravelly  bed,  and  a 
ferryman  plies  from  the  opposite  ade. 
Hawton  lies  farther  to  the  east  a  mile  or 
two  away,  where,  in  the  chancel  oi  tlie 
church,  tiiere  is  a  wonderful  Easter 
sepulchre  in  carved  stone,  with  other 
interesting  relics  of  ancient  days.  And 
farther  on  is  Elston,  where  the  Darwins 
have  long  been  lords  of  the  manor,  and 
where  Erasmus  Darwin  was  bom — Uie 
antbor  of  The  Botanic  Garden,  and  oXbet 


,i8iu.)    45 


catmgeona  attempts  to  combius  poetiy  and 
adence ;  the  progenitor  of  the  illustrious 
ph&otoplieT  lately  deceased. 

Id  ^ston  fields  King  Heniy  the  Seventh 
hy  encuDped,  haviog  marched  northwards 
from  London  to  meet  the  army  which  sap- 
ported  Lambert  Simne).  This  army  was 
composed  chiefly  of  Irish  under  the  Barl  of 
Kildara  and  of  German  mercenaries  under 
Swartz,  whom  we  have  met  before  in  Lan- 
casfatre,  where  the  Simnelites  landed  from 
Ireland.  Since  then  the  rebel  army  had 
performed  a  long  and  toilsome  march,  to 
York  in  the  first  place,  and  then  along  the 
track  of  the  present  great  north  roM  to 
tha  Trent  Henry  had  marched  ftst, 
bnt  he  had  not  been  quick  enough  to 
occupy  Newark  before  his  enemies  crossed 
the  Trent,  and  so  he  Uy  there  at  Elston 
between  the  two  practicable  roads  that 
lead  sonthwards,  ready  to  strike  on  either 
hand.  The  Earl  of  Liucohi,  who  com- 
manded for  Simnel,  chose  the  way  by  the 
rirer,  the  old  Fosseway,  and  encamped  on 
the  aide  of  a  hill — it  must  have  been  a  very 
small  one,  for  tt  is  difficult  to  find  a  hill  in 
the  neigbbonriiood  at  the  present  day. 
However,  the  king  drew  out  his  army  in 
three  lines,  and  offered  battle,  and  the  earl 
came  down  from  his  hill,  and  the  armies 
fell  to  blows  in  the  fields  of  Stoke  which  are 
partly  enclosed  within  a  bend  of  the  river 
Trent  Perhaps  it  was  the  desperate 
ehoice  of  the  rebel  leaders  to  fight  with 
their  backs  to  a  deep  river  where  defeat 
must  be  fatal  Anyhow,  their  men  fought 
with  wonderful  determination,  and  did  not 
pve  way  till  after  three  houra'  hard  fight- 
ing when  nearly  all  their  leaders  were  slain. 
Then  they  began  to  break,  and  soon 
na  pell-mell  down  the  lane  to  Fiskeiton 
feny,  where  some  waded  across  or  swam, 
but  most  were  drowned  or  sl^a  Among 
the  fugitives  was  Lord  Lovel,  who  swam 
his  horse  across  the  river,  bat  in  urging 
iha  horse  up  the  steep  bank  on  the 
Fiskerton  aide,  the  horse  fell  back,  and 
both  were  drowned.  Bnt  some  say  that 
Lwd  Iiovel  escaped,  and  lived  some  time 
afterwards  in  hiding  at  his  manor-house 
of  Minster  Lovel  in  Oxfordshire. 


JENIFEB. 


BT  AKKD  IH01U8  (HBS.  PBTn>ER.CTn>Lm 
CHAPIBB  XXVin.       A  SACBIFICE  AKD  ITS 


"  Is  this  Captain  Edgecumb  rioh— rich 
SDOQgh  to  be  indifferent  to  any  fluctuations 
of  fortone   on  tout  side  1 "  Mr.  Boldero 


asked,  when  he  came  up  to  speak  about 
settiements. 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  he  is," 
Jenifer  answered  indifferently;  "he  has  a 
good  appointment,  I  know.  That  secretary- 
ship that  we  told  you  about,  you  know, 
gives  him  an  income  that  will  be  more 
than  enough  for  what  we  shall  want" 

But  when  Mr.  Boldero  came  to  speak  to 
the  expectant  brideeioom,  he  found  that 
he  had  not  to  deal  with  the  same  in- 
difference as  had  characterised  Jenifer's 
manner.  Captain  Edgecumb  was  quite 
willing  to  settle  the  very  small  private 
fortune  that  would  come  to  his  share  at  the 
death  of  his  father  on  Jenifer,  and  also 
quite  willing  to  let  her  have  a  fair  allow- 
ance for  housekeeping  out  of  the  income 
from  the  secretaryship.  Bnt  he  evidently 
regarded  this  as  an  unimportant  and 
merely  temporary  arrangement,  and  dis- 
gusted Mr.  Boldero  by  saying : 

"Fact  is,  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  keep 
the  berth  long ;  it  will  tie  me  too  much, 
and  it  will  be  far  better  that  I  should  look 
after  Miss  Say's  interests  and  money 
matters,  than  that  she  should  rely  on  an 
agent.  Women  always  get  cheated  in 
Irasiness  unless  they  are  of  a  far  meaner 
and  more  suspicious  type  than  Miss  Ray  is, 
I'm  happy  to  say." 

"True;  but  you'll  hardly  like  to  be 
dependent  on  your  wife,  will  you)"  Mr. 
Boldero  asked  coldly.  Already  he  began 
to  despise  and  distrust  the  character  of  the 
man  who  had  taken  Jenifer  from  him. 
Yet  his  conscience  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
interfering  with  her  prospects,  just  as  it 
had  done  when  she  had  besinight  him 
to  interfere  with  her  brother  Jack  s  for  his 
own  salvation.  He  could  not,  he  dared 
not,  be  false  to  an  oath  he  never  ought  to 
have  taken.  He  could  not  break  his  vow 
and  plead  with  Jenifer  against  her  own 
rash  trastfulDesB. 

So  the  settlements  were  drawn  up,  a 
furnished  house  taken,  and  the  wediung- 
day  fixed. 

Jenifer's  first  appearance  at  St  James's 
Hall  was  also  fixed  for  just  a  month  after 
the  wedding-day. 

It  was  not  »  lively  wedding  by  any 
means.  Jack  and  his  wife  were  the  only 
members  of  Jenifer's  family,  besides  her 
mother,  who  were  present  at  tt.  The 
Edgecumb  faction  were  well  represented, 
but  they  obviously  disapproved  of  Mrs. 
Jack.  Effie  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  would  not  be  present  under  any  cir- 
comstances,  but  she  realty,  had   a   fair 


46      [Deombu  1, 


ALL  THE  TSAB  BOUND. 


excuse  in  the  death  of  Mr.  Jerroise  two 
days  before  the  wedding,  aa  event  which, 
though  it  had  been  long  expected,  came  off 
at  last  BO  abruptly  as  to  Btartle  them  alL 

It  was  onl)'  natural  that  Effie  should 
stay  at  home  with  Flora,  and  comfort 
that  bereft  lady  by  discussing  with  her  the 
respective  merits  of  the  different  crapes 
that  were  rolled  out  from  various  shops  for 
her  approval.  But  Jenifer  coulda'i  help 
feeling  that  it  was  unreasonable  for  E£e 
to  keep  Hubert  at  home. 

Effie,  however,  settled  that  point  with 
the  prompt  deciuon : 

"  Hugh  go  to  your  wedding,  just  when 
Flora  wants  every  consideration  and  respect 
shown  to  Mr.  Jervoisa'a  memory !  What 
a  perfectly  silly  idea,  Jenifer ;  why,  Flora  ie 
left  enormously  rich,  and  can  do  anything 
she  likes  for  people  who  please  her,  and  it 
doesn't  seem  to  me  that  the  earae  can  be 
said  of  you.  Unless  you  put  your  wedding 
off  for  a  decent  time  out  of  regard  for 
Flora,  who  has  done  bo  much  for  yoo, 
you'll  certainly  not  Bee  Hugh  at  it." 

"  It's  too  late  to  alter  SH  the  arrange- 
menti  now,"  Jenifer  relied;  ''and  pro- 
bably if  I  did,  some  amoiement  would  crop 
up  by  the  time  the  wedding  came  off,  that 
would  interfere  with  Hubert's  coming." 

"Very  likely,"  Effie  said  carelessly,  "for 
Flora  doesn't  mean  to  shut  berseU  up  for 
long ;  and  as  we  shall  stay  on  with  Flora 
for  a  time,  probably  we  ahall  be  in  the 
swim  again  soon." 

Tboa  it  came  to  pass  that  Jack  and 
Minnie  were  the  only  represmtativeB  of  the 
younger  Kays  at  Jenifer's  marriage ;  even 
her  father's  old  friend,  Mr.  Boldero,  failed 
her  on  the  oocaaion.  There  were  wme 
things  which  were  beyond  even  his  oon- 
Bcience-aupported  strength  to  endnr&  and 
one  of  these  would  have  been  the  eight  of 
Jenifer  married  to  another  man. 

Marriage  had  not  improved  Minnie,  and 
it  had  deteriorated  Jack.  She  had  not 
grown  more  refined,  and  he  had  very 
palpably  grown  much  eoarser.  This  was 
not  a  matter  of  mneb  aurprisa,  oonsidering 
that  the  Thnrtle  family  were  now  his  chief 
associates,  and  that  the  males  of  the  Thnrtle 
famUy  thought  that  life  ought  to  be  one 
long  ronnd  of  beer  and  skittles. 

Old  friends  ot  the  Rays  bad  made  a  few 
Bpasmodto  etforta  to  be  civil  to  Jaok  Bay, 
and  improve  Mrs.  Jock  But  Mrs.  Jack, 
whose  riehly-ooloar»d  beauty  had  developed 
since  her  marriage,  thooght  harsalf  in- 
mpableof  impnnement,  rad  rasented  all  ^ 


well-meant,  but  probably  weak  efforts  thu 
were  made.  Accordingly,  in  spite  of  haviog 
married  a  gentleman — "  the  young  squire," 
as  bo  was  commonly  called — she  was  cut 
upon  her  own  class  for  companionship,  and 
was  "  a  curious  specimen,"  the  Edgecumbs 
thought,"  of  assurance  and  embarrassment" 

"  Wtiat  a  family  poor  Harry  has  married 
into  1 "  they  said  among  themselvea.  At 
least  all  but  Mrs.  Archibald  Campbell  said 
it  She  held  to  the  opinion  that  Jenifer 
was  getting  much  the  worst  part  of  the 
bargain. 

It  was  sebtied  that  during  the  very  brief 
tour  which  the  newly-married  people  were 
going  to  allow  themselves,  Mrs.  Ray  should 
take  up  her  quarters  in  the  newly-taken 
furnished  house  in  Su  John's  Wood.  This 
matter  had  been  clearly  arranged,  and 
Mrs.  Ray's  boxes  hod  been  packed  towards 
carrying  it  oul^ 

But  just  as  the  bride  was  starting, 
maternal  instinct,  which  had  been  yearning 
over  poor  deteriorated  Jack  all  day,  made 
Mrs.  Bay  say  to  Jenifer  : 

"  I  do  feel  so  much  inclined  to  give  pow 
Jock  a  holiday — for  the  sake  of  domg  it 
I'll  put  up  with  his  wife,  and  ask  them 
both  hei&  I'm  sure  Mis.  Hatton  won't 
mind  keeping  us  on  another  fortnight." 

"  Why  do  that,  mother  dear,  when  oar 
new  house  is  ready,  and  servants  taken! 
Qo  there,  of  course,  and  ask  Jack  and 
Minnie  to  go  and  stay  there  with  you. 
Dear  mother,  it  will  miike  me  so  happy  to 
think  while  I'm  away  frcxn  yon  that  you're 
being  kind  to  JacJc  and  Minnie,"  said 
Jenifer  happily, 

"  I  can't  near  her,  I  confess,"  Mrs.  Bay 
mormnred;  "but  to  have  my  boy  witb 
me  again  1  Jenny  dear,  even  you  caa't 
think  what  that  mil  be  to  me." 

Then  the  bridegroom — who  liked  punc- 
tuality on  the  part  of  other  people — sent  up 
lather  a  peremptory  message  to  his  wife  to 
come  down  directly,  or  there  would  be 
confusion  at  the  station,  and  Jenifer  took 
a  hurried  leave,  leaving  the  last  arrange- 
ment standing  good. 

A  shooting-boz,  with  a  splendid  trout- 
stream  running  through  the  gronodB,  in 
County  Cork,  had  been  offered  for  the 
honeymoon  by  a  former  brother-ofiScer  of 
Captain  Edgecumb's.  This  offer  had  been 
accepted  by  him  without  consulting  Jenifer, 
who  had  set  her  heart  on  going  to  Paris 
for  opera,  and  then  on  to  the  Sonth  of 
iVonce  watering- plaoes  for  glorious— 
gratis — instrumental  musia  Bat  she  sni^ 
iBsdeied  hsr  wishes  in  iavtnir  of  bii. 


"  We  shall  go  hy  Holyhead,  I  Bnppoast" 
ihe  had  said  to  Mm  one  day;  bat  he 
bngbed  at  tho  idea,  and  told  her  to  look 
Dp  her  geography. 

"  Why  go  Ti&  Holyhead  and  Dablin, 
ud  then  tr^  it  through  the  length  ot  the 
coantry  when  we  can  jost  ran  down  to 
Plymoutii  and  be  in  Cork  harbour  in  a  few 
hours  1" 

"  Only  I  diBlike  the  sea,-'  she  said ;  but 
he  Hsored  her  that  that  was  all  nonsense, 
isd  that  abe  would  soon  learn  to  like  it 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  say  anythiuff 
to  him  aboat  the  treat  her  mother  proposed 
giriog  Jack  and  bis  wite  until  they  were 
lome  two  hoars  on  their  joomey.  Then 
I  she  said : 

"I'm  BO  glad  dear  mother  will  have 
gomething  to  occupy  her  mind  and  take 
har  thoaghts  o£F  Hnbert  and  Effie's  sad 
neglect  of  her  while  I'm  away.  She  means 
to  ask  Jack  and  Minnie  to  stay  with  her 
for  a  fortnight." 

**  What  t "  be  asked  in  acoeata  of  undis- 
gmted  coDstemation. 

"  To  ask  Jack  and  Minnie  to  stay  with 
her  for  a  fortnight." 
«  Where  »" 

"At  CPQr  honse — the  new  hoase.' 
"  At  our  honae  I  Jenifer,  I  really  am 
amioyed  at  your  having  been  indiscreet 
eiUN^h  to  give  way  to  any  such  folly  on 
yonr  mothOT's  part,"  he  said  so  severely 
that  Jenifer  actually  shivered. 

"  Indiscreet  to  let  my  own  mother  ask 
laj  own  brother  and  his  wife  to  the  house 
she  is  going  to  share  with  us  I  What 
iodiserotion  can  there  be  in  that,  Han?  I 
'  "  A  great  deal  I'm  afraid  you'll  Boon 
find  out ;  ^orant  as  you  are  <«  the  world, 
yooll  find  it  much  safer  to  oonenlt  me  on 
every  sobject  You've  made  a  great 
mistake,  Jenifer,  that's  about  the  tru^L 
Jack  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  fellow  I  want 
to  have  known  as  .mv  wife's  brother,  and 
the  woman  is  simply  impossible.  My 
people  won't  like  it  alL" 

"I  think  I  shall  always  think  of  pleasing 
m^  mother  before  any  of  your  people,"  she 
aaid,  keeping  her  tears  bwk  bravely,  bat 
feelm^  t^t  he  was  both  cruel  and  foolish 
inbymg  to  come  between  her  and  her 
love  for  her  own. 

"  l^en  you'll  make  a  mistake,  and  you 
ntar  as  well  uodentaod  this  at  once 
and  iat  even,  Jenifer.  I've  conceded  the 
point  of  yonr  mother  living  with  xu — 
Alt  witt  be  nmaaoca  enough,  but  I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  Jack ;  he'll  want  to 
boinrw  maae^  of  yoo.     Hugb  and  £fie 


FEB.  [December  l,  ISSB.)     4? 

are  very  well,  theyll  always  be  good  form ; 
but  I  moat  say  I  never  felt  bo  disgusted  and 
ashamed  in  my  life  as  when  I  saw  that 
other  sister-in-law  of  yours  there  among 
my  people  to^ay." 

"  It's  a  pity  your  sense  of  disgust  and 
shame  didn't  make  yon  refuse  to  go  through 
the  ceremony,"  she  said  with  a  choking 
ball  in  her  throat,  and  a  heart  that  was 
throbbing  with  pain.  Still,  she  kept  back 
her  teai& 

"  Don't  let  UB  quarrel  on  onr  wedding- 
day,"  he  eaid  more  softly. 

"  I  shall  never  quarrel  with  any  one,' 
she  replied. 

"  Don't  put  me  down  as  too  insignifi- 
cant for  you  to  quarrel  with,"  he  replied, 
nettled  into  qieaking  sharply  agaio. 

"  Would  you  rather  I  developed  unex- 
pectedly a  virago-like  spirit,  and  began  to 
argue  and  wrangle,  Harry !  I  can  do 
neither.  I  can  fancy  no  more  bitter  lot  in 
life  than  to  live  in  a  home  atmosphere 
in  which  there  is  no  peace." 

"  There'll  always  be  peace  between  us, 
dear,"  he  said  magnanimously ;  "  only  you 
had  better  consult  me  in  future  before  you 
let  the  old  lady  invite  anyone  to  onr  house. 
As  it  is,  there's  no  great  harm  done.  I 
shall  send  a  telegram  to  youi  mother  &om 
Plymouth,  telli^  her  that  I  don't  want 
the  house  occupied  till  I  get  home.  They 
can  all  go  into  lodgings  together  if  she 
likes,  but  I'll  not  have  the  freshness  taken 
off  the  furniture  before  we  have  any  use  of 
it  ourselves." 

"  As  you  like,"  Jenifer  sighed. 
All  the  glory  was  gone,  not  only  from 
hw  wedding-tour,  but  from  hei  married 
Hfe,  within  three  hours  of  its  oommence- 
menL 

After  sending  off  his  telegram,  which 
made  old  Mrs.  Bay  feel  more  bewildered, 
unhappy,  and  of  no  consequence  whatever, 
than  she  had  felt  since  recovering  the  first 
■hock  of  her  bosband's  death,  Captain 
Edgeonmb  resumed  his  customary  good- 
temper  and  politeness. 

Still,  the  trip  across  from  Plymouth  to 
Cork  barbonr  was  not  a  period  ^t  would 
for  ever  stand  out  in  Jenifer'?  mind  as  one 
fraught  with  happy  memories. 

In  the  first  pUce  it  beoune  very  rough 
as  soon  as  they  left  Plymouth  harbour, 
and  by  the  time  they  were  off  the  Long- ; 
ships  it  was  blowing  a  fierce  gala 

Jenifer  was  not  sea-sick.  People  who 
an  terrified  out  of  their  ssnses,  whan  the 
waves  and  the  winds  are  doing  battle 
ajfainst  (me  another  with  tiX  Aeii  mighty 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


strength,  are  rarely  sea-sick,  fiat  her  neire 
left  her,  and  each  time  the  steamer  dashed 
like  an  arrow  into  what  looked  like  a 
bottomless  abyss  of  wild  wares,  or  quivered 
up  again  like  a  living  creature  in  agony, 
Mrs.  Edgecumb  felt  a  portion  of  her  life 
leaving  her. 

"Ain't  this  joll; !"  her  husband  asked, 
Burging  into  the  saloon,  where,  with  her 
head  buried  in  her  hands,  she  was  trying 
to  imagine  what  she  would  feel  when  those 
desperate  waves  bad  her  in  adeadlyembrace, 
and  what  her  mother  would  have  to  live 
for,  when  the  news  of  that  drowning 
reached  her. 

"It's  very  awful,"  she  answered ;  "it's 
too  solemn  to  be  spoken  of  as  'jolly.'" 

"  Nonsense  I  Come  on  deck — here,  I'll 
hold  you  up — and  look  at  the  Land's  £nd. 
We  shall  catch  it  to-night,  and  no  odstake. 
Even  the  captain  saya  we  may  thank  our 
stars  vre  are  on  one  of  the  best  boats  on  this 
line.     Some  of  them  roll  fearfully." 

At  this  moment  a  jerking  Intch  brought 
down  all  the  glass  and  crockery  that  was 
on  the  saloon  sideboard  with  a  deafening 
crash,  while  at  the  same  moment  cries  of 
anguish  and  despair  rang  out  from  the 
frightened  women  and  cmldren  who  were 
huddled  in  the  forecastle. 

In  a  moment  all  her  past  life,  all  her 
hopes  and  fears  for  the  future,  all  her  dio- 
Hppointments  in  the  present,  flashed  upon 
Jenifer,  She  knew  in  that  hour  in  which 
she  thought  that  she  might  have  to  foce 
eternity  at  any  moment,  mat  in  her  over- 
anxiety  to  smooth  her  mother's  path  in 
her  declining  years  she  had  sacrifii»d  her- 
self !  If  she  had  done  so  efficaciously  there 
would  have  been  no  bitterness  in  the  refleo- 
tion.  But  as  it  was,  Captun  Edgecumh 
had  revealed  himself  in  his  true  colours  to 
her  already.  He  had  shown  himself  during 
the  few  faonrs  in  which  she  had  been  lus 
wife — this  was  only  the  day  afber  the 
marriage — he  had  shown  himself  to  be 
masterful,  if  not  tyrannical,  suspicioos,  and 
mean. 

What  a  mistake  she  had  made  in  think- 
ing that  her  marriage  would  conduce  to 
her  mother's  happiness  !  Why,  her  motJier 
would  be  a  ci^er  in  the  bouse  of  whidi 
he  was  master — even  such  a  cipher  as  she 
had  been  at  Moor  Royal  after  Effie's  imga 
had  begun ! 

"  And  if  I  Mi,  and  get  no  money  of  my 


own,  what  will  become  of  her  and  m«  1 " 
the  poor  gfa^  moaned,  in  a  lull  of  a  few 
momenta  Then  Captain  Edgecnmb  cane 
down  agun,  declaring  that,  "  It  was 
glorious  on  deck,  and  that  he  couldn't 
think  of  letting  her  mope  any  longer." 

So  direfully  against  her  wUt  Jenifsr  was 
dragged  up  on  deck,  and  made  to  look  on 
the  mountainous  waves,  and  to  try  "and 
stand  steady  on  limba  that  seemed  to 
crumble  away,  and  at  the  same  time  ber 
husband  kept  on  calling  upon  her  to  appre- 
ciate these  convulsions  and  beauties  of 
Nature  that  were  stultifying  all  her  facul- 
ties. 

"  You^  very  unsympathetic,"  he  said 
to  her  complainingly,  when  at  last,  after  a 
passage  that  had  nearly  cost  her  her  life 
and  reason  from  fright,  they  found  them- 
selves safely  in  Cork  s  beautiful  harboor. 

"Don't  think  me  that,  Harry,"  ^e 
pleaded. 

But  she  hadn't  strength  enough,  or 
spirit  enough,  to  ask  him  in  what  direction 
be  taxed  her  with  want  of  sympathy,  or 
in  what  way  she  had  faUed  to  express  it. 

"I've  enjoyed  the  voyage  hugely — at 
least  I  Bhoiud  have  done  if  yon  had  only 
shown  a  grain  of  pluck.  That's  what 
makes  Hubert's  wife  such  a  charming  com- 
panion in  a  boating  or  yachting  ezcursioD  ; 
she  always  enjoyed  it,  no  matter  whether 
there  was  half  a  gale  blowing  or  a  horri- 
cane.  EfHe  never  selfishly  gives  way  to 
her  nerves,  111  say  that  of  har." 

"I  am  sorry  you  think  I  do  selfishly," 
was  all  Jenifer  could  bring  herself  to  nttor. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  had 
"  another  fellow's  vrife  "  quoted  to  her  dis- 
paragement In  due  time  the  probabQitaea 
were  in  favour  of  her  getting  accustomed 
to  this  special  form  of  punishment. 


sow  pTOLisBnia, 
THE     EXTRA    OHRtSTMAS    NUMBER 

ALL    THE    YEAR-ROUND, 
ooiTTiiiiiiia 

"A  GLORIOUS  FORTUip:," 

WALTER     BESANT 

(AntboTof  "TbB  CapUlni'  Eoom,"  "Let  Ifotbliu  Yon 

DiBnui7."etcetc.>, 

AND   OTHBR    STORIES. 

Fries  SIXPENCE,  ud  codUIdIiu  the  unooai  of  Ttma 

OMliurr  Nomben. 


71ieBithto/TrmihUittAHicktJivmAu.rBMYKkSBouMDitrtttn»dbiia»A%itlu)n. 


ay  Go  ogle 


50      [DeoambarS,  I88S.) 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


told  her,  without  giTisg  w&y,  of  all  Herbert 
Tandy'e  goodness  to  Archie,  and  even 
allowed  her — though  not  vrithout  %  sense 
(it  desecration — to  read  the  sacred  letter. 
^Vhon  it  had  made  a  due  impression  on 
Mrs.  Risley,  who,  indeed,  waa  moved  by  it, 
Airs.  John  spoke  of  the  lad's  visit  to  them, 
of  the  certainty  of  his  being  moped  to 
death  in  their  sad  house,  and  of  her  hope 
th^Lt  Mrs.  Bisley  would  ask  him  up  to  shoot, 
and  Eo  on,  with  her  son  and  heir.  Here- 
it]>on  Mrs.  Bistey  did  a  thing  which  her 
dearest  friend  woold  never  have  expected 
from  her.  She  rose  and  kissed  Mrs.  John ! 
This  little  woman  had  got  as  deep  into  her 
heart  as  anyone  outside  the  sacred  curcle  of 
her  family  had  ever  penetrated,  and  the 
patient  pain  in  her  face  melted  the  ice 
already  softened  by  the  letter. 

So  it  came  about  that  Cochin's  Chirnaide 
days  were  the  happiest  of  hia  life.  The 
young  squire,  who  was  his  junior  by  a  year, 
took  to  him  so  extraordinarily  that  he 
would  have  had  him  spend  every  day  and  all 
day  at  the  Hall ;  bat  Cochin,  as  a  matter 
not  of  mere  politeness  but  of  preference, 
gave  hours  to  Mrs.  John.  In  these  hours 
Mrs,  John,  strangely  enough,  extorted 
from  him,  again  and  again,  accounts  of 
Archie's  snfieringB  at  the  hands  of  Kett  and 
Skunk.  In  tmth  we  believe  that  the  little 
woman,  who  was  profoundly  religions, 
waa  anziooa  to  hear  these  revolting  details 
in  justification  or  extenuation  of  his  snictde, 
if  that  horrible  suspicion  were  true;  and 
that  it  might  possibly  be  true  she  was 
forced  to  admit  to  herself,  when  she 
heard  how  ill  and  feverish  the  child  had 
been  the  day  before.  He  probably  was 
delirious  on  ttat  fatal  morning.  Why 
should  he  take  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat 
merely  to  cross  a  ford  I  Or  why-shonld 
he  attempt  a  ford,  waist  deep,  in  swift 
swirling  water,  to  save  half  a  nule !  The 
child  was  certainly  delirious.  So  ahe  ai^ned 
with  herself  upon  the  supposition  of  his 
death.  But  that  he  waa  not  dead  at  all 
she  argued  with  the  Bev.  John  and  Cochin, 
in  the  hope  of  convincing  herself  through 
them.  It  is  astonishing  how  many  people 
in  this  way  take,  so  to  speak,  the  reflec- 
tions of  themselves  for  independent 
witnesses.  The  Rev.  John  listened  to  her 
theory  that  Archie  was  lying  ill  in  some 
workhouse,  without  either  combating  or 
agreeing  with  it,  though  he  wrote  for  her 
satisfaction  to  the  masters  of  all  the  work- 
houses within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles  of 
Duxhaven, 

Now    Cochin,    to    please    her,    would 


run  to  meet  the  post  each  morning 
that  she  might  hare  her  letters  a  minute  or 
two  sooner,  and  be  put  by  that  space  out  of 
the  pain  of  suspense.  Bo  it  came  about 
that  the  lad  was  at  last  the  happy  bearer 
of  Archie's  letter. 

He  tore  madly  back  to  the  house,  into 
the  dining  room,  drawing-room,  study,  and 
then  headlong  upstairs  to  her  room,  utterly 
disregarding  the  Rev.  John,  who,  seeing 
him  dart  in  and  out  of  the  study  like  a 
hunted  creature,  had  a  dim  idea  that  he 
had  gone  mad.  Mrs.  John,  when  ahe  heard 
the  boy  shouting,  "Mrs.  Pybus,"  in  a 
frenzied'  voice  as  he  flew  up  the  stuira, 
knew  it  was  news  of  Archie,  She 
hurried  out  of  her  room,  met  him  in  the 

Passage,  and  heard  him  gasp,  "  Pete  1 
etefin  a  voice  of  intense  excitement, 
as  he  thrust  the  letter  into  her  hands.  She 
leaned  dizzy  and  bewildered  against  tho 
room  door,  the  blood  rushed  ia  a  spring- 
tide to  her  head,  and  next  moment,  as  id 
a  neap-tide,  rushed  back,  leaving  her  white 
and  cold  as  marble.  She  stued  at  the 
envelope,  but  could  not  see  the  welt-known 
hand,  or  realise  the  news  it  told,  for  a  mist 
was  before  her  eyea  and  her  mind.  Cochin 
was  shocked  at  his  inconsiderateness  and 
its  effects,  and  called  out  for  the  Rev.  John, 
who,  hurrying  up,  helped  Mrs.  John  to  hez 
room. 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  John  came  down  and 
Idaaed  Cochin  in  the  fulness  of  her  great 
joy,  and  handed  him  Archie's  letter  to 
r^id.  It  was  quite  a  long  letter,  the  work 
of  hours,  written  at  intervals  as  his  strength 

Eiermitted,  in  a  very  large,  round,  trema- 
0U3,  and  uncertain  hand. 

' '  i,  liocomotive  Tomwa,  Honehe&ton. 

"Dear  Mother, — I  have  run  away 
from  BchooL  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  fell 
down  OD  the  line  and  the  driver  stopped 
bis  engine,  and  took  me  up  on  his  engine. 
His  wife's  name  is  Liz.  She  is  ao  kiod. 
She  site  up  every  night  with  me.  The 
doctor  says  I  shall  soon  be  quite  well.  The 
doctor  says  I  should  have  died  only  for 
Liz.  Liz  wants  you  to  come.  Do  coma, 
dear  mother.  I  shall  go  back  to  school  if 
yon  like ;  hut  Liz  says  you  won't  send  me 
back  when  you  know  what  kind  of  place  it 
is.  Liz  says  you  will  not  be  angry  wiUi 
me  when  yon  hear  the  place  it  is,  but  I 
can't  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a  letter.  Dear 
mother,  do  come.  Lis  aaya  I  have  beea  n 
long  time  ill,  but  I  don't  remember.  If 
you  can't  come  soon,  do  write  when  you 
get  this.  The  man  took  all  your  letters, 
the  man  who  took  my  coat,  and  waistcoat. 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


8,1881)      61 


tnd  boota  Tliej  were  my  best  boots.  Liz 
»yB  die  18  anro  yoa  Trill  come  when  you 
eet  this.  She  says  when  I  tell  yoa  what 
Kind  of  place  it  is  you  will  not  send  me 
Wk.  Uncle  told  me  not  to  toll  you  about 
it,  bnt  Liz  saya  he  did  not  know  what  kind 
di  place  it  is.  She  Bays  when  I  tell  you 
what  kind  of  place  it  is,  you  will  not  send 
me  back  again.  Liz  says  yoa  are  sure  to 
eume  when  you  get  this.  I  hope  yon  will 
come  when  yon  get  this.  Liz  sends  her 
respects.  She  says  she  thinks  yoa  will  be 
here  to-moirow. — Yonr  affectionate  bod, 
"Archie." 

Here  was  a  tremendous  lettor  for  a  child, 
ud  a  dck  chfld,  to  write;  bat  Richie 
yearned  so  for  his  motlier,  tiiat  ihe  day's 
work — and  it  was  a  whole  day's  work — 
TM  a  labonr  of  love  to  him.  When  he 
h«ard  that  it  couldn't  go  before  night,  he 
appeased  his  impatience  by  adding  to  it 
now  and  again  as  his  strength  allowed ; 
and  when  he  could  think  of  nothing  more 
to  say,  he  wrote  the  address  in  a  vast  hand 
>t  the  top  of  the  lettor,  and  Mrs.  John's 
address  with  greater  pains  and  in  smaller 
letters  on  the  envelope,  the  two  perform- 
ances taking  up  Uie  last  half-hour.  His 
illDcse  had  left  him  much  more  a  cbUd  in 
mind  and  body  than  it  had  found  him. 

iSn.  John,  when  she  handed  Cochin  the 
letter,  was  dressed  for  her  jonmey,  though 
■he  had  not  yet  thrown  her  things  to- 
gether, for  she  had  spent  much  of  the  hour 
on  her  knees.  Now,  however,  the  amazed 
Martha  was  sent  to  ^ack  snch  thin^  as 
the  herself  thought  right,  for  Mrs.  John 
could  do  nothing  but  oscillato  between  the 
hall-door  to  look  oat  for  the  cab  and  the 
itady  to  le-read  the  lettor  and  wonder 
to  herhnaband  about  Archie's  illness,  what 
it  was,  if  he  were  out  of  danger,  and 
whether  Dr.  Grice  could  spare  the  time  to 
go  and  see  him. 

Dr.  Grice  answered  for  himself.  Calling 
■t  that  moment  he  was  told  the  news, 
shown  the  lettor,  and  voluntoered  to 
accompany  Mrs.  John.  He  was  now  a 
bogy  man,  and  locally  a  great  man,  but 
then  was  no  patient  he  would  not  offend 
for  Mrs.  John's  sake.  Protesting  that  he 
had  hardly  a  name  on  his  noto-book  for 
that  day,  he  carried  off  Mrs.  John  straight- 
way in  bis  carriage. 

Thus,  in  five  hours  from  the  receipt 
of  the  lettor,  Mrs.  John  held  Archie  in 
her  arms,  while  Dr.  Grice,  leaving  them 
together,  .Boaght  out  the  local  doctor,  to 
explun  and  apologise  for  bis  intrusion. 
Dr.  Grice  was  so  widely  known  that  the 


local  doctor  was  highly  flattored  by  being 
associated  with  him  in  a  consultation, 
and  the  two  set  out  together  for  Mrs. 
Schofield's. 

Their  verdict  was  that  the  child  was 
well  out  of  danger,  bat  not  ao  far  as  to  make 
it  safe  to  move  him — a  very  acceptable 
verdict  to  Liz,  who  was  still  more  gratified 
to  hear  Dr.  Grice  say  to  Mrs.  Pybus  : 

"It's  been  touch  and  go,  Mrs,  John,  and 
bnt  for  the  nursing  it  would  have  been 
'  go ' — eh,  doctor  1 " 

"The  most  devoted  and  indefatigable 
nurse,  Mrs:  Pybus,  I  assure  you,"  pro- 
nounced Dr.  Steele  in  his  grandest  manner. 
"  Mra  Schofield  has  nursed  the  child  night 
and  day  till  she  has  so  worn  herself  down 
as  to  need  to  be  nursed  herself." 

Mrs.  John — must  we  confess  it ) — felt 
an  acuto  pang  of  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Schofield 
shoot  through  her  heart  But  she  so  mas- 
tered it  that  next  moment  she  took  the 
good  woman's  hand  in  both  her  own,  and 
thanked  her  with  sincere  tears. 

Mrs.  Schofield  was  also  jealous  and  also 
wept,  for  uppermost  in  her  mind  was  the 
thought  of  losing  the  child. 

Of  this,  however,  there  was  no  immediate 
fear.  Nor  did  Archie  take  a  final  leave  of 
these  Good  Samaritans,  when  he  was  at  last 
well  enough  to  be  moved.  Not  a  year  of 
his  boyhood  passed  without  his  spending 
a  week  or  two  with  Ben,  to  whom  he  went 
to  school  for  the  study  of  engine-driving 
in  all  its  branches — an  art,  the  mastery  of 
which  was  one  day  to  stand  him  in  good 
stood.  Horseheaton  was  the  dep6bof  the 
railway  company  which  turns  out  the 
finest  locomotives  in  England :  the  factory, 
hospital,  and  stable  of  its  engines,  and, 
therefore,  the  paradise  of  a  child  like 
Ajchie,  who  thought  enginfrdriving  the 
sumndt  of  human  happiness  and  glory. 
When  there,  he  was  always  on  the  foot- 
plate, not,  indeed,  of  Ben's  engine — for 
Ben  was  too  good  a  driver,  ana  had  too 
good  a '  character  to  lose,  to  take  the  lad 
ofton  on  his  giant  express — but  on  that  of 
some  pilot  or  shunting  engina  Then  he 
would  always  meet  Ben  at  the  station,  and 
was  often  permitted  to  run  the  express 
into  the  shed.  Here  he  would  ask  Ben 
such  a  host  of  intelligent  questions  as 
amazed  and  delighted  that  enthusiastic 
driver.  He  thought  the  boy  the  most 
brilliant  genius  because  of  the  progress  he 
made  in  Ben's  own  beloved  science. 

"  There's  yon  lad,"  he  would  say  re- 
proachfully to  his  fireman,  who  indeed  was 
a  mere  machine;  "there's  yon  lad,  he's 


(I>M«nIiaS,IM.l 


ALL  THE  YEAS  BOUND. 


oobbut  a  child,  and  has  had  no  eddication, 
as  a  body  may  aay,  no  reglar  eddication, 
and  he  rnawa  more  abaat  an  engine  nor 
thee,  that's  been  fitter  and  fireman  a.  matter 
of  nine  year  or  better.  He  fidr  caps*  me 
he  doea  Alliu  at  achooil  with  niver  no 
chance  of  lamin'  owt  Uiat  is  owt,  yd' 
nobbat  a  week  or  two  in  t'  year  to  pick  up 
a  bit  of  knowledge,  an'  yet  be  beata  thee, 
aw  tell  thee,  all  to  nowt  He'll  mak  more 
steam  aat  of  a  paand  of  coil  than  thee  aat 
of  a  ton," 

Not  a  literal  alliuion  to  Archie's  aetnal 
proficiency  as  a  fireman,  batametaphetioal 
one  to  hia  making  so  mnch  of  soch  scant 
opportunities.  And,  indeed,  Archie  in  his 
sixteenth  year  had  become  each  a  master 
of  the  noble  art  that  Ben  woold  rather 
have  troated  him  than  his  fireman  to  keep 
the  "gas,"  as  he  called  it,  at  an  even  pres- 
Bore,  up  hill  or  down  dale,  stopping,  start- 
ins,  firiDg,  feeding,  for  a  mn  (a  one  hundred 
mUes.  It  was  Bern's  ideal  to  see  the  needle 
of  the  pressore-gaoge  stick  at  one  hundred 
and  forty  pounds  from  start  to  finish. 

Bnt  to  tetnm  to  Mra  John. 

The  full  tide  of  her  joy  on  the  recovery 
of  Archie  having  subsided  a  litUe,  left  bare 
the  ngly  anxiety — how  to  keep  him.  For  a 
moment  she  entertained  the  idea  of  con- 
cealing his  resorrection  from  Mr.  Tack  and 
the  world,  bnt  not  even  her  love  and  fears 
for  Archie  could  reconcUe  her  to  the  false- 
hood and  injustice  of  such  a  deceit.  This 
plan  having  been  put  aside  in  the  moment 
of  its  conception,  she  thought  next  of 
writing  to  Mr,  "ruck  a  letter  apologetic, 
pitiful,  appealing,  begging  to  be  allowed  to 
adopt  the  child.  Such  a  letter,  had  she 
written  it,  would  probably  have  succeeded. 
Mr,  Tuck  would,  no  doub^  on  first  thoughts 
have  been  moved  by  its  pitiful  and  apolo- 
getic tone  to  bluster  back  a  peremptory 
refusal  of  a  favour ;  but,  on  second  thoughts, 
be  would  probably  have  been  more  in- 
fluenced by  the  prospect  of  being  rid  of  the 
child  for  ever,  and  of  all  the  expense, 
responsibility,  and  disgrace  attaching  to 
him.  For  he  felt  keenly  the  disgrace  of 
the  exposure  in  the  papers. 

However,  Dr.  Grico  wouldn't  hear  of 
thJB  idea. 

"  If  you  write  so,"  he  said  in  his  decisive 
way,  "  hell  be  certain  yon  want  the  boy 
for  something  you  can  make  out  of  him, 
and  hell  suspect  yott  of  some  scheme  of 
extortion  or  other.  A  fellow  like  that, 
who  has  no  heart  himself,  thinks  that  a 


"C«p«"— i.e.  surprisHB, 


heart  is  a  hypocritical  name  for  a  gizsard 
for  grinding  what  grist  you  can  get  hold 
of.  Besides,  he's  an  old  woman,  and  I 
needn't  tell  you,  Mrs.  John,  that  whining 
and  wheedling  is  the  worst  way  to  make 
an  old  woman  do  what  you  want  You 
must  go  to  work  in  a  businesslike  way. 
Yon  mnst  first  make  Mr.  Pybus  write  faim 
a  formal  letter,  curt  wiUiout  being  dia- 
oourteous,  announcing  merely  that  his 
nephew  has  been  fbond,  that  hs  is  reoover- 
ing  elowly  from  a  fever,  accelerated  and 
s^ravatea  by  his  treatment  at  Gretstane 
<^lege,  and  that  hs  is  not  yet  in  a  fit 
state  to  be  moved.  Then  it's  ten  to  one 
he'll  write  back  a  bluiteriug  letter  like  his 
last,  washing  his  hands  of  the  boy,  or 
threatening  to  send  him  to  a  reformatory, 
or  some  ot£er  hysterical  rubbish.  Then,  if 
you  affect  to  be  frightened  into  an  offer  to 
adopt  the  boy,  he'll  be  proud  and  pleased  to 
think  he  has  trapped  you  into  a  bad 
bargain." 

A  suggestion  of  the  doctor's  was  a  law  to 
Mra.  J^D.  Such  a  letter  as  he  advised 
was  sent,  and  answered  almost  in  the  very 
words  he  suggested.  Even  the  reforma- 
tory was  mentioned  in  it  Mr.  Tuck's 
answer,  however,  to  the  proposal  of  adop- 
tion was  not  so  precisely  according  to  the 
doctor's  programme.  It  neither  gave  nor 
withheld  consent  to  the  propMal,  but 
ignoring  it  altogether,  simply  disclaimed 
henceforth  all  responsibility,  pecuniary  or 
other,  in  connection  with  the  boy,  ai^ 
concluded  with  the  insolent  menace  ihat 
attempts  at  extortion  would  be  refeired  to 
his  Bolicitor. 

In  trutii,  Mr.  Tuck  forgot  prudenoe  in 
his  rage  at  Archie's  reeorrection — a  rase 
made  more  furious  by  a  motive  to  be  dis- 
closed |)resenUy.  Within  an  hour  afler 
his  receipt  of  the  Pybus  proposal  to  adopt 
the  child,  his  answer  was  posted ;  forweak 
people  take  haste— one  of  tiie  feeblest 
forms  of  weakness — for  Bti«ngtli.  Hardly, 
however,  was  the  letter  posted,  than  Mr. 
Tuck  regretted  a  precipitancy  which  was 
certain  to  cast  back  the  boy  on  his  hands ; 
and  not  until  a  fortnight  had  passed  with- 
out the  expected  retractation  of  his  proposal 
from  the  Rev.  John,  did  Mr.  Tuck  lose  his 
terror  of  the  post 

Thus  Mr.  Tuck  had  tiie  best  reasons  in 
the  world  for  penniading  himself  and 
others  of  his  nephew's  infamy ;  for  if  there 
had  been  nothing  disgraceful  in  Archie's 
conduct,  there  must  have  been  a  good  deal 
in  HoA  of  Mr.  Tack,  Besides,  we  have  the 
united  autborityof  Tacitus,  Seneca,  Dryden, 


KING  HENRY"  THE  FOURTH. 


wd  George  Herbert  for  the  maxim,  "  The 
offeoder  never  p&rdona."  Weak  men,  it  is 
tme,  are  not  nsoally  implacable  or  strong 
in  hate  any  more  tJian  in  love ;  bat,  on  the 
other  hand,  no  man  Ib  so  jsealona  in  bis 
religion,  and  in  the  persecution  of  its 
btaqtheiners,  as  he  who  makes  a  god  of 
himself;  and  Mr.  Tnok  was  a  fanatic  of 
this  faith.  Now  religious  people  are  always 
most  implacable  towards  those  who  eaggest 
doubts  on  doctTines  of  which  diets  believers 
themselves  are  not  absolutely  asBured.  At 
bottom  it  is  not  so  much  the  assault  on 
religion,  as  the  aasanlt  on  their  own  peace 
of  mind,  which  tliey  resent.  It  was  this 
{ealing  which  made  Mr.  Tuck  loathe  the 
mere  mention  of  Archie's  name,  as  the 
niggestion  of  a  doubt  upon  a  weak  point 
u  his  faith. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH, 
PART  THE  SECOND. 

As  an  acting  play  &e  Second  Part  of 
King  Henry  the  Fomih  has  enjoyed  much 
lau  of  popularity  than  was  accorded  to 
the  First  Part  Sequels  are  apt  to  suffer 
from  lack  of  freshness;  tlie  absence  of 
Hotspur  ia  much  felt  in  the  second  drama, 
and  FalstafT  reappean  with  some  decrease 
of  his  original  foroe  and  effectiveness.  The 
presenoa  of  Shallow  is  a .  great  gun ;  bat 
there  is  loss  of  action,  and  interest,  and  of 
novelty  of  characterisation;  the  tone  of 
the  later  play  is  less  chivalrous  tban  con- 
temi^ative.  The  Second  Fart  was  first 
pabliahed  in  1600,  in  quarto,  the  titJe-page 
describing  the  work  as  "The  Second  Fart 
of  Heorie  the  Foorth,  condnaing  to  his 
deatii,  and  coronation  of  Henrie  the  Fifth, 
with  the  humours  of  Sir  John  Falstaffe  and 
iwoggerin^  Pistol ;  as  it  bath  been  saudrie 
times  pablikely  acted  by  the  Right  Honoar- 
sble  tiie  Ixnd  Chamberlaine  bis  servants." 
The  vernon  of  die  play  in  Uie  first  folio,  or 
the  collected  edition  « the  pli^  published 
in  1633,  is  supposed  to  have  been  printed 
not  from  the  quarto,  but  from  a  transcript 
of  the  original  manuscript;  it  contains 
pasiagei  of  considerable  length,  some  of 
these  being  accounted  among  the  finest  in 
the  play,  which  are  not  to  be  found  in  the 
quarto.  The  editors  of  the  Cambridge 
Shakespeare  hold  that,  while  the  foho 
sfFords  occasional  readiuss  which  seem 
preferable  to  those  of  the  quarto,  the 
quarto  is,  nevertheless,  to  be  r^;arded  as 
having  tbe  higher  critical  value. 

William  Kemp,  the  oiiginal  Pogberry,  is 
snDDosed  to  have  been  also  the  oriirinal 


representative  of  Joatice  Sballow,  bat  no 
evidence  on  the  subject  ts  now  forthcoming. 
In  the  qnarto  edition  of  the  play,  at  die 
beginning  of  the  fourth  scene  of  the  fifth 
act,  occurs  the  stage  direction :  "  Enter 
Sincklo  and  three  or  four  officers,"  Sincklo, 
or  Sincklowe,  was  an  inferior  member  of 
the  company,  whose  name  occurs  also  in 
the  Third  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth, 
and  in  the  Indaction  to  The  Tamiog  of  the 
Shrew;  he  periormed  very  small  parts, 
and  could  have  ranked  aa  little  higher  than 
a  snpernumerary.  His  is  the  oiOy  name, 
however,  that  has  come  down  to  us  in 
connection  with  the  first  cast  of  the  play. 
In  the  second  scene  of  the  fiiBt  act  the 
word  "old"  appears  prefixed  to  one  of 
Falstaff's  locutions,  and  Steevens  suggested 
that  "old"  might  be  the  first  syllable  of 
tiM  name  of  the  actor  iriio  originally 
assumed  the  character.  Theobald  was 
more  correct,  probably,  in  his  supposition 
that  Falstsff  was  originally  called  Oldcastie, 
and  that  "  the  play  being  printed  from  the 
stf^^e-manuBcript,  Oldcastie  bad  all  along 
been  altered  into  Falstaff,  except  in  this 
single  place  by  an  oversight;  of  which  the 
printers  not  being  aware  continued  these 
initial  traces  of  uie  ori^^al  name."  Sir 
John  Oldcastie  had  been  much  about  the 
person  of  Prince  Hal,  and  bad  on  many 
accounts  made  himself  extremely  hateful  to 
the  clergy,  who  availed  themselves  of  every 
opportunity  therefore  to  encoorage  repre- 
sentations holding  him  up  to  scorn  and 
ridicule.  "  I  am  convinced,"  writes  Davies, 
that  Oldcastie  was  made  the  jack-pudding 
in  all  the  common  interludes  of  public 
exhibition;  be  was  a  liar,  a  glutton,  a 
profane  swearer,  and  a  cowud;  in  short, 
anything  that  might  render  him  odious  to 
the  common  people."  It  is  believed  that 
Shakespeare,  in  compliance  with  this  view 
of  Oldcastie,  aaa^ed  his  name  to  the  fat 
knight.  But  with  the  Reformation  came  a 
great  change  in  the  general  estimation  of 
Oldcastie.  The  Protestants  claimed  him 
OS  a  proto-martjT  in  their  cause ;  it  was  by 
no  means  Shakespeare's  desire  to  offend 
any  of  his  public ;  he  took  pains  forthwith 
to  substitute  the  name  of  Falstaff  for  that 
of  Oldcastie.  That  there  might  be  no 
mistake  in  the  matter,  he  reqoired  the 
speaker  of  his  epilogue  to  state,  after  pro- 
mising to  continue  ^e  story  witii  Sir  John 
in  it  and  make  the  spectators  merry  with 
fair  Katharine  of  France,  when  Falstaff 
should  "  die  of  a  sweat,"  if  already  he  was 
not  killed  with  their  hard  opimon,  that 
"  Oldcastie  died  a  martvr,  and  this  is  not 


54     [I>«wmb«r8,IS 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EOtTND. 


the  uwo."  It  will  be  remembered  that  in 
the  First  Part  of  the  play,  the  JPrince 
addresses  FaUtaff  as,  "  My  old  lad  of  the 
caatla."  It  was  also  by  aa  oversight,  pro- 
bably, th&t  this  ezpresaioii,  already  pointing 
to  the  Dame  the  fat  knight  had  originally 
borne,  was  suffered  to  remain  in  the  text 

Whatever  success  the  Second  Part  may 
have  enjoyed  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and 
for  some  years  afterwards,  there  ia  na 
trace  of  its  speedy  revival  apon  the  re- 
opentDg  of  the  theatre  at  the  fiestoration. 
It  seema,  indeed,  that  it  did  not  reappear 
upon  the  stage  until  early  in  the  re^n  of 
Queen  Anne.  In  1720,  at  Drary  Lane, 
the  play  was  presented,  the  bills  announciug 
that  it  had  not  been  performed  for  seven- 
teen years.  It  was  described  as  "  written 
by  Shakespeare  and  revised  by  Betterton." 
Early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  no  donbt, 
Betterton  had  appeared  aa  the  Falstaff 
both  of  the  First  and  Second  Parts ;  but 
the  Falstaff  of  1720  was  Mills;  Booth 
appearing  as  the  King;  Wilks  as  the 
Prince;  Cibber  as  Shallow;  TheophilaB 
Gibber  as  the  Duke  of  Clarence ;  Norris  as 
Pistol ;  the  popular  comedian,  Joe  Miller, 
as  SUence ;  ana  Finkethman,  charged  also 
with  the  delivery  of  the  epilogue  in 
character,  as  Feeble,  the  woman's  tailor. 
In  favour  of  Bettertoo's  edition  of  the  play 
there  ia  not  much  to  be  said.  He  wholly 
omits  the  scene  at  Warkworth  before 
Northumberland's  castle  in  the  first  and 
second  acts,  the  opening  scene  of  the  third 
act,  and  the  first  and  fonrth  scenes  of  the 
fifth  act  The  Earl  of  Northumberland  is 
excised  from  the  list  of  dramatis  personie. 
Falstaff  is  rebuked,  but  is  not  committed 
to  the  Fleek  Prison  by  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice.  To  the  fifth  act  ia  tacked  on  the 
first  act,  in  an  abridged  form,  of  King 
Henry  the  Fifth,  with  the  scene  at  South- 
ampton in  the  second  act  of  the  same  play. 
In  1731  the  play  was  again  presented  at 
Dmry  Lane,  when  Mills  appeared  aa  the 
King.  Besigning  the  part  of  Falstaff  to 
Harper,  the  younger  Mills  personated  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  Boman  appeared  as  the 
Lord  Chief  Juatica  Shallow  waa  still 
represented  by  Cibber,  whose  son,  Tlieo- 
pluluB,  now  played  Pistol  for  the  first 
time;  and  the  comedian  Oates  "doubled" 
the  characters  of  Poins  and  Feeble.  It  is 
evident  that  this  was  still  Betterlon's 
acting  edition  of  the  play,  for  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  appears  in  the  list  of 
the  dramatis  personte,  and  the  Archbishop, 
in  strictness,  pertains  to  the  first  act  of 
King  Henry  Uie  Fifth,  and  has  no  place 


in  (he  Second  P*rt  of  King  Henry  the 
Fourth. 

Daviea,  in  his  Miscelhinie,  relates  that 
after  the  old  actor  Dog^ett  had  ceased  to 
be  concerned  in  the  durection  of  Drury 
Lane,  Booth,  Wilks,  and  Cibber,  as 
managers,  assigned  to  the  comedian  John- 
son, by  way  of  exhibiting  their  particular 
respect  for  him,  the  more  important  of  the 
characters  Doggett  had  been  accustomed 
to  sustain.  Among  these  was  Justice 
Shallow.  Johnson  falling  ill,  however, 
Cibber,  who  had  been  castmg  lon^ng  eyes 
npon  the  part,  took  posaeasion  of  it,  and  so 
gratified  his  public  by  his  maoner  of  repre- 
senting it  that  he  retained  possession  of  it 
so  long  as  he  remained  upon  the  ataga 
Cibber,  with,  peibaps,  some  affectation  of 
modesty,  professed  to  be  in  many  of  his 
characters  but  the  imitator  of  the  players 
by  whom  they  had  previously  been  repre- 
sented. His  Justice  Shallow  may,  tliere- 
fore,  have  been  simply  a  close  copy  of 
Doggett's  performance  of  the  part.  It  ts 
certain,  however,  as  Daviea  stAtes,  that  no 
audience  waa  ever  more  fixed  in  deep 
attention  at  bis  first  appearance,  or  more 
shaken  with  laughter  in  the  progress  of 
the  scene,  that  at  Colley  Gibber's  exhibition 
of  this  ridiculous  justice  of  the  peace.  .  .  . 
"  Surely  no  actor  or  audience  was  better 
pleased  with  each  other.  His  maimer  was 
so  perfectly  simple,  his  look  so  vacant, 
when  he  questioned  his  cousin  Silence 
about  the  price  of  ewes,  and  lamented  in 
the  same  breath,  with  silly  surprise,  the 
death  of  Old  Double,  that  it  will  be  impos- 
sible for  any  surviving  spectator  not  to 
smile  at  the  remembrance  of  it.  His  want 
of  ideas  occasions  Shallow  to  repeat  almost 
everything  he  says.  Gibber's  transition 
from  asking  the  price  <rf  bullocks  to  trite 
but  grave  refiections  on  mortality,  ms  so 
natural,  and  attended  with  such  an  on- 
meaning  roll  of  his  small  pig's  eyes,  accom- 
panied with  an  important  utterance  of 
tick  I  tick  I  tick  !  not  much  louder  than 
the  balance  of  a  watch's  pendulum,  that  I 
question  if  any  actorwae  ever  superior  in  the 
conception  or  expression  of  such  solemn 
insignificancy."  After  the  retirement  of 
Cibber,  the  veteran  Johnson  waa  permitted 
an  opportunity  of  resuming  his  old  part,  and 
although  he  was  now  between  seventy  and 
eighty,  something  of  his  former  fbrce  and 
skill  remained  to  him.  "  Though  the  old 
hound  had  lost  almost  all  his  teeth," 
writes  a  critic,  "he  was  still  so  staunch 
that  he  seized  his  game  and  held  it 
fast."    Of  Cibbw,  it  ia  reported,  Johnson 


KING  HENKY  THE  FOUBTa 


65 


nerer  spoke  with  compUceiM^.  Probably 
the  old  actor  held  that  for  nearly  twenty 
years  the  onfair  action  of  the  management 
had  deprived  him  of  one  of  hia  beat  parts. 
Theoi^oB  Cibber  had  been  iiutructed  by 
bis  fwier  how  to  represent  Ancient  Pistol 
Cibber  took  "  oniunal  pains  with  the 
yonng  man,"  we  are  told.  No  actor  ever 
gained  bo  mnch  applause  in  the  part,  sayi 
Daviee.  "  He  aaanmed  a  peculiar  kind  of 
false  spirit  and  oncommon  blnstering,  with 
such  torg^d  action  and  long  nnmeafiorable 
s^dea,  Uiat  it  was  imposaiblo  not  to  langh 
at  so  extravagant  a  figure,  with  andi  loud 
and  grotesqne  vociferation.  He  became  so 
&mona  for  his  action  in  tbia  part  that  be 
acquired  the  name  of  Pistol,  at  first  as  a 
mark  rather  of  merit,  but  finally  as  a  term 
of  ridicnle."  In  his  Historical  Kegister 
for  1736,  Fielding  caricatures  both  the 
Gibbers,  bringing  them  upon  the  stage, 
ttie  father  as  Gtoand-Dog,  the  poet,  and 
the  son  as  Pistol  H<wuth  caricatured 
Theophilus  Cibber  wil£  others  of  the 
caoediaoB  who  revolted  from  the  patentees 
<d  Drury  Lane  in  1733,  and  a  burlssque  of 
the  actor  was  presented  at  that  date  at 
Govent  Garden  Theatre  in  the  anonymous 
" tngi-comi-f aidcal  ballad  opera"  of  The 
Stags  MudneerBj  or,  a.  Playhouse  to  be 
Let,  hia  personator  being  Aston,  a  son  of 
tilt  more  famous  Aston,  who  wrote  a  Brief 
Snpplement  to  Gibber's  Apology,  The 
elderly  actor,  Boman,  the  contemporary 
of  Betterton,  rendered  importance,  it  was 
■ud,  to  the  character  of  the  Chief  Justice, 
maintiuning  "  the  serioiie  deportment  of 
the  judge  with  the  graceful  ease  of  the 
gentleman."  Davies  pronounced  that  idl 
the  actora  of  his  time  who  had  been 
allotted  the  part  of  the  King  and  the 
Prince  had  been  "fortunate  in  engaging 
the  attention  and  rusing  the  affections  of 
their  auditors."  Booth  as  the  King,  and 
Wilks  as  the  Prince,  were  both  "highly 
accomplished,  and  understood  dignity  and 
grace  of  actionand deportment,  withall  the 
tender  pAstdons  of  the  heart,  in  a  superior 
degrea  MillBandMi]ward,vhoBucceeded 
to  tbe  part  of  the  King,  were  both  competent 
utors,  the  latter  being  especially  skilled 
in  the  exhibition  of  pathos.  "His  counte- 
nance was  finely  expressive  of  grief,  and 
the  plaintive  tones  of  his  voice  were  admir- 
ably adapted  to  the  languor  of  &  dying 
panon  and  to  the  speech  of  an  offended  yet 
affectionate  parent 'TheyoungerlliUs,  who 
imitated  the  manner  of  Wilks  in  playing 
the  Prince,  thou^  by  no  means  equal  to  his 
exemplar,  was  imi  to  be  above  mediocrity. 


In  1736,  at  Drory  Lane,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  benefit,  Quiu  appeared  as  PalstafF  in 
the  Second  Part,  when  certain  of  the 
scenes  omitted  by  Betterton  were  restored 
to  the  stage,  and  Qnin  delivered  a  pro- 
logue, said  to  have  been  written  by  Bet- 
terton when  he  first  revived  the  play.  It 
was  probably  an  ad^>ted  version  of  the 
prologue  written  by  Dryden  for  hia 
arrangement  of  Troilus  and  Creseida,  and 
delivered  by  Betterton  upon  the  first  per- 
formance of  that  work  in  1769.  In  1738, 
the  Dmry  Lane  audience  hsdan  opportunity 
of  seeing  the  First  and  Second  Farts  per- 
formed upon  successive  nights.  Quin  and 
MUls,  the  younger,  were  the  Falstaff  and 
Prince  of  both  plays;  but  Miiward,  the 
Hotspur  of  the  First  Part,  was  the  King 
of  the  Second.  The  comedians  Johnson 
and  Joe  Miller  were  now  the  carriers,  and 
now  Shallow  and  Silence.  Apparently, 
Betterton's  version  was  not  employed  upon 
this  occasion,  but  the  original  text  was 
preferred.  The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
is  nob  included  in  the  cast  The  Second 
Part  was  reproduced  in  1749,  when  Delane 
played  the  King  and  Syan  the  Prince  of 
Wides;  and  again  in  1758,  for  the  benefit 
of  Woodward,  who  Bttempt«d  the  part  of 
Falstaff,  Garrick  for  the  first  time  appear- 
ing as  the  Kinj^,  with  Palmer  as  the  Pnnce, 
and  Yates  as  Shallow.  In  personating 
King  Henry,  "  Garrick's  figure  did  not 
assist  him,  as  Davies  writes;  "but  the 
forcible  expression  of  his  countenance  and 
his  energy  of  utterance  made  ample  amends 
for  defect  of  person.  To  describe  the 
anguish,  mixed  with  terror,  which  he 
seemed  to  feel  when  he  cast  up  his  eyes  to 
heaven  and  pronounced  the  words,  '  How 
I  came  by  the  crown,  0  God,  for^ve  me ! ' 
would  call  for  the  pencU  of  a  Baphael  or  a 
Heynolds. "  Yates  was  found  to  give  gre^t 
pleasure  as  Shallow,,  without  being  so 
absolutely  just  in  the  delineation  of  the 
part  as  his  predecessor  Johnson. 

The  production  of  the  Second  Part  at 
Covent  Garden,  in  1760,.  with  Shuter  as 
Fslst^,  seems  to  have  owed  its  success 
chiefly  to  a  grand  pageant  which  fol- 
lowed the  play,  and  wnich  represented 
the  coronation  of  King  George  the 
Third  in  Westminster  Abbey.  The 
play  obtained  twenty-two  performances, 
other  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  King  John, 
Heniy  the  Fifth,  and  Richard  the  Third, 
being  also  adorned  with  the  supplementary 
spectacle  of  the  coronation,  and  enjoying 
many  representations  and  special  f  svonr  on 
that  account     At  Druiy  Lane,  forty  years 


56     [Doonntwr  8,  um.1 


ALL  THE  TEA£  BOUND. 


later,  the  promiBing  yonng  aotor,  Powell, 
played  the  KiDg,  l^lland  appearing  as  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  Tom  King  as  PIstoL 
Davies  writes  of  this  pmonnuice : 
"Though  Oarrick,  from  a  mean  jealoosj, 
a  passion  which  constantly  preyed  od  his 
mind,  denied  to  Powell  the  ment  of  ander- 
standing  the  pathos  of  the  famous  scene 
with  the  Prince,  the  aDdience  thongfal  far 
otherwise,  and  by  their  tears  and  applaose 
justified  the  action  of  that  very  pleasing 
tmgedian."  A  performance  of  the  play  at 
Covent  Garden  in  1773,  for  the  benefit  of 
Mrs.  LesuDgham,  an  admired  actress  of 
that  period,  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  the 
fact  that  the  lady,  "  by  desire,"  as  the  play- 
bills aaid,  assamed  ^e  character  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  to  the  King  of  an  anony- 
mous gentleman,  his  first  appearance  upon 
any  stage.  Shuter  was  the  Falstaff,  and 
Woodward  the  Justice  Shallow  for  that 
night  only.  The  next  FalstafF  in  the 
Second  Pari)  was  Henderson,  a  very  famous 
FalstafF.  This  was  at  Drory  Lane  in 
1777,  where  Bensley  played  the  King, 
Palmer  reappeared  as  the  Prince,  the  Pist«l 
was  Baddeley,  and  the  Silence  Parsons, 
who  at  a  later  date  assumed  the  part  of 
Shallow,  "  with  that  happy  mirth  and  glee 
which  is  sure  to  captivate  an  audience," 
notes  Davies,  and  he  asks,  "  Who  can  be 
grave  when  Parsons  either  looks  or 
speaks  i " 

At  Covent  Garden  in  1804,  the  Second 
Part  was  represented  by  a  very  strong 
company ;  "  the  play  was  particularly  weU 
acted,"  commented  Genest,  who  presum- 
ably was  present  upon  the  occasion. 
George  Frederick  Oooke  appeared  for  the 
first  time  as  Falstaff  in  this  play.  There 
had  been  some  delay  in  prodocing  the 
work  because  of  the  indisposition,  or  ii 
other  words  the  intoxication  of  Cooke , 
but,  as  his  biographer  records,  he  played  the 
part  at  last  with  a  brilliancy  as  an  actor, 
which  almost  made  us  forget  the  clouds 
which  obscured  the  man."  John  and 
Charles  Eemble  personated  the  King  and 
the  Prince;  Munden  was  the  Shallow, 
Blanchard  the  Pistol ;  Emery  appeared  as 
Silence,  Henry  Siddons  as  the  Earl  of 
Westmoreland,  Murray  as  the  Chief 
Justice,  and  Mrs.  Davenport  as  Mrs. 
Quickly.  Macready  notes  that  Kemble  as 
the  King  produced  but  little  effect  in  the 
play ;  owin^  to  his  being  "  too  ill,"  he  was 
only  "  partially  and  imperfectly  heard." 
Macready  was  of  course  only  repeating 
what  he  learnt  from  critics  who  were  pre- 
sent upon  the  occasion.     It  was  in  1821 


at  Covent  Garden  that  Macready  was  first 
called  upon  to  assume  the  character.  Ho 
had  b^s;ed  hard  to  be  excused  from 
appearmg  in  it ;  he  doubted  the  possibili^ 
of  his  succeeding  when  Garrick  and 
Kemble  had  comparatively  failed ;  more- 
over, the  coronation  of  Henry  the  Fifth 
in  the  last  act  was  to  be  represented  with 
special  splendour  relatively  to  the  corona- 
tion of  George  the  Fourth,  then  about  to 
be  accomplished,  and  the  actor  feared  that 
the  audience  would  be  so  e^er  for  the 
pageant  witli  which  the  play  was  to  close, 
that  they  would  pay  little  heed  to  the 
play  {tsa£  But  his  objections  were  dis- 
regarded, and  he  resolveid  to  do  his  beat 
with  the  part  "It  was  necessary,"  he 
wrote,  "  to  support  the  cast  witii  the  whole 
strength  of  the  company,  and  I  could  not 
be  left  out  of  the  leading  tragic  part  To 
every  line  in  it  I  gave  the  most  deliberate 
attention,  and  felt  the  full  power  of  its 
pathos.  The  audience  hung  intently  on 
every  word,  and  two  distinct  rounds  of 
applause  followed  the  close  of  the  soliloquy 
on  sleep,  as  I  sank  down  npon  the  conch. 
The  same  tribute  was  evoked  by  the  line, 
•Thy  wish  was  father,  Harry,  to  tiiat 
thought  I '  which,  I  may  say,  was  uttered 
directly  from  the  heart  The  admission  of 
the  perfect  success  of  the  performance  was 
without  dissent,  and  it  was  after  being 
present  at  one  of  its  representations  that 
Lord  Carlisle  wished  me  to  be  introduced 
to  him.  He  had  seen  and  remembered 
Garrick  in  the  part,  and  said  very  kind 
things  of  me  in  reference  to  it"  At  this 
time  Fawoett  ai^ieared  as  Falstafi*,  Charles 
Kemble  as  the  Prince,  Blanchard  as  Pistd, 
Farren  as  Shallow,  Emery  as  Silence,  and 
Mrs.  Davenport  as  Mra.  Quickly.  The 
revival  of  the  play  rewarded  the  managers 
with  crowded  houses  for  many  nights; 
"nor  was  this,"  Macready  writes,  "attnbat- 
able  to  the  pageant  only :  the  acting  was 
of  the  highest  order." 

Macready's  signal  success  in  the  scene 
closing  the  fourth  acC  of  the  Second  Part, 
led  to  his  occasionally  presenting  that  por- 
tion of  the  play  in  a  detached  form;  an 
nuwise  proceeding,  quit«  apart  from  the 
injury  done  to  Sh^espeare,  for  it  lent  jus- 
tification to  Mr.  Bunn'a  application  that  the 
tragedian  wonld  appear  in  three  acts  only 
of  King  Bichard  the  Third,  presented  as 
an  afterpiece.  A  desperate  quarrel  and  a 
violent  assault  by  uie  actor  npon  the 
manager  followed,  with  an  action  in  the 
Sheriffs  Court,  which  gave  Mr.  Bunn  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  damages  for  the 


ALONG  DOOKSIDE, 


tI>MniA«  B,  UK.)      67 


injuries  inflicted  npon  him.  M&ereajy  acted 
ia  "  the  dying  scene  "  &s  it  is  called,  of  the 
Second  Part  in  1843,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Siddons  Memorial  Fond ;  in  1845,  at  the 
Open  Comiqae,  Paris,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Society  for  the  Relief  of  DiBtressed 
Anthors ;  in  1850,  at  Bristol,  playing  Lord 
Townley  afterwards  npon  Uie  occasion  of 
his  ftrewell  benefit  in  Uiat  city.  For  Mrs. 
Warner's  benefit,  daring  her  tenancy  of  the 
Httflebone  Ilieatre,  he  also  gave  King 
Heozy'i  dying  scene,  the  lady  appearing 
for  that  night  only  aa  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
It  wu  MaGieady^B  early  saoceeB  as  King 
Henry  that  led  to  his  being  poortrayed  in 
that  character  by  Jackson.  The  picture 
was  oriffinally  incladed  in  the  collection 
fotmed  Dy  Charles  Mathews,  the  elder  of 
tiiat  nunc,  and  now  possessed  by  the 
Garriek  Olab. 

The  Second  Part  was,  of  oonrss,  one  of 
Hr.  Phelps's  revivals  at  Sadler's  Wells. 
Tluipart  of  Falstaffwas  assigned  to  Mr. 
Barrett,  an  able  comedian,  for  many  years 
a  member  of  the  company,  and  Mr.  Phelps 
with  pacoliar  sncceas  "  doubled "  the 
charactets  of  the  King  and  Jostice  Shallow. 
The  actor's  Shallow  was  indeed  conated 
among  the  best  of  his  more  comic  and 
eccentiio  impersonations.  In  1876,  at  the 
Qoeen's  Thea^  in  Long  Ara«,  a  Tersion  of 
King  Henry  the  Fifth  was  prodnoed  pre- 
faced  by  tlw  dosing  passaces  of  the  Second 
Part,  indoding  t£e  death  of  Henry  the 
Fourth  and  thepageant  of  the  coronation 
of  Heniy  the  Eift^  Upon  this  occasion 
Mr.  Ph^ps  appeared  as  King  Henry  the 
Fourth.  Ko  portion  of  the  Second  Part 
has  since  been  seen  upon  the  stage. 


Tmp, 


DRAWN  BLANK 


Of  eai^  we 

At»— (uiBwer  vaarj  lips  and  tirod  eyaa, 

To  Tialent  ■orrowt,  uUce  Ifatnrs  granta ; 
VorM  than  the  world's  siipromeBt  agODiee, 

.Are  «1I  its  empty  blanks— its  iiopetesa  wants. 
Vben  vivid  Ugbtnin^  fluna  and  thnuden  croali, 

When  the  fierce  wiad«  lub  the  fierce  left  to  Btorm, 
We  see  the  beaoona  by  the  lurid  flasb, 

The  toesiiwaprav-cloiidaglitteriiigraiDbowi  form; 
Bat  when  below  tbeiulleii  drip  of  nun. 

The  waters  eob  along  the  hoUow  shora, 
Tit  bard  to  think  the  mui  caa  shine  again. 

The  dull  warea  gleam  to  living  l^^ht  once  more. 
When  time  sapa  slowly  Htrenalh  and  hope  away, 

And  the  black  gulf  yawns  Sy  the  lonely  path, 
When  the  dumb  night  creeps  on  the  empty  day, 

And  the  one  clue  of  all  ia  held  by  death  ; 
Look  not  to  faded  joy  or  lingerii^  love, 

To  woke  the  powoa  youth  and  fkith  bad  given, 
Take  patieatly  the  lot  we  all  muat  prove, 

Till  the  great  bar  ewinga  back  and  shows  us, 


ALONG  DOOKSIDE 

"A  STIFF  uor'-wester's  blowing.  Bill. 
Hark  t  don't  yon  hear  it  roar  now  1 "  as 
the  old  song  hath  it,  only  it  happens  to  be 
a  south-wester  in  this  case,  which  is  mach 
nicer  for  as  anhappy  folk  on  shore,  there 
being  no  icy  touches  abont  it  sa^estive  of 
lumbago  and  bronchitis,  bat,  instead,  a  soft 
bat  blosteroos  freshness ;  and  in  the  roar  of 
it  we  may  fancy  we  hear  the  voice  of 
the  great  foaming  waves  that  have  raced 
with  the  gale  all  across  the  Atlantic,  wares 
that  are  now  dashing  and  springing  sky- 
high  against  &e  ringed  cliffs,  whOe  the 
gale,  with  a  howl  ofderision,  dashes  on ; 
to  whirl  away  the  scanty  dead  leaves  in  our 
back  gardens,  and  whi^  people's  hats  ofi* 
at  street-comers,  and  to  roar  abont  the 
roofs  of  railway-stations,  and  to  frighten 
sulors'  wives  as  they  lie  in  bed  and  think 
of  shipwrecks  and  lee-shores  at  each  volley 
of  the  wind,  and  fitncy  each  bang  and 
buffet  apoo  swinging  door  and  rattling 
casement  a  signal  of  diBtress  from  the  wild 
and  wasteful  ocean. 

Our  neighboor,  the  skipper's  wife,  has 
been  free  till  now  from  these  apprehen- 
sions;  for  whyl  the  skipper  is  safe  at 
home,  and  has  oeen  for  this  fortnight  past, 
while  his  big  steamer  the  Bajpootana  is 
lying  safe  in  dock  dischaiging,  and  then 
taking  in  her  cai^ ;  a  time  of  »te  for  all 
the  akipper'fl  household,  which  goes  off 
every  night  almost  in  four-wheeled  cabs  to 
the  theatre,  and  rejoices  in  unlimited 
pocket-money.  Bat  all  these  joys  most 
come  to  an  end  at  Uat,  for  the  Bajpootana 
is  on  the  list  to  sail  to-day,  and  sail  she 
will,  whether  the  wind  blow  high  or  low. 

Now  although  ours  is  not  a  seafaring 
neighbourhood,  no,  nor  even  a  riverside 
district,  while  its  notions  of  harbours  and 
docks  are  confined  to  a  limited  acquaint- 
ance with  Paddington  Basin,  yet  still  we 
are  interested  in  a  general  way  in  the 
shifts  of  the  wind  and  the  scrapes  of  the 
boisterous  weather.  Only  the  talk  is  of 
monsoons  and  hurricanes,  of  trade  winds 
and  typhoons;  for  hereabouts  is  that 
nearer  India  which  is  not  mentioned  by 
geographers  old  or  new,  but  which  lies 
somewhere  between  the  Campden  hills  and 
the  jungles  of  Shepherd's  Bush.  There 
is  our  neighbour  round  the  comer,  for 
instance,  in  Delhi  Square,  whose  back 
garden,  as  Bunyan  would  say,  bats  down 
upon  oars ;  the  neighbour  with  the  grizzled 
moustache,  and  highly  baked  complexion, 
which  is  beginning  to  grow  paler  and  paler 


58     (iMBtmiMc  s,  1881.1 


ALL  THE  TEAS  ROUND. 


aad«r  the  amenitaes  of  English  life ;  he  iB 
known  to  as  as  the  majpr — but  he  is  not 
\  soldierly  major,  bat  a  magietrate,  a  com- 
missioner for  something  ot  other  in  the 
landa  beyond  the  tndiau  mount  Well,  our 
major,  who  has  become  quite  a  fixture  in 
the  Deigbboorhood,  and  tbe  fragrance  of 
whose  cheroot,  wafted  over  intervening 
b^k  walls,  has  come  to  be  a  familiar 
fragranoe,  is  missed  all  of  a  sudden  from 
bis  accustomed  hilL  Kor  up  the  lawn,  oor 
at  the  wood  was  he ;  but  is  discovered  be- 
times this  morning,  hoveriug  between  hts 
front  door  and  a  cab  loaded  with  luggage. 
Bills  are  in  the  window  announcing  the 
house  to  let,  and  the  fumitare-yana  are  in 
waiting,  to  convey  the  major's  hooaehold 
goods  to  some  distant  repository.  All  is 
ready  for  a  start,  all  bat  the  major's  wife, 
who  stands  in  the  doorway,  her  shawls 
and  wraps  flattering  wildly  in  the  wind, 
while  ehe  points  tragically  to  the  atormy 
sky.  "I'm  not  going  to  start  in  this 
dreadful  storm,"  she  criea  "It  is  only  a 
land  breeze,  my  dear,"  says  tbe  major 
soothingly.  He  has  burnt  his  boats  and 
broken  down  his  bridges,  and  is  likely  to 
forfeit  heavily  in  passage-money  unless  he 
can  get  his  wife  along.  "  Yoa  know  when 
it  blows  on  shore,  it's  preUy  sare  to  be 
cslm  at  sea."  The  major's  arguments 
prevail  at  last ;  he  haads  bis  wife  into  the 
cab,  and  they  drive  away. 

The  skipper  is  also  on  tbe  move,  casting 
an  eye  to  windward  as  be  reaches  tbe 
garden-gate ;  but  be  starts  on  foot,  with  a 
small  leathern  case  in  one  hand,  and  on  the 
other  side  bis  wife,  a  little  hoxom  woman, 
who  has  kept  bim  waiting  for  a  moment  to 
give  some  last  directions  to  the  trim  maid- 
servant at  the  door,  while  a  windowfol  of 
curly-headed  children  apstairs  are  drum- 
ming on  tbe  panes  and  shouting  incoherent 
farewells.  And  so  they  start  off  together 
as  if  they  were  going  for  a  morning  walk, 
although,  as  far  as  the  skipper  is  con- 
cerned, thousands  of  miles  of  stormy  sea 
lie  between  him  and  his  retain  to  his  own 
garden-sate.  And  tbe  skipper  is  as  careful 
of  tiie  littis  case  he  carries  as  if  it  ^ 
his  familiar  fetish — being,  no  doubt, 
chronometer,  or  his  sextant,  or  his  artificial 
horizon — anyhow,  some  of  those  amusing 
instruments  with  which  seamen  spy  oat 
their  way — a  talisman,  indeed,  to  bring 
him  safely  back  to  the  garden-gate,  and 
tbe  buxom  little  wife,  and  the  curly- 
headed  children. 

As  it  happens  we  all  meet  at  Addison 
Koad  StAtion — a  sort  of  &ee  city  in  the 


way  of  raUway-fltationa,  with  no  absolute 
over-lord  to  domineer  over  passengerd — a 
ternunas  where  nothing  terminates,  and 
where  loose  ends  of  line  from  all  parte  of 
the  kingdom  are  gathered  together.  The 
porter  loudly  bails  us  to  take  our  seats  for 
Manchester,  Liverpool,  and  tbe  north,  but 
although  Liverpool  has  a  strongly-attractive 
sea-Koing  flavour  about  it,  and  we  can  fancy 
the  fresh  blustoroos  scene  on  the  Mersey, 
with  tbe  big  steamers  at  their  moorings, 
and  the  little  tenders  with  their  paaseogers 
bobbing  up  and  down,  yet  we  are  not  so 
hr  afield  for  to-day.  Fettle  sometimes 
forget  that  there  is  a  Port  of  London — a 

Eort  extending  along  the  busy  tideway 
om  Qraves^  to  London  Bndge,  that 
can  yet  hold  its  own  against — aye,  end  even 
score  a  point  or  two  beyond — your  boasted 
Liverpool,  or  any  other  of  the  great  potts  of 
the  world.  A  port,  however,  that  in  the 
process  of  holding  its  own  seems  likely  some- 
times to  part  company  with  London  alto- 
gether, as  its  big  docks' extend  farther  and 
farther  down  the  river,  but  that  London 
grapples  to  it  again  with  long  arms  in  the 
way  of  busy  streets,  while  HatclifTe  High- 
way may  be  said  to  have  packed  itself  on  a 
tram-car,  and  gone  off  to  Flaistow  li^irshes, 
and  if  it  means  to  catoh  the  seaman  who 
sails  forugn,  will  have  to  follow  him  soon 
even  to  Tilbory,  and  perhaps  farther  stiU. 
Bat  at  the  present  time  our  ultimo 
thole,  in  the  way  of  sea-going  LondcHi, 
is  to  be  reached  at  the  Albert  Docks, 
although  how  we  should  be  going  there  by 
way  of  Hampstead  Heath  and  Kentish 
Town  is  pozsling  to  one  who  does  not 
carry  a  railway-map  of  London  neatly 
delineated  on  hu  brain.  Bat  we  have  g<rt 
the  skipper  on  board,  and  the  major,  too, 
and  hy  following  their  lead  we  shall 
surely  be  landed  safdy  at  the  docks. 
In  its  way  a  voyage  round  Loudon  is  a 
pleasant  and  even  exciting  experience,  wiUi 
tbe  glimpses  it  opens  out  of  busy  settle- 
ments encroaching  on  green  fields,  and 
their  varied  populations  moving  about  tbe 
railway  platforms :  the  shy  maidens  of 
Hampstead,  each  with  a  Madie's  volume 
on  her  lap ;  the  wide-awake  danghtera  of 
Camden  Town,  who  scramble  for  t£eir  seats 
with  the  firm  intention  of  not  being  left 
behind  in  the  struggle  for  existence ;  the 
swarm  of  City  men  at  Dabton  Junction, 
who  take  the  Broad  Street  trains  by  stonn; 
and  then  a  difTerent  strain  of  existence  alto- 
gether as  we  start  afresh,  still  keeping  in 
the  wake  of  tbe  skipper  and  tbe  major, 
through  Hackney,  and  above  its  red-tiled 


ALONG  DOCKSIDK 


IDecemlHr  a,  IBSa.)      59 


m^  where  Bteady  proBperity  veiges  on 
du  boantUrieB  of  sqaalid  poverty;  and 
then  Homerton,  whose  otd-Fuhioaed  country 
chmdi  paers  out  with  a  lost  and  mazod 
ippeannce  from  among  the  freaUy  roo-up 
hooMB.  Soon  a  sudden  bend  to  the  sonth- 
wud  brings  us  funODg  the  maats  of  ships 
in  the  midst  of  smoke  and  smother,  and 
here  the  passengers  are  seafaring  if  you 
like.  BlaS  men  burst  into  the  carriagea 
u  if  Uiey  were  ruabing  up  the  shronda. 
They  hail  their  friends  in  the  adjoining 
ampartments  as  if  they  had  met  on  the 
kigh  seas,  and  were  making  their  voices 
hnrd  over  the  stormy  waves.  Here  your 
mattreaa  and  bolster  are  oommon  articles 
of  personal  lu^age,  and  great  sea-cbestA 
m  ilnng  about  as  though  so  many  band- 
boxes. And  the  hats,  too  I  The  youths  we 
hsTe  just  seen  rushing  citywards  would 
eoDiider  thenuelves  lost  and  degraded 
yoaths  if  their  hat  brims  and  crowns  varied 
a  htir'a-bneath  from  the  established  form, 
bat  SB  yoo  get  dockwards  you  see  a  strange 
wortmeat  of  head-gear :  the  soft  felt  (the 
faronrite  variety),  t£eloafing'looking  cap  of 
the  labourer,  Uie  Eastern  fez,  the  Chma- 
suo's  cup,  the  plantation  stoaw  of  the 
dsdae,  and,  noticeable  among  the  rest,  a 
collection  of  stove-pipe  hats  quite  new- 
looking,  and  with  tbeir  primitive  gloss  upon 
tliem,  and  yet  of  shapes  quite  out  of  vogne 
for  long  years.  These  belong  to  BMppers, 
•towards,  and  others,  who,  faring  forth  into 
foreign  lands,  leave  their  beat  hata  in  the 
cnttody  of  wives  at  home,  and  ao  these  hats 
m  brought  out  at  intervals,  of  years, 
parhapsr  and  with  care  will  last  a  lifetime. 
About  the  stations,  too,  instead  of  the 
coloured  incitements  to  purchase  Boper's 
cornflour,  or  Croper's  muBtard,  we  have 
eqoaUy  h^ghly-ctuoured  placwls  recom- 
oenduig  Fopw'a  anti-corrosive  for  ship's 
bottoms,  and  other  specialties  of  that 
nstore,  while  replacing  the  announcements 
of  Gzcorsions  to  Heme  Bay  or  Sonthend, 
we  have  enticing  offers  of  passage  at  lowest 
fsres  to  such  attractive  puces  as  Fadang, 
Simanng,  Sonrabaya,  and  Macassar. 
And  then  instead  of  the  ordinary  paasenger- 
truQfl  yoa  expect  tn  see,  short  squat  little 
tntoB  come  by,  that  shake  the  very.ground, 
with  trucks  of  a  battered,  travel-etaioed 
iipect  that  may  have  thundered  along, 
■hskiiig  the  ground  as  they  went,  from  the 
eitiems  end  of  Cornwall  or  the  fartheat 
confines  of  Northnmbrio. 

And  then,  as  we  are  mmply  bound 
for  the  docks,  without  any  diatinct  purpose 
berotid  Kettina  to  the  said  docks,  we  are 


likely  to  be  considerably  puizled  at  the 
choice  of  stations  that  is  offered  ua,  all  of 
which  are  docks,  bat  docks  with  a  difference 
— altogetiier  half-a-dozen  or  so;  but  the 
skipper,  who  is  our  gmde,  books  for 
Galleons,  which  has  a  spicy  and  romantic 
sound,  recalling  treasure-ships  and  the 
Spanish  main,  and  buccaneers  who  robbed 
the  Don  and  hid  his  treasures  in  lonely 
ishmds  up  and  down,  as  in  the  stirring 
times  of  Morgan  and  Dampier.  In  sober 
fact.  Galleons  is  no  station  to  speak  of, 
and  eveirbody  darts  away  across  the  line 
and  in  front  of  the  engine ;  all  but  the 
skipper  and  the  m^or  and  their  respective 
wives,  who  are  not  to  be  disposed  of  in 
that  summary  manner.  Now,  all  through 
the  land  passue  our  skipper  has  been  the 
most  submissive  of  mates ;  his  wife  has 
taken  the  tickets,  has  piloted  him  across 
the  junctions,  has  wramwd  him  up  carefully 
when  the  wind  was  chiUy,  and  eased  off  his 
wraps  when  the  Eim  shone  out  a  little. 
Bat  once  among  the  masts  and  funnels  our 
skipper  shows  himself  a  new  man.  He  is  a 
chieftain  now,  and  we  his  humble  vassals. 

Our  major  is  not  so  confident  J  there  is  a 
certain  feeling  of  aneasineBs  in  his  mind, 
for  our  particular  dock  is  about  two  miles 
long  from  end  to  end,  with  the  funnels  and 
maats  of  steamera  peering  over  the  two- 
mile  line  of  iron  sheds.  In  such  a  crowd 
of  shipping,  how  shall  he  put  his  hand 
upon  his  own  particular  packet)  The 
major's  notion  is  that  his  wife  shall  sit 
upon  the  baggage  while  he  looks  for  the 
ship,  but  then  there  are  not  many  women 
who  would  patiently  submit  to  such  an 
inglorionsly  passive  r61e,  and  the  major's 
wife  least  of  all.  It  is  all  the  major's 
ridiculous  parsimony,  for  the  sake  of  saving 
a  pound  or  ao  in  cab-hire,  that  has  landed 
them  in  this  dilemma.  Meantime  half-a- 
dozen  dock-porters,  who,  like  vultures,  have 
scented  their  prey  from  afar,  are  bearing 
down  upon  the  pile  of  baggage.  "Take 
your  boxes,  colonel,"  cries  the  leader  of  the 
band,  "what's your  ship — the  Bajpootana! 
Ob,  I  knows  her ;  come  along,  mates,"  And 
the  boxes  are  already  mounted  upon  lega 
and  moving  away,  when  on  official  makes 
his  appearance.  "  Now  then,  you  put  them 
boxes  down.  You're  for  the  Kajpootana, 
ain't  you,  sir  f  Well,  all  them  thinga  will 
bo  fetched."  "  Oh,  why  didn't  you  say  so 
before  1"  cried  the  major's  wife,  while  the 
boxes  on  lega  atopped,  and  began  to  stagger 
vaguely  about.  "  Put  them  down,  do  you 
hear  1 "  reiterated  the  official,  whereupon 
the  bozea  came  down  with  a  crash,  and  the 


ALL  THE  YEAB  B0T7ND. 


legs  arranged  thema«lTes in  line  Bapt...„ 
a  Beries  of  oatetretched  palms,  all  directi 
towaids  the  major,  vho  had  lit  another 
cheroot,  and  calmly  reviewed  the  eqnad. 
"  YoQ  engaged  oa,  colonel.  Shilling  apiece, 
that's  our  doo,"  ia  the  general  chorae. 
"Yes,  a  regular  do  it  is,"  rejoined  the 
major,  while  the  wife  ejaculated  :  "  There's 
your  boasted  economy,  Frederick."  How- 
ever, the  major  compromiaas  all  claims  for 
half-a-crowii,  and  was  able  to  show  a  gain 
of  aerenteen-and-siz  in  faTOttt  of  railffay 
travelling. 

As  we  are  sore  of  onr  bearin(|a  by  this 
time,  and  have  identi&ed  the  Rajpootana's 
funnel  exactly  opposite  as  beyond  the  line 
of  sheds,  ve  adjonm  to  the  tall  Qoeen  Anne 
bnilding,  that  rvars  itaelf  high  above  the 
sarroonding  waste,  and  in  l^i^  letters 
announces  itself  as  The  Galleons  Hotel  and 
Refreshment-room.  Hereisacapitalattempt 
to  alleviate  the  dreariness  of  embarkation 
— a  roosting-place  for  birds  of  passage, 
a  house  of  call  for  the  higher  class 
of  mariDeia,  and  a  temporary  home  for 
those  who  have  taken  leave  of  all  their 
friends,  and  severed  the  last  ties  with 
England,  and  may  here  anoose  to  the  last 
moment  before  their  ship  hauls  out  of  dock, 
free  from  unpleasant  misgivingsof  not  being 
called  in  time,  or  of  a  cab  mutiny  at  the  very 
last  moment.  For  here  things  go  by  tide 
rather  than  by  tim&  At  dead  low  water 
all  slumber  and  deep,  but  at  the  flood,  when 
the  brimming  river  is  swirling  in  at  the 
dock-gates,  and  thebu;  steamers,  with  their 
msted  storm-battered  aidea,  are  crowding 
in,  while  other  big  steamers,  trim  and  taut 
as  paint  and  polish  can  niake  them,  are 
waiting  to  ran  out,  then  oar  Galleons  is 
awake  wd  astir,  whatever  may  be  the  hoar 
of  day  or  night  The  stoat  skippers  will 
be  cdling  for  their  boots,  the  first  officers 
singing  out  for  hot  water,  while  mater- 
familias  demands  sappties  of  bread-and- 
milk  for  the  little  brood  of  dacklinxs  she  ia 
about  to  lead  across  the  great  pond. 

After  all,  our  major's  description  of  the 
sonth-weaterly  gale  as  a  land-breeze  is 
rather  borne  out  by  facts,  for  down  here 
at  the  docks  there  is  no  wind  to  speak  of ; 
the  B&h  baa  died  away — or  rather,  perhaps, 
aluuK  off  to  awut  our  voyagers  in  the  Chops 
of  the  Channel.  And  now  there  is  a  gleam 
of  sunshine  over  the  bright  watery  green 
of  the  marshes,  while  the  pleasant  hiUs  of 
Kent  are  looming  in  the  distance  through 
a  mingled  web  of  mist  and  aunshina  And 
truly  it  seeds  a  little  touch  of  light  and 
colour  to  relieve  the   dun  and  donbtful 


aspect  of  those  long  rows  of  iron  sheds 
that  ran  on  in  nnbroken  line  till  they  are 
loat  in  the  mnrky  distance.  But  when  we 
have  crossed  the  line,  and  fairly  come  into 
dock-land,  a  nearer  view  is  more  inspirit- 
ing, for  the  quays  that  run  between  these 
rigid  iron  sheds  and  the  eqaallv  rigid  walls 
of  the  big  iron  steamers  that  lie  alongside, 
stem  and  stem,  as  fkt  U  the  eye  can  reach, 
these  broad  quays  are  full  of  lift  and  anima- 
tion. Here  are  the  fiery  engines  that  come 
spurting  alon^  the  criss-cross  network  of 
lines,  with  their  warning  shriek — shrieking 
t3  people  to  get  out  of  the  way ;  the  rail- 
way waggons  whirled  hither  and  thither ; 
an  army  of  labourers  charging  about  with 
hand-trucks  and  harrows ;  an  army,  too, 
of  great  hydranlic  cranes  that  stand  there 
in  long  rows,  with  their  huge,  far-reaching 
arms  and  great  circular  connterweights, 
like  aome  nightmare  dream  of  huge 
monsters  hota  of  mechanic  force,  which,  as 
they  tirist  and  turn,  and  haul  huge  bale* 
ont  of  deep  cavemons  holds,  and  deposit 
them  as  gently  as  a  mother  pats  down  her 
child,  and  exert  such  anperhuman  strength 
with  such  noiseless  ease,  and  all  at  tl^e 
bidding  of  some  invisible  operator  within, 
seem  certainly  endowed  with  life  and  intel- 
ligence. Don  Quixote  woold  have  chuged 
them  at  once  as  pestilent  compounds  of 
giant  and  enchanter,  and  any  one  of  them 
would  have  whipped  up  the  knight  and 
his  horse,  armour  and  all,  and  dropped 
them  softly  into  the  hold  of  the  nearest 
ship,  without  taking  any  more  notice  of 
the  encounter. 

And  if  tiiere  is  bustle  and  confusion  on 
shore,  there  ia  a  trifle  more  on  board — 
anyhow  for  thoae  big  ships  that  have  got 
the  blue-peter  flying  at  the  fore.  There  ie 
the  Rajpootana  now  just  ready  for  sea; 
the  little  Louiaa  tug  waiting  to  haul  her 
off  into  the  river  when  all  the  big  ropes 
and  chains  shall  be  cast  off  one  by  one, 
and  the  huge  inert  mass  shall  wake  np 
into  strenuous  life  and  effort.  Here  are 
first  and  second  officers  in  the  very  height 
of  frenzy ;  shippers  waylay  them,  clerks 
and  merchants,  as  the  last  load  of  cargo  is 
swinging  high  in  the  air,  and  men  are 
f  ran  ticaUy  rushing  on  board  with  passengers' 
heavy  luggage.  "  We  can't  do  it,"  shonts 
the  perspiring  first  officer.  "We've  got 
Calcutta  and  Rangoon  on  the  top  of  yoa" 
And  here  comes  the  captain  from  the 
custom-house  with  his  papera  It  is  all 
frenzy — Eretuiy,  and  the  tide  waits  for  no 
man. 

Id  curions  oontntst  with  all  this  energy 


f«iTDar  is  to  be  noticad  *  certain 
objoct  that  is  waiting  its  torn  to 
be  fetdied  on  board.  This  it  a  repoaefal 
bat  rather  battered  Japanese  loungiiig- 
cbair,  that  is  labelled  as  the  propertv  of 
HiJQi-Qeneral  Sir  Hercules  Hambledore, 
K.C.BL  That  old  anachair,  it  is  easy  to 
goeea,  will  be  regarded  with  some  perhaps 
not  altogether  affectionate  veneration  on 
the  voyage.  Coolies  will  give  it  a  wide 
berth,  and  aailora  will  abstain  froin 
dng^ng  ropes  across  it  as  the  general 
loongee  there  in  bis  pith  bat  and  white 
jean  snit.  It  makes  one  shiver  to  think 
of  it  jost  now,  with  the  chill  wind 
whktKng  along  the  qoay ;  bnt  these  hi^py 
folk  who  an  bonud  for  the  East  will  pick  np 
^ringtinie  in  the  Mediterranean  and  glow- 
ing BOminer  in  the  Indian  Seas.  WeU,  the 
general's  obair  is  heated  on  board,  and 
that  Beams  to  be  the  last  stxaw  that  com- 
pletes  thfl  load.  The  hydraulic  crane 
strikes  work,  and  tarns  itself  edgeways  with 
•  gd^le  as  of  fatigne  and  satisfaction.  In  a 
few  moments  the  Bajpootana's  berth  will 
be  empty  and  waiting  her  mccesaor.  "  Bat 
there  is  jast  time  for  one  cup  at  parting," 
niggests  the  major — for  a  hasty  visit  to 
the  caddy,  where  two  or  three  seasoned 
hands  ar«  qnietly  enjoying  their  tiffin 
amid  idl  the  bustle.  There  ie  a  fragrance 
of  carry  vid  chntnee,  and  the  servants  who 
ran  alxiat  have  dark  faces  and  white 
torbaai.  An  Indian  prince  brings  oar 
■her^  with  a  profound  salaam.  Happy 
people  yoa  who  are  about  to  be  wafted 
from  this  ,mad  fog  imbr^o  to  lands  of 
warmth  and  sunstune  1  Well,  the  major 
admits  that  it  is  not  a  bad  prospect  if  they 
were  once  across  the  Bay  of  fiiacay,  and 
if  they  had  not  that  insufferable  Sir 
Hercoles  on  board,  who  is  sure  to  make 
it  tineomfortable  for  everybody. 

Bat  the  bell  rings  far  visitors  to  clear 
oat,  t^e  skipper  is  on  the  bridge,  and  the 
eoginsara  at  their  posts.  There  is  jast 
time  to  get  on  shore  and  then  to  scamper 
off  to  the  pier-head  to  see  the  steamer  pass 
out  into  the  broad  tideway,  where  the  little 
Louisa  casts  her  off  and  leaves  ber  to  her 
own  devices.  And  so,  with  a  thnndering 
blast  or  two  from  the  steam-pipe,  and  & 
Bcattered  cheer  from  friends  on  shore,  while 
the  skipper  waves  farewell  from  the  bridge 
and  the  major  from  the  poop,  away  goes 
the  Bajpootana,  and  is  soon  lost  to  sight 
among  ^e  crowd  of  sails  and  funnels. 

Betaming  to  the  dock  quay  the  same 
busy  traffic  is  going  on.  There  is  a  Sew 
Ze^and   steamer    off   bv  this    tide,    and 


another  steamer  for  Australia,  but  thej 
will  hardly  be  missed  in  this  long  street  ol 
steamers.  There  is  a  spicy,  Eastern  perf  omt 
in  the  air,  something  between  campboi 
and  sandal-wood,  and  a  snbtle  fragrance 
from  the  myriad  chests  of  tea — Chinese  tea 
as  well  as  Indian,  for  these  outlying  docks 
are  now  getting  a  good  share  of  the  tea 
trada  One  thing  hangs  upon  another,  and 
just  as  Tenterden  Steeple  is  accoonbablefoi 
Goodwin  Sands,  so  the  Suez  Canal  ie 
responsible  for  iJie  Albert  Docks  and  for 
those  that  are  bei^  made  still  farther 
down  the  river.  For  the  long  weight- 
carrying  iron  screws,  that  are  built  to  run 
through  the  canal,  are  not  adapted  for  the 
turn?  and  windings  of  Father  Thames  in 
the  higher  reaches,  and  so  after  the  fashion 
of  Mahomet,  the  docks  now  are  sliding 
down  the  river  to  tJie  ships,  instead  of  the 
ships  coming  up  to  the  docks.  And  this 
expensive  process  of  dock  construction  is  a 
necessity  if  London  is  to  hold  its  own  in 
the  trade  with  the  Kast,  for  which  the 
canny  Scots  about  the  Clyde  are  quite 
ready  to  make  a  bid,  and  which  Liverpool 
is  ready  to  welcome  to  ita  magnificent 
tideway. 

Hitherto  London  holds  its  own  easily 
enough  as  the  great  central  emporium  of 
the  world.  Up  ita  river,  every  year, 
six  tboosand  steamers  of  an  aggregate  of 
four  million  tons  burden,  come  m  regular 
sacoeesion,  irrespective  of  wind  or  weather, 
while  five  thousand  sailing-vessels,  of  two 
millions  of  tons  harden,  come  in  flocks  aa 
favourable  winds  permit.  Against  this 
Liverpool  can  only  show  two  thousand 
eight  hundred  steamers,  and  some  two 
thousand  four  handred  sailing-ships.  In 
both  cases,  but  in  London  more  rapidly 
than  in  Liverpool,  the  steamers  are  gaining 
upon  and  ousting  the  siuling-ships,  a  process 
just  as  natural  and  inevitable  as  the  re- 
placement of  the  hand-loom  by  the  power- 
loom.  The  grand,  fast-sailing  tea^ppers, 
for  instance,  are  soon  to  be  things  of  the 
past,  replaced  by  the  iron  monsters  of 
tcrew-steamers,  and  the  importance  of  this 
tea-trade  to  the  Port  of  London  may  be 
judged  from  the  &ct  that,  of  two  handred 
and  seven  million  pounds  of  tea  imported 
annually  bito  this  country,  all  but  a  scanty 
pinch  of  some  fifty-five  thousand  pounds 
comes  into  the  Port  of  London,  and  is 
landed  there.  Not  that  qaite  all  this 
tea  is  taken  into  consumption,  for  forty- 
four  million  pounds  are  shipped  again,  and 
exported  to  foreign  parts. 
Hence  it  is  that  so  much  of  the  thronsr 


[DeoBmbsr  8,  Un.) 


ALL  THE  TBAR  BOUND. 


and  btutle  (rf  seo-gcong  London  wema  con- 
centrated &boiit  these  Albert  Docks.  What 
jute,  what  bales  of  tooI,  what  coontless 
chests  of  tea,  which  indnstrioas  young  men 
are  busily  counting  neTeithelesa,  and  nuuk- 
ing  down  on  tally-sheets,  as  the  hydraolic 
monsters  draw  them  forth  in  batches  and 
deposit  them  on  the  quay  1  Here  are  bales, 
too,  from  Dunedin,  marked  "First  winter 
labbit^kins ; "  no  wonder  the  wandering 
ca^er,  yrith  his  or  her  plaintive  cry, 
"  Hare-skins  and  rabbit-skinB !"  is  crowded 
out  of  existence.  And  what  itiange  meta- 
morphosis will  they  nndergo,  these  rablMt- 
skina,  before  thay  appear  on  the  ahonlders 
of  youth  and  beauty  as  fox  or  sable,  or 
what  not  1  Then  to  match  tiia  akina  tie 
the  carcaaaes — their  little  bodies  come  in 
cans,  their  little  sMna  in  balea — grwtcaaea 
full  of  tinned  rabbits,  which  an  swung  over 
our  heada.  And  while  the  wool  cornea  in 
one  ahip,  the  aheap  an  found  in  another, 
flocks  of  frozen  aheep  that  show  their  sdff 
outstretched  limbs  for  a  moment  and  are 
then  hurried  away.  There  is  a  mystery 
abont  these  aheep,  which  are  sent  uiding 
off  along  great  shoots,  and  finally  disappear 
into  some  dim  mysterious  region  below,  to 
reappear,  perhaps,  in  Smithfietd  Market  as 
prime  Southdown  at  fourteenpence  a  pound, 
tt  is  a  fair  morning's  walk  from  Albert 
to  Victoria  Docks,  but  these  last  are  much 
quieter  and  more  humdrum  in  their  ways, 
neither  do  they  afford  such  a  pleasant 
promenade,  for  inatead  of  a  long  nnbroken 
line  of  quays,  here  we  hare  a  series  of 
jetties,  and  big  steamers  on  either  hand  that 
are  quietly  nmoadins  and  loading,  more  of 
the  former  than  we  latter,  for  it  is 
wonderful  to  notice  how  much  more  in 
quantity  and  value  comes  into  the  oountiT 
than  ever  goes  out  of  it.  Lideed,  thia 
growing  gap  between  what  we  get  and 
what  we  give  is  oTpanding  so  rapidly  that 
it  is  becoming  one  of  the  most  djsquieting 
and  unaccountable  signs  of  the  times.  K 
we  import  four  hundred  millions  worth  of 
things,  and  only  export  two  hundred 
millions  odd,  either  we  are  making  a  tre- 
mendous profit,  or  running  veTy  deeply  into 
debt  There  ia  another  way  of  accounting 
for  part  of  the  discrepancy  by  snpposing 
a  tremendous  hole  in  the  customs  ready- 
reckoner,  and  that  as  the  declaration  of 
value,  in  the  case  of  both  imports  and 
exports,  is  a  perfunctory  matter,  which 
does  not  in  any  way  affect  the  dnties  paid 
in  this  country,  while  there  are  heavy  ad 
valorem  duties  awaiting  English  goods  in 
nearly  every  fbreiKU  countjy,  it  is  joat 


possible  that  our  exports,  to  be  taxed 
abroad  according  to  value,  are  writ  smaller, 
and  our  imports,  not  taxed  on  that  prin- 
ciple at  all — with  the  solitary  exception  of 
essence  of  spruce,  which  cannot  be  an 
affair  of  millions — may  be  writ  larger  than 
just  oocasion  warrants.  But,  viUi  every 
allowance  for  facts  and  figures  being  not 
altogether  in  accord,  the  decline  of  our 
export  trade  is  a  nasty,  uncomfortable  fact^ 
which  strikes  a  note  of  alarm  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  ^parent  prosperity. 

But  this  u  not  a  matter  that  can  be 
worked  ont  along  dockside,  where  as  we 
advance  tba  cargoes  beoome  of  a  leas  diversi- 
fied and  interestmg  kind.  There  is  not  much 
pleasure  to  be  got  out  of  gnano,  for  inatanoe, 
and  even  gram  has  a  certain  samenesa 
about  it,  wbetlier  in  bags  or  in  bulk.  But 
between  guano,  and  grain,  and  aeeda,  the 
boards  that  line  the  quaya  show  a  fine  pro- 
mise of  spring  com  in  every  craok  and 
cranny. 

Arrived  at  this  point,  indeed,  the  street 
la  more  interesting  than  the  dock,  the  pro- 
longed BatcUffe  Highway  a  regular  high- 
way of  nations.  Lounging  along,  not  much 
occupied  with  anything  before  tjiem — and 
indeed  the  great  cities  of  the  world  must 
aeem  curiously  alike  to  thoee  who  rarely 
get  beyond  the  purlieus  of  dock  or  harbour 
— but  gaxing  liatleaaly  at  what  ie  going  on, 
advance  the  aeafaring  men  of  all  nationa 
Here  ia  Sindbad  the  Sailor  in  his  snowy 
tvirban,  and  there  the  forty  thieves  who  hail 
from  Singapore.  Coolies  troop  about  in 
queer  parti-coloured  garmente,  _with  red 
caps,  and  white  and  bine,  in  tunics,  chogaa, 
and  old  pilot-iackets,  with  pointed  Chinese 
shoes,  or  sandals  of  straw,  or  the  common 
English  hi^iilow,  as  may  happen.  Here  is 
an  old  negro  wiUi  a  face  like  a  truffle  eo 
scarred  and  seamed  and  honeyeombed, 
with  a  costume  built  up,  it  aeema,  of  red 
pocket-handkerchiefs.  Ifon  may  wrt^  your- 
self in  sUk,  cotton,  or  rice-matting  here,  any- 
thingwillgodownalongdockuda.  Erentho 
little  En^sh  ohiLdrDn  who  awarm  as  much 
here  as  elBewhere,  even  these  have  lost  the 
faculty  of  wonder,  and  are  not  to  be  excited 
by  t^e  most  outlandish  figures. 

All  along  the  dock  road  the  thorough- 
fare ia  extending  itself,  a  new  town 
of  no  great  depth — for  the  green  marahea 
of  Plaistow  are  to  be  seen  at  the  openinga 
of  streets — but  a  regular  seaman's  high- 
way, where  are  collated  the  things  he 
most  delights  in.  There  are  public-houses, 
music-halls,  coffee-houses,  lodging-houaea — 
all  more  wholesome   and  deaoly-lookmg 


MOUHOT,  THE  EXPLORER 


IDwembor  S,  U8S.1 


thin  "iTnilfr  flBtablishiaeiLts  in  Shiulirell  or 
Wipping.  Tliere  are  comfortablo-Iooking 
tenements,  too,  with  ne&t  blinda  and  cui- 
taiio,  all  with  cards  in  every  window, 
"Aputntests,"  where  skippers  and  ships'- 
officen  may  find  lodgbgs  to  their  mind. 
The  docks  hare  their  own  churches  and 
diiipels,  their  reading-rooms  and  refresh- 
ment-rooms ;  but  the  sailor,  like  the 
soldier,  generally  prefers  a  taste  of  oat- 
dde  life  to  any  kind  of  Bemi-official  enter- 
tiiiiDient. 

And  when  sated  with  the  homoors  of 
dockade,  we  jump  into  a  train  and  are 
jolted  past  a  itatiou  or  two — Custom  House, 
when  there  is  no  such  place  to  be  seen, 
nnlsn  a  trumpei;  ahed  ba  that  custom- 
hooM,  and  Tidal  Baain,  which  is  about 
the  Mlideit  bit  of  inland  scenery  we  hare 
net  widi — and  then  to  Canning  Town, 
nth  a  little  smoke-stained  wooden  station 
ouioiuly  perched  over  the  line.  And 
luie  we  alight,  bent  on  going  through 
IiMidon  rather  tbxa  round  it  again.  For 
here,  to  the  initiated,  opens  oat  a  cunniug 
tnck,  first  over  the  river  Lea,  with  its 
botttnnless  mad-banks,  a  dismal  golf  of 
dofiair — a  sad  ending  for  a  river  that  has 
lud  its  gleams  of  beauty  and  brightness  in 
eiilr  life — and  then  coasting  the  dock- 
Till,  slipping  by  a  p<Htem-gate  into  the 
Eist  India  JDocs  Basin — not  right  into 
the  baiin,  be  it  understood,  bat  fJong  the 
qoay.  And  here  the  African  steamers 
make  a  vety  respectable  show ;  and  farther 
on  lie  the  Australian  clippers-— almost  the 
lut  remains  of  the  beaatjfiil  sea-going 
•hips  of  old-times;  emigrant •  ships  that 
ue  to  Bait  with  despatch,  but  doubtfully 
u  to  a  week  or  two,  all  things  going 
on  in  a  leisurely  way — sailors  heave- 
hoiiig  at  a  chain-cabl&  But  somehow  the 
hsave-ho  has  not  the  old  swing  and  spirit 
in  it.  Those  fizzing  and  whirring  tlungs 
that  go  by  steam  and  log  np  your  anchor 
with  the  taming  of  a  tap,  eeem  to  have 
(akeu  the  life  oat  of  the  sailors'  song.  A 
long  farewell  to  the  beautiful  white-winged 
■hip,  with  its  bellying  sails,  now  in  sun- 
shine, now  in  shadow,  its  rich  apparel  of 
fsiry-like  tracery  of  rope  and  rigging,  its 
itataly  progress,  its  lifelike  movement 
over  the  waters  I  Farewell,  too,  to  the  old 
Eilt  who  is  bound  np  in  the  life  of  his 
diip  1  A  little  while,  and  the  fuU-rigged 
ehip  will  have  vanished  from  the  seas,  and 
to  the  coming  generation,  which  will  see 
them  only  in  prints  and  pictures,  they  will 
ippear  as  strange  as  the  galleys  of  old 
times.       Amonff     the     cliaiMrB.    a    hnare 


shark-like  steamer  has  throat  its  wicked- 
looking  nose — the  Victory.  It  is  victory 
indeed ! 

Now,  at  the  very  entrance  to  the  East 
India  Dock  Basin  is  Blackwall  Pier,  and 
following  the  progress  of  a  ship  that  is 
being  lugged  and  tugged  into  the  river — 
two  big  tugs  pulling  at  her  and  one  little 
one  pushing  behind  —  we  find  ourselves 
once  more  upon  the  familiar  pontoons,  and 
looking  over  the  Thames  in  its  fullest  tide, 
and  with  all  its  argosies  in  foil  sail.  Great 
is  the  press  of  barges,  bumping  and  butting 
their  way  along,  helpless,  yet  aggressive. 
Long  strings  of  them,  too,  are  hurried  away 
behind  Uttte  stru^iling  toss,  the  sea-going 
steamers  hooting  and.whiauing,  the  nimble 
river-boats  threading  their  way  dexterously 
through  the  throng — over  all  a  windy, 
watery  sky,  with  Bunbeams  Btra^;ling  oat. 
And  then  the  bell  invites  ub — ^me  signal- 
bell  from  the  station  hard-by,  that  signifies 
"Train in" — and  we  hurry  for  the  trun 
as  if  our  life  depended  on  catching  it, 
although  another  quarter  of  an  hour  might 
not  have  been  Ul-spent  among  the  loafers  on 
the  pier  and  the  loongers  along  dockside. 


MOUHOT,  THE  EXPLOEER. 

Tee  French  have  sometimes  an  un- 
pleasant way  of  doing  things.  Not  only 
as  individuals,  but  as  a  nation,  they  now 
and  then  forget  their  traditional  politeness 
and  lapse  into  brusqnerie  And,  when 
once  they  are  t^te-mont^s,  they  are  apt  to 
go  &om  bad  to  worse,  until  there  comes  a 
regular  explosion,  after  which  they  cool 
down.  From  oar  point  of  view  they  have 
been  very  offhand  of  late.  One  can  hardly 
believe  that  to  the  same  nation  whose 
guards  at  Fontenoy  so  courteously 
begged  onra  to  fire  first,  whose  rank  and 
file  in  the  Peninsular  War  fraternised  bo 
pleasantly  with  the  redcoats  whom  ^ey 
had  been  fighting  the  day  before,  and 
would,  perhaps,  have  to  fight  the  day 
after,  can  bdong  the  men  who  treated 
Mr.  Shaw  with  auch  gratuitoos  indignity. 
Their  conduct  in  Tonquin,  too,  seems,  from 
our  point  of  view,  almost  as  bad  as  their 
behaviour  in  Madagascar.  I  eay  from  oar 
point  of  view ;  for  nations,  like  indi- 
viduale,  have  a  way  of  condoning  their 
own  misdeflds,  and  it  is  well  to  remember 
that  we  also  have  been  far  too  high- 
handed in  our  dealings  with  Orientids. 
Read  Lord  Strangford's  book  on  our  ahort- 
comincrs  in  this  resnect.  and  voa  will  feel 


61     (D«c«niIwrS,lllS.1 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUMD. 


sore  we  ought  not  to  throw  atones,  we, 
who  have  gone  on  taking  what  we  clioae 
out  of  the  whole  world  until  there  is  really 
rery  little  left  for  other  nations.  If  I  were 
a  Frenchman,  I  should  be  yery  indignant 
at  the  tone  of  our  press  about  New  Guinea 
"Why  should  not  we  annex  Guineal" 
a  Frenchman  might  ask.  "We  had  got  a 
fair  footing  in  as  infinitely  better  islaad, 
New  Zealand ;  and  you  gave  us  the  slip, 
and,  while  one  of  your  captuns  was  enter- 
taining our  officers  at  dinner,  you  seized  it 
all  in  your  Queen's  name.  We  didn't 
protest  Louis  Philippe  wasn't  great  at 
protesting.  The  mean-Bpirit«d  creature 
couldn't  nse  to  the  idea  of  a  grand  colonial 
empire.  He  preferred  filling  his  money- 
bags, and  cheating  and  wheedling  about 
his  wretched  Spanish  marriages.  Bat  all 
the  best  of  as  felt  it,  neverthdess.  It  was 
quite  a  trick  of  perfide  Albion.  Yon  did 
the  very  same  thuig  at  Perim  not  long  af  t«r, 
and  we  felt  that  it  was  unfair  in  both 
places.  Why  should  you  have  everything 
and  we  nothing  t  You  have  Australia — a 
world  in  itself;  you  would  have  left  us 
New  Zealand  if  you  had  had  the  sligbtest 
generosity  of  character.  And  now  mat  we 
are  thintong  of  the  only  island  left  us,  the 
very  undesiraUe  and  unhealthy  Papua, 
yoQ  cry  ont  and  set  vour  Austridian 
colonists  to  roar,  and  tell  as  we're  afraid 
to  do  anything  in  Europe,  and  that's  why 
we  are  getting  so  restless  in  the  out-of-the- 
way  cometB  of  the  world."  That  is  how 
Frenchmen  think.  I,  who  write  this,  have 
heard  them  talk,  and  it  is  well  to  reflect 
that  everybody's  views  are  not  exactly  like 
our  own. 

It  LB  much  the  same  about  tiie  Tonquin 
afi'air.  We  see  in  it  nothing  but  French 
violence,  French  aggressiveness,  French 
bullying  insolence.  To  the  French,  on 
the  contrary,  tbe  attempt  to  get  a  footing  on 
the  south-western  Chinese  frontier  seems 
noble  and  praiseworthy.  All  their  savans 
for  the  last  thirty  years  hare  been  looking 
in  that  direction.  They  remember  that  in 
America,  France  was  the  great  pioneer  of 
discovery,  that  it  was  her  missionary- 
explorers  who  made  their  way  across  from 
the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Mississippi,  and 
then  followed  that  great  river  to  its  mouth, 
a  feat  of  which  the  name  Louisiana  pre- 
serves the  record.  They  have  long  wished 
that  this  age  should  rival  the  glory  which 
the  subsequent  loss  of  Canada  had  tar- 
nished ;  that  the  Mekong,  the  water-way 
to  Yunan,  should  become,  if  possible,  a 
French  river,  or  if  not,  that  Frenchmen 


■honld  be  the  first  to  tap  that  great 
Chinese  province  of  Yunail  on  the 
southern  side. 

We,  too,  have  been  long  looking  in  that 
way.  Mr.  Ma^ary  fell  a  vicUm  to  his 
zeal  in  pushing  on  into  the  forbidden 
ground.  But  the  French,  with  their 
base  of  operations  at  Saigon,  seemed  more 
directly  caUed  to  the  work ;  and  their  way 
of  answering  the  call  has  resulted  in'their 
present  difficulty  with  China. 

It  is  not  merely  conquest  for  conquest's 
■oka  TheeducatedFrenchmen,who,inoppo- 
eition  to  the  mob,  ue  anxioua  to  extend 
their  territory,  really  believe  ihat  to  do 
this  is  tbe  only  way  of  giving  anything 
like  prosperity  to  that  sontn-eastem  comer 
of  Asia  This  was  long  ago  the  opinion  of 
Henri  Mouhot,  one  of  Uie  most  siogle- 
minded  men  who  ever  lived.  He,  medi- 
tating among  the  splendid  ruins  of  Ongcor 
Wat  in  Cambodia — ruins  which  he  first 
made  known  to  the  worid,  asks,  "  What 
has  become  of  the  civilisation  that  reared 
these  magnificent  palaces  and  temples  of 
early  Buddhism  t "  And  his  answer  is : 
"War,  continnoos  and  desolating  war, 
brought  in  by  Siamese  and  Annamite  neigh- 
bonrs,  mined  the  Khmera  or  Cambodioiu, 
and  reduced  those  of  them  who  wero  not 
carried  away  captive  to  the  state  of  wan- 
derers in  the  recesses  of  their  great  forests. " 
And  he  can  see  no  remedy  save  in  conquest 
by  some  European  power.  This  power  he 
thinks  will  be  France,  who,  having  taken 
Saigon,  was  on  the  way  to  possess  herself  of 
Cochm  China;  but  he  hopes  she  will  choose 
(wbat  he  hints  she  has  not  always' done) 
good  governors,  whose  wise  rule  will  be  a 
contrast  to  the  unbearable  spoliation  and 
extortion  of  kings  and  mandarins.  Thoa, 
you  see,  France  has  a  moral  aim  in  annex- 
ing Tonqnin.  Mouhot  was  not  the  man  to 
give  false  reports.  A  Huguenot  of  Mont- 
b^liard,  he  was  of  such  an  upright  nature 
that  the  French  Catholic  missionaries  were 
all  tenderly  attached  to  him;  and  hia 
testimony  is  unvarying.  "  The  king  tries 
to  get  all  the  produce,"  whether  it  be 
of  gold  and  precious  stones,  or  of  a  trifle 
likecardamum,  "intohisownbanda"  Over 
and  over  again  he  deplores  the  state  of  the 
millions  "bowing  shamefully  under  a 
servile  yoke,  mode  viler  by  the  most 
barbarous  customs,"  and  hopes  that,  when 
some  European  power  does  come,  it  will 
come  not  "as  Uie  blind  instrument  of 
ambition  to  add  to  their  present  miseriea." 
What  had  happened  at  Saigon  did  not 
him.     He  sadly  contrasts  the  self- 


MOUHOT,   THE  EXPLORER. 


[DMomliar  «,!».] 


^oofying  bulletins  of  the  French  adminl 
with  the  videaptead  report  of  the  mb- 
(oodoct  of  the  tioops,  now  tbaj  burned 
Qit  market,  ill-treated  the  Tomen,  and 
gsnenlly  misbehaTed  themsolTefl.  He  tries 
to  believe  it  vaa  all  done  by  the  natiTe  allies, 
and  timts  the  French  soldierTill  henceforth 
ut  by  himaelf,  so  that  tus  true  nobility 
of  character  may  be  Been.  It  wems  to  him 
so  aad  that  these  people  who  are  prepared 
to  we  irhite  men  acting  like  angels,  snoold 
find  that  they  can  behave  like  demons. 
Monhot  had  seen  in  Rnsaia  a  good  deal  of 
^is  evils  of  deepotism.  He  lived  there 
from  I8ii  till  the  breaking  ont  of  the 
Crimean  irar,  teaching  Greek  and  natural 
history  in  several  academies,  and  perfect- 
ing himself  in  photography,  then  a  oetr  art 
invented  by  Dagnerre.  He  ecrupnloiuly 
kept  aloof  &om  politics — he  was  a  savant, 
UM  it  most  be  (he  felt)  a  very  hard  task 
to  govern  ao  vast  a  country ;  bat  he  waa 
tooched  to  the  heart  with  what  he  saw, 
ud  when  ha  ^ot  home  be  wrote  a  novel 
called  Slaver;  in  Russia;  but  in  8iam  he 
found  things  even  worse;  "the  whole  of 
loeiefy,"  he  says,  "is  in  a  state  of  proft- 
bataon."  The  abject  crouching  before 
raperiors  just  typifies   the  state  of   the 

Not  long  after  he  left  Rnsaia,  Uouhot, 
with  his  brother,  came  to  Eneland.  They 
liad  both  married  English  ladies,  relations 
of  Uongo  Park.  But  in  1858  Henri  came 
■cross  an  Etiglish  book  on  Siam ;  the  innate 
love  of  travel  laid  hold  of  him ;  and,  by 
the  help  of  oar  Qeographical  and  Zoological 
Societies,  he  waa  able  to  carry  out  his  plan. 
For  four  years  he  was  travelling,  chiefly 
among  forests  where  the  sun  could  scarcely 
ihina  Daring  the  rains  he  was  in  a  con- 
itut  v^K)ur-l»th,  the  slightest  movement 
throwing  him  into  a  profuse  sweat  Some- 
timee  provisions  were  not  to  be  bad.  Once 
be  Uved  for  weeks  on  salt  fish,  washed 
down  with  very  bad  water.  Yet  his  health 
was  excellent,  thanks,  he  tbonght,  to  his 
total  abstinence  from  spirits,  and  to  a  very 
ipuiae  use  of  wine.  He  died  of  jungle- 
fever,  however,  "a  martyr  to  science," 
said  the  newspapers  of  the  day.  He  was 
on  his  way  to  the  borders  of  Yonan, 
worried,  as  travellers  thereabouts  always 
■re,  with  diffioulties  from  hoad-quarters, 
•trict  orders  having  been  sent  from  Louang 
Prabane  to  pierent  his  going  farther. 
He  had  started  for  Louang  Prabang  to 
denumd  explanations,  when  the  fever  laid 
hold  on  him.  His  two  faithful  servants 
kept  ursine  him  to  write  to  his  familv.  but 


he  delayed,  replying  always :  "  Wait, 
wut;  are  yon  afmdt"  and  making 
short  entries  in  his  joumaL  During  the 
final  delirium  he  talked  a  great  d^  in 
English,  of  which  his  servants  understood 
nothing.  His  servants  carried  bis  collections 
of  insects,  shells,  etc. — one  had  been  lost 
in  the  wreck  of  the  Sir  Jamas  Brooke — 
and  his  drawings  and  MSS.,  to  the  French 
consul  at  Bangkok,  A  big  beetle  was 
named  after  him  Mouhotia  gloriosa; 
several  land-shells  also  preserve  the  name  of 
their  discoverer ;  but  lus  chief  title  to  fame 
la  his  discovery  of  the  ruins  of  Battambong 
and  old  Ongoor,  Ruins  he  found  every- 
where —  pagodas,  towers,  palaces ;  but 
these  two  are  on  so  vast  a  fKtlo  that  they 
took  the  scientific  world  by  surprise. 
Monhot  claims  for  &em  an  antiquity  of 
two  thousand  vears.  They  go  back,  he 
thinks,  to  the  dispersion  of  Buddhism  in 
India  some  centunes  before  the  Chriatian 
era.     It  is  a  pity  he  could  not  take  photo- 

Oihs,  but  his  drawings  show  mtimifn  of 
ding,  with  central  and  entrance  towers, 
far  more  elaborate  than  what  in  Southern 
Ltdia  are  called  dagobahs  and  gopamma. 
The  domes  on  theae  towers  are  Duilt  in  a 
aeries  of  rings  growing  smaller  and  amaller, 
sometimes  with  a  tendency  to  become 
bulbous,  as  if  anticipating  the  common  form 
of  Saracenic  dome  which  haa  spread  over 
Europe  as  far  west  as  Yiennik  Long 
cloisters,  with  arched  roofs,  built  in  the 
fashion  of  a  nave  and  aisles,  join  the  gate- 
ways and  outlying  towers  with  the  central 
mass.  The  l^-reliefs  describe  all  kinds 
of  subjects — horse-races,  cock-fights,  mili- 
tary processions;  heaven,  into  which  the 
good,  all  plump  and  well-favoured,  are 
entering  in  palanquins,  with  their  fans, 
their  umbrellas,  and  even  their  iTetel-boxea ; 
hell,  where  the  victims  are  all  skin  and 
bone,  ibe  rueful  expression  of  their  faces 
being  irresistibly  comic,  and  where  they 
are  being  pounded  in  mortars,  sawn  in 
sunder,  roasted  on  spite,  devoured  by 
fabulous  monsters,  impaled  on  elephants' 
tusks  or  rhinoceroa  horns.  Bat  the  chief 
subject  is  the  story  of  the  Eamayana — 
the  combat  of  the  king  of  the  apes  (typify- 
ing some  aborinnal  race  which  sided  with 
the  Aryan  invsiders  of  India)  with  the  king 
of  the  demons  (the  hostile  black  race). 
The  few  details  which  Monhot  gives  have 
that  strange  likeness  to  Mexican  sculptures 
which  one  sometimes  notices  in  early  Indian 
work.  People,  I  suppose,  in  the  same  stage 
of  culture,  work  much  on  the  same  lines 
evervwhere.     No  need  to  asiume.  as  Mime 


ti>M«Bib«  8,  nn.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROTTND: 


haye  done,  an  early  Mce  of  which  the  chief 
Beat  was  some  now  submerged  contineat, 
and  of  iriiich  the  builders  of  Mexican  and 
Egyptian  pynmldB,  of  Eaeter  Island 
colossi,  and  of  Hindoo'  cave-tranpl^s  and 
Cambodian  palaces,  were  ontlying  frag- 
mentSL  Cer^inly  the  eonlptnred  faces  are 
neither  Malay  nor  Chinese  of  the  modem 
type.  I  say  this  b«canse  —  as  everyone 
who  has  seen  much  old  china  ia  aware — 
the  ancient  Chinese  face  was  far  less  Tartar, 
lees  smib-nosed,  tiian  that  to  which  we  are 
accnstomed.  It  came  mnch  nearer  the 
Cambodian  face  as  given  in  these  rains. 
Among  the  statues;  ol  which  Monhot  found 
many,  both  in  bronie  and  stone;  the  finest 
was  the  so-called  figure  of  "the  leprons 
bing,"  the  tradittonu  bnilder  of  the  whole. 
He  ia  naked,-  squatting  in  Eastern  fashion, 
the  head  -  fnll  of  dignity,  with  very  regular 
features  of  a  peculiar  type,  only  fonnd  now 
(says  our  traveller)  among  the  mountaineers 
on  the  Annam  border.  The  whole  place 
is  full  of  carving — lions  on  the  staircases ; 
huge  idols,  many  of  them  still  objects  of 
pilgrimage;  grim  oiants  in  chain-mail  like 
those  which  guard  the  portals  of  modem 
Siamese  pagodas  —  all  perishing,  as  the 
ineomparable  sculptures  and  wooa-carvings 
at  Nikko,  in  Japan,  are  perishing. 

Even  tJie  granite,  of  which  all  the  npper 
part  is  built — the  basement  being  ferru- 
ginous sandstone — thongh  every  stone  is 
shaped  so  carefully  that  no  mortar  is 
needed,  is  beginning  to  decay.  "  Some  of 
it  cnmbles  like  rotten  wood."  One  oaks, 
"  Why  all  these  buildings  bo  close  togethert " 
for  (higcoF  Thom  (the  great)  is  only  about 
three  tmles  from  Ongcor  Wat  (the  old).  The 
former  contains  a  whole  town,  with  moat 
and  double  wall.  Galleria  with  porticos 
and  vaulted  roofs,  all  one  mass  of  d^icate 
sculpture,  run  fn»n  every  entrance.  The 
place  has  been  deserted  for  ages;  &  few 
Cambodians,  who  live  in  a  hamlet  outside, 
grow  a.  little  rice  among  the  ruins.  There  is 
a  bridge  of  fourteen  arches,  now  as  useless 
as  the  rest,  for  the  river  hae  taken  another 
course.  The  temple  at  Ongcor  Thom  is 
caUed  "hide-and-seek  playing  pagoda," 
because  the  galleries  connecting  its  thirty- 
seven  towers  so  cross  and  recrosa  sa  to 
make  it  very  hard  to  find  one's  way.  One 
tradition  is,  that  a  smaller  pagoda,  called 
"  temple  of  the  angels,"  was  a  celebrated 
school  of  Buddhist  theology.  Anotherst<H7 
is,  that  ropes  were  stretched  from  tower  to 
tower,  on  which  danced  native  Bloudins 
for  the  delectation  of  the  king  as  he  sat  on 
one  of  the  terraces.     But  properly  there  ia 


no  tradition,  thete  aM  only  atwiea  invented 
partly  to  aocoant  for  woric  attributed  some- 
times te  tJie  "leprous  king,"  sometimea  to 
giontfl,  sometimes  to  the  "king  of  the 
angels,"  OnsmanwhomHonhotqaestioned 
answered,  like  Topsv  in  Unde  Tom's 
Cabin  :  "  It  made  itself." 

What  a  contrast  between  these  grsnd 
temple  -  palaces  and  those  of  Si^ese 
princes  nowadays  I  Inside  especially,  a 
modem  Siamese  palace  teiU  short  of  expec- 
tatuH).  What  with  (4d  glass  bottles, 
looking-glaesee,  sHppers,  sofas,  washstands 
piled  up  on  tables,  it  looks  more  like  a 
broker's  shop  than  the  abode  of  royalty. 

The  present  people  ate  a  mixed  race. 
Annamites  have  come  in  as  comjnwors,  so 
have  Siamese,  so  have  Chinamen.  The 
latter  lugely  outnumber  the  nativee. 
Indeed,  to  find  a  pare  blood  Cambodian, 
you  must  go  for  into  the  moon  tain  forests,  or 
to  one  of  the  villages  of  exiles,  descendants 
of  those  whom  tAe  invaders  carried  otT. 
Lasy  they  are,  says  Moobot,  becanae  the 
more  they  produce  the  heavier  are  the 
taxes ;  dirty,  because  their  abject  poverty 
gives  them  no  heart  to  be  clean ;  soft- 
natured — tbf^  call  a  tiger  "  grandfatfan','' 
and  humbly  beg  its  paraon  when  tbej  are 
trying  to  kill  it;  and  if  tiiey  kill  an 
elephant,  they  held  a  feast  to  propitiat«  its 
soul,  ofi^ering  rice,  and  spirits,  and  betel,  of 
which,  and  of  tlie  flesh  of  tlie  elephant, 
the  whole  village  partakes.  The  Catholic 
missionaries,  who  most  be  amongst  the 
moat  devoted  even  of  that  self-denyingbody, 
think  that  one  of  the  forest  tribes  most  be 
Jews,  left,  of  course,  by  Solomon's  ship- 
men,  for  everybody  knows  that  hereabouts 
was  Aurea  Cbersonesns,  that  golden  pmin- 
SQ]a;which,  in  my  boyish  days,  was  thought 
to  be  Ophir.  This  tribe  practises  cirouo- 
cision,  abstains  from  pork,  and  is  s^d  to 
sacrifice  a  red  heifer.  The  first  usage 
proves  nothing,  for  Australians  and  many 
other  savages  do  the  same. 

The  nnpleasantest  of  all  these  people  are 
the  Annamites,  so  impassive  (says  Monhot) 
that  after  ten  years'  absence  a  son  won't 
kiss  his  parents  —  fancy  what  a,  French- 
man, who  kisses  his  bearded  Mend  when 


that  Father  Cordier,  whom  Moohot  fonnd 
dying,  with  no  regret  but  that  he  could  not 
see  his  parents  once  again,  confessed  there 
bod  been  very  little  answer  in  the  way  of 
conversions  to  all  bis  preaching,  llie 
Siamese,  even  in  Mouhot's  day,  were  m(A- 
ing  themselves  with  European  dress.    How 


MOUHOT,  THE  EXPLORES. 


[Deoember  S,  U88.)      67 


mfinitely  lass  gncefal  the  two  wires  o(  t^e 
lOeoBd  king,  with  flowers  &nd  fiirbelows  and 
ribboD-tritnioed  caps,  look  than  low-olass 
gttis  in  tiieir  shwt  kilts ;  how  clamsy  the 
grul  men  in  their  coats  and  tnmsers  com- 
pired  with  the  boy  prince  with  angular 
clothaa,  and  a  cap  like  a  pagoda,  and  any 
nnnbar  of  bangles  on  legs  and  arms,  who 
fitees  the  preface  to  the  first  oE  Monhot's 
ralamesL  The  fonnieat  of  Moohot's  pic- 
iQiea  is  an  amazon  of  tha  body-gaard  in 
fall  Highland  dresa,  looking  as  pert  as  a 
virandi6re. 

France,  by  the  way,  clunu  old  ac- 
qnuDtance  with  Siatn.  This  kingdom  of 
the  tne — Monang  Thai,  for  that,  despite 
aU  their  slavish  prostrations  and  generally 
abject  ways,  is  their  name  for  themselTes, 
Siam  being  only  a  Malay  word  meaniiig 
broirn — was  visited  jiut  at  the  beginning 
o(  the  eighteenth  centnry  by  Conatantine 
Phiulkon,  a  Greek  merobant,  who  roso  to 
be  goremor  of  all  the  North  Provinces, 
■od  built  aqnedacta  and  temples,  and  other- 
wise diatiBgatshed  himaelt  He  persoaded 
the  king  to  send  an  embassy  to  Loaia  the 
Fourteenth ;  and  Loois  sent  ambassadora 
in  retam,  and  Jesuits  with  tiiem,  and — 
ttrange  mixture — a  general  and  fivehandred 
men  to  hold  a  fort  at  Bangkok,  Why  not  I 
The  Datch  had  a  trading  post  at  Aynthia, 
whioh  had,  till  1350,  been  the  capiMi,  and 
vhere,  also,  are  ruins  and  colossal  figures 
like  the  Dai-bntz — hnge  Baddha  busts — in 
JspUL  Bangkok  they  found,  then  ae  now,  a 
Teoice  of  the  East  Yon  ar«  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  city  before  yon  know  yon  have 
reached  it.  All  the  houses  were,  and  are,  on 
piles,  even  those  that  are  built  away  from 
the  water.  Everybody,  from  the  king  in  his 
mnd  carved  and  gilded  and  parasolled  and 
bannered  barge  to  the  poor  fishwoman, 
went,  and  still  goes,  by  water.  Little 
ehildrei),  who  can  scarcely  speak,  learn  to 
handle  &  paddle.  But  the  five  hondred 
men  roused  suspicions ;  they  had  to  go,  and 
the  Jeeoite  with  them;  and  it  was  only 
by  stealth  that  GhnstlanitT',  at  first 
tolnated,  was  spread  among  a  laithfnl  fow. 
I  want  to  read  some  day  what  these  Jesuits 
■»  of  ^am,  and  what  Mendez  Pinto  and 
lundelslohe — both  in  the  first  quarter  of 
the  sixteenth  century — tell  about  it.  Were 
there  Chinese  pirates  and  sea-kings  then  1 
They  come  in,  tike  the  Black  Flag  men  now- 
adays, every  nowandthenin  Siamese  annals; 
and  like  Norsemen  they  sold  their  swords ; 
Pega  hired  them  against  Siam,  Burmah 
igatnst  both.  Mnn  Suy  was  a  famous  man 
of  this  class  whom  Mouhot  saw  in  his  state 


bsrge.  He  had  come  to  trade,  and  then 
had  suddenly  fallen  on  and  looted  a  town. 
The  townsmen,  however,  ndlted  and  drove 
him  to  his  ships,  bat  the  king  of  Cambodia, 
thinkii^  he  might  be  useful,  made  friends 
with  him,  and  abetted  him  in  his  nude,  and 
once  when  inquisition  was  made  for  him  by 
the  king  of  Siam,  he  hid  him  in  his  palace. 

Moahotia  such  pleasant  company  that  one 
does  not  like  to  give  him  up.  He  tella 
everything,  how  be  kept  himself  and  hia 
eacort  for  a  franc  a  day,  how  he  gave  the 
children  cigar-ends  if  they  brought  him 
rare  insects.  He  is  often  in  a  strait 
Being  French  he  thinks  France  ought  to 
be  the  pioneer  of  civilisation  in  the  far 
East  Yet  he  loves  England,  and  bitterly 
eontrasts  the  kindness  which  he  received 
from  onr  people  with  the  way  in  which 
hia  own  nation  neglected  him. 

Beaides  bis  insects,  and  shells,  and 
plants,  he  collected  folk-lore,  only  a  little 
of  which  haa  been  pnblished.  It  proves 
these  people  to  be  as  full  of  fiin  aa  their  own 
apes,  whose  great  delight  la  to  play  bob- 
cherry  with  the  slligatorfL  Holding  on 
to  one  another's  tails  they  form-a  string, 
and  the  last  of  them  is  tjie  cherry,  whim 
ia  bobbed  temptingly  within  an  inch  of 
the  creature's  jaws.  One  geta  anapped  up 
now  and  then,  and  the  rest  fly  off  bowling; 
but  "  they  come  back  again  in  a  few  days 
and  renew  their  game." 

Here  is  an  Indo-Chinese  fable  in  which 
the  principle  of  co<»peration  comes  out 
more  strongly  than  in  its  European 
parallel.  The  hare  used  to  have  thick 
ears  like  other  beasts.  The  snail  gnawed 
them  thin  in  consequence  of  a  bet  which 
could  soonest  reach  the  nee-fields  of  a 
distant  village.  Naturally  the  snail  got  a 
good  start  given  him,  and  aa  soon  as  the 
hare  had  begun  browsing  he  passed  the  word 
to  his  brother  snail,  bidding  him  send  it 
along  the  whole  line,  that  when  the  hare 
spoke  the  answer  might  be  given  from  far 
ahead.  So  aa  soon  aa  puaa  bad  finished  her 
meal,  she  flew  over  the  groond  and  began 
calling  the  snail,  expecting  to  pass  him  at 
once.  "  Oho,"  replied  a  snail  from  ever  ao 
far  on.  "  Why,  he's  nearly  there,"  thought 
the  hare,  and  was  off  like  an  arrow.  In  a 
minute  or  two  she  stopped  and  called 
^ain.  "  Oho,"  answered  a  voice  still 
njther  ofL  "  This  will  never  do,"  said 
puss,  and  rushed  on  so  fast  that  ^e  got 
out  of  breath,  and  gasped  oat :  "  Where 
areyounowt"  "Oho  I  "was  the  reply,  quite 
faint  in  the  distance.  "I  must  make  haste, 
or  I  shall  lose  mv  bet"    So  on  she  went. 


|D«i»nbra  8,1881.] 


ALL  THE  TEAS  BOUITD. 


stumbling,  and  at  lut  stopped,  dead  beati 
a  few  yards  from  tihe  rice-fields,  A  snail  was 
coming  quietly  back.  "Wiat,  have  yon 
been  diere  already  t  Then  I're  lost,"  and 
she  tried  to  escape,  but  her  strength  failed, 
and  the  snaU  pitilessly  gnawed  her  ean. 

Here  is  a  tale  with  a.  good  moral :  There 
were  two  consins — Mon,  cunning  and  selfiabf 
owned  a  dog;  Ahlo-Sin,  good  and  simple 
beyond  mesanre,  possessed  a  bufftdo. 
Sowing  time  was  nigh.  "  Come,  couan," 
said  Moa,  "  yonr  field  is  but  emslL  Take 
my  dog;  he'll  do  your  ploughing  ad- 
mirably; and  give  me  your  bufiTdo."  Ah- 
lo-Sin was  too  good-natored  to  say  "  No," 
so  he  took  tho  dog,  and  worked  so  well 
that  he  got  much  the  better  crop  of  the 
two.  This  made  Mon  so  spiteful  that 
ha  set  fire  to  hiB  couain'a  field,  and 
poor  Ah-lo-Sin  was  in  such  despair  that  he 
actually  went  and  rolled  among  the  fliames. 
Some  monkeys  who  were  out  on  a  plunder- 
ing expeditdon,  saw  him,  and  sud  :  "  This 
most  surely  be  a  god,  for  fire  doesn't  hart 
him  I "  So  they  took  and  carried  htm  to 
a  mountain-top,  and  while  he  slept,  piled 
up  round  him  gold  and  silver  bowls,  and  rice 
and  rare  finits.  When  he  awoke,  he  was 
indeed  a  happy  man,  and  took  home  bis 
treasures.  But  greedy  Mou  watched  him, 
and  said :  "  Why,  you're  as  rich  as  a  prince. 
You'll  give  me  some,  won't  you  1 "  "  No," 
replied  Ah-lo-Sin, "  for  you're  a  bad  fellow, 
and  set  my  field  on  fire."  So  Mon  went 
off  and  set  fire  to  his  own  field,  and 
rolled  in  it;  and  forthwith  came  five 
monkeys,  one  of  them  a  yonng  one ;  and 
when  the  four  had  got  him  by  the  arms 
and  legs,  the  little  one  began  to  cry  :  "  Let 
me  help  carry  him."  "  But  there's  nothing 
for  yon  to  hold  him  by,"  replied  its  mother. 
The  little  monkey  went  on  ciying,  and  at 
last  got  bold  of  Mou  by  the  hair  of  the 
head,  and  led  the  procession.  Uou  didn't 
enjoy  having  his  hair  pulled,  and  bit  the 
little  monkey  till  it  screamed.  "Ah, 
yoa're  angry  I  You're  no  god.  Stay  there, 
then  I "  cried  the  rest,  and  threw  Mon  into 
a  thom-bush.  He  was  all  day  stmggling 
before  he  could  get  out,  and  was  covered 
with  blood,  when  he  got  home.  "Wdl, 
Where's  your  gold  and  silver  t "  asked  Ah- 
lo-Sin.  "  Ah,  I'm  well  punished  for  harm- 
ing you  I"  said  the  repentant  Mou.  "I 
bring  back  nothing  but  needles.  Oall  the 
women  to  take  them  ont  of  me." 

One  fable  more  before  I  have  done  with 
Mouhot  I  choose  it  because  it  makes 
Fuss  to  be  as  clever  aa  Brer  Rabbit  him- 
self.    One  night,  in  a  very  thick  forest, 


the  elephant  began  howling,  and  the  tiger 
replied  with  howliugs  still  more  dismal 
Monkeys,  stags,  and  beasta  of  all  kinds 
joined  m  the  ^orus,  and  began  making  off 
to  their  dens.  The  elephant  himself  lost 
his  presence  of  mind,  and  ran  away  at  full 
speed  till  he  met  the  hare,  who  said: 
"What  are  you  running  away  fort" 
"Don't  yon  hear  that  oreadfiu  tiger t 
Wonld  yon  have  me  stop  to  be  eaton  up  I " 
"  Never  fear,"  said  the  hare.  "  Just  sit 
down  and  let  me  jump  on  your  back,  and 
X'il  warrant  no  haim  will  happen  to  you." 
Before  he  jumped  up  the  hare  pat  a  big 
bit  of  betel  into  his  mouth,  and  had  let  a 
stream  of  red  saliva  run  down  the 
elephant's  back  by  the  time  the  tiger  came 
up.  "  What  do  yon  want  here  1 "  said  the 
hare  quito  fiercely,  without  giving  the  other 
time  to  say  a  word.  "Doat  you  see  this 
elephant  isn't  too  much  for  me  f  Do  vou 
think  111  let  yon  go  shares ) "  So,  aeeang, 
as  he  supposed,  the  blood,  the  tiger  got 
behind  a  tree  to  watoh.  The  hare  tiien  bit 
the  elephant's  ear,  and  the  elephant — as 
had  been  agreed  between  them  —  gave  a 
scream.  "How  strong  he  isl"  said  the 
tiger;  but  he  stayed  a  minute  longer  to 
watch.  So  the  hare,  who  seemed  quite 
master  of  his  prey,  cried : ' '  Wait  a  nunnte, 
and  111  come  to  yon  next,"  and  looked  so 
much  as  though  he  was  getting  ready 
for  a  spring,  thtt  the  tiger  got  frightened 
and  tamed  tul.  As  he  went  off,  swinging 
through  the  jangle,  a  chimpanzee  bunt 
out  laughing.  "Don't  laugh,  I've  jast 
escaped  from  death."  "  How  so  1  I'd  like 
to  see  the  beast  who  frightened  yoa 
Take  me  to  him."  "What,  to  be  eaten  up 
too  1 "  "  Come,  now ;  don't  be  in  a  fright. 
I'll  jump  on  yonr  back,  and  we'll  tie  our 
tails  togetlier,  and  then  we  shall  ran  no 
risk."  After  much  persuasion  the  tiger 
went  back,  but  as  he  was  coming  near,  Uie 
hare  chewed  a  fresh  bit  of  betel ;  and  as 
the  red  saliva  sb^amed  down,  "  Yoa  dare 
to  come  back  1 "  he  shonted ;  "  stop  a 
minuto,  and  111  punish  yoa  as  you  deserve." 
At  the  same  time  he  nudged  ibe  elephant, 
who  uttered  an  agonising  cry,  while  the 
hare  made  a  great  leap  on  his  sham  victim's 
back.  Again  the  tiger  lost  heart,  and 
mshed  away  at  full  speed,  crying  to  the 
chimpanzee,  "Now  you  see  I'd  something  te 
be  afraid  of.  We've  both  narrowly  escaped 
being  eaten  up."  Bat  the  chimpanzee  was 
past  nearing,  for  he'd  fallen  off  the  tiger's 
back,  and  got  dashed  to  death  against  a 
bamboo.  Moral :  Finnneaa  and  presence 
of  mind  often  make  heroes  of  coinirda 


People  who  can  inveiit  boi^  talea  and 
&blea,  deearve  k  better  fate  than  to  be 
"  improred  off  the  face  of  the  earth ; "  let 
m  hope  their  French  governors,  wheo  they 
gA  them,  iriU  be  of  the  good  sort  hoped 
tw  for  them  bf  the  amiable  Mouhot 
lifins  either  among  the  wild  people,  or 
irith  rrench  miaeiiHiariee  when  tiiere  were 
inj — what  a  leuon  in  tolerance  is  the  w»j 
in  which  he  and  they  got  on  blether  t— 
onr  traveller  kept  fever  at  bay  for  four 
yean.  He  was  not  so  snccewfiil  with 
animated  peat&  In  that  steamy  atmo- 
iphere  thnve  scorpions,  centipedes,  mos- 
qintos,  and  leaches.  As  yon  are  getting 
into  bed  yon  have  to  look  ont  for  snakes. 
angers  roai  round  the  stockading,  and  carry 
<£  a  do^  or  a  goat ;  elephants  come  and 
try  to  ^rce  their  way  in  to  get  at  the 
joaag  maize.  Perh^  the  leeches  were 
tits  worst  of  all ;  they  bit  him  savagely. 
"  Often,"  he  si^s,  "  my  white  drawers  have 
been  dyed  as  red  aa  a  French  soldier's 
^naers."  He  has  a  word  for  everybody ; 
his  Cbioese  servant  (one  of  the  two  who 
went  10  ftutbfiil  to  the  last)  is  a  model 
of  handiness  and  good-homoor,  aad  the 
min's  father  he  always  speaks  of  as  "  the 
worthy  old  A-^t"  He  does  not  like  the 
Annamitea.  They  are  prond,  revengefitl, 
choleric,  cruel  to  the  poor,  and  deserve  all 
torta  of  l»d  epithets,  yet  withal  honest 
and  kind  to  strangers.  And  as  to  tite 
eonntiy,  he  is  constantly  reflecUng  what  it 
Duht  become  if  it  were  wisely  governed, 
and  settled  with  European  colonists.  Of 
some  parts  {not,  of  coarse,  of  the  swampy 
tonebi  in  which  mach  of  lus  own  time  was 
spent)  he  says ;  "  It  has  a  rich  soil,  a 
healthy  climate,  neamees  to  the  sea,  a  good 
water-way.  Nothing  is  wanting  to  enanre 
nicoesa  to  an  indnstrions  and  enterprising 
agricnltnrist."  We  hope  the  French  pio- 
neers who  do  go  oat  wQt  take  care  to  get 
tothe  right  place;  for  on  Mouhot's  own 
showing  a  good  deid  of  the  country  is  like 
Ute  ute  of  Martin  Chozzlewit's  "City  of 
Eden." 


JENIFER. 

BT  U(NU  THOMAB  (HB8.  PnTDIS-CnDUP). 

'     CBAPTER  XXIX.    REALtTIBS. 

Thk  pleasant  shooting-boz  proffered  to 
him  uid  his  bride,  by  a  kindly  natnred  but 
rather  aketchy  Mend,  was  rather  dis- 
^pointing  to  Captun  Edgecomb  at  the 
first  glance. 

"  YottU  find  it  a  little  out  of  order, 
DerbaDB.    in    the    wav    of    caroets    and 


[Deosmbw  B,  U8S.1     69 

cnrtains,"  the  friend  had  said  candidly ;  I 
"  but  if  your  wife  can  do  without  Persian 
rugs  and  "Liberty"  silk  hangings  for  a  few 
weeks  in  the  midst  of  the  loveliest  scenery 
in  the  world,  it's  the  place  for  yon,  and 
you're  welcome  to  it  My  servants  will  treat 
you  capitally,  I'm  sure ;  and  if  thdy  drink 
too  much  whisky  by  accident,  kick  'em  out." 

It  was  a  little  oat  of  order ;  there  was 
no  gunsaying  that.  The  drainage,  appa- 
rently, was  raUier  worse  than  usuid,  for 
the  cook,  who  received  them,  Bpol(%ised  for 
it  Green  damp  had  things  all  its  own  way 
outside  on  the  trellis-work  and  verandah. 
Dry  rot  was  the  reigning  power  in  the  house. 
Everytlung  smelt  mosty  and  felt  moist, 
and,  to  add  to  these  inconveniences,  the 
cook's  husband,  who  was  gardener,  groom, 
and  butler,  had  been  affi^ly  assisting  in 
the  bottling  of  whisky  in  a  Cork  spirit- 
store  in  the  morning,  and  the  fames  of  it 
having  ascended  to  his  brain,  he  had  come 
home  at  midday  quarrelsome  and  exhausted. 

Accordingly,  instead  of  the  fairest  face 
being  put  apon  all  things  for  the  benefit 
of  l£e  new  comers,  the  butler  refused  to 
arrange  the  dinner-table,  and  the  cook 
bewailed  herself  for  having  to  cook  a  dinner, 
and  neither  of  them  made  things  easy 
about  the  collecting  materials  for  that 
repast 

"  When  the  master  and  tnisthreBS — the 
Lord  be  good  to  them  I — come  here,  they 
come  as  behoulds  the  gintry ;  it's  servants 
they  bring  to  do  their  worrk,  and  hampers 
fall  of  beautiful  things  all  ready  made  to  ye 
tongne  to  taste.  And  then  out  from  Cark 
come  the  grandest  joints  ready  to  pat  to 
the  fire,  and  it's  no  trouble  or  vexation 
they  give  ye  the  whole  time  they're  here." 

Thus  the  irate  and  despuring  queen  of 
the  kitchen  to  her  fatigued  and  dispirited 
temporary  mistress.  But  fatigued  and 
dispirited  as  she  was,  Jenifer  was  still  a 
match  for  any  would-be  petty  tyrant,  to 
whom  she  had  not  vowed  obedience. 

"Your  master  told  Captain  Edgecumb 
we  should  find  decent  and  willing  servants 

"And  if  ye  don't,  my  lady,  it's  the  faults 
of  your  honours  for  having  come  upon  us 
unawares,"  Biddy  said  blandly. 

"  If  I  don't  it  will  be  very  unpleasant 
for  us  jaat  for  to-night,  and  for  you,  when 
we  tell  your  msster  how  ungraciously  you 
have  served  ns,"  Jenifer  siud  more  severely 
than  aiw  would  have  spoken  had  other 
things  not  been  so  deplorably  disappointing 
to  her  daring  ^e  last  few  hours 


70 


|I>«Mmb«r  8, 1881.] 


ALL  THE  TSAB  BOUND. 


"  Oh  I "  Biddy  cried,  throwing  her  i^ron 
well  over  her  head  to  conceal  the  tears 
that  were  not  falling,  "  that  I  ehould  lire 
to  Bce  the  bad  day  when  itrangera  are  ait 
to  rule  over  iis  in  the  hooae  where  we've 
Berred  the  rale  oold  stock  aince  we  were 
born.  It's  not  of  your  ladyahip'e  honour 
I'm  Bpakine,"  she  added,  with  a  rapid 
change  to  fawning,  cringing  eervility,  aa 
Captain  Edgecamb  came  ap.  "  I'm  saying, 
yer  honour,  that  it'e  the  Borrowfiil  day  for 
me  that  I  can't  go  right  away  up  to  Cark 
this  very  minate,  and  bring  the  best  oat 
for  ye  that  the  market  'ill  serve  yon  with." 

She  rubbed  her  hands  deprecatbgly 
toge^er  as  she  spoke,  and  smiled  slyly 
and  beseechingly  at  Jenifer,  who  was  more 
revolted  by  this  endden  change  to 
obaeqaionsness,  than  she  had  been  by  the 
mde  brutality  which  had  preceded  it. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  you'll  do  everything  that's 
to  be  done,  Biddy,"  he  said  affably.  "  Yon 
and  I  are  old  friends,  aren't  we  1  And  now 
I've  hronght  my  wife  here  to  get  her  first 
impressions  of  Ireland.  Pleasant  ones  I'm 
sure  they'll  be." 

"  It'B  not '  pleasant '  the  yoong  misthress 
thinka  them,  I'm  fearing,"  howled  the 
sycophant,  again  casting  her  apron  over 
her  now  rather  malignant  visage.  "  It's  I 
that  have  failed  to  give  satisfaction  to  a 
lady,  and  she  not  my  own  mistress,  too, 
for  the  first  time  since  I  went  into  service  I  I 
that  was  trained  in  the  house,  and  that  the 

E resent  master's  mother — suots  be  good  to 
er  t — trained  to  be  her  own  maid !  Oh, 
that  I've  lived  to  aee  the  day  1  Oh,  joat  all 
I  ask  of  ye,  since  I'm  despised  by  ye  so,  is 
to  take  me  away  and  bury  me ;  and  the 
stunts  have  mercy  on  your  sowl  1 " 

"  Poor  thing  I  yonVe  hart  her  feelings 
awfully,  Jenifer,"  her  husband  atud, 
hurrying  her  out  of  earshot  of  the  now 
hysterically  sobbing  cook.  "  These  people 
are  aMnlly  sensitive,  anything  like  carping 
at  unavoidable  inconveniences,  or  want  of 
sympathy  with  their  endeavonrs  to  do  their 
best  to  serve  yon,  harts  them  painfully. 
Do  try  to  be  a  little  less  hard,  dear.  When 
I've  been  here  with  O'Connor  and  his  wife, 
everytUng  haa  gone  admirably.  You'll 
find  Biddy  and  the  rest  of  ^em  as  easy  to 
manage  as  infanta,  if  only  you're  gentle  and 
consistent  with  them." 

"  Perhaps  that  course  of  treatment  would 
agree  better  with  me  aleo,"  Jmifer  thonght, 
but  she  only  said  : 

"Biddy  shall  not  suffer  from  my  rough 
heavy-handed  away  an  hour  longer  if  I  can 
help  it     Do  let  us  ko  to  some  little  quiet 


country  hotel,  where  we  shall  be  quite 
unknown  and  independent  I  have  heard 
of  the  inn  at  Cappoquin.  Effie  stayed  there 
once ;  you  won't  dispnte  her  taste ;  and  she 
declfu«d  it  to  be  the  '  nicest  thing  of  the 
kind  that  she  had  seen  in  Ireland.' " 

"  You  suggest  a  vary  ridiculous  alteraa- 
tive  out  of  a  very  puerile  dtfficnlty,  dear," 
he  said,  laughing  in  the  superior  maoaeT 
he  felt  it  well  to  assume  over  Jenifer. 
"After  BOseptJug  the  loan  of  a  feliov's 
place,  and  staff  of  servants,  for  a  honey- 
moon, it  would  be  rather '  crude,'  to  aay  the 
least  of  it,  to  go  off  in  a  huff,  simply  becaiue 
there  was  no  dinner  prepared  to  meet  yoiit 
views  on  our  arrival." 

"  The  dinner  is  of  no  importance  to  me," 
she  said  wearily;  "a  cup  of  tea  and  some 
dry  toast  will  satisfy  all  my  reqnirementa" 

"Mine  are  a  little  more  aubstantJal,"  he 
laughed;  "and  I  think,  dear,  you'll  find 
that  Biddy,  who  has  been  accustomed  to 
Mrs.  O'Connor's  sensible  and  pracdoal  rale, 
will  think  ratiier  more  lowly  of  your  house- 
wifely powers  than  you  deserve,  if  yon 
don't  have  a  consultation  with  her,  and 
evolve  a  decent  dinner  out  of  the  resources 
of  this  district  for  eight  o'clock." 

But,  when  Jenifer  went  to  put  her  lord's 
precepts  into  practice,  she  found  that  Biddy 
was  not  at  all  amenable  to  her  advances. 
Larry,  Biddy's  huaband,  had  by  tlda  time 
crept  out  of  a  coal-hole,  where  he  had  been 
indulging  In  happyif  not  healthful  alumben, 
and  had.throngfaviolentlyrestoratire  means, 
pulled  himself  tt^ther.  For  instance,  he 
had  druuh  a  pint  of  milk  (charged  after- 
wards to  the  quality  aa  having  been 
supplied  for  Jenifer's  cup  of  tea),  and  his 
head  had  been  dipped  into  a  pailfol  of 
water  by  his  spouse. '  She  bad  then  scrubbed 
up  his  face  and  hands  with  plenty  of  soap, 
soda,  and  hot  water,  and  having  put  a  fine 
ruddy  polish  on  \am,  she  had  set  him 
abont  hia  work  of  ordering  the  table 
fairly. 

But  though  Biddy  had  put  this  part  of 
the  business  in  working  order,  and  thongh 
she  meant  it  to  be  all  right  at  the  last,  she 
was  determined  to  give  the  fenunine 
invader  a  "  good  twisting "  for  her  rash 
threat  of  informing  the  ahsent  master  of 
his  retainer's  incapacity  and  insolence. 

"  She's  the  impndince  to  come  here  and 
expect  to  be  treated  like  one  of  our  own ; 
she  that,  for  all  her  grand  looks  and  high 
ways,  is  glad  to  oome  to  another  man's 
house  than  her  husband's  in  her  first  mar- 
ried days.  Foof  I "  and  with  tlus  unspell- 
able  but  expressive  exclamatioB  of   the 


most  dire  contempt,  Biddy  settled  herself 
vith  her  daddeen  in  the  Mtchen  ahimney- 
Gomer,  and  waited  events,  knowing  all  the 
vhiie  that  in  the  larder  she  had  banging  a 
leg  of  muttoD,  the  like  of  which  had  seldom 
come  oat  of  Cork  market  even;  soles, 
thU  had  eTidentlf  come  into  eziatenoe  for 
the  expreos  porpoae  of  being  delicately 
treated  to  egg,  breadcrambs,  and  the  pro- 
CMS  of  frying ;  and  many  other  delicacies, 
mention  of  which  need  not  be  made  here. 

Accordingly,  when  Jenifer  made  her 
viy  into  the  close,  unsavonry,  and  scanttly- 
fDiiiished  kitchen,  Biddy  gave  her  no 
gTwting,  bat  still  sqnatted  down  on  her 
humches,  rebainiog  her  balance  while  in 
that  attitade  in  a  way  that  was  almost 
miraealous,  considering  the  qoantity  of 
TiiBky  she  bad  absorbm  into  her  system 
dooe  her  hosband  had  come  home  with  a 
bottle  concealed  among  his  rags  aboat  two 
hoars  before. 

"Captain  Edgecnmb  asked  ma  to  come 
aod  speak  to  yoa  aboat  dinner — at  eight 
o'clock  he  wanta  to  have  it  Can  yoa  get 
us  anything  to  eat  by  that  time  1 " 

"There's  fine  praties  in  the  cow-shed, 
ud  there's  some  of  the  misthress's  g^°i0- 
fowls  ranning  in  the  yard,"  Biddy 
anawered,  pnffing  oat  a  rolume  of  strong 
■mok& 

"They'll  be  toagh,  won't  they  t"  Jenifer 
niggested. 

"Is  it  the  praties  will  be  toagh  1 "  Biddy 
uked  with  a  scomfnl  langh. 

"No,  the  fowla" 

"  The  misthresa's  prize  game-fowls  ye're 
meaning;  they're  tender  enough  for  the 
mister  and  misthress,  may  be  they'll  be 
too  toagh  for  yoa,  my  lady." 

Jenifer  glanced  roand  the  smoke  and 
filtii  stained  apartment,  and  a  feeling  oame 
oi%r  her  that  if  she  stayed  there  an 
instant  longer,  she  woold  revolt  at  every- 
tluDg  cooked  in  it  So  merely  saying: 
''Well,  do  yonr  best  for  aa,  please,  Biddy, 
hy  eight  o'clock,  remember,"  she  turned 
to  leave  the  kitchen. 

The  cook  was  melted  by  this  forbear- 
ance. 

"  Don't  yoa  fear,  ma'am,  that  you'll  not 
have  as  dacent  a  dinner  aa  ever  was  placed 
before  qnality  at  eight  o'clock.  Sare  and 
it's  I  who'd  do  my  boat  for  a  grand  gentle- 
manlike  the  captain,  for 'tis  he  that  always 
lui  the  kind  word  and  smile  for  a  servant, 
and  many  a  time  he's  stood  between  Larry 
and  the  master,  when  Larry's  had  the  drop 
too  mudL  See,  now,"  and  she  got  up 
from  her  ontnohinir  attitude  witli  startliniF 


PEB.  |J>«cemb«r8,U8S.l     71 

alacrity,  and  flung  open  the  door  of  a 
larder  that  was  a  curiosity  by  reason  of  its 
indescribable  mnddlo,  dirt,  and  high  smells. 
"  I  was  just  tasing  ye,  I  was,"  she  said 
ingratiatingly.  "See  what  I  have  here  I 
It's  this  that  is  the  fine  leg  of  mutton, 
sore,  and  the  soles'  asking  ye  to  ate 
them,  they're  so  fresh  and  beautiful,  and 
the  turkey  that's  been  fed  in  my  own 
daughter's  kitchen,  where  the  best  turkeys 
that  go  into  Cark  market  are  reared,  and 
the  lobster  for  the  master's  salad.  Oh, 
it's  not  I  that  have  forgotten  anything, 
and  ye'U  be  telling  t^o  master  so  now, 
won't  ye,  my  lady,  and  not  get  poor  old 
Biddy  into  trouble,"  she  added  coazingly. 

"  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  everything  so 
long  as  Captain  Edgeoumb  is,"  Jenifer 
said,  backing  out  of  reach  of  the  pungent 
odours  which  proceeded  from  every  object, 
Biddy  included,  around  her.  Then  Biddy's 
spirit  became  buoyant  again,  and  she  pro- 
ceeded to  show  the  "new  misthress"  to 
her  bedroom,  chattering  all  the  way  up  the 
dosty  stiurs  with  a  volubility  that  made 
Jenifer  long  for  a  return  of  sileut  sulks. 

The  dinner  was  as  good  as  Biddy  in  her 
better  mood  had  promised  it  should  ba 
And  as  the  table,  with  its  fair  display  of 
snow-white  napery,  brigbtly-poliBhed  silver, 
and  glittering  glass,  was  the  only  one  clean 
spot  Jenifer's  eyes  had  lighted  upon  since 
she  came  into  the  house,  she  regarded  it 
wi^  pleasure. 

Captain  Edgecnmb  regarded  it  with 
pleasure  also,  from  a  different  point  of 
view.  Biddy  had  not  overrated  her  culi- 
nary powers,  and  the  wine,  which  Larry 
selected  from  his  master's  c^lar,  did  credit 
to  his  own  taste.  In  explanation  of  the 
secret  of  his  selection,  it  may  be  told  that 
he  took  a  fair  toll  on  every  bottle  he 
opened  for  his  master's  guests,  never 
givii^  them  anything  which  he  did  not 
find  good  enough  for  his  own  drinking. 

"This  is  very  pretty  and  comfortable, 
isn't  it  I "  sud  Captain  Edgeoumb  as  they 
sat  together  at  an  open  window  and  looked 
out  upon  a  disorderiy  garden,  rich  in  the 
natural  beauties  of  myrtle,  swoet«cented 
verbena,  flowering  laurel,  arbatus-trees 
covered  with  fast-ripening  berries,  and 
many  another  of  the  exquisite  eve^eens 
for  which  the  south  of  Lreland  is  so  jastly 
famous. 

"Yes,  Why  don't  they  keep  it  cleaner)" 
Jenifer  assented,  and  asked. 

"  Oh,   I  don't   know !     Owner's   been 


72 


ALL  THE  TEAS  BOUm). 


[EMaSDlMrB,  UM.] 


Mrs.  O'Connor  waa  here  henelf  to  niper- 
intend  thingi.  If  yon  go  the  right  way  to 
work  yiith  theee  Beiruita,  yonll  soon  have 
the  house  like  a  new  pin." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  a  long  time  find- 
ing out  the  right  way,"  aho  said  brightly. 
"  I  ahall  begin  by  uking  them  to  use 
paila  of  water  and  diainfecting  fluid  over 
everything,  not  excepting  themaelvea." 

"Then  yon'il  hnff  them,  and  theyTl 
hate  yon.  If  yoa  contemplate  making 
any  such  iojndicioiu  anggeationa  aa  that, 
you  had  bettor  leare  things  to  me,  dear." 

"  Very  well — agreed ;  S  you'll  promiie 
that  you'll  have  the  place  got  clean  for  me," 
she  said  gaOy. 

"  And  now  rang  to  me,  Jenifer,"  be  said, 
opening  a  piano  and  then  drawing  her 
towBide  it  with  an  air  of  proprietonhip. 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  I'a  rather  not 
Bing  till  I've  rested.  My  throat  ia  rather 
Bore  to-night ;  to-morrow,  probably,  I  shall 
be  all  right" 

"But  I  do  mind,"  he  retried  with 
afiectionate  imperioosnese.  "  I  don't  mean 
yon  to  get  into  the  habit  of  refusing  to 
oblige  me  by  singing  when  yon  have  no 
pablic  engagement  to  fulfil  which  would 
necessitate  your    being    careful  of  your 

"  If  I'm  to  do  anything  with  it,  I  must 
always  be  careful  of  it,  yon  know." 

"Perhaps  I  know  more  about  it  than 
yon  imagine,"  he  laughed,  remembering 
the  American  actor's  prophecy  concerning 
the  Buccesfl  she  would  be  sure  to  make  on 
the  dramatic  stage  with  her  face  and  figure, 
should  Bhe  even  fail  as  a  vocalist 

But  Jenifer  held  to  her  detormination 
not  to  sing,  feeling  as  she  did  that  to 
try  her  voice  in  her  present  weakened 
and  nervous  stato  would  be  to  injure  it 
and  do  herself  scant  justice.  And  her 
refusal  annoyed  Captun  Edgecmnb  and 
caused  him  to  vividly  remember  that 
other  cause  of  annoyance  which  ehe  had 
given  him  with  regard  to  Jack  and  bis 
wife. 

"  As  your  mother  is  so  devoted  to  Jack 
and  his  wife,  I  almost  wonder  it  doesn't 
occur  to  her  to  go  and  live  with  them  at 
the  home-farm.  The  trifle  she  could  pay 
would  be  of  use  to  them." 

"  Ii^  mother  cannot  endure  Mrs.  Jack." 

"Why  should  she  have  thought  the 
prospect  of  Mrs.  Jack  endurable  in  my 
house,  then,  may  I  ask  I " 


"  Because  my  mother  loves  her  son,  and 
she  can't  be  kind  to  him  without  being  kind 
to  his  wife  also," 

"  My  people  won't  like  being  liable  to 
meet  Mrs.  Jack  Ray-r-you  understand  that, 
don't  yon,  dear  t " 

"  I  think  I  undentand." 

"  You're  not  going  to  lose  your  temper 
because  I  venture  to  make  a  remark  aboat 
not  wifhlng  to  have  objecUonable  people 
at  my  house,  are  you,  Jenifer  t "  be  aaked 
pleadingly,  and  though  Jenifer  felt  that  it 
was  all  pitiably  small  and  wearing,  for 
the  sake  of  the  peace  that  was  so  dear  to 
her,  she  allowed  herself  to  be  kived  and 
treated  aa  if  she  were  a  very  preciona  bat 
rather  unreasonable  child. 

"  We'll  have  some  trout  -  fishing  to- 
morrow," he  sud  cheerfully,  as  they  went 
upstairs  that  night.  But  on  the  morrow  it 
rained  all  day,  as  i(  did  the  day  after  that, 
and  after  that  again,  without  intermisaion. 
The  fires  would  not  bum  by  reason  of  the 
chimneys  being  choked  with  soot.  The 
damp  hong  in  dew-drops  on  the  walls. 
Larry  got  wet  through  with  innocent  rain 
while  going  into  Cork  for  provisions,  and 
wet  tuough  with  less  innocent  whisl^ 
when  he  got  there.  Conaequently  he 
retnmed  minus  meet  of  the  tMngs  he 
had  bought,  and  in  a  general  state  of 
incapacity.  The  London  papers  were  stale 
when  they  reached  this  seclnded  shooting- 
box.  The  Irish  papers  did  not  interest 
Captain  Edgecumb.  The  piano  went 
dumb  in  half  its  notes  through  the 
damp.  Jenifer  caught  a  virulent  sore- 
throat  from  the  same  cause,  united  with 
bad  drainage.  None  of  the  neighbouring 
gentry  were  resident  There  were  scarcely 
any  books  in  the  house.  And  Jenifer 
found  that  the  time  bad  not  yet  arrived 
when  she  "  could  talk  to  Captain  Edge- 
cumb without  tennis,  or  other  people." 


THE    EXTRA    CHRISTMAS    NUMBER 

ALL   THE   YEAR   ROUND, 

A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE," 

WALTER     BESANT 

(Aathoraf  '"Dib  C*pM]ti>'  Boom,-  "Lat  Nathli«  Yon 

DliDur,"  etc  sic), 

AND   OTHER    STORIES. 

Fries  SIXPENCE,  Mid  codUIdIiw  tlia  amount  ol  lima 

OrdlnuT  Numnsn. 


The  SigM  ttfTnmriatkv  AHidtifivni  ALL  TBI  Tux  Rouss  <i  rmttetd  by  M«  AiOima. 


ay  Go  ogle 


74     iDMembnlS.Um 


ALL  THE  TEAR  EOTIND. 


heaitation  most  nnoBiul  with  him — ^for, 
in  the  first  place,  Father  Puttoek  vm  an 
expert,  and  in  the  second  place,  he  laid 
down  the  law  so  demonstratively  that  a 
"but"  seemed  idiotic;  "bat  don't  you 
think  that  Friend  Munn  will  still  fancy  he 
had  some  hand  in  the  appointment  1 " 

"  How  can  he  t    The  bishop  appoints." 

"  But  he  binds  the  bishop  to  appoint" 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,  my  deaf  sir, 
excuse  me.  The  bishop,  on  the  lapse  of 
the  living,  will  appoint,  whether  Mr.  Munn 
likes  it  or  not  It  is  the  law  that  binds 
the  bidhop  to  appoint  Mr.  Munn's  inter- 
ference in  the  matter  amounts  simply  to 
this  :  he  minimises,  as  far  as  lies  in  his 
power,  what  he  thinks  an  evil — Church 
patronage — by  securiDg  the  appointment 
of  the  best  man  to  be  had.  It  is  simply 
choosing  the  lesser  of  two  evils.  You  don  t 
think  Gowpox  a  good  thing  in  itself,  doctoi-, 
but  you  think  it  a  good  thing  as  a  security 
against  smallpos ;  and  you  don't  think  the 
lav  in  league  with  disease  because  it  binds 
a  parent  to  have  hia  child  vaccinated." 

"  Yes,  but  all  this  only  goes  to  prove  that 
Friend  Mann  might,  without  scruple,  mak« 
the  appointment  himself  directly." 

"  What,   against   his   conscience ! " 
claimed  Father  Puttoek,  aghast. 

"  But  why  should  the  direct  appointment 
be  more  against  bis  conscience  than  this 
indirect  binding  of  the  bishop  to  appoint 
him ) " 

"My  dear  sir,"  replied  the  good  father, 
in  a  tone  of  some  impatience,  "  can't  you 
see  that  Mr.  Munn  may  think  his  con- 
science a  law  to  himself  but  not  to  the 
bishop )  He  may  very  well  think  it  wrong 
to  make  this  appointment  himself,  and  yet 
not  think  it  wrong  in  the  bishop  to  make 
it  or  for  him  to  suggest  it  to  the  bishop.  The 
Queen  may  think  it  wrong  to  appoint 
directly  to  a  bishopric,  but  she  doesn't 
think  a  cong6  d'l^lire  wrong." 

"  Well,  I  hope  Friend  Muno  will  si 
in  this  light" 

"I'm  not  sure  that  he  will.  Some  of 
these  pretentions  plain  dealers  are  all 
casuistry,  Jesuitry,  and  hair-splitting,  when 
you  come  to  tackle  them.  I  never  met  a 
man  of  them  who  was  straightforward.  I 
don't  know  that  it  wouldn't  be  your  safest 
plan,  doctor,  to  say  nothing  to  either  Mnnn 
or  Pybus  one  way  or  the  other ;  but  just  to 
write  to  the  bishop  and  extract  from  him  a 
promise  to  appoint  Pybus  to  Edgburn  in 
the  event  of  Its  lapsing  into  his  lordship's 
hands,  giving  him  clearly  to  understand 
that  on  this  condition  only  the  patronage 


would  be  allowed  to  lapse.  In  tiiis  way 
the  thing. could  be  managed  to  the  satJa- 
factioD  of  every  conscience  concerned.  The 
bishop  would  be  glad  of  the  patronage  of 
Chimside,  which  would  fall  to  him  by 
Pyhus's  promotion  to  Edgburn;  Munn 
would  be  glad  to  be  rid  with  a  safe  con- 
science of  the  living,  which  Fybua  would 
be  glad  with  a  safe  conscience  to  accept" 

This  plan  did  not  recommend  iteelf  to 
the  doctor,  in  part  because  it  left  out  of 
account  bis  own  conscience — which  was 
laic  and  qne&ey — and  in  part,  becauHe  he 
had  already  broached  the  matter  to  Mr. 
Munn.     He  fell  back,  therefore,  on   the 

food  father's  original  advice.  Perhaps 
'riend  Munn  would  not  think  it  casuistical 
Friend  Munn,  so  far  from  thinking  it 
casuisticsl,  welcomed  it  as  a  righteons 
escape  out  of  the  difficulty.  He  couldn't 
bring  himself  to  write  direct  lo  the  bishop 
at  the  cost  of  calling  him  "  My  lord ; "  but 
he  wrote  to  the  doctor  a  letter  to  be  shown 
to  the  bishop,  in  which  he  said  he  would 
be  glad  to  let  the  patronage  lapse,  in  the 
hope  of  the  bishop's  appointing  Mr.  Fybos 
to  the  living.  The  doctor  wrote,  enclosing 
this  letter,  to  the  bishop,  urgiog  Mr. 
Pyhus's  claims  upon  his  lordship,  and 
hinting  incidentally  that  Mr.  Pyhus's  views 
would  not  permit  him  to  accept  the  living 
from  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends. 

The  bishop  replied  with  the  courtesy  he 
always  used  towards  laymen,  and  especially 
laymen  of  position,  promising  that,  if  the 
patronage  was  allowed  to  lapse  to  him,  he 
would  appoint  Mr.  Pybus  to  the  living. 

But  there  were  still  some  months  to  run 
ere  the  living  lapsed,  and  the  bishop  bad 
plenty  of  time  to  forget,  and  did  forget, 
the  doctor's  hint  about  Mr.  Pyhus's  peculiar 
views-  of  the  Quakers.  Thue  it  happened 
that  in  his  letter  offering  the  Bev.  John 
the  living,  his  lordship  thought  it  right  to 
mention  that  the  offer  really  came  from 
Mr.  Munn,  who,  as  a  Member  of  the 
Society  of  Friends,  had  a  conscientioue 
objection  to  a  direct  exercise  of  his  patron- 
age.    Here  was  an  ugly  hitch ! 

In  a  moment  the  £«v.  John  saw  through 
the  design  of  this  member  of  the  objection- 
able sect  Mr.  Munn  had  read  his  pamphlet 
on  Baptism  at  Birth  by  Totid  Immer- 
sion, and  its  incidental  exposure  of  the 
Society  of  Friends  as  the  mother  of  unde- 
tected murderers,  who  were  shielded  by 
their  profession  from  suspicion,  and  by  the 
esprit  de  corps  of  the  sect  from  detection. 
Tttis  trenchant  exposure  must  be  hushed 
up,  and  its  author  silenced  by  bribery. 


CtoTlei  Mcteni.] 


A  DRAWN  OAUE. 


|D«o<mbu  IS,  ISSt.)     75 


EIm  why  ihonld  a  Qa&ker,  of  whom  he 
hoew  nothing,  and  who  could  know 
nothing  of  htm  except  from  hia  pamphlet, 
offer  fauQ  a  Imng  %  And  ofTer  it,  too,  with 
each  an  insidious  indirectness.  This  indi- 
rectneEawas,initself,decifii7flofMr,  Mann's 
motive.  If  Mr,  Mann  had  directly  appointed 
him,  the  world  would  know  what  to  think 
of  the  appointmont  and  its  motive,  of  the 
pabvn,  andofhissect  Bat  while  the  world 
was  to  he  allowed  to  think  that  the  appoint- 
ment was  the  bishop's,  he,  Mr.  Pybus,  waa 
to  be  privately  informed  that  it  was  really 
Mr.  Mnnn's.  "Ihw  he  was  to  be  bribed  with- 
ont  the  bribery  defeating  its  own  object  of 
aronsing  the  world's  attention  to  the 
transaction,  and  it«  BospidoQ  as  to  its 
secret  sprmgs. 

Tlina  the  Kev.  John  reasoned,  not 
plansibly  merely,  bnt  cogently  upon  the 
premise  before  him.  Lest  the  reader 
ahould  condemn  him  as  silly  or  insane  in 
his  views,  we  shall  epitomise  his  gronnds 
for  them,  a%  stated  in  the  before-mentioned 
pamphlet* 

If,  he  argued,  the  theory  of  sacramental 
grace  !a  true,  then  sach  Christians  as  have 
no  sacraments  most,  on  the  average,  be 
below  other  Christian  sects  in  virtue.  But 
(he  Qoakera  have  no  sacraments.  Then 
tiie  Quakers  must  be  below  the  average,  in 
virtue,  of  all  other  Christian  sects.  But 
they  seem  above  it  1  Certainly.  There- 
fore, they  most  be  bypocrites.  But 
hypocrites  alivays  pretend  most  to  the 
precise  virtues  in  whi<^  they  are  con- 
Bcionsly  most  defident,  protest  too  much, 
in  factw  What  then  is  tbe  special  virtue  to 
which  the  Qaakers  pretend  most  1  Blood- 
gniltleesnesB.  Tha^  therefore,  is  the  very 
virtue  in  which  we  should  expect  them  to 
be  moet  deficient  Was  it,  then,  too  much 
to  aasnme  that  all,  or  nearly  all,  the 
undetected  murderers  in  England  were 
members  of  the  Society  of  Friends  1  The 
conclofiion  was  irresistible.  The  mere  fact 
of  themardereraremainiDgundeteeted  made 
against  a  sect  which  was  uie  most  clannish, 
and  had  the  reputation  of  being  the  most 
peaceable  of  all  Christiui  denominations ; 
because  both  the  hypocrisy  and  the  mntnal 
loyalty  of  its  members  combined  to  cloak 
it«  crimes ;  not  all  of  them,  indeed,  for  the 
most  horrible  of  modern  murderers  waa 
detected,  and  fonud,  of  course,tobeaQuaker. 
Then  followed  a  circumstantial  account  of 
a  revolting  murder  committed  by  Tavrell, 


a  Qaaker,  at  Slough,  fifty  yean  ago.  Was  it 
possible  tbentodoubt  that  the  Quakers  were 
the  modern  sicarii  t    lb  was  not  possible. 

Such  was  the  Hev.  John's  argument,  as 
set  forth  in  his  pamphlet  We  have,  of 
conrce,  condensed  it,  bat  without,  we  think, 
omitting  anything  material.  We  do  not 
give  it  to  convert  our  readers  to  bis  theory, 
for  we  are  not  converts  to  it  onrselves. 
We  are  not  convinced  that  all  undetected 
marderera  are  Queers,  or  that  the  sect  is 
abovetheaverage  in  secret  or  visible  villaioy. 
Bnt  we  admit,  and  expect  onr  readers  to 
admit,  that  anyone  reasoning  from  the  Eev. 
John's  premises  would  not  come  very  wide 
of  his  conclusions.  Therefore,  there  was 
something  to  be  said,  not  only  for  his 
theory,  but  for  bis  construction  of  thia 
offer  of  a  living  from  a  Quaker,  who 
could,  he  thoDght,  have  known  of  his 
existence  only  from  his  pamphlet  For, 
of  coarae,  the  doctor  had  been  discreet 
enough  to  say  nothing,  even  to  Mra  John, 
of  his  negotiation  with  Friend  Munn. 

Though  the  living  must,  of  course,  be 
declined,  the  offer  of  it  delighted  the 
Rev.  John  more  than  any  promotion,  how- 
ever high,  could  have  done.  For  was  it 
not  an  absolute  confirmation  of  his  views  1 

Poor  Mrs.  John,  after  many  a  wistful 
sigh,  said  only  and  timidly : 

"  Yon  couldn't  think,  then,  of  accepting 
it,  dear  J " 

"  Mary  ! "  exclaimed  the  Eev.  John,  in 
a  tone  which  waa  at  once  surprised,  shocked, 
and  reproachful.     "  Mary  ! 

"  I  waa  thinking  of  Archie,"  said  Mrs. 
John  apologetically,  and  then  relapsed 
into  sad  silence,  thinking  of  Archie  still. 

The  Rev.  John  hardly  heard  her.  He 
was  astride  his  hobby,  galloping  it  as 
one  gallops  with  news  of  a  great  victory. 
This  letter  was  conclusive.  No  prejudice 
could  stand  up  before  it  He  had  but  to 
read  it  to  convince  the  clergy  of  the  rural 
deanery,  of  the  dioceae,  of  both  Houses  of 
Convocation,  He  had  but  to  print  it  to 
convert  the  people  of  England  to  his 
vifiWB.  It  is  true,  it  waa  absolutely  con- 
clusive only  upon  his  views  of  the  Quakers, 
but  it  was  strong  presumptive  evidence 
uf  the  truth  of  the  baptismal  theory,  from 
which  these  views  were  a  deduction.  When 
Leverrier'a  prediction  of  the  existence, 
position,  and  precise  mass  of  the  planet 
Neptune  waa  verified,  its  verification  went 
a  good  way  towards  the  establishment  of 
the  wide  theory  from  which  it  was  a  deduc- 
tion. Thus  argued  the  Rev.  John,  jobilant, 
to  Mrs.  John,  dejected  and  wretdied. 


76      |I>eoenibeTlS,IBSS.I 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


To  them,  ia  happy  time,  enters  Dr. 
Grice,  amaeed  to  find  the  R«t.  John  lively 
M  a  tortoise  in  summer.  The  doctor  was 
not  a  polite  man,  but  short  and  sharp, 
caustic  and  cynically  sincere.  He  loved  a 
jest,  even  a  biting  jest,  and  vronld  sacrifice 
a,  patient  to  one  any  day.  As  for  this 
theory  of  the  Rev.  John's  about  the 
Quakers,  he  had  been  merciless  in  his 
ridicnle  of  it  The  Rev.  John  bore  his 
gibes  with  the  silence  of  scorn,  and  the 
patience  of  strength.  His  theory  was  no 
house  of  cards  to  be  blown  do<m  by  an 
airy  jest.  But  now  was  the  moment  of 
a  revenge,  calm  but  crushing, 

"  Good  news ! "  asked  the  doctor  with 
some  suspicion  of  the  costents  of  the 
letter  the  Rev.  John  held  in  his  triumptumt 
hand. 

Tbe  Bev.  John  handed  him  the  letter 
silently,  and  watched  his  face  as  he  read 
for  the  expression  which  soon  began  to 
clond  it. 

Id  truth,  the  doctor  was  annoyed  to  find 
that  the  bishop  had  forgotten  his  caution 
against  the  mention  of  Friend  Munn's 
name,  and  it  was  the  expression  of  this 
annoyance  in  the  doctor's  face  which  the 
Rev;  John  perceived,  not  without  triumph. 

"What  do  you  say  now,  doctor  1"  he 
asked. 

"  I'm  surprised " 

"You  admit  it  1" 

"Eh  I" 

"  You  admit  that  this  can  have  only  one 
meaning  1 " 

"  How  i " 

"  Come,  Dr  Grice,  there's  no  use  pre- 
tendmg  that  you  don't  know  why  Mr. 
Mnnn  ahonld  think  of  me  for  this  livine." 

"Mrs.  John,"  thought  the  doctor,  "has 
heard  of,   or  divined,  my  share  in  the 


"Munn's  a  Quaker,"  he  confessed,  de- 
preciating hia  own  kindness  after  his 
manner.  "Munn's  a  Quaker,  and  was 
glad  to  be  rid  of  the  accursed  thing." 

"  But  he's  not  rid  of  it,"  cried  the  Rev. 
John  with  a  vehemence  that  was  startling 
from  him. 

"  What !  you  won't  accept  it ! " 

"  Accept  it !  when  the  bribe  is  so  clear 
that  you  see  it  yourself  I  I  shall  expose 
it,"  he  cried,  bringing  his  hand  down  on 
the  table  in  the  extraordinary  ercitement 
of  his  present  and  anticipated  triumph. 
"  I  shall  expose  it,  till  there  is  no  doubt 
left  in  the  mind  of  any  reasonable  man — 
layman  or  clergyman,  Churchman  or  Dis- 
senter— in  Engund." 


Light  was  breaking  in  upon  the  doctor. 

"  You  think  it's  meant  to  silence  you  1 " 
he  gasped. 

"  I  think  it  1  I  know  it,  and  you  know 
it,  and  everyone  shall  know  it." 

The  doctor  lay  back  in  his  chair  ami 
roared  with  laughter,  cried  with  laughter, 
which  he  made  not  the  least  effort  to 
restrain. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  he  snorted  when  he  was 
at  last  able  to  artJcnkte,  "  Friend  Mnnn 
never  heard  of  you  till  I  mentioned  you  to 
him  myseE" 

"  Just  so ;  he  knows  nothing  of  me,  but 
he  knows  my  pamphlet" 

"  Your  pamphlet  I     Good  gracious  1 " 

Here  the  doctor  went  off  into  another 
uncontrollable  paroxysm  of  laughter,  which 
staggered  the  Rev.  John,  and  gave  some 
pain  and  at  the  same  time  some  hope  to 
Mrs.  John,  for  perhaps  the  living  might 
be  aocepteid  with  a  safe  conscience,  after 
all 

When  the  doctor  had  again  recovered 
himself,  he  turned  to  Mra.  John  as  a 
rational  creature. 

"  Look  here,  Mrs.  John,  Friend  Munn 
is  a  patient  of  mine,  and  I  asked  him  for 
this  living  for  yon.  He  had  scruples 
about  appointing  to  it,  so  I  suggested  that 
he  might  let  it  lapse  to  the  bishop  with  an 
intimation  to  his  lordship  that  be  would 
be  glad  if  he  would  appoint  Mr.  Pybns  to 
it  Friend  Mimn  consented,  and  put  the 
thinK  into  my  huids  to  man^e.     I  wrote 

to  Uie  bishop  and  got  his  promise 

Stay,  I  think  I  have  his  letter  in  my 
pocket-book,"  searching  for  it,  finding  it^ 
and  handing  it  to  the  Rev.  John. 

The  Rev.  John,  crestfallen,  read  tbe 
letter  and  handed  it  back  in  silence. 

"  There  yon  have  the  whole  history  of 
the  business,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  replaced 
the  letter  in  his  pocket-book.  "  Friend 
Mann  knows  nothing  of  you,  or  yonr  views, 
or  your  pamphlet,  so  yon  can  accept  the 
living  without  scruple." 

The  Rev.  John  snook  bis  head, 

"  If  hs  knows  nothing  of  my  views  I 
have  no  right  to  accept  it  from  him,"  he 
said  moodily. 

The  sadden  dejection  from  triumph  to 
humiliation,  the  doctor's  merciless  and  un- 
measured ridicule,  and  the  melting  into 
thin  air  in  a  moment  of  the  baseless  fabric 
of  his  vision  of  the  conversion  of  a  world, 
were  too  trying  even  to  his  mild  temper. 
Nevertheless,  he  soon  recollected  himself, 
and  his  debt  to  the  doctor. 

"You  won't   think   me  untJiankful  to 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


jTDU,  Dr.  Grice,  for  yoor  kindness  in  the 
Dutter  if  I'm  compelled  conscientiously  to 
decliofl  it.  I  couldn't  sccept  it  hooeatly 
from  Mr.  Mann  while  he  remains  in 
ignotaoca  of  my  rtews." 

"  I  don't  think  yoor  views  woald  weigh 
with  him  one  w&y  or  tlie  other,"  said  axe 
doctor  impatiently.  "Besides,  the  living 
hsB  pwaed  out  of  hii  hands  now,  and  he 
has  oo  more  to  do  with  it  than  I  have. 
Sorely  you  can  accept  it  from  your 
bishop  I " 

"  The  bishop  would  no  more  give  it  to 
me  than  Mr.  Mann,  if  he  knew  my  view^ 
lis  is  the  lowest  Oburohmau  oa  the  bench," 
eicUimed  the  Rev.  John  somewhat  ex- 
citedly ;  and  he  then  proceeded  to  denounce 
the  bishop's  last  charge,  in  which  his  lord- 
(bip  seemed  to  speak  of  baptism  as  some- 
ihing  more,  perhaps,  than  the  entry  of  the 
child's  name  in  the  baptismal  register,  but 
u  Bomatbing  a  great  deal  less  tbau  its 
reftistration  in  the  Book  of  Life. 

To  convince  the  doctor  that  be  wasn'i 
ID  the  least  exaggerating  the  spirit  of  the 
clwrge,  he  fetched  it  from  his  study  and 
read  the  terrible  paragraph  at  length. 

"Bat  you  accept^  this  living  from 
him,"  ui^ed  the  doctor. 

"  Certainly  not,  Dr.  Grice.  I  accepted 
it  from  the  Crown.  It's  in  the  patronage 
of  the  Crown  and  bishop  alternately.  If  I 
resign,  the  patronage  falls  to  him,  and  he 
will  pnt  one  of  his  own  school  in — Metcalfe 
probably  !  "  in  a  voice  of  horror. 

"  Bat  if  you  don't  rosign  he  will  put  one 
of  these  weteffolvea  into  Edgbum.  a  mach 
Uiger  and  more  important  parish." 

"  Ttiat  only  proves  that  he  wouldn't  put 
me  there  if  he  knew  my  views." 

The  doctor  gave  it  up  with  a  slight 
shmg  of  his  shoulders,  changed  the  con- 
venation  which  he  addressed  to  Mrs.  John, 
and  rose  soon  after  to  take  his  leave.  Mrs. 
John,  distressed  by  his  evident  annoyanoe, 
went  with  him  to  the  baU-door  to  make 
the  beet  she  could  of  the  bostness. 

"  He  feels  ^1  your  kindness  to  the  very 
heart,  Dr.  Grice,  hnt  he  can't  express  it. 
He  never  can — nor  can  I  —  I  never  csn 
eipress  all  I  owe  to  you — I  never  know 
where  to  b^n." 

Mrs.  John  looked  what  she  felt,  and,  of 
course,  felt  all  she  said  ;  with  good  reason, 
too,  for  the  doctor's  kindnesses  were  past 
count. 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  Kindness !  Nonsense  ! 
There  shoold  be  no  talk  of  kindness  in  a 
frieoidehip  like  ours,  Mrs.  John,"  taking 
aad  holding  her  hand  in  his  own  for  a 


[DKcmbar  ts,  tns.1     77 

You  think  I'm  annoyed,  and 
I  am  annoyed — of  course   I'm  annoyed.   , 
The  very  thing  you  wanted,  a  good  living,   | 
near  a  good  school,  not  out  of  reach  of  j 
your  old  frieods  here,  and,  as  far  as  I'm  I 
concerned — and  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  was 
thinking  as  much  of  myself  as  of  you — I 
should  practically  be  nearer  you  than  I  am 
now.     To   fling  it   all  away  because  the 
bishop  won't  swallow  this  pill  of  his  that's 
good  against  the  earthquake ! " 

"  But  if  his  conscience " 

"  Bah !  Conscience !  Conscience  is  a 
policeman  always  off  his  beat  when  there's 
a  burglar  in  the  business,  but  promptly 
down  on  the  small  boys.  There's  you  to 
think  of,  and  that  boy  to  think  of,  and  all 
the  good  he  might  do  in  a  large  parish  to 
tbiuK  of,  and  he  thinks  only  of  this  fad  of 
hi},  aud  only  because  it  is  his.  There, 
don't  be  angry  with  me,  or  think  me  angry 
because  my  small  part  in  the  business  is 
thrown  away.  I'm  not  angry;  I'm  dis- 
appointed— that's  alL  I've  been  fur  months 
looking  forward  to  this  as  a  happy  surprise 
to  yoD,  and  it  has  only  made  you  more 
miserable." 

Aud,  indeed,  Mrs.  John  looked  so  sad 
that  even  the  Rev.  John  remarked  it. 
Now,  any  trouble  of  hers,  when  he  realised 
it,  went  to  his  very  souL  He  couldn't  eat, 
or  sleep,  or  even  day  dream,  when  it  came 
home  to  him  that  she  was  unhappy.  He 
woald  then  leave  the  study  twenty  times 
a  day,  look  for  and  find  her,  and  follotv 
her  about,  or  take  her  hand^  or  smooth 
back  her  htur,  or  in  some  other  dumb  way 
try  to  express  his  yearning  eympatliy. 

"What  is  it,  Mary)"  he  asked  anxiously, 
on  observing  ber  depression. 

Mrs.  John  then  opened  ber  heart.  It 
seems  that  she  held  herself  in  some  way 
rospoDslble  for  the  blighting  of  Archie's 
prospects.  She  had  oozened  Mr.  Tuck 
out  of  him,  and  so  iiad  not  only  stolen  him 
from  Mr.  'Tack,  but  had  stolen  Mr.  Tuck's 
fortune  from  him.  And  now  to  the  loss 
of  bis  due  place  in  the  world  was  to  be 
added  the  loss  of  all  chance  of  his  making 
his  way  in  the  wotid — the  toss  of  a  good 
education.  Thus  Mrs.  John  pathetically, 
and  then,  after  a  pause,  she  added  rove- 
lently: 

"  And  I  can't  help  thinking  the  living 
has  been  sent  to  us,  John." 

Now,  the  Bev.  John's  faiUi  in  Mrs. 
John,  not  in  her  goodness  only,  but  in  her 
wisdom,  was  profound.  He  almost  held 
hi)  theory  by  the  tenun  of  her  faith  in 
it.    Certainly,  her  faith  in  it  weighed  more 


78     [DtcemberlS 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


with  bim  than  the  unbelief  of  all  the  rest 
of  the  world.  He  worshipped  bia  own 
ideaa  in  her  as  an  idolater  worahipa  the 
image  hia  own  hand  haa  carved.  Now,  if 
Mrs.  John,  who  waa  of  the  true  faith, 
thought,  not  the  acceptance,  but  the  refusal 
of  this  living  wrong,  there  must  be  eome- 
thiDg  to  be  said,  and  a  good  deal  to  be 
said,  for  accepting  it.  What  was  to  be 
said  therefor,  the  Rev.  John,  after  much 
meditation,  discovered  and  commnnicated 
in  this  letter  to  Dr.  Grice  : 

"Dear  Dr.  Grice, — On  reconeidera- 
tion,  I've  decided  to  accept  Edgbnm,  not 
from  the  bishop  or  Mr.  Mnnn,  both  of 
whom  have  disclaimed  the  patron^e,  but 
from  ProvideDce,  tind,  under  Providence, 
from  ytn.  I  think,  on  reflection,  jon  will 
admit  that  I  was  right  thia  morning  in  my 
position  that  it  was  not  posaible  for  me,  as 
an  honest  man,  to  accept  the  living  from 
patrons  in  ignorance  of  my  views.  Most 
clearly  it  has  come  to  me,  however,  not 
from  the  bishop  or  Mr.  Mnnri — who  have 
let  it  go  out  of  their  hands  —  but  from 
Providence  and  from  yon.  I  was  too 
much  disturbed  this  morning  to  thank  you 
for  your  great  kindness  in  the  matter,  but 
I'm  sure  you  will  forgive  this  neglect,  and 
believe  me  to  be  most  sincerely  grateful  to 
you.  I've  juat  written  to  the  bishop  my 
acceptance  of  Edgbnm. — Believe  mp,  dear 
Dr.  Grice,  very  truly  yours, 

"John  Ptbus." 

The  doctor,  on  receipt  of  the  letter, 
thought  of  the  Abbess  of  Andoiiillets  and 
the  contnmaciona  mules.  The  religions 
conscience,  he  thought,  must  be  a  Uiing 
sni  generis.  Here  were  the  abbeaa,  Father 
Pnttock,  Friend  Mnnn,  and  the  Rev. 
John,  four  devotees — in  all  other  respects 
wide  as  the  polea  apart — who  yet  agree  in 
playing  bo-peep  with  their  conscience  to 
keep  tSe  child  quiet. 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH 
COUNTIES. 

NOTTINGHAM.       PART   It 

The  beaten  soldiers  who  fled  from  the 
battlefield  of  Stoke,  such  of  them  as  won 
their  way  across  the  Trent,  and  scrambled 
up  the  steep  bank  by  Fiskerton,  once  out 
of  the  press  and  confusion  of  the  hideooa 
rout  would  have  found  themselves  by  the 
side  of  a  pleasant  stream  that  here  joins 
the  main  river,  and  if  they  followed  its 
course  through  meadows  and  coin-landa, 
they  might  nave  Teachad  sanctnary  and 


safety  within  the  precincta  of  the  ancient 
minaler  of  Southwell.  To  one  who  viaita 
Southwell  at  the  present  day  the  little 
town,  with  its  comfortable  red  brick  houses 
embowered  in  trees,  seema  a  charming 
refuge  from  the  cares  of  life — with  its  back- 
ground of  aoftly  rounded  hills,  that  run 
back  to  the  once  great  forest  of  Sherwood, 
with  its  green  encircUng  meadows  and 
pleasant  shadr  footpatiis,  with  its  bright 
river,  well  atoclced  with  delieione  red  trouL 
Pleasant,  too,  is  the  quiet  high-street, 
with  its  gabled  houses  and  old-iashioned 
inns.  The  oldest  of  these  inns,  with 
the  wide  archway  opening  into  the  great 
iim-yard,  is  litUe  changed  since  the  days 
of  the  Civil  Wan,  when  the  fated  Stuart 
king,  here  in  one  of  theao  parlours,  gave 
himself  into  the  bands  of  the  leaders  of 
the  Scottish  army.  Tiiat  army  waa  then 
besieging  Newark,  one  of  the  last  strong- 
holds that  held  out  far  the  king,  and 
Charlee,  whose  afi'aiia  were  now  in  a 
desperate  state,  had  made  his  way  from 
Oxford  with  only  one  servant  in  hia  suite, 
passing  through  the  midat  of  enemies  to 
reach  the  Scotch.  The  king  had  some 
vague  hope,  perhaps,  that  his  appearance 
might  revive  the  loyalty  of  his  ancient 
snbjects,  and  that  the  Scottish  army  might, 
at  any  rate,  make  favonrable  conditions 
for  him.  Charles  could  hardly  have 
imagined  the  possibility  of  the  Scotchmea 
aell^g  him  for  a  price,  but  in  all  his  career 
the  Uog  seems  never  to  have  grasped 
thorooghly  the  realitaes  of  hia  position,  or 
to  have  been  capable  of  ganging  the 
characters  of  those  with  whom  be  had  to 
deal. 

Tradition  has  preserved  an  incident  of 
the  king's  visit  to  Southwell,  which, 
trifling  in  itself,  throws  a  little  light  upon 
Charles's  fateful  and  melancholy  naturei 
It  was  in  this  quiet  high -street,  then 
thronged  with  horsemen  ^d  men-at-arms, 
with  sturdy  Scotchmon  in  armour,  that 
was  even  theu  so  ancient  and  old-fashioned 
that  it  might  have  done  duty  at  Bfuinock- 
bnm  orFlodden — it  was  here,  in  the  ahadow 
of  the  great  minater,  that  there  lived  tt 
strongly  religions  cobbler,  one  of  Uie  new 
sect  of  Separatists,  a  stem  and  rigid 
Puritan.  To  bim  entered  the  king, 
unknown,  and  wrapped  in  his  long 
cloak,  but  with  some  evidence  of  hia 
rank,  no  doubt,  in  the  lace  of  hia  falU 
ing  collar  and  long  mflles,  while  in  his 
hand  he  held  the  ivory-headed  stall',  whose 
ivory  head  was  presently  to  topplo  off  so 
ominously  at  the  king's  trial     The  cobbler 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES  |i>*»mtori6, imi 


ejeA  the  gracioiis  figure  with  averaion  and 
dUmay,  u  the  king  explained  his  errand ; 
simply  to  be  measured  for  a  pair  of  eboes. 
"No,"  said  the  cobbler  brusquely  when 
(he  king  had  finished,  he  would  make 
DO  shoes  for  him.  The  king  pressed  for 
in  explanation  of  this  refusal  Just  such 
B  figare,  the  shoemaker  solemnly  declared, 
h»d  appeared  to  him  in  his  dreams  tlie 
night  trafore,  witt  the  providential  wam- 
iDg  that  nothing  but  misfortune  would 
f(Jlow  hini  and  those  who  served  him. 
Hie  king  was  overwhelmed  at  this 
■onouncemeDt,  which  he  received  in  all 
£uth  as  a  smpematural  warning.  He  raised 
his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  with  a  piona  ejacu- 
Ution  of  resignation  to  the  will  of 
ProTidenco,  he  hurried  away  from  the 
■eene. ' 

But,  turning  out  of  the  high-street  and 
coming  in  sight  of  the  minster  church  with 
ili  houy  towers,  the  first  impression  is  of 
lorpriee  and  something  like  awe.  The 
grind  old  minster,  btdden  away  in  this 
quiet  little  country  towu,  seems  as  if  it 
most  have  been  the  work  of  men  of  much 
pester  etfttore  and  of  simploT,  more  maasive 
mindi.  And  it  looks  so  worn  with  age, 
ind  yet  so  strong  and  dignified  in  its«ir  of 
dim  repose,  that  you  feel  in  presence  oi 
something  above  the  assaults  of  time.  And 
dl  the  surroundings  are  in  keeping,  the 
green  graveyard  whitwied  with  tombs, 
the  cawing  of  the  rooks  from  the  pres- 
bf tonal  eTms,  the  soft  chant  of  the 
eboristers  from  witbin,  while  sunshine  only 
seems  to  add  a  depth  to  the  hoary  tints  of 
its  ancient  walk.  And  then  to  listen  to  its 
lizy  old  chimes  as  they  troll  out  with  eenile 
cheeifolQeu  "  Ood  save  the  King  " — it  is 
king  quite  clearly,  not  queen ;  but  what 
king  t  Which  of  the  Edwards  or  Henrys 
has  the  old  chime  got  in  mind  1 

It  was  but  the  other  day,  these  old 
towers  may  tell  us,  that,  having  tolled  their 
most  solemn  dirges  for  good  Queen  Bess, 
they  began  rinang  out  a  welcome  to  Scotch 
Ring  James,  1^0  presently  came  past  on 
his  ambling  steed,  with  all  the  nobility  of 
the  land  pressing  about  him.  There  was 
■erne  gleam  of  maight  about  the  lubberly 
king,  for  when  he  saw  the  towers  of  South- 
weU  he  was  lost  in  admimtjou  and  enrpriea 
Hii  coortders  rather  compassionately  began 
to  deprecate  his  admiration,  contrasting 
Uiis  humble  fane  with  the  grandeur  of  York 
orDurham.  "Vary  well,  vMy well," replied 
tite  king,  "  bnt  by  my  bluid  this  kirk 
■hsU  joede  wi'  York  or  Durham,  or  any 
Urk  in  Christendom  1 "   And  surely  Jamie 


was  right,  for  it  is  not  the  size  and  splendour 
so  mnch  as  the  sentiment  of  the  bnilding 
that  wins  our  admiratioa 

And  the  interior  of  the  minster  is  equally 
effective,  the  solemn  strength  of  the  Norman 
nave  contrasting  with  the  light  and  pure 
Early  English  of  the  choir,  and  the  rich 
and  jeweMike  chapter-house,  at  the  entrance 
to  which  is  a  floral  arch  which  is  a  veritable 
poem  in  atone.  In  the  transept  stands  a 
rich  alabaster  altar  tomb,  on  which  reposes 
the  efiigy  of  Archbishop  Sandys,  one  of  the 
earliest  post-reformatioD  prelates,  with  a 
long  array  of  children  kneeling  in  relievo 
below,  a  strange  contrast  to  the  seveie 
sacerdotal  efSgies  of  old.  An  exemplary 
father,  too,  was  Sandys,  and  handsomely 
provided  for  Ma  children  out  of  the  surplus 
wealth  of  the  see;  but  he  did  something 
for  education  as  well  in  the  foundation  of 
Hawksbead  grammar-school,  where  Words- 
worth was  once  a  echoolboy. 

The  tomb  of  the  archbishop  reminds  us 
of  the  long  connection  between  Southwell 
and  the  Archbishopric  of  York,  and  on  the 
south  and  aunny  side  of  the  minster,  in  a 
pleasant  garden,  are  the  remains  of  the  old 
palace  of  the  archbishop,  a  favourite  retreat 
of  Cardinal  Wolsey.  Here  came  the  Lord 
Cardinal  in  Ills  disguise,  and  remained  all 
the  pleasant  summer  of  that  year — 1530 — 
when  he  left  for  York,  planning  a  magni- 
ficent entry  into  that  cityand  his  enthionisa- 
tion  in  the  minster,  but  was  arrested  on  his 
way  by  Percy  of  Northumberland  on  a 
charge  of  high  treason. 

A  rich  and  stately  endowment  was  this 
of  Southwell,  which  still  preserved  its 
wealthy  stalls  and  prebends  afcer  the 
Eeformation.  And  with  its  rich  clerical 
familiee  and  comfortable  dower-bouses,  up 
to  our  own  times  Southwell  has  been  a 
kind  of  social  centre  of  county  life. 
"  Detestable  and  abhorred  hole  of  scandal," 
Lord  Byron  terms  the  place.  But  then, 
the  poet's  memories  of  Southwell  were 
embittered  by  the  ridicule  brought  upon 
him  by  his  mother's  violent  sallies  of 
temper.  In  her  storms  of  rage,  Mrs.  Byron 
thought  nothing  of  hurling  poker  and 
tongs  at  her  son,  and  their  tumultuous 
quarrels  were  the  talk  of  the  town.  Else 
young  Byron  seems  to  have  entered  Into 
the  iue  of  the  place  with  eest,  and  to  have 
joined  in  all  the  amusements  going.  "I 
enacted  Penruddock  of  The  Wheel  of 
Fortune,"  he  writes,  "and  Trietram  Fickle 
in  Allingham's  farce  of  The  Weathercock, 
at  Southwell"  And  the  young  ApoUo 
bathed  assiduoualy  in  the  Greet,  a  fact 


[December  15,  ISBS-B 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


ihac  should  render  cUibic  this  pleutnt 
little  river.  Here,  too,  hewrote  Bome  of  bis 
early  poems,  and  he  printed  and  pabliehed 
them  with  Ridge,  of  Newark,  a  book- 
eeller  whose  busineaB  is  atill  carried  on  by 
a  descendant  in  the  market-place  of  that 
town.  Mtr.  Byron  lived  in  the  hotue  called 
Buigage  Manor,  on  the  green.  But  at  last 
Byron  abandoned  bis  mother's  roof  and 
ran  away  to  London  to  begin  his  brilliant 
meteor-like  career  in  eameat. 

And  now  our  way  lies  across  Sherwood, 
the  once  great  rentralwild  of  England,  the 
abode  of  robbers  and  outlaws,  where  they 
had  free  range  through  a  snccession  of 
wilds  and  wastes,  from  Nottingham  town 
to  merry  Carlisle;  a  region  t^here  the  king's 
writs  ran  not,  and  where  his  sheriffs  were 
powerless  unless  they  appeared  with  hue 
and  cry,  and  horns  and  clamour,  to  hnnt 
out  some  notorious  malefactorr  as  if  he 
were  a  wild  beast.  Here,  too,  was  the 
haunt  of  the  wolf  long  after  he  was  extir- 
pated in  the  rest  of  England.  As  late  as 
the  reign  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  Sir 
Robert  Flumpton  held  one  bovate  of  land 
in  Mansfield  Woodboose,  called  Wolfhnnt- 
land,  on  the  tenure  of  chasing  or  frighten- 
ing the  wolves  in  the  forest  of  Sherwood. 

But  It  is  with  Robin  Hood  that  Sherwood 
is  associated  in  most  people's  minds ;  with 
Robin  Hood  and  Little  John,  and  the  rest 
of  his  merry  men,  who,  though  known  and 
famed  in  all  the  counties  round  about,  seem 
to  have  had  their  chief  haunts  and  holds 
in  Sherwood,  by  Nottingham,  where  bold 
Robin  has  given  his  name  to  many  a  holt 
and  hill.  There  in  the  softer  climate  of  iko 
hills  that  slope  towards  the  south,  were 
spent  the  happier  hours  of  the  life  under 
the  greenwood  tree, 
I  kan  not  iiarGcly  my  paternoster  as  the  prie&t  it 

But  I  kan  rhymos  of  Robin  Hode  ud  Uaodolph, 

-EmI  of  Chester, 

says  the  old  popular  bard,  but  in  these 
days  the  paternoster  is  better  kanned  or 
known  than  the  legends  of  Robin  even  at 
the  very  scene  of  hia  exploits,  and  so  we 
may  here  briefly  recapitulate  the  story  of 
his  life  as  told  in  chapbooks  and  ballads. 

Robin's  father  Is  a  forester,  his  mother 
niece  to  Guy,  Earl  of  Warwick,  of  legendary 
fame ;  but  the  Saxon  lineage  Is  noticeable. 
Robin  himself  is  bom  at  Loxley,  in  Staf- 
fordshire, and  stTutburymarriea  or  carries 
off  a  pretty  shepherdess,  the  Maid  Marian 
of  the  story.  Robin  quarrels  with  the 
king's  foresters,  or  ra^er  they  quarrel  with 
him  for  killing  the  king's  deer ;  anyhow, 


he  kills  fifteen  of  these  foresters — tfaeir 
graves  are  to  be  seen  to  this  day  to  testify — 
upon  which  be  takes  to  ^e  woods.and  raises 
a  band  of  outlawa  Robin  sets  the  sheriff  at 
defiance,  and  the  king  himself  comes 
against  him  with  his  power.  And  then, 
according  to  moat  accounts,  Robin  waylays 
the  king  alone  in  the  forest  and  luat- 
tended,  brings  him  to  his  haunt,  and 
feasts  him  well,  and  conducts  him  safely 
back  to  his  lodging.  The  king,  upon 
that,  invites  Bobin  to  bis  court — eitber 
in  London  or  at  Nottingham — and  Robin 
astonishes  the  courtiers  and  pleases  the 
king  by  his  skill  and  prowesL  In  all 
the  stories  Robin  is  of  high  Hneage  on  one 
side  or  the  other,  as  becomes  a  popular 
hero.  In  all  this,  while  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  unmistakable  folk-lore,  there  is 
probably  &  basis  of  fact,  and  the  tradition 
that  makes  him  claim  to  be  Earl  of 
Huntingdon,  absurd  as  it  seems,  baa  been 
curiously  corroborated  by  tlis  researches  of 
antlqaarians.  For,  according  to  some, 
Robm  is  Robert  Oetb,  son  of  Fitzoeth, 
Lord  of  Kyme,  in  Lincolnshire,  himself 
descended  on  the  female  side  from 
Waltbeof,  the  great  Saxon  hero,  the 
venerated  martyr  of  the  Conquest,  who 
was  at  once  Eart  of  Northampton  and 
Huntingdon — just  the  lineage,  indeed,  to 
claim  the  sympathies  and  affection  of  good 
Engh'sh  folk.  According  to  this  account, 
Robin  would  have  flourished  in  Henry  the 
Second's  reign,  and  his  appearance  in 
Ivanhoe  as  contemporary  with  Richard 
C(Bur  de  Lion  may  be  fairly  justified.  The 
common  tradition  of  Robin's  death  at 
Kirklees,  in  Yorkshire  (where  his  grave  is 
stilt  shown),  where  he  is  said  to  have  been 
bled  to  death  by  the  prioress  of  the 
nunnery  there,  either  through  misadven- 
ture or  treachery,  is  generally  believed  to 
be  well-founded. 

The  forest  of  Robin's  days  has  vell-nigh 
disappeared.  It  lasted  to  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne  as  a  royal  forest,  bnt  has  now 
mostly  gone  to  swell  the  oatates  of  noble 
landowners,  and  is  to  be  traced  iu  the 
wide  parks  and  great  seats  of  the  nobility 
BO  thickly  settled  hereabouts  that  the 
district  has  got  the  name  of  The  Dukeries. 
And  the  road  from  Southwell,  passing 
through  several  sedoded  villages,  tuings 
us  to  Rufford  Abbey,  once  a  part  of  the 
magnificent  domain  of  the  Talbots,  but 
wluch  passed  by  marriage  to  the  Lumleys 
of  the  Scarborough  title,  and  is  now  held 
bya  Saville — a  name  not  long  since  famous 

the  sporting  world.    The  abbey  origl- 


CHRONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.  [D««ni«r  w,  W8s.i    81 


ntlly  wu  &  aetttement  of  Cisterciaiu,  from 
BiBranlXiiD  yorkshire,  but  haa  left  no  mark 
in  hietoif.  CIom  b;  is  OUpatone,  where 
Btaad  the  forlorn  rains  of  an  ancient  palace 
of  the  kings  of  England — a  few  ahapelesa 
masaea  of  atone  npatanding  among  the 
plooghed  fielda,  and  there  is  atill  growing 
an  old  oak  known  as  the  Parliament  Oak, 
where  it  is  aaid  the  primitive  conclave  was 
held,  at  which  King  Edward  the  First 
presided  when  he  was  called  away  to  the 
death-bed  of  Eleanor.  Clipstone  is  of 
eoorae  familiar  to  a  Londoner  in  Clipstone 
Street,  and  as  Portland  Street  is  close  by 
Clipstone  Street,  he  will  make  a  shrewd 
gaesa  that  the  seat  of  the  dukes  of  Fort- 
had  is  inobably  near  at  hand.  Clipstone, 
indeed,  lies  id  the  domains  of  Welbeck 
Abbey,  the  chief  seat  of  the  Bentinck 
fiunily.  Bnt  the  old  abbey  is  altogether 
swallowed  np  in  the  modem  hoose,  which 
in  its  great  extent  aod  curions  snrronnd- 
ings,  is  mainly  the  work  of  the  late  Doke 
of  Portland,  one  of  the  moat  eccentric 
figores  of  a  connty  rather  distingniahed  fw 
eeceBtricitiea.  The  original  monks  of 
Welbeck  were  Premonstratensians,  or  white 
e&nona,  their  dreas  a  white  cassock  with  a 
rochet  over  it,  a  long  white  cloak,  and 
white  cap.  A  somewluit  similar  figure  was 
presented  by  the  last  tenant  of  Welbeck, 
whose  naiul  attire  was  a  long  and  capaciona 
irtilte  flannel  dreesing-gown,  in  which  he 
receiTsd  the  few  people  whom  he  deigned 
to  see.  The  duke  was  indeed  a  perfect 
reclua^  not  of  the  canonical  order,  indeed, 
but  with  a  strong  vehement  paasion  for 
isolated  existence.  Every  road  and  foot- 
path that  traversed  his  estate  he  sup- 
pressed, as  far  as  was  in  his  power,  and 
every  house  npon  his  property  above  the 
rank  of  a  farmhouse  or  labourer's  cottage 
he  polled  down.  And  then  he  began  his 
mysterious  operations  at  Welbeck — opera- 
dooa  which  were  long  the  talk  and  wonder 
o(  the  neighbourhood.  The  duke  never 
rode  and  scarcely  ever  mounted  a  cairiage, 
and  yet  the  stables,  the  coach-houses,  the 
riding-school  of  hia  bnildii^,  are  idl  on  the 
most  magnificent  scale.  Bnt  the  wonder 
of  the  place  is  the  sabtorranean  palace 
he  has  created — subterranean  chambers  and 
tunnels,  with  a  library  and  a  church,  all 
euavated  irom  the  limestone-rock,  with  a 
roadway  giving  access  to  all,  carried  in  a 
long  tunnel  under  the  park.  To  ensure 
his  privacy,  the  duke  built  thirty-five  or 
forty  lodges  on  the  outskirts  of  bis  park, 
all  the  oatbuildinga  of  which  are  under- 
gronnd ;  and  to  carry  out  his  immense 


building  operations,  he  had  a  complete 
timber-yard  with  saw-mills  and  the  most 
elaborate  machinery,  while  a  complete 
fire-brigade  was  maintained  for  the  safety 
of  the  premises.  We  shall  seek  in  vain 
for  any  adequate  motive  for  these  costly 
aod  wasteful  freaks;  for  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  dnke  was  a  keen 
and  excellent  man  of  business,  a  clever 
^ricnltnrist,  and  a  good  and  liberal  land- 
lord; bnt,  without  looking  for  motives,  we 
may  find  in  the  history  of  the  family  the 
origin  of  the  tendencies  that  came  to  ench 
carious  development  in  the  chief  of  the 
Bentincka. 

Welbeck  Abbey,  after  the  dissolution  of 
the  monaateriee,  after  passing  through  the 
hands  of  the  Osbomea,  became  the  pro- 
perty of  the  Cavendish  family ;  and  the 
original  founder  of  this  family,  and 
of  many  other  ducal  and  dfatingiiished 
houses,  is  to  be  fonnd  in  the  renowned 
Bess  of  Hudwiok — the  hard-fiated  gaoler 
of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  To  this  extra- 
ordinary woman  may  almost  be  said  to 
be  due  the  tveation  of  the  modern  Whig 
aristocracy,  and  her  career  in  this  respect 
ie  worthy  of  a  little  study.  Beas  was  bom 
in  1620,  the  daughter  of  a  certain  Sqoire 
Hardwiok,  of  Uardwick  in  Derbyshire,  one 
of  five  sisters,  co-heiretses  of  the  family 
estate ;  but  Beas,  in  some  way  or  other, 
got  the  whole  property  in  the  end,  and 
there  built  the  locally-famous  Hardwick 
Hall,  which  we  shall  come  upon  in  Derby 
county.  Bess  began  her  career  by  marry- 
ing, at  the  age  of  fourteen,  one  Bobert 
Barley  or  Bartow,  who  died  not  many 
years  after,  leaving  Besa  a  large  jointure. 
The  skilfnl  management  of  this  jointnre 
enabled  Bass  to  ruin  the  rest  of  the  Barlows 
and  acquire  the  whole  of  the  Barlow  estate, 
uid  this  occnpied  her  about  twelve  years, 
during  which  time  she  remained  a  widow. 
Then  our  Elizabeth,  being  then  about  seven- 
and  -  twenty  years  of  age,  mairied  Sir 
William  Cavendish,  and  she  persuaded  Sir 
William  to  sell  hia  property,  which  waa  in 
the  southern  part  of  England,  and  join  her 
in  her  plans  of  aggrandisement.  The  pair 
bought  Chatswonh  and  lived  together 
happily,  it  seems,  for  some  years,  during 
which  Bess  brought  into  the  world  three 
sons  and  three  daughters.  While  Beas  had 
little  softness  of  character,  for  her  children 
she  seems  to  have  felt  all  the  fierce 
affection  of  a  tigress.  Her  husband  died 
in  1S57,  leaving  Bess  once  more  a  widow 
at  thirty-seven.  She  bad  not  yet  done 
with     matrimony,    but    henceforth    her 


i2     iDecember  15,  U8I.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


marriages  seem  to  have  been  pUnned  with 
the  sole  object  of  improving  her  own 
estate,  and  the  future  prospects  of  her 
children.  Thus  she  married,  without  an 
over-long  widowhood,  Sir  Wiliiam  St.  Loe, 
captain  of  the  goacd  to  Queen  Elizabeth, 
aud  though  the;  had  no  children,  the 
captain  settled  large  estates  upon  her, 
probably  in  the  way  of  a  bargain  that  Bess 
should  do  the  same  by  him,  and,  as  usual, 
Boas  got  the  better  of  the  bargain,  and  the 
captain  of  the  guard  disappears  from  the 
scene.  Bess  was  not  only  hard  in  disposi- 
tion but  bard  in  feature,  and  it  must  have 
been  her  money  and  not  her  personal  attrac- 
tions that  atbwited  suitors;  but  anyhow 
we  now  find  her  sought  by  the  wealthy  and 
distinguished  Qeorge,  Earl  of  Shrewsbury, 
himself  a  widower  with  grown-up  children. 
Elizabeth,  although  she  prized  the  title  of 
countess,  would  not  consent  to  the  match 
except  on  the  condition  that  his  eldest  son 
shoidd  marry  her  youngest  daughter,  Mary 
GaTendiah,  and  that  her  eldest  son  should 
marry  his  daughter,  Grace  Talbot.  This 
must  be  held  as  a  lucky  compact  for  the 
Talbots,  as  family  interests  were  now 
bound  up  together ;  otherwise  Bess,  who 
had  no  childran  by  this  marriage,  would 
no  doubt  have  stripped  them  of  all  they 
had  As  it  was,  she  managed  to  pare  otf 
a  nice  estate  or  two  from  their  domain 
for  the  benefit  of  the  younger  Cavendishea. 
The  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  died  in  1590,  but 
Beas  survived  for  aeventeen  years,  con- 
tinually toiling  and  planning  to  increase  her 
estates.  She  bought  and  sold  land,  was  a 
builder,  a  usurer,  a  farmer,  a  lead-mer- 
chaut,  and  to  her  commerdal  aptitude  she 
added  the  tact  of  a  courtier  and  the  skill 
of  a  politician.  From  her  descend  at  least 
five  lines  of  ducal  descent  with  many  allied 
families  of  position,  It  was  Bess  in  each 
case  who  set  the  ball  rolling,  and  land  and 
honours  increased  in  every  case  upon  the 
nucleus  that  Bess  had  so  carefolly  kneaded 
together.  The  one  great  craze  of  Bess  was 
building.  To  account  for  her  fervour  in 
raising  up  new  houses  people  spoke  of  a 
prophecy — or  perhaps  itwasacompactvith 
some  uncanny  power — to  the  effect  that  as 
long  as  she  kept  on  building  she  should  go 
on  living.  And  so  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
seven  she  was  building  a  new  house  for 
herself  at  Owlcotes,  when  a  hard  frost  came 
on  and  stopped  the  work,  and  the  same 
killing  frost  carried  off  the  countess  hernell 
In  bouses  she  built,  or  their  successors, 
and  upon  the  lands  she  laboriously  added 
together,  were  established  the  fortunes  of  at 


least  five  ducal  families  —  the  dukes  of 
Devonshire  first  of  all  in  direct  desoent,  uid 
by  the  female  line  the  dukes  of  Portland, 
Newcastle,  and  Norfolk,  and  the  extinct 
dukes  of  Kingston,  now  represented  by 
Earl  Man  vara. 

The  third  son  of  Elizabeth  of  Hard- 
wick  inherited  Welbeck  and  Bolsover,  and 
his  sons  are  the  Cavendishes  of  the  Civil 
Wars;  the  eldest  of  whom,  created  by 
Charles  Earl  of  Newcastle,  we  have  met 
with  as  the  chivalrous  antagonist  of  Black 
Tom  Furfaz  in  Yorkshire.  A  gallant  and 
accomplished  nobleman  this,  who  WK>te  a 
treatise  on  horsemanship  which  was  long 
a  text-book  for  the  mantee,  and  who  bnilt 
the  tine  riding-school  at  Welbeck,  converted 
by  the  late  duke  into  a  picture-gallery. 
At  Welbeck  too,  as  the  guest  of  this  loyal 
Cavendish,  King  Charles  the  First  was  a 
visitor  on  his  way  to  his  coronation  In 
Scotland,  a  visit  memorable  for  the  produc- 
tion of  a  masque  for  the  king's  entertain- 
ment— a  masque  called  Love's  Wdoome, 
written  it  seems  for  the  occsdon  by 
Bare  Ben  Jonson.  But  the  estates  of 
these  Cavendishes  were  lm>nght  to  the 
Bentincks  in  the  e^teentb  century  hy 
Lady  Margaret  Cavendish  Harly,  who  mar- 
ried the  second  Duke  of  Poitknd — these 
Bentincks  beint;  a  Dutch  family,  it  will  b« 
remembered,  who  came  over  to  England  in 
the  train  of  William  of  Orange.  And  Uius 
in  the  late  Duke  of  Portlant^  with  all  lus 
cranks  and  humours,  we  seem  to  have  a 
reversion  to  the  character  of  "  bnitdiDg 
Bees." 

From  Welbeck  we  come  wiclioat  anj 
break  in  the  thread  of  parks  and  wooded 
glades  to  Clumber,  the  seat  of  the  dukea 
of  Newcastle,  and  then  pass  by  the  mag- 
nificent new  palace  of  the  Pierrepoints 
at  Thoresby.  These  great  uninhabited 
regions,  traversed  only  by  keepers  and 
serrante,  give  a  sense  of  loneluiesa,  and 
even  of  desolation,  in  spite  of  the  charm 
of  their  surroundings.  And  yet  many 
pretty,  secluded  villages  lie  about  the 
margin  of  this  great  expanse  of  aristocratic 
donuun — villages  where  even  yefc  the  May- 
pole may  be  foimd  upreared  on  the  village- 
green.  And  the  traveller  comes  unex- 
pectedly, too,  upon  hop-gardens,  and  may 
wonder  how  they  got  there,  who  introduced 
the  culture,  and  when;  but  he  will  get 
little  satisfaction  for  his  cnriosity  in  the 
neighbourhood,  where  the  people  seem  leas 
courteous  and  communicative  than  in  the 
rest  of  the  county. 

Still    through    park-like    glades,     the 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES. 


83 


wanderer  in  Sherwood  may  find  hia  wa; 
to  Worksop  Manor,  a  noble  site,  adorned 
bf  splendid  timber,  once  the  great  aeat  of 
the  Talbota.  The  manor  was  originallj 
acquired  by  the  famooa  John  Talbot,  the 
terror  of  the  French— Shakespeare's  Talbot 
—  if,  indeed,  Shakespeare  be  responsible 
for  the  Bomewbab  windy  emptiness  of  the 
first  part  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth.  Any- 
how, Talbot  got  the  manor  by  marrying 
the  heiress  of  the  anaient  bouse  of  Fumival, 
and  hero  their  descendants  flourished  for 
several  centories,  acquiring  vast  possessions 
by  prudence  and  wealthy  marriages.  Here 
idgnad  our  friend  Bess  of  Hardwick,  and 
here  she  became  ^le  sour  and  vigilant 
gaoler  of  poor  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  But 
the  vast  manor-boose,  once  crowded  with 
hnndreds  of  servants  and  retainers,  was 
bnnit  down  in  1761.  Long  before  then, 
however,  the  Talbots  had  disappeared 
from  the  scene,  as  the  last  heir  male  of  the 
Worksop  Talbots  died  in  1617,  and  the 
title  went  to  a  distant  branch,  with  some 
of  the  original  estates.  The  vast  posses- 
riom  of  the  house  in  York  and  Notting- 
hun  were  divided  among  the  heiresses  of 
Gilbert,  tbe  seventh  earl  One  of  tbese 
daughters — Alethea,  to  whom  Queen 
Elizabeth  bad  stood  as  godmother  —  had 
married  Thomas  Howard,  afterwards  Duke 
of  Norfolk,  and  thus  Worksop  Manor 
becomes  connected  with  that  family ;  and 
tbe  reigning  Duke  of  Norfolk,  it  is  said, 
bnflt  up  Uie  burnt  manor-house  with 
mach  tnagnificenccb  But  in  1840  the 
manor  was  sold  to  the  Duke  of  Newcastle, 
who  pulled  down  the  greater  part  of  tbe 
house  and  left  it  in  its  present  dismantled 
condition. 

Worksop  iUelf  is  a  bright  and  busy 
little  town,  with  a  good  deal  of  Yorkshire 
enei^  about  it,  and  is  noticeable  for  its 
andent  priory  church,  a  good  example, 
what  U  left  of  it,  of  transition  Norman 
architecture.  All  the  chancel,  however, 
has  been  demolished,  and  wiUi  it  tbe 
monomente  of  many  generations  of  Louve- 
tots,  Fnmivals,  and  Talbots,  fragments  of 
which,  with  tiie  mouldering  bones  they 
commemorate,  are  turned  up  whenever  the 
ground  is  disturbed. 

Farther  north  lies  Blyth  in  its  soUtnde, 
wi^  iti  inns  with  wide  echoing  courtyards 
and  TOWS  of  deserted  stables;  with  its 
memodee  of  coaching  days,  when  it  was 
the  first  stage  on  the  branch-road  to  tbe 
EToat  towns  of  the  West  Riding  of  York ; 
of  the  Mellersh  family,  too,  and  the 
wild  colonel,  the  companion  of  the  Prince 


B^ent,  who  often  "  tooled "  the  coach  to 
the  gates  of  his  own  park,  and  who  brought 
the  whole  estate  to  the  hammer  in  the 
end.  Blyth,  too,  with  its  earlier  memories 
enshrined  in  the  venerable  Norman  nave 
of  its  church,  that  oomes  upon  tbe  beholder 
vriib  all  the  impressiTeneBS  of  surprise  from 
its  commonplace  exterior.  For  here  was 
one  of  the  earliest  Norman  priories, 
dependent  on  the  Abbey  of  St.  Katberine 
at  Rouen  —  tiiat  St  Katherine  on  tbe 
mount  that  looks  over  the  whole  city  and 
the  unnouB  folds  of  the  Seine  in  iti  mighty 
valley.  Blyth,  too,  the  scene  of  tourna- 
ments and  festivab,  of  royal  pomp  and 
feudal  splendour — all  come  to  Uiis  placid, 
sleepy  quietude. 

Then  there  is  Scrooby,  about  which  we 
have  already  heard  something,  as  con- 
nected with  the  Puritan  emigration. 
Ciuioosly  enough  it  was  t^e  oid  manor- 
house  of  the  Archbishops  that  became  the 
nucleus  of  the  new  movement,  the  manor- 
house  where  Wolsey  rested  after  leaving 
Southwell,  jost  before  he  was  arrested. 
The  old  manor-house  had  been  utilised  by 
the  Government  as  a  posting-station,  and 
the  poet-master  was  the  chief  man  of  the 
little  SeparabiBt  congregation,  and  one  of 
the  Mayflower  emigrants. 

We  might  here  nark  back  to  Retford ; 
but  the  once  reedy  ford  over  tiie  river 
Idle  is  now  a  neat  little  railway  town,  with 
no  particular  history  belonging  to  it  Nor 
can  much  be  said  for  Tazford,  wbidi  has 
nothing  ancient  about  it  but  the  name,  that 
seems  somehow  to  have  got  astray  from 
some  other  place,  for  there  is  nothing  in  the 
way  of  a  ford,  or  even  of  a  stream  to  be 
forded,  discoverable  in  the  neighbourhood. 
So  that  we  will  hie  away  to  the  other  side 
of  the  forest  towards  Nottingham,  where  in 
a  valley  sheltered  from  the  north  by  a 
range  of  etrange-looking  hills  that  bear  the 
name  of  Robm  Hood's  Hills,  lies  the  old 
priory  "  de  novo  loco  in  Sherwood,"  other- 
wise Newstead  Abbey. 

There  is  little  trace  of  the  forest  indeed, 
and  coal-mines  and  manufactures  have  en- 
compassed Newstead  with  a  veil  of  smoke, 
but  the  old  house  of  the  Byrons  remains, 
although  in  the  hands  of  strangers ;  and 
the  rooms  occupied  by  the  poet  are 
religiously  preserved  as  be  1^  them, 
Tbe  great  west  window  of  tbe  priory 
church  survives,  "  a  glorious  remnant  of 
the  Gothic  pile."  Tbe  chapter-house,  too, 
has  survived,  and  was  used  as  a  chapel  by 
the  Byrons,  but  the  rest  pf  tbe  cburcb 
has  disappeared,  and  Boatswain,  Byron's 


81      |DM«m) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  KOUND. 


fMVOurite  dog,  is  buried  where  once  stood 
the  higtt  altar.  In  digging  Boatswain's 
grave  a  skull  was  diaintorred,  no  donbt 
from  the  position  of  the  interment  belong- 
ing to  some  ancient  prelate  of  high  sanc- 
titf,  and  this  was  mounted  by  Byron 
aa  a  drinking-cnp,  and  shared  in  the 
diaorderly  revels  held  by  the  young 
lord  in  the  first  flash  of  youth  and  of 
poaeession. 

Something  sinigter  aod  ill-fated  in 
popular  estima^on  hung  aboat  the  old 
priory  of  Newstead,  and  under  the  rale  of 
the  poet's  immediate  predecessor,  Wflliam, 
the  fifth  Lord  Byron,  this  sinister  influence 
had  deepened.  This  William,  as  is  well 
known,  had  in  early  life  killed  a  neigh- 
bour, young  Chaworth,  in  a  tavern  brawl 
in  London.  But  before  thu  event  Byron 
had  been  in  ill  odour  with  the  ooitntry 
squires  ronnd  abonL  He  was  no  sports- 
man, and  was  tender  and  lenient  with 
poachers— aggravated  offences  in  the  eyes 
of  bis  neighboaia — and  it  was  foi  some 
delinquency  of  this  kind  that  Lord  Byron 
was  Itearded  and  twitted  hi  a  London 
tavern  by  the  hot-headed  and  arrogant 
yonng  sqaire.  Swords  were  drawn,  and 
Chaworth  waa  slain.  Byion  was  triad  by 
bia  peers,  pleaded  bis  peerage,  and  was 
released,  but  he  retired  at  once  to  New- 
stead,  and  fixnn  Uiat  time  led  a  life  of 
solitude  and  seclution.  All  kinds  of 
stories  were  told  of  his  solitary  pastimes. 
He  tamed  crickets,  which  would  dance  about 
him,  and  when  he  died  it  is  said  that  the 
crickets  left  the  prioryin  a  body.  The  harm- 
less figures  of  satyrs,  that  watched  and  still 
watch  over  the  gardens  of  Newstead,  were 
called  by  the  country  people  the  old  lord's 
devils,  and  he  was  supposed  to  have  special 
intercourse  with  the  Evil  One.  Another  of 
the  old  lord's  pastimes  was  in  sailing  boats, 
and  in  sham  fights  therein  with  his  servants, 
on  the  lakes  in  the  priory  grounds — that 
string  of  pools  which  bad  been  the  mill- 
ponds  of  the  old  monks  —  and  when 
lie  had  a  sailing-boat  brought  from  the 
Trent  and  carted  across  the  forest,  the 
country  folk  recalled  an  old  prophecy  of 
Mother  Shipton,  to  the  effect  that,  when 
a  ship  loaded  with  ling,  or  heather, 
should  sail  over  Sherwood  Forest,  the 
Byrons  should  lose  Newstead.  And  so 
people  ran  alongside  the  boat  and  flung 
Heather  npon  it,  to  help  in  the  fulfilment  of 
the  prophecy. 

When  the  old  lord  died  young  Byron 
was  living  in  ScoUand  with  liiB  mother, 
who  bad  been  .the  well-to-do  heiress  of  the 


Gordons  of  Oight,  but  who  had  seen  aU 
her  property  disappear  within  a  year  of 
her  marriage,  to  pay  the  debts  previooaly  in- 
curred by  her  wild  and  reckless  hual»nd, 
CaptaluByron.  Abarepittanceof  ahundred 
and  fifty  pounds  a  year  had  been  secured 
her,  upon  which  she  had  to  live  and  edu- 
cate her  son,  who  was  eleven  years  old 
when  the  old  lord  died,  and  he  succeeded 
to  the  heritage  of  the  Byrons.  And  then 
mother  and  son  came  to  live  at  Notting- 
ham. Newitead  wax  let  by  the  boy  a 
guardians  during  his  minority  to  Lord  Grey 
de  Ruthyn,  but  still  mother  and  aon  liked 
to  hover  abont  the  family  Beat  It  waa 
some  old  gossip  of  his  mother's,  an  old 
lady  with  peculiar  notions  as  to  tiie  future 
of  the  human  sonl,  who  suggested  the 
firat  effort  of  hia  muse — pretty  wall  in 
verse  and  metre  for  a  boy  of  twelve  or  so : 

In  Nottingham  county  there  lives  at  Swan  Green 
Aa  nint  an  old  Udy  aa  ever  was  seen, 
And  when  she  does  die,  which  I  hope  will  be  wmn, 
Sha  firmly  believen  she  Bill  gn  to  the  uiixm. 

When  a  little  older,  we  find  Lord  Byron 
a  frequent  guest  of  the  Greys  at  his  own 
ancestral  home,  and  here  he  met  with  Misa 
Chaworth,  of  the  same  family  as  the  Cha- 
worth killed  by  the  old  lord — the  Mary  of 
his  Dream,  the  object  of  one  of  the  earUeat 
and  perliapa  the  strongest  of  his  many 
loves.  **  How  can  you  think  that  I  should 
care  for  that  lame  boy  t "  Miaa  Chaworth 
was  heard  to  say,  and  young  Byron  rode 
off  with  all  the  pangs  of  wounded  love 
and  pride.  But  Miss  Chaworth  had  fixed 
her  heart  on  another  kind  of  hero — 
Jack  Moaters,  a  ruddy  fox-hunting  squire 
— and  perhaps  she  was  wise  in  her  genera- 
tion. Instead  of  aharing  the  storm  and 
strife  of  such  a  life  as  Byron's,  she  passed 
existence  placidly  as  a  county  dame,  with 
her  church,  her  blanket-club,  her  dinner- 
parties, and  her  whist,  while  Jack  Musters 
prosecuted  poachers,  and  fought  them  too 
— for  his  fight  with  the  sweep  is  still 
remembered  in  the  land,  when  Jack 
Mnstera  met  hia  match  for  once,  and,  so 
far  from  resenting  his  beating,  brought  his 
antagonist  home  to  give  him  a  glass  of 
wine  and  a  guinea.  One  wonders  whether 
Mary  Chaworth  poured  out  the  glass  of 
wine  and  bound  up  her  lord's  contusions 
with  vin^ar  and  brown-paper. 


THE  AUTUJIN  MESSAGE. 
Sat  jtMhared  th«  dark-blae  rlolctt 

That  hid  'nsath  their  dewy  leavei, 
And  gave  to  the  ijfhln^  AQtumn  trlnde 

The  fnifratKe  of  Apnl  eves. 


"MR,  OUT-VOU-OO." 


She  chose  tha  pile  pure  Tosebud 
Tb«t  drooped  iU  peuiTe  hekd, 

Where  ths  graal  birch  aming  oboTS  it. 
All  rUBSBt.  and  gold,  and  ted. 

She  aoi^ht  far  the  f lante  btututy, 
ITiit  (fToWH  'neatb  the  hothouse  panes. 

Whose  bloattom,  alChough  it  withers, 


Forei 


She  whiiperod  %  word  to  the  Bowcn, 
And  eoftl;  their  leaves  cueeeed, 

And  abe  sent  them  to  oury  her  megaa^ 
To  him  whom  she  lored  the  beat. 


"MR.  our-vouoo." 

Thekg  ia  ft  virj  widespread  impresaiaii 
to  (he  effect  thftt  the  life — the  budQsss  life, 
efatt  it— of  an  official  of  any  pablic  deparC- 
nwit  is  a  pleasant  and  euy  on&  That 
impFeMion  may  or  may  not  be  generally 
jiwifiable,  bat  if  it  is,  I  can  answer  for  it 
i(ut  this  rule,  like  othera,  has  its  exceptions. 
I  am  in  a  pnblic  department,  but  my 
offidal  lines  have  not  fallen  anto  me  in 
ptoasant  places.  I  merely  mention  the 
ciicamstaiice,  however;  I  am  not  a  man 
with  a  grievance,  or,  at  any  rate,  I  am  not 
it(H«aent  bent  on  grievance  mongering.  I 
rsfer  to  my  "  lines  "  here,  simply  becaaee 
dieii  falling  where  they  do  accoanta  for 
my  knowledge  of,  and  acquaintance  with, 
ib,  Oat-Yoa-CrD,  a  personage  of  a  stamp  not 
st  all  likely  to  be  foond  in  the  pleasanter 
places  of  the  earth,  and  whose  ways  are 
eartainly  not  ways  of  pleaaantnesa.  In  my 
official  capacity  I  am  in  immediate  and 
leUva  chai^  (^  a  csrCaiD  poor  dtstriot  of 
dte  metropolis  which  is  commonly — and 
wid)  good  caose — spoken  of  as  a  warm 
qoarter.  Its  streets  are  narrow  except  oa 
to  gutter,  in  which  they  are  abnormally 
brtHtd,  and  fool.  Narrowness,  however, 
like  moat  other  things,  is  relative,  and 
thooeh  compared  with  those  of  better 
loeahties,  these  streets  are  narrow,  they 
Ggnre  as  stately  thoroughfares  in  com- 
parison with  the  alleys,  open  and  blind,  of 
which  the  dutrict  is  largely  made  np. 
These  alleys  are  styled  rows,  rents,  build- 
ingfl,  coarta,  sqnares,  and  even  gardens. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  they  are  veritable 
slams,  and  of  slums,  slammy ;  the  sort  of 
places  to  give  a  more  realistic  idea  of  what 
Alsatia  most  have  been  like  than  even  the 
graphic  word-painting  of  the  great  Sir 
Walter.  In  streets  and  alleys  alike,  the 
houses  are  old,  dilapidated,  vermin-infested, 
and  over-inhabited,  and  altogether  the  dis- 
trict is  in  a  champion  state  of  uasanitaTi- 
Qsaa.  The  relieVing-officer,  the  parish 
doctor,  the  parish  fever  and  smaLl-pox 
nna,  and  the  parish  hearse,  find  much  of 


their  employraent  in  it.  There  is  a  little 
Ireland  within  its  gates,  and  its  fuction- 
fights,  free  fights,  wife-beatings,  and  mis^ 
cellaneoas  scrimmages  famish  a  constant 
supply  of  more  or  less  interesting  sai^ical 
casea  to  the  neighbouring  hospital.  The 
district  is  "  well  known  to  the  police,"  bat 
save  to  them,  the  officers  ntentioned  above, 
and  its  inhabitants,  it  ia  a  terra  incognita. 
More  than  one  of  these  inhabitants  is  a 
"  bit  of  a  character  "  in  his,  or  in  her,  way, 
but  the  great  man  of  mark,  the  Triton 
among  minnows  in  the  way  of  characters, 
is  Mr.  Ont-Yon-Go. 

Though  a  Post  Office  Directory  would 
furnish  many  aa  outlandish  and  strangely 
componnded  a  name,  any  reader  aoquunted 
with  the  extent  to  which  nicknames  and 
nicknaming  prevail  in  low  quarters,  will 
probably  gaess  that  Out- Yon-Go  is  not  the 
veritable  samame  of  the  local  notable  here 
in  question.  He  is,  however,  very  rarely 
spoken  of,  and  in  many  instances  is  not 
even  known,  by  any  other,  and  the 
"  natives  "  will  as  emphatically  as  slangity 
inform  you  that  if  Out-Yon-Go  ia  not  his 
name,  it  is  undoubtedly  his  nature. 
Thoagh  well  known,  it  cannot  be  said  of 
him  he  ia  highly  respected.  As  the  chief 
tenement  landlord  of  the  district,  he  ia  on 
a  small  scale  a  sort  of  uncrowned  king, 
bat  he  certainly  does  not  reign  in  the 
hearts  of  his  subjects,  who  are  wont  to  say 
of  him  that  he  has  no  heart,  bnt  only  a 
paving-^tone  where  his  heart  should  be. 
His  kingship  does  not  arise  simply  from 
his  being  an  owner  of  tenement-houses, 
but  from  that  fact  taken  in  conjunction 
with  the  circumstances  that,  unlike  other 
tenement  landlords,  he  ia  resident  on  his 
estate,  and  acte  as  his  own  agent  Moat 
hired  agents  engaged  in  the  management 
of  tenement  property  are  content  to  let 
house  by  house,  leaving  the  tenants  in 
chief  to  manage  the  subletting  at  their 
own  risk  if  they  fail  to  find  lodgers,  to 
their  own  profit  if  they  succeed,  ffot  so 
Mr.  Out-You-Go,  however,  who  as  a  land- 
lord is  nothing  if  not  thorough.  He  lets 
direct  to  each  occupant  of  a  one  or  two 
roonied  tenement,  and  fixes  their  rents, 
which  he  collects  from  them  individually. 
Above  all,  he  personally  carries  out  evic- 
tions from  Ms  property.  This  is  the  moat 
distinguishing  feature  of  his  management, 
and  it  is  in  connection  with  it  that  he  has 
earned  his  sobriquet.  "  Out-Yon-Oo  "  is  his 
war-cry  in  the  battle  of  eviction,  which  is 
more  orlesa  constantly  being  waged  between 
tenement  landlords  and  tenants.     That  is 


HG      [Dsceinlxr  li,  ISSS.) 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


the  slogan  with  which  he  eets  on  when 
bboiit  to  Baize  the  "sticks"  and  resume 
posseaaion— forcibly  if  need  be — of  the 
rooms  of  any  defanlbing  tenant  who  hat 
not  cleared  out  in  accordance  with  the 
notice  to  qnit,  which  ia  promptly  served 
on  the  Grat  failiiie  to  pay  the  weekly  rent 
In  this  matter  he  is  a  law  unto  himeelf, 
and  he  carriea  out  his  rule  in  a  highly 
draconic  apirit  His  "  simple  plan,"  though 
effective,  is  said,  and  probably  with  tnitb, 
to  be  illegal,  but  he  has  little  to  appre- 
hend on  that  score.  His  tenantry  are  too 
poor,  and  occasionally  too  "shady,"  to  care 
to  invoke  the  law's  delay,  and  a  little  delay 
is  all  they  could  hope  to  gain.  Being  a 
stalwart  and  determined  fellow,  and  having 
had  a  long  and  varied  experience  in  "  rough 
and  tumble"  work,  Mr.  Oat-You-Oo  has 
even  less  to  fear  from  physical  resistance 
than  legal  impedimenta.  So,  like  the 
ancient  mariner,  he  hath  his  will — in  these 
latter  days  at  any  rate.  But  it  was  not 
ever  thna.  Id  the  early  days  of  his 
landlordism  he  literally  fought  and  bled 
for  Uie  eatabliehment  of  his  methods.  He 
fought  simply  for  his  own  hand,  but  in 
winning  the  fight  he  perforce  became  a 
social  reformer.  The  reformer,  like  the 
prophet,  however,  does  not  always  obtun 
honour  in  his  own  country,  and  so  it  has 
been  with  the  redoubtable  Out-You-Go. 

Tenement-honaes  in  poor  quarters  are  by 
no  means  invariably  the  highly  remunera- 
tive property  they  are  popularly  supposed 
to  be.  Fully  let  to  regularly  paying  tenants, 
they  may  be  rehitively  a  more  profitable 
investment  than  West  End  mansions,  but 
their  tenants  are  not  always  paying  ones. 
Among  this  class  of  tenantry  ia  a  section 
usually  spoken  of  as  "  Slopers,"who  without 
going  through  any  formality  or  farce  of 
issuing  manifeatoea,  act  upon  no -rent 
principles  with  a  thoroughness  that  would 
gladden  the  heart  of  a  Land  Leaguer— pro- 
vided he  was  not  their  landlord.  The 
sloper  will  neither  pay  nor  go.  His 
fumitnrd  consists  for  the  most  part  of  a 
frying-pan,  a  bundle  of  shavings  and  rags 
by  way  of  bed  and  bedding,  and  a  few 
battered  beer-cans.  Such  goods  are  of 
courae  not  worth  seizing,  and  a  t«nant  of 
this  stamp  is  not  to  be  got  rid  of  by  any 
milder  means  than  the  unroofing  of  the 
houseor  the  removal  of  its  windows.  Even 
such  costly  proceedings  as  these  will  not 
always  have  the  desired  effect  Moreover, 
your  aloper  is  generally  a  brutal  ruffian 
who  with  horrid  imprecations  threatens — 
and  may  fulfil  bis  threats — to  aeaaolt  any 


person  who  may  attempt  to  resort  to  dLese 
extreme  means  of  eviction.  A  gang  of 
these  hard  bargains  had  firmly  establiabed 
themselves  in  the  half-dozen  houses  with 
which  Mr.  Ont-Von-Go  commenced  his 
career  as  a  landlord.  The  proceedings  of 
the  slopers  had  so  depreciated  the  value  of 
these  particular  houses  that  they  were  sold 
at  so  tow  a  price,  and  under  euch  favour- 
able conditions  of  deferred  payments,  that 
Mr.  Ont-You-Go,  though  only  a  jobbing 
bricklayer  at  the  time,  was  enabled  to 
purchase  them.  His  work  as  a  jobbing- 
hand  had  consisted  chiefly  in  undertaking 
audi  repairs  as  are  bestowed  upon  tene- 
ment-honsea,  so  that  he  knew  Uie  neigh- 
bourhood, not  merely  by  reputation,  Mit 
by  experience  alsa  He  was  fully  aware 
of  the  reason  that  led  to  the  houses  being 
knocked  down — by  the  auctioneer — so 
cheaply,  and  deliberately  accepted  Ute 
situation.  He  openly  announced  his  in- 
tention of  clearing  out  the  slopers  when  he 
ehoald  come  into  possession,  while  the 
slopers  as  openly  and  with  their  most 
blood-curdling  oaths  proclaimed  their  reao- 
Intion  not  to  oe  cleared  out,  and  to  "  make 
it  hot "  for  anyone  who  should  attempt 
to  eject  them.  The  positiou  was  quite  an 
interesting  one  for  the  locality  generally, 
and  both  landlords  and  tenantey  watched 
with  eager  curiosity  for  the  commencement 
of  hoatiatiee.  They  were  not  kept  lon^  in 
anapenae.  Within  a  week  of  his  entering 
upon  the  ownership  of  his  property,  Mr. 
Out-Yon-Ck)  that  was  to  he — for  at  that 
time  he  had  not  gained  the  titIe-7-marched 
into  the  apartment  of  a  notoriooa  comer- 
man  and  bully,  who  was  the  head  and 
front  of  this  particular  gang  of  offending 
elopers,  and  demanded  to  nave  either  his 
room  or  his  rent.  To  this  demand  the 
tenant  replied  by  advising  him  to  get  out 
if  he  did  not  want  to  be  "  corpssd. '  As 
be  showed  no  signs  of  acting  upon  this 
advice,  he  waa  next  recommended  to  say 
his  prayers,  if  he  knew  any,  as  he  had  not 
got  five  minutes  to  live,  and  then  the  bnlly 
went  for  him  on  "  corpsing  "  purpose  bent 
But  he  had  "  woke  the  wrong  passenger." 
Out-Yon-Go,  who  worked  hsjd  and  lived 
temperately,  was  muscular  as  well  aa  big, 
and — though  the  other  did  not  know  it — 
a  fair  broiser.  He  met  the  comer-maD's 
ugly  rush  with  a  swinging  shoulder  hit 
which  sent  him  from  the  top  to  the  bottom 
of  a  flight  of  stairs,  with  his  face  a  good 
deal  "  bashed  in."  Whether  or  not  tJiia 
bully  was  a  coward,  he  certunly  acted 
]  upon  the  principle  that  discretion  is  the 


"ME.  OUT-YOU-GO." 


[Deceintier  1^  ISSL)     87 


beUer  part  of  valour.  Finding  he  had 
^anght  a  TvUr,  h«  affected  to  hare  been 
" knocked BiUy,"  nn^  hisfoeman  had  gone 
avij.  Taught  by  this  incident  that  their 
WW  landlord  vas  not  to  be  intimidated  by 
wj  mere  "  gauing  "  in  the  way  of  threats 
or  erea  by  attempts  at  personal  violence, 
tha  Blapera  changed  their  tactics.  They 
banicaded  themselves  in  the  honaes  and 
carded  the  war  into  the  enemy's  country 
by  proceeding  to  wreck  his  property.  The 
aloper  is  at  beat  a  destmctive  as  well  as  a 
noD^ying  tenant  He  generally  belongs 
to  the  class  of  rough  who  after  priming 
bimself  with  unlimited  pots  of  "  Saturday 
o^t  particular,"  indulges  in  wife-beating 
IM— fumitaie  in  his  case  being  scarce- 
door  and  window  smashing. 

The  right  of  the  British  husband  to  do 
irhit  he  liked  with  his  own,  Mr.  Oat- Yon- 
Go  was  in  a  general  way  prepared  to 
respect.  With  regard  to  wife-beating,  he 
avowedly  acted  npon  a  strict  policy  of 
BCED-intervention,  bnt  if  the  beater  did  not 
in  his  turn  respect  the  sacied  rights  of 
(house)  property,  then  was  the  bold  Oat- 
Yon-Gki  down  npon  Mm  like  a  thousand  of 
Idcks. 

In  his  first  battle  with  the  slopers  he 
hid  ample  cause  to  be  down  npon  them  on 
Una  head.  They  carried  house.Bmaahing 
to  its  utmost  limitB,  and  that  not  merely 
incidentally  to  the  excitement  of  wife- 
beating,  bnt  deliberately  and  aa  an  act  of 
VST.  Doors  and  stair-banisters  were  pulled 
dovn  and  ostentatiously  chopped  up  for 
Erawood,  and  in  some  instances  mantel- 
piaces  and  fire-grates  were  dismounted  and 
thrown  out  of  window.  The  perpetrators 
of  this  deatmctioQ  were  men  of  straw  so 
far  as  any  hope  of  exacting  compensation 
from  them  went.  On  this  ground,  others 
liad  let  anch  tenants  alone,  but  Out- Yon-Go 
was  resolved  that  in  this  case  they  should 
pay  in  person.  One  of  them,  whom  be 
muiaged  to  seize  red-handed,  he  "charged," 
and  others,  though  they  strictly  secluded 
tbemselves,  he  ferreted  out  and  had  taken 
on  warrants.  In  this  work  he  displayed 
SD  energy  and  coorage  that  not  only 
•iiagnsted  the  slopers,  -  bat  likewise 
astonished  the  police  authorities.  He 
prosecuted  to  the  bitter  end,  and  finally 
succeeded  in  "lumbering"  some  hatf- 
dozsn  of  the  more  joyous  and  original 
Bpirite  among  the  house-wreckers,  one  of 
vhom  was  sentenced  to  three  months' 
"hard,"  and  the  others  to  periods  vary- 
ing from  seven  days  to  a  month.  This 
gave  pause    to   the    remaining    roughs. 


If  the  pastime  of  house-smashing  could  be 
indulged  in  without  risk,  they  argued, 
well  uid  good,  they  were  free,  able,  and 
wUliog  to  be  "on  the  job,"  but  to  be 
lumbered  for  it,  to  have  to  do  time  for  it, 
was  "  up  another  street."  For  a  free-born 
Briton  to  be  liable  to  get  six  months  for 
merely  ill-treating  his  wife  was  sufficiently 
hard  lines,  but  that  it  should  also  be 
possible  to  "  pat  him  away  "  for  house- 
wrecking  was  altogether  too  bad.  Under 
such  conditions  —  and  against  a  man 
capable  of  making  these  conditions  opera- 
tive—this particiUar  body  of  slopers  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  game  was  not 
worth  the  candle. 

On  the  day  after  their  fellows  had 
been  sentenced  they  gave  in,  and,  call- 
ing a  parley  with  their  formidable  land- 
lord, speedily  agreed  to  his  terms  of 
marching  out  on  condition  of  being  allowed 
to  take  their  baggage — such  as  it  was — 
with  them. 

Having  thus  got  rid  of  his  band  of 
squatters,  Mr.  Out-Yoa-Go  put  the  hoosea 
in  repair,  and  let  them  again  to  tenants  of 
his  own  chooaing.  Even  then  he  got 
some  relatively  undesirable  customers  to 
deal  with,  but  upon  them  he  immediately 
swooped  down  with  his  war-cry,  and  from 
that  time  forward  he  continued  to  act 
strictly  on  the  out-yon-go  principle.  With 
him  the  just  suffered  for,  or  at  least  with, 
the  unjust.  A  tenant  was  to  him  a  tenant 
and  nothing  mote.  The  one  who  pleaded 
with  him  for  time  might  be  a  man  who  had 
spent  the  rent  in  dnnk,  or  a  wife  with  a 
sick  husband  on  her  hands,  or  a  widow 
temporarily  out  of  employment.  But  for 
all  alike  he  had  the  same  answer — "the 
room  or  the  rent — pay,  or  out  you  go." 
And  with  him  the  word  and  the  deed  were 
as  one ;  ii  they  did  not  pay  out  they  were 
put,  and  in  very  summary  fashion. 

Apart  from  his  harshness  in  this  matter, 
Mr.  OutYou-Go  came  to  be  accounted  a 
passably  good  landlord.  His  rents  were 
not  above  the  average  rate ;  he  kept  the 
booses  in  reasonable  repair — for  tenement- 
bonaes ;  and  was  accommodating  in  the 
matter  of  making  up  or  splitting  up  a 
tenement  to  suit  occupiers.  He  did  all 
repairs  with  his  own  hands,  and  in  every 
other  respect  worked  with  characteristic 
vigour  in  his  office  of  landlord,  and  from 
his  own  point  of  view  he  had  his 
reward.  Within  a  year  he  bad  made  bis 
first  batch  of  bouses  a  paying  concern, 
even  allowing  for  bis  war  expenditure 
at  the  outMt.      On  the  strength  of  bis 


88      ll)<cembafl6,18n.| 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


achieyement,  the  man^^meot  of  other 
tenement-hoaH  properties  in  the  vieinity 
was  offered  to  him,  bat  he  iroald  accept  do 
Agencies.  His  deaire  was  to  extend  hie 
own  poBseeiionB,  not  to  improve  the  value 
of  those  of  othera— even  for  a  conaidera- 
tion.  As  snch  properties  came  into  the 
market  he  "  snapped  them  up,"  eometimea 
hy  single  hoosea,  sometimes  hy  whole 
alleys  or  rows.  At  first  he  bad  to  finance 
his  operations  in  this  kind,  but  ere  long  he 
was  in  a  position  to  buy  right  away  and 
right  ont  Under  his  Shytockian  system 
of  management  the  wretched  dwdlings  of 
the  poorest  of  the  poor — dwellrngs  that, 
under  a  really  effective  Dwellings  Improve- 
ment Act,  would  have  been  swept  away  as 
nnSi  for  human  habitation— became  a 
mine  of  wealth  to  hiio.  In  the  course  of 
a  few  years  he  was,  so  far  as  means  went, 
in  a  position  to  have  moved  to  the  fashion- 
able quarter  of  the  snbnrb  in  the  low 
quarter  of  which  his  property  was  situated. 
Nor  was  be  altogether  without  inclination 
to  display  his  wealth.  Bat,  as  a  matter  of 
business,  he  argues  thftt  it  pays  him  best 
to  stay  where  he  can  keep  lus  eye  and  his 
hand  npon  bis  teaaata ;  where,  if  need  be, 
he  con  come  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold, 
if  he  detects  or  anspects  an  intention  upon 
the  part  of  any  of  them  to  bolt.  Thu  is 
the  key-note  to  hia  residential  position,  as 
he  understands  it,  and,  under  all  the  cir- 
cnmstances  of  the  case,  he  certainly  makes 
the  best  of  the  position.  Hia  dwelling 
stands  out  oa  an  oasis  of  sweetness  and 
light  in  a  desert  of  dirt  and  misery.  It  is 
a  raii^ized  coTner-bonse,  which,  before  be 
came  to  inhabit  its  hod  accommodated  at 
leaat  half  a-doeen  tenement  families.  It 
has  been  "  done  up "  to  an  extent,  and 
with  a  frequency,  that  almost  amount  to 
rebuilding.  Ita  outer  brickwork  bos  been 
faced  and  pointed,  and  its  door  and  window 
franiea  are  brightly  painted  and  gloasily 
varnished,  and  within  it  is  expensively  and, 
if  not  tastefully,  at  any  rate  goraeonsly 
furnished.  The  young  Out-You-Gos — a 
son  of  twenty,  and  two  daughters,  aged 
respectively  seventeen  and  eighteen — are, 
despite  their  surroundings,  of  decidedly 
genteel  proclivities.  They  have  penonu 
acquaintances  in  the  genteel  world,  even 
visiting  acquaintances  who,  to  the  end  of 
cultivating  social  relations  witli  them,  brace 
themselves  to  brave  the  dangers  of  the  low 
quarter.  To  those  not  acclimatised,  there 
really  are  sanitary  dangers  involved  in  such 
an  incnrsion;  bnt  the  danger  moat  appre- 
hended— that,  namely,  of  rough  treatment 


from  the  inhabitaata  of  the  quarter — ia,  to 
a  great  extent,  imaginary.  True,  the 
natives  will  stare  at  yon  with  an  unem- 
barrassed but  embarrassing  frankness ;  they 
will  chaff  you  in  language  so  slangy  as  only 
to  be  anderstanded  of  those  to  the  manner 
bora,  or  so  coarse  as  to  grate  on  ears  polite ; 
or  they  may  jeer  at  you,  or,  in  extreme 
cases,  hoot  yon.  Their  a^;ressireQe3a, 
generally  speaking,  has  this  extent,  no 
mor&  Of  coarse,  if  the  genteel  incnr- 
sionist  is  so  unwise  as  to  moke  an  osten- 
tatious display  of  watch-guard,  or  other 
easily  get-at-able  jewellery,  some  weak 
brother— or  even  siiter — of  the  quarter 
may  be  tempted  to  "  do  a  snatch;"  but,  as 
a  rule,  the  "foreigner"  who  exeroiaes  a 
reasonable  degree  of  tact  and  temper  need 
fear  no  personal  violence  at  the  hands  of 
the  natives. 

Altogether  a  social  explorer,  voDtaring 
into  low  latitodee  and  coming  npon  the 
home  of  the  Out-You-Gos,  would  probably 
be  reminded  of  the  fly  in  the  amber,  and 
wonder  how  it  got  thua  Having  regard 
to  the  shady  character  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, another  matter  for  wonder 
with  a  stranger  would  donbtleas  be  tb^t 
the  house  did  not  get  "burgled."  Aa 
the  no -visible -means- of -Bupport  claasea 
abound  in  the  locality,  it  would  be  doing 
it  no  injustice  to  suppose  that  it  is  very 
much  on  the  cards  that  it  numbers  members 
of  the  enterprising  burglar  profmsion 
among  ita  inhabitants,  or,  in  any  case, 
aome  who  would  be  willing  enough  to 
"  put  up  a  job "  for  gentlemen  of  the 
burgling  croft  hailing  from  other  qnarters. 
That  Mr.  Out- Yon-Go's  dwelling  has  been 
taken  stock  of,  wiili  a  view  to  burglanons 
operations,  may  be  pretty  safely  assumed, 
and  therein,  doubtless,  lies  its  safety. 

The  burglar  of  the  period  does  not  work 
at  random.  As  a  rule  he  is  informed  of 
the  circumstances  likely  to  arise  id  con- 
nection with  a  job,  before  undertaking  it, 
and  the  circumstances  in  the  case  of  Mr. 
Ont-YoU'Oo's  house  are  not  snch  as  to 
inspire  confidence  of  success  or  hopes 
of  a  booty  worth  running  special  risk 
for.  His  habits  and  customs  in  relation 
to  burgling  possibilities  are  matter  of 
common  knowledge  in  the  district  It  la 
known  that  bis  doors  and  windows  u« 
welt  secured,  that  he  banks  close  up,  and 
every  night  deposits  his  cosh-box  and 
portable  valuables  in  a  safe.  A-  for- 
midably fierce  boll-dog  is  at  nightfall 
turned  loose  in  the  yard,  and  a  cur  of 
an     unascertainable    mixture    of    breeds. 


"MB.  OUT-YOUGO." 


bat  a  prize  jtApti  when  routed,  does 
■antinel  daty  witlun  doon.  Further,  it  is 
bu>ini  that  Mr.  Out-Von-Go  keeps  &  loaded 
isToIrer  handy,  and  by  those  who  are 
aequioted  with  him  it  is  not  for  an  instant 
doobted  that  in  the  event  of  a  burglary  he 
mold  use  it  unhesitatingly,  and  that  with 
DO  mwe  purpose  to  Mghten,  but  with  full 
intent  and  hope  to  bring  down  his  man  or 
DMD,  not  caring  whether  he  brought  them 
don  dead  or  only  woumled.  These  are 
conditionaiy  circumstances  calculated  to 
■ppssl  to  the  busiuesB  and  boeomi>  of 
bor^aiB,  and  to  them  Mr.  Out-YouGo 
oves  it  that  his  home  is  as  safe  as  any 
other  in  the  district 

Once,  in  the  early  days  of  hia  land- 
lordtim,  an  attempt  was  made  to  rob  him 
u  he  was  returning  home  from  a  Monday 
lantcollection.  On  that  occasion  a  couple 
of  determined  roughs  tried  to  dra^  from 
turn  the  hand-bag  in  which  he  earned  his 
money,  bat  they  only  so  far  succeeded  that 
ibe  bag  was  jerked  open,  part  of  its 
eoi^enta  thrown  about,  and  a  pound  or 
two  in  silver  "  grabbed" — the  mob  that  bad 
gathered  round,  however,  getting  more  of 
the  money  than  tha  desperadoes  who  had 
mule  the  attack.  The  latter  personages 
made  good  their  escape  for  the  time  being, 
but  three  months  later  returned  to  the  dis- 
trict, hoping  the  aSiiir  had  blown  over.  In 
Ihis  they  reckoned  very  much  without  their 
boat  Out-Yoa-Go  gained  early  intelligence 
of  their  return,  and  immediately  put  the 
police  upon  their  track,  whereupon  they 
fled  again,  and  that  time  finally,  a  lesson 
tbit  waa  not  lost  upon  the  low  brother- 
hood of  roughs.  From  that  time  Mr.  Out- 
You-^  baa  well  safeguarded  himself  against 
the  probability  of  any  sccoud  attack  of  the 
kind.  It  was  then  that  he  set  up  bis  bull- 
dog. 

The  money-bag  he  now  carries  is  of  a 
tpccial  make,  and  is  snap-locked.  It  is 
ilnag  round  bis  aboulders  by  a  stout  strap, 
and  £utened  to  hie  side  by  a  steel  chain, 
and  with  the  bag  thus  secured,  a  signifi- 
csotlr  stout  wamng-stick  in  his  hand,  and 
tha  dog  following  at  heel,  he  has  litlle  to 
apprehend.  In  these  latter  days  he  goes 
OD  bis  round  feared,  but  fearing  none. 
Kuowiog  the  habits  and  means  of  biu 
tenantoy,  he  does  not  b^in  business 
till  eleven  o'clock  on  the  Monday  morning, 
by  which  hour  those  of  them  who  are  under 
toe  necesaity — as  a  good  many  of  them 
are — of  "making  the  money"  at  the  pawn- 
broker's, will  have  had  time  to  transact 
their  affairs  in  that  kind 


However  the  rent  may  be  raised  it  is 
usually  ready  for  him  when  be  calls,  in 
many  instances  being  left  with  children  to 
.  hand  over,  both  parents  being  out  at  work 
orlookingforit.  Occasionally,  Out- You-Go 
may  be  heard  laying  down  the  law  to  a 
tenant  who  is  not  prepared  with  the  rent, 
for  his  laying  down  is  done  loudly  and 
emphatically,  so  that  all  may  hear  and  be 
warned.  Saturday  aft«mooQ  is  his  time 
for  making  evictions,  but  he  has  become 
such  an  expert  at  the  work,  it  is  so  well- 
known  that  resistance  will  not  avsil,  and 
the  "  sticks,"  to  be  confiscated  are  usnally 
of  such  small  value,  that  his  "chuckings 
out"  have  come  to  be  regarded  as  quite 
commonplace  incidents,  and  hardly  attract 
as  much  attention  as  a  wife-beating,  or  a 
fight  between  two  drunken  men  or  women, 
would  do. 

It  may  be  asked  why  do  tenants, 
knowing  what  he  is,  live  under  such  a 
landlord  t  Well,  practically,  it  is  a  casd 
of  Uobson's  choice.  This,  like  most  other 
tenement  districts,  is  habitually  over- 
crowded. The  demand  for  rooms  exceeds 
the  supply,  and  Out-You-Go  is  the  largest 
holder.  The  position  is,  on  many  points, 
a  case  of  the  fitness  of  things.  The  rents, 
though  relatively  high,  are  positively  low. 
The  locality  lies  handy  to  the  labour- 
markets  in  which  "  cas'alty  "  labourers 
have  their  best  chances  of  finding  employ- 
ment, and  tenants  are  allowed  to  carry  on 
indoor  trades  that  they  would  not  be 
permitted  to  follow  in  a  better  class  of 
dwellings.  Again,  the  shady  social  atmo- 
sphere of  the  quarter  suits  the  complaint 
of  the  no-visible-means-of-snpport  section 
of  its  inhabitants.  Moreover,  as  already 
mentioned,  apart  from  the  fact  that  he  is  a 
man  of  one  idea — rent — Mr.  Out- You-Go 
is  not  a  bad  landlord.  Nay,  there  are 
those  who  consider  him  on  some  points  a 
good  one.  He  is  not  "too  blessed  par- 
ticular" as  to  character,  indeed  character 
is  a  thing  of  which  his  philosophy  of  land- 
lordism takes  no  account  He  selects  his 
tenants  entirely  on  bis  own  judgment, 
and  directs  that  judgment  solely  to 
the  question,  Are  they  likely  to  be  good 
payers  1  How  the  means  to  pay  may  be 
obtained  he  regards  as  no  business  of  his. 
Beferences  he  avowedly  despises,  but  he 
loses  little  by  his  contempt  for  them,  seeing 
that  the  customary  reference  among  tene- 
ment-occupiers is  a  dilapidated,  dog's-eared 
rent-book,  which  is  probably  doctored, 
and  possibly  wholly  fabricated.  The 
difficult  with    any  owner  of  tenement- 


no     [Decambar  IS,  im.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


propertj  in  the  low  qnuters  of  the 
metropolia  is  not  to  obtain  tenanta,  but  to 
get  in  renta  That  difficulty,  aa  we  have 
seen,  Hr.  Ont-YouGo  hu  overcome, and, 
to  his  miad,  the  mean*  by  which  he  has 
conqaered  are  more  than  jastified  by  the 
circumstance  that  they  have  beensuooeufal. 
Of  course  Mr.  Ont-Yon-Gi> '  pows  as  a 
self-made  man.  Most  who  know  him 
regard  bim  as  beiog  an  agly  job  at  that, 
and  hope  that  the  monld  was  broken  after 
he  was  cast.  But  like  a  good  many  other 
self-made  men,  Mr.  Oat-You-Go  adores  his 
maker.  Hard  he  is  as  the  nether  mill- 
stone, and  grinds  tiie  faces  of  the  poor, 
bnt  he  has  tmiven  and  thrives,  and ' '  lives  a 
piosperoos  gentleman,"  in  his  own  esti- 
mation at  least.  There  are,  no  donbt, 
redeeming  points  in  his  ohar*ot«r.  but  on 
the  whole  he  is,  like  Lady  Clara  Vere  de 
Vere  —  though,  of  course,  on  different 
grounds — not  one  to  be  desired.  Taken 
for  all  in  all,  however,  he  is  decidedly  a 
character,  uid  conBidered  in  conjnnction 
with  his  surroundings,  and  as  affording 
incidental  lUosbution  of  some  phases  of 
the  life  of  low  quarters,  he  becomes  a  fairly 
interesting  study  in  sociology. 


MARRIAGE  IN  AMERICA. 

A  Frenchman,  asserting  that  in  no 
civilised  conntry  was  marriage  treated  ao 
lightly  as  in  tha  United  States,  jusUfied 
the  assertion  thus :  "  la  order  to  make 
marriage  valid  the  law  does  not  reqnire 
the  consent  of  parents,  or  publication,  or 
the  presence  of  witneeses,  or  even  the 
signatures  of  the  nan  and  woman  them- 
selves. A  man  hnnt«  np  an  official,  eays 
that  his  name  is  so  ana  so,  and  that  he 
wishes  to  marry  such  or  such  a  woman. 
He  receives  a  license — that  is,  a  paper  con- 
taining the  names  of  the  future  spouses, 
who  are,  in  all  probability,  perfectly  un- 
known to  the  official.  Then  the  man  and 
woman  go  before  a  justice  of  the  peace,  or 
a  minister  of  any  sect,  in  any  comer  of  the 
United  States,  and  declare  that  the  names 
in  the  license  are  their  names ;  the  justice 
or  minister  gets  up,  pronounces  them 
married,  u^  the  license,  and  pockets  his 
fee.    That  is  the  whole  process. 

Even  that  much  is  unnecessary  in  the 
Empire  State,  where,  according  to  a  late 
decuion,  persone  may  marry  uiemselvee 
by  words  none  but  themselves  hear ;  or 
without  any  verbal  ceremony  wliatever,  by 
publicly  Uving  together  as  man  and  wifft 


Aspirante  to  matrimony  who  do  not  care 
to  forge  their  own  bonds  may  enlist  the 
services  of  any  minister  of  retigiiHi,  any 
mayor,  recorder,  or  alderman ;  any  county 
jndffe  or  jastioe  of  the  peace,  according  as 
their  fancy  inclines.  Very  accommodating, 
too,  are  the  aathorities  of  New  York  City. 
Couples  electing  to  be  married  at  the  City 
Hall  have  a  choice  of  ritual.  If  an  alder- 
man officiates,  he  asks  the  bride :  "  D&you 
take  this  man  as  your  wedded  husband,  to 
live  together  in  t^e  state  of  matrimony  I 
Will  you  love,  comfort,  hononr,  and  obey 
him,  as  a  faithful  wife  is  hound  to  do,  in 
health  and  sickness,  prosperity  and  ad- 
versity, and  forsaking  all  others,  keep  you 
alone  with  him,  so  long  as  you  both  shall 
live  1 "  If  the  mayw  ties  the  knot  he 
omite  the  word  "obey,"  and  calls  upon  the 
bride  to  "  keep "  her  husband  instead. 
This  alteration  was  made  some  few  years 
ago  by  Mayor  Havemeyer,  and  when  his 
successor  was  asked  to  return  to  the  old 
formula,  he  replied :  "  What's  the  use  of 
putting  it  back  1  Yon  know  that  a  woman 
wouldn't  mind  it  after  she  was  married. 
Ask  a  wife  to  obey,  indeed  I  I  don't  want 
to  get  such  trouble  as  that  on  my  head." 

Loving  at  sight  )s  possible  anywhere,  in 
the  States  marrying  at  sight  is  as  feasible 
an  operation.  A  comely  maiden,  frosh 
from  old  England,  bound  for  her  brother's 
home  in  the  West,  broke  her  journey  at 
Pittsburg,  to  call  upon  a  cousin  residing  at 
Mount  Washington.  While  making  her 
way  thither,  she  stumbled  ogunst  a  stalwut 
puddler  coming  from  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. He  apologised  for  the  accidental 
collision,  a  conversation  ensued,  ending  in 
his  accompanying  her  to  her  cousin's 
house,  leaving  her  there  to  go  in  quest  of 
a  minister,  and  finding  one,  the  aoqoaint- 
ances  of  an  hour  were  bound  together  for 
life.  Mr.  Martin,  onhiswsyto  Jonesvilleto 
marry  Miss  Foster,  chancing  to  meet  an 
old  Btveetheart,  fbrgot  his  new  one,  and 
straightway  went  and  married  his  first 
love,  leaving  Miss  Foster  to  explain 
matters  to  tho  bridal  guests  with  tbe  best 
grace  she  could.  Thomas  Patterson,  a  mere 
boy,  arraigned  at  Frontin,  New  Jersey,  for 
refusing  to  support  his  forty-year-old  wife 
and  her  four  children,  on  being  asked  how 
he  came  to  give  her  the  right  of  expecting 
him  to  do  so,  replied ;  "  Why,  squire,  1 
was  ao  blind  drunk  that  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  doing.  I  was  arrested  tiie  sams 
n^ht  for  being  drunk,  and  have  never 
U'mi  with  the  woman  at  alt  I "  The  judge 
enquired  what  answer  he  made  to  t£e 


MARRIAGE  IN  AMERICA. 


iatenogktton,  "  Will  you  Ulce  this  wom^n 
to  be  thy  lavfal  wedded  wife  1 "  Stid  ihe 
lid :  "  Aaother  round  of  drioks,  I&ndlord  1 " 
When  m&trimoay  can  be  perpetrated  in 
oirh  hiph&zard  fashion  it  ia  not  earpriaiug 
to  find  a  witness  depoaiog  that  ahe  could 
DOt  tell  Jier  husband's  birthplace  or  nation- 
ality,  was  utterly  ignorant  of  his  character 
or  career,  and  did  not  know  if  he  had 
a  ralatioQ  in  the  world;  aa  she  pithily 
pat  it,  she  bad  "  simply  married  him,  and 
ibat  was  &1L"  Possibly  she  had  no  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  h^  ohrace,  which  is 
more  tbao  conld  be  said  of  the  young 
woman  who  stayed  the  removal  of  a 
priwaer  from  the  dock  by  exclaiming : 
"Wait  a  minute,  Judge,  we  want  your 
honour  to  marry  as  ! "  The  man  nodded 
auent,  the  judge  did  the  needful,  the 
pA  received  her  bnsband's  first  kiss,  and 
bade  him  farewell  for  twelve  months — 
the  terra  of  his  sentence.  Had  she  spoken 
Eooocr  she  might  not  have  had  to  wait 
«>  long  for  the  honeymoon.  When  one 
HcKinney  was  charged  with  killing  the 
father  of  a  girl  be  had  betrayed,  ho  pleaded 
he  had  shot  the  old  man  in  self-defence, 
and  proclaimed  his  readiness  to  marry  the 
ciDse  of  the  mischance.  On  that  under- 
itaading,  the  jury  acquitted  him,  and  the 
judge  then  and  there  made  the  murderer 
ud  the  murdered  man's  daughter  a 
wedded,  if  not  a  happy  couple. 

An  eug^ed  pair  were  sauntering 
Ihiough  the  Capitol  at  Columbus  when  the 
gentleman  suddenly  suggested  that  th^y 
might  aa  well  bring  tboir  courtship  to  its 
proper  ending  on  the  spot.  The  lady  was 
nothing  loth,  a  clergyman  was  quickly 
found,  and  fortified  by  the  presence  of 
the  governor,  attorney-general,  treasurer, 
auditor,  adjutant  -  general,  and  sundry 
other  state  officios,  "  while  the  dim 
religious  light  was  stealing  through  the 
ipex  of  the  dome,  the  groom  and  bride 
stood  upon  the  central  etar  in  the  mosaic 
pavement,  and  were  united  iu  the  holy 
bonds  of  matrimony," 

Not  a  few  of  our  American  cousins 
appear  to  dielike  humdrum  wed<lings  aa 
heartily  as  Miss  Lydia  Languish  herself, 
uid  show  it  by  mduleing  in  eccentricities 
never  dreamed  of  in  t£at  romantic  damael'e 
philosophy.  Noting  the  increase  in  remote 
niral  districts  of  marriages  on  horseback, 
a  journalist  says  the  advantages  of  tho  new 
mode  arc  obvious.  While  the  clergyman 
ii  closing  his  eyes  to  pronounce  the  nuptial 
benediction,  the  happy  couple  can  stick 
■pan  in  their  chargers  and  vanish  with- 


out paying  the  fee,  unless,  being  posted  in 
the  ways  of  the  country,  the  minister 
conducts  the  service  with  his  trusty  shot- 
gun at  his  aide.  Gallopers  into  matrimony, 
however,  havebeen  surpassed  in  originality. 
Among  the  announcements  one  morning  in 
the  Omaha  Republican  was  to  be  read  : 
"  Cox— Harrington. — Married  on  the  past 
half  of  the  north-west  quarter  of  section 
tweuty-two ;  township  twenty-one ;  north 
of  range  eleven  east,  in  an  open  sleigh,  and 
under  an  open  and  anclonded  canopy,  by 
Rev.  J.  F.  Mason,  James  B.,  only  son  of 
John  Cox,  of  Colorado,  and  Ellen  C, 
eldest  daughter  of  Mayor  0.  Harrington, 
of  Burt  County,  NebrMka."  OeatralPark 
was,  a  few  years  a^,  the  scene  of  a  balloon 
marriize,  an  aeri^  performance  imitated 
by  a  Pittsburg  pair,  who,  after  getting 
rid  of  the  alderman  who  made  them  one, 
went  on  a  short  bridal  excursion  two 
thousand  feet  above  the  earth's  level.  A 
silly  freak,  no  doubt,  in  the  opinion  of  that 
other  fond  pair,  who  ventured  nine  miles 
underground  that  they  might  be  married 
in  the  Mammoth  Cave. 

Some  time  in  1881  two  ladies  and 
two  gentlemen,  all  hailing  from  Boston, 
arrived  at  the  Manitou  House,  Colorado, 
and  engaged  the  Rev.  Dr.  J.  E.  Smith 
to  go  with  them  next  day  to  the  summit 
of  Pike's  Peak,  and  there  unite  Mr. 
Dal  ton  and  Miss  Nellie  Throcmorton 
iu  wedlock.  At  six  in  the  morning  the 
party,  mounted  on  bronchos,  started  from 
the  hotel,  but  had  not  got  far  ou  their 
way  before  the  animal  the  minister  bestrode 
rid  himself  of  his  burden  by  pitching  his 
riiler  over  a  bridge  into  the  river  beneath. 
He  was  quickly  brought  to  land,  but  was 
not  to  be  induced  to  risk  his  neck  again. 
It  waf  then  arranged  that  he  should  make 
for  the  telegraph-office  at  Colorado  Springe, 
and  do  his  spiriting  by  wire.  By  noon 
the  wedding-party  bad  reached  their  des- 
tination, and  the  sergeant  in  charge  of  the 
signal  station  there  at  once  telegraphed 
their  arrival  to  the  reverend  gentleman, 
waiting  ten  thousand  feeb  below.  The 
young  people  joined  hands  and  stood  before 
the  sergeant,  the  father  and  mother  of  the 
bride  standing  on  either  side,  and  the 
sergeant  at  the  instrument  read  the  questions 
of  the  clergyman  as  they  came  thrilling 
throogh  the  wires,  and  sent  back  the 
answers  of  bride  and  bridegroom,  until  up 
from  the  valley  to  that  small  stone  keep, 
fourteen  thousand  -feet  above  the  ocean, 
came  that  message  making  two  hearts  one  : 
"Then  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife." 


d2     IDMiembet  15,  IttL] 


ALL  THE  TEAE  BOUND. 


In  another  case  of  marriage  by  telegraph, 
th«  lady  stood  by  the  miniater's  aide  at 
PortlaDd,  while  the  necessary  qneatiose 
and  responses  were  transmitted  to  and 
from  the  gentleman  at  Albany,  the 
ceremony  lasting  exactly  thirty  minntes. 

The  laws  of  Virginia  forbid  a  minor 
marrying  without  the  consent  of  Ms  or  her 
parents.  A  young  fellow  of  twenty  wanted 
to  wed  a  damsel  of  sixteen,  bat  her  step- 
father declared  she  was  "  ower  yoang  to 
marry  yet,"  and,  to  keep  her  out  of  harm's 
way,  resolved  to  take  her  out  West.  By  a 
curious  coincidence  the  lorer  happened  to 
be  at  the  station  at  Harper's  Ferry,  with  a 
marriage  liceuEe  and  a  minister,  when  the 
train  carrying  his  lady-love  came  in.  The 
old  gentleman  went  into  the  telegrsph- 
oHicu  with  fais  step-danghter.  While  be 
was  writing  a  message,  a  negro  bof  tapped 
at  the  window,  the  girl  stepped  uutside 
into  her  lover's  arms.  They  hurried  off  to 
an  hotel,  and  leaving  her  there,  the  young 
rascal  went  to  see  what  the  cmel  parent 
was  about  He  found  him  standing  on 
the  bridge  over  the  Potomac,  looking  vunly 
for  the  errant  maid.  A  litUe  while  later  a 
boat  containing  a  young  man,  a  young 
girl,  and  a  minister  might  have  been  seen 
in  the  middle  of  the  river.  It  was  seen  by 
the  old  gentleman,  who  wondered  what 
was  going  on  below,  until  a  bystander 
informed  hima couplewere getting  married ; 
when  he  owned  himself  beaten,  and  the 
whole  party  took  the  next  train  fbr  homa 

More  exciting  was  the  runaway  match 
of  Miss  Ollie  Brown  and  Mr.  Joseph  Car- 
penter, of  Scottsville,  Kentucky.  Calling 
one  morning  at  his  sweethetut's  house, 
Carpenter  asked  her  mothe*  to  eonsent  to 
an  early  wedding.  Mrs.  Brown  was  not 
to  be  persuaded.  Turning  to  Miss  Ollie, 
be  enquired  whether  she  would  mind  her 
mother  or  go  with  him.  "I'll  go  with 
you,"  was  the  response  of  the  fourteen-year- 
old  chit  Without  more  ado,  he  took  her 
in  his  arms,  carried  her  out  of  the  house, 
put  her  into  a  buggy,  was  by  her  side 
in  a  moment,  and  off  with  all  speed  for 
TennesGee.  As  soon  as  she  recovered  from 
her  surprise,  the  mother  hurried  for  aid, 
and  Mr.  Manian,  judge  of  the  police-court, 
mounted  a  good  horse  and  vent  in  pursuit, 
and  caught  the  runaways  just  across  the 
State  line ;  but  not  before  the  marriage 
ceremony  had  commenced.  His  interven- 
tion sufficed  to  stay  proeeedioga  "  We'll 
go  farther,"  said  the  would-be  bridegrooro; 
"set  into  the  buggy  again,  my  dear."  The 
lady  obeyed.     "  Now,  my  dear  judge,"  said 


he,  "you  may  prepare  for  another  race, 
we're  off  for  Gallatin."  The  distance  was 
eighteen  miles,  and  the  lover-laden  bu^gy 
got  the  best  of  the  atart,  but  for  four  miles 
itwasaneck-and-neckrace.  Then  Manian 's 
horaa  cast  a  shoe,  and  fell  ezhaoated,  while 
the  buggy  went  rejoicing  on  Its  way.  The 
judge  picked  himsdf  up,  walked  bhioe 
miles,  procured  another  hotae,  and  galloped 
on,  arriving  in  Gallatin  just  in  time  to 
hear  >lr.  and  Mrs.  Carpenter  congratulated 
by  the  guests  at  the  principal  hotel  there, 
and  to  have  nothing  left  him  to  do  bat 
give  the  newly  -  wedded  pair  his  good 
wishes, 

John  Schober,  a  young  fellow  plying  the 
awl  in  New  York,  oourted  Mary  Ann 
Lipscomb  all  unknown  to  her  sir<>,  who 
hateil  John  because  he  was  his  fathers 
son.  Une  evening  the  lovers  were  caught 
chatting  in  the  street,  and  Lipscomb  took 
Msry  Ann  home,  and  locked  her  in  her 
bedroom.  However,  she  contrived  to  com- 
municate with  her  swain,  snd  agreed  to 
meet  him  at  the  house  of  a  Lutheran 
minister  the  following  Thursday  to  bo 
made  Mrs.  Schobor.  The  ^pointed  time 
came,  hut  no  Mary  Ann ;  so  taking  two 
friends  with  him,  John  went  to  Lipsoomb'd 
house,  broke  open  the  door,  and  while  his 
friends  held  her  father,  ran  off  with  the 
girt  to  the  minister's  abode.  He  was  not 
at  home,  and  when  another  was  hunted  up 
he  declined  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
affair,  on  the  ground  that  the  bride-ezpec- 
taut  was  too  young,  Almost  at  their  wita'- 
end  the  lovers  made  for  the  Bowery. 
There  Schober  descried  a  "  bob-tail  car," 
and  in  it  a  gentleman  in  black  wearing 
a  white  cravat.  Without  heeitatioD  the 
desperate  young  shoemaker  accosted  him 
with : 

This  is  my  betrothed,  we  want  to  get 
married  right  awayj  you  must  many  us 
here  on  the  spot ! " 

"  What,  in  this  car  t "  gasped  ^e 
astonished  man,  proceeding  to  advance 
several  objections  to  such  a  procedure ; 
objections  met  by  the  presentatioD  of  a 
Kve-dollar  bill.  There  was  no  resisUug 
that  argument,  so  he  did  aa  he  was  bid, 
writing  the  marriage-certificate  in  pencil 
on  an  old  bill-head  Schober  happened  to 
have  in  his  pocket 

So  long  as  they  can  pay  the  accustomed 
feu,  runaway  couples  need  seldom  go  far 
to  find  some  one  willing  to  marry  ihem. 
Even  Loub  Badgley  and  Josephine  Howard, 
aged  respectively  fourteen  and  fifteen  years, 
^ose  onited  worldly  wealth  amounted  to 


1  trade  doUar,  coDtrired  to  get  m&rried, 
thukt  to  WMue  STrnpftthinng  apect&tors 
nhKiibiog  the  kdditioiiftl  fift;  cents 
devuiideil  by  the  minuter — a  wort>hf 
brother  of  the  clergyman  who  did  the  like 
offiM  for  a  boy  of  fourteen  and  a  girl  of 
UlirtMD,  at  the  reqaeet  of  the  bridegioom'a 
bther! 

After  marriage  comea  divorce,  but  with 
tbit  nnpleaaant  subject  we  do  not  care  to 
de«L  Saffice  it  to  say  that  American 
le^lators  have  shown  themaelyea  quite  as 
detiroas  of  helping  people  out  of,  as  into 
their    efforts    id    the    first- 


hmtdred  cases,  resulting  in  the  dissolution 
of  ^hteen  hundred  marriages,  were  tried  in 
(Mo  alone.  Divorce,  indeed,  is  becoming 
to  onnmon  that  some  people  are  asking  if 
tbe  "  simultaneous  polygamy  "  in  vogue  in 
Utah  is  a  worse  thing  than  the  "  consecu- 
Hn  polygamy  "  practised  elsewhere.  It  is 
odI;  fsir  to  mention  that  the  law  of  divorce 
iiS^  considerably  in  different  Stat^ ;  but 
thit  hardly  mends  the  matter,  indeed,  it  only 
confosee  things.  Says  an  American  lady 
iNtnrer :  "  A  man  who  has  been  married, 
diroreed,  and  re-mturied,  will,  in  travelling 
from  M^e  to  Florida,  find  himself  some- 
tioisi  a  bachelor,  sometimes  married  to  his 
fint  wife,  sometimes  married  to  his  second 
wife,  sometimeB  a  divqrced  man,  and 
■ontetimes  a  bigapiist,  according  to  the 
itttates  of  the  State  through  which  he  is 
BiTflling. 

JENIFER. 

n  ixsa  THOiua  pas.  ttsas&^VDun 


?EiL  •Dtvtmbat  IS,  ISW.)      93 

inquisitive  as  to  lier  mistress's  "iuten- 
tions"  for  the  future. 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  and  I  go  away  and 
live  in  some  pleasant  little  country  place, 
where  no  one  would  trouble  about  us, 
mumT"  she  would  ask.  "I  don't  want 
wi^es,  and  you'll  not  get  anyone  to  wait 
on  you  as  I  do." 

'This  was  true,  and  Mrs.  Hatton  felt  it. 
At  the  same  time,  she  wanted  to  free  her- 
self from  these  living  trammels,  for  she 
was  as  much  afraid  of  Ann  as  Ann  was 
afraid  for  her. 

Mrs.  Hatton  matured  her  plans  well 
before  she  communicated  them  to  Ann.  It 
really  was  Mrs.  Hatton's  desire  to  get 
away,  far  from  tbe  scenes  of  uncertainty 
in  which  she  had  regretted  her  unhappy 
married  life,  and  amid  fresh  woods  and 
pastures  new,  lead  a  fresh,  novel,  un- 
hackneyed, innocent,  useful  life.  But  this 
she  felt  she  could  not  do,  poor  little 
woman,  if  any  of  the  old  faces  were  about 
her.  So  she  fonnd  a  good  home  for 
Ann,  without  consulting  that  independent- 
minded  female,  and  having  done  that,  she 
found  one  for  herself. 

A  gentleman  of  seventy,  residing  on  his 
own  estate,  Eildene  in  Kerry,  advertised 
for  a  lady  -  housekeeper.  Mrs.  Hatton 
applied -for  the  post,  got  it,  on  condition 
she  could  give  eatisfactoiy  references,  and 
forthwith  wrote  off  to  Mr.  Boldero  for  the 
latter. 

"  Dear  John, — A  charming  opportunity 
has  arisen  for  your  benefiting  the  poor 
widow  once  more.  Since  our  dear  friends 
have  left  me,  mine  is  a  lonely  life.  Your 
having  agreed  to  taking  AJin  as  your 
housekeeper  has  relieved  me  of  a  great 
responsibility.  However  groat  my  poverty, 
I  could  never  have  turned  that  faithful 
friend  adrift  in  the  world.  I  have  answered 
an  adverdsement,  and  got  a  situation  in 
Ireland.  At  least  I  shall  get  it,  if  you 
will  kindly  send  a  testimonial  for  me 
to  Admiral  Tnllamore,  Kildare,  County 
Kerry." 

In  reply  to  this,  Mr.  Boldero  wrote, 
warmly  applauding  her  for  her  indefati- 
gable and  independent  spirit,  and  sent 
such  a  testimonial  to  her  many  merits  as 
induced  Admiral  Tnllamore  to  engage  her 
at  once. 

She  fonnd  a  good  welcome  awaiting  her 
when  she  arrived.  The  gallant  old  officer 
was  built  on  the  lines  of  a  little  barrel,  but 
a  chivalrous  soul  animated  that  body  to 
which  had  como  that  "too  much"  of  itself 


94     IDMcmbtr  IS,  Utt-I 


ALL  THE  TEAS  BOUND. 


BO  toachiDgly  foreseoji  in  the  "coming 
by -and-by  "  in  Pstience ;  and  the  lady  who 
had  come  over  the  sea  to  make  his  declining 
yearg  comfortable  in  the  capacity  of  hooae- 
keeper  was  received  with  exactly  the  aams 
courtesy  and  consideration  which  he  woald 
have  shown  to  a  connteie. 

Kildeoe  was  a  capital  example  of  a 
resident  Irish  landlord's  estate — the  home 
itself  well-repaired,  well  drained  and  ven- 
tilated, well- furnished,  and  standing  in 
well-kept  groonda  that  kept  half-a-doEen 
gturdeners  in  constant  employ,  and  paid 
all  its  expenses  with  the  contents  of  one 
huge  hot-honse,  in  which  grapes  and 
peaches  carried  on  a  rivalry  for  siie, 
flavour,  and  general  splendonr. 

And  the  demesne  of  Kildeno  waa  in 
keeping  with  the  honse  and  its  orna- 
mental grounds.  Eemnnerative-IookiDg 
droves  of  the  little  black  Kerry  cowa 
made  the  Kildene  dairy-produce  famons, 
and  brought  in  a  fair  income  to  their 
owner.  All  the  farms  on  the  estate  were 
in  flourishing  order,  and  gave  constant 
employment,  by  which  they  conld  live 
without  committing  burglary  or  murder, 
to  alt  the  labourers  who  conld  at  all  claim 
to  be  sons  of  its  soil  Game  was  plentifal 
on  the  estate,  though  Admiral  Tullamore 
had  never  prosecnted  a  poacher. 

In  a  very  few  days  the  clever  little 
woman  had  established  heraelE  at  Kildene 
as  if  she  had  been  bom  to  dwell  there. 
The  household  was  a  very  eihcient  one, 
but  she  found  out  the  way  to  dispense 
with  one  or  two  servants,  without  dis- 
pensing with  service.  Now,  few  men 
are  blind  to  their  own  interests,  and 
this  style  of  retrenchment — though  he 
had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  retrench 
hitherto  —  pleased  him  well.  His  table 
was  aa  well  supplied  as  ever,  but  in  the 
eervants'-hall  murmurs  were  heard  to  the 
efi'ect  that  if  Mrs.  Hatton  thought  they 
were  going  to  live  on  pig  and  potatoes  she 
would  awake  one  morning  to  And  herself 
mistaken. 

Bat  in  the  end  it  was  they  who  awoke 
to  the  foct  that  they  were  mistaken  in 
supposing  Mrs.  Hatton  would  ever  give 
them  a  <£ance  of  pointing  out  a  flaw  in  her 
to  Admiral  Tullamore. 

The  old  SMlor  had  his  weaknesses.  We 
all  have  them.  One  of  his  was  to  be  affec- 
tionate in  a  fatherly  way  to  every  woman 
who  would  permit  him  to  be  so — to  every 
woman,  at  least,  who  was  plnmp,  and  per- 
sonable, and  pleasing.  Mrs.  Hatton  allowed 
him  to  gratify  this  paternal  instinct  by 


dtting  on  a  itool  at  bis  feet  on  wet  even- 
ings, and  liatening  with  rapt  attention  Ia 
his  rather  verbow  acoonnta  of  the  dangen 
he  had  nm  in  action.  After  a  tims,  the 
servants  dared  not  even  to  snigger  to  them- 
selves about  her  "  little  game."  One 
unfortunate,  who  had  enjoyed  innumerable 
privileges  at  Kildene  for  many  years, 
ventund  to  sneer  at  the  new  role,  and 
received  sneh  dire  and  immediate  ponish- 
ment  for  her  mistake  that  she  became  a 
terrible  warning  to  the  others. 

It  happened  in  this  vrise.  The  privileged 
and  arrogant  old  servant,  having  been  told 
off  to  wait  upon  the  new  lady-housekeeper, 
"  drew  the  line  "  at  bringing  Mrs.  Hatton 
the  glass  of  new  milk  in  the  morning  to 
which  she  looked  forward  healthfully, 

"  Such  airs !  A  glass  of  new  milk  m 
the  momln'  I "  the  old  servant  said  soom- 
fuUy. 

Bat  she  repented  herself  of  her  remark 
when  in  her  presence  it  was  repeated  to  the 
admiral  by  Mrs.  Hatton,  with  this  extenu- 
ating rider ; 

"  You  see,  I  think  milk  in  the  morning 
a  better  thing  than  a  glass  of  whisky,  and 
Kate  takes  that  always,  so  I  suppose  it 
agrees  with  her  better  than  milk." 

"Is  it  to  prove  me  a  drunkard  you're 
trying  1 "  Kate  asked  ferociously,  whereat 
Mrs.  H&ttoD  shook  her  head  mournfolly, 
seeming  to  imply  that  it  was  needleu  for 
her  to  attempt  to  prove  what  was  already 
proven. 

Kate  was  dismissed  that  day,  and  the 
other  servants  made  up  their  minds  to 
abstain  from  the  attempt  to  put  Mrs. 
Hatton  in  the  wrong. 

"  Was  it  possible  that  this  swoet  home- 
fairy-like  presence  had  only  been  in  his  D 
house  a  week  t "  Admiral  Tullamore  asked 
himself  when  he  and  Kildene  had  enjoyed 
seven  days  of  Mrs.  Hatton's  itila  How  the 
old  gentleman  had  enjoyed  himself  I  How 
he  had  been  listened  to  with  eager 
interest  while  he  had  recounted  his  daring 
adventures  and  doughty  deeds  !  How  he 
had  been  made  to  feel  himself  a  hero  of 
tha  highest  order,  and  a  man  of  the  moet 
dangerous  (because  nndesignJng)  hind 
when  Mrs.  Hatton  had  murmured  to  him 
sometimes : 

"  Don't  t«ll  me  any  more  to-night.  Such 
bravery  !  Such  grandeur  of  thought  and 
act !  No,  I  won't  worship  yon.  Admiral 
Tullamore,  I'll  leave  that  for  some  nobler, 
happier  woman  to  do.    So  good-night," 

"  Oad !  that  woman  appreciates  roe,  and 
is  unconsciona  of   her  own  deserts,"  the 


adminl  would  uy  approvingly  to  himself; 
and  the  next  day  undesigniag  Mn.  Hatton 
voold  recetrs  some  farther  testimony  of 
Ids  tpproval,  in  the  form  of  an  extended 
grant  of  untintited  ivay. 

She  wu  a  clever  little  woman.  From 
Ibe  moment  he  came  down  to  the  one  ia 
vhich  he  began  to  go  upstairs  at  night,  she 
neTer  let  him  ont  of  her.  sight ;  and  this 
dte  did  in  a  way  that  pleased  instead  of 
irritated  liim. 

"Kildene  ia  a  weary  waste,  beantifal 
u  it  is  to  me,  when  I  do  not  see  you  in  it," 
the  took  an  early  opportunity  of  murmar- 
iog.  And  he  was  a  man  and  believed 
lier. 

TheEdgccumbshad  occupied  the  delight- 
ful ihooting-box  on  the  banks  of  the 
Eplendid  trout-stream  for  ten  days ;  and 
the  run  it  had  rained  every  day.  In  the 
OHDse  of  those  ten  days  Captain  Edgecumt) 
hud  developed  a  fidgetiness  which  no  one, 
ure  his  mother  and  sisters,  had  known  of 
in  hii  nature  before.  Removed  from  the 
London  atmosphere  of  clubs,  theatres,  and 
lociety,  and  from  the  country  atmosphere 
of  iport,  tennis,  and  flirtation,  he  really 
didn't  know  what  to  do  with  himself  when 
he  foand  himself  alone  with  Jenifer  in  a 
remote  beautiful  spot  in  County  Cork. 

Heconldn't  even  make  Biddy  a  reason- 
able ground  of  ofTence  between  his  wife  and 
himseli ;  for  Biddy  was  ready  after  twenty- 
foar  hours  to  "lay  down  her  life  for  the 
joang  misthrese.'Vho,  in  her  turn,  declared 
that  she  "found  Biddy  perfectly  civil  and 
obliging."  This  was  disappointing  to 
Cipuin  Edgecumb,  who  had  hoped  to  find 
euh  dependent  upon  him  for  understanding 
the  other. 

But  vomeq  are  so  inexplicable !  Jenifer 
got  on  with  the  cook  without  him.  She 
got  on  with  Lury  better  than  her  husband 
did  in  Larry's  sober  moments,  and  under 
her  encouraging  influence  these  became 
more  frequent  than  of  yore ;  and  she 
enjoyed  long  drives  in  the  wild  beautiful 
conntiy,  and  fonnd  plenty  to  interest  her 
>o  (he  different  drivers'  various  descrip- 
tions of  the  better  days  poor  Ireland  had 
biomi,  and  the  dark  ones  through  which 
>he  was  now  passing. 

Bat  Captain  Edgecumb  could  not  find 
smnwment  ia  either  of  these  sources. 
Driving  in  cars  gave  him  a  pun  in  his  side, 
Md  he  only  cared  for  the  country  when  he 
ccald  hnnt  and  shoot  over  it  Secretly  he 
ratted  now  that  he  had  not  acceded  to 
Jenifer's  desire  to  go  abroad;  and  even 
ntore  fervently  did  lu  regret  that  the  time 


FER.  [DKimbM  IS,  1881.1      9R 

for  Jenifer's  first  appearance  had  not 
arrived,  which  would  oblige  them  to  return 
at  once  to  town. 

One  evening,  while  looking  through  a 
guide-book,  searching  for  some  place  to 
which  to  drive  on  the  fallowing  day, 
Jenifer  saw  the  name  of  "  Kildene,  Admiral 
Tullamore'a  beautiful  demesne  in  Kerry," 
and  exclaimed  joyfully ; 

"  Shall  we  go  and  pay  a  visit  to  a  very, 
very  eld  friend  of  my  father's  1  Admiral 
Tullamore  has  a  place  in  a  very  accessible 
part  of  Kerry.  As  he's  my  godfather  I 
really  ought  to  go  and  see  him." 

"  By  all  means ;  we'll  be  off  to-morrow," 
Captain  Edgecumb  assented,  when  he 
had  glanced  at  the  description  of  Kildene. 
"  We  won't  wait  to  write " 

"  I  don't  like  taking  people  by  surprise," 
Jenifer  protested. 

"Ob,  nonsense;  in  decently-managed 
houses  of  that  class  people  are  always  pre- 
pared to  receive  one.  You  ahall  send  a 
telegram  the  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
and  we'll  start  by  the  first  train ;  perhaps 
the  old  boy  will  give  me  a  few  days'  shoot- 
ing. Is  he  likely  to  leave  you  anything  t 
Will  he  cut  up  well  1 " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Jenifer  said  curtly. 

"  Any  children  t " 

"  He's  &  bachelor." 

"  Then  you're  very  wrong  not  to  keep 
your  eye  upon  Mm ;  being  his  god- 
daughter gives  you  a  distinct  claim.  I 
wish  you  had  told  me  about  him  before ; 
however,  we'll  not  lose  any  more  time. 
Was  be  at  your  father's  funeral ) " 

"He  was  not." 

"How  was  thati" 

"Hubert  forgot  to  ask  hiiu  for  one 
thing ;  and,  for  another,  he  was  displeased 
with  Hubert  for  having  married  secretly." 

"  Can't  see  that  it  was  any  bosineEs  of 
his." 

"  No  business,  perhaps ;  but  he  sympa- 
thised a  good  deal  with  my  mother,  and 
he  knew  she  felt  it  a  great  deal" 

"  WeU,  you  haven  t  married  in  a  way 
that  can  displease  him,  dear,"  he  said 
comphusntly.  "  Von  ought  to  have  had 
him  over  .at  our  wedding.  Why  didn't 
you  ask  him ) " 

■<  Because  he  ia  very  angry  with  Jack 
on  account  of  his  marriage  with  Minnie 
Thnrtle,"  Jenifer  said  mwillingly. 

'  'No  wonder, "  Captain  Edgecu  mb  retorted 
petolaotly;  "  and  so  for  the  sake  of  having 
Minnie  Tliurtle  to  grace  the  ceremony,  you 
offered  a  slight  to  your  godfather,  who  con 
leave  you  well  off  if  he  pleases.    I'll  take 


ALL  THE  YEAJt  EOUND. 


care  that  MiDnie  Thurtle  eball  not  be  a 
Btumbliug-block  to  our  having  iDtercourBe 
in  the  future  with  him." 

"  She's  Minnie  Thurtle  no  longer,  ahe's 
llinnio  Ray  sow,  my  brother's  wife,  and 
I'll  take  care  that  no  slight  shall  be  offered 
to  her,  for  the  sake  of  any  possible  gain  to 

"  AbsurdI;  quixotic,  not  to  say  quarrel- 
some you  are,  Jenifer,"  he  said  provoKingly. 

Then  be  went  on  to  write  a  telegram  in 
his  wife's  name,  which  he  gave  Larry  orders 
to  take  to  the  telegraph- office  IJie  first 
thing  in  the  morning. 

Larry  started  with  the  best  intentions, 
but  the  neareat  telegiaph-office  was  in 
Cork,  and  the  way  to  Cork  was  thirsty. 
He  was  misty  by  the  time  he  rt<ached  the 
fair  city  on  the  banks  of  the  River  Lee. 
Then  be  was  detained  by  the  cariosity  he 
felt  to  see  some  political  priaonera  who 
were  being  pat  into  the  train  for  Queens- 
town,  on  their  way  to  Spike  Island. 
Loitering  about  made  him  as  thiraty  as 
walking  fttst  had  done  before,  and  a  con- 
venient friend  and  public-house  combining 
their  attractions,  delayed  faim  till  all  recol- 
lection of  the  telegrain  bad  vaniafaed  from 
his  mind.  After  a  happy  day  in  Cork,  he 
got  himself  home  with  some  difBculty,  with 
the  telegram  safely  reposing  in  his  pocket 

Meanwhile  Captain  and  ^Irs.  Edgecumb 
were  wending  their  way  by  expreas  to 
Kildene. 

"The  old  boy  might  have  had  the 
decency  to  send  a  carriage  to  meet  us," 
Captain  Edgecumb  observed  when  they 
reached  the  station  for  Kildene,  and  found 
that  the  gates  of  the  demesne  were  three 
miles  distant.  "Three  Irish  miles  are  no 
joke  to  walk,  when  one's  nothing  to  amuae 
oneself  with,"  he  added. 

And  so  he  had  to  put  up  with  the  only 
locomotive  power  available — a  ramshaokle 
outside  car,  and  a  lame  horse. 

As  they  made  their  painful  way  slowly 
up  a  magnificent  avenue  to  the  house,  they 
saw  ao  old  gentleman  and  a  rather  young- 
looking  lady  walking  up  and  down  the 
terrace.  At  the  same  time  the  quick  eyes 
of  the  young-looking  lady  lighted  upon 
them. 

"It  must  be  Kirs.  Hatton'u  twin-sister, 
Harry,"  Jenifer  excluimed. 

And  simultaneously  Mni.  Hatlon  cried  : 

"Here  come  some  people  I  ksew  in 


London.  How  could  they  have  dared  to 
take  the  liberty  of  calling  upon  me  here  1 " 

But  she  wished  she  hud  not  spoken  of 
their  coming  as  an  act  of  daring,  when 
old  Admiral  Tullamore  lifted  his  bat  and 
waved  it  in  the  air,  and  said  : 

"  It's  my  goddaughter,  Jenifer  Ray  !  " 

Though  they  had  come  unanoounoed, 
there  was  nothing  lacking  in  the  warmth 
of  their  reception  on  Admiral  Tullamore's 
part. 

The  beat  of  everything,  the  most  hononr- 
able  apartments,  the  heartiest  service  from 
bis  household,  were  without  delay  placed 
at  the  abaolute  disposal  of  his  godchild, 
the  daughter  of  his  dear  old  friend,  and  her 
husband.  If  Jenifer  had  been  his  own 
child  he  conld  not  have  given  her  a  more 
affectionate  and  glad  greeting.  And  as 
Mrs.  Hatton  witnessed  the  old  man's  un- 
feigned, anforced  deh'ght,  she  felt  as  if  she 
coald  have  wrung  Jenifer's  neck. 

If  Larry  had  not  been  false  to  bis  trust, 
the  telegram  would  siill  never  have  reached 
Admiral  TuUamore's  band.  The  lady- 
paramount  of  KUdene  would  have  saved 
the  admiral  the  bauble  of  either  reading 
or  answering  it.  And  suoh  a  message 
would  have  gone  back  to  Jenifer  as  would 
have  effectually  stopped  her  coming.  So 
out  of  evil  had  come  good  in  this  case. 

But  inopportune  as  Jenifer'a  appearance 
on  the  scene  was,  from  Mrs.  Hatton 'a  point 
of  view,  furious  as  that  lady  felt  with 
Jenifer  for  being  at  Kildene  at  all,  there 
was  a  very  decepUvely  genuine  looking 
air  of  pleasure  at  the  advent  of  the 
new  comers  about  the  lady-hoosekeeper. 
And  as  abont  Jenifer  there  was  neiuier 
guile  nor  shadow  of  turning,  she  acoepted 
the  dross  for  gold,  and  felt  really  glad  that 
poor  Mrs.  Hatton  was  established  in  each 
a  happy  and  luxurious  home. 


THE     EXTRA    OHRISTMAS     NUMBEIt 

ALL    THE   YEAR    ROUND, 


A  GLORIOXJS  FORTUNE," 


AND    OTHER    STORIES. 


Tht  Right  ttfTtwUkOing  Artkliafnm  ALL  THI  Yub  Rodkd  it  rsMmrf  ty  Ue  Avthon.        1 


ay  Go  ogle 


[I>ecetiib«»,l3g|.) 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


oini  offapriog  and  not  by  the  milkmud- 
EUe  why  should  Mr.  P;We,  or  Mn.  Pybos 
— who  was  ready  enough  herself  to  write 
insolent  letteia—be&r  in  nlenoe  a  letter 
which  was  iDsulting,  and  was  meant  to  be 
insulting  1  Was  it  likely  that  they  wished 
to  )teep  now,  for  nothing,  a  boy,  who,  by 
their  own  showing,  was  so  troubleaome 
and  intractable  tiiat  they  had  deolined  to 
keep  him  for  fifty  pounds  a  year) 

Perhaps  thii  theory  was  plaoaiblo  in 
itself;  but,  of  coarse,  it  was  ibi  comfortable- 
ness which  made  it  plausible  to  ^. 
Tuck.  It  cleared  at  once  his  oonsoience 
and  his  character — set  him  free  from  self- 
reproach  and  from  the  reproach  of  his 
neighbours  for  his  treatment  of  his  nephew 
— and  set  him  free  also  to  continue  with- 
out farther  qualms  the  crowning  work  of 
his  life — the  fumiehing  of  his  drawing- 
room. 

At  the  same  time,  at  first  and  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  Mr.  Tuck  did  not 
absolately  believe  this  theory.  He  but 
believed  tbat  he  believed  it  Bat  by  dint 
of  repeating  it  again  and  again  (always 
with  hie  happy  llIustratioD  of  the  tulchas), 
he  came  in  time  to  entertain  a  respectable 
conricdon  of  its  truth — a  good  working 
conviction,  at  any  rate,  which  made  him 
ignore  Archie's  existence  in  his  own  mind, 
and  resent  allusion  to  it  by  others. 

For  the  present,  as  we  have  said,  it  set 
his  purse  and  conacieuce  free  for  the 
furnishing  of  his  drawing-room. 

la  Kingsford  the  report,  "Mr.  Tack 
fumiabing  hisdra  wing-room,"  spreadinglike 
wild-fire  from  houae  to  house,  fluttered  tha 
dovecotesof  that  maiden  city.  ForKingsford, 
in  proportion  to  ite  population,  could  boast 
as  many  virgina  as  Cologne — happily  oat  of 
danger  of  martyrdom,  for  Uiere  were  no 
Huns.  With  the  exception  of  Mr.  Tack 
and  the  curate,  the  nearest  single  man 
lived  seven  milea  off  by  road  and  nine  by 
rail  So  that  when  the  ontate  woald 
sometimes  say  in  his  sermon,  "  Is  thwe  a 
single  man  in  this  church  to-d^l"  the 
eye  of  every  maiden  would  inrofuntarily, 
and  for  a  moment,  glanoe  from  him  to 
Mr.  Tuck  as  the  only  other  representative 
of  the  species.  Indeed,  Mr.  Titck  was  the 
sole  certain  find  in  the  place.  For,  while 
tho  c  urates  came  and  went  like  woodcock, 
Mr.  Tuck,  like  ground^ame,  gave  sport 
all  ^he  year  round.  The  coratea  were 
transient  and  incidental  as  entries,  bat 
Mr.  Tuck  was  a  pi6c«  de  r^istaooe,  and 
a  tough  piece,  too. 

Just,  however,  as  he  was  being  given 


over  as  hopeless  by  the  most  hopefnl, 
Kingaford  was  electrified  by  the  news  that 
"  the  drawing-room  of  Hie  Keep  is  being 
furnished." 

Who  w«s  she  t "  The  boldest  held 
their  breath  for  a  time  in  sheer  amazement. 
Let  her  but  break  cover,  and  all  wonld 
give  tongue  and  tear  her  to  a  thonsand 
piece&  Bat  all  were  at  faoli  Mr.  Tack 
was  a  aby  bird.  No  other  old  lady  in 
Kingeford  held  so  high  an  idea  of  his 
eligibility  as  himself  He  knew,  none 
better  than  he,  that  every  cap  in  Kingsford 
had  been  set  at  Mm  for  years,  and  that  it 
behoved  him  to  walk  delicately  aa  Agag, 
as  one  whose  life  hung  by  a  hair. 

On  the  other  hand,  his  yearning  tot 
sympathy  was  so  deep  and  importunate  that 
be  must  needs  seek  it  from  the  sex  meant 
by  Nature  to  be  nurses,  not  of  the 
bruiaea  of  the  body  only,  but  of  those  also 
of  the  mind  and  of  the  heart 

But  this  sympathy  he  gathered  as  "  <«ie 
that  gathers  samphire,  dreadful  trade  ! "  at 
the  imminent  risk  of  losing  bis  bdad  and 
his  life.  His  one  golden  rule  of  safest  way 
never  to  be  left  alonewith  a  single  woman, 
and  to  this  rule  he  conld  make  no  ex- 
ception. 

When,  however,  it  got  noised  abroad 
that  he  was  engaged  to  be  married,  Mr. 
Tuck  cunningly  countenanced  the  rumour 
as  an  additional  security  against  molesta- 
tion on  the  principle : 

Vocuiu.oanUt  conun  latrons  viator. 

Therefore  the  Kingsford  maidens  were 
thrown  out  and  at  fault.  No  amount  of 
badinage  on  the  subject  of  his  approaching 
nuptials  could  extract  from  Mr.  Tuck  more 
than  a  mysterious  smile,  which  was  "to 
the  jealous  confirmation  atrong  as  proof  of 
Holy  Writ" 

At  first  suspicion,  like  night,  darkened 
the  faces  oi^  the  Kingsford  maidens 
towards  each  other.  Each  in  turn  looked 
the  question,  **  Which  of  yon  bare  done 
Uiis  1  '  and  each  in  torn  the  answer,  "  Thou 
canst  not  say  I  did  it"  Gradually,  however, 
this  cloud  cleared  from  those  fair  brows, 
as  the  most  microscopic  scmtiny  conld  not 
detect  the  least  trace  of  special  attention 
to  any  of  their  nnmber.  Besides,  Mr.  Tttck 
waa  now  much  away.  In  fact,  he  was  bent 
on  bargains,  and  would  spend  a  sovereign 
on  a  railway  to  save  a  crown  in  a  shop. 
And  these  frequent  absences  admitted  of 
but  one  dread  construction,  she—"  the  on- 
expresdre  she  " — was  a  foreigner  I 

Bighteous  and  red  was  tne  wratb  of 
Kingsford,  both  tradesmen  and   maidens 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


(DHdaber  22,  ItU.] 


batog  infuriftted  by  his  fomuhing  his 
boDH  from  ahrow).  But  the  rage  of  the 
mudens,  u  may  well  be  imagined,  was 
redder  than  the  rage  of  the  nphoIstereTS.  For 
tiw  pTOTOcatioD,  in  itself  the  moat  terrible 
hown  (injuria  spretee  fomiEe),  fell  on  the 
moft  inflammable  material. 

Nothing  knows  the  mighty  Odin, 
Ciine  divinB  or  veDEeuice  bnmaii, 

Rage  of  God,  or  moctiil  foemiiD, 
Deadly  oa  tho  wmth  of  wuman  1 

Therefore  Kingafoid  was  like  &  hire 
nptet  by  ao  onfooiid  foe — its  bees,  fiirioiia 
over  their  lost  honey,  biuiing  Ticionely 
aboat  their  queen.  Their  qaeen  was  a 
Mn.  CaBsidy,  the  Irish  widow  of  an  Irish 
mijor.  She  was  known  in  Kingaford  by 
tite  name  of  "my  poor  dear  husband," 
bttm  the  frequency  of  her  reference  to  that 
departed  aaint ;  nererthelesa,  she  was  muoh 
looked  up  to,  and  not  altogether  becaose 
iha  had  once  brought  about  a  marriage 
betwera  a  curate  and  a  Kingaford  maiden. 
Sbe  was  a  genial,  jovial,  buxom  widow, 
good-homoared,  good-natured,  but  shrewd 
wd  canny  withal — not  ao  much  by  nature 
and  of  choice,  as  by  edncaUon  and  of  neces- 
atj.  In  &ct,  she  had  not  been  knocked 
about  a  hard  world  for  twenty  years  for 
nothing.  It  was  not,  however,  so  mnch  to 
her  experience  of  the  wotM  that  she  owed 
W  high  place  in  Eingaford  society  as  to 
her  i£ameleon-Iike  power  of  taking  her 
colours  from  her  company.  She  uways 
id»ti&ed  henelf  with  the  person  with  whom 
ihe  was  speaking,  and  seemed  to  have  no 
other  cares,  thoughts,  or  interests  in  the 
wodd  than  those  of  the  fair  confessor  of 
the  moment  She  had  also  the  one  other 
thii^  needful  to  make  her  perfect  as  a  con- 
fidante— secrecy.  She  could  keep  others' 
coansel — uid  her  own. 

Accordingly  the  bad  more  secrete  in  her 
ke^»ng  than  bad  the  Kingaford  lawyer, 
doctor,  md  rector  together. 
.  Now,  however,  she  was  sought  in  counsel 
Dot  anent  "  a  fefr^^  due  to  a  singl< 
breast,  but  the  general  cause  " — "  Who  waJ 
ahel" 

"Ah,  my  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy  t< 
leren  maidens,  who  dropped  in  upon  hei 
hj  twos  aj^  threes.  "  Ah,  my  dears,  sore  I 
cao  tell  you  nothing  about  her,  except 
that  she's  a  blonde  with  blue  eyee." 

"A  blonde  !"  "How  do  you  knowl 
"Have  you  seen  her)"     "Has  he  told 

JOttI" 

"Now,  giris,  don't  be  silly.  Is  it  a 
likely  thing  that  he'd  marry  a  woman  who 
wouldn't  match  bis  iuntiture.     Sure,  d     ' 


All  the  damsels  laughed  but  one  who 
IB  blonde,  and  who,  therefore,  thought 

there  might  be  something  in  it 

"I  wonder  how  old  she  isl"  she  asked 

pensiyely,  being  herself  well  out  of  her 

IS. 

Shell  be  of  the  &ee  of  Queen  Anne," 
said  Mrs.  Caasidy  decisively,  idluding  to  the 
style  of  the  new  fomiture, 

"  Queen  Anne  1  Why  Queen  Anne  1  How 
old  was  Queen  Anne  1 "  asked  the  blonde, 
perplexed.  However,  she  was  lef><  hope- 
lessly behind  to  ponder  over  this  puzzle, 
while  the  other  ladies  hurried  on  to  discuss 
the  future  Mrs.  Tuck  on  the  lines  laid 
n  by  Mrs,  Caseidy. 

She'll  bean  old  maid,"  said  Miss  Mary 
Nott,  the  youngest  of  the  junta ;  "  neat, 
stifiF,  prim,  and  uncomfortable,  like  one  of 

the  chairs " 

Made  to  be  sat  upon,"  interjected  Mrs. 
CasBidy. 

"  Or  like  the  old  china  in  the  hall,"  said 
Miss  Nott,  "It  always  gives  me  the 
shivers  to  look  at  it" 

"  Do  you  mean  that  shell  be  either  blue, 
or  cracked,  or  on  the  shelf  1"  asked  the 
witty  widow.  All  laughed  except  Miss 
Jane  Beal,  who  prided  herself  on  being  of 
a  very  old  famuy,  and  anyway  was  very 
old. 

"  She's  more  likely  to  be  something  in 
the  kitchen-way,"  sneered  Miss  Beal  with 
biting  scorn,  "  coarse  and  vulgar." 

"No,  Miss  Beal;  Mr.  Tuck  will  marry 
DO  one  who  is  not  polished  to  such  a  pitch 
that  he  can  see  himself  in  her,  Mark  my 
words,  girls,  Mr.  Tuck  marries  a  looklng- 
glaas,  and  the  most  flattering  he  can  find." 

'"There  bio  plenty  of  looking- glaBses  in 
Kingsford,"  said  Miss  Martha  Mounsey, 
thinking  of  three  of  the  girls  present,  and 
most  of  all  of  the  widow  herself. 

"  Perhaps  the  frumes  didn't  suit" — Miss 
Mounsey  was  painfully  plain — "  or  they 
were  too  modem,"  nodding  pleasantly 
towards  Miss  Mary  Nott ;  "or  be  wanted 
one  more.  He'll  always  have  us,  you 
know,"  nodding  now  towards  Miss  Mounsey 
herself. 

At  this  point  the  vicar  called,  the  Kev. 
Philip  Upcher,  a  most  cheery  old  gentle- 
man, so  bright,  breezy,  and  sltogether  old- 
fashioned,  that  he  was  forced  to  get 
funereal  curates  to  keep  pace  with  the  times 
and  peace  with  h^  puritan  parisbioners. 

"Heyday,  ladies,  what's  the  matter 
now)" 


100     [Decantnt  U,  un.) 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


"  We  wers  ducossiog  Queen  Anne,  Ur 
Upcher,  Mr.  Tnck'a  Uteat  invutanent  in 
fumitare.  When  is  she  coming  to  The 
Keep  1 " 

"Edt  Not,  that's  odd ;  'pon  my  word 
that'e  very  odd;  but  I've  n  letter  in  my 
pocket  about  her  from  Mr.  Tuck,"  taking 
ont  the  note  amid  the  ailence  of  an  intense 
anspeuBe,  opening  it,  putting  on  his  spec- 
tacles  alowly,  and  looking  at  the  letter, 
and  then  coolly  shaking  hia  head  while  he 
refolded  it.  "I  don't  think  he'd  like  me  to 
read  it  out,  Mra.  Casaidy.  There's  a 
warmth  of  expresuon,  yon  know,  and  that 
kmd  of  thing  Yoa  young  ladies  would 
laagh  at  it" 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  we  won't — we  won't 
indeed ;  oh,  do  read  it,  Mr.  Upcher,  please," 
with  an  irresistible  agony  of  entreaty. 

"And  you'll  not  talk  about  it^  Yon 
must  give  me  your  word  you'll  not  talk 
about  it,"  aaid  the  old  gentleman,  hesi- 
tating, with  hta  apectoclea  held  in  both 
hands  ready  for  adjustment  on  his  nose. 
"We  shall  not  breathe  it  to  any  oi 
Mr.  Upcher.  How  could  you  think  sach  a 
thing)" 

"'Dkab Mr. Upcher, — I — I '  lean 

hardly  read  it  by  this  light  Perhaps  you 
would  be  BO  kind  as  to  read  it,  Mrs. 
Cassidy  1 " 

Mrs.  CasBidy  was  puzzled.  Mr.  Upcher 
was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  commit 
j  an  nngentlemanly  breach  of  confidence. 
There  was  certainly  some  joke  beneath  this 
incredible  demonstration  of  frankneas.  She 
took  the  letter  and  read  it  ont  alowly. 

"  Bojai  Hotel,  Ryecote. 
"  Dear  Mr.  Upcher, — You  ware  per- 
fectly right,  and  I'm  so  much  obliged  to 
you,  I  only  wish  you  could  have  come 
with  me  and  done  the  basiness  for  me ;  I 
am  sfraid  I  made  rather  a  mess  of  it.  Do 
you  think  twenty  guineas  dearl  There 
was  a  crowd,  and  I  was  late,  and  she  was 
nearly  knocked  down  before  I  arrived. 
However,  she's  safe  enough  now,  my 
beauty  1  I  can  hardly  take  my  eyes  off 
her.  I  hope  yon  don't  think  twenty 
guineas  dear.  I  know  I  ahould  have  got  off 
cheaper  if  you  had  done  the  business  for 
mo  quietly;  but  it  can't  be  helped,  and  it's 
only  once  in  a  way,  yon  know.  I  bring 
her  back  with  me  next  Friday  evening,  as 
I  hope  the  drawing-room  will  be  ready  for 
her  by  that  time. — Again  thanking  you 
very  much  for  your  advice,  I  remain,  very 
truly  yours,  James  Tuck." 

"Friday  I"  "Where  was  itt"  "Who 
was  she)      "What's  her  namel" 


Her  name  1 "  eud  Mr.  Upcher  heei- 
tatively.  "Well,  I  suppose  you  may  at 
well  know  that  as  you  know  the  rest ;  but 
mind,  in  confidence." 

Yea,  yes  I"  "Ofooursel"  "Weahall 
not  breaths  it  1" 

Her   name    ia — Mrs.   Tuck.      Good 
ning  I "     And  Mr.  Upcher  escaped  for 
his  life,  not  looking  behind  him. 

Hereon  there  was  a  choros  of  feminine 
execration : 

"  Nasty  old  thing  1 "  "  Joat  like  him  1 " 
"  He  wouldn't  have  told  us  if  it  wasn't  to 
be  in  all  tJie  papers  to-morrow,"  etc. 

But  Mr.  Upcher  oroased  the  scent  only 
for  one  moment ;  the  next,  they  opened 
in  full  cry  upon  Mr.  Tuck,  hia  mealiness 
tuid  unmuilineSB.  To  think  of  his  allow- 
ing hia  bride  to  wait  for  him  at  the  altar ! 
And  to  be  nearly  knocked  down  I  And 
his  ahabbineaa  1  To  grudge  twenty  guineas 
for  his  wedding,  with  all  bis  wealth ! 
Well,  they  wished  her  joy  of  him — that 
was  all. 

Mrs.  Casaidy  listened  to  each  and  agreed 
with  each,  but  was  not  herself  taken  in. 
She  knew  that  the  letter  referred  to  some 
less  execrable  piece  of  fumitare  than  a 
bride — probably  to  a  bronze  statuette,  for 
Mr.  Upcher  was  a  connoisseur  in  such 
articles — and  that  Mr.  Tuck  made  the 
priEe  hia  own,  not  in  a  church,  but  in  an 
auction-room.  Bat  she  wasn't  going  to 
spoil  sport  She  knew  that  in  an  nour 
the  sacred  secret  would  be  all  over  Kings- 
ford,  and,  indeed.  Miss  Martha  Monnaey 
frankly  avowed  that  ahe  had  no  intention 
of  keeping  a  promise  exacted  under  the 
false  pretence  of  a  privilege.  For  where 
was  1^6  privilege  of  knowing  to-day  what 
all  the  world  would  know  to-morrow  1 
Therefore  the  junta  broke  up  even  before 
they  had  picked  Mr.  Tuck's  character  to 
the  bone ;  for  the  triple  delight  of  spread- 
ing news  which  was  at  once  bad,  secret, 
and  matrimonial,  was  irresistible  to  a 
woman's  heart  Hence  it  came  to  pass 
that  on  the  following  Friday  evening, 
when  the  express  from  Byecote  was  doe, 
Kingsford  stalaon  was  like  a  church — 
crowded  out  with  ladies.  With  the  loyalty 
of  the  gladiators  of  old — "Moritnri  te 
salutamuB  "  —  they  paraded  to  grace  the 
triumph  of  their  conqueror.  Bnt  when 
the  train  drew  up  they  looked  blankly  one 
on  the  other.  There  was  no  bride  nor 
bridegroom — only  a  father  or  two,  who 
felt  flattered  by  their  daughters'  kind 
attention  in  coming  to  meet  them — and 
there  was  no  other  train  that  night  due 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


(DeMmber  £2, 1S8S.)     101 


irom  Bjjscote.  Could  the  whole  thing  be 
■  hoax  of  Mr.  Upchei's  mTentios  1  Mr. 
UpehBT  himself  appeared  at  this  moment, 
laogluDg.  If  he  had  published  Mr.  Tnck'e 
bums  in  chnrch,  hia  marri^e  would  not 
liare  been  better  advertised  than  hy  hU 
imputing  it  aa  a  sacred  eeoret  to  these 
Kven  discreet  damsels.  Therefore  he 
langhad  —  with  impunity,  for  to  chai^ 
htm  with  the  hoax  would  be  to  convict 
themselves  of  breach  of  promise. 

"  Egyday,  ladies,  where  are  yon  all  off 
to  t  Utah  1  Have  yon  seen  Mr.  Tack  1 
I  expected  him  by  this  truo.  Hasn't 
comet  Dear,  dear,  that's  a  disappoint- 
ment  Bat  where  are  yoa  all  off  to  at 
this  hour  1 " 

It  was  a  mere  fortnitotu  concourse  of 
■toms,  it  speared.  Some  bad  come  for  a 
mlk ;  others  to  meet  their  revered  parents; 
■nd  a  few  in  expectation  of  something  by 
rail  which  hadn't  arrived.  These  last  Mr. 
npcher  was  gallantly  anxious  to  asiist 

"  What  was  it )  Were  there  more 
ptTcels  than  onel  Were  they  tied 
tc^ether  t  Did  they  ask  tiie  gnard  where 
tKs  baggage  was  stowed  1 " 

Thus  the  facetiona  Mr,  Upcher. 

But  where  was  Mr.  Tack  1  Hers  Mr. 
Upcher  was  himself  as  much  at  sea  as  the 
maidens  he  mocked.  Mr.  Tuck  was  to 
have  come  by  this  train,  for  his  carriage 
was  there  to  meet  it.  He  couldn't  have 
been  lata  for  it,  as  it  was  the  last  train,  and 
be  was  the  fntsiest  of  men.  Mr.  Upcher 
sent  back  the  carriage,  wondering  a  little 
what  had  become  of  P^:maUon  and  his 
Qalatea.  In  tmth,  Mr.  Tnck  had  been  in 
very  good  tame  for  the  train  at  Eyecote, 
uid  had  snarly  ensoonced  himself  with  his 
Oaiatea  in  his  arms  in  the  comer  of  a  car- 
riage which  he  had  to  himself,  when  aome- 
thing  occurred  to  detain  him  at  Kyecote. 
Let  us  narrate  this  occurrence, 

Bnainess  brought  Mrs,  Cassidy  to  Rye- 
cote  ODce  a  quarter.  She  banked  at  Rye- 
eote,  doubting  at  once  the  solvency  and 
the  secrecy  of  the  local  bankers  of  Eings- 
ford.  If  she  banked  in  Kingsford,  her 
modest  means,  she  thought,  would  be 
known,  and  might  be  lost  Therefore 
banked  at  Ryecot&  and  distrusting  not  the 
bank  only,  but  toe  poet  and  the  whole 
population  of  Kingsford — she  always  her 
■bU  drew  or  deposited  her  money  at  head- 
quarters. Women  are  always  suspicious 
in  matters  of  business,  because  of  their 
ignorance  therein. 

"Sosiucions  amongst  thoughts  are  like 
Urds — thev  ever  flv  bv  twi- 


l^ht     There  is  nothing  makes  &  man 
suspect  much,  mere  than  to  know  little." 

Hence  the  business  which  took  Mrs. 
Cassidy  to  Eyecote  once  a  quarter.  Now 
this  fViday  was  her  quarter-day,  and  she 
had  set  off  in  the  morning  without  a 
thought  of  Mr.  Tack  But  the  sight  of 
some  bronzes  in  a  shop-window  at  Eye- 
cote recalled  him  to  her  mind,  and  sag- 
grated  to  her  the  jocose  idea  of  returning 
m  the  same  train  and  carriage  with  him 
to  give  a  more  amusing  point  to  Mr, 
Upcher'a  joke.  She  had  no  donbt  that  all 
the  maidens  in  Kingsford,  who  had  reached 
or  passed  the  years  of  discretion,  would  be 
in  or  about  the  station  that  evening  on  the 
look-out  for  the  blushing  bride.  She  pic- 
tured to  herself  a  hundred  times  over,  and 
with  ever  new  delight,  every  expression 
from  surprise  to  disgust;  or  at  least  disap- 
pointment, which  would  sweep,  swift  as  the 
sun  and  shade  of  a  March  day,  across  the 
fair  faces  who  would  crowd  to  watch  Mr. 
Tuck  hand  her  out  of  the  carriage. 

"  It  would  be  langbter  for  a  month,  and 
a  good  jest  for  ever," 
■  Bnttiie  witty  widow  reckoned  without 
her  host 

She  reached  Eyecote  station  even  before 
Mr.  Tnck  arrived,  bearing  Qalatea. 

She  waited  until  he  had  ohosen  and 
entered  his  carriage,  and  then  followed, 
manifesting  the  most  pleasurable  sorprise 
upon  finding  him  there.  But  this  pleasur- 
able sarprise  was  not  reciprocated.  Mr. 
Tuck  would  as  soon  travel  alone  with  a 
garotter  as  with  an  nnprotected  female. 
What  was  to  be  donef  He  epoke  and 
looked  OS  one  distraught,  glaring  through 
his  spectacles,  now  in  horror  at  the  widow, 
now  in  hope  through  the  window.  Passen- 
gers passed  and  repassed,  hesitated  at  the 
door,  looked  in,  but,  like  the  priest  and 
Levite,  gave  the  unhappy  victim  a  wide 
berth.  At  last  he  heiud  the  doors  being 
banged  and  locked.  Mattering  something 
about  a  forgotten  parcel,  he  sprang  up, 
rushed  from  the  carriage,  and  being  in  a. 
frenzy  of  fnss  and  fear,  uid  embarrassed 
by  his  Qalatea,  be  stnmbled  and  fell  be- 
tween the  footboard  and  the  platform.  Two 
porters  hurried  to  help  him  up  and  to  a 
seat,  which  he  needed,  as  he  had  not  only 
scraped  all  the  skin  off  his  leg,  bnt  had 
also  sprained  his  ankle.  Mrs.  Oaseidy, 
whose  good-nature  was  really  concerned 
for  him,  rurfied  off  to  fetch  him  some  wine 
from  the  refreshment-room,  as  he  was 
white  as  a  sheet.  Meanwhile  the  train 
started  without  them.    Therefore  Mr.  Tuck 


102      [I>™ml 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


did  not  arrive  that  night  at  Ringsford,  nor 
for  many  nights  to  come. 

Before  the  vine  had  quite  brought  him 
to  himself,  M».  Cawidj,  seeing  that  the 
last  train  for  Kingsford  hsid  gone,  sent  for 
a  cab,  had  him  carried  to  it,  and  accom< 
panied  him  in  it  to  the  nearest  hotel,  which 
was  The  Devonshire,  not  The  Royal,  where 
he  would  have  been  more  at  heme.  When 
she  had  got  him  to  The  Devonshire,  and 
had  eent  for  a.  doctor,  she  insisted  upon 
her  privilege,  as  a  soldier's  widow,  of 
seeing  herself  to  hia  wounds,  while  they 
wuted  for  the  suigeon. 

She  had  eared  before  now,  she  said, 
as  line  a  leg  as  ever  stepped  in  shoe- 
leather,  speaking  of  the  operation  as  coolly 
as  if  it  had  been  the  pickling  of  a  leg  of 
pork.  She  then  proceeded  to  cheer  Mr. 
Tuck  with  a  most  ghastly  accoont  of  her 
auccessfnl  treatment  of  the  leg  of  a  certain 
Phil  Henneker,  who  had  his  shin-bone 
shattered  like  a  broken  pane  with  a  ballet. 
Fortunately  the  regimental  surgeon  had  bo 
many  other  legs  to  cat  off,  that  Phil  was 
left  all  to  herself— otbermse  his  leg  had 

fane  off  as  sare  as  the  gun  that  shot  it. 
or  a  leg  was  like  any  other  old  fHend, 
easier  to  cat  than  to  keep.  This  was  a 
reproachful  reference  to  Mr.  Tuck's  freez- 
ing and  affrighted  reMption  of  her  in  the 
train.  Mrs.  Cassidy  then  proceeded  to 
give  a  most  graphic  and  Eraesome  account 
of  the  suppurating  wound  she  bad  healed, 
and  a  moat  glowing  account  of  the  doctor's 
compliments  to  her  for  having  staved  off 
what  seemed  the  certain  approaches  of 
mortification. 

These  inspiriting  details  electrified  Mr. 
Tuck,  who  was  a  confirmed  hypochondriac. 
He  was  always  thinking  of  his  health, 
always  weighing  himself,  dieting  himself, 
drugging  himself.  He  felt  that  his  shin- 
bone  was  certainly  shattered  like  a  pane  of 
glass,  and  he  also  felt  the  agonised  twinges 
of  incipient  mortificatioa  Horrible  as  the 
approaches  of  the  widow  might  be,  they 
were  not  so  horrible  as  the  approaches  of 
mortification.  Therefore  he  suffered  her 
with  a  piteous  patience  to  cat  off  his  boot, 
peel  off  his  sodi,  and  roH  up  his  trousers 
to  the  kneOk  Having  done  this  deftly,  Mrs. 
Cassidy  sponged  the  excoriated  shin  with 
warm  water,  and  fomented  the  sprained 
ankle  with  a  hot  linseed-meal  poultice. 

"lb  will  not  have  to  be  cut  off1"faltered 
Mr.  Tack  as  she  sponged  his  leg. 

"Not  while  I'm  here,'  answered  the 
widow  sturdily. 

Mr,  Tuck  mentallv  balanced  tb«   tem- 


porary presence  of  Mrs.  Cassidy  against  the 
eternal  absence  of  his  leg,  and  decided  that, 
on  the  whole,  the  loss  of  bis  1^  woald  be 
the  less  endurable  of  the  two  evils — that 
is,  of  coarse,  if  the  widow  would  warrant 
it  against  mortification.  It  was  some  time, 
however,  before  he  could  muster  up  ooarage 
to  ask : 

"  Is  there  any  danger  of  mortification  t " 

"  Not  with  yonr  constitution,  Mr.  Tuck, 
and  my  nursing." 

Here,  ^ain,  there  was  sweet  and  Intter 
mixed.  He  was  glad  to  hear  a  good  word 
for  his  sorry  constitntion,  but  he  shuddered 
at  the  prospect  of  its  having  to  be  propped 
up  by  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

"  You  need  not  be  alarmed,  Mr.  Tack," 
continued  that  devoted  woman,  "  I  shall 
not  leave  you  till  you  are  quite  oat  of 
danger." 

Mr.  Tuck  groaned  as  he  looked  from  bis 
endangered  leg  to  the  dangerous  widow. 
There  was  no  help  for  it.  At  this  point 
Mrs.  Cassidy  was  called  away.  The  doctor 
had  come,  and  was  in  a  private  room, 
where  Mrs.  Cassidy  had  directed  that  he 
should  be  shown,  in  order  that  she  might 
give  him  some  necessary  hints  for  the 
conduct  of  the  casa  She  was  fortunate  in 
her  doctor. 

Dr.  Pitcher  had  a  large  and  poor  practice, 
for  the  support  of  a  large  and  poor  house- 
hold, and  was  rejoiced  to  hook  a  rich 
patient,  whom  he  would  have  played  to 
the  last  turn  of  the  reel,  even  without  Mrs, 
Cassidy's  caution  to  be  cautious.  She  took 
extreme  care  to  impress  two  things  upon 
the  doctor — that  his  patient  was  very  rich 
and  very  rash.  If  the  doctor  failed  to  con- 
vince him  of  the  gravity  of  his  injuries 
Mr.  Tuck  would  certainly,  and  at  all  risks, 
return  to  Kingsford  to-morrow.  As  this 
would  have  been  almost  as  deplorable  a 
consummation  to  Dr.  Pitcher  as  to  Mrs. 
Oassidy,  Mr.  Tuck,  with  all  Iiis  rashness, 
was  little  likely  to  leave  The  Devonshire  in 
hot  liaste. 

The  doctor,  having  been  thas  prapand 
to  shake  his  head  over  the  case,  shook  it 
till  idl  Mr.  Tuck's  fiery  rashness  oozed,  like 
Bob  Acres's  courage,  out  of  the  palms  of 
Iiis  handa  Dr.  Filcher  had  no  doubt  at  all, 
however,  that  with  care  and  skill  and  good 
nursing — looking  towards  Mrs.  Cassiay — 
the  leg  might  be  cured.  He  also  thought 
it  proper  and  pradent  to  pay  an  extravagant 
compliment  to  the  widow  upon  the  extr»- 
ordinary  surgical  skill  she  had  shown  in 
her  treatment  of  the  case.  With  such  a 
nurse  in  chanre  it  would  not  l>e  neoessarr 


ANCIENT  LAKE  DWELLINGS.        iDeoember  sj,  ui.]     103 


for  him  to  call  more  than  twice  a  day — 
making  at  the  moment  a  mental  calcula- 
tion of  what  two  gnineaB  «  day  would  come 
to  in  three  weeks. 

When  the  doctor  had  taken  hia  leave, 
Mn  Cissidy  begged  thai  Mr.  Tuck  would 
eicDse  her,  ae  she  must  beleffraph  at  once 
both  to  Mr.  Tuck's  home  and  to  her  own, 
uinoaaciiig  that  neither  of  them  would  be 
bsekfor  some  days.  This  identification  of 
their  acts  and  interests  was  terrible  to  Ur. 
Tack,  bnt  what  was  to  be  done )  There 
wu  no  escape  from  her  precious  head- 
bteaking  balms. 


ANCIENT  LAKE  DWELLINGS 

"  Tk  Uie  old  world,  and  in  the  modem 
wortd  of  heathenism,  the  normal  state  is  a 
lUte  of  war."  So  we  are  always  being 
told  in  sermons,  and  I  suppose  there 
i)  urns  troth  in  it  When  Greek  met 
Gieek,  or  Italian  Italian,  it  generally 
ended  in  a  fight,  unless  one  of  tbe  two 
had  xenia,  tokens — the  hidf  of  a  ring,  or 
nmething  of  the  kind — to  show  tJiat 
&en  had  been  kinship  or  friendship 
between  some  of  their  forefathers. 

fiebg,  then,  in  a  constant  state  of  war, 
tbe  old  people  had  to  be  always  on  their 
ewai.  Thncydidea  tells  ns  that  the  pre- 
Mrtoric  Greeks,  in  the  days  when  every- 
body went  about  armed,  and  piracy  was 
tbe  profession  par  excellence,  were  afraid 
to  bnild  their  towns  on  the  coast,  lest  the 
sea-robbers  should  swoop  down  on  them, 
but  h'ved  inland,  unless,  indeed,  they  conld 
manage  to  insulate  the  promontories  which 
ifforded  each  tempting  sites.  In  England 
we  see  instances  of  both  arrangements. 
Our  oldeat  ports  have  not  all  ceased  to  be 
teaports  becaoae  the  land  has  gained  on  tbe 
m,  and  the  harbour  has'  become  silted  up. 
la  some  eases  they  never  were  seaports  at 
all  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  being 
porposely  built  as  far  as  possible  ont  of 
tbe  viking's  reach.  In  Cornwall  the  cliff- 
eaiUet  are  a  case  of  promontory-fortifying, 
of  which  Worle  Hill,  by  Weston-snper- 
Mare,  is  also  a  good  example.  There  was 
no  chance  of  cutting  a  canu  and  insulating 
~u  the  old  Greeks  did  where  they  conld 
—with  the  cli%  a  couple  of  hundred  feet 
high;  but  the,triple  ditch  and  wall  practi- 
cally made  islands  of  tJiese  enclosures. 

Another  favourite  way  of  protection, 
not  from  sea,  bnt  from  land  robbers,  was 
to  bnild  out  into  the  water.  This  is,  or 
ms,  done  in  manv  narts  of  the  world. 


Hippocrates,  writing  about  "  climate  and 
its  effect  on  health,"  tells  of  some  who,  in 
tbe  marshes  of  the  Ffaasis — a  river  that 
gives  its  name  to  our  pheasant,  and  to 
which  Jason  sailed  for  the  Golden  Fleece 
— built  their  houses  in  the  midst  of  the 
water,  sailing  to  them  in  canoes  "dugout" 
of  whole  trees.  Herodotus,  a  little  jimior 
to  the  father  of  Greek  medicine,  has  a 
long  passage  about  the  Thraciane  on  Lalie 
Praeiae,  whose  settlement  was  approached 
by  a  narrow  brid(re,  on  the  removal  of 
whit^  they  were  able  to  defy  the  whole 
Persian  army.  Captain  Cameron  found 
the  same  plan  adopted  in  Central  Africa 
for  protection  against  tJie  slave-dealers. 
Captain  Burton  found  pile-vUlages  off  the 
Dahomey  coast,  a  mile  from  shore.  Pile- 
dwellings  are  also  common  in  Borneo 
and  all  over  Malaysia ;  in  Japan,  too, 
and  over  in  South  America.  Almost 
all  the  world  over  they  have  been  the 
resource,  not  of  savages,  for  they  are  far 
beyond  the  ability  of  savages  to  construct, 
bnt  of  people  in  what  is  called  "a  primi- 
tive state  of  culture,"  Such  were  the  High- 
luiders  and  their  Irish  cousins  up  till  quite 
recently  ;  such  was  "  the  merry  Swiss  boy  " 
when  Cceaar  thought  the  great  tribe  of 
the  Helvetians  "  a  menace  to  civilisation," 
and  accordingly  exterminated  it  Inlreland, 
a  country  which,  for  its  size,  has  more  old 
written  records  than  any  other  in  Europe, 
these  so-called  crannogs  are  proved  by  the 
Annals  to  have  been  in  use  as  early  as  the 
seventh  century,  and  to  have  been  used  as 
late  as  Cromwell's  time.  But  Irish  Annals 
have  not  been  much  read  till  quite  recently ; 
and  nothing  was  heard  of  the  crannogs 
till  Sir  W.  Wilde,  MB.,  discovered  one  at 
Lagore,nearDanBhaughh'n,in Meath.  This 
was  in  1839.  Eighteen  years  later  he 
published  a  catalogue  describing  forty-six 
of  these  lake-islands,  and  foretelling  the 
discovery  of  many  more  as  the  drainage  of 
the  country  got  more  perfected.  But 
Ireland  is  for  most  of  us  a  great  deal 
farther  off — in  sympathy,  and  even  in  time- 
distance —  than  Switzerland,  and  people 
who  bad  not  troubled  themEelves  about 
Sir  W.  WUde's  crannogs  any  more  than 
they  did  about  bis  wife  "Speranza's" 
patriotic  poems  and  sympathy  with 
"young  Ireland,"  were  roused  to  enthu- 
siasm when  Dr.  Keller  announced  the 
existence  of  Pfshlbeaten — pile-bnildingB — 
along  the  Lake  of  Znriim.  Very  little 
snow  was  melted  during  the  summer  of 
1863,  and  in  the  winter  the  lake  was 
nnnsuallv  low.   At  Ober  Meilen  the  DeoT>le 


101      IDwemtwr  K,  IJ 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EOUND. 


took  advaatass  of  this  to  encloae  bite  of 
land  with  imls,  filling  in  the  spaca  with 
mud  dug  out  of  the  laKe.  But  in  digging 
they  BOon  found  the  heada  of  piles,  atone 
cel^,  Etigs'  homs,  etc  ;  and  before  long 
like  discoveries  were  made  in  other 
places,  notably  at  Bienne.  Since  then 
draining  bai  been  going  on  more  rapidly 
in  Switzerland  than  in  Ireland.  The 
canny  Swiss  try  to  "eubdne  the  earth" 
as  far  as  possible,  instead  of  worrying  their 
very  lives  out  in  the  contest  for  and  against 
Land  Acts;  and  we  are  told  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  sheltered  bay  in  any  Swiss  or 
Tyrolese  lake  which  did  not  contain  its 
lake-bland. 

They  were  jnst  as  namerona  in  the 
United  Kingdom.  The  loenian  had  them  in 
East  Angtia.  When  Sir  G.  Bunbnry,  a  gene- 
ration ago,  drew  the  water  oS  Wretham 
Mere  to  get  at  the  rich  black  mud,  piles  were 
found,  and  reddeer  homs  which  had  evi- 
dentlybeensawnoff.  The  Cymri  used  them. 
There  is  a  stockaded  island  with  log  plat- 
form in  LlBngoraeFooI,  that  marshy,  reedy 
water  near  Welsh  Hay,  in  BrecoushireL  In 
Scotland  real  islands  were  often  fortified. 
Who  does  not  remember  the  attack  on  one 
in  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  and  how,  when 
a  swimmer  is  bribed  with  the  offer  of 
My  cap  with  bonnot-pieoes  store 
To  him  who'll  awini  a  bowshot  o'er 
And  looBOBBhallop  from  the  shore, 

the  bloodthirsty  knights  delightedly  cry  : 

WbII  tame  the  aava^  moiiat 

Ab  hia  slogan  tames  the  deer. 
So  in  Ireland  the  Hen's  Oastie  in  Longh 
Corrib  is  on  a  real  island ;  and  several  of 
the  crannogs.  Sir  W.  Wilda  says,  were 
cluans  (shallows- of  clay,  wholly  or  partly 
dry  in  summer)  into  which  were  driven 
0^  piles ;  and  upon  these  were  mortised 
heavy  oak  beams,  laid  fiat  on  the  moist 
sand,  over  which,  in  many  cases,  the  bog 
has  formed  to  a  depth  of  more  than  sixteen 
feet.  Then  came  a  second  tier  of  piles, 
mortised  into  the  flat  foundation  beams. 
On  these  were  raised  the  dwellings  which, 
as  they  appear  in  Dr.  Lee's  frontispiece  to 
his  translation  and  something  more  of 
Keller's  book,  are  at  least  as  good  as  a 
aettlei's  log  shanty.  All  those  doors  and 
windows  I  I  don't  believe  the  old  Helvetians 
ever  built  that  way.  Having  no  glass,  they 
would  surely  make  their  windows  smaU 
and  their  doors  low;  and,  of  course, 
such  was  the  case  in  Ireland,  where 
the  cabins,  even  of  the  present  day,  are 
by  no  means  remarkable  for  abundance  of 
window. 


Similar  lake  dwellings  have  been  found 
in  other  parts  of  Europe ;  in  the  Fome- 
nmian  haffs,  those  strange  masses  of  fresh 
water  close  to  the  sea,  oomparabU  witli  oar 
Norfolk  Broads ;  in  the  Neuviedler  See  in 
Hungary ;  in  the  lakes  of  Upper  Aostria ; 
at  Pdadun  in  France.  In  ail  it  was  the 
same  story  :  stout  piles  rammed  in  to  keep 
the  soft  mud  of  the  shallow  which  was 
chosen  as  a  site  from  being  washed  away 
by  a  change  of  current ;  a  very  heavy  plat- 
form of  split  trunks;  an  upper  tier  of  piles, 
sometimes  with  the  connecting  cross-beams 
more  or  less  perfect,  and  occasionally  with 
their  sides  grooved  or  rabbeted  to  admitof 
large  planlu  being  driven  down  between 
them. 

But  this  does  not  mean  that  they 
were  all  in  nae  at  the  same  time.  We 
talk  of  stone  age,  old  and  new,  of  bronze  age, 
etc,  till  we  sometimes  foiget  that,  when  it 
was  stone  a^  here  it  was  iron  age  some- 
where else;  just  as  now  it  is  stone  age  for 
the  Digger  Indians,  among  whom  yon  may 
see  the  process  of  makiug  flint  arrow-heads 
exactly  like  those  which  are  dug  up  in  old 
British  cairns.  So  itwas  with  lake  dwellings; 
some  were  abandoned  ages  i^o ;  some 
were  in  use  almost  yeateraay.  From  the 
silence  of  all  Boman  historians  abont 
the  Swiss  ones,  we  may  infer  that  they 
were  not  used  i^ter  Borne  had  got  bold  <^ 
GauL  Perhaps  they  were  destroyed  by 
the  Helvetians  themselves,  when — aa  Cssar 
tells  us — they  burnt  all  their  towns  aiid 
villages  preparatory  to  that  wholesale 
emigration  to  which  he  put  such  a  sudden 
stop.  The  state  of  the  remains  shows  that 
in  moat  cases  they  were  bamt  to  the 
water's  edge  before  they  were  abandoned. 
Abandoned  before  the  Komans  came  in, 
when  were  they  first  used  t  The  remains 
prove  tiiat  they  had  been  formed  and  in- 
habited by  people  who  had  got  off  the  great 
lines  of  civilisation  before  they  had  began 
to  keep  the  domestic  fowl,  or  to  sow 
winter  corn,  or  nse  hemp.  Hence,  arsaes 
Dr.  Keller,  they  came  into  SwitzerMuid 
very  early,  bringing  with  them,  however, 
the  nse  of  flax  and  bast,  and  of  barley 
and  wheat,  and  having  tamed  the  bone 
as  well  as  the  cow,  pig,  sheep,  goat,  cat, 
and  dog.  The  Irish  and  Scotch  crannc^^ 
were  probably  formed  much  later,  the 
stream  of  popnlation  not  having  reached 
the  extreme  west  till  long  after.  In  tliem 
many  of  the  finds  are  of  iron,  which,  of 
course,  marks  them  as  recent;  and  the 
occurrence  in  many  bones  of  crystals  of  the 
beaatifn]    green     phosphate    of    iron — 


ANCIENT  LA.K£  DWELLINGS.        iD«x»ib«r  %Mm]     105 


viriuiite,  m  it  wm  (ulled  by  its  Gomiah 
diKOverer,  in  honour  of  the  well-known 
Comiah  family — ^is  no  proof  of  age.  If 
boae  and  a  bit  of  iiOD  were  decaying  aids 
by  tide,  the  viTianite  would  often  form 
with  wonderf  ol  rapidity. 

Iq  both  the  Scotch  and  Irlsli  crannoges 
■tone,  bronze,  and  iron  implement!  are 
toaad  tt^thsr,  for  in  both  oonntriea  these 
"ngea"  orerlapped  one  another.  Stone 
hammers,  tied  on  to  the  handle  jost  as  the 
Stw  Zealandei  tiea  them  on,  were  used 
ia  remote  parts  of  Ireland  till  the  other 
day ;  hand  querns  were  used  in  the  High- 
bods  almoet  tUl  steam  mills  b^an  to  be 
ut  up  at  Glasgow  and  other  "oentres." 
In  both  coontriea  these  lake  dwellings  were 
and  much  later  than  in  SwitEerland.  Id 
Scotland  Edward  the  First  used  ooe  as  a 
fortification;  another  was  destroyed  by 
Parliament  in  1648.  In  Ireland  several 
van  in  nse  in  Elizabeth's  wars,  and  one, 
Cnnnog  Macaavin,  County  Galway,  was 
taken  by  the  English  in  1610,  while  another, 
Ballynahniah,  was  inhabited  fifty  years 
igo.  Some,  if  I  mistake  not,  are  stiQ  used 
u  bnrial-places ;  perhaps  Uie  island  on 
vkich  the  Watertons  are  buried — who  that 
baa  read  Charles  Waterton's  life  can  forget 
ths  account  of  his  being  rowed  over  to  me 
Kfnlchre  of  his  fathers  1 — is  a  craon(^. 

The  ciannog  men,  then,  in  Ireland  and 
Sootlaod  were  the  same  as  those  now 
lifing  thera  Tho  Scottish  "finds" 
figured  in  Dr.  Mnnro's  book,  which  is 
one  of  those  books  that  are  a  joy 
to  handle  and  a  pleasure  to  look  upon, 
include  glass  and  stone  rings ;  beads  of 
ntnous  paste ;  leather  shoes,  omamoDtod 
with  a  stamped  pattern ;  bone  needles, 
some  with  the  eye  in  the  centre,  like  those  of 
lewing-machines;  fragments  of  carved  wood; 
s  comb  or  two ;  iron  sans ;  fibulte  of  bronze ; 
horse-bits  portly  of  iron  partly  of  bronze; 
and  so-called  "  girdles  "  of  moss-stems  much 
like  those  worn  by  some  negro  tribea  and 
otheiB  whose  usual  costume  is  very  light 
Thwe  girdles  may  have  been  simply  the 
bathing-dress  of  a  people  whose  habits  must 
have  been  aquatic,  though  they  had  canoes 
and  big  ones  j  a  "  dog  out,"  found  in  Lake 
Owe),  Westmeath,  is  over  forty  feet  long. 
Along  with  these  later  remains  are  found 
flint  flakes — "  strike-a-luhts  "  archieologists 
are  b^inning  to  call  tham — scrapers,  and 
iauvea  of  fiint,  stone  spindle-whorls  (in  use, 
Dr.  Mitcliell  assures  us  in  The  Past  and 
de  Present,  two  generations  ago),  bone 
cbisels,  celte,  hammer-stones,  and  other  so- 
called  Dre-historic  remuos.      But  there  is 


no  reason  for  Gupposing  the  use  of  these  to 
have  died  out  before  those  who  used  iron 
had  come  to  live  in  these  island  stroDg- 
holds. 

Some  of  the  Swiss  lake  vitlagea  appear 
bo  have  been  of  great  size.  At  Wangen 
forty  thousand  piles  have  been  counted, 
and  one  hundred  thousand  at  Robenhausen. 
Each  contained  on  an  average  three  hundred 
huts.  Bound  each  settlement  was  a  circle 
of  piles  driven  down  just  below  the  water's 
edge  to  prevent  hostile  canoes  from  making 
their  way  insida  On  these  the  Swiss 
fishers  had  often  caught  their  nets,  but 
nothing  was  thought  of  them;  perhaps 
they  were  accounted  for  as  soma  sceptics 
accounted  for  Uie  Scotch  crannogs  as 
"  piles  to  spread  lint  ^en)  on,"  or  as 
"  the  site  of  an  old  whisky-etilL"  Till  18fi3 
no  one  dreamed  of  connecting  them  with 
the  early  inhabitants — early,  but  not  the 
earliest,  for  Switzerland,  too,  had  its  post- 
glacial caves,  in  which  have  been  found 
carved  pieces  of  reindeer-horn  of  the  usual 
type ;  and  these  show  that  the  cave-men 
were  in  the  land  long  before  the  lake- 
dwellers.  But  even  when  the  lake-dwellers 
first  appeared  tlie  land  was  far  different 
from  what  it  now  is.  The  forests,  fall 
of  red-deer  and  wild  oxen,  came  down  to 
the  water's  edge.  Beavers  were  abundant. 
Basket-making  was  known,  but  not  the 
weaving  of  woollen.  Nor  was  their  pottery 
made  on  the  wheel  In  mortising  and 
dovetailing  timber  they  were  not  inferior 
to  ourselves. 

The  fiading  of  nephrite,  or  noble  jade, 
so  much  prized  in  China,  and  of  which  a 
few  sarnies  —  battle-axes,  handed  down 
from  earliest  times,  probably  brought  in 
by  the  first  inhabitants — are  found  in  New 
Zealand,  has  given  rise  to  strange  con- 
jectures. Some  have  supposed  that  these 
Sffias  lake-dwellers  came  direct  from  the 
far  East,  as  if  the  earliest  things  established 
among  half-civilised  people  were  not  trade- 
roads,  which  were  sacred  in  time  of  war. 
Such  were  the  roads  from  the  Baltic  by 
which  amber  was  taken  right  on  to  the 
Neuchatel  lak^-islanda,  and  the  American 
road  by  which  the  mound-builders  of  Ohio 
got  the  shells  that  are  only  found  on  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico.  Wherever  they  came 
from,  these  iake-meu  grew  com,  but 
had  no  hemp ;  of  wheat  they  had 
three  kinds,  among  them  the  so-called 
Egyptian;  of  their  bread  samples  are  still 
found,  but  they  also  ate  water-lily  roots, 
and  that  curious  plant  the  water-chestnut 
ftrana  natansV  whicb.  then  abundant,  has 


106     [DaeemlMT  S2,  un.B 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


now  almost  disappeared  from  the  coontrf. 
They  probably  hail  that  atnuige  prejodice 
^ainat  eating  hare,  which  CEesar  says 
eztated  among  the  old  Britons,  for  no 
bones  of  this  toothaome  quadruped  are 
foaud  in  their  dwellings.  Some  of  the 
Swiss 'archaeologists  have  ventured  to  pro- 
nounce on  their  personal  appearance. 
Now,  it  is  a  great  deal  to  comtmct,  as 
Guvier  and  Owen  could  do,  a  whole  animal 
oat  of  a  single  bona;  but  to  guess  the  type  of 
features  Irom  a  few,  very  few,  bones  seems 
past  man's  power.  Nevertheless  we  areT 
confidently  told  that  these  early  Swiss  were 
small  of  stature,  and  had  no  grace  of  limb. 
Very  probably;  few  aboiuioes  are  comely, 
except  those  wonderful  Suqaes,  the  mix- 
ture of  whose  blood  gives  a  beauty  of  their 
own  to  our  West  Oomiah  and  Western 
Irish. 

In  Dr.  Mnnro's  book,  I  think  the  most 
toaching  thing  is  tjie  enthusiasm  of  a 
sohoolmaster,  M'Naoght  of  RUmaurs,  who 
was  the  first  to  discover  the  crann<w  of 
Buston  two  years  ago.  Five  years  before, 
passing  a  stackyard,  he  had  noticed  several 
huge  curious-looking  beams,  but  was  quieted 
by  hearing  they  came  from  some  old  house. 
Meanwhile,  in  1878,  began  the  great 
di^sing  at  Lochlee,  near  Tarbolton,  and 
thitner  the  archaeological  schoolmaster  went 
to  see  what  could  be  seen.  He  there  saw 
the  pUes  and  mortised  beams  in  situ ;  but 
even  the  sight  of  these  did  not  rouse  him 
till  one  day  at  Kilmaurs,  talking  with  a 
farmer  about  bog-oak  fiimitnre,  he  was 
told,  "  Why,  there's  bog-oak  enough  lying 
about  Buston  stackyard  to  furnish  the  whole 
parish."  "At  once,"  ha  says,  "I  remem- 
bered what  I  had  formerly  seen,  and  felt 
almost  sore  that  I  had  noticed  the  mor- 
tised holes,  and  that  the  beams  were 
identical  with  ^oee  I  had  since  seen  at 
Lochlea" 

The  moment  school  was  over,  he  went 
to  the  farm  and  saw  that  the  beams  must 
belong  to  a  crannog.  "  Nay,"  eud  the 
farmer,  "  it  was  joist  s  timmer-house  ane 
o'  the  auld  earls  bad  put  up  to  shoot 
deuks."  Getting  rid  of  tW  sceptic  as  best 
he  could,  Mr.M'Naught  persuad^  the  man's 
youngest  son  to  help  him  in  freeing  one 
of  the  beams,  which  were  used  as  riok- 
bottoms,  far  enough  for  him  to  saw  oS 
a  mortised  joint,  With  this  be  then 
went  down  to  the  site  of  the  cranni^, 
but  it  was  too  I&te  to  see  anything  How- 
'  ever,  he  stumbled  against  what  seemed 
to  be  a  pile  fixed  upright  in  the  soil; 
and,  coming  next  morning,  sure  enough 


he  found  three  uprights,  and  the  mor- 
tised beams  plainly  visible  in  the  nde 
of  a  drain.  There  was  no  doubt  it  was  a 
«annog.  The  next  thing  was  to  get  the 
landowner,  Lord  EgUnton,  or  rather  his 
agent,  to  allow  the  digging  to  begin ;  and, 
this  done,  Dr.  Munro,  Mr.  Cochran  Patrick, 
M.P.,  and  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men assembled  to  see  the  six  workmen 
start  a  "  guide  trench  "  across  the  cr&nnc^. 
There  was  no  lake  here.  A  generation 
ago  the  place  had  been  a  mossy  bog  in 
summer,  and  a  shallow  pool  in  winter,  the 
site  of  the  crannog  being  marked  by  a  low 
mound,  called  "The  Knowe."  But  for 
many  years  the  quondam  l^e  had  been  a 
rich  meadow,  the  Knowe  having  been 
made  still  more  insignificant  by  the  removal 
of  thirteen  cartload  of  tunber,  respecting 
which  the  &nner  remembered  the  great 
difficulty  there  was  in  detaching  the  mor- 
tised beams  from  one  another.  This  had 
drawn  fram  a  workman  the  remu-k, 
"  There  mann  hae  been  dwallers  here  at 
ae  time."  Draining  had  made  the  monnd 
sink  still  lower,  so  that,  when  Mr.  M'Nanght 
found  out  what  it  was,  it  was  scarcely  dis- 
tiiwuiahable  from  the  rest  of  the  meadow. 

The  trench,  two  or  three  feet  deep  and 
five  wide,  gave  nothing  but  a  spindle- 
whorl  and  a  quern,  till  it  reached  the 
southern  edge  of  the  crannog.  Here  were 
found  piles  and  a  huge  beam,  and  close  by 
was  traced  the  "  kitchen  midden,"  or  dust- 
heap,  which  yielded  a  number  of  bone 
and  horn  pins,  needles,  some  hand- 
some combs,  a  lot  of  iron  spear  and. 
arrow  heads,  a  few  bronze  buckles  and 
rings,  two  massive  gold  spiral  finger-rings, 
and  two  very  Uttle  gold  coins  (trientes), 
supposed  to  be  Saxon.  There  were  also 
fragments  of  pottery,  and  a  clay  croGiUe, 
just  in  shape  hke  those  now  in  use.  There 
were  bones,  too,  of  animals,  from  which  it 
was  argued  that  the  sheep  of  those  days 
were  long  and  slender-legged.  Gold  always 
counts  for  so  much ;  else  the  finds  here 
bear  no  comparison  with  those  at  Lochlee, 
among  which,  besides  the  horse-bite  partly 
of  bronze  partly  of  iron,  were  fibolw  enongh 
to  fasten  the  tartans  of  a  whole  clan ;  or  at 
KUbimie,  where  was  found  a  lovely  little 
bronze  lion,  forming  a  ewer,  the  tail  beii^ 
turned  back  to  make  the  handle ;  or  at 
Loch  Dowalton  in  Wigton,  where,  among 
many  bronze  bowls  and  pote,  was  one  very 
omate  and  of  te^y  good  workmanship. 
The  rarity  of  coins  is  a  marked  feature  of 
all  tiie  finds.  I  have  seen  more  taken  oat 
of  one  Roman  camp  in  East  Anglia  than 


ANCIENT  LAKE  DWELLINGS.        tDe«nn»r 22. isssi    107 


vera  foond  in  all  the  cwmoga  described 
b;  Dr.  Monro. 

A  cnuinog,  theOi  is  &  beam  structure 
(cnnD  ia  mast  or  tree-trank  in  Gaelic),  and 
the  plan  of  mortjsing  beams  supported  on 
piles  was  carried  oat  in  many  places 
where  such  pcmdaroua  foundati(»iB  were 
needless.  Primitive  man  was  aa  much  a 
creature  of  roatine  as  his  descendants. 
Bat,  of  coarse,  not  all  the  Scottish  artificial 
Uke-islaads  are  Pfahlbeuten ;  some  are 
made  by  simply  adding  to  the  sUt  thrown 
np  by  crosB-cumnts  at  the  outlets  of  such 
lakes  as  have  gravelly  beds.  The  piles 
>nd  mortised  beams  were  only  neeessaiy 
where  ihe  bottom  was  of  soft  mnd  or  day. 
In  Denrentwater,  for  instance,  yon  might 
soon  get  a  crannog  by  driving  piles  roond 
some  sedge-grown  shallow,  choostog,  of 
Bourse,  a  very  dry  Bommer  for  your  wo^ 
sod  then  guiding  into  the  enclosure  those 
Bo-called  floating  islands — masses  (^  weeds, 
tiUBOcka  torn  up  either  by  wind  and  water 
01  by  the  gases  of  decaying  vegetation — 
vhich  visitors  are  often  called  on  to 
noticcL  The  only  oUier  place,  by  the  way, 
where  I  ever  saw  sach  islands  was  in  a 
lonely  lake  close  by  the  Renmare  river, 
n<ar  the  mined  church  of  Kilmacillogue. 
St  Qninlan's  Lake  it  la  called ;  and,  living 
in  such  consecrated  water,  the  islands  are 
bound  to  behave  with  s^et  eccledastical 
propriety,  "  They  do  be  moving  mostly 
about  the  greatChnrch  festivals," said  an  old 
man  to  whom  I  rather  impatiently  pointed 
oat  thftt,  in  Bpite  of  a  strong  wind,  the 
glass  islets  were  perfectly  motionless. 
"Sure,  it's  at  Easter  or  Whitsuntide 
Pve  seen  them  travelling  across,  and 
underneath  them  was  like  the  feet  of 
a  dock  moving  backward  and  forward." 
The  makings  of  a  crannog  were  in 
St  Qoinlan'a  Lake,  but  for  timber  you 
would  have  had  to  go  as  far  as  Killamey 
before  you  could  have  got  trees  big 
enongh. 

On  the  mechanical  skill  shown  by  the 
crannog  builders.  Dr.  Mnnro  waxes  quite 
enthoaiaetic.  The  problem  was — given  a 
small  mossy  lake  with  reed^rown  margin, 
and  some  ten  or  twelve  feet  of  water 
above  a  virtually  unfathomable  quagmire, 
to  construct  therein  a  place  of  defence 
which  should  be  inaccessible,  even  if  the 
enemy  had  pierced  the  forest  and  dis- 
covered the  secluded  lake,  and  hia  con- 
clusion  ia  that  no  modem  engineer  could 
have  solved  it  half  so  suocessfully.  That 
the  nid  people  should  have  succeeded  so 
well  he  oonaidarB  "another  oroef  of  the 


extraordinary  vigour,  intense  individuality, 
and  plastic  ch^cter  of  the  eariy  Celtic 
cixilisation."  By-and-by  these  wooden 
walls  and  refuges  of  piles  would  fall  into 
disrepute  when  they  came  to  be  assailed  by 
more  skilled  besiegers  capable  of  shooting 
bnming  arrows  or  fire-balls.  Fear  of  fire 
led  to  the  nae  of  stone,  which  the  splinter- 
ing of  stone  under  a  bombardment  has  now 
again  ia  some  sort  done  away  with.  And 
for  a  heavy  stone  building,  a  platform  of 
beams,  no  matter  how  heavy,  resting  on  a 
quaking  bog,  was  a  poor  foundation.  Water 
still  continued  to  be  a  groat  element  ia 
defence,  but  it  was  found  better  to  carry 
the  water  to  the  castle.  The  moat  super- 
seded the  lake. 

A  crannog,  then,  was  a  stockaded  island, 
wholly  or  in  part  artificial,  much  like  what 
Cesar  tella  us  was  the  typical  British 
village,  only  hidden  away  in  a  reedy  lake 
instead  of  in  a  morass  or  marshy  wood. 
Who  built  them  and  when )  We  may 
imagine  them  used  ever  since  Celts  began 
to  inhabit  these  ialands ;  but,  from  the  com- 
parative modemnesB  of  most  of  the  finds. 
Dr.  Mnnro  thinks  they  were  not  in  general 
use  till  the  civilised  Britons  got  into  trouble 
with  Angles  on  the  one  hand  and  Ficta  and 
Soots  on  the  other,  as  soon  aa  they  were  left 
alone  by  the  Bomaos.  Mr.  Green's  hook 
givea  a  graphic  account  of  how  in  South 
Britain  group  after  group  of  Bomano- 
British  cities  went  down  before  the  suc- 
oeeaive  attacks  of  different  tribes  of  invading 
Teutons,  much  as  gronp  after  group  of  the 
cities  of  Canaan  went  down  before  Joshua. 
There  seema  to  have  been  no  power  of  co- 
hesion, every  district  stood  by  itself  and 
fell  unaided  by  the  rest  And  it  must  have 
been  even  a  worse  look-out  for  the  Britons 
of  Strathclyde  and  the  other  Bomanised 
districts  between  the  two  walls.  They 
were  poorer  and  weaker  than  their  kins- 
men over  the  Border;  and  their  Fictish 
enemies  at  any  rate  were  nearer  to  them. 
Everyone  who  has  read  it  must  remember 
Mr.  Green's  vivid  picture  of  the  provincials  of 
Eboracum  (York)  and  the  other  great  towns 
of  the  Oose  valley  fleeing  for  their  lives  with 
wives  and  children  and  euch  treasures  as 
they  could  hastily  collect,  up  Wharfedale 
and  over  the  fella,  till  they  found  a  refuge 
in  those  Clapham  caves  near  Ingleborough 
where  their  traces  are  found  ia  the  silt  and 
stalagmite.  Mr.  Green  traces  their  gradual 
decline  from  the  culture  they  brought  with 
them  to  almost  savagery,  in  the  gradual 
deterioradon  of  the  "finds,"  as  yon  get 
nearer  the  surface.     The  lower  beds  vield 


108     [DecembaK.ua.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOUHD. 


ivories,  bronaea,  enamels,  coins — 
just  what  could  be  carried  off  in  a  hasty 
llight  for  life.  These  grow  fewer  and 
fewer  in  the  npper  deposit  Even  the 
ordinary  utensils  as  they  wear  ont  are 
not  replaced,  antil  at  last  the  time 
comes  when  he  whose  grandfather  had 
been,  perhaps,  a  cultmed  Roman  citizen, 
was  fain  to  boil  his  Tonison  pottage  by 
putting  red-hot  stones  into  a  akm  of  water. 
There  is  no  such  gradual  deterioraUon 
traceable  in  the  crwmogs,  but  then  none 
of  them  have  that  wondetfol  stalagmite 
which,  in  the  caves,  rapidly  buried  each 
object  as  it  was  lost  or  flung  aside,  and 
kept  it  as  safely  as  a  fly  in  amber.  Things 
in  a  peat-bog  have  a  wonderful  tendency  to 
sink  to  the  same  level  I  believe  the  little 
"elfin-pipes,"  later  of  course  than  the 
introduction  of  tobacco,  have  been  found 
"associated  with" — that  is  the  term — 
"elfin-bolts,"  ie.  flint  arrow-heads,  hecanse 
both  had  sunk  through  the  peat  to  the 
gravel  below.  One  tmng  of  which  "the 
Celt "  seems  to  have  been  very  proud  was 
his  wife's  back-comb.  The  type  seema  to 
have  been  much  th«  same,  whether  the 
' '  find  "  comes  from  Uriconinm  { Wroxeter)- 
the  great  Roman  city  which  gave  its  n&i 
to  the  Wrekin  (Urikeo) — or  from  the  Broch 
of  Borrian  in  Orkney,  or  from  Ballinderry 
Cnmnog  in  Ireland.  ITie  Irish  specimen  is 
much  the  moat  elaborate;  but  the  others 
are  not  far  behind  it  in  ornamentation. 
Another  thing  in  which  "  the  Celt " 
excelled  was  the  art  of  embossing  leather. 
"  Brogues  "  are  found  both  in  Irish  and 
Scotch  crannogs,  stamped  all  over  with 
the  most  elegant  ornament. 

You  have,  then,  three  authorities,  if  yon 
want  to  go  deeper  into  the  question  of  lake 
dwellings.  Sir  W.  Wilde  (and,  more  re- 
cently, Mr.  J,  H.  Kinahan,  of  the  Geological 
Survey),  for  the  Irish ;  Dr.  Keller,  for  the 
Swiss;  and  Dr.  Munro,  for  the  Scotch. 
I  can't  help  thinking  it  would  give  zest  to 
a  fishing  excursion,  especislly  il  the  sport 
is  slow,  to  know  that  there's  a  cranni^  in 
the  loch,  and  to  row  over  and  try  to  get 
sight  of  some  of  the  piles  if  not  of  the 
mortised  beams,  and  to  think  of  the  many 
eights  snch  a  stronghold  has  seen,  and  the 
various  fortunes  that  have  befallen  it 
They  were  not  always  refuges  from  In- 
vasion. "The  Wolf  of  Badenoch"  had 
one  of  them  in  Rothiemurchns  Loch,  better 
known  as  Loch-an~£ilean.  Of  a  crannog 
on  Loch  Canmore,  in  Aberdeen,  the  name, 
prison-island,  suf&ciently  attests  the  use. 
But  the  great  majority  were   places   of 


safety;  and  the  nature  of  the"finds"proveB 
that  those  who  took  refnge  in  them  were 
not  savages,  but  people  of  considerable 
culture.  When  next  you  go  to  Zorich, 
therefore,  be  sure  to  look  in  the  museum 
for  tba  wonderful  collecdoii  of  all  kinds  of 
things  fonnd  in  the  Fbhlbeuten,  and  if  yon 
hear  of  a  newly-fonnd  pile-vill^  be  sore 
to  go  and  see  It  In  Scotland  and 
Ireland  yon  will  have  no  such  grand 
central  mosenm ;  but  there  are  many 
beautiful  and  interesting  crannog-finds  in 
the  Royal  Irish  Academy's  mosemn,  and  in 
that  of  the  Scottish  Antiquarian  Society. 
It  is  a  pity  such  things  are  not  kept 
together,  so  that  the  investigator  may  know 
where  to  look.  Bnt  though  books  like  Dr. 
Munro's  will  give  yon  a  good  idea  of  the 
"finds;"  nothing  but  personal  inspectjon 
on  a  calm  day,  when  (as  I  said)  the  fish 
won't  bite  fast,  c«a  give  you  a  good  idea  of 
the  crannog  itseU. 


BY  PARCELS  POST. 

Whbn  night  is  drawing  on,  and  London 
city  is  fast  being  empti^  of  its  swarms ; 
when  the  hghts  in  the  long  rows  of  offices 
and  warebouses  are  going  out  one  by  one ; 
when  in  fancy  the  full  high-pressure  steam 
of  daOy  City  life  is  blowing  harmlessly  off 
from  every  escape-pipe ;  and  when,  in  fact, 
the  world  in  genenl  is  making  for  his  wife 
and  his  domestic  hearth — then,  when  other 
people  are  relaxing  their  labours,  the  Post 
Office  takes  up  the  expiring  vitality  of  the 
day  and  wakens  np  mto  vivid  and  ener- 
getic movement  Then  the  old  buildiog 
which  has  seen  so  many  changes,  and  before 
which  of  old  the  mall-coaches  assembled  in 
all  their  bravery,  is  surroonded  by  a 
mass  of  less  ambitious  vehicles,  which, 
however,  with  their  scarlet-and-gold  panels 
and  the  uniforms  of  their  drivers,  retain  a 
traditional  flavour  of  the  high-stepping 
glories  of  the  past  The  old  building,  too, 
begins  to  glow  with  light  from  cellar  to 
attic,  an  inward  light  that  seems  to  infuse 
itself  into  the  very  stones  of  the  gloomy 
pile,  and  to  cause  it  to  glow  with  subdued 
and  phosphorescent  Ught. 

Not  long  ago  the  whole  business  of  the 
Post  Office  was  transacted  in  this  biulding, 
which  perhaps  will  always  be  in  popular 
parlance  the  General  Post  Office,  and  in  a 
roomy  and  leisurely  age  a  broad  public 
arcade  ran  through  the  centre  of  it — a 
place  for  country  coosins  to  lounge  through 
when  they  were  conscientiously  working 


BY  PAKCELS  POST. 


thioogh  the  sights  of  London.  Bab  now 
from  roof  to  b&aement  ersiy  inch  of  tha 
boilduu;  ia  devoted  to  the  pnrpoaea  of  sort- 
ing  and  dispfttching  the  correapoodence  of 
the  grekt  metropolis,  itc  letters,  its  puhete, 
its  newipapers,  vad — aye,  here's  the  rab — 


IspareelB. 
For  it  is  t 


or  it  is  this  latest  deyelopment  of  the 
Post  Office  system  yre  are  in  search  of  to- 
night The  eager  rash  to  the  letter-boxes 
ta  the  moment  of  closing  draws  near,  the 
stami,  the  wiiirlwiad  of  Tetters,  the  roar  of 
tha  stamps  that  impress  the  official  mark, 
like  the  soond  of  the  winnowing  of  a 
Titanic  corn-stack,  the  great  hall  with  its 
luuidredB  of  shaded  lights  and  its  scene  of 
r^olated  confiuion  and  nnmffled  haste — 
tU  this  mnst  be  left  b^iind.  Theee  things 
other  pens  hare  described.  There  have 
been  some  in  the  very  arcana  of  these 
m/sCeriee  to  whom  has  not  been  lacking 
An  gift — fatal  or  otherwise  as  may  happen 
—of  the  pen  of  the  ready  writer. 

In  the  natnra  of  things,  there  ia  no 
freoited  harry  about  the  parc^  Most 
people  leave  the  writing,  and  conseqaently 
the  posting,  of  their  letters  to  die  very 
last  moment  in  which  the  feat  is  possible. 
Bat  a  parcel  is  a  different  matter.  Bosi- 
neea  parcels  are  genendly  made  np  with  as 
tittle  delay  aa  posrable  uTter  the  receipt  of 
the  letten  which  caU  them  into  bdng,  and 
people  in  general  get  their  parcels  off  their 
mioof  aa  soon  as  they  can.  Thos  we  find 
the  parcels  post  coonter,  which  is  ronnd 
the  eomar  from  the  great  mnclde-monthed 
repository  of  letters  in  general,  going  on 
ia  its  r^nlar  awing  without  shanng  in  the 
frantic  hBtry  of  the  letter  hran^.  Bat 
then  this  connter,  after  all,  is  only  the 
local  office  for  Aldersgate  Street  and  the 
Dsighboiirhood — one  of  the  fifteen  thousand 
portal  centres  which  have  been  created 
parcels  centres  as  well — with  the  advantage, 
however,  of  being  in  direct  communication 
^th  a  chief  parcel-sorting  and  parcel- 
diipatching  depftt,  which  is  situated  in 
the  basement  below  us.  But  as  the  direct 
conunonicatioo  ^uded  to  ia  1:^  means  of  a 
wooden  slide,  highly  polished  by  the 
friction  of  aucceaeive  ba^te,  it  seema 
hardly  adapted  for  a  visitors'  entrance, 
uid  thus  admittance  is  sought  through  the 
daaaic  portico  in  Alderegate  Street. 

Beyoiui  this  portico  we  should  hardly 
penetrate,  but  should  he  speedUy  expelled 
from  the  hive  aa  intrusive  drones,  were  we 
not  famished  with  credentiala  f^om  the  big 
house  opposite,  where  are  the  secrataiiatand 
dinctive  branches  of  the  departmeuL     But 


the  courteous  and  energetic  asaiatant- 
secretary  has  furnished  na  with  an  "  open 
seaame,'  and  the  halls  of  many  lights,  and 
the  cavea  of  innumerable  parcels,  aie  open 
to  our  inspection — not  without  a  guide ;  it 
would  be  difficult  to  thread  our  way  through 
&e  Bubberranean  passages  without  the  help 
of  one  familiar  with  the  premises,  and  we 
follow  our  guide  throueh  the  echoing 
vaults,  ^ere  a  steam-engine  is  noisele^y 
poundii%  away,  and  where  an  endless  lift 
carries  up  and  brings  down  auoceesive 
stages  loaded  with  great  bage  of  news- 
papers, with  nimble  yoni^  letter-sortera 
and  letter-carriers  hanging  on  like  flies, 
a  lift  that  never  ends  and  never  stops, 
and  never  waits  a  moment  for  anybody, 
but  goei  on  ia  its  regular  and  rhythmic 
ataride,  in  a  stem  inexorable  kind  of  way 
that  is  quite  impressive  to  witnescL  And 
here,  if  our  thoughts  were  not  turned 
in  another  direction,  we  might  notice  rows 
of  men  doing  nothing  hut  overhauling  and 
mending  mail-bags,  no  one  of  which  makes 
a  second  journey  without  this  careful  over- 
baol  and  repair.  There  are  men  who 
spend  their  lives  in  turning  bags  inside  out 
and  investigating  every  comer.  Sometimes, 
notwithstanding  the  care  taken,  a  letter  is 
found  that  has  been  overlooked — more 
often  little  knick-knacks,  coins,  articles  of 
jewellery,  rings,  even  watches,  articles  that 
careless  people — ungenerous,  too,  as  laying 
snares  for  weaker  brethren — have  popped 
into  unregistered  letters.  But  all  this  is 
wide  of  our  mark,  and  most  be  passed  with 
a  glance,  for  here  we  enter  the  realms  of 
the  parcels  poat  Kot  fairy-like  realms  by 
any  means,  althoogh  thoa  br  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth — lower  down  indeed  than  the 
general  level  of  the  basement,  which  has 
been  excavated  to  afford  greater  roof  space 
— but  realms  that  are  warm  and  dry  and 
pleasant,  all  whitewash  and  unstained  deal, 
and  full  of  light  and  animation.  The  great 
features  of  the  place  are  the  long  rows  of 
deal  fixtures,  or  cages,  upon  which  are 
ranged  an  army  of  baskets.  Bearing  in 
mind  the  fifteen  thousand  postal  centres,  it 
will  be  seen  that  nothing  short  of  an  army 
would  here  avail,  and  then  in  addition  to 
the  residential  baskets,  as  they  may  be 
called,  the  floors  are  strewn  thick  with 
baskets  that  travel,  great  square  hampers, 
that  would  be  cijled  aldps  in  the  north, 
just  long  enough  to  carry  the  regulation 
three  feet  six  inches,  beyond  which  a  postal 
parcel  muat  not  grow.  These  travelling 
skips  are  gradually  being  filled  from  the 
residential  baskets^n  the  wooden  cages — 


JIO    io«ember22,i«a.]  AUi  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


IGcadDotedtqr 


ons  set  of  men  doing  the  work  of  sorting 
into  the  baskets,  whue  a  jnnior  set  collect 
and  bring  the  appropriate  parcels  to  those 
vho  are  packing  them  for  their  destina- 
tions. There  is  a  basket  for  Chester, 
another  for  Edinburgh,  another  packed 
with  all  sorts  aod  shapes  destined  for  the 
Holyhead  mail,  wliich  will  be  unpacked 
to-morrow  in  Dublin  ;  there  is  one  packet 
for  Limavaddy.  Is  there  a  "Sweet  Peg" 
still  living  thereabonte,  and  does  she  bay 
het  dainty  little  shoes  in  Begenb  Street  1 
Anyhow,  we  feel  that  Limavaddy  is  drawn 
considerably  nearer  to  us,  and  becomes  all 
of  a  sudden  more  friendly  and  familiar  from 
the  link,  between  Limavaddy  and  London, 
of  the  parcels  poeb. 

And  then  cariosity  and  wonder  arise, 
not  only  at  the  number  of  these  packa^ 
— a  number  that  is  being  continnally  in- 
creased by  the  arrival  <d  fresh  hampers, 
charged  to  the  brim  with  all  kinds  of 
parcels — nor  merely  at  the  multiplicity  of 
their  destinations — for  these  things  are 
patent,  as  it  were,  and  on  the  aurface — no, 
the  real  biting  curiosity  is  to  know  what  is 
inside  these  mysteries  in  brown  paper  and 
string — the  answers  to  the  enigmas  in  paste- 
board, and  cardboard,  and  millboard,  or 
still  more  jealonely  veiled  in  deal  board,  If 
it  were  only  permitted  to  poke  a  little 
hole  here,  or  make  a  small  incision  there  I 
But  our  guide,  although  aoidoas  to  show 
everything  that  may  lawfully  be  seen,  mast 
not  connive  at  conduct  of  this  prying 
nature.  Still,  the  comer  of  the  veil  may 
be  lifted,  and  Mentor  leads  Telemachua  to 
the  Parcels'  HospitaL 

There  are  no  formalitjee  attending  ad- 
mittance to  the  hospital  Tbe  accident 
ward  is  open  night  and  day,  and  there  uts 
the  resident  anrgeon  at  his  operating-table, 
with  hammer  and  nails,  and  paper  and 
string,  and  paste,  ready  to  attend  to  con- 
tusions and  fractures,  and  all  the  ills  of 
parcel  life.  A  parcel  of  tennis-balls,  which 
have  prematurely  burst  out  of  bounds,  are 
soon  Drought  to  order  under  the  doctor's 
skilful  hands ;  but.  Mrs.  Brown's  cough- 
mixture,  in  a  broken  medicine  bottle,  is  a 
more  hopeless  case.  Saus^s,  too,  are 
something  like  tennis-balls  m  their  pro- 
clivities for  breaking  forth,  and  are  more 
difficult  to  replaoe  in  statu  quo;  and  a  tin 
of  mQk,  which  gives  evidence  of  a  punc- 
tured wound,  is  almost  as  difficult  of  treat- 
ment 

But  this  glimpse  of  the  inner  life  of 
the  parcels  post  rather  stimulates  than 
satisfies  curiosity,  till  official  courtesy  puts 


us  in  possession  of  a  list  which  is  pretty 
exhaustive  as  far  as  official  information 
goea.  All  the  following  articles,  anyhow, 
are  in  tlie  way  of  travelling  by  parcels 
post,  although  there  may  he  others  still 
more  curious  that  have  made  no  sign  in 
their  psssage.  The  list  is  alphabetical  as 
it  reaches  us,  but  with  the  aid  of  our  postal 
authority,  we  will  make  a  flying  classifica- 
tion of  its  contents. 

First  of  all  the  comestibles,  which  include 
— say  for  the  general  break&et-table — 
bread  warm  from  the  oven,  buttw  that 
will  spread  so  pleasantly  thereon,  buns  and 
BconM,  cream  and  kippend  herrings,  cneum- 
bers  and  tlieir  appropriate  accompani- 
ment, salmon,  in  all  its  states — pickled, 
fresh,  and  dried.  Then  there  are  sonps  in 
jars,  fish,  oysters,  potatoes,  eggs,  and  poik- 
chopa ;  chickens,  docks,  and  rabbits ; 
grouse  and  ham ;  honey  and  jam.  A 
sheep's  head  in  paper  hails  no  doubt  from 
N^orui  Britain,  as  a  delicate  compliment  to 
an  exiled  compatriot ;  but  an  otter's  head, 
stuffed,  should  surely  rather  go  to  the 
Natural  History  Department  However, 
here  is  a  plum-puddmg,  as  a  finish  to  the 
feast,  and  wine  and  whisky,  in  the  way 
of  beverages,  with  medicines  for  the  mom- 
ing  after,  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  tobaectn 
There  is  tea,  of  course,  and  coffee. 

Here  occurs  a  melancholy  interlude. 
First  among  the  Ds  in  our  list  comes  a 
dead  cat,  a  thing  grievous  in  itself,  and 
difficult  to  classify.  Was  tbe  dead  cat  an 
evil  practical  joket  A  reference  to  tiia 
date  of  delivery,  and  the  corresponding 
list  of  casualties  among  the  parcels  de- 
liverers, with  the  reassuring  heading 
"Contusions,  none,"  inclines  as  to  thii£ 
that  the  cat  was  taken  in  good  part  So 
that  we  will  charitably  aseume  toat  it  was 
sent  by  its  sorrowing  mistress  to  be  staffed 

an  assumption  that  clears  our  way  to 
mark  it  off,  like    the    otter's  head,  for 

natural  history." 

Music  next  furnishes  its  quota  to  tlie 
parcels  post,  with  fiddle,  banjo,  concertina, 
hand-bell,  guitar,  and  tin-whiatlee,  in  the 
charivari  of  which,  dripping-pans,  frying- 
pans,  gridirons,  saucepans,  and  other  in- 
struments of  the  cook's  orchestra  may 
take  a  part 

As  for  the  wardrobe,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, its  contingent  is  a  powerful  one, 
including  bandboxes  with  bonnets,  and 
bonnets  witjiout  bandboxes,  and  bandboxes 
pure  and  simple.  There  are  boots  and 
shoes,  both  feminine  to  match  the  bonnets, 
and  maaooline  to  accompany  the  clerical 


BY  PASCELS  POST. 


Ill 


hits ;  also  >pp«tf  Uy-tuts  ia  prof  aaion,  and 
thew  are  as  reckloas  aa  the  bonnets  in  the 
matter  of  emancipation  from  boxes.  A 
delicate  aabjeet  in  tho  wajr  of  dreaa  im- 
proren  must  be  glided  lightly  over.  Then 
thwe  are  soldisrs  helmets,  and  a  cork  leg, 
vhicb  ia  nob  oar  old  friend  of  the  aong,  il 
is  to  be  hoped,  still  on  its  travels ;  while  a 
ttfaight-waistcoat  seenu  to  point  &  moral 
of  the  fate  of  those  who  would  refine  too 
much  in  the  classification  of  the  parcels 
post 

To  come  to  a  more  prosaic  Hst,  here  are 
ombrellas,  parasols,  walkit^-e licks,  shirts, 
Mnen,  and  jewellery ;  Welsh  woollens  and 
down  quilts,  and  drapery  in  general  in 
ill  its  ramifications^  Aiid,  aonoding  a 
moro  masculine  note,  follow  carpenters' 
nilai,  T-sqnares,  bricks,  machinery,  and 
oil-CKos,  a  pump-handle,  a  milkman's  yoke, 
a  malt«hovel,  saws,  tools  in  general,  coal- 
seattles,  and  coils  of  wire,  wi^  chums, 
and  chairs,  and  cwks ;  bat  as  might  almost 
have  been  expected — no  corkscrew.  Then 
there  are  aUrnm-cloeka,  and  augurs  three 
feet  long.  A  pitchfork  heads  the  list  of 
agricultural  implements,  with  spades  and 
■bears ;  with  plants  in  pots  and  a  beehive ; 
with  chemical  manure  and  sheep's  dip. 

ChiidroD,  too,  have  a  share  in  the  parcels 
post  with  their  toys,  the  circulation  of 
which  will  be  more  active  as  Gbristmas 
comes  nearer;  but  already  the  letter- 
carrier  has  played  the  part  of  Santa  Claue, 
in  the  way  of  toys  in  general,  rocking- 
liorses,  and  war  dolls — washing-dollies,  it 
•eems,  are  not  toys  at  all,  but  machines  for 
■tirring  up  the  wash-tub— and  here  are  tubs 
for  the  dolliee ;  white  reverting  to  the 
i[KirtivQ  Bide  of  things  are  cricket-bats  and 
wickets,  fishing-rods,  and  tennis  bats  and 
balls.  Bevolven  and  sworda  should  keep 
company  with  the  helmets  already  men- 
tioned, but  one  or  the  other  has  got  mis- 
placed. A  horse-collar  may  suggest  a 
smile,  and  the  splashboard  of  &  dog-cart 
seems  something  akin  to  the  collaf,  while 
a  caM  of  stuffed  birds  should  have  gone  to 
the  natural  history  basket  A  ship's  log  is 
a  reminder  of  Britannia's  realm — the  mde 
waste  of  waters — and,  saddest  of  all 
parcels,  is  a  little  child's  coffin. 

Then  there  are  trades  already  marked  out 
in  the  general  expanse  of  the  parcels  post, 
trade  rounds,  along  whicb  commerce  is 
pressing  the  way  to  new  developments. 
Thus  Coventry  is  sending  out  bicycle  and 
tricycle  fittings;  while  boots  and  shoes 
are  distributed  far  and  near  from  centres 
<A  manufacture  at  Belfast.  BridirB water. 


Northampton,  and  Worcester.  Bridge- 
water  distributes  packages  of  its  chemical 
manures,  and  Bamsley  developes  a  rising 
and  seasonable  activity  in  down  quilts. 
Perth,  which  rivals  the  ancient  faue  of 
Tyre  with  its  dyed  garments,  gains  in- 
creased custom  by  the  agenuy  of  our 
parceb  post;  and  in  the  same  way  the 
potteries  of  Stoke-on-Trent  send  earthen- 
ware and  tiles  all  over  the  kingdom.  Then 
Cardiff,  which  we  thought  to  be  only 
famous  for  coal,  discovers  an  unexpected 
specialty  in  jams  in  tin  boxes;  while 
Belfast  finds  the  advantage  of  die  new 
system  in  developing  its  lon^-established 
manufactnre  of  linen.  Again,  there  ia 
Wolverhampton  with  its  locks,  and  Leeds 
developes  what  its  andent  fame  would 
never  lead  yon  to  expect.  Yes,  I^eds 
developes  a  startling  lead  in  soap.  Cambria, 
too,  asserts  iteelf  in  flannels,  while  ancient 
Chester  commends  itself  to  all  abont  to 
marry,  as  a  perennial  source  of  wedding- 
cakes.  'And,  lastly,  Qrinuby  closes  the 
list,  a  list  that  is  destined  doubtless  to  con- 
tinual expansion,  with  oyster  samples  that 
may  be  welcomed  as  a  step  to  the  more 
even  distribution  of  the  riches  of  the  deep. 

Once  more,  to  dip  into  the  results  of 
official  observation,  and  to  satisfy  curiosity 
as  to  the  proportion  in  which  different 
clasoes  contribute  to  the  number  of  parcels 
carried,  and  we  shall  find  that  "  private 
persons,"  which  means  the  great  British 
public,  in  its  domestic  and  unofficial  cha- 
racter, beads  the  record  with  rather  more 
than  a  fourth  of  the  total.  Drapers  and 
milliners  run  the  British  public  close, 
while  in  England  boot  and  shoe  makers  aro 
not  far  behind  the  drapers,  and  tea  is 
almost  as  popular  as  leather.  Next  come 
booksellers  and  Btationen,  with  druggists 
in  dose  attendance ;  while  grocers  succeed 
in  contributing  some  five  per  cent'  of  the 
aggregate.  After  these  come  an  unclassified 
crowd,  embracing  almost  every  trade  and 
profession,  whose  appropriate  figures  would 
run  too  much  into  decimals,  to  find  a  place 
in  a  popular  account  of  the  parcels  post 

Again  as  to  the  number  of  parcels 
carried,  it  will  be  found  that  although, 
when  the  parcels  post  was  first  opened,  the 
number  of  parcels  handed  in  did  not  pqual 
the  expectations  of  those  most  conversant 
with  the  subject,  yet  that,  ever  since,  week 
by  week,  and  month  by  month,  the  circula- 
tion of  parcels  has  risen  with  gradnal 
but  unchecked  increase. 

The  original  official  estimate  of  pro- 
bable narcels  was  of  twentv-aeven  millions 


112 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


annually.  The  aotiul  result  to  start  with  WAB 
acirculationofHometToliiiDdred  and  ninety 
thoosand  &  week,  vhicb  would  give  umuoUy 
oiily  fifteen  millions  of  parcels.  But  the 
circnlation  of  parcels  has  now  risen  to  close 
upon  four  hundred  thousand  weekly,  which 
is  equivalent  to  a  yearly  twenty  millions 
and  moie.  This  is  the  resolt  of  three 
months'  working  only,  and  at  a  similar  rate 
of  increase  by  the  end  of  the  first  year  of 
working,  the  weekly  circulation  should  be 
over  eight  hundred  thousand,  which  even 
en  elementary  acquaintance  with  arithmetic 
will  show  to  be  equivalent  to  a  yearly 
circulation  of  upwards  of  forty  milliona. 
So  that  nothing  more  than  the  present  rate 
of  progress  is  neceesary  to  make  the  parcels 
post  a  conspicuous  enccees.  The  gradual 
iucreaae  of  parcels  carried  is  fairly  dis- 
tributed over  the  kingdom ;  the  country 
contributes  to  the  increase  even  more  in 
proportion  than  London;  the  actual  figures 
being  in  London  a  circulation  to  b^in 
with  of  eighty-three  thousand  parcels,  now 
risen  to  one  hundred  and  eighteen  thousand 
parcels  received  and  delivered  weekly, 
while  in  the  country — England  only — the 
circulation  has  risen  from  sixty-one  to  a 
hundred  thousand  each  week.  It  is  satis- 
factory, too,  to  note  the  same  gradual  but 
decided  increase  in  Irish  parcels,  while 
agtun,  contrary  to  expectations,  Scotland 
shows  a  leas  rapid  development  of  parcels 
traffic 

But -it  is  the  general  opinion  out»ide 
official  circles,  that  a  still  more  satisfactory 
result  would  be  obtained  by  the  adoption 
of  a  system  of  registration  of  parcels. 
Probably  the  great  bulk  of  large  firms 
have  held  aloof  from  the  Post  Office  enter- 
prise, because  the  railway  companies  give 
them  a  signature  for  all  parcels  delivered  to 
tbem,  whereas  the  Post  Office  gives  no 
acknowledgment  of  any  kind,  and  in  the 
economy  of  a  large  firm  the  proof  that  a 
certain  packet  has  been  actually  delivered 
to  the  carrying  agents  is  of  (hi  greatest 
importance,  apart  from  any  question  sa  to 
hability  for  loss  or  damage.  But  the  Post 
Office  officials  consider  that  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  receipt  is  equivalent  to  registration, 
and  demands  equal  care  in  the  subsequent 
progress  of  Uie  parcel  to  its  destination,  so 
that  it  may  be  traced  at  any  point;  and 
these  precautions  are  obviously  almost  im- 

Sissible  with  the  great  bulk  of  parcels, 
owever,  we  are  informed  that  a  congress 
of  Post  Office  experts  has  been  sitting  at 
Tunbridge  Wells  and  has  had  this  point  in 
especial  consideration. 


And,  after  all,  it  is  satisfactory  to  think 
that  the  success  which  has  so  far  attended 
the  parcels  post  is  due  chiefly  to  the  opening 
out  of  new  rills  and  streams  of  traffic, 
affiirding  an  outlet  here  and  an  inlet  there, 
all  tending  to  increase  the  comfort  and  well- 
being  of  those  concerned;  of  the  general 
mass,  that  is,  of  traders  and  workers, 
as  well  as  of  the  world  in  general  that  for 
the  first  time  since  the  dawn  of  history 
finds  itself  in  a  position  to  send  anything  it 
likes,  to  relations,  to  friends,  to  daughters 
at  service,  to  boys  at  school,  to  sweethearts, 
to  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  in  fact,  without 
the  trouble  of  a  preliminaiy  investigation 
as  to  ways  and  means  of  sending. 

But  while  we  have  been  engaged,  perhuis 
not  with  much  success,  in  a  sort  of  classifi- 
cation of  the  parcels  post,  the  actual 
workers  about  us,  the  company  of  men  and 
boys,  have  been  busy  about  Uie  long  rows 
of  baskets,  each  of  the  company  knowing 
what  he  has  got  to  do,  and  sticking  to  it 
with  praiseworthy  directness,  while  from  a 
rostrum  above  ^e  crowd,  like  a  school- 
master's deek,  the  superintendent  keeps  an 
eye  on  the  progress  made.  The  two  great 
divisions,  it  seems,  the  hemispheres  into 
which  the  world  of  parcels  is  divided,  are 
Roadbome  and  Bailbome ;  the  former 
are  those  which  can  be  reached  by  the 
official  vans  and  omnibuses  which  are 
waitbg  outside,  in  the  space  where  once  the 
mail-coaches  were  used  to  assemble,  you 
will  remember.  Am  for  the  railbome  these 
comprise  at  present  parcels  from  most  of 
the  district  offices  which  are  sent  here  to 
be  forwarded.  But  the  policy  of  the  office 
is  to  decentralise  as  far  as  possible,  uid 
encourage  a  local  circulation.  At  tiio 
present  time,  for  instance,  a  parcel  ^m 
Peckham  for  Perth  will  go  to  St.  Martin's- 
le-Grand  in  the  first  instance,  but  this  will 
not  necessarily  be  the  case  when  the 
Enston  depdt  is  in  full  work.  Then  there 
will  be  another  large  central  office  on  the 
site  of  old  St  Thomas's  Hospital,  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  the  water,  andfor  the  western 
districts,  the  scarlet  vans  congregate  about 
the  raUings  of  the  gudens  of  Leicester 
Square,  where  the  once  forlom-looking 
buildings  occupied  by  a  defunct  soi-disant 
co-operative  society  have  been  converted 
into  a  parcels  depOt. 

The  staff  who  have  been  engaged  to 
work  the  new  system  are  engaged  under 
the  same  regulations  as  in  the  letter 
branch.  There  is  no  essential  difference 
in  age,  pay,  or  treatmrait  between  the 
parcel  deliverer  and  the  ordinary  letter- 


BY  PAECELa  POST. 


[DMMmbar  IE,  USL)      113 


euriar,  and  it  is  intenddd  to  make  their 
daties  interciungeftble.  Neither  has  theie 
be«i  any  preference  shown  to  army  reserve 
men  or  retired  soldiers,  as  was  hoped  by 
some  woold  be  the  case.  Where  snch  men 
hare  been  otherwise  eligible  they  have 
been  taken,  bot  not  in  preference  to  other 
candidates,  nor  have  the  regnlations  as  to 
ige  been  farther  relaxed  in  tneir  favour. 

However,  there  will  be  Biiffident  oooasiofl 
ia  the  fiitare  for  the  soldiers'  &iends  to 
nrge  their  oUims  for  employment,  as  for 
some  time  to  come,  probably,  the  staff  will 
emtinne  to  increase  with  increase  of  bnsi- 
oess.  We  may  look  forward  to  a  foreign 
parcels  post,  with  the  convenience  of 
forwarding  parcels  to  aay  part  of  the  Con- 
tinotA  at  a  small  increase  OQ  inland  rates, 
Ahvady  &  parcels  post  exists  in  Germany, 
France,  Belgium,  Holland,  and  Italy, 
and  the  difficulty  of  uniting  the  various 
systems  in  a  parcels  union  vonld  rest, 
not  so  much  with  the  postal  aatboritiei, 
»  with  the  vexatious  regulations  of 
foreign  custom-houseB.  As  lone  ae  our 
neighboare'  froutieTB  bristle  with  hostile 
tanfis,  complications  would  be  likely  to 
check  any  active  parcel  traffic.  Bat  in 
the  case  of  India  and  our  colonies, 
the  farther  England  beyond  the  seas, 
the  extensioa  of  a  parcels  post  to  these 
regions  is  only  a  matter  of  tima  And 
great  would  bs  the  benefit  arising  both  for 
the  mother  country  and  the  colonies  in 
snch  increased  means  of  communication, 
which  would  strengthen  the  feelmg  of  a 
common  nationality,  and  the  ties  of  kindred. 
Letters  after:  a  time  drop  ofT,  even  between 
membeii  of  the  same  family,  when  the 
scenes  of  doily  life  are  so  utterly  different 
ae  in  an  English  and  a  colonial  home.  But 
a  parcel  from  home,  what  a  treat  to  be 
enjoyed  by  settlers  in  the  bush,  or  farmers 
on  the  sides  of  the  Bocky  Mountains  I  The 
litUe  shoes  that  gnuinie  has  knitted  for  the 
last  comer,  the  gennine  butter-scotch  for 
Tommie,  the  real  Sheffield  blade,  the  dainty 
boots,  the  gloves  of  the  latest  pattern,  and 
the  knick-knacks  in  which  the  feminine 
heart  delights  How  much  more  than 
mere  written  words  do  such  things  keep  up 
the  feeling  of  nearness  and  kinship  1  And 
in  retom  how  we  prize  the  little  curios 
we  receive  from  foreign  lands,  the  moccasins 
embroidered  by  an  Indian  squaw,  the  pouch 
adorned  with  porcupine  qoills,  the  pipe 
that  has  been  smoked  in  an  Indian  wigwam. 
And  all  this  withont  trouble  and  at  slight 
ozpenee,  and  associated  with  the  double- 
knock  of  the  narcel  nostman. 


But,  in  the  meantime,  there  is  a  great 
down-draught  of  the  chill  upper  air, 
a  trap-door  opens  overhead,  and  in  the 
opening  appears  the  wistful  muzzle  of  a 
patient-lootung  horse,  while  in  the  confused 
yellow  light  from  the  twinkling  lamps 
in  the  slightly  fo^y  world  outside,  can 
be  seen  an  array  of  men  and  horses 
and  vehicles,  while  trucks  are  racing 
about,  and  huge  hampers  are  whirled 
upwards. 

By  the  way,  if  one  of  the  said  hampers 
should  happen  to  be  only  partly  fall,  what 
is  to  prevent  its  contents  from  dashing 
wildly  to  and  fro  in  the  transit  %  Our 
guide  soon  explains  the  matter.  He  takes 
OB  to  a  half  empty  hamper,  within  which 
is  a  moveable  cover,  that  didee  freely  up 
and  down,  and  is  secured  by  a  strap  tightly 
on  the  top  of  the  contents,  whether  few  or 
many.  Then,  when  sticks,  umbrellas, 
fishing-rods,  and  other  long  and  fragile 
things  are  in  queetion,  they  are  placed  on 
the  top  of  the  moveable  lid,  and  underneath 
the  strap. 

One  other  matter  excites  cariosity.  Each 
sorter  has  a  compartment  marked  "  blind." 
Now  why  should  it  be  blind  1  Oh,  it  ia 
the  parcel  that  is  blind,  explains  our  guide,  if 
it  should  happen  that  the  sorter  cannot 
read  the  address.  But  then,  although 
there  may  be  a  blind  parcel  now  and  then, 
it  does  not  happen  often,  and  an  obstinate 
case  would  be  sent  to  the  blind  asylum 
upstairs,  where  the  blind  letters  are 
examined.  There  are  dozens  of  blind 
letters  every  night,  but  among  parcels  the 
disease  is  rarer.  The  reason  of  this  is 
t^at  letters  are  pitched  into  the  boxes  by 
anybody,  whether  directed  legibly  or  not, 
bot  that  a  parcel  is  handed  over  the 
counter,  and  Uie  address  read  by  the  clerk 
who  takes  it  in.  That  difficulty  being 
settled,  it  occurs  to  us  to  ask  in  a  similar 
spirit  to  the  question  addressed  by  the 
landlord  to  the  bagman  in  Pickwick,  What 
becomes  of  the  dead  parcels } 

Well,  the  dead  parcels  go  to  the  Dead 
Letter  Office,  not  in  this  building  at  all, 
but  in  Founder's  Court,  Lothbury,  in  fact 
they  are  treated  just  as  letters  are  treated 
— opened,  and  if  there  ia  any  evidence  of 
where  they  come  from,  returned  to  the 
sender.  In  case  of  a  duck,  for  instance,  or 
a  partridge,  which  might  happen  to  make 
things  unpleasant  in  the  Dead  Letter  Office, 
why  there  would  be  an  inquest  and  an 
order  for  burial  without  undue  delay.  But 
in  a  general  way  ducks  and  partridges  do 
not  20  a  beezine. 


114     lD*cenibgrXl,lB8S.l 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EOUOT). 


By  thia  time  the  night's  parcels  are 
pretty  vreU  cleared,  the  rulbonie  parcels 
lave  been  carted  away  in  the  big  railway 
^ans,  and  the  roadborne  are  ateo,  most  of 
:hem,  on  the  way  to  the  saburbs,  where, 
it  Bichmond,  at  Kingston,  at  Hampstead, 
it  Hackney,  at  all  the  outlying  districts 
round  about,  the  sharp  postman's  knock 
vrill  soon  be  heard,  announcing  the  eveniBg 
jeliveiy  of  the  parcels  post 

As  for  the  railbome  parcels  that 
irill  soon  be  flying  to  all  comers  of  the 
kingdom,  we  can  see  them  in  imagination 
puTBuing  their  way  to  their  respective 
addresses  on  the  morrow  in  all  kinds  of 
conveyances.  In  the  large  towns,  snch  as 
Manchester,  Liverpool,  and  Birminsbam, 
they  will  travel  in  email,  neat  ommbOEes 
like  thou  already  familiar  in  our  London 
streets;  in  sm^er  towns  they  will  jog 
along  in  hand-carts  and  perambnlatora. 
And  Sweet  Peg  will  get  her  parcel  at  Lima- 
vaddy,  arriving,  probably,  on  a  low-backed 
car,  just  about  this  same  hour  to-morrow, 
all  in  ample  time  for  her  to  dance  at  Tim 
Sheehan's  wedding,  in  the  little  glass 
slippers  that  this  latest  development  of  the 
fairy  godmother  shall  have  brought  her, 
straight  from  the  fairyland  of  Begent  Street, 
over  land  and  sea. 

All  these  things  work  freely  and  easUy 
enough  now  that  the  machine  has  once 
been  started,  but  the  outside  world  has 
little  idea  of  the  pains  and  contrivance 
that  have  been  expended  in  its  inaugu- 
ration, where  everything  was  new  and 
untried,  and  a  oomplete  system  had  to  be 
modelled.  A  code  of  roles  had  to  be 
hammered  out,  rules  that  most  fit  all 
possible  cases,  sufficient  for  the  guidance  of 
the  most  extensive  dep6t,  and  yet  not 
superfluous  in  the  smallest  country  receiving- 
house.  The  authors  of  thb  laborious  com- 
pilation, however,  had  the  advantage  often 
denied  to  those  of  more  purely  literary 
compositions,  in  being  assured  of  a  good 
circulation  for  their  work,  in  respect  of 
the  fifteen  thousand  parcel  centres  already 
existing,  and  bound  to  take  a  copy.  That 
the  Post  Office  is  well  and  zealously  served 
in  its  higher  ranks,  goes  without  saying, 
but  it  is  satisfactory  to  find  that  all  through 
the  service  everybody  has  taken  to  tibe 
youngest  of  the  official  children,  and  that 
from  its  first  entrance  into  life,  there 
have  been  no  dangerous  crises  to  pass 
through,  and  that,  on  the  whole,  every- 
thing has  gone  smoothly  and  well  from 
the  very  first  in  the  career  of  the  parcels 
post. 


RABELAIS  AND  BRUSQOET. 

We  remarked  at  the  end  of  our  notice  of 
Tribonlet  the  Fool,*  that  Rabelais  would 
have  played  the  part  of  court  jester  to  per- 
fection. Tothoseacquaintedwith  the  famous 
histories  of  Gaigantua  and  Pantagmel,  this 
is  a  truism,  but  the  majority  of  our  readers 
know  very  little  about  them.  Nor  is  this 
wonderful,  for  the  mixture  of  obscenity, 
obscurity,  satire,  allusion,  burlesque,  and 
nonsense  might  have  been  written  purposely 
to  repel  the  reader.  lUustrators,  com- 
mentators, and  critics  have  been  engaged 
on  the  book  for  three  hundred  years,  and 
have  been  unable  to  say  whether'it  has 
a  meaning  or  not  How,  then,  can  aa 
ordinary  reader  expect  to  appre<»ate  iti 
Unless  one  has  an  eztenaive  acquaintance 
with  the  history  of  the  kingdom,  the 
literature,  the  religion,  the  controversies  of 
the  period,  it  most  always  appear  the  moat 
absurd  mbbi^  Wo  will  tharefore  take 
the  man  himself  and  recall  certain  of  the 
anecdotes  which  have  been  handed  down 
by  tradition.  Whether  thebe  are  true  or 
false  is  not  the  question  here,  but  if  the^ 
are  not  true,  they  deserve  to  be,  and  it 
must  be  remembered  that  we  do  not  assert ; 
we  merely  repeat 

In  early  life  Rabelais  entered  the  Cor- 
deh'ers  of  Fontenay  le  Gomte  in  Poitou, 
taking,  as  has  been  observed,  "thevowa  of 
ignorance  still  more  than  those  of  religion." 
In  fact,  the  convent  was  the  last  place  in 
the  world  where  intelligence  penetrated. 
Notwithstanding  his  uncongenial  surround- 
ings, or  rather,  perhaps,  in  consequence  of 
them,  he  applied  himself  diligently  to  the 
study  of  the  literature  of  all  ages  and 
countries,  and  thus  laid  the  foundation  of 
that  vast  amount  of  erudition  which  has 
been  the  admiration  of  all  his  com- 
mentators. Here,  too,  was  nurtured  that 
hatred  of  monks  which  is  no  less  o(m- 
spicuouB  than  his  learning;  As  a  relaxa>- 
tion  from  severe  studies,  he  allowed  himself 
the  utmost  license  in  respect  of  practical 
jokes  directed  against  his  brother  friars,  in 
which  were  displayed  to  their  full  extent 
that  coarseness  of  feeling,  speech,  and 
action  which  is  the  well-laiown  charac- 
teristic of  that  age.  Of  all  these  jokee 
we  need  only  mention  the  last,  in  which 
our  jester  most  certainly  had  not  the  langh 
on  his  aide.  On  the  fSte  day  of  the  con- 
vent it  was  the  long-established  custom  for 


ChutaDfckanfl 


EABELAiS  AND  BRUSQUET. 


II>«oamb«r  2S,  1S8S.]      ]  1 5 


tbs  peasantry  to  flock  with  their  pruyera 
and  offerings  to  the  image  of  St  Francis, 
tAich  was  placed  in  a  dark  comer  of  the 
chspeL  Oar  friar  took  the  trouble  to  take 
this  down  from  ita  niche  and  place  him- 
ifilf  there — made  up,  of  course,  to  resemble 
it  But  the  absurdity  of  the  speeches  and 
scUons  of  the  rustic  worshippers  was  too 
much  for  hia  gravity.  An  laTolantary 
movement  escaped  him,  to  the  awe  of  the 
idorers,  who  called  out,  "A  miracle!  a 
nmwle  1 "  In  the  midst  of  the  excitement 
which  speedily  arose,  an  old  monk,  sus- 
pectiBg  something  wrong,  hastened  to 
u>quire  by  actual  inspection.  The  culprit 
wss  draped  down,  deprived  of  his  clothes, 
beaten  w[th  girdles  of  cords  till  the  blood 
came,  and  finally,  for  the  sacrilegious  act, 
sentenced  to  four  walls  and  bread-and- 
vater  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  He  had, 
iowovBT,  during  his  fifteen  years'  stay, 
made  many  powerful  friends  outside, 
and  through  their  intercession  his  punish- 
rnont  was  remitted  and  he  was  set  at 
liberty.  After  this,  we  need  not  be 
piiaed  to  find  that  change  of  scene  was 
deemed  necessary.  Abandoning  the  clerical 
tifc^  he  studied  medicine,  and  was  admitted 
doctor  at  Montpellier,  where,  and  at  Lyons, 
he  practised  with  success. 

The  Chancellor  Dnprat,  for  some  reason 
or  other  of  which  we  are  ignorant,  had 
ciiiaed  the  revocation  of  the  privileges  of 
the  UniverBity  of  Montpellier,  and  Rabelais 
vss  sent  to  Paris  to  iaterccde  on  its 
behalf.  _ 

On  his  arrival  there,  doubtful  of  having 
an  audiencs  of  the  great  man  in  his  own 
name  and  on  declaration  of  his  business, 
be  diought  it  better  to  try  stratagem.  He 
therefore  addressed  the  porter  in  Latin, 
vho,  ignorant  of  the  language,  naturally 
brought  some  person  to  whom  it  was 
tnovn.  Him,  however,  oar  doctor  ad- 
dmsed  in  Greek,  and  when  a  Grecian  was 
pocoied,  he  was  favoured  with  a  speech  in 
Hebrew,  and  bo  on,  till  the  Chancellor 
beiog  informed  of  this  extraordinary 
Tisitor,  ordered  him  to  be  sent  up.  The 
nnlt,  as  we  may  imi^;ine,  was  that  his 
nqoett  was  granted. 

In  remembrance  of  this,  the  University 
of  Mon^llier  ordered  that  everyone  on 
UUng  his  doctor's  degree  should  put  on 
the  doak  of  Rabelais,  and  this  is  shown 
Md  the  ceremony  observed  to  this  day. 

EemadetwojoumeystoRome  as  doctor 
ud  attache  of  embassy  under  Cardinal 
Jeao  dn  Bellay,  an  old  schoolfellow  and  life- 
looe  nrotector.     Here,  if  we  are  to  credit 


tradition,  he  behaved  with  such  irreverence 
as  to  excite  all  the  religions  against  him. 
It  is  related  that  at  an  audience  the  Pope 
told  him  to  ask  for  what  he  liked,  and 
thereupou  he  immediately  desired  to  be 
excommunicated.  On  the  reason  of  this 
extraordinary  request  being  aeked  for,  he 
told  his  holiness  that  became  from  a  village 
snspected  of  heresy,  where  many,  and  even 
some  of  his  own  family,  had  been  burnt. 
He  remembered  that  on  his  way  to  Rome 
the  party  was  benighted,  and  had  to  take 
shelter  in  a  cottage,  where  an  old  woman 
did  her  beat  to  light  a  fire.  Not  succeeding, 
however,  she  remarked  that  the  wood  must 
have  been  carsed  by  the  Pope's  own  mouth. 
This  being  the  case  he  trusted  his  holiness 
would  by  word  of  mouth  render  him  free 
from  danger  at  the  staka  We  need  not 
wonder  that  Rabelais  had  to  quit  Rome  in 
a  hurry.  Finding  himself  at  Lyons  with- 
out funds,  and  anxious  to  get  to  Paris,  he 
prepared  some  bottles  on  which  he  wrote  : 
"  Poison  for  the  King,"  "  Poison  for  the 
Qaeen,"  etc,  etc,  was  arrested,  and  sent  to 
Paris  at  the  public  expense.  Arrived  there 
he  asked  to  have  audience  of  the  king, 
the  bottles  were  produced,  and  the  poisons 
swallowed  by  the  author  of  the  joke.  One 
day  a  beautiful  lamprey  being  brought  to 
table  on  a  silver  dish  at  the  seat  of  the 
Cardinal  da  Bellay,  he,  in  his  capacity  of 
physician,  nttered  the  words,  "  difficult 
of  digestion,"  and  the  dish  was  untouched 
by  uL  Our  doctor,  however,  applied 
himself  to  it  with  eagerness,  and  when 
questioned  as  to  the  difference  between  his 
principles  and  his  practice,  he  replied  that 
he  never  heard  of  anyone  doubting  that 
silver  dishes  were  iadigestible.  He  is  re- 
ported to  hare  made  his  will  in  these  words : 
I  have  nothing,  I  owe  much,  the  test  I 
leave  to  the  poor."  Even  as  to  his  death 
the  story  is  current  that  he  wrapped  him- 
self up  in  a  domino,  "  Blessed  are  they 
rto  die  in  Domino," 

Bonaventure  des  Feriera  tells  us  of  a 
rival  to  Triboulet,  but  does  not  give  his 
name,  or  state  whether  his  duties  were 
ofBciaL  It  was  he  who  at  a  time  when 
the  king  was  at  his  wit's-end  to  raise  money 
told  him,  that  as  he  had  already  sold  many 
places  tenable  for  a  period  he  had  better  do 
the  same  with  his  own,  and  he  would  very 
soon  find  himself  in  funds.  The  bibliophile 
Jacob  makes  him  to  be  one  Yillemanoche, 
who  had  a  mania  for  believing  himself  one 
of  a  certain  illaatrions  family  named  . 
Pichelin.  for  whom  he  drew  ud  an  elaborate   I 


116 


ALL  THE  YEAK  BOUND. 


genealogy,  ehawing  their  deacent  irom  all 
the  toya\  hoOBes  of  Europe.  With  this 
in  his  hand  be  went  ronnd  ukuiK  to  vife 
ail  the  greatest  beireBses  of  the  cooit, 
demonstrating  the  necessity  of  perpetoating 
the  Pichelin  family. 

Triboolet'e  aaccesaor  was  the  Brnsqaet 
80  well  known  to  stndents  of  the  literature 
of  that  period.  This  name  waa  applied 
to  him  on  acconnt  of  hia  character  and 
humour  from  the  Italian  hm^eo,  converted 
into  bntsque  for  the  French,  which  in  the 
fifteenth  centniy  borrowed  largely  from 
Latin  and  Qieek,  and  became  Italianised 
in  the  sixteenth  through  the  influence  of 
the  Medicis.  This  name  waa  evidently  a 
sobriquet,  and  the  researches  of  M.  Jal 
have  resulted  in  diEicovering  an  entry  in  the 
royal  honsebold  ezpeoses  for  1559  of 
seven  and  a  half  ells  of  black  cloth  to 
Jean  Antoine  Lambert,  called  Brusqnat, 
valetdechambretotfielatekiDg.  Brantdme 
eulogises  him  heartily :  "  I  believe  if  any 
one  bad  taken  the  trouble  to  collect  bis 
bonmots,  stories,  tricks,  and  pranks,  we 
should  have  had  a  book  such  as  we  never 
have  had  nor  ever  will  have."  We  do  not, 
however,  hear  bo  much  of  hia  reparten  as 
of  his  practical  jokes,  and  Brantdme  goes 
into  tedious  detul  of  the  continual  rivalry 
between  him  and  the  Mai6chal  Strozzi  in 
this  medieval  form  of  wit  All  of  these 
nowadays  we  should  say  were  beyond  a 
joke,  and  it  may  bo  imagined  to  what  extent 
they  were  carried  when  Stroszi,  receiving  a 
messenger  from  Rome,  where  Brusquet 
then  was,  with  news  tJiat  the  jester  vras 
dead,  caused  his  wife  to  marry  the  mes- 
senger amonth  afterwards,  Bmsquet  being 
at  that  moment  on  his  way  back  to  Paris. 
We  aro  told  that  be  waa  pleasing  vdthout 
being  abore.foT  he  neversaid  the  same  thing 
twice,  a  remark  which  most  of  us  ^ould  do 
well  to  take  to  heart.  BrantSme's  story  is  that 
Brusquet  was  a  Proven; al,  and  first  appeared 
at  the  camp  of  Avignon  in  1636.  There 
be  counterieited  the  profession  of  a  sorgeoo, 
and  made  much  money  by  attending  to  the 
Swiss  and  the  lansqueneta,  some  of  whom 
he  cured  by  accident,  and  the  others  he 
sent  to  their  fathers  like  files.  In  fact,  the 
great  mortality  caused  enqoiryto  be  made. 
He  was  found  out,  and  the  constable  was 
for  hanging  him.  But  tales  of  hia  wit 
coming  to  the  hearing  of  head-quarters,  he 
wsa  brought  before  ^&  Dauphin,  who  was 
BO  charmed  with  him  that  proceedings 
were  stopped,  and  he  was  relieved  of  ms 
surgical  functions.  He  is  said  to  have 
observed,  apropos  of  bis  patients,  "They 


don't  complain,  and  they  are  cured  of  the 
fever  for  good,"  a  remark  of  which  tbe 
truth  was  undeniable.  This  introduc- 
tion turned  out  to  bis  advantage ;  he  was 
made  valet  of  the  wardrobe,  th^  valet  de 
cbambre,aud  at  last  posting-master  of  Paris, 
in  which  berth  he  feathered  his  neat  well, 
for  he  could  charge  what  he  liked,  aa  at  that 
time  no  other  carriages  were  to  be  got, 
and  no  relays  of  horses,  as  of  terwardsL  The 
following  gives  us  an  idea  of  the  maonera 
of  the  period.  The  Cardinal  of  Lorraine 
went  to  Brussels  in  1559  to  sign  the  peace 
with  the  Duke  of  Alba  Bnuquet  was 
in  his  suite  and  made  much  money, 
and  jested  with  the  King  of  Spain,  who 
admired  him  hugely,  for  he  was  a  better 
buffoon  even  in  Italian  and  Spanish  thui 
in  French.  But  not  content  with  tlie 
king's  money  and  friendship,  one  feast-day, 
when  Madame  de  Lorraine  and  a  boat  of 
great  nobles  and  ladiee  were  dining  to 
celebrate  the  signature  of  peaee,  Bnuquet, 
just  before  the  cloth  was  being  removed, 
jumped  on  the  table,  and  wrapping  the 
tablfrcloth  round  him,  rolled  from  one  end 
to  the  other,  carrying  with  bim  every- 
thing in  his  way.  Arnved  at  the  end  he 
stood  on  the  floor,  but  could  hardly  walk 
for  the  weight  of  things  ho  had  about  him, 
but  was  allowed  to  go  out  by  order  of  the 
king,  who  laughed  immoderately,  and 
found  the  proceeding  so  good,  witty,  and 
clever,  that  he  was  willing  he  should  have 
everything.  It  was  astonishing  that  he 
waa  not  hurt  by  the  knives,  but  a  special 
good-fortune  looks  after  children  and  fools. 

Henry  was  anzioos  one  day  to  fix  on  a 
captain  to  whom  he  should  entrust  the 
capture  of  a  certain  town.  "  Ofa,"  said 
Brusquet,  "  give  It  to  So-and-so" — a  judge 
suspected  of  being  open  to  bribes — "he 
takes  everything." 

Here  is  anower  extraordinary  illostn- 
tion  of  the  maDuers  of  that  age. 

The  queen  had  long  wished  to  see 
Brusquet's  wife,  and  at  last  the  day  of 
audience  was  arranged.  The  jester  hsid  of 
course  instructed  his  wife  as  to  her  be- 
haviour, informing  her  that  the  queen  waa 
very  deaf,  and  she  must,  therefore,  speak 
up.  He  had,  moreover,  told  the  queen 
that  his  wife  had  the  same  infirmity.  The 
situation  can  therefore  be  seen  at  once. 
After  performing  her  reverence,  the  woman 
bawled  out, "  God  bless  your  majesty !"  the 
queen  made  some  observation  at  Uie  top 
of  her  voice,  the  woman  continued  in  the 
same  tona  If  the  queen  was  loud,  the 
woman  was  still  louder,  and  very  soon 


then  ma  s  noiee  whioh  might  be  hmrd  is 
(be  Goart  of  the  Loavre.  Strozzi,  vbo  vos 
tboat,  came  np  to  pat  &11  to  rights,  but 
BrnMnet  had  uxeaij  told  hia  wife  that  the 
ntuiul  was  deafer  even  than  the  queen, 
and  ibe  moat  apeak  into  Ms  ear,  and  as 
toad  as  ahe  conld,  which  she  did  accord- 
ioglj.  Strozsi,  aaap  acting  some  trick, 
looked  oat  of  a  window,  saw  a  trampeter, 
uid  calling  him  op,  gave  htm  a  couple  of 
cnmu,  and  told  him  to  blow  hia  trampet 
into  the  woman's  ear  till  he  was  told  to 
itop  Then  agun  entering  the  chamber, 
Strozri  said  to  the  qoeen  :  "  This  woman 
ii  dsaf,  I  can  core  her."  Thereupon  he 
held  her  fast  while  the  trampeter  blew  and 
Hew  tin  the  poor  woman's  ears  were 
cncked,  and  her  brains  addled,  and  it  was 
noQf  months  before  she  recovered.  Thus 
finuqnet  had  to  shout  himself  to  his  wife 
u  he  had  tried  to  make  others  do  to  her. 
Brantdme  says  he  could  go  on  for  ever.  If 
StroEzi  was  sharp,  subtle,  inKenious,  and 
clever,  Bmsquet  was  his  eqaal  in  point  of 
hgenoitr.  He  was  deemed  to  be  the 
fim  man  for  boffoonery  that  ever  waa,  or 
ever  will  be,  whether  in  speaking,  acting, 
writing,  or  inventing,  and  everything  wiu- 
out  offending  or  displeasing. 

Brusquet,  it  is  sad  to  say,  fell  a  victim  to 
the  religious  differences  of  the  time.  He 
waa  Bospected  of  a  leaning  towards  the 
Hogoenots,  was  accnaed  of  delaying  the 
king's  packets  and  despatches,  was  dia- 
graeed,  and  lost  moat  of  his  fortune,  and 
his  house  wm  pillaged  in  the  first  troabtes 
of  1562.  After  this  he  took  refuge,  firat 
with  Madame  de  Bouillon,  and  aftwwards 
with  the  Duchess  of  Valentinois,  at  whose 
eb&teau  of  Anet  he  died  some  time  after 
1565. 


JENIFER. 

BT  AKSU  TH0KA9  <HBa.  PDIOBIUJtrSLIP). 

CHAPTER  XXXL      A  BAStCei  OF  E003. 

Captaix  Edoecuub  knew  the  little 
woman  better  than  his  wife  did,  and  from 
the  moment  he  saw  her  established  at 
Eildene  he  felt  that  it  was  her  intention  to 
marry  the  owner  of  Kildene  and  his  to 
frustrate  it. 

Not  that  he  had  any  malignant  or 
even  unfriendly  feeling  towards  Mrs. 
Hatton.  On  the  contrary,  thongh  he  had 
liked  her  better,  he  atUl  liked  her  very 
much  indeed,  and  he  would  have  been 
delighted  to  see  her  well  married  to  any 
other  man  than  Jenifer's  godfather.     At 


PEE.  [Da»nbiirn,Ugi.1      117 

this  he  drew  the  line.  Kildene  should  not 
be  diverted  away  &om  Jenifer  through 
any  little  charms  or  lures  of  Mra.  Hatton. 

And  that  lady  knew  htm  inatinctively  to 
be  a  foe  to  her  pnrpoae  the  moment 
Admiral  Tullamore  exclaimed  that  Jenifer 
was  hia  godchild. 

"She  would  never  interfere  with  me, 
ahe'a  too  independent  and  straightforward," 
Mrs.  Hatton  told  herself,  doing  unconscious 
homage  to  Jenifer's  auperiority  by  the 
thoughL     "But  he  will— if  he  can!" 

After  all,  her  purpose  at  present  was  not 
exactly  what  Captain  Edgecumb  thought. 
She  meant  to  make  herself  esaentiat  at 
every  turn  to  the  old  man,  to  Vind  herself 
about  his  daily  path,  and  every  thoi^ht, 
bnt  she  did  not  mean  to  marry  him.  She 
desired  to  have  Kildene,  and  to  take  his 
name,  and  to  be  ksown  aa  hia  adopted 
daughter  and  heiteas,  and  to  leave  behind 
all  trace  of  Mrs.  Hatton.  But  she  did  not 
mean  to  marry  him,  unless  ahe  were  com- 
pelled to  do  BO  by  the  interference  of  others. 

She  had  so  completely  assumed  the  reine, 
she  had  so  thoroughly  impreased  Admiral 
Tullamore  with  the  idea  that  he  could  do 
nothing  unaided  by  her  counsel,  and  that  ho 
waa  desperately  dull  and  lonely  when  she 
was  out  of  his  presence,  that  she  thought  at 
first  that  it  would  be  mere  child's  play  to 
circumvent  Captain  Edgecnmb  and  keep 
him  from  holding  private  converse  with 
the  admiral.  But  Captain  Edgecumb 
wanted  Kildene  almost  aa  much  as  she  did, 
and  was  almost  as  ready  to  intrigue  for  it. 

Never  to  leave  the  old  man  alone  with 
Captain  Edgecumb  became  a  fixed  idea 
with  her  from  the  hour  in  which  Captain 
Edgecnmb  entered  the  house.  To  be 
alone  with  the  old  man  long  enough  to 
win  his  confidence  became  a  fixed  idea  of 
Captain  Edgecumb'a  about  the  aame  time. 

In  snch  a  contest  it  was  hard  to  aay 
which  would  win.  Time  was  on  Mrs. 
Hatton's  aide  if  Captain  Edgecumb  did  not 
get  the  opportunity  of  undermining  her 
during  his  brief  visit. 

"I've  made  it  a  rule  to  sit  with  the 
admiral  while  he  takea  his  wine  after 
diuner,"  ahe  a&id  to  Jenifer  the  first  even- 
ing of  their  arrival  at  Kildene ;  "  shall  we 
keep  to  my  rule  whUe  you're  here  1 " 

"  Undoubtedly  if  yon  wish  it,"  Jenifer 
said  politely,  so  the  ladies  sat  on  after 
dinner,  "as  usual,"  Mrs.  Hatton  said,  with 
bar  Bweeteat  smile,  till  it  waa  time  to  go  to 
the  drawing-room  for  tea  and  music. 

"  So  you  re  going  to  be  a  second  Griai,  I 
hear,  my  dear,"  the  admiral  aaid  to  Jenifer. 


tl8     [Decembarn.UBS.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


"  I  mast  bear  yon  eing ;  you  kIwkvb  had  a 
aweet  pipe,  I  remeiub«r,  at  Moor  Boya)." 

So  to  give  her  old  friend  pleasure  Jeuifer 
eat  down  and  Bang,  and  her  hnabond  etood 
by  her  with  a  proud  ur  of  ownership  about 
bim. 

Presently  Mrs.  Hatton  got  her  low  stool, 
and  plumped  herself  down  upon  it  in  an 
engagingly  confiding  and  youthful  attitude 
at  the  old  admiral's  feet. 

"  I'm  no  one  now,"  she  whispered  softly; 
"if  your  dear  goddaughter  stays  you II 
soon  find  you  can  do  very  well  without 
poor  little  me." 

"She's  not  going  to  stay  long,  worse 
luck,"  he  'said  bluntly.  Then  he  added 
very  kindly:  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be 
able  to  do  without  you,  my  dear;  you 
mustn't  take  that  fooUsh  notion  into  your 
head." 

She  took  his  hand  and  fondled  it,  and 
made  hei  eyes  swim  with  grateful  tears, 
and  altogether  did  a  very  touching  little 
bit  of  bueiness.  Unfortunately  Captain 
Edgecumb  tamed  round  and  caught  her  at 
it,  and  smUed  in  a  meaning  way  that  made 
her  hate  him. 

However,  she  waa  &  very  wary  woman, 
skilled  in  the  art  of  concealing  her  feelings. 
Poor  woman  1  the  neceSsity  for  doing  so 
had  been  in  a  measure  forced  upon  her  at 
one  period  of  her  career,  and  the  habit  had 
became  second  nature.  So  now  she  smiled 
back  upon  Captain  Edgecumb,  and  appeared 
to  be  quite  gaily  glad  that  he  should  see 
how  happily  and  surely  she  was  established 
under  the  paternal  wing  of  this  kind  old 
man. 

But  this  suave  concHIatoiy  manner  did 
not  for  an  instant  disarm  Captain  Edge- 
cumb, or  do  away  with  his  determination 
to  frustrate  her  little  game  if  he  could  do 
80  without  descending  to  trickery. 

For  example,  he  made  up  his  mind  Uiat 
when  the  ladies  retired  for  the  night  be 
would  ait  up  for  an  hour,  and  over  an 
invigorating  cigar  and  supporting  glass  of 
grog  with  the  old  sailor,  expatiate  on  the 
injustice  (A  Mr.  Bay's  will  in  leaving 
Jenifer  pennDess.  He  would  then  let  fall 
a  few  sentences  relative  to  the  extreme 
precariousness  of  such  a  professional  life 
as  Jenifer  was  about  to  lead.  And  when 
these  well-eeasoned  remarks  had  permeated 
Admiral  Tullamore's  system,  the  old  gentle- 
man should  be  suffered  to  go  to  bod,  and 
dwell  upon  the  subject  in  the  watches  of 
the  night. 

But  in  contemplating  doing  this  he 
reckoned  witjiout  Mrs.  mtton.    When  the 


reasonable  hour  of  eleven  arrived  that 
lady  ordered  in  hot  water  and  glasses,  and 
other  ingredients  which  are  essentials  to 
the  compounding  of  a  glass  of  giog.  And 
when  she  had  hraself  mixed  a  potent  goblet 
for  the  admiral,  she  whisp^«d  to  Mrs. 
Edgecumb  that  their  "dear  friend  liked 
to  get  away  to  hk  own  room  at  this  hour, 
and  that  she  (Mrs.  Hatton)  felt  sore  Mra. 
Edgecumb  would  not  wish  him  to  deviate 
from  his  rule," 

So  on  Jenifer  earnestly  entreatJug  that 
he  would  pursue  exactly  the  same  coarse 
as  if  they  were  not  there,  the  admiral  waa 
quietly  sent  away  to  bed,  and  Captain 
Edgecumb  felt  that  he  would  never  be 
given  that  opportunity  over  the  quiet  cigar 
which  he  had  intended  turning  to  profitable 
account. 

"That  little  woman  means  mischief," 
Captain  Edgecumb  said  to  his  wife  that 
night 

"  What  mischief ! "  Jenifer  asked  with 
indiSerence. 

"  What  mischief  1"  he  mimicked.  "Any- 
one who  wasn't  blind  as  a  mole,  or  wilfully 
obtuse,  would  see  at  a  glance  what  she's 
aiming  at  She  means  to  get  the  old  boy's 
money  by  hook  or  by  crook ;  she'll  many 
him  one  fine  day,  before  yon  have  time  to 
look  round." 

Jenifer  could  not  help  the  tone  of  fine 
disdain  which  tinged  her  answer : 

"Why  should  I  trouble  myself  to  look 
round  at  idl  at  such  a  matter  t " 

"  Oh,  it's  all  very  well  to  be  high-faluUn' 
and  superior  to  worldly  considerations 
when  you're  numing  in  single  hameas,  bat 
your  interests  ore  mine  now,  remember, 
and  I'll  take  good  care  that  they're  looked 
after." 

He  used  an  expletive  to  strengthen  his 
meaning,  and  Jenifer  had  never  bod  one 
uttered  ather  before.  She  had  great  powers  of 
reasoning  and  endurance,  but  she  could  not 
help  remembering  that  she  had  very  lately 
vowed  to  "  honour  "  and  "  obey  "  this  man. 
Already  she  had  ceased  to  do  the  one; 
and  if  he  ever  attempted  to  make  her  do  a 
mean  thing,  she  would  revolt,  and  refuse 
to  do  the  other.  It  was  pathetic  to  be 
disillosioned  so  soon.  "But  to  know  the 
truth  is  better  than  to  be  in  happy 
ignorance."  So  she  told  herself,  and 
tried  to  find  strength  and  peace  in  the 
reflection. 

As  far  OS  shooting  and  fishing  were  con- 
cerned, Captfdn  Edgecumb  had  it  all  his 
own  way  at  Kildene.  As  far  as  intercourse 


with  Adminl  TulUmore  vent,  Mrs.  Halton 
had  it  ■!!  her  yny,  uid  Jenifer's  interests 
were  no  further  adruiaed  by  her  husband 
vhan  he  left  than  when  he  entered  the 
home. 

But  once  in  an  on^arded  moment,  when 
Jeoifer  h&d  bean  ainging  to  him  for  an 
hoar,  the  old  admir^  excnimed  id  a  borst 
of  grat^nl  ferrour : 

"  Tliank  yon,  my  dear,  thank  yon ;  your 
voice  ii  a  fortone  to  yoa,  but  at  the  same 
time  I'm  happy  to  tell  yon  there's  another 
in  >toi8  for  yon." 

"  This  most  mean  that  he  will  leave  her 
tuipropertyt"  GaptunEdgeonmb  thought. 
Bat  it  only  meant  that  there  w&a  some 
property  left  to  Jenifer  already,  of  irhioh 
tlis  admiral  was  cogoisant^ 

It  was  an  intense  relief  to  Mrs.  Hatton 
when  the  day  came  for  the  Edgecumbs  to 
kaTO  KiMene ;  not  tbat  she  feared  Captain 
Edgeenmb  any  longer.  She  had  the 
adoiirat  too  oomplately  noder  her  control 
fi»  that  Bat  the  task  of  incessantly 
watching  and  keeping  gaard  over  the  latter 
became  wearisome  to  a  woman  who  had 
a  profonnd  sense  of  enjoyment,  and  who 
eosld  find  the  latter  in  a  thousand  ways  in 
^  Bolitoden  of  beaatifol  KUdene. 

To  ride  abont  on  a  qaiet  little  cob,  and 
■aperintend  the  plaotiog  ont  of  new  plan- 
tations, the  making  of  new  gardens,  the 
leoiganisation  of  old  ones,  to  give  orders 
with  the  air  and  anthority  of  a  mistress, 
tbeae  were  rare  pleaaores  to  K&a.  Hatton. 
And  Admiral  Tnllamoroenconraged  and  de- 
lighted in  her  doing  it,  and  took  pride  in 
her  fifesh,  unrestrained  pride  in  the  beaati- 
fol place  of  which  she  was  soon  the  vtrtnal 

"  I  wish  he'd  adopt  me,  and  let  me  call 
mjself  ■  Tollamore,'  and  leave  the  hateful 
unte  of  Hatton  behind  me  for  ever." 

Bnt  when  Admiral  ToUamore  proposed 
that  she  should  take  his  honoured  name, 
it  was  as  his  wife,  not  as  his  adopted  child, 
that  he  asked  her  to  take  it 

For  a  few  boars  she  hesitated  in  doubt 
and  dread,  in  fear  and  shame, 

'Rieu  the  thonght  of  the  happy,  beantif  ul 
home,  of  the  perfect  peace  and  immunity 
from  worry  of  every  kind  which  she  would 
secure  by  marrying  him,  overpowered  her 
doabts  and  Bcmplea,  and  she  made  np  her 
mind  to  dare  all,  and  win  all. 

After  all,  she  was  safe.  Joaiah  Whittler, 
the  actor  with  a  name  and  a  fair  reputn- 
tion  at  stake,  had  assured  her  that  he  was 
at  the  death  and  burial  of  her  husband. 
He  eoald  never  ventore  to  play  snch  a  foul 


FE&  [DMambar  2t,  USI.]     119 

and  dangerous  game  after  this,  as  to 
aaaert  that  he  bad  lied,  and  that  her  hus- 
band was  still  alive. 

She  hesitated  just  long  enough  to  make 
the  old  man  fear  that  he  had  shocked  and 
diflgosted  hei  by  wanting  to  make  her  his 
wifa  Bearded  from  hia  standpoint  she 
looked  so  young,  bo  innocent  and  attrac- 
tive, and  generally  simple-minded,  that  he 
feared  she  would  think  him  coarse  and 
selfish  in  wishing  to  unite  her  youth  to  hia 
age.  Ajid  all  the  time  she  was  longing — 
yet  fearing — to  take  the  shield  and  buckler 
of  his  name,  and  to  put  away  the  identity 
of  Mrs.  Hatton  in  an  undiacoverable  grave. 

The  chances  of  Mr.  Whittler  ever  hear- 
ing that  his  late  friend's  widow  had 
buried  her  dead,  and  married  again,  seemed 
ridiculooBly  small  The  actor's  life 
would  assuredly  be  lived  in  cities,  in 
crowded  haunts  of  men.  It  was  nob  upon 
the  cards  at  all  that  he  would  ever  come 
in  contact  with  anyone,  who  could  tell  him 
that  an  old  gentleman,  living  in  retirement 
in  County  Kerry,  bad  committed  the  folly 
of  marrying  bia  lady- house  keeper.  The 
subject  was  one  that  could  never,  by  any 
possibility,  be  mooted  in  any  society  in 
which  Mr.  Whittler  found  himself.  So 
she  argued  with  herself,  and  ber  arguments 
prevailed,  and  she  made  the  old  admiral  a 
happy  man  by  accepting  him. 

Meantime  the  Kdgecumbs  had  gone  back 
to  town,  and  begun  their  new  life  in  their 
new  home. 

"I  wish  we  had  the  place  to  ourselves 
for  a  few  days,  don't  you,  Jenifer!"  her 
husband  asked  as  they  were  driving  from 
the  station. 

She  was  thinking  so  much  and  bo 
lovingly  of  the  approaching  meeting  with 
her  mother  there,  that  she  did  not  grasp 
hia  meaning,  and  said  : 

"  Havo  what  place  to  ourselves  I " 

"  Our  own  home,  to  be  sure." 

"So  we  shall" 

Seclnsion  with  him  had  not  proved  bo 
delightful  that  she  could  contemplate  its 
continuance  rapturously. 

"  No,  we  aha'n't ;  your  mottier  will  bo 
there,  and  I  shall  feel  as  if  it  were  more 
her  house  tlian  mine." 

"  Poor  mother  j " 

"  Why  do  you  sigh  about  her  in  thsit 
way,  Jenifer  t  It  isn't  every  man,  let  me 
tell  yon,  who  would  have  acceded  to  the 
proposition  of  his  mother-in-law  starting 
with  him  in  his  married  life.  I  conceded 
the  point,  thmloDg  to  m^e  you  happy, 
and  now  you  call  her  '  poor  moUier,'  and 


ALL  THE  TEAS  BOUTXD. 


aigh  about  her  as  if  I  had  b«en  nnldnd  to 
her.     It's  very  diooonra^ng." 

Jenifer  made  no  reply.  Hei  thioat 
seemed  to  be  closing  np,  and  ahe  knew  that 
the  effort  to  speak  would  relax  her  control 
over  her  tean.  So  she  kept  sUsnoe  and 
peace. 

Captun  Edgectimb  recovered  his  temjper 
by  the  time  they  got  home,  and,  if  he  felt 
any  chagrin  at  the  presence  of  oUien 
besides  the  servants  in  the  house,  he  con- 
trived to  conceal  it.  Ferhape  this  was 
partly  dne  to  tko  presence  of  his  sister, 
Mrs.  Archibald  CampbelL 

"  I  thought  you'd  like  to  see  one  member 
of  your  nunily  here  on  yoor  arrival, 
Hariy,"  she  said  as  she  kissed  her  brother, 
"and  10  I've  been  spending  a  qtiiet 
pleasant  evening  with  Mrs.  Bay,  who's 
about  one  of  the  sweetest  women  I  ever 

This  she  said  when  Mrs.  Bay  and  Jenifer 
had  gone  npstairs  for  the  yoong  mistress 
of  the  house  to  take  off  her  bavelling- 
gear. 

"  Yon  know  I'm  always  glad  to  see  yon. 
Belle.  As  for  Mrs.  Bay  bemg  the  sweetest 
woman  yon  have  ever  met,  I'm  not  so  sure 
about  that  She'll  be  rather  a  nuisance 
here,  I'm  afnud.  Jenifer  has  an  idea  that 
everything  and  everyone  mnst  give  way 
to  her  mother." 

"  How  unnatural  1 "  Mn.  Campbell  said 
dryly. 

"  Oh,  it's  right  enough,  of  course.  I'm 
not  Baying  a  word  agunst  that  feeling, 
only  it  s  lixely  to  be  a  bore  to  me.  I  want 
Jenifer  to  devote  all  her  time  and  energy 
to  her  profession.  Great  interests  are  at 
stake,  and  she  mnst  strain  every  nerve  to 
secure  them." 

"  Don't  let  her  strain  her  nerves  too 
much,  Harry,  and  don't  build  too  much 
her  professional  sQccess.  I  have  beard  a 
dozen  amateurs  sing  as  well  as,  or  better 
than  she  does,  and  I've  seen  them  break 
down  when  they  came  before  the  pubhc." 

"  Jenifer  won't  break  down.  I  shall 
not  let  her  worry  herself  about  the  business 
part  of  the  matter.  I  shall  make  her 
engagements,  arrange  terms,  and " 

"  Take  the  money,"  his  uster  laughed. 
"  Well,  yon  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  were 
in  Jenifer's  place.  Moreover,  bow  will 
you  get  the  time  to  do  it  1  There  are  som^ 
duties  attaching  to  your  secretaryship,  I 
suppose  1 " 

"  I've  resigned  that." 


'  Oh,  Hany  1 " 

Jenifer's  business  arrangements  sts  of 
paramount  importance,  as  I've  told  you 
before,  and  I  mean  to  look  after  them 
clrtely." 

"  Archie  will  be  diagosted  with  yon." 

He  is  perfectly  at  liberty  to  be  as  dii- 
gnsted  as  he  likw  I  know  I  am  doisg 
wisely ;  when  throogh  her  talent,  or  rather 
through  my  management  of  her  talent, 
Jenifer  makes  a  large  fortune,  youll  admit 
"     right" 

When  she  does,  I  will  1 "  Urs.  OampbeQ 
said  sadly  enough,  for  she  was  woman 
enough  to  feel  th^  Jenifer  had  gone  into 
bondage  and  slavery  toabudandexacliiig 


The  programmes  and  posters  of  the 
concert  at  which  Jenifer  was  to  make  her 
d^but  were  out,  and  Jenifer  was  down 
for  two  solos,  and  to  sing  in  a  quartette 
with  a  famooB  eontraltc^  a  tiiundermg 
bass,  and  an  irreproachaUe  tenor.  She 
was  to  appear  under  her  maiden-naiiK^ 
Jenifer  Bay,  and  already  the  sight  of  it  in 
print  made  her  nervons. 

The  night  came.  She  had  been  practis- 
ing assiduously  with  Madame  Voglio  sisoe 
her  return  from  Ireland,  and  her  kind- 
hearted  instmctreas  had  given  her  both 
splendid  teaching  and  encouragement 

"If  you  do  wMt  you  can  you'll  have  s 
grand  success,"  she  said,  as  Jenifer's  ton 
came,  and  she  prepared  to  asoend  the  steps 
and  go  upon  the  stage,  on  which  she  would 
be  the  one  object  on  whom  the  attention 
and  gaze  of  the  vast  multitude  assembled 
in  the  hall  would  be  concentr^ed. 

Another  moment  and  she  stood  alone, 
blinded  by  nervousness  and  the  dazsling 
light  Bat  the  last  words  of  encoora^ 
ment  from  Madame  Voglio  came  to  her  aid. 
She  gave  the  sinial  nod  bo  the  accom- 
panist and  began  tier  song. 


THE     EXTRA    OHRISTMAS     NUMBER 

ALL   THE   YEAE   BOUND, 

"A  GLORIOTrs"FORTUNE; 

WALTER     BE8ANT 

(Antbot  of  "  Ths  CtpMnt'  Boom,"  "  L«t  Nothing  V 

DUraij,"  etc  etc.), 

AND   OTHER    STORIES. 

FriM  pIXPBNCE,  Mill  coDtaiDluE  Uie  ■muiint  of  Thite 

Urdinuy  MumBen. 


Tkji  Ilijiht  af  TmtuLilmut  ArUiiM  fimm  Al.r.Tira  V 


B  Rninm  ii  tttrntit  tmt  <s<  Ju#k_ 


ay  Go  ogle 


122      [Secomber  iS,  IS 


ALL  THE  TEAR  EOTTND. 


Mr.  Tuck  bliDked  blankly,  with  a  hypo- 
chondriac miegtviug  that  the  shOck  of  the 
accident  had  affected  hia  brain. 

"Well,"  reBumed  th«  widow,  with  an 
^samption  of  yet  deeper  qff«oCe  in  her 
voice  and  mfuiner,  "  yon  )ndll  perhaps 
believe  me  if  I  repeat  the  wo'rd4  tof  your 
own  letter  to  Mr,  Upcher,  deacribing  yoar 
wedding.  You  aaid  that  you  wiehM  Mr. 
Upcher  could  have  married  you  quietly,  as 
there  was  a  great  crowd,  and  you  were 
late,  and  your  bride  was  nearly  knocked 
down  before  you  arrived ;  that  the  licence 
and  fees  amounted  to  twenty  guineas, 
which  you  thought  a  eood  deal ;  and  that 
you  would  return  with  yonx  bride  to  The 
Keep  on  Friday,  aa  by  then  the  drawiog- 
room  would  be  ready  for  her  reception. 
There  I"  triumphantly. 

Gradually  it  dawned  on  Mr.  Tuck  that 
"  that  fool  of  an  TJpcher  had  made  a  joke 
of  his  letter  aa  he  always  did  of  everything, 
making  use  of  it  to  hoax  Mrs.  Casddy." 
His  first  thought  upon  this  becoming  clear 
to  him  was  one  of  thankfulness  that  his 
accident  had  not  turned  his  brain ;  his 
next,  one  of  perplexity.  Should  he  confess 
his  compromising  bachelorhood  to  the 
widow,  and  thus  lose  the  Bervices  of  an 
expert  In  mortiEcationl 

But  the  widow  had  no  idea  of  allowing 
him  to  decide  this  for  himself.  She  read 
his  thoughts  to  the  letter,  and  hastened  to 
prevent  a  confession  which  would  in  a 
moment  upset  her  plane. 

"  There,  Mr.  Tuck,  I  shall  not  say,  or 
ask  you  to  say,  another  word.  I  shall 
not  force  your  confidence.  No,  no,  not 
a  word,"  as  Mr.  Tnck  made  an  efibrt  to 
speak.  'Tm  not  offended.  I  shall  not 
leave  yoQ.  I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  you. 
But  prey  let  it  be  understood,  once  for  all, 
that  I'm  not  trying  to  worm  myself  into 
your  confidence  under  the  pretext  of 
nursing  yon.  If  you  will  let  this  be  under- 
stood, ill.  Tuck,  and  not  mention  the  sub- 
ject again,  I  shall  feel  ft'ee  to  do  you  what 
little  service  I  can." 

This  was  lofty,  and  into  this  fine  vein 
the  widow  always  relapsed  upon  Mr.  Tuck's 
making  the  most  distant  approach  to  the 
tabooed  subject. 

Mr.  Tuck  felt,  first  of  all,  the  relief  of  a 
weak  man  in  having  a  bad  quarter  of  an  honr 
postponed.  Then,  he  felt  admiration  of 
the  widow's  magnanimity,  and,  lastly  and 
chiefly,  be  felt— he  could  not  help  feeling 
— gratitude  for  her  disinterested  affection. 
It  was  certain  now  that  she  attended  him 
oat  of  the  purest  attachment  to  his  person. 


So  far  from  having  any  matrimonial  design 
upon  him,  aim  would  an  no  account  have 
compromised  herself  by  her  devotion  to 
him  if  she  had  not  been  assured  of  his 
marriage.  Beyond  qaeetion  she  had  tlie 
virtue  of  charity  as  Mr.  Tack  understood 
it ;  and  Mr.  Tuck  understood  it  in  the  one- 
sided sense  in  which  it  was  understood  by 
the  disciple  of  the  Perman  sage,  who  hear- 
ing from  his  master  a  discoaree  on  charity, 
was  so  transported  by  it  that  he  rushed 
forth  to  beg  from  the  first  man  he  meL 

But,  besides  this  excellent  gift  of  charity, 
Mn.  Caasidy  had  another  recommendation 
of  great  price  In  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Tack. 
She  was  an  inoomparable  companion.  It 
"was  nob  that  she  was  good-humoured,good- 
tempered,  good-natured,  and  amusing.  She 
was  idl  these ;  but  she  waa  more  t^n  all 
these  put  together — she  was  sympathising 
She  was — to  ose  her  own  simile — the  most 
perfect  mirror  in  which  Mr.  Tnck  had  ever 
viewed  himsdr.  She  reflected  every  mood 
and  echoed  every  word,  not  mechimically, 
tiresomely,  or  transparently,  but  with 
"  infinite  variety." 

Mr.  Tnck  experienced  some  snch  pleasore 
as  the  poet  Bonn  must  have  felt,  on  bear- 
ing hts  bald  librettos  set  to  exqninte 
music 

N'ow  Mr.  Tnck,  even  when  well,  thought 
the  echoes  of  his  own  groami  the  sweetest 
music  m  the  world.  How  much  sweeter 
now  did  they  sound  1 

"  How  sickness  enlarges  the  dimensions 
of  a  man's  self  to  hims^  I  He  is  his  own 
exclusive  ol^ect.  Supreme  selfishness  is 
inculcated  upon  him  as  his  only  duty. 
Tis  the  Two  Tables  of  the  Law  to  him.  He 
has  nothing  to  think  of  but  how  to  get 
well  ....  He  has  pot  on  the  strong 
armour  of  dckneee,  he  is  wrapped  in  the 
callous  hide  of  suffering;  he  keeps  his 
sympathy,  like  some  curious  vintage,  under 
trusty  lock  and  key,  for  his  own  use  only. 
He  lies  pitying  himself,  honing  and 
moaning  to  himself;  he  yeameth  over  him- 
self; his  bowels  are  even  melted  within 
him,  to  think  what  be  suffers ;  he  is  not 
ashamed  to  weep  over  himsel£  He  com- 
passionates himself  all  over;  and  his  bed  is 
a  very  discipline  of  humanity  and  tender 
heart.  He  is  his  own  sympathiser,  and 
instinctively  feels  that  none  can  so  weU 
perform  the  office  for  hiuL" 

With  the  exception  of  this  last  Bent«noe, 
Mr.  Tuck,  as  an  invalid,  is  drawn  here  to 
the  life,  and  without  the  exaggeration 
humorously  intended  by  Lamb,  But 
Lamb's  invalid,  with  hia   "punctual  and 


A  DRAWN  GAME 


lDec«mbet29  lB8t.l      123 


nnnwred  old  nurse,"  could  have  no  idea  of 
the  Bolace  of  the  Bympatby  of  sQcb  a 
vomui  Bs  Mi^  Casaidy.  Even  Mr.  Tuck's 
own  B^npatby  for  himaelf  boiled  after  hers, 
putbg,  bat  in  vain. 

Will  it  bo  thought  incredible  that  after 
1  lortiiigbt's  experience  of  such  devotion, 
lb;  futk  should  fall  in  love  % 

In  love,  of  course,  as  Narcissiu  loved. 
In  loTS  irith  himself  as  flatteringly  reflected 
in  Mn.  Cossidy.    For  that  which,  accord- 

Slo  Bochebncanld,  coante  mach  with 
loven,  counted  all  witJi  him  :  "  Ce  qni 
hit  que  les  amants  et  les  maltressee  ne 
■'eumient  point  d'etre  ensemble,  c'est 
qa^parlent  toujonra d'eox  mSmes."  Mrs. 
Cuddy  coold  speak  for  ever,  and  he  ooold 
for  ever  listen  to  the  one  engrossing  topic 
—himself 

In  tmth,  it  was,  perhaps,  less  a  love- 
iSfut  than  a  sublimated  mendship  of  the 
Ariitodian  kind,  "one  soul  in  two  oodies" 
—only  the  sool  was  the  exclusive  soul  of 
ilr.  Tnck.  And  Mrs.  Cassidy  was  an 
Hhnirable  alter  idem  in  this,  as  in  other 
thingn — ahe  had  a  frugal  mind.  She  was 
K  eaniest  ahout  nunimisiug  the  hotel  ex- 
penuB,  and  ingenious  in  suggesting  econo- 
mies, that  Mr.  Tuck  began  to  regard  a 
anion  with  her  rather  as  a  saving  than  as 
u  Bxtnvi^aDce.  Nor,  lastly,  should  we 
forget  to  mention  that  Mrs.  Cassidy  waa  a 
b«u^  of  the  boxom  sort — 

Bnxom,  blithe,  and  daboiuUc. 

In  fact,  each  of  the  motiyes  to  marriage 
Buxm  suggests  to  jont^,  middle-age,  and 
old  age,  united  ti^ether  to  reconcile  Mr. 
Tack  to  that  honourable  estate. 

Xow  let  ns  look  for  a  moment  at  Mre. 
Casiidy's  side  of  the  question.  She  is  no 
Ktuse  adventorese  playing  a  deep  game  for 
tugh  stakea  If  ehe  was  neither  &  very 
refined  or  a  very  Btraightfoiward  person, 
aciiher  waa  she  very  base  or  very  deep. 
Qood-nataire  and  a  keen  delight  in  the 
lodicrouB  had  as  much  to  do  with  her 
attentions  to  Mr.  Tack  as  any  eubtle 
scheme  to  entrap  him  into  marriage.  At 
fint  she  had  no  snch  definite  design  at  alL 
She  owed  both  its  auggestion  and  its 
mccess  to  unforeseen  circumstanoeB. 

And  here  let  us  say,  in  the  spirit  of  the 
shrewd  Italian  proverb : 


tb«t  a  man  who  succeeds  in  any  enter- 
pri»e,  whether  of  ambition,  matrimony,  or 
murder,  ia  too  often  credited  with  foresight 
frnm  t.hft  firat.  nut  odIv  of  the  eoal.  but  of 


every  intermediate  step  to  it.  Whereas, 
in  most  cases,  he  has  been  carried  by 
circumstances  half,  or  more  than  half,  the 
way  towards  this  goat  before  even  he 
himself  has  Been  it. 

This  at  least  was  trae  of  Mrs.  Cassidy, 
le  was  well  into  the  stream,  and  was 
swept  half-way  across  by  it  before  she  saw 
the  land  at  the  other  side.  Then,  it  is 
true,  she  made  for  it,  though  not  very 
vigorously  even  then. 

To  tell  the  truth,  her  heart  sometimes 
failed  her,  and  she  was  in  half  a  mind 
to  turn  back.  Mr.  Tuck  was  tiresome 
when  in  health,  and  trying  in  illness, 
bat  an  invalid  Mr.  Tuck,  alone,  on  your 
hands  every  day  and  all  day  for  five 
weeks,  was — well,  well  say,  cloying.  And, 
indeed,  poor  Mrs.  Cassidy  at  times  felt 
inclined  to  do  what  Dr.  Johnson  would 
have  been  inclined  to  do  if  he  had 
found  himself  in  the  position  suggested 
for  him  by  the  sage  Boswell ;  "What 
would  you  do,  sir,  if  you  were  locked  up 
in  a  tower  with  a  baby  1 "  But  Mr.  Tuck 
had  three  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  she 
could  fill  The  Keep  with  company,  and 
so  take  him  as  he  took  his  arrowroot  which 
she  made  sapid  for  him  with  sugar,  spices, 
and  wine. 

Mr.  Tuck,  being  in  love  chiefly  with  the 
rejection  of  himself,  and  Mrs.  Cassidy 
with  The  Keep,  their  wooing  wanted 
warmth  and  rather  hung  fire.  Mr,  Tuck 
yearned  for  advice ;  but  who  was  to  advise 
himi  Left  without  this  medicine  of  the 
mind,  of  which  he  took  as  many  doses  for 
poptic  purposes  as  ho  administered  of  the 
other  kind  to  hia  body,  with  as  whole- 
some a  result — left,  we  say,  without  this 
mental  medicine,  he  waa  at  a  stand. 
While  be  lay  awake  at  night  he  planned 
the  proposal  and  the  proper  approachoB 
to  it  again  and  again,  and  arranged  every 
word,  look,  and  gesture  thereto  apper- 
taining in  due  and  decorous  sequence ; 
yet,  when  the  hour  and  the  woman  came, 
he  was  dumb. 

But  weak  men  at  times  do  the  strongest 
things,  and  do  \ii6ta  out  of  weakness,  i.e. 
lack  of  self-control.  They  seem  to  drive 
furiously,  while  in  reality  the  horses  have 
bolted.  Thus  it  happened  that  while  Mr. 
Tuck  one  day  was  reclining  on  the  sofa 
with  ^frs.  Cassidy  seated  at  the  other  end, 
nursing  his  foot,  like  a  hahy,  on  ber  lap, 
handling  it  like  Izaak  Walton's  frog, 
sponging  it  as  it  lay  upon  some  oiled 
silk  spread  beneath  it  upon  her  knets, 
and  Durrinff  over  it  Boothiuelv  wh.M't^vii' 


124      [IXcsmlwrS9,U8a.l 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


Mr.  Tack  drew  in  hia  breath  with  t,  sucking 
sound,  as  through  a  thrill  of  &d^iub1i. 

It  thus  happened  th&t  on  this  eventful 
day  Mr.  Tuck,  as  he  followed  through  hia 
spectacles  the  deft  movement  of  the  fair 
lumd  which  with  soft  touches  was  diying 
his  foot,  shot  out  euddenlf : 

"  I'm  not  married ! " 

Mrs.  Gaasidy,  with  great  presence  of 
mind,  started  up,  horribly  upsetting  Mr. 
Tuck  and  his  foot. 

"Not  married  I"  and  then  in  a  voice 
that  faJtered  a  little,  though,  sooth  to  say, 
the  speech  was  prepared  for  this  foreseen 
crisis :  "  Mr.  Tuck,  how  have  I  deserved 
this  from  yon  1  I  quitted  my  home  and 
my  friends  and  risked  my  good  name  for 
yon — for  your  sake — for  the  sake  of  our 
old  friendship,"  here  there  were  tears  in 
her  voice,  "and  you  have  repaid  me  by — 

by "    Here  she  buried  her  face  in  her 

hands,  too  much  overcome  to  proceed. 
When  she  thought  the  aposiopeais  bad 
taken  effect,  »ho  raised  her  head,  and 
fixing  upon  him  melting  eyes,  in  which  the 
tears  of  sorrow  had  quite  quenched  the 
fire  of  anger,  she  murmurea  with  the 
pathos  of  a  breaking  heart :  "  You,  of  all 
men  I " 

There's  do  doubt  at  all  but  that  this 
speech  would  have  had  the  full  effect 
aimed  at  if  Mr.  Tuck's  feelings  had  been 
disengaged ;  but,  with  tus  ankle,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  wrong  and  wreucJied  off 
like  a  chicken's  neck,  he  wu  as  insen- 
sible to  all  else  for  the  mobient  as  a 
mother  with  her  dying  shild  on  her 
lap.  Hence  he  only  groaned  pitifully,  not 
remorsefully. 

It  was  disconcertjng.  Still,  it  was  un- 
reasonable to  expect  the  cooings  of  love 
from  a  wretch  who  seemed  to  nimself  to 
be  undergoing  the  torture  of  the  boot. 
Therefore  Mrs.  Cossidy,  when  her  assault 
failed,  resumed  the  siege  without  im- 
patience and  without  discouragement. 
She  fetched  some  liniment  meant  to  dull 
the  pain,  and,  kneeling  at  Mr,  Tuck's  feet, 
soothed  the  throbbing  ankle  therewith, 
doing  her  ministering  gently,  indeed,  but 
coldly  and  in  absolute  silence. 

Mr,  Tuck  was  ailt-nt  also.  On  reci 
ing  a  little  he  would  have  complained,  but 
for  hia  fear  of  tranfmitting  another  shock 
thrnugh  Mrs.  Cassidy  to  bis  .inklo. 

She,  riBinft  at  last  mujc&tic,  taid  in  a 
freezing  tone : 

"fJood-bye,  Mr.  Tuck!  I  am  Borry  I 
was  shocked  into  putting  you  to  pain.  At 
least,    you    will    keep    my  secret — keep 


secret  my  attendance  on  yout     I  didn't 

think — I  couldn't  think " 

I  didn't  tell  you  before,"  broke  in  Mr. 
Tuck,  rather  querulously  than  apolt^eti- 
cally,  for  bis  ankle  throbbed  still,  "I 
didn't  tell  you  before  because  I  didn't 
want  you  to  leave  me.  I  don't  want  you 
to  leave  me.     I  want  you  never  to  leave 

Mr.  Tuck  1 " 

Besides,  you  wouldn't  let  me  tell  yoo," 
he  continued,  dropping  to  this  bathos 
through  his  habit  of  always  following  out 
his  own  train  of  tbonght  without  the  least 
regard  to  the  words  or  feelings  of  any  com- 
panion. Here  ensued  an  awkward  pausa 
Mrs.  Caesidy  couldn't  well  keep  up  her 
attitude  of  amazement  and  confusion  for 
two  minutes  together,  nor  could  she  deco- 
rously leaU  Mr.  Tuck  to  hia  subject  with 
the  reminder : 

"  By  the  way,  you  were  proposing  for 
me,  I  think  1 " 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Tuck,  having 
missed  his  footing  and  dropped  down  to 
this  depth,  didn't  know  now  to  climb 
back. 

"  I  wouldn't  let  you  tell  me  I "  at  last 
exclaimed  the  widow ;  "  I  had  no  wish  to 
force  your  confidence,  Mr.  Tuck,  and  I  had 
no  need.  Your  letter  to  Mr.  TJpoheT  told 
me." 

"  Upcher'a  nonsense  1 "  cried  Mr,  Tuck, 
with  an  unusual  impetuosity,  for  he  was 
reminded  of  his  battered  Galatea.  "  The 
letter  was  about  that  statuette,"  pointing  to 
the  ^ure,  a  piteous  spectacle,  for  it  bad 
Bufi'ered  more  than  its  master  from  their 
common  mishap.  It  was  an  unfortunate 
diversion  of  Mr,  Tuck's  mind  to  this 
great  trouble  which  looked  always  double 
to  his  eyes — a  loss  not  of  twenty  goineas 
only,  or  of  the  statuette  only,  but  of 
twenty  guineas  and  of  the  statnetta  He 
couldn't  help  descanting  once  mora  for 
a  moment  upon  tlie  marred  beauty  of 
Qalat«a. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Tuck,"  softly  sighed  the 
widow,  "  little  wonder  yon  never  married." 

"  Why  1 "  he  asked  eagerly,  eager  always 
to  hear  anything  about  Umself. 

"  You  have  such  taste.  No  one  could 
be  beautifnl  enough  for  you." 

"  You  are  all  I  want,"  he  cried  gallantly, 
seizing  her  hand — hung  like  a  bait  within 
reach— delighted  at  once  by  llie  eompli- 
raont,  ify  the  opening  it  gave  bioi,  and  by 
thi!  ready  advantage  he  took  of  it,  "  I — I 
propose  for  you,"  he  added,  thiuhing  with 
some  complacency  that  be  was  showing 


A  DRAWN  aAMK 


125 


himBelf  no  mean  master  of  the  Uognage  of 
love. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  eay,"  mormnred 
the  widow,  bloshing,  downi^t,  confused, 
and  proceeding  to  give  by  broken  words 
btennittent  glimpeee  into  her  amazed 
mind.     "  So  sudden — so  lonely  I  no  one  to 

idrae  with.     If  my  poor  dear "  Here 

ahe  pulled  hersdl  np.  "My  poor  dear 
bniband,"  being  always  on  her  lips,  had 
nearly  sUpped  out  mechanically.  She  felt 
he  was  not  the  fittest  adviser  to  invoke  at 
this  crins. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Tuck  was  rather  think- 
ing upon  his  next  move  than  listening  in 
an  agony  of  snspease  for  her  verdict.  Now, 
when  a  person  so  methodical  as  he  is  forced 
for  the  first  time  from  the  path  of  pro- 
priety, he  often  flonndeie  into  the  wildest 
excesses,  l^erefore,  die  reader  tnost  not 
be  rarpriBed  to  hear  that  he  drew  the 
iriUing  widow  down  on  the  sofa  by  his  side, 
pat  hu  arm  round  her,  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek,  and  called  her  "  Nan." 

The  widow  wae  rather  token  aback  by 
Utii  last  endearment,  for  "  Nan  "  was  not 
her  own  name,  but  that  of  her  dog.  The 
fact  was,  Mr.  Tuck,  when  meditating  his 
proposal,  fdt  that  the  widow's  christian- 
name  was  an  indispensable  part  of  his 
equipment  for  the  enterprise.  But  what 
was  itt  Fortunately  he  found  what  he 
took  for  a  necklace  among  her  belonginge 
on  a  table  in  his  room,  and  on  it  was 
engraved  the  name  "Nan."  Itwasapretty 
electro-plated  collar  for  her  dog,  which  she 
liad  ordered  some  time  before  in  Ryecote, 
and  was  taking  back  with  her  on  tiie  day 
of  the  accident  Mrs.  Cassidy  was  at  a 
loss  to  think  how  he  came  by  this  name  for 
her  until  he  presented  her  some  time  later 
with  a  fac-simile  of  the  collar,  name  and 
all,  in  real  silver,  which  he  tried  to  clasp 
about  her  neck  For  Mr.  Tuck  having, 
after  his  manner,  looked  in  vain  for  the 
haU-mark  on  the  original  collar  the  moment 
he  took  it  into  his  hands,  thought  it  safest, 
in  hia  ignorance  of  ladies'  taste  in  oma- 
mants  in  general,  and  of  Mrs.  Gaasidy's 
taste  in  particular,  to  borrow  this  sugges- 
tion as  to  the  form  of  his  present,  and  trust 
his  own  judgment  only  as  to  its  substance. 

This  mistake  of  Mr.  Tuck's  is  worth 
ntenUoning  only  in  Ulostration  of  Mrs. 
Gaasidy's  tact.  She  resisted,  indeed,  with 
much  modesty,  Mr,  Tuck's  attempt  to 
elaqt  his  wedding  present  about  her  neck ; 
but  die  never  ^  a  word,  or  even  by  a 
smile,  led  him  to  suspect  the  mistake  he 
had  made  until  after  uieir  marriaee.     She 


even  took  the  name  Ann  in  addition  to 
her  own— Bridget — for  her  wedding,  had 
it  inserted  in  the  licence,  and  was  married 
thereby,  and  gave  it  back  to  her  dog  only 
when  the  honeymoon  was  over. 

We  seem  to  be  rather  hurrying  matters, 
hat  matters  w«re  rather  humed.  Mr. 
Tuck,  having  got  over  his  proposal,  pro- 
ceeded with  unintentional  firankness  to 
give  his  chief  reasons  for  it.  Having 
dwelt  long  and  lovingly  to  the  widow 
about  the  rest  of  his  djawing-room  furni- 
ture and  its  cost,  he  passed  oy  a  natural 
digression  to  the  exorbitance  of  his  house- 
hold expenses,  the  extravagance  of  his 
honsekeeper,  and  his  pleasure  in  the  pros- 
pect of  her  dismissal.  And  then,  wi^out 
in  the  least  intending  it,  he  gave  Mrs. 
Cassidy  to  understand  that  he  regarded 
her  aa  a  good  investment — rather  m  the 
Ught  of  a  patent  stove,  warranted  to  save 
its  first  cost  in  a  mon^  The  widow,  who 
was  not  the  woman  to  lure  a  hare  with 
a  bom,  accepted  the  proposed  situation 
with  a  good  grace.  She  showed  her  fitness 
for  it  by  whetting  Mr.  Tuck's  indignation 
at  this  extravi^ance  and  Ids  resolution  to 
put  a  stop  to  it  at  once. 

Thosit  came  about  that  Mr.  Tuck  became 
anxious  for  an  immediate  nnion,  wrote  at 
ouce  for  the  licence,  and  was  married  within 
ten  days  &om  his  proposal. 

Mrs.  Tuck  had  the  marriage  advertised 
in  every  possible  paper,  tjiat  it  might  be 
thorooghly  talked  to  death  before  her 
return  to  Kingsford,  It  was.  The  news 
electrified'  the  place.  It  was  as  a  city 
bereaved  after  a  battle.  Each  widowed 
woman  in  it  had  lost  the  one  thing  dearer 
than  a  husband — a  prospective  husband — 
not  in  fair  fight,  either,  but  by  treachery, 
and  by  means  too  infamous  to  be  expressed 
through  other  than  dark  hints  and  Burleigh- 
hke  shakings  of  the  bead. 

Two  absolutely  incompatible  theories  of 
the  afi'air  were  held — not  as  alternatives, 
but  together.  Mrs.  Cassidy  had  been 
engaged  to  Mr,  Tnck  all  along,  and  bnt 
mocked  them  with  her  conjectures  about 
the  bride  to  be ;  and  besides,  and  over  and 
above  this,  she  had  taken  advantage  of 
Mr.  Tuck's  accident — if,  indeed,  she  had 
not  herself  caused  it  designedly — to  keep 
him  a  close  prisoner,  and  put  him  to  the 
ancient  punishment  for  contumacy — peine 
forte  et  dure— till  he  was  tortured  into  a 
proposal. 

Bnt,  we  need  hardly  say,  it  was  not 
Mr.  Tuck's  marriage,  however  compassed, 
which  BO  moved  the  maiden  city.     No ! 


ALL  TBE  YEAB  EOtTND. 


His  muri^  was  not  a  mattei  of  the  lent 
consequence  or  concern  to  anyone  bnt 
himself  and  his  wife ;  bnt  those  weeks 
before  marriage  which  Mr.  Tuck  and  Mn. 
Caasidy  spent  together  in  an  hotel  in  a 
strange  town ! 

It  was  this,  and  this  alone,  which  shook 
each  head  and  shocked  each  heart,  and 
decided  RiDgsford  to  cat  Mrs.  Tack.  No 
one  was  to  visit,  or  invite,  or  conntenance 
her,  henceforth  for  ever. 

Nevertheless,  saoh  was  the  pUcabilitf , 
of  these  Undly  Kingsford  folk  tbat,  on 
Mrs.  Tack's  establishment  at  The  Keep  as 
its  mistress;  and  as  the  mistresa  of  three 
thousand  pounds  a  year,  it  was  a  race  as 
to  who  ahonid  be  the  first  to  call  n^n  her, 
It  is  trae  that  only  part  of  her  poouhment 
was  remitted.  She  was  still  to  be  quartered 
— La  torn  to  pieces — bnt  not  while  she 
was  alive  to  It — ie.  not  to  her  face. 


FIVE  ITALIAN  DOG& 

In  the  coarse  of  a  recent  autumn  holiday, 
most  agreeably  spent  at  a  friend's  house  m 
the  neighbourhood  of  Florence,  I  mode  the 
acquunianoe  of  several  interesting  peisouB, 
four-legged  as  well  as  two-legged,  the 
most  remorkaUe  of  whom  unquestionably 
bdoDged  to  the  former  category.  They 
were  dogs — five  Italian  dogs.  Although  I 
apeut  little  more  than  a  fortnight  in  their 
company,  I  contrived  within  that  brief 
period  to  overcome  their  inborn  prejudices 
against  a  foreign  biped,  and  ereu,  by  the 
exercise  of  considerable  patience  and  toot, 
to  acquire  their  friendship,  more  or  less' 
cordially  displayed  in  exact  proportion  to 
the  respective  sternness  or  amenity  of  their 
diepositious.  Being  constitutionally  addicted 
to  the  society  of  dogs — animals  surprisin^y 
quick  at  recognising  those  who  wish  them 
well,  and  rarely  unrequiteful  of  sincere 
goodwill — and  having  for  many  a  year 
past  been  honoured  with  the  esteem  and 
confidence  of  several  eminent  members  of 
the  canine  community,  I  soon  succeeded  in 
convindDg  these  Italian  quadrupeds  that, 
although  not  their  compatriot  by  l»rth,  I 
was  the  sort  of  person  whom  an  honest  and 
self-respecting  dog  might  fearlessly  tolerate 
and  even,  to  a  certain  extent,  rely  upon. 
From  relations  of  mere  courtesy  to  those  of 
genial  intimacy,  the  transition — except  in 
one  case — was  a  rapid  and  complete  one. 
I  believe  myself  to  be  justified  in  asserting 
that  four  of  those  five  dogs  made  up  their 
minds,  some  days  before  I  took  an  affec- 


tionate leave  of  them,  to  regard  me  as  a 
firm  and  ffutiifal  friend,  to  whom  their 
material  interests  and  recreations  were 
matters  worthy  of  serioos  coDsidwation 
and  steadfast  attention. 

Such  varieties  of  temperament,  contrasts 
of  character,  and  diversity  of  habits  I  have 
never  before  enoonntered  In  five  in- 
dividualities, canine  <w  human.  Light  and 
darkness  are  not  more  dinnimiUr  than  any 
one  of  these  dogs  ia  to  any  other.  They 
are,  I  should  pmhaps  mention,  the  pro- 
perty of  Ernesto  Bossi,  the  great  Shake- 
sperean  tragedian  and  commentator,  and 
reside  in  or  about  his  beautiful  villa  at 
Montughi,  on  the  hill  of  that  name,  about 
two  nmes  from  the  Porta  Son  Gollo.  Their 
names  are  Flossy,  Bio,  BozeoUno,  Perso, 
and  Ijopar.  That  is  the  (H^ar  in  which 
they  nuik  amongst  the  members  of  the 
Bossi  family.  Nobody  who  knows  any- 
thing about  the  characteristice  of  pet  dogs 
and  the  qualities  that  eapeciolly  endear 
them  to  their  owners,  will  be  sorprised  to 
learn  that  the  most  influential  and  beloved 
of  these  animals  is  also  the  smallest  in  aize 
and  the  most  ferocious  in  temper.  Bom  to 
rule,  intolerant  of  restraint,  exclusively 
devoted  to  the  protection  and  furthering  c>f 
hu  own  interests,  Flossy  deserves  a  para- 
graph to  himsel£  A  psyehol<^ioal  analysis 
of  this  diatinguishM  despot,  carefully 
drawn  up,  would  fill  a  chapter. 

In  commenting  upon  the  character  of  the 
venerable  Countess  of  Kew,  Thackeray 
remarked  that  one  of  the  most  invaluable 
gifts  that  Nature  can  bestow  upon  anybody 
u  "  a  fine  furious  temper."  Of  the  correct- 
ness of  that  asaertion  my  respected  friend 
Flossy  is  a  shining  illustration  and  con- 
clusive proof.  From  early  puppyhood  to 
advanced  senility — he  is  at  present  twelve 
years  old — he  has  bitten  and  snarled  his 
way  through  life  with  a  persevering  and 
indomitable  lavageness  that  has  secured 
to  him  the  servile  deference  and  implicit 
obedience  of  oU  who  have  been  brought 
into  contact  with  him.  He  may  be  not 
Inaptly  described  as  a  choice  assc^tment  of 
firet-clasB  vices  and  evil  passions  neatly 
packed  up  in  a  small,  finfTy,  and  highly 
decorative  skin  of  creamy-white  hue.  A 
native  of  South  America,  hi  which  country 
he  had  been  just  weaned  when  he  was 
presented  to  Rossi's  only  daughter,  Evelina, 
he  is  an  exceptioniJly  handsome  sample  of 
a  cross  between  the  Skye  and  Maltese 
breeds  of  long-haired  terriers.  At  a  Ume 
when  his  infant  gums  were  still  toothless, 
he  made  a  spirited  attempt,  accompanied 


FIVE  ITALIAN  DOG& 


(Doo«abec  a,  U8S.1      137 


b7  growls  of  anmistakable  spitefulne^s,  to 
bite  Mb  young  nmtiMB,  &nd  has  ever 
eioce  perseveira  in  tiikt  attitude,  not  only 
tovarda  heiB^,  bat  towards  maakiad  at 
Iiirge.  He  is  an  irrecondleable,  an 
"  intranaigeant "  of  the  deepest  dye — an 
inthropophagiBt  by  conriction,  and  an 
mreterate  hater  of  bis  own  kind  to  boot 
Abova  all,  be  is  the  very  incarnation  of 
iogratitnde.  I  have  seen  him  repeatedly 
attempt  to  bite  the  kind  hand  eBgaged  in 
npplying  him  with  his  favourite  dainty — 
a  cloying  preparation,  of  coffee  residue 
ud  poonded  loaf-sugar.  One  of  his  most 
alarming  habits  is  to  all-bnt  choke  himself 
by  endeaTouring  to  swallow  and  growl 
umnltaneoosly ;  bis  anxiety  to  defy  the 
person  who  has  just  bestowed  upon  him 
■ome  tit-bit  being  so  overpowering  that  he 
eumot  wait  to  dispose  of  the  morsel  before 
giving  vent  to  his  angry  feelinge.  I  never 
dieamt  that  any  creature— short  of  a 
&eahly-cangbt  Bengal  tiger — could  be  so 
continuoosly  irascible.  As  a  French  friend 
U  the  Kosais  aptly  s^d  of  him  one  even- 
ing: "II  est  rageur  k  ne  pas  y  croire,  ce 
petit  gr^din  1 "  To  touch  bim,  ever  so 
lightly  and  caressingly,  is  to  elicit  an 
explosion  of  choier  that  would  do  honour 
to  a  gonty  admiral,  whose  chalk-stones  had 
been  unexpectedly  administered  to  with  a 
paviour's  rammer.  I  studied  Flossy'a  cha- 
racter closely  and  with  absorbing  interest, 
and  utterly  failed  to  discover  any  redeem- 
ing quali^  in  him.  My  friends  told  me 
that  he  treated  me  with  mailed  anijl 
nnusoal  partiality.  If  that  was  so,  he 
certainly  demonstrated  bis  regard  in  an  odd 
vay;  for  I  muat  do  bim  the  justice  to  say 
that  be  bit  me  "  wherever  found,"  To  my 
apprehenaion,  however,  he  treated  every- 
body alike  in  this  respect ;  I  could  detect 
no  Bhade  of  preference  in  bis  manner  of 
raqipiDg  at  my  hands  whenever  he  got  half 
a  chance  to  lay  hold  of  them.  And  yet 
Flossy  is  beloved  by  those  aboat  him ;  nay, 
more — he  roles  the  Bossi  household  with 
practically  undisputed  sway.  No  crowned 
head  is  attended  to  more  obsequiously  than 
he.  It  is  impossible  to  ignore  him  when 
be  wants,  or  fancies  he  wants,  anything; 
for,  until  he  get«  it,  be  accompames  con- 
veraatioD  with  an  inexhaustible  succession 
of  crisp  barks,  produced  at  intervals  of 
&om  ten  to  twelve  seconds.  Sometimes 
this  neif  ormance  dicits  a  mild  remonstrance 
of  "Bnono,  Flossy  1 "  or  a  gentle  rebuke  of 
"  Nojoao,  nojoeo ! "  from  the  lady  of  the 
house.  Sometimes,  when  distraction  is 
painted  on  the   faces  of   all  the  euests 


assembled  round  his  table,  Rossi  performs 
an  often-rehearsed  little  domestic  comedy 
consisting  in  summouing  a  particular  man- 
servant (the  mere  enunciation  of  whose 
Dame  convulses  the  little  dog  wiUi  spasms 
of  ire),  and  commanding  bim  to  remove 
the  offender.  "  Emilio !  piglia  Flossy  e 
portalo  via  I "  is  the  formula  adhered  to  on 
such  occaaious.  Its  immediate  result  is  a 
deafening  outburst  of  indignant  protest  on 
the  part  of  Flossy;  upon  which  Rossi  is 
wont  to  remark,  with  a  benignant  smile, 
"  Is  it  not  amazLDg  bow  intSligeut  that 
dog  is  i  You  see,  ne  understands  all  that 
I  say  about  him,  come  un  vero  Cristianol" 
It  is  probably  the  indomitable  spirit  and 
valour  displayed  by  so  small  an  animal 
that  have  secured  impunity  to  his  manifold 
offences.  Some  years  ago,  another  dog  (of 
whom  I  shall  have  something  to  say 
presently),  exasperated  beyond  hounds  by 
FloBsy's  reckless  provocations,  snapped  at 
him  viciously,  and  tore  his  left  eye  oat  of 
its  socket.  So  painful  an  accident — it 
brought  him  to  death's  door — would  have 
quelled  the  pugnacity  of  most  dogs,  at  least 
for  a  while.  It  did  not  produce  that  effect 
upon  Flossy.  The  lady  who  nursed  bim 
night  and  day  through  hia  danger  has 
assured  me  that  he  growled  at  her,  when 
apparently  in  extremis,  and  bU  the  surgeon 
several  times.  I  can  personally  testify  to 
the  onabated  insolence  of  bis  demeanour 
towards  the  very  dc^  froin  whom  he  had 
received  a  correction  that  well-nigh  proved 
fatal  to  bim. 

That  dog  is  Rio,  a  black  and  white 
Newfoundland  of  extraordinary  size  and 
strength;  frank,  impulsive,  and  masterful, 
an   embarrassing    combination   of   genial 

rd-nature  and  ungovernable  jealousy, 
his  manners  and  utterances  he  is  more 
ursine  than  canine.  When  Dame  Katare 
laid  down  his  lines,  she  had  a  bear  in  her 
mind;  but,  probably  through  some  technical 
error,  her  Ijandiwork  turned  out  a  dog. 
Eio  does  not  live  at  Montughi,  but  at 
Rossi's  Florentine  palace,  whence,  every 
evenii^,  he  is  brought  "on  the  cluun"  to 
visit  his  master  and  mistress  by  a  domesUc 
specially  affected  to  bis  service — a  mild 
obsequious  Tuscan,  who  ministers  to  Rio's 
necessities  with  mingled  terror  and  pride. 
He  is  supposed  to  lead  Bio ;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  Rio  leads  bim,  or  rather  drags  him 
along  at  a  laborious  trot,  varied  by  in- 
voluutary  bounds.  As  the  boor  draws 
nigh  at  which  Rio's  nightly  visits  take 
place,  an  uneasiness  of  deportment  and 
tendencv    towards     self-effacement    make 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


themselves  manifest  in  the  other  Montaghi 
dogs — FfosBf  always  excepted,  who  wonld 
not  badge  from  his  post  of  'vantage  on 
Signors  Kossi's  chair  were  a.  seven-headed 
geiy  dragon  to  enter  the  dining-room. 
Bozzolino  and  Perso,  however,  mvsterioaslf 
vanish,  and  Lnpar  retires  to  honourable 
obscnritf  in  the  stables.  On  arriving. 
Bio  takes  a  preliminary  canter  through  all 
the  reception-rooms  and  servants'  offices 
with  a  view  to  ascertaining  whether  or  not 
any  other  dog  be  larking  about  on  the 
premises.  Having  completed  this  tour  of 
inspection,  during  which  he  is  distinctly 
audible  to  the  ni^ed  ear,  he  gallops  into 
the  saUe-&-m anger,  and  pays  his  respects  to 
his  master  and  mistress.  It  is  during  this 
ceremony  that  his  utterances,  intended  to 
express  the  loyalty  and  devotion  with 
which  his  heart  ia  teeming,  exactly  resemble 
those  of  an  inforiate  bear.  When  we  first 
met,  he  favoured  me  with  a  few  remarks, 
purporting — as  I  was  subsequently  in- 
formed— that  he  was  glad  to  see  me,  and 
hoped  we  should  get  on  together.  I 
thought  my  last  hoar  was  come,  and 
stifi'ened  my  sinews  for  a  death-struggle. 
We  subsequently  became  excellent  friends. 
I  propitiated  him  with  fowl-boses  and 
ultimately  won  his  affection  by  gratifying 
bia  taste  for  chunks  of  bread-crust  steeped 
in  gravy.  In  acknowledgment  of  these 
attentions  he  wonld  roll  on  his  back  at  my 
feet  for  five  minutes  at  a  stretch,  growling 
all  the  while  like  Atta  TrolL  That  is 
Rio's  way  of  apprising  his  particolar  friends 
that  he  is  a  grateful  and  contented  dog. 
But  when  the  jealous  fib  is  upon  him — not 
infrequently  by  any  means — the  latent 
traculcnce  of  his  nature  breaks  out,  and  he 
becomes  uncontrollable,  save  by  one — a 
lady  to  whom  dogs  and  men  alike  submit, 
rejoicing  in  their  sabjugation.  I  mean  the 
Signora  Padrona,  my  esteemed  friend 
Evelina  Rossi,  who,  wi^  a  word  and  glance, 
can  always  bring  the  fierce  Newfoundland 
to  bis  bearings,  and  change,  as  though  by 
enchantment,  the  red  glare  of  his  angry 
eye  into  a.  fond  and  loving  look. 

Bozzolino  is  a  comic  dog,  of  no  recog- 
nised breed.  His  appearance  is  that  of  a 
fat  fox  with  a  curly  brush  and  short  legs. 
Under  a  mask  of  buffoonery  he  conceals 
great  strength  of  will  and  remarkable 
reasonmg  powers.  Seemingly  volatile  and 
eccentric,  he  is  really  a  shrewd  and  pains- 
takingatudentofhumancharacter.  Frivolity 
with  him  is  a  means  to  the  end;  for 
experience  has  tai^ht  him  that  dog-lovers 
regard  it  as  covermg  a  multitude  of  r'— 


Bozzolino  knows  that  a  frivolooa  dog, 
bemg  held  irresponsible  for  his  actions, 
can  generally  have  his  own  way.  He  has, 
therefore,  assiduously  addresBed  himself  to 
earning  a  reputation  for  light-hearted 
eccentricity,  and  with  triumphuit  success. 
For  instance,  it  ia  not  his  homoar  to  sleep 
or  breakfast  at  the  villa,  bat  at  the  bouse 
of  one  of  Rossi's  contadini,  about  half-way 
down  the  avenne  of  cedars  and  olive-trees 
that  leads  from  La  Macine  to  the  high  road. 
Though  he  is  the  signora's  own  personal 
dog — her  body-dog,  from  a  German  pobt 
of  view — she  puts  up  with  his  residential 
. "  vagaries  "  on  the  ground  that  "  Bozsolino 
is  so  frivolous."  As,  after  I  had  known 
him  for  a  day  or  two,  Bozzolino's  frivolity 
struck  me  as  studied  rather  than  apon- 
taneous,  and  somewhat  more  obtrosively 
put  forward  than  was  consistent  with  the 
mbom  carelessness  of  character  attributed 
to  him;  as,  moreover,  upon  several  occa- 
sions (when  he  did  not  know  I  was 
watching  him)  I  had  detected  an  expression 
of  conaammate  slyness  in  his  lively  hazel 
eye,  I  resolved  to  try  whether  close 
observation  of  bia  habits  might  not  enable 
me  to  divine  hia  motive  for  dividing  his 
time  between  luxury  at  the  TilTa — a 
very  dog's  paradise — aud  firogality^l 
the  cottage.  That  he  was  a  sorpaaaingly 
greedy  A'Og  I  knew;  his  appetite  and 
capacity  of  stowage,  considered  in  rela- 
tion to  lus  size,  had  already  astounded 
me ;  and  it  was  his  greediness  that  fumiehed 
the  clue  by  foUovriog  up  which  I  saoceeded 
eventually  in  plncking  out  the  heari;  of 
Bozzolino's  mystery.  As  I  have  already 
stated,  he  never  passed  the  night  at  La 
Macina  After  dinner  every  evening,  when 
cards  or  music  had  set  in,  Bozzolino  dis- 
appeared, and  we  saw  no  more  of  him  until 
the  following  afternoon,  when,  it  being 
the  signora's  daily  custom  to  drive  into 
Florence  at  about  two  p.m.,  he  was  found 
awaiting  her  by  the  cottage  of  his  choice, 
whence  he  escorted  her  vociferously  to  the 
great  iron  gates  of  the  domain,  beyond 
.  which  he  declined  to  follow  the  oarrisge. 
When  she  returned,  however,  no  matter  at 
what  hoar,  Bozzolino  was  "  in  waiting  "  at 
the  contadina's  door,  with  demonstrations 
of  exaggerated  rapture,  to  accompany  her 
home.  Presently  the  dinner-beU  rang, 
and  Bozzolino  took  up  a  strategic  position 
to  the  left  of  the  signora's  chair.  From 
that  moment  till  the  end  of  tiw  repast  his 
gaze  was  riveted  upon  hep  faux,  never 
relaxing  its  pitiful  importunity  for  a 
aeoond,  even  after  it  had  been  responded 


nVE  ITALIAN  DOGS. 


[Dwwmbn  U,  U88.1      129 


to  hj  food  enongh  for  two  d(^  of  hia 
nljbm  His  eveiy  lineament,  bo  to  apeak, 
infeired  privatioit  of  an  alb^ther  onbear- 
ible  stringency ;  his  attitude  and  expres- 
lion  were  ineffably  pathetic.  A  finer  piece 
of  acting  in  dumb  show  I  never  wituesBed, 
nor  did  it  ever  fail  to  produce  the  desired 
effect  "  How  hungry  poor  Bozzolino 
looks,"  the  eignora  wonld  aay,  when  this 
ingenious  pantomime  had  lasted  a  few 
iiuiiDt«8;  "I  am  sure  those  Martflllis  starve 
bim;"  and  a  third  platefbl  of  succulent 
KTaps  would  be  set  before  Bozzolino,  to  be 
cleared  of  its  contents  with  incredible 
■wiftDes&  This  ropplemeot,  this  gross 
mperflnity  of  nourisimient,  was  the  sole 
urn  and  end  of  all  lus  assumed  frivolity 
and  eccentricity  of  habits.  Had  he  taken 
hu  morning  meal  at  home,  like  the  other 
dc^  his  evening  pretence  of  starvation 
miiBt  have  been  promptly  detected,  and 
disgrace  could  hardly  have  failed  to  follow 
ezposnre.  Hia  periodical  visits  to  the 
Martellis,  however,  served  bis  purpose  per- 
fectly, by  exposing  those  worthy  peasants 
to  the  imputation  of  keeping  him  on  short 
commons,  and  thus  justifying  his  mute 
claim  to  an  extra  helping.  A  dogwhoconld 
mature  and  carry  out  to  its  most  delicate 
detail  so  subtle  and  elaborate  a  plan  as 
the  above,  is  a  loss  to  Italian  diplomacy.  His 
ime  Bhoald  be  MachiaviUe,  not  Bozzoliuo. 
Perso's  connection  with  the  Boasi  family 
originated,  as  his  name  indicates,  in  his 
bdng  a  loat  dog.  This  waif  is  yellow,  long, 
ud  wily,  su^esting  a  Yorkshire  tyke 
which  has  made  lifelong  bat  ineffeotoal 
efforts  to  become  a  deerhound.  His 
owners  know  biTp  to  be  an  unusually  con- 
foaed  mongrel ;  but,  in  describing  Mm  to 
ioqnisitive  foreigners,  they  keep  up  a  kindly 
fiction  to  the  effect  that  he  represents  a 
rare  and  curious  variety  of  Apennine  sheep- 
iog.  I  have  observed  that  they  only  atter 
this  myth  in  his  presence ;  from  which  fact 
I  infer  that  it  was  invented  with  a  view  to 
raiting  him  in  his  own  eatimation,  or  at 
least  to  sparing  him  the  bnmiliation  of 
bsmgreferred  toaaanondescripL  Appear- 
ancea  are  certainly  against  Peno;  they 
could  not  well  be  more  so ;  but  the  proverb 
safs  they  are  deceitful,  and  in  his  case  the 
proverb  is  right.  A  gentler,  humbler, 
more  forgiving,  affectionate  creature  never 
drew  breath.  He  is  a  very  worm  for 
meekness  and  diffidence.  His  spirits  must 
have  been  suddenly  knocked  down,  pro- 
bably in  early  life,  by  some  tremendous 
(]<»nestic  calamity,  and  he  has  never  been 
able  to  nick  them  nn.     When  other  doffs 


bite  him  he  only  howls,  and  creeps  away 
sorrowfnlly  to  lick  his  wounds  in  private. 
His  attitude  towards  society  at  large  is  a 
recumbent  and  Inverted  one;  called  or 
spoken  to,  even  In  the  friendliest  tone,  he 
falls  down  prostrate,  turns  limply  over 
upon  bis  back,  and  folds  up  his  four  paws, 
expectant  of  the  worst,  but  deprecating 
excessive  violence.  "  Kick  me,"  he  seems 
to  say;  "you  hare  a  right  to  do  so. 
Heaven  forafend  that  I  ^ould  question 
that  right,  or  reaent  its  exercise.  But,  If 
one  BO  abject  may  venture  to  offer  a 
suggestion,  do  not  utterly  pulverise  me. 
Leave  me  life  enongh  to  permit  of  my 
licking  your  hand,  and  humbly  thanking 
you  for  a  well-merited  correction."  He  Is 
a&aid  of  everything;  I  might  say  of 
nothing,  for  I  have  seen  him  stut  and 
shiver  at  his  own  shadow;  but,  above  all 
else,  of  Bio,  who  one  day,  in  a  paroxysm 
of  jealousy,  took  a  mouUifnl  out  of  his 
head.  When  Perso  hears  his  enemy's  bark, 
far  away  down  the  avenue,  he  begins  to 
tremble  in  every  limb,  as  though  smitten 
with  palsy ;  he  disposes  of  hia  ttul  and  ears 
In  sudt  sort  that  they  all  but  vanish  from 
sight,  and  glides  away  In  a  spectral  manner 
to  the  nearest  hiding-place.  If  discov«ed 
by  the  Newfonndmd,  who  sometimes 
takes  especial  pains  to  hunt  him  up,  he 
grovels  before  that  overbearing  tyrant, 
gasping  with  affright,  and  whimpering  for 
mercy.  A8amleBlo,contentedwithhaving 
demonstrated  his  mastery  over  the  only 
other  la^e  dog  In  the  eatablisbment,  sniffs 
at  him  contemptuously,  uttera  a  monitory 
growl  or  two,  and  turns  away  with  his 
nose  in  the  air,  aa  from  something  too 
despicably  low  to  merit  farther  attention. 
After  an  Interview  of  this  class,  hours 
elapse  before  Perso's  nerves  recover  from 
t^e  Bhock  they  have  sustained.  He  retires 
to  a  comer,  coila  himself  ap  tight,  and 
ahakes.  Perso,  however,  most  have  hia 
moments  of  expansiveneas,  and  cannot  be 
Insensible  to  we  passion  of  love ;  _  for, 
having  noticed  upon  different  occasions, 
whUat  driving  about  the  neighbourhood 
of  Montughi,  several  melancholy  mongrels 
bearing  more  or  less  resemblance  to  my 
abashed  friend  at  La  Macine,  I  ventured  to 
enquire  whether  these,  too,  were  Apennine 
dogs  of  any  peculiar  breed,  and  received 
the  answer :  "  Sono  figli  dl  Pereo."  I  could 
not  have  credited  him  with  the  courage  to 
woo ;  but,  with  respect  to  the  number  of 
his  offspring,  it  appears  that  he  Is  quite  a 
patriarch.  Poasibly  he  finds  consolation 
in    familv   iovs    for    the   WTonsB    of    bis 


D«eniberZ9,  IBSS.l 


ALL  THE  YEA.R  EOUND. 


>light«d  yoath  and  for  the  general  decon- 
lideration  brought  npon  him  by  his  pusil- 
animity.  No  dog  to  whoae  name  the 
idjectiffe  "poor"  is  invariably  prefixed 
Then  he  is  addressed,  or  even  caanally 
nentioned,  can  enjoy  the  proud  moral 
roluptuoueaess  of  Belf-respect  in  connection 
ivith  his  social  relations ;  but  it  may  be 
:hat  lie  is  looked  np  to  by  his  ovn  wives 
ind  children,  and  I  have  reason  to  believe 
irhat  Perso  assumeeanairof  mild  authority 
in  his  domestic  circles.  Unseen  myself,  I 
tiave  more  than  once  seen  him  playfully 
rebnke  one  of  his  consorts — Lupar,  the 
last  of  the  five  Italian  dogs  inadequately 
dealtwith  in  this  hasty  sketch — by  biting  her 
ears.  He  is,  moreover,  somewhat  peremp- 
tory with  his  fleaa.  This  trait,  and  his  con- 
spicnouB  expertneas  as  a  fly-catcher,  incline 
me  to  the  opinion  that  Perso  b.w  some 
latent  energy  about  him,  and  will  some  day 
astonish  his  friends  by  taking  his  own  part, 
perhaps,  even,  by  growling  t 

Of  Lupar,  Perso's  Khanonm  or  chief 
wife,  I  wuh  to  speak  with  such  modera- 
tion as  may  be  compatible  with  my  painful 
remembrance  of  the  harassing  ^rsonal 
inconvenience  and  annoyance  inflicted 
npon  me  by  that  execrable  animal  during 
my  sojourn  at  La  Macina  She  is,  perhaps, 
not  so  much  a  dog  as  a  highly  ingenious 
and  efficient  self-winding-np  engine  for  the 
production  of  barks.  Not  admitted  to  the 
interior  of  the  villa — I  coold  never  lure 
her  even  to  cross  ita  threshold — she  is 
supposed  to  reside  in  a  kennel  specially 
affected  to  her  use  upon  a  broad  stone 
terrace  fronting  the  house.  It  is  her 
official  function,  however,  to  keep  watch 
over  Rossi's  property ;  consequently,  she 
persistently  abstains  from  availing  herself 
of  the  accommodation  provided  for  her, 
and  lopes  up  and  down  the  aforesaid 
terrace  from  dewy  eve  to  sparkling  morn, 
discharging  several  hundred  thousand 
powerful  barks  during  the  hours  usually 
devoted  to  slumber.  As  far  as  she  and 
the  miscreants  she  is  supposed  to  frighten 
away  are  concerned,  nothing  ever  comes 
of  this  dreadful  practice.  Rossi's  vines 
are  plundered  with  impressive  regularity 
by  nocturnal  amateurs  of  the  grape,  who 
carry  off  their  booty  unmolested,  and,  I 
dare  say,  smiling.  But  the  effect  of  Lupar 
on  temporary  residents  at  La  Mactne  is 
disastrous,  maddening,  and — by  reason  of 
the  language  it  provokes — eminently  pre- 
judicial to  their  salvation.  A  good  many 
dogs  inhabit  the  Amo  valley,  and  pass 
their   nights    al  fresco.    Lupar    renders 


them  incessantly  and  hideously  vocal  for 
many  a  mile.  They  would  be  as  silent  as 
oysters  but  for  her.  Whenever  bronchial 
fatigue  compels  her  to  pause  for  a  few 
seconds  their  yelping  at  once  dies  out,  and 
peace  reigns  over  Tuscany.  As  sood  as 
she  ha-t  recovered  breath,  however,  she 
starts  them  off  again  with  a  fresh  solo, 
and  they  take  up  their  choral  parts  as 
vivadously  as  though  murdering  sleep 
were  an  honourable  and  lucrative  pro- 
fession. Then  Tuscany,  or  at  least  the 
stronger  vrithin  its  gates,  becomes  wakeful 
again,  and  impiurs  its  psychical  prospects 
by  a  desperate  endeavour  to  exhaust  the 
Italian  vocabulary  of  expletives.  Lupar 
is  the  head  and  front  of  all  this  offending, 
and  her  moral  responsibilities  must,  by 
this  time,  be  something  tremendous,  for, 
aa  I  am  credibly  informed,  she  has 
shattered  the  rest  of  an  entire  commone 
every  night,  and  all  night  long,  throughoat 
the  poBt  two  year&  If  maledictions  could 
have  consumed  her  during  my  experiences 
of  her  iterative  capacities,  there  would  not 
have  been  on  ash  .of  her  left  on  the  second 
morning  after  my  arrival  at  MontughL 
Fortunately  for  her, ' '  words  are  but  breath, 
and  breath  a  vapour  is."  I  parted  from  her 
without  sorrow,  however,  and  fondly  hope 
I  may  never  hear  her  bark  again.  She  is 
the  only  one  of  the  fire  Italian  dogs  I 
met  at  Ernesto  Rossi's  country  house  wboae 
idiosyncrasies  caused  me  unmitigated 
distress,  and  still  rankle  in  my  memory. 


BY  THE   FIKE. 

Shk  ut  and  mused  by  the  drift-wood  fire, 
Ak  Che  leaping  flnmes  flasbed  high  and  higher. 
And  tJiB  phantoms  of  youth,  as  fair  and  brigiit. 
Grew  for  hsr  gate  in  the  niddy  light ; 
The  bluviomii  she  gathered  in  life^  young  days. 
Wreathed  and  waved  in  the  flickering  blaze  ; 
And  abe  laughed  through  a  lunny  mirt  of  t«MB, 
That  roie  at  the  dream  of  her  April  jeftr« ; 
And  ever  and  aye  the  sudden  nun. 
Flatbed  on  the  glittering  wmdoir-puie. 
SubMKd  and  saddened  the  picturee  that  abowd 
A»  the  drift-wood  ioga  to  a  red  oore  glowedl. 
And  the  fancied  ligarea  of  older  time 
Passed  with  the  steadied  stop  of  their  prime  ; 
The  d^ies  and  snowdroce  bloomed  and  died. 
Red  rosea  and  liliea  itood  side  by  aide. 
While  richer,  and  fuller,  and  deeper  grew, 
The  lines  of  the  pictures  August  drew ; 
And  ever  and  aye  the  falling  r^n, 
Streamed  thiok  and  fast  on  the  window-pane. 
Tba  drift-wood  died  down  into  feathery  ub. 
Where  foiotly  and  GtfuEj  shone  the  flash ; 
Sinwiy  and  sadly  her  pulses  beat. 
And  soft  was  the  fall,  as  of  vanishing  feet ; 
And  lush  and  green  as  from  guarded  grkve. 
She  saw  the  grass  of  the  vallay  wave  ; 
And  like  echoes  in  ruins  seemed  to  sigh. 
The  "  wet  west  wind  ''  that  went  wandaring  bjr. 
And  caught  the  sweep  of  the  sullen  rain. 
And  daahed  it  agunst  the  window-pane. 


Ckntai  Meken*.] 


EOS. 


A  STORY  IN  THREE  CQAFTEBS.  CHATTER  L 
A  SIGH  came  np  ihroQgh  the  forest. 
A  sobbing  breath  of  the  dying  summer. 
It  atiired  the  leaves,  scarlet,  and  ruBset> 
sod  orange,  of  the  trees  that  bad  already 
b^on  to  don  their  antamn  dress,  and 
Kattered  the  petals  of  a  CTimeon-flowered 
creeper  at  the  feet  of  a  man  and  woman 
■tanding  near. 

The  man  stooped  —  mechanically  it 
nemed,  for  hia  face  betrayed  neither 
mtereet  nor  admiration — and  gathered  up 
ttro  or  three  in  liia  hand.  There  was  a 
duster  of  the  same  floirer  at  the  giri's 
Uiroat.  He  had  himself  picked  it,  and 
given  it  to  her  a  short  time  before.  Then 
be  spoke  in  answer  to  her  last  speech. 

"  I  am  glad  yon  say  that  I  was  not  to 
blame.  I  am  afraid  that  I  was.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  do  away  with  that  fear. 
StQl,  it  is  jnst  some  small  aileviatton  to 
the  pain,  that  yon  believe  that  I  would  not 
willingly  have  brought  yon  to  this."  He 
ipoke  in  a  still  genue  voice — a  voice  that 
made  the  itranKest  contrast  to  his  white 
lips  and  fa&^anf  eyes. 

The  prl,  scarcely  out  of  her  childhood, 
flashed  hotly,  then  shivered  from  head  to 
foot 

"  No — no  I "  she  exclaimed  in  sudden 
passion.  "  Ton  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
It  was  all  my  own  fault.  You  wonld  never 
have  asked  me  to  marry  yoa  that  day  if 

I  had  not " 

She  stopped,  and  hiding  her  &ce  in  her 
bmds,  broke  out  into  pittnil  shamed  sobs. 
The  young  man  made  no  attempt  for 
a  moment  to  approach  her.  He  stood 
looking  at  her,  bis  handsome  face  growing 
vhtter,  bis  lips  more  strained  ana  drawn, 
u  if  he  were  bearing  the  burden  of  two 
igonies — his  own  and  hers — and  that  it 
was  almost  more  than  mortal  strength 
coold  endora 

But  he  prevuled.  There  was  a  Carious 
kind  of  repreeaed  strength,  physical  and 
moral,  in  everyUiing  he  said  or  did,  that 
showed  itself  in  every  line  of  bis  face, 
in  every  mnscle  of  his  mu;nificent  figare, 
that  told  the  conquest  votmt  be  his. 

He  took  a  step  over  to  the  sobbing  girl, 
upon  whose  slender  finger  gleamed  a  plain 
gold  ring.  She  did  not  look  np,  but  bent 
a  little  towards  him,  as  if  claiming  hts 
strength  to  support  her.  He  passed  his 
arm  round  her,  and  with,  a  qnick,  long- 
drawn  breath,  she  let  her  head  rest  on  his 
breast. 


iS.  '  [D«<»mlMT»,  IBBS-I      131 

"  It  was  so  wicked  of  me  to  talk  like 
that,"  she  exclaimed,  raising  her  face  after 
a  second  or  two  in  qi^ck  remorseful  pain,  to 
his.  "  You,  who  are  so  good  to  me ;  you, 
who  never  think  from  morning  to  night  of 
any  one  but  me;  yon,  who  are  my  husband, 
just  as  yon  are  my  love  !  Oh,  Michael,  I 
grumble  and  say  hard  things  and  make 
your  life  miserable — yes,  I  do  I  Every  time 
I  am  lonely  and  nnhappy  you  look  as  if  I 
had  nearly  broken  your  heart,  and  yet  you 
are  always  so  gentle  and  patient  But, 
Michael,  I  do  love  yon.  It  is  just  that^  If 
mother  and  all  of  tiiem  ahonld  forgive  me, 
and  want  me  back,  I  would  not  go  without 
you.  I  could  not  live  again  as  1  did,  now 
that  yon  have  once  been  in  my  life.  You 
believe  that,  don't  you  1 "  She  clnng  to 
htm  with  a  childlike,  passionate  abandon, 
and  raising  her  arms  drew  his  tall  head 
down  to  hers. 

He  kissed  her  quivering  lips,  and  drew 
her  closer  to  him. 

For  a  second  there  was  silence ;  only  the 
ceaseless  chirp  of  the  grasshoppers,  so  con- 
stant, so  monotonous,  so  shrill,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  it  were  the  only  sound  in  all 
ite  forest,  broke  upon  the  evening  stillness. 

It  rose  above,  and  crushed  into  insigni- 
ficance, every  other  sound  of  life,  until  it 
appeared  to  Michael  Laurie  as  if  they  two 
and  the  grasshoppers  were  the  only  living 
things  breathing  and  moving  in  all  that 
vast  dimness  of  wooded  avenues. 

Two  solitary  human  beings  acting  out 
there  some  terrible  drama,  with  the  eternal 
chirping  of  those  shrill  grasshoppers  for  the 
chorus. 

It  hurt  him  at  last  It  seemed  to  hurt 
him  more  than  the  sobs  of  the  girl  on  his 
breast  as  they  gradually  became  fainter  and 
died  into  long^rawn  breaths. 

The  shrill  sound  seemed  to  enter  his 
brain  and  prevent  his  thinking,  and  mingle 
with  the  beate  of  his  heiurt,  until  he 
scarcely  knew  if  It  were  beating  at  all,  or 
whether  it  had  not  stopped  ever  since  that 
moment  a  short  time  before,  when  his  wife 
had  upbraided  him  with  bitter,  passionate 
reproaches  for  bringing  her  out  of  her 
happy  girl's  Ufe  into  such  a  place  as  this. 

The  wife  was  still  resting  in  his  arms, 
her  tears  were  still  wet  on  his  hand  which 
she  had  nused  to  her  lips  in  her  remorseful 
pain — but  those  grasshoppers ! 

The  pitiless,  hard  monotony  of  their 
chorus  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  it  all — to 
the  clinging  embrace,  the  bitterness  and 
self-reproach  of  the  tears.  It  was  neither 
mocking,  nor  merry,  nor  doubting. 


132      [Dec«iib«r28.iaSS.l 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


It  only  repeated  over  uid  over  Etgain, 
till  it  Bounded  like  the  beat  of  an  eternal 
pendulum,  the  motions  of  which  had  never 
'  had  a  beginning,  and  might  never  have  an 
end,  the  whisper  of  his  own' heart : 

"  Love  doubts,  love  dies." 

He  had  not  yet  dared  put  the  whisper 
into  words. 

But  the  thought  before  which  his  man's 
strength  and  courage  quailed,  those  grass- 
hoppers caught  up  and  echoed  in  heartless, 
shameless  cruelty,  till  alt  the  wood  rang  with 
the  expression  of  his  heart's  pain.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  movement  from  the  figure  in 
bis  arms.  The  terror  and  the  stillness  of 
the  forest  fell  upon  her  again,  even  though 
she  rested  so  close  to  him  that  she  coiud 
have  counted  every  beat  of  his  heart. 

She  raised  her  head  aixd  looked  round, 
her  eyes  dilating  with  the  fear  and  the  awe 
of  the  place ;  she  caught  his  hand  in  hers 
convulsively. 

"  It  is  lonely,  Michael !  It  is  lonely,  ia  not 
it  1 "  she  cried  with  a  shuddering  breath. 

He  too  glanced  round.  The  dusk  of  the 
summer  night  had  stolen  up  every  opening 
between  the  silent  trees,  and  was  iJready 
close  upon  them,  shutting  them  in  as  with 
a  ghosUy  shroud  from  the  life  and  the  love 
of  the  human  beings  who  dwelt  together  in 
the  towns  and  cities  beyond  the  woods  and 
forests.  He  had  thought  love  was  divine, 
and,  therefore,  all-aufBcient  to  itself.  He 
had  been  mistaken. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  he  said  gently.  "It  is  very 
lonely — though  I  never  found  it  bo  before. 
Come  home  now." 

CHAPTER  II. 

That  night,  when  his  wife  lay  sleeping, 
Michael  Laurie  paced  up  and  down  the 
living-room  of  the  tiny  house  he  had  built 
himself  for  his  love. 

There  was  not  a  nail  but  had  been  driven 
in  by  his  own  hand,  not  a  plank  but  had 
been  cut  from  the  tree  he  had  himself 
felled.  If  Uie  thoughts,  and  the  heart- 
beats, and  the  great  desires,  and  the  pas- 
sionate longings  which  had  entered  into 
every  action  of  his  strong  right  arm,  from 
the  first  stroke  of  the  axe  to  the  last  blow 
of  the  hammer,  could  have  taken  visible 
shape,  that  tiny  cottage,  in  the  midst  of 
the  vast  woods,  would  have  become  a 
temple  such  as  no  mortal  eye  had  ever  yet 
beheld.  Yet,  though  he  had  spent  the 
beat  of  his  strength  and  his  cunning  upon 
it,  it  had  appeared  so  miserable  and  rude  a. 
casket  for  the  treasure  it  was  to  hold, 
that  his  heart  had  failed  him  till  she, 


seeing  it  for  the  first  time,  had  stood  BtHl 
in  a  sUence  of  wonder  and  delist,  and 
then  had  turned  to  him  with  eyea  m  which 
the  misty  tears  could  not  hide  the  love- 
light,  and  with  lips  that  trembled  as  they 
tried  to  smile,  had  said : 

"  Ah,  Michael,  what  a  beautiful  home 
you  have  made  me  I " 

Yea,  it  was  the  same  woman  who  had 
reproached  him  a  few  hoars  ago. 

Michael  drew  a  deep  breath  through  his 
clenched  teeth,  then,  as  if  he  would  ahnt 
out  the  sight  of  everything  that  recalled 
that  day  and  this,  he  flung  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  laying  his  arms  on  the  table, 
buried  his  face  in  them. 

But  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  crush 
out  the  love  of  his  heart 

As  he  sat  there,  the  whole  histoiy  of 
that  love  rose  up  before  him,  each  separate 
act  and  inddsnt  taking  the  shape  of  a 
phantom  shadow,  mocking  at  his  present 
pain. 

The  burning  hotel  with  Hs  horrible 
sights  and  sounds.  The  rescae  of  that 
child-giri  already  scorched  and  wounded 
by  the  fierce  fiames,  and  the  giving  her 
back  to  her  father  and  mother,  who  in 
their  wild  delight  and  gratitude  would 
have  knelt  at  hia  feet  and  blessed  him. 

Him  —  a  working  -  mui,  while  they 
belonged  to  the  great  ones  of  the 
earth  1 

Then  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  life 
Michael  Laurie  felt  the  presence  of  tfae 
great  gulf  fixed  between  the  high-born  and 
earth's  workers. 

Was  it  the  first  timet  Or  was  it  not 
rather  a  foreshadowing  of  its  depth  and 
breadth  which  had  fallen  upon  him,  as  he 
fought  his  way  through  the  smoke  and  Uie 
flames,  the  slight  figure  pressed  closely  to 
his  breast,  when,  as  he  bent  over  her  to  see 
that  she  was  not  hurt  to  the  death,  she 
had  opened  her  eyes,  and  met  hia  with  a 
gaze  that  wonld  l^unt  his  life  to  that  life's 
endl  - 

As  he  eat  there  the  shadows  crowded 
npon  him  so  thick  and  fast  that  they 
bewildered  him. 

How  aU  that  happened  afterwards 
should  have  happened,  he  could  not  under- 
stand. How  her  life  should  have  become 
the  echo  of  the  great  love  that  stirred  bis 
to  its  depthS)  he  could  not  comprehend. 

His  own  greatness  and  strength,  which 
placed  him  far  above  the  average  of  men, 
made  him  humble  as  a  child  in  the  presence 
of  his  love. 

Yet  the  miracle  was  worked,  and  a  day 


to,  too.]    133 


nme,  when  she,  all  inTolaDtarilj,  betr&yed 
tha  tecret  that  tioabled  her. 

WMi  a  Boand  like  a  smothered  groan 
Michael  Laurie  tamed  his  head  lestleBsly. 
Eren  then,  it  wonld  not  haye  been  too  late 
to  leave  her.  Honour,  pride,  love,  all  told 
him  Uiat  he,  a  working-man,  had  nothing 
to  do  with  her  life,  belonging  as  it  did  to 
the  great  and  the  rich.  What  did  it  matter 
tiiat  he,  by  right  of  mental  and  moral 
Hiperiority,  had  been  selected  a  leader  in 
Ilia  own  class,  that  he  gloried  in  that 
»Die  class  as  the  one  bearing  the  beat  and 
Ihe  burden  of  the  day  in  life  s  great  battle  t 
Be  Btill  knew  periectly  that  fortune,  which 
hu  to  great  a  share  in  ruling  men's  lives 
whether  they  will  or  no,  bad  set  her  as  far 
tput  from  lum  as  if  they  had  been  living 
in  separate  worlds.  But  he  stayed.  In 
deqiite  of  the  parents'  opposition  they 
ware  married,  and  she  left  her  own  home 
to  follow  him  to  the  one  he  had  prepared 
for  her.  He  had  been  only  passing  tbroogh 
the  town  when  be  had  saved  her  life,  and 
he  took  her  back  to  the  distant  woods  in 
which  his  work  lay. 

For  the  first  year  the  only  shadow  apon 
ihs  perfect  happiness  of  their  married  life 
WW  the  bitterness  and  grief  of  the  father 
and  mother,  who,  thai  woanded  pride 
Btnuiger  than  tiieir  gratitude,  refosed  all 
attempts  at  reconciliation. 

The  cloud  was  dark  enoughj  Michael 
I«irie  ^knowing  that  they  bad  reason — at 
letst,  the  reason  that  actb  as  tbe  founda- 
tion  of  tbe  laws  by  which  society  governs 
itself — on  their  side,  while  Daisy,  who  had 
baeu  their  only  child,  and  tbe  very  delight 
of  their  hearts,  grieved  intensely  for  tbe 
loea  of  their  Section,  But  tbe  shadow 
only  affected  the  love  between  them,  in 
that  it  drew  them  closer  together,  she 
depending  upon  and  clinging  more  to  tbe 
love  that  most  now  make  her  whole  world; 
he,  enfolding  her  in  a  great  protecting 
tenderness,  exerting  himself,  body  and 
aool,  to  save  her  from  the  very  faintest 
aaed  of  repentance  for  her  rash  act. 

Jnst  one  year  of  great,  perfect  happiness, 
without  a  single  doubt  to  oast  a  shadow. 
Then,  how  it  began  be  could  not  telL 
The  shadow  was  so  faint,  so  intsngible, 
that  settled  down  upon  the  love  of  tbe 
household,  that,  nstil  it  culminated  in 
that  scene  that  afternoon,  be  could  not 
have  put  its  presence  into  words.  He  had 
striven  hard  to  make  himself  her  equal — 
harder,  great  as  his  ambition  had  been, 
than  be  bad  ever  done  in  tbe  old  days 
before  hn  bnnw  her.     Bat.  after  all.  he  was  I 


a  son  of  the  people,  self-tanght,  self-calti- 
vated.  Little  tricks  of  speech,  of  which 
be  himself  was  not  conscious,  tdll  be  saw 
the  sudden  involuntary  sbriaking  in  her 
face ;  common  hardships  and  roughnesBea, 
whtdi,  with  all  his  care,  he  conld  not  quite 
banish  from  their  workaday  life,  and  which 
he,  accustomed  to  them  all  his  life,  scarcely 
noticed ;  the  contact,  even  in  ttus  iar-oat- 
of-the-way  spot,  with  things  and  people 
which  at  one  time  she  had  beheld  as 
from  another  world,  but  which  now,  as 
belonging  to  the  class  and  lot  of  her  hus- 
band, were  necessarUy  brought  so  closely 
into  her  own  life. 

Then  tbe  long  days,  without  even  that 
husband's  presence  to  cheer  and  help 
her. 

Long,  weary  days,  when  he  was  at  bis 
work,  and  she  had  nothing  to  do  hot  dt 
and  long  tor  his  coining,  whUe  the  awe 
and  the  silent  mystery  of  those  vast  woods, 
in  which  she  might  wander  for  days  and 
never  see  a  fellow-creature's  face,  nor  hear 
a  human  voice,  be«an  to  weave  its  spell 
over  ber  and  overshadow  her  life,  coming, 
as  she  had  done,  stnught  from  the 
pleasures,  and  amusements,  and  society 
that  cities  provide  for  the  rich  ones  of  the 
earth. 

The  tbin  end  of  tbe  wedge  had  been 
inserted,  and  Uie  rift  grew  wider  and 
wider  as  the  days  went  on,  and  neither 
the  efforts  of  husband  and  wife  could  close 
it  again ;  and  the  worst  part  was  that  each 
knew  that  the  other  saw  and  felt  its  dread 
presence,  try  as  they  both  would  to  ignore 
it  But  even  that  veil  of  ignorance  bad 
been  rent  at  last.  Oould  it  ever  be  closed 
again  so  periectly  as  to  hide  completely  the 
mistrust,  and  the  bitterness,  and  the  dis- 
appointment 1  And  as  the  grey  morning 
hgbt  stole  into  the  room,  gradually  bring- 
ing into  view  all  tbe  numberless  devices 
wrought  by  bis  band  for  tbe  love  of  his 
life  —  the  carved  book-case,  the  quaint 
brackets,  the  veiy  flowers,  brought  only 
yesterday  from  the  scene  of  his  distant 
work — Michael  Laorie  knew  that  it  would 
never  be. 
He  rose  at  last,  staggering  a  little  as  be 
d  so.  He  stood  stiUfor  a  second,  facing 
the  window,  tbrongh  which  fell  now  the 
daylight,  no  longer  wan,  and  pale,  and 
grey,  but  a  glorious  stream  of  crimson 
sunny  light,  while  saddenly,  iastead  of  the 
shrill,  joyless  cry  of  the  grasshoppers, 
there  had  burst  froia  every  tree  and  shrub 
the  glad,  merry  voices  of  the  birds. 
In  the  nlace  of  the  chill  and  the  utence 


134     [December  £0,1«SS.I 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


of  death,  were  the  stir  and  the  glory  of  glad, 
passionate  life. 

"  YoBj"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  fund 
emile,  thongh  there  was  no  echo  of  the 
earth's  new  gladness  and  hope  in  his  oyes, 
"  Aurora  returned  every  morning  as  beau- 
tiful as  when  she  left  the  earth,  but  she 
forgot  that  Tithonna  was  not  of  the  gods 
like  herself,  and  all  her  love  was  not 
powerful  enough  to  make  him  god-like  toa 
Yet  I,  like  him,  most  live  on  in  her  life  for 
ever." 

He  put  up  his  baud  as  if  the  dazzling 
light  hurt  his  eyes,  then  turned,  and  went 
softly  into  their  sleeping-room. 

Daisy  was  not  awaka. 

She  had  been  crying  bitterly  before 
falling  asleep.  He  ooold  see  that  by  the 
swollen  eyelids  and  feverfloshed  cheek. 
Oue  little  hand,  with  its  golden  circlet,  was 
resting  on  the  round  throat,  and,  as  he  bent 
over  her,  he  saw  that  it  was  clasping  the 
locket  she  always  wore,  day  and  night. 

Oue  day,  some  time  after  he  bad  first 
met  her,  he  had  left  at  her  boose  a  basket 
full  of  a  beautiful  crimson  flower,  for  which 
she  had  expressed  her  admiration.  She 
was  goin?  to  a  ball,  and  wished  to  wear 
some  of  the  flowers  in  her  dress.  He  had 
gone  miles  to  get  them  for  her,  for  they 
only  grew  in  certain  places. 

One  day,  after  they  were  married,  she 
opened  the  locket  shyly  and  showed  him 
inside  some  faded  flower-petals.  She  had 
saved  them  from  the  crimson  creeper. 
Last  night,  she  had  cried  herself  to  sleep, 
holding  the  locket  tightly  in  her  hand. 

The  sight  went  to  Michael's  heart  with 
a  stab  of  intolerable  pun.  She  loved  him 
tibroogh  it  alL 

With  a  look  of  infinite  pity  and  tender- 
ness, he  bent  down  and  touched  her  fore- 
head with  his  pale  lips. 

"  Crods  should  not  mate  with  mortals," 
he  said;  "for even  their  love  is  not  strong 
enough  to  conqner  destiny." 

Then,  without  waking  her,  be  went  out 
to  bis  day's  work,  tor,  i^ter  all,  he  had  her 
bread  to  win. 

CHAPTER  iir. 

When  Michael  Laurie  returned  that 
afternoon  he  found  his  home  deserted. 

His  wife  had  left  him. 

When  he  started  in  the  morning  he  had 
not  meant  to  be  long  away.  He  bad 
hurried  on  the  work,  working  harder  than 
the  men  he  was  snperintendiog,  waiting 
neither  for  food  nor  rest ;  but  in  spite  of 
bis  efforts  the  afternoon  sun  was  already 


casting  long  shadows  when  he  approached 
their  home  again. 

This  afternoon,  there  was  no  wife  waiting 
to  greet  him  as  the  house  came  into  view. 

The  door,  too,  with  its  framework  of 
tangled,  fragrant  creepers,  was  closed. 

Ah  Ius  eyes  fell  upon  it,  Michael  stopped, 
an  exclamation  breaking  from  him. 

Across  the  threshold  lay  the  great 
English  mastiiF  he  bad  given  her  for  her 
companion  and  guardian.  It  never  left  her, 
either  in  her  walks  or  in  the  house,  seem- 
ing to  understand  to  the  full  the  great 
trust  its  master  reposed  in  it 

It  looked  at  Michael  now,  with  a  carioas 
wistful  espreselon  in  its  eyes,  and  then, 
without  attempting  to  come  and  meet  bim, 
flung  back  its  head  and  gave  a  pitifal 
howl 

"  Daisy  1 "  called  Michael,  a  terrible  fear 
sending  the  blood  rushing  back  to  his 
heart  as  he  ran  towards  the  bonae, 
"  Daiay  I " 

There  was  no  answer.  The  bouse  with 
its  closed  door  was  silent,  and  the  onlv 
movement  that  broke  its  oppressive  still- 
ness, was  the  flnttw  of  the  mualin  curtains 
as  the  breese  swayed  tbem  to  and  fro  in 
the  open  window. 

He  opened  the  door  and  crossed  tbe 
threshold,  the  dog  following  him.  The 
first  wild  paroxysm  of  fear  passed,  a 
curious  stillness  seemed  to  have  t^en 
possession  of  Michael. 

It  was  the  passive  acceptance  of  the 
inevitable.  As  he  entered  the  hoase,  it 
was  as  if  all  the  vague  preseDtimente  of 
evil,  the  dull  fear  and  dread  that  had 
Inrkedin  his  heart  before,  hod  taken  viable 
shape,  and  the  sight  of  its  terror,  Medosa- 
like,  had  turned  him  to  stone. 

He  went  from  room  to  room,  though  he 
knew  all  the  time  that  she  wotdd  not  be 
there.  He  did  not  enter  the  sleeping- 
room  in  which  he  had  last  looked  upon  her 
face  only  that  morning.  He  stood  on  the 
threshold  and  looked  dowly  round  it,  then 
he  drew  hack  and  closed  the  door  very 
softly,  very  reverently,  with  an  expression 
on  his  face  as  if  he  were  closing  the  door 
upon  the  dead,  only  the  dead  which  left 
behind  no  hope,  no  waiting  love,  no  trast- 
ing  patience.  Even  the  dog  seemed  to 
feel  some  of  the  chill  despair,  and  crept 
closer  to  bis  side.  By-aud-by  be  found  a 
short  note  from  bis  wife's  father,  saying 
that  be  had  come  to  fetch  his  danghter, 
and  bad  taken  her  away  with  him. 

How  the  next  few  days  passed,  Michael 
could  never  teU.     He  went  to  bis  wort  as 


nRul,  and  niize(}irith  the  other  men,  and 
Ulked  even,  and  ate  to  keep  hi mwlf  alive. 
To  liu  {elloT-irorkDien  he  seemed  to  be 
HTing  his  ordinaiy  life,  except  that  he  did 
not  Tetnrn  to  the  hoaae  in  the  vooda. 
Once,  in  ansver  to  a  question  of  one  of 
tJie  men,  he  said  his  vife  was  dead,  and 
there  wag  something  in  his  voice  and 
ejet  that  made  the  man  ask  no  farther 
question. 
He  did  retnm  to  the  house  once  again. 
It  vas  at  night. 

He  opened  t£e  dootand  vent  in.  Then 
tie  brooght  out  aU  the  things  he  had 
Guhioned  and  mads  himself,  or  that  he 
jiad  bought  for  her  own  parttcnlar  ose  and 
tui<7,  and  piling  them  up  ontside,  set  fire 
to  them. 

He  stood  there  till  eveiTthing  was 
burned,  and  there  only  remainea  sach 
charred  wood  and  ashes  that  the  earth  and 
the  air  conld  soon  destroy,  and  hide  from 
the  eyes  of  men. 

"I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  anyone 
nidiig  them  after  her,"  he  said  to  himself 
u  he  turned  away,  "  and  she  will  never 
mnt  them  again." 

lliea  he  nncloeed  all  the  doors  and 
windows  of  the  house,  leaving  it  open  to 
the  sun,  and  the  winds,  and  the  rain,  that 
they  might  work  their  will  as  they  listed. 
So  he  went  away,  leaving  it  desolate 
tad  deserted  in  the  pale  grey  of  the 
dawn. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  when  a 
messenger  came  from  his  wife's  father,  he 
foond  no  one  to  receive  the  letters  he 
canied,  nor  could  he  hear  any  news  of 
Ujchael  Laurie,  for  the  latter  had  thrown 
op  the  work  upon  which  he  had  been 
engaged,  and  had  gone,  no  one  knew 
wither. 

It  was  a  cleat  frosty  afternoon,  the  last 
day  of  the  old  year.  The  pavements  of 
the  town  were  thronged  by  passers-by  as 
they  harried  from  shop  to  shop,  making 
their  pnrchaaes  of  the  dainty  gifte  to  be 
distribated  on  the  morrow,  while  the  roads 
were  hardly  passable  with  the  carriages 
and  vehicles  of  every  description  that 
flowed  through  them  in  a  great  roaring 
wave  of  traffic. 

AU  the  town  seemed  to  be  out  in  the 
streets,  which  were  full  of  the  murmur  of 
voices,  of  busy  eager  faces,  of  the  rush  and 
the  stir  of  life,  as  it  pulses  and  throbs 
tbrODgh  all  the  arteries  of  a  great  city  of 
gay  shops,  and  sights  of  wealth,  and  luxury, 
and  refinenkent^ 


»S.  [DecembM  29,  ISSS.)      135 

Thoi^h  it  was  growing  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and  the  gas-lamps  were  already  burn- 
ing, the  streets  were  still  full,  and  a  man 
making  his  way  through  them,  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a  great 
town,  felt  bewildered  and  weary  at  the 
endless  stops  and  jostlings,  and  as  he  came 
out  into  a  clear  space,  he  drew  a  breath  of 
relief,  wondering  with  a  vague  kind  of 
curiosity  how  people  ever  grew  used  to  the 
close  air,  the  noise,  the  unreBt,  the  reckless 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  or  profit,  or  advance- 
ment, that  appear  to  make  up  the  sum  of 
city  life.  The  dusky  shadows  had  filled  the 
whole  of  one  of  the.  broadest  and  finest 
streets  of  the  town  when  ne  turned  into  it. 
He  had  come  witli  a  purpose,  judging  from 
the  steady,  unening  conrse  he  had  pursued 
to  reach  this  street,  but  as  he  turned  into  it 
something  within  him  seemed  to  fail  him. 
He  hesitated,  and  then  began  to  walk  with 
laggard  feet  down  its  length. 

Suddenly  a  carriage,  containing  a  gentle- 
man and  a  lady  closely  wrapped  in  furs, 
rolled  swiftly  towards  him.  He  had  only 
just  time  to  step  into  the  shadow  of  one 
of  the  doorways  when  it  polled  up  at  the 
house  next  to  him. 

At  the  same  moment  Uie  door  opened 
and  a  flood  of  light  fell  ftom  the  hall  upon 
the  pavement,  while  a  man  and  a  maid- 
servant came  quickly  down  the  steps.  The 
gentleman  was  alrsEuly  helping  the  lady  to 
alight,  and  while  the  old  butler  gathered  Dp 
her  wraps,  the  maid  assisted  her  mistress. 
The  slight  delicate  woman  in  her  rich 
dress  of  furs  seemed  the  centre  round 
which  the  whole  care  and  tenderness  of 
the  house  clustered. 

A  centra  of  interest  doomed  to  be  the  very 
frailest  upon  which  hnmui  hopes  were  ever 
set,  judging  from  the  face  upon  which  the 
lamplight  fell  as  she  mounted  the  steps. 
Thin,  white,  fragile,  with  a  listless,  hopeless 
look  in  the  great  dark  eyes,  and  despairing 
sorrow  in  the  curve  of  the  mouth. 

As  Michael  Laurie,  with  a  start  of 
shocked  horror,  bent  forward  to  gaze  into 
the  face  of  the  woman  he  had  oome  firom 
so  far  to  look  upon  once  again,  the  other 
man  saw  hloL  He  too  started,  but  he  did 
not  say  a  word.  He  assisted  his  daughter 
into  the  house,  and  then,  coming  out  again, 
pulled  the  door  to  after  hioL.  He  had  only 
been  absent  a  few  seconds,  the  carriage 
had  not  yet  tnmed  the  end  of  the  street, 
when  he  stood  by  the  side  of  Michael 
Laurie. 

The  latter  had  not  moved  from  the  spot 
from  which  he  had  seen  his  wife. 


136    [D««nib«t»,  lea.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EOtTNB. 


The  elder  nan  laid  hie  bud  on  hia 
arm. 

"  Yea,  mj  daughter  is  dviiig,"  he  said 
in  Btill,  hard  tones,  "and  it  is  you  vho 
have  liillod  her.  Why  did  yon  go  avay 
without  a  word  1 " 

"  Dying ! "  Michael  repeated  the  word 
mechanicaJly.  Then  some  of  the  sense  of 
the  other's  speech  seemed  to  dawn  upon 
him.  "  Bat  ehe  left  me.  She  grew 
tired.  Yet  I  thoaght  I  could  have  made 
her  happy," 

The  father  paid  no  attention  to  hie 
trords.  All  the  pride  and  the  arrogance 
of  hia  nature  had  vanished  in  the  pain  of 
seeing  hia  child  fading  slowly  before  his 
eyes. 

"She  did  not  leave  yon.  If  yon  had 
not  diatmsted  her  so  quicUy  yon  wonid 
have  had  so.  explanation.  I  found  her, 
that  day,  ill — dying,  I  waa  afraid  then. 
You  do  not  know,"  he  glanced  np  at  an 
upper  window  from  which  a  light  shone, 
"  yon  hars  not  heard,  and  we  could  not 
let  you  know.  I  took  her  away  that  day. 
She  was  too  ill  to  write,  and  I  left  that 
note.  I  confess  I  was  still  angry  with  you. 
I  confess  that  there  I  did  the  wrong  that 
haa  been  punished  so  bitterly  since.  I  did 
not  explain  that  I  had  only  perenaded  her 
to  come  on  the  condition  that  yon  were  to 
come  too.  Afterwards  it  was  too  late. 
Yon  had  gone." 

"  Why  should  I  have  stayed  t  I  thought 
it  was  of  her  own  free  will." 

"  It  waa  not  ■  And  since  her  child  " — 
Michael  started ;  up  till  this  moment  he 
could  only  think  of  one  thing :  that  Daisy 
waa  dying — "  waa  bom  she  has  been 
gradually  fading  away.  It  seemed  as  if, 
when  there  was  no  longer  any  hope  of 
Rnding  you,  she  lost  all  deaire  to  live. 
Yon  luone  can  call  her  back,  if  only  it  be 
not  too  late." 

Micfaael  Laurie  put  him  on  one  aids  and 
moved  towards  the  honae. 

"  No,  not  at  once,"  said  the  other, 
detaining  hint  "The  shock  might  kill 
her.    I  must  prepare  her  for  seeing  yoo." 

How  louK  Michael  Laurie  paced  np  and 
down  outaide  the  house  he  did  not  know. 
It  aeemed  an  eternity,  in  which  he  lived 
over  again  all  the  bittemeas,  and  tiie 
deapair,  and  the  blankueaa  that  had  fallen 
upon  hia  life  when  he  thought  Daisy  had 
left  him  for  ever. 

He  was  called  at  last  It  waa  his  wife's 
mother  who  brought  him  to  the  room 
where  hia  wife  awaited  him. 

Bnt  he   had  no  word   for   her  as  he 


followed  her.  It  would  have  been  as 
impossible  to  apeak  to  any  one  of  the 
interview  that  was  to  take  place,  aa  in  that 
supreme  moment  to  notice  the  rich  carpets 
and  silken  hangings,  the  hundred  s^na  of 
luxury  and  weiuth  that  had  been  given  np 
once  for  love's  saka  In  apite  of  the  choma 
of  grasshoppers,  love  aeemed  once  more 
all-powerful,  all-sufficient. 

Outaide  the  door  he  was  left  alone. 

Be  opened  it  and  went  in. 

Daisy  had  had  her  baby  brought  to  her, 
and  as  ne  entered  she  rose  from  her  chair, 
the  child  pressed  close  to  her  breast,  and 
tried  to  come  to  meet  bim.  Bat  even  if 
the  trembling  ibat  had  aeized  her  had 
allowed  her  to  move,  there  would  have 
been  no  need.  The  next  second  he  was  at 
her  side,  and  kneeling  down  had  stretched 
his  arms  round  her,  resting  his  head  againat 
the  arms  that  held  his  child  and  hen. 

He  could  not  have  apoken  that  first 
moment  in  which  he  stood  in  the  presence 
of  the  woman  who  had  changed  so  terribly 
since  he  last  saw  her.  She  had  nothing  to 
say  either,  but  her  eyea  filled  slowly  with 
tears  that  seemed  to  well  up  from  her  very 
heart's  depths,  and  fell  aof  Uy  on  the  sleep- 
ing child. 

Michael  was  the  first  to  move.  The 
trembling  of  the  alender  fignre  in  his  arms 
reminded  him  how  little  she  could  bear  of 
either  joy  or  sorrow. 

He  rose  to  hia  feet,  and  drew  her  and  the 
child  close  to  him,  supporting  them  both 
with  his  own  strong  arms. 

"  You  have  quite  forgiven  me,  Michael ) " 
she  asked.     "  If  only  you  knew  how " 

"  Don't  speak  of  it  any  more.  I  under- 
stand now,  but  I  did  not  know  then,  and  I 
thought  you  would  not  wish  to  see  me 
again,  and  the  knowledge  that  I  could  do 
nothing  to  separate  your  life  from  mine, 
to  leave  you  free  as  I  found  yon,  was  almost 
more  than  I  could  bear.     Now " 

"  Now  yon  will  never  leave  me  any  mors, 
Michael,  life  seems  abnoat  too  good  \ 
Even  my  father  and  mother  have  foigiven 
me.  Do  yon  know  what  they  wish  1  That 
yon  and  I  should  live  with  them  here,  that 
you  should  give  up  your  work  and  all  the 
hardneea  and  trouble  of  your  old  life,  so 
that-I  may  share  with  you  the  good  things 
that  belonged  to  mine.     Oh,  Michael  I" 

Resting  closely  against  hia  heart,  she 
had  felt  the  sadden  faint  tremor  that  had 
passed  through  him.    It  terrified  her  again. 

"  You  win  not  refuse  1  Mother  and 
father  will  not  let  me  go  away  again.  It  | 
will  break  thwr  hearts  if  yon  take  me.  ] 


And  I  ahonld  go  if  yon  wished  it  I  cannot 
pre  yon  np.  But  it  is  ao  hard  (o  dis- 
pltue  them.  They  hare  been  bo  good 
to  ma  and  to" — her  pale  &ce  flashed  as 
she  looked  down  at  the  child — "  our  child. 
Yon  will  not  lefose  them  thial  It  will 
only  be  accepting  all  the  things  yon  deeerra 
And  we  shsjl  be  able  to  go  to  Europe  and 
aee  the  places  and  the  pictures  ^on  talk  so 
much  of,  and  yon  will  have  time  to  read 
snd  study  aa  yon  hare  always  wished, 
ud  yon  can  do  great  things  foi  the  poor 
uid  tiie  hud-working.  It  can't  be  so  rery 
hard  to  say 'yes '  to  all  this." 

There  was  a  second's  pause. 

In  that  one  second  there  rose  np  before 
Michael  Laurie  all  that  that "  yea  meant. 
It  meuit  renouncing  the  honest  indepen- 
dence his  pride  and  his  manliness  delighted 
in;  the  daily  toil  that  he  honoured  as  a 
gift  from  God's  hand  itself ;  the  power  and 
ths  inflnence  that  personal  contact  won 
orer  the  lives  of  the  men  belonging  to  the 
class  he  lored  better  than  all  others,  as 
being  his  own.  It  meant  all  this  and  still 
more.  It  meant  to  him  the  sacrifice  of  his 
whole  present  life,  with  its  aims  and  its 
infinences — and  in  return,  what  would  he 
harel 

The  cramped,  fettered  existence  of 
society ;  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  luxury, 
the  bisndage  and  the  gall  of  dependence. 
He  would  not  eren  be  his  own  master. 

"Uichael  I  If  not  for  our  sake,  for  our 
child's." 

He  had  tamed  his  face  away  as  the 
fierce  straggle  went  on  in  his  heart.  He 
had  forgotten  his  lore  in  the  question  of 
his  Ufa     Her  voice  called  him  back  to  its 


He  looked  down,  snd  at  the  sight  of  her 
face  with  ite  terrible  delicacy,  at  the 
■leader  figure,  that  but  for  his  support 
would  have  aimk  like  a  broken  reed  to  the 
ground,  the  Btorm  was  hushed.  What 
had  they  saidf  He  alone  could  bring  her 
back  from  the  gates  of  death.  Whether 
for  good  or  for  eril  her  life  had  been 
linked  to  his,  and  nothing  could  separate 
them  now ;  her  fate  was  in  his  keeping. 
A  sudden  cold  dread  seized  him  that  ereu 
this  yielding  up  might  be  t«o  late  to  aare 
her. 

"I  will  stay,"  he  said,  and  he  bent  and 
kilted  her  lip  with  a  grave  aolemnity 
that  made  the  kiss  like  the  seal  of  a  con- 
nuumated  aamrifice. 

"  Yoa  are  so  good  to  me ! "  she 
whispered  softly  with  grateful  humility. 
"  Can  my  love  repay  you  1 " 


[DecaiDbeT!9,18S31      137 

But  even  she  could  not  quite  enter  into 
the  breadth  and  the  depth  of  his  renuncia- 
tion, and  he  knew  that  ahe  could  not 

Perfect  happiness  brought  back  to 
Daisy  the  health  of  which  those  who 
loved  her  had  despaired.  Aa  soon  as  she 
coold  travel,  she  and  Michael  went  to 
Europe,  spending  a  new  honeymoon  in  its 
towns  rich  with  the  treasures  of  ages, 
wandering  through  lands,  every  step  of 
which  had  its  own  history  or  quaint  old- 
world  legend. 

When  they  returned  they  vrent  to  live 
with  Daisy's  people.  Their  wealth  and 
position  naturally  placed  them  in  the  fore- 
most ranks  of  society.  Little  by  little, 
though  her  lore  never  failed  from  being 
the  mainspring  of  her  existence,  Daisy 
took  up  her  me  as  she  had  led  it  before 
she  married. 

Society  makes  clums  in  proportion  to 
the  returns  it  expects,  and  as  Daisy  Laurie 
belonged  to  the  rich  and  powerful,  its 
demands  were  necessarily  great,  leaving 
her  less  and  less  time  to  enter  into  the 
aims  and  pursuits  of  her  husband. 

Michael  accompanied  her  often  to  her 
balls  and  her  fStea — always  in  the  first 
years  of  their  married  life ;  Daisy  wishing 
him  to  take  the  place  she  meant  him  to 
hold. 

But  she  need  not  have  feared  his  being 
slighted.  The  fashionable  world,  with  one 
of  its  sudden  caprices,  would  have  made 
much  of  him  if  he  had  allowed  it  to  do  so. 
The  man's  own  splendid  strength  and 
beauty,  his  natural  power,  mental  and 
physical,  coapled  with  the  wealth  and 
position  he  had  gained — the  latter,  of 
course,  having  the  greatest  weight — made 
him  a  hero  of  romance  to  the  mind  of 
society.  But  he  had  as  little  inclination 
to  be  adnured  or  lionised  as  he  had  to 
live  the  life  which  fashion  demanded. 

The  air  of  society  stifled  and  oppressed 
him,  and  whenever  he  conld  free  himself, 
he  went  to  his  hooka  or  the  work  he  had 
made  for  himsell  He  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  people  among  whom  he 
was  thrown,  the  love  of  his  wife  being 
the  single  chain  that  bound  him  to  their 
rich  and  frivolons  world. 

Fettered  and  bound  as  he  was,  he 
conquered  his  fate  in  that  ho  found  that 
everywhere  work  was  waiting  to  be  done. 

Envied,  admired,  respected,  possessed 
of  one  blessing  above  all  others-— a  bleasing 
that  even  a  mvoloua  society  could  under- 
stand when  it  belonged  to  men  and  women 
in  80  rich  And  high  a  position — that  of  a 


13) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


love  that  made  his  marriagd  proverbial 
for  ita  bappinesB,  not  one  suspected  that, 
to  the  end  of  his  days,  Michael  Laurie 
could  never  listen  to  the  cry  of  the  grass- 
hoppers without  ft  bitter  -  sweet  smile 
coming  to  hia  lips,  as  his  thoughts  would 
go  back  to  a  day  when  a  certain  goddess 
had  prayed  that  the  mortal  she  loved 
might  have  eternal  life,  but  forgot  to  ask 
that  hia  nature  might  become  as  hera 
Without  which  he  might  never  be  con- 
tented and  satisfied. 


petroleum: 

It  is  popularly  supposed  that  petroleum 
is  an  American  "  institution  "  not  more 
than  twenty  or  thirty  years  old.  Even 
Mr.  K  Y.  Smalley,  in  his  most  interesting 
paper  on  the  subject  in  the  July  number 
of  The  Century  Magazine,  writes  almost 
as  if  the  discover;  mentioned  by  Dr.  Hil- 
dreth,  in  1826,  of  oil  in  a  brine-ehaft  in 
Ohio,  were  the  first  knowledge  of  the 
miuOTaJ.  It  seems  to  us  that  uois  should 
rather  be  called  the  first  instance  of 
"  striking  oil,"  although  Colonel  Drake,  in 
1659,  gete  IJie  credit  of  being  the  first 
striker.  In  the  case  of  the  Ohio  man,  the 
find  was  accidental  in  sinking  for  salt 
water ;  in  the  case  of  Drake  it  was  inten- 
tional It  is  a  mistake,  however,  to  sup- 
pose that  either  was  the  beginning  of  the 
knowledge  and  employment  of  petroleum. 

In  Asia,  and  also  in  Eastern  Europe,  a 
natural  mineral  oil— which  is  what  petro- 
leum is — has  been  known  for  quite  four 
thousand  years.  It  was  known  to  the 
people  of  Nineveh,  as  Layard's  researches 
have  proved,  and  it  has  been  held  that  the 
"slime"  with  which,  according  to  the 
Biblical  record,  that  city  was  built,  was 
nothing  but  a  se mi-solidified  petroleum. 
At  the  springs  of  Is,  on  the  Euphrates, 
there  are  wells  which  to  this  day  supply 
the  district  with  oil,  and  which,  without 
doubt,  supplied  Nineveh  and  Babylon  of 
old. 

The  oil-wells  of  Zante  were  known  to 
the  Romans  five  centuries  before  Christ, 
and  that  the  illuminating  qualities  of  oil 
were  understood  is  evident  from  the  fact 
that  the  "  Sicilian  oil "  used  in  the  lamps 
was,  aa  mentioned  by  Pliny,  obtained  from 
the  oil-wells  of  Agrigeutum.  Even  farther 
west,  the  oil  must  have  been  fonnd  at  a 
comparatively  remote  period,  for  the  city 
of  Genoa  was  long  lighted  with  oil  derived 
from  wells    on    the  Taro.     The  curious 


mineral  tallow  long  found  in  wells  in 
Galicia,  in  Moldavia,  and  occasionally  in 
Scotland  —  sometimes  called  Hatchetine, 
and  sometimes  Oeokerite — is  just  a  semi- 
solid petroleum. 

Idiialine  is  another  mineral  depodt, 
found  for  many  centuries  in  various  parts 
of  the  world,  and  almost  identical  in 
chemical  composition  with  petroleum.  The 
bituminous  asphalts  of  Switzerland, 
Sweden,  Wallachia,  Mexico,  Barbadoes, 
Trinidad,  and  elsewhere,  are  all  of  the 
same  family,  and  are  all  old  acquaintances. 

And  here  it  should  be  explained  that 
although  Uie  terms  mineral  wax,  mineral 
tallow,  mineral  grease,  and  mineral  fat 
are  frequently  used,  the  product  to  which 
they  are  applied  has  really  no  analogy 
with  wax  or  tallow.  In  fact,  it  is  its  want 
of  affinity  with  any  other  known  sub- 
stance which  has  led  to  the  adoption  of 
the  name  paraffine — from  parum  affinis 
(little  akin). 

In  Asia,  petroleilm  has  been  fbond-on 
the  shores  of  the  Caspian  Sea  from  time 
immemorial  In  Hindustan  it  has  been 
found  for  centuries,  and  "Rangoon"  <ui 
was  brought  to  this  country  many  yean 
before  Drake's  lucky  "  strike." 

Even  in  America  itself  there  are  evi- 
dences that  many  centuries  ago  petroleum 
was  unearthed  to  a  considerable  extent 
Old  workings  have  been  found,  in  which 
trees  are  now  growing,  bearing  the  marks 
of  hundreds  of  years'  growth. 

Later  on  in  the  history  of  the  American 
continent,  the  product  was  known  to  at 
least  the  Seneca  Indians,  bnt  they  used  it 
for  varnishing  their  skins  and  for  mixing 
with  their  war-paint  A  French  traveller, 
in  1750,  described  a  religions  ceremony  of 
the  Indians  which  he  attended  in  th* 
Alleghany  mountains.  The  site  was  where 
a  small  stream  entered  the  river,  and  the 
surface  of  this  stream  was  covered  vrith  s 
thick  scum.  After  an  oration  from  the 
chief,  a  torch  was  applied  to  this  scum, 
and  great  flames  broke  out  on  the  surface 
of  the  water  amid  the  shouts  of  the  tribes. 
The  site  has  been  identified  as  that  of  Oil 
Creek  in  Pennsylvania,  but  there  is  some 
doubt  of  the  religions  character  of  the 
ceremony  described,  Mr.  Smalley  says 
that  prior  to  1859  the  product  on  Oil 
Creek  was  utilised  by  a  patent  medicine 
company,  who  collected  and  sold  it  under 
the  name  of  Seneca  Oil 

In  1833,  Professor  LiUiman  gave  an 
account,  in  the  pages  of  The  American 
Journal  of  Science,  of  a  spring  which  he 


PETROLEUM. 


(D«c«nlwt »,  133S.] 


!  Tuited  in  the  western  part  of  Alleghany 
CoDDty,  N.Y.  In  this  case  there  was  "  no 
outlet  above  ground, no  stream  Sowing  from 
iL  It  is  ...  a  stagnant  water  vith  no 
otber  drcalabion  than  that  which  springs 
from  the  changes  of  temperature  and  from 
the  gss  and  petrolemn  that  are  constantly 
lidng  on  the  surface  of  the  pool" 

Alter  coDtetstiog  its  appearance  with 
diat  of  the  "  Oil-well  at  St.  Cabherina'a, 
near  Edinborgh,"  he  deacribod  how  the  oil 
Tiu  skimmed  off  the  surface  with  broad 
Imife-ahaped  boards.  The  foul,  greasy, 
dirty  mass  was  then  purified  by  being 
heated  and  strained  through  flannel,  and  was 
tiien  sold  ta  the  people  for  curing  sprains 
and  rheumatjsm,  and  for  rubbing  on  sores 
on  the  horses.  In  this  connection  it  is 
noteworthy  that  a  popular  remedy  of  our 
own  day — Vaseline— «  amply  petroleum 
greaie. 

There  have  been  Tariona  theories  ad- 
Tanced  at  different  times  aa  to  the  nature 
ud  origin  of  petrolentn.  These,  however, 
may  now  be  narrowed  down  to  twa  The 
first  is  that  the  oU  has  been  distilled  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  from  bituminous 
shale  at  a  very  high  temperature,  and  was 
all  produced  at  one  excited  and  phenomenal 
period  in  the  world's  history.  The  other 
is  that  the  oil  is  the  result  of  distillation 
{irom  bituminous  shale  at  a  low  tempera- 
tare,  b^inning  almost  with  the  formation 
of  the  strata  and  still  continulag.  The  fact 
that  ^e  supply  in  America  never  seems  to 
get  nearer  exhaustion,  in  apite  of  the 
enormous  drain  upon  it,  favours  the  latter 
theory.  There  have  been  repeatedly  sudden 
diminutions  in  the  suppliea  of  certain 
areas,  and  sometimes  a  total  disappearance, 
bat  new  districts  are  alwa^  being  dis- 
covered, and  the  yield  goes  on,  fluctuating 
from  time  to  time  in  rate,  but  always  main- 
taining its  volume. 

A  remarkable  instance  of  the  fluctuating 
character  of  the  supply  was  afforded  in  the 
Cherry  Grove  burst,  and  rapid  subsequent 
collapse,  of  which  Mr,  Smdley  gives  such 
a  graphic  account.  In  this  case  an  entirely 
new  area  last  year  suddenly  began  to 
produce  at  the  rate  of  thirty  thousand 
barrels  per  day.  The  supply  in  this  district 
fell  off  almost  as  quickly  aa  it  came,  and 
withhi  six  months  the  whole  place  was  a 
deserted  wildemees  again. 

For  information  as  to  the  methods  of 
boring  for  and  handling  the  oil,  the  reader 
cannot  do  better  than  refer  to  the  article 
by  Mr.  £.  V,  Smalley,  which  we  have 
oeDUoDed.      We    oronose   to  add  some 


further  information,  from  our  own  notes, 
of  an  industry  with  which  the  present 
writer  has  be&n  more  or  less  connected  for 
many  years. 

The  oil-wells  of  America  are  of  two 
characters,  namely,  those  which  flow  spon- 
taneously, and  those  which  require  to  be 
pumped.  Some  wells  have  been  known  to 
spout,  regularly,  asmuchasone  thousand  five 
hundred  barrels,  or  sixty  thousand  gallons, 
per  day,  so  that  the  teeming  wealth  of 
Mr.  Gilead  P.  Beck,  in  The  Golden  Butterfly, 
was  not  a  gross  exaggeration.  With 
pumping,  the  yield  in  other  cases  hae  been 
much  greater,  and  about  1861  there  were 
severw  instances  where  the  yield  was 
between  three  thousand  and  four  thousand 
barrels  per  day  each  welL  The  first 
Cherry  Grove  well  is  said  to  have  spouted 
four  thousand  barrels  the  first  day.  In  no 
case,  however,  was  this  excessive  rate  of 
production  maintained  longer  than  a  few 
months.  The  majority  of  the  flowing  wells 
are  now  abandoned,  as  the  old  distncts  of 
supply  are,  as  Mr.  Smalley  tells  us,  getting 
exhausted.  The  entire  area  of  the  oil- 
producing  district  of  the  United  States  is 
only  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  in  length, 
and  varies  in  breadth  from  one  to  twenty 
miles.  Yet  in  this  comparatively  small 
area  much  of  the  strata  is  either  unproduc- 
tive or  has  been  already  run  dry.  There 
are  now  about  twenty  thousand  wells  in 
the  States,  but  the  average  yield  was 
lately  only  three  and  a  baU  barrels 
per  dar.  A  new  well  now  generally 
yields  "by  pumping  from  ten  to  thirty 
barrels  per  day — the  average  being  about 
fifteen  barrels — but  the  old  weUs  yield  so 
much  more  slowly  that  the  average  of  the 
whole  is  not  more  than  we  have  just  stated. 
Indeed  it  seems  to  be  growing  rather  less, 
if  anything,  for  the  statistics  for  July 
show  the  production  of  the  month  to 
have  averaged  only  about  sixty -three 
thousand  five  hundred  barrels  per  day. 
There  were  probably,  however,  not  more 
than  eighteen  thousand  wells  actually 
working.  The  average  daily  production 
in  1875  was  only  twenty-three  thousand 
barrels;  in  1878  it  had  risen  to  forty-two 
thousand  barrels;  in  1880  it  was  sixty- 
seven  thousand  barrels;  in  1881  it  was 
seventy-five  thousand  barrels,  and  in  1882, 
owing  to  a  sudden  accession  of  the  Cherry 
Grove  wells,  it  reached  eighty-three  thou- 
sand barrets.  The  present  average,  it  will 
be  seen,  is  belov  that  of  either  of  the  last 
three  years ;  but  the  production  has  long 
been  in  excess  of  the  consnmntion,   and 


140     lDec«mbac  IB,  ISSt.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


the  atocka  of  refined  oil  in  London  on 
Slat  Jnly  lut  were  nearly  fift;  per  cenL 
greater  tlisn  they  were  in  1882. 

Tte  refining  ot  the  crude  oil  for  muket 
haa  gradually  mereed  into  a.  very  few 
hands.  In  point  of  fact  it  ia  the  monopoly 
of  a  gigantic  combination,  called  the 
Standard  Oil  Company,  who  practically 
control  the  trade  in  burning-oil.  Any 
man  may  bore  for  oil,  and,  if  fortunate  in 
"atriking,"  he  may  do  very  well  by  selling 
hia  produce  to  the  Standard  Oil  Company, 
who  convey  it  through  milea  of  pipes  to 
their  reBnere.  Bnt  woe  to  him  if  he 
attempts  to  refine  it,  and  woe  to  the 
Inckleaa  atore-keeper  who  tries  to  sell  other 
oil  than  the  Standard  Company's.  This 
tjrrannical  company  haa  been  known  to 
start  grocery  and  general  stores  in  the 
small  towna,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  under- 
selling and  eventually  mining  men  who 
have  dared  to  deal  in  other  oil  than  theirs. 
There  probably  never  was  in  trade  a 
monopoly  ao  gigantic  and  so  tyrannical  as 
thia  has  becoma  It  ia  chufed  under, 
denounced  in  the  newspapers  and  in  conver- 
sation, and  cordially  disliked.  Bat  it  is 
too  strong  to  be  broken,  apparently,  for  the 
capital  and  influence  wielded  by  the 
members  of  the  company  are  practically 
unlimited.  For  one  thing,  this  company 
does  not  encourage  high  prices,  for  nigh 
prices  attract  competition,  and  competition 
is  troublesome  and  expensive  to  the  com- 
pany. Their  influence  ia  always  to  keep 
down  the  price  of  bumingoil  at  a  moderate 
level,  and  thus  the  consumer,  at  any  rate, 
is  not  injured  by  the  monopoly. 

Besides  the  production  of  the  United 
States,  there  is  a  condderable  production 
in  Canada.  The  yield  in  1882  was  forty- 
five  thousand  barrels  per  month.  The 
deposits  on  the  shores  of  the  Caspian  Sea 
have  of  late  been  greatly  developed.  At 
Baka  there  are  nearly  four  hundred  works 
actively  producing  petroleum,  and  in  1881 
as  much  as  one  hundred  and  ten  thousand 
tans,  or,  say,  seven  hundred  thousand 
barrels,  equal  to  twenty-eight  million 
gallons,  was  exported  from  BaJLU.  It  has 
been  principally  sent  heretofore  into 
Central  Asia,  but  the  completion  of  the 
line  of  raUway  to  Batonm  will  no  doubt 
bring  it  extensively  into  European  markets. 
The  Caspian  oil  is  slightly  inferior  to  the 
American  oil  in  illuminating  properties, 
bat  its  residuum  is  richer  in  nse^l  pro- 
ducte,  The  method  employed  In  the 
Baku  district  is  boring,  and  when  the 
shafts  reach  the  deposits,  the  eruption  ia 


usually  very  violent,  and  spouting  will 
continue  for  some  days.  There  are  snrfaee- 
wells,  also,  however,  where  the  oil  oozm 
out  Hiontaneoualy,  and  on  the  surface  of 
the  Caspian  Sea  itself  the  oil  is  always 
foond  floating,  ai  if  dischaKed  from  some 
springs  under  the  sea.  It  nad  been  the 
custom  to  skim  thia  supply  from  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  long  before  boring  was 
attempted.  As  regards  other  sources  of 
supply,  we  may  add  that  a  natural  oil  of 
excellent  quahty  is  produced  in  Bavaria, 
in  Hanover,  in  Boumania,  and  in  the 
Limogne  Valley  in  France.  Quite  lately 
it  was  announced  that  valnabls  deposits 
bad  been  discovered  in  the  upper  provinces 
of  the  Argentine  Bepublic. 

We  have  indicated  the  dimenrions  of 
the  petroleum  industry  in  America,  bnt  it 
is  practically  impossible  to  estimate  tiie 
aitaount  of  money  invested  in  it^  HilhoDs 
have  doubtleas  been  expended  in  sinking 
for  wells  never  found,  and  in  working  wells 
now  abandoned.  The  cost  of  sinking  s 
well,  with  complete  apparatus,  is,  according 
to  Mr.  Smalley,  between  six  hundred  ana 
eight  hundred  pounds.  Then  to  the  aggre- 
gate of  the  first  cost  of  all  the  wells  sank 
or  being  sunk,  haa  to  be  added  the  capital 
employed  in  barrel-making,  refining,  con- 
veying, etc  We  have  found  it  impossible 
to  gather  data  on  which  to  form  even  a 
gueis  at  the  total 

Of  the  mineral  oil  obtained  by  the  de- 
structive distillation  of  shale,  and  called 
paraffin-oil,  it  but  remains  to  say  that  in 
nature  it  is  similar  to  petroleum.  In  the 
one  case  Nature  gives  us  the  raw  material, 
and  leaves  ns  to  liqnefy  it ;  in  the  other,  she 
distils  it  for  ns  m  her  own  gnbterranean 
laboratory.  The  manufacture  of  paraffin 
oil  from  bituminoua  shale  is  a  most  im- 
portant one  in  Scotland,  although  as  a 
source  of  supply  of  illuminating  material 
it  is  nothing  in  comparison  with  the 
natural  oiL  The  amount  of  capital  em- 
ployed by  the  public  companies  in  Scotland 
la  nearly  two  million  pounds,  and  it  yields 
in  general  a  good  return.  The  entire  pro- 
duction of  huming-oU,  however,  in  one 
year,  in  Scotiand,  is  estimated  by  some  not 
to  exceed  what  the  world  consumes  in  one 
week.  The  Scotch  manufiicturers  find 
more  profit  in  utilising  the  other  products 
obtained  in  distilling  the  shale  than  in 
making  oil  for  burning.  The  latter  was 
originally  the  first  object  of  the  industry, 
but  DOW  in  importance  it  U  Uttle  more 
than  a  bye-product 

The  price  of  the  Scotch  oil  fiuctuates  in 


BTmpallij  with  the  price  of  the  American 
m\,  wbicb  U  one  of  the  most  flactaating 
eommodities  in  modem  commerce.  The 
Tirutions  in  the  supply  naturally  attract 
qieeolBtion,  which  is  confined,  one  may 
say,  to  operatioDa  in  the  crude  oil  The 
sforekeepen  iesne  certificateB  somewhat 
ualc^ns  to  the  iron-warnuitB  of  Glasgow, 
and  these  are  tOBsed  from  hand  to  hand, 
sometimea  in  a  perfect  ferer  of  epecniation. 
Ai  an  instance  of  the  excBasive  flactua- 
tioDB  in  the  price  of  these  "  crade  certifi- 
tatet,"  it  may  be  mentioned  that  in  1882 
tbe  range  was  between  fifty  cents  and  one 
hundred  and  thirty  cents.  It  would  not 
be  nnaafe  to  infer  that  more  money  is  lost 
m  America  in  specnlative  dealings  in  oil- 
mitificates  than  is  made  in  oil-producing. 
Kie  Tolnme  of  these  transactions  is  often 
in  a  single  week  equal  to  more  than 
double  the  total  stock  of  crude  oil  in  the 
country. 


JENIFER. 

SI  ASSa  THOUAS  (MRS.  PKNIIBB-CVSLrF). 

CHAPTKR  XXXIL      KO  HEANS. 

That  Jenifer  got  through  her  aong 
creditably  was  all  that  could  be  said. 
She  sang  it  Unltlesaly  as  far  as  tune  and 
tima  go ;  but  without  the  expression  that 
would  have  gone  to  the  hearts  of  her 
aodtence  and  wanned  ib 

Sounds  of  approbation  were  very  faint 
^en  she  finished,  and  she  hurried  off  with 
the  feeling  that  she  had  failed  aignally,  and 
that  nothmg  should  erer  tempt  her  to  face 
that  awfol  public  -again.  But  when  she 
came  among  the  professionals  who  had 
passed  through  thu  sort  of  thing  them- 
■elree,  she  revired  under  their  reassuring 
remorkB. 

"  It's  a  cold  house  to-night,"  one  of  them 
said.  "  I  don't  believe  the  greatest  favourite 
that  ever  trod  these  boaras  would  get  an 
encore  from  them.  Besides,  they  were 
employed  in  looking  at  you,  instead  of 
listening  to  yoa" 

"  I  couldn't  hear  myself,"  poor  Jenifer 


"Yon   won't  feel  like   that  the   next 
time,"  an    old    band    assured    her, 
Madame  Voglio  put  in : 

"  If  yoa  had  been  thinking  of  what  you 
were  singing,  instead  of  thinking  only  of 
jonr  friends  in  front,  you  would  have  do 
brilliantly.    But  never  loiod.     You  go 
with  others  next  time.     You  will  be  kind 
enough  to  remind  yourself  that  you  an 


[Decsmker  £»,  less.!      1*41 

the  sole  object  of  attraction  and  remark. 
It  will  give  you  courage,  and  you  will  do." 
"Thwik  you,"  Jenifer  said  gratefully, 
and  then  she  had  to  go  and  speak  to  her 
husband,  who  had  not  been  admitted  to 
the  artists'  room. 

What  in  the  world  was  the  matter 
with  you,  Jenifer  t"  he  commenced  in 
heightened  tones,  that  showed  her  plainly 
enough  the  rage  and  disappointment  within 
him. 

I  was  nervous,  I  supposa" 
Nervousness  be  hanged  I  I  Uiought 
you  had  more  sense  than  to  give  way  to 
any  silly  school-girlish  self-consciousness." 
"Don't  speak  so  loudly,  Harry;  they'll 
hear  you  in  the  artists'  room,  and — they've 
all  been  so  kind  to  me." 

Condoling  with  yon,  and  making  you 
more  nervous  still,  I  suppose  t  You're 
trembling  now — actually  sMvering.  Oh, 
you'll  never  get  a  note  out,  you'll  make  a 
most  awful  fiasco  if  you  don't  pull  yourself 
together." 

"  I  didn't  tremble  till " 

"  Till  what  1 "  he  interrupted  impa- 
tiently. 

'"KU  I  come  to  you." 
"  Oh,  I  see  1  I  mustn't  offer  a  remark,  or 
venture  to  give  you  a  word  of  counsel,"  he 
said  pettishly,  and  then  he  went  out  of  the 
room,  banging  the  door  behind  him,  while 
Jenifer  went  back  to  the  artists'  room 
palpitating  with  nervousness  and  just 
resentment 

This,  this  man  to  whom  she  was  married, 
tied,  bound,  chained,  was  the  first,  Uie 
only  one,  to  reproach  her  with  a  failure 
which  she  would  for  the  sake  of  others 
have  averted  at  the  cost  of  her  own  life's 
happiness !  This  was  the  man  who,  on  the 
night  that  he  proposed  to  her,  had  niade  her 
believe  (hat  he  would  gladly  brave  all 
life's  evils  with  and  for  her,  if  only  she 
would  let  him  I 

And  now  the  first  slight  check  had  come, 
and  he  was  cross  about  it  I  Cross  and  un- 
reasonable, and  unsympathetic,  and  master- 
fii].  And  she  was  his  wife,  and  it  was  her 
duty  to  bear  all  these  things  patiently. 

If  only  he  had  been  kind  !  She  required 
no  flattery,  no  maudlin  sympathy,  no  false 
appreciation.  AU  she  wanted  was  kind- 
ness, and  he  had  not  shown  it  to  her.  lie 
had  been  angry,  and  had  shown  iiis  anger, 
because  she  bad  failed  in  one  of  the  dearest 
objects  of  her  life  I  It  was  awful  to  her 
that  he  should  have  the  power  of  making 
her  so  miserable,  when  she  was  blam<;l«s». 
Still,  he  had  the  power,  and  she  knew  it. 


142      (Dicember»,  lass.) 


ALL  THE  YEAK  ROUND. 


It  was  a  wretched  wait  that  she  had 
in  the  artists'  room  before  the  time  c 
for  her  to  go  up  with  the  well-eBtablished 
favoarites,  and  make  her  seoond  straggle 
for  fame.  They  were  all  so  easily  and 
happily  self-posHeHBed  and  conQdent  Would 
it  erer  be  her  happy  lot  to  feel  as  they  did  1 
she  wondered. 

At  last,  after  what  had  seemed  an  inter- 
minable period,  the  fateM  moment  arrived, 
and  Jenifer  marched  as  reaolntely  as  if  she 
liked  it  ap  the  steps  in  the  wue  of  the 
voluminoaa  contralto. 

A  deafening  burvt  of  applause  greeted 
the  always  popular  queen  of  the  concert- 
boards,  and  gathering  strength  and  courage 
from  the  sound,  though  it  was  not  meant 
to  stimolate  her,  Jenifer  held  up  her  head, 
blinked  away  the  mista  that  had  been 
dimming  her  sight,  and  prepared  to  sing 
her  part  with  aJQ  her  strength  and  intel- 
ligence. 

She  heard  herself  singing  well  for  the 
first  few  bars  with  raptorons  pleasure.  She 
knew  that  her  glonoos  voice  was  com- 
manding attention  and  admiration,  and 
would  command  success.  But  in  a  luckless 
instant  her  ayea  fell  upon  her  huaband'e 
face  in  tbe  stalls.  A  set,  eager,  fiercely 
expectantH>f-failure  expression  was  on  it, 
and  a  recollection  of  bis  past  nnkindnesa, 
and  dread  of  it  in  the  future,  made  her 
catch  her  breath  too  quickly,  falter,  fall  to 
recover  herself,  and  sing  a  series  of  wrong 
notes  that  called  forth  expressions  of  dis- 
satisfaction from  every  quarter  of  the 
hall. 

There  was  an  ominous  pause.  She  felt 
that  the  great  contralto  was  flashing 
glances  of  faty  st  her.  Still,  when  it  come 
to  her  turn,  she  came  in  again,  and  almost 
succeeded  as  at  firsts  Bub  her  nerves  were 
shaken,  her  confidence  was  gone.  Amidst 
groans  and  hisses,  l^e  quartette  that  was 
to  have  established  her  with  the  public  came 
to  an  end.  The  contralto  caught  up  a  part 
of  her  voluminous  satan  and  lace  draperies, 
and  swept  off  in  apassion  without  acknow- 
ledging the  ringing  "  bravas"  which  were 
accorded  to  her.  As  soon  as  the  audience 
had  hissed  Jenifer,  an  inopportune  nail 
caught  a  part  of  the  lace  flounce,  and  its 
owner  was  too  irate  to  pause  to  have  it 
cleared.  Accordingly,  yards  of  rare 
Mechlin  trailed  after  her  in  tatters,  and 
Jenifer,  following  the  wrathful  owner  of  it, 
felt  that  the  ruined  lace  would  give  addi- 
tional weight  to  her  punishment. 

There  was  war  in  the  artists'  room ! 
Never  again,  tbe  outraged  contralto  de- 


clared, would  she  appear  on  the  boards  at 
any  concert  at  which  Miss  Jenifer  Ray  was 
announced.  The  infuriated  favourite  in- 
sisted on  taking  some  part  of  the  insult  to 
herselfi 

"  For  the  first  time  in  her  career,"  she 
said,  "she  had  been  hissed  and  hooted; 
and  all  through  the  vain  and  ignorant  pre- 
sumption of  a  woman  who  couldn't  sing  at 
all,  presuming  to  sing  with  her." 

The  unfortunate  projector  of  the  concert 
was  compelled  to  promise  to  cancel  Miss 
Jenifer  Ray's  engagement  on  the  spot  Be 
was  also  coerced  into  going  in  front  and 
announcing  that  Miss  Jenifer  Hay  would 
not  sing  twain  that  night  And  Jenifer 
had  to  endure  all  this  unsupported  by  a 
single  word  of  sympathy  or  kmdness, 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  ne  it's  all  up, 
and  that  after  having  misled  me  with  th« 
idea  that  you  were  on  the  high-road  to 
fame  and  fortune,  you're  g<Hng  to  let  every- 
thing slide  without  making  further  efTortBl" 
he  asked  gloomily  as  they  drove  home. 

"Ob,  it's  no  use — no  use  my  trying; 
even  Madame  Voglio  told  me  that  The 
horrible  failure  I  made  to-night  made  them 
all  turn  against  me,  and  all  refuse  ever  to 
appear  with  me  again.  I  must  bear  the 
misery  and  disappointment  as  well  as  I 
can,"  she  said  piteonsly. 

"  That's  easy  enough  for  you  to  say,  bat 
how  are  we  to  live,  I  should  like  yon  to 
tell  me  I "  he  s^d  harshly.  He  did  not 
mean  to  be  cruel  to  this  beautiful  wodub 
whom  he  bad  married  rather  against  her 
will ;  but  the  blow  to  his  pride  and  to  bis 
greedy  hopea  waa  more  than  his  brain 
could  bear. 

"  Perhaps  when  I  get  over  this,  I  may 
be  able  to  teach,"  she  said  humbly. 

"  Teach  I  What  fatnous  nonsense  yen 
talk  1  Ab  if  you're  ever  likely  to  make  a 
fortune  by  teaching." 

"Not  a.  fortune,  but  perhaps  enough  to 
pay  my  share  of  the  expenses  of  our  house." 

"How  irritating  yon  are,  Jenifer,  and 
selfish  into  the  bargain,"  he  said  peevishly. 
"  Your  share  of  the  expenses  1  as  if  yoD 
were  the  only  one  to  be  considered.  Am 
I  to  starve,  may  I  ask  f " 

"  Surely  your  salary  will  keep  yon  from 
ebarVation  if  I  cost  you  nothing  or  buy 
little." 

What  salary ) " 

The  eecretaryship ;  you  told  me  it  was 
seven  hundred  a  year." 

"So  it  W.U,  but  deluded  and  milled  by 
your  great  expectations,  I  gave  up  my  own 


indepeodsDce  in  order  the  more  thoroughly 
to  look  after  your  intereats  and  manage 
four  affiirs ;  and  thia  is  mj  reward.  Yon 
cooUf  tell  me  that  you  can  make  enough  to 
keep  yonrself,  and  that  I  muat  do  the  best 
Ion." 

She  was  glad,  wheii  he  said  this,  that  it 
ns  too  dark  to  aee  Mb  face.  What  mean- 
neea  and  vindictive  greed  of  gain  must  be 
orenhadowing  it,  when  he  could  bo  degrade 
hmualf  as  to  apeak  to  her  in  this  way  ! 
And  he  was  the  man  who  had  always 
teeaiBi  so  gay-hearted,  frank,  and  generally 
tmselfish,  nnUl  she  married  him  I 

McB.  Bay  had  not  gone  to  the  concert. 
Extreme  aeneitivenesB  about  Jenifer,  she 
had  felt,  might  be  productive  of  tears  in 
pablic,  tears  of  joy  she  had  thought  they 
vanld  be,  for  the  posaibility  of  Jenifer's 
fiHiog  had  never  occurred  to  her.  Tears 
in  pablic  w<»iId,Bhe  had  already  ascertained, 
rodie  all  the  latent  venom  in  Captain 
Edgecomb's  nature.  She  had  not  come  to 
tJie  pass  of  hating  her  son-in-law  yet,  but 
the  was  very  macn  afraid  of  him 

So  now,  when  they  got  themBelves  into 
tite  house,  without  staying  to  look  at  their 
tell-tale  faces,  the  dear  old  lady  burst  into 
Iming  coQgratuIatlona  and  tears  on  her 
daoghter's  neck.  And  Jenifer  gently 
whispered  to  her : 

"Don't  say  anything  aboat  it,  don't  ask 
me  anything  to-night,  dear  mother,  before 
Hury.  I  am  sure  he'B  not  well,  and 
ereiything  seems_to  annoy  him." 

Then  Mn.  Bay  knew  that  her  daughter's 
liiuband  was  that  overwhelming  force  in  a 
toiiH — a  weak  man  with  &  bad  temper. 

Is  the  coarse  of  the  next  day  there  came 
«  note  of  intended  condolence  from  EiEe  : 

"My  dbab  Jenifer, — Both  Hugh  and 
I  we  very  much  pat  oat  at  your  having 
beMi  BO  feebly  nervous  last  night;  you 
would  have  done  capitally,  everyone  said, 
if  your  country  traming  hadn't  stood  in 
four  way.  Youll  have  to  try  again,  of 
course.  Mr.  Whittler  was  there  with  us, 
■nd  he  says  hell '  put  you  on  the  dramatie 
bosrda'  Youll  have  to  go  to  America 
with  him.  I  tlunk  we  shf£  all  go  at  the 
same  time,  for  Flora  wants  Change  and 
recreation  dreadfully.  It's  no  good  coming 
to  tay  we're  vexed  about  yon,  is  itl 
Obtain  Edgecnmb  looked  too  cross  to  be 
ncc^nised  with  safety  last  night  If  Hugh 
ever  glared  at  me  in  auch  a  way  I'd  get  out 
ot  reach  of  the  faring. 

"  Flora  sends  her  lova  Is  that  horrid 
Ha.  Jack  gone  yet  1  Yotus  affectionately, 
"Effie," 


FEB.  [Dwembw  w,  lass.)     1 43 

The  contents  of  this  note  Jenifer  did  not 
communicate  to  anyone,  but  she  was  glad 
she  had  received  it,  when  a  few  days  after 
her  first  and  last  appearance  on  the  concert- 
boards,  her  husband  said  to  her : 

"I  should  think  you  could  get  up  a 
decent  littJe  dinner,  couldn't  you,  Jenifer  t" 

"I  should  think  I  could,"  she  said, 
smiling. 

"Just  a  little  party  of  aiz  or  eight" 

"But,  my  dear  Harry,  hadn't  we  better 
wait  till  some  one  asks  us  to  dinner  first ) " 

"  No  occasion  for  that  lq  this  cas&  I 
want  to  ask  Whittler  here — he'a  a  bachelor 
and  can't  invite  you,  so  that's  all  right 
Then  I  want  Hugh  and  Effie,  and  Mrs, 
Jervoiae  to  meet  him," 

"To  me  the  idea  of  giving  a  dinner- 
party at  all  now  !a  ridicnlons." 

"  You're  very  obliging  to  say  so,"  he 
replied  testily ;  "  but  as  I  particuUrly  wish 
to  be  civil  to  Whittler,  youll  put  your 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  aside,  if  you  please, 
and  just  do  as  I  ask  yoa  Your  own  brother 
and  his  wife  con  hardly  be  objectionable  to 
you,  I  ^ould  think." 

"But  why  Mr.  Whittler  and  Mrs. 
Jervoisel" 

"  Because  there's  every  prospect  of 
Whittler  being  very  useful  to  us.  He  takes 
a  great  interest  in  you,  and  if  you  play 
your  cards  well  he  will  give  you  an 
American  engagement,  that  will  put  us  on 
our  legs  agau.  That  is  'why'  Whittler, 
Mrs.  Jervoise  will  come  because — because 
she's  a  good-natured  woman,  and  Whittler 
likea  to  meet  her." 

"  Have  you  asked  thera  already,  Harry  t " 

"  Well,  I  have,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"I  hope  you'll  always  tell  me  that, 
however  hard  and  nnpleasant  it  may  be  for 
me  to  hear  it  But  abont  Mr.  WhitUer's 
kind  intentions  concerning  me,  I  wish  you 
had  consulted  me  before.  I  don't  mean  to 
go  on  the  dramatic  stage ;  I've  no  talent 
for  it" 

"  No  J  your  talent  is  for  the  concert- 
boards,  as  we  all  know,"  he  said  with 
something  approaching  a  sneer.  "As  to 
your  not  meaning  to  go  on  the  stage,  I 
shall  be  very  much  hnrt  and  surprised  if 
you  selfishly  throw  away  an  opportunity  of 
redeeming  our  fortunes.  However,  I'll 
leave  WUttler  to  talk  to  you.  '  I've  asked 
them  for  eight  on  Thursday  night.  Do 
turn  out  a  decent  dinner." 

I  shall  have  to  go  to  my  mother  for 
the  money  to  pay  for  it ;  you've  given  me 
no  housekeeping  money  yet,  Harry,  and 
the  little  I  had  I've  spent" 


=; 


144 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


Captain  Kdgecnmb  gnmibl«d,  bat  pro- 
daced  a  cheque,  which  he  handed  to  hii 
vife  with  the  admonition  : 

"Do  be  caiefnl  about  the  expeoBes, 
Jenifer.  It's  most  unfortunate  that  I 
should  have  been  led  to  beliere  thAt  ;onr 
fluccesB  M  a  concert-BUDger  was  an  ascer- 
tained fact.  Had  it  not  been  for  that,  I 
shouldn't  bare  rengned  the  seoretaiyahip, 
and  that,  yoa  must  remember,  I  did  entirely 
in  your  interests." 

To  this  Jenifer  made  no  reply.  If  he 
believed  that  any  reckless  folly  he  had 
committed  had  been  in  the  furtherance  of 
her  interests,  it  was  useless  to  attempt  to 
undeceive  him.  His  delusion  was  the 
offspring  of  selfishness  and  greed,  and  it 
would  be  hard  to  kill — as  hard,  in  fact, 
to  kill  as  it  would  be  for  her  to  lire 
with  it 

So  she  took  the  cheque,  and  umply  said 
she  would  spend  it  as  oarefully  as  she 
could. 

"  We  have  never  been  extravagant 
people,"  she  added. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  For  your  father 
to  hare  cut  your  mother  and  yon  off  as  he 
did  points  to  his  having  had  a  suspicion 
that  you  were  both  inclined  to  extrava- 
gance ;  though,  for  my  own  part,  I  never 
can  make  out  what  women  find  to  spend 
their  money  upon.  Everything  is  provided 
for  them,  yet  they'll  fritter  away  an  income 
in  personal  extravagances." 

"  That  remark  scarcely  applies  to  my 
mother  or  to  me,  Eary." 

"  Oh,  it  applies  to  all  women  I  Voa 
have  no  idea  of  practical  economy.  If 
any  cutting  down  of  expenditure  is  sug- 
geetod  to  a  woman,  she  probably  suggests 
burning  fewer  wax-candles  and  going 
without  deasert,  instead  of  striking  at  die 
root  of  the  evil." 

"The  root  of  the  evil  wiUi  me  will  be 
want  of  money,  Harry.  If  you'll  show 
me  the  way,  I'll  strike  at  it,"  she  siud  in 


And  he  told  her : 

"All  right;  I'll  remind  you  of  that 
promise  when  Whittler  dines  here." 

"I  think  111  stay  in  my  own  room 
rather  more,  Jenny  dear,"  her  mother  said 
to  her  that  night.      "I  fancy  I  disturb 


Captain  Edgecnmb;  and  I  know  yoang 
people  like  to  be  by  themselves." 
All  Jenifer  coald  say  in  reply  was : 
"  Oh,  mother,  mother  I  is  this  what  I've 
married  for ! " 

On  the  very  morning  of  the  little  dinoer- 
party  which  she  was  ^ving  so  sorely 
against  her  will  and  feeling,  Jenifer  had  a 
letter  from  her  godfather,  telling  her  that 
the  sweetest  and  best  woman  in  the 
world,  Mrs.  Hatton,  would  be  his  wife— 
the  solace  and  support  of  his  old  age — 
before  she  (Jenifer)  received  that  letter. 

"  Come  over  and  stay  with  us  as  soon 
as  yoa  can,"  he  added.  "We  are  going 
to  begin  as  we  mean  to  go  on — at  Eildene. 
No  honeymooning  away  from  home  for 


Captain  Ed^ecumb  sent  home  every 
reasonable  dehcacy  he  could  find,  and 
insisted  on  Jenifer's  engaging  a  profes- 
sional cook  to  prepare  uem,  so  bent  was 
he  upon  making  a  favourable  impres- 
sion upon  the  palate  of  Mr.  Josiah  H. 
Whittler. 

Everything  seemed  fairly  in  train  for  a 
good  dinner  and  a  pleasant  evening,  when 
Jenifer  unfortuoately  dashed  his  spirits  by 
giving  him  her  news. 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  Admiral 
Tullomore,  Harry.  What  do  you  think 
has  happened  I " 

"  That  woman  hasn't  booked  him  I 
Don't  tell  me  that." 

"  He  is  married  to  Mrs.  Hatton  by 
this  time,"  she  laughed.  "  Poor  dear 
old  man,  I  hope  she'll  be  kind  to  him !" 

"  The  deuce  I "  her  husband  rejoined 
laconically. 


THE    EXTRA    OHRISTMA8    NUMBER 

ALL   THE   YEAR  BOUND, 


A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE," 

WALTER     BESANT 

(Antborot  "Tbe  C«>Uliir  Boom,--  "L«t  NoUdiiK  Vm 

DUnuT,"  (to.  etc), 

AND  OTHER    STORIBS. 

FHdo  SIXTENCE,  ind  conUfutng  tha  NuiHuit  nt  Una 

Ordinary  Nnmlxn. 


The  B^M  ^ Tra^UOmg  Attica Jrom  All  thz  Yk^b  Itomfo  it  rMoTMrf  6y  Oe  Antic 


w^ztx 


^/OM 


nre^l 


It  might  have  been  thought  that  Mrs. 
Ttick,  on  her  mairUige,  womd  have  lost 
with  the  name  of  "  Caesidr  "  the  nickname 
of  "  my  poor  dear  hneband,"  but  she  didn't. 
Whether  from  habit,  or  from  regarding 
Ifr.  Tnck  as  equivalent  only  to  the  more 
shadow  and  memoiy  of  a  man,  she  always 

rbe  of  him  as  she  had  spoken  of  ma 
eased  predeceaaor,  as  "my  poor  dear 
husband."  Henoe  her  old  nickname  still 
dung  to  her,  and,  indeed,  it  ezpreased 
pretty  precisely  the  real  relations  between 
herself  and  her  lord  and  master.  She  not 
only  spoke  of  him  bnt  treated  him  ae  a 
hairoless  lonatic  in  her  charge,  who  was 
to  be  hnmonred  bnt  controlled.  Of  conrse, 
at  the  same  time,  ahe  allowed  Mr.  Tuck  to 
imagine  himself  absolute.  She  no  more 
hinted  to  him  the  true  relationship  between 
them  than,  to  quote  the  majestic  simile  of 
Mr.  Browning : 

Thui  wben  one  aee*  a  bo;  ride  a-cocb  hcirae 
One  finds  it  in  hii  heart  to  embarraas  him, 

By  hinting'  that  his  etick'a  a  mock  hone. 
And  be  n«Uf  camea  what  he  says  carrice  him. 

She  always  spoke  to  Mr.  Tack,  as  the 
boy  to  the  stick  he  bestrides,  aa  if  it  were 
he  who  was  bearing  her  whither  he  wonld. 
Bat  in  reality  she  always  gained  her  end 
as  the  sailor  gains  his  haven,  by  skilful 
tuking,  sailing  almost  in  the  teeth  of  the 
wind  by  the  very  help  of  the  wind.  She 
msintt^ed  her  rule,  in  fact,  by  acting  on 
tiietried  principle,  "Divide  etimpera."  Mr. 
Tnck  had  four  ruling  pasBions— health, 
ttinginesa,  furniture,  and  family  pride,  and 
Mrs.  Tuck  would  gain  her  point  by  setting 

I  any  two  of  these  against  a  third. 

I     For  example,  as  popularity  was  the  very 


old  imported  the  rarest  beasts  from 
for  slanghter  at  their  gamea.  I 
expense  I  She  had  come  into  powi 
the  cry  of  retrenchment  and  reform, 
the  late  ministry — the  housekeeper- 
these  pretexts ;  and  now  she  spen 
in  a  night  than  Mrs.  Lang  did  in  a 
Yet  Mr.  Tack  acquieaced.  For  she 
pride  of  family  and  furniture  ir 
against  his  stinginess,  and  hand! 
forces  so  skilfully  as  to  gain  a  a 
victory.  In  truth,  the  whole  secret 
this  handling  of  her  forces.  Genen 
managed  bo  to  mancenvre  as  that  t 
snggestton  of  something  on  wbi 
heart  was  set  should  come  from  hi 
shonld  seem  to  be  accepted  solely 
sake.  In  short,  Mrs.  Tnck  had 
fection  that  cnnnine  which,  in  a  wo 
called  tact,  and  which,  like  a  fox's 
turns  the  creature  that  seems  to 
after  it. 

A  man  who  stooped  to  the  daily 
she  used  would  have  been  a  oat 
Mrs.  Tuck  waa  not  a  bad  woman 
means.  The  conditions  of  demora 
are  different  for  each  sex — an  oak 
be  rotted  by  the  wet  in  whidh  a 
flonrishea 

Anyhow,  Mrs.  Tnck — her  fines: 
withstanding — ^was  not  a  bad  woe 
the  whole.  In  some  respects  she 
good  woman ;  and  at  least  in  one  i 
good-natnre,  she  had  not  her  e< 
Ringaford.  Nor  even  in  matters  c 
ciple  was  she  as  loose  as  a  man  mu 
been,  who  could  have  stooped 
deceptions  by  which  she  won  and  m 
Mr.  Tuck.     For  instance,  she  had 


H6      Uinniry  S,  1SB4.1 


ALL  THE  YEiR  EOUND. 


of  hungry  relations  who,  upon  her  marriage, 
iniiDilated  her  with  piteous  ideals  fi>r 
help.  Sh«  did  what  the  could  for  them, 
sending  th«ra  all  the  was  able  to  save  sad 
scrape  together  by  daily  and  trying  self- 
denitle.  But  she  renred  by  a  pension  the 
heart  of  a  Becond  oonsin  of  Mr.  Tnck's — a 
widow — ^who  dunned  him  periodically  and 
to  BQiall  porpose,  and  gave  up  at  last  in 
desp^r  upon  hearing  of  his  marriage.  Mn, 
Tack,  b;  continnal  and  skilful  appeals  to 
her  husband's  family  pride,  wheedled  him 
into  allotring  her  fifty  pounds  a  year.  This 
was  not  only  generoas  but — hanler  still  to 
a  woman  and  an  Irishwoman — ^xut.  And 
this  was  not  all.  On  the  widow's  death- 
five  years  later — -Mrs,  Tuck,  playing  still 
upon  the  same  chord  of  family  prUe,  at 
last  persuaded  Mr.  Tuck  to  adopt  her 
destitute  daughter.  So  Ida  Luard  comes 
into  our  story. 

Poor  little  Idat  Life  had  been  very 
hard  with  her  up  to  her  thirteenth  year. 
She  had  been  ner  mother's  mother  for 
nearly  a  year  before  that  poor  lady  died — 
nnrsing  her  in  her  paralytic  helplessness  as 
devotedly  as  she  had  herself  been  nursed 
by  her  but  a  few  yean  before  in  her' 
infancy.  At  the  same  time — but  this 
was  nothing  new  to  her — she  kept  the 
accounts,  paid  bills,  studied  stringent 
economies,  and  held  things  together  as 
welt  as  when  these  hard  cares  were  shared 
by  her  mother.  For,  indeed,  it  is  truer  ta 
say  that  she  had  shared  these  carea  with 
her  mother,  tiian  to  say  that  her  mother 
had  shared  them  with  her.  Mrs.  Luard 
had  been  the  most  helpless  of  women  and 
had  clang  tike  a  climbing-plant  to  the 
nearest  support,  which  happened  to  be 
[da.  Thus  the  girl  really  passed  almost 
at  a  step  from  infancy  to  womanhood. 
Por  her  natural  precocity  was  not  only 
encouraged  by  her  mother's  dependence 
upon  her,  but  was  forced  by  trouble,  as  a 
plant  is  forced  upwards  by  being  hedged 
round  with  darkness. 

Miss  Ida  at  thirteen  was  older  than  most 
girls  at  eighteen,  and  gsre  Mrs.  Tuck  from 
her  letters  the  impression  that  she  was  of 
that  interesting  age.  The  writing,  indeed, 
was  childish,  but  this  Mrs,  Tuck  attributed 
to  an  imperftet  education.  As  for  the 
matter  and  the  wording  of  the  matter,  they 
wore  as  old  as  trouble,  which  was  mostly 
their  burden. 

"  Dkar  Mrs.  Tuck, — Mother  died  last 
night.  She  did  not  Imow  me  or  anyone, 
md  had  no  pain,  the  doctor  thinks.  He  j 
mil  not  take  any  fee,  though    he    has  | 


attended  mother  for  nearly  a  year.  Bat  I 
am  afraid  from  what  I  hear  that  the  funeral 
will  cost  twelve  pounds,  and  I  write  to  ask 
if  Mr.  Tuck  woold  kindly  let  me  have  a 
quarter  in  advance,  as  there,  are  other 
expenses  too.  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  to 
ask  for  it,  but  I  do  not  know  whit  elso  to 
da  The  funeral  will  be  on  Satoiday. — 
Believe  me,  truly  yours,     Ida  Luabo." 

iSta.  Tuck's  pity,  when  she  read  this 
note,  was  chequered  with  a  rafsgiyiitg  tiiat 
it  was  thrown  away.  The  girl  who  could 
announce  her  motber'a  death  in  so  cold  and 
dry  a  tone  could  hardly  feel  it  very  deeply. 
Nevertheless,  she  persuaded  Mr.  Tack  to 
allow  her  to  ask  Ida  to  stay  a  while  with 
them  that  she  might  gauge  the  girl  to  the 
bottom. 

Meanwhile  the  wretched  writer  of  this 
cold  and  dry  letter  was  sitting  with  a 
frozen  heart  by  h^  mother's  corpse.  She 
was  an  undemonstrative  child,  oonld 
seldom  cry,  and  was  little  likely  to  be  able 
to  cry  now.  Hearts  bom  dumb  saffer 
horribly ;  for,  as  a  rule,  their  feelings  are 
deeper,  and  therefore  in  more  need  of  relief, 
than  hearts  which  can  give  sorrow  woida 
Poor  Ida  so  suffered,  and  her  o'erfranght 
heart  found  only  one  strange  reUef.  Her 
mother  had  been  passionately  fond  of 
flowers,  and  the  child's  thoaghts  found 
distraction  in  devising  some  way  to  procure 
flowers  for  the  coffin  and  Hie  grave. 
Flowers  were  very  expensive  luxuries  then 
and  there — in  winter  and  in  a  town — and 
Ida  was  not  at  all  sure  of  the  twelve  pounds 
irom  Mr.  Tuck,  Her  bitter  training  had 
taught  her  to  think  it  wrong  to  spend  a 
farSiing  on  anything  bey(»id  absolute 
necessaries ;  and  to  run  into  debt  for  hw 
mother's  funeral  would  have  seemed  to  her 
little  short  of  sacrilege^  She  scandalised 
her  two  or  three  neighbours  by  the  dis- 
respect she  showed  to  her  mother's  memory 
in  refusing  to  buy  new  black— even  gloves. 
She  had  idways  dressed  in  black,  it  is  true, 
but  it  was  msty,  darned  in  some  places, 
and  thin  and  threadbare  throughout  But 
though  she  wouldn't  buy  black  she  must 
buy  flowers.  The  longing  for  them  was  so 
mixed  up  in  her  mind  with  longing 
thoughts  about  her  mother,  that  she  came 
to  imagine  her  mother  longing  for  them 
too.     She  must  have  them. 

le  stole  out  at  night,  and  made  her 
way  ag'ainst  the  driving  rain  into  the 
crowded  and  cruel  sohtude  of  the  great 
city.  She  stopped  at  a  jeweller's  shop,  and 
stood  at  the  door  till  she  had  got  thoroughly 
wet  through  before  she  summoned  courage 


A  DRAWN   QAM& 


[JamiUT  MW.]     li'l 


to  anter.  Within,  too,  ehe  had  to  wait 
long  at  the  entrance  end  of  bh«  caanter 
ThSe  customer  after  ciut(»ner  came  and 
mat,  and  would  have  had  to  wait  longer 
if  Bnspidon  had  not  called  a  ahopman  to 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  I "  gmffiy. 
Certainly  Ida  looked  little  like  a  jeweller^a 
customer. 

"  Please,  what  will  you  give  me  for 
this  t "  buiding  him  a  gold  chain  which 
Mr&  Tuck  had  sent  her  at  Christmaa, 

"  Give  you  for  it  1  111  give  yo«  in 
charge  for  it  Hen,  Tiplady,"  caliing  an 
assistant;  and  turning  again  to  Ida. "  You'll 

fit  three  months  for  it,  I  dare  say, 
oull "    Here,  looking  more  at  the 

girl's  face  thaji  at  her  clothes,  he  paused. 

The  wan  and  worn  cheek,  wistful  mouth, 
and  great,  dark,  solemn  eyes,  which  had 
look^  BO  long  at  sorrow  as  to  have  caught 
its  very  expresaion,  shook  his  intention,  if 
not  his  BOspicion. 

"  Never  mind,  Tiplady.  Look  here,  my 
girl,  put  that  hack  where  you  got  it,  do 
you  hear  t    Yon've  had  a  narrow  escape," 

Ida  took  back  the  chain  without  a  word. 
She  was  a  reserved  child,  and  was  little 
likely  to  attempt  an  explanation  to  a 
stranger.  Hnnying  &om  the  shop,  and 
out  of  the  main  street,  she  made  her  way, 
swiftly  and  as  one  who  would  outstrip 
second  thoughts  that  might  arrest  her,  to  a 
pawnbrokee'^  It  was  not  the  Srst  time 
she  had  been  there — for  her  poor  shiftless 
mother  ia  the  early  days  of  her  illness  had 
sent  her  there  more  tiian  once — but  Ida 
not  the  less  abhorred  the  place  and  its 
iq^roBchee.  It  was  a  foul  deo  in  a  frowsy 
street,  like  a  filthy  cobweb  in  a  vault,  and 
had  been  chosen  by  her  mother  for  its 
obscurity.  Ida  did  not  linger  long  at  the 
door  here,  for  the  street  hu  more  terrors 
even  than  the  office  for  her. 

"How  mucht"  she  asked  'u  a  voice 
that  trembled  like  her  hand,  as  well  from 
the  breathless  haste  she  had  made  as  from 
nervousness. 

Of  course  the  pawnbroker  shared  the 
jeweller's  suspicion  with  more  reason  and 
less  reprobation,  for  he  dealt  much  in 
stolen  goods,  and  was  of  the  liberal  opinion 
of  Falstaff :  "  'Tis  my  vocation,  HaJ ;  'tis 
DO  sin  for  a  man  to  labour  in  his  vocation." 
At  the  same  time,  as  it  was  a  hazardous 
vocation,  he  needed  a  heavy  premium  to 
cover  the  risk. 

"Two  shillings,"  after  weighing  the  chain 
carefully  in  his  hand  first,  and  then  in  a 
balanca 


The  child  hesitated;  she  knew  tiat 
wasn't  a  tventieUi  part  of  its  value,  and 
griping  necessity  had  made  keenness  in 
money  matters  an  instinct  with  her.  The 
man,  noticing  her  heratation,  sneered : 

"  Better  ask  the  police  what  you  should 
get  for  it.  They're  like  to  know  more 
about  it  than  me ;  they  are " 

"I'll  take  two  shillings,"  faltered  the 
helpless  ohUd. 

The  pawnbroker  saw  in  a  moment  from 
her  manner  that  she  was  utterly  at  his 
mercy. 

"  You'll  take  that  for  it,"  he  siud,  fling- 
ing a  shilling  down  on  the  counter,  thinking 
all  disguise  unnecesaan  as  they  were  alone 
in  the  office.  Ida  took  up  the  shiUiog  and 
the  ticket  without  a  word,  and  hurried 
from  the  office. 

Site  ran  at  full  speed,  keeping  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  huirymg  in  the  fear 
that  the  great  fiower-sbop  might  be  closed. 
In  fact,  it  was  this  fear  that  made  her 
submit  without  a  word  to  the  robbery. 
But  the  shop  was  not  closed,  and  Ida, 
after  choosing  her  Sowers  in  the  window, 
crept  timidly  mto  it,  and  waited  long  while 
the  two  young  lady  assistants  were  en- 
grossed with  a  jovial  old  gentleman,  who 
was  giving  a  large  order  for  flowers,  in- 
terspersed with  badinage  of  the  commercial 
traveller  kind — the  verbal  equivalent  of  a 
chnck  under  the  chin.  At  last  one  of  the 
young  peiBtms,  in  turning  aside  her  superb 
head  with  a  toss  in  graceful  offence  at  some 
dtdightfiil  compliment,  caaght  sight  of  the 
miserable  little  figure  in  shabby  black, 
drenched  and  draggled  with  the  rain. 

"  Well  1 "  she  ^ed,  ^harp  as  the  snap 
of  a  steel  trap. 

"  Please,  how  much  are  those  flowers  i " 
pointing  to  them. 

"  Those  t  Five  shillings,"  turning  away 
at  once  in  the  certainty  uat  the  pnce  was 
prohibitive. 

Ida  was  an  expert  in.the  price  of  bread 
and  coals,  but  not  in  that  of  flowers.  Poor 
little  woman  I  it  took  her  a  minute  to  get 
over  the  disappointment,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  ask  in  a  voice  unsteady  with  anxiety, 
"  Please,  what  can  you  give  me  for 
thisi"  holding  out  the  shxlling  in  her 
shaking  hand. 

The  shop-girl  went  to  the  window,  and 
fetched  thence  a  single  camelia ! 

There  is  deep  truth  to  nature  in 
Herodotus's  account  of  the  grief  of  the 
captive  king  Psammetichus,  who  saw  with- 
out a.  tear  his  daughter  led  to  slavery,  and 
his  son  to  death,  but  went  niteouslv  at 


148     (Janusrj  6, 


ALL  THE  YEAK  EOUND. 


[Condoetod  bj 


Bight  of  his  servant  in  chuna.  Thoae 
sorrowB  were  too  deep  for  team,  bat  not 
t.liiH, 

Ida  had  not  shed  &  tear  since  her 
mother's  death  till  now.  But  noT,  here, 
in  thia  public  place,  at  this  mere  far-off 
attendant  Borrow,  she  broke  down  atterly. 
She  clung  with  both  hands  spasmodically  to 
the  counter,  while  one  great  dry  sob  npon 
another  seemed  to  shake  her  whole  frame. 

"  Hey  !  what's  thia — ^what's  this  t "  cried 
the  old  gentleman,  trying  to  raise  ^e  child's 
head  which  was  ennk  npon  the  counter. 
''Come,  come,  come,"  soothingly,  and  then 
turning  to  the  shop-girl :  "  What's  the 
matter) " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  in  a  drawl  of 
indifference,  resenting  this  outburst  as 
though  it  had  no  other  meaning  than  that 
af  a  personal  rebuke  to  herself.  "She 
wanted  some  flowers  in  the  window  that 
were  too  expensive  for  her." 

"  What !  cry  for  flowers  I  Tut,  tut,  tut, 
tut,  tat  1 "  as  though  speaking  to  a  baby. 
But  Ida  at  this  moment,  raising  her 
head  to  hurry  in  shame  from  the  shop,  the 
old  gentleman  saw  more  than  a  childish 
grief  in  that  forlorn  face.  "  Hey,  child — 
what  flowers  did  she  want  1"  to  the  shop- 
girl. "Mo,  don't  go,  dear,  you  shall  have 
them.  She's  in  trouble,  depend  upon  it," 
in  an  apologetic  aside  to  the  young  lady 
who  was  wrapping  the  flowers  roond  with 
paper.  He  feared  ho  w»s  forfeithig  his 
character  as  s  gallant  gay  Lotharia 

"  There,  child,  there,"  handing  her  the 
lowers. 

Ida  looked  up  with  a  beautiful  expres- 
sion of  gratitude  in  her  set,  sad  eyes,  but 
said  only,  "Thank  you,  sir,"  in  a  voice 
whose  reflnement  surpriaed  the  old  gentle- 

"  Some  one  dead,"  said  he  in  a  subdued 
voice,  not  interrogatively,  but  as  assuring 
the  child  that  he  understood  the  case. 

"  My — my  mother,"  aobbed  Ida,  losing 
again  her  self-oontroL 

"  Ah,  poor  child  I "  be  said,  very  much 


He  liad  never  before  seen  snch  deep- 
seated  sadness  in  a  face,  and  that  the  face  of 
a  child.  He  went  with  her  to  the  door,  as 
though  only  to  open  it  for  her,  and 
whispered  as  she  passed  out : 

"  Wait  a  minute." 

He  then  returned  to  the  young  ladies  to 
say  that,  as  be  was  going  to  ride  home,  he 
would  take  the  boxes  of  flowers  with  him. 
lie  took  one  out  as  if  to  a  cab,  but  put  it 
iuto  Ida's  arms. 


"There,  child,  a  few  more.  God  blemi 
you  1 "  and  was  back  mto  the  shop  before 
she  could  utter  a  word. 

He  then  got  the  other  box  and  rode 
home  with  it. 

This  groy-headed  old  gentleman  ma 
proud  of  his  not  very  seemly  gallantly, 
but  of  his  goodness  he  was  ashamed. 

Ida  hurried  home  with  a  heart  lighter 
for  her  tears,  for  the  old  gentiemao's 
sympathy,  but  above  all,  for  ms  present 
We  despair  of  giving  an  adequate  idea  of 
the  kind  and  the  depth  of  the  yearning  of 
the  child  for  ^ese  flowers.  'To  do  some- 
thing for  her  mother  had  been  the  daily 
bread  of  her  hearL  Since  her  death  her 
heart  was  starved,  famished,  hungering  and 
thirsting  for  one  morsel  of  meat,  for  the 
least  of  all  the  little  offices  of  love  which 
had  been  the  j^  and  duty  of  her  life  tor 
Uie  last  year.  These  flowers  were  as  a  cup 
of  cold  water  to  parched  lips.  She  bad  not 
a  fancy,  hut  a  faith,  that  ber  mother  would 
not  only  know  of  Uiem,  but  be  glad  of  t^m 
with  a  fuller  consciousness  and  joy  than 
when  she  was  aliv& 

Beaching  home  she  stole  up  to  the  room 
with  a  strange  feeling  that  she  had  been  a 
long  time  away,  and  that  something,  she 
knew  not  what,  might  have  happened,  ahe 
knew  not  how.  She  paused  for  a  moment 
before  she  turned  the  key  and  the  door- 
handle, and  entered  the  frozen  silence  of  a 
chamber  of  death.  Only  the  hollow  and 
aching  stillness  we  all  know  too  well,  by 
which  the  dead  seems  to  iof^  the  very 
ail  with  death. 

Through  the  reaction  of  the  disappoint- 
ment of  her  vague  expectation  of  some 
vague  relief — horn  in  part  of  the  joy  the 
flowers  gave  her — Ida  come  to  reaUse  her 
loss  vividly  for  the  first  time.  She  flung 
herself  on  her  knees  by  the  bed,  and 
mingled,  with  a  wild  mcoherence,  the 
prayer  die  had  said  daily,  and  many  times 
a  day,  "for  ber  mothei^s  recovery  with 
appeals  to  the  dead  to  speak  to  her  only 
once,  and  with  convolstre  eoha  in  the  cer- 
tainty that  she  was  lost  to  her  for  ever.  It 
was  a  tempestuous  outburst  for  so  self- 
contained  a  child,  the  letting  loose  of  long- 
pent  waters,  and  the  relirf  was  propor- 
tionately great  She  rose  from  her  knees 
calmer,  more  collected  and  composed,  than 
she  had  been  since  her  loss ;  and  after 
looking  long  at  the  still  face,  smoothing 
back  the  grey  hair  with  the  tender  touch 
of  a  mother's  hand  on  the  head  of  ber 
sleeping  child,  and  kissing  the  chill  brow, 
she  turned  to  find  revived  consolation  m 


A  DRAWIT  GAME. 


1.18811      U9 


her  flovera,  Thoee  in  the  box  vere 
more  exqoiaite  even  than  she  had  hoped 
for,  and  she  sat  far  into  the  night  weaving 
a  wreath  of  tihe  choicest  of  them,  and 
amoging  and  re-orranging  the  others  to 
f^  u  near  as  she  coiud  to  the  indefinite 
ideal  in  her  mind  of  the  dispoution  of 
them  that  voold  best  please  her  mother. 

The  foneral  left  the  house  earl;  the  next 
morning,  for  it  had  seven  miles  to  go. 
Poor  Mrs.  Lnard,  country  bom  and  br«d, 
and  passionately  fond  of  ^e  country,  could 
not  endiire  the  idea  of  being  buried  in  a 
town,  or  even  in  a  cemete^.  She  had 
fixed  npon  a  little  churchyard  seven  miles 
out  of  town,  in  which,  in  snmmer,  yon 
scarce  conld  see  the  graves  for  flowers ; 
for  she  had  to  give  np  all  idea  of  being 
buried  beside  her  hnsbuid,  since  it  would 
have  involved  the  e^ense  of  a  railway 
journey  of  over  fifty  miles.  So  the  fonenu 
started  early.  Sach  a  funeral !  To  this 
day  Ida's  old  neighboora  talk  of  it  with 
Bobdaed-  bitterness.  The^  had  taken 
mortal  offence  at  many  things.  In  the 
first  place,  Ida  conld  not  brar  her  dead 
mother  to  be  made  a  show  of,  and  wonld 
not  have  them  floddng  in  to  enjoy  the 
specta^s  of  the  corpse.  In  the  second 
place,  she  had  forgotten  to  "  bid  "  any  of 
them  to  the  fhneriLl,  and  her  sullen  servant, 
who  dionld  have  reminded  her  of  this 
{oece  of  etiqnette,  was  in  dee^  dadgeon  at 
not  being  presented  with  a  suit  of  monm- 
ing.  And  in  the  third  place,  there  were 
to  be  no  wine  and  biscnite  at  the  funeral, 
nor  gin  and  tea  after  it.  These  things 
notwithstanding,  two  or  three  kindly 
ndghboors  woold  certainly  have  attended 
the  faoeral,  if  they  had  not  thought  that 
the  attention  wonld  be  an  intmsion ;  for  all 
Ida's  Bins  of  omission  and  commissiou  were 
traced  to  one  source — pride. 

When,  then,  the  funeral  started,  the  poor 
child  was  not  only  chief  mourner,  but  sole 
mourner.  Not  another  creature  accom- 
panied it  Never  was  there  such  a  funeral 
Her  loneliness,  however,  did  not  and 
conld  not  add  to  ber  desohtt^oD,  and, 
indeed,  was  not  noticed  by  her  as 
ungular,  so  used  had  she  grown  to  it,  and 
BO  absorbed  was  she  in  her  soitow. 

The  undertaker's  men,  seeing  but  one 
mourner,  and  she  a  child,  apportioned 
their  pace  to  the  small  amount  of  sorrow 
they  seemed  to  convey,  so  that  the  funeral 
reached  the  church  twenty  minutes  too 
soon,  and  suiprised  there  tJie  clergyman's 
wife,  who  was  practising  on  the  organ  the 
hvmn-tnnes  for  the  following  dav.  Sundav. 


On  hearing  the  bell  toll  she  dosed  the 
organ,  and  was  about  to  go  across  to  the 
vicarage  for  her  husband,  when  he  entered 
and  b^an  the  service.  Then  she  remained 
fixed  and  fascinated  by  the  sight  of  the 
single  mourner.  She  looked  at  the  child 
till  she  could  not  see  her  through  te»B. 
This  little  creature  in  rusty  and  tb^adbare 
black,  alone  and  witih  the  lost  look  of  long 
lonelmess  and  of  an  unsearchable  sorrow 
in  her  wan  face,  without  one  in  the  wide 
worid  to  stand  with  her  by  the  grave  of 
her  last  friend  I 

Wben  the  lesson  had  been  read,  uid 
the  coffin  borne  from  the  ohurch,  the  lady 
followed  Ida  to  the  grave,  standing  there 
a  little  behind  her,  in  reverence  of  her 
lonely  sorrow,  till  the  service  was  over, 
and  the  clergyman  returned  to  the  church. 

Ida  still  stood  gazing  upon  the  coffin, 
unconscious  that  the  service  was  over, 
till  at  last  the  sexton  came  and  took  up 
his  shovel  to  fill  up  the  grave. 

Then  the  lady  took  timidly  the  child's 
hand  in  hers,  as  we  touch  for  the  first 
time  a  consecrated  symbol,  and  said, 
"Gome,  deur,"  in  a  tone  that  Ida  had 
thought  she  would  never  hear  again. 

She  looked  up  and  saw  a  face  like  the 
voice — in  tears — the  sweetest  face  she  had 
ever  seen — we  have  ever  seen — the  face  of 
our  old  friend,  Mrs.  John.  Then  there 
came  into  the  child's  sad  eyes  that  beautiful 
expression  which  had  so  touched  the  old 
gentleman  in  the  flower-shop — an  expres- 
aion  of  surprised  gratitude  lighting  up  her 
face,  like  a  sudden  snn-burst  in  a  dreary 
day. 

"  You'll  come  into  the  vicarafje  for  a 
moment!  I  am  the  clergyman's  wife.  Just 
for  a  moment  to  warm  yourself — your 
hand  is  like  ice." 

"Thank  you,  I  must  get  back,"  sud 
Ida  hurriedly,  shrinking  into  her  shell  at 
the  mere  thought  of  ucing  strangers  at 
such  a  moment. 

The  sweet  and  plaintive  voice  told  the 
same  story  as  the  refined  and  hopeless 
face.  BoUi  would  have  haunted  Mrs. 
John  ever  after,  if  she  had  not  done  all 
she  could  to  win  the  child's  confidence  in 
the  hope  of  being  a  help  to  her.  But 
Ida's  confidence  was  not  an  easy  thing  to 
be  won,  even  by  Mrs.  John. 

"  Only  for  a  moment,  dear,"  urged  Mrs. 
John  pleadingly,  and  as  though  asking  a 
favour. 

They  hod  reached  the  gato  of  the  church- 
yard, and  Mrs.  John,  without  waiting  for 
Ida's  answer,  said  to  the  driver  of  the  cab : 


150 


ALL  THE  YE4R  ROTIND. 


"Perhaps  yon  eotild  w&it  a  few 
miautea  1  You  could  pot  your  horae  np 
at  the  vicarage,  and  have  some  dinner 
yonnell" 

"  All  right,  mam,"  touching  his  hat,  and 
making  at  onoe  aorou  the  way  to  the 
Ticarage. 

"  You  need  see  no  one,  dear,"  continued 
Mrs.  John  honiedly,  in  answer  to  a  look 
of  diitreas  in  the  child's  face. 

Ida  accompanied  her  in  a  silence  that 
seemed  nngracions,  yet  the  poor  child  was 
touched  to  the  very  heart,  not  by  Mrs, 
John's  words  only,  but  by  her  face,  her 
tone,  her  team  But  she  never  oould 
express  her  feelings  adequately. 

Mrs.  John  hurried  her  into  the  house 
and  into  the  study,  set  her  in  a  ohair  1^ 
the  fire,  fetched  a  glass  of  wine,  pressed  it 
upon  her,  and  then  stood  by  her  in  silence, 
speakiDg  only  through  soft  touches  of  her 
band,  smoothing  the  child's  hair. 

Suddenly  Ida  looked  up  to  express  her 
thanks  in  her  own  fashion. 

"It  was  my  mother." 

Mra  John  understood  this  scant  confi- 
dence aa  it  was  meant,  as  the  melting  of 
the  child's  diilled  heart  under  kindness. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  asienUngly,  u  of  a  self- 
evident  thing. 

Again  there  was  silence  for  a  minute, 
Mrs.  John  hoping  for  a  further  confidence 
which  did  not  coma  Ida  looked  up  onoe 
as  if  about  to  say  something,  but  only  hw 
wide,  wistM  eyes  spoke. 

Mrs.  John,  lookbig  through  them  into 
her  heart,  hesitated  no  longer. 

"  Have  yon  no  father,  dear  t " 

"No." 

"  Nor  brother,  nor  sister  i " 

*'  Ko ;  I've  no  one  now,"  with  a  forlorn 
look  into  the  fire. 

Hie  settled  sadness  of  her  tone  and  gaze 
upset  the  soft-hearted  Mrs.  John,  so  that 
Ida,  looking  up  to  add  something,  found 
her  crying  quietly.  The  ice  on  the  child's 
heart,  wMch  had  gradually  been  maltmg 
under  all  this  warmth  of  sympathy,  now 
gave  way  altogether. 

"  I  wish — I  wish "  she  sobbed,  and 

then  could  not  speak  for  sobbing. 

"Whaty  deart"  asked  Mrs.  John 
eagerly,  when  Ida's  paroxysm  had  sub- 
sided.    "  What  do  you  wish  1 " 

"  I  wish  mother  had  known  you." 

Ida  now  need  feel  no  compunction  about 
not  being  able  to  speak  her  thanks.  She 
could  not  have  said  more.  Mrs.  J<An  felt 
that  all  the  child's  whole  heart  was  in  the 
words. 


She  put  her  arm  about  Ida's  neck,  and 
stooped  to  kiss  her  on  the  fordiead,  and 
said,  afler  a  moment^s  rilence  to  master 
her  voice,  which  yet  was  not  steady : 

"  Dont  you  thmk,  dear,  mother  is  wish- 
ing now  something  like  that  for  you— that 
you  had  some  friend  to  speak  to  and  trust 
to)  I  wish  you  would  let  me  be  yonr 
friend,  my  poor  child." 

Mnt  John's  words  sngeested  a  train  of 
thought  to  Ida,  of  which  sne  expressed  the 
outcome  in  the  words,  "  Mother  may  hava 
sent  you  to  me  1 "  in  an  awed  voice,  and 
with  ei^r,  wide,  and  wondering  eyes. 

"I  think  she  asked  Qod  to  send  some- 
one to  yon.  You  must  tell  me  all  yoiUr 
tronfoles.     What  is  your  name  1 " 

"  Ida — ^Ida  Luarii" 

"You  must  tell  me  all  yonr  troubles, 
Ids." 

The  child  did. 

It  was  two  hours  before  they  returned 
together  to  Leeds  to  settle  business  matters 
and  to  fetch  some  things  of  Ida's,  for  she 
wa»  to  stay  for  a  time  at  the  vicarage. 

When  they  reached  her  lodgings,  Ida 
found  there  a  letter  which  had  come  by 
the  afternoon  post. 

"  It's  from  Mrs.  Tuck,"  said  the  child,  ai 
she  opened  the  envelope. 

"  Mrs.  Who  t "  exclaimed  Mrs.  John. 

"Mrs.  Tuck,"  answered  Ida,  amaeed  at 
Mrs.  John's  amazement  "  She's  the  wife 
of  that  distant  cousin  I  told  yon  of,  who 
sent  motiier  money." 

"Do  they  live  at  Kingsford — at  The 
Keep)" 

"  Yes ;  how  did  you  know  t  You  know 
Uiem ) " 

"I  know  Mr.  Tuck.  But  there  was 
some  quarrel  You  mustn't  mention  our 
nune,  dear,  in  yonr  answer,"  said  Mra 
John  in  much  oonfiision. 

"  She  wants  me  to  go  there  on  a  visit  I" 
exclaimed  Ida  in  dismay. 

"  You  must  go,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  John, 
and  then  sbe  was  silent  as  Ida  herself— 
lost  in  troubled  thought — till  they  reached 
the  vicarage. 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH 

COUNTIES. 
NorrmaHAHSHiRE.  fabt  iil 
Thbrs  are  few  finer  sites  for  a  medinval 
ruin  than  the  red  sandstone  crag  on  which 
stands  Nottingham  Castle.  But,  unfortu- 
nately, the  medtfeval  ruin  is  not  there,  and, 
instead,  stands  a  commonplace  enough  man- 
sion; not  without  a  histo^,  however,  for  it 


ChirtM  M^EU.) 


CHBONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa    u«ai»r7M884j    15] 


w«a  not  burnt  down — ^ain  rather  anfor- 
tonxttiy,  which  would  h&ye  been  a  good 
riddance  of  the  place — bnt  burnt  out  by  a 
reckless  mob  in  the  d&ya  of  Reform  Bill 
agitation,  and  stood  there  afterwards  a 
lueless  shell,  a  mere  ecarecrow  of  a  build- 
ing, till  it  was  purchased  by  the  Coipora- 
tion  and  made  into  a  kind  of  muaeum  and 
library.  A  sad  result  of  the  burning  fol- 
lowed for  the  wild  and  reckless  people  who 
shared  in  this  fire  catastrophe,  of  whom 
Bondry  were  hanged  in  due  form  of  law, 
while  no  harm  whatever  was  done  to  their 
enemy,  the  Dnke  of  Newcastle,  to  punish 
whose  rote  against  the  Beform  Bui  this 
sad  piece  of  mischief  was  contriTod.  No 
harm,  bnt  rather  a  great  deal  of  good ; 
twonty  thonsand  pounds  having  been 
stfoeezed  ont  (rf  the  good  people  of  Not- 
tingham to  recoup  the  dnke's  loss  —  of 
some  old  fomitore,  that  is,  and  of  a  honse 
that  he  did  not  want  And  onr  qnarrel  as 
chroniclers  is  rather  with  the  Newcastle 
dnkee  themselves,  that  they  could  not 
leave  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  towers  where 
they  stood  —  the  towers  from  which  so 
ottm  had  floated  the  standard  of  England's 
kings.  But  the  beanty  of  the  site  still 
remains ;  with  its  noble  prc^pect  of  the 
great  plain  of  the  Trent ;  with  the  woods 
of  Clifton  Grove,  melo<Uously,  if  feebly, 
song  by  Kirke  White,  the  Nottingham 
poet ;  with  the  town  of  Nottingham  and 
its  moltitndinoTis  roofs  stretching  away  to 
the  river,  veiled  with  a  thin  haze  of  smoka 
And  neither  incendiaries  nor  iconoclasts 
conld  do  away  with  Mortimer's  Hole — a 
rude  cavern  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  known 
as  sach  ever  after  the  tragic  event  which 
happened  in  the  castle  above.  The  plot 
reads  more  like  a  bib  of  some  old  romance 
fhsn  sober  history.  The  qneen  and  her 
paramour,  Boger  Mortimer,  dwelt  in  all 
security  in  the  royal  stronghold — ^he,  the 
foremost  man  in  the  kingdom,  with  all 
the  reins  of  power  in  his  hiutds — while  the 
young  king,  Edward  the  Third,  not  yet  of 
age,  seemed  to  have  f  oi«otten  the  tragic 
end  of  his  father  at  Berkeley  Castle,  and 
to  have  come  to  look  upon  Mortimer  as 
his  natural  guardian  and  adviser.  With 
all  this  apparent  secnrity,  the  precEintions 
token  show  that  there  was  mistrust 
beneath.  The  qneen  and  Mortimer  took 
up  their  quarters  in  the  castle  keep,  sur- 
rounded by  a  guard  of  a  hundred  and 
eighty  futhfal  Knights,  while  the  young 
king,  who  had  come  here  to  meet  the 
Parliament,  lodged  with  only  a  small  fol- 
lowing in  the  town  below. 


The  rude  cavern  known  as  Mortimer'f 
Hole  cannot  have  been  overlooked  in  pro 
viding  for  the  secnrity  of  the  caetl&  I( 
communicated  by  a  well-known  passage 
with  the  outer  conrt  of  the  building,  and 
seems  to  have  heea  used  as  a  storebonse, 
from  which  supplies  for  the  castle  above 
were  frequently  hauled  up  along  the  sub- 
terranean way.  The  passage  would  most 
certainly  have  been  guarded  by  a  strong 
postern-gate,  and  even  were  that  forced, 
the  assulants  would  be  as  far  as  ever  from 
reaching  the  inner  keep,  which  was  occupied 
by  the  qneen  and  Mortimer.  And  these 
circumatancep  have  thrown  somo  doubt 
upon  the  generally-received  version  of 
Mortimer's  capture;  but  recent  research 
has  shown  that  traces  exist  of  a  more 
secret  staircase  ont  in  the  rot^  opening 
out  of  the  oavem,  and,  although  choked 
with  rublnsb,  still  showing  unmistakably 
that  its  direction  was  towards  the  very 
inner  sbrongbold  of  the  citadel;  and  the 
existence  iS  this  passage  might  well  be 
known  to  the  governor  of  the  castle,  and 
itot  to  its  temporary  iumatea 

Up  the  secret  staircase  in  the  dead  of 
night  climbed  the  king  uid  a  few  fdthful 
knights.  The  scene  which'foUowed  almost 
anticipated  a  Hke  tragic  scene  at  Holy- 
rood.  The  armed  men  penetrated  into 
the  queen's  apartments ;  they  dragged  the 
wretched  Mortimer  from  h»  arms,  while 
she  continued  to  shriek  for  mercy,  and 
called  upon  her  son  to  spare  him.  Mortimer 
was  dragged  down  the  murow  staircase, 
but  was  not  then  dispatched.  He  was 
reserved  to  be  hanged  at  Tyburn,  suffering 
the  same  ^juominioas  death  he  had  in- 
flicted on  the  Spencers  in  years  gone  by. 
And  yet  this  Mortimer  was  not  oltoge&er 
a  failure  and  hia  descendants  are  heard  of 
again  in  history,  one  of  them,  indeed, 
coming  to  be  King  of  England  as  Edward 
the  Fourth,  through  whom  our  present 
royal  family  may  claim  as  an  ancestor  the 
man  (who  was  hanged  on  Tyburn-tree — a 
fact,  this,  which  should  be  a  consolation  to 
any  who  may  have  a  "sus  per  col" 
recorded  in  the  fJunily  annala 

But  to  return  to  Notttnghota,  which  is 
finely  placed  at  the  side  of  its  so-called 
castle,  lying  where  the  ridges  of  the  forest 
Irills  nm  steeply  into  the  broad  valley  of 
the  Trent,  peroaps  the  most  original  and 
picturesque  of  aU  manufacturing  towns. 
At  the  point  where  the  castle  rock  joias 
the  hill  upon  which  the  town  is  built,  the 
ground  rises  into  a  little  mount,  now  all 
cov^ed  with  houses  and  gardens,  a  lane 


163    iJuiiuiT  s,  lau.i 


ALL  THE  TEAR  EOTJND. 


between  vhich  bean  tbe  iiuoription  of 
Standard  Hill^  and  thu,  as  anyoue  might 
guesB,  ia  the  exact  apot  where  King  Chanet 
the  First  raised  his  standard  io  the  unhappy 
civil  wars.  lb  was  about  dx  o'clock  in  the 
evening  of  a  stonny  and  tempastnons  day 
that  the  king  himself,  with  a  small  train 
of  followers,  rode  to  the  top  of  the  castle 
hill  A  herald  came  forwud  with  tabard 
and  tmmpet,  and  began  to  raad  the  king's 
proclamation,  but  was  intdrmpted  by  the 
king  himself,  who  had  some  scraplee  as  to 
the  wording  of  it,  and  who  corrected  the 
paper  on  his  knee  as  he  sat  there  on  horse- 
back. The  herald  stumbled  over  reading 
the  aewly-correctdd  manuscript,  and  thus 
the  whole  ceremony  took  a  hue  of  doubt 
and  hesitation.  But  at  last  the  standard  was 
onfnrled,  tiie  burner  thrown  to  the  winds. 
And  hMiffhtitj'  the  tmmpets  paal,  and  soil?  daoa 

the  bella. 
As  alow  upon   the  labourinB  wind  the  royal 

bluon  BWellB. 

But  a  blusterous  night  coming  on  the 
standard  was  soon  removed  and  fixed  to  the 
castle  keep,  but  the  fla^  was  blown  down 
before  the  morning,  which  at  the  time  was 
thought  an  evil  omen.  And  thus  we  have 
both  the  opening  aod  the  closing  scene  of 
the  king's  con'test  with  the  Parliament 
enacted  in  the  same  county  and  within  the 
compass  of  a  few  miles.  The  raisings  of 
the  standard,  that  is,  at  Nottingham,  and 
the  final  soirender  to  the  Scots  army  at 
SonthwelL 

Farther  away  from  the  castle  there  opens 
out  a  fine  market-place,  perhaps  the  largest 
in  the  kingdom,  surrouDded  by  inns  and 
shops,  with  traces  here  and  there  of  a  piazza 
before  the  shops,  which  seems  at  one  time  to 
have  extended  almost  the  entire  circuit  of 
the  marketrplace.  On  one  side  there  is  the 
Fonltry,  where  stand  the  vendors  of  live 
chickens  and  rabbits,  and  such  small  deer, 
juat  as  they  have  done  ever  since  the  place 
was  a  town  at  all ;  while,  opposite,  a  few 
chapmen  may  still  be  found  with  their 
hawkers'  baskets  about  their  once  pri- 
vileged quarter — the  Chepesida  Here  are 
remuns,  too,  of  the  rows  where  the  difierent 
trades  established  themselves,  and  at  one 
time  Nottingham  was  as  famous  for  iron- 
work and  hardware  as  Sheffield  is  now. 
The  bridle-smiths  hare  left  their  memory 
in  Bridlesmith  Gate,  and  the  fraternity  of 
smiths  in  general  are  recalled  in  the  old 
saying,  the  origin  and  meaning  of  which 
are  equally  obscure. 


a-working  came  to  an  end 


about  the  year  1650,  and  then  with  tJie 
decline  of  one  industry  another  came  to  the 
front,  and  the  stocking-frame  was  invented 
by  William  Lee,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
How  ^onng  Lee,  watching  in  sober  mood 
the  nimble  movement  of  his  wife's  fingers 
as  she  sat  knitting  stockings,  first  got  the 
idea  of  imitating  the  process  in  wood  and 
wire,  has  often  been  told  and  has  famished 
more  than  one  English  artist  with  a  subject. 
But  the  inventor  himself  got  little  profit 
by  his  machine,  and  it  is  said  that  failing 
to  secure  recognition  of  his  invention  in  his 
own  country,  he  took  his  machine  to  Paris, 
and  submitted  it  to  the  French  king, 
Henry  the  Fourth,  who  hod  a  mind  to  take 
up  the  invention  and  establish  the  manu- 
facture among  his  subjects — but  the  dagger 
of  Eavaillao  put  an  end  to  all  that 

But  about  Nottingham  the  stocking 
manufacture  soon  took  root  and  spread 
itself,  finding  a  home  among  the  neigh- 
bonring  villages.  There  are  many  factories 
where  stockings  are  made  on  a  large  scale, 
but  the  home  manufacture  still  fiourishea, 
and  in  most  of  the  villagea  along  Trent- 
side  and  round  about,  nearly  every  cottage 
has  its  stocking-frame,  and  the  peculiar 
creaking,  chirping  noise  it  makes,  some- 
thing like  the  ciT  of  the  corncrake  over  the 
fields,  mingles  pleasantly  with  rural  sounds 
and  with  the  songs  of  birds  in  the  stillness 
of  the  country. 

Many  French  Protestant  refugees  came 
and  settled  in  these  Nottinghamshire 
valleys,  and  carried  on  the  lace  and  stock- 
ing manufacture.  But  these  families  soon 
became  Anglicised,  and  when  Blenheim 
had  been  fought  and  Marshal  Tollard  and 
many  French  ofQcers  of  distinction  were  sent 
as  prisoners  to  Nottingham,  these  last 
comers  probably  found  hardly  a  French- 
speaking  inhabitant  in  the  place.  Whether 
or  not,  the  lively  Frenchmen  made  them- 
selvee  vastly  at  home  in  Nottingham,  and 
became  most  popular  among  the  good  wives 
and  especially  among  the  children  of  the 
neighbourhood.  NQttinghom  is  &med  for 
its  light  and  beautiful  bread,  and  it  is  said 
that  some  of  this  fame  is  due  to  the 
teaching  of  the  French  prisoners  of  those 
days,  while  they  roused  the  emulation  of 
the  Nottingham  folk  by  the  elegant  gardens 
they  created  about  their  quarters. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  amenities 
introduced  by  the  Frenchmen,  the  stock- 
ingers  of  Nottingham  have  a  reputation 
for  considerable  roughness.  Such  a  scene 
as  that  formerly  presented  by  Nottingham 
market-place  during  a  contested  election, 


CHRONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIES,    wuiurr  s,  ism-j    153 


when  tha  whole  of  the  raat  area,  dx  seres  or 
more,  vould  be  filled  with  a  Tiolent,  azcited 
crovd,  whose  yells  and  cries  rose  np  with 
an  indescribable  roar  of  quite  terrific  power, 
might  give  on  idea  of  the  native  energy  of 
the  Nottingham  lambs — lambs  in  the  same 
aense  as  those  of  Colonel  Kirka — lambs, 
tliat  is,  from  their  entire  want  of  lamb-like 
qualities. 

In  them  yon  might  fancy  yon  saw  the 
descendants  of  the  troglodytes  who  are 
said  to  hare  been  the  aboriginal  inhabi- 
tants of  the  district.  Bnt  on  ordinary 
occasions,  and  especially  on  market-days, 
the  scene  is  of  qnite  a  diffarent  character. 
Carriers'  carte  bring  in  the  country  people, 
and  as  the  day  advances  are  waiting  in  a 
long  line  to  carry  them  oat  again.  The 
market  is  filled  with  shops  and  booths,  a 
general  fair  and  mart  where  all  sorts  of 
things  are  offered  for  sale,  great  store  of 
pottery,  clothes,  ironmongery,  books,  as 
well  as  the  more  ordinary  commodities  of 
a  country  marked  Indeed,  Nottingham 
strikes  the  observer  as  being  quite  as  much 
a  county  centre  as  a  mauuI'actnriDg  town ; 
a  sort  of  Novgorod  with  its  great  fair, 
called  goose  fair  in  Nottingham,  where 
the  dealera  and  manufactnrers  &om  the 
plains  may  meet  and  barter  with  the 
nomads  of  the  forest  and  the  agricultural 
settlers  from  the  interior.  A  centre,  too, 
is  Nottmgham  of  an  old-established  gentry, 
settled  in  the  halls  round  about.  There  is 
Colwick,  the  -seat  of  the  Musters  family ; 
and  pleasant  Clifton  Grove,  where  the 
Cliftons  have  lived  time  out  of  mind ;  and 
there  is  Aapley,  once  the  seat  of  the 
Willonghbys,  whose  old-fashioned  courtesy 
and  goodwill  to  their  humbler  neighbours 
have  been  preserved  by  tradition. 

In  the  last  oentury  it  was  the  custom  at 
Aspley  Hall  for  the  whole  country  round 
to  reeort  there  at  Shrovetide  to  fry  pan- 
cakes. The  squire  found  the  fat  and  the 
pana  and  the  firing,  and  the  poor  neigh- 
bours brought  their  own  batter,  and  there 
in  the  great  ball  was  a  huge  fire  at  which 
a  dozen  pans  would  be  going  at  once,  with 
great  competition  and  uughter  in  thJe  way 
of  tossing  the  pancakes ;  the  squire  and 
his  lady  always  presiding  in  their  old  oak 
chairs,  and  entering  heartily  into  the 
general  fun.  And  with  the  squire  would  be 
noticed  a  grave  and  dignified  figure  well 
known  by  sight,  and  yet  rarely  spoken  of 
by  the  villagers.  This  was  the  Roman 
Catholic  priest,  whose  ministrations  were 
Uien  ille^,  but  who  carried  OD  his 
sub  fosft,  without  interference. 


Then  there  is  Wollaton,  a  fine  Tudor 
mandon,  whose  park-gates  are  close  to  the 
town ;  a  boose  that  was  attacked  by  the 
mob  during  the  Reform  Bill  excitement, 
but  that  escaped  without  serious  damaga 

On  the  other  side  of  Trent  we  come  to  a 
district  of  a  different  character,  a  bleak  and 
open  country  known  as  the  Wolds,  stretch- 
ing away  into  Leicestershire.  But  here, 
too,  in  every  sheltered  nook  and  favoured 
valley  rise  .the  mansiona  of  the  territorial 
gentry.  There  is  Bunny,  with  its  memories 
of  the  once  famed  Sir  Thomas  Farkyns, 
some  of  whose  classic  inscriptions  are  still 
to  be  met  with,  but  who  plumed  himself 
upon  his  wrestling  even  more  than  his 
classic  lore.  In  his  veneration  for  the 
ancient  Olympic  games,  and  his  love  for 
athletic  sports  in  general,  he  left  in  his 
will  the  munificent  prize  of  a  guinea  a  year 
to  be  wrestled  for  on  Midsummer  Day.  It 
is  told  of  Sir  Thomas,  that  being  visited 
one  day  by  a  noble  lord,  his  veiy  good 
friend  and  neighbour,  the  latter,  alluding 
to  Sir  Thomas's  reputation  as  a  wresUer, 
basooght  him  to  give  him,  the  noble  lord, 
nple  of  his  quali^.  The  next 
moment  his  lordship  found  himself  lying 
upon  his  back  on  the  greensward,  having 
been  cleanly  thrown  over  Sir  'Thomas  s 
head.  The  noble  lord  picked  himself  up, 
and  advanced  upon  his  host  with  sundry 
hot  words  and  imprecations.  "  My  dear 
lord  I "  cried  Sir  Thomas,  quite  shocked  at 
the  way  in  which  his  cinlitieB  were  taken, 
"  consider  this  a  proof  of  the  high  esteem 
I  have  for  your  lordship  and  your  lord- 
ship's fiunily.  I  have  never  before  shown 
this  master  stroke  to  any  person  living." 
A  mighty  hunter,  too,  was  Sir  Thomas. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  last  century  he 
wBs  grown  old,  and  no  longer  able  to 
follow  the  hounds ;  but,  hearing  that  the 
pack  was  coming  by  the  Hall,  he  had  him- 
self dressed  in  his  scarlet  coat  and  hunting- 
cap,  to  sit  at  the  open  window,  and  cheer 
the  passing  train  of  dogs  and  huntemea 

Then  there  is  Willoughby,  where  wo 
come  upon  the  Fosseway  again,  and  it  b 
noticeaUe  that  hareabcnite  the  road  is 
indeed  a  fosse — not  yet  the  "  ramper  road," 
but  sunk  BO  deeply  in  crossing  the  wolds 
that  an  army  might  march 'along  it  with- 
out being  noticed  from  the  country  round 
about.  Coming  along  this  sunken  way 
one  day  in  the  civil  wan,  two  parties 
of  hostiie  cavalry  met,  and  fought  out  their 
difference  in  the  open  j  with  no  definite 
result  except  the  death  of  the  Royalist 
Colonel  Stanhope,  who  lies  there  in  tba 


154      JmnuyS.lMtl 


ALL  THE  YEAH  BOUND. 


church  with  a  moaament  ov«i  him,  close 
by  where  he  felL 

Offthorpe  ii  near  at  hand,  with  monn- 
□leiitB  of  the  HatchinBO&B,  of  whom  Colonel 
Hutchinson  is  familiar  from  bis  wife's 
Memoir.  After  the  restoration  the  colonel 
lived  foisome  yean  in  hiding  at  Owtborpe, 
being  one  of  those  excepted  from  the  Act 
of  Indemnity,  but  was  erentoally  arrested 
and  im^isoned  in  Deal  Oastle,  where  he 
died.  Then  there  is  Whatton,  farther  on 
in  the  Vale  of  Belvoir  country,  with  a 
monument  in  the  church  to  the  ^tber  of 
Archbishop  Oranmer.  Here  the  futore 
prelate  and  martyr  was  bom ;  at  the 
manor-honae  at  AsUeton,  that  is,  iriiich  is 
in  the  pariah.  And  there  it  Bingham  too, 
quietest  and  neatest  of  little  county  towns, 
with  its  haodsome  church  and  dignified 
rectory.  The  rectory  was  some  while  held 
by  the  Bev.  Bobert  Love,  a  man  long  a 
terror  to  trampa  and  cadgers,  a  Blutdanuuir- 
tbus  among  magietrates,  and  the  father  <^ 
the  sometime  OnaQcellOT  of  the  Ezoheqon. 
Nearer  the  Trent  is  Baddiffe,  with  fine 
views  of  the  river,  ralley,  and  of  the  forest 
hills  beyond,  from  tiie  steep  dedivity,  with 
its  broken  red  banks,  m>m  which  the 
village  takes  its  nama  Tiiere  in  Uie 
flat  meadows  betow,  within  a  bend  of  the 
river,  lias  Shelford,  with  its  handsome 
church  containing  tike  family  vault  of  tbe 
Earls  of  Chesterfield,  about  which  a  good 
story  is  currentL 

The  Shelford  men,  it  seenu,  had  long 
been  remarkable  at  feaata,  fairs,  and 
markets  for  a  certain  smartoeBa  of  ^^arel 
which  had  caused  some  little  jealonsr 
among  neighbonring  villages,  and  of  which 
the  most  noticeable  and  excellent  feature 
was  the  red  velvet  collar  that  was  the  iur 
aoparable  ornament  of  a  Shelford  coat.  In 
fact,  the  collar  became  the  well-known 
badge  of  a  Shelford  man — no  ccmunon 
thing  in  velveteen,  bat  of  a  rich  silk  velvet 
that  muBt  have  coat  no  end  <^  shillings  a 
yard.  Wherever  they  got  it  from,  the 
Shelford  men  seemed  to  enjoy  a  perennial 
supply  of  this  goi^eous  trimming,  and  the 
affair  might  have  gone  on  unexplained 
till  now  but  for  the  inves^gations  of  the 
vicar,  who,  reasoning  from  the  ^t  that 
the  village  tailor  was  also  the  pariah  aexton, 
made  it  bis  business  to  descend  privately 
into  the  Chesterfield  vaolt,  when  he  found, 
to  his  dismay,  that  the  rich  velvet  cover- 
ings of  the  Chesterfield  coffins  had  been 
niipped  away  and  used  for  Shelford  coat- 
collars.  The  vicar  commnnicated  at  once 
■vith  his  patron,  the  EarL     It  does  not 


appear  wheUier  thii  was  the  celebrated 
CAiesterfield  of  the  Letters — likely  enough 
it  may  have  been,  for  the  Earl  received  the 
news  with  the  amused  urbanity  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  and  professed  himself  pleased 
iqdeed  that  these  tueless  trapphim  had  been 
tamed  to  such  good  account  But  for  all 
tliat,  the  Shelford  men  had  much  to  endure 
from  the  jeers  and  sarcasms  of  their  neigh- 
boura  when  the  secret  of  their  splendour 
became  generally  known. 

But  the  Shelford  men  are  only  locally 
famous,  while  a  remote  villsge  on  the 
wold,  in  the  south-west  comer  of  the 
county,  has  attained  almost  Enropean  dis- 
tinction. The  wise  men  of  Gotham  made 
their  first  appearance  in  literature  as  eariy 
as  the  sixteenth  century  in  the  jeet-book 
of  Andrew  Borde,  the  Harry  ^draw — 
albeit  his  jokea  seem  dull  and  coarae 
enough  to  us — who  is  aaid  to  have  given 
hia  name  to  clowns  and  jesters  in  KeneraL 
But  it  ia  hard  to  say  what  originaUy  fixed 
their  reputation  for  exceeding  foolishneea 
upon  the  unhappy  Qothamitea.  Were 
they,  •perhaps,  a  stray  settlement  of  Ooths, 
whose  unfamiliar  language  and  manners 
became  the  sooree  of  ridicule  among  their 
neighboora  1  "  What  fools  those  French 
are,"  saya  someone.  "Why,  they  call  a 
horse  a  shovel  I "  And  in  the  sune  my 
uncultivated  wit  is  accostomed  to  jeer  at 
anything  strange  and  nnfamiliar.  The 
same  stories  that  are  told  of  the  men  of 
Qotham  are  in  other  districts  applied  to 
other  towns.  The  Oothamite  attempt  to 
build  a  hedge  round  the  cuckoo  is 
paralleled  by  a  similar  feat  attributed  to 
the  men  of  Folkestone,  and  the  wise  men 
appear  in  different  forma  in  many  Qermaa 
Hausmarchen. 

It  wonld  hardly  do  to  leave  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  tJie  Trent  without  a  reference 
to  the  JJottinghamahire  anglers  witii  Uieir 
swiftly-running  wooden  reels  and  gossamer- 
like  tackle,  who  haunt  each  likely  reach 
and  swim  with  the  patience  and  per- 
severance of  the  heron.  Mighty  takes  of 
barbel,  of  roach,  and  of  bream  oocafflonaliy 
reward  the  akilfiil  pisoatw  who  hae  found 
a  good  pitch,  and  huge  pike  lurk  in  the 
badiwatera  and  abandcmed  channels  of 
the  river.  Memories  arise  of  a  pleasant 
inn  by  the  river,  a  ferry  just  above, 
where  the  river  runs  sharply  over  a 
gravel-bed,  a  well-known  haunt  of  gray- 
ling. How  pleasant  the  awirl  and  plaah  of 
the  river  in  the  soft  tranquility  of  a  som- 
mer'a  evening,  the  ripples  all  golden  in  Uie 
eunshine,  while  tiie  deep  cool  ahadowe  of 


OHBONIOLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES. 


[T£.ieM.]     161 


the  pool  lower  down  ate  flecked  by  the 
arclea  made  hj  the  ruing  fish  1 

Bat  along  Trent-aide,  even  vithoat.  a 
fishiDK-rod  in  the  band,  it  ia  pleaaaat 
enoo^  to  sanitter  on  a  summer's  day  in 
the  soft,  hazy  irarmth  of  the  river-valley — 
tlie  river  ahining  with  eoftened  luatre,  the 
trees  ^ronping  Uiemselvea  in  noble  masses, 
soft  bills  looming  thtongh  the  haze.  Some- 
tmes  a  barge  comes  along,  heralded  by  a 
lood  dap-dapping  of  gates.  All  the  £eIdB 
are  divided  by  these  double  "  dap-gates," 
as  peoide  call  them.  The  driver  opens 
one,  the  hoise  pnts  his  sboolder  against 
t^  other,  the  tow-rope  is  swung  ovei  the 
puts,  and  away  goes  the  barge,  higl:^piled 
wkb  deals  that  leave  a  pleasant  aromatic 
perfiime  in  the  air.  Once  the  writer  recalls 
aoming  to  a  littie  inn  by  the  riverside. 
Close  by  was  a  creek  where  barges  tied  op 
from  Saturday  to  Monday  on  their  voyage 
bom  Hall  or  Oainaborongh  to  the  Mid- 
lands. A.  boat,  cub  in  half  and  stuck  into 
the  ground,  served  as  a  snmmer-house, 
where  yonr  barges  might  lit  and  smoke  his 
pipe  and  watch  the  trauqoil  river  Sowing 
on  coQtinnaUy.  He  was  more  Ukely  to 
he  found,  however,  in  the  t^>-room  or  the 
skittle-aUey.  It  was  Saturday  evening, 
ealm  and  pladd,  with  a  Sabbath  stUlneas 
m  the'  air,  with  only  the  continual  thad 
and  clatter  of  the  skittles  to  break  the 
■pell  of  toanqdlity.  Seated  on  benches 
loond  the  players  were  the  ctewB  of  the 
barges,  looking  on.  One  burly  navigator 
had  joat  come  in,  and  was  sitting  on  a 
bench  in  the  grassy  courtyard,  his  legs 
stretched  out  in  Inxurioiu  ease.  Money 
was  chinking  in  his  pocket,  beer  was  in 
immediate  prospect,  the  skittles  rattled 
invitin^y.  A  pret^  girl — the  daughter 
of  the  house— Ivoughb  the  man  his  mug 
of  beer,  and  as  he  tbrost  his  hand  into 
Us  capacious  pocket  for  some  coin,  she 
said  in  a  tone  of   good^iunonred  admo- 

"  Eh,  Sam,  mind  yon  take  care  of  yonr 
wages  now,  and  cany  them  safe  home  to 
your  wife." 

Sam  forthwidi  emptied  the  contents  of 
kis  pocket  into  his  ]wlm — a  goodly  hand- 
ful of  silver.  Then  he  connted  out  care- 
fnlly,  ^bteen  riiillings,  and  sUd  them  back. 

"  There,"  he  cried, "  them  belongsto  the 
Btinms,"  and  dunking  the  remuiuDg  coins 
joymdy, "  this  t'other's  Sam's." 

These  baigees  on  the  Tnnt  are  on  tint 
whole  a  very  dvil  and  well-conditioned 
class  of  men,  greatly  superior  to  those 
who  dIv  ezclnsivelv  on  inland  waters:     It 


seems  as  if  the  touch  of  salt  water  naviga 
tion  they  get  in  the  month  of  the  Humbei 
gives  them  the  character  rather  of  sailorf 
than  of  mere  bargees.  And  this  charactei 
of  the  Trent  boatmen  is  probably  verj 
ancient  For  in  a  presentment  made  in  the 
fifteenth  year  of  Bichard  the  Second  against 
Eichard  Byron,  Atmiger,  and  Joane  his  wife, 
for  hindering  the  coarse  of  the  waters  ol 
the  Trent  at  Over  Golwicke,  which  was  the 
right  of  the  said  Joane,  the  Trent  wac 
there  found  to  be  one  of  the  great  rivers  ol 
the  kingdom  of  England  for  passage  ol 
ships  and  hatella — that  is,  boata — with 
victuals  and  other  merchandise  from  tb€ 
castle  and  town  of  NotUngbam  to  the 
waters  of  Humber,  and  from  thence  intc 
the  deep  ssa. 

The  early  importance  of  the  navigation 
of  the  Trent  as  affording  a  watery  bigbwaj 
to  the  Humber,  and  so  on  by  the  Ouse  tc 
the  northern  capital  of  the  kingdom  at 
York,  ezpluna  the  suddenrise  to  importance 
of  Kottingham  after  the  Conquest,  Undei 
the  Anglo-Saxon  kin^  the  port  was  of  little 
importance,  but  to  the  Conqueror  it  became 
one  of  the  most  important  links  in  a  chain 
of  posts  by  which  he  retained  his  grasp 
upon  York  and.  the  North.  Thus  be  built 
a  strong  castle  on  the  rook,  which,  although 
not  acWally  on  the  river  bank,  yet  com- 
manded the  a[^roach  thereto.  And  he 
made  his  own  natural  son,  William  Fevoril, 
Earl  of  Nottingham,  Bpe(ually  of  the  town 
and  csstle  it  seems,  for  thecounty,  probably, 
was  not  considered  of  sufficient  importance 
to  have  an  Earl  to  itsel£  And  in  the  same 
way,  when  the  country  became  reooncOed  to 
the  yoke  of  the  Norman  kings,  the  castle 
lost  its  importance  as  a  ftnlification,  and 
became  merdy  a  royal  residence,  and  after- 
wards an  appendage  to  more  important 
Earldoms. 

It  now  only  remains  to  deal  with  a 
narrow  region  bordering  on  Derbyshire, 
the  Nottinghamshire  side  of  the  v^ey  of 
the  river  Erewash  that  here  forms  the 
boundary  between  the  counties.  Hereevery- 
thing  is  changed,  and  is  still  changing ;  a 
district  of  coal-mines  and  manu^tares,  in 
wealth  or  in  want  according  to  the  fluctua- 
tions in  the  coal  and  iron  trades,  but 
on  the  whole  thriving  and  pushing  on. 
Many  strange  tales  might  be  told  of  the 
vidssitudes  of  coal-seeking,  for  a  good  deal 
of  the  Nottingham  coal-field  has  been 
recently  brought  into  use  —  of  men  who 
had  sunk  dl  they  had,  and  all  that  other 
people  had,  in  vainly  sinking  and  digging, 
and  who  at  the  last  sasp  came  udou  the 


156      [JuiauTG,  USt.l 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


right  vein,  &nd  were  borne  to  wealth  and 
honour;  of  others,  who  after  toiling  for 
fe&rs,  and  losiog  everything  in  the  eeareh 
For  coal,  broke  down  at  th«  last  moment, 
and  saw  all  the  reaolta  of  sncceea  swept 
into  the  pockets  of  new  comers. 

In  the  midst  of  the  smoke  and  smother 
lies  Hucknall  Torkard,  with  Byron's  tomb 
in  the  church  of  what  is  now  a  busy  thriving 
place.  And  beyond  lie  the  woods  of 
Annesley,  where  Mary  Chaworth  lived. 
Two  small  priories,  Felley  and  Beauvale,  lie 
near  together,  with  a  few  broken  walls  to 
show  tnat  they  once  existed.  And  from 
this  point  two  routes  are  open  to  the 
wanderer.  On  one  hand  he  may  penetrate 
the  recesses  of  a  wild,  ptctnresqne  country, 
stretching  almost  withont  a  break  from 
Derbyshue  peak  to  Scawfell;  on  the 
other  opens  ont  a  r^on  of  coal  and 
iron,  with  tall  chimneys  rising  like  the 
stakes  that  mark  a  river  channel,  in  long 
succession,  till  the  calmiuating  point  of 
the  whole  bosy  district  is  resehed  ii 
Lancashire.  Bnt  the  billa  we  now  se 
before  ua  are  the  hills  of  Derbyshire,  the 
bold  and  rocky  vertebree  of  England' 
backbone. 


wnro-voiCEs. 

PiLB  high  the  logi,  tad  draw  Uie  cortauu  round, 
I  will  Dot  heed — what  mattai  that  the  wind 
Howla  round  tlie  houBe,  and  shakes  the  window- 
blind  t 
I  know  'tis  DoUiJng  save  the  wintir  sound, 
That  speaks  of  autumn's  death; 
Beneath  its  ann^  breath 
The  leaves  lie  alaia  upon  the  trodden  gronnd. 
SuppoBO  we  cannot  keep  it  out ! — luppose 
Those  ore  real  voices  in  that  sngry  roar 
Ttiat  BurifSB  round  the  house  f      Suppose,    oaot 

The  dead  thus  speak  the  words  ;  the  calm  repose 

Uf  just-relinquisbed  UEe, 

Of  rest  from  juat-tonght  strife. 

Mad  silenced,  slid  tucas  tbos  the  d««d  arose  ? 

Ghosts  I  ghosts  I  Oh,  wailing  wintry  wind,  be  still  1 

Yet  pitf  seizes  me.    I  see  again 

Those  whom  I  loved.    Once  more  the  angiiiabed 

Ktrikes  to  my  soul,  and  teats  mine  eyelids  fill. 
Why  should  we  shrink  with  fear, 
E'en  though  the  dead  are  near  t 
Ah  me  I   now  shrieks  the  wind — wild,  wild   and 
shriUI 

[  cannot  shut  them 

Perchance  they  have  a  messagey  dear  and  good. 

Radiant,  I  pray,  from  Heaven  S  own  crystal  light. 

Come  in  awhile  to  me, 

Be  as  you  used  to  be, 

And  make  mine  empty  house-plaoe  filled  and  bright. 

Oh,  wild  triumphant  scream  I  Hiere  are  no  ghosts. 

Save  of  the  wicked,  in  the  angry  cries 

That  rend  my  heart,  and  fill  my  tired  eyes. 

Those  whom  I  loved  join  not  these  vagrant  hosts. 

But  lie  too  fast  asleep. 

In  slnmber  dead  and  deep, 

To  walk  abroad,  soreammg  such  empty  boasts. 


Qod  ',  Silence  me  the  storm,  and  let  me  rest, 

just  where  my  loved  ones  sleep — out  in  the  wind 

That  is  so  full  of  sorrow,  deaf  and  blind. 

They  hear  and  see  me  not ;  in  death's  dark  breast 

A  fearsome  problem  lies, 

Nor  earth,  nor  sea,  nor  skies. 

Enow  as  he  knows,  that  He,  not  life,  i«  rest. 


LITTLE  SISTERa 

Wk  are  all  more  or  leas  familiar  with  the 
qoaint  white  caps  and  large  black  cloaks 
and  hoods  we  see  so  often  in  the  streeta  of 
London.  Korth,  south,  east,  and  weat,  on 
foot,  or  enjoying  the  doabtfal  luxury  of  a 
ride  in  train  or  omniboe ;  wet  or  &im  m 
see  them  everywhere,  and  in  all  weathers, 
and,  to  the  credit  of  all  English  hearts  be 
it  said,  we  see  them  meet  everywhere 
with  the  same  respect  from  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men,  from  all  creeds  and 
religions.  For  the  creed  and  religion 
of  these  be-cloaked  and  be-booded  ladies  is 
simple,  oniversai,  and  applies  to  oil  It 
may  be  summed  up  in  one  word — charity. 
And,  truth  to  tell,  their  charity  onght 
indeed  to  cover  a  mnltitude  of  sins,  for  it 
comes  to  the  rescue,  and  takes  off  our 
hands  a  great  number  of  those  whoae 
theoretical  claims  are  recognised  by  all, 
bat  whose  actual  claims  an  apt  to  wei^ 
heavily  upon  us  individually  and  sodaliy 
as  ratepayers,  - 

The  object  of  the  "  Little  Sisters  of  the 
Poor  "  is  to  provide  homes  for  the  indigent 
aged  and  infirm  of  both  saxes.  The 
sisterhood  was  originally  established  at 
St  Servan  in  Brittany  in  1840.  Their 
reoords  tell  how  M.  L'Abb^  Le  Pailteur, 
the  vicaire  of  that  pUce,  felt  himself 
drawn  to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  the 
aged  poor — sufferings  at  that  time  so 
terribly  obvious  in  aU  Continental  towns. 
He  b^gan  his  work  with  the  assistance 
of  two  young  women,  enthusiasts  like  him- 
self, and  we  read  how  the  first  recipient 
of  their  charity  was  an  old  dame  of  eighty, 
who  was  brought  home  to  the  garret 
occupied  by  the  young  sempstress  and  her 
friend,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  also  working  for 
her  living,  and  there  nnrsod  and  fed  upon 
their  slender  earnings.  By  degrees  two 
more  kind  souk  joined  the  good  work,  and 
aided  in  the  maintenance  of  the  poor 
inmatas,  now  amounting  to  twelve  in 
number.  By  this  time,  the  garret  wss 
abandoned,  and  the  greund-noor  of  a 
house  taken  as  offord^g  more  accom- 
modation. At  this  period,  such  of  tbs 
old  ladies  and  gentlemen  as  oould  get 
about,  catered  for  their  own  wigbk  nL 


LITTLE  SISTEES. 


IJwiuwyS,  18M.)      167 


were  not  above  conliauing  their  dsily 
roonds,  andbeggingas  of  yore.  Bat,  alas 
for  poor  old  haman  nature  I  perchance  the 
certainty  of  a  shelter  at  Qtght  for  their 
old  bones  may  bare  made  them  reckless 
of  their  soos,  or  perhaps  the  mantle  of 
^phec7  may  have  descended  upon  them, 
enabling  them  to  foresee  better  days  in 
store.  Ajid  again,  cjder  is  veij  cheap  in 
Britttuiy,  At  any  rate,  it  was  finally 
agreed  that,  in  spite  of  the  disagreeable- 
ness  of  tha  process,  it  would  be  better  for 
the  oJd  folks  that  their  guardians  shonld 
for  the  future  solicit  the  aid  they  had  so 
long  b^ged  for  themBelre&  Accordingly 
they  remained  at  home,  while  the  Sisters, 
each  armed  with  a  basket,  went  forth  to 
beg  and  receive  the  oontribations  hitherto 
bMowed  npon  their  charges. 

Now  began  the  oostom  of  soliciting 
scnqw  and  broken  food  of  all  sorts, 
which  helped  lai^ly  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  iJie  door.  AU  the  more  needful 
this,  DOW  that  the  Bureau  de  Bienfaisances 
refosad  to  allow  the  old  people  thns 
provided  with  shelter  the  little  support 
they  had  prerioiiBly  giTea  to  some  of  them. 
It  is  almost  startling  to  read  of  some  of 
the  ooexpected  sacconrs  which  seem  to 
have  arrived  at  maments  when  most  re- 
quired by  these  courageous  Little  Sistera 
The  very  novelty  and  nature  of  l^e  work 
appealed  to  the  people,  and  it  was  from 
the  market-folks  of  the  place  that  they 
received  the  first  substantial  contributions 
towards  the  tables  of  their  charges.  The 
first  house  they  occupied  wholly  was  pur- 
chased partly  by  the  sale  of  a  watch 
and  some  silver  omaments  belongmg  to 
M.  Le  Paillenr,  the  rest  was  paid  ofi'  in 
one  year  by  voluntary  contributions. 

That  the  Sistera  should  come  across 
minds  ooable  to  appreciate  the  nobility  of 
their  mission,  caa  be  quite  understood.  But 
the  sight  of  these  patient  women,  tending 
andcaringfortheiriiactions  charges, effected 
what  no  eloquence  could  have  done  ;  and 
in  time  Hm  ranks  of  the  Little  Sisters  wore 
swelled  by  some  of  the  noblest  ladies  of 
Fiance.  Prom  the  garret  in  St,  Servan 
there  have  sprang  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
four  honaes  of  the  same  description.  The 
total  number  of  aged  poor  now  sheltered 
in  the  homes  of  the  society  is  twenty-three 
thousand  seven  hundred.  Tho  tot^  num- 
ber of  Sisters  employed  in  their  care  is 
three  thousand,  and  the  total  number  who 
have  died  imder  their  care  is  sixty-five 
thousand  one  hundred  and  sixty-five. 

To  anv  one  who  mav  be  temoted  to  visit 


the  House  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor 
in  Portobello  Road,  Netting  Hill,  we  can 
only  ssy  that  they  will  not  bo  invited  to 
inspect  a  building  that  could  apparently  be 
connected  with  the  ignoble  little  garret  of 
St.  Servan ;  indeed,  it  would  almost  seem 
impossible  that  so  handsome  an  erection 
should  even  be  its  faraway  cousin.  But 
the  cheerful  face  of  the  Sister  who  opens 
the  door  ahowB  that  at  any  rate  the  courage 
and  spirit  of  the  founder  have  descended  to 
her  daughter,  and  her  words  of  welcome 
sound  hearty  and  sincere. 

"  Oar  dear  children  are  very  particular 
about  their  food,"  she  says,  laughing,  "  so 
perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  t£e  kitchen 
first."  It  certainly  is  well  worth  a  visit. 
A  luge,  lofty  room,  faultlessly  clean,  with 
an  enormous  stove  in  the  middle,  laden, 
when  we  saw  it,  with  huge  pies  for  the 
Sisters'  aged  "children's  dmner.  Tho 
arrangement  are  wonderfully  good,  and 
reflect  great  credit  on  the  head  of  the 
department.  The  various  bits  and  pieces 
brought  in  by  the  Sisters  from  their  daily 
rounds,  are  sorted  into  large  drawers  and 
cupboards.  In  one  are  the  broken  crusts, 
only  fit  to  be  thrown  into  soup  or  made 
into  puddings;  in  another,  stale  loaves 
and  pieces  large  enotlgh  to  serve  at  break- 
fast and  tea.  Soap,  a  favourite  dish  for 
old  appetites  and  old  teeth,  is  marvellously 
made  out  of  scraps  apparently  quite  un- 
usable. Meat  is  carefully  sorted  when 
brought  in,  and  pieces  put  aside  for  pies 
such  as  we  saw,  while  daintier  bits — 
perhaps  here  and  there  a  portion  of  a 
fowl  or  so — are  laid  by  for  some  "  child  " 
requiring  particular  attention,  either  for 
health's  sake,  or  because  he  or  she  may 
need  a  little  gentle  coaxing;  for  "children" 
of  eighty  and  ninety  take  a  little  humour- 
ing, and  can  on  occasions  be  more  than 
a  little  fractious. 

Tea-leaves  and  coffee-grounds  change 
their  natnre  when  brought  under  the 
dexterous  hands  of  the  Sisters  and  the 
influences  of  a  gigantic  boiler,  and  appear 
to  satisiy  even  the  fostidiona  taste  of  the 
old  people. 

The  quantities  of  scraps,  and  their 
varied  character,  would  appear  incredible 
onless  seen,  but  stranger  still  it  is  to  com- 
pare the  aspect  of  the  disorderly  mass 
when  brought  in  with  the  same  when, 
later  on,  it  is  presented  at  the  tables  of  the 
poor  inmates.  The  Sisters  gratefully  tell 
from  how  many  bouses  they  gather  them ; 
how,  in  spite  of  difTerencea  of  creeds,  their 
baskets  are    contributed  to  bv  rich   and 


168 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


[Ondtutediv 


poor,  and  how  Beverol  of  the  prmcipAl 
liotels  daUj  Bet  aside  large  portions  of 
broken  food  ioi  theuL 

From  the  kitchens  we  proceeded  to  the 
iormitoriee — airf,  q>acioiiB,  and  spotless — 
[laying  comfortable-looking  beds  piled  high 
vrith  pillows.  The  bed-ooTerings  alone  t«U 
1  tale  of  the  poverty  and  penererance 
af  their  owners.  Patch-work  in  all  its 
branches  most  surely  have  been  the  sole 
iccapation  of  the  Little  Siatera  and  thnr 
aid  charges  if  one  might  judge  from  the 
restive  appearance  of  the  beds.  But  the 
Sister  laughingly  denies  the  impntation, 
md  triumphantly  leads  na  to  uie  hnge 
laundry,  where  the  work  being  done  by  the 
3istera,  aided  by  the  least  infirm  of  the  old 
people,  certainly  goea  far  to  confirm  her 
itatement 

The  eame  characteristdca — eleanlioess, 
jomfort,  and  cheerMneas — mark  in  like 
measure  the  wards  belonging  to  the  men 
ud  Uiose  belongiog  to  the  women. 

In  these  we  lonnd  such  of  the  inmates 
u  were  too  infirm  to  get  about,  or,  in  many 
jaaes,  to  leave  their  chairs,  reading,  writing, 
at  even  enjoying  a  game  of  oanu.  "  Yon 
lee,"  ezpluned  the  Sister,  "  oar  house  is 
their  home,  aud  we  must  make  it  as  home- 
like as  possible."  Those  able  to  do  so 
were  in  tiie  workshop  turning  old  things 
into  new.  In  the  tabor's  department  we 
Connd  that  one  master  of  his  craft,  a  French- 
man, had  turned  an  old  overcoat,  and  as 
tJie  original  aleeves  were  worn  oat,  had 
subetituted  others  of  a  different  mateiiaL 
"  N'importe,"  he  aaid,  "  j'ai  one  redingote 
nouvean."  In  Ae  cobblo's  and  oarpent^s 
shops  we  found  the  same  process  being 
repeated — old  wood  turned  into  nsefu 
articles  for  the  general  use,  old  shoes 
mended,  new  ones  made,  and  well  made, 
too,  for  these  workmen  are  strictly  of  the 
old  school,  and  have  had  ample  time  to 
acquire  the  mysteries  of  their  crt^  Con- 
sidering that  the  most  juvenile  of  these 
artists  was  over  seventy-three,  "orders" 
could  hardly  be  ezpeidied  to  be  executed  with 
despatch.  But  they  do  their  work  as  well 
as  their  feeble  powers  will  allow,  for  no 
one  here  eats  the  bread  of  idleness  if  he  ot 
she  can  help  it 

Id  the  wards  belonging  to  the  women, 
the  latter  wore  a  no  less  busy  appearance; 
Here  we  learned  the  mystery  of  the  patch- 
work quilts,  for  this  old  lady  is  a  past 
mistress  of  her  art,  and  selects  her  colours 
with  aH  the  pride  of  an  artist  Her  neigh- 
bour presides  over  the  vanities  of  her 
companicms,  and  manufactures  caps  most 


marvellously  made  and  bedewed  from  tfae 
aswKtment  of  ribbons  and  pieoee  oollect«d 
by  the  nuns.  As  for  the  gowns  and  other 
garments,  which  are  re.created  ^ota  old 
ones,  it  would  take  more  time  and  spai^ 
than  we  can  afford  to  recount  tfa^  intri- 
cacies and  triumphant  results.  Those  who 
are  able  to  do  so,  assist  in  the  varioa* 
departments  of  honsewwk,  but  judgii^ 
ttotn  the  decrepit  appearance  of  even  the 
most  youthful,  it  seems  to  us  as  well  Uiat 
the  Sisters  shtmld  be  young  and  strong. 

In  the  infirmaries  were  uie  only  painful 
scenes  to  be  witnessed  in  tiiis  estaUish- 
menb  Old  az«,  while  it  can  get  about  by 
itself,  pursae  its  little  tastes,  and  take  ita 
little  pleasares,  is  one  thing ;  but  hero,  in-  the 
sick-room,  we  see  it  in  its  most  distzemiDg 
form.  Many  are  quite  imbecile,  more  atall 
blind,  some  utterly  unaUe  to  move  without 
help— requiring  to  be  fed,  washed,  dressed, 
and  tended  like  infants.  It  was  truly  a 
terrible  sisbt,  Wkd  !t  rendered  stilt  more 
beautiful  tne  hen»c  devotion  of  Uiese  truly 
Christian  ladies  who  have  devoted  their 
youth,  their  lives,  and  their  all  to  tiiia 
noble  work 

During  our  tour  of  inspectitm  the  Sister 
amused  us  with  many  little  traits  rf  the 
character  of  their  cAi  ohwges,  some  of 
which  we  are  bound  to  say  redounded  to 
the  credit  of  the  old  ladies  and  gentlemen ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  we  must  confess  that 
man^  of  the  anecdotes  were  ftr  from 
creditable  to  them,  aad  we  secretly  felt 
that  the  conduct  of  many  of  the  old  people 
was  distinctly  reprehensible,  and  left  mni^ 
to  be  desired.  But  the  good  Sister's  kind 
face  of  motherly  pride  as  she  told  of  how 
one  old  dame  requires  two  or  three  nuna 
to  hold  her  before  she  will  condesoend  to 
be  washed ;  how  another  will  stop  in  bed 
when  she  ought  to  ^et  up,  and  viee-versl ; 
how  another  old  Insh  lady  conaiderB  that 
her  guardians  are  tamperingwith  her  faith, 
and  that  she  is  taken  to  a  Baptist  meethig 
if  she  is  asked  to  go  to  the  tribune  of  the 
little  chapel  on  days  when  she  cannot  be 
carried  downstairs ;  forced  us  to  hold  our 
peace  and,  outwardly  at  least,  to  admire 
little  peculiarities — much  as  one  admires,  to 
his  fond  mother,  the  spoilt  child  who  rides 
round  the  drawing-room  table  on  yonr  new 
umbrella,  or  who  remarks  upon  Ute  grow- 
ing soantinesB  of  your  hair  before  the 
assembled  goests  at  the  dinner-table. 

As  to  we  anecdotes  relating  to  the 
fonndation  of  the  first  houses  they  are 
endless.  How  their  first  name,  "  Servants 
,  of  the  Poor,"  came  to  be  dtuiged  by  the 


A  SCIENTIFIC  EXPERIMENT. 


[JutnuT  E,  ISM.l 


159 


poor  tbenMolrea  tddreasing  them  u  "  Ma 
boone  imui,"  "  Ma  petite  wbut,"  is  aatilj 
to  be  undentood.  Bat  it  oertainlf  u 
BxtnMxdinuy  in  this  maeteeath  century  to 
hair  of  three  womwi,  with  twentj  francs 
in  huid,  startiog  to  a  new  town  to  establish 
ft  boose  for  the  sapport  oE  others ;  and 
in  three  months'  time  finding  themselves 
settled  and  sturoutded  by  wsila  and 
itiays  and  doisg  well  Coorags  is  a  great 
qoaUty;  bat  to  us,  aeeaatomed  to  con- 
oder  w»y8  and  means,  snob  an  experi- 
ence seems  startling.  This,  however,  is 
the  way  in  whiob  the  house  at  tTantee 
was  established.  Of  ooorse  the  donatwns 
of  rich  bene&cton  helped  largely  in  many 
eisee;  bat  in  serenJ  instances  the  new 
foondayons  were  launched  almost  without 
visible  means ;  and  in  all  the  two  hundred 
and  twenty-fonr  cases  the  houses  have 
betni  successful  The  one  disappointment 
the  suters  tell  of  is  that  at  Gflneva,  where, 
in  1861,  they  established  a  bouse  which  was 
parebaaad  with  private  means,  and  not 
merely  rented,  as  in  most  cases.. 

For  some  reason  the  Genera  Goremraent 
seem  to  have  resented  these  ladies  pur- 
sning  their  avocation,  peaceful  though  it 
seemed ;  and  in  1875  they  were  requested 
to  quit  the  territory. 

"  Did  you  not  protest  1 "  we  asked. 

"  Oh  yes  I "  replied  the  sister ;  "  bat  it 
was  of  no  use,  we  ooidd  not  comply  with 
tikcax  demands,  so  ws  quartered  the  old 
people  npon  as  many  of  the  French  houses 
as  possible,  and  came  away.  One  of  us," 
she  continued,  laogbing,  "  did  protest,  and 
that  loudly,  for  when  tJte  Sbim  came  for 
oor  donkey,  he  fought  valiantly,  and  bad 
not  his  own  old  goordian  come  to  the 
reseus,  the  day  might  have  ended  disastrously 
for  the  Bapnblic  of  Qeneva  I " 

It  would  be  impoeiible,  in  the  limits  of 
this  paper,  to  enter  into  4^e  history  <A  the 
^wth  of  the  home  in-  the  Portobello 
Boad ;  it  is  now,  in  reali^,  a  small  colony, 
enclosed,  it  ts  true,  withm  high  walls,  but 
within  its  precincts  are  to  be  found  all  that 
courage,  tmimated  by  the  highest  prin- 
ciples, can  command.  At  the  &rmyard, 
wiUi  lbs  complement  of  cows,  hens,  and 
eight  or  ten  pigs,  we  could  only  glance, 
but  the  Sister  insisted  upon  our  admiring 
the  strong-looUng  horses  employed  in  their 
weU-known  black  van ;  and  above  all  we 
were  forced  to  admire  "  Neddy,"  though  we 
could  not  be  satisbotorily  assured  that  he 
is  a  descendant  of  the  valiant  animal  who 
fb^ht  so  good  a  fi^bt  at  Geneva. 

The  merit  of  tUs  sreab  work  needs  no 


pnise  at  oar  hands.  It  appeals  to  the  hearts 
of  all  Destitute  old  age  finding  an  asylum 
when  it  does  not  know  where  to  lay  its 
head ;  helpless  old  age  tonded  and  cared  for 
when  forsaken  and  slone ;  penniless  old  age 
securely  fenced  in  from  the  horrors  of  abject 
poverty — surely  the  institution  speaks  for 
itself,  and  we  need  not  ralarge  npon  the 
aabject  Of  all  the  two  hundred  and  twenty 
old  people  who  find  shelter  in  the  home, 
there  is  not  one  who,  if  sent  adrift  to-morrow, 
vronld  have  a  roof  for  shelter,  or  bread  to 
eat.  Candidates  for  admission  are  re- 
ceived into  the  home  quite  irrespectively  of 
creed  or  nationality.  The  only  requisites 
are  that  they  should  be  over  sixty,  unable 
to  earn  a  living,  and  have  a  good  character. 
The  Sistors  do  not  importuDS  for  money ; 
all  they  ask  is  that  the  rich  should  give 
from  their  superfluity — that  Dives  should 

S've  to  Lasorus  the  crumbs  that  fall  l^om 
s  table.  As  to  any  return  from  their 
chafes  they  do  not  look  for  that  All 
they  ask  from  them  is  that  they  should 
show  on  appreciatian  of  their  ^orta  by 
living  long  to  enjoy  the  comforts  they 
procure  at  so  much  cost  to  themselves. 

We  should  add  that  the  old  peeple  them- 
selves look  with  pity  on  any  young  things 
who  join  their  cirde  under  seventy  or  sa 

At  eighty  they  begin  to  tUnk  them  fit 
to  have  a  VMce  in  ^neral  afiairs.  But  at 
ninety  this  feeling  is  changed  into  a  deeper 
veneration,  and  like  Pip>  in  "  Great  Expec- 
tations," they  are  considered  as  reflecting 
great  credit  "upon  them  which  brought 
them  ap  by  band." 


A  SCIENTIFIO  EXPEEIMENT. 

Tom  Wilkinson  bad  looked  forward  to 
the  evening  of  the  17tb  of  December  with 
some  amoont  of  pleasure.  He  was  to 
spend  it  at  the  house  of  his  friend  Jack 
Spencer  of  Gu/s;  not  only  that,  but 
Spencer's  aunt,  who  kept  house  for  him, 
had  been  kind  enoogh  to  ask  Amy  Durant, 
Tom's  fiancee,  to  come  as  weU.  Tom  had 
but  few  opportunities  of  nLeeting  Amy,  so 
he  naturally  was  glad  of  this  one,  espe- 
cially— bat  the  reason  why  will  soon  be 
manifest. 

However,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he 
did  not  greatly  enjoy  faimseli  Miss 
Spencer,  having  taken  the  somewhat  bold 
step,  for  her,  of  inviting  the  loven  to  her 
boose,  did  not  see  fit  to  leave  them  alone 
for  an  iustont. 

Jack  Spencer  scarcely  saw-  the  fun  of 


160      [JU111U7 1,  US4.I 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


having  Tom  np  to  spend  ut  evening  try- 
ing to  be  alone  with  Miss  Dnrant ;  bo,  after 
an  hour's  insipid  mnsic,  and  more  insipid 
conversation,  ne  drev  Tom  ont  of  the 
room  on  a  very  weak  pretext,  and  dragged 
him  off  to  bis  den. 

"Look  hen,  Tom,  I've  had  enough  <^ 
that  cackle.    Come  and  hare  a  emokft" 

"I  don't  care  if  I  do;  bnt  I'm  afraid 
Amy  won't  half  like  my  leaving  her." 

"  Quite  a  mlatake,  don't  flatter  yourself 
BO  grossly.  Besides,  yoaH  see  plenty  of 
her  when  you're  married.  She'U  get  on 
very  well  with  my  annt  now  they're  alone, 
and  it  strikes  me  yon  weren't  getting  on 
very  brUliantly.  Mow  what's  yonr  par- 
ticular weakness — Scotch  or  Irish  % " 

"  Irish,  pleasa" 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so." 

"Why ) "  asked  Wilkinson ;  "  I  generally 
take  Scotch." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Spencer,  without 
volunteering  any  further  information. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  put  on  easy 
jackets,  mixed  their  whis^-and-water, 
and  settled  down  in  easy-chairs. 

"Now,"  Bud  Spencer,  "what  will  yon 
smoke  1 ' 

"I've  some  rather  good  cigars,"  was 
WiHdnson's  reply;  "let  me  offer  yoa 
one," 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 

"  Confound  it ! "  he  exclaimed ;  "  I  most 
have  left  my  case  in  my  great-coat" 

"  Never  mind,  old  man,  try  this  pipe,  it's 
a  beauty ;  got  it  from  on  American,  whose 
leg  I  helped  cut  off  for  him  at  the 
hospital" 

WilkinsoD  took  it,  thinking  at  the  same 
time  the  recommendation  was  a  strange 
one. 

"  What  a  jolly  den  you  have  1 "  he  said, 
as  he  lit  up. 

"  Not  so  bad.  Don't  let  my  aont  bear 
yon  call  it  a  den,  tbongh ;  it's  a  study ! " 

Wilkinson  laughed. 

"  By  Jove,  though,  Tom,  I  do  study  now 
and  no  mistake.  I'm  one  of  the  coming 
men,  I  can  tell  you.  I'm  going  in  for 
medicine  on  a  new  theory." 

"  And  how  about  yonr  pracUce  whilst 
you  are  perfecting  yonr  theOTy  1 " 

"  Oh,  my  aunt  will  buy  me  a  practice  fast 
enough.  Yes,  my  boy,  I'm  going  to 
revdutionise  medicine.  No  more  doctoring 
Dp  a  man's  body,  that's  a  vast  mistime." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  then  1 " 

"Doctor  up  his  mind." 

Wilkinson  smiled ;  he  did  not  quite  see 
what  his  friend  was  driving  at     However, 


he  had  considerable  interest  in  science,  and 
still  more  in  Jack  Spencer's  progress,  so  he 
asked  to  be  further  enlightened. 

There  was  nothing  that  Spencer  wanted 
so  much  as  an  appreciative  listener.  He 
launched  ont  under  full  sail 

"It's  a  perfect  mystery  to  me,  Tom,  aod 
to  a  few  other  men,  why  such  marvellous 
phenomena  as  we  hear  of  occasionally  in 
the  domain  of  electro-biology,  as  it's  called, 
obtain  so  little  scientific  attention." 

■ '  There's  such  a  lot  of  humbug  connected 
with  it,"  suggested  Wilkinson. 

"  Of  course  there  is,  but  it  has  a  sound 
basis  of  fact  The  science  is  in  ita  infancy 
as  yet,  but  it  must  grow.  It  is  a  known 
fact  that  one  mind  can  influence  another 
even  at  a  distance,  is  it  not  t " 

"  I  once  aaw  a  mesmerist,  and  certainly 
he  seemed  able  to  do  anything,  bnt  I 
thought  he  was  only  a  conjuror." 

"  Empirical  generalisation,  unworthy  of 
you,"  remarked  Spencer.  "  I  won't  quote 
cases,  though  I  might  do  so  for  a  week, 
but  just  look  at  those  books,  they  are 
full  of  well-authenticated,  sciantifically- 
condocted  experiments." 

He  took  down  from  a  shelf  Darwin's 
Zoonomia,  Macniah's  Philosophy  of  Sleep, 
and  several  volumes  of  the  Bevne  Sciesti- 
fique. 

"  Now,"  continued  Spencer,  "  it  is  proved 
that  the  mesmeriser  can  control  the  will, 
the  actions,  even  the  belief  of  his  subjects ; 
if  he  gives  him  a  draught  of  water  he  can 
make  him  believe  it  is  champagne;  if  he 
gives  him  an  ink-bottle,  he  will  smell  it 
and  think  it  a  lovely  rose." 

"  Have  you  seen  these  experiments  t " 
asked  Willunson. 

"  Seen  them)    Why,  I've  nude  them." 

WiUdneon  looked  up  astonished. 

"  Yes,"  said  Spencer,  "  that's  why  I 
feel  such  an  interest  in  this  business.  I 
possess  the  power  of  mesmerising  to  a 
considerable  degree,  and  I  cultivate  it 
every  chance  I  get.  Have  a  little  more 
whisky  1 "  i 

"  Thanks,  I  will" 

"Of  contae  you  will,"  replied  Spencer 
withasatisfiedsmile.  "I  decided  that  whilst 
we  were  talking.  Influence  of  one  mind 
over  another,  you  see." 

Wilkinson  made  a  hasty  exclamation. 
He  was  rather  averse  to  being  experi- 
mented on  in  this  way. 

"  How  is  all  this  going  to  help  you  in 
doctoring  I "  he  asked. 

"Simply  enough.  Induce  a  state  of 
trance ;  give  your  patient  some   water ; 


A  SCIENTiriC  EXPEEIMENT. 


».]    161 


nuke  him  believe  it  is  the  medioino  he 
requires,  and  it  will  have  the  aame  effect 
Or  if  ao  operation  Ib  required,  you  can 
pfflfonn  it  daring  the  trance,  aa  he  is  qoite 
inseniible  to  pain." 

"  Bat  can  70a  always  indsce  this 
trance!" 

"Thafs  a  weak  point,  bat  in  time  we 
shall  get  over  that  I  can  inflaenoe  foor 
people  oat  of  five.  Miss  Dorant,  for 
instance,  wonld  be  a  very  good  aabject" 

Wilkinaon  sat  ailently  smoking  for  a 
few  minates.  Apparently  the  mention  of 
Amy's  name  hod  tamed  his  thonghte  into 
another  channeL 

He  lialf  wished  he  were  back  in  the 
room  where  she  was  sitting.  Then  he 
thought  of  recent  events,  and  determined 
that  be  would  show  that  he  coald  enjoy 
himself  without  her. 

The  two  friends  were  soon  in  the  midst 
of  an  animated  discussion  of  their  former 
Babject  Spencer  told  of  various  curious 
azpeiimente  in  which  the  operator  had 
questioned  his  victim  on  all  sorts  of  sub- 
jects, obtaining  replies  to  everything,  even 
when  the  qaestioa  was  one  which  he 
would  not   have  wished   to  reply  to  if 


This  nude  Wilkinson  remark  that  the 
possession  of  this  mesmeric  gift  placed  a 
raat  power  in  the  hands  of  the  operator. 

"  Yea,  it  undoubtedly  does.  For- 
tunately, scientific  men  are  the  last  in  the 
world  to  take  advantage  of  it  for  private 
ends." 

Wilkinson  looked  at  his  friend. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  it  from  personal 
motirea  t " 

Spencer  looked  as  if  he  wished  the 
question  had  not  been  asked. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Tom — I  did 
once.     You  remember  Nellie  Fletcher  1 " 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  yoa  liked  her  at  one 
time." 

"So  I  did,  but  I  wanted  to  know  if  she 
liked  me;  I  put  her  into  a  trance,  with 
her  consent,  and  made  her  an  offer.  She 
refused  me." 

"  Didn't  she  remember  anything  about 
it  afterwards  1 " 

"Not  an  atom  The  best  of  it  is  that 
the  subject  can't  help  answering  absolutely 
truly,  uninfluenced  by  etiquette  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort  You're  a  lucky  fellow, 
Tom,  to  have  been  safe  in  proposing  to 
Miss  Duraut  without  having  to  experiment 
first" 

"  Yes,"  was  Tom's  laconic  reply. 

"  No  doubt  about  her  likine  von." 


"  I  hope  not,  as  we  are  engaged." 

"  Yon  re  a  lucky  dog ;  she's  a  charming 
girl" 

Wilkinson  naturally  assented,  but  did 
not  feel  altogether  pleased  vrhen  Spencer 
began  praising  Miss  Durant  somewhat 
enthusiastically. 

He  felt  still  less  so  when  Spencer  ended 
by  saying: 

"  Yoa  don't  know  what  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude you  owe  me,  Tom.  I  could  make  her 
think  you  the  meanest  scamp  on  the  earth, 
and  I  forbear." 

"  What  do  yoa  mean  t " 

"1  mean  she  is  a  splendid  subject  I 
cottld  easily  gain  complete  control  over  her 
mind,  and  continue  the  influence  in  the 
waking  state." 

Wilkinson  began  to  feel  uncomfortable, 
and  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"Did  yoa  have  a  good  time  at  the 
Restertons'  dance,  the  other  night  1 " 

"Splendid,"  replied  Spencer  warmly. 
He  was  not  so  wrapped  up  in  science  that 
he  was  unable  to  enjoy  the  ughter  pleasures. 
"  I'm  afraid  you  didn't,  though ;  you  looked 
as  if  yoa  bad  the  blues." 

Tom  could  not  say  he  had  passed  a 
pleasant  evening.  "The  truth  was  that 
Amy  had,  on  that  occasion,  danced  several 
times  with  Bartlett,  a  cousin,  and  a  reputed 
old  flame  of  hers.  Tom  was  of  a  very 
jealous  disposition,  and  had  taken  offence 
at  it  without  ezpldning  his  reason.  Con- 
seqaently  there  had  existed  during  the  last 
few  days  a  decided  coolness  between  the 
lovers,  and  Tom  had  hoped  that  on  the 
present  evening  he  might  have  a  chance  of 
making  matters  smooth  again. 

However,  Amy  had  not  felt  called  upon 
to  allude  to  her  conduct,  and  he  had  not 
done  so. 

He  wanted  a  confidant,  and  so  he  began 
to  monopolise  the  talk ;  it  was  his  turn. 
He  told  Jack  the  whole  atonr,  confessing 
his  jealonsy  of  Bartlett  and  asking  his 
advice. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Spencer,  "there's 
only  one  course  open  to  you.  You  are 
making  yourself  miserable  by  tUa  uncer- 
tainty; why  not  decide  once  for  all  whether 
Miss  Dar&nt  cares  for  yoa,  and  you  only)" 

"  How  can  II" 

"Easily  enough.  We  will  get  her  in 
here ;  I  will  mesmerise  her,  and  whilst  she 
is  in  the  trance  we  will  ask  her  if  she 
cares  two  straws  about  Bartlett" 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  in 
this  easy  way,  yoa  don't  know  what  it  is 
to  be  jealous." 


162      Uttmtrjt.VBi.] 


ALL  THE  YEAK  ROUND. 


"Don't  I,"  exclaimed  Speneer;  "re- 
member  Nellie." 

"  Bat  how  cui  we  get  Amy  tere  1 " 
asked  WilMnsoii.  "  Wbftt  poMiUe  exmue 
can  we  have  for  asking  her  t " 

"  We  don't  want  one,"  replied  Spenoer 
confidently ;  "  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  wiU 
that  she  shall  come." 

"  I  don't  beliere  it" 

"Let's  try,"  suggested  Spencer.  "We 
may  fail,  I  ackno^edge ;  we  can  but  try." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Wilkinson 
assented. 

"  Now,"  said  Spencer,  "concentrate  your 
mind,  and  will  -strongly  that  she  shall 
come." 

Tom  knitted  his  brows  and  willed.  It 
would  have  bean  an  amusing  sight  for  any 
spectator.  The  two  yonng  men,  with  eyes 
fixed  and  hands  firmly  clenched,  were  bent 
forward  in  xa  attitude  of  intense  snspenso, 
doing  apparently  nothing. 

"  Are  you  willing  1 "  asked  Spencer  after 
a  time. 

"  Willing  as  Barkis,"  was  the  response. 

"  Keep  it  up." 

They  kept  it  up  for  some  time  without 
result  Then  just  as  Wilkinson  was  about 
to  resign,  Spencer  exclaimed : 

"  Hark  t " 

"I  sha'n't  be  long,"  stud  a  Toice  in  the 
distance. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  a  door  being 
closed. 

"  By  Jore,  she's  coming  I "  cried  Spencer. 
"  Quick,  Tom,  hide  away  those  things." 

The  whisly  -  bottle  and  glasses  were 
hastily  smuggled  into  a  comer,  and  the 
pipes  shied  into  the  fireplace. 

Then  came  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door, 
followed  by  a  son,  "  May  I  come  in  t " 

Spencer  opened  the  door. 

"Excuse  my  Interrupting,"  said  Miss 
Dorant,  "  but  I  thought  yon  might  want 
to  smoke,  so  I  brought  Tom's  cigar-case 
which  fell  out  of  his  pocket  on  the  sofiL" 

"A  mere  excuse,  Tom,"  whispered 
Spencer. 

Miss  Durant  tamed  to  go,  hat  Spencer 
dettdned  her  by  saying : 

"  We  were  talking  of  you,  Miss  Durant, 
just  as  yon  came." 

" Indeed r' 

"  Yes,"  said  her  lorer ;  "  Jack  has  been 
letting  me  into  a  few  of  the  secrets  of  his 
profession.  It  seems  he's  a  great  mesmeiist, 
and  was  saying  that  you  were  a  capital 
subject" 

"  Am  1 1  I've  never  been  mesmerised  in 
my  Ufa     What  is  it  like  1 " 


"  The  sim^est  thing  in  the  world,"  said 
l^>encer.  "Yon  only  drop  off  into  a  smd 
of  draam." 

"  And  then  the  mesmerist  makes  yon  do 
what  he  Hkes,"  added  Tom. 

"  How  cttrions  I  I  shonld  like  to  try  it," 
said  Amy. 

"  I'll  mesmerise  you  with  pleasure  if  yoa 
like,"  said  Speneer. 

"  Yoa  will  be  bound  to  answer  all  his 
questions  truthfully,"  said  Tom  wamingly. 

Amy  looked  up  rather  annoyed. 

"One  would  imagine  yon  were  of 
opinion  that  truthfulness  was  not  one  of 
my  usual  characteristics,"  she  said.  "Fm 
not  afraid  of  the  t«st." 

"  Shall  I  go  on  1 "  whispered  Spencer  to 
Tom 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom  despentely;  "  fire 
away." 

Amy  was  quite  ready.  Following 
Spencer's  directions  she  seated  herself  in 
a  chair  and  fixed  her  eyes  steadily  on  a 
small  disc,  which  he  placed  on  the  wall. 

"Yonll  be  sure  and  wake  mB  after- 
wards t "  she  said. 

"Oh  yes,  that's  a  matter  of  no 
diffionlty." 

Amy  settled  down  to  the  operation 
with  the  remark  that  it  was  like  being 
pbotognphed. 

Wilkinson  stood  behind  her,  anxionsly 
watching  the  progress  of  the  experiment, 
whilst  Spencer  began  mddcg  slow 
passes, 

"  When  yoa  feel  drowsy  let  your  eyes 
dose,"  he  said  quietly. 

In  a  very  short  time  Amy  seemed  to  be 
feeling  the  infinence  of  the  operator,  her 
eyes  closed,  and  she  appeared  to  be  fast 
asleep. 

"  Is  she  off  1 "  whispered  Tom. 

"  I  think  so,  but  we  will  leave  her  a  few 
moments  and  make  quite  sure," 

"  Can  she  hear  what  we  say  1 " 

"  Oh  na" 

"  I'm  half  ashamed  about  it,"  sud  Tom ; 
"  upon  my  word  I  don't  think  she  really 
cares  about  Bartlett" 

"  Wfut  a  few  minutes  and  you  will  know 
for  certain." 

After  a  few  moments  more  and  a  power- 
ful pass  or  two,  Spencer  gently  opened  her 
eyes,  which  were  qnite  fixed. 

"There  she  is,  you  see,"  he  said  to 
Tom 

"  Are  you  certain  she's  off  i " 

For  reply  Spencer  gave  her  ear  a  pinch. 

"  Yoa  see  she  is  absolutely  unconscions," 
he  said;  "  yon  m^ht  cot  off  her  arm  and 


CbstM  DMmiu.1 


A  SCIENTIFIC  EXPERIMENT.  ij«.«i«t  e.  mm.)    163 


Bhe  would  not  feel  it  Wl»t  sball  I  ask 
hort" 

"Ask  her  aboat  the  ball,"  sa^ested 
Tom, 

"Yer;  well;  HI  make  her  baliflre  slie 
U  ab  the  Keetertons'  dancQ.  Miai 
Doraut ! " 

"Yea,"  replied  Amy  dreamUy. 

"  Can  Toa  hear  what  I  say  t " 

"Yee." 

"  Do  joa  know  who  I  am  I " 

"YoQ  ought  to  know  my  voice,"  eaid 
Speneer;  "I'm  Tom  WiHrinson." 

"  I  Bay,  Jack "  interrupted  Tom. 

"  Shnt  up  1  Hare  yon  enjoyed  the 
evening  I " 

"  Very  much,"  waa  the  ei^^  reply. 

"Have  yon  danced  with  Mr.  Bartlett 
to-n^t  I " 

"  Yea,  several  times,  and  I'm  engaged  to 
him  for  another  waltz." 

"  Ah,  I  see  him  coming,"  said  Spencer ; 
"I  mnst resign  yon,  I  suppose." 

"Now,"  he  whispered  to  Tom,  "quick, 
here's  your  chance ;  I'll  make  her  beliove 
you're  Bartlett" 

Tom  came  forward. 

"  Can  I  speak  in  my  natural  voice  t "  he 
aiked. 

"  Yee ;  but  try  and  t^k  intelligently, 
like  Bartlett." 

Bat  Tom  could  only  make  a  few  vapid 
observationB,  Ull  Spencer  told  him  to  begin 
dancing,  as  he  was  making  Amy  believe 
the  wdts  had  began.  Tom  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist  and  slowly  moved  her 
roond  the  room. 

"I  haven't  often  had  this  pleasure  to- 
night,"  he  said,  speaking  in  his  character  of 
Bartlett 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  say  so,  Mr.  Bartlett ; 
this  is  the  third  waltz  yoa've  had." 

Tom  looked  daggers  at  Spencer,  who 
encoar^;ed  him  by  a  look  to  go  on. 

"Aren't  you  afrud  Mr.  Wilkinson  will 
be  jealous  t " 

."  Oh,  let  him  be  if  be  likes,"  said  Amy ; 
"don't  let  ns  talk  aboat  bim;  let's  talk 
about  something  pleasant" 

"  You  dare  to "  bnrat  oQt  Tom ;  but 

Spencer  put  his  hand  over  bis  mouth  and 
drawed  him  away. 

"  You  had  better  leave  it  to  me,  if  you 
can't  control  yourself,"  he  said.  "  I  mast 
make  her  believe  that  1  am  Bartlett" 

"  Yon  had  better  take  care  what  yon  are 
doing,"  mattered  Tom  angrily. 

"We  must  carry  It  through  now  we've 
started."  sud  Soenoer. 


He  led  Amy  to  her  ehiur,  and  willing 
that  she  should  believe  the  dance  ended,  let 
her  sit  down. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Durant,"  he  said  to  her, 
"  how  it  pains  me  to  see  yoa  engird  to 
sach  an  nnappreciative  man  as  WilMnson." 

"  You  villain  I"  cried  Tom ;  "  are  you 
going  to  try  and  prejudice  her  against  me 
before  my  fiwje  t " 

"  Will  you  be  quiet  i  I'm  Bartlett  now, 
not  Spencer." 

"He  ii  not  a  model  lover,  I  acknow- 
ledge," said  Amy. 

"  Ah,  if  I  only  had  the  happiness  of 
showing  you  how  I  could  appreciate  you," 
said  Spencer. 

"  Bat  you,  Mr.  Bartlett,  are  not  the  only 
one  who  does." 

The  two  friends  exchanged  glances. 
What  was  ooming  out  next  1 

"  Go  on,"  sud  Tom  resolutely. 

"  Who  else  is  there  1 "  askw  Spencer. 
"  Do  you  like  him  very  much  i " 

"  Yes,  but  don't  tell  Tom" 

"  No,  I  won't     Who  is  itt " 

"It's  Jack  Spencer." 

"  Jack  Spencer ! "  he  exclumed.     "  I ! " 

"  You  t    No ;  you  are  Mr.  Bartlett." 

"  Yee,  yes,  of  course  I  am,"  stud  Spencer. 
He  turned  to  Tom  "  I  think  we  bad 
better  stop  now,"  he  said. 

"  Go  on,"  replied  Tom ;  "  I  inrist  Ask 
her  if  she  has  danced  with  you  to-night" 

Spencer  obeyed. 

"  Only  twice,"  was  the  sorrowful  reply. 

"Tom,"  said  Spencer,  "it's  all  a  delu- 
sion— a  mistake,  I  only  danced  with  her 
ODce  all  the  evening." 

"Don't  attempt  to  deny  it,"  cried  Tom. 
"  You  yourself  told  me  she  must  speak  the 
truth." 

"  But  she  isn't " 

"  Go  on  I — Wait  a  moment ;  make  her 
believe  that  I  am  you.  No  nonsense, 
now." 

Tom  looked  threatening.  Spenoet 
obeyed,  wondering  what  would  be  the 
result 

Wilkinson  at  once  h«^;an.  Evidently 
his  mind  was  made  ap. 

"Mr.  Bartlett's  a  nice  feQow — ^isnt  be, 
Amyl" 

"  Yes,  but  not  eo  niee  as  yon,  Mr. 


Tom,"  said  Spencer,  "she  doesn't 
mean  it" 

"  SHeDce  ! "  was  Tom's  reply. 

He  continued  to  talk  in  bis  assumed 
character  of  Spencer,  the  real  owner  of  the 
name  standing  bvhelnless. 


164      C'uiurxD,I88<.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


"I've  not  seen  yon  mncli  Istelj,"  uid 
Tom. 

"  No ;  Tom  is  bo  jealona  I  say,  Jack, 
do  yon  remember  that  lorely  walk  by 
moonlight  last  veek  t " 

Spencer  conid  not  stand  this. 

"  Tom,  on  my  honour,"  he  eaid,  "  I  was 
out  of  town  the  whole  of  last  week." 

"So  you  Bay,"  was  the  contemptaons 
reply. 

"  Yon  told  me  then  you  liked  me,"  ixm- 
tinned  Amy. 

"  Tom,"  interrupted  Spencer, "  if  I  never 
speak  another  word ' 

"  You  won't  if  you  don't  keep  eilenb 
now,"  was  the  sarage  retort  "  Why,  Amy, 
so  I  do,"  he  sud  to  her. 

"  Then  won't  you  kiss  me,  Jack,  as  you 
did  then  1" 

Tom  left  her  with  a  bound,  and  seised 
Spencer  by  the  collar. 

"  You  abominable  villun  I "  he  cried. 

"  Let  me  go  I "  shouted  Spencer,  "  or  111 
smash  this  bottle  on  yonr  head  1 " 

Wilkinson  gradually  relinquished  his 
bold. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself  t " 
he  asked.  "Are  you  satisfied  with  your 
scientific  experiment  T " 

"Tom,"  said  Spencer  earnestly,  "no 
one  could  be  more  surprised  at  tbe  way 
things  have  turned  out  than  I  am ;  it  is 
contrary  to  every  scientific  law — I  can't 
explain  it." 

"  But  you  shall  explain  it ;  we  are  no 
longer  friends — we  are  rivals." 

"I  deny  it,"  cried  Spencer;  "I  deny 
that  I  aspire  to  the  affections  of  Miss 
Durant  There  is  some  incomprehensible 
mystery  about  this ;  let  us  ask  Miss 
Dorant  herself  to  expltdn  it" 

"Yes,  we  will;  undo  your  miserable 
Bpells." 

Spencer  proceeded  to  go  through  the 
usual  process  by  which  mesmerised  per- 
sons are  restored  to  their  normal  condition. 
For  some  reason  it  had  not  its  usual  efiect 
Amy  still  lemained  uucouscious. 

In  spite  of  Spencer's  efforts  to  conceal 
his  anxiety,  Tom  soon  discovered  that  all 
was  not  going  properly.  When  some 
minutes  had  elapsed,  and  do  sign  of  re- 
turning consciousness  appeared,  it  would 
have  l^en  hard  to  say  which  was  the  more 
alarmed. 

"  Shout  in  her  ear,"  suggested  Tom. 

It  was  tried  without  effect.  "  Willing  " 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  power.  "  Amy, 
Ajmy  I"  was  cried  in  vain  by  the  frightened 
lover,   who   would  have  been    ready   to 


murder  the  operator  on  the  spot,  but  for 
the  knowledge  that  if  he  couldn't  wake 
her,  no  one  could. 

"  Try  some  water,"  soggeeted  Spencer ; 
"  throw  it  in  her  face." 

Tom  seized  the  bottle,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  deluging  her  when  her  eyes 
gradually  opened. 

"  Where  am  1 1 "  she  aaked  dreamily. 

"  In  my  room,"  replied  Spencer  reassur- 
ingly; "  don't  be  fr^tened. " 

"  I  remember  now,  you  were  going  to 
mesmerise  me.     Did  you  1 " 

"  He  did,"  answered  WUkinson,  "  and 
no  mistake." 

"  I've  been  having  such  funny  dreams," 
said  Amy;  "1  thought  I  was  at  the 
EestertoDs'  agaio."    . 

Wilkinson  whispered  to  Spmcet : 

"I  thought  you  told  me  they  never 
remembered  what  had  happened  t " 

Spencer  could  only  look  puzzled. 

By  this  time  Amy  was  completely 
recovered,  and  Tom  thought  it  best  to 
get  over  the  necessary  scene  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"Miss  Durant,"  he  said,  "I  am  sony  I 
must  ask  you  a  few  questions,  rendered 
necessary  by  what  you  said  dnring  your 
trance.  Did  you  dance  with  either  Mr. 
Baitlett  or  Mr,  Spencer  at  the  Keater- 
tons'  1 " 

"  Of  course — you  saw  me ;  why  do  you 
aek  such  a  question  t " 

"  Did  you  meet  this  man  by  moonlight 
one  evemng  last  week  1 "  asked  Tom,  fixing 
his  eyes  on  her. 

Amy  drew  herself  up. 

"  I  refuse  to  answer,   she  said. 

"  I  have  asked  Spencer,"  went  on  Tom ; 
"  he  denies  it,  but  I  believe  falsely,  I  ask 
you  for  the  last  time." 

"  I  will  not  lower  myself  by  replying  to 
such  a  question,"  returned  Amy,  moving 
towards  the  door, 

"Ah,  you  cannot  deny  it]"  burst  out 
Tom.  "Oh,  Amy,  you  have  basely  deceived 
me,  you  have  confessed  unconsciously  in 
your  sleep  that  you  don't  care  for  me,  but 
that  others  own  what  you  call  your  heart 
Now  I  know  the  truth,  and  I  resign  you 
and  happiness  for  ever" 

"Very  well,"  replied  Amy  calmly,  "if 
yoii  choose  to  act  so  stupidly  without  cause, 
you  may  do  so." 

"  Without  canse  I "  ejaculated  Tom  aar- 
castically. 

"  Without  cause,"  repeated  Amy.  "  Can 
you  listen  to  reason  for  a  moment  1  though 
you  don't  desf  rve  to  have  it  wasted  on  von. 


When  Ur.  Spencer  thcnght  he  had 
meameriaed  me  I  had  amply  chut  mj  eyes 
to  iodaee  the  tranca  I  therefore  heard 
jonr  conTersatioii,  and  gathered  that  I  was 
to  be  made  the  eabject  of  an  experiment  to 
gratify  your  jealaiuy,  I  need  not  Bay  I 
carefidly  acted  as  if  I  wete  in  a  real  trance 
and  did  my  best  to  pay  yon  both  ont  for 
yonr  onwamntable  proceedings.  I  hope 
I  frightened  yon  well  Sow,  gentlemen, 
are  yoa  not  asb&med  of  yoorselvea  I " 

Spencer  was  the  first  to  reply : 

"  Miss  Dorant,  I  hare  been  a  moet  nn- 
ctHDpromiaing  aconndrel ;  there  ia  my  am, 
kindly  retoro  the  pinch  I  gave  yon  with 
tenfold  interest." 

Tom  stood  silent,  it  was  not  so  easy  for 
him  to  speak.  At  last  he  decided  to  throw 
himself  apon  her  mercy, 

■<  Amy,  what  can  I  say  in  ezteno&tion  of 
my  conduct  I " 

"That,  sir,  is  for  yoa  to  discover ;  it  is 
not  my  part  to  find  excuses  fer  yoa" 

"  I  have  none,"  said  Tom  humbly.  "Will 
you  forgivft  me  t " 

"  Perhape— conditionally. " 

"Any  conditions  you  like,"  sud  Tom 


Any  « 
Mtly. 


"  The  first  is  you  are  never  to  be  jealous 
again." 

"  Never,"  cried  Tom     "  What  else  1  ' 

"  That  you  are  bo  foivive  me  if  I  have 
given  yoa  cause  for  jealousy,"  whispered 
Amy.     "  I  won't  do  so  again." 

"  Why,  my  darling,  you  are  taming  the 
tables  on  me." 

v"  Perhaps,  after  all,"  she  said  softly, 
"  table-turning  is  better  than '■ —  " 


JENIFER 

BY  ANNIB  THOUAS  (HBS.  PXHSBS^JUnLIF). 
CHAPTER  XXynr.      IN  T2RB0R. 

As  she  had  consented  to  give  it  at  all, 
Jenifer  was  determined  on  exerting  herself 
to  the  utmost  to  make  her  little  dinner- 
par^  BO  c^  well.  She  knew  that  EfBe 
womd  he  critiod  about  the  appointments 
and  adornments  of  the  table,  and  so  she 
supplied  defidencies  in  the  silver  and  glass 
department  by  an  abundance  of  tastefol 
floral  decorations,  at  which  she  fondly 
Eukcied  Mrs.  Hugh  Ray  would  be  unable 
either  to  carp  or  sneer. 

Hubert  and  Effie  were  the  first  to  arrive. 
They  had  been  down  in  the  country  cub- 
hontiog,  and  had  dressed  at  an  hotel  on 
arriving  in  town  instead  of  going  to  Mrs. 
Jervnise's  house,  and.  for  once  in  her  life. 


IJunuT  MSU-1     165 

Effie  wished  to  be  early.     Sbe  had  a  word 
or  two  to  say  to  Jenifer. 

Good  of  Flora,  isn't  it,  to  make  this 
efi'ort  for  yout"  she  began  as  she  met 
Jenifer.  "  Nothing  else  would  have  got 
her  out  to  a  little  <unner  of  this  kind.  But 
she  really  means  to  make  something  of 
you,  Jenifer,  though  yoa  have  disappointed 
us  all  BO  dreadfully."  ' 

"  What's  she  going  to  make  of  me  1 " 
Jenifer  asked  laughingly, 

"  Why,  she's  coming  to-oight  to  make 
Whittler  take  you  in  hand  in  earnest;  he'll 
do  anything  for  Flora,  he  adnures  her  so 
immensely.  Poor  Flora  would  much  rather 
be  at  home,  as  she  can't  go  to  places  where 
she  can  really  amuse  beraelf  just  yet,  but 
she  is  always  ready  to  be  good-natured, 
and  as  you've  failed  in  one  thuig,  she  wants 
to  start  you  in  another." 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  her,  but  I  don't 
think  I'm  lesidj  to  bo  started  with  Mr, 
Whittler,"  Jenifer  said. 

"It  will  be  horrid  if  yon  don't  do 
something  to  help  yourself,  when  others 
are  so  re^y  to  help  you,  Jemfer.  Captain 
Edgecnmb  has  been  idiotic  enough  to  '  cast 
himself  adrift,'  as  Hugh  says,  and  as  yon 
would  marry  him,  youll  have  either  to 
starve  with  )iim,  or  to  make  an  efi'ort 
to  keep  h'T",  Mr.  Whittler  will  give 
you  an  eugagement,  if  Flora  asks  him ; 
and  Flora's  so  good-natured  that  shell 
ask  him  in  a  minute,  if  you  ask  her  to 
do  it" 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  trouble  her,  Effie. 
Come  down  and  see  mother ;  you  haven't 
seen  her  since  I  came  homa" 

"No,  I'd  rather  stay  h«e  till  Flora 
comes,"  Effie  said  calmly,  seating  herself 
before  the  dressing-room  fire ;  "  there's 
only  Hugh  and  Captain  Edgecumb  down 
there,  and  it  will  be  dismally  dull  till  Flora 
comesL  Just  watch  Mr.  Whittler  to-night 
with  Flora;  Fm  sure  he  means  to  propose 
to  her,  and  it  would  be  hateful  if  she 
married  him.  But  she  won't  marry  him, 
you'll  see ;  she'll  refuse  the  man  that  all 
the  other  women  want" 

There  was  stir  in  hall,  and  staircase,  and 
passage  just  then,  and  presently  Mrs.  Jer- 
voise,  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a  black 
plush  dolman  mantle,  enriched  with  sable 
trimmings,  swept  into  the  room. 

"  I'm  BO  cold,"  she  cried,  giving  Jenifer 
a  hurried  hand-clasp  as  she  passed.  "What 
a  climate  it  is  this  side  of  the  Park ;  bow 
can  you  live  here  1  It's  arctic !  Effie,  you 
selfish  child,  I  won't  let  you  go  out  hunting 
asain  while  you're  staying  with  me.     I've 


106 


rje,UU.i 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


had  tbe  dudliest  day ;  nothing  to  teliore 
its  monotony  but  WhiUlsr." 

"  Anyway,  you've  had  the  society  of  the 
man  everyone  is  craving  for,"  Effie  said 
obligingly. 

"  Oh,  that  of  coorae ;  bat,  «a  &i  aa  I'm 
concerned, '  everyone '  ie  welcome  to  him ; 
only  he  happens  to  be  faatidioni,  and 
'  everyone '  doesn't  please  him.  How  well 
you're  looking,  Mra.  Edgecamb.  I  expected 
to  find  yon  mm  and  pale,  after  that  horrid 
affair  at  the  concert  tiie  other  nighL" 

"  I've  gone  throogh  heavier  troables  tiaa 
that  without  getting  thin  or  pale,"  Jenifer 
replied.  And  then  Mis.  Jervoiae  (still 
wrapped  np  in  her  plash  and  sables,  whioh 
she  decWed  she  most  keep  on  daring 
diuner  in  these  arctic  regions),  said  she  was 
ready,  and  they  all  went  down. 

"If  Jenifers  only  sensible,  Outain 
Edgecnmb,  Flora  will  make  Mr.  WhitUer 
come  to  a  dedded  agreement  with  her  to- 
night," SfBe  said  to  Captain  Edgecamb,  as 
he  took  her  in  to  dinner,  for  it  was  tacitly 
nnderstood  that  her  elder  sister,  the  widow, 
should  be  left  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Josiah  H, 
'Whittler. 

"  I'll  arrange  with  Whittlet  abont  it ;  I 
see  it  will  be  better  for  me  to  take  all 
bnnneas  matters  into  my  own  lianda," 
Captain  Edgecumb  replied  with  &  pompous 
assumption  of  being  absolute  nOer  over 
his  wife,  that  made  Effie  congratulate  her- 
self on  having  evaded  the  position. 

"Do  yon  think  ehe  can  act  I"  she 
aaked.  "  It  will  be  a  pity  for  her  to  come 
before  the  public  a  second  time  in  another 
way  and  faU,  won't  it  1 " 

"Very  mortdfyiog  to  me  if  she  does; 
but  she'll  be  farmed  better  this  time ; 
mistakes  were  nude  all  round  before,  I 
feel  sore  of  that.  Old  Yoglio  wasn't  the 
right  teacher  for  her " 

"Flora  thought  she  was,  and  Flora 
never  makes  mistakes,"  Effie  intetmpted 
sharply.  "  How  do  yoa  like  having  Mrs. 
Ray  to  live  with  yoa  t  I  found  her  a  bore 
at  Moor  Royal" 

"  And  I  find  her  one  here,"  Captain 
Edgecumb  admitted  frankly.  "  The  neck 
of  it  will  be  broken  when  Jenifer  and  I  go 
to  America.  I  shall  inatal  the  old  lady  m 
a  small  honae  in  one  of  the  suburbs,  and 
when  we  come  back  I  shall  take  one  for 
ourselves  in  a  better  part  of  town." 

"  And  we  shall  go  back  to  Moor  Royal 
in  a  few  mouths,  I  suppose.  After  all,  it 
has  been  a  good  thing  not  living  there  for 
a  time.  I  mean  we  must  have  spent  more 
there  than  we  have  while  we've  been  with 


Flora.  The  wwat  of  gcmg  baek  will  be 
the  having  Mra  Jack  ondcr  our  notee; 
but  I  shall  cut  them  dead  from  the  first" 

"  Quite  right,  too ;  I  shaQ  make  Jenifn 
do  the  same,"  Jenifer's  loving  lord  assented. 

And  then  Effie  went  on  to  remark  how 
moch  she  disliked  seeing  an  odd  numbR 
at  dinner-table. 

"Neither  Flora  nor  I  ever  hava  it,  it 
makes  eveirthing  crooked.  I  wonder 
Jenifer  didn  t  get  someone  to  balance  her 
mother,  don't  you  1 " 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  but  Jenifer  cares 
nothing  at  all  for  the  look  of  thinga.  I 
want  her  to  go  to  my  mother  for  advice 
and  suggestions.  Yon  remember  how 
perfectly  my  mother's  hooae  was  managed  t 
But  Jenifer  prefers  her  own  rather  rough- 
and-ready  styla" 

Meanwhile  in  the  intervals  of  devoting 
himself  to  the  rich  widow,  Mr.  Whittler 
was  employed  ie  drawing  out  Jenifer's 
views  and  ideas  about  the  stage. 

"  Tlie  dramatic  stage  is  nearly  a  sealed 
book  to  me.  My  experience  of  play-goiug 
has  been  very  limited,"  Jenifer  said  when 
he  pressed  her  to  accord  it  a  higher  place 
than  the  lync  Btag& 

"But  of  the  two  which  do  yoa  oonceivs 
to  have  the  higher  aim,  and  the  better 
<^portunities  of  setting  forth  realistically 
ennobling  scenes  and  characters,  and 
thrilling,  tender  incidents  1" 

"  The  dramatic ;  I  suppose  I  must  con- 
oede  that,"  she  agreed. 

"  Exactly  so.  And  in  face,  ibrm,  mind, 
and  manner  yoa  are  fitted  to  omte  the 
noblest  characters  tliat  have  ever  been  put 
apon  the  stage,  oi  that  can  be  written 
for  it.  I  see  a  great  future  for  yoa  if  you'll 
only  give  yourself  fair  play,  aad  allow 
yourseU  to  be  put  in  the  right  road  for  it" 

"  Evea  you  will  fail  to  peranade  me  that 
I  have  a  vooUion  for  the  stage,"  she  said, 
and  then,  more  with  the  design  of  taming 
the  conversation  from  a  topic  that  was  dis- 
tasteful to  her  than  with  any  idea  of 
interestiiw  him,  she  began  speaking  to  hw 
brothw  m^MTt  about  Admind  Talumme'i 
marriage. 

"  He's  your  godfather,  or  something, 
isn't  he  1  Married,  by  Jove  I  That  means 
that  you're  cat  out  of  his  will,  Jenny." 

"  I  never  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was 
in  it,  or  thought  abont  his  property  at  all, 
in  fact  But  when  I  tell  you  who  it  is  he 
has  married,  youll  bo  staggered." 

"  An  impecunious  Irish  peer's  daughter 
'  probably  % " 


**  Not  at  all ;  eomeotie  moch  less  likely. 
Too'U  nerer  gams." 

"Don't  meui  to  tiy,"  Hubert  laid 
■comfillf. 

"  Bat  700*11  not  be  able  to  help  being 
nr[»ued  iriien  I  tell  70a  it'e  Mis.  Hatton, 
tbe  lad7  we  lodged  with  when  math»  and 
I  eain«  to  Xiondon." 

"Do  70a  mean  the  fann7  little  stout 
woman  who  took  ma  for  her  hoateaa  at 
Belle  Campbell's  party,  and  began  being 
affable  and  gashing  I"  £fBe  cried  ont.     . 

And  this  brought  general  attention  to 
bear  upon  the  thema,  and  aroused  Mr. 
Wfaittler's  indolently-expressed  but  vital 
intereetL 

"  Did  7011  say  the  lady  who  has  just 
married  was  the  same  one  I  had  the  mia- 
fortone  to  miss  beins  introduced  to  at 
^B.  Campbell's  At  Home,  through  the 
nsfertonate  circnmetanM  of  her  sadden  in- 
dispooition  t "  Mr.  Whittler  asked  snaTely. 

"  Jenifer  didn't  say  all  that,  or  anything 
Hke  it,"  Effie  laughed ;  "  but  she  meant 
the  same  lady.  Who  is  it  she  has  married, 
Jenifer — uiybody  nice )    1  hope  not" 

"Yonr  uncharitable  spirit  will  be  dis- 
appointed then,  Effie.  Admiral  ToUamore 
is  a  dear  old  man — isn't  he,  Hubert  t — a 
thorough  gentleman,  and  as  good  and 
iMRiouraMe  as  gold." 

"He  has  made  a  oonfounded  ass  of 
himsdf  in  marrying  that  intriguing  little 
woman,"  Captain  Sdgeonmb  put  in  wrath- 
folly.  "  When  we  were  stayfaiK  at  Kildene 
the  other  day,  I  saw  throng  Mjs.  Hatton's 
^ame,  and  could  hare  upset  it  easily  enough 
if  Jenifer  had  helped  me ;  but  she  wouldn't 
be  guided  by  me,  and  this  is  the  end  of  it" 

"  Does  the  gentleman  who  has  been 
fortunate  enough  to  secure  bo  charming  a 
lady  reside  in  London  I "  Mr.  Wfaittler  asked. 

"  No,  in  Ireland ;  in  one  of  the  loveliest 
parts  of  Couaty  Kerry.  Kildene  is  the 
name  of  his  plaoe^  and  it's  one  of  the 
prSttieet  and  best-kept  estates,  or  demesnes 
as  they  call  them,  in  the  south  of  Ireland," 
Jenifer  explained.  "We  are  all  very  fond 
of  Admiral  TuUamore,  you  muat  under- 
stand, Mr.  Whittler.  He  was  one  of  my 
father's  oldest  and  dearest  friends,  waan  t 
be,  mo^er  dear  t  If  Mrs.  Hatton  makes 
him  happy,  I  shall  be  very  fond  of  her  too. " 

"Kildene,  County  Kerry."  Mr.  Whittler 
repeated  these  words  to  nimself  till  they 
were  thoroughly  impressed  upon  his 
memory.  Then  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
work  in  hand,  and  made  himself  more 
agreeable  to  Mrs,  Jervoise  than  he  had 
ever  done  before. 


FEO.  [JUU1U7  &,  1884.1      16' 

That  evming,  without  consulting  Jenifer 
Captain  Edgecumb  made  a  formal  agree 
ment  with  the  American  actor  to  tht 
following  purpose.  Mrs.  Edgecumb  wa: 
to  b^in  studying  under  the  direction  0 
Mr.  Whittler  with  as  little  delay  as  possible 
and  on  the  ratum  of  the  latter  to  Nen 
York,  she  was  to  accompany  him  on  a  pait 


She's  got  beauty,  and  she's  got  talent 
and  she'll  soon  draw  her  hundred  a  weel 
in  New  York,"  Mr.  Whittler  prophesied. 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  Capt«n  Edge 
cumb  atud. 

Then  he  went  on  to  ask  when  the  lessone 


"  In  aboat  a  week.  I'm  leaving  towa 
for  a  few  days  in  the  country." 

"  Ah  I  shootuig,  I  sappose  1 " 

"  And  hunting,"  Mr.  Whittler  said 
dryly ;  but  he  did  not  go  on  to  explain  to 
the  English  gentleman  that  bis  quarry  w^ 
a  woman. 

What  part  of  the  country  1 " 
'The  Nwth  Yorkshire,"  Whittler  said 
danntlmsly. 

But  that  night  after  he  got  back  to  hie 
hotel,  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Tollamore,  Kildene, 
County  Kerry,  Ireland,  and  bade  her 
prepare  herself  and  her  hosband  to  euter- 
tain  her  old  Mend,  Joeiah  H.  WhitUer,  for 
a  few  days. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  I've  thrown  my 
leg  over  an  Insfa  hunter,  or  had  a  day's 
shooting,"  he  wrote.  "  You  will  take  care, 
I  am  sure,  that  I  have  a  fair  taste  of 
these  pleasures  while  I  am  your  honoured 
guest" 

Tim  woman  who  received  this  letter  bad 
been  Admiral  Tullamore's  wife  only  a  few 
days  when  it  was  put  into  her  hands. 
Fortunately  for  her,  it  was  given  to  her  as 
she  sat  at  breakfast  by  herself,  for  the 
admiral,  old  as  he  was,  kept  earlier  hours 
the  oomparatively  young  woman  whom 
he  had  married. 

The  sight  of  the  handwriting  made  her 
shudder,  but  with  the  self-control  that 
comes  from  the  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
she  laid  it  down  quietly  until  the  servant 
went  out  of  the  room. 

Then  she  opened  and  read  the  letter, 
and  the  pallid  look  left  her  face,  and  in  its 
place  burned  the  fire  of  indignation.  Could 
he  come  t  If  he  were  other  than  he  pre- 
tended to  be  to  the  world ;  if  he  were  what 
she  almost  knew  and  altogether  feared  he 
was,  could  he  come  1  Was  it  in  man  to  be  so 
callous,  so  demoniacal,  so  devoid  of  every 


168 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


[JunuT  ^  UU) 


qaality  that  lifta  man  ap  above  the  beaeta 
that  peruh  t 

Woe  for  hoT  I  She  knew  that  he  had  it 
ID  him  to  debase  himself,  and  degrade  her, 
to  any  ezt«iit.  She  knew  that  to  give 
himself  one  hour's  pleaanre  he  would  see 
her  phyeicallr  and  morally  flayed.  Aad 
now  ehe  had  inTolved  another  in  the  ram 
which  he  could  bring  upon  her  if  he  bo 
minded.  She  had  put  the  poor  old  admiral's 
honoured  bead  under  the  heel  that  could 
and  would  crush  it  without  compunction. 
And  she  did  not  dare  to  lie  down  and  die 
under  the  miserable  conviction,  aa  she 
longed  to  do.  She  had  to  get  up  and  live 
through  it,  and  put  all  her  ^aken  strength 
into  l£e  work  of  trying  to  avert  the  inevit- 
able. 

She  took  refuge  in  that  temporal;  sane- 
tnaxy  to  which  so  many  women  flee — a 
bad  headache,  when  her  nusband  came  in, 
and  questioned  her  with  kindly  cariosity 
abont  her  altered  looks.  And  then  another 
problem  forced  itself  to  the  front,  and  com- 

Eelled  her  to  solve  it.  How  was  she  to  give 
im  her  news  t  How  was  she  to  introduce 
the  name  of  the  self-invited  visitor  t  How 
was  she  to  explain  to  her  husband  that 
she  wanted  a  man,  an  old  friend,  to  come 
and  be  her  guest  before  she  had  been  a 
wife  a  weekl 

If  only  she  had  kept  Ann  with  her,  it 
would  have  been  easier.  Ann  conld  have 
hinted  that  poor  mistress  was  upset  by 
reason  of  having  heard  from  the  friend 
who  had  seen  poor  master  dead  and  buried, 
and  delicacy  wonld  have  forbade  any  ques- 
tioning on  the  admiral's  part.  But  no  I 
even  Ann  wonld  have  failed  at  this  ghastly 
pinch,  for  Ann  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  her — except  lie. 

She  started  up  lijce  a  hunted  thing,  as 
she  wae,  when  after  a  couple  of  hours' 
ineffectual  consideration  and  revolving  of 
the  subject  in  her  mind,  she  rememb^^ 
suddenly  tliat  he  might  be  here  at  any 
moment  I — might  follow  his  letter  closely  I 

How  should  she  meet  himt  How  could 
she  meet  him!  How  conld  she  live  through 
the  eight  of  liis  presence  tainting  the  atmo- 
sphere of  this  house  which  had  always  been 
good  and  honoured  1  Bather  than  do  it,  she 
would  confess  it  all  to  Admiral  Tnllamore, 
and  be  turned  out  as  the  traitress  she  was. 

£ven  while  she  was  making  and  break- 
ing her  mad  resolutions  momentarily,  they 
came  and  told  her  that  the  gentieman, 
whose  card  was  handed  to  her  at  ihe  same 


time,  was  come,  and  "what  instractione 
wonld  she  be  pleased  to  give  as  to  where 
the  gentleman  would  be  placed  t" 

She  looked  at  the  cud  I  It  bora  the  i 
dreaded  name  of  Josiah  H.  Whittler. 

The  criais  had  come,  and  suddenly  she 
felt  calmer  than  she  had  been  since  the 
receipt  of  his  letter  in  the  monisg. 
Taking  that  letter  now  in  her  hand,  almost 
forgetAil  of  its  contents,  she  went  to  tbe 
admiral,  who  was  following  the  fortnnea  of 
some  of  his  old  friends  in  the  Navy  List. 
And  as  soon  as  she  found  herself  in  Mb 
presence  her  purpose  failed  her.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  mar  the  perfect  tnut 
and  love  he  had  in  her.  Love  and  ^it 
which  revealed  themselves  so  plainly  as  she 
approached  him,  timi  the  tears  sprang  to 
her  eyea.  i 

"  I  was  coming  to  tell  you  that  a  friend  ' 
of  my  late  husband's" — the  words  almost 
choked  her — "  has  arrived  here  to  see  me. 
He  is  tbe  same  who  brought  ma  the  news 
of  Mr,  Hatton's  death.  You  will  foigive 
the  liberty,  won't  you,  dear,  when  I  tell 
you  that  he  is  an  American,  and  a  famous 
actor  t" 

"  There's  no  liberty  to  forgive,"  the  oM 
admiral  cried,  standing  up  with  the  aUcrity 
of  a  boy.  "  Your  own  frienda  surely  are 
welcome  in  yonr  own  house.  I've  a  great 
regard  for  many  Americans.  I  made  a  good 
sterling  friend  among  them  in  1614." 
Then  he  took  out  his  Victoria  medal  fw 
"The  Potomac,  August  17th,  1814," and 
showed  it  to  her  witii  pride,  and  was  pro- '. 
cee4iing  to  proee  on  about  the  cutiting^>at 
boat  expedition  in  which  he  had  won  that 
special  laurel,  when  a  message  was  brought 
to  Mrs.  Tnllamore. 

"  The  gentleman  wants  to  know  if  yon 
mean  to  see  him  or  not,  ma'am,"  the 
servant  said  hesitBtingly.  And  Admiral 
Tnllamore  said  emphatically : 

"  That's  not  tbe  message  of  aa  American 
gentleman  1 " 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE," 

WALTER     BE8ANT 

(Aathotitf  "His  Ctptnini'  Soom,"  "Let  Notfaiiig  Ton 

UlamBf,"  etc  etc), 

AND   OTHER    STORIES. 

PriM  SIXFEI4CB,  uid  conUulDg  the  uaDOUt  at  Itim 

OnUiuuy  IJoniMn. 


7%<  Kinhiaf 


I.  -nv  V**ir  ■am 


ay  Go  ogle 


170     CJxinv;  II,  ISSi.) 


ALL  THE  YEAH  EOUHD. 


and  told  him  of  her  diBcorery  of  this  far-off 
coasm,  and  of  her  pathetic  buit<»7,  patting 
it  as  pathetically  aa  she  could,  with  a  deep 
desigiL  For,  will  it  ba  believed  that  tius 
active-minded  little  woman  was  match- 
making 1  A  marriage  between  Archie  and 
Ida  would  reconcile  everything  and  eTety- 
one,  and  her  own  distracted 


boot.  Being  desirable  it  seemed  probable, 
and  Mrs.  John  set  about  to  bow  the  first 
seeds  of  love  in  the  hearts  of  these  children 
in  the  hope  that  though  the  seed  might  re- 
main latent,  or  even  be  oveigrown  for  a  time, 
it  might  yet  one  day  spring  up  when  oppor- 
tunity favoared  it.  Thereiore  she  appealed 
to  Aichie's  pity  and  patronage  on  Ida's 
behalf.  She  knew  the  hoy  hy  heart,  and 
felt  that  dependence  was  the  best  passport 
to  his  fayoor.  It  flattered  at  once  his 
strength  and  his  weaknebs,  which  had 
been  the  strength  and  weakness  of  his 
poor  father  —  generosity.  Archie,  there- 
fore, was  doly  prepared  to  pity,  protect, 
and  patronise  Ida,  though,  at  he  said  with 
much  loftiness  to  his  mother,  '■  Little  girls 
were  not  much  in  his  line."  Little  girls 
indeed! 

Then  Mrs.  John  hnrried  up  to  Ida, 
aevetely  blaming  herself  for  leavingher  all 
this  time  in  the  cold  bedroonL  Bat 
apology  was  necessary,  for  the  child  had  not 
even  taken  her  hat  off.  She  was  standing  at 
the  window,  which  commanded  a  view  of 
the  churchyard,  lost  to  everything  but  her 
losa 

"  My  dear  child,  you  haven't  even  taken 
your  things  off.  I  don't  believe  yoaVe 
stirred  foot  or  finger  since  I  left  yoa  And 
tea  coming  in  I " 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  Mre.  Pybns ;  bnti  sha'n't 
be  a  minute  now." 

"  Indeed,  dear,  I  shall  not  trust  yon. 
You're  just  like  Mr.  Pybns.  He'd  go  to 
bed  in  a  chimney-pot  hat,  if  I  didn't  remon- 
Ebrato  with  him  against  the  extravagance 
of  the  habit." 

This  picture  of  the  Eev.  John's  habitual 
extravagance  made  Ida  smile.  Snch  a 
smile  1  It  changed  her  whole  face  in  a 
moment,  making  it  altogether  lovely. 
Meanwhile  Mrs.  John  was  busy  taking  her 
things  off,  scolding  her  the  while,  as  if  she 
was  a  little  child,  resolute  to  exorcise  Ijus 
demiHi  of  gloom  which  seemed  to  have 
E>osse8sed  her  for  years. 

"  Now  you  may  go  and  wash  your  face 
ind  huids.  No,  I  shall  not  leave  you,  we 
!vill  go  down  together.  There,  that's 
better.  Now  for  your  hair.  My  dear 
:bild,  what  a   quantity  of   hair  I     You 


should  have  a  wool^ombing  machine  tor 
it  Did  you  never  wear  it  down  your 
backl" 

"  Not  since  I  was  a  child,  Mrs.  Pybus," 
Ida  replied,  without  the  least  consdousnesi 
of  absurdity, 

"Ob,  not  since  you  were  a  chQd.  I 
didn't  know  you'd  ever  been  a  child.  But, 
Ida,  I  mean  to  make  a  child  of  you  while 
you're  with  me.  Mind  that,  my  dear.  I 
think  I  shall  put  you  in  pinafores  and 
short  frocks,  with  bare  arms  and  legs, 
and  let  you  go  shares  in  my  pocket- 
handkerchieL" 

Ida  again  smiled  as  she  stood  opposite 
the  glass,  while  Mrs.  John  was  deftly  doing 
her  hair. 

"  There,  you're  like  Alice  in  Wonderland, 
you're  getting  smaller  already.  How  long  ii 
it  since  you  saw  that  bright  face  in  Uie  glasB  t 
Not  since  you  were  a  child  1  There^s  the 
tea-belL     Come." 

Bat  Ida's  heart  failed  her  at  the  thought 
of  facing  strangers. 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Pybus,  if  you  wouldn't 
mind,  I — I'd  rather  not  go  down  this 
evening." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear.  There's  only  Mr. 
Pybus,  who  never  sees  any  one,  unlesi  yon 
screw  him  up  to  it  like  an  opera-glass,  and 
Archie,  your  cousin,  who  is  only  a  child. 
Besides,  it's  only  for  a  few  minutes,  we  shall 
send  them  both  away  when  they've  hid 
their  tea." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Mrs.  John,  for  al! 
her  good  resolutions,  could  not  help  speak- 
ing to  Ida  as  though  she  were  out  m  her 
teens,  instead  of  just  into  them. 

Ida  was  relieved  to  find  no  one  in  the 
breakfast-Toomwhentheyenteied.  TheBev. 
John  was  always  Ute,  and  generally  needed 
to  be  eammoned  two  or  three  times  to 
each  meal ;  while  Archie  had  shot  off  in  a 
frenzy  of  excitement  upon  a  report  from 
Tom  Ghown  that  the  weasel,  which  had 
desolated  his  rabbit-hutch,  was  trapped  at 
last  The  maid  was  sent  to  knock  up  the 
Rev.  John,  who  came  in  thereon  with 
unusual  promptitude,  and  with  an  air  of 
resolution,  and  marched  up  to  Ida  as  to  the 
imminent  deadly  breach. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Tack  i  I'm  glad 
to  see  you.  I  hope  your  father  is  quite 
welL" 

And  then,  after  a  look  that  cried 
pUudite "  to  Mrs.  John,  he  sat  down, 
relieved,  to  his  t«a.  Ida,  tongoe-Ued  as 
usual,  said  nothing,  but  that,  of  oouise,  he 
didn't  notice.  Nor  would  he  have  noticed 
it  if  her  answer  had  been  the  correct 


A  DRAWN  QAMK 


(Juinu;  12, 188*.]      171 


eqmralmit  of  his  qaeetioii,  "  He  is  quite 
dnd,  thanlf  yon." 

Before  Id&  had  qnite  recorered  from  her 
eonfouoo,  Archie  burst  into  i3M  room  like 
>  shell,  foigetttng  "  the  litUe  girl'a  "  ezie- 
tsnce  in  hin  ezcitementi.     ' 

"  Mother,  Wve  got  him  I    Sneh  a " 

Ea%  enooimteriDg  Ida's  Bolemn,  star- 
like  eyes,  he  re«dleoted  himself  and  her, 
indeollapeed 

"I  hope  tell  keep,  Archie,  for  tha  tea 
mm't.  There,  shut  the  door,  gently  if  yon 
an,  and  ait  down.  This  is  yoor  eonato 
Archie,  Ida." 

Ida  rote  op  timidly,  as  at  a  formal  intro- 
daction,  and  held  ont  her  hand  shyly, 
which  Archie,  irith  greater  shyness, 
shook  in  silenea  For  the  rest  of  the 
mesi  Mrs.  John  had  to  do  idl  the  talk- 
ii%,  IS  the  other  Idiree  were  as  oheerful 
and  sociable  as  hens  nnder  an  arch  on 
a  wet  day. 

Ida's  first  impression  of  Archie  vae 
amply  that  he  was  a  very  boyiA  boy. 
Bat  Archie's  first  impression  of  Ida  was 
more  poMtively  unflattering.  She  was  not 
a  ■■  liUde  gill '  by  any  means,  nor  patroni- 
saUe,  nor  sociable,  nor  even  approachable, 
and  she  woolda't  care  for  rabbits.  In  this 
last  discreditable  defect  of  hers  there  was 
•ome  consolation,  for  he  needn't  now  offer 
her  his  black  and  white  lop-eared  doe, 
whidi  he  had  been  moved  mentally  to  vow 
to  her  on  hearing  from  his  mother  of  her 
tnmhles.  SUll,  the  boy  was  not  easy  in 
hit  mind  about  the  matter.  He  wonld 
have  been  glad  to  please  hu  mother  and 
bimself  by  doing  Ida  kindnesses  if  she 
wonld  have  allowed  him,  bnt  she  seemed 
beyond  their  reach  altogether.  Howev^, 
next  morning  he  thought  he  saw  his 
ehanee. 

It  waa  Sanday  morning,  and  on  Sunday 
mornings,  from  time  immemorial,  all  the 
dnrcb-bdls  in-  that  distriot  were  mi^  at 
eujht  o'clock.  Now  Archie,  of  late,  had 
tuen  entltnsiaBtically  to  bell-ringing,  and 
was  allowed  to  practise  his  'prentice-hand 
only  at  this  e^ht  o'clock  r^veiU^  There- 
foie  he  was  eariy  at  the  chnrehyard  gates, 
to  find  Ida  there  before  him.  She  had 
e^iected  that  Uiey  wonld  have  been 
open. 

"Ill  ^t  the  keys,"  he  said  in  a  shy 
nbdned  voice,  and  shot  off  to  the  sexton'a 
Retaniing  immediately,  he  opened  the 
gate,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  tremnlons 
"  Thank  yon,"  and  a  look  vhich  made  him 
long  to  do  something  worth  thanks  for 
her. 


While  she  made  for  her  mother's  grave, 
Archie  opened  the  church,  and  climbed  np 
to  the  tower,  and  looked  ont  firom  one  of 
its  loophole  windows  on  Ida  standing 
Btopefied  by  the  new-made  grave.  It  was 
in  a  horrible  condition  —  a  foul  heap  of 
shiny  yellow  clay,  sunk  down  on  one  side, 
and  it  looked  more  horrible  by  contrast  with 
the  neatly-kept  graves  aronnd.  In  fact, 
the  natural  soil  of  the  graveyard  was  brick- 
clay,  in  which  nothing  would  grow,  bnt  in 
five  years  Mrs.  John  had  made  the  wilder- 
ness blossom  as  the  rose.  She  was  even 
9  anxious  to  have  the  churchyard 
beantified  than  the  chnrch,  and  she  so 
worked  upon  the  feelings  of  the  people 
that  there  was  a  competition  amongst 
most  of  them  as  to  the  gardening  of  these 
graves.  Each  bronght  barrows  of  soil  for 
die  grave  of  his  own  dead,  and  sowed,  and 
planted,  and  kept  it  weeded  throughout 
the  year.  So  it  was  that  poor  Mrs.  Luard, 
who  had  never  seen  so  lovely  a  churchyard, 
begged  Ida  to  have  her  boned  here.  But 
poor  Mrs.  Lnard's  own  grave,  as  we  say, 
was  in  a  horrible  state,  and  was  specially 
revolting  to  Ida  with  her  notion  that  her 
mother  had  lost  neither  her  knowledge  of 
nor  her  pleasure  in  what  had  been  dear  to 
her  here. 

The  child  was  so  distressed  at  the  state 
of  the  grave  that  Archie  saw  her  hurry 
to  meet  the  sexton,  as  he  came  in  to  give 
tiie  boy  his  lesson  in  bell-ringing,  and 
saf  something  to  him,  pointing  to  the 
grave, 

"  What  did  she  say  to  yon,  Blo^  1 " 
Yon  lass  1   Shoo  axed  me  what  AVd 
fetUe*  yon  grave  for.     But  shoo  mnn  sam 
it  upt  for  hersea     Aw'm  nooan  bahn  to 
hev*  nobbody's  lavina." 

That  is  to  say,  he  must  have  all  the 
graves  or  none  in  his  charge.  The  Rev. 
John's  permission  to  the  parishioners  to 
have  access  at  all  times  to  the  churchyard, 
and  to  attend  to  their  own  graves,  instead 
of  paying  Blogg  to  neglect  them,  was  an 
exceedingly  sore  point  with  the  surly 
sexton.  So  he  poured  vitriol  into  Ida's 
bleeding  heart  Archie,  too  indignant 
with  Blogg  to  take  his  lesson,  and  anxious 
to  relieve  Ida's  mind  on  this  point,  hnrried 
down  tiie  steep  tower  stairs  and  out  into 
the  churchyard.  Bat  Ida  had  gone  back  to 
the  vicarage,  and  when  Archie  found  her 
there  in  the  breakfast-room,  gazing  into 
the  fire  with  a  look  of  wretchedness  in  her 


"Fettle"— i.e.  putir 


t  "  Sam  ii 


m      [Jimiums.  18S4.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  KOUND. 


w&n  lace,  he  lost  courage  aod  stole  oat  o^ 
the  room  again. 

But  next  momiDg,  at  the  dawn,  that  is, 
at  six-thirty — he  had  to  go  to  Leeds  to 
school  at  nine  o'clock — he  and  Tom  Ghown 
were  working  at  the  grave  like  narrieB, 
first  levelling  the  nnsightly  yellow  sludge, 
then  covering  it  deep  with  barrow  upon 
barrowfulof  soil  from  the  vicarage  garden, 
and  then  banking  it  up  with  sods  from  the 
common. 

"  I  tell  yoa  what,  Tom,"  said  Archie,  as 
he  Btraigbtened  himself  to  rest,  with  a  rake 
in  bis  hand,  and  with  his  head  critically 
on  one  side  to  admire  his  work  ;  "  I  tell 
you  what,  Tom,  I  shall  make  it  the  nicest 
grave  in  the  chnichyard.  Ishall  plantmy 
white  moss-rose  there,"  making  a  hole 
with  the  rake  at  the  head  of  the  grave, 
"  and  I  shall  have  a  cross  of  violets,  like 
that  on  Mr&  Parry's  grave,  only  prettier, 
down  the  centre,  and  I  shaH^-put  —  at 

the  sides "  hesitatingly.     "  I  must  get 

mother  to  find  oat  what  fiowera  she  likes 
bast.     If " 

Here  he  felt  a  timid  and  tremnlooi  hand 
on  bia  arm,  and  looking  round  found 
behind'bim  Ida,  with  "  a  face  like  a  bene- 
diction," all  her  fall  beuii  shining  throngh 
her  eyes.  She  had  seen  them  at  work 
from  her  window,  and  had  hurried  out  in 
time  to  overhear  Archie's  plan  for  making 
the  grave  the  prettiest  in  the  chorchyard. 
Tom  Chown  shuflled  off  shamefaced  with 
an  empty  barrow,  not  quite  sure  that  it 
wasn't  a  rcrape,  as  almost  every  enterprise 
Archie  inveigled  him  into  was.  Archie 
also  was  shy  and  shamefaced.  In  tmth,  he 
was  thinking  less  of  Ida's  gratification  than 
of  his  own  credit,  when  he  boasted  that  he 
would  make  the  giave  the  prettiest  in  the 
graveyard,  for  everything  he  took  in  hand 
was  to  be  a  masterpiece,  and  might  have 
been,  perhaps,  if  he  hadn't  tiredv«f  it 
as  heartily  as  he  undertook  it  before  it  had 
risen  above  ground.  Therefore,  Ida's 
thanks,  expressed  on  her  face,  seemed  oat 
of  all  proportion  to  his  service,  and  as  he 
couldn't  bear  being  overpaid,  he  was  ill  at 
ease,  and  shamefaced,  and  cast  about  for 
means  to  balance  the  account  Ida,  witb, 
for  her,  extraordinary  demonstrativeness, 
let  her  hand  slip  down  his  arm  to  take  bis, 
which  she  held  and  pressed,  saying  only, 
"  I  saw  yon  from  the  window.  I  wanted 
to  thank  you,"  when  she  stopped,  over- 
come. 

"lliat  brute,  Blogg,  the  sexton,  you 
know,  that  you  asked  to  do  it,  he's  an 
old  beast !    It  wasn't  a  bit  of  trouble.     I 


say,  I  wish  you  liked  rabbits.  Do  come 
and  look  at  them.  There's  a  black  and 
white  one,  auoh  a  beaaty ;  I  wish  you'd 
have  it — wUl  you  I     Do  ! " 

JeunderBtood  this  sadden  change 
of  subject  to  be  meant  as  a  divermon  of 
her  grief  and  of  her  gratitude,  and  was  sur- 
prised and  more  moved  than  ever  by  the 
thoughtful  kindness  of  Archie,  whom,  of 
coarse,  she  regarded  as  years  younger  than 
heiseir.  And,  as  her  heart  in  her  sorrov 
was  even  like  melting  wax,  the  boj'a 
coniiderate  generosity  made  a  lifeloDg 
impresdon  upon  it^ 

"  I  should  like  to  see  them  very  much," 
she  said.  So  they  returned  together  to  the 
house,  Archie  dilating  upon  Qie  ravages, 
the  sise,  and  the  hte  oi  ibe  weasel,  ind 
Ida  distressed  witb  the  thonght,  "  B^^ 
that  I  am,  I  am  even  poor  in  Uumk&"  She 
could  say  only,  "  No,  thank  von,  I  wonldn't 
know  what  to  do  with  it,'  when  Archie 
offered  in  succession  a  rabbit,  a  pair  of 
pigeons,  a  pen-knife,  and  a  catapult.  At 
last,  seeiDg  that  with  Archie  the  moat 
acceptable  way  to  acknowledge  an  obliga- 
tion was  to  increase  it,  she  said,  "If 
you  would  plant  those  flowers,  I  would 
rather  have  it  than  anything  else,  Archie," 
using  his  name  for  the  firat  time  shyly, 
but  in  a  tone  that  expressed  how  neu 
she  bad  been  drawn  to  him  in  the  last 
few  minates.  There  was  something  io  the 
reqaest,  and  tn  the  sad,  sweet  tone  in  which 
it  was  made,  that  went  to  Archie's  heart, 
and  stirred  him  to  say  with  a  face  aglow 
with  generous  impulse ; 

"  I  shall  make  it  my  garden." 

Perhaps  if  Ida  had  cast  her  eyts  on 
his  garden,  lying  a  few  feet  from  her, 
map^  oat  distuctly  with  weeds,  tlie 
might  not  have  so  treasured  up  hia 
promise.  Batsheknewthatthissqnareplot 
was  his  garden  only  whan  she  saw  it 
wrenched  up,  and  ravaged,  and  in  wild  con- 
fusion an  hour  later. 

"Has  the  pig  been  in  again,  Tom  I' 
asked  Mrs,  John,  as  she  and  Ida  looked 
down  on  the  desolation  which  only  Ihe 
unskilled  labour  of  a  pig  apparently  could 
have  wrought 

"It  was  Master  Archie,   mum.     fiss 

fat  'em  all  on  yon  grave,"  nodding  tomrdi 
da. 
Ida  had  already  made  Mr&  Jotm 
happy  with  an  account  of  Archie's  good- 
ness, and  of  the  promise  of  which  ^' 
transplantation  was  the  earnest  i 

"I'mso  sorry,"  began  Ida.  ! 

"  I'm  not,"  said  Mrs.  John ;  "  I've  been  | 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


[J«DnuTia,18Si.]      ITS 


eoretiiig  hia  garden  ihie  long  time.  Beddea, 
be'd  never  give  jon  or  me  a  moment's 
pewe  until  ha  had  done  something  for  jron. 
Wlieo  he  likes  anyone  very  much,  he's 
Dsrer   happy  till   ne   gives   them  some- 

itis,  "likes  anyone  very  much,"  was 
nthsr  strong  for  two  days  acqoaintanoe- 
ihip,  and  for  Archie's  real  feelii^;  towards 
Ida;  but  the  wish  was  &ther  to  the 
ibonght  with  Mis.  John,  and  faster  to  the 
&ct  as  it  tuned  oat  For,  in  tmtii,  she 
did  contrive  to  bring  about  at  least  one- 
lialf  of  her  fine  schema  Before  Ida's 
visit  to  Uie  vicarage  waa  over,  Archie 
ires  in  love  with  her  —  impetnoosly,  of 
eoorsa 

Boys  fall  in  love  wiUi  their  seniors,  and, 
in  all  bat  years,  Ida  was  years  his  senior. 
She  had  always  for  him  the  most  winning 
kxAs  in  the  world,  she  was  his  contrast  in 
character,  and  she  allowed  him  to  do  her 
kindnesses.  So  Archie  fell  headlong  in 
love  with  Indicrons  serioosness. 

It  is  astonishing  how  passionately  before 
(he  dawn  of  passion  some  children  love ; 
bow  tha  refraction  and  divine  presenti- 
ment of  the  passion  "lisos  ere  it. rise" 
upon  them. 

Archie  shirked  school — with  Mn.  John's 
designing  coDnivance — to  hannt  Ida  like 
her  shadow ;  he  was  always  on  the  look- 
out to  do  her  service,  and  he  spent  all  his 
pocket-money  in  presente  for  her. 

Bat  the  other  half  of  Mrs.  John's 
dengn  was,  of  coarse,  not  so  manageable. 
Ida's  heart  was  too  much  taken  up  with 
ntef,  for  love  to  find  room  in  it.  Never- 
tDdesa,  aftervards,  Archie's  devotion 
made  its  way  into  it,  just  as  words, 
which  some  preoocapation  prevents  ns 
hearing  ^en  they  are  spoken,  wait  for 
idmisAon  in  the  anteroom  of  the  mind, 
and  enter  on  the  departure  of  more 
pressing  guests. 

On  the  night  before  Ida's  departure  for 
Kingsford,  Archie  made  her  his  final 
present — a  writing-desk — for  which  Mrs. 
John  supplied  the  funds,  Archie's  pnise 
having  been  long  depleted. 

"I  want  you  to  write  to  me,  Ida,"  said 
the  boy  phuntivel^,  with  his  eager  face 
looking  pleadingly  into  hers. 

Ida,  lost  in  a  wonder,  which  looked  out 
tiiroDgb  her  eyes,  at  Archie's  goodness 
towards  her,  made  no  answer  to  this 
request,  but  said  only  and  helplessly : 

"  I've  nothing  to  giva" 

"  Ybs,  yoa  have.  I  wish "  And  then 

he  patued  aahamed. 


"  What,  Archie  t  What  is  it  t " 
eageriy. 

"  I  wish  you'd  give  me  a  bit  of  your 
hair,"  falt^nd  the  lovelorn  youth, 
blushing  furiously. 

"  My  hair  I  But,  Archie,  Vm  not  going 
away  Edtogether,"  completely  taken  a^ek. 

"  No  matter,  I  wish  you'd  give  me  a 
bit" 

"  Of  course  111  give  you  a  bit  There, 
take  as  much  as  you  like,"  lettdng  down  a 
deluge  of  dark  ulken  hair. 

"  Yoa  give  it^  Ida,"  said  Archie. 

Ida  fet^ed  a  pair  of  scissors,  cut  a  long 
tress,  and  handed  it  to  him,  saying : 

"  I  wish,  Archie "    But  before  she 

could  complete  the  sentence,  Archie,  as  if 
moved  by  an  oncontirollable  impulse,  finng 
both  his  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed 
her  passionately,  trembling  all  over  with 
excitement 

"  Ida,  I  love  you."  Ida's  breath  was 
taken  away  by  the  sadden  and  impetuous 
fervour  of  the  embrace.  "And  I  shall 
always  love  yoa  better  than  anyone 
else  in  the  world,"  continued  Archie — 
"always." 

"And  I  shall  always  love  you,  Archie," 
said  Ida,  when  she  came  to  herself,  klBS- 
ing  him  in  torn  affectionately,  as  on 
sister   would   kiss    her   little    pet 


"Ida,"  continued  Archie  with  ever- 
growing excitement,  his  aim  round  her 
neck  and  his  head  bent  forward  to  look 
eagerly  into  her  eyes — "Ida,  I  want  you 
to  say  you  will  marry  ma  when  I  grow  up 
to  be  a  man." 

"  Marry  you  1 "  hlteied  Ida ;  '  I  never 
thought — I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  marry, 
Archie,"  quite  bewildered. 

"  Oh,  Ida,  and  I  love  you  so  I "  in  a  voice 
of  despair. 

"  But  you're  only  a  child,  Archie,  yon 
know,  and " 

"  I'm  not  a  child,"  broke  in  Archie,  cut 
to  the  quick  by  this  teirible  insult  "I 
shall  be  fourteen  in  September,  and 
you're  lonly  thirteen,   and  I  thought — I 

thought "    But   here  the  boy  broke 

down  with  a  sob,  and  turned  away  to  hide 
bis  unmanly  tears. 

Ida  was  pained  and  pricked  to  the  heart, 
and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  said 
soothingly : 

f'i  shall  always  love  you.  Archie- 
always,  and  I  ihall  marry  you,  if  yon  want 
me,  when  you're  a  man." 

Whereupon  Archie  flung  his  arms  round 
,  her  noi^  again,  and  kissed  and  clung  to 


171       IJUUTT  11,  UU.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


her,  wetting  h»  cheek  with  bia  childisli 
tears. 

At  this  point  Mrs.  John  enten,  and  the 
"guilty  things  sarprised"  start  asonder, 
Archie  bolting  in  gloriously  from  the 
room,  and  Ida's  face,  through  her  dis- 
ordered hair,  bloshing  like  the  moon 
throi^h  clouds. 

Mr&  John  vtba  delighted,  but  discreetly 
silent,  and  of  coarse  our  reserved  little 
miaid  was  silent  also. 

"Ida,  my  dear,  if  you  are  going  to  wear 
your  hair  down  your  back  we  must  bank 
it  np  some  way,  if  we're  to  see  anything  of 
yon,"  said  the  considerate  little  woman, 
considerately  getting  behind  Ida  to  basy 
herself  with  the  child'a  hair.  When  she 
had  plaited  and  tied  it  with  a  red  ribbon, 
which  glowed  against  the  glossy  black,  she 
said,  "There  I  Let  us  see  how  you  look 
in  that  style,"  coming  to  the  front  asain  to 
admireher  with  head  on  one  side.  "You'll 
always  look  what  you  are,  child,  the  oldest 
and  deareat  little  wcanan  in  the  world," 
taking  Ida's  still  glowing  face  between  her 
hands,  and  Maeing  it  with  the  kiss  of.  a 
mother-in-law  in  posae,  which  difTers  ftom 
the  kiss  of  a  mother-in-law  in  ease,  as  wine 
fixtm  vinegar. 

Next  day  Ida  departed.  Mrs.  John  only 
went  with  her  to  Leeds.  Her  betrothed 
had  to  ^  to  school,  bat  would  yet  have 
got  out  in  time  to  have  seen  her  off  by 
train,  if  he  hadn't  been  kept  in  by  a  moat 
anmanly  imposition.  Mrs.  John  and  Ida 
left  themselves  an  hoar's  margin  in  Leeds, 
aa  Mrs.  John  had  shopping  to  do,  and  Ida 
mysterious  bnainesa — no  other  than  the 
redemption  of  the  gold  chain,  without 
vimii  she  dared  not  face  Mrs.  Tuck.  She 
could  nob  bring  herself  to  ezplun  this 
business  to  Mrs.  John,  whom  she  left  to 
wait  for  her  in  a  confectioner's,  while  ahe 
^led  at  a  swift  pace  and  a  heart  that  beat 
time  with  it  to  the  abhorred  pawnbroker's. 
This  gentleman,  however,  was  much  more 
Bcrupulooa  about  returning  than  about 
receiving  the  chain.  His  conscience,  now 
thoroughly  awake,  would  not  permit  his 
giving  it  up  without  ^rerioos  consnltaMan 
with  the  police.  This  maoh-dedred  relief, 
we  are  glad  to  say,  it  had.  For  Ida,  now 
at  bay,  hnrried  back  to  tell  the  whole 
story  with  much  shame  of  face  to 
Mrs.  John,  so  disclosing  deptha  in  her 
paat  life,  hod  depths  in  ner  heart,  which 
endeared  her  doubly  to  that  good  little 
woman. 

Mra.  John  rushed  impetuonsly  up  to  the 
first  policeman  she  saw,  told  htm  so  much 


of  the  story  aa  was  necessary  to  secure  his 
help,  and  so  did,  not  Ida  only,  bat  her 
country,  service.  For  the  poUoemiQ  did 
not  reat  content  with  relieving  the  pawn- 
broker's conscience  of  the  weight  of  the 
chain,  but  did  what  he  could  to  restore  it 
to  a  thoronghly  healthy  state  by  dia- 
burdening  it  of  some  really  stoleo  goods, 
and  sending  it  into  a  retreat  for  six  iso&tbe, 
to  recover  its  tone  in  the  wholesome  soUtode 
of  Wakefield  JaU. 

Ttiis  business  done,  Mrs.  John  and  Ida 
harried  to  the  station,  and  Id*  took  het 
ticket,  third-class,  Mrs.  John's  expostola- 
tiona  notwithstanding  She  would  neither 
allow  Mrs.  John  to  pay  for  first  or  second 
class  tickets,  nor  woidd  she  spend  a  farthing 
more  of  Mr.  Tuck's  money  on  herself  than 
she  could  help.  Her  life  of  grinding 
poverty  had  taught  her  to  be  particiilar 
about  a  sixpence  —  that  ot  eoorse  — bat 
more  thaa  that,  to  be  especially  partjeular 
abont  a  sin)ence  whii^  was  not  Ber  own. 
So  Mrs.  John  had  to  auboit 

As  they  walked  np  and  down  the  plat- 
form., waiting  for  the  train,  Ida  was  silent, 
bat  looked  np  into  Hrs,  John's  face  two  or 
three  times  aa  if  about  to  speak. 

At  last,  as  the  train  that  was  to  take 
her  backed  in  by  the  platform,  and  there 
were  bnt  three  minutes  left  her,  she 
harried  Mrs.  John  into  the  empty  waiting- 
room,  and  looking  np  into  ber  face  wim 
ber  solemn  eyes,  more  solemn  than  ever,8ud 
only,  "  Mother  did  send  you."  Bnt  face  and 
voice  filled  in  the  ellipaia  of  love  and  grati- 
tude, and  so  thrilled  Mrs.  John  that  she 
took  the  child  in  her  arms  and  kbsed  her 
again  and  agun,  till  they  had  to  rn^  to 
catch  the  moving  train. 

When  Ida  reached  Kingafoid  it  was 
night  and  wet,  and  she  stoc^  wretched  by 
her  slender  luggage  on  the  platform,  wut- 
ing  till  the  porters  had  atteniled  to  all  tiie 
first  and  second  class  passengers.  Then 
she  ventured  to  ask  one  to  take  her  lagg^ 
to  a  cab. 

Cab!    There  dn't  aone." 
How  fkr  is  it  to  The  Koeo — to  Mr. 
Tack's  1" 

*■  Ifs  a  matter  of  threa  mile,  or  better." 

Then,  after  a  pause : 

"  Will  you  please  take  my  lacgage  to 
the  parcel  office  1 "  which  was  done  ac- 
corduigly,  and  Ida  set  out  to  walk  thioogh 
mad  aad  tain  the  three  miles  and  a  half  to 
The  Keep. 

Mra.  iStck  hod  sent  the  carriage  to  meet 
her,  but  the  coachman  having  looked  in 
viUD  in  all  the  firat-class  carriages  for  a 


OmtalXekatii.] 


FLYAWAY  JACK. 


r7l!,UM.l      176 


joQng  lady  about  eighteen,  named  Miss 
Loud,   had   diiTeu   away   with    a    free 


Nearij  an  hour  after  bis  retom  with  ttus 
news  Ida  stood  is  the  hall  ofThe  Keep  wet, 
bedn^led,  and  bespattered  witb  mud, 
wh3a  the  footman  went  to  announce  the 
appearance  of  this  questionable  character. 
Usa.  Tncb  herself  came  out 

"  What  do  yon  want  f " 

"I'm  Ida  Luard,"  in  a  faltering  voice 
and  with  a  sin&ingheut. 

"  Ida  Luard !    Why,  how  old  are  yon  I " 

"Thirteen," 

Vire.  Tack  stood  as  though  Btnpefied,  bat 
niiued  henelf  at  last  to  ask : 

"  How  did  you  come,  child ! " 

"I  walked.'^ 

All  Mra  Tuck's  good-nature  was  on  fire 
in  a  moment.  She  kissed  Ida  effiisirely 
ud  led  her  in  and  petted  her,  and  even 
got  Mr.  Tuck  to  welcome  her  in  hia  way — 
a  fish-like  way.  But  even  Mr.  Tuck  looked 
kiudlr  upon  her  when  he  heard  that  she  had 
travelled  tbird-class,  and  when  he  saw  her 
piedse  aoooont  of  every  farthing  he  had 
sent  her. 


FLYAWAY  JACK. 
A  MANX  TARN. 

The  Manx  have  an  aptitude  for  invent- 
ing nicknames,  which  are  indeed  very 
necesaary  in  the  island,  the  same  surnames 
bein^  BO  prevalent  that  without  some  dis- 
tinction were  would  be  "  conftanon  worse 
confounded."  There  are  bo  many  Kellya, 
for  example,  that  they  have  to  be  difTeren- 
tiated  into  Kelly  the  Lng,  Kelly  Bigbonee, 
Kelly  Ballavinch  (a.  viUage),  Kelly  Dhone 
(the  Fair-haired),  Kelly  Moar  (the  Great), 
even  Kelly  Moar  Kelly  Beg  (KeUy  the 
Great,  son  of  Kelly  the  Little),  and  so  on. 
Bat  how  Flyaway  Jack  came  by  his  sin- 
gnlsr  name,  nobody  seemed  to  know.  By 
tiade,  he  was  a  cobbler ;  and  as  his  curious 
hoppy  walk  often  caused  the  loose  ends  of 
the  apron  tliat  was  tucked  round  hia  waist 
to  flap  up  and  down,  this  may,  perhaps, 
have  Eu^iasted  the  idea  of  wings,  though 
I ihouldnave  tibonght  the  poution  rather 
lower  thim  nsnaL  Perhaps  he  was  so 
called  on  account  <^  his  temper,  which  was 
volcanic;  or  perhaps  his  sobriquet  had 
its  ori^  in  one  of  his  own  strange 
ttoriei 

Though  loose  of  limb,  he  was  powerfully 
bmh,  rather  tall,  with  but  little  flesh  on 
hii  bones,  and  mnscles  like  pin-wire.  His 
hair,  wluskers.  and  stubblv  beard  were  of 


a  sandy-red  colour — a  sura  sign  that  htva 
is  somewhere  about  —  his  features  were 
hard  and  sharp ;  his  eyes,  small,  grey,  and 
keen ;  and,  to  complete  the  picture,  be 
usually  wore  both  indoors  and  out  an  old 
peaked  cap  on  the  very  back  of  his  head. 
As  for  his  age,  it  was  the  favourite  bone  of 
contention  m  the  neighbourhood.  When 
the  conversation  flag^d,  you  had  merely 
to  ask,  How  old  is  Flyaway  Jack  t  and 
every  tongne  was  wagging  in  brisk  dispute. 
External  evidence  put  him  at  upwards  of 
sixty ;  appearances,  at  a  short  forty. 

In  his  yout^  he  had  been  a  smuggler — a 
very  desperate  one  according  to  his  own 
account  It  was  only  when  smuggling 
became  an  unprofitable  and  uncomfortable 
profession  that  these  palmy  days  came  to 
an  end,  and  he  took  to  cobblmg ;  which 
he  supplemented  by  laying  prompt  hands 
upon  such  unclaimed  wreckage  as  floated 
ashore  under  his  cottage,  and  generally  by 
keeping  an  eye  open  for  opportunities. 
Flyaway  Jack,  then,  was  a  man  of  ex- 
perience and  resource,  a  cobbler  and 
character  at  once ;  and  as  such  he  was  in- 
teresting and  amusing,  a  capital  companion 
for  a  wet  day.  Many  a  pleasant  hour 
have  I  spent  with  him ;  listening  to  the 
sea -stories  l^t  his  im^ination  could 
readUy  supply,  when  his   memory  failed 

He  lived  in  a  little  thatched  cottage, 
which  foced  the  beach,  and  stood  back  in 
a  recess,  formed  by  a  sudden  broadening  of 
the  road  that  skirts  Castletown  Bay,  While 
it  looked  almost  as  venerable  as  Castle 
Bushen,  a  slight  bulging  was  the  only  sign 
of  decrepitude ;  for  tbe  walls  were  of  great 
thickness  and  built  of  unhewn  stones  of 
every  shape  and  size,  embedded,  not  in 
latter-day  mnd,  but  in  mortar  which  hod 
hardened  witji  age,  and  was  indeed  quite 
peteified.  The  ladderlike  staircase  de- 
scended to  the  very  door,  which  was  always 
open;  and  of  the  two  downstair  rooms, 
that  on  the  right  hand  was  Flyaway  Jack's 
workshop.  The  floor  was  of  hard  clay,  worn 
into  hills  and  hollows ;  the  chimney  occu- 
pied a  large  protruding  buttress;  and 
though  the  fireplace  was  mogniflcent  in  its 
dimensions,  the  grate  was  small  and  simple 
— a  couple  of  loose  bricks  and  on  iron  bar — 
and  the  tiny  window,  deep-set  in  the  thick 
wall,  which  was  decorated  with  pictures 
from  the  illustrated  papen,  was  used  as  a 
cupboard,  rather  to  the  detriment  of  the 
light. 

After  pasring  through  the  doorway, 
which  the  shrunken  door  made  no  pret«nco 


176      [ JUHurr  IS,  18U.1 


ALL  THE  YEAE  HOUND. 


of  filliiig,  joTi  found  yonraeU  in  the  midst 
of  leather,  and  eren  saspected  that  it  was 
burning  in  the  grate.  Groat  tanned  Bkins 
hung  from  the  Toilers,  and  were  piled  upon 
the  table  in  the  comer;  the  Boor  was 
in  Bome  places  mountainous  with  chips; 
rows  of  old  boots  stood  against  the  widls. 
Immediately  opposite  the  t^escopic  window 
was  Flyaway  Jack,  seated  apon  a  com- 
pound arrangement  of  bench  and  tool-tray. 
His  greeting  was  always  cordial,  one  hand 
extended  to  sh&ke,  sod  the  other  pointing 
to  the  chair  by  the  fire ;  not  a  word  until 
you  were  seated.  Alt  further  ceremony 
was  dispensed  with,  he  addressed  every- 
body by  his  christian-name.  One  of 
my  vidtfl  may  be  taken  as  a  sample  of 
many. 

Shortly  after  I  had  occupied  the  vacant 
chair,  there  came  creeping  in  old  Johnnie 
Caggherty,  the  crab-catcher,  a  centeiiarian 
fos»!,  silent  but  reflective,  with  a  little, 
bent,  wizened  body,  a  brown,  deeply- 
furrowed  face,  and  dothes  to  match. 

"  Well,  Johnnie,  how  goes  it ) "  asked 
Flyaway  Jack  cheerily. 

"  Aw  middlin',  hoy,  just  middlin'.  The 
crabs  is  scarce,  very,"  was  Johnnie's  in- 
variable responBO,  accompanied  by  a  dole- 
ful shaking  of  the  head.  The  crabs  were 
laid  upon  the  floor  for  our  inspection,  and 
a  finer  collection  it  would  have  been  hard 
to  find.  Still,  Uiose  who  plough  the  sea 
have  as  mach  right  to  grumble  as  those 
who  dig  the  land. 

When  Johnnie  had  t^ken  a  seat  upon  a 
box  by  the  fireside,  there  entwed  two 
stalwart,  yellow-bearded  fishermen,  in  knee- 
boots  and  blue  guernseys ;  then  one  of 
the  hobblers  from  the  quay,  and  lastly, 
a  lunatic.  Feihaps  this  needs  some 
explanation. 

I  am  writing  of  a  good  many  years  ago, 
when  there  was  no  actual  asylum  in  me 
island,  only  a  building  lai^e  enoi^^h  to 
hold  dangerous  patients.  The  others  either 
lived  with  their  friends,  or  were  boarded 
out  and  wandered  at  will  about  the  country. 
One  fellow,  I  remember,  was  rather  given 
to  hurling  boulders  at  those  whom  he 
thought  objectionable;  but  he  was  con- 
sidered harmless,  though  I  used  to  pass  him 
somewhat  gmgerly.  The  majority  of  these 
unfortunates  came  from  England ;  and  as 
there  is  a  Manx  law  forbidding  the  im- 
portation of  paupers,  and  compeUing  ship- 
captains  at  their  own  expense  to  take  tiiem 
back  again,  I  never  could  see  why  English 
lunatics  should  be  mora  acceptable.  Bow- 
ever,  the  one  had  money  ana  the  other  had 


not,  so  the  advantage  of  a  few  led  to  the 
inconvenience  of  many. 

The  individual  who  joined  our  party  was 
a  Miss  Todd,  a  lady  by  birth,  whose  mania 
was  to  deck  herseH  out  in  all  manner  of 
finery.  If  this  alone  be  lunacy,  I  fear  that 
one  sex  would  be  wholly  engaged  in  locking 
up  and  watching  the  other ;  but  Miss  Todd, 
by  carrying  all  ner  wardrobe  on  her  Wk, 
committed  the  gross  blunder  of  over- 
stepping the  line  prescribed  by  custom. 
Without  being  too  prying,  I  may  say  that 
she  wore  five  dresses  so  arranged  as  to 
show  that  she  had  got  them  on,  a  shawl 
or  two,  a  few  neckties,  or  whatever  you 
call  them,  and  a  couple  of  bonnets  tatte- 
faUy  placed  one  above  the  other.  This, 
her  relatives  decided,  was  going  ratiiei  too 
far,  BO,  like  "Dame  Eleanor  Cobhamt 
Gloucester's  wife,"  she  was  banished  to  the 
Isle  of  Man.  Her  &ae  was  a  perpetual 
simper.  In  brief,  had  she  been  a  littie  leea 
eccentric,  she  must  have  taken  high  rank 
in  the  fashionable  world. 

Her  appearance  in  Flyaway  Jack's  cot- 
tage was  due  to  a  heavy  shower,  which 
threatened  to  spoil  her  fineiy.  I  offered 
her  my  seat,  but  she  mendaciouslv  replied 
that  she  preferred  standing ;  and  when  I 
peiusted,  our  host,  waving  me  a  dictatorial 
"  Xo,"  called  to  his  wife  to  bring  "  a  chair 
for  a  lady."  Until  it  arrived.  Miss  Todd 
amused  herself  with  Johnnie  Cagghertjy's 
crabs,  which,  though  tied  together,  were 
crawling  about  before  the  fire — a  dangerous 
pastime,  watched  by  the  fishermen  widi 
much  interest,  not  to  say  expectancy.  The 
scene  would  have  been  an  excellent  one  for 
a  painter. 

At  last  we  were  all  seated,  the  yellow- 
bearded  ones  upon  the  table,  and  when 
a  hunk  of  stranded  timber  had  been  flung 
upon  the  fire,  the  hobbler,  with  a  wink  at 
me,  said  to  our  host : 

"Let's  have  that  yam  o'  yours  'bout 
the  cutter  chaain'  ye  in  the  bay  here.  Itll 
help  pass  the  time  away  till  the  rain  gives 
over.' 

"Oh  yes,  please  tell  it,  Mr.  Flyaway 
Jack,"  seconded  the  lunatic,  her  hands 
duped  entreatingly. 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this  singular  style 
of  address. 

Although  Flyaway  Jack,  who  had  a 
great  dicJike  for  hia  sobriquet,  looked 
alarmingly  explosive,  he  contented  himself 
with  a  scornful : 

"  What  better  can  you  expect  from  a 
poor  soft  thing ) " 

This  was  very  hard  on  poor  Miss  Todd, 


FLYAWAY  JACK 


vho  mm  qoite  Ignonmt  of  her  sin,  the 
words  tonchmg  her  on  her  aorect  point, 
nnit^,  and  ahe  hong  her  bead  and 
temuned  anasaaU^  silent 

As  there  wu  an  avkvard  paase,  I 
■wl: 

"  I  ahonld  greatly  like  to  hear  your  atory, 
Jiek." 

"  Sore  I  don't  min'  tellin'  it  at  all ;  bnt 
il'i  another  thread  that  I'll  get  goin'  first, 
«>  u  not  to  be  Btoppin'." 

Selecting  a  thread  from  the  tray  by  his 
■ide,  he  waxed  it,  rabbed  it  until  it  became 
like  wire,  and  then  began  to  stitoh 
Tigoronsly  at  the  boot  he  held  between  his 
knees,  A  very  solid  craftsman  waa  Fly- 
avay  Jack,  his  work  being  well  adapted 
tor  ase  among  the  sharp  craga  of  Langnesa, 
the  Icmg,  low,  rocky  promontory  which 
creeps  roand  the  bay.  At  length  he  was 
ready,  and  thoagh  he  sometimes  tamed  to 
mark  the  effect  of  his  words  npon  ns,  who 
ware  grouped  around  the  fire,  the  ezi- 
eencies  of  his  work  compelled  him  to  ait 
ueing  the  window  during  the  greater  part 
of  Uie  time  he  waa  apeaung. 

"In  my  younger  days,"  he  began, 
"tiiere's  no  denyin'  that  the  most  gentle- 
aan'y  basineas  any  wan  conid  take  to  was 
nDQggUn';  an'  it  was  sach  nice,  clane, 
■ity,  profitable  work  that  on'y  a  few 
noodle-pated  bodiee  kep'  out  o'  it ;  an'  it 
vis  aoar-eyed  enoogh  they  were  when 
th^  saw  the  piles  o'  money  we  were 
makin'  withoat  bo  much  as  a  haporth  o' 
trouble.  Tat !  wherever  yon  go  it's  mortal 
rare  yon  are  to  come  across  a  dog-in-the- 
manger,  an'  a  mischieTons  baste  he  is, 
too.  Bat  let  him  paa&  Yon  aee,  the 
islan'  's  well  placed  for  just  slippin'  across, 
DQ  the  <]aiet  like,  to  the  neighbonrin* 
coontries;  an'  it's  crowded  the  coast  is 
with  gran'  cavea  an'  holea  an'  glens  for 
rtoiin  o'  the  goods ;  an',  as  if  that  wasn't 
oioagh,  every  honse  worth  spakin'  abont 
had  great  ceUarsronnin'far  awaynn'er  the 
gnnn'.  Sure,  now,  it  wonld  ha'  been  a 
■candalous  thing  to  ha'  thrown  away  such 
beaatifhl  opportunities ;  an'  if  Nature 
hadn't  built  Manxmen  for  smugglers,  Pd 
jmt  like  to  know  what  they  are  fit  fori 
Any  way,  as  everybody  smuggled,  I 
waan't  goin'  for  to  nm  counter  to  them  at 
ill  "Deed,  what  was  I,  to  lift  up  my 
voice  t  A  mere  chit,  with  my  way  to 
make  in  the  world  honeetly.  So  I  just 
onu^ed  along  with  the  rest." 

I  imagine  that  Flyawav  Jack's  intro- 
dncti(ni  waa  addreased  solely  to  myselt 
Old  Johnnie  Caggherty  cannot  be  said  to 


have  possessed  a  very  tender 

on  the  score  of  amu^ling ;  and  the  same 

remark  probably  allies  to  the  others, 

except  perhaps  Misa  Todd,     I  don't  know 

whether  or  not  a  lunatic  is  entitled  to  a 

conscience. 

"As  time  went  by,  I  rose  in  my  pro- 
fession, and  people  began  to  touch  their 
hate  to  me,  for  I  was  handy  enough  when 
I  turned  my  min'  to  a  thing  ;  an'  what 
with  good  luck  and  .mebbe  seamanship, 
af  cer  a  few  years  I  came  to  he  the  master 
o'  the  Saacy  Maid,  the  smartest  little 
schooner  as  ever  walked  the  Channel.  The 
fun  we  used  to  have,  to  be  sure,  runnin'  in 
nn'er  the  Big  Cellar  yon'er,  an'  creepin' 
like  dumb  mice  throagn  the  town  at  dead 
o'  night,  the  wheels  o'  the  cart  muffled  in 
crape — aye,  an'  the  horses'  feet,  too,  so  as 
not  to  make  a  soun'  at  all." 

"  But,  Jack,"  I  ventured  to  say,  "  had 
you  learnt  navigation  1 " 

"Not  I,"  he  answered  with  unmistak- 
able contempt.  "  What  more  can  a  man 
want  than  a  compass  an'  the  stars  t  As 
long  as  I  could  see  the  Bhtud  Mooar  Bee 
Gharree,  I  was  quite  content.  An'  what's 
thati  yon  ask.  The  Big  Eoad  o'  King 
Ony,  or  the  Milky  Way,  as  some  call 
it" 

"But  what  did  you  do  on  a  dark 
night  I "  I  asked. 

"Aw,  I  just  picked  my  way  through 
it  somehow, 

"Puddles,"  suggested  Miss  Todd, 
simpering  at  the  crabs  at  her  feet. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Flyaway  Jack 
severely. 

"You  most  have  spoilt  the  crape," 
she  added  rather  vagnely. 

"  Hoot  I  woman,  be  atiU ;  can't  you  1 
And  now,  sirs,  to  come  to  my  story, 
which  is  that  strange  you'll  har'ly  believe 
it,  thoagh  it's  gospel  truth,  as  sore  as  I'm 
sittin'  here,  an'  nothin'  can  bo  more  sartin 
than  that  It  was  a  dark  night  in 
November,  the  moon  not  up,  an  great 
black  clouds  hangin'  about  the  mountain- 
tops,  a  sure  sign  it'll  be  pnffy  when  the 
wm's  off  the  Ian',  An'  it  was  off  the  Ian' 
for  us  on  board  o'  the  Saucy  Maid.  It 
was  smooth  water  though,  an'  we  were 
steppin'  up  Channel  nicely,  lavin'  a 
long  white  wake  hehin'  like  a  road  o' 
snow;  but  there  waa  a  dirty  look  about 
the  sky  I  didn't  half  like,  so  when  we 
reached  the  back  o'  LangUah,  it  was  right 
glad  we  were  to  see  a  fire  blazin'  among 
the  rocks.  We  knew  then  that  we  could 
walk  straight  into  the  bay  without  any 


178     IJumarjrlE.ISM.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


fear  o'  being  bothered  with  the  Goretn- 
ment  catter,  vhicb  lud  the  bad  mannen 
to  be  always  pokin'  its  nose  whe^e  it 
wasn't  wanted;  an'  when  by  any  chAoce 
we  had  happened  to  meet,  it  was  like  two 
tom-cats  on  the  top  o'  a  narrow  wall, 
anappin'  an'  howlin'  an'  scratohin',  and 
then  one  makin'  a  bolt  o'  it.  Bat  this 
time,  as  we  were  tould  next  day,  aome  o' 
the  lads  on  shoore  had  taken  pity  npon  the 
poor  thing,  lying  there  in  idleness ;  an'  as 
they  knew  the  Sanoy  Maid  must  bs  abont 
due,  they  jnst  sent  the  catter  down  to  the 
Calf  on  a  fool's  errand,  so  that  there  might 
bo  no  chance  o'  our  interfeiin'  with  one 
another;  for  it's  far  better  to  live  with 
your  neighbour  peacefully  than  to  be 
punchin'  hia  face  continually. 

"The  tide  waa  tearin'  along  to  the 
westward  like  a  mill-race,  bo  it  wasn't  long 
before  we  were  roan'  lie  Sk'rruies  and 
inside  o'  the  bay.  Up  to  this  time  luck 
had  favoured  us  nicely,  an'  if  you'd  on'y 
seen  the  way  we  handled  the  echoonei  I'm 
thinkin'  you'd  ha'  said  we  deserved  all  we 
got — aye,  au'  more  too,  for  it  was  a  mighty 
bad  tJiing  that  was  comin'  npon  us.  Alter 
we'd  taken  a  short  stretch  towards  Scarlet 
— for  the  win'  was  blowin'  right  out  o'  the 
bay — an'  after  we'd  put  her  about  an' 
fetched  underneath  this  very  houae,  what 
should  the  moon  do  but  start  np  above 
Langlish,  an'  at  the  same  moment  that 
pitiful  sneak  o'  a  cutter  shove  her  nose 
roun'  the  Stack  o'  Scarlet.  Well,  here  was 
a  nice  business,  if  you  like,  sirs.  It  was 
fairly  caught  in  a  mousetrap  we  were.  The 
mate  un'er  me  was  a  man  o'  the  name  o' 
Qaioney — Dick  Qninney.  Mebbe  you'll 
remember  him,  Johnnie  t  Well,  I  signalled 
him  alongside  to  where  I  was  stannin'  in 
the  stam,  an'  says  I,  <  Qninney,  here's  % 
fine  kettle  o'  im,  the  like  o'  which  I've 
naver  seen  in  all  my  bom  days,  and  naver 
wish  to  see  i^iun.'  An'  says  I, '  But  how 
to  get  out  o'  it,  that's  what  I  want  to  know, 
for,  come  what  may,  I  won't  ma  the 
schooner  ashore,  an'  leave  her  to  yon'er 
harpies  to  pick  an'  steal,  an'  do  what  they 
like  with.  We'll  make  a  run  for  it  some- 
how,' He  agreed  with  me  on  that,  though 
he  was  a  shallow-brained  fallow,  after  all, 
so  I  just  called  up  the  crew  an'  tould  'em 
that  we  were  goin'  for  to  do  some  mancou- 
vriQ',ab'  after  that  showa  clane  pair  o'  heels 
to  the  cutter,  though  I  tell  you  honestly 
that  I  didn't  see  my  way  to  it,  and  only 
thought  it  right  to  keep  up  their  spirits. 
'  Grog,'  says  I,  '  grog  all  roun',  an'  the 
master  will  help  ye,  an'  then  to  work.'   So 


grog  it  was,  [«etly  stiff,  an'  as  tbaj  wiped 
their  mouths  with  the  backs  o'  their  hands, 
every  sowl  on  board  lookod  as  fierce  u  a 
tiger,  ready  to  spring  at  the  ontter  if  I  was 
to  give  the  word.  Bat  that  wasn't  my 
gune  at  all,  as  long  aa  it  could  be  avoided. 
I  always  liked  to  have  caution  in  front 
an'  bravery  comin'  behin'  it 

"  So,  instead  of  oomin'  to  an  aachw,  ae 
many  would  ha'  done,  I  had  just  hove  the 
schooner  to,  with  the  jib  hauled  to  wiud'ard, 
an'  all  the  canvas,  even  to  the  topsail,  set 
an'  ready  for  a  stait  in  case  of  au  onliu^ 
accident  like  this  was.  You  see,  the  cuttw 
daren't  fire  at  na,  for  we  were  lyin'  between 
her  an'  the  town,  an'  without  tackin'  she 
couldn't  run  down  upon  us,  owin'  to  the 
way  the  win'  was;  but,  joat  to  make  more 
sure,  we  crop'  up  a  little  nearer  the  harbour 
and  waited.  An'  now,  whether  it  was  she 
thought  we  would  give  in  at  wuioe  with- 
out any  more  trouble,  or  whether  it  was 
the  white  fatther  was  fiyin'  on  board,  for 
there  had  been  some  tonghish  fighta  o' 
late  —  anyway,  she  made  as  stupid  a 
blunder  as  ever  was.  Her  proper  coone 
was  to  ha'  lain  abont  midway  between  the 
Sk'rranes  an'  the  Stack,  an'  to  ha'  sent  her 
boats  in  to  us,  an'  then  there'd  ha'  been 
nothin'  for  it  but  fightin',  an'  there's  no 
knowin'  who'd  ha'  got  the  best  o'  it,  for 
our  lads  were  handy  enough  at  that  gam& 
But,  instead  of  that,  what  does  tiiB  stupid 
thing  do  but  make  a  long  tack  across  the 
bay  an'  nn'er  Luiglish,  intendin'  to  slant 
over  to  Scarlet,  and  then  run  us  down 
nicely.  That  is,  sirs,  if  we  were  fo<^isli 
enough  to  wait  for  her.  I  saw  the  move, 
though,  an'  shouted  to  Quioney  to  run  op 
the  ^dloon-jib  for  a  spinnaker,  an'  almost 
quicker  than  I'm  telling  ye,  the  Saucy 
Maid  was  racin'  before  the  win'  like  a  mad 
thing.  An'  now  another  piece  o'  luck 
befell  us,  for  the  blundenu'  cutter  had  been 
mnnin'  so  high  in  the  win',  tryin'  to  creep 
up  nearer  to  us,  that  when  she  tried  to  go 
about,  she  missed  stay?,  an'  before  she'd 
got  enough  way  on  again,  we  were  more 
than  half  across  the  bay.  Sure,  it  was  a 
right  good  start  we'd  got,  an'  now  came  as 
putty  a  chase  as  aver  you  saw,  I'll  warrant, 
both  vessels  rippin'  through  tie  water  like 
a  chisel  through  a  lump  o'  black  wood, 
an'  lavin'  a  long  track  o'  white  shavin's 
behind, 

"  Says  Qoinney  to  me,  rangin'  alongside^ 
'  It's  away  we  are.  Them  dolts  '11  navei 
catch  the  Saucy  Maid  now.' 

'"Don't  be  too  sure,'  says  I,  for  tiie 
man  had  a  conaated  way  I  didn't  approve 


FLYAWAY  JACK. 


at,  and  it  wasn't  for  him  to  come  to  me 
wkii  hu  opinioiis  at  all — unasked,  at  an; 
nta 

" '  Oh,  but '  says  he. 

" '  Oh,  bat '  Bays  I,  mterraptin'  him. 

'And  what's  the  use  o'  yonr  "oh,  bnte"t 
"Foddee  yn  moddey  s'  jerreo  tayrtyn  y 
mw&agh."  He  imderstood  that,  an'  went 
f  way  salky  becaose  I  wouldn't  listen  to  his 


IJuiiuiy  U,  IBH.]      179 


"  What  does  it  mean,  Jaek  i"  I  asked. 

"It's  an  onld  Manx  proretb,  'Mebbe 
the  last  dog's  catchin'  the  hare ; '  that's  the 
mcanin'  o  it,  an'  it  comes  bns  pretty 
i^lar.  Anyway,  it  looked  as  if  it  was 
gun'  for  to  be  true  in  our  case ;  for  it  was 
soon  aisy  to  see  that,  what  with  the  strong 
nsts  tnmblin'  ont  o'  the  monntains  yet 
oarly  rafOiu'  the  sea,  an'  the  cotter's  bigger 
spread  o'  canvas,  she  was  oTerhaolin'  as 
quickly.  Thongfa  I  hated  hei  so  I  would 
ha'  seen  her  go  to  the  bottom  gladly,  yet 
die  was  a  gian'  sight,  glidin'  along  on  an 
even  keel  uke  some  great  gnll  or  gannet, 
sn'her  white  sails  stretched  an'  swellin', 
im'  the  moonlight  stieamin'  upon  her,  an' 
the  dark  water  aronn',  an'  the  great  h'Ha 
bdiin'  the  aleepin'  town.  An'  here  were 
we,  har'Iy  a  mile  ahead  o'  her ;  the  crew 
aU  dostered  together  on'  scarcely  apakin', 
bat  jost  watchm'  the  white  sails  comin' 
nearer  and  nearer.  The  win'  was  blowin' 
harder  np  aloft  than  down  on  deck,  and 
that  vrta  dippin'  the  schooner's  nose  into  it 
an'  stoppin'  her  way ;  though,  for  all  that, 
she  was  tremblin'  from  stna  to  stam, 
havin'  about  as  much  canvas  as  she  could 
cury  safely.  If  it  hadn't  been  lunnin'  we 
were,  we  must  have  taken  some  o'  it  off  her; 
as'  even  as  it  was,  when  one  squall  after 
another  struck  her,  I  thonght,  for  sure,  to 
see  some  o'  her  top  spars  go — but  they  held 
on  bravely,  bendin'  tike  whips, 

"The  cutter  mnst  ha' made  pretty  sure 
tf  catchin'  us.  She  never  fired  a  shot, 
Ihoi^h  every  moment  I  expected  to  see 
her  head  yaw  and  bear  a  biJl  come  whistlin' 
past  oar  ears ;  but  not  at  all,  she  just  held 
on  in  our  wake.  Somethin'  haid  to  be 
done,  and  that  quickly,  or  it  was  all  up 
with  us.  The  clouds  duns  to  the  moun- 
tains an'  the  moon  to  the  blue  sky,  an'  the 
win'  was  gettin'  more  steady  as  we  left  the 
Ian'  astam ;  so  there  was  no  bopo  from 
that  quarter. 

"'Look  here,  lads,'  I  said,  'we're  in  a 
desperate  case,  an'  tiiere's  on'y  wan  way 
ont  o'  it  Uiat  I  can  see.  Wan  o'  us  must 
go  overboard.' 

"Ther  stued  verv  hard  at  that,  an' 


some  o'  them  began  to  poll  long  faces,  till 
I  felt  well-nigh  dancin'  mad  with  them ; 
an'  when  Quinney  came  forward  as  spokes- 
man, I  just  tould  him  to  bould  his  tongue, 
or  I'd  heave  him  overboard  and  get  out  o' 
two  difficulties  that  way.  Therels  notbin' 
like  dtsdpline ;  an'  if  you  spake  without 
showin'  that  you  meant  it,  you'd  far  batter 
have  been  aOsnt.  So  I  showldered  a 
belayin'-pin,  an'  afler  that,  peace  was 
restored,  everywan  being  ready  enough  to 
obey. 

"Says  I,  'Now  that  I've  made  my  in- 
tentions plain,  I  tell  ye  again  that  wan  o' 
us  most  go  overboard ;  but  I  wish  on'y  fair 
play,  an'  I'm  goin'  for  to  take  my  chance 
witi  the  rest  o'  ye.  Quinney,  cut  somo 
twine  into  lengths,  an'  whoever  draws  tho 
longest  piece  goes  overboard  with  a  bucket 
to  hold  on  to. 

"  Well,  sirs,  he  did  as  I  ordered  him, 
an'  when  we  had  aU  drawn,  I  foun'  that 
the  longest  piece  had  fallen  to  me.  This 
was  unlacky,  too,  for  the  schooner  could 
ill  afford  to  part  with  her  master ;  but  as  I 
was  preparin'  to  go,  some  o'  them  came 
forward  an'  said  that  that  white^livered 
cur,  Quinney,  had  chopped  the  end  off  bis 
piece  vitSi  a  knife.  So  what  did  I  do  but 
up  with  the  belayin'-pin  an'  knocked  him 
^t  on  the  deck ;  an  that  was  the  way  I 
argued  with  him.  It  was  foolish  o'  me, 
however,  for  now  that  he  was  unable  to  go 
overboard  I  had  to  go,  my  piece  being  the 
next  longest  But  before  I  did  so,  I  had 
the  spinnaker  taken  in,  and  altered  the 
schooner's  head  for  the  Calf  If  she  could 
on'y  get  there  before  she  was  caught,  she 
might  dip  tbroagh  the  Soun',  an'  as  it  waa 
nearly  low  water  at  the  time,  t^e  big  cutter 
wonldn't  dare  follow  her.  This  waa  my 
plan  for  her  safety  ;  though,  you  see,  it  had 
to  be  compassed  at  some  peril  to  myself. 
But  I  had  no  time  to  be  thinkin'  o'  that ; 
an'  heavin'  a  bucket  over  the  side  I  jumped 
after  it 

"  When  I  came  up,  puffin'  and  splashin', 
I  began  to  think  that  I'd  made  a  foolish 
mistake ;  for  when  the  water's  tike  ice,  the 
courage  is  E^t  to  get  frozen  too;  an'  it 
doesn  t  improve  matters  to  see  one  vessel 
showin'  you  het  heels,  and  another  a  good 
half-a-mile  astam.  'To  tell  the  truth,  I 
wished  I  was  safely  on  board  the  schooner 
again;  for,  tbougn  I  conld  swim  like  a 
fish,  there  was  j^  a  chance  o'  the  cutter 
not  sedn'  me,  an'  then  a  nice  mess  I  should 
be  in.  AJI  this  an'  a  good  deal  more 
passed  through  my  min'  as  I  waa  strikin' 
out  for  the  bucket ;  an'  when  I  reached  it 


[JuawT  !«,  18H.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


I  raised  one  um  in  the  ur,  tn'  began  to 
shont  an'  aplasfa,  doiii'  everytliuig  in  my 
power  to  attract  attontioa.  Yoa  we,  when 
the  Saacy  Maid  ihifted  her  course  to  the 
weBt'ard,  the  cnttcf  followed  aoit ;  ao  I  was 
some  four  or  five  hondred  yards  outside  of 
where  she  would  pass.  An'  beside  that, 
the  win'  was  blowin'  rieht  away  bora  her 
an'  Gomin'  with  mortal  rorce  over  the  water 
now  Uiat  we  were  a  good  distance  out 
But  to  make  a  long  tale  short,  she  saw  me 
at  last,  an'  gave  up  the  chase  to  pick  me 
up,  as  I  had  expected,  at  least  until  I  got 
into  the  water  j  an'  when  she  was  thirty 
yards  away  she  hore  to  an'  lowered  a  boat 

"  An'  now,  air,  for  the  strange  part  o' 
my  story..  I'd  hooked  my  arm  into  the 
handle  o'  the  bucket,  which  had  been  half- 
Buuk  before ;  but  now  I  chanced  to  lay  it 
nn  its  side  facbt'  the  quarter  the  win'  was 
comin'  Irom,  as'  a  squall  dashed  down  an' 
filled  it  like  a  mainsail,  canyin'  me  along 
over  the  surface  o'  the  water  like  a  mack«£ 
It's  true  as  I'm  here.  The  boat  couldn't 
catch  me  at  all,  though  the  oars  were 
slashiu'  and  tearin'  like  mad.  It  was  the 
most  ridiolons  thing  yoa  ever  saw.  I  lay 
on  my  back  and  laughed,  it  was  so  queer 
to  see  the  surprisea  faces  in  the  boat 
tumin'  to  look  at  me ;  tiiongh,  I  tell  ye, 
the  arms  were  near  being  dragged  off  my 
body.  Well,  here  was  a  way  out  o'  all  my 
troubles,  an'  a  way  I'd  never  ha'  thought 
of  in  a  month  o'  Smidays.  The  boat  stuck 
to  it  gamely,  an'  sometuies  when  there  was 
a  lull  I  thought  she  was  goin'  to  catch  me 
after  all ;  bat  after  a  moment  or  two  there 
would  come  another  squall,  an'  rip  1  away  I 
was  shootin'  like  a  rocket  Seein'  tins 
strange  thing,  the  cutter  swung  her  head 
roun'  and  gave  chase  too ;  an'  I  thought  it 
was  all  up  with  me  till  a  bright  idea  came 
into  my  head.  I  had  been  mnnin'  before 
the  win',  never  thinkin'  I  could  go  any 
other  way ;  but  now  I  just  twisted  my  1^ 
roan'  and  used  them  as  a  rudder,  an'  away 
I  went  for  the  Ian',  Well,  air,  the  long 
an'  the  short  o'  it  was  that  the  schooner 
got  away  through  the  Soon',  an'  I  reached 
the  shore  safely,  an' we  had  a  right  good 
laagh  at  the  cutter." 

"  Was  that  why  you  are  called  '  Flyaway 
Jack '  t"  simpered  Miss  Todd. 

But  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she 
suddenly  gave  vent  to  the  most  awful 
shrieks,  and  refused  to  be  comforted  or 
ezplun.  When  we  were  sufSdentiy  re- 
covered to  examine  into  the  mystery  for 
ourselves,  we  found  that  a  gigantic  crab 
had  fastened  on  to  her  toe,  to  which  it 


clung  with  such  characteristic  persistency 
that  its  claw  had  to  be  broken  oS.  Miss 
Todd  wept  a  little,  and  then  hobbled 
away ;  and,  as  the  rain  bad  stopped,  the 
otiiers  followed  her. 

Our  host  was  ezcaedln^y  indignant, 
regarding  the  interruption  as  a  personal 
a£ont;  and  though  truthful  accuraey 
demands  a  few  more  details  in  his  story,  I 
was  never  afterwards  able  to  obtain  tiMoa. 
Perhaps,  however,  we  should  not  be  far 
wrong  in  supposing  that  it  really  was  the 
origin  of  his  curious  name,  flyaway  Jack 


LAFRE3TINU8. 
How  empty  aetrae  tbe  Brelit  room, 
Where  half  in  glow,  uid  half  in  gl<Knii 

Uer  life's  mate  tokens  lie  ; 
An  oppn  desk,  s  book  laid  down, 
A  mantle  dropped,  of  gold  and  brown. 

The  bloodhouad  watching  I9. 
An  easel  veiled,  and  thorenpan 
Her  finUhed  work,  a  victory  won 

By  months  of  honeat  t^al : 
The  fair  fnlGbnent  of  her  dreatni 
Among  her  native  woods  and  itreanu, 

far  from  the  woild's  tarmoiL 
Beaide  the  bloodhound's  mifhty  jaw 
Her  flower  ha»  dropped;  with  tVndsr  flwi 

I  mark  the  hardy  apray 
Of  Uureatinug.  glossy  green, 
\yhito  flowers  aad  tinr  buds  between 

All  pink  aa  unblown  may. 


But  lool__ . 

It  seems  moat  meet  that  she  should  wear 
This  bloaaom,  blown  in  winter  air 

And  wMhed  by  winter's  sbower. 
No  rose  for  her  of  mddy  hue. 
With  thoma  to  pierce,  as  love's  thorns  do. 

Or  Bteep  the  soul  in  aense ; 
No  lily  trembling  on  its  ttem, 
Howeret  meet  auch  diadem 

For  her  white  innocenoe. 
But  this  bright,  hardy  ever^rsen, 
That  holds  Its  blossoms  white  and  clean 

Above  the  dark,  damp  moald  ; 
That  abows  alike  to  sun  ana  ahower 
Its  glossy  leaf,  its  pearl);  flower. 

Through  all  the  winter  cold. 
It  oeks  no  ehetter  from  the  storm  ; 
She  seeks  no  love  to  keep  her  warm, 

llut  love  of  cloaeat  kin ; 
The  crown  of  work,  its  blessed  cares. 
The  smile  of  Heaven,  the  poor  man's  prayers, 

Are  all  she  stnves  to  win. 


QUE  FRENCH  FRUIT-GAKDEN. 

Of  the  myriad  i^tons  who  are  almost  as 
familiar  with  the  Seine  as  with  their  own 
Thames,  not  one  in  ten  thousand  perluqw 
has  taken  much  heed  of  the  rivw  which 


OUE  FRENCH  PRUIT-GAKDEN. 


rr  IS,  UM-i     181 


■hans  irith  it  in  giving  a  name  to 
mettopoUtan  Department,  or  eTerfollowed 
^e  windings  of  the  Mame  farther  at  least 
than  Vineennes,  a  spot  visited  because  it  ia 
reckoned  among  uie  "sights  of  Paris." 
Beyond  that  point  it  is  tarely  tracked  by 
the  tourist,  even  so  far  as  the  histonc  city 
of  Meaux,  witliin  aboat  thirty  miles  of  the 
c^tital,  tboogh  the  territory  which  includes 
this  part  of  it«  course  is  one  to  which  we 
are  indebted  in  no  small  degree.  The 
raUey  in  which  it  flows,  and  the  fertile 
sUipes  which  rise  on  either  hand,  may 
gladden  the  eyes  of  their  inhabitants  in 
spring  with  a  flash  of  verdant  and 
bloBsomy  beaaty,  bat  to  them  will  fall 
only  a  very  moderate  share  of  the  rosy 
and  golden  crops  of  summer  and  antumn. 
It  is  OQT  thirsty  palates  which  will  be 
cooled  with  their  lefreshiDg  jnicee,  for  this 
is  our  French  frnit-garden,  and  England  ia 
the  grand  consumer  of  what  is  grown 
wiUim  an  area  of  many  nules.  A  pleasant 
district  it  is,  too,  for  any  who  wish  to  see 
something  of  French  conntry  life,  and  the 
writer  can  affirm  ftota.  experience  that  a 
mmmer  may  be  passed  very  agreeably 
among  the  towns  and  villages  of  ttus  port 
of  Franca 

Bearing  a  strong  family  resemblance  to 
each  other,  as  a  good  spedmen  of  these 
may  be  named  the  twin  vUl^es  of  CouiUy 
and  St.  Qermain,  each  complete  in  itself, 
with  church,  mairie,  and  schools,  though 
forming  bat  one  settlement  only  divided 
by  a  bridge.  To  the  ordinaiy  attractions 
of  the  neighbourhood,  pure  air  and  pretty 
scenery,  is  here  added  the  charm  of 
abundant  water,  delioioos  for  drinking  as 
drawn  from  many  deep  welU;  offering 
occasional  opportunities  tor  boating  on  the 
canal  which  rone  hence  to  Meauz,  and  a 
fine  field  for  the  angler  in  the  little  river 
Morin,  a  tributary  of  the  Mama  Some  of 
the  idler  inhabitante— ox-citizens  of  Paris, 
come  to  end  their  days  here  in  rural  retire- 
ment— haunt  the  banks  of  this  little 
stream  day  after  day  for  many  long  hours 
at  a  stretch,  finding  much  excitement  in 
ibo  casual  nibble  of  a  pike  of  two  or  three 
pounds  weight,  the  ordinary  reward  of 
their  exertions  being  perhaps  haif-a-dozen 
gudgeon  or  bream,  varied  not  onfrequently 
by  a  totally  empty  basket  But  both  river 
and  canal  are  very  prolific  in  weeds ;  these 
sre  prejudicial  to  the  working  of  the  many 
miUs  which  are  scattered  about  on  the 
banks  of  the  former,  and  they  are  therefore 
often  drained  off  to  a  vety  low  ebb  in  order 
to  dear  awar  tiiese  obstmctiona,  leavine 


oarsmen  and  anglers,  their  "occupation 
gone,"  to  await  wearily  the  time  when  the 
waters  shall  fiow  again.  To  the  adjacent 
village  of  Villiers,  where  the  current  ia  a 
little  less  impeded,  many  Parisians  make 
excuiBions  on  Sundays  to  enjoy  the  fishing 
there;  but  perha[«  from  paucity  of  accom- 
modation, the  so-called  hotels  being  mere 
small  inns,  such  flitting  visitors  rarely 
arrive  at  CouiUy. 

If  aquatic  pleasures  aometimes  fail,  there 
are  others  wliich  are  leas  uncertain,  and 
the  lover  of  wild-flowers,  whether  botanist 
or  mere  posy-picker,  will  find  here  abun- 
dant treaeuree.  Ifot  only  does  white 
clematis  weave  its  dense  tangles  in  every 
hedge,  but  these  "  virgin  bowers,"  as  they 
are  poetically  termed  in  rural  England,  are 
sometimes  tapestried  with  the  large  purple- 
flowered  variety.  Willow  -  herb  glows 
beside  the  water,  and  yellow  lilies  gUd  its 
steeam.  Hoaty  mullein  and  parti-coloured 
bugloss  rear  tnmr  tall  stems  by  tiie  way- 
side, while  pink  mallow,  dianthos,  or 
centaury  blush  rosy  below.  Bluebells  of 
various  sizes  wave  in  the  breeee,  only 
rivalled  in  colour  by  the  torquoiso  stare  of 
succory,  or  yet  inteoser  azure  of  borage. 
Wild  ^yme  and  sweet  marjoram  clothe 
the  sandy  banks  with  their  rich  chocolate 
hues,  and  fiery  troops  ot  poppies  light  up 
every  wheatrfield.  We  miss,  however,  the 
el^ant  blue  cornflower,  which  should  bear 
the  latter  company ;  and  the  stately  fox- 
glove, which  so  beautifies  our  English  and 
Welsh  landscapes,  is  hers  conspicaously 
absent  Something  else,  too,  is  lacking; 
the  honeysuckle  is  wea  twining  among  the 
bushea,  but  its  odour  bewrayeth  it  not ; 
many  a  yellow  spike  looks  like  the  apricot- 
scented  agrimony  of  England,  but  there 
the  likeness  ends;  and  even  that  most 
powerful  of  perfumes,  which  renders  our 
meadowsweet  only  bearable  in  very  small 
quantities,  is  here  represented  by  a  faint 
tinge  of  scent  when  the  flowers  are  held 
close  to  one's  face.  This  may,  perhaps, 
be  due  to  a  dryer  climate  than  that  of  our 
island,  but,  whatever  the  canae,  it  is 
certainly  a  fact  that  wild  flowers  here 
scarcely  appeal  to  any  sense  bat  that  of 
sight 

The  flourishing  of  these  "weeds,"  as 
they  aie  sometimes  scomfhlly  called,  is  but 
an  additional  outcome  of  the  fertility  of 
the  BoU,  for  they  are  not  allowed  to  choke 
the  good  seed.  Every  kind  of  vegetable 
growth  seems  to  prosper,  and  every  pro- 
prietor appears  to  aim  at  having  as  great 
varietras  ooseible.     Hedees  are  but  rarelv 


183      [JunuT  11, 1884.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOUND. 


seen,  the;  wonld  occupy  too  mnoli  valuable 
space  where  the  ground  ia  ao  anbdiTided, 
for  it  ia  rather  exceptional  to  find  so  much 
aa  a  single  acre  covered  with  one  kind  of 
produce.  Where  cornfield  ends,  there- 
fore, Tioeyard  begina ;  do  bonndary  inter- 
venea  between  a  patch  of  potatoes  and  one 
of  mtdse,  a  few  rowa  of  bewis,  or  some 
heads  of  mangold-woml ;  so  that  ibe 
country  looka  like  one  vast  kitcheD-gardeiL 
Variona  kinds  of  vegetation,  indeed,  are 
not  merely  not  divided,  but  are  even  inter^ 
mixed :  cnrrant-bnshes  grow  between  the 
vines,  and  pear  or  cherry  trece  spread  their 
shadows  amid  the  wheat  Wfdnat-trees 
are  very  abnndant,  springing  up  every- 
where in  the  fields,  though  not  in  use  to 
border  the  roadways ;  but  it  is  only  occa- 
sionally that  a  few  sacka  of  the  nnta  are 
cruahed  for  their  oil  Ordinarily  they  are 
atored  for  the  winter,  and,  eaten  with 
bread,  form  an  acceptable  repast  to  the 
peaaants. 

The  produce  of  the  numerous  vineyards, 
too,  ia  made  into  ordindre  for  home  con- 
sumption, the  grapes  not  being  fine  enough 
to  make  wine  for  exportation.  Even  for  this 
limited  use  they  hardly  prove  satisfactory. 
"  When  I  was  young,  and  I  am  now  seventy- 
aeven,"  said  an  old  vintager,  who  entered 
into  conversation  with  as  one  chilly  day  in 
June, "  then  indeed  there  were  summera.  I 
remember  in  1845  we  had  one.  Yon  could 
not  lie  down  on  the  open  ground,  for  the 
very  earth  burned  you,  the  sun  liad  so 
scorched  it ;  but  what  a  season  for  the 
vines  !  Now  we  have  not  had  a  good  one 
these  fifteen  years,  not  since  the  summer 
before  the  Frusuans  came.  As  to  this 
year,  why  there  are  rowa  and  rows  of  vines 
over  yonder  with  not  a  single  bunch  upon 
them.  And  yet  one  is  expected  to  pay 
the  taxes  all  the  same.  Ah,  thoae  taxes, 
they  do  weigh  upon  one ; "  and  the  old  man 
sighed  and  shmgged,  aa  though  the  burden 
were  preaging  literally  upon  hia  aged  but 
still  vigorous  shoulders.  Nor  have  winters, 
of  late,  been  more  favourable  than  summers 
in  this  region.  Even  within  the  city 
of  Meaux,  the  fine  old  yew-tree  walk  in 
the  biabop's  palace  gardena-- which  was 
Boeauet'a  favourite  outdoor  study  when 
composing  hia  sermons  aa  he  pa«ed  up  and 
down  it,  and  which,  until  1880,  had  looked 
juat  aa  it  did  in  the  days  of  the  eloquent 

E relate — ia  now  but  a  pitiful  display  of  life- 
iss  stems  and  brown  withered  leaves,  the 
work  of  recent  cruel  frosts,  while  all  about 
the  country  dead  trees  were  ao  frequent  as 
to  be  quite  nmarkable,  tlie  explsj»tion  of 


their  condttioii  bwne  always,  "the  oold 
winter  two  years  ago. ' 

Where  laden  trees  and  bushes  are  un- 
raoteeted  by  wall,  hedge,  or  ditoh,  an 
Ei^ltish  straoger's  first  thought  is,  How 
un8afe-~how  exposed  to  plunderers  I  If 
adults  are  honest  or  indifferent,  surely 
diildren  will  be  always  commitdng  <^|re- 
dationa  I  The  soffioient  reply  is,  Why 
diould  they  plunder  when  every  {jiild  has 
at  home  aa  much  as  it  can  darire  1  No 
wonder  that  wheo  the  more  solid  products 
of  autumn  succeed  annuner's  Itgh^  deli- 
oades,  fllness  often  resulta  from  too  hue 
indulgence  in  these  luxuries,  snd  that 
choleraic  attacks  become  prevalonfa. 

Bub  however  freely  the  cultivaton  may 
treat  themselves  to  this  feast  of  Nature, 
fiir  more  is  brought  forth  than  could  be 
consumed  by  thetnselves;  and,  wiUi  the 
exception  of  nuts  and  grapes,  tlie  greater 
part  of  the  fruit  is  grown  for  exportation 
to  England.  On  taking  refuge  from  a  itorm 
one  day  in  an  outhouse,  belonging  to  a 
little  inn,  the  door  of  which  stood  open, 
we  found  it  literally  crammed  with  huge 
hampers  of  bUck-curranta,  being  weighed 
previous  to  sending  away,  and  on  suing 
permission  to  buy  a  few  for  refreshment 
while  waiting  for  the  weather,  were  t<dd  to 
help  ourselves  without  payment,  petty 
retail  dealings  bein^  below  notice  amid 
such  abundance,  A  similar  reply  was  mads 
on  another  ocoaaion,  when  we  wiahed  to 
gather  from  a  cottager's  garden  some  <rf 
the  ruby  clusters  which  hung  so  profusely 
<»i  hia  red-currant  bushes  that  ctimaon 
almost  preponderated  over  green.  Yet  it 
is  made  easy  for  even  small  growers  to 
coDtnbute  th^  share  for  shipment,  for 
one  day  we  heard  the  crier  perambulat- 
ing the  villages -to  announce,  with  beat 
of  drum,  that  to-morrow,  at  four  p.m., 
M.  Chose  would  be  prepar^  at  auch  a  place 
to  receive  any  quantity  of  cnrranta,  offering 
payment  for  them  at  the  rate  of  thirty- 
three  francs  per  hundred  Idlogrammee. 

There  is  something  besides  fruit  for 
which  thla  district  is  famed,  the  w^- 
known  fromage  de  Brie,  and  on  market- 
days  the  Btalls  for  the  sale  of  these  flat, 
(veamy  cakea  outntunbet  all  othera  But 
atnce  cheese  ia  a  staple  commodity,  where 
are  the  cows  t  One  may  walk  for  miles 
and  not  see  a  aingle  one,  for  instead  of 
pasturing  freely  in  open  fields  they  are 
kept  shut  up  in  stablu,  and  fed  there  with 
the  leaves  of  moise,  cut  green  for  their  use, 
or  other  fodder.  Sheep,  too,  are  scarcely 
ever  visible,  so  that  tiie  landscape,  however 


OUfi  FBENOH  FEUIT-GAKDEN.         iJuiu«iria,i8M.]     183 


otherniae  oharming,  is  strikingly  deficient 
in  animal  life.  Tkere  ia  no  dulneaa, 
howevw,  iot  towns  or  Tillages  are  not 
more  than  two  or  tiiree  miles  apart; 
aeattered  honaes  occur  in  the  intervala,  and 
it  ia  aeldom  that  some  yehicle  is  not  within 
▼iew  Dpon  the  roada,  ot  an  aaors  gleam 
does  net  appsar  am<nig  com  or  Tinea  to 
betray  acme  homaa  presence.  For  in 
coetame  one  hue  reigns  supreme.  If  the 
Holy  Mother  be  UtUe  honoored  in  any 
t^het  way,  at  least  what  deroteee  otJJ 
"  the  Vila's  coloor  "  ia  worn  bereaboats 
by  aboot  nine-tenths  of  the  population, 
though  it  ia  hardly  npon  her  acconnt  Blue 
bloostt  are  assumed  by  even  gentlemen  en 
d^habilld,  to  which  the  working  -  classes 
add  blue  "  continoations,"  and  frequently  a 
Uae  cap  also ;  while  among  woman  below 
the  grade  of  lady,  in  gowns,  jackets,  and 
i^nma,  at  least  fcH:  eyeryday  wear,  the 
aame  tint  preraila  almost  universally.  No 
doubt  theoe  thrifty  French  are  well  aware 
that  indigo  is  the  moat  durable  dye  that 
cotton  can  be  made  to  take.  With  regard 
to  head-dreas,  the  younger  fem^ea  seldom 
oover  ^eir  hair  at  all ;  shopkeepers  and 
snrants  wear  frilled  mob-caps  like  those 
of  the  Parisians,  white  as  only  French 
washerwomen  can  whiten ;  ami  the  older 

Csants  content  themselves  with  a  coloured 
dkerchief  woond  turban-faahion  rpund 
the  head,  the  same  head-dress  therefore 
lervii^  them  Indoora  and  out,  a  great  saving 
of  tfane  and  ezpenae.  In  third-claas  railw&y- 
earri^ea,  a  bonnet  is  quite  an  ezceptJonal 
nghi 

The  roada  throughout  the  district  are 
remarkably  excellent,  so  even  and  hard, 
that  in  wet  weather  they  are  almost  exempt 
from  puddles,  and  in  dry  weather  from 
duat  Thej  are  moatly  lined  with  trees, 
affording  gratefiil  shade  on  hot  days.  These 
are  sometimes  liowa  or  elms,  but  more 
often  solemn  rows  of  poplars,  whitening 
tiie  aoil  beneath  tbem  at  midsummer  with 
the  tofts  of  cottony-down  in  which  their 
seeds  are  embedded,  till  it  looks  as  though 
a  general  goose^plueklng  had  taken  place 
in  the  vicinity,  or  a  slight  snow-shower 
had  just  fallen.  A  little  later  the  ground 
ti  scattered  still,  though  rather  more  spar- 
ingly, with  equally  white  moths,  about  an 
ii^  long,  developed  from  the  caterpillars 
which  feed  on  the  poplar,  and  which,  after 
having  performed  tiie  grand  duty  of  their 
life  in  laying  e^s  for  another  generation, 
lie  exhausted  at  the  foot  of  their  native 
trees,  blown  about  by  the  winds  till 
Iher    verish.      These   mimic    snows  are 


especially  observable  on  the  banks  of  the 
canal,  which  ia  bordered  by  close  rows  of 
extra  tall  poplars  of  imposing  solemnity. 
To  walk  beneath  them,  especially  on 
a  Bultiy  summer  day,  when  a  glimpse  of 
sunshine  beyond  deepens  the  gloom  of 
their  shadows,  delightfully  cool  aa  it  is  to 
the  bodily  aenaationa,  ia  yet  almost  as 
awe-inspiring  to  the  mind  as  it  ia  to  pace 
tho  dusky  a^es  of  some  ancient  cathedral 
The  sombre  effect  of  the  still  solitude, 
guarded  by  Uiese  funereal  aentinela,  is 
heightened  to  a  thrill  of  horror  when  we 
learn  what  ghastly  fruit  their  boughs  have 
borne — only  a  year  ago  a  stranger  was 
found  hanging  npon  one  of  their  branches, 
having  evidently  been  robbed  and  mur- 
dered daring  the  night,  bnt  to  whom 
he  had  faUen  a  victim,  who  he  was,  or 
whence  and  why  he  had  come  there,  has 
never  been  diacovered. 

The  houses,  usually  kept  in  vory  good 
repair,  are  subatantially  built  of  brick, 
almost  invariably  coated,  as  are  even  the 
garden-walls,  with  creamnioloured  cement, 
which  mellows  with  time  into  many  beau- 
tiflil  tints.  The  mairiea,  and  perhaps  one 
or  two  larger  mansions,  display  slated  tops, 
but  throughout  the  neighbourhood  tiles 
form  the  general  roofing  of  bouse  or  hut, 
not  a  thatch  being  seen  anywhere.  And 
very  harmonious  is  the  aspect  of  these  red 
roofs  surmountingthe  yellowish  white  walls, 
especially  when  peeping  out  in  the  distance 
from  a  surrounding  verdure  of  orchards  or 
plantations,  at  different  heights  on  the  hilly 
ridges,  which  are  usually  terraced  with  two 
or  three  roadways  rising  one  above  another. 
In  the  village  streets  sometimes  the 
gable,  sometimes  the  side  of  the  house, 
faces  the  highway,  but  the  ordinary  absence 
of  front  gardens  takes  off  from  the  neat 
prettiness  which  characteriaea  Engliah 
cottages.  The  general  impression  given 
by  the  boildings  is  perhaps  primarily  one 
of  well-to-do  respectabihty,  yet  artistic 
charm  is  by  no  means  lackmg,  for  there  is 

Ct  variety  of  size  and  form,  and  every 
and  there  an  ontaide  staircase,  a 
wooden  gallery,  or  quaint  combination  of 
projecting  roofs,  gives  an  air  of  picturesque- 
ness.  In  one  instance  we  came  upon  a 
most  pictorial  bit,  hidden  away  behind 
modemhousea — an  old  courtyard  enclosing 
an  ancient  edifice,  dating,  it  was  aald,  from 
the  days  of  Henri  Qaatre,  with  its  round 
tower  in  the  comer,  surmonnted  by  an  ex- 
tinguisher-shaped torreL  Within  doors, 
too,  we  may  find  perhaps  a  kitchen,  which, 
with  its  huEre  ones  firenlace — where  abrazea 


181      [JUDUT  U,  UN.] 


ALL  THE  YEAS.  ROUND. 


caaldron  hangs  gipsy-fashion  over  the 
glowing  logB,  and  a  row  of  bright  copper 
Bkillete  glitters  above — may  offer  a  tempt- 
ing subject  to  thepainter;  bat  the  general 
aspect  of  the  interiors,  their  bare  walls, 
brick  fioon,  and  scanty  famitnre,  give  an 
idea  of  a  mder  and  mote  primitive  s^le 
of  living  than  is  common  among  English 
country  people  of  far  smaller  means  than 
moat  of  these  possess. 

St.  Qermain  has  only  a  mean  modem 
place  of  worship ;  Couilly,  a  fine  old  Gothic 
church,  which  has  stood  for  centnrtea,  and 
is  almost  large  enough  for  a  cathedral 
There  is  but  one  pnest,  however,  who 
officiates  in  each  at  different  hours,  but 
only  on  Sundays,  and  except  just  when 
sorvicea  are  being  held,  they  are  kept  close 
locked,  for,  though  there  was  a  time  when 
the  thief  who  stole  from  a  mansion  without 
scruple  would  yet  have  hesitated  to  enter 
the  Loose  of  Giod  with  sacrilegioos  intent, 
this  is  hardly  now  the  case,  in  proof  whereof 
has  not  the  cborch  of  Nogent-anr-Mame, 
not  very  far  off,  been  twice  robbed  within 
the  last  twelve  monthst  Nor  was  the  priest 
ever  met  with  in  the  villages  except  just 
at  the  hour  for  mass,  and  on  onr  going  to 
veapers  one  Sunday  at  Couilly  the  congre- 
gation assembled  in  the  immense  building 
was  foond  to  consist  of  three  old  women 
and  five  little  girls. 

Such  being  ttie  state  of  Gatbolici^,  how 
does  it  fare  with  the  rival  creed  t  At 
Qoincy,  about  three  miles  from  St.  Oennain, 
is  a  Protestant  temple  a  small  bam-like 
building,  methodistically  bare  within  and 
without  Here  the  audience  amounted 
sometimes  to  twenty,  sometimes  fell  short 
of  a  dozen,  though  a  majority  of  the  six- 
teen hundred  souls  inhabiting  Qaincy  are 
nominally  Protestants,  and  tlua  is  the  only 
Reformedplace  of  worship  within  a  large 
circuit.  This  indifference  does  not  seem 
due  to  any  want  of  zeal  on  the  part  of  ibe 
pastor,  if  this  may  bo  judged  of  by  his 
manner,  for  he  warmly  greets  his  flock 
individually,  and  after  prayer,  lesson,  and 
hymns  accompanied  by  an  harmonium,  pours 
forth  his  sermon  in  tones  of  such  fervour  as 
to  make  the  walls  reverberate,  and  with  a 
vehemence  of  gesture  that  is  almost  alarm- 
ing. The  subject  is  "  The  Idea  of  Deity  in 
Different  Ages,"  and  it  is  very  well  treated 
as  he  traces  the  progress  of  the  primitive 
notion  of  the  divinity  as  mere  brute  force 
to  its  final  development  as  the  loving  Fatber 
revealed  by  Our  Savionr,  adverting  then  to 
modem  beliefs  and  unbeliefs.  Such  a 
discoorse,  with  all  its  allnsione  to  Atheism, 


Pantheism,  and  Agnosticiim,  seemed  hardly 
suitable  to  the  tiny  group  of  shopkeepen^ 
peasants,  and  children  who  had  gtriihered 
to  hear  it,  but  perhaps  it  was  a  single  con- 
cession to  the  spirit  of  the  age,  for  on 
several  other  oocasions  the  wor£y  pastor's 
sermons  erred  rather  on  the  side  of  ex- 
cessive simplicity,  and  were  little  more 
than  the  addresses  usually  delivered  in 
Sonday-eohools. 

Where  there  is  so  littla  attendance  on 
the  services  of  religion  it  may  be  supposed 
that  there  is  no  very  intimate  acqnaintancK 
with  its  doctrines.  The  relative  merits  of 
the  Catholic  and  Reformed  biths  were 
estimated  in  an  amusiiig  way  by  an  old 
farmeress  who  sat  down  b«ide  us  otte 
evening  in  the  fields,  and  questioned  as 
with  almost  American  freedom.  On  eliciting 
that  we  were  Protestants,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Ah,  that  is  a  fine  religion,  you  can  be 
married  or  buried  for  nothing,  while  we 
Catholics  have  to  pay  such  enormous  fe« 
to  oar  priestA  at  our  weddings  or  funerals ,-" 
and  this  seemed  to  be  the  only  difference 
she  knew  of  between  the  followers  of 
Luther  or  of  the  Pope,  though  some 
instinct  of  loyalty  to  tradition  kept  her  trae 
to  the  profession,  at  least,  of  Romanism. 
It  is  indeed  only  to  be  married  or  to  be 
buried  that  the  vast  majority  of  t^e 
population  here  ever  enter  their  places  of 
worship,  and  when  some  French  friends  wdl 
acquainted  with  various  provinces  of  their 
coontry  assured  us  that  this  was  the  least 
pious  part  of  France,  it  was  easy  to  believe 
the  statement,  for  piety  could  scarcely  be 
anywhere  at  a  lower  ebb. 

"  Certainly  these  people  cannot  be  called 
devout,  but  are  they  moral  I "  was  asked 
of  an  intelligent  inhabitant     "  They  have 

time  to  be  otherwise,"  was  the  reply. 
"  When  people  are  at  work  early  and  late 
they  cannot  find  leisure  for  dissipation." 
Leisure,  indeed,  aeems  a  word  ttf  which 
they  can  hardly  know  the  meaning.  At 
five  &m.  the  ring  of  the  church-bells  calls 
them  to,  labour,  and  at  eight  p.m.  bids 
them  leave  the  fields  for  their  homes ; 
but  many,  it  is  said,  rise  two  hours  earlier, 
and,  evidently  enough,  all  work  did  sot 
cease  with  the  cmew-peol.  Even  at 
midnight  heavily-laden  vehicles  might  be 
heard  upon  the  roads,  and  from  one  farm 
a  wu^u  was  dispatched  weekly  to  Paris 
whioVreguIarly  travelled  thither  all  night 
under  the  sole  charge  of  a  girl  of  sixteen 
and  a  dog.  Ajiother  girl  of  twelve,  eldest 
daughter  of  an  invdid  mother  with  many 
children,  managed  the  whole  h<nuehol<i 


OUR  FRENCH  FBUIT-OABDEN.         [J«.n«nj,  issi.]     185 


and  cooked  and  vaahed  for  all  the  ^unilr, 
beddea  taking  her  part  in  Kdd-work. 
Under  this  regimen  she  had  dovelopad,  at 
the  age  of  a  mere  child,  into  the  appear- 
ance of  a  Btmdjr  woman,  and  tbongh  this 
was  a  special  instance,  the  young  lasses 
commonly  looked  mnch  older  thuL  their 
years.  Nor  does  the  week's  toil  end  od 
Saturday  night,  for  thongh  on  Sundays 
the  accustomed  summons  to  work  does  not 
sound  irom  the  steeple,  the  scythe  or  the 
Bckle  is  still  plied  in  the  fields  and  the 
praniog-knife  is  busy  among  the  vines. 
Erary  moment  of  time,  every  inch  of 
territory,  seem  to  be  devoted  to  cnltiva- 
tion.  Thoogh  the  cottages  which  line  the 
narrow  village  streets  so  rarely  have 
any  forecourt,  not  the  less  are  the 
fnmt  walls  as  well  as  the  others  utilised 
for  tha  training  of  vines  or  pear-trees,  only 
guarded  from  paasers-by  bruahiug  against 
them  by  a  few  sticks  nailed  across  their 
stems.  Where  it  doea  happen  that  there 
is  a  garden-wall,  the  oatstde  towards  the 
road,  if  the  aspect  be  favourable,  is  some- 
times  made,  equally  with  the  interior,  to 
bear  its  share  in  aapporting  some  climbing 
fruit-tree. 

The  oatoral  result  of  all  this  is  an 
extraordinary  prevalence  of  material  pros- 
perity. Many  are  rich;  none  are  very 
poor ;  Jio  pinched  faces  or  ragged  gar- 
mraite  are  to  be  seeiL  A  boy  who  had 
torn  the  sleeves  of  his  blouse  was  indeed 
io  imiqnd  a  spectacle,  that  he  was  at  once 
seized  upon  by  our  arUst-friend  and  strictly 
commanded  not  to  let  his  mothermend  them 
until  his  portrait  in  this  picturesque 
condition  should  be  completed.  A  aiiffi- 
ctency  of  food  and  decent  raiment  seems  to 
be  the  portion  of  even  the  lowest,  for,  to 
all  enquiries  made  about  poor  people,  the 
only  reply  was,  "  There  are  none.  Of 
course  there  are  some  who  are  not  so  well 
off  as  othetB,  but  there  is  no  one  in 
absolute  ind^ence ; "  and  observation 
oidy  tended  to  confirm  the  statement  It 
is  true  the  British  workman's  too  common 
ideal  of  prosperity — fresh  meat  every  day 
— is  not  attained;-but  as  this,  despite  a 
general  prejudice,  is  certainly  not  essential 
either  to  health  or  enjoyment,  it  is  hardly 
to  be  deplored.  The  French  peasant,  how- 
ever, has  not  that  disdain  for  the  art  of 
oookery  which  is  sometimes  found  among 
our  working-classes,  and  knows  how  to 
make  very  appetising  dlsheB  &om  materials 
always  at  hand.  A  dish,  for  instance, 
which  is  very  general  in  theae  parts, 
of  Dotatoes.  onions,  and  bacon  cut 


in  small  pieces,  with  various  herbs  or  other 
vegetables  for  Savouring,  the  whole  kept 
for  some  hoars  over  a  gentle  fire  till  it 
forms  a  most  savoury  stew.  Soup,  made 
in  the  pot-an-fau,  wluch  appears  more  or 
less  at  every  table,  rich  or  poor — it  is  a 
received  axiom  that  no  children  can  thrive 
unless  they  consume  plenty  of  soup — is 
usually  the  peasant's  portion  more  than 
once  in  the  day;  and  fruit,  in  this 
paradise  of  Pomona,  of  course  forms  quite 
an  article  of  diet  But  thrift  has  been 
early  taught.  It  is  a  fashion  for  the  maire 
and  principal  inhabitants  to  offer  prizes  in 
the  communal  schools,  in  addition  to  the 
books  given  by  the  school,  and  these  alwaj'S 
take  the  form  of  certificates  of  deposit  m 
the  savings-bank  for  sums  varying  from  a 
napoIeoD  to  a  franc.  To  this  practical 
lesson  in  saving  is  added  the  example  of 
parents  and  superiors  too  of^n  carrying 
the  habit  to  a  pernicious  extreme,  for  the 
virtuous  ^ngaUty  of  the  poorer  class  is 
balanced  by  the  vicious  penuriousneas  of 
those  who  have  risen  above  them  in  fortune, 
but  in  little  else,  expenditure  scarcely 
increasing  with  meana  Really  wealthy 
fanners,  mill-owners,  tannery  proprietors, 
frequently  dress  and  work  like  common 
labourers,  grudge  a  doctor's  attendance 
when  ill,  and  wiU  hardly  indulge  in  change 
of  air  when  their  very  lives  depend  upon  it 
It  is  true  they  will  give  their  children  a 
good  education,  but,  as  soon  as  school  days 
are  ended,  they  expect  them  to  return  to 
domestic  drudgery.  Amiller's  daughter  who 
was  married  the  other  day,  broi^t  a  dowry 
of  sixty  thousand  francs  to  her  bridegroom, 
who  owned  as  mach  himself,  while  a  grand- 
father made  over  to  them  as  a  wedding- 
present  a  mill  valued  at  one  hundred 
thousand  francs.  This  gul  had  been  sent 
for  a  time  to  an  expensive  boarding-school 
in  Paris,  but  ever  since  her  return  bad  been 
actii^  as  general  servant  in  her  parents' 
house,  and  would  in  all  probability  fulfil 
the  same  part  in  her  own.  In  fact,  the  more 
intelligent  residents  agreed  that  Balzac 
mighthave  laid  here  the  scene  of  hisEugduie 
Qrandet,  and  they  would  have  felt  the  story 
to  be  no  exaggeration. 

Once  a  year  at  least  this  perpetual 
travail  yiel^  to  a  d^,  ot  rather  a  night  of 
enjoyment  Each  villags  holds  its  anDual 
f€te  in  the  course  of  the  summer  or 
autumn,  and  Montgoillon  had  fixed  on  the 
evening  after  the  National  Festival  of 
Ji^  Uth. 

Two  or  three  toy  and  gmgerbread  stalls 
hold  oat  baits  to  the  children,  but  the 


[JannuT  12.  ISSi.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


cantre  of  attnction  is  a  large  booth,  which 
travels  about  Irom  one  of  these  ffites  to 
another  as  their  period  urivea.  Lined  with 
striped  cottoQ,  and  decorated  only  with 
smdl  pendent  tricoloars,  one  end  is  parted 
off  by  a  low  barrier  to  form  a  sort  of  bar- 
room, where  the  old  men  dt  at  little  tables 
over  their  wine,  while  the  younger  ones  go 
in  and  out  for  an  occasional  glass.  Another 
smaller  enclosure  at  the  ndo  rails  in  a 
band  of  five  musicians,  and  the  rest  of  the 
niace  is  devoted  to  ^e  dancers,  who  pay 
threepence  each  on  entry,  no  Airther  tax 
being  Ifud  npou  the  ladies,  whereas  the 
gentlemen  have  to  pay  three  sons  for  each 
dance  in  which  they  eng^a  A  rather 
awkward  business  it  appears  both  as 
regards  payers  and  payee,  as  the  collector, 
an  elderly  woman  in  black  dress  and  white 
cap,  glides  in  and  out  among  the  gyrating 
couples  to  gather  this  toll  as  soon  as  they 
begin  to  move,  and  the  rasUc  has  to  keep 
hold  of  his  partner  as  well  as  he  can  while 
he  fumbles  under  his  blouse  for  the  neces- 
sary coppers.  As  one  dance  is  no  sooner 
over  than  another  begins,  and  no  abl»- 
bodied  dancer  cares  to  sit  still  while  others 
are  in  motion,  the  expense  becomes  ulti- 
mately rather  heavy,  as  the  entertunment 
laAs  from  about  ei^ht  p.m.  till  one  or  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  occasional  handing  round  of  a  paper 
of  sugar-pliuns  seemed  to  be  the  only  re- 
freshment offered  to  partners,  unless  under 
that  head  might  be  included  the  hearty  kiss 
upon  each  cheek,  which  was  the  customary 
parting  salute  ere  the  lady  retired  to  her 
seat  as  waltz  or  quadrille  ended.  Bat 
there  was  no  piuhing  or  confusion  due  to 
not  knowing  steps  or  figures,  and  though 
now  and  then  some  rather  lively  displays 
of  agOity,  and  an  occasional  swinging  round 
of  partners  with  somewhat  more  force  than 
was  necessary,  micht  be  observed,  yet 
really  this  rustic  ball-ioom  offered  nothing 
that  could  shock  the  most  decorous.  The 
girls  were  mostly  attired  in  plain  dark- 
coloured  meiinoB,  their  only  ornament  a 
tiny  bow  or  brooch  in  the  collar  or  lace 
tai^er ;  for,  though  flowers  grow  here  so 
freely,  none  had  been  gathered  to  wreathe 
or  deck  their  close-coiled  and  simply- 
braided  tresses,  and  only  one  here  and 
there  wore  even  a  rose  or  spray  of  honey- 
suckle at  her  bosom.  Bo  far,  indeed,  from 
any  appearance  of  that  elegance  and  coquet- 
tishuesB  we  are  apt  to  attribute  to  French 
womankind,  there  was  a  positive  deficiency 
of  adornment,  only  a  single  one  among  the 
crowd  of  at  least  fifty  or  rixty  young  lasses 


wearing  any  approach  to  a  festive  coetume, 
and  hen  consuted  only  of  a  white  muslin 
tunic  which  had  seen  some  service,  over  a 
red  and  white  striped  petttcoai  The  men 
were  nearly  all  in  their  ordinary  blue 
blouses,  with  a  staring  paper  tricolour 
pinned  at  the  breast  in  patriotic  recognition 
of  the  national  anniversary. 

Beyond  these  annual  fBtes,  the  only 
provision  for  recreation  a|^)arent  was  the 
shooting-butt  erected  in  every  village — a 
narrow  space  enclosed  between  walls,  and 
having  at  each  end  an  arch  of  brickwork, 
filled  in  with  straw.  Here,  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  a  few,  but  only  a  few,  of  tlie 
men  night  be  seen  practJ^iw  with  bows 
and  arrows,  for  mnsketa  would  be  deemed 
too  expensive. 

A  cheerio] "  Bon-jonr  "  usually  greets  the 
passing  stranger  in  this  re|^on ;  any  little 
service  requested  is  most  courteously 
rendered ;  and  a  desire  to  ent«r  into  con- 
versation is  often  shown.  It  is,  therefore, 
not  difGcult  to  form  cordial  relations  witb 
the  natives,  and  fbr  an  English  visitor  to 
do  so  seems  almost  a  duty,  as  a  sort  of 
attempt  at  some  alight  reparation  for  Uie 
terrible  descent  once  made  here  by  our 
countrymen.  In  1421,  when  the  troops  of 
the  King  of  England  and  the  Ihike  of 
Burgundy  occupied  jointly  the  town  of 
Conlommiers,  they  vexed  this  neighbour- 
hood with  incessant  depredationa  All  the 
countty  around  the  Mame  was  rava^  by 
their  incursions,  harvests  were  earned  off 
or  destroyed,  and  &nns  pillaged  and  burnt 
The  prettiest  spot  hereaoouti^  a  little  wood 
where  a  stream  makes  its  way  down  a 
ravine  between  leafy  heights  to  join  the 
river  below,  to  this  day  bears  the  name  of 
Bois  de  His^re.  It  is  said  that  tlus 
ominous  title  still  attests  the  frightful 
extremities  to  which  the  people  were 
reduced  at  that  time,  when,  the  wood  being 
probably  of  far  greater  extent,  the  poor 
creatures  sought  in  it  some  slight  shelter 
during  what  a  local  annalist  justly  calls, 
"  Oette  abominable  guerre." 

The  recollection  ofthese  ancient  miseries, 
however,  has  been  pretty  well  effaced  by  far 
more  recent  troubles. 

In  the  very  dining-room  where  we  take 
our  meals  the  Prussians  a  few  years  s«o 
stabled  their  horses,  and  wrenched  the 
doors  off  their  hinges  to  bum  as  firewood 
Allusions  to  such  reminiscences  often  occur. 
One  elderly  lady,  fatigued  now  with  a 
walk  of  a  couple  of  miles,  remarks :  "  Tet 
I  had  to  trudge  on  foot  all  the  twenty-seven 
miles  between  this  place  and  Paris,  and 


with  the  mvw  on  the  grotmd,  too,  when  I 
slipped  through  the  German  Unea  to  rejoin 
mj  husband  here;  for  it  waa  the  only  way 
in  which  the  journey  cooldbe  accompuBhed. 
It  ms  long  before  I  reoovered  from  its 
eftctfl."  Yet  jnetice  is  rendered  even  to 
the  inflictere  of  so  many  h&rdshipB.  "I 
vent  at  firat  to  fnenda  in  the  Soatii,"  said 
another  lady,  "  thinking  the  Siege  would 
(mly  last  a  few  weeks.  After  waiting  six 
months  I  had  to  return,  and  found  my 
hosae  occn[»ed  bv  Pnurian  eoldiera  and 
eomi^etely  dUa|»dated.  Whenever  they 
cane  to  honses  which  had  been  abandoned 
tb^  felt  irritated  and  damaged  them  reck- 
lesuy;  bnt  I  cuinot  deny  that  when  I 
returned  and  took  np  my  abode  with  them, 
Aey  did  not  behave  badly.  And,  French- 
womaa  as  I  am  to  the  eore,  I  mnit  own  that 
our  enemies  had  one  good  qnality — they 
wtn  wonderfitlly  kind  to  children.  The 
great  stiJwart  fellows  were  often  seen 
trottiag  oat  our  little  boys  and  girls  for  a 
walk,  or  even  hashing  oar  babies  off  to 
sleep  in  their  armB.  Very  likely  they 
were  themselves  fathers  of  families,  and 
would  far  rather  have  been  peaceably  at 
home  yriHt  them  than  here  %fating  with 
na.  Heaven  smd  we  may  never  i^ain  go 
to  war  I" 

Surely  do  one  could  look  around  on 
this  sBuUng  fertile  country  and  mix  with 
its  friendly  and  industrious  inhabitants 
without  responding  to  this  prayer  with  a 
hearty  Amen  I 


JENIFER 

BT  AUSa  THOMAS  (UBS.  PENOKIUCnDLI^ 

CHAFTEB  XXXVf.  "ARE  YOU  HAPPY !' 
She  found  him  standing  by  the  fire- 
place, lookii^  with  evident  interest  at  the 
various  oostly  and  beautiful  ornaments 
that  decorated  the  wide  velvet  mantel- 
board.  She  checked  h^aelF  when  she 
came  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  clasped  her 
hands  loosely  bwether,  iuid  stood  there 
nlent  and  motiomeM,  wuting  for  him 
begin  the  batUa 

If  she  had  been  ^ven  more  time,  she 
would  hare  chan^  tiiv  Watteao  tea-gown 
oi  (dd-gold  "  Liberty "  silk  for  a  less 
becoming  and  more  matronly  garment 
She  knew  she  locked  well  in  this  happy 
CKHnUoaUon  <^  lace  and  soft  Indian  silk, 
and  she  did  not  want  to  look  well  in  his 
eyes.  If  he  found  her  plain  and  dowdy, 
he  would  be  less  likely  to  persecute  her 
wilAt  his  preaenoe. 


;R  t'i>niM9mi8S1.1     187 

He  looked  round,  after  what  seemed  to 
her  a  long  period  of  t»nie,  and  smiled 
pleasantly. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  be  overjoyed  at 
the  ^ht  of  me,"  he  began  affably. 

"  Why  have  you  come  ! " 
To  see   for    myself   that   you    have 
feathered  your  nest  comf<»t&bIy,  and  taken 
care  of  yourself  all  round." 

"Only  that  1" 

He  iMghed. 

"  For  what  other  cause  should  I  come  % 
I  have,  to  be  sure,  a  great  desire  to  see 
the  gentleman  whose  declining  years  you 
are  likely  to  render  so  peaceful  and 
happy." 

"  You  have  come — to  ruin  me  ! "  she 
broke  out  wildly.  "  You  tempted  me  to 
the  deceit  in  the  first  place ;  you  almost 
forced  it  upon  me ;  and  now — now  you 
have  come  to  gloat  over  your  work — to 
witness  the  ruin  you  have  made,  to  revel 
in  the  agonies  of  yonr  victim,  and  hers." 

"So  you  admit  that  the  old  gentleman 
is  a  '  victim,' "  he  laiuhed  out  lightly. 
"  But,  upon  my  word,  Mrs.  '  TuUamore ' — 
that,  I  believe,  is  your  name  1 — you  do  me 
injustice.  So  far  from  wishing  to 'gloat' 
and  '  revel '  over  your  misery,  I  have  come 
in  the  hope  of  witnessing  the  most  perfect 
conjugal  bliss.  You  reaJly  must  forgive 
me  for  saying  so  to  a  lady  of  your  status  in 
society,  bat  if  you  had  only  had  instmction 
— good  instmction — ^in  your  early — I  mean 
year  earlier  youth — you  would  have  made 
a  fine  actress." 

She  tottered  to  a  ehair  and  sank  down 
upon  it. 

"  Now,  that  bit  of  sadden  faintness  was 
very  well  done,"  he  said  approvingly,  "Am 
I  to  be  favoured  with  an  introduction  to 
Admiral  TuUamore  before  dinner  or  not  1 " 

"  I  am  distraught  1"  the  unhappy  woman 
cried,  burying  her  face  in  her hfmds.  "Yon 
know  I  am — you  know  I  am  so  frightened 
that  my  tongue  can  hardly  utter  the  words 
my  madden^  mind  conceives." 

"Be  a  sensible  woman,  and  calm  your 
mind,''he  siudreassorin^ly.  "What  l^ere 
is  to  upset  you  in  this  sitoatioo  I  am  at  a 
loss  to  imagine.  Here  am  I,  a  friend  of 
yout  former  husband — the  beat  friend  he 
ever  had,  the  closest,  in  fact,  the  friend 
who  saw  him  buried — come  to  congratu- 
late hia  widow  on  having  defied  her  weeds 
and  bnried  her  dead.  All  I  ask  is  a  littie 
hospitality  for  a  few  days,  and  as  much 
aport  as  can  be  crammed  into  them.  Surely 
an  Irish  gentleman  will  accord  me  that  for 
his  wife's  sake." 


(JamuTT  11, 1881.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


"  fou  must  lutre  all  thioga  u  yoa  wtU," 
she  said  hopelewly ;  "  bat  listen  1  You 
shall  not  torture  that  tme,  honest,  noble 
heart  which  I  may  be  compelled  to  hnak ; 
you  shall  not  taoot  him  with  the  &ot  oi 
the  voman  he  belieres  to  be  his  wife  being 
a  liar,  a  traitress,  an  impostor,  a  fna£ 
I  will  tell  him  what  I  am  myaelL" 

"No,  yoallnot;  there's  really  no  occa- 
sion for  it,"  he  said  coolly,  shaking  his 
head  admooishioKly  at  her,  "  if  yon'll  only 
believe  ib  YoQTe  a  most  excellent  and 
practical  woman ;  yon  have  done  a  good 
thing  for  yonrself,  Mr&  Tnllamore,  and,  as 
a  fnend,  I  advise  yoa  to  keep  the  good 
things  you've  got,  and  not  to  make  senti- 
mental strife.  Thanks  for  yonr  offer  of  a 
servant  to  take  mylaggage  to  my  room.  I 
look  forward  to  meeting  the  admiral  at 
dinner  vith  real  pleasnre." 

"Yob  are  laying  a  bmp  for  me," 

"  I'm  doing  nothing  of  the  kind,  madam," 
he  replied  impatiently  :  "  we  are  both  free 
peopui,  and  I've  no  desire  to  clip  your 
wings  or  fetter  you  in  any  way.  I  came, 
if  yoall  only  believe  it,  to  assure  myself 
that  you  were  happy." 

She  tore  her  hands  away  from  her  face, 
and  looked  at  Mm  in  profound  surprise. 

"  Are  yon  happy  1 "  he  asked  with  some 
approach  to  feeUng. 

"  Happy  1 " 

"  Don't  repeat  the  word  as  if  yon  had 
never  known  what  it  signifies,  and  never 
can  agfun.  Tell  me,  if,  after  this  brief  visit 
of  mine,  yon  can  feet  sure  that  you'll  never 
see  me  again,  will  yon  be  happy  then  1 " 

She  heaved  a  deep  long  sign. 

"  I  can  never  be  happy  till  I've  cleared 
my  conscience,  and  confessed  the  wrong 
I've  done  him  to  Admiral  TuUamore." 

"  Then  yon're  a  very  foolish  woman,"  he 
said  impatiently.  "Moreover,  what  wrong 
are  you  going  to  confess  to  having  done 
him  1  You  are  sure  to  make  him  a  good 
wife,  and  I'm  sore,  as  a  friend  of  yonr 
former  hnsband'a,  I  shall  thoroughly  ap- 

Erove  of  ^our  choice  from  what  I  have 
eard  of  him." 

"  Let  me  leave  you  now,  and  Uiiitk,"  she 
asked  humbly ;  and  he  opened  the  door  for 
her,  and  courteously  bowed  her  out  of  the 
room. 

She  was  a  coward.  The  majority  of 
women  wonld  have  been  in  such  a  case  as 
hers.  Still,  she  forced  herself  to  dress  as 
Admiral  Tnllamore  liked  to  see  her  dress, 
and  went  down  to  meet  her  guest  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  to  present  him  to  hei 
husband. 


It  seemed  to  her  like  a  dream,  bcm 
which  she  must  awake  with  a  crash  that 
would  stamp  out  her  mind  and  brain,  when 
she  found  herself  seated  at  the  table  pre- 
sently diseounbg  pleaaautly  of  the  proi- 
pecttd  sport  for  the  morrow.  The  game- 
keepers were  to  receive  Admiral  Tullamore's 
strict  commands  that  night  concerning  the 
beat  preserves,  which  were  to  be  shot  over 
by  his  wife's  friend  the  next  day.  The 
beat  horse  in  the  stable  was  to  carry  Mr. 
Whittler  after  the  hounds  the  day  after. 
Indeed,  altogether  Admiral  TuUamore 
catered  so  liberally  and  heartily  for  the 
amusement  of  the  selMnvited  guest,  that 
her  resolution  to  eonfess  her  fault  and  folly 
before  she  slept  faltered  again, 

"  Will  you  bring  me  a  shooting-luncheon 
to-day  1"  Mr.  Whittler  asked  his  hostess  ai 
he  was  about  to  depart  with  the  bead- 
gamekeeper,  a  coupU  of  beaters,  and  a 
brace  of  the  finest  pointers  in  the  south  of 
Ireland. 

"  If  you  wish  it." 

"  The  hoUow  under  Kildale  Wood  will 
be  the  best  place,  me  lady — about  two 
o'clock,"  the  gamekeeper  sufgeeted,  and 
Admiral  TuUamore  cried  out  neartily : 

"  We'll  be  there  to  meet  you  with  soms 
scraps  at  that  time,  Mr.  Whittler.  Mean- 
while, good  sport  to  you ;  mind  yoa  bring 
home  a  good  bag." 

"  There's  no  big  game  to  fill  it  in  this 
country,"  Whittler  Unghed.  Then  he  went 
off  with  a  respectful  salutation  to  Mn 
TuUamore,  leaving  that  lady  with  a  mind 
burdened  with  an  overwhelming  sense  o! 
approaching  calamity. 

The  best  bottle  of  champagne  from  the 
cellar,  the  beet  pigeon-pie  and  cold  game 
that  the  larder  provided,  blether  vril£  the 
other  etceteras  of  a  ahooting-loneheon,  not 
forgetting  some    exceUent  cnra^,  were 

Kiked  appetjaingly  and  deposited  in  Mr?, 
Uamore's  four-wheeled  dog-cart  at  about 
half-paat  one. 

Then  tiie  lady,  feeling  singularly  loth  to 
start  on  the  erpedltlon,  went  to  look  for 
her  husband,  andhemadehoririieelroimd, 
as  a  proud  mother  doee  a  child  in  a  new 
and  becoming  dress,  and  inspected  her 
costume. 

It  was  his  pride  and  pleasure  to  see  her 
looking  well,  and  she  would  so  soon  osase 
to  be  a  source  of  either  to  him,  that  she 
strove  to  gratify  his  taste  to  the  utmost 
this  day. 

Her  dress  of  deep  lapis-laEuU-blue  a^^ 
kilted  to  the   waist    witJi  a  weU-fit(nig 


Khort  jacket  of  the  same,  trimmed  with 
ilirk  brown  far,  fitted  her  like  her  skin, 
and  suited  both  bei  complezioii  aad  figure 
idmir&bly. 

"I  like  women  in  winter  dresses,"  he 
nid  appnmnglf ;  "  mnalina  and  fal-lals  are 
■11  very  well  for  yonn^  girls,  hot  a  woman 
klnys  looka  better  in  ridier  and  more 
sabttuitisl  gear." 

"  I  don't  like  these  ton-gloves  with  the 
deep  blue  dress,  it's  too  mach  of  a  contrast, 
I  ought  to  have  ganta  de  sn6de  the  same 
dude,"  she  said,  trying  to  take  an  interest 
in  hsr  attire  to  please  faim,  for  perhaps  the 
last  time. 

Her  hands  shook  aa  she  gathered  up  the 
reins,  and  the  two  spirited  ponies  had  it 
all  their  own  way  down  the  aveone. 
lAckily  the  gate  was  thrown  open  in  time 
for  than  to  pass  through  with  safety,  as 
die  had  lost  temporary  control  <d  her  little 
deeds.  The  thonght,  "Am  I  destined  to 
tneak  thia  dear  old  man's  neck  by  my 
driving  t"  cut  through  her  brain  like  a 
kDifa  The  shock  it  gave  her  steadied  her 
nerves,  and  with  a  long  and  a  strong  pull 
Bbs  got  bold  of  her  ponies'  heads,  and 
brought  them  back  to  a  fast  but  steady 
trot. 

"That  was  very  like  mnniog  away,  my 
dear,"  he  remarked. 

"  Wasn't  it  1  They're  so  good  generally, 
that  I  Boppose  I  forgot  uiey  nave  the 
power  to  be  naughty," 

"  Your  handB  shook  as  yon  gathered  up 
the  reins,  and  their  moulds  are  very  fine, 
you  mtiBt  remember.  My  dear  one,  you 
nuut  bo  very  careful ;  remember  you  are 
an  old  man'a  love,  and  if  anything  ht^pened 
to  you  tiie  old  man'a  life  would  be  over," 

She  coold  not  look  at  him,  she  coold  not 
answer  bint.  The  blinding  tears  were 
in  her  eyes,  the  oboking  knot  of  strong 
emotion  was  in  her  mroat  She  was 
thuikfol  that  they  were  so  near  the 
trysting-placck 

Kildafe  Hollow,  under  the  great  wood, 
was  later  than  all  the  region  round  in 
changing  its  aatumn  robes  of  golden  fema, 
orange  and  crimson  blackberry -leaves,  and 
wreaths  of  honeysuckle,  still  in  flower, 
for  its  wintry  mantle  of  wither  and  decay. 
The  bright  sunshine  waa  over  it  as  they 
drove  into  it  this  day,  and  she  could  not 
help  crying  out  in  admiration  of  the  glow 
ui  n^nr  that  waa  reflected  upon  the 
foliage  from  the  sun's  rays. 

But  her  cry  of  admiration  changed  into 
s  cry  of  horror  as  she  caaght  sight  of  a 
^^^  men  and  does,  huddled  round  some- 


F£B.  IJannanr  li,  1S84.1      139 

thing  that  lay  prostrate  on  the  ground. 
The  "  biggest "  game  that  can  fall  to  man's 
gnu  had  fallen  that  day.  The  actor  lay 
dead  upon  the  ground,  shot  through  the 
heart  by  his  own  hand. 

And  she  sat  there  a  living  statue  of  in- 
tense snfi'ering,  while  Admiral  Tnllamorc 
gave  brief,  prompt  directions  as  to  what 
should  be  dona  It  was  all  too  awful  for 
the  possibility  of  carrying  on  any  further 
deception  to  linger  in  nor  mind.  But 
while  the  servants  were  present  she  would 
spare  him — the  old  man  who  hadhenonred 
her  80  highly. 

When  they  mored  alowly  away,  a 
ghastly  burden  between  them  on  a  hurdle, 
she  got  oat  of  her  carriage,  and  fell  on  her 
knees  at  his  feet,  and  pl^ded ; 

"  Be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  I " 

"You  a " 

She  pointed  towards  the  sad  little  group 
which  was  moving  slowly  out  of  sight. 

"  He  was  my  husband,"  she  aaif 

CQAFTEK  XXXV.      DOWNHILL, 
In  very  truth  the  situation  was  a  tragic 

Not  for  a  moment  did  Admiral  Tulla- 
more  think  that  his  wife  waa  speaking  the 
truth.  He  believed  that  the  ehock  of  the 
awfal  spectacle  she  had  witnessed  had 
tamed  her  brain,  and  that  her  confession 
was  mere  mad  raving 

So  in  bis  perplexity,  bewilderment,  pity, 
and  grief,  he  first  took  off  his  bat,  scratched 
his  head  to  collect  hia  ideas,  and  then  took 
her  hands  soothingly  and  aS'ectionately, 
still  thinking  that  he  was  dealing  with  one 
whose  mind  was  unstrung. 

"  Yes,  yea,  my  dear,"  be  said  coaxingly, 
"I  know  sil  about  it — all  about  it,  my 
dear.  We'll  go  home  now,  won't  we  I 
And  you  must  let  me  drive  your  ponies  for 
yon  for  once,  while  you  rest" 

"  You  know  all  about  itt "  she  cried, 
aghast  at  the  tolerant  way  in  which  he  waa 
receiving  her  confession. 

"  Yes,  ;es,  and  it's  all  right,  and  veil  go 
away  for  a  little  change  of  air  and  scene," 
he  said,  still  patting  her  hands  soothingly, 
and  praying  that  another  burst  of  dodneaa 
might  not  come  on  before  he  had  got  her 
safely  back  at  Rildene,  under  the  chai^go  of 
her  own  maid. 

The  admiral,  in  fact,  felt  quite  impatient 
of  being  made  to  linger  a  moment  longer 
than  was  necessary  in  the  scene  of  the  late 
ghastly  catastrophe,  Mr.  Whittler'a  awful 
death  was  a  very  aad  and  distressing  thing, 
of  course^     But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 


190     IJmnwrM 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


admiral  could  not  bring  himself  to  foel 
any  violent  emotion  about  it  Ho  had 
witnewed  death  &  hundred  limea — death 
by  Bword  and  bayonet,  and  by  drowning, 
death  when  he  aimed  bis  dart  at  friendB 
&nd  comrades  in  the  battle,  and  on  the 
ocean.  This  man  bad  been  neither 
friend  nor  comrade,  indeed  he  was  merely 
an  acquaintance  of  a  few  hours'  standing. 
It  was  shocking  that  the  fatal  accident 
should  have  occurred  at  all ;  but  it  was 
doubly  shocking  that  it  should  have 
occomd  at  Eudene,  to  the  detriment 
of  Mrs.  Tullamore's  mind. 

They  diove  home  in  sOence,  under  the 
influenee  of  mutual  niannderstanding. 
She  crying  bitterly  in  shame,  and  fear, 
^nd  contrition,  wondering  how  he  conld 
endure  to  sit  quietly  by  her  dde,  and 
take  her  hand  with  such  protecting  tender- 
ness, since  he  "knew  all."  He  thinking 
with  lore  and  pity  that  her  dear, 
womanly,  tender  heart  was  wrung  to 
madness,  Eiace  she  wept  so  bitterly  for  a 
stranger,  merely  becanse  ho  had  been  her 
bad  husband's  friend. 

Some  of  his  American  admirers, who  had 
come  over  to  Earope  in  order  to  witness 
Mr.  'Whittler'a  success  on  the  English 
stage,  came  over  to  Rildene,  and  had  the 
corpse  conveyed  to  London  and  buried 
in  the  Brompton  Cemetery,  and  all  the 
dramatic  talent  in  London  at  the  time 
attended  the  f^eral  to  do  honottr  to  bis 
memory. 

And  all  this  time  his  widow  failed  to 
bring  herself  up  to  die  conrage-point  of 
making  Admiral  TuUamora  comprehend 
the  real  truth. 

But  when  she  read  the  account  of  Mr. 
Whittler's  funeral,  when  she  realised  that 
from  him  she  had  nothing  more  to  dread, 
and  felt  that  it  rested  with  herself  solely 
now  whether  she  should  remain  the 
honoured  mistress  of  Kildene,  or  cast 
herself  out,  poor,  friendless,  and  shattered, 
on  the  wide  world  of  want  and  woe,  a 
better  spirit,  a  bttmbler,  braver  spirit, 
possessed  her;  and  it  made  her  go  to 
Admiral  Tnllamore  with  calmness  and 
coherency  and  tell  him  all  her  pitiful 
story,  and  impress  him  with  the  truth. 

When  she  had  told  him  all — everything, 
nothing  extenuating,  nothing  excusing — 
she  stood  with  downcast  head  waiting  for 
the  verdict 

There  was  silence,  then  at  last  a  sob. 
She  looked  up.  I%e  old  man  was  wiping 
his  eyes  and  blowing  his  noss  vehemently. 
When  he  coold  speak  all  he  said  waa : 


"My  poor,  hardly-treated,  hardly- 
tempted  dear,  you  must  go  off  to  Dublm 
to-day,  and  tomonow  we'll  be  muRied 
over  again,  and  we'll  never  apeak  of  all 
that  has  happened  before  to-day  as  long  as 
we  live." 

But  if  Mr.  Whittler'a  death  brought 
relief  from  davery  which  had  been  worse 
than  death,  and  eventually  peace  and  pros- 
perity to  Mrs.  Tullamore,  it  brought  dis- 
appointment, and  what  he  regarded  as 
min,  upon  Capt«dn  Edgecnmb. 

He  nad,  under  the  influence  of  ihe 
glorioas  Boceess  on  the  stage  for  Jenifer 
which  Mr.  Whittler  had  foretold  so  glow- 
ingly, risMi  from  the  ashes  of  his  despair 
at  her  failure  as  a  lyric  artist,  and  become 
brightly  hopeful  again.  And  now,  all  in  a 
moment,  his  hopes  lay  shattered  and  dead 
at  his  feet  And  he  told  himself  that  he 
was  tied  for  life  to  a  woman  who  didn't 
love  him,  and,  what  was  worse,  who  would 
never  make  any  money  for  him. 

His  temper,  vniet  the  combined  ^- 
cumstances  of  disapp<nntment  and  what 
he  regarded  as  penury,  became  rapidly  one 
of  those  corroding  things  that  cannot  fail 
to  wear  the  freshness  uid  brightness  out 
of  the  best  and  brightest  women's  faearta. 
Jenifer  struggled  on  week  after  week  and 
month  after  month,  trying  to  keep  tiie 
home-atmosph»e  dear,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  give  singing-lessons,  that  she  might 
preserve  something  like  independence.  But 
the  period  was  on  awful  one,  and  she  met 
with  scant  sympathy  in  her  endurance  of  it 
from  anyone  but  her  mother. 

It  was  a  daily  penance  to  Jenifer  to  lee 
Uie  way  in  which  her  husband  permittad 
her  mother  to  feel  that  her  presenoe  in 
their  house  was  a  nuisance  to  him.  Yet, 
when  goaded  into  resentment  by  his  scant 
courtesy  and  ill-concealed  dissatudaction  at 
her  being  there,  Mrs.  Ray  would  pn^KMo 
removing  to  another  home,  he  would  pro- 
test against  the  proposal  as  being  unjoet 
and  injurious  to  hims^f. 

"  If  she  goes,  she  will  take  the  [»ttanee 
she  gives  you  lor  her  maintenance  away 
with  her,  and  I  shidi  be  left  more  in  the 
lurch  than  ever,"  he  wonld  say  to  Jenifer, 
who  always  abstained  from  reminding  him 
that  all  he  contributed  towards  the  botue- 
hold  waa  wax-caadles  and  good  cigara 
The  remnant  tJiat  was  left  to  oim  of  what 
money  he  had  ever  had,  just  soffieed 
to  provide  him  with  these  trifies.  And 
"  Poor  felloir  1  poor,  bitterly-disappdnted 
fellow  1  while  I  can  work  for  the  comnon 
necessaries  of  life,  he  shall  hare  these  pow 


plesBores  d  hia  BtQl,"  Jenifer  would  uy  to 
ueraelf  and  her  mother,  and  old  Mrs.  fiay 
would  oppUad  her  determination,  and 
aeexeHy  weep  over  her  own  mability  to 
give  more  than  her  "all"  to  help  her 
devoted  daughter. 

Bat  there  came  a  time  when  Jei 
caald  not  work.  When  the  toil  of  going 
long  diatances  in  draughty  onmibnaes  to 
give  aingiog-leaaoDB  at  fiye  ahillings  an 
hour  to  daoghters  of  mothers  who  never 
thoogbt  that  the  teacher  of  singing  coold 
ever  be  cold,  weaiy,  or  hongry,  and  ao 
never  offered  bar  either  Inncheon  or  a 
fire,  became  first  painful  and  dangerous, 
and  then  impossible  to  Jenifer.  For  a 
litUe  son  was  bom  to  her,  and  for  his 
ttke  the  toil  and  the  battle  of  her 
onremoQeratiTe  career  had  to  be  given  ap 
for  a  time. 

From  the  day  of  her  child's  birth, 
Jenifer,  though  a  poorer  woman,  was  & 
much  happier  one.  Onoe  again  Captain 
EdgecLunb,  "  for  the  sake  of  the  little  chap 
at  home,"  who  needed  so  many  things, 
b^an  to  feel  that  it  behoved  him  to  do  a 
man's  work  in  the  world.  As  soon  as  he 
developed  this  energy,  an  opportanity  of 
exerdsing  it  was  granted  to  him,  and 
tiioogh  the  stipend  of  this  new  clerkship 
was  miserably  small,  compared  with  that 
ot  the  secretaiyehip  which  he  had  so  in< 
jodicioosly  resigned,  still  Jenifer  onder- 
took  to  make  it  do  "  for  Bo/s  sake,  with 
mother's  help." 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  Edgecamb 
family  jmt  Jenifer's  own  brothers  to  shame 
by  the  amoont  of  attention  shown  to,  and 
interest  displayed  in,  the  little  straggling 
family  at  this  epoch.  Mrs.  Archie  Camp- 
bell made  a  few  spasmodic  attempts  to 
keep  ap  interconrM  with  "  Harry's  wife," 
hat  social  forces  were  against  her.  There 
were  so  many  people  belonging  to  Archie's 
set,  whom  they  were  compelled  to  ask  to 
dine  at  stated  intervale,  that  the  brother 
and  auter-in-law,  who  were  "  out  of  it," 
gradnally  got  forgotten. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  elder  Mrs.  Edge- 
comb  paying  a  ceremonial  visit  to  her  eon 
Harry  s  first-bom — which  she  did  not  do 
antit  that  firat-born  had  blinked  at  the 
world  with  en*]uiriag  grey-hazel  eyes  for 
three  months — her  nerves  had  a  severe 
trial  She  made  that  trial  the  matter  of 
maternal  connael  to  her  son  when  next  she 
law  him. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  Jenifer  doesn't  keep 
a  proper  parloor-maid,"  she  began  patiieti- 
caUv.     "I  was  more   pained  than   I  can 


expresB  by  the  manners  of  that  young 
peraon  who  opened  the  door  to  me  at 
yonr  house  yesterday.  For  a  moment  I 
thought  I  most  be  doing  'parish  work,' 
instead  of  calling  on  the  wife  of  my  own 
son — a  respectaUe  parlonr-maid  is  so  very 
eaaential." 

"Jenifer  seems  to  think  we  can't  afi'ord 
one,  mother,  Euid  indeed  she's  right ;  there 
are  even  now  more  mouths  to  feed  than  I 

"Ah,  such  a  pity  that  yon  t^ew  your- 
self away  as  yon  did,"  his  mother  rejoined 
plaintively ;  "  not  that  I  find  fault  for  one 
moment  with  Jenifer,  only  she  hasn't  the 
faintest  notion  of  management),  or  of 
making  the  best  appearance  possible. 
Why  not  a  parlour-maid  instead  of  that 
very  consequential  nurse  t " 

"Oh,  the  boy  must  have  a  good  nurse," 
the  father  answered  promptly.  He  could 
bear  to  hear  his  wife  found  fault  with, 
but  he  could  not  bear  to  bear  that  hia 
little  Bon  should  "  do  without "  aught  that 
might  conduce  to  his  weaL 

"  Nonsense,  Harry  I  A  girl,  a  decent  girl 
of  twelve  or  fourteen,  can  nurse  the  baby, 
or,  as  Jenifer  is  leading. an  idle  life  now, 
why  can't  she  look  after  it  herself  t  You 
ought  to  insist  apon  her  taking  a  little 
more  labour  on  herself  personally,  and 
having  an  excellent  parlour-maid." 

"  I  can't  insiat  upon  her  doing  anything, 
I  anpp<we,  till  I  can  give  her  the  money  to 
do  it  with,"  he  grumbled.  And  then  his 
mother  su;hed  and  shook  her  head,  and 
said  she  uwavs  had  "  disapproved  of  men 
marrying  girls  who  wanted  to  go  out  in 
the  world  and  make  themscJvsa  con- 
spicnous." 

As  was  only  natural,  Jenifer  had  wanted 
to  have  her  own  brother  Hubert  to  be  one 
of  the  sponsors  for  her  own  firet-bom  son. 
But  circumstancea  had  been  against  her. 
Mrs.  Hubert  Eay  was  celebrating  her  own 
return  to  Moor  Royal  by  a  series  of  well- 
managed  and  well-played  theatrical  enter- 
tainments, and  she  coold  not  spare  Hugh. 

"  Besidea,  it  will  only  be  a  pokey  aort  of 
affair,  the  christenii^,"  she  said  to  her 
sister  Flora ;  "  if  Jetuter  had  the  courage  to 
secure  a  bishop  to  baptise  her  child,  I'd 
even  go  myself  Bnt  to  go  up  to  town 
just  now,  when  Fm  establishing  myself  so 
well  in  die  county,  for  nothing,  would  be 
foUy." 

"  Anyway,  let  Hu^  go,"  Flora  said. 

"  Why  enonld  he  t  Juet  to  be  harassed 
by  the  sight  of  their  impecnnioaity.  No  I 
I  won't  persuade  him  to  so-     He'a  such  an 


ALL  THE  YEAfi  BOUND. 


(JiDWT  ».  UU.1 


■fiecttoData  fellow  that  bs  can't  bear  to 
tkink  of  Ilia  mother  liviDg  in  Iwa  style 
than  she  uaed  to  live  in.  Yet,  as  I  tell 
bim,  he  can't  help  her.  He  has  me  to 
think  of,  and  it's  a  man's  dnty  to  thinb  of 
his  wife  first,  isn't  it.  Flora  1" 

"I  wonder  whether  Csptain  Edgecnmb 
thinks  of  his  wife  first,"  Flora  said  thought- 
foUy. 

"  I  don't  snppoBe  he  does ;  bnt  then, 
that's  just  it,  Jenifer  doesn't  want  people 
to  give  up  evarythiDg  for  her,  and  think  of 
her  before  everybody  else.  So  silly  of  her, 
I  always  think,  especially  in  dealing  with  a 
selfish  fellow  like  Captain  Edgecnmb ;  in 
fact,  it's  wrong.  I  ahonld  have  made  him 
think  much  less  of  himself,  if  I  had  married 
him.     Look  at  Hugh." 

"I  often  look  at  Hugh,  Effie,  and  at  you 
too,  and  do  yon  know  I've  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he's  not  as  weak — yieldingly 
weak,  I  mean — nor  yon  so  selfish  as  yon 
appear.  You  two  '  get  on,'  thank  Heaven  1 " 

"  Thank  Heaven  t"  Effie  echoedso heartily 
that  Mrs.  Jervoise  feared  her  sister  might 
go  on  to  say  : 

"  I  renounce  banting,  and  pretty  dresses, 
my  own  way,  ud  every  other  anare  that 
biu  been  laid  for  me." 

However,  Effie  did  nothing  of  the  sort 
She  only  said  : 

"  If  Hugh  likes  to  go  to  the  christening 
of  Jenifer's  boy  I  won't  say  a  word  againat 
it" 

It  was  unfortunate  that,  when  Hubert, 
after  refusiog,  wrote  to  his  sister  to  say  he 
could  come,  she  had  provided  other  and 
more  ready  sponsors.  Mr,  Boldero  was 
one,  and  two  of  Captain  Edgecumb'a  rela- 
tions the  others,  and  the  bttle  boy  was 
launched  into  the  world  with  the  names  of 
"John  Boldero  Bay"  before  his  snmameof 
"Edgecnmb," 

Down  at  Moor  Boyal  the  ball  was 
rolUng  far  too  fast  Effie,  in  her  praise- 
worthy desire  to  efface  all  memories  of 
oUier  and  inferior  Mrs.  Ravs  who  had 
gone  before  her,  strained  all  her  resources 
too  hard,  and  eventually  cracked  theuL 

It  was  not  that  she  was  ostentatiouE,  or 
absurdly  extiav^ant,  it  was  only  that  abe 
loved  to  look  at  barmoniea  and  the  other 
best  things  this  world  affords.  It  was 
altogether  inconsequent  and  opposed  to  her 
sense  of  the  fitness  of   things  that  the 


TKi  BigM  a/TrmilaNitg  AttMu/rom  Alii  TU  Teu  Bodsd  k  remnti  ty  M«  iliMsn 


misbvas  of  Moor  Boyal  should  not  deal  out 
hospitality  and  pleasure  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood with  a  lavish  hand.  That  was 
all.  And  her  conception  of  the  siiuaticn 
was  correct.  Only  it  was  an  extensive 
one. 

So  difficulties — money  difficul ties— that 
woald  not  let  themselves  be  set  aside  and 
forgotten,  were  perpetoaUy  recorring  at 
Moor  Royal,  and  were  as  perpetually  being 
cleared  away  by  Mrs,  Jervoiae,  whose 
sympathy  and  regard  for  her  deter  were  of 
an  unfailing  sort  that  would  have  gone  fai 
to  redeem  a  much  more  faulty  character 
I  than  Flora's. 

I  And  in  Jack's  household,  at  the  Home 
I  Farm,  &  coarser  style  of  extravagance  p»- 
,  vailed.  Minnie  had  been  a  thrifty  hotue- 
!  keeper  when  she  first  became  Mrs.  Jack 
■  Ray,  but  the  temptations  of  her  new 
I  position  had  soon  grown  too  strong  for 
I  her.  She  was  not  an  idle  woman  by 
!  nature,  but  to  work  with  her  hands  seemed 
to  her  to  be  an  "  unladylike"  thing  to  da 
And  her  head  gave  her  no  occupation. 

So  being  destitute  of  all  mental  re- 
sources, and  disdaining  to  occupy  henalf 
in  any  household  labours,  Mra.  Jack  Ray, 
by  way  of  passing  the  time,  spent  all  the 
money  she  could  lay  her  hands  upon  in  the 
:  purchase  of  finery  for  her  own  wear  at  the 
,  £zet«r  shops ;  and  when  she  could  not  lay 
I  her  handa  on  any  money,  she  had  the 
{  finery  still  by  going  in  debt  for  iU 
<  When  the  three  yeais  expired,  at  the  end 
of  which  the  sealed  letter  containing  the 
late  Mr.  Ray's  last  will  was  to  be  read,  botli 
hia  sons  were  in,  sad  straits  for  want  of 
money,  and  both  of  them  had  alienated 
themselves  entirely  from  theb  mother  and 
sister. 


THE     EXTRA    OHRI8TMA8    NUMBER 

ALL   THE  YEAB  BOUND, 


A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE,' 


WALTER     BESANT 


ay  Go  ogle 


194      [JmlUTls 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


If  then,  six  month*  before  the  period  at 
which  we  have  bow  arrived,  Archie  had 
claimed  her  old  promiie  "to  marry  him, 
when  he  became  a  man,  if  he  asked  her," 
he  would  eerttunly  not  have  met  with  a 
decided  refosal.    He  had  then  Uie  chance 
to  ask  her.     They  met  moet  unexpectedly 
at  the  hooBe   of  a  common  friend,  and 
stayed  togeUter  for  »  week  nnder  the  same 
roof.     And  the  effect  of  the  meeting  npon 
Ida,  if  we  may  betray  her  maiden  thooghta, 
waa  electrical     He  Beemed  to  her  all,  and 
more  than  all,  she  had  pictured  him  in  hei 
imag^ation.     She  never  forgot  the  first 
meeting  with  him  after  all  those  yean  of 
dreaming  upon  him. 
Sittuu  in  m;  window 
I'riDtmK  my  thoughtd  in  lawn,  I  aaw  >  god, 
I  thougSt  (but  it  WM  you),  ontertliose  gftte«  ; 
My  biood  flew  out  >ad  Uuk  agaJQ,  w  fast 
Ah  I  had  puffed  it  forth  uid  sucked  it  iu 
Like  breath  ;  then  waa  I  called  away  in  bule 
To  enlMtJun  you ;  Never  wm  »  man 
Thniet  from  »  aheepcotc  to  a  aoeptre,  rainad 
So  high  in  IhoughtB  u  I.    Yon  left  a  kim 
Upon  tbete  Upa  then,  wUoh  I  msaa  to  keep 
From  yon  (or  ever.    I  did  hear  you  talk 
Far  Aljove  ainging ! 

Bnt  if  Ida  felt,  or  rather  because  she 
felt,  at  this  meeting  all  that  is  expressed  in 
this  exqnWte  passage,  she  stndionaly,  too 
EtndiooBly,  concealed  the  feeling. 
I  find  ahe  loves  him  mnch,  because  aha  hides  it— 
Lova  touches  cunning  even  to  inaocenee ; 
And,  when  he  gets  pooseBBion,  Ma  first  work 
Is  to  dig  deep  within  a  heart,  and  there 
Lis  hid,  and  l^e  a  mUer  in  the  dark, 
To  feast  aloae. 

Now  Archie  also  had  his  prepossesBions 
about  Ida,  and  judged  her  thereby, 
bad  beard — it  was  the  universal  mmonr 
about  the  heiiesa — that  she  was  haughty 
and  heartless,  and  he  seemed  to  find  her  so. 
The  remembrance  of  his  boyish  proposal 
and  of  her  promise,  the  conscioosneu  that 
years  bad  deepened  her  regard  for  him  and 
t  he  fear  that  tney  had  effaced  his  resard  for 
her,  and,  lastly  and  chiefly,  love  itself,  made 
our  reserved  hraoine  more  shy  and  distant 
than  ever.  Thus  Archie,  though  he  too 
felt  his  love  for  her,  which  had  never  died 
oat,  reviva  and  glow,  yet  proudly  kept  the 
distance  at  whi<£  her  priile  seemed  to  keep 
him.  Beddes,  there  la  this  thing  to  be 
remembered  about  the  youth,  that,  whether 
ia  love  or  friendship,  he  must  be  giver,  not 
receiver,  benefactor  not  beneficiary.  A 
gill  mnst  have  many  and  immense  merits 
to  counteibelance  in  his  eyes  the  poBsession 
of  four  thousand  pound^  a  year — an  in- 
conceivable state  ot  miod  to  tboee  who 
forget  that  he  was  very  young  and  that  he 
wa«  the  son  of  a  spendthiinl  Thus  this 
meeting,  of  which  Mrs.  John  had  heard 


with  such  hope  of  the  fnr^eranoe  of  faei 
cherished  soheme,  seemed  to  overset  it 
altogether. 

Yet  let  this  be  noted,  that,  as  the 
preotQusaess  of  all  mortal  things  is  due  to 
their  scardty,  and  of  all  mortal  achievs- 
ments  and  attainments  to  their  difficulty, 
Ida  and  Archie  henoefc^th  thought  mon 
of  each  other's  love-thaQ  if  titey  bad  known 
that  it  was  to  have  been  had  for  the  aakuu. 
But  all  this  time  we  have  left  Ida  stand- 
ing in  the  hall  She  is  little  likely  to  miu 
OS  with  that  crowd  of  worshippers  around 
her,  and  amonc  them  two  vary  high 
bidders — Lord  ^lerdale  and  Ui.  George 
Seville-Sattoa,iM«eMotiDg  respectively  the 
highest  title  and  the  largest  property  in 
the  neighbourhood.  It  was  delubtfol  to 
hear  Mn.  Tuc^  beotate  between  uese  tira 
She  would,  80  to  speak,  first  try  one  and 
then  the  other  (like  a  serviceable  stuff  dress 
and  a  showy  suk  one)  on  Ida,  and  consider 
with  her  head  on  one  side  which  became 
her  best  It  was  no  more  use  for  Ida  than 
for  M.  Joordain  to  protest  that  the  clothes 
didn't  fit  The  conversation  then  took 
the  precise  toni  of  that  in  Le  Bourgeois 
Oenulhomme : 

M.  Jonrdain  :  "  Voos  m'avais  aossi  fait 

Eaire     des    soulieres     qui     me     bleesent 

furieuBement" 

Tailleur :  "  Point  dn  toat,  monsieur." 

M.    Joordun  ^    "  Comment    pmut   du 

toutt" 

Taillenr:   "Non,  ils  ne  voos   bleeeent 
point." 

M.  Jourdain :  "  Je  voos  dis  qa'ils  me 
blessent,  moi" 
Tailleur :  "  Vous  voos  imaginez  cela." 
And  Mrs.  Tuck  also  fell  bi^  invariably 
on  the  triumphant  argument  (d  the  tailor 
— that  it  was  not  likdy  that  ^e,  who  liad 
been  fitting  folk  (or  m^Mb-making)  all  her 
life,  sbooldnot  know  beet  whether  the  shoe 
pinched  Ida  or  not.  Nevertheless  Ida,  witil 
the  headstrong  d(^;matism  oS  youth,  main- 
tained that  neither  of  these  eentleatan 
salted  her.  Lord  Ellerdale  coold  talk  of 
nothing  but  shooting,  and  Mr.  Seville- 
Satton  could  talk  of  nothing  at  all.  But, 
of  the  two,  Ida  held  bis  lortuhip  to  be  the 
leaflt  insufferable.  Mr.  Sevillo-Sutton  waa 
the  merest  automaton  of  propriety.  He 
seemed  to  regard  himself — as  concerns  this 
matter  of  periect  gentlem&nly  propriety — 
something  in  the  light  of  a  great  town- 
ball  clock,  from  which  all  the  little  wab^sa 
the  countryside  were  to  take  their  time. 
Therefore  it  behoved  hmt  to  be  always 
right    to    the    second.       Hence    he    WW 


A  DEAWN  GAMR 


I  JuniUT  l«.  UH-l     195 


"tedious  aa  a  king"— all  ceremony — and 
to-night  he  "  bestowed  all  his  tediooBiieas  " 
on  Ida 

He  now  leads  her  from  the  hall  for  the 
next  dance,  a  waltz,  which  he  dances 
moat  majestically  in  the  short  and  few  in- 
tenrala  between  oollieions ;  for  as  the  little 
nt^es  present  do  not  take  their  time  from 
him.Ida  ie  knocked  abontlike  a  billiard-ball, 
and  ii  glad  at  last  to  be  shot  into  a  comer 
as  into  a  pocket  Here  Mr.  Seville-Sutton 
ipologisea  for  the  awkwardness  of  the 
othera.  If  he  jostled  a  planet  he  would 
fed  aggrieved  by  its  trespass  on  his  orbit. 
HsTiDg  said  a  severe  something  about  "  bad 
lonn,"  he  asked  for  the  third  time  to-night 
after  Mr.  Tuck's  health.  Mr.  Tuck,  by 
the  way,  never  now  pats  in  an  appearance 
on  these  festive  occanons.  He  retires  to 
s  distant  wing  of  The  Keep,  to  a  chamber 
"deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light,"  and  is 
there  coddled  at  intervals  by  Mrs.  Tuck. 
Ida  for  the  third  time  replies  that  "Mr. 
Tuck  is  not  so  well,  thank  yoa,"  and  Mr. 
SevtUe-Satton,  eocooiaged  by  the  hope  of 
the  immediate  poesession  of  four  thousand 
pounds  a  year,  and  flurried  by  the  fear  of 
Lord  EU^ale  anticipating  him,  tries  for 
the  third  time  to  make  np  his  mind  to 
pTopoeetoher.  Hehad,'tiBtrue,somedoubt8 
about  the  propriety  of  propoui^  for  her  in 
har  own  boose,  but,  after  all,  ordy  arefusal 
would  have  made  this  awkward,  and  the 
refusal  of  Mr.  0«orge  Seville-Sutton  was 
a  contingency  not  worth  taking  into 
ctloulation. 

"  There  is  a  map  of  Mr.  Tuck's  property, 
HissLnard,  which  I  am  anxious  to  aee  and 
which  Mr.  Tuck  was  so  good  as  to  say  I 
might  see  on  my  next  visit  to  The  Keepi 
Do  yoo  think  I  might  take  the  liberty 
of  ^aneii^  at  it  to-night  1  Only  a 
littie  matter  of  bonnduies  between  his 
pnqierty  and  mine  that  I  wished  to  look 
into,"  with  a  slight  shrug  expressive  of  the 
infinitesimal  importanoe  of  a  square  mile  or 
two,  more  or  less,  of  land  to  him. 

In  tindi,  Mr.  Seville-Sutton  made  this 
request  with  the  object  of  getting  Ida  to 
himself  in  the  library,  where  the  map  was, 
sod  where  the  sight  of  the  broad  acres 
marked  on  it  might  decide  him  to  propoaa 
For  Mr.  SevUlei^utton,  thoogh  a  young 
niau,  was,  as  most  men  are,  avaricious  in 
proportion  to  his  riches.  Ida  led  the  way 
to  the  library,  without  the  least  suspicion 
of  what  might  he  in  store  for  her.  This 
qaeatioa  of  the  boundaries  between  the 
tvo  eetotes  had  of  late  been  the  one  burden 
of  Jdr.  TotAi's   convetBation,  who  dwelt 


4= 


always  with  tedious  iteration  on  any  topic 
bearing  upon  his  pecuniary  interests.  So 
Ida,  thinlung  Mr.  Seville -Sutton's  request 
very  natnral  and  innocent,  led  the  way  to 
the  library  with  a  heart  lightened  by  the 
hope  that  she  might  rid  herself  then  of  a 
portentona  bore. 

She  soon  found  the  map,  and  spread  it 
on  a  table  in  a  recess  between  two  book- 
cases. "Yes,  this  isit,  Mr.SeviUe-Satton," 
she  said,  and  turned  to  go. 

Therefore  Mr.  Seville  Sutton  had  to 
make  his  mind  np  in  a  moment  with  what, 
for  him,  was  headlong  precipitation. 

"Thank  you — thank  you.  Pardon  me. 
Pray  don't  go.  Miss  Luard — one  moment." 

l^ese  breathless  sentencea  were  as 
startling  from  him  as  tbe  sadden  shying  of 
a  hearse-horae ;  bat  soon  recovering  mm- 
self,  he  fell  back  into  his  proper  proces- 
sional pace. 

"  Mise  Luard,"  he ,  said,  with  the 
imposing  air  of  a  bishop  presenting  a 
Sunday-school  girl  with  a  first  prize; 
"  Miss  Luard,  may  I  venture  to  hope 
that  my  attentions  have  not  been — ah — 
unmarked,  and  have  not  been  unwelcome 
to  you  1 "  Here,  before  Ida  could  recover 
herself,  he  advanced  a  step  from  the  recess, 
to  be  ready  at  the  proper  moment  to  take 
her  band.  "  I  have  long  been  hoping  for 
this  opportunity  to  ofTer  yon  my  band  and 
to  ask  for  yours." 

Here  was  the  cue  for  taking  her  hand, 
bat,  just  as  he  took  it,  be  dropped  it  at 
the  Bound  of  a  quick  foot  at  the  door, 
and  stepped  back  instinctively  into  the 
recess. 

It  was  Lord  Ellerdale,  to  whom  Ida  was 
engi^ed  for  the  next  dance. 

"  Oh,  Misa  Luard,  here  yon  are !  I've 
been  looking  all  over  the  place  for  yoa 
Booked  to  me,  you  know,  tor  this  galop. 
I  believe  you  Ud  here  to  shirk  me.  Now 
didn't  yoo — eht" 

"  Indeed  no ;  I  was  just  coming  out." 

Ida,  as  she  said  this,  looked,  as  she  well 
might,  confused  and  embarrassed,  and 
this  confusion  and  embarrasfiment  sng- 
geated  a  bright  idea  to  his  lordship,  who 
was  not  without  the  vanity  of  youth, 
blown  into  fall  bloom  by  the  flatterers  of 
his  rank  He  bad  been  told  often  enough 
that  Ida  was  his  for  the  asking,  and  he  had 
too  good  an  opinion  of  himself  and  of  her 
to  doubt  it. 

Her  conscious  and  confused  manner, 
therefore,  suggested  to  htm  the  bright  iden 
that  she  had  ud  herself  here  with  a  view 
to  a  tite-^tite  with  him  when'  he  sought 


196 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


ber  out  for  the  dance.  Else,  why  should 
she  be,  jost  then,  alone  io  the  Ubniy,  of 
all  places! 

Now,  Ida  had  looked  lovely  all  the  even- 
ing, aad  ahe  was  looking  moet  lovely  of  all 
at  this  moment ;  and  though  her  channa 
might  not  have  turned  the  scale  which  her 
fortune  had  already  weighted  even,  her 
appreciation  of  bis  charms,  expressed 
through  these  tell  -  tale  and  becoming 
blushes,  did. 

Why  not  propose  now )  He  would 
never  get  a  better  chance,  or  find  himseU 
and  her  in  a  better  mood. 

"  No,  yon  needn't  come.  Til  give  np  the 
galop  if  yon'll  nve  me  something  else 
instead.  Miss  Loard — Ida — yon  Imow 
what  that  is,"  taking  the  hand  his  rival 
had  jnst  dropped. 

Here's  a  sitoation  for  you  !  Two  pro- 
posals in  two  minates  by  two  rivals  within 
two  paces  ef  each  other ! 

Bnt  before  Ida  could  think  of  the  most 
delicate  way  of  rejecting  one  suitor  within 
earshot  of  another,  Abe.  Tuck  came  to 
the  rescue,  calling  out  "  Ida,"  as  she  made 
for  the  library  to  look  for  her. 

Ida,  thinung  it  beat  to  intercept  her 
before  she  entered  to  add  to  Uie  complica- 
tion, said  hurriedly,  in  horrible  confusion, 
"  Mra  Tuck  wants  me,  my  lord,"  and  was 
gone. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  best  way  out  of  it. 
Any  way,  Ida  had  not  the  presence  of  mind 
to  think  of  a  bettor. 

His  lordship  waited  onttl  Mrs.  Tnck 
must  have  been  well  out  of  his  way,  then 
he  made  for  the  door,  but  stopped  half- 
way, arrested  by  the  thought  that  it  was  just 
possible  that  Ida  m^htretum  to  accept  him. 
He  was  sure  she  would  accept  him,  but  he 
was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  was  tJie  kind 
of  girl  to  return  coolly  to  hear  his  proposal 
out. 

Still,  it  was  just  possible,  and  he  would 
wait  a  minuto  or  two  longer,  if  only  to 
recover  from  his  agitadon.  For  his  lord- 
ship's heart  beat  like  a  watch,  and  not 
with  the  stately  clock-movement  of  Mr. 
Seville-Sutton'a 

In  case  of  the  entrance  of  any  other 
than  Ida,  he  thought  it  best  to  account  for 
his  presence  there  by  taking  a  book,  acd 
in  looking  for  a  book  he  found  Mr.  Serville- 
Sutton. 

"  Sutton  ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  then,  see- 
ing it  all,  as  he  thought,  in  a  moment,  he 
faltered,  "Miss  Luara  has— has  accepted 
youl" 

Mi.  SeviUe-Satton  bad  never  in  his 


been  taken  so  aback ;  Devertheleas,  he  was 
still  able  to  say  in  his  buckram  mannw, 
vrith  an  assenting  bow : 

"  I  had  juat  proposed  for  her." 

He  almost  believed  that  Ida  had  tacitly 
accepted  him,  and  he  fully  believed  that 
she  would  have  explicitly  accepted  him 
but  for  Lord  EUerdsle's  untoward  inter 
ruption.  Still,  he  was  glad  to  prevent,  by 
that  assenting  bow,  bis  rival's  putting  h«c 
constancy  to  the  test  of  farther  pursuit  by 
him.  This  keen  competition  put  ha  hand 
at  a  premium  in  his  eyes. 

Lord  EUerdale  grew  white  with  rage, 
ftarions  with  himself,  with  Ida,  and  most  of 
all  with  Mr.  Seville-Satton. 

"  Why  hide  there  unless  for  eaves- 
dropping 1    I  took  you  for  a  gentlemaa" 

This  to  Mr.  Geoi^e  Seville^uUon ! 
Hence  that  deadly  duel,  at  which  the 
county  stood  aghast — fought,  not  in  Bel- 
gium, but  at  the  hustings,  whereby  the 
great  Conservative  party  was  split  in  two, 
and  a  Radical  soap-boiler  from  Sirmingham 
was  returned  at  the  head  of  the  poll  I 
Unspeakable  I  Bat  we  do  not  aspire  to 
deal  with  these  high  matters. 

Lord  EUerdale,  having  shot  the  fiei? 
dart  which  kindled  this  world-wastine  con- 
fiagration,  left  the  libnuy  and  the  honae 
in  deadly  dudgeon.  If  he  had  waited  five 
minutes,  Mr.  Seville-Sutton  might  have 
made  a  retort,  but  his  vast  mind  moved 
slowly,  and  it  was  not  until  four  montha 
Later  Uiat  he  resolved  to  shake  society  Co 
its  base  by  the  practical  retort  of  opposing 
Lord  Elludale's  re-election.  For  the  pre- 
sent he  would  stay  his  thirst  for  revenge 
by  making  absolutely  sure  of  Ida.  Thu, 
however,  was  not  so  easy.  He  could  not 
get  her  to  himself  again,  and  was  fain  to 
be  content  with  pressing  her  hand  in 
taking  his  leave,  and  promising,  in  a  voice 
markedly  subdued,  to  do  mmself  the 
bcmosr  of  calling  upon  her  to-morrow. 

Meanwhile,  Mn.  Tnck  was  in  a  atale  of 
distraction  at  the  sudden,  rude,  nnaccoont- 
aUe  disappearance  of  Lord  Elleidale. 
Where  had  ne  gonel  Why  had  he  gonel 
His  lordship,  of  all  people,  the  observed  of 
all  observers — who  was  to  have  taken  her 
ia  to  supper,  too  I  It  was  disastrous.  For 
Mrei  Tuck  worshipped  rank  with  more 
than  Philistine  fervour.  For  the  rest  of 
the  evening,  until  the  last  guest  had 
departed,  she  went  adrift  as  a  ship  that  bu 
had  its  rudder  wrenched  away;  drivM 
hither  and  thither,  and  letting  1big0  g" 
as  they  would  —  which  was  very  tHi|*  | 
ber,  as  she  took  pleasure  in   arravgi) 


^ 


A  DRAWN  GAMR 


[JmuMjio,  lasij    197 


eretrthing  for  everyone,  from  a  waits  to  a 

Nor  wu  she  the  lass  discompoBed  because 
ihe  nupected  the  bntb,  or  what  was 
TeiT  near  the  truth — that  Ida  had  refused 
bis  lordship,  who  had  taken  bis  refusal  after 
tbfl  manner  of  a-petted  and  petulant  boy. 

No  sooner,  then,  were  she  and  Ida  left 
ilone  in  the  deserted  banquet-ball  than  she 
i{iproadkod  the  subject  with  the  indirect- 
Bess  which  had  become  an  instinct  with  her. 
She  was  rather  afraid  of  Ida,  in  the  waj  in 
which  talluttve  and  insincere  people  are 
sfriid  of  sincere  and  silent  people.  She 
r^arded  the  eirl  as  her  creation,  taking 
ciMit  to  herse^  not  only  for  ber  prospects, 
bnt  for  her  "style,"  and  almost  for  ber 
beaaty ;  yet  she  stood  in  a  kind  of  awe  of 
her,  and  was  never  so  insincere  with  her, 
or  wiUi  others  in  her  presence,  as  was  her 
vent 

Ida,  on  her  side,  did  not  see  tbroogh 
Ibt.  Tuck  at  all,  as  that  good  lady  feared. 
Her  cold,  andemonstrative,  and  seemingly 
critical  manner  was  mare  manner,  and 
really  hid  a  warmth  and  depth  of  heart, 
ud  espedally  of  affection  for  Mrs.  Tuck, 
which  the  latter  hardly  suspected.  A  year 
nnce,  indeed,  when  Abw-TTuck  was  dan- 
gsrously  Ql  for  six  weeks,  Ida  had  the 
chance,  of  which  she  made  the  most,  of 
expressiuK  her  love  and  gratitude.  She 
would  aOow  no  one  else  to  nurse  the 
patient,  and  no  one  else  coold  have  nursed 
ner  with  snch  tender  and  untiring  devo- 
tion. In  fact,  she  nursed  Mrs.  Tuck  as 
(he  had  been  uaed  to  nurse  her  mother, 
and  as  a  mother  would  nurse  her  dck  child, 
with  an  atter  self-foreetfalness,  and  in  a 
soothing,  coaxing,  pettmg  way  that  might 
have  moved  Mis.  Tuck  to  laughter  if  it 
bad  not  moved  her  to  tears.  For  the  kind- 
hearted  woman  was  immensely  smprised 
ud  touched  by  the  motherly  devotion  of 
the  girl ;  and  this  devotion  made  an  im- 
portant practical  change  in  Mrs.  Tuck's 
plans — a  change  which  we  are  in  order  in 
mentioning  here.  She  had  meant  the 
hdress  for  one  of  her  own  needy  kindred 
—a  gentleman  who,  in  her  opinion,  bad  ail 
the  virtues  except  that  of  a  fortune  or  of  a 
title.  But  with  Mrs.  Tuck  a  fortune  or  a 
title  oatweighed  all  other  virtoes,  and  with 
theae,  therefore,  Ida  was  to  be  rewarded 
(or  her  devotion  to  her  benefactress  in  her 
illness,  and  the  needy  Admirable  Crichton 
wu  sacrificed  with  a  sigh.  It  is  true  Mrs, 
Tuck  thought  something  of  her  own  inte- 
rests in  the  matter,  of  the  reflected  glory 
die  would  eniov  from  such  an  alliance :  but 


she  yras  thinking  most  of  Ida's  apotheosis. 
"Sic  itur  ad  astis."  Nevertheless,  here 
was  the  infatuated  girl  tunuBg  her  back 
upon  the  path  of  glory. 

"  I  think  eveiythuig  went  well,  Ida," 
making  for  her  object  as  a  hawk  for  its 
quarry,  by  whaehng  round  above  it  in 
narrowii^  circles  before  it  drops  upon  IL 

"Yes,"  said  Ida  absently. 

"I  couldn't  get  partners  for  everybody, 
you  know,"  in  a  querulously  defensive  tone, 
as  thongh  Ida  were  complainhig  of  her 
neglect  of  duty  in  this  respect,  "  There 
was  that  Miss  Pratt,  no  one  would  dance 
with  her  a  second  time  or  a  second  toand. 
Lord  Ellerdale  said  she  was  '  too  hard  In 
the  month'  He  didn't  find  you  '  hard  in 
ths  mouth,*  my  dear.  He  danced  with  yoo 
often  enongb." 

Ida  was  stUI  sUent,  but  not  now  absent. 
She  looked  enconragii^y  conscious. 

"I  think  he  enjoyed  himself  irt>Qe  he 
stayed,  thongh  he  didn't  stay  long.  Had 
he  another  engagement  t " 

"No — I  dont  Know,"  stammered  Ida. 

"But  didn't  he  make  any  excuse  for 

Sing  so  soon  when  he  bid  you  good-night, 
at" 

"  He  didn't  bid  me  good-night," 

"No  I  Most  extraordinary  1  I  thought 
I  might  have  been  out  of  the  way,  attendug 
to  my  poor  dear  husband,  and  tiiat  be  must 
have  made  his  excuses  to  you.  Did  he 
say  nothing  to  yon,  dear,  before  be  went  t " 

Ida  was  still  silent  She  felt  it  to  be  her 
duty  to  tell  the  whole  affair  to  Mrs.  Tack, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  had  to  struggle 
at  once  against  ber  natural  reserve,  and 
agunst  a  aenae  that  she  had  no  right  to  part 
with  a  secret  in  which  others  had  a  greater 
share  than  herself. 

"  My  dear,"  resumed  Mrs.  Tuck,  reading 
the  gu'l's  distressed  face — "my  dear,  I 
don't  want  to  pry  into  your  secrets— it 
isn't  as  if  I  were  your  mother,  or  had  any 
claim  on  you,  thongh  I  can't  help  feeling 
like  a  mother  towanls  you." 

This  was  the  right  chord,  as  Mrs.  Tack 
well  knew. 

"You've  been  a  mother  to  me,  Mrs. 
Tack,  and  there  are  no  secrets  of  my  own 
that  I  would  keep  from  you ;  but  there  are 
others — not  that  you  would  mention  it 
again." 

"  Is  it  likely  1 "  burst  in  Mrs.  Tuck,  not 
angry,  but  grieved. 

Well,  it  was  likely,  but  Ida  did  not  think 
so,  and  therefore  she  told  the  whole  affair 
to  the  excited,  amazed,  amosed,  a;id  dis- 
appointed Mrs.  Tuck. 


JsQuary  N,  1831.1 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


"  He  must  have  fonnd  the  other  there," 
exclaimed  she  after  she  had  recovered  her 
breath. 

"I'm  afraid  ao." 

"Z  should  like  to  have  Been  the  Don's 
face." 

"The  Don"  was  Mrs.  Tack'a  nickname 
for  Mr.  Sevilte-Sntton,  though  ahe  had 
never  before  used  it  to  Ida.  Now  it  slipped 
oat  natnrallf  and  almost  necaasaril;,  as 
Mrs.  Tnok  tried  to  picture  the  Don  discom- 
posed— ft  feat  not  possible  even  to  her  lively 
imaranatjon. 

"Dear  1  he  most  have  looked  like  an  owl 
at  a  fire.  But  which  were  you  going  to 
accept,  Ida  t "  lecalliog  her  rtotooa  imagi- 
nation with  an  effort  to  the  serioae  side 
of  the  bnsinesa ;  "  Mr.  Seville-Satton  t " 

"  I  don't  care  in  the  least  for  him,"  with 
a  shadder,  wbether  caused  by  a  chUl  after 
dancing,  or  by  the  'presentation  to  her 
mind's  eye  of  tbia  Icy  suitor. 

Mrs.  Tack  rose  to  put  a  shawl  round  the 
girl's  shoulders,  saying,  as  she  did  so : 
,  "  You're  so  warm,  child,  youll  catch  oold 
if  you  don't  mind,"  and  then,  as  she 
resamed  her  seat,  die  added  the  moral: 
' '  Lore  is  like  that,  my  dear ;  if  yon  begin 
too  warm,  you're  sure  to  catch  cold  after- 
wards. If  I'd  been  as  passionately  in  love 
with  my  poor  dear  husband  as  you  girls 
think  yon  ought  to  be,  we  should  never 
have  been  as  happy  together  as  we  have 
been — never.  But  I  didn't  let  my  feelings 
run  away  with  me — I  let  him,"  she  addM 
with  a  langb,  the  pun  being  irresiBtible. 

"  Did  Mr.  Tuck  run  away  with  youT "  cried 
Ida,  amazed,  as  well  she  might  be.  The  idea 
of  Mr.  Tuck's  so  far  forgetting  himself — in  all 
senses  of  the  phrase— was  not  conceivabla 

"  He  couldn  t  nm  away,"  said  Mrs.  Tack, 
with  unintentional  truth,  for  in  this, 
indeed,  lay  the  secret  of  their  union ;  "  he 
was  laid  up  at  the  time  with  a  sprained 
ankle,  but  he  persuaded  me  into  a  private 
marriage,  my  dear,  and  we've  been  very 
hapOT  tcwether," 

"But  m  didn't  mairy  you  for  yout 
fortune  t " 

"Indeed  then,  my  dear,  he  did  not,  for 
there  was  little  of  that  same  to  fall  in  love 
with.  !Not  that  he'd  have  liked  me  the 
less,"  she  contanued,  seeing  the  drift  of  the 
girl's  thongfats,  "  if  I  had  brought  him  a 
few  thousand  pounds.  It's  a  fine  thing 
for  a  girl,  Ida,  to  owe  the  man  she  marries 
nothing," 

"  Not  love  even  1 " 

"  ^e  doesn't  owe  that  if  she  gives  as 
much  as  she  gets." 


"  No,  not  if  there's  no  love  lost  between 
them,"  said  Ida  with  soma  bitterness, 
"Mr.  Seville-Sutton  and  I  would  be  quits." 

"  Now,  Ida,  you  know  as  well  as  I  that 
neither  !Mr.  Seville-Satton  or  Lord  Eller- 
dale  would  marry  you  merely  for  yonr 
prospects.  Do  you  think"  either  of  them 
would  marry  Miss  Pratt  if  she  had  three  or 
four  thousand  pounds  a  year  in  prospect  T " 

"  I  know  neither  of  them  would  think  of 
me  if  I  hadn't" 

"  I  don't  know  that  at  all,  my  dear.  I 
was  watching  Mr,  SevillfrSutton  this 
evening,  when  he  thought  no  one  was 
looking,'  and  I'm  sure  the  way  he  g&sed  at 

you "  leaving  an  eloquent  apoeiopeais 

which  Ida  filled  in : 

"  Lifce  an  owl  at  a  mouse,"  smiling  as  she 
used  Mrs.  Tuck's  own  description  of  Mr. 
Seville-Sutton,  "Besides,  if  be  did  care 
for  me  I  should  owe  Um  nothing,  (or  I 
never  could  care  for  him." 

Mrs.  Tuck  had  learned  to  translate  Ida's 
language  into  her  own  by  changing  ever; 
positive  into  a  snperUtive  ana  libendly 
supplying  every  bald  sentence  with  inten- 
sive verbs,  adverbs,  and  prepositions.  Ida's 
protesting,  "  I  never  could  care  for  him," 
was  equivalent  to  most  ^la  protesting, 
"  I  cannot  endure  him."  So  she  fitted  the 
other  string  to  her  bow. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  there's  Lord  EUerdalo." 

"  I  don't  think  there  is,  Mrs.  Tuck." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear ;  when  he  finds 
you've  refused  Mr.  Seville-Satton — if  you 
must  reiiiBe  him — ^he'll  come  back  fast 
enoi^h.     A  girl  with  your  prospects-^ — " 

"  Oh  dear,  I  wish  I'd  no  prospects  1 "  an 
outburst  of  profanity,  whi«m  coming  from 
so  reserved  a  girl  took  Mra.  Tncfs  breath 
away. 

"  My  dear  Ida ! " 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Tuck,  I  mean  I  should  like 
to  be  sure  I  was  chosen  for  myself  and  not 
for  my  prospects.  Besides,  I  don't  care  for 
Lord  £IIeraale  either.  If  I  married  him  I 
shouldn't  be  happv,  and  I  shouldn't  make 
him  happy.  He  d  find  only  a  deatti's  head 
in  the  golden  casket." 

Mrs.  Tack  sat  up  for  another  half-houi 
to  persnade  the  obstinate  gid  that  this 
shoe  at  least  did  not  pinch,  and  conld  not 
pinch,  but  fitted  to  p^eotioa 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  SYNAGOGIIE 

Among  the  many  superatitiona  of 
mediseval  Judaism  which  survive  in  old- 
fashioned  Jewish  commanitiee,  one  of  the 
most  inveterate  is    the  belief   that   the 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  SYNAGOGUE. 


■fsagogae  is  a  meeting-place  for  the  dead 
u  well  u  for  the  living.  Yoor  thoroughly 
orthodox  and  thoroagUf  couBerrative  Jaw 
—ta  iudividiul  common  enough  in  Eastern 
Eacofe,  and  by  no  means  ao  rare  id 
Eogland  as  manT  may  imagine — is  firmly 
OMiTinoed  that  tite  "  shool,"  aa  the  house 
of  worship  IB  familiarly  designated,  is 
ragolarly  beqaented  by  tiie  "  meUim  "  or 
departed  members  of  the  congregation, 
who  assemble  there  for  the  purpose  of 
pnyer  and  study,  just  as  they  did  while 
tSm  The  notion,  m  all  probability,  dates 
from  very  ancient  times,  for  a  curious 
legend  of  the  Medrash  records  how  one  of 
the  rabbins  of  old  tried  to  f  oree  his  way 
into  the  cave  of  Macpelah — where  the 
patriarchs  are  fabled  to  have  had  a 
aynagogne  of  their  own — but  was  stopped 
by  Bliezer  of  Damascus,  the  steward  of 
Abraham,  who  said  his  master  was  engaged 
in  pra-jer,  and  could  not,  withoat  danger, 
be  disturbed.  Be  that,  however,  as  it  may, 
no  orthodox  Israelite  under  any  clrcum- 
ataoces  erer  enters  or  attempts  to  enter  a 
sfnagogoe,  without  giving  three  pre- 
liminary l^ocks  at  the  door,  in  order  to 
warn  the  dead  of  the  approach  of  a  living 
co-religionist,  and  thus  afford  them  time  to 
vanish  ere  anyone  disturb  them.  Unlucky 
is  he  accounted  who  ventures  to  iutrude 
withoat  BO  doing ;  and  thrice  uilucky  ts  he 
deemed,  who  should,  peradventore,  look 
nitii  mortal  eye  upon  the  "meisim"  or 
coogr^ants  from  the  grava 

'aia  cuiioas  superatttion  has — as  may  be 
imagined — given  rise  to  quite  a  crop  of 
strange  stories  and  weird  legends.  And, 
oddly  enoogh,  these  are  invariably  con- 
nected with,  OF  said  to  be  connected  with, 
certun  practices  of  observant  and  orthodox 
Inaehtea.  In  Bussia,  Poland,  and  Galicia, 
for  instance,  no  female  ever  enters  a 
Bynagogne  alone,  and  the  gossips  of  the 
Jadea-viortel,  or  Jewish  quarter,  explain 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  this.  They 
tell  how,  many,  many  years  ^o,  the 
"  Babbebsen  " — the  chief  rabbin's  wife, 
that  is — of  Slaozk,  rose  early  one  morning 
io  autumn,  and  started  for  the  synagogue 
befora  daybreak — as  is  the  wont  of  all 
old-fashioned  Jews — m  order  to  attend  the 
piopitiatory  services  held  during  the  week 
that  intervenes  between  the  new  year  and 
the  Day  of  Atonement ;  how  the  wind  blow 
out  the  candle  in  the  lanthoni  she  carried ; 
ud  how,  on  entering  the  synagogue,  she 
was  surprised  to  find  the  place  ut  up,  and 
the  men's  seats  below  filled  with  devout 
woisbippers.     And  then,  requiring  a  light, 


she  called  to  the  attendant  downstairs  to 
bring  her  one ;  when,  lo  and  behold !  a 
hand  was  stretched  up  from  beneath  the 
gallery,  a  mysterious  and  ghostly  band, 
teaching  forty  feet  up ;  and  19  this  hand 
was  the  light  for  which  she  had  asked. 
Two  hours  afterwards  she  was  found  by  the 
living  worshippers,  who  came  later^  in- 
sensible upon  the  fioor.  And  to  the  end 
of  her  days,  runs  the  txadition,  ahe  was 
blind,  she  who  had  inadvertently  looked 
upon  the  dead.  To  this  day,  no  Jewess 
enters  a  synagogue  by  berselC  If  alone 
when  she  reaches  the  "shool,"  she 
remains  outside  natil  one  of  tite  male 
members  of  the  congrenition  arrives. 
When  he  has  passed  in,  tbea,  and  then 
alone,  will  she  follow  him  into  the  sacred 
edifice. 

Stranger  even  than  the  foregoing,  is  the 
legend  of  the  LeviteofHoroduo — a  fantastic 
narrative  carefuUy  handed  down  from  the 
middle  ages.  Late  one  dark  winter's  night 
the  Chief  Eabbi  of  Horodao  had  been 
Bitting  with  his  fovonrite  pupil,  young 
Eliah,  the  Levite,  in  the  stuffy  "Bes 
medrash,"  or  college  adjoining  the 
syn^ogue.  It  was  time  to  cease  study, 
and  with  many  a  blessing  the  disciple  was 
dismissed.  His  way  home  lay  past  the 
house  of  prayer.  As  he  went  by,  he 
noticed,  with  amazement,  that  the  edi^ce 
was  lighted  up  withio.  Instead  of  passing 
on  with  head  averted,  he  went  up  close  to 
the  windows,  as  he  should  not  have  done, 
and  peered  in.  The  "shool"  was  full; 
cram  full  of  worshippers,  full  of  "  meisim," 
dead  ones,  congregants  from  the  grave,  all 
engaged  in  prayer.  The  reader's  platform 
was  occupied  by  the  precentor — just  as 
among  the  living — and  the  Scroll  of  the 
Law  was  open  on  the  reading-deak  in 
front  of  him.  As  the  Levite  listened  he 
heard  the  solemn  monotone  of  the  minister 
as  he  chaunted  the  portion  of  the  week. 
Then,  to  his  horror  and  astonishment,  his 
own  name  was  called,  called  to  the  reading 
of  the  Law,  a  summons  no  Jew  dare  dis- 
regard. Could  he  disobey  the  call  1  And 
yet,  to  enter  at  midnight  alone  among  a 
congregation  of  the  dead  I  He  would 
consult  his  master.  Rushing  back  to  the 
college,  be  hastily  recount^  the  circum- 
stance to  the  rabbin.  "  Go  in,  m^  son," 
wss  the  advice  of  the  teacher,  "go  in,  and 
walk  carefully  along  the  aisle  so  that  yea 
.touch  none  af  the  dead;  ascend  the  plat- 
form, take  your  place  by  the  reader's  side, 
recite  the  customary  bleosings,  hear  the 
portion  for  the    Levite   read,  and  then 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


depart  c&refdlly  as  befoTBt-  Bat  of  one 
thiBK  beware  1  Do  not  deacend  from  the 
platform  on  the  same  aide  as  yoa  uoend. 
Go  up  hj  the  stairs  on  the  one  hand,  hot 
go  down  by  the  steps  on  the  other." 
Trembling  with  fear,  the  young  man 
returned  to  the  synagogue ;  trembUng,  he 
entered  among  the  dead.  Carefully  he 
passed  the  "meiaim"  without  tonching 
them,  asoended  the  reading  -  platform, 
recited  the  benediction,  heard  the  portion 
of  the  Pentateuch  read,  repeated  tbesecond 
benediction,  and  then  turned  to  descend. 
But,  in  his  terror  and  haste,  he  forgot  the 
master's  injnnctions.  He  went  down  on 
the  same  side  as  he  ascended,  and — fell 
dead  upon  the  floor  ere  he  reached  the 
bottom.  And  to  this  day,  just  as  it  is 
cuHtomaty  to  knock  three  times  before 
entering  a  synagogue,  out  of  regard  for  the 
dead  who  may  be  within,  so  is  it  customary 
never  to  look  back  into  tbe  honse  of 
prayer  when  tearing  it,  or  passing  by 
ontsida  An  orthodox  Israelite  woold  no 
more  look  behind  him  when  he  has  once 
passed  the  "  shool "  than  glance  back  into 
a  cemetery  when  coming  from  a  funeral. 

By  far  and  away,  though,  the  most 
remarkable  of  these  curious  "legends  of  the 
dead"  is  certcunly  that  attachingto  theGreat 
Synagogue  of  Poeen,  one  of  the  oldest 
synagogues  In  Northern  finrope.  It  must 
first  b»  explained  that  on  the  Day  of 
Atonement — the  most  solemn  of  all  holy 
days  among  the  Jews — orthodox  people 
are  accostomed  to  wear,  over  their  ordinary 
attire,  their  shrouds — the  white  linen  gar- 
ments in  which  they  are  some  day  to  be 
boned.  Further,  it  is  the  custom  in  all 
orthodox  congregations  throughout  Europe 
for  the  worshippera  who  attend  on  this 
solemn  occasion  to  cover  their  heads  with 
their  "talithim,"  or  "  praying-scarves,"  for 
with  his  head  so  covered,  every  Israelite, 
observant  or  not,  is  buried.  Only  in  one 
synago^e  do  the  members  depart  from 
Uiis  nmversal  practice — in  the  "  alt-sbool " 
of  Posen.  Here  this  practice  is  prohibited. 
For  upwards  of  three  hundred  years  the 
worshippers  have  never  covered  their  heads 
with  their  "  talithim  "  as  in  other  Jewish 
communities.  And  this  is  accounted  for 
by  the  following  legend  : 

In  the  last  year  of  his  rabbinate,  the 
famed  Babbi  Joseph  the  Godly,  then  Chief 
Eabbin  of  Posen,  being  old  and  infirm  was 
led  into  the  "  altahool,"  or  Old  SynagMrne, 
on  the  eve  of  the  Day  of  Atonement.  The 
hondreds  of  large  wax  candles,  lit  in 
memory  of  the  dead,  were  ablaze,  and  the 


congregation,  all  in  snow-white  shrouds, 
and  with  their  "  talithim  "  over  their  heads, 
rose  as  their  chief  entered.  The  reader 
took  hisplace,  and  was  just  abont  to  intone 
the  openmg  prayer,  "  Kol-Nidre,"  whea  of 
a  sudden  he  found  that  someone  was  stand- 
ing by  his  side.  Surprised,  be  looked 
round,  and  to  his  amazement  discovered 
that  the  reading-platform,  which  should 
have  been  nnoocupied,  was  tightly  packed. 
Of  a  sudden,  too,  the  worshippers  became 
aware  that  they  were  being  inconveniently 
crowded.  They  tried  to  turn,  but  in  vun. 
There  was  no  moving  either  to  the  right  or 
to  the  left.  Denser  and  denser  grew  the 
throng;  the  crush  was  intolerable,  and  it 
became  almost  impossible  to  breaUie. 
Terrified,  the  congr^ation  cried  aloud  to 
the  rabbin,  who,  lifting  bis  eyes  from  the 
prayer-book,  npon  which  they  had  been 
intently  fixed,  gave  one  swift  glance  rotmd, 
and  saw  that  a  multitude  of  dead — of 
"meisim"  —  were  present,  crowded  there 
among  the  living,  the  dead  also  in  their 
white  grave-clothes,  also  with  their  praying- 
Bcarves  over  their  heads,  and  therefore  not 
to  be  distingoisbed  from  the  living  wor- 
shippers. fiUgb  above  the  clamonr  of  the 
people  rose  the  voice  of  Babbi  Joseph. 
"  Ye  that  are  of  the  living,  remove  your 
talithim  1 "  be  exclaimed.  In  an  instant 
this  was  done,  and  then  were  seen  the 
dead,  standing  there  among  the  living,  and 
known  by  this,  that  their  heads  remained 
covered  —  fbr  they  dare  not  remove  the 
"talith,"  or  praying-scarf,  in  which  they 
are  enveloped  when  committed  to  tbs 
eartji,  "  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  God  of 
Istsel,"  exclaimed  the  rabbin,  "in  the  names 
of  the  Patriarchs,  and  in  the  names  of  your 
own  ancestors,  I  adjure  jon  to  leave  tlus 
house  of  prayer  of  the  living,  that  we,  wbo 
are  alive,  may  worship  onhindered  here, 
even  as  you  did  in  your  times."  Imme- 
diately the  throng  be^an  to  melt  away, 
the  crowd  seemed  to  disperse,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  synagogue  was  occnpied  only 
by  its  living  congregants.  In  memory  of 
this  "  terrible  eve  "  of  the  Day  of  Atone- 
ment, the  members  of  ^e  Great  Syn>g<^;ue 
of  Posen  abstain  to  this  very  day  from 
covering  their  heads  with  their  piaying- 
scarves  on  this  solemn  holiday. 

Quite  as  strange  in  ite  way,  as  this  notion 
about  the  asaembling  of  ^e  dead  in  the 
synagognes  of  the  living,  is  the  belief— to 
which  the  ultra-«rthodox  Jews  of  Eastern 
Europe  cling  with  incredible  tenacity — in 
tbe  occult  and  necromantic  ■powers  of  the 
"Baal-Shom,"  or  "Masters  of  the  Name," 


LEGENDS  OF  THB  SYNAGOGUE      iJ«itu.Ti».u 


IS  they  deaignate  aacli  rabbins  aa  are  popa- 
Urif  sappcMM  to  be  acgaainted  with  the 
"Ineffftlue  Name"  of  the  Creator,  tiadi- 
tioiullf  transmitted  among  the  learned. 
This  "  ucred  name,"  the  "  myatio  name  of 
ten  letters,"  which  King  Salomon  knew 
ind  had  impressed  upon  bis  seal— and  b; 
TJrtae  of  which  he  was  enabled  to  trap  the 
Demon  King  Asmodeos,  and  bottle-np  im- 
pudent djinni,  and  rebellioai  apirita — is 
held  to  confer  apon  ita  fortunate  posaessors 
the  most  formidable  powers.  They  can 
raue  the  dead,  face  demoua  and  sprites, 
and  have  command  generally  over  disem- 
bodied Bonla.  Of  courae,  only  Cabaliats  of 
profoond  learning  and  ascetic  lives  are 
npposed  to  be  acquainted  with  the  than- 
nutnrgic  name ;  and,  aa  in  the  matter  of 
the  "  roeiaim,"  this  belief  in  the  occult 
poirera  of  the  "  Baal-Shem  "  has  given  rise 
to  any  nnmber  of  marvellous  atoriea  care- 
fully garnered  by  the  "  gossips  of  the 
Ghetto,"  and  duly  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation.  The  Josephstadt 
of  Piagoe — once  the  Jadenstadt  or  Jewish 
quarter  of  the  Bohemian  capital — is  a  per- 
fect storehouse  of  such  curious  legends,  the 
most  extraordinary  of  which  are  connected 
with  the  ancient  synagogue  there,  the 
"Alt-nea  Shool,"  and  great  mediaeval 
nbbin,  Kabbi  Low  ben  Bezaleel,  some 
time  Chief  Eabbi  of  Prague,  and  every- 
where Icnown  among  his  people  aa  the 
"Hoch  Eab  Low,"  the  "High  Rabbi  Lov. 

The  synagogue  at  Pr^^e,  the  celebrated 
"Alt-neu  "  Synagogne,ia,  without  exception, 
the  oldest  in  Europe  It  is  said  to  have 
existed  as  it  now  stands  in  the  tenth  cen- 
tury, and  there  are  tombatones  in  the 
Jewish  cemetery  dating  back  more  than  a 
thousand  years.  Its  designation  "  alt-neu," 
or  "  old-new,"  synagogue,  ia  peculiar,  and 
local  traditioD  affirma  that  it  waa  so  named 
because  it  was  not  built  by  the  founders 
of  the  Prague  community,  but  w»  dis- 
covered in  eito,  joat  as  it  now  is.  The 
legend,  as  popularly  told,  runs  aa  follows : 

Early  in  tim  tenth  century  a  band  of 
Israelites  under  the  leadership  of  Kabbi 
Abraham,  the  "  Baal-Shem, "  wandering 
ttiroagh  Bohemia,  arrived  at  the  site  of 
what  ia  now  Prague.  Here,  they  acci- 
dentally came  across  a  Jewish  cemetery,  in 
whicbwere  a  nnmber  of  tombstones  inscribed 
in  Hebrew.  -  Struck  by  the  fact  that  their 
people  must,  at  some  time  or  other,  have 
been  settled  in  the  vicinity,  they  resolved 
to  locate  themselvea  there,  and  so  laid  the 
fooodation  of  the  Joseph,  or  Judenstadt. 
One  evening,  but  a  short  time  after  their 


arrival,  the  Kabbi  AbnUiam  was  sitting  in 
the  ancient  Jewish  cemetery.  Immersed 
in  thought,  he  had  allowed  the  hour  of 
evening  prayer  to  paas.  Hastily  rising, 
hewasaboat  tolaave  the  burial-gTOund  when 
he  found  that  someone  was  standing  by  his 
side,  a  man  evidently  in  the  white  garments 
of  the  dead,  his  head  enveloped  in  Ms  pray- 
ing-8caif.  And  then,  too,  the  rabbin  became 
aware  that  be  waa  aurrounded  by  such 
figures ;  the  cemetery  was  full  of  them. 
ak  he  looked,  they  began  to  move  off,  in 
alow,  solemn  procession,  towards  a  hill  in 
the  distance.  As  the  laat  of  the  white- 
robed  figures  waa  passing  out  through  the 
rumed  gateway,  it  tamed,  and,  raising  its 
hand,  beckoned  to  the  rabbin.  Without 
an  instant's  hesitation  he  followed.  The 
hill  was  soon  reached,  but  as  the  shrouded 
shadows  arrived  at  a  certtdn  rocky  projec- 
tion in  the  hill-side,  they  disappeared; 
seemingly  melting  uway  into  the  solid 
earth.  Ere  the  last  figure  in  the  proces- 
sion raniahed,  it  again  turned,  and  again 
beckoned  to  the  rabbin  to  follow.  But  he 
could  find  no  door,  no  passage,  and  no 
signs  of  any.  Hnrlmg  himself  then,  with 
all  his  strength  against  the  rocky  ground, 
he  pronounced  aloud  the  "  ineffable  name  " 
— of  which  he  was  a  master — and  in- 
stantly an  opening  showed  itself.  He 
entered,  and  (Recovered  that  he  was  in  a 
narrow  paaaage,  at  one  ex:tremity  of  which 
he  detected  uie  glimmer  of  a  light.  For 
this  he  mada  A  few  steps,  and  he  stood 
in  the  interior  of  an  tmmenae  stone-built 
synagogue,  of  massive  construction  and 
nobis  proportions.  A  largo  iron  chandelier 
hung  from  the  roof,  and  the  "perpetual 
light"  in  front  of  the  ark  burnt  brightly. 
But  the  edifice  was  untenanted;  not  a 
aonl,  living  or  dead,  was  there.  For  a 
few  moments  the  rabbin  paused,  bending 
reverently  in  prayer;  then,  retracing  hia 
ateps,  bs  traversed  again  the  pasaa^  by 
which  he  had  entered,  and  emerged  into 
the  open  air.  Aa  be  did  so  the  hill-aide 
closed  behind  him,  leaving  no  trace  of  an 
^ening.  Beturning  to  his  brethren,  the 
^bbi  Abraham  suggested,  in  a  few  days, 
the  bnOding  of  a  house  of  prayer  on  ita 
hill -side  joining  the  ancient  Jewish 
cemetery.  Under  hia  superintendence,  thej 
began  to  dig  the  foundations  at  the  ver) 
spot  where  he  hod  seen  the  white-robec 
figures  from  the  borial-ground  disappear 
In  a  short  time  the  hidden  passage  wat 
discovered  by  the  workmen,  and,  ere  manj 
weeks  were  over,  the  uident  synagogue 
new  yet   old,  was    disinterred  from   thi 


[Juaafy  10,  IS».| 


ALL  THE  YEAK  BOUND. 


moand  under  which  for  centoriea  it  had 
been  boned.  In  this  way,  it  came  to  be 
designated  the  Alt-nea  Shool,  the  old- 
new  Bfnsgogtte — a  designation  br  which  it 
continues  to  be  known  throaghont  the 
length  and  breadth  of  orthodox  Judaism. 

But  if — as  tliis  story  seta  forth — the  Alt- 
neu  Synagogue  of  Prague  owes  its  dis- 
covery to  one  "  Baal-Sbem  "  of  local  fame, 
so,  according  to  popular  legend,  was  it 
brought  perilously  nigh  destruction  by 
reason  of  the  imprudence — not  to  say  care- 
lessness— of  another  renowned  cabalist  and 
thanmatni^,  the  High  Kabbi  LAv  before- 
mentioned. 

Tradition  has  it  that  this  Babbi  Lor 
was  a  cabalist  of  transcendent  powers.  He 
is  said  to  have  been  taught  the  occult  art 
by  a  certain  Don  Abraham,  of  Saragossa, 
who  came  twice  a  week  from  Spain  to 
iDstmct  his  Mend  and  disciple,  and  who 
contrired  to  do  the  trifling  distance  from 
the  Ebro  to  the  Moldan  in  about  sixty 
seconds — by  snpematunl  means,  of  course. 
Kabbi  Lev's  indoctrination  into  "  Practical 
Cabala  "  was  more  than  ordinarily  fruitful 
of  results.  Atttiough  his  house — which  is 
still  in  existence  in  the  Breito  Gasse — was 
of  modest  proportions  and  his  income 
limited,  be  always  fonnd  bis  guests  and 
disciples  a  room  as  laige  as  the  great  ball 
of  the  "  Hradchin,"  and  provided  meals  for 
them  on  a  moat  sumptaous  scala  But, 
above  all  and  everything  he  was  a  necro- 
mancer of  nnparaUeled  powers,  and, .  it 
would  appear,  of  unparalleled  audacity. 

It  BO  happened  that  the  Emperor 
Budolph  was  extremely  well  -  disposed 
towards  Babbi  Lov,  and  frequently  invited 
him  to  the  imperial  residence.  On  one 
occasion  the  emperor  requested  the  rabbin 
to  give  him  a  specimen  of  his  necromantic 
powers,  and  no  ordinary  specimen  either, 
since  the  monarch  wished  to  see  the  twelve 
patriarchs,  the  sons  of  Jacob,  as  they  lived 
and  moved.  Babbi  Lov  at  first  demurred. 
The  emperor,  however,  insisted,  and  finidly 
the  rabbin  agreed  to  raise  from  the  dead 
the  twelve  sons  of  Israel,  bat  on  one  con- 
dition— whatever  the  emperor  might  see, 
whatever  he  might  hear,  no  matter  how 
strange,  no  matter  bow  surprising,  he  was 
to  remain  silent,  not  a  word,  not  an  excla- 
mation was  to  escape  him. 

At  midnight  emperor  and  rabbin  stood 
together  in  the  Alt-nea  Synagogue  in  dark- 
ness and  in  silenca  Babbi  Ldv,  his 
phylacteries  bound  upon  his  forehead  and 
left  arm,  his  praying-scarf  over  his  head. 


and  the  "  Zobar,"  or  text-book  of  Cabals, 
in  bis  hand,  was  in  front  of  the  ark. 
By  his  side  stood  the  sovereign.  A  aiogle 
word  came  from  the  lips  of  the  rabbin,  and 
suddenly  the  wall  npon  which  they  were 
both  gazing  seemed  to  melt  away,  and 
Rudolph  saw  before  him  a  vast  open 
space  dimly  illnmined.  As  suddenly,  four 
majestic  figures,  the  figures  of  Beuben, 
Simeon,  Levi,  and  Judim,  rose  up  as  from 
the  earth,  and  passed  into  the  distance. 
As  Judab  moved  away,  he  roared  as  with 
the  voice  of  a  lion,  until  the  very  w^ 
shook.  But  the  emperor  remained  un- 
moved. Then  appe^ed  four  other  sons 
of  Jacob,  Isaacher,  whose  tread  shook  the 
solid  ground  under  foot,  Zebulun  and 
Benjamin,  with  a  beauty  "  surpasaing  that 
of  women,"  and  Dan,  one-eyed  and  of 
gmesome  aspects  Still  the  emperor  wu 
unmoved,  and  the  silence  remained  un- 
broken. But  then  came  Naphtali  alone, 
and  when  Budolph  beheld  him  runaing— as 
rabbinical  legend  says  he  could  rtm — over 
the  top  of  the  standing  corn,  so  swiftly 
and  so  ligbUy  that  the  stalks  kept  erect, 
and  the  Bwelling  axn  never  even  bent 
beneath  his  weight,  he  could  not  refrain 
from  an  exclamation  of  wonder.  As  the 
sound  imprudently  escaped  his  lips,  a  crash 
as  of  timnder  resounded  through  the 
building,  the  ground  under  hia  feet  opened 
as  if  to  engulf  him,  and  the  wall  in  front 
began  to  bend  inward,  as  thoogh  to  fall 
upon  and  crush  bim.  Quickly  Babbi  Lov 
threw  his  arms  round  the  emperor,  and 
pronouncing  the'"inefrable  name"  of  the 
Creator,  succeeded  in  stilling  the  unnatural 
commoUon,  and  saving  his  companion  from 
destraction.  But,  with  all  his  power,  Babbi 
Lov  could  not  restore  things  predsely 
as  they  had  been.  The  wall  t^t  had  bent 
forward  as  though  to  crush  them,  remained 
so,  bending  and  tottering.  And  there  it 
may  be  seen  to  this  very  day,  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  Alt-neu  Synagogue, 
bending  and  bulging  in  a  very  threatening 
manner,  seemingly  on  the  point  of  falling 
in,  a  standing  memento  of  the  Emperor 
Rudolph's  imprudence,  and  the  daring 
necromantic  experiment  of  the  High  Babbi 
Lov. 

But  this  was  not  the  only  occasion  upon 
which  the  synagogue  was  endangered 
owing  to  the  cabalistic  pranks  of  Kabbi 
Lov.  Inside  the  building,  and  to  the  left 
of  the  sanctuary,  there  is  a  pillar — one  of 
some  dozen  that  support  the  gallery  and 
roof — cracked  from  top  to  bottom,  riven 
as  if  by  lightning,  and  sinking,  apparently, 


LEGENDS  OF  THE   SYNAGOGUE.       [J.nwj  ib,  1584.)    203 


nndeF  the  weight  impoaed  upon  it.  For 
tliig  half-broken  and  ihiky  colamn  tradi- 
tion holds  Babbi  Lowe  ben  Bezaleel 
directly  reaponsible.  L^end  hoa  it  that 
imong  his  many  magical  poeaessioiis — and 
be  had  quite  a  rariety — the  most  remark- 
■blfl  waa  Uie  "  golem,"  an  aatomaton  Ggare, 
coustmeted  or  formed  of  clay,  and  to 
iriiich  he  13  said  to  have  been  able  to 
impart  life  by  simply  placing  nnder  its 
tongue  a  "kemeo,"  or  charm,  which  was  an 
exact  facsimile  of  the  Shem  Eamforeah, 
or  "  Sacred  Name,"  engraved  on  the  seal 
of  Ring  Solomon.  For  many  years  this 
golem  proved  an  invaliiable  servant  It 
appears,  however,  that  one  of  the  terms 
upon  which  Babbi  Lor  was  enabled  to 
exercise  anpematm^  power  was  the  strict 
observance  of  the  Sabbath.  And  hence  it 
WM  his  duty  always  to  withdraw  the 
kemea  from  the  month  of  the  golem  before 
Bonset  on  Friday.  One  Friday  evening 
thia  duty  escaped  his  memory,  and  he 
■Urted  for  the  synagogue  without  releasing 
his  familiar.  The  golem  immediately 
became  alive  and  forious.  It  swelled  to  a 
gigantic  size,  stalked  through  the  Ghetto, 
■preading  death  and  devastation  by  its 
mere  glance,  snd  broke  into  the  Alt-nea 
Synagogue.  The  service  was  just  com- 
mencing, but  fortunately  the  Sabbath  bad 
not  been  "made  in."  The  golem  roshed 
towards  the  ark,  grasping  with  its 
enormoos  hands  the  pUlar  on  the  left,  as 
if  to  wreneh  it  from  its  foondation  and 
bring  down  roof  and  gallery  upon  the 
heads  of  the  worshippers.  Juat  then 
Babbi  Lov  darted  forwud  and  wrested  the 
kemea  from  beneath  the  tongue  of  the 
living  automaton.  The  figure  quivered  for 
an  instant,  and  then  fell  to  the  ground  in 
I  thousand  atoms.  But  even  as  it  loosened 
its  grasp,  the  golem  shook  the  colomn  from 
capital  to  bale,  rending  it  from  top  to 
bottom,  and  leaving  it  cracked  and  broken 
as  it  now  stands. 

Most  of  the  older  synagogues  of  Eorope 
ire,  it  may  be  noted,  the  scenes  of  similar 
strange  and  fantastic  stories.  The  Rhine 
districts  —  Mayence,  Speyer,  Worms, 
Bacharach — is  especially  rich  in  Jewish 
legends  that  survive  from  medieval 
times.  Man;r  of  these,  too,  are  actually 
connected  with  portions  of  the  Jewish 
ritual  The  story  of  Rabbi  Anmon, 
of  Mayence,  is  &  Wpical  instance  of 
this.  On  the  New  Year's  Day,  German 
Jews  are  accustomed  to  intone  a  very 
Miemn  prayer  known  as    the  "  Unaan^ 


tok^f,"  from  its  commencing  words,  which 
read :  "  Let  us  dwell  upon  the  sanctity  of 
this  day."  The  prayer  itself  forms  no  part 
of  the  ancient  Jewish  ritual,  and  the  Jews 
of  Southern  Europe  are  unacquainted  with 
it.  The  Rhine  legend  ascribes  its  origin  to 
Amnon,  Chief  Babbi  of  Mayence,  who 
flouriBhed  in  the  eleventh  century.  He 
enjoyed  in  a  high  degree  the  &vour  of  the 
then  Palatine  Bishop  of  Mayence,  and 
excited  thereby  the  envy  of  the  courtiers. 
To  effect  his  ruin,  they  insidiously  repre- 
sented to  the  dignitary  of  the  Church  how 
desirable  it  was  that,  as  a  bishop,  be  should 
with  the  rite  of  baptism  impart  to  his 
favourite  the  greatest  blessing  in  his  power. 
For  a  time,  the  cleric  avoided  the  snare 
laid  for  his  Jewish  friend.  But  certain 
hints  about  his  zeal  for  the  Church  being 
called  in  question,  induced  him,  at  length, 
to  send  for  Babbi  Anmon,  and  urge  him  to 
leave  the  faith  of  his  fathers.  The  rabbin 
asked  for  three  days  to  consider  the  matter. 
He  had,  however,  no  sooner  quitted  the 
presence  of  his  patron,  than  he  was  over- 
whelmed with  remorse  at  having  hesitated, 
even  for  an  instant;  and  he  resolved,  at 
any  risk,  to  go  no  more  to  the  episcopal 
piJace.  The  third  day  came — ^the  day 
upon  which  he  was  to  answer  the  pro- 
posal It  was  the  New  Year,  and  Rabbi 
Amnon,  of  course,  attended  the  solemn 
service  held  in  the  synagogue.  In  the 
midst  of  prayers  came  a  message  from 
the  bishop,  requesting  the  rabbin's  attend- 
ance. He  refused  to  leava  Again  came 
a  message,  more  peremptory,  and  again 
the  rabbin  refused  to  obey.  A  third 
message  came,  and  with  it  a  file  of 
Boldiera  to  enforce  obedience,  Sdzing  the 
Jew,  they  boond  him,  and  so  carried  him 
to  the  palace.  Incensed  at  his  stubborn 
resistance,  the  bishop  ordered  the  rabbin's 
arms  and  legs  to  be  lopped  off ;  and  thus 
mutilated,  he  was  taken  ba(^  to  the 
synagc^e^  Here,  wounded  and  bleeding, 
he  requested  to  be  laid  in  front  of  the 
sanctuary  in  which  the  Scrolls  of  the  Law 
are  deposited.  The  curtain  was  drawn  on 
one  srae,  and  he  was  placed  in  the  apse, 
where,  in  the  pause  that  ensued,  he,  with 
his  dying  breath,  commenced  the  prayer 
before-mentioned,  which  concludes  with  the 
words ;  "  Penance,  prayer,  and  alms  avert 
the  evO  decree,"  As  he  muttered  the  last 
sentence  the  cnitun,  it  is  said,  was 
pulled  across  the  apse  by  invisible 
hands;  and  when — the  legend  runs — the 
congregation  rushed  forwMd  to  see  what 
had  happened,  Babbi  Amuon's  body  was 


204     [Juotry  19,  UM-l 


ALL\THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


not  to  be  found.  It  had  disappeared,  only 
a  lev  blood-staioa  markins  the  spot  vhere 
it  had  rested.  The  prayerlie  extemporised 
has  ever  since  formed  an  tntegral  poition 
of  the  ritual  of  the  German  Jews ;  and  in 
the  synagogue  at  Mayence — where  Babbi 
Amnon's  seat  is  still  shown — the  curtain 
in  front  of  the  ark  is  drawn  during  the 
recitation  of  the  words,  jost  as  on  the 
occasion  when  the  martyr  rabbin  with  his 
dying  breath  is  said  to  hare  fint  girea 
ntteraoce  to  them. 

Bat  there  are  more  legends  aseociatad 
with  portions  of  the  JewiA  ritnal  than 
the  majority  of  Jews  themselves  wot  of. 
Of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  who  annually 
read  throuah  the  New  Year's  service,  how 
few  know  uat  one  of  the  prayers  recited 
on  that  day  is  held  to  commemorate  the 
fact  of  there  havinir  been  a  Jewish  "Pope 
of  Rome  "  I — according  to  tradition  he  was 
bomt  at  the  stake — while  another  has 
reference  to  the  half-historic,  half-legendary 
narrative,  known  as  the  "Dance  to  Death. 


FORBIDDEN. 
Oh,  WMTf  feet  that  on  Life's  aton?  wtjn 
Must  traad  in  •epuats  pathi ;  whila  Time's  d«rk 

Beat  out  the  laggiDK  boon  of  all  the  dsTB, 
Mftrking  the  Bpochs  of  their  wnnderinft  1 
Ob,  lonely  rottd  1  O  tired,  pwing  feet 

Ki4t  m»y  not  li 
Oh,  longing  bands  that  may  not,  roust  not^ 
ThoM   other   loved   ones  in   this  worli 
night; 
Oh^partad  handj.tbM  may  not,  i 


Thoae  other  han^  witik  yeaminn  infinite ! 

,1.   _. — 1 — 1.. —  —■---- hunger  is  out  this — 

Tbey  may  not  kin 


Ob,  Btarring  Ijpa,  whose  hi 


Oh,  aching  eyes  that  shine  so  lu-  »iinn>, 
Love-baunted  eyes  that  may  not,  mu 
*"  at  of  the  passion-laden  besjt, 


In  sucb  oleft  lives  I 
whUe  tlie  world  rolle  on 
ipeechlesB  ecstasy  I 
hours  lon^  dead  and  gone — 


SbM  mingle  in  i 
Oh,  loTO  that  lives ^ „  _ 

Bound  love  that  strives  «o  vamly  to  be  free  . 
Oh,  joy  of  life  that  oometb  all  too  late  t 

Oh,  omel  fate 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  ~ 

COUNTIES. 

DEBBYSEIRE. 
Kkak  the  junction  of  the  rivers  Swale 
and  Trent,  at  a  point  where  three  counties 
meet,  in  the  midst  of  fertile  river-meadows, 
stands  an  important  railway  centre,  which, 
for  want  of  any  village  or  hamlet  near  at 
hand  to  lend  it  a  name,  has  assomed  that 
of  Trent  Junction.  In  origin  a  settlement 
of  railway-pori^rs  and  refreshment-room 


maids,  this  three-cornered  morsel  o(  rail- 
way territory  has  developed  a  good  deal  of 
activity  round  about.  The  osier-beds  which 
gave  the  riverside  village  of  Sawley  its 
title,  may  still  be  traced,  but  the  rillage 
has  rapidly  increased  within  the  last  few 
years,  and  wheel  works  and  carriage-works 
have  taken  the  place  of  the  old  ba^et- 
making  industiy.  A  few  miles  higher  up 
the  river  a  handsome  bridge  bean  the  name 
of  Cavendish  Bridge,  after  a  former  Duke 
of  Devonshire— if  territorial  titles  had  any- 
meaning,  mOTe  properly  Duke  of  Derby- 
shire. And  this  bndge,  with  the  adjacent 
railway  centre,  may  remind  us  that  in  the 
county  we  are  now  entering  the  influence 
of  the  great  territorial  house  is  rivalled  by 
that  of  the  Midland  Railway  Company,  tiie 
one  the  growth  of  the  present  century, 
while  the  other  dates  from  Elizabethi^ 
days,  and  traces  the  growth  of  its  high 
fortunes  to  the  genios  and  policy  of  Connteu 
Besa  of  building  memory. 
Before  the  existence  of  Cavendish  Bridge, 
of  the  more  modem  railway  junc- 
tion, the  mun  traffic  from  the  •oabh 
crossed  tiie  Trent  by  Swarkeatone  Bridge, 
about  which,  as  about  mcwt  ancient  bridges, 
local  folk-lore  has  been  busy.  Traditionliaa 
it  that  the  bridge  was  built  by  two  maiden 
sisters,  figures  of  dim  antiquity,  dressed  lu 
the  modem  garb  of  rich  old  spinsters. 
And  when  a  man  snores  in  his  sleep,  be  is 
said,  in  local  parlance,  to  be  driving  hia 
pigs  over  Swarkeatone  Bridge.  Higher  ap 
the  river  again,  lies  Repton,  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  Saxon  kingdom  of  Mercia, 
with  little  to  show  of  the  great  abbey  and 
nunnery,  coeval  with  the  conversion  of  the 
Mercians  to  Christianity,  and  its  tombs  of 
early  Saxon  kings;  nor  even  of  the 
Norman  priory  that  was  built  upon  the 
site.  The  early  nunnery  was  destroyed  bj 
the  Danes,  and  surely  it  was  a  descendant 
of  that  inconoclastic  race  who,  in  the  first 
year  of  Mary's  reign,  utterly  destroyed 
the  buildings  of  the  priory,  "He  wxiold 
destroy  the  nest  for  fear  the  birds  should 
buUd  there  again."  In  the  place  of  the 
ancient  priory,  however,  we  have  a  welt- 
endowed  and  flourishing  grammar-school, 
some  of  the  foundations  of  which  seem  to 
have  bdonged  to  the  ancient  religions 
house. 

From  Swarkeatone  Bridge  to  Derby  town 
is  no  long  march,  although  perhaps  ntther 
a  dreary  one,  through  a  thinly-popnlated 
woldy  lund  of  count:^.  But,  reaching  the 
vale  of  the  Derwent  (which,  below  Derby, 
spreads  widely  into  itfi  sister  valley  of  tihe 


GHR0NI0LE3  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa  i 


ry  10,  UU.]     30j 


T^t),  yoQ  Bee  at  once  how  this  apUnd 
town,  ijiiig  at  the  head  of  vide  and  abaa- 
diut  paatare-laudB,  ehoiUdhave become  tJie 
chief  Mttlement  of  a  pastoral  race;  for 
Derby  is,  imdoabtedlj,  the  chief  town  of 
the  Danelagh ;  it  is  tiia  only  one  of  our 
prorincial  capitals  iriuch  bears  a  distinctly 
Danish  name.  The  swift  descent  of  the 
rivei-bed  towards  the  plain  gave  water- 
power  to  many  vater-nulta  In  the  time 
of  the  Confeasor,  Derby  had  fonrteen  of 
these — a  goodly  number  in  a  non- 
mechanical  age — with  two  hundred  and 
Ibrty-three  burgessoB,  who,  with  their  de- 
pendraits  and  servants,  formed  a  main 
portion  of  the  northern  Fyrd,  or  army, 
which  marched  with  Earl  Edwin  to  meet 
the  Norw^aoB  and  Harold's  treacherous 
brother,  Derby,  probably,  lost  half  its 
inhabitants  in  fighting  Tost^,  and  at  fatal 
Seolac,  where  they  died  with  their  hononied 
Harold,  a  man  of  their  own  race  and 
Uood.  TbBs  at  the  time  of  the  Domes- 
day record  there  were  only  a  hundred 
bnivesses  left  of  fall  age,  and  only  ten  com- 
milu  were  grinding  grist.  At  the  Conqaeat, 
puh^w  viui  the  view  of  strengthening  the 
depleted  town,  Litcharch,  an  adjoining 
hunlet,  was  added  to  Derby ;  a  matter  of 
no  great  conseqoeuce  at  the  time,  perhaps, 
but  which  was  destined.some  eight  hnndnd 
yeuB  afier,to  have  a  considerable  influence 
OD  the  prosperity  of  the  town;  for  the 
Midland  Railway  making  its  headquarters 
at  Derby,  built  its  stations  and  offices  upon 
the  level  groond  of  Litcharch,  to  the  great 
wonomic  benefit  of  the  monicipality. 

Otherwise,  the  general  history  of  the 
town  is  not  of  an  exciting  nature.  The 
piril^es  of  the  borough  were  first  con- 
firmed by  a  charter  from  Henry  Beanclerc, 
ud  from  the  reign  of  Richard  the  First 
no  Jews  were  altowed  to  reside  there. 
With  the  revival  of  civic  and  municipal 
life  in  the  thirteenth  century,  Derby  got 
from  King  John  a  more  comprehensive 
charter,  according  the  burgessea  the  same 
pririleges  as  those  of  Nottingham.  And 
from  that  date,  Derby,  happy  in  being  a 
plain  burgher  settlement  without  any  royal 
cattle  or  exacting  overlord,  paraiied  the 
tven  tenor  of  its  way  without  any  history 
lAtpeakof.  According  to  tradition,  some 
tiine  m  the  fifteenth  or  sixteenth  centuries 
All  Saints'  Tower  was  built  at  the  expense 
of  the  young  men  and  maids  of  the 
town,  which,  if  really  a  fact,  bespeaks 
>  me  amoont  of  pocket-money  allotted 
to  the  young  people  of  those  days. 
In  All  Sunta'  Church  lies  oar  old  friend 


Bess  of  Hardwick  in  a  fins  sculptured 
tomb  with  many  of  the  Gavsndiahea, 
her  descendants,  sronnd  her ;  but  die  body 
of  the  church  is  much  more  recent,  with  an 
appearance  suggestive  of  an  old-fashioned 
London  church,  the  suggestiveness  beiog 
accoonted  for  when  we  learn  that  it  was 
boilt  by  the  architect  of  Saint  Martin'e-ia- 
the-FieJdi.  In  the  seventeenth  century 
the  plagne  raged  terribly  in  the  town, 
having  been  brought  there  from  London, 
it  is  said,  by  some  Yorkshire  clothiers. 
The  country  people,  in  dread  of  the 
visitation,  re&^ned  trom  briimng  in  pro- 
viaiona,  and  those  who  eacapedtbe  p^gue 
were  in  danger  of  being  starved,  till  it  was 
arranged  that  provisions  should  be  ex- 
changed gainst  money  without  buyers  and 
sellers  coming  in  contact  with  each  other. 
The  exchange  was  effected  upon  a  stona  at 
the  entrance  to  the  town,  called  the  Head- 
less Cross ;  the  country  people  approaching 
cautiously  with  tobacco  in  their  mouths, 
and  carefully  fumigating  the  coin  before 
thsy  dropped  it  in  their  pouches.  Apropos 
o(  the  tobacco,  it  is  recorded  by  the 
historian  of  Derby  that  the  plague  never 
touched  tobacconist,  tanner,  or  shoe- 
maker. 

Daring  centuries  of  quiet  prosperity  the 
martial  and  royal  spirit  of  the  men  of 
Derby  had  not  altogether  died  out,  and 
when  Gharlea  the  First  aet  np  his  standard 
at  Nottingham,  about  twenty  Derby  men 
marched  there  and  entered  the  royal  service. 
But  two  centuries  later,  in  the  conater- 
nation  caoaed  by  the  apparently  victorious 
march  of  the  Young  Pretender,  aeven  hun- 
dredand  fifty  men  were  raised  and  armed  to 
defend  the  town,  who,  however,  were  with- 
drawn at  the  approach  of  the  Highlanders, 
and  do  not  seem  to  have  fired  a  shot  in 
earnest 

The  peaceful  citizens  of  Derby  no  doubt 
felt  much  relieved  when  their  defenders 
marched  off,  and  the  prospect  of  a  hand- 
to-hand  fight  in  atreet  and  market-place 
was  avoided.  Bat  they  awaited  with  a 
good  deal  of  trepidation  the  arrival  of  the 
Prince  Pretender's  advance-guard,  which 
appeared  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
the  shape  of  two  troopers,  who  rode  up 
to  The  Qsorge  Inn  and  demanded  billets  for 
nine  thousand  men.  Soon  after  came 
thirty  more  in  the  same  uniform— blue 
with  scarlet  waistcoat'  and  gold  lace — com- 
manded by  Lord  Balmerino,  and  these  drew 
up  in  the  market-place  till  three  o'clock, 
when  Lord  £lcho  arrived  with  a  hundred 
and  fifty  horsemen,  the  rest  of  the  corps. 


[Jiuou;  IS,  ieSi.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


being  tha  prince's  Ufegoard — fine  figorea 
and  well  dresmd,  bnt  with  jaded  horses. 
The  body  of  the  army  soon  followed, 
marching  biz  or  eight  abreast^a  motley 
crowd,  greybeards  and  atriplings  in  tiie 
ranks  together,  and  all  mud-stained  and 
weary  -  looking.  The  Jacobite  officers 
levied  a  contribation  of  some  two  thousand 
five  hundred  pounds  upon  the  town,  and,  as 
the  Derby  folk  had  just  subscribed  a  ainular 
sum  for  the  existing  powers,  the  fact  is  a 
testimony  to  the  wealth  and  substance  of 
the  town.  Tbe  prince's  men  beat  up  for 
Tolimteers,  ofi'ering  five  shillings  advance, 
and  five  guineas  payable  on  reachine 
London,  but  only  tnroe  men  joined,  and 
these  worthless,  dissipated  fellows,  of 
whom  their  new  comraaes  themselves  were 
ashamed. 

This  pitiful  resolt;  in  the  way  of  recruiting 
seems  to  have  given  the  coup  de  gr&ce  to 
the  last  hopes  of  the  prince's  party.  They 
had  advanced  through  the  half  of  England 
supposed  to  be  the  moat  devoted  to  the 
cause  of  the  Stuarts,  and  not  one  man  of 
note  had  joined  them,  and  only  a  few 
score  of  tatterdemalion  recruits.  And 
yet  it  seems  that  preparations  were  made 
to  march  onwards,  and  the  advance-guard 
reached  the  Trent  at  Swarkestone  Bndge, 

And  here,  upon  this  long,  many-arched 
bridge,  that  stretches  over  the  sunny  and 
silver  Trent  and  far  beyond  over  Uie  low- 

n  grounds  so  often  covered  by  winter 
3,  here  the  little  army  of  horsemen 
came  to  a  halt  The  way  before  them  to 
London  was  clear  and  fair,  with  populous 
villagoi  and  towns  all  along  the  rente.  In 
another  week  they  might  have  mounted 

Cd  at  St.  James's  Palace,  while  the 
er  guns  thundered  for  the  coronation 
of  King  Edward  tiie  Seventh.  Bnt  the 
trumpets  sounded  the  recall,  and  the  troop 
wheeled  round  to  begin  the  painM  and 
disaBtroiu  retreat  which  ended  on  Cnlloden 
Moor. 

With  the  disappearance  of  the  Jacobites 
ended  the  age  of  adventure  and  romance. 
A  few  years  after,  in  1750,  we  hear  of  tbe 
establishment  of  the  porcelain  manufactory 
by  the  ingenioua  Mr.  Duesbury,  and  the 
Derby  china  soon  became  noted.  In  1777 
Dr.  Johnson  remarked  that  the  china  was 
beautiful  but  so  dear  that  he  could  have 
silver  vessels  as  cheap.  Then,  in  1730, 
when  the  old  Chelsea  establiahment  was 
broken  up,  the  workmen  and  models  were 
transferred  to  Derby.  Eventnidly  the 
Derby  Pottery  became  famous  tea  leas 
I  fragile  ware,  and  dinner-services  and  dessert- 


services,  of  the  well-known  Grown  Derby 
mark,  are  still  in  tue  in  many  old-fashioned 
f&milies. 

But  Derby,  although  it  has  always  kept 
up  its  ancient  character  as  a  place  of  miils 
and  machinery,  has  never  assumed  that  of 
a  thorough-going  mannfactnring  town.  The 
town  had  silk  mills  long  before  Maccles- 
field, and  it  is  said  that  a  Derby  man,  one 
John  Lombe,  introduced  the  manufacture 
from  Italy,  quite  against  the  will  of  the 
Italians,  who  used  the  greatest  precautions 
to  prevent  the  secret  of  their  processes 
from  escaping.  But  Lombe,  by  bribes  to 
workmen  and  disguised  visits  to  the  sflk 
factories,  succeeded  in  mastering'  tbe 
mystery  of  the  manufacture.  He  also 
induced  several  of  the  Italian  workmen  to 
accompany  him  to  Derby,  and  aid  him  in 
setting  up  the  new  silk  worka  But  it  is 
said  that  Italian  vengeance  also  followed 
Mr.  Lombe  in  the  shape  of  an  Italian 
woman,  supposed  to  have  been  an  emissary 
of  the  enemy,  who  is  thought  to  have 
poisoned  him.  Anyhow,  the  man  died 
suddenly,  and  the  Italian  lady  disap- 
peared, leaving  no  evidence,  however,  to 
connect  her  with  the  catastropha 

A  more  successful  industrial  pioneer 
was  Jedediah  Stntt,  bom  in  1726,  near 
Albeton,  where  his  father  was  a  brmer 
and  maltster.  Jedediah  invented  or  adapted 
a  machine  for  making  ribbed  stockings, 
upon  which  he  rose  to  fame  and  fortune. 
Later  on  he  became  a  partner  with  the 
well-known  cotton-spinner,  Arkwright,  who 
finding  the  cotton-spinners  of  Lancashire 
too  much  inclined  to  bum  down  the  new 
factories  and  smash  the  new  machinery,  set 
up  his  spindles  and  his  throstlesin  a  fine  new 
imll  near  Derby.  Arkwright  and  Stnitt 
soon  rose  to  commwcial  eminence,  and 
helped  to  found  the  new  aristocracy  of 
wealth.  A  descendant  of  Jedediah  was 
Joseph  Strutt,  the  antiquary,  whose  novel 
of  Qaeenho  Hall  is  probably  forgotten,  bat 
who  is  BtQl  an  authori^  on  ancient  sporta 
and  pastimes.  In  1856  a  peerage  was  con- 
ferred upon  the  elder  branch  of  the  Stmtts, 
with  the  tide  of  Barons  of  Belper,  and  tbe 
name  of  Strutt  of  Belper  is  still  well- 
known  in  connection  with  the  cott«n 
manufacture. 

With  the  increase  of  wealth  and  popula- 
tion Derby  becomes  one  of  the  provincial 
capitals  of  literary  and  scientific  culture. 
And  this  centres  mostiy  about  the  courtiy, 
dignified  presence  of  Erasmus  Darwin, 
whose  poem.  The  Botanic  Garden,  is  nov 
'for  the  really  remark- 


CHBONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa    iJ«.u«y»,iBM.j 


'  lUe  [oophe^  it  containa  of  the  coming 
poiren  of  uio  Bteam-en^e,  then  only 
tpplied  to  mines  and  manofactories — a 
prophecy  not  yet  entirely  verified. 


f  be  flying  ^luiot  tbTougti  U 

At  Derby,  the  wise  physician  ended  his 
d&j>,  and  one  of  Ms  lost  letters  describes 
hia  pleasant  home,  The  Priory,  "  with  the 
guden,  the  ponda  full  of  fish,  the  deep 
ombrageons  valley,  with  the  talkative 
itreun  nmning  down  it,  and  Derby  tower 
in  the  distance."  Here,  too.  Dr.  Darwin 
foonded  the  Philosophical  Society,  the 
model  of  many  similar  societies,  which  have 
played  no  inconsiderable  part  in  implanting 
■  love  of  scientific  coltare  in  the  pushing, 
thriving  commnnidea  of  the  north  of 
England.  The  literary  circle  at  Derby  had 
its  Beynoldfl  in  the  native  artist,  Joseph 
Wright,  the  ion  of  a  solicitor  in  t^e  town, 
whose  portraits  are  highly  prized  by  artieta 
uid  collectors. 

An  eariier  Derby  worthy  was  John 
Flamstead  the  astronomer,  of  whom,  by 
the  way,  the  local  historian,  Hutton,  relates 
that  he  narrowly  escaped  the  hangman's 
loiot  in  his  youth,  having  been  convicted 
d  highway  robbery — probably  in  some 
boyish  frolic  akin  to  Shakespeare's  deer- 
stotling  exploit — bat  that  he  received  a 
pardon  from  Charles  the  Second,  who  could 
hardly  be  hard  npon  yoathfol  escapades. 
The  pardon  was  fonnd  among  the  astro- 
nomer's papers  at  his  death,  and  must 
lather  have  astonished  his  executors,  who 
Imew  only  the  grave  and  serious  man  of 
sdence  of  later  days — divine  as  well  as 
attronomer,  for  he  held  the  living  of 
Barstow,  Surrey. 

Within  the  compass  of  a  pleasant  walk 
or  drive  from  Derby  lies  Dale  Abbey ;  a 
green,  ivy-covered  arch  being  almost  the 
only  relic  of  the  once  proud  abbey.  A 
homely  tradition  connects  the  foundation  of 
the  abbey  with  an  enthusiastic  baker  of 
Derby,  who  left  bis  ovens,  one  day,  driven 
by  an  ovramastering  impulse  to  seek 
religious  tranquility  in  some  lonely 
retreat  Passing  a  village-green,  bewil- 
dered by  the  oncertainty  of  hie  quest,  he 
heard  a  woman  in  a  thnlliug  voice  cry  to 
her  children,  "Qo,  drive  the  cows  to 
Deepdale  1"  and  took  the  voice  as  in 
some  way  a  supernatural  indication,  and  so 
vent  to  Deepdale,  and  lived  there  as  a 
hermiL  As  time  went  on  the  fame  of 
the  hermit's  sanctitr  drew  other  recluses 


to  the  spot,  and  thus  was  formed  the 
religions  commnnity.  In  this  legend  we 
probably  have  the  origin  of  an  earlier 
monastery  than  the  later  Noiman  abbey, 
which  has  left  these  scanty  remains. 

From  Derby,  road  and  rail  alike  follow 
the  pleasant  valley  of  the  Derwent.  To  the 
left  lies  Kedleston  Hall,  the  stately  home 
of  the  Coraons,  surrounded  by  its  beautiful 
park.  And  Duffield  is  soon  reached, 
where  the  name  of  Castle  Orchard  suggests 
the  site  of  a  former  castle,  which  is  all 
that  is  left  to  recall  the  memory  of  the 
De  Ferrars,  ancient  earls  of  Derby,  a 
title  which  has  been  extinct  for  ages,  for 
the  Stanleys,  it  may  be  observed,  have 
nothing  to  do  with  Derbyshire,  and  take 
their  title  from  the  hundred  of  West 
Derby  in  Lancashire  Apropos  of  this 
title,  by  the  way,  and  the  correct  pro- 
nunciation of  it,  whether  my  Lord  Derby 
or  my  Lord  Darby,  it  may  he  said  that  all 
the  evidence  is  in  favour  of  the  former. 
Derby  is  Dearbi  in  Anglo-Saxon  charters 
and  on  Anglo-Saxon  coins ;  it  is  Derby  in 
Domesday.  The  exquisites  of  the  latter 
days  of  Elizabeth  first  began  to  write  and 
pronounce  Darbye,  but  m  written  docu- 
ments the  ancient  and  correct  way  of 
spelling  soon  reasserted  itself,  although  the 
pronnnciatioa  has  been  perpetuated  as  a 
tradition  of  dandyism — or  what  we  should 
perhaps  call  Lardi-da-ism — to  the  present 
day.' 

As  we  approach  Matlock  we  may  borrow 
a  description  that  perhap  will  awaken  a 
pleasant  echo  of  youthful  feelings  among 
those  who  in  early  days  derived  literary 
nurture  from  Miss  Edgeworth's  books. 

"  Presently  they  entered  a  narrow  but 
beautiful  valley;  a  stream  ran  through  it,  and 
there  were  hills  on  each  side,  whose  banks 
were  covered  to  a  great  height  with  trees 
of  the  softest  foliage,  and  of  various  shades 
of  green.  Above,  high  above  the  young 
fef^hery  plantations,  rose  bare  whitish 
rocks.  Sometimes  stretching  in  perpendi- 
cular smooth  masses,  sometimes  broken 
in  abrupt  craggy  summits,  huge  fragments 
of  which  had  fallen  into  the  river  below. 
The  river  flowed  tranquil  and  placid  till, 
when  opposed  by  these  masay  fragments, 
it  foamed  and  frothed  against  their  im- 
movable sides,  then  separating,  the  waters 
whirled  round  them  in  different  currents, 
and  joining  again  the  stream  ran  on  its 
course,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine  The 
road  now  lying  beside  this  river  brought 
them  soon  to  the  pretty  straggling  village 
of  Matlock." 


(Junu7  U,  iset.l 


ALL  T^E  YEAE  ROUND. 


Thio  is  from  Harry  aDd  Lacy,  What 
children  read  Harry  and  Lucy  now  1  and 
yet  to  many  not  far  advanced  beyond 
middle  life  their  first  viait  to  Matlock  will 
recall  Harry  with  hia  portable  barometer, 
and  the  more  volatile  and  lovable  Lncy. 

There  Is  a  great  change  in  the  secluded 
village  of  other  times,  secluded  still  by 
Nature,  but  now  often  thronged  like  a  fair 
by  a  boat  of  summer  visitaote,.  while  every 
sheltered  slope  is  crowned  by  some 
hydropathic  eatabliahment  Beyond  the 
regular  tourist  track  lies  a  wild  and 
dreary  district  dotted  here  and  there  with 
scattered  lead-mines — mines  which  have 
been  worked  without  interruption  from  the 
days  when  they  pud  tribute  to  Cteur,  and 
probably  from  s^  earlier  times. 

The  ancient  laws  and  customa  of  the 
mines  are  worth  a  little  stndy,  as,  handed 
down  from  age  to  age,  they  bear  traces  of 
quite  different  influences  from  the  feudal 
and  aristocratic  systems  of  the  surrounding 
districts.  In  Wirksworth,  for  instance, 
the  laws  of  the  mines  declare  :  "  'Us  Lawful 
for  all  liege  people  of  this  nation  to  dig, 
delve,  eta,  and  turn  up  all  manner  at 
ground,  land,  meadows,  closes,  etc.,  within 
the  Bwd  wapentake;  dwelling-houses,  hi^- 
ways,  ordurdB,  and  gardens  excepted." 
And  the  law  was  no  dead  letter ;  any  pro- 
specting miner  might  follow  the  surface 
indications  of  a  vein,  like  a  huntsman  his 
hounds,  over  any  man's  field  or  encIo6ur& 
And  having  settled  where  to  dig  his  shaft, 
the  miner  hud  merely  to  scoop  out  a  hole, 
and  place  there  a  small  wooden  cross,  and 
that  was  in  the  language  of  the  minera  a 
good  poBseeaion  for  him,  and  the  miner 
vaa  entitled  to  have  two  meers  measored 
out  to  him  by  the  Bormaater,  and  to  work 
his  mine  unmolested.  The  Barmaster, 
indeed,  was  the  only  aathority  recognised 
by  the  miners,  all  civil  prooesaes  must  pass 
through  his  haads,  and  he  alone  was 
authorised  to  punish  crima  Controlling 
the  despotic  powers  of  the  Barmaster  was 
the  great  court  or  Bamnote  held  twice  a 
year  at  Eastertide  and  Michaelmas, 

Two  handsome  pigs  of  lead,  among  others, 
marked  with  Boman  stamps,  are  to  be 
found  among  our  native  antiquities  in  the 
British  Museum,  which  were  discovered  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Wirkaworth  and 
Matlock  These  Eoman  piga — the  Derby 
miners  would  have  called  them  pieces, 
two  of  which  go  to  a  pig — vary  consider- 
I  ably  in  weight,  and  it  ia  a  curious  fact  that 
I  till  within  recent  times  so  did  all  the  pigs 
of  metkl  sent  away  from  the  mines,  accord- 


ing to  the  distance  of  ultimate  deatlnstion 
and  difBculties  of  transport  thereta  For 
instance,  a  piece,  or  half  pig,  for  London, 
a  long  doleful  portage  on  the  hacks  of 
packhorsea,  weighed  only  one  hundred  and 
thirty-six  pounds,  while  a  piece  fOT  Hall, 
with  water-carriage  nearly  all  the  way, 
weighed  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight 
pounds.  For  the  sender  paid  all  chugea 
of  conveyance,  which  he  thus  dedaoted  from 
his  pigs  before  he  sent  them  to  market 
There  is  aomettung  pleosJogty  archaic  in 
this  survival,  almost  to  our  own  day,  ol  a 
relic  of  a  time  when  weights  and  measures 
accommodated  themselves  to  human  con- 
venience, and  had  not  assumed  the  rigid 
fixity  of  a  adentific  age ;  when  land  was 
measured  by  the  oxen's  yoke  and  the  power 
of  the  plough-team ;  and  when  the  stadinm 
was  shorter  or  longer  according  to  Hie  diffi- 
culties of  the  way. 

The  mining  region  of  Derbyshire  extends 
to  the  very  aummit  of  the  Peak,  where 
William  Peverel  built  his  strong  tower, 
and  the  title  of  Peverel  of  the  Peak  reminds 
na  of  Walter  Scott'a  novel.  But  there 
have  been  no  Peverels  in  Derbyshire  aioce 
the  reign  of  Henry  the  Second,  when  the 
second  of  the  name,  the  grandson  oE  the 
Conqueror,  was  occnsed  of  poisoning  the 
popular  Ranulph,  Eail  of  Chester  —  the 
one  whoae  fame  was  enshrined  in  popular 
ballads  along  with  that  of  Kobin  Good— 
so  that  most  of  his  possessions  eachested 
to  the  Crown,  while  the  small  portion  that 
his  daughter  was  allowed  to  inherit  wai 
carried  by  her  marriage  to  a  line  of 
strangers.  And  the  castle  of  the  Peak, 
although  counted  one  of  the  seven  wonden 
of  the  Peak,  is  only  a  hUI-tower  that  conld 
never  have  been  of  great  importanoa 
The  other  wonders  of  the*  Peak  are 
described  in  LaUn  verses  by  no  less  a 
philosopher  than  Hobbes  of  Molmesbory, 
who  long  lived  among  the  Derbyshire  hilli 
as  the  ^est  and  pensioner  of  the  kindly 
Cavendishes.  This  little  book  of  the  great 
philosopher  must  have  attained  a  good  deal 
of  popularity,  for  it  reached  a  fifth  edition 
In  1683,  and  is  accompanied  with  an 
English  version  by  a  "  Person  of  Quality," 


k  doth 


On  th'  English  Alpa,  where  DitrfaU's 


The  pile  thus  described,  the  work  of  our 
friend,  Bess  of  Hardwick,  has  been,  how- 
ever, replaced  by  one  still  more  grand, 
abundantly  described   in   many  excellent 


.  CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.  iju.u«t  la,  ism j    209 

virited  the  hall  one  day,  and  had  gooe  od 
his  way,  taking  up  his  abode  for  t£«  night 
in  th«  GOttt^  of  a  peasant  Nothing 
more  was  seen  of  him,  bat  soon  after  a 
terror-Btricken  rustic  came  to  seek  the 
knight  in  hie  jastice-room,  and  told  his 
tale — hov  he  had  passed  the  peasant's 
cottage  by  night,  ana  noticing  a  light  in 
the  window  and  hearing  nocanny  noises, 
he  had  crept  up  and  looked  in,  and  saw 
the  body  of  the  pedlar  lying  on  the 
ground,  and  the  peasant  hacking  off  the 
head  with  his  biL  A  strict  search  was 
instituted,  and  the  remains  of  the  pedlar 
were  discovered  in  a  copse  and  brongbt  to 
the  hall,  where  Sir  Qeorge  commanded  all 
Ms  neighboors  and  serrants  to  attend,  and 
put  them  to  the  ordeal  of  touching  the 
dead  body  one  by  one.  The  suspected  man 
hung  back  till  among  the  last.  According 
to  the  popular  belief,  at  the  touch  of  the 
murderer,  the  wounds  of  the  murdered 
man  would  begin  to  bleed  afresh,  and  the 
conscience  -  stricken  peasant,  rather  than 
undergo  the  ordeal,  took  to  his  heels  and 
made  for  the  woods.  Then  followed  a 
chase  in  which  the  whole  community 
took  part,  a  hue  and  cry  over  fields  and 
through  plaataUons,  till  the  fugitive 
was  hunted  down,  when  by  Sir  George's 
order  he  was  hung  to  the  nearest  tree. 
Such  rough  justice  as  this,  however,  was 
an  ooacl^nism  even  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  and  Sb  Geoige  was  called  to 
account  by  the  council,  but  seems  to  have 
made  his  peace  without  aay  heavy  fine  or 
forfeiture. 

Between  this  and  Buxton  the  county 
gives  evidence  of  an  ancient  popnlation 
which  has  left  only  the  remains  of  its  dead 
to  tell  its  Ustory.  There  are  barrows  and 
tumuli  everywhere;  some  opened  near 
Chelmaston  disclosed  circles  of  skeletons, 
with  their  heads  turned  to  the  centre.  At 
Arborlow  there  is  a  fine  stone  circle, 
and  the  lonely  Eoman  road,  with  the 
melancholy  sumnut  of  Azedge  in  the  back- 
ground, seems  to  add  to  tlie  eerie  desolation 
of  the  scene.  The  Komao  road  leads 
direct  to  Buxton,  which,  lime  out  of  mind, 
haa  been  the  great  health  resort  of  the 
district.  The  ancient  rite  of  the  well- 
dressing,  still  kept  up  with  the  accompani- 
ment oF  cheap  trippers  in  thousands  from 
every  part  of  the  manufacturing  dis- 
tricts, carries  the  mind  back  to  a  simple 
Fi^an  worship  which  baa  left  its  echoes 
still  in  the  hearts  of  simple  peasants.  And 
Buxton  is,  perlups,  the  southernmost  of 
the  sociable  gregarious  watering-places  of 


gnide-bookB.  Perhaps  the  most  interest- 
ing port  of  modem  Ohatsworth  is  its  gar- 
dens, with  their  magnificent  conservatones, 
ersated  almost,  from  an  unsatisfactory 
duos,  by  Sir  Joseph  Paxton.  The  late 
Doke  of  Devonshire's  account  of  Sir  Joseph 
11  intaiesting.  How  the  duke  was  looking 
onb  for  a  head-gardener,  and  visited  the 
Horticultural  Gardens  at  Chiswick,  and 
via  struck  with  the  appearance  of  a 
jTOong  loan  busy  nailing  and  training 
creepers — a  new  hand  at  eighteen  shillings 
1  week  wages,  "  young  and  untried,"  so 
tud  the  prudent  curator  of  the  grounds. 
Bat  the  duke  determined  to  try  him ;  and 
with  00  munificent  salary  at  first — twenty- 
fire  shillings  a  week — ^young  Paxton  began 
to  build  up  the  gardens  of  Ciiatsworth. 
The  wealtii  of  the  Cavendishes  was  soon 
employed  in  building  up  the  huge  oon- 
nrvatorifls,  in  sending  expeditions  even  to 
distant  oonntaries  for  rare  and  curious 
idnts,  irtiQe  Paxton  accompanied  the 
doke  in  his  visits  to  all  the  great  capitals 
of  Europe,  and  brought  back  ideas  and 
infbnnation.  And  Uken  one  day  Mr. 
Pa:aon,  travelling  up  to  London,  joined  the 
Holyhmd  mail  at  Crewe,  and  travelled  up 
to  town  with  some  contractors  interested' 
m  the  much-talked-of  bufldiog  for  the 
omungworld's  exhibition  of  1851.  Paxton 
■ketched  his  notions  of  a  great  glass 
baQding  upon  the  back  of  a  newspaper, 
and  from  Uiis  sketch  was  elaborated  the 
design  of  the  wonderful  glass  palace  in 
Hy(&  Park,  and  the  structure  that  suc- 
ceeded it  at  Sydenham. 

Not  far  from  Chatsworth,  in  the  tribu- 
tary valley  of  the  Wye,  lies  Bakewell,  a 
pleasant  little  town  in  the  midst  of  charming 
Kenery,  with  a  fine  cburoh  rich  in  monu- 
ments, the  most  ancient  of  which  is  one  to 
Thomas  de  Wednesley,  who  was  mortally 
wounded  in  the  battle  of  Shrewabury,  fight- 
ing against  the  Per^ ;  poeeibly  one  of  those 
whom  Hotspur  doBcribes  as  marching  in  the 
king's  eoats,  and  who  fell  before  the  sword 
of  Douglas. 

Bat  Uie  gem  of  the  district  is  Haddon 
Hall,  one  of  the  finest  of  the  old  baronial 
balls  stiU  left  to  us — a  fine  qoadrangnlar 
sbuctore,  mostJy  of  the  Tudor  period,  but 
withparta  still  more  ancient  Here  Uved 
the  Vemona  in  their  pride,  the  greatest 
people  in  all  the  district  roand,  but  simple 
Blights  in  the  ofGcial  hierarchy.  The  last 
of  the  Vemons,  Sir  George,  was  known  as 
Hie  King  of  th^  Peak,  and  Oat  he  sometimes 
s^tehM  his  regal  powers  a  little  is  shown 
in  the  following   story.     A  pedlar  had 


210      IJuiuu]rU,lBM.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  EOUHD, 


|0iudn(«M4 


which  the  type  is  not  to  be  fooiui  ropto- 
duced  soath  of  the  Trent. 

Hatheraage  is  another  centre  of  Dethj- 
ahire  folk-lore,  in  itielf  most  intereating, 
with  vild  and  romantic  ncenery,  and  a 
wealth  of  prehistoric  rem&in&  Here, 
according  to  tradition,  Little  John,  the 
lieutenant  of  Bobin  Hood,  lies  buried,  the 
grave,  as  marked  out  by  head  and  foot 
atones,  being  at  least  nine  feet  long.  That 
tradition  has  duly  pointed  out  the  last 
reeting-place  of  acme  mighty  man  of  old  is 
probable  enough,  uid  why  should  we  east 
any  doubt  on  his  identity  when  popular 
faith  ia  so  strong  upon  the  point  I 

Leaving  the  wild  and  beantiful  valleys 
of  the  Peak  district,  we  come  to  a  atlil 
wild  but  more  populous  and  mannfactaring 
district  that  borders  upon  Sheffield — a 
region  of  coal  and  iron.  Dronfield,  Chea- 
tcrfield,  and  Staveley  are  thriving  induB- 
triat  towns  with  no  particular  history  about 
them,  while  Beanchief  Abbey,  that  lies 
near  Dronfield,  has  only  a  tower  to  ahow 
of  its  ancient  glories.  A  little  village, 
called  Whittington,  lying  among  the  moors, 
contains  a  dwelling  still  called  Revolution 
House,  where  met  a  trio  of  conepiratora  In 
1688— Earl  Danby,  aftenvarda  the  Duke 
of  Leeds,  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and 
Sir  John  Darcy,  son  and  heir  of  Conyers, 
Earl  of  Eoldemess — who  there,  it  is  sud, 
settled  the  preliminaries  of  the  landing  of 
William  of  Orange  and  the  establishment 
of  the  Protestant  succession.  Bolsover, 
which  stands  upon  the  aummit  of  a  lime- 
stone edge,  is  more  picturesque  In  its  min 
and  decay  than  it  ever  was  in  its  foraier 
magniScenca  The  house  was  built  on  the 
site  of  an  ancient  castle,  in  1613,  by  Sir 
Charles  Cavendish — a  barrack,  as  it  were, 
to  hold  a  vast  array  of  servants  aod 
retainers,  but  ugly  and  comfortless.  A  fine 
ridiDg-house,  still  kept  in  repair,  testifies 
to  the  love  of  horsemanship  and  the  akill 
in  the  manage  of  these  ancient  Cavendishes. 
Bat  the  rains  of  Bolsover  now  belong  to 
the  Duke  of  Rutland's  estate,  having,  like 
Haddon  Hall,  been  added  thereto  by 
fortunate  marriages  at  one  time  or  other. 

Farther  south  Um  Wingfield,  with  re- 
mains of  the  old  manor-house  of  the 
Talbots,  where  M&ry  Queen  of  Scots  was 
resident  for  some  time  under  the  charge  of 
the  Earl  of  Shrewsbnry  and  Countess 
Bess.  Here,  as  usual,  she  turned  the  heads 
of  all  the  men  in  the  neighbcurhood,  and 
Leonard  Dacre,  who  lived  close  by,  was 
one  of  the  nnfottonates  who  attempted  her 
rescua     Detliicke,  too,  was  close  at  hand. 


and  from  Wingfield,  no  doubt,  the  chami- 
ing  queen  threw  her  invisible  net  ovar 
the  chivalrous  Anthouy  Babington.  The 
Babingtons  were  originaUy  of  Nottingham- 
shire, and  the  broad  lands  of  Dethicke 
had  been  won,  with  the  hwid  of  the 
heiress,  by  an  ancestor  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  Anno  1S66,  Anthony  Babington 
waa  attainted  of  high  treason  tot  his  uare 
in  the  historic  conspiracy  which  bean  bii 
name,  and  his  enormous  patrimony  pasniiB 
to  bis  brother  George,  was  by  him  vastM 
and  dissipated. 


THE  MAREIAGE  OF  THE  OCBAMS. 

It  is  well-nigh  two  hundred  and  Uiirtj 
years  since  ^  Thomaa  Browne  pointed 
out  the  "  vulgar  ern»  "  of  the  Cnidians  in 
giving  up  the  attempt  to  cut  the  Isthmni 
of  Corinth.  They  were  deterred,  it  it 
related,  by  the  peremptory  command  of 
Apollo,  who  said  that  if  it  had  been  intended 
that  the  country  shonld  be  an  island  it  would 
have  been  made  bo  at  first  "  But  this,  per- 
haps," says  the  learned  doctor, "  will  not  be 
thought  a  reasonable  discouragement  unto 
the  activity  of  those  spirits  which  endeavoor 
to  advantage  Nature  by  Art,  and  upon  good 
grounds  to  promote  any  part  of  the  nni- 
verae ;  nor  will  the  ill-auccesa  of  some  be 
made  a  sufficieDt  deterrement  onto  othns, 
who  know  that  many  learned  men  a£Gim 
that  islands  were  not  iixim  the  b^inning; 
&At  many  have  been  made  since  by  art ; 
that  some  Isthmea  have  been  cut  throngh 
bv  the  sea,  and  others  cut  by  the  s^de ;  and, 
if  p(dicie  would  permit,  that  of  Panama  in 
America  were  most  worthy  the  attempt,  it 
being  but  few  miles  over,  and  would  open 
a  shorter  cut  unto  the  East  Indies  and 
China."  Yet  two  centuries  and  a  quarter 
elapsed  after  diis  was  written  before 
"  policie  would  permit "  to  attempt  what 
has  been  the  dream  ol  ages. 

The  first  European  to  cross  the  Isthmna 
of  Central  America  was  the  Spanish  adven- 
turer Vaaco  Nunez  de  Balboa.  This  was 
in  1513,  some  five  or  six  years  before 
Cortez, 

When  with  eagle  eyes 
Hb  Btared  nt  the  PociGc,  and  bia  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  Burmise— 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darian. 

It  matters  little,  however,  who  was  the 
first,-  but  this  we  know,  iJiat  fmr  man; 
years  the  Spaniards  were  poeseaaed  with 
the  idea  of  uniting  the  Atlantic  with  the 
Pacific.  So  infatuated  were  they,  indeed, 
and  BO  importunate  for  the  aid  of  Philip 


THE  MAfiBIAQE  OF  THE  OOEAITS.     timniiT »,  isai-i     211 


the  Saoond,  tliat  be  forbade  all  farther 
nfereDcatoitonpunofdeath.  Asammary 
nj  of  diBposing  of  difficult  qaeations, 
in  funnODf  with  the  dark  days  of  the 
InqnisitioD. 

For  nearly  a  centuiy  iaterest  in  the 
Duisn  IstbmoB  seems  to  have  elambered, 
ool;  to  be  re-awakened  bf  the  magnificent 
gdwming  of  William  PateiBon.  The  nn- 
bqip;  story  of  hia  attempt  at  colonising 
does  not  need  to  be  retold ;  bnt  it  it 
mrthy  of  noting  now  that  he  selected  for 
Ml  first  settlement  the  very  place  which 
hu  been  fixed  on  in  oar  time  to  make  a 
WSJ  for  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic 

Within  the  present  century  the  project 
hsi  been  taken  np  in  turn  by  England, 
America,  and  France.  It  seemed  to  be 
taking  definite  form  when,  in  1850,  a 
Craat^  was  concluded  between  Uie  United 
StAtes  and  Great  Britain  for  the  political 
neiitralft;  of  a  proposed  canaL 

Once  more,  nowever,  the  matter  slept 
nstil  revired  again  in  1870  by  the  concln- 
aion  of  a  treaty  between  the  United  States 
of  America  and  the  United  States  of 
Colnmbia  with  the  same  object.  Still 
nothing  really  definite  was  done  towards 
the  work  by  either  country.  The  French 
were  actoally  doing  more,  for,  in  1843,  the 
vhole  line  of  roate  was  inspected  by 
two  I^nch  engineers,  who  prepared  an 
elaborate  bnt  impracticable  plan.  Louis 
Napoleon,  it  may  nere  be  said,  had  always 
a  great  fancy  for  the  scheme,  and  when 
incarcerated  in  the  Castle  of  Ham  be  drew 
Dp  a  fomial  proposal  on  the  subject 

It  was  not,  Qowerer,  until  1876  that 
really  serioos  energies  were  brooght  to 
bear  on  the  matter.  In  that  year,  Lien- 
lenant  Wyse  was  sent  by  the  French  Geo- 
graphical Society  to  survey  the  isthmos,  to 
define  a  route,  prepare  a  plan,  n^;otiat« 
Tt'th  the  Colombifui  Government,  and  to 
report  All  this  he  did  very  thoroughly, 
voile  li.  Ferdinand  de  Lesaeps  convoked 
sn  International  Congress  to  formulate  a 
icbeme.  This  congress  decided  that  the 
most  practicable  route  had  been  demon- 
itrated  to  be  one  sketched  from  the  6ulf 
of  Limon,  at  Colon,  to  tiie  Bay  of  Panama. 
This  brings  us  to  about  Uie  middle  of 
1679,  when  prc^resa  was  once  more 
inested.  The  preliminary  prospectus  of 
Uie  project  was  received  with  great  dia- 
i^pTDVu  in  the  United  States,  and.  such 
urious  poliUcal  opposition  seemed  to  be 
threatened,  that  M.  de  Lessepa  had  to  sus- 
pend fi "*""«'  operations  in  order  to  go 
over  to  the  States  himself.      There   us 


energy  and  eloquence  were  not  unrewarded, 
and  he  returned  to  Europe  to  complete  his 

In  November,  1880,  was  issued  the 
prospectus  of  the  UniverBal  Inter-Oceanic 
Canal  Company,  asking  for  five  hundred 
thousand  subscriptions  of  five  hundred 
francs  each. 

This  prospectus  stated  that  the  cost  of 
the  canal  from  Limon  to  Panama  would  be 
five  hundred  million  ftanos,  and  that  the 
difference  between  the  capital  of  the 
company  and  the  outlay  would  be  raised 
upon  bonds  secured  njKin  eighty  per  cent 
of  the  net  profits,  with  interest  at  five  per 
cent  during  the  period  of  construction. 
The  time  estimated  for  construction  was 
eight  yean,  and  the  profits  were  esti- 
mated to  be  eleven  per  cent  should  the 
shilling  annually  using  the  canal  amount 
to  BIZ  million  tons,  paying  dues  at  fifteen 
francs  per  ton.  These  estmiateB,  of  couise, 
were  keenly  criticised.  It  has  been  re- 
peatedly stated  by  experts  that  the  final 
cost  of  the  canal  is  likely  t«  be  nearer 
fcrty  millions  sterling,  than  twenty  millions 
sterling,  as  M.  de  Lasseps  calcnlates,  and 
that  the  amount  of  shipping  available  to 
use  it  cannot  come  up  to  one-half  of  his 
estimate.  The  chief  of  the  American 
Bureau  of  Statistics  prepared  and  pub- 
lished a  series  of  figures  to  prove  that  not 
more  than  one  and  a  half  to  two  millions 
of  tons  of  shipping  could  be  expected  to 
use  the  canal  annually,  while  other  autho- 
rities estimated  the  probabilities  as  between 
two  and  three  muliona  of  tons.  These 
difTerences  are  serious,  but  as  all  are  only 
estimates  at  best,  we  are  not  concerned  at 
present  to  deal  with  them.  M.  de  Lesseps 
had  faith  in  his  own  figures,  and  his 
ooustrymen  had  faith  in  him.  The  capital 
was  sut»cribed,  and  the  work  was  com- 
menced early  in  1881. 

The  Americans  were  not  content,  how- 
ever, to  leave  the  piercing  of  the  isthmus 
in  French  hands,  and,  under  the  auspices 
of  General  Grant,  was  formulated  a  scheme 
for  cutting  a  canal  farther  north  through 
Nicaragua.  This  scheme  fell  through  then, 
bnt  has  since,  we  believe,  been  revived  in 
California,  where  a  company  is  being 
formed,  or  attempted  to  t>e  formed,  for  the 
purpose. 

Concurrently,  a  Captain  Ends  published 
a  plan  for  a  ship-railway  across  the  Tehu- 
antepec  Isthmus,  which  attracted  a  good 
deal  of  attention  for  its  boldness  and 
novelty.  So  far  the  public  has  not  taken 
up   tlus    last    project  very  warmly,  but 


212     1  JaniucT  W,  lMi.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


CaptuQ  Eads  is  sud  to  be  actn&lly  afc  work 
BUrveying  and  preparing  bis  roate. 

Since  M.  da  Letups  sent  oat  hia  fint 
cargo  of  experts  and  material,  we,  in  this 
eoontry,  have  practically  lost  eight  of  the 
matter.  We  knew  that  something  was 
going  on,  but  nobody  knew  exacUy  what ; 
reports  were  conflicting,  and  everybody  con- 
cluded tiiat  it  was  going  to  be  inch  a  long 
bnsineaa  at  best,  that  it  cbold  well  be  for- 
gotten for  some  years.  Bat  the  recent  re- 
ceipt of  a  report  from  Nt.  Chamberlaine,  the 
British  Consal  at  Panama,  showi  ns  that 
veiT  materia]  progress  is  being  made,  and  it 
will  be  of  interest  to  indicate  briefly  what 
is  being  done. 

The  headqnaiters  of  the  Inter-Oceanio 
Company  have  been  flxed  at  Panama,  where 
a  large  building  of  two  hundred  apart- 
ments has  been  purchased  at  acostof  for^ 
thousand  pounds  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  engineers  and  staff  of  the  central 
administration.  Including  workmen,  the 
entire  staff  employed  by  the  company  on 
April  Ist  last  was  six  thousand  four  hun- 
dred and  sixty-nine,  and  of  the  laboarers 
the  larger  proportion  were  Jamaicana  In 
the  Bay  of  Faaama  the  company  has  quite 
a  fleet  of  steam-launcbea  and  boata ;  on 
the  island  of  Naos  it  has  a  meteorological 
station  for  observing  and  registering  the 
tides,  temperature,  winds,  etc. ;  and  on  the 
Island  of  Toboga  it  has  established  a  sana- 
torium for  those  of  its  employ^  whose 
health  gives  way.  But  the  conditions  as 
to  health  of  the  large  army  of  workers 
seems,  according  to  Mr.  Chamberlaine,  to 
be  better  than  was  generally  expected. 
He  reports  the  cases  of  illness  as  14.30 
per  centk,  and  says  that  of  six  thousand 
persons  whom  be  dosely  watched,  eight 
hundred  and  fifty  fell  ill,  the  mortaUty 
being  equal  to  twenty-five  per  thousand  per 
annum.  This  is  to  some  extent  reassuring, 
for  the  mortality  during  the  construction 
of  the  Fanama  railway  was  frightful,  there 
being  a  saying  of  grim  significance  that  an 
Irishman  lies  buried  under  every  sleeper. 
The  unhealtiUness  of  the  isthmus  was  one 
of  the  greatest  of  the  obstacles  suggested 
in  the  way  of  the  canal  project,  but  by  care 
or  good  fortune  the  obstacle  is  not  proving 
80  formidable  as  was  feared. 

The  principle  upon  which  the  work  is 
being  conducted  is  to  divide  the  line  iuto 
sections,  and  to  let  the  work  of  the  sepa- 
rate sections  to  contractors.  Thus  me 
first  section,  which  extends  from  Bio 
Grande,  near  the  month  of  the  Chagres 
Biver,  to  Pedro  MiKnel>  has  been  let  to  the 


Franco-American  Tradmg  Company,  who, 
however,  have  not  yet  commenced  wwk 
Their  task  comprises  the  excavation  of 
about  ttiree  million  eight  hundred  and  six- 
teen thousand  cubic  metres  of  earth,  and 
they  are  to  complete  this  section  within 
two  years  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  pounds.  On  the  next  sectbn 
from  Pedn>  Muuel  to  Paraiso,  work  ii 
progreiaing  rapKlly  with  over  four  hon- 
dred  labourers  excavating  and  cutting  the 
bed  of  the  canaL  From  Paraiso  the  next 
section  extends  to  Culehra,  which  is  the 
highest  level  the  canal  will  attain,  and  hers 
a  cutting  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  deep 
has  to  be  made  through  the  mountain, 
Here  the  necessary  machinery  has  alresdy 
been  erected,  and  some  seven  hundred 
men  are  at  work.  The  contract,  which  in- 
volves the  extraction  of  three  milliw  five 
hundred  thousand  cubic  metres,  is  for  four 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds.  From 
this  point  to  Emperador  forms  another 
section,  in  which  great  progress  has  been 
made — machinery  erected,  railroad  con- 
structed, and  hills  levelled.  On  thii 
section  six  huniked  and  forty  men  are 
employed,  and  it  is  to  be  completed  in 
three  years  for  seven  hundred  and  fifteen 
thousand  pounds  After  this  come  the 
sections  of  the  Upper  and  Lower  Obispo,  in 
which  the  river  of  that  name  has  to  be  cat 
in  five  difierent  places.  The  heaviest  put 
of  the  work  in  these  sections  is  the  con- 
struction of  a  rulway  to  carry  the  euth 
and  stone  excavated  to  Gamboa,  withiriiich 
to  buUd  a  dam  between  the  Cerro  Cmi 
and  the  Cerro  Obispo.  This  will  form  s 
reservoir  two  thousand  rix  handred  feet 
long,  uid  one  hundred  feet  high,  capable 
of  holding  six  hundred  and  sixty  millioiu 
of  cubic  metres  of  water.  The  ffcak 
on  this  section  is  so  far  advanced  that 
the  raUway  will  aoon  be  completed,  and 
then  the  building  of  the  reservoir  win 
commence.  The  next  section  to  Oorgont 
is  being  also  actively  prosecuted,  au  a 
connection  has  been  fonned  between  the 
line  of  the  Panama  railway  and  the  worka 
At  this  st«ge  the  canal  wiU  cut  the  Chsgret 
river  five  times.  In  the  next  section,  ex- 
tending to  Matachin,  some  five  hundred  and 
eighty  labourers  are  employed  in  cuttiog 
the  bed  of  the  canal,  and  blowing  up  roott 
and  trunks  of  large  trees  with  dynamita 
After  this,  in  the  two  sections  of  San  Pablo 
and  Bohio  Solado,  the  canal  cuts  the 
Ciiagres  river  fifteen  times  again,  and  here 
work  bas  only  been  in  progress  a  few 
months,  bat  a&eady  six  hundred  men  ire 


smplojed  preparing  tho  wsy  for  the 
eogioeera  to  b^in  their  levelling  and 
KJentiGc  work  in  the  dry  aeason. 

At  Bohio  Solado  the  moat  difficnlt  part 
af  tiie  operations  is  passed,  and  tvo- 
thiids  of  the  entire  length  of  the  canaL 
The  Tsnuinder  of  the  course  to  Colon — 
the  Atiantic  outlet — will  be  comparatively 
fij,  consisting  mainly  of  dredging  on  aoft 
muthy  soil  The  headquarters  at  this  end 
an  at  Gatan,  and  from  there  are  directed 
(he  opentiona  of  three  dredges,  each 
etpable  of  raiung  five  thoosand  cabic 
iDetrag  per  da;. 

At  Colon,  Mr.  Chiunberlune  uys,  a 
remarkable  change  has  been  wrooght 
Two  yean  ago  it  was  an  ineignificant  town 
d(  tluee  thousand  inhabittuits,  with  no 
accommodation  for  traveUers,  T»day  it 
bu  over  ten  thousand  inhabitants,  and 
uniaeroas  hotels  and  places  of  entertain- 
ment It  has  become  a  bustling  place 
with  large  imports  and  a  constant  traffic. 
Here  the  company  has  erected  a  wharf  at 
which  TOBsela  may  discharge  the  stores 
ind  material  for  the  works,  and  has  ra- 
dumed  twenty  acres  of  ground,  and 
erected  on  them  a  platform  and  mole. 
On  Hm  platform,  which  is  where  will  be 
the  Atlsjitic  entrance  to  the  canal,  have 
been  built  substantial  warehouses,  work- 
Bhops,  and  residences  for  the  officials.  The 
mots  and  the  platform  form  a  breakwater 
for  the  shelter  of  vessela  intending  to 
SDter  the  canal  A  slipway  has  been  con- 
stracted  for  the  bnilding  and  repairing  of 
imall  craft.  At  the  present  time  the  com- 
piny  has  two  thousand  eight  hundred  men 
employed  at  Colon,  ana  its  imports  of 
loateiial  average  about  ten  thousand  tons 
per  month. 

fVom  the  foregoing  r»pid  sketch  it 
will  be  seen  that  Sir  Thomas  Browne's 
"  few  milaa  over  "  are  long  and  wearisome, 
measured  by  the  amount  of  laboar,  and 
skill,  and  money  required  to  traverse  them. 
Whether  the  canal  will  or  will  not  be  com- 
pleted within  eight  years  from  its  com- 
mencement, and  whether  or  not  the  cost 
will  exceed  M.  de  Lesaeps's  and  approach 
the  English  estimate,  are  questions  for  the 
fatars  to  decide.  Meanwhile  the  maritime 
commerce  of  the  world  is  constantly  grow- 
ing, and  it  would  be  rash  to  say  that  it  will 
net  grow  up  to  the  accommodation  of  the 
Panama  Oanat,  as  it  baa  already  surpassed 
that  of  the  Suez  Canal  To  the  political 
qaestions  involved  in  the  project  we  need 
not  further  refer  than  to  say  they  are 
capable  of  solution. 


FER.  iJidUHT  10,  UU.I    213 

As  ve  see  difficulties  smoothed  down 
and  obstacles  fall  away  before  the  in- 
domitable energy  of  M  de  Lessepe,  and  as 
we  read  the  independent  testimony  of  our 
countryman  to  the  work  which  has  been 
and  is  being  done,  we  begin  to  feel  our- 
selves within  reach  of  the  realisation  of 
the  dream  of  ages.  One  of  the  most 
magnificent  schemes  of  oar  century  is  on 
the  road  to  completion,  and  even  old  men 
may  lire  to  wiCnesa  the  imposing  nuptials 
of  the  two  great  oceans  of  the  world. 


JENIFER. 

BY  ANmS  THOHAS  (UBS.  rxKDKS'CDDLIF]. 

CHAPTER  XXXVL      AT  LAST. 

Six  weeks  or  so  before  tho  expiration  of 
the  probationary  term,  there  foil  another 
heavy  trial  upon  poor  Jenifer  in  the 
dangerous  illness  of  her  husband. 

The  grand  ambition  of  his  life  had  been 
to  be  rich — not  for  the  sake  of  riches — not 
that  ho  might  be  quoted  as  a  wealthy  man, 
or  one  to  whom  the  "  spending  of  a  thou- 
sand up  or  down  "  was  a  mere  nothing,  but 
fc(r  the  sake  of  procuring  the  sport,  tho 
pleasures,  the  luxuries,  the  excitements 
without  which  life  seemed  to  him  to  be 
not  worth  living. 

He  had  missed  his  own  money-making 
mark  early  in  life,  when,  instead  of  going 
into  practice  with  his  father,  he  had  in- 
sisted on  going  into  the  army.  He  had 
(before  the  Effie  days  even)  missed  marry- 
ing an  heiress  who  cruelly  jilted  him,  and 
openly  denounced  him  as  a  fortuue-hunter, 
Aud  his  last  stroke  for  Fortune's  smiles, 
Jenifer  and  her  probabilities  of  success,  had 
turned  out  a  fatally  false  ona  The  hopes 
be  had  built  upon  her  success  were  bitter 
as  Dead  Sea  fruits. 

As  soon  a<i  he  was  out  of  the  sunehine 
of  social  life,  that  sunshine  which  can  only 
be  the  permanent  portion  of  those  whose 
purses  are  always  well  filled,  ho  grew 
gloomy,  indifferent  to  hia  few  remaining 
sources  of  enjoyment,  bitter  and  distraetful 
of  everyone,  and  aourly  discontented. 

The  work  of  his  clerkship  was  uncon- 
genial to  him.  The  busSness  men  by  whom 
he  found  himself  surrounded  in  his  bus!- 
neea  life  were  uncongenial  to  him,  yet  he 
shrank  from  the  society  of  Ms  old  friends, 
and  took  it  for  granted  that  they  despised 
him  on  account  of  his  positjon  as  heartily 
as  he  despised  it. 

With  Whittlar's  death  he  gave  up  all 
honee  of  ever  bemir  able  to  make  Jenifer 


2U    [JiniuiTie 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


iDto  a  money-mftbiiiff  machine.  And  bo 
bis  home-life  tiad  no  happiness  in  it,  for  he 
always  remrded  his  wtfe  as  one  who  had 
tricked  and  defrauded  him  hy  appeHriug  to 
have  remunerative  talent  when  ene  had  it 
not. 

The  result  was  that  the  disturbed,  dis- 
satisfied, lowered  tone  of  his  mind  acted  in 
time  upon  his  body,  and  when  a  heavy 
cold  assailed  him,  and  feverish  symptoms 
BpeedUy  set  in,  he  had  neither  the  strength 
nor  the  spirit  to  do  bittle  against  them. 

They  had  left  the  furnished  house  in 
St  John's  Wood  now,  and  were  in  lodeinn 
in  a  dismal  creacaot  in  the  neighbonrhooa, 
where  his  strained  nerves  were  tortured  by 
barrel-oi^guu  by  day,  and  the  cries  of  every 
evil-dispoiitioned  oat  in  the  neighbourhood 
by  night.  The  sun  rarely  shines  in  this 
favoured  spot,  and  the  odours  that  reach 
it  from  the  adjoining  canal  are  not  those 
best  in  the  world  adapted  to  reinvi^orate 
and  refresh  an  ailing  man  with  fastidious 
senses  and  tastes.  However,  here  he  had 
to  live,  poor  fellow ;  and  here,  finally,  after 
weeks  of  anxious,  patient,  hopeless  nursing 
on  Jenifer's  part,  he  bad  to  die. 

Than  his  "own  people,"  those  who  in 
their  selfish  prosperity  had  nearly  for- 
gotten him  in  his  adversity,  came,  and 
almost  reproached  Jenifer  with  "  not  having 
managed  better  "  than  to  Jet  him  get  into 
such  a  state  of  healtL  His  mother  took 
comfort  in  the  thought  that  the  "  boy  was 
exactly  like  poor  Harry,  not  a  trace  of 
the  Rays  in  him,"  and  then  soothed  her 
conscience  for  the  neglect  of  her  son 
when  living,  by  offering  to  pay  his  funeral 
expenses. 

"My  advice  to  yon,  my  dear,"  she  said 
to  Jenifer,  as  she  dried  her  eyes  in  a 
cambiio  handkerchief,  the  price  of  which 
wonld  have  riven  "  die  boy "  clothe*  for 
twelve  montu;  "my  advioe  to  yon,  my 
dear,  is  to  leave  London,  and  go  away  to 
some  email  country  town,  where  rent  is 
cheap,  and  you  can  get  singing  -  pupilB. 
You  really  needn't  waste  your  nme  any 
more  by  looking  after  your  boy.  Your 
mamma  can  have  literally  nothing  to  do 
but  look  after  him,  and  it's  clearly  her 
dnty  to  do  it." 

"  His  grandmother  will  not  neglect  her 
duty  to  my  boy,"  Jenifer  eaid. 

"Very  right,  very  right  of  her,  indeed," 
the  other  grandmother  said  approvingly. 
"  Now  listen  to  me,  Jenifer ;  you  must  not 
let  tliis  sad  blow  min  your  ufe,  you  must 
rise  up  and  exert  yourseli '  Why,  if  Pr, 
Edgecumb  were  taken  to-morrow  I  should' 


not  give  way !  I  should  still  think  it  my 
dnty  to  fhlfil  the  social  obligations  Heaven 
has  laid  npon  me ;  and  you  must  do  the 
same.  Yon  must  go  away  into  some  quiet 
place,  and  make  ap  your  nundtowork! 
By-and-by  we  will  see  what  can  be  done 
for  the  dear  boy.  Of  course  he  will  have 
whatever  your  mamma  has,  when  she 
dies," 

"Ah,  don't  speak  of  my  mother's  death  1" 
Jenifer  cried  out,  shrinking  away  fromhei 
mother-in-law  in  a  way  that  astonished 
that  lady. 

"My  dear,  it  roust  oome  I  We  all 
know  it  must  come,"  Mrs.  Edgecumb  said 
authoritatively. 

The  news  of  Captain  Edgecumb's  death 
reached  Moor  Kojntlat  a  most  inoppartane 
moment  Effie  had  just  achieved  her 
principal  object  of  the  moment,  which 
was  to  receive  an  invitation  to  a  ball  at 
Admiralty  House,  Plymouth,  to  meet 
roj^alty.  No  such  btissfnl  opportonit; 
might  ever  come  again.  In  justice  to  her- 
self she  could  not  neglect  it  now.  So  shs 
put  Jenifer's  telegram  into  the  fire,  sod 
drove  into  Truro  to  order  her  dress. 

Tidines  of  Captain  Edgecomb's  illnen 
had  reaped  Moor  Boyal  oefore  this,  bnt 
they  had  not  been  of  an  alarming  nature^ 
and  Effie  tmsted  to  chance  keeping  Hubert 
in  the  dark  as  to  his  brotlier-in-law's  deatb 
until  after  the  balL  Then  she  meant  to 
call  her  best  tact  to  her  aid,  tell  him  the 
sad  news,  and  justify  her  temporary  con- 
cealment of  it  by  the  lucceu  she  had  made 
at  Admiralty  House. 

Jack  had  received  a  dmilu  telegram, 
but  as  Bubert  and  Jack  were  not  on 
speaking  terms,  no  notification  of  the 
event  reached  Moor  Boyal  frooi  the  Home 
Farm. 

So  no  note  of  brotherly  loving-kindneu 
reached  Jenifer  from  that  brother  Hnbert 
who  had  once  been  ber  beau-ideal,  her  type 
of  mutly  excellence,  kiodneee,  and  coursge. 

Effie's  dress  was  as  lovely  a  tlung  u 
white  satin,  delicate  gold  thread,  hami- 
embroidery,  Mechlin  lace,  and  the  mott 
periect  out  could  make  it  And  Effie  bad 
all  the  success  ahe  desired,  and  far  mora 
than  she  deserved,  at  the  ball. 

But  towards  the  end  of  it  a  great  bloi' 
was. dealt  her.  .A  man  who  bad  been  in 
the  same  regiment  ifith  Captain  Edgecumb 
at  Exeter,  ^irous  of  being  seen  to  be  5° 
speaking  terms  with  the  most  attracliys 
and  most  highly  distinguiehed  woman  is 


the  room,  came  and  spoke  to  hei  when 
ih«  hftppened  to  be  going  to  dance  with 
bar  hosDuid. 

"This  ia  very  ead  about  poor  Edge- 
comb,  isn't  it  t "  he  Baid  after  a  moment 
or  tiro ;  and  before  she  could  answer  he 
went  on:  "  I  hardly  expected  to  see  yon 
hera  to-night." 

"Why,  what's  sadl"  Hubert  asked 
quickly. 

"Yon  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  don't 
knov  he's  dead  1 "  the  other  man  aaid,  Id 
tones  of  such  evident  surprise  and  distrust, 
Hut  Hubert,  after  one  glance  at  his  wife's 
fsce,  thought  he  had  better  take  her  away 


"Ishall  goto  myButerto-morrow.  The 
■hock  has  been  toio  neat  for  bar  to  think 
of  anything,"  he  said  to  Captun  £dg«- 
cofflb's  old  comrade.  But  when  he  was 
■tone  with  his  wife  he  said : 

"Yon knew,  Effie}" 

"  I  cooldn't  ^ye  up  the  ball  I  meant 
to  toll  you  to-night,"  sh«  stammered, 

"You  have  made  me  appear  a  greater 
brate  than  I  am  iu  reality  to  my  own 
Bister,"  he  sighed. 

And  that  was  his  only  reproof  to  Effie. 
Hie  thought  oE  tiie  sensation  she  had  made 
at  the  ball  made  her  bear  the  reproof 
haroically. 

Some  wAj  or  other,  when  the  morrow 
cams,  Hubert  shrank  &om  going  to  his 
niter.  Poor  Edgecmnb  had  been  dead 
several  days  now,  and  was  probably  buried 
by  this  time,  and  as  Jenifer  woiud  have 
taken  it  for  granted  that  they  were  away 
&oin  home  when  her  telwram  arrived, 
uid  had  never  received  it,  there  would  be 
s  certain  painfnl  awkwardness  in  explain- 
ing matters.  Moreover,  he  really  was  not 
in  circomstances  j  ost  now  to  do  anything  for 
his  lister  and  her  bov.  And  if  she  was 
left  in  poverty,  the  sight  of  her  would 
only  wring  hia  heart  for  nothing.  So 
be  did  not  go,  and  EfSe  was  ashamed  to 
inite. 

0ns  Monday  momiog,  about  six  weeks 
after  Cwtain  Edgecamo's  death,  Jenifer 
curied  ba  little  son  into  her  mother's 
bedioon  earlier  than  uaoal,  and  in  answer 
to  an  enquiring  look  from  lUCrs.  Ray,  said  i 

"I  am  going  out  for  the  i^le  day, 
^ur,  and  Iwant  you  to  take  care  of  Jai^ 
Directly  the  post  comes  in  I  shall  go 
off  on  my  round,  and  try  to  beat  np  my 
forowr  pupils,  and  get  soma  new  ones." 

"Yoa  are  not  strong  enough  to  teach 
jet,  my  child,"  Mrs.  Eay  protested. 

"  Not  strong  enough  I "    Jenifer  reared 


PER.         ,  (Juiiurr  19,  issi.)    2 15 

her  slender,  straight  figure  up  more  erecljy. 
"  Mother,  where  do  you  see  signs-of  weak- 
ness in  me  t "  she  asked,  laughing. 

"  None  in  body— — " 

"  And  none  in  mind  either,  I  hopel" 

"No;  but  your  nerves  haven't  got  over 
the  shock,"  Mia.  Bay  argued  pityingly. 

"Indeed  they  have,  a  look  at  Jack 
always  steadies  them,"  Jenifer  sud  buoy- 
antly. "I'm  going  to  start  early,"  she 
went  on,  "because!  shall  recommence  my 
teaching  career  by  walking,  and  saving 
omnibus  fares.  By-and-by,  when  I've 
made  the  long  dreamt  of  competence.  111 
cab  it" 

"There's  the  postman's  knock;  bat  as 
usual,  I  suppose,  no  letters  for  us,"  Mrs. 
Bay  said  wiUi  a  little  sigh. 

And,  indeed,  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Mrs,  Ray's  sons  apparently  forgot  that  they 
had  a  motjier,  when  they  were  absent  from 
her. 

But  this  day  it  happened  that  there  was 
a  letter  for  her,  from  Mr.  Boldero. 

"The  time  has  arrived  for  the  opening 
and  reading  of  your  late  husband's  latest 
will,"  he  wrote.  "  The  day  fixed  is  next 
Thursday,  the  place  in  which  it  is  to  be 
read  is  the  library  at  Moor  BoyaL  All 
the  family,  Admiral  Tollamore,  and  myself 
are  to  be  present  I  hope  Mrs.  Edgecnmb 
and  you  will  do  me  the  honour  to  be  my 
guests,  instead  of  going  to  Moor  BoyaL" 

"  Of  course  we  must  go ;  but,  oh  dear  t 
what  a  trial  it  irill  be,  to  go  and  have  just 
a  glimpse  of  my  old  home,  and  see  that 
I'm  not  wanted  there,"  Mrs.  Bay  said, 
wiping  away  a  few  teara 

But  Jenifer  made  her  mother  busy  her. 
self  about  Jack,  and  so  cheered  her. 

The  momentous  day  arrived.  All  the 
family,  even  Jack  Bay  and  Minnie,  were 
assembled  in  the  librwy.  Effie,  arrayed  in 
a  sumptuous  tea-gown  of  silver-grey  plnsfa, 
which  she  wore  as  a  graceful  conpUment 
to  the  memory  of  Captain  Edgecnmb,  and 
an  air  of  gay  indifforance,  loimged  in  one 
of  the  new  peaooch-blue  velvet  chairs  which 
had  eucceeaed  the  stately  old  library  ones 
of  golden-brown  itamped  leatiier  and  oak. 
Mrs.  Bay  sat  regarding  the  changed  aspect 
of  everything  with  wistful  eyes. 

And  Jenifer  could  hardly  conceal  her 
annoyance  and  contempt  for  Hubert,  for 
the  cool  indifieienca  he  displayed  towards 
his  mother.  |   T '     .  Z^  ' 

Then  their  fatlier'a  latest  wiU  was  read, 
and  the  aspect  of  all  things  uoderieeut  a 


216 


ALL  THE  YEAK  BOUND. 


Cleared  of  all  legal  Tailing,  it  wad  to  thia 
clear  effect : 

Moor  Aoyal,  at  the  expiration  of  three 
years,  was  to  remdn  Hobert's  property  on 
unchanged  terma  if,  during  those  three 
years,  he  had  shown  real  filial  feeling  and 
true  manly  consideration  for  bia  mother, 
charged  merely  with  the  payment  of  two 
hundred  a  year  more  to  Mrs.  Kay,  which 
two  hondrod,  together  with  what  had  been 
left  to  the  widow  under  the  former  will, 
was  to  be  settled  on  Jenifer  at  her  mother's 
death. 

But  supposing  Hubert  had  developed 
the  "  latent  selfiahness  and  eztraTagance  " 
which  his  father  had  always  detected  in 
him,  the  property  was  to  go,  on  the  same 
conditions,  to  "  my  second  son,  John  Bay. 
Provided,  Uiat  is,  that  in  all  respecta  since 
my  death,  be  has  proved  himself  worthy  to 
be  trusted  and  has  not  married  beneath 
him — a  taste  for  low  company  being,  I 
fear,  his  besetting  sin."  In  the  latter 
event  the  whole  property  was  to  be  Mrs. 
Ray's,  on  condition  that  she  left  it  to 
Jenifer. 

No  one  could  assume  for  ao  instant  that 
any  of  the  conditions  had  been  fulfilled, 
and  Hubert  and  Jack  had  the  grace  to 
accept  their  just  reward  in  silence.  But 
ESe,  loudly  protesting  against  the  "  dis- 
gusting injustice  of  the  whole  of  the 
revolting  famUy  into  which  she  bad 
married,"  swept  out  of  the  room  without 
a  word  to  the  lady  who  was  now  its 
miatresa. 

Then  Hubert  went  np  and  kissed  his 
mother,  and  whispered : 

"I  deserve  it,  dear.  'I  have  sinned 
before  Heaven,  and  against  thee,  and  am 
notwortby  to  be  called  thy  aon.'"  And  all 
her  heart  bled  for  him,  and  went  oot  to 
him,  and  urged  her  to  give  him  back  Moor 
Royal  on  the  spot. 

But  this  the  two  executors  would  by  no 
means  allow.  So  in  an  hour  or  two  Effie 
ordered  Hubert  off  with  her  to  join  Flora, 
whose  wit  sad  wealth  would  surely,  she 
thought,  upset  this  iniquitous  plot  agunst 
her  peace  and  plenty. 

But  when  they  were  gone,  Mr.  Boldero 
went  to  Jenifer,  and  said: 


"  Now,  you  know  why  I  have  leatrUnod 
myself!" 

"I  think  I  do;  it  was  because  you  would 
not  ask  me  to  be  your  vrife  tQl  I  knew  as 
well  as  you  did  that  I  should  be  a  rich 
woman  t " 

"  You  are  right,  Jenny  dear." 

"  But  you  will  ask  me — one  day  1 "  the 
said,  blushing  a  little,  as  she  held  her  hand 
out  to  him — and  remembered  her  recent 
bereavement 

"  Please  God  I  will,"  he  said  frankly. 
I     At  the  end  of  a  year  he  kept  his  promiu. 
And  when  they  were  married,  he  said  to 
her; 

"  Jenny,  can  von  trust  me  to  be  a  father 
to  your  boy,  and  a  son  to  your  mothert" 

"Entirely." 

"  Then  aak  her  to  rive  back  Moor  Boyal 
to  Hubert,  You  will  be  a  rich  woman 
without  it,  my  darling,  and  your  mother 
will  be  happier  with  us  than  alone  up  tbers 
with  thoughta  of  the  son  who  has  been 
punished  for  hia  faults  to  her.  Eves  I 
can  trust  Hubert  now." 

So  this  latest  programme  waa  oairisd 
out  And  there  are  no  two  happier  wosbd 
in  England  than  Mrs.  Bay  and  Jmifw; 
though  EHie  holds  her  fail  head  up  scorn- 
fully when  they  are  spoken  of,  and  says : 

"  It's  so  unpleasant  for  me,  you  knoT, 
to  have  to  visit  a  country  Uwyer  and  bit 
wife,  Jenifer  ought  to  have  mown  better 
than  to  put  me  in  such  a  position,  but  shs 
always  was  so  selfish  I  Flora  and  I  hsls 
selfiahnese,  and  visiting  any  but  coimtf 
people." 


THE    EXTRA    CHRISTMAS    NUMBER 
ALL   THE   TEAR  ROUND, 

"A  GLORIOtji^FORTUNE," 

WALTER     BE8ANT 

(Author ot  "It*  CiptalDi'  Boom."  "Let  NolUlig  ^m 

nUmar,"  •to.  etc), 

AND  OTHBR    STORIBS. 

Price  8IXFEN0B,  tod  oonUlnliu  tlie  uiaBiil  tf  Urn 

0rillnii7  Komnus. 


g  AHitUtfiom  &LL  TBS  TEiit  Itomn)  it  rmfvti  iy  Os  Jwltoa 


No.791.NewSeries.|     SATURDAY,  JANUAEY  26,  1884.     H   Price  Twopence. 


A   DRAWN   GAME. 

Br  BASIL. 


CHAFTSR  XVL  ESTRANGED.  . 
Mrs,  Tuck,  after  her  illaeae,  took  more 
cire  of  henelf.  She  committed  the  entire 
-luiagementof  thehonseboldtolda — whose 
houMEeeping  w»M  the  very  perfection  of 
ntttneaa,  economy,  and  comfort — and  from 
being  in  other  ways  actire  and  managing, 
01,  we  might  gay,  even,  meddlesome, 
became  suddenly  indolent  and  apathetic. 
She  breaikfaited  and  read  her  letters  in 
bed,  and  came  down  only  when  Ida,  who 
&om  of  old  was  an  early  riser,  had  got  a 
good  day's  housekeeping  work  dona 

Nerertheless,  the  morning  after  the  ball, 
Mn.  Tack  pnt  in  an  appearance  before 
eleven  o'cloo^  and  this  though  she  did  not 
*  get  to  bed  before  fiva  Nor  was  this  the 
sole  or  most  Baiprising  change  in  her.  She 
had  come  round  altogether  to  Ida's  views 
u  teg&rds  Mr.  Seville-Siitton,  and  thought 
it  right  to  be  down  early  to-day  to  save 
the  girl  a  painful  interview  with  that 
gentleman  in  coae  he  ehoold  call  in  the 
moming,  as  was  jost  poasible. 

"I'm  afraid  bell  ask  to  see  me,  Mrs. 
Tock." 

"  I  don't  think  ha  will,  dear."  And 
then,  after  a  pause,  to  get  her  thonghts 
into  diplomatic  order,  she  continued  :  "Ida, 
do  yoa  remember  what  you  said  last  night 
abont  wishing  you  had  a  chance  of  being 
dioaeu  foryooraelf,  and  not  fbr  yotir  pro- 
Epecta  t  Well,  my  dear,  I'm  sorry  to  aay 
I  don't  think  your  prospects  are  so  settled 
and  certain  as  I  imagined.  My  poor  dear 
hnsband  has  got  so  low  abont  himself  that 
he  talks  DOW  of  leaving  half  his  money  to 
charities.  I've  no  patience  with  people, 
who  can't  bear  to  sire  away  a  penny  in 


charities,  trying  to  take  it  with  them  in  a 
drcnlar-note  bo  the  next  world."  This 
with  an  asperity  nnnanal  from  her,  for  Mr. 
Tnck  was  always  trying  in  money  matters, 
and  had  been  exasperating  this  morning. 
"  But  there's  no  good  in  b^ng  grieved  or 
angry  about  it.  If  he  chooses  to  do  it,  he 
has  a  right  to  do  it" 

"  Fm  not  grieved  in  the  least,  Mrs. 
Tock,"  said  Ida,  whose  brightened  face 
showed  tha^  as  was  usual  with  her,  she 
had  said  rather  less  than  more  than  she 
felt 

In  fact,  she  was  relieved  at  the  prospect 
of  being  disembarrassed  of  her  interested 
suitors. 

"  I  didn't  think  yoa  would  be,  my  dear, 
for  now  yoall  have  your  own  way,  and 
that's  worth  tiurty  thoosand  poonos  to  a 
wilful  girl.  .  We  shall  soon  know  whether 
the  Don  will  choose  the  leaden  casket,  for 
I  shall  take  care  to  tell  him  of  the  change 
in  yoor  prospects  before  he  commits  him- 
self." 

Here  was  a  sudden  change  in  Mrs.  Tuck 
— ^for  it  was  plain  enough  that  she  was  as 
dead  against  the  Don  tots  moming  as  she 
had  been  last  night  in  his  favour.  A  word 
to  explain  her  conrersion. 

Ida's  prospecta  were  not  a  whjt  worse 
t»4ay  than  they  were  yesterday.  It  is 
true,  Mr.  Tuck  had  spoken  that  moming 
about  leaving  large  sums  to  charities,  but 
it  was  not  the  first  nor  the  twentieth  time 
that  he  had  declared  this  intention,  and 
Mn.  Tack  had  complete  confidence  in  her 
power  to  foil  it  It  was  no  change  in 
Ida's  prospects,  then,  that  changed  Mrs. 
Tack.  Nor  was  her  conversion  due  wholly 
to  her  conviction  that  Ida's  mind  was  mude 
up  unalterably  against  Lord  Elleidale  and 
toe  Don,  thongh  this  had  something  to  do 
widi  it     But  what  mainly  had  to  do  with 


n  ti      IJanuar;  20,  H 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


[CondiuMdbr 


DorniDg  from  tli6  afore -mentioned  Admi- 
rable Criohton — a  nepheir  of  Mn.  Tock's, 
Captain  Mclmni  Brabazon ; 

■    "  Morrison's  llotrf,  Dublin. 

"  Deae  AUSt, — I  mean  to  look  yon  op 
Qoxt  weak,  if  I've  to  pawn  my  watch  for 
it — Dot  unlikely,  unleaa  my  aunt  roba  my 
ancle  of  the  pleasure  of  advanciiu  a  pony. 
[  had  to  cat  short  my  visit  at  Bunratty 
Castlo  iLoii  Litfey's).  Shooting  good,  but 
a  trifle  wild.  You  may  judge,  when  they 
took  me  (!)  for  a  landlord  lost  Friday  in 
broad  day,  buL  my  horse  learod  at  the 
flash,  and  they  missed  ma  Faith,  Ihero 
won't  be  a  landlord  left  In  the  countfy 
soon  if  the;  don't  pass  some  kind  of  game 
law  to  preserve  'om.  Lord  Lifi'ey  is  strictly 
preserved  at  preeent.  He's  all  the  lower 
doors  and  windows  strongly  lined  with 
Feelers,  iriio  they  say  are  as  good  as  earth- 
works against  ordinaiy  bnUets.  But  I 
couldn't  stand  the  place  any  longer.  It 
was  as  bad  as  being  a  king  or  a  convict, 
having  fellows  in  uniform  always  at  your 
heels.  The  day  before  I  left>,  Liff^  wanted 
to  show  me  the  last  grave  they'd  dug  for 
him,  not  a  stone'B-t£row  from  the  back 
door,  yet  it  took  us  ten  minutes  to  get 
there;  what  with  the  reconnaissance  in 
force,  and  then  the  master  in  the  hall,  and 
then  the  funeral  march  to  the  grave,  two 
Peelers  in  front  of  us,  one  at  each  side, 
and  two  behind.  That  finished  me,  and 
hero  I  am.  But,  faith,  I  And  this  place 
too  hot  to  hold  me  now,  jnst  because  they 
won't  take  me  for  a  landlord  here,  when 
it's  billets  in  place  of  bullets  that  are 
flying.  If  you  can't  send  me  more  than  my 
travelling  expenses,  I  shall  have  to  get 
Kake  to  smuggle  mo  through  the  duns 
and  bailiffs,  bad  luck  to  uiem  1  Yon 
remember  Ned  Blake,  don't  yon  t  He's  a 
Land  Leaguer  now,  and  is  doing  weU. 
lie  Gsys  nell  give  me  a  certlflcate  of 
character  as  an  evicted  tenant  who  shot  a 

froi^ess-server,  and  then  not  a  man  in 
reland  dare  lay  a  finger  on  me.  But  I'd 
have  to  shave  and  have  my  head  cropped, 
which  wouldn't  do  for  La  Saperba.  Have 
you  sold  her  yet !  If  not,  Let  me  know 
the  figure,  as  there  are  one  or  two  fellows 
here  on  tho  look  out  for  something  of  Uie 
sott.  By  the  way,  I  shall  probacy  be  tin 
sa?e  myself  when  my  wateh  ia  gone. 
'  Eighteen  bands ;  warranted  sound ;  tem- 
per like  a  lamb ;  will  run  in  doable  harness. 
Just  suit  a  lady.'  Yon,  my  dear  aunt, 
can  have  me  in  exchange  for  a  pony,  which 
I  hope  you'll  send  by  return  to  yonr  affec- 
tionate nephew,  /       Diok  Beabazon." 


By-the4>ye,  it  was  this  "pony  "  Mr.  TQ';k 
had  been  so  nasty  about  as  to  provoke 
Mrs.  Tuok's  fling  at  those  who  so  dung  to 
their  money  as  to  try  to  take  it  «-ith  thwi 
in  a  circular-note  to  the  next  worlcl.  How- 
ever, before  the  day  was  out  iiHe  extracted 
the  twenty-five  pounds,  and  sent  tiiem  to 
her  beleaguered  nephew. 

To  this  young  gentleman — as  may  be 
inferred  from  his  letter — truth  was  as 
precious  as  gold  to  the  gdld-buto:.  He 
made  a  little  of  it^  go  «  \oafi  way,  .  He 
would  take  tfao  merest  film  of  tnnb  and 
blow  it  out  into  the  most  light,  lively,  and 
iridescent  aoap-bttbbles  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  himself  and  his  friends. 

Indeed,  he  had  got  so  into  the  habit  of 
mixing  a  grain  of  fact  with  a  drachm  of 
imagination,  that  ho  could  hardly  dis- 
tinguish them  himself  a  week  after  he  had 
compounded  them.  And,  as  we  have 
seen,  it  was  a  family  failing,  for  Mis. 
Tuck  herself  held  troth  too  pncioas  to  be 
tiled  extensively,  anless  as  a  wash  or 
gilding. 

Therefore  she  oondoned  this  failing  of 
hi*,  or  rather  hardly  regarded  it  as  a  blot 
apon  his  other  perfections.  For  the  rest, 
he  was  the  moat  sociable  man  in  the  world. 
He  not  only  coald,  but  would  make  him- 
self pleasant  to  any  sodety  in  which  be 
found  himself,  and  though  he  wonld  forget 
your  very  exiatence  the  momeot  your  back 
was  turned,  you  felt  yourself,  while  with 
him,  in  the  very  centre  of  his  timnghts 
and  of  his  heart.  Not  that  he  was  in- 
aincera  He  really  did  feel  kindly  towaids 
you  until  the  next  friend  he  met  displaced 
you.  His  heart,  in  faot,  was  facile  as  the 
photographer's  plate  on  which  your  imtge 
is  taken  vividly  and  inatantanQouily,  butii 
raUied  off  to  make  way  for  that  of  the  next 
dtter. 

This  iniproseionability  made  him  gene- 
rosity itself.  He  would  give  to  a  h«{mi 
the  very  last  shilling  of  his  friend-~nis 
beggar  being  present,  and  the  friend  hs 
bfsgared  absent.  And  this  charity  was 
twice  blessed,  for  he  would  boixow  bis 
friend's  last  shilling  in  so  graceful  and 
^radous  a  way,  as  to  make  the  man 
imagtue  for  tho  moment  that  a  singular 
kindness  had  been  done  to  htm.  No  doubt 
when  he  got  home,  aad  felt  in  bis  .emplj 
pockets,  he  would  oome  to  think  there  mUiit 
b«  some  mistake  somewhere  ontii  he  met 
Diok  again,  and  in  his  fascinating  sodet; 
fonnd  it  was  all  right, 

For  the  rest,  we  mnst  say,  in  expUnt- 
tion  of  Dick's  letter,  ^d  of  Dick  himself, 


A  DBA.WN  GAMK 


(JmnuT  £6, 1S84.)      21! 


that  ho  'wu  an  Anglo-IriihiiuiL  Engliih- 
mon  in  Irel&nd,  it  is  s&iii,  become  Hiber- 
niciB  ipBis  Hibemiorea ;  but,  to  redreBS  the 
btbnce,  aa  Irish  Tory  u  more  Engliab 
than  the  EDgUsh  in  hispolitioB,  prejadicea, 
and  egotism.  Now  Di<^  was  an  Irish  Tory 
of  the  Toriei,  and  tamed  Qaeen's  evidence 
against  hU  countrymen,  after  the  base 
inannei  of  his  kind,  in  order  to  escape 
being  confounded  with  them  in  a  common 


Dick's  letter  reached  his  annt  at  a  fortu- 
nate moment,  when  she  was  sure  Ida 
would  aooq>t  neither  tlw  Don  nor  Lord 
EUerdale,  and  not  at  all  sore  that  abe  would 
not,  with  her  absurd  ideas,  fall  into  the 
hands  of  some  adventurer.  Probably  the 
reader  will  not  see  how  this  fate  was  to  be 
averted  by  her  falling  into  Captain  Braba- 
zon's  hands;  but  then  the  reader  ia  net 
Dick's  idoliain^  aunb.  ^e  thought  Dick 
as  perfect  as  i£  is  posuble  for  a  fallen 
creature  born  to  frailty,  onredeemed  by 
rank  or  wealth,  to  be.  Besides,  the  mat«h 
had  ^tis  merit  in  her  eyes — it  would  take 
all  her  skill  to  bring  it  about  Dldt  and 
"  La  Saperba,"  as  he  oalled  Ida,  had  met 
before  without  taking  Mrs.  Tack's  view  of 
each  other,  but  Mra  Tuck  tmsted  to  eon- 
vert  them  by  assuring  Dick  that  Ida's 
Uiree  thousand  a  year  was  certain  as  Mr. 
Tuck's  death,  and  by  repreeentiiig  Dick  and 
his  suit  to  Ida  aa  abaolutely  disinterested. 
Ueanbime  ahe  would  keep  the  field  clear  of 
other  suitors  by  spreading  the  report  that 
Mr.  Tack  woold  leave,  certainly  the  grsat 
bulk  of  hia  fortune,  and  possibly  the  whole 
of  it,  to  charities. 

Therefore  she  hurried  down  this  morn- 
ing to  dear  tlie  field  of  the  Don,  and 
through  him  to  start  the  report  of  the 
precariousness  of  Ida'a  fortune.  When 
the  Don  did  call,  lata  in  the  afternoon, 
be  found  Mrs.  Tack  in  the  drawing-room, 
looking  surprised  to  see  bim.  Alter  the 
Don  htti  flolemnly  and  favourably  pro- 
nounced his  opinions  on  the  weather,  the 
ball,  and  Mrs.  Tuck'a  appearance  there- 
after, he  proceeded  in  due  course  to  enquire 
for  Mr.  Tack. 

"  He's  anything  but  weU,  Mr.  Senile- 
Sutton,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  He's  in  a  very 
low  state  both  of  mind  and  body,"  in  a 
tone  rather  of  annoyance  than  of  grief,  and 
then,  after  a  slight  pause,  she  resumed : 
"I'm  sore  you'll  ezcose  me.  Mi.  Seville- 
SuttOD,  bat'  as  I  know  you're  a  warm 
supporter  of  all  the  oonnty  charitici 


Aftw  idl  these  yean  I  Without  a  trim 
ing !  So  set  upon  it  I  Nothing  I  can  say ! ' 
These  disjointed  senteuaes  escaped  fron 
Tack  as  she  held  her  handkercbic 
before  her  distressed  faoa 

"  May  I  ask  what  notion  is  this  to  whid 
you  refer,  Mrs.  Tuck  t "  stiffly. 

"It'a  not  for  my  own  sake.  I'm  snr' 
you'll  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  I'e 
not  thinldsff  of  myself,  bat  that  poor  dea 
girl  always  led  to  think,  and  every  one  els 
fed  to  thmk,  that  she  was  to  be  lus  heires.' 
and  now  to  turn  round  in  a  moment,  it' 
cmeL  Bat  I  cannot  think  yoB  looked  a 
it  in  this  way,  Mr.  Seville-Satton,  or  yo' 
would  not  have  used  the  groat  influonc 
yon  have  over  my  poor  dear  husband  I 
peranade  him  into  such  a — such  a  brcio 
of  trust,  I  may  almost  call  it." 

"  What  breach  of  trust  t  What  do  yo 
mean,  Mrs.  Tuck! "  not  now  stifily  at  al 
bat  in  a  sharp,  short  tone  of  alarm. 

"Those  Unties — this  leaving  nearl 
all  hia  fertane  to  charities." 

"  To  charitiee  1 "  exclaimed  the  Don,  ha 
starting  from  his  seat. 

"Then  it  wasn't  you  at  all,  Mr.  Sevilli 
Sutton)  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  bv 
I  knew  no  one  had  so  much  influenc 
with  my  poor  dear  hasfcand  aa  you.  ] 
you'd  only  me  it,  Mr.  Seville-Sntton,  1 
dissuade  him.  Bat  it's  no  use ;  nothin 
will  move  him." 

"  Did  you  say  the  bulk  of  hia  fortune  t 
asked  the  Don,  a^ast. 

"There's  my  tittie  pittance.  lie  can 
touch  tbat,  and  he  must  nuke  some  kin 
of  provision  for  that  poor  child.  But  I'\ 
no  right  to  trouble  you  witii  femily  matter 
Mr.  Seville-SuttoD,"  checking  herself,  i 
thoogh  she  hod  said  more  than  was  propi 
or  prudent,  and  assuming  a  discreet  ai 
dignified  reserve.  "  I  waa  betrayed  in 
speaking  of  them  through  thinking  th 
only  you,  who  have  huob  influence  ov 
my  poor  dear  baabaud,  could  have  pe 
Buaded  him  into  this.  But  I  did  y< 
injustice,  Mr.  Seville-Sutton,  and  I  ho] 
you'll  forgive  me." 

"Oertamly,  Mra,  Tuck,  certainly;  ai 
I  hope  you'll  believe  that  I'm  smcere 
sorry,  most  sincerely  sorry  that  Mr.  Tu 
has  made  this  extraordinary,  and — and 
most  coll  it — iniquitous  change  in  his  i 
tentiona." 

"  I'm  sure  you  ate,"  with  an  unquent 
able  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

"  And  I  owe  you  an  apology,  Mrs.  Tuc 


thought,  perhaps,  it  was  you  who  pat  this   for  intruding  upon  you  at  such  a  momei 
noUon  into  my  poor  dear  hosband'a  head.  I  Another  day  when  you  ore  more  compos 


[JaiiauT  K,  18U.1 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


'.  Biay  do  myself  the  honour  to  call  upon 
'oa     Good-bye,  Mrs.  Tudc" 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Serille-Satton.  I  need 
uudly  ask  you  to  say  nothing  of  this 
natter,  which  my  nn  jnit  aospidon  betrayed 


"  I  r^rd  the  confidanoe  u  aacred,  Mia. 
Dock.  Don't  move,  pray.  Thank  yon. 
;jood-bye," 

The  Don  almost  hnrried  from  the  room 
ind  from  the  honae  at  a  pace  whieh,  for 
lim,  waa  indecoroas,  yet  half  stopped  once 
ir  twice  to  exclaim  mentally  : 

"What  an  escape  I  What  a  narrow 
>scape  1    By  Joyel 

When  the  footman  asked  him,  aa  he  was 
;etting  into  his  canine,  where  they  were 
a  drive  to,  he  answered,  "  To  charities  I" 
ind  was,  in  fact,  thrown  altogether  on  his 
)eam-endB  by  the  shock. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Took,  feeling  something 
if  the  triumph  of  a  well-graced  actress  who 
lad  just  taken  the  honse  by  storm,  sought 
>at  Ida  to  give  her  a  mnch  modified  report 
if  the  interview.  She  led  Ida  to  believe, 
riUiont  directly  saying  it,  that  sbe  had 
ncidentally  disdosed  Ab.  Taok'a  intentions 
o  Mr.  Seville-Sntton  by  asking  the  Don's 
dvice  aa  to  the  most  deserving  charities. 

"  He's  a  poor  creature,  my  dear,  and 
'on're  well  quit  of  him.  You  should  havff 
een  turn  when  he  heard  of  it  1  He  looked 
ike  a  mute  at  his  own  ftmeral,  a  touch  of 
eal  feeling  in  his  glom  &oe  at  last. 
Allow  me  to  assure  you,  madam,  that 
:  am  beyond  measure  distressed  at  this 
noBt  astonishing,  and — yon  will  pardon  me 
or  saying  it — most  iniquitons  change 
n  Mr.  Tuck's  intontions,'  mimicking  to 
.he  life  the  Don's  sepiilchral  voice  and 
ilephantine  manner.  Then,  remembering 
vith  what  fervour  and  frequency  she  had 
leretofore  pleaded  this  gentleman's  cause, 
be  added :  "  Yon  were  right,  my  dear,  and 
'.  was  wrong.  But  whod  have  thought 
bat  a  man  of  his  wealth  would  be  so 
nercenary  i  " 

Ida  was  relieved,  and,  truth  to  tell, 
nortified  also.  She  had  been  certain  before 
bat  the  Don  cared  only  for  her  fortune, 
ret  this  cynical  confirmation  of  her  certainty 
ras  mortifying.  And  it  was  not  the  sole 
uortification  in  store  for  her. 

Lord  Ellerdale,  upon  bdng  chaffed  about 
da  on  the  day  after  the  ball,  annoonced 
ter  engagement  to  Mr.  Seville- Sutton, 
;iving  his  authority,  that  of  the  Don  bim- 
elf.  The  news  spread  like  wildfire,  but 
ras  followed  fast  by  the  Don's  contradic- 
iou  given  with  an  embarrassment  which 


was  perplexing,  until  this  news,  in  turn, 
was  overtaken  by  that  of  the  fall  in  Ida's 
fortunes,  when  all  became  clear. 

Ida  bad  been  jilted  by  Mr.  Seville- 
Sntton,  on  the  Don's  discovering  tiiat  her 
prospects  were  all  moonshine.  There 
were  at  first  a  good  many  apocryphal 
versions  of  the  manner  of  this  discovery 
fiying  about;  but  the  one  which  finally 
fulfilled  Vincentian  conditions  of  caneoidty 
— AS  that  held  everywhere,  always,  and  by 
all — was  tide  :  th^  on  the  day  si  ter  the 
ball  Mr.  Seville-Sutton  insisted  on  seemg 
Mr.  Tuck  about  settlMnents ;  that  he  did 
see  him  notwithstanding  all  Mrs.  Tuck's 
desperate  endeavours  to  prevent  him,  and 
that  then  the  truth  came  out,  which  was 
that  Ida's  prospects  were  a  pure  fiction  of 
Mrs.  Tuck's.  Mr.  Tuck  had  never  for  a 
moment  meant  to  leave  the  girl  more  than 
five  thousand  pounds.  Henupon,  of  course, 
Mr.  Seville-Sutton  receded  from  his  en- 
gagement, aa  anyone  would  who  had  been 
so  ensnared ;  ensnared  not  by  Mrs.  Tuck 
only,  but  by  the  girl  herself;  for  it  was 
little  likely  that  Miss  Luard  had  not  heard 
a  thousand  times  of  her  true  prospects 
from  Mr.  Tuck,  who  was  given  to  talk 
over-mnch  of  money  matters,  and  especially 
of  money  obligations.  That  "  my  poor 
dear  husband  "  had  herself  spoken  to  more 
than  one  of  Mr.  Tuck's  intention  to  leave 
the  bulk  of  his  fortune  to  charities  did  not 
at  all  make  against  this  canonical  version 
— made  for  it  rather — since  it  was  a  mere 
confession  of  her  deepair  of  concealing  the 
true  state  of  the  case  any  longer,  utslly 
and  condnaively,  this  version  had  Mr. 
Sevill&^atton's  imprimatur.  At  least, 
when  it  was  discussed  m  his  presence  he 
admitted  its  accuracy  by  his  silence.  Yon 
see  Mr.  Seville-Sutton  was  so  perlbct  a 
gentleman,  that  he  could  not  break  die 
silence  he  had  pledged  himself  to  Mn. 
Tuck  to  keep.  His  gentlemanliness  was  'as 
exquisite  as  hie  clothes,  and  went  as  deep^ 

This  deplorable  affair  was  canvassed 
by  every  lady,  young  and  old,  for 
nules  roond,  with  much  sad  shaking 
of  the  head  and  more  rejoicing  of 
the  heart  Ida's  reverse  of  fortune  would 
set  free  a  number  of  eligible  young 
gentlemen,  who  had  hitherto  been  her 
slaves.  Bendes,  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  it 
would  do  the  girl  herself  good.  Sbe  liad 
shown  herself  so  haughty,  heartless,  and 
mercenary  that  the  most  Christian  people— 
and  Kingsford  and  its  neighbourhood  were 
full  of  most  Christian  people— spoke  of  the 
wretched  affair  with  mixed  feeltogs — ^hope 


AN  OLD  GREEK  COMEDY  REVIVED.    [J-.ii«t  w,  imi    22 


tint  it  would  do  the  girl  rood,  fear  that 
QOtluiig  would  do  her  good,  and  pity  for 
this  atter  OTerthrow  of  achemea  which  were 
laid  BO  de«p  and  which  loaMd  bo  high. 

We  could  afford  to  despise  the  scandal  of 
Eingrford  if  it  affected  only  the  minds  or 
the  uvea  of  it*  iDbabitaaU ;  bnt  it  affected 
alio  anfortooately  the  minds  and  lives  of 
people  with  whom  we  have  more  concern 
— ta  Ardiie  and  of  Ida.  Archie  heard  at 
diird  hand  from  a  friend  of  Lord  EUerdate, 
of  Ida'a  engagement  to  Mr.  Seville-Satton 
(bat  not  m  the  change  in  har  proapecta 
nor  of  that  gentleman's  having  jilted  her), 
and  the  news  only  confinned  his  impression 
of  her  heartlessness.  For  what  girl  in  the 
world  wonld  accept  this  tailor's  lay  figure 
for  anything  hot  his  fortuned 

As  for  Ua,  with  all  her  humility  she 
nerer  expected  that  she  would  lose  so  roach 
eomdderation  with  the  loes  of  her  prospects. 
For  haviog  heard  nothing  of  the  story  of 
her  engagement  to  Mr.  SeviUe-Siitton,  she, 
of  course,  set  down  the  sudden  drop  alto- 
gether to  the  loss  of  her  prospects.  And  as 
every  woman,  or  almost  every  one,  thought 
it  her  dnty  to  interpret  to  her  the  lesson  of 
humility,  not  to  say  humiliation,  read  her 
by  Prov^ence,  she  felt  very  sore  at  heart, 
and  as  a  consequence,  very  sosceptible  to 
such  diantereeted  ctmdderation  as  Oqitun 
Richard  Brabazoo  was  prepared  to  pay  her. 
This  bittemeas  overflowed  a  week  after 
the  ball.  She  was  one  of  a  picnic-party  at 
Bolton  Abbey,  and  was  1^  alone  with 
Mrs.  Tuck  on  a  seat  above  the  Strid 
which  commanded  a  view  of  Barden  Tower. 
It  was  quite  a  new  thing  for  her  to  be  left 
alone,  and  not  aa  pleasant  as  she  had 
pictured  it  to  be.  In  truth  the  girl  was 
feeling  very  desolate.  She  had  been 
shnnned,  or  thought  she  had  been  ahtumed ; 
far  the  audden  change  from  the  frill  blaee 
of  popularity  to  twiLght  looked  like  night, 
and  perhaps  it  was  rather  she  that  sbnuik 
away  f^m  the  others  than  they  who 
■hifmlr  from  her. 

Anyhow,  she  was  feeling  thoroughly 
wretched,  and  had  left  Mrs.  Tuck  for  a  few 
minates,  under  the  pretence  of  gathering 
wild-fiowers,  in  order  to  enjoy  her  misery 
io  ailenco.  She  had  gone  a  few  steps 
along  the  narrow  and  wmding  path  leading 
to  Barden  Tower,  when,  at  a  sharp  tnm, 
she  caroe  face  to  face  with  the  very  person 
then  in  her  thoi^hte.  She  was  almost 
startled  into  exclaiming,  "  Archie  ! "  when 
lu8  exslamatioD,  "  Miss  Lnard  I "  in  a  tone 
not  glad,  or  cordial  even,  but  only  anrprised, 
froze  the  old  name  on  her  lips.     If  this 


one  word  "Archie"  had  escaped  her  i 
would  have  made  all  the  difTarenco  in  thi 
world  in  both  their  live&  But  Archie'i 
tone  wonld  have  frozen  the  genial  cnrren 
of  a  much  more  gushing  aoul  than  Ida's. 

In  ftct,  he  bad  beam  only  Qutb  momiu) 
from  one  of  the  two  gentlemen  he  had  lef 
lighting  their  cigars  a  few  steps  behint 
him,  of  Ida's  engagement  to  Mr.  Seville 
Sutton.  He  had  thought  of  nothing  elsi 
all  the  morning,  and  was  still  thinkmg  ol 
it  with  exceeding  bitteniess,  when  hi 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  vena 
beauty  h<H«elf.  In  Archie's  eyes  there  wai 
nothing  more  disgraceful — even  diagoaUn^ 
— than  a  girl's  adling  herself  in  marriagf 
— a  girl  who  was  not  even  driven  to  it  bj 
want     And  that  girl,  Ida  1 

Theref orehis  manner  was  suchas  to  su^eai 
to  Ida  that  he  too  waa  eatranged  Jromtie] 
— why,  she  could  not  think  So  her  heart 
closed  up  again  like  a  flower  when  ite  sm 
sete.  liiis  will  account  for  the  ezceedinf 
interest  of  the  following  oonversatioi 
between  two  young  people  who  had  lonj 
looked  forward  to  such  a  romantic  meeting 
with  the  deepest  yearning  in  their  brighteai 
day-dreama 

"I  hardly  ejected  to  roeet  yoti  here 
Miss  Lnard." 

*■  I  came  with  a  picnic-party." 

"  You've  not  be«i  here  b^we  I " 

"  Yea,  once." 

"  Beautiful  place." 

"  Yes,  very. 

"  Have  you  loat  your  party  1 " 

"No,  thank  yon.  Mrs.  Tuck  is  there,' 
nodding  towards  the  seat  below.  "  Hov 
isMra-Pybust" 

"She's  very  well,  tliank  you.  She  wil 
be  jUd  to  hear  that  I've  seen  you." 

Here,  his  friends  rejoining  him,  he  Bai( 
"  Good-bye ! "  lifted  his  hat,  and  was  gone 

Poor  Ida  1  She  Btood  motionless  fo 
many  minutes  on  the  spot  where  he  lef 
her,  with  bitter  tears  in  her  heart  It  wa 
a  mere  fountain  of  tears  which  found  ni 
channel  of  relief.  The  old  words,  "  Ob 
Ida,  and  I  love  yon  so  I "  the  tone,  thi 
look,  the  action,  which  set  them  to  sucl 
sweet  ffioeic,  were  still,  as  Uiey  had  alway 
been,  in  her  ears ;  but  now  they  were  : 
mere  and  a  sad  memory,  and  no  more 
hope  and  joy  aleo. 


AN  OLD  GREEK  COMEDY  REVIVED 

We  had  a  long  eatly  drive ;  but  it  was  wel 
worth  the  pains,  X  liope  the  horse  though 
so;  for  these  West  Norfolk  roads  are 


323 


IJituuuT  2e.  USl.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


caution.  We  u«  told  tJut  H  the  peanut 
proprietor  gets  bold  of  tho  Utid,  we  thail 
kU  go  iaak  to  jsimitive  Mvageiy.  lie 
baa  got  hold  of  it  in  Franca  to  a  vety 
great  extent;  and  there  the  roeds  ue 
aboat  the  beet  in  Gorope.  Here  in  Weet 
Norfolk  is  a  land  of  big  propeitiee,  yet 
the  roads  are  aimpl;  horse-killing.  The 
great  man  does  not  caie ;  it  is  only 
one  of  bifl  houses  whiob  atands  on  hu 
Korfolk  estate ;  he  kJaeps  it  up  for  the 
sake  of  the  pheasants,  and,  vrben  shooting 
is  over,  off  ha  goes  to  bis  other  boose  in  a 
hunting  shiie.  What  cares  he  that  the 
heavy  sand  makes  ten  miles  as  bad  as 
twenty,  and  that  bis  traetton-engine,  day 
after  day  draggiog  bis  Umber,  leaves  things 
worse  than  rain  and  Iiont  have  made 
themi 

Siandon  it  our  atotioa.  From  Brandon 
an  boor  over  fits  fen  (railway  I  believe 
not  very  steady  along  tbere)  and  past 
glorious  Ely  brings  us  to  Cambridge,  and 
we  are  soon  inside  the  little  theatre  to  see 
and  hear  the  Birds  of  Aristophanae. 
-  What  a  lot  oi  ladies  I  Certainly  not 
all  from  Girton  and  Nawnham.  One  is 
inclined  to  ask,  like  the  chief  captain  in 
the  Acts:  "Caiut  thou  spe^  Greek  1" 
But,  hush  !  here  is  Dr.  Parry's  music,  and 
soon  the  curtain  rises  on  that  seaabore  of 
Mr.  O'Connor,  which  did  good  service  last 
year  in  the  Ajax,  helped  out  by  a  forsgroand 
of  rockn,  amid  wluch  are  moving  rest- 
lessly about  two  Greeks  in  travelling- 
costume — with  the  petasoB  (broad-brimmed 
felt  hat)  and  the  himaUon  (cloak) — their 
slaves  (no  &eeGreek  ever  moved  far  without 
his  slaves)  carrying  each  a  wine-jar  and  an 
olive  brancL  These  are  Peithetairos  and 
Euelpidea  (Mr.  Plausible  and  Mr,  Hopeful), 
who  iiave  left  Athens  beoause  it  is  too  fall  of 
debts,  and  duns,  and  noise,  and  lawsuits ; 
and  are  looking  for  Utopia.  They  are 
under  good  guidance.  Before  starting  they 
went  to  an  old  bird-fancier  and  invested  a 
few  pence  each  in  an  oracular  raven  and 
an  equally  oracular  jackdaw.  Each  has 
his  bird  on  his  wrist,  and  is  coaxing  this 
biting,  scratching  prophet  to  give  further 
information.  But  no ;  the  oracle  cornea  to  a 
lead  stop.  Both  birds  point  upwards, 
ud  decHne  to  authorise  any  further 
■vdvanoe.  "It  must  he  hero,  then,"  cry 
^3  men,  and  begin  kicking  against  the 
rocks  in  &ont  of  them.  Yes,  it  is  here, 
For  out  rushes  the  peewit  (runner-bird,  the 
bird-king's  page  and  porter),  and  angrily 
uks:  "Who's  making  all  this  noise)" 
The  men  are  taken  aback,  but  only  for  a 


moment ;  aiid  Flauaiblo  hisists  on  seung 
King  Hoopoe. 

Out  comes  hiB  m^ettj,  a  very  good  stage 
imitation  of  the  bud  into  whidi  King 
Tereua  of  Tbrabe  waa  faUed  to  bare  been 
transformed.  Of  him,  despitu  his  queer 
a{^>6arance,  the  m«i  are  not  at  all  a&aid ; 
and  then  the  Hoopoe's  butaan  sympathies 
teaasure  them.  Tbey  confide  to  him  their 
longing  for  a  city,  but  don't  sonttbow  care 
tor  thoM  that  be  sn^eets  to  tbem,  including 
a  very  nice  one  down  by  the  Bed  Sea ; 
and,  amid  the  talk,  suddenly  flariiea  on 
Plaueible's  brain  the  ide*  of  a  great  bird- 
city,  built  in  mid-air,  so  as  to  intercept  the 
reek  of  sacrifice  and  starve  the  ^s  into 
submiasiou.  "  Summon  your  subjects,"  he 
says  to  Eing  Hoopoe, "  and  I'll  develop  my 
plan."  And  a  beautiful  song  it  was,  that 
royal  summons,  sung  behind  the  Menee, 
while  Ho<^o  hopped  and  flattered,  and 
waved  bis  wings,  and  tamed  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  the  two  Athenians  wwe, 
as  well  they  might  be,  lost  iu  adcura- 
Uon.  "  Ob,  royal  Zeus,  what  a  Sood 
of  honey  does  that  bird's  voice  stream 
o'er  all  the  wood."  Ah,  those  Greeks! 
but,  unfortunately,  it  is  not  Greek  music 
at  all  There  is  none  in  all  the  revived 
play.  lion'a  the  pity,  for  Professor 
MabaSy,  who  bos  written  so  d^btfoUy 
about  Social  Life  in  Old  Greece,  asnires 
us  that  it  was  very  good,  though  its 
scale  was  i£uite  difierent  from  oure.  The 
music  is  all  Dr.  Parry's ;  evon  the  i-aven 
with  mouthpiece  and  double  flute  plays 
a  modem  tune,  albeit  to  a  Lydiim 
measure.  This  royal  sammons,  however, 
was  beautifol,  as  Aristophanes  meant  it 
to  be.  Who  would  have  thought  that 
Mch  delicious  melody  could  be  got  out  of 
such  unpEomising  ncmaense  as  "  kikk^iou, 
kikkabon,  toro  toro  tore  lililix  "  t  I  see 
some  wise  critic  suggests  that  Greek  birds 
have  a  very  different  note  from  English 
ones.  "  What  English  bird,"  he  aaks, 
"  says  anything  like  kikkabou  t "  My  dear 
sir,  by-and-by,  when  the  Kew  Zealandet  is 
musing  amid  tbe  mina  of  St.  Paul's,  we 
shall  have  some  Antipodal  commentator 
asking :  "  What  bird  ever  uttered  a  sound 
like  tu-whit  tu-whoo  1"  Consider,  it  is 
twenty-three  centuries  since  Aristophanes 
put  in  these  bird-sounds,  simply  as  stage- 
directions  ;  we  know  the  leUers,  but  we 
certainly  don't  know  how  the  Greeks  no- 
nounced  them,  nor  how  they  managed  their 
accents.  Tlierefore,  we  had  beet  be 
oonteut  with  what  Dr.  Parry  gave  us. 

Well,    in    troops    the    chorus,     siran. 


AN  OLD  GREEK  COMEDY  REVIVED.  (J«.«»rj  as,  ism.i    22; 


fluniiigo,  apoonbill,  crane,  o«rl,  hawk, 
eoek,  and  so  on  down  to  thrash  and 
linnet — Inrds  when  they  tuned  th«ir  sido- 
&ce6  and  wared  their  wings,  men  when 
70a  got  a  front  viev,  and  the  wings 
drooped  like  Inverness  -  cloaks,  and  the 
human  legs  became  too  conspicaoua.  The 
long-necked  birds  were  the  begt,  the  human 
faces  being  ahnost  hidden  in  the  white 
down  of  the  breaste.  They  made  play  with 
their  necks,  and  were  altogether  Uvelier 
than  Ae  others.  One  crane  in  partaoular 
i^ost  always  had  his  head  on  the  ground 
just  B8  a  hungry  oraae  wouliL  I  snppose 
there  waea  sprfiig  in  the  neck.  Anyhow, 
his  action  was  so  natural,  tbab  I  don't 
despair  by  next  time  of  seeing  mixed 
mathematics  applied  tA  mvent  some  more 
natural  way  of  folding  the  wings.  The 
managere  tell  us  they  only  went  in  for  "  a 
certain  amount  of  ornithological  accuracy; " 
■nd  they  have  qnite  convinced  themselves 
that  Aristophanes's  choma  waa  not  bird- 
like  at  all,  but  purely  conventional,  found- 
ing this  opinion  on  certain  vases  on  which, 
says  Professor  Newton,  the  characters  in  the 
Birds  are  figured.  No  doubt  some  of  the 
birds  were  dressed  up  like  pantomime 
monstersL  "Ob,  Apollo,  what  a  yawning 
chasm ! "  cries  Hopefitl,  as  the  royal  page 
opens  his  mouth.  It  is  clear  that  the  pee- 
wit, or  whatever  bird  it  was,  was  dressed 
up  like,  a  big-headed  pantomime-bird;  it 
seemed  absurd  for  those  two  Cambridge 
men  to  be  comically  afraid  of  the  harmless 
little  creature  that  did  not  know  bow  to 
manage  its  wings. 

Whatever  the  vases  say — and  in  that 
respect  I  venture  to  hint  that  we  do 
not  go  for  the  correct  costume  of  the 
period  to  our  common  crockeryware — I  am 
sure  that  a  play,  which  Uie  old  writers  tell 
US  wtw  pnt  on  the  stage  with  a  splendour 
never  eqnaUed  even  in  Athens,  wonld  not 
have  fhiled  in  the  matter  of  dressing-up. 
Ihe  Greek  playwright  laborionsly  taught 
his  actors  their  parts;  he  had  at  nis 
command  the  whole  resoaroes  of  a  most 
artistic  age;  the  play  was  a  religions 
ceremony  (the  altar  on  the  Cambridge 
proscsninm,  round  which  thechoms  danced, 
reminded  us  of  this).  He  waa  sure  to  dress 
up  his  birds  from  crest  to  spur,  at  the 
suae  time  patting  a  human  look  into  their 
masks,  so  that  Uie  owl  ahonld  be  easUy 
recognisable  as  Chaerepbon,  and  so  on.  I 
don't  believe  any  of  the  Athenian  chorns 
wore  spectacles ;  and  if  one  ol  them  bad  to 
blow  his  nose,  he  wonld  not  have  done  it  as 
if  he  was  adiamed  of  himself,  but  wonld 


have  somehow  made  the  action  part  of  th< 
stage  play.  But  though  Dr.  Wddsteii 
and  bis  Cambridge  friends  did  not  go  u 
for  stage-illusion,  or  fall  bird  costume 
their  chorus  was  a  grand  snccess  wheneve 
it  was  doing  something.  That  fatil' 
dr<^ping  of  tna  viaga  was  only  noticeabi 
while  they  were  at  rest  They  looket 
wonderfully  well  when  they  first  came  ii 
singing  round  the  altar;  and  better  stil 
when,  catching  sight  of  the  men  whon 
they  naturally  looked  on  as  enemies,  the; 
showed  their  wrath  by  flapping  wings 
screaming  defiance,  and  at  length  makiuj 
a  brilliant  attack  on  the  intruders,  win; 
behind  wing,  like  shields  compacted  into  ■■ 
"ttwtoisa"  These,  his  goeats,  Hoopo 
d^ends—they  do  a  little  comio  skimuab 
ing  on  their  own  account,  hitting  ou 
with  wine-jar  and  olive-branch  from  thei 
shelter  under  tJie  king's  wings — and  a 
last  fae  persuades  his  unruly  subjects  ti 
give-  Plausible  a  hearing.  He  begine 
but  only  to  be  interrnfited  by  the  owl 
the  leader  of  the  opposition;  but  whoi 
he  comes  to  the  words  ''  universal  em 
pire,"  the  owl  st^es  an  attitnde;  he  i 
evidently  half  convinced.  The  rest  of  tfa< 
birds  show  their  satisfaction  in  ohoric  crie^ 
the  cockoomes  out  and  crows,  and  goes  bad 
to  talk  it  over  with  the  crane.  Plausible  is : 
clever  fellow,  just  the  sort  oi  demagogm 
who  is  always  sure  to  come  to  the  fron 
wherever  there  is  a  " sovereign  people"  U 
be  led  by  the  nose.  He  descants  on  tbi 
past  grandeur  of  the  birds,  as  contrastec 
with  their  present  low  estate,  as  dexteroualj 
as  if  he  were  a  Home  Ruler  addressing  1 
Connanght  audience.  Birds  ore  older  thai 
the  world  itself,  for  does  not  .^«op  tell 


They  are  right  royal — 

For  instuDce  the  cock  was  a  soTersi^  of  fore 
In  tiie  empire  of  Peisia,  and  mled  iC  beforn 
Darias'a  time.  Bud  you  uU  muet  hBV«  hailrd 
Thnt  his  title  eiiets  ns  "  Uie  Persian  bird  "... 
Then  each  of  the  gods  tioa  hie  separnte  fowl, 
ApoUn  B  havk  and  Minerva  on  awl, 
And  Jove  has  his  eagle  appoinMd  to  stand 
As  the  emblem  of  empire .  . . 
All  this   time   the   excitement    is    in 
creasing,  and  at  last  the  birds  join  in  1 
statdy  march.     They  are  won  over — anc 
here  is  the  point  of  the  play — ^just  as  th< 
Athenians  were  by  the  pUuaible  argumenti 
of  Alcibiades.    For  it  is  that  handeomi 
young  aristocrat  turned  demagogue  who  it 
satirised  in  Plausible.     He  had  persnadec 
the  Athenians  to  undertake  the  Siciliar 
expedition — which  ruined  them — assuring 


324      IJuuir;  SO,  1SH.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  KOUND. 


them  that,  Sicily  once  conqnared,  Itslr 
ud  Cutfaage  and  all  mtut  follow,  and 
ths  Mediternmsan  would  become  an 
Athenian  laka  Aa  tor  the  Spartans — 
tn>ified  by  the  old-fashioned  gods  of 
Omnpni — they  would  be  rtarred  out,  and 
AOksna  wonld  be  ondlspated  mistreu  of 
the  world.  Such  was  the  scheme  where- 
with Alcibiadee  tickled  the  ears  of  the 
Athenians,  a  scheme  as  touabetantial  aa 
this  "  city  in  the  clouds,"  which  Plaosible 
persoades  the  birds  to  build.  The  pbu 
for  starving  out  the  gods  is  a  special  hit 
at  Alcibiades,  who  had  been  prosecuted  for 
impiety,  and  was  a  pupil,  though  a  Tery 
laz  and  disobedient  one,  of  tfuit  broad- 
chnrcbmaQ  Socrates  who  called  in  queatjon 
the  debasing  idolatnr  of  his  oonntrymea 
Aristophanes's  position  is  peculiar.  He 
hates  Socrates  and  the  reformers  with 
perfect  hatred.  We  see  this  in  hia  Clouds, 
where  Socrates  is  shamelessly  caricatured. 
At  the  same  time,  he  can  tuve  a  hearty 
laugh  at  his  own  goda,  the  accepted  gods 
of  the  time.  A  Roman  Cathobc  coming 
down  with  insatiable  fury  on  the  heads 
of  all  Dissenters,  and  yet  cutting  jokes  as 
pious  Italians  do  on  the  saints  in  whom 
they  devoutly  believe,  would  be  something 
like  the  ^at  comedian.  However,  the 
point  of  his  satire  is  unmistakable;  and 
that  he  could  thus  satirise  the  popular 
idol  proves  that  there  was  plenty  of  free- 
dom of  opinion  in  Athens  just  then, 
thoogh  it  probably  accounts  for  his  only 
getting  the  second  prize,  despite  the 
exceptional  cleverness  of  this,  the  very 
cleverest  of  his  playa 

The  birds,  then,  says  Plausible,  may 
easily  get  back  to  their  old  grandeur,  if 
they  wul  comlnne  together  into  one  great 
city — a  hit  here  at  the  Athenians,  ^om 
Pericles  had  persuaded  to  give  up  all 
their  country,  and  gather  inside  the 
walls.  As  for  the  sods  of  Olympus,  if 
they  won't  knock  nnder,  why  declare  war. 
Porbid  them  a  right  of  way : 
rbey  muBt  not  pue  u  beratoforo  through  yotir 

ftngiut  abod», 
A.  courting  of  their  S«mel«s,  Alcmeiuw,  uid  the 

rest. 
^uch  contraband  amoure  shall  novr  moat  strictly  be 

Bupprest; 

uid,  moreover,  the  new  city  will -inter- 
cept that  reek  of  sacrifice  on  which  Oie 
i^lympians  live,  so  that  you  will  have  it  in 
roar  hands  to  starve  them  out  Overmen 
ron  have  a  thorough  pnlL  If  they  don't 
;ome  round,  threaten  to  send  your  armies 
)o  devour  their  seed-corn,  and  if  they 
igree  "to   worship    you    instead    of   the 


Olympians — your  herald  pointing  o<U  how 
much  more  cheaply  it  may  be  done,  since 

Yoo  will  eoonomise  the 


it  «huDe  or  acorn 


— why  yon  wiU  protect  them.  Your  thrushes 
will  eat  up  the  raidges,  and  your  owls  the 
locusts  and  field-mice.     Here  is  the  threat: 


If  thej  fioiit  tu,  well  raise  a  ^nnlvoroiu  troop, 
To  Bwee[)  their  whols  crops  with  a  ravBDOua  swoop. 
And  the  crows  will  be  wnt  on  a  different  srrMid, 
To  pounoe  »11  at  ouoe  witb  a  auddan  nu-prin 
On  their  oxen  and  shesp  to  peek  out  thsir  eyes. 
And  leave  them  stone-blind  for  Apollo  to  core. 
Hell  try  it ;  hell  work  for  his  aaliry,  nre  I 

While  the  heralds  are  sent  off  to  men 
and  gods,  and  the  city  is  building.  Hoopoe 
takes  the  human  pair  in  to  Innm,  leaving 
his  queen,  the  Nightingale — tiie  Frocne  of 
the  story — in  cha^e  of  his  subjects.  As 
SOOD  as  they  are  gone  b^ins  the  parabasis, 
a  device  of  Greek  comedv,  in  the  fonn  of 
a  recitative,  for  letting  the  author  speak 
face  to  face  with  the  audienca  It  is  like 
prologue  or  epilogae  or  Rumour  in  Shake- 
speare, only,  insteisd  of  being  at  the  be- 
ranning  or  end,  it  ia  between  the  acts,  for 
there  are  acts  in  Aristophanes.  I  don't 
remember  how  sticklers  for  the  "  unity  of 
place"  explain  the  fact  that  part  of  the 
Birds  takes  place  on  earth  and  part  op  in 
the  clouds.  This  particular  parabasis  is 
the  grandest  in  Aristophanes.  It  satirises 
the  sudden  passion  of  the  Athenians  for 
natural  science  by  giving  a  mock  heroic 
account  of  the  origin  of  tmngs,  so  skilfully 
managed,  that  it  is  difficult  to  tell  whether 
all  of  it,  except  the  political  allusions 
cleverly  interwoven,  is  not  heroic  in 
earnest  after  alL  It  has  had  many  trans- 
lators, Swinburne  among  them.  This  is 
how  Hookham  Frere — who  employed  his 
learned  leisure  in  Malta  in  putting  Aris- 
tophanes into  a  shapely  English  aress — 
begins  his  veruon : 

Ye  children  of  man,  whose  life  is  a  span. 
Protracted  with  sorrow  from  day  to  day, 
Kaked  and  CeatherleBa,  feabla  and  querulous. 
Sickly  calamitous  creatures  of  clay, 
Attend  to  the  words  of  the  soFersign  birds, 
Immortal  illustrious  lords  of  the  air, 
Who  BurveyfrotD  on  high  with  anMrdful  eye. 
You  itruinlee  of  mlMry,  labour,  and  care. 
The  whole  thing   is  a   glorious  g«n  of 
chastened  fancy  and  choice  diction. 

MeanwhUe,  Plausible  and  friend  have 
eaten  the  root  which  makes  wings  aproul, 
each  chaffing  the  other  on  his  metamw- 
phosis.  "You're  like  a  goose  on  a  che^>  sign- 
board," says  the  one ;  "  And  yoo  ronind 


AN  OLD  QEEEK  COMEDY  BEVIVED.  iiimrjK.im.i     225 


me  of  a  plucked  blackbird" — tbe  AthenianB 
at«  these  snull  foirlB — "feathen  on  the 
wings  and  nowhere  ela^"  rotorta  the  othsr. 
I  most  not  forget  the  beantifnl  tone  to 
vhich  the  choros  welcome  tbeir  queen.  It 
mast  have  been  encored  at  the  time,  for 
the  part  of  Procne  waa  played  by  & 
funoos  Athenian  lady  flnte-player,  who 
had  been  away  itamng  it  thTOEteh  the 
cities  of  Leaser  Asia,  and  this  ohorale  was 
her  welcome  home.  Here  is  Dr.  Kennedy'B 
renderfng: 

0  my  ownie,  0  my  brownie ;  bird  of  birds  tbe 
oeaieM, 

V  oioe  Uut  mioittiiig  with  mj  Ujrs  ever  wu  the 

Ptkfmote  oi  my  e»rly  d»yB,  Btill  to  ms  the 

K^tingale,  thus  agaia  do  I  meet  thee — do  I 
greet  thee. 

While  this  was  being  aong  the  favoiirite 
played  Uie  accompaniment  on  the  flute, 
and  one  can  fancy  the  enthodasm,  and  how 
the  welkin  rang,  for  tbe  Greeks  had  no 
roofa  to  tJieir  theatrea 

Do  not  think  that  tbe  parabasis  keeps 

r'ta  majeatio  or  mock-majestic  tone  all 
agh.  There  is  plenty  of  fan  in  it.  Here, 
for  instance,  the  poet  satirises  the  dnl- 
nesa  of  the  "  Intimate  drama,"  a  apemlly 
bad  faolt,  for  as  all  plays  were  competitive, 
and  as  they  were  given  in  sets  of  fonr,  the 
tragic  trilogy,  and  the  satyric  drama,  like 
a  farce,  to  wind  np  with,  the  conacientioas 
hearer,  who  really  meant  to  judge  the 
thing  on  ita  merits,  would  be  in  for  it  day 
after  day.     Well  might  the  poet  say  : 

Nothing  can  be  man  daliglitEal  tbMi  the  having 

wingg  to  wear. 
A  ipectMor  aittjng  here  accommodated  with  a  pair 
Might,  for  inetaiico,  if  he  found  a  tragic  ohonu  dull 

and  heary, 
Take  his  flt^-ht  and  dine  at  home,  and  if  be  did  not 

chooee  to  leave  yet, 
Might  return  in  better  humour  when  tbe  weary 

drawl  was  ended. 

The  next  act  opens  in  Cloadcackoo- 
borgh,  -which  name  is  received  with  accla- 
mations by  the  choroa  Enter  a  priest  to 
prayforthe  weal  of  the  new  city.  Wonder- 
folly  he  is  got  up,  with  fillet  round  his 
temples,  and  a  trumpeter  going  before 
hint  Bat  Plansible  will  not  let  him  sacrifice 
in  peace,  he  keeps  mixing  up  his  new  bird- 
gods  with  tbe  prieat's  old  ones.  Then  the 
ubation  is  made — barley,  which  draws  the 
chorus  in  an  undignified  rush  and  seta  them 
all  pecking,  and  wine,  which  makea  that 
vulgar  Plausible  atoop  down  and  wet  his 
fiogen  in  it  and  then  lick  them.  At  lost 
Plansible  drives  off  the  priest  and  says,  in 
true  pantomime  sUle,  ttiat  he  will  do  the 
sacrifice  himself.    Bat  he  ia  not  allowed  to 


finish  off  quietly.    First  comes  a  poet,  who 
,v=;-*.  -„  _™-*i —  1^  Pindaric  ode  or  ^'■- 


Bubjeet^  Plausible  has  much  ado  to  buy  him 
off  with  a  couple  of  somebody  else's  cloaks. 
Then  a  soothsayer  brings  old  oracles ;  and 
ctjing,  "  Take  my  book  and  see  for  your- 
self," sa^,  "  fate  ordains  that  the  bearer  of 
this  divme  meeeage  should  have  a  new  coat 
and  a  good  pair  of  boote,  and  a  tripe 
dinner,  with  a  good  bumper  of  wine." 

"  Oh,  you  old  humbug  I "  retorts 
Plansible ;  "  jnat  take  my  book  and  see 
what's  written. 

"  But  wbeo  some  awiitdler  uninvited  Utere, 
Diaturba  the  lacrifioa,  and  tripe  woold  ahare. 
Let  well-belaboured  riba  be  aU  h^  fare." 

And  Buiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  beats 
the  intruder  roimd  and  round  t^e  altar,  and 
at  last  drives  him  off. 

A  geometer — asquea^-voiced  old  gentle- 
man, with  alavea  catrymg  big  compasses, 
and  tJie  Greek  sabatitute  for  a  theodolite 
— who  wants  to  plot  out  the  sky  into  equal 
shorea,  fares  little  better ;  and  an  inspector 
and  an  informer  get  still  harder  lines.  As 
he  drives  the  la^  off  the  stage,  Planaible 
packs  up  his  sacrificing  apparatus,  and  saya 
he  will  go  and  finiah  indoora, 

A  couple  more  beaudfiil  choral  aongs, 
and  a  parabaaia  full  of  political  jokea,  and 
then  a  pair  of  messe^gen  explain  in  comic 
style  how  the  cloud-city  was  built.    Thirty 
thousand  cranes  swallowed  the  foundation- 
stonea  and  flew  aloft  with  them ;  herons 
and  other  wading  birds  pumped  up  the 
water;  and, like  chUdren  sucking  lollipops, 
the  awallowa  mixed  the  mortar  in   their 
moutha. 
Aye,  and  the  docke,  by  Jove,  all  ti^tly  girt. 
Kept  carrying  briokg ;  and  other  turds  were  flying 
With  trowel*  on  their  heads  to  lay  the  bridis. 

But,  in  epite  of  its  cloud-based  walls.  Iris, 
the  messenger  of  the  Olympians,  files  in, 
hotly  pursued  by  bird-scouts.  She  ia  on 
her  way  to  earth  to  ask  how  tt  ia  the 
eacrificea  are  stopped  j  and  she  gets  very 
wroth  when  Plausible  tells  her  tiiat  the 
old  order  is  changed ; 
Birdi  unto  men  are  goda ;  to  them  must  men 
Now  sacrifice  ;  and  not,  by  Jove,  to  Jove. 

She  threatens  her  father's  thunderbolta, 
but  is  hustled  off.  She  was  as  good  a 
make-up  as  any  of  them — a  trifle  too  tall, 
but  very  oomely  in  her  aky-blue  robe,  flame- 
coloured  skull-cap,  and  rainbow  wings. 

Meanwhile  men  find  they  are  saving  so 
much  in  eacrificea,  that  they  vote  Plausible 
a  golden  crown.  The  gods,  on  the  oUier 
hajid,  are  starved  out,  and  are  on  the  point 
of  sending  a  threatening  embassy,  when 


■?= 


IJuinaj  W,  1884.) 


ALL  THE  YEAK  ROUND. 


Prometheus,  almja  man's  friend,  steals 
out  to  .put  PlAusible  on  bia  giurd.  The 
Titan  ia  bo  hoddlt^d  up  in  sbawls,  and  has 
euob  a  comical  umbrella  over  his  head, 
th»t  it  is  a  long  tim«  befora  Plansible 
TQcogniaas  him.  Then,  the  fright  he  is  in 
Icit  Jove  ahould  find  him  oat  I  "  Stop, 
stop,  don't  coll  onbmy  name !"  he  whiipera 
when  the  delighted  Plausible  greets  him, 
"  I'm  loat  tor  ever  if  Zens  Hwg  mo  hero. 
Jlnt  wbilo  I'm  telliug  you  the  news  from  hwven 
.lii-ttukutliiaauii.sliiKla,  will  your  Hold  it  up 
Abovo  my  head,  that  no  the  gods  mayn't  we  ine." 
And  then  in  his  ear  be  tells  him  what 
straits  they  an  ledaeed  to  in  Oljmpm 
how  the  barbarian  gods  are  in  full  mutiny , 
and  advises  him  not  to  give  in  to  Uie 
embassy,  bat  to  insist  on  bavingthe  thunder- 
bolts  sQrr«ndered,  and  Miss  Sovereinity, 
a  handsome  girl  vho  keeps  the  key  of  tjie 
liirb  tiling-closet,  given  up  to  him  as  his 
bride. 

Then,  vith  the  last  act,  enter  the 
Olympian  ambaBsadors  —  Neptone,  ^o 
plays  dignity,  Hercules,  and  Triballos  the 
Thracian  god,  Plausible  is  bnay  cooking, 
luid  keeps  his  back  to  Neptune,  while  the 
latter  ia  trying  to  explain  niat  he  mU  find 
it  best  to  come  to  terms.  This  cooking  is 
too  much  for  Hercules.  He  comes  and  looks, 
throws  bade  his  lion's  skin,  gets  recognised, 
ind  is  soon  won  over,  and  brings  over  the 
bedizened  Triballoa  by  threatening  to  give 
dim  a  good  dmbbing  with  his  club.  They 
ire  now  two  to  one ;  and  by  the  time  Her- 
cules has  swallowed  the  contents  of  three 
ir  four  stewpans  (birds  they  are,  to  his 
istonishment,  aristocrat  birds,  whom  it  was 
lecessary  to  punish),  he  is  ready  to  vote 
'or  whatever  Plaasible  tells  him.  The  end 
3  that  the  goda  give  in ;  and,  in  a  blaze 
i{  Bengal  fire  and  the  scent  of  incense, 
ivith  the  birds  shoating  a  marriage-song, 
L'lauaible  and  Sovereignty,  a  bnxom  Um 
ffith  painted  face  and  a  mach  more  liberal 
lisplay  of  charms  than  a  Greek  bride 
>vould  have  made,  appear  in  a  tnnmphal- 
ar.  Plausible  baa  the  thunder  in  his  hand, 
ind  the  amiable  Hoopoe  stands  behind 
ivitli  ootstrelched  wings,  like  a  good  fktiier, 
)1  casing  their  union. 

I  have  seen  many  extravaganms,  but  I 
lever  saw  anything  better,  and  it  all  named 
io  natural  that  one  fancies  the  genuine 
-Ireek  tradition  must  have  been  preserved 
.hrongh  all  these  centuriei.  I  hope  the 
jUy  will  be  acted  in  London  and  elsewhere 
or  I  should  like  "  the  non-classical  public  " 
0  see  it ;  it  would  give  them  more  insight 
iito  old  Greek  life  and  politics  than  half-a- 
lozen  volumes. 


Dr.  Waldsteio  saya,  "  The  primary  idea 
<^  the  periormaiice  ia  aoadwnieal,"  not 
the  mere  ezunination-valas  of  getting  up 
so  many  lines  of  Greek,  bat  the  giving  all 
who  took  a  part,  and  all  who  looked  on, 
a  thmrough  lesson  in  the  Greek  drama. 
Having  seen  Uiis  at  Cambridge,  one  can 
gatige  the  foelii^  of  an  Athenian  when  he 
saw  it  as  it  was  first  act«d.  What  an  idea 
it  gives  OS,  who  are  accustomed  to  the  two 
hundred  and  three  hondred  nighU  of  a  pet 
piece,  of  the  lavishness  of  Athenians,  to 
think  tliat  a  pUy  like  this  was  got  up  m 
such  grand  style  often  for  only  a  single 
performance  t 


SOME  LONDON  CLEAMNGS. 

"  Cripplegate  1 "  replied  a  City  police- 
man at  the  comer  of  a  street  behind  the 
General  Post  Office  to  an  enqoiry  as  to  its 
whereaboats.  "  WeU,  yon  see,  there  ain't 
any  Cripplegate  in  mrticnlar;  all  round 
about's  Cripplegate,''^  That  was  so  far 
satisfactory,  for  all  round  about  was  jast 
our  destination — Crippl^ate  in  general, 
with  a  special  aim  towards  the  church  of 
St.  Giles  s,  Cripplegate.  SufGcient  is  it 
that  wo  ore  in  the  right  track,  and  may 
reach  our  destination  by  the  exertion  of  a 
little  topographical  insight.  After  all,  it  is 
much  pleaaanter  to  find  your  way  to  a 
place  than  to  bo  ignominionsly  led  there  by 
a  policeman,  by  some  short  cut  that  you 
Will  never  be  able  to  make  out  again.  Now 
here  is  London  Wall,  as  it  happens ;  Hie 
name  plainly  to  be  read  on  the  comer  of 
this  straight  uncompromising  street,  and 
a  little  failber  on,  a  morsel  of  old  London 
Wall  itself  appears  in  evidence  where  there 
is  a  little  slip  of  a  graveyard  that  belongs 
to  St.  Alphsge,  that  funny  church  ronnd 
the  comer,  that  seems  to  have  been  cut  and 
sliced  l^  City  traffic,  till  there  is  hardly 
anything  left  of  it.  Now  if  we  follow  the 
line  of  London  Wall,  we  shall  surely  come 
to  Cripplegate  Church,  that  ia  if  any  failh 
is  to  be  placed  in  old  maps  of  London, 
H^oh  show  the  church  as  just  oatdde  Ae 
City  battlements,  close  to  the  gate  where 
onee  the  cripples  from  the  hospitftl  hard-by 
stood  exhibiting  their  infinnities,  and 
demanding  alms  from  those  who  passed 
into  or  out  of  the  City. 

But  it  is  not  easy  to  steer  by  ancieiit 
landmarks  in  modem  London ;  and  then 
some  tempting-looldng  old  coarta  and 
passages  invite  exploration,  and  mix  up 
our  Marings  generally,  so  ttiat  we  ue  in 


SOME  LONDON  CLEARINGS.  (j«itt«j28,igM.i    227 


Aldei^aite '  of  a  Boddeu  in  a  bawildeiaiig 
iriilH  ^  tnffio,  Kid  Inn  clesred  the  Oity 
mil  in  me  stride  iritboat  knowing  my- 
thinf;  abont'  it.  Bab  pasniig  np  Alders- 
gate  a  ctrttet  to  the  ngkt  umoimcea  itaelf 
H  the  Bsibioui,  sod  an^eats  Bome  egnoac- 
&Q  vith  tbe  Oity  fortifieatiom.  And 
panting  over  tlie  wai^e  aoond  of  Barbi- 
an,  we  should  like  to  balieve  in  the  burgfi, 
kemuQK  tower,  tiie  old  Saxon  watcb- 
tower,  Uke  the  conning  tower  in  the  iron- 
tlada.  Bat  onfortonately  thme  is  the 
Inacb  barbwaae,  with  a  aiiailar  word  in 
Spaniih  and  Italian,  which  the  ail-cnnniiig 
Uttti  derivu  from  Arabic  b&rbao-kiuuieb, 
msaning  rampart  before  the  gate,  and  ao 
n  are  oarried  bade  to  Crowding  times, 
whoi  red  cross  knigfata  fresh  frtaa  Acre 
and  Ascalon  brought  back  new  notions  in 
the  art  of  attacking  and  defending  cities. 
After  this  it  does  not  surprise  as  to  come 
apon  Eodcross  Street,  loading  in  the  right 
direction,  and  wc  imagine  oureelveB  red  cross 
ImigbtB  for  the  nonce  pricking  down  towards 
the  City  gate.  People  Ifve  in  Redcross 
Street— live  there  in  considerable  numbers 
—and  it  has  the  dim  air  of  a  street  that  has 
seen  better  days.  Thore  are  old  people 
about  who  have  lived  here  all  their  lives, 
and  who  shake  their  heads  now,  and 
ascribe  the  nndoobted  decadence  of  the 
neighbonrhood'  to  the  Metropolitan  Rail- 
way. Before  then  everybody  was  happy 
and  respectable.  A  great  library  stood  in 
Sedcross  Street,  known  as  Dr.  Williams's 
Library,  ranch  raorted  to  by  Nonconformist 
divines,  and  giving  a  sort  of  academic 
Savour  to  the  neighbourhood!  To  say 
nothing  of  the  unmerona  dissenting  chapels 
that  were  scattered  about  in  canons  conrts 
and  attractive  alleys  ap  and  down,  most 
of  which  Gh^>els  with  thmi  oongregations 
have  taken  train  and  migrated  to  the 
suburbs,  while  the  library  has  taken  up 
magnificent  quarters  near  Gtower  Street — a 
happy  thing  for  the  library;  portiaps,  and 
ite  stndentB,  but  for  poor  Redcross  Street 
quite  dtshevtening. 

But  we  wonld  not  have  miieed  Redcross 
Street  on  any  account,  for  at  the  bottom 
of  it  unexpectedly  breaks  on  the  sight  one 
of  tite  jdeaaanteit,  most  characteristic  bits 
of  o^  London.  Just  now  there  is  a 
channing  gleam  of  winter  soashino,  and 
in  th«  brightness  of  it,  with  a  background 
of  mnrk;  vaponr,  rises  the  tower  of  old 
St.  Giles's,  Gripplagate,  sqoars  and  solid 
Gothic  in  its  lower  stage,  but  crowned 
above  with  the  graceful  curves  of  an 
Italian   campanile— rises,   too,  over  some 


timbered  houses  of  quaint  and  ancient 
form,  at  the  aide  of  which  is  a  pleasiog 
Jacobean  gateway  that  givee  a  glimpse  of 
s  grassy  giaveyara  within,  and  a  tracery  of 
now  bare  and  kafiess  brancbee.  And  it; 
adds  further  beauty  to  the  scene,  to 
remember  that  here  is  one  of  the  most 
h^owed  shrines  <^  all  the  English  world. 
For  here  lies  John  Milton,  and  surely  if 
the  whole  City  i»  laid  mute  and  tamed 
into  new  steeets  of  shops  and  avenues  of 
warehouses,  this  little  oornei  will  be  held 
aacred  for  all.tiM& 

It  IB  a  calia  and  pleasant  spot  this,  in 
the  midst  of  the  City  tuimoiL  llirough 
the  gateway  a  footpath  leads  round  ^e 
chnrch,  qniteareoent  innovation,  catting 
throogh  Uie  old  churchyard  that  once  lay 
solitary  and  neglected  with  its  crowd  of 
tombstones  among  the  surrounding  bouses. 
And  then  for  some  years  ihe  graveyanl 
formed  a  aeohided  pleasant  nook  of  shatle 
and  award,  the  gravestones  all  removed, 
and  the  apace  turfed  and  planted.  But 
business  exigencies  demanded  a  short  cut 
from  one  nest  of  warAouses  to  aootber, 
so  that  now  there  is  a  constant  patter 
of  feet  among  the  graves  and  past  the 
grated  doorways  of  the  church  where 
tba  great  poet  is  sleeping.  The  doors 
are  haired,  indeed,  but  this  iohospitaiity 
is  rather  in  seeming  than  in  reality, 
for  on  one  of  the  old-fashioned  doon  by 
the  entranoe-arohway  ia  a  brass  plate  in- 
scribed "  Sezton,"  and  you  have  only  to 
riog  here  and  request  admittance,  and  the 
doors  are  freely  thrown  open.  The  church 
is  light  and  cheerful-looking,  of  a  weak 
kind  of  Gothic,  for  the  early  Norman 
chnrch  was  burnt  down,  and  this  is  a  work 
of  Henry  the  Eighth's  reign,  and  it  ia  one 
of  the  few  City  churches  which  escaped 
the  Great  Fire  of  Londoa  Periups,  as  its 
most  precious  memories  are  of  S^ton's 
time,  we  may  regret  that  it  has  boon 
restored  quite  so  mnch  to  its  original 
(lothic  bareness.  Snog  galleries  and  warm 
high  pewa,  now  all  swept  away,  formed  a 
link  between  Milton's  age  and  ours  that  is 
now  wanting.  A  tiuge  of  Puritanism 
even  wonld  not  have  been  ungracefol,  and, 
when  we  learn  tJiat  Milton's  monument 
has  been  removed  from  one  end  of  the 
church  to  the  other  to  make  room  for 
choir-boys,  if  we  were  angels  we  should 
weep,  but  being  only  mortals,  content 
oarselves  with  a  shrug  of  resignation. 

After  all,  it  would  he  a  pity  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  this  nice  old  Udy  with  the 
silver  hair  who  is  biuy  about  the  cfaunh, 


228    tJuiuTT  »;  UH.1 


ALL  THE  TEAR  EOUWD. 


and  viio  atuwers  qoestioiu  with  alacrity, 
without  poshing  henelf  forward  as  ciceroD& 
And  then,  as  we  are  reminded,  the  monu- 
ment is  not  an  original  one,  probably  it 
never  stood  over  the  real  dte  of  the  poet's 
tomb.  "  He  lies  here,"  says  the  old  lady, 
leading  the  way  to  the  upper  end  of  tlie 
nave,  and  pointing  to  a  space  occnpiad  by 
seats.  "  He  lies  here  crowways,"  indicating 
the  exact  direction  of  the  body  nortti-east- 
wards.  And  she  seems  so  certain  abont 
the  matter,  and  generally  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  respective  pontiona  of  those  who 
sleep  below,  that  the  statement  carries  a 
kind  of  conviction  with  it.  A  Miltonic 
kind  of  person,  too,  is  this  good  woman, 
bom  in  die  neighboorhood,  and  her 
father  was  a  schoolmaster  in  Bedcross 
Street,  and  possibly  his  great-grandfather 
might  have  been  naher  with  Mr.  John 
Milton  at  his  honae  in  the  Barbican.  And 
we  are  all  the  more  willing  to  accept  the 
silver-haired  old  lady's  testimony  on  this 
point,  that  if  she  is  right  the  vandaho 
opening  of  the  poet's  tomb  about  a  hundred 
years  ago  failed  of  its  mark.  But  alas  I  the 
testimony  the  other  way  is  pretty  strong. 
Aubrey,  who  was  almost  a  contemporary, 
trritea:  "He  lies  buried  in  St  OHea, 
C^ripplegate,  at  the  right  hand.  His  stone 
is  nowremoved,  for  about  seven  years  since  " 
—November,  1681 — "the  two  steppes  to 
the  communion  table  were  raysed.  I  gnesse 
To  Speed  and  he  lie  together."  And  it  adds 
i  strong  confirmation  to  this  that  digging 
bere,  certain  ghouls  of  churchwardens  and 
ivetBeers  came  upon  a  cofGn  of  lead  resting 
upon  another  of  wood — and  MQton's 
Father  is  known  to  have  been  buried  in  the 
lame  grave — and  the  leaden  oofiBn  was 
opened,  and  the  skull  found  covered  with 
ong  brown  hair,  with  teeth  beautifolly 
vbite  and  perfect;  and  the  hair  was  out  off 
ind  the  teeth  distributed  as  relics,  wbUe 
>ne  greedy  man  is  said  to  have  possessed 
limself  of  a  rib.  Even  geatle  Cowper 
aunched  a  malediction  ftt  these  evil-doers. 

lU  fare  the  bood  that  heaved  the  atonea 

Where  Milton's  ashea  lay, 
That  trembled  not  to  grasp  bia  bouea. 

And  steal  hii  diut  away. 

And  here  we  are  reminded  that  other 
ind  more  cheerful  memories  cling  to  the 
;hurch  of  fit.  GQes,  On  tiiese  altar-steps, 
wfore  they  were  "raysed,"  stood  one  Oliver 
^romwell  with  his  wife,  Elizabeth  Bouohier 
—this  last  a  name  that  suggests  a  French 
I'rotestant  family.  Cromwell  was  then 
h  plain  young  country  squire,  little  thinking 
hat  he  would  one  day  sway  the  land  with 


more  than  kingly  power.  ButOripplegate 
Church  had  long  been  noted  as  an  especuJly 
fortunate  place  to  be  married  at.  Many 
had  been  the  splendid  wedding  pageants 
of  illuatriona  nobles,  and  the  partiahty  for 
the  chorcb  as  a  phtce  to  be  married  at  has 
come  down  even  to  our  own  days.  To  be 
married  on  a  Christmas  Day  at  Cripple- 
gate  was  long,  and  perhaps  is  even  now, 
regarded  as  a  cumulation  of  happy  auspices 
by  the  artisans  of  the  neighbourhood,  and 
we  read,  not  so  long  ago,  of  a  special  <!h<nal 
service  given  as  a  welctone  to  the  Christmas 
brides  and  grooms.  Perhaps  the  merry 
bells  of  Crippk^te  have  had  something 
to  do  witii  the  oelebrity  of  the  church 
for  bridals :  the  twelve  tuneful  bells  that 
swing  ID  the  old  tower,  of  which  namber 
ten  bears  this  appropriate  verse: 

Inwedlook's  baadi,  all  je  irho  join 
With  banda  your  hearts  unite  ;  _ 

So  sball  our  tLineful  tooguea  comlHiie 
To  laud  the  nuptial  rite. 

And  in  this  connection  it  is  pleasant  to 
recall  that  the  Cripplegate  Society  of 
Friendly  Bingers  still  meet  on  alternate 
Tuesday  evenings  to  practise,  sending  a 
merry  peal  over  the  great  nildemeas  of 
housetops  that  lie  around. 

But  to  return  to  tiie  monuments  in 
which  the  church  is  so  rich,  there  is  John 
Speed  the  antiquary,  looking  briskly  out 
over  his  books,  and  one  Busbie,  a  cheerful 

Sntlemon  of  the  sixteenth  century,  who 
t  four  loads  of  charcosl  to  the  poor. 


'^hich  "  awhile  "  shows  a  presdeat  ap' 
preciation  of  the  ways  of  inquiaitave 
churchwardens  and  enterprising  hewer«^ 
oat  of  new  streets  and  tailways ;  while  in 
«1I  probability  Busbie's  monument  is  over 
somebody  else's  bones,  seeins  that  all  these 
tablets  have  been  changecf  and  shnffled 
about;  so  that  John  Foxe^  tablet — Puritan 
Foxe  of  the  Martyrs — as  likely  as  not  is 
over  some  actor  from  the  Fortune  Theatre 
and  vice  versi.  It  is  pleasant,  too,  to 
come  upon  quite  a  Shakespearian  touch  in 
the  monument  to  Margaret  the  second 
dangbter  of  Sir  Thomas  Lac^,  of  Ohazle- 
cote,  "  third  in  direct  descent  oi  the  name 
of  Thomaa"  The  Lucys,  probably,  had 
their  London  lodging  in  this  nei^boor- 
hood,  and  the  chimes  at  midnight  to 
which  Justice  Shallow  alludes,  may  have 
been  these  very  chimes  of  St.  OOes, 
which  still  ring  oat  at  noon  and  midnight, 
and  every  three  hours  between.  John 
Fozo  had  been  a  tutor  in  Sir  Thomas 


SOME  LONDON  CLEAKINQ8. 


|Juiau7  U,  ISSt.I 


229 


loeft  fkmily,  and  probably  enough  hia 
old  pnpils  may  bavs  been  led  to  settle 
n«r  lum.  For  there  is  another  mona- 
nUDl  connected  with  the  Lncy  Umily,  a 
moDiimeut  vhich  bears  quite  a  graesome 
utoeialdoQ  in  popular  tradition.  Thia  is 
I  fine  but  ogly  moral  monnment  to  a  young 
maiden,  Constance  Whitney,  whose  mother 
wu  a  Lucy,  and  whose  grandmotdier.  Lady 
[acy,  accoiding  to  the  inscription  upon 
the  tomb,  "  bred  hernp^"  There  is  a  repre- 
sentation of  a  long  aarcophagns,  or  coffin, 
oat  of  iriiich  risea  the  torso  of  a  figure  in 
a  certainly  hysteric  and  piunfnl  attitude. 
And  this,  says  tradition,  represents  a  young 
woman  who  was  buried  abre,  by  accident, 
be  it  understood — a  very  rich  young  lady, 
who  was  buried  in  her  rings  because  her 
fanuly  had  not  the  heart  to  toko  them  off. 
And  the  aexton  hearing  of  this,  on  the 
night  after  Uie  funeral  dog  down  to  the 
o^,  opened  it,  and  began  to  poll  off  the 
rings  from  the  dead  maiden's  fingers,  bat 
ao  roughly  that  the  fingers  bled,  and  the 
nuidm  cned  ont,  and  presently  sat  op  in 
I  her  coffin  as  is  represented  in  the  monu- 
ment Tradition  adds  that  the  young 
woman  was  afterwards  married  and  had 
many  children.  More  grare  historians 
deecribe  the  monument  as  a  representation 
of  the  soul  rising  from  the  tomb — a  very 
elderiy  and  ugly-looking  soul  considering 
that  it  bedonga  to  a  maiden  of  seventeen 
mmmers. 

"As  lame  as  SL Giles,  Gripplegate,"  was 
an  old  saying,  SL  GUea  bemg  the  patron 
saint  of  cripples,  although  it  is  curious  to 
note  that  Cripplegate  was  so  called  even 
before  the  foundation  of  the  ohorch.  There 
was  a  well  close  by,  "  the  common  well  and 
spring  of  SL  Giles,"  with  a  pond  that  was 
mi^ued  by  the  well,  and,  puhsps,  with 
some  ancient  superstitious  virtue  attached 
lo  the  water  which  brought  the  lame  people 
with  their  crutches  to  lave  in  the  pool ;  to 
accommodate  whom  the  hospital  was  bnilt, 
and  afterwards  the  church.  Bat  anyhow  it 
U  deli^ktJii]  to  find  that  our  sOver-haired 
old  l^y  remembers  the  well  perfectly — 
used  to  fetoh  water  from  it — a  well  at  the 
bottom  of  a  large  flight  of  stouo  steps, 
whieli  steps,  as  well  as  the  stone  cover  to 
the  well,  were  built  at  the  expense  of  Sir 
Hichard  Whittington.  Later  on  it  was 
called  Crowder's  Well,  but  it  is  all  yaalted 
op  now  and  buried  ;  the  name  of  it  only 
pFMBTved  in  Well  Street  close  by.  But  it 
will  come  to  life  again  some  day,  perhaps, 
when  we  and  our  houses,  and'  streets,  and 
chorohee  have  all  crumbled  to  decay. 


And  while  we  are  chatting  with  the 
silver-haired  old  lady,  we  come  to  the  west 
door  of  the  church,  with  the  tower  over- 
head, and  the  sun  shining  pleasantly  in 
through  the  iron  bars,  a  patch  of  green 
graveyard  in  front,  and  bounding  the 
graveyard  a  venerable-looking  bastion,  one 
of  the  most  perfect  bits  stUl  left  of  otd 
London  WalL  It  is  the  extreme  point  of 
the  line  of  defence  in  this  direction,  for 
here  the  wall  took  a  sweep  downwards 
towards  Newgate,  when  it  appears  again 
for  a  moment  within  the  walls  of  that  dark 
and  tragic  prison — in  the  most  dark,  tragic, 
and  dreadful  spot  of  all,  tiie  ghastly  grave- 
yard of  the  murdereiB. 

But  here  the  old  walls  look  down  upon 
graves  which,  all  unnoted  and  fo^otten 
as  they  are,  have  attached  to  them  no 
sinister  memories.  The  sun  shines  pleasantly 
on  the  nook  of  green  turf;  the  footsteps  of 

SBSsers-by  echo  briskly  through  the  vaulted 
oorway,  and  through  the  tower  window- 
openings  is  a  glimpse  of  quaint  old-world 
roof-tops.  A  sidelong  ray  of  snnshbe  too 
steals  inside  the  ohurch,  and  rests  upon 
John  MUton's  monument 

But  there  is  a  vicarage  also  belonging  to 
old  8L  Giles,  a  nice  roomy  old  house,  with 
a  quiet  little  passage  to  it  leading  out  of 
Uie  busy  business  streeL  Strange  it  must 
be  to  live  among  these  great  homeless 
boildings,  to  sleep  in  the  empty  City,  and 
then  in  the  morning  to  listen  to  the  roaring 
tide  of  humanity  rushing  in,  while  all  day 
long  the  eddies  of  unknown  footsteps  circle 
about  the  place,  with  all  kinds  of  quick 
changes  that  must  become  familiar  after 
awhile  as  the  changing  chimes  of  the  church- 
bells  overhead.  What  a  whirl  about  the 
dinner-hour  I  What  dead  silence  for  a 
brief  space  as  connters  and  dining-rooms  are 
crowded  with  a  solid  mass  of  people  intent 
on  a  more  or  less  solid  meal,  while  if  the 
City  conduits  were  once  more  running  with 
beer  and  wine  as  on  festal  days  of  old, 
they  would  not  keep  pace  with  Uie  stream 
that  fiows  into  thousands  of  foaming 
beakers.  And  then  a  fresh  commotion,  bat 
this  time  different  somehow  from  before; 
the  footsteps  a  tritle  less  strenuous  and 
more  inclined  to  loiter,  while  soon  the  ebb 
begins,  gently  at  first,  with  the  well-bung 
chariot  of  Dives  swinging  through  the 
narrow  City  streets,  and  growing  stronger 
and  stronger  as  the  short  day  wanes,  and 
finally  roaring  away  in  the  distance  with 
heavy-loaded  railway-wagons. 

And  with  all  this  we  have  the  feeling  that 
this,  our  first  quest  for  green  places  in  the 


[Jsnaar;  X,  1881.} 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


City  baa  been  so  for  snecdssfuL  The  spot 
of  green  is  t  tiuy  one  indeed,  but  it  is  fall 
of  memorieB.  Within  a  etoueVthrow  from 
these  walla  the  greater  part  of  Milton'a  life 
was  spent  It  isbntt  fewmtnnteB'walkto 
Bread  Street,  where  he  was  bom,  and  where 
the  chnrch  within  whose  walls  ho  was 
baptised,  is  still  adorned  with  a  tablet 
recording  the  fact, with  Dryden's  eulogy  In 
old-fashioned  characters : 

Three  poeU  in  three  distnnt  asea  born, 
Greocfl,  Italy,  and  EaeUncl  did  adom  ; 
The  firat  in  loftineu  of  UMlwbt  nirpitss'd, 
The  neit  in  majeaty,  in  ImtE  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nnture  coii'd  no  further  goe, 
To  make  n  third  nhe  Joyn'd  the  former  two. 
The  City,  as  Milton  knew  it,  was 
not  without  its  gardens  and  shady  spots 
where  qoiot  meditation  was  as  easy  as  In 
the  silent  fields  St.  Bride's  chnrchyard, 
where  he  lived  after  his  first  marriage, 
liis  wife  fonnd  very  solitary,  and  the 
Barbican,  which  was  hla  next  dwelling- 
place,  must  then  have  been  a  quiet 
raburban  retreat.  In  Holbom  he  found  a 
[ilenaant  nook  overlooking  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  and  then  ho  quitted  the  City  for 
1  while,  to  t^e  lodgings  in  Whitehall — 
in  official  apartments  attached  to  his  post  of 
E'oreign  Secretai'y.  And  soon  after  he  is  in 
Westminster,  in  a  house  that  looks  over 
;he  greensward  of  St.  James's  Park,  daily 
becoming  more  dim  to  his  view  as  blindness 
::ame  over  his  tired  eyes.  Hence  he  is 
Irtven  at  the  Restoration,  and  comes  to 
hide  among  his  friends  in  the  City,  lying 
concealed,  they  say,  in  Bartholomew  Close, 
jtili  quaint  and  retired,  where  there  is 
itill  left  a  charming  old  house  of  Milton's 
bime  at  the  comer,  now  a  greengrocer's 
thop,  A  capital  house  to  hide  in,  with 
its  narrow  passages  and  dark-shadowed 
rooms.  But  when  the  Act  of  Indemnity 
oiakes  things  safe  for  him  again,  he  goes 
aot  back  to  t^e  west,  but  takes  up  his 
ibode  at  Holboni,  and  in  Jowin  Street 

There  were  gardens  in  Jewin  Street 
bhcn,  "fair  g^en  plots,  and  summer 
fiooacs  for  pleasure,"  where  the  citizens  had 
IjuUt  and  planted  upon  the  old  burial- 
ground  of  the  .Tews — the  old,  old  burial- 
(pround,  where  the  Jews  hail  buried  their 
rtcod  from  the  timer  they  first  came  over 
with  the  N^ormans  till  their  expulsion  in 
the  reign  of  Edward  the  First ;  and  here 
upon  the  old  Jews'  garden,  from  which 
tliey  had  been  driven  so  many  centuries 
ago,  MUton  wrote  the  greater  part  of  his 
great  stately  epic.  The  plague  drove  him, 
in  Ills  turn,  from  hisgarden  to  Chalfont,  but 
he  came  back  to  the  (^ty  when  the  plague  was 


stayed,  to  settle  i^ain  in  Old  Orinilegsfe, 
by  the  side  of  Bunhill  Fields,  miere  be 
lived,  "  eydesa  in  Gaza,"  tiU  hia  partjog 
bell  was  tolled. 

It  is  not  a  long  walk  from  St  Giles's, 
Cripplegate,  to  Bunhill  Fields,  but  there 
are  certain  memories  we  should  like  to 
recall,  aa  we  take  leave  of  the  silver 
haired  old  lady  who  has  been  such  a  quiet 
interesting  guide,  and,  passing  out  through 
the  sextons  lodge,  we  find  ourselves 
in  Fore  Street  Once  upon  &  time  there 
was  a  butcher's  shop  in  Fore  Street- 
Milton  may  have  bought  his  jmnta  ot  neat 
there — with  g  aim  over  the  door,  James 
Poe,  butcher.  The  Foes,  by  the  way, 
were  Huntingdonshire  people,  of  whran 
we  shall  find  a  con^derable  colony  settled 
about  Oripplegata  And  the  -  batcher^ 
sharp  son  was  named  Daniel,  and  after 
wards  assumed  the  aristocratic  prefix  of 
De,  and  thus  out  of  the  strength  of  fte 
butcher's  shop  came  the  sweetness  of 
Robinson  Crusoe.  Now  out  of  Fore  Streflt 
mn  three  principal  streets — Rsdcroaa  Street 
already  visited,  Whitecross  Street  with  its 
debtor's  prison,   now    turned   to   gentler 

fiurpoBea,  and  Milton  Street,  and  iJits 
aat  is  the  old  Grub  Street  of  poor 
authors  and  bookseDers'  faacb;  not  eome 
to  any  great  veami  lir  comfort — the  eteeet, 
that  is — even  now  in  spite  of  its  more 
honoured  nama  Ooce,  perhaps,  it  was 
Grape  Street,  and  vines  may  have  clustered 
about  the  cottage  doors,  when  it  was  the 
street  of  bowyers,  fletchers,  and  bowatring- 
makers,  but  it  hod  become  Grub  Street 
when  Milton  knew  it,  and  when  Foxe,  and 
Defoe,  and  John  Speed,  the  antiquary, 
lived  there. 

And  there  is  a  little  lane  at  the  top 
known  as  Beech  Lane,  from  some  fcM-goiten 
worthy,  De  la  Btche,  Lieutenant  of  the 
Tower  and  what-not  in  bygone  days,  and 
here  stood  the  roomy  town-house  of  the 
mitred  and  dignified  Abbot  of  Ramsey,  in 
Hnntingdonshire.  Now  at  the  disaolntion  of 
the  monasteries  Ramsey  Abbey  fell  to  ttie 
Cromwells,  and  although  the  London  lionse 
seemed  to  have  been  assigned  to  one  Sir 
Drew  Drewry,  yet  it  is  highly  probaUe 
that  the  Cromwells  acquired  some  of  the 
abbey  property  in  Cripplegate,  and  likely 
enough  a  town  lodging  After  the  Restora- 
tion Drewry  House  was  occupied  by  Prince 
Rupert,  and  Milton,  blind  and  old  in  hn 
bock  parlour  in  Jewin  Street,  may  bkve 
heard  the  bells  of  Crippl^ate  in  ftfll  peal 
as  the  Merry  Monarch  came  to  pay  a 
gracious  visit  to  his  cousin  Rupert.     Some 


SOME  LONDON  CLEAEINQS. 


54.1      231 


part  of  Bnpert's  house  aftenrards  became 
the  hall  of  the  OloTers'  Company,  and  after 
ttut  a  dissenting  chapel.  A  little  later 
tiie  chapel  was  a  carpenter's  workshop,  and 
fus  BJDce  come  to  greater  decadence 

Another  great  honse  which  has  ceased 
to  exiat,  is  recalled  by  a  secladad  conrt 
sBDied  Garter  Court,  after  Sir  Thomas 
ffriothesley.  Garter  Kmg-at-Arms,  of  the 
faaiij  of  the  Earls  of  Southampton,  who 
bnilt  a  noble  dwelling  there.  And  there 
ns  an  aristocratic  mansion  in  Hanorer 
Court  where  General  Monk,  l>ake  of 
Albanarle,  is  said  to  Imro  resided,  a  near 
na^hbour  to  Prince  Rnpert 

In  Uie  first  days  of  the  Eestoration,  when 
there  were  gay  doings  even  in  Cripplegate, 
and  the  bells  of  St.  Giles's  were  in  full  peal, 
the  worthy  vicar  of  the  parish,  Samuel 
Annesley,  felt  himself  a  good  deal  out  of 
tune  witii  all  the  rejoicing.  Well  con- 
nected, and  of  a  distinguished  family,  he 
had  been  a  preacher  of  considerable  mark 
during  the  Commonwealth.  He  had 
presaged  before  the  Houae  of  Commons — 
he  had  made  of  St  Giles,  Cripplegate,  a 
centre  of  evangelic  propaganda.  His 
coosin,  the  Earl  of  Anglesey,  was  in  great 
favour  with  the  king,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  man  much  trusted  by  the  Puritans, 
and  in  many  ways  a  medium  of  arrange- 
aeat  between  the  two  parties.  But 
Annesley,  although  bad  he  conformed  to 
the  new  ri^gime  he  might  have  well  hoped  to 
rue  to  distinction  in  the  Church,  gave  up 
fais  living  and  became  the  minister  of  the 
ch^l  ab  Zjittle  St.  Helen's,  Bishopsgate. 
He  most  have  been  well  known  to  Milton, 
a  nnghbour,  and  of  the  same  pohtical 
party,  and  fellow-sufferers  in  the  same 
cause,  au  interesting  figure  to  us,  for  from 
liim  we  may  trace  the  beginning  of  one  of 
the  greatest  religious  movements  of  the 
following  century.  Annesley's  daughter 
was  John  Wesley's  mother;  and  the  holy 
places  of  Wesleyan  history  are  but  a  little 
way  from  here. 

Ilie  actual  Cripplegate,  which  the  moat 
knowing  of  City  pohcemen  is  unable  t« 
point  out,  stood  at  the  top  of  Wood  Street, 
and  was  a.  handsome  Jacobean  edifice  with 
flanking  towers,  the  upper  part  used  as  a 
prison,  like  moat  of  the  other  City  gates, 
and  so  stood  till  the  year  1760,  when  it 
Was  pulled  down  and  sold  for  old  materials. 
Passing  through  Cripplegate  as  late  as  the 
middle  of  last  century  we  should  have 
come  into  a  region  of  open  fields  and 
recreation  groands.  The  green  spot*  now 
furnished  by  the  turf  of  Finsbnry  Circus 


and  Finshury  Square  are  all  that  remain  of 
the  City  park  known  as  Moorfields,  of 
which  Sttype  makes  mention.  "  Formerly," 
he  writes,  "a  moorish  rotten  ground." 
Bat  now,  in  his  time,  "  for  the  watks  them- 
selves, and  the  continual  care  of  the  City 
to  have  them  in  that  comely  and  worthy 
manner  maintained,  they  are  no  "mean 
cauBo  of  preserving  heatlJi  and  wholesome 
air  to  the  City;  and  euch  an  eternal 
honour  thereto,  as  no  iniquity  of  time  shall 
be  able  to  deface."  But,  alas  !  our  gentle 
antiquary  had  not  properly  estimated  the 
iniquities  of  time,  and  this  people's  play- 
ground, at  their  very  doors,  and  attainable 
without  trouble  or  expense,  is  all  built  over 
and  lost  to  the  public 

And  the  district  thus  deprived  of  its 
pleasure-grounds  is  one  of  the  most  densely 
populated  on  the  earth's  surface,  with 
hEodly  a  breathbg  space  in  the  dense  ugly 
crowd  of  houses,  hardly  a  spot  where 
the  weary  can  rest,  or  where  cluldren  can 
play.  This  Cripplegate  is  the  bednning 
of  it,  a  very  Lazarus  gate,  out  of  which  the 
privileged  City  has  turned  its  poor.  Clerk- 
enwell,  St.  Luke's,  which  was  once  Cripple- 
gate, but  long  since  made  into  a  separate 
parish,  Hoxton,  and  Shoreditch,  with 
Bethnal  Green,  form  a  solid  mass  of  closely 
packed  bouses,  amongst  which  the  only 

feople  who  really  flourish  are  the  publicans. 
t  is  a  manufacturing  city  without  any  great 
manufactures,  a  home  for  industries  which 
have  more  or  less  decayed.  And  this,  the 
Cripplegate  district,  is  very  largely  the  home 
of  industrious  attiaans,  home  workers,  who 
are  engaged  in  the  small,  uncertain  industries 
which  depend  so  much  on  fashion  and 
momenta^  prosperity,  working  jewellers, 
watchmakers,  pocket-hook  makers,  piano- 
string  makers,  makers  of  the  hundred  and 
one  articles  that  people  buy  when  they 
have  money,  but  which  they  can  manage  to 
do  without  in  bad  times,  and  these  artisans, 
with  their  solitary  sedentary  occupations, 
are  the  very  class  most  in  need  of  such 
spaces,  where  they  can  breathe  the  frea 
air  and  rest  the  weary  eyes  upon  a  morsel 
of  greenery. 

What  a  great  opportunity  was  lost  by  our 
ancestors  when  the  old  walls  and  ditches 
of  the  City  had  ceased  to  be  of  use  as 
defences,  an  opportunity,  skilfully  turned 
to  account,  which  has  made  so  many  foreign 
cities  gay  and  beautiful  places — the  oppor- 
tunity of  making  a  green  and  shady 
boulevard  in  the  very  centre  of  the  dense 
network  of  houses.  With  the  Old  Bailey 
a  pleasant  grove,  and  London  Wall  a  shady 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


ftvcuue,  and  Hoandsditch  g&r  with  flower- 
bedB,  with  this  girdle  of  verdure  about  the 
City,  what  a  pleasuit  place  it  would  have 
been  I  But  it  is  of  no  nse  regretting  the 
irrevocable  past  All  that  remainii  &i  ns 
is  to  ask,  do  we  make  the  most  of  the  open 
spacee  atJll  left  to  na  1  There  ore  Bonliill 
Fields,  for  instance,  that  show  as  a  green 
patch  upon  the  map,  to  which  we  are  now 
fairlr  upon  our  way.  We  have  left  behind 
us  the  httle  bit  of  neen  Moorfields  that  is 
still  left  in  dignified  seclusion  in  the  middle 
of  Finsbory  Square,  and  we  are  now  in  the 
City  Road  with  ita  hurrying  crowds,  its 
onmibuaes  and  tram-cars,  and  the  long 
lines  of  lamps  that  ore  just  b^inning  to 
twinkle  in  the  twilight,  and  there  is  the 
Artillery  Ground,  jealously  shut  up  within 
high  walls,  and  the  strong  feudal-looking 
castle,  that  is  the  militia  headquarters; 
and  here  are  Bnnhill  Fields,  not  green  but 
grey,  with  Uieir  tombstones  so  tMckly  set 
that  they  give  one  the  impression  of  a 
great  silent  crowd,  with  an  indefinite 
shapeless  presence,  watching  and  waiting 
there  while  the  living  world  hurries  head- 
long by,  and  heeds  ^em  not 


A  FEW  MORE  POOLS.* 

From  out  short  notice  of  Bmsquet,  it  is 
evident  that  he  was  frequently  Absent  from 
his  ofBciol  post  for  considerable  periods. 
Daiine;  this  time  it  was  manifestly  impos- 
alble  wat  the  court  could  be  deprived  of  a 
jester ;  a  substitute,  therefore,  was  nece*- 
sary.  To  supply  this  need,  then,  we 
find  another  fool  almost  as  well  known 
aa  Brusquet,  in  the  person  of  Thonin, 
or  Thony.  His  name  first  appears  in  the 
royal  accounts  for  1559,  where  is  an  entry 
of  eight  shirts,  six  for  the  fool  and  two 
for  his  governor.  Then  follow  a  pair  of 
breeches  of  black  cloth,  lined  with  black, 
for  Thony,  one  hundred  sols  toumois, 
three  and  one-third  ells  black  velvet  to 
make  him  a  cloak  and  a  sijuare  cap.  The 
household  book  for  1560  gives  us  the  name 
of  the  fool's  governor,  Lotus  de  la  Groue, 
EumasLed  La  Farca  He  had  a  present 
from  the  king  of  sixty-nine  livres  toumois 
as  a  contribution  to  the  cure  of  an  illness 
he  had  long  had  at  Blois,  and  in  the  same 
year  we  find  master  and  pupil  sent  to  the 
Duke  of  Lorrune  on  behalf  of  the  king. 
At  this  time,  too,  we  find  his  portrait  was 


•All  the  Year  Rodsd,  New  Series,  Vol.  32, 
1),  328,  "Triboulet  the  Fool,"  and  Vol.  33,  p.  114, 
"  Rabelaii  and  Bnuquet." 


taken,  for  we  have  an  entry  of  twenty-two 
livres  toumois  paid  to  Wflliam  Boutelon, 
painter,  living  at  Btois,  for  the  portrait  of 
Thony,  fool  to  the  said  king.  Thony  was 
atthetoumeys  of  1565,  where  he  evidcDtlf 
appeared  in  the  costume  of  the  tg^  of 
Gturles  the  Sizl^  for  in  iha  books  of  that 
year  we  find  entries  of  black  velvet  for  ■ 
bonnet,  ten  ells  party-coloured  velvet  to 
make  a  cloak  reaching  to  the  ground,  tvo 
and  a  quarter  ells  green  satin  for  a  doublet 
and  breeches,  and  three  pairs  of  shoes  of 

Cw,  green,  and  red  cloth,  all  in  the  old 
ch  style.  He  appears  to  have  died 
about  the  end  of  1672.  Brantome  telli  m 
he  first  belonged  to  M.  d'Orlesns,  vbo 
be^ed  him  from  his  mother,  near  Conssy 
in^cardy.  "The  poor  woman  gave  him 
up  reluctantly,  aa  she  had  vowed  him  to 
tJie  Church,  on  account  of  his  two  elder 
brothers  bung  fools,  one  named  Gtazan  and 
the  other  name  unknown,  to  the  Cudinal 
of  Ferrara.  And  bless  you,  see  the  inno- 
cence of  the  mother,  for  Tliony  was  more 
cracked  than  the  other  two.  At  first  be 
was  simply  idiotic,  but  by  companionship 
and  instruction  he  came  to  be  called  the 
first  of  fools,  and,  no  offence  to  Triboulet 
and  ^ilot,  he  was  such  that  M.  de 
Ronsard  did  not  disdain,  by  order  of  the 
Idngi  to  use  his  pen  to  write  his  epitwh, 
as  ii  he  were  tiie  wisest  in  France.'*  Un- 
fortunately this  is  not  preserved  in  the 
famous  poet's  works.  Thony  was  also  in 
great  favour  with  M.  de  Montmorency,  who 
often  had  him  to  dinner,  joked  with  him, 
and  treated  him  like  a  little  Idn^,  and  if  the 
pages  or  lackeys  displeased  him  he  cried 
out  and  had  them  beaten,  and  was  so 
malicious  that  many  a  time  be  pretended 
to  be  insulted,  so  as  to  have.them  beaten, 
at  whidi  he  used  to  scream  with  lan^^ter. 
The  constable  liked  him  because  the  king 
did,  and  he  Returned  the  regard,  and  called 
him  father.  Whenever  anyone  was  in 
favour  the  fool  sought  him  out,  and  made 
much  of  him,  but  in  disgrace  left  him  very 
soon,  and  without  xpology.  The  constable 
frankly  acknowledged  that  he  had  ex- 
perienced this  in  his  own  case,  when  in 
disgrace  after  the  death  of  Henry,  and 
coiSeased  that  the  fool  was  the  most  com- 
plete courtier  he  knew.  Thony  evidently 
had  method  in  bis  madness. 

The  first  fool  of  Henry  the  Third  Traa 
SibUot,  who  had  for  governor  G-ay  de  la 
Groue,  to  whom  we  md  an  annual  pay- 
ment of  twenty  crowns  for  the  duty. 
fWm  this  fact  we  infer  that  thia  fool  was 
somewhat  idiotic.  Li  many  placee  goalingB 


ClwfelMcksnl.] 


A  FEW"  MORE  FOOLS. 


tJuuTTie,  IKM.]     293 


lie  called  Sibflota,  and  it  ia  &  very  nice 

SaegtioQ  whether  they  gave  their  name  to 
IB  fool  or  took  it  from  him.  The  biblio- 
phfle  Jacob  oonjectarea  that  the  Poet 
Boyal,  Dorat,  who  latinised  himself  into 
Amratos,  acted  as  godfather,  and  christened 
^  fool  from  "SibQns."  This  snppontion, 
it  any  rate,  whether  trae  or  not,  has  the 
merit  of  ineennity.  As  the  name  of 
CaiUstte  had  twen  already  employed  as  a 
ijnonym  for  a  man  without  brains,  the 
cuoe  use  was  made  of  this  one. 
Agrippa  d'Anbign^,  relating  that'  M.  de 
CumUo  embrat^  Proteatantiam  for  love 
of  the  Dachesae  de  Bohan,  calls  him  a  little 
Sibilot,  and  Bouchet  tella  as  of  a  witty 
Sibilot  who  arrived  at  PoitiCTS  late  at 
n^t,  and  on  the  guards  asking  how  he 
cued  himself,  replied  that  he  didn't  call 
himself,  it  waa  other  ;people  who  did  that 
Tojadgo  from  the  Satire  M6nipp6e,  it  was 
evtdenUy  conndered  that  a  fool  was  an 
integral  part  of  the  royal  establishment ;  a 
Bpeuiar  asserts  that  the  Dnka  of  Mayenne 
needed  only  troopa  and  Sibilot  to  bo  king. 
In  1688  we  find  an  entry  of  fifty  crowns 
to  Massac,  a  doctor  of  Orleans,  for  sevoral 
jonmeys  by  order  of  the  ^g  to  tend 
Silnlot  for  a  woond  he  had  received,  which 
renders  it  possible,  if  not  probable^  that 
the  fool  met  with  a  violent  death. 

We  now  arrive  at  the  most  famons  of  the 
coort  fools,  and  most  probably  the  one  best 
known  to  En^Uah  readers,  for  he  fignres 
conspicQonsly  m  a  favourite  romance  of 
the  great  Alexandre  Domaa,  which  has  been 
tmialated  under  the  title  of  Chicot  the 
Jester,  or,  the  I^y  of  Monsoreaa  Ho  is 
also  introdaced  into  the  same  writer's  Forty- 
five,  which  we  believe  has  not  been  turned 
into  English.  We  need  hardly  tell  the 
reader  that  Dnmas  has  fully  availed  himself 
of  the  privfleges  of  the  romancer  in  his 
portrait  of  the  fool ;  he  has  taken  an  inch 
of  fact  and  lengthened  it  with  ells  of  fancy ; 
but  DeTortheless  one  may  get  a  very  fair 
idea  of  the  timea  from  it,  and  certainly  in 
a  mach  more  pleasant  way  than  by  taming 
over  musty  old  books  and  papers. 

It  is  not  known  for  certain  whether  the 
name  of  Chicot  is  real  or  a  sobriquet 
Some  writers  assert  that  it  was  his  own, 
and  that  he  had  a  right  to  prefix  to  it 
the  noble  particle  "de  ;  others,  however, 
will  have  it  that  it  was  a  nickname,  and 
point  oat  that  the  word  is  atall  preserved 
as  meaning  "  a  bit  of  a  broken  branch,"  and 
also  in  the  Gascon  patois  "chic"  means 
something  of  small  'nine,  and  in  Spanish 
"  chico "  means  little.     The  professional 


name,  therefore,  may  refer  to  his  small 
■tatare.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  agreed  that 
Chicot  was  a  Qascon  gentleman.  Brou^t 
up  in  the  ho^hold  of  Brancas  Yillars,  he 
was  intended  for  the  profession  of  anna, 
and  when  his  eneigiea  were  directed 
into  a  different  chimnel,  he  still  pre- 
served his  original  inclination,  being  very 
fond  of  fighting.  For  some  obscure 
reason  he  was  at  deadly  feud  with  the 
Dnke  of  Mayenne — because  he  had  been 
beaten  by  the  noble,  say  some ;  because  the 
two  had  been  rivals  in  a  love-afiair,  aay 
others.  D'Aubignd  tells  as  that  Chicot 
had  an  ardent  desire  to  kill  or  be  killed 
by  the  doke,  and  to  that  end  had  five  horses 
MUed  under  him  in  two  years.  Ge  first 
served  the  faction  of  Lorraine,  and  took 
part  in  the  massacre  of  St  Bartholomew 
along  with  a  brother,  Raymond,  afterwards 
killed  at  Rochelle.  Brantome  says  that 
the  two  burst  open  the  door  of  the  Count 
of  Kochefoncauld,  whom  Raymond  killed. 
About  this  time  he  appears  to  have  entered 
the  service  of  King  Honry  the  Third,  as 
cloak-bearer  certainly,  for  his  name  appears 
as  receiving  four  hundred  livres  toumoia 
salary  at  the  head  of  the  list  of  these 
officers.  We  also  meet  with  an  entry  of 
seven  ells  of  black  taffety  to  make  a  dress 
for  Chicot,  the  king's  bimoon.  As  far  as 
we  can  gather  now,  and  infer  from  con- 
temporary records,  Chicot  was  no  fool  at 
all,  bat  an  extremely  aenaible  man,  who 
had  the  &cnlty  of  wrapping  up  his  wisdom 
in  fooliahnesa,  and  at  times  felt  the  inclina- 
tion to  doff  his  usual  armour,  and  don 
the  motley.  D'Aubign6  tells  us  he  was 
fool  "when  he  liked,  which  may  easily 
bear  two  meaninga  We  find  the  follow- 
ing in  the  memoirs  of  the  grave  Sully : 
"Early  in  1585  the  king,  who  had  not 
then  declared  for  the  League,  seeing  that 
the  Duke  of  Elbeuf  was  raising  Normandy 
for  it,  ordered  M.  de  Joyeuse  to  march  on 
that  province.  The  latter,  therefore, 
arriving  at  Boany,  where  Sully  then  was, 
took  np  his  quarters  in  the  house,  whUat 
M  de  Lavardin,  who  accompanied  him, 
lodged  at  the  other  end  of  the  village. 
To  divert  the  company,  Chicot,  who  was 
of  the  expedition,  took  it  into  his  head  to 
advise  M.  de  Lavardin,  whom  ha  termed  a 
fool,  that  Sully,  that  cursed  Huguenot,  had 
seized  M.  de  Joyeuse  on  the  part  of  the 
Leagne.  He  therefore  requeued  him  to 
come  at  once  to  the  relief  of  the  prisoner. 
Thereupon  Lavardin  arms  all  his  men, 
and  rushes  to  the  ch&teau,  where  he  arrives 
just  in  time  to  be  saluted  ironically,  and 


134      [ JuiauT  2e,  ISU.l 


ALL  THE  YEAK  ROUND. 


bantered  mercilessly  bj.the  foal  for  noi 
rememberiug  that  tbo  pretended  treason 
waM  the  mostonUkely  tning  in  the  world," 
Elenrf  the  Fooith  was  very  fond  of  Chicot, 
Tool  tliotigh  he  wu,  and  thought  he  could 
do  nothing  wrong.  When  the  Duke  of 
fanna  came  the  second  time  into  Fiance 
in  1592,  Chioot  spoke  I9  the  king  before 
everybody : 

"My  friend,  I  see  very  well  that 
all  you  do  wQI  not  avail  tmless  yoa 
become  a  Catholic  You  must  go  to  Eome 
wd  kiss  the  Pope's  foot,  and  let  everyone 
!ee  it',  or  elae  they  will  never  believe  it 
Then  yoa  most  take  plenty  of  holy  water, 

30  as  to  wash  away  the  rest  of  your  eins." 
Another  day  he  addraHed  blm : 

"  Do  you  think,  my  friood,  that  the 
i:harity  yoa  have  towards  your  kingdom 
ihoald  exceed  Christian  charity  t  For  my 
part,  I  am  pretty  certain  that  you  wonld 
jive  botli  Huguenots  and  Papists  to  the 
lerranta  of  Lucifer  if  you  could  be  King 

31  France  in  peace,  They  may  well  eay 
ihat  you  kings  are  religions  in  appear- 
uce  only."  And  still  further:  "My 
Triend,  take'  cace.  not  to  fall  in  the 
lands  of  the  Leaguers,  for  tliey  would 
lang  you  like  a  dog,  raid  write  on  the 
jibbet,  '  Good  lodgings  to  let  for  ever  at 
ihe  Crown  of  France  and  Kavane.' " 

.  At  the  sie«e  of  Boiujd,  Chicot  tried  to 
oieeb  with  Mayenne,  but  in  vain.  Hov- 
)ver,  after  the  assault  ou  the  quarter  of  the 
Dount  of  Chaligny,  of  the  House  of  Lor- 
raine, and  ID  the  flight  of  the  Leaguers,  he 
liad  the  good  fortune  to  take  prisoner  the 
jount  himself,  and  presented  him  to  Henry 
Frith,  "Look  here,  gossip,  I  give  you  my 
srisoner."  The  count,  realising  who  was 
lis  captor,  and  furious  at  the  thought, 
seized  the  sword  he  had  given  up  uid 
itruck  tlie  fool  on  the  head.  Perhaps  the 
riolence  of  the  blow  prevented  his  think- 
ing of  retuming  it  .  At  any  rate,  De  Then 
«lls  OS  he  hadpresence  of  niod  to  joke 
md  rally  bis  prisoner.  But  the  wound 
proved  serioos,  and  he  was  taken  to  Pont 
ie  I'Arche  to  be  tended.  In  the  room 
tchete  he  la.y  was  a  dying  soldier  whom 
iihe  priest  would  not  confess  on  occountof 
bis  serving  a  heretic  king.  Chicot  accord- 
ingly raised  himself  from  his  bed  and 
iseailed  the  monk  with  both  blows  and 
fTords,  but  tbe  exertion  was  too  much  for 
him,  and  he  died  £fteeu  days  after 
receiving  his  -  hurt  In  the  Satire 
M^nip^^e  we  find  allusion  to  this  "  Higfa 
and  mighty  Count  of  Chaligny,  .who  have 
the  honour  of  having  Mayenne  as  a  cadet. 


take  yout  placo  and  few  no  more  Chicot 
who  is  dead." 

His  successor  was  William  Msic^d, 
who  had  been  an  apothecary  at  Lourien, 
and  whose  naturally  weak  intellect, 
muddled  by  solitary  reading  and  brooding 
over  the  preachings  of  the  Leaguen,  W 
been  still  further  twisted  by  the  blov  of 
a  halberd  on  the  head  at  tbe  captaie  of 
Ids  native  place  in  1591,  which  irukde 
him  literally  and  metaphorically  cracked. 
There  was  no  need  to  have  a  nicknuos 
fDr  htm,  for  at  that  time  the  i^tmes  which 
were  held  in  the  lowest  estimation  wen 
John  and  William.  He  therefore  remained 
William,  with  the  regular  prefix  of  Master 
,— no  doubt  in  remembrance  of  his  baiiug 
been  a  member  of  a  learned  profesaoa 
As  in  the  case  of  all  the  other  weak- 
minded  fools,  there  was  continual  wu 
waged  between  him  and  the  pages,  whom 
he  averred  to  be  the  offspring  oi  the  devil, 
whilst  men  were  tbe  chudren  of  Heaven. 
It  was  hu  habit  to  carry  a  sLafF  under  hia 
dress,  with  which  to  dress  down  his  yooiig 
tormentor*,  crying  out  himself,  aa  if  it  wu 
he  who  was  steering. 

The  same  game  used  to  be  carried  on  iu 
the  tonu  where  Master  William  was  fend 
of  straying,  and  where  we  may  be  sure  he 
would  not  fail  to  be  the  butt  and  often  to 
come  off  second-best,  for  in  those  days 
there  was  little  pity  for  the  weak  is  mind. 
He  was  iu  great  utvour  with  Henry  th? 
Fourth,  who,  whenever  he  was  bored  by  i 
prosy  speech,  was  accustomed  to  recommend 
the  speaker  to  finish  it  with  Master  WOliain. 
He  appearsj  from  late  rcBeorcbes,  to  hare 
survived  his  master  and  to  have  passed 
into  the  household  of  his  successor.  His  j 
name  is  often  found  in  the  writings  of  the 
times,  but  to  bibliomaniaca  especially  he 
is  very  well  known  on  account  of  the 
number  of  witty,  scurrilous,  and  libellom 
pamphlets,  published  with  hie  name  as  s 
pseudonym,  and  ser^'ing,  in  fact,  the  same 
purpose  as  Pasquin  at  Borne. 

We  now  come  to  the  last  whom  we  shall 
notice,  and  the  one  who  may  be  considered 
as  the  last  ofQcial  fool.  This  was  L'Ai^ly, 
a  member,  as  far  as  can  be  made  out,  of  a 
bourgoois  family  of  Paris,  who  a{>peais  to 
have  entered  the  service  of  the  young 
Cond6,  who  took  him  to  the  army  in  1 643, 
found  him  satirical  and  wittj,  and  made 
him  bis  fool  and  somewhat  his  friend. 
He  was  with  the  prince  at  Kocroy,  and 
seems  to  have  stopped  with  Mm  till  1660, 
when  Coud^  was  reconciled  with  the  conic, 
after  which  dote  he  entered  the  aervtce  of 


Lmii  the  Foutewth.  He  wwi  in  great 
itmu  vnth  the  king,  and  the  terror  of 
the  ttbandaat  conrtierB,  and  was  feared  by 
wetjoae.    Uebage  meutiona  cunalljr  that 


KEOLAIMBD  BY  RIGHT. 


IJtnauy  30,  ISU.)      235 


UeiboL  TheOonnl  of  Baatru,  one 
Titf  wittf  bmily,  was  at  daggers  drawn 
vitb  L'Angetf,  who  did  not  like  him  and 
otnt  ^rod  him — an  Ulnstration  of  the 
old  ujkg,  that  tffo  of  a  trade  can  never 

UTe  find  in  tlie  Menagiaaa,  that  L'Angaly 

VM  ooe  day  in  oompaity  which  he  had 

been   aiaiuii^  finr  some  time  with    hu 

bafiboasries ;  to  titam  entered  Bantni,  to  iiie 

gnat  joy  of  the  fooi,  who  addraued  him : 

"ioA  at  the  ri^t  time,  nr,  to  help  me ;  I 

m  gflOing   tired   of   Wng  by  myiel£" 

Bwbn'a  brother,  the  Count  of  Nogent,  at 

tbe  kioff'a  dinner  waa  addreaaed  by  the 

tod:  "Let's  pot  our  hats  on,  yon  and  I  are 

of  00  conaeqaence."  Tlie  unfortonate  count 

Wok  tMa  very  much  to  heart,  so  that  it 

be^  OQ   hia   death,  but  Bautni  more 

I^osophic^y   thought   nothing    of  the 

tlufta  which  he  tooeived,  and  no  doubt 

i«tiffiied  th«iB  with  even  a  HUle  more 

nnom.    The  ourions  reader  miy  find  teiae 

ioAiniution  on  thb  fool  in  the  notes  to  the 

Gnt  utile  of  Boileau,  where  the  author, 

BniMtte,  appears  to  think  L'Ang^y  waa 

really  aracked.  Other  writers,  and  especially 

Ketoffi,  make  no  doubt  that  bis  faculties 

nrs  u  perCsct  order.     That  he  had  wit  is 

tiadeuiable  from  contemporary  teetimouy, 

but  aafortaoately  few  of  his  sayings  have 

cotae  down   to  na.     Whilst  feared    by 

soma,    he    managed     to    make    himself 

likad    by    others,    and    everybody    gave 

bin  noBOT',  very  poasibly  to  Iwy  his 

o^Mue,   tiU    he.  managed   to  save   aome 

tweiriif-five  thonaand  erowos,  bo  that  in 

one  w^,  at  any  rate,  L'Angely  waa  no 

fooL    It  is  ohknown  when  he  died,  or  at 

leut  laid  down  his  bauble,  vary  poedbly 

about  1661 }  aooording  to  BroBsette  be  bad 

to  leave  the  court  on  account  of  his  tongue. 

He  was  the  last  official  fool  of  the  court  of 

Praace.    The  profoasiou  had,  in  fact,  long 

been  an  auaehronlsm;  the  half-witted  wretch 

who  was  the  origin^  holdar  of  the  bauble 

vu  no  longer  suited  to  the  manners  of 

to  age  continually  iamroving  in  refinement 

sod  edocatioa     Neither  king  nor  couvtisrs 

eould  expect  to  be  entertained  by  the  roug^ 

•alliei  of  an  uneducated  mother-witt     And 

besides  this,  there  was  no  occasion  to  have 

u  official   buffoon,  volunteers  in  plenty 


amongst  the  oonrt  would  only  be  too  glad 
to  amuse  tlie  monarch  in  hopes  of  currying 
favour.  In  every  circle,  in  &ct,  ot  wbat- 
eret  social  degree,  there  is  pretty  sure  to 
be  some  one,  who,  i<x  his  own  satishtction 
and  the  pleasure  of  the  company,  has  no 
objection  to  jilay  tlu  fooL 

KECLAIMED  BY  RIGHT. 
A  HTOKY  IN  FOUR  CHAPTERS.      GHAPTEU  I. 

"  I  BEG  your  pardon,  air,  but  I  fancy 
you  have  made  a  mistake ;  this  is  not  a 
smoking-eaznage." . 

The  speaker  was  one  ol  two  ladies 
seated  in  a  first-class  catiiage  of  the  four 
p.m.  express  train  at  the  Paddington 
Station,  on  the  point  of  starting  for 
Reading. 

Her  words  were  addressed  to  a  awag- 
gering  young  man  who  had  entered  t^ 
compartment  just  as  the  doors  were  being 
shut  with  the  official  slam. 

You  could  bavB  told  at  a  glance  that 
from  top  to  toe  he  waa  a  sham — a  cheaply 
got-np  swell,  whose  ilash-and-dash  was 
mere  Brummagem.  He  wore  a  frock-coat, 
heavily  braided,  a  pair  of  lisbt  grey 
trouaera,  red-striped  aoeka,  and  patent- 
leather  shoes.  By  daylight  now,  his  clothes 
appeared  somewhat  shabby  and  worn ;  but 
by  ni^ht,  parading,  the  gas-lighted  sU'eetg, 
he  might  have  appeared  weU,  if  not  ex- 
pensively dressed,  fie  held  in  his  coarse 
red  hands  a  pair  of  lavender  kid  gloves, 
and  displayed  ostentatiously  several  gaudy 
rings,  lie  woro  a  high  hatj,  too,  not  of  the 
best  quality,  bnt  excesaively  shiny  and 
fashionable  in  shape. 

In  a  way,  h^  was  not  bad-looking,  for 
bis  eyee  were  clear  uid  dark,  and  bis  nose, 
if  rather  too  aquiline,  was  well  chiselled. 
But  the  most  conqticuoua  feature  about 
his  face  was  a  heavy  brown  moostacbe, 
tightly  curled  and  drawn  out  to  two  sharp 
points,  and  from  beneath  which  gleamed 
a  brilliant  set  of  even  teeth,  constantly 
visible  by  reason  of  a  perpetually  recur- 
ring insolent  smile. 

He  took  not  the  eligbtest  notice  of  the 
lady's  remark,  bnt  seatiog  himself  in  a 
comer  of  the  carriage  oppoeite  her  friend, 
the  second  lady,  who  was  very  thickly 
veiled,  he  Uirew  up  one  foot  across  his 
knee,  and  continued  smoking  bis  cigar  as 
if  he  bad  the  compartment  all  to  himself. 
'  "  I  repeat,  sir,"  went  on  she  who  had 
spoken  before^  "  tJiat  this  is  not  a  smoking- 
carriage." 

"  £h  t    Oh !    Is  it  not ) "  he  at  length 


■2'ili      [Jun*ryM,18M.1 


ALL  THE  TEAS  EOUND. 


drawled.  "  I  bog  your  pardon,  but  the 
GmokiDg-carritge  waa  fall." 

He  said  this  without  conduceDding  to 
give  her  more  than  the  briefeat  look,  and 
the  never-failing  insolent  Bmile  lent  addi- 
tional rudenoBB  to  Ma  words. 

The  lady,  however,  with  prompt  courage, 
persisted. 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  "I  must  beg  you 
to  put  out  your  cigar,  or  I  must  have  you 
made  to  do  sa     I  aball  call  the  guard." 

She  was  TntVing  her  way  towards  the 
window  with  this  intention,  when  Uie 
whisUe  sounded,  and  the  train  moved  ont 
of  the  station. 

Seeing  she  was  too  late,  she  remmed  her 
Beat,  muttering  as  she  did  so  : 

"  I  never  biew  of  such  ungentleraasly 
conduct  in  my  life  1 " 

The  veiled  lady  broke  in  with  equal 
anger ; 

"No,  indeed;  I  never  met  with  such 
impertunence  1  I  only  wish  my  husband 
were  here,"  she  said,  half-addressing  the 
intruder.  "  It  is  lucky  for  you  he  is 
not." 

Her  voice  was  very  peculiar,  being 
strangely  shrill  asd  resonant,  and  the 
moment  she  spoke,  the  young  man  started 
and  stared  at  tier  with  an  eager  euriodty. 
Her  veil  was  too  thick,  however,  even  for 
his  keen  eyes  to  penetrate,  and  when  he 
had  gazed  for  a  minute  or  two  unsuccess- 
fully, he  dropped  his  glance,  and  said 
with  insolent  indifference  as  ha  examined 
the  cigar  he  had  taken  from  his  mouth : 

"  Dear  me  !  have  you  a  husband  1  How 
very  interesting  1 " 

"Yes,  sir,  Ihaye,  as  you  would  find  to 
your  cost,"  was  the  impetuous  reply,  not 
made  without  causing  a  gesture  of  remon- 
strance from  the  lady  who  had  first  spoken, 
whilst  she  whispered  impatiently : 

"Be  silent — be  silent.  Pray  do  not 
answer  him ! " 

On  this  the  fellow  looked  up  again,  and 
still  smiling,  went  on : 

"  Ah  well,  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  like 
smoke.  I  thought  all  ladies  liked  smoke 
nowadays,  but  I  am  sure  I  do  not  want  to 
annoy  you.  There,  I  will  give  it  up,"  and 
letting  down  the  window  he  flung  away  the 
butt-end  of  the  offending  weed. 

The  two  ladiee  now  moved  to  Uie 
farther  comer  of  the  carriage,  and  for  some 
minntes  neither  spoke.  The  man,  however, 
continued  to  regard  them  with  undi- 
minished curiosity,  which  the  lady  who 
had  first  addressed  him  did  not  fail  to 
observe.   A  look  of  uneasiness  several  times 


ctoBted  her  face  as  idie  ftirtively  watched 
his.  1  r  the  appeared  to  regard  something 
in  its  xpreBsion  which  disturbed  her 
beyond  the  mere  offensiveness  of  hia 
behaviour.  A  well,  but  plainly-dressed 
woman  of  seven  or  eight  and  twenty,  iilie 
had,  without  Imag  actually  pretty,  some- 
thing very  winning  and  bright  in  her  irhols 
bearing,  to  which  her  indignation  lent 
additional  piquancy. 

Turning  to  her  Mend  after  a  while,  abe 
began  conversing  in  a  low  tone,  in  whidi 
there  still  lingered  the  remains  of  snger, 
judging  by  such  words  as  reached  tlie 
evidently  attentive  ears  of  the  male  ocea- 
pant  of  the  carriage.  Above  the  roar  and 
ratUe  of  the  train  sa  it  swept  over  or  under 
the  bridges,  and  through  the  ever-recurring 
smaller  stations,  he,  from  time  to  time, 
caught  such  expressions  as,  "  moat  fooliih 
of  you  " — "  I  cannot  think  how  you  could 
be  BO  incautious" — "what  danger  ;oa 
run  " — "  public  place  " — "  struck  by  some- 
thing yon  said  " — "  at  such  a  time  "— 
"  most  unwise." 

These  observations,  however,  were  bo 
broken  and  disjointed,  that  although  the 
listener  appeared  deeply  interested,  it  to 
questionable  if  he  could  infer  fnna  then 
anything  beyond  a  continuance  of  tbe 
lady's  ruffled  temper.  Nevertheleai,  thej 
seemed  to  give  him  some  sort  of  satisfu- 
tion,  for,  as  he  sat  watching  and  listeniiig, 
bis  smile  betaiyed  a  sinister  gratification. 

In  this  way  the  journey  waa  contiDned, 
unUl  the  train  stopped  at  Bsading.  Hete 
the  ladies  alighted,  as  aleodid  their  fsllow- 
passesger,  and  although  they  mingled  witli 
the  crowd  on  the  platiorm,  be  kept  his  e;* 
on  their  movements,  and  seeing  that  they 
preeently  took  their  seats  in  a  local  tiun 
for  some  intermediate  station  farther  down 
the  line,  he  sprang  into  another  cani^ 
just  as  it  was  about  to  start  Twenty 
minutes'  run  brought  tiiis  train  to.a  stand- 
still at  Stokesly,  a  small  viUagehard-byone 
of  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Thames,  and 
there  again  the  ladies  alighted.  For  a 
minute  they  were  the  only  paaeengerB  who 
did  so ;  but  they  had  scarcely  glvai  np 
their  tickets  to  the  solitary  p<Hter  at  t» 
wicket  leading  from  the  little  platform  iDto 
a  country  road,  ere  the  young  man  waa  on 
their  heels,  but  at  a  respectable  distance. 

"  There  is  something  extra  to  pay,  1 
Buppoae,"  he  said,  as  he  came  up  to  tMgaia 
"Hy  ticket  is  only  for  Reading,  l^ 
not  know  I  was  coming  on  hrae  wbeo  I 
started." 

"  Eighteenpence,  sir,"  answered  the: 


i=^ 


RECLAIMED  BY  RIGHT. 


[JannuT  20,  ISM.] 


"  Do /on  know  those  ladies  1"  vent  on 
tie  trareller  carelessly,  as  he  searched  for 
&t  money.    "  Do  tJi«y  live  hereaboats ) " 

"  Been  staying  here  all  the  summer,  off 
udoQ,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  have  heard  their 
QUae,  but  I  really  forget  it  at  this  moment" 
"  Know  where  they  live  1 " 
"Somowheres    do7a   by  the   river,   I 
beliere,  bat    I    don't  rightly  know  the 
booie,  though  I  have   heard    it  was    a 
finished  one,  book  for  the  season,  I  think, 
like  many  folks  does  in  fine  weather." 
"When   is    the    next   train   back    to 
dmgl" 
"Ei^t  forty-five,  air." 
"lITiedevil!''  ezcUimed the.yonng man, 
looting  at  his  watch ;  "  not  before  t   Why, 
it  IB  not  six  yet.     I  did  not  quite  bargain 
for  that    I  shall  lose  my  dinner.     Never 
Qind,  I  suppose  there  is   an  inn  in  the 
riUage  where  one  can  get  a  snack  t  " 

Becdving  a  reply  in  the  affirmative,  he 
itroDed  leisorely  off  in  the  direction  he  had 
oUerved  the  ladles  take.  They  were  still 
'  in  i^t  at  the  end  of  the  road,  and,  as  one 
of  tbtm.  looked  over  her  shoulder  and 
sav  their  obnoziona  companion  following, 
thsir  pace  immediately  qnickened,  nntU  in 
uother  minnte  they  passed  from  his  view 
"a  bond  in  the  way.  He,  too,  now 
quickened  hie  steps,  and  soon  again  caught 
light  of  them,  crossing  a  field  foot-path, 
until  again  they  disappeared  beneath  a 
tlanse  avenue  of  trees.  Then  he  broke 
into  a  nm,  which  soon  brought  him  to  this 
■pot,  but  only  jnst  in  time  to  see  the  two 
figures,  as  ther  looked  back,  passing 
hnrriedly  throogb  a  door  in  a  high  wall, 
A  the  urUier  end  of  tiie  avenue. 

Having  paused  to  take  breath,  he 
mntteredto  hinoseU : 

"I^ed  to  give  me  the  slip,  did  yon,  my 
naQtiesI  Not  if  I  know  it.  No,  no,  if  I 
km  right — and  I  could  not  be  mistaken  in 
bat  voice— this  discovery  may  be  worth 
he  loss  of  a  dinner." 
He  now  proceeded  slowly  down  the  hill 
<n  which  the  avenue  was  situated,  and 
iririog  at  the  door,  began,  as  it  were,  to 
tke  stock  of  the  premises.  He  soon 
mod  tJiat  he  vras  at  the  back  of  a  small, 
kl-fashioned,  red-brick  house,  which,  with 
>me  extent  of  thickly-wooded  garden,  the 
lU  mcloaed.  Finding  his  way  hy  a 
urow  path,  he  came  to  the  iron  gate  at 
w  Irqnt  entrance,  and  the  sonnd  of  nish- 
^  water,  which  here  became  audible,  told 
m  he  was  near  the  river.  It  was  a 
ther  gloomy,  lonely  place,  some  way 
>(Q  the  village,  the  position  of  which,  a 


little  farther  down  the  hill,  he  coold  d 
from  the  wreaths  of  bloe  smoke  cnrlii 
among  the  trees  in  the  quiet  evesin 
The  peace  and  solitude  of  the  scene 
enhanced  by  the  fast  declining 
September  day,  and  ^y  the  deep  shs 
which  already  enveloped  the  narron 
by  which  the  house  was  approached. 
Lawn  was  its  name,  carved  in  old  Ei 
letters  on  the  weather-worn,  moss-g 
stone  portal ;  beyond  this  fact  voir  lit 
importance  could  be  noted.  A  light  h 
twinkled  in  one  of  the  upper  windowf 
not  a  living  creature  was  to  be  i 
and,  when  the  traveller  had  appai 
satisfied  himself  as  to  the  general  1 
the  land,  he  walked  away  towards 
village,  softly  whistling  some  musi 
tune  with  an  air  of  profound  satisfacti 
He  entered  the  small  but  cosy-loi 
inn  which  he  was  not  long  in  discov 
by  the  riverside,  and  calling  for  the 
substantial  fare  which  the  house  vie 
was  soon  carrying  on  a  lively,  skil 
conducted  inqnisitorial  conversation 
the  comely  and  buxom  landlady  a; 
served  him  with  his  meal 

CHAPTEE   IL 

The  two  usters — for^sisters  they  w 
no  sooner  found  themselves  safe  n 
the  high-walled  garden  of  Elm  Lawn 
had  secured  the  narrow  door  tbi 
which  they  entered,  than  an  expressi 
relief  broke  from  both,  though  it 
from  very  different  feelinn. 

"  I  never  knew  such  a  fuss  as  you  : 
about  trifles,  Lizzie,"  sud  she  of  the 
as  she  threw  it  back  over  her  boi 
"you  harried  me  so  that  I  have  h 
any  breath  left.  What  could  it  sign 
that  man  did  see  where  we  lived  t  And 
all,  I  believe  he  saw  us  open  the  dooi 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  so,"  eud  the 
with  a  retnm  of  anxiety  in  her 
"  Hush  I  listen  I  there  is  someone  co 
down  the  hill  now.  That  is  his  foe 
I  feel  sure.  Fortunately  it  is  getting  < 
and  he  may  not  be  quite  certain  v 
way  we  went ;  and  this  house  is  so  sh 
that  he  will  not  learn  mach  by  lookii 
the  outside." 

Her  uster  was  about  to  reply,  wb 
gestare  from  the  other  arrested  her. 
footstep  on  the  path  outside  now  sto} 
and  a  sUeht  thud  against  the  door  indii 
plainly  t£at  it  was  bein^  tried,  Presi 
the  feet  were  heard  retinng,  and  when 
had  qoite  died  away,  the  lady  resume 

"  Well,  it  cannot  be  helped,  Maigi 


133      [ JuiDktT  M,  IBM.) 


ALL  THE  YEiB  ROUND. 


t  TTas  that  mm,  I  have  no  doubt ;  and  it 
sail  your  fault.  But  I  am  astonuhed  that 
'ou  ahould  not  understand  m;  reaBons. 
^ou  know  how  important  it  is  that  we 
honld  court  no  observation,  and  that  our 
'ery  safety  for  the  future  lies  in  our  liviuK 
Q  abaolute  obscurity.  You  cannot  teU 
vho  that  vulgar  creature  may  be,  or  what 
lis  object  in  followiog  us  was." 

"  Oh,  his  object  was  simply  what  such 
lorrid  beings'  object  genct^y  is.  I  ask 
'ou,  was  it  ukely  he  should  know  who  we 
ire,  or  anything  about  ua  1 " 

"  No,  perhaps  not ;  but  ho  may  dia- 
iover " 

"  Well,  and  if  he  does  1  It  is  not  very 
)robable  that  he  will  be  acquainted  with 
my  of  our  affajra." 

"  Pray  Heaven  he  may  not  bo  I  But  I 
im  ao  nervous  lest  by  some  miscbanco  the 
luhappy  step  you  have  taken  should  reach 
he  ears  of  those  lawyers,  that  I  fancy  almost 
ivery  stranger  who  looks  at  us  may  be 
^nnected  with  them." 

Pursuing  their  coureiBAtion  in  this 
;one,  the  two  sisters,  after  going  through  a 
loor  at  the  back  of  the  house,  entered  a 
lark,  low-ceilinged,  oak-panelled  room  on 
;he  ground-floor,  where  an  elderly  womau- 
icrvant  was  preparing  the  tea-table.  On 
leeing  them  she  closed  the  shutters  and 
dgbted  the  candles,  and  retired  after  receiv- 
inga  few  hasty  orders  concerning  the  meal 

Directly  they  were  alone,  the  ladies, 
vrhilBt  divesting  themselves  of  bonnets  and 
iacketi,  took  up  the  conversation  again 
Umost  at  the  point  at  which  it  had  wen 
Iropped. 

"  Your  indiscretion  is  beyond  anything 
I  could  have  i  manned,  Margaret ;  yon  must 
have  observed  that  the  man  seemed  struck 
by  your  voice,  and  the  mention  of  your 
husband  quite  startled  him.  The  more  I 
think  of  it,  the  more  I  fear  he  koew  you." 

"I  did  not  mentiau  my  husband's  name, 

Lizzie  ;  I  only  said  I  wished  he  was  with  ua. " 

"  Well,  that  was  nearly  as  had.     It  was 

the  fact  of  your  being  married  that  appeared 

to  interest  him.     Indeed,  he  said  it  did." 

"  It  was  only  his  impudence.  What  could 
he  have  to  do  with  it  1  It  is  very  hard  to 
have  a  husband,  and  never  to  be  allowed 
to  mention  him." 

"  Never  be  allowed  to  mention  him  1 
Why,  you  silly  child,  you  can  talk  about 
him  as  much  as  you  like  to  me  at  home  heroj 
but  to  speak  out  about  Mm  in  a  public 
railway-oaniage  was  quite  too  foolish,  espe- 
cially when  you  are  aware  what  a  risk  you 
run  by  ao  doing." 


Miss  LizEie  Bonton,  as  she  uttered  tbssc 
words  with  constdenble  warmth,  drew  i 
chair  to  the  table  at  which  her  sister  vas 
already  seated,  and  began  officiating  with 
the  tea  apparatus.      As  she  pursued  her 
domestic  task,    the  contrast    which   «ho 
Bd  to  Margaret  waa  very  marked,  (or, 
whilst  she  presented  a  picture  of  eue^ 
and  activity  mingled  with  an  air  of  great 
firmness  and  determination,  Mai^aret,  on 
the  other  hand,   displayed  a  languid  in- 
difference in  her  demeanour,  as  well  a'i  in 
her  pretty  doll-like  face,  which  betnyed 
extreme  weakness  of  character.  There  was, 
nevertheless,  an  uinaiatakable  family  like- 
ness between  them:    their  brown  wavy 
hair  was  alike,    their  complexions    were 
alike,   their    deep-grey   eyes  w«ro    alike, 
and  it  was  only  in  the  ntouth  and  chic 
that  any  strong  difference  existed.    Mar-  I 
garet's    full   red    lips   wore   a  simperii^ 
smile  perpetually,  whilst  Lizzie's  were  thin  . 
and  straight,  and  seldom   parted  except  ; 
when  speaking.  Her  chin,  too,  was  squaTSt 
and  more   prominent    liiau  that  td  her 
younger  sister,  and  the  merest  glance  was 
sufficient  to  show  that    Mai^aret   could 
hardly  have  passed  her  teens,  whilst  Lizcie, 
as  we  have  hinted,  must  have  been  verging 
on  thirty.     The  bands  of  the  latter  again 
bore  testimony,  not  only  in  their  stupe, 
but  in  their  action,  to  the  dissimilarity  ia 
temperament  and  nature  extstingbetwean 
the  sisters.     Hers  grasped  and  held  otct}- 
tbing   they  handled,  the   other's    dallied 
with  everything,  and  always  appeared  on 
the  point  of  dropping  whatever  they  took 
up.     They  had  a  caressing  way  wIUl  them 
ailso,  especially  when  touching  each  other, 
and  the  wedding-ring  and  Keeper  were 
objects  upon  whicn  the  fingers  of  the  right 
hand  seemed  never  tired  of  laviabing  a 
tender  sort  of  affection. 

"  Now  I  will  take  up  a  cup  of  tea  to  tha 
dear  mother,  and  see  how  she  is,"  said  Mi^ 
Boyston  presently,  rising.  "She  will  ).-< 
anxious  to  know  tiiat  we  have  got  orec 
our  day's  journey  to  London  and  baeli 
safely ;  but  I  ahall  not  say  anything  to  hei 
of  our  unpleasant  experience  thia  after 
noon,  BO  mind  you  do  not,  Margaret ;  il 
would  only  worry  her." 

"  Ob,  I  shall  not  think  of  mentioning  i!; 
I  shall  not  give  it  another  thoaght/'  wai 
the  reply,  as  the  elder  sister  left  the  room 
She  was  not  away  very  lon^'bnt  when  slu 
returned,  her  face  had  undergone  a  pleasan 
ohaoge,  and  where  before  there  was  anxie^ 
and  some  anger  written  on  it,  there  wa 
now  a  look  of  infinite  happiness. 


KECLilMED  BY  RIGHT. 


[JU1U*]726,1GS4.I      230 


"Ob,  vhat  do  Tou  think  ! "  she  cried. 
"Mamou  has  had  a  letter  from  Cousin 
Herbert,  and  ha  is  comlDg  down  to  spend 
1  vreek  irith  ne.  He  will  be  here  to-night 
iu  time  for  supper." 

"Ab,  then  you  will  be  ((uite  happy," 
su'd  Margaret  complacently,  still  sipping 
her  tea,  "and  perhaps  you  will  under- 
tland  better  now  what  it  ia  to  hare  any 
one  yOQ  care  "for  near  at  hand,  and  what 
it  u  to  be  separated  as  I  am,  with  no 
cbaoco  of  my  seeing  my  husband  for  I 
bwiT  not  how  long." 

"  Oh,  ^u  will  see  him  soon  enough,  no 
feu,"  BRid  lizzie,  a  slight  look  of  hei 
hnaer  anaety  again  ste^ng  over  her  face. 
"As  soon  as  ho  wants  some  more  monoy  he 
win  come  and  look  after  you  faat  enough." 
"Poor  fellow  ! "  Bighed  the  other.  "  Yon 
iM  veiy  cruel,  Lizzie.  I  am  sure  he  is  very 
fond  of  me,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  him." 

"You  are  very  fond  of  talking  of  him," 
TM  the  rejoinder ;  "  we  all  know  that.  I 
oniy  troBt  no  evil  will  come  of  it.  One 
would  think  you  were  the  only  girl  who 
iti  ever  been  manried,  instead  of  your 

hiving " 

"There,  now — never  mind,  Lizzie;  wo 
w31  not  talk  any  mora  about  it  to-night; 
it  is  of  no  consequence.  You  will  be  able 
to  poor  out  to  Herbert  to-morrow  your 
indignation  with  us  both,  as  usual  And 
aow  I  will  go  up  and  see  mamma" 

Cireleaaly  gathering  op  her  jacket  and 
bonnet,  ana  with  an  air  of  more  impatience 
thu  her  placid  natnre  was  accustomed,  to 
%jlay,  Slargaret  left  the  room  aa  sh« 
>pake,  whilst  her  sister  heaved  a  deep  sigh 
u  she  gazed  after  her.  The  bright  look 
of  joy  which  had  temporarily  suffiiaed  Miap 
Boyrton's  comely  countenance  was  gone, 
and  did  not  return  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  a 
loud  ring  of  ths  deep-toned  door-bell 
Kttored  it  on  the  instant,  and  springing  out 
into  the  passage,  she  was,  in  another  few 
momenta,  welcoming  a  tall,  good-looking 
mm  of  about  her  own  i^^  with  a  cordiality 
that  was  not  without  its  signiBcaace. 

^e  first  wannly-exchanged  greetings 
ind  general  enqnmea  over,  Mr.  Herbert 
■%ee,  barristerat-law  of  the  Inner  Temple, 
Talked  cautiously  to  the  door  of  the  little 
o^-panelled  partonr,  to  ascertain  if  it  were 
dose  shutj  Finding;  that  it  was,  be  again 
sat  down  beside  Miss  Boyston,  and  in  a 
lower  voice  proceeded  to  say : 

"By  the  vray,  Lizzie,  I  am  in  hopes 
that  I  have  come  upon  a  clue  aa  to 
the  ant«cedent3    and    early   life    of  our 


friend,  Mr.  John  Crossmore,  and  although 
we  cannot  undo  tJie  mischief  that  has 
been  done,  stO),  it  is  well  to  know 
precisely  with  whom,  and  with  what  sort 
of  man  we  are  dealing.  I  have  discovered, 
moreover,  where  he  passes  most  of  the 
time  which  he  spends  away  from  his  poor, 
weak,  foolish  wife.  He  pays  periodioal 
visits  to  Jersey,  bat  with  what  purpose  I 
have  yet  to  find  out,  and  althongh  I 
believe  he  does  go  to  Manchester  and  Iho 
north  occasionally,  I  doubt  very  much 
whether  it  is  for  the  reason  he  professes — 
for,  mind,  we  have  only  Margaret's  word 
for  it  It  is  all  very  well  for  him  to  pre- 
tend to  her  that  it  is  the  business  of  this 
Venezuelan  silver-mining  company  which 
is  some  day  to  bring  him  such  an  enormous 
fortune,  which  takes  and  keeps  Lim  away 
for  these  prolonged  periods,  for,  unhap- 
pily, she  would  iMlieva  anything  anybotly 
told  her,  if  it  flattered  and  pampered  hor 
little,  selfish,  vain  nature.  Otherwise 
she  would  not  have  believed  this  man 
when  he  swore  he  loved  her.'  He  reads 
her  through  and  through  like  a  book, 
depend  upon  it.  Why,  it  is  preposterous 
to  suppose  that  he  cares  a  button  for  hor 
herself.  Would  any  man  leave  a  woman 
he  really  loved  as  he  leaves  herf  Not  yet 
married  a  year,  and  yet  he  goes  away  for 
six  we^  at  a  stretch  1  This  is  the  third 
time  ho  has  been  away,  is  it  not,  Lizzie  t " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  replied  Mr,  Joyce's 
cousin,  as  she  drew  her  chair  a  little  nearer 
to  tim.'  "I  hope,  Herbert,  you  will  not 
want  to  ran  away  fh>m  me  in  this  fashion 
so  soon  after  we  are  married." 

"  What  do  you  think,  dearest  t "  said  the 
gentieman,  and  for  a  few  minutes  there 
was  an  interruption  of  a  sort  which  can 
be  imagined,  ere  he  resumed  his  comments 
on  Mr.  .lohn  Crossmora 
'  "  No,  no,"  he  at  length  continued,  "  it  is 
nothing  but  Margaret's  dividends  which 
he  cares  for,  and  you  will  observe,  Lizzie, 
that  it  is  always  just  after  they  have  been 
paid  that  he  departs — of  course  we  nued 
not  be  magicians  to  know  that  he  takes  the 
greater  part  of  them;  indeed,  she  indi- 
rectly adjnitted  as  much  to  me  when  she 
first  came  bafik  hero  on  this  present  visit  to 
her  mother  and  you." 

"It  is  all  very  deplorable,"  went  ou 
Miss  Boy^iton,  "  as  we  have  said  scores  of 
times ;  and  I  shudder  to  think  upon  what 
a  feeble  tenure  we  retain  our  income. 
Strive  as  we  may  to  keep  this  unhappy 
marriage  secret,  it  is  sure  to  leak  out,  I  am 
a&aid,  some  day,  and  then,  oh,  what  will 


^fc 


!40 


ALL  THE  TEAK  RODND. 


Decome  of  onr  darling  mother  1  HI  as  she 
e,  it  would  be  the  death  of  her  if  we  were 
igain  reduced  to  penury ;  the  comforts  we 
ire  now  enabled  to  give  her  alone  keep  her 
dire,  and  then,  again,  our  own  mamage, 
Herbert,  might  be  dekyed  for  yean." 

The  poor  girl  was  here  overwhelmed  by 
imotioD,  ina  it  was  some  time  ere  her 
;ousin'a  soothing  words  and  infloence  conid 
)acify  her. 

"  Nay,  nay,  do  not  despond,  dearest,"  ha 
laid  j  "  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  yon 
rill  never  be  allowed  to  suffer  ai  yon  have 
lone;  your  dear  mo&er  shall  be  cared 
or  somehow.  Bemember,  I  am  getting  on 
airly  well,  and  though  I  have  not  a  penny 
iO  Hess  myself  wit£  at  present,  I  shall 
uake  a  practice  in  time.  Who  knows 
tut  that  I  may  get  a  seat  on  the  bench  some 
lay,  and  that  you  will  be  a  judge's  wife  1 
deanwhile,  we  must  hope  for  the  best, 
md  stave  off  the  evil  day,  at  least  until  I 
im  iu  a  position  to  look  after  my  Aunt 
kiyston  and  her  two  charming  daughters. 
iy  the  present  arrangement  we  have 
'educed  the  risk  to  a  mintmnm,  Cross- 
oore  will  not  divulge  bis  marriage,  he 
mows  tJie  necessity  of  secret  too  well 
Te  is  quite  content  to  re^  tJie  benefit 
rhich  he  sought  in  it ;  and  so  long  as  he 
fill  continue  to  live  quietly  witti  his  w^e 
[own  in  that  remote  comer  of  Cornwall, 
Jid  be  is  able — as  we  vulgarly  say — to 
oUar  her  dividends,  and  so  long  as  she 
rill  consent  to  come  and  stay  wid  you  as 
he  does  now,  when  he  is  away  on  these 
ayateriouB  expeditions — so  long  as  all 
his  can  be  managed,  there  is  very  little 
hance  of  those  pettifoggers,  Messra 
Juickly,  learning  the  real  state  of  things. 
?hey  will  not  think  it  likely  that  a  woman 
rontd  be  such  a  fool  aa  Majgaret  has  been, 
Jid  since  she  picked  up  and  married  this 
lenniless  fellow  in  that  remote  Comish 
illage,  as  far  away  from  their  clientele  aa 
r  it  were  in  Kamtschatka,  they  are  not 
ikely  to  hear  of  it  Of  course  if  they 
rere  to  do  so  now,  it  would  be  disastrous 
-ruinous,  I  might  say.  But,  dearest 
'izzie,  what  is  the  matter  with  you ) " 
ontinued  the  young  barrister,  the  cheery 
lopefnl  tone  of  voice  in  which  he  had 
<een  lately  speaking,  suddenly  changing 
Qto    one  of   grave    anxiety;    "you  are 


trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and  jonr 
hand  is  stone  cold." 

"  Oh,  Herbert,  I  am  very  foolish,  I  iua 
say,"  she  said,  "  but  I  have  bad  a  gnit 
fright  to^lay,  perhaps  about  nothing,  bat  1 
cannot  get  it  oat  of  my  head,  and  when yoa 
speak  ot  disaster  and  min  being  pouAiU, 
it  seems  as  if  it  might  be  at  hand. ' 

"  How  t  Why  I  '  asked  Joyce  esgetlj ; 
and  then  Lisae  Boyston  reconntod  to  him, 
in  all  its  details,  her  afternoon's  experience 
in  the  railway  from  Paddington. 

Three  days  later  the  lovers  were  ritting 
together  in  the  little  oak-panelled  parlour 
at  Elm  Lawn,  under  very  dmilsr  con- 
ditions to  those  above  hinted  at.  Evet; 
now  and  then  their  talk  reverted  as  before 
to  the  marriage  of  Maigaret  with  Mr.  John 
Orossmore,  and,  as  before,  every  now  and 
then  it  wsa  interrupted  by  a  reference  to 
matters  with  which  be  was  no  more  oon- 
cemed  than  we  are.  Bat  whenever  he 
was  on  the  tapis,  the  two  seemed  to  take  s 
more  hopefnl  view  of  the  business  than 
they  had  recently  done,  and,  on  the  whole, 
were  both  in  rather  high  spirits.  Suddwl; 
the  post  arrived,  and,  as  Lizzie  Boyibos 
received  from  the  servant  a  bluish,  biui- 
neas-like  looking  letter,  and  she  glanced  at 
the  superscription,  she  uttered  a  ciy  of 
despair.  TUs  was  partly  echoed  by 
Herbert  Joyce,  as,  taking  the  letter  from 
her  hand,  he  read  the  direction,  which  ran 
thus: 

"  For  Mra  John  Crossmore,  care  of  Mra 
Boyston,  Elm  Lawn,  Stokesly,  Oxford- 
shire." 

And  in  the  comer  were  the  words : 
"  Quickly  Brothers,  Solicitors." 

"  Good  Heavens  I "  he  cried,  "  they  have 
found  it  out ! " 


THE    EXTRA    OHRI8TMA3     NUMBER 

ALL  THE  YEAR   ROUND, 

ooRAmsa 

A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE," 

WALTER     BESANT 

(Anthoiol  "TIm  CapUltu'  Koom.~  "Let  NoCUbs  I<b 

Innu]',"  etc.  atck 

AND   OTHER    STORIES. 

Tiica  StXPXKCE,  and  omtolnlnit  Die  ammmt  <d  TtaiH 


Urtfcfai  Am  All  tbm  Yiaa  Bociro  »  nnffj^'ty  ^  ^tnUktv  > 


]  CHAPTER  XVn.  BENKDTOE  AND  BEATRICE. 
"Dick  " — Mra.  Tack  called  her  adminble 
phew  "Dick,"  vhen  they  were  by  them- 
lealre^  hot  "Kichurd"  in  the  he&riiig  of 
[  the  itately  Ida — "  Dick,  I  wish  yon'd  he 
iwe  Berioos  in  your  attentions  to  hei." 
"  I  don't  know  what  yon  call  serioos," 
re[4ied  Dick  in  an  aggriflved  voice,  "  this 
i*  my  first  to-day,"  looking  at  hu  half- 
oooked  dgar  remoTsefoIly,  aa  though  it 
na  that  which  reaUy  had  reason  to  com- 
pliin  of  hia  inattention. 

HIb  aunt  had  objected  to  his  saturating 
hinuelf  with  tobacco,  as  making  against  hia 
chsncea  with  La  Saperba. 
"It's  a  great  saciifico,"  rejoined  Ida  aunt, 
mghing,  "and  youVe  only  to  throw  in 
/ear  af^tions  with  it  to  torn  the  scale." 

"They're  not  worth  mach,  I  dare  say, 
Hnt;  but  they're  worth  more  than  she 
can  pve  in  exchange  for  t^em.  She's 
freeEmg." 

"  She  wonldn't  freeze  yon  if  yon  weren't 
yoorself  at  freezing-point  Yon  can't 
fneza  warm  water,  Dick.  Besides,  it's  all 
her  manner.  I  naed  to  think  her  freezing 
I  myself  till  I  was  ill,  and  that  brought  ont 
[sll  her  affection." 

"It's  no  use  thinking  of  that  till  the 
I  hmitiiig  is  over,"  said  Dick,  as  if  his  annt 
had  proposed  his  falling  ill  there  and  then. 
'  I  nJght  come  a  cropper  at  the  end  of  the 
eaion,  and  pat  my  shonlder  oat,  if  yon 
I  Ihink  it  would  fetch  her.  I  can't  do  more 
than  a  shonlder,"  as  tlioagb  specifying  the 
Qttermoet  farthing  he  could  go  to  in  a 
baifiain. 

"  And  a  cold  shonlder,  too.  Well,  Dick, 
if  yoa  tiilnk  yonVe  only  to  yawn  for  the 
belle  and  heiress  of  the  connty  to  drop 


My  dear  aunt,  there's  jost  one  person 
who  loiows  the  value  of  her  beauty  and 
fortune  better  than  either  yon  or  I,  and 
that's  the  belle  and  heiress  herself.  She's 
as  prond  as  Locifer."  6f^     ■  J  '.:     ' 

"Pooh  !  You  men  are  so  full  of  your- 
selves, that  you've  no  eyes  for  as.  She 
has  the  lowest  opinion  of  herself  of  any 
girl  I  know.  Even  when  she  had  the 
whole  county  at  her  feet,  I  couldn't  get  her 
to  think  anything  of  herself,  I  couldn't 
indeed.  Bat  now  they're  held  off  by  the 
report  that  my  poor  dear  husband  means 
to  leave  his  fortnne  away  from  her,  she 
doesn't  think  herself  pretty  even.  She's 
so  sore  and  hart  about  it  that  she'd  he 
gratefol  for  your  attenttona  And  I  can 
tell  yon,  Dick,  that  gratitude  goes  deeper 
with  her  than  love  with  most  girls,  and 
would  soon  slip  into  love  besides.' 

Dick  sat  silent,  watching  lazily  the 
curling  clouds  of  smoke  as  they  soared 
to  the  ceiling.  He  was  ideally  hand- 
some, and  a  man  of  fiery  energy 
and  iron  endarance  in  the  business  of 
pleasure — hunting,  shooting,  etc. — but  five 
minutes  of  real  business  was  insupport- 
able and  exhsHHting  to  him.  Indeed,  the 
only  business  his  most  flattering  friends 
thought  him  fit  for  was  matrimony.  He 
was  brought  up  to  it,  as  a  girl  is,  as  the 
only  prospect  and  profession  worth  taking 
into  account  in  his  case.  Some  heiress  was 
to  invest  in  hie  face,  figure,  and  fascinating 
manners,  and  he  was  to  be  worn  by  her 
thenceforth  as  a  jewel  of  gold.  And  if, 
as  his  aunt  put  it,  he  had  but  to  yawn  for 
some  such  heiress  to  drop  into  his  mouth,  he 
would  have  been  married  before  this ;  but 
something  more  was  necessary  to  secure  a 
purchaser  even  for  his  attractions,  and  this 
somethiug  Dick  was    too    easy-going   to 


342      [FabnuiT  2,  ISM.] 


ALL  THE  TEAE  ROUND. 


BOpplf .  He  was  as  litUe  girec  aa  a  Yankee 
shopman  to  press  hia  wareB  od  a  probable 
purchaaer.  She  might  take  them  or  leave 
them  as  she  liked ;  it  was  more  her  look- 
onb  than  bis.  In  fact,  Dick,  though  need; 
and  leckless,  was  nevertheleaa  no  trae 
fortune-hunter,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
he  never  looked  beyond  the  pasting  moment. 
Hs  cheerfullf  discounted  to-morrow,  and 
would  »icti&ce  years  of  fatore  luxury  to  an 
hour  of  present  ease. 

Therefore  he  felt  this  businesH  of  the 
poTBuit  of  Ida  a  bore.  She  was  the  most 
unapproachable  snd  impregnable  of  all  the 
maidens  of  his  acquaintance.  So  far  from 
the  gates  of  the  city  being  thrown  open  at 
his*  approach,  he  would  have  to  sit  down 
before  it  for  a  siege  of  many  weaiy,  dreary 
months.  Now,  as  he  could  not  urge  this 
plea  of  boredom  for  raisiiig  the  (dege  to  his 
aunt  at  the  risk  of  her  anger,  and  at  the 
coat  of  comfortable  quarters,  he  had  to 
cast  about  for  some  creditable  excuses  for 
his  backwardness  in  the  bosiness. 

It  was  this  which  made  him  plead  Ida's 
pride  in  apology  for  the  languor  of  his  suit, 
and  now,  haTiug  been  beaten  back  upon 
that  point,  he  was  in  search  of  another,  as 
he  watched  the  smoke-wreathB  melt  to  thin 
air  above  his  head, 

"  They  say  Seville-Sutton  first  cannoned 
Ellerdale  off  the  coarse,  and  then  threw 
her  over  himself." 

"  They  say  ! "  exclaimed  hia  aunt,  too 
enraged  to  be  reticent ;  *'  I  say  she  refuted 
Mr.  Seville-Snttcn  and  Lord  Ellerdale 
within  five  minntes  <A  each  other.  It  was 
the  night  of  oar  ball,  and  she  told  me  all 
about  it  when  we  were  by  ourselves. 
Nothing  I  could  say  would  move  her  to 
change  her  mind  and  accept  either  of 
them ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  Dick,  I  said  all 
I  could,  for  I  didn't  know  then  that  you 
had  any  thought  of  her — not  that  I  know 
it  now,  either — but  you  led  me  to  think 
so  in  your  letter,  and  therefore,  when  the 
Don  came  the  next  morning  to  renew  his 

Eropoaal,  I  told  him  what  my  poor  dear 
iisband  said  about  leaving  his  money  to 
charities.  I  knew  it  was  as  good  at 
putting  it  in  the  papers,  snd  that  it 
would  keep  the  field  clear  of  rivals  for 
you." 

"  Faith,  annt,  you've  ao  well  preaervod 
the  covers,  that  the  game  is  tame.  There's 
no  fun  in  knocking  a  bird  over  that's 
beaten  up  to  the  muzzle  of  your  gnu. 
Let  the  poor  thing  have  a  chance." 

"Poor  thing,  she's  no  chance  against 
you ! "    nettled    by    a    flippancy    which 


sounded  profane    when    applied   to  bar 
stately  proti^g^. 

"  No  choice,  anyhow,  or  only  HobtoD'i 
choice,"  repUed  the  placid  Dick,  not  nettied 
in  the  least. 

"  Well,  Dick,  it's  ©a^  to  throw  open  Uie 
preserve,  aa  you  call  it. 

"  It  would  be  a  bad  busineae  for  me, 
annt,  I  know,  but  only  fair  to  the  giiL  It 
was  of  her  I  was  thinking,"  with  spltttdid 
mendacity. 

Hia  aunt  took  it  for  magnanimity  in  her 
adored  nephew,  though  in  anyone  elee  she 
would  have  known  it  for  mendacity. 

Dick's  indifference  to  a  fortune  of  three 
thousand  pounds  a  year  and  a  girl  whom 
he  himself  had  christened — not  in  the  laut 
ironically — "  La  Superba,"  will  appear  in- 
credible if  we  forget  that  hia  taste  in  beaaty 
was  neither  exalted  nor  refined.  If  Ida 
had  been  pretty,  forward,  and  a  flirt, 
Dick  would  have  mother  half-way;  bat 
nothing  was  more  sntipathetic  to  him  than 
this  queenly,  reserved,  and  auperb  beaaty, 
whose  gisnce,  like  Ithnriel's  spear,  aeemed 
to  pierce  him  through  and  through,  and 
unmask  his  falsehood.  It  wad  not  so  at 
all  Ida  was  as  unanspecting  as  a  child, 
and  "thought  no  ill  where  no  ill  seemed." 
"  By  the  pattern  of  her  own  thoughts  the 
cut  out  the  purity  of  those  of  others,"  yet 
somehow  both  Dick  and  hia  aunt  were  often 
made  uncomfortable  by  her  frank  gaze,  in 
which,  aa  in  a  clear  fountain,  they  saw  not 
heaven  reflected,  but  the  dark  shadows  of 
themselves. 

Therefore,  Dick,  to  whom  present  ewe 
of  mind  and  body  was  everything,  shrank 
from  this  discomforting  courtship.  He  fdt 
aa  though  he  would  nave,  metaphorically 
speaking,  to  walk  on  tip-toe,  now  and 
henceforth,  in  order  to  keep  up  to  Ida's 
standard,  and  the  mere  thonght  of  thia 
waa  intolerable  to  a  man  of  hie  easy- 
going diapoaition  and  principla 

Why  on  earth  didn't  his  annt  got  old 
Tuck  to  adopt  him,  Dick,  a  most  el^;ible 
orphan,  and  then  he  might  have  had  "the 
estate  without  tlie  live-stock  on  it,"  as  ^i 
Anthony  Absolute  sensibly  put  it  1  IKck 
felt  rather  aggrieved  than  gratefol  to  his 
aunt,  though  he  had  the  senae  to  concral 
hia  diaguBt.  She  pretended  to  be  so  fond 
of  hiih  too,  and  she  was  fond  of  him  j  and 
if  she  hod  not  been  the  deuce  and  all  of  a 
matchmaker,  it's  ten  to  one  but  she  would 
at  least  have  shared  the  three  thousand 
pounds  a  year  between  them.  The  Aiog 
might  be  managed  yet  if  he  propoaed  for 
the  girl  and  was  refused.     He  would  have  a 


A  DBAWy  GAME 


(Frtl«»7S^l8S^.l     243 


hud  of  breach  of  promise  daim  forwonnded 
fwlion,  blighted  hopw,  broken  health,  and 
nuned  prospects. 

As  ^ia  briUiant  idea  of  Dick's  inrolred 
pnmEdon  tar  the  future  at  the  cost  of 
the  keenest  present  discomfort,  we  need 
hirdJf  say  that  it  vanished  ^th  liia 
agar  into  smoke.  But  the  base  of  this 
ides,  the  sense  that  he,  Dick,  iras  a  oruelly 
fll-nied  person,  remtuned.  Indeed,  Dii^ 
ilmys  had  a  heavy  account  against  the 
ToHd  in  general  Having  done  it  the 
hononr  to  adorn  it,  like  the  lily  of  the  field, 
he  ought  at  least  to  have  been  allowed  the 
lily's  tffiTni"''*y  from  toiling  and  spinning. 
Whence  then  theee  Ulls,  and  dona,  and 
matchmakers  t  They  meant,  if  they  meant 
anything,  ibat  Dick  should  do  something  for 
himself,  vhioh  was  absnrd.  Nov  this  idea 
of  bis — ibat  all  his  creditors  were  deep  in 
his  debt — made  Dick  the  most  snooesafhl 
of  "  Gosherers."  Yoor  b^;ar  on  horae- 
bsck  is  yooT  saeceasfol  beggar.  To  those 
ipho  want  nothing  we  gmage  nothing,  bat 
fraai  him  who  wants  everything  we  torn 
indignant  away.  Now  Dick's  light-hearted 
(sieleesnees  about  the  m<»row,  and  his  easy 
way  of  aecep^g  a  favour  as  if  he  were  con- 
faring  it,  gvve  his  ^nt,t  friends  the  im- 
pression tiiat  he  waa  ud^endent  of  their 
tKMi»taII^,  therefore  they  pressed  it  upon 
hnn  with  importonate  generosity. 

To  his  credit  be  it  spoken  he  bore  ihe 
peijwcntion  of  his  creditors  with  Christian 
fortitade,  and  forgare,  and  even  foi^t,  his 
peisecQtors  the  momrait  tSuai  letten  were 
bmnt,  or  their  backs  tamed. 

On  the  present  occasion,  for  instance, 
Mrs.  Tack  had  no  sooner  left  the  room 
Slaving  been  called  off  to  look  after  her 
poor  dear  husband — than  Dick  proceeded 
to  knock  about  the  billiard-balls  in  happy 
forgetlitlneea  of  her  scheme. 

Mrs.  Tack's  poor  dear  husband  had 
taken  to  reading  a  grisly  medical  work 
which  had  upon  him  the  mimetic  effect  a 
pantomime  has  on  a  child.  He  person- 
ated the  most  raonatroas  casea  preBent«d 
to  him  in  that  chamber  of  horrors,  aad 
theo  sent  in  a  panic  for  Mrs.  Tack  to 
roase  htm  from  the  nightmare. 

Thus  Mrs.  Tack  was  fnterropted  in  this 
interesting  conversation  with  her  nephew 
by  a  summons  from  JXr,  Tack,  who  had 
jtist'  discovered  in  himself  oertun  symptoms 
ci  a  disease  so  new  that  it  had  only  recently 
been  invented  by  the  most  fashionable  of 
the  London  physiciam. 

It  took  her  some  time  to  reassure  him,  lo 
that  on  her  return  to  the  billiaid-room  ehe 


found  that  Dick  had  gone  for  a  gallop. 
Theronpon,  being  atill  in  a  matchmaking 
mood,  she  sought  IdiL 

Ida  was  in  the  small  drawing-room, 
anuaaally  idle,  making  a  book  the  excuse 
of  some  bitter  meditations. 

Mrs.  Tuck  stood  over  the  girl  with  her 
hand  on  her  ihonlder,  and  began  the  attack 
by  a  Sank  movement  after  her  fashion.  A 
sinuous  approach  to  her  subject  had 
become  an  instinct  with  her — a  Burvival 
&om  old  days  of  difficnlty  and  defenc«less- 
nesa.  "A  dog,  whose  great-grandfather 
was  a  wolf,"  says  Darwin,  "showed  a  trace 
of  its  wild  parentage  only  in  one  way,  by 
never  going  in  a  atraight  line  to  its  object." 
Mrs.  Tuck  s  sinuoos  mode  of  making  for 
her  object  was  an  instinct  with  a  similar 
origin,  dating  back  Irom  days  when  she 
had  been  harassed  into  habits  of  caution. 

"  Have  you  got  through  all  your  house- 
keeping, deart" 

Why,  it's  nearly  one  o'clock,  Mrs. 
Tuck  1      I    got    thiongh  it    two    hours 

I  dont  know  how  it  is,  Ida,  but  yon 
do  a  day's  work  in  an  hour,  and  glide 
through  it  as  if  you  were  going  through 
the  Lancenk" 

I  went  to  school  to  it,  Mrs,  Tuck,  and 
it  would  have  been  my  calling  bnt  for 
yoa,"  with  one  of  her  Inight  looks  of 
gratitndft 

"We're  qoita  ther^  my  dear.  You've 
been  a  daughter  to  me,  Ida,  and  more  than 
most  daaghters  are  to  their  mother?," 
stroking  the  girl's  hair  affectionately.  "But 
it's  not  the  work  you  do  so  much  as 
the  way  you  do  it  which  surprises  me.  If 
you  bad  to  sweep  a  room  you'd  do  it  Uke  a 
duchess.  Bu^iard  says  he's  always  iaclined 
to  call  yon  '  Your  Graoe.' " 

"  Capttun  Brabazon  has  a  nickname  for 
everyone,  and  I  couldn't  hope  to  escape." 

"  No,  nor  you  haven't,  dear,  thongb  it 
isn't  '  Her  Grace.'  He  always  calls  you 
'  La  Superba '  to  ms." 

"  The  name  for  <}enoa,  isn't  it,  Mrs. 
Tackl  I  remember  your  saying  what  a 
pretentious  aham  you  found  it  when  yon 
got  to  know  it." 

"  Well,  he  hasn't  found  you  out  yot, 
my  dear,  for  his  fear  is  that  he'll  never 
get  to  know  you.  Yon  freeze  him,  he 
says." 

"I  can't  imagine  then  what  he's  like 
when  he  thaws.  He  makes  himself  always 
so  pleasant." 

"My  dear  Ida,,  you  must  let  me  tell  him 
Toa  said  so." 


244      (Fstinui7S,in4.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  R0T7ND. 


"Don't  joa  think  he  knova  it  himself, 
Mre.  Tack  % "  trchly. 

"  Indeed,  dear,  I  do  not  I  dont  think 
him  conceited  at  all — not  at  all ;  and  you 
wonldn't  think  so  either,  Ida,  if  you  heard 
the  way  he  spoke  to  me  tbtB  moniing  of 
yon  and  of  himself " 

Here  Mra.  Tnck  pansed  for  Ida's 
curiosity  to  hist  its  longing  (or  the  anb- 
stance  of  this  interesting  cosversation. 

But  Ida's  cariosity  was  not  so  excited  aa 
to  linger  abont  the  aubject  at  all. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  call  him  conceited 
exactly,  Mrs.  Tuck." 

"  Hy  dear,  I  know  what  yon  mean  quite 
well.  You  mean  that  everyone  is  well 
pleased  with  him,  but  that  no  one  ia  so 
well  pleased  with  him  as  he  is  with  him- 
self. Bnt  if  you  knew  all  that  I  know — 
the  beauties,  the  heiresses  who  hare  flung 
themselves  at  his  head " 

Here  Mrs.  Tuck  triad  to  express  by 
flinging  ap  her  hands  an  amazement  at 
her  nephew's  moderation  aa  great  as  that 
of  Clive  at  his  own  in  keepme  his  hands 
off  the  snmless  treasuries  of  Lidia.  She 
hoped  to  stir  in  Ida  Millamant's  ambition ; 

But  'tis  tbe  gtar^  to  have  piarced  the  awton, 
For  wbotn  lienor  beautiea  idgh  in  vain. 
If  there'!  delJAht  ia  love,  "tii  when  I  isa 
That  heart,  which  cilJien  bleed  for,  bleed  for  me. 

Bnt  Ida,  having  a  better  opinion  of  her 
own  sex  than  Mrs.  Tack  had,  waa  merely 
confirmed  in  her  impreaiioa  of  the  captain  a 
oexcombiy. 

"Bnt  Richard  has  absurd  ideas  abont 
fortune  -  banting,"  Mrs.  Tnck  went  on. 
"  He  thinks  it  degrading  to  a  poor  man  to 
marry  a  girl  wi£  a  fortune,  no  matter 
what  be  may  give  in  exchange.  He  used 
to  provoke  me  by  always  tukug  in  tiiia 
way  the  last  time  he  waa  here" — very 
significant  stresa  on  "  last,"  to  surest  to 
I&  the  inference  that  the  disinterested 
Dick  on  his  first  visit  was  withheld  &om 
a  proposal  by  the  consideration  of  Ida's 
fortune — a  consideration  now  out  of  the 
way. 

But  Dick,  during  that  former  visit,  had 
been  so  successful  in  smothering  the  least 
symptom  of  his  devouring  passion,  that 
Ida  construed  this  significant  nint  to  mean 
that  Mrs.  Tack  had  then  been  match- 
making as  usual,  pressing  Ida  herself  upon 
her  reluctant  nephew. 

This  happy  thought  held  her  silent,  a 
silence  which  Mra  Tuck  of  coune  mis- 
interpreted into  a  meditation  upon  her 
nephew's  magnanimity. 

"It's    your   rich   men,"    she  resotned, 


trying  to  clinch  a  nail  she  thought  she  had 
driven  in,  "  it'a  your  rich  men,  like  tbs 
Don,  who  think  so  much  of  richee.  The; 
can  be  mean  without  the  reproach  of 
meanneaa;  and  they  are,"  wiUi  sadden 
emphaaiB,  inspired  by  a  thought  of 
another  than  the  Don,  her  poor  dear 
husband,  to  wit.  "A  poor  man  can- 
not afford  to  be  mean,  even  if  he  were 
indiued  to  be.  As  for  Richard,  he  roni 
into  the  o^er  extreme  to  absurditf. 
Why  shoold  he  try  to  eUfle  his  love  for 
a  gu-1  because  she  happens  to  be  an 
heiress  1 " 

Ida  felt  compelled  to  answer  a  qaeittM 
put  to  her  so  pointedly. 

"Hot  isn't  that  also  to  think  too  modi 
of  riches,  Mrs.  Tuck  1  To  tiilnk  nothing 
can  counterbalance  them  t " 

"To  be  snre  it  is,  my  dear,"  most 
heartily,  happy  in  the  thought  that  she 
wasmakingimmenaeway.  "And that's joBt 
what  I  said  to  Richard  when  he  was  last 
here.  'It's  you,'  I  said,  'who  make  too 
much  of  riches  when  you  speak  as  if  Uiej 
were  more  than  all  yon  can  give  m  ex- 
change for  them.'  But  he  iasiBted  that 
no  one,  not  even  you — not  even  the  girl 
herself,"  hastily  correcting  heraelf,  "wwld 
think  his  love  diainta«ated  if  there  were 
three  thooaand  poonda  a  year  in  the 
scala" 

It  was  hardly  possible  for  Ida  even  to 
affect  not  to  see  through  this  frank  disgaiia 
Yet  the  perplexed  lover  who  made  the 
plaintive  appeal : 

Perhape  It  waa  right  to  diwemMa  yoar  lore, 

But— why  did  you  kick  me  downatain  ! 
had  leas  reason  to  doobt  a  well-dlssMnbled 
passion  than  Ida.  For  Dick  had  not 
"  protested  too  maeh  "  by  coldness,  morose- 
ness,  or  the  shunning  of  her  society,  but 
had  been  polite,  pleasant,  ceremomooslj 
attentive,  and  fatally  indifferent.  There- 
fore, Ida,  though  not  doubting  in  the  least 
that  Mrs.  Tnck  had  some  such  oonveni- 
tion  with  her  nephew,  had  not  the  least 
doubt  either  that  her  nephew  had  been 
gracef ullyexcusing  himself  from  the  diatasle- 
fnl  match  this  inveterate  matchmaker  had 
proposed  to  him  It  was  very  hamiliating, 
morticing — more  mortifying  to  Ida  tbu 
to  most  girls — and  she  ooold  not  help  feeling 
sligbUy  irritated  with  Mrs.  Tuck,  and  more 
repelled  than  ever  from  tbe  lady-killing 
captain.  She  took  her  usual  refuge  in 
silence,  on  which  Mrs.  Tuck  put  tbe  most 
favourable  constmctioa. 

Great,  therefore,  was  her  disgust  to  find 
that  the  nett  result  of  her  momiiiR'a  match- 


CHRONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIES  tFebr»,^j, 


246 


maldiig  vas  the  wider  eatraogemeut  of 
Dick  and  Ida.    Dick  treated  her 

Witb  oourtM;  tad  with  letpeet  eaoagb  ; 

Bnt  not  with  aoch  funiliar  iDitaoceB. 

Kor  with  auch  fras  and  friendl)-  coaference, 

As  be  had  lued  of  old. 
And  Mra,  Tuck  rightly  pat  Brutufl's  inter- 
ptetation  upon  this  panctiliouB  politeness. 
Ever  note,  Lncilius, 

Ida,  on  tiie  other  hand,  vas  more  freezing 
than  ever. 

Hill  check  pat  Mrs.  Tack  on  her  mettle 
u  a  matchmaker.  Indeed,  it  was  now 
donblj  a  point  of  honoor  vitti  heer  to  bring 
(his  thing  abont;  not  only  hecanBe  she 
bid  taken  it  in  hand,  but  also  becanse 
■he  had  told  Ida,  almost  in  ao  many  words, 
tiiat  Dick  was  deeply  in  love  with  her.  She 
feh  it  to  be  onfortanate  ^t  she  had  so 
flomntitted  herself,  bnt  there  was  no  help 
for  it ;  or,  at  least,  no  other  help  than  to 
bring  Dick  to  Ida's  feet  With  this  view 
>be  congratnlated  him,  when  next  tiiey 
were  by  themselres,  on  the  pn^ress  he  had 
made  in  Ida's  good  graces. 

"  Progress  I  exclaimed  Dick ;  "  she's 
gone  down  ten  degrees  below  zero  since 
this  morning." 

"  My  doar  Dick,  I  should  hare  thought 
yon  knew  something  of  girls  by  this. 
When  a  girl  first  becomes  conscious  of  a 
kindly  feeling  towards  a  man,  she's  so  afraid 
of  Ms  seeing  it  that  she  doubles  the 
diituice  between  them.  I  thought  her 
manner    towards  you  to-night  most  su- 


nt !  Well,  aunt,  you  on^t  to  know. 
&  little  more  snch  enoouragement  and  she 
will  cut  me  dead,  and  then  I  may  venture 
to  propose." 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH 
COUNTIES. 

STAFFORDSSmE.  FABT  I. 
All  the  world  associates  Staffordshire 
with  the  Potteries ;  it  ia  PotJand  or  Crock 
county  in  everybody's  imagination,  and 
althoush  it  may  be  poasible  to  show 
that  ute  county  has  other  claims  on 
attention,  yet  certainly  the  industry  by 
which  its  fame  ia  spread  all  over  the  world 
demands  a  leading  position  in  it«  chronicles. 
The  Potteries,  as  the  district  is  called  in 
{«oud  preeminence,  as  though  any  other 
potteries  in  other  parts  were  not  worth 
consideiation,  although  not  an  inviting 
rezion    to    visit,  vet  does  not  eive  the 


idea  of  having  been  in  any  way  spoilt  by 
its  pot-works,  grotesque  and  ugly  as  many 
of  them  are.  A  wild  barren  tract  of 
country  has  been  reclaimed  from  its  waste 
and  desolation,  and  made  the  site  of  busy 
towns  and  thriving  settlements,  while  in 
modem  times  we  Iwve  seen  a  most  fruitful 
and  successful  revival  of  what  might  have 
been  deemed  an  almost  lost  industrial  art 

The  beginnings  of  the  potter's  art  in 
Staffordshire  are  nard  to  trace.  Wemayaup- 
pose  that  the  excellent  day  which  abounds 
m  the  neighbourhood  was  turned  to 
account  by  the  Celtic  tribes  who  pastured 
their  catUe  in  the  valleys,  but  in  truth  the 
remains  of  pottery  in  the  tumuli  and  burial 
mounds  of  tJie  district  are  not  very 
numerons  or  important  And  while  in 
various  parts  of  uie  kingdom  evidences  of 
extensive  Roman  pottenes  have  been  dis- 
covered, no  direct  proof,  so  far  as  we 
knov,  has  been  had  of  the  existence  of 
Roman  kilns  in  Staffordshira  Probably 
the  growth  of  religions  houses  in  England 
gave  the  first  impulse  to  the  industry,  for 
the  Potteries  seem  to  have  been  for  cen- 
toriea  actually  Tileries,  where  the  inlaid 
tiles  ased  for  the  pavement  of  churches  and 
monasteries  were  made  in  considerable 
quantitiea  Still,  the  potters  of  Stafford- 
shire turned  out  meritorious  work  in  the 
early  Norman  days,  and  examples  are 
extant  of  fine  jugs  marked  with  the  horse- 
shoe, the  badge  of  the  Ferrers  family,  who 
may  have  been  originally  the  baroas 
Ferriers  who  presided  over  the  ironworke 
of  Normandy,  and  who  had  ceased  to  exist 
as  a  ruling  family  before  the  advent  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  But  it  may  be  guessed 
that  the  skill  of  our  workers  in  iron  and 
pewter,  and  of  those  who  carved  bowls  and 
platters  from  the  beech  and  ash,  interfered 
very  much  with  the  potter's  art  The 
Anglo-Saxon  mind  is  impatient  of  vessels 
that  easily  break,  and  a  slow  and  patient 
cookery  ia  earUienware  excites  a  feeling  of 
contempt.  "  Why,  these  people  cook  tjieir 
meat  in  basins  1 "  was  the  exclamation  of  a 
worthy  old  English  servant  on  coining 
into  possession  of  a  French  kitchen,  where 
the  battorie  de  cuisine  was  chiefly  of 
earthenware.  And  centuries  back  even 
people  of  distinction  quaffed  their  drink 
Irom  the  black  leathern  jack  or  the  pewter 
tankard. 

And  thos  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
while  abroad  the  ceramic  art  bad  reached 
its  apogee,  in  Staffordshire  it  was  still  in  a 
rude  and  primitive  stage,  rather  of  decline 
thanadvanca  Rudebnttor-notsofcvlindrical 


246 


ALL  THE  TEAK  EOTTND 


sh&pe,  which  held  twelve  or  foarteen  poonds 
of  mtter  at  least,  were  ^e  staple  of  mana- 
factnre,  with  hom^y  mags  such  aa  the 
people  of  Lancashire  and  Cheshire  use  to 
this  day  for  their  al&  These  wares  poor 
crate-men  carried  on  their  backs  all  over 
the  coontiy — over  the  northern  part  of  the 
country,  that  is.  Bat  everything  in  the 
way  of  pottery,  artistic,  or  elegant,  or  fine  in 
textnre,  came  from  the  Continent,  the 
solitary  exception  being,  perhaps,  in  that 
brown  Toby  Tosspot  ware,  often  quaint  and 
original  in  design,  bnt  of  no  hi^  artistic 
merit  Other  artiolea  which  collectors  may 
meet  with  of  Staffordshire  make  are  the 
Bellarminee  or  long  beards,  those  rotond 
jars  with  narrow  necks  and  narrow  bases,  a 
form  of  vewel  which  sometimes  may  still 
be  seen  in  use  by  workmen  for  their  noon- 
tide refreshmeot. 

Now  if  the  Beformation  had  injured  the 
potters  by  stopping  the  demand  for  tiles 
and  plaques,  the  eecret  of  making  which 
was  soon  lost,  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  Drought 
a  little  compensation  in  the  intfodnction  of 
tobacco,  and  the  consequent  demand  for 
pipes.  There  is  something  mATvelloas  in  the 
s^^edy  conqneat  of  the  old  world  by  the  new 
habit.  That  people  in  England  took  to  it 
freely  from  the  first  may  be  jodged  from  the 
number  of  broken  pipes  that  are  found. 
These  in  tiie  beginning  are  strangely  small 
in  the  bowl,  affording  only  a  few  whiffs  of 
smoke  for  each  charge  of  tobacco,  and  from 
their  smallness  they  have  got  the  name  of 
fairy  pipes,  and  some  have  even  attributed 
them  to  the  Bomans ;  but  they  are  good 
Staffordshire  clay  nearly  all,  and  not  earlier 
than  Elizabeth's  time.  In  the  reign  of 
James,  notwithstanding  the  royal  counter- 
blast, the  bowls  of  tobacco-pipes  began  to 
increase  in  aise.  The  weed  was  no  longer 
so  highly  priced,  and  people  oonld  afford 
more  prolonged  enjoyment.  The  more 
ornate  and  elaborate  pipes  came  no  doubt 
from  Holland,  bat  the  ordinary  pipe  was 
from  Staffordabira  The  early  pipe  has  a 
flat  heel,  so  that  the  smoker  may  rest  the 
bowl  on  the  table,  and  on  thu  heel  the 
maker  sometimes  stamps  his  mark.  "  O.B." 
for  Charles  Biggs,  a  maker  of  Newcastle- 
nnder-Lyne,  is  one  of  the  most  noticeable. 
But  as  time  went  on  the  heel  became  a 
projecting  spur,  and  the  pipe  assumed  its 
modem  form  of  a  yard  of  clay,  while  our 
Dntch  king  and  his  followers  are  responsible 
for  the  still  more  capacious  bowls  and 
more  prolonged  whiffings. 

The  Dutch  king  brought  other  changes 
for  the  potters  of  Staffordshire.     In  his 


train  oame  two  brother  of  the  name  of 
Elers,  from  Holland,  who,  prospeeting 
among  the  Potteries,  discovered  beds  of  fise 
compact  red  day  at  Bradwell  and  Dims- 
dale,  where  they  erected  kilns,  and  bem 
to  make  fine  red  ware,  in  imitation  of  Qiat 
of  Japan.  "  Afterwards,"  writes  Miu 
EdgeworUi,  "  they  made  a  sort  ol  brown 
glazed  stoneware,  coarse  and  heavy,  yet 
the  glazing  of  these,  such  as  it  wss^  cookl 
not  be  performed  without  great  botm- 
venience.  They  used  salt,  which  they  threw 
into  the  oven  at  a  certain  time  of  the 
baking  of  the  veasela  The  fumes  from  this 
were  BO  odious,  that  the  neighb(»u'hood 
were  alarmed,  uid  forced  the  etran|e»  to 
abandon  their  pcMeiies  and  qmt  the 
country."  Now  Miss  Edgeworth  ought  to 
have  known  somethiug  abont  these  first 
Introducers  of  new  methods,  as  she  wu  a 
direct  descendant,  on  the  mother's  ude, 
from  one  of  the  brothers  Elers.  But  it 
seems  hardly  to  have  been  the  case  that 
they  were  driven  away  by  their  neighbours, 
who  were  pretty  well  inured  to  smoke  and 
smother,  and  stenches  of  various  kinda 
The  salt  glaze  which  the  Elais  brothen 
introduced  was  welcomed  rather  than  other- 
wise by  the  potters,  who  soon  saw  its 
advantages  over  the  lead  glaze  then 
in  use.  But  the  brothen  kept  tJut 
process,  as  well  as  all  the  rest,  a  secret, 
till  one  of  the  native  potters  of  Burslem, 
by  name  Astbory,  devoted  himaelt  to  ibe 
task  of  finding  oat  their  mystery.  To  effect 
this  he  assumed  the  garb  and  mannen  of 
an  idiot,  a  notion  utuised  in  these  Istei 
days  by  the  Silver  King.  The  man  hong 
about  the  works,  doing  odd  jobs  and 
making  himself  as  useful  as  a  "softie" 
could  be,  till  the  wily  Dutchmen  came  to 
have  confidence  in  him,  and  thinking  * 
pair  of  hands  without  a  head  just  the  tbmg 
for  their  secret  processes,  took  him  into 
regular  employ.  The  pretended  idiot 
served  his  masters  faithfuUy  for  two  yein 
or  more.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the 
workman  retired,  and  set  op  as  a  master- 
potter,  to  the  anger  and  indignation  of  his 
dA  employers.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sbune 
of  having  been  "  bubbled,"  or  "  bit,"  as  the 
phraseology  of  that  day  would  expren  it, 
that  drove  them  away  from  Uieir  woAi, 
or,  more  likely,  they  found  that  at  such  s 
distance  from  their  market  the  nuunfs^ 
ture  could  not  be  successfally  curied  on. 
Anyhow,  they  removed  about  1710  to 
Lambeth,  where  they  associated  therasdvn 
with  a  company  of  glass  mannfaotnren, 
established  in   1676  by  Yenetiana  under 


CHBONIOLES  OF  ENGUSH  COUNTIEa  [Trt»ii«j*,u 


247 


tlie  patronage  of  the  Duke  of  Btiokui^baio. 
Tn  the  eonne  of  &  oentniT',  onnoiuly 
enough,  the  dawendasta  of  £len  and 
Aitbmy  oame  together,  connected  by 
vaniagfi  <»  ties  of  friraidihip  ^th  the 
Wedgwood  family. 

Soon  after  Aatbuy'e  adventore  as 
sn  assmned  idiot,  he  becomee  the  hero  of 
inotiier  stwy,  in  vhich  the  discovery  of 
tiid  IU6  of  powdered  flint  in  the  mann- 
ftctnre  of  earthenware  is  accounted  for. 
Again  Miw  EdgewortJi  shall  tell  the  stoiy, 
for,  as  a  descendant  of  the  Elars  famQy, 
and  an  intimate  friend  of  the  Wedgwoods, 
d»  haa  a  right  to  be  beard.  "  Then  was 
a  Staflbidshire  potter,  whose  name  I  for- 
get He  stopped,  on  a  jonmey  to  London, 
at  Danttable,  in  Bedfordshire,  where  the 
soil  ii  flin^  and  chalky.  He  nmsnlted  the 
hosUer  of  Uie  inn  abont  some  disorder  in  his 
fame's  evB.  The  hostler  advised  that 
powdered  flint  riionld  be  put  into  the  eye, 
ud  for  this  pnrpose  he  threw  a  flint  into 
the  fire  to  oaldne,  that  it  might  be  more 
easily  pnlverised.  Hie  potter,  who  was 
standing  t^,  observed  die  great  whiteness 
of  tiie  nlctned  flint,  and  being  an  ingmiona 
as  well  as  an  observing  man,  immediately 
Uionght  of  applying  this  eircamstance  to 
the  improvement  of  his  pottery.  He  first 
itki  the  experiment  of  mizinK  finely 
powdered  fiints  with  tobaeco^ipe  day.  He 
nicceeded  to  hie  hopes,  and  made  white 
stoneware,  which  put  all  Ute  brown  and 
eokmred  stoneware  oat  of  fashion." 

We  are  now  coming  to  Wedgwood's 
tune,  tbe  Wedgwood  famDy  having  been 
potten  from  the  saventeenUi  century  and 
peibi^  earlier — master-potters  that  is, 
people  of  some  means,  and  not  without 
eoltivation,  in  tbe  homely  and  simple 
bahion  of  the  times,  so  that  Josiah  Wedg- 
wood began  his  work  with  all  the  advan- 
tages of  early  training  and  family  conueo- 
tion.  Once  oat  of  hts  apprenticeship, 
Wedgwood  soon  began  his  coarse  of  ex- 
perimental mannbotore,  fh^  bringing  out 
tiia  green  glazed  earthenware  for  deuert- 
samces  with  forms  of  vise-leaves  and 
fndt  At  first  Wedgwood  was  in  part- 
nership with  one  Wieldon,  but  soon 
set  np  for  lumaelf,  first  at  the  CHd 
ChuR^yard,  and  then,  to  quota  from 
a  record  in  the  potter's  dialect,  "an' 
arter  that  he  flitted  to  th'  Bell  Workhus, 
when  he  put  up  th'  bellconey  for  t'  ring  tb' 
men  to  ttter  work,  i'sted  o'  blowin'  'em 
togetlier  wi'  a  hum."  To  explain  this  it 
nay  be  necessary  to  say  that  np  to  Wedg- 
wood's time  it  waa  the  cnatom  to 


the  potters  togetJier  by  blowing  a  bom, 
and  that  he  was  the  first  to  make  use  of  a 
bell  for  the  pmpose. 

At  the  "Bell  Workhus, "otherwise  known 
as  Ivy  House  Pottery,  Wedgwood  made  hie 
first  great  snccees  with  his  oreau-coloored 
ware,  which  became  known  as  Queen's 
ware,  when  good  Queen  Charlotte,  with  the 
fall  approbation  of  Farmer  George,  had 
graciously  accepted  a  caudle  and  bieakfsst 
service  at  tbe  bauds  of  the  courtly  and  far- 
sighted  potter.  The  cream-ware  became 
the  fashion,  and  Uie  pottery  bad  more  work 
than  it  could  manage,  so  that  piesendy 
Wed^ood  removed  to  more  roomy 
premises,  known  as  the  Black  Works  at 
Bidge  House,  afterwards  &mons  nnder  the 
nameofEtroria,  Here  Wedgwood  brought 
oat  one  after  another  variona  important 
bodies — the  black  basalt,  the  jasper,  the 
white  atone,  the  oane-ooloured  waie,  and 
many  others.  These  ornamental  substances 
were  Wedgwood's  great  hobby,  and  he 
devoted  great  pains  and  expense  to  the 
rei«oduDtion  in  these  favomite  bodies  of 
many  of  the  masterpieces  of  classic  ceramic 
artk  The  story  of  the  Barberini,  or 
Portland  Vase,  will  be  remembered.  On 
the  death  of  the  Duoheas  of  Portland, 
who  had  bought  this  vase  frum  Sir 
William  Hamilton,  it  was  offered  for  sale  ; 
and  Wedgwood,  who  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  purchase  it  and  reproduce  it, 
bid  against  the  reigning  Duke  of  Port- 
land ap  to  a  thousand  pounds.  At  last 
the  due,  seeing  that  tbe  potter  was  fiilly 
determined  not  to  be  outbid,  crossed  over 
to  him,  and  having  bluntly  asked  what 
Wedgwood  wanted  with  the  vase,  offered 
to  leave  it  in  his  hands  for  as  long  aa  he 
wanted  it,  if  he  —  Wedgwood  —  would 
cease  to  bid  for  it  What  the  auctioneer 
was  about  to  let  such  a  compact  be  carried 
oat  under  bis  very  nose,  and  under 
the  saapended  hanuner,  history  does  not 
tell  ui.  Wedgwood  produced  fifty  of  his 
reproduc^ons  of  the  Barberini  Vaae,  which 
came  to  the  British  Museum,  it  will  be 
remembered,  and  was  smashed  by  a  lunatic 
many  years  ago,  but  waa  well  repaired  and 
is  BtUl  to  m  seen  there.  These  copies 
were  in  the  favonrite  black  basalt ;  but 
many  other  copies  have  aince  been  made 
from  the  original  monld& 

To  carry  out  all  thu  ornamental  work, 
standing  apart  from  the  r^;ulai  and  more 
profitaMe  bnanass  of  making  pottery, 
Wedgwood  took  a  partner,  one  Bentley,  a 
Derbyshire  man  in  origin,  who  had  settled 
in  Idveroool  as  a  Mimcheeter  warehouse- 


348 


ALL  THE  TXAB  BOUND. 


man.  Thns  muiy  of  the  W«dgirood  re- 
productioiu  of  cUanc  tum  are  marked 
"Wedgwood  and  Bentley."  The  firm  eitab- 
liahed  works  at  Chelsea,  where  many  of  ^e 
fine  yasaa  were  pcunted  by  men  who  had 
learnt  their  art  in  the  old  Chelsea  china 
worko.  At  this  period  the  firm  had  a 
commiflBion  from  the  Empreia  Oatherioe  of 
BoBsia  for  a  magnificent  service,  painted 
with  English  landscapes,  with  the  condi- 
tion that  in  each  a  green  frog  or  toad  should 
appear.  Wedgwood  objected  to  the  con- 
dition, but  was  orerroled,  for  it  seemed 
that  the  service  was  wanted  for  the 
czarina's  Qrenoailler  Palace,  where  every- 
thing bore  the  same  device. 

Since  Wedgwood's  days — he  died  in 
1795— the  hiatorr  of  the  Potteries  has 
been  one  of  continued  progress  and  ad- 
vance. In  theheartof  thei^wayoommu- 
nications  of  the  country,  and  with  easy 
access  to  Liverpool  and  ita  shipping, 
StafioidBhire  now  enpplies  half  the  world 
as  well  aa  the  hom^tnarket  with  good  and 
useful  crockery.  And  Burslem,  known  aa 
the  mother  <^  the  Potteriee,  has  taken  the 
lead  of  many  towns  of  greater  importaooe 
in  establishing  a  moeenm  and  librtiy  treat- 
ing of  its  own  ceramic  art,  where  the 
history  and  progreas  of  the  Potteries  may 
be  studied  on  the  spot. 

The  Potteriee  in  the  north,  and  the  iron 
districts  in  the  south  of  Staffordshire  are 
separated  by  a  tract  of  fertile  and  pleasant 
country,  a  land  of  manor  -  houses,  and 
mansioue,  and  secluded  villages,  and 
sleepy  country  tovms,  where  ancient 
WatUBg  Street  traverses  quiet  scenes,  and 
where  nothiDg  seems  to  have  been  dis- 
turbed siuoe  the  days  of  the  Bomans, 
except  that  the  plonghman,  year  after  year 
taming  his  continual  farrow,  haa  buried 
deeper  and  deeper  all  the  surface  relics  of 
the  past  Passing  over  this  quiet  and 
ftnitiul  district  for  the  present,  we  will 
conUnue  the  industrial  records  of  the 
county  in  its  southern  extremity,  where 
Birmingham,  locally  tn  Warwickshire, 
forms  the  cedtre  of  a  district  whi(^,  if  we 
were  to  recast  our  territorial  divisjons, 
would  form  the  compact  and  homogeneous 
department  of  Hardwareshire.  Of  these 
Staffordshire  iron  towns,  the  chief  is 
Wolverhampton — a  town  which  seems  to 
have  outfTOwn  its  local  history.  Its 
name,  and  that  alone,  has  preserved  the 
memory  of  a  Sazoa  lady  of  huh  degree,  the 
widow  of  Aldhelro,  Earl  of  Northampton 
— the  Lady  Wulfruna,  who  founded  here  a 
college  of  aecalar  canons,  and  whose  name, 


as  a  prefix  to  the  original  Saxon  Hamtno, 
haa  Men  softened  to  WolTer-hamptawi, 
The  town  was  noted  for  ages  for  the 
skill  of  ita  workers  in  metals,  and  Dr.  Plot, 
whose  Natural  History  of  Staffordshire  Ji 
dedicated  to  the  high  and  migh^  Prinei 
Jamas,  the  second  at  bis  name,  deacrilMs 
in  glowing  terms  the  skill  of  the  lock- 
smiths of  Wolverhampton,  and  Uie  perfes- 
tion  to  which  they  had  brooght  their  art 
Then  just  on  the  border  of  the  ooun^  bf 
Birmingbam  lies  Handsworth,  wiih  Soko, 
associated  with  the  memory  of  the  grwt 
inventor  of  the  modem  steam-engiDa 
Then  tbtn  is  Qreat  Barr  on  the  slope  of 
the  \otty  Barrbeacon,  perik^»  the  ceatrsl 
hub  of  En^and,  where  of  old,  it  is  said, 
the  British  Dmida  pwformed  their  mystic 
rites,  and  where  in  later  days  the  beacon- 
fires  of  the  Saxons  gave  warning  of  war 
or  invasion  to  the  very  limits  of  the 
Mercian  land.  Here  now  stands  the 
aodent  mansion  of  ttte  Scots,  where  (ooe 
the  gentle  Shenstone  wooed  the  muae; 
aaid  Walsall's  fine  oburch  is  here  in  full 
view,  and  more  to  the  left,  among  the 
smoke  of  fomacee,  lies  Wednesbury — Uie 
sacred  berg  of  Woden,  die  grim  Saxon 
Mara.  All  about,  indeed,  in  ua  names  d 
places  may  be  traced  relics  of  the  ancient 
Teutonic  worship,  of  which  this  district 
with  the  fiery  beaoonmount  in  the  centre 
waa  probably  the  chief  aeat.  For  the  fiene 
Mercians  clang  to  their  ancient  heathen 
worship  long  after  the  other  Saxon 
kingdoms  had  been  Christianised.  Wed- 
nesfield,  not  far  from  Wolverhampton, 
where  later  on  a  great  battle  was  f  ought 
between  Saxon  and  Dane,  seems  to 
preserve  the  memwy  of  some  earher  Geld 
of  slaughter  dedicated  to  the  god  who 
delighted  in  the  incense  of  human  blood. 
But,  in  local  parlance,  Wednesbury  ia 
softened  into  Wedgebury,  and  it  sewns 
probable  that  Wedgewood  waa  also  once 
Wodenswood,  and  uat  there  is  thus  a  link, 
in  the  name  of  the  peaoefdl  father  of  the 
Potteries,  with  the  memory  of  tha  ffame- 
breathing  god  of  the  Mercian  land  Some 
such  war-god  seems  appropriate  enough 
for  the  fiery  distnct  below,  and  for  the  men 
id  Bilston,  the  brawny  forgetMu;  while 
Tipton,  noted  in  the  prize-rings^r  its 
Slasher,  may  be  said  to  have  carri4  (he 
tzaditions  of  Woden  into  the  bmta^ 


tests  of  modem  days.  Tettenhall,  agaPi  l| 
recalls  the  memory  of  ancient  slanghtJi  I 
where  a  great  battle  was  fought  agauP  I 
the  Danes,  and  probably  the  swords  ai^ 
speariieada  that  flashed  on  that  fatal  fielj  I 


GHBONIOLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.  tB«bnuiy  t.  um.]    249 


uid  wIuMe  nuted  relka  ue  foond  in  the 
buTowB  that  crown  the  neighboomg 
hiights,  were  forged  not  far  from  where 
now  the  smoke  and  flames  of  a  thousand 
fomacea  cover  the  country  with  a  pall  of 
imoke  by  day,  and  a  gUnng  crimson  fire- 
caitopf  bjr  nj^t  For  this  Wodenishind  is 
now  blown  u  the  Black  Coontrf,  and  well 
deaerres  its  name. 

Northwards  of  this  district  lies  Cannock 
CItue,  once  iiie  favoorite  hnnting-eroimd 
of  fierce  Fenda  and  the  heathen  Mercian 
kiogs.  The  wide  forest  is  now  reduced 
to  a  few  scattered  heaths  of  no  great 
extent,  bat  with  some  fine  commanding 
brows  from  which  the  spires  of  Lichfield 
m  se^  rising  from  a  fertile  nook  of  wood 
ud  meadow. 

One  would  like  to  know  something 
■boot  the  famed  St  Chad  of  Lichfield,  who 
Inonght  with  him  from  Undiafame  some 
fkint  saToor  of  the  early  Celtic  chnrch,  of 
lona  washed  by  the  wUd  Atlantic  waves, 
ud  of  thoae  Natore-loving  recluses  whose 
wanderings  over  hill  and  dale  atttaoC 
oat  sympathies  perhaps  more  than  the 
more  digiufied  ways  of  their  snccessors, 
8t  Chad  mnst  have  been  a  famooe  wan- 
dfltvr  for  his  time,  if  he  visited  all  the 
wells  and  springs  that  bear  his  name  in 
TsriooB  parts  of  the  kingdom.  But  it 
is  pleasant  to  find  a  real  St.  Chad's 
Well,  and  a  homely  but  ancient  little 
efaorch  close  by,  which  is  taid  to  oocnpy 
the  very  rite  of  his  lonely  cell,  where 
at  sunset  reach  the  shadows  of  the  tall 
etthedral  spires.  On  the  way,  a  pleasant 
lakelet  refiects  the  fairy-like  spires  of  the 
great  temple  on  the  hill  above,  and  the 
white  plumage  of  the  swans  that  float  on 
its  soilace.  And  here  once  a  year  come 
the  children  with  garlands  to  dress  the 
well  of  ^ood  St.  Chad. 

The  sight  of  the  cathedral  on  its  mound, 

with  the  close  encircling  it,  like  donjon 

lud  outer  wall,  brings  to  mind  the  great 

event  in  Lichfield  history,  its  famous  siege. 

Lichfield  was  never  a  walled  town,  but  the 

stiDng  position    of    the   cathedral  -  close 

raggested  it  as  a  place  of  anna  for  the 

ting's  forces  at  the  outbreak  of  the  civil 

war.     And  thus  in  1643  the  place  was 

attacked  by  the  Parliamentary  Army  under 

Lord  Brook  and  Sir  John  Gell,  while  the 

dose   was  defended    vigorously    by    the 

'I'St^aliata    under   the    command     of   Sir 

^T^iehord  Dyott     This  Dyott,  by  the  way, 

$  .was  of  a  well-known  St^ordshire  family, 

S^Jne  of  whose   earliest  members  has  the 

^.Tilmost  unioue  distinction  of  having  been 


mentioned  hy  uome  by  Shakespeare,  Second 
Part  of  King  Henry  the  Fourth,  Act  Third, 
Scene  Third:  "There  was  little  John 
Doit,  of  Stafi'ordsliire,  and  black  George 
Bare,  eto."  And  it  was  one  of  these  Dyotts 
who  fired  the  most  successful  shot  during 
the  siege.  For,  as  Lord  Brook  was  re- 
connoitring the  place,  etending  in  the  door- 
way of  one  of  ute  hooses  of  the  town — a 
spot  stUl  pointed  out — this  Dyott>  who, 
tradition  has  it,  was  .deaf  and  dumb,  fired 
a  shot  at  him  irom  oo  arquebus,  so  well- 
aimed  that  it  pierced  his  brain  and  bronght 
him  dead  to  the  ground.  A  great  subject 
of  giatulation  was  this  to  the  garrison,  and 
of  especially  good  omen,  as  it  happened, 

lously  enough,  on  St^  Chad's  Day.  Bat 
the  progress  of  the  siege  was  not  much 
hindered  by  Lord  Brook's  death,  and 
eventually  the  close  capitulated  to  Sir  John 
OelL  Jiter  a  while,  however,  the  place 
was  recaptured  by  Prince  Bupert,  and  held 
out  for  the  king  till  the  battle  of  Noseby 
virtoally  pat  an  end  to  the  war. 

A  quaint  little  story  of  the  times  may 
here  be  interpolated,  apropos  to  nothing, 
perhaps,  but  still  giving  a  better  nation 
of  the  actual  spirit  of  the  timee  than  more 
dignified  records: 

"C^tun  Hunt,  Governor  of  Astley 
Castle,  and  brother  of  the  Governor  of 
Tamworth,  in  February,  1646,  sent  a 
trumpeter  to  Lichfield  for  exchange  of 
some  ptiaonen,  taken  by  Colonel  Bagot 

"The  colonel  asked  the  trumpeter,  'What 

lir  officers  would  do  if  it  pleased  God  to 
send  peaoe  upon  this  treaty  at  Uzbridge.' 

" '  Nay,'  said  the  trumpeter,  '  what  will 
your  officers  do  1  fiw  you  are  many  of  you 
younger  brothers  and  will  wont  employ- 
ment; but  our  ofQoers — let  peaoe  come 
when  it  will — hare  good  trades  to  return 
to."" 

There  is  something  pathetic  in  the 
result  of  the  unswerving  loyalty  of  the 
Lichfield  folk,  even  as  read  in  the  usually 
prosaic  churchwardens'  accounts. 

For  instance,  "  A.D.  1643,  pud  for  ring- 
ing when  Prince  Rapert  went  to  Newark 
and  at  his  rotom,  one  shilling  and  eight- 
pence."  "A.D.  1644,  paid  for  ringing 
when  the  first  news  came  from  York,  three 
shillings."  That  is,  for  the  first  news 
from  Marston  Moor,  when  the  day  seemed 
fairly  won  for  the  Royalists  Jjid  again 
the  sad  laconic  entry:  "A.D.  1650,  paid 
for  washing  oat  the  king's  arms,  five 
Bhillings."  Again  there  is  a  world  of 
eloquence  in  the  sudden  parsimony  of  the 
authorities:  "A.D.  1668.  to  the    rinsiniF 


350      [FgbnwT  2,  ISM.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


September  6th,  when  they  did  ring  for  the 
Lord  Protector,  sixpence.  The  bells  rang 
out  merrily  enough  for  the  Reitor&tion, 
and  the  ringers  were  well  paid  again  with 
two  shillings  and  four  shillings.  And 
then  the  whole  story  of  the  dotrnfall  of 
the  Stuarts  is  told  in  this  entry:  "  1689, 
for  ringing  on  the  day  the  bishops  were 
acquitted,  three  shillings."  The  sad  finale 
to  all  this  loyalty  appears  in  the  lut 
noteworthy  entry :  "  1716,  paid  for  ring- 
ing when  the  rebels  ran  ^m  Fetth." 

And  yet,  even  when  the  dynasty  was 
changed,  and  the  whole  order  of  things 
was  reversed,  the  authorities  of  Lichfield 
were  staunch  to  their  ancient  intolerance, 
as  appears  from  a  curious  presentment, 
datod  March  8,  1743,  made  to  tiie  court 
at  Whitehall,  when  dangers  were  appre- 
hended from  P^ub  i|lotB  on  behalf  of  the 
Pretender.  "  llie  baili£b  and  jtuticee  say 
that  they  have  made  diligent  search 
throughout  the  dty,  and  certify  that  all 
was  peaceable  and  qidet;  that  there  was 
no  Papist,  save  only  two  or  three  women, 
or  non-juror,  in  the  city;  neither  have  we 
amongst  us  any  Quaker,  or  above  two 
Dissenters  from  the  Established  Church  of 
Englaud,  under  any  denomination  what- 
soever, and  tliat  the  whole  city  was 
zealously  attached  to  his  majesty's  person 
and  government" 

A  stroll  into  the  market-place  of  the 
town,  where  a  feeble  kind  of  market  is 
going  on — old  women  are  sitting  at  tittle 
stalls  under  their  ambreUas,  and  a  few 
ducks  quacking  doleftally  from  out  of  a 
basket — discovers  a  etatue  of  a  seated  figure 
in  a  ponderous  chair,  with  its  back  turned 
to  the  old  women,  bo  that  at  the  first 
glance  nothing  strikes  the  eye  bat  this 
square  chur-back,  and  the  round  shoulders 
of  the  figure  that  occupies  it  Bat,  on  a 
more  complete  view,  yon  reoc^nise  the 
features  of  the  "  great  lexicographer,"  and 
are  reminded  that  here  is  his  birthp1ac& 
Samuel  Johnson  was  the  son  of  a  book- 
seller here,  and  was  educated  at  the  free- 
school  of  Lichfield,  bat  seems  to  have 
cast  no  very  favourable  eye  upon  the 
place.  After  Johnson  left  Oxford,  it  will 
be  remembered,  he  settied  for  a  while  at 
Birmingham,  where  he  married  a  widow 
with  a  good  fortune  for  those  days — some 
eight  hundred  pounds  —  and  with  this 
capital  he  retomed  to  his  native  place,  and 
set  up  a  school  at  Edial  Hall,  about  two 
miles  distant  Bat  he  never  seems  to  have 
hod  more  thtin  three  scholars,  one  of  whom 
was  David  Oarrick,  and  with  David  he 


presently  set  forth  to  seek  his  fortunes 
m  London,  liiere  are  sundry  memoriili 
of  Johnson  in  the  little  museom  at 
Lichfield — ^hls  teacup,  that  was  so  often 
replenished,  and  a  saucer  that,  it  seemi, 
was  so  much  of  a  fetish  for  him  that  he 
could  not  take  his  meals  in  comfort  udIm 
it  were  by  his  dda 

The  one  great  blot  in  the  chronidsi  of 
Lichfield  is  that  the  city  was  ^e  scene  of 
one  of  the  last,  if  not  the  raj  Isst, 
religious  martyrdoms  in  England,  for,  u 
1611,  one  Edward  Wightman,of  BortOD- 
npon-Trent,  was  tried  in  the  Coniisloiy 
Court  of  Lichfield  upon  sixteen  charges  of 
heresy,  and  condemned.  The  Ungi  writ 
to  the  Sheriff  of  Lichfield  for  his  execution 
was  dated  March  9th,  1611,  at  West- 
minster, directing  tiiat  he  ahonld  be  bttmt 
in  some  pablic  place  within  the  dtj  of 
Lichfield,  and  the  barbarooa  sentence  was 
soon  afterwards  executed ;  all  which  seems 
incredible,  looking  to  the  date — ^the  (Up 
of  Shakespeare  and  of  Raleigh,  tiie  pahny 
days  of  literature  and  ima^matiim.  But 
the  poor  man  was  probably  either  an  Arian 
or  an  Anabaptist  —  forms  of  heresy  that 
the  leaders  of  all  the  chief  religious  partiea 
were  equaUy  ready  to  punish ;  and  thus 
no  voice,  it  seems,  was  raised  against  in 
atrocity  which  the  spirit  of  the  age  woald 
certainly  have  condemned. 


"CHINESE  GORDON."* 

IN  TWO  PARTS.  PAST  L 
Thz  author  of  this  book— one  of  the 
most  moving  and  heroic  romances  of  reil 
life  ever  given  to  the  world — is  spedoUy 
qualified  for  his  undertaking  In  that  he  is  ■ 
kinsman  of  Qordon;  and  has,  therefore, been 
Able  to  command  iirfotmation  not  easily  le- 
cessible  to  a  writer  len  Cavoombly  phioed. 
To  a  personal  knowledge  of  Gordon's 
character  and  life,  he  has  neen  able  to  add 
a  close  acquaintance  with  his  private  and 
official  correspondence,  and  the  disposal  of  > 
mossof  documentsof  thehi^estaignificaiice. 
These  are  great  advantages,  and  Mr.  Hake 
has  turned  them  to  excellent  acconnt  Bat 
if  in  these  respecta  his  kinship  waa  a  benefit 
in  others  it  has  been  a  drawback.  For  one 
thing  it  was  a  considerable  curb  to  that 
freedom  which  as  a  man  and  a  writer  he 
must  have  felt  to  be  appropriate  to  hii 
great  subject ;  with  the  result  that  many 


•"TheStoryof  Chine»GOTdou,''byA,  EgoHot 
Hkkfl,  author  of  "P«ri»  Ori^nilfc'  "FUWering 
T»le«,"  etc.  With  two  pn-truta  ud  two  irap"- 
London:  BAnunstonandCo.,  1864. 


Chirlw  Ploksiu.) 


"CHINESE  GORDON." 


[Pabmur  2,  UU  J      25 


episodes  in  the  drama  of  Gordon's  career 
are  treated  vith  a  reticence  which  we  must 
both  admire  and  regret  Further  than  this, 
he  has  been  checked  to  some  extent  by 
respect  fot  one  of  the  strongest  points  in 
Gordon's  character — hia  almost  morbid 
modesty.  Publicity  he  loathes ;  and  Mr. 
Hake  in  hia  preface  apologises  to  him  for 
giving  his  life  to  the  world,  not  merely 
wlthbat  hia  cooaent,  bnt  without  hia  know- 
ledge. To  have  asked  his  permission  to 
pabliah,  or  to  haye  let  him  snspect  that  a 
volume  was  being  written  of  which  he  was 
the  sabject,  woud  have  been  to  court  a 
passionate  veto  which  could  not  be  gain- 
said ;  conaeqneDtly  the  world  must  have 
remiimed  in  that  state  of  mingled  curiosity 
tnd  misappreheonioa,  which  existed  prior 
to  the  appearance  of  this  book.  The 
anthor's  courage  in  this  matter  indeed 
daima  oar  gratitude ;  and  it  is  impossible 
not  to  feel  that  in  thus  risking  Gordon's 
displeasure,  both  he  and  those  other 
membetB  of  the  £unily  who  share,  in  one 
way  or  another,  the  respoosibility  of  Uie 
work,  hare  done  a  wise  and  useful  thing. 

Two  books,  previously  published,  have 
partially  acquainted  a  certain  nomber  of 
people  with  the  greatness  of  Gordon's 
character,  and  with  aome  of  the  astonishing 
eventB  of  his  career — to  wit,  The  Ever- 
Victorious  Army,  by  the  late  Andrew 
Wilson ;  and  Colonel  Gordon  in  .Central 
Africa,  by  Dr.  Birkbeck  Hill.  It  was  in- 
evitable that  tiie  beta  therein  treated 
should  be  included  in  Mr.  Hake's  study; 
but  in  his  hands  they  take  clearer  shape, 
fuller  ugniGcance,  and  their  proper  places 
in  the  story  of  Gordon's  life. 

Much  of  Mr.  Hake's  material  is  new,  and 
most  of  it  bears  very  valnably  on  three  of 
Uie  most  ni^nt  matters  now  troubling  the 
world.  These  are  the  war  between  France 
and  China,  the  wild  chaos  in  the  Soudan,  and 
the  compUcated  dangers  in  South  Africa. 
In  this  connection  the  book  is  full  of  teach- 
ing, and  explains  many  things  that,  without 
it,  were  understood  but  umly,  if  at  all 
Ajid  besides  this  it  is  particularly  interest- 
ing becanse  it  contains  a  lai^e  number  of 
Gordon's  familiar  letters.  In  the  first  half 
of  the  book,  indeed,  these  and  other 
documents  are  quoted  at  such  length  and 
BO  often,  that  in  some  degree  they  disburb 
the  current  t^  the  narrative ;  and,  &om  the 
literary  point  of  view,  this  portion  contrasts 
a  little  unfavourably  with  the  rest  The 
second  part,  dealing  chiefly  with  Gordon's 
work  in  Africa,  is  an  excellent  piece  of 
writinE.  fall  of  eranhlc  visonr.  and  touched 


with  Bometbing  of  the  wonderful  romanc 
of  Gordon's  life.  Gritiotsm  aside,  howevei 
the  book  is,  for  the  vast  majority,  one  c 
absorbing  interest.  Whilst  those  wh 
already  know  something  of  Gordon  am 
his  career  will  read  it  for  the  further  ligh 
it  gives  them,  and  whilst  many  will  rea< 
it  for  its  teaching  on  current  affairs,  th' 
mass  of  people  will  read  it  for  its  affectiu] 
and  astonishing  story,  and  for  the  sake  o 
its  hero,  who,  so  simple,  true,  and  strong 
and  so  sincerely  Christian,  is  one  of  th 
greatest  men  of  any  tima 

Gordon's  family  has  made  a  respectabl 
figure  in  history.  Ancestors  of  his  fongh 
on  either  side  at  Preston-FaoH,  and  thi 
son  of  one  of  them  served  in  the  Fortieth 
Seventy-second,  and  Eleventh  Regiments 
fighting  valiantly  at  Minorca  and  Louis 
burgh,  and  with  Wolfe  on  the  Plains  o 
Abraham  This  gentieman  had  three  sons 
who  all  entered  the  army.  Two  died  ii 
the  service;  the  third,  William  Henrj 
Gordon,  who  was  bom  in  17S6,  enterec 
the  Royal  ArtiUeiy,  became  a  Lieutenant 
General,  and,  by  his  marriu^e  with  i 
daughter  of  Uie  late  Samuel  Endetby,  o 
Bkckheath,  was  the  father  of  Chines* 
Gordon.  Gordon's  grandfather,  on  thi 
motiier's  side,  was  a  merchant  and  ship 
owner  of  ability  and  enterprise.  His  shipi 
took  to  Boston  that  unhappy  tea,  which 
so  to  speak,  fired  the  mine  of  the  War  o: 
Independence.  His  boldness  and  tenacitj 
lar^y  aided  the  exploration  and  ooloni 
sation  of  the  Southern  Hemisphere.  H< 
ballasted  his  whalers  with  convicts  foi 
Botany  Bay,  and  carried  the  earliest 
settlers  to  Ansti^ia  and  New  Zealand 
His  ships  were  the  first  to  round  Capf 
Horn  and  trade  in  the  archipelagos  of  th< 
Pacific;  and  they  were  his  whalers  whc 
first  fished  in  Japanese  waters,  and  did 
their  best  to  build  a  commerce  with  the 


Middle  Kingdom.      Not  every  firm  can 
show  a  recoid  like  to  this. 

Gordon's  father  was  a  man  of  memorabU 
qualities.  A  good  and  cultivated  soldier, 
waa  firm  and  humorous,  generous  and 
robust.  In  his  presence  none  could  1m 
dull,  ndther  could  the  careless  or  neglectful 
escape  his  severity.  His  figure  was  striking 
his  individuality  was  strong ;  the  twinkle 
his  clear  blue  eye  was  not  to  be  tot 
gotten.  And  Gordon's  mother  was  nc 
lees  remarkable  in  character  and  spirit 
Cheerful  under  diSGcnlties,  which  she  con 
quered  with  no  show  of  effort,  she  possessed 
a  perfect  temper,  and  a  genius  for  making 
the  best  of  evervthine. 


362     [Tabniu]' 1,  U84.I 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


Cbu'lss  Gordon  was  educated  at  Taanton 
and  at  Woolirich.  Hk  early  life  presents 
litdeofnote.  Ofnogreatphyaicalatrength, 
he  appears  to  have  done  little  either  at 
school  01  at  the  Boy al  Military  Academy. 
Still,  we  are  told  that  in  the  record  of  these 
early  years  there  was  "  always  hnmonr," 
and  an  occasional  burst  of  fire  and  reso- 
lution. One  incident  only  is  given  by  Mr. 
Hake.  Once  daring  his  cadetship  he  wai 
told  "be  would  never  make  an  officer." 
He  tore  the  epaaleta  from  bis  shoulders 
aud  flnng  them  at  bia  superior's  feet. 

In  16S4  he  was  gazetted  an  officer  of 
EngiDeera;  and,  after  a  narrow  eeoue 
from  duty  elsewhere,  was  ordered  to  tJie 
Crimea.  Forced  inactioti  at  Balaclava  gave 
place  to  atdnous  and  dangeroos  wok  in 
the  trenches  at  SebaatopoL  Of  this  period 
we  shall  only  say  that  it  is  figurative  of  hia 
later  career ;  that  he  was  sltgntjy  wounded, 
and  more  than  once  all  but  killed ;  that  be 
showed  bimiwlf  A  fatalist ;  and  that  his 
intelligence  and  zeal  won  the  admiration 
of  bis  superiors.  Colonel  Cheaney,  indeed, 
affirms  that  bia  personal  knowledge  of 
the  enemy'a  movementa  was  aucb  as  no 
other  officer  attained.  He  had  already 
made  his  mark. 

The  Taiping  rebellion  was  a  climax 
discontent  and  religions  fonatidsm.  The 
movince  of  Kwang-tong  had  become  a 
Tom  Tiddler's  Ground  for  every  sort  of 
blackguard  and  pirate ;  it  was  rotten  with 
secret  societies ;  its  sufiering  and  rebelliona 
people  bad  learned  the  ose  of  arms ;  the 
result  was  the  worst  of  anarchy.  Here- 
upon there  came  from  enlightened  Europe 
an  individual  who.  possibly  at  risk  of 
bia  bead,  preached  the  Gospel  of  Christ 
He  met  an  obscure  achoolmaster,  one 
Hung-teu-Schuen,  to  whom  he  presented 
a  choice  collection  of  tracts,  telling  liim, 
at  the  same  time,  that  be,  the  obscure 
schoolmaster,  would  attain  to  the  highest 
rank  in  the  Celestial  Empire.  School- 
masters, we  know,  occasionally  cherish 
ambitions,  and  they  are  often  very  shrewd 
fellows  indeed.  Bat  in  theae  matters 
never  did  schoolmaateF  in  any  land  equal 
Hnng  of  China.  He  conceived  a  great 
scheme ;  he  trusted  to  bis  ability  to  carry  it 
out ;  time  and  people  were  ripe.  Straight- 
way be  went  forth,  proclaiming  that  he 
had  seen  the  Lord  God  Almighty,  who 
had,  he  sud,  appealed  to  him  as  the  Second 
Celeetial  Brother.  The  schoolmaster  be- 
came the  prophet — a  prophet  of  freedom 
and  vengeance,  an  agent  of  Divine  wrath. 
Wise  in  his  generation  he  stood  forth  in 
^__ _^^___^ 


land  of  poor  and  oppreased,  as  the 
champion  of  the  oppreased  and  the  poor. 
Superior  persons — who,  it  seems,  exist  in 
th»  Flowery  Land  as  elsewhere — said  in 
their  mild  way  that  he  was  mad.  His  msd- 
nees  centred  in  a  determination  to  nsarp  the 
Dragon  Throne,  to  extwminate  the  hated 
Manchoos,  and  to  reatore  to  power  and  gjory 
the  d^^raded  Mings,  and  he  venr  nearly 
succeeded.  The  people,  filled  with  hope 
and  fire  by  hie  propaganda,  flocked  to  ma 
atandard,  and  in  a  little  while  he  and  twenty 
thousand  followers  were  stalking  throng 
the  land,  breddng  idols  in  the  temples,  and 
effacing  Confndan  texts  frvm  the  schoda. 
Open  war  with  the  authorities  duly  fol- 
lowed, and  Hung,  full  of  ability  and  le- 
aonroe,  had  pretty-  much  his  own  way; 
defeat  swelled  his  ranks  and  his  influence 
equally  with  victory.  At  last  be  formally 
decbu«d  himself  the  Heavenly  Eug,  lbs 
Emperor  of  the  Great  Peace,  and  at  tha 
head  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  barbaric 
deaperadoee — women  and  men  together— 
I»rate8  from  the  coast,  bandits  from  the 
mountaina,  with  a  vaat  horde  of  acun 
of  the  earth,  armed  with  knife  and 
cutlasa,  decked  in  tawdry  dreaa,  and  mad- 
dened on  by  flutter  of  gandy  fla^  and 
,  he  passed  from  province  to 
province,  robbery  and  marder  before  Uni, 
and  fire  and  famine  in  his  train.  After  a 
march  of  aev«i  hundred  miles  be  captured 
tJie  dty  of  Nanking,  and  there,  nnder  the 
shadow  of  the  Porcelain  Tower,  set  up  a 
moDstrona  worship  and  tyrannic  state,  SDil 
made  his  kinsmen  kings. 

A  conflict,  desultory  in  its  conduct,  bat 
unspeakably  savage  in  its  inddents,  wu 
waged  between  the  TaJpings  and  the 
Chmese  an^ioritiea.  Hie  P^in  Govern- 
ment was  powerfU  but  aapine,  and 
hampered  by  interior  politics  and  un- 
friendly relationa  with  France  and  Eng- 
land. Its  policy  had  been  to  drive  the 
rebels  towwds  the  sea.  The  policy  wu 
bad,  for  t^e  rebels  had  everrthing  to  gain 
from  the  cities  of  the  coast — weal^i,  and 
munition,  and  arma.  The  Government 
discovert  its  folly,  and  with  truly  Celeetial 
cunning,  persevered  in  ili  It  saw  that 
the  foreign  communities  would  defend 
themselves  and  their  poseeaaions,  and  thm 
the  rebels  would  be  caught  between  two 
fires.  Shanghai,  for  long  an  asylum  for  the, 
deatitate  and  distracted  fugitives  from  Uie 
stricken  inlands,  was  soon  attacked  by  the 
Faithful  One  himself ;  bat  he  got  a  l«d 
beating  from  the  allied  French  and  English 
,  troopa    That  waa  in  1860,  in  whidi  jtu 


"CHINESE  GORDON." 


[FtbniirT  i,  188*.]      263 


Gordon,  wtut  doing  valuable  Berrice 
OD  the  frontier  commiMioii  in  Bessarabia 
lod  AnneniA,  Mt  home  for  Cbina.  He 
wia  present  at  the  aack  and  bnraing  of  tbe 
Summer  Palace  at  Pddn,  and  tbere  or 
thereabonta  he  remained  aa  Commanding 
Engineer  till  tiie  spring  of  1862,  and  gained 
great  knowledge  of  the  conutry  and  the 
pacfla  When  the  Taipings  grew  troable- 
■ome  at  Shanghai,  Gordon  was  appointed 
to  the  district  command.  He  drore  them 
liODi  the  neighbourhood ;  and  then^niet 
for  a  few  months — employed  his  time  in 
nrrejing  a  thirty  mile  radina  roand  the 
port  EreiytownandTilli^inthatradiaB, 
and  we  dare  say  every  creek  and  path  in 
(hat  flat  network  of  paths  and  creeks, 
became  known  to  bim,  utd  the  knowledge 
was  preaently  of  the  ntmoet  valoe. 

The  Shanghai  tndara  had  commissioned 
two  American  adventoiers,  Wud  and 
Bugovine,  to  raise  a  foreign  force  fbr 
deCuiee  against  the  rebels.  Ward  was 
kObd,  and  Btngevine  bein^  cashiered  for 
comiA  practices,  the  British  Governor 
was  aaked  to  provide  a  captaia.  The  dioice 
fUl  on  Gwdon.  He  did  not  nuh  npon 
his  task,  however,  Jint  asked  that  he 
mig^t  first  finish  hit  thirty  mile  sorvey, 
u  it  woold  be  of  the  ntmost  service  in  the 
campugn.  This  granted,  ibo  temporary 
command  was  given  to  Captain  Holland, 
c^  the  Marines.  This  officer  was  over- 
confident and  ill-informed ;  he  was  severely 
defeated  in  an  attack  on  the  rebel  city  of 
Tattsan.  The  Taipings  triumphed  over  the 
"foreign  devils,"  and  Mr.  Hake  gives  a 
mrioos  account  of  the  tettle,  written  by 
one  of  the  principal  wangi  or  warrior- 
chiefs.  The  reenlt  waa  that  Gordon  left 
his  survey  nnfinialied,  and  liaitened  to  the 
head  of  tia  Ever  Victoriooa  Army. 

He  determined  to  strike  at  the  heart  of 
the  rebellion,  and  decided  instantly  npon 
a  complete  change  of  tactics.  Petty  ope- 
rations, confined  to  a  thirty  mUe  radius, 
gave  place  to  a  large  strategio  plan,  which 
involved  the  captnre  of  a  great  number  of 
rebel  posta,  ending  with  the  great  city  of 
Soochow,  the  fall  of  which  would  crash  the 
Taipings,  and  ensure  the  ultimate  sur- 
render of  '  Nanking.  In  a  tew  days 
be  moved  (by  two  steamera)  about  one 
Aoosand  men  to  Fushan,  on  the  southern 
bank  of  the  Yangtze  estna^.  He 
linded  onder  cover  of  an  imperial  foroe  en- 
trenched near  by,  and,  watched  by  a  la^e 
body  of  Taipings,  reached  Fnshan  on 
Apnl  3rd,  1663,  and  attacked  forthwith. 
A  amart  action  ended  in  evacuation  bv  the 


rebels ;  thna  Fushan  was  gained,  and 
Chonzu,  a  loyal  city  hard  pressed,  tea 
miles  inland,  was  relieved.  The  mandarina 
at  the  latter  city  received  Gordon  and  his 
officers  in  state.  Leaving  three  hundred  men 
in  the  stockade,  the  young  commander 
returned  to  headquartera  at  Sung  Kiang. 
Here  he  set  to  work  to  discipline  his  army, 
which  was  terribly  disorgwised  and  de- 
moralieed.  Under  Boigevine  and  Word  it 
was  oostomaiy  to  bargain  for  the  perform- 
ance of  ^edal  service,  reward  being  fnll 
licence  to  loot  a  fallen  city.  Gordon  estab- 
liabed  regnUr  pay  on  a  liberal  scale,  and 
broke  the  habit  of  plunder.  His  force, 
tliree  or  four  thousand  starong,  oonaisted 
of  infantry  and  artillery :  tbe  in»ntry  being 
armed  with  smooth-bora  moskete,  save  a 
chosen  few  who  were  entrusted  with 
Enfletd  rifles.  The  rank  and  file  were 
Chinese;  the  officera  all  foreign,  and 
mostly  adventurers — brave,  reckless,  quar- 
relsome; The  artillery — ei^e  and  field 
alike— was  good  j  the  equipment  of  it,  and 
transport,  and  general  provision  for  rapid 
tnoveownt,  were  complete ;  wherein  we 
see  Uie  bnun  of  the  tme  commander.  His 
army  organised,  his  ateamers  and  gun- 
boats ready,  Gordon  was  prepared  to  take 
the  field. 

A  line  drawn  on  the  map  from  Taitsan 
to  Soochow  will  paaa  through  Quinaan. 
These,  the  three  leading  strongholds  of  the 
rebels,  were  connected  by  a  road.  Before 
the  end  of  April,  Gordon  started  with  his 
little  force  to  Quinson,  the  oentre  of  the 
three  centres,  and,  therefore,  the  strategic 
key  of  the  situation.  On  his  way,  how- 
ever, he  heard  that  the  rebel  commander 
at  Taitaan  hod  played  a  terrible  trick 
on  the  Imperial  forces.  This  treacherous 
rebel-chief  made  propoaals  of  sorrender  to 
Governor  Li  Hung  Chang,  the  Bismarck  of 
Otiina,  as  he  has  been  oalled,  and  accordingly 
a  native  force  was  sent  to  takeover  the  place. 
That  force  was  treacherously  imprisoned, 
and  two  hnndred  men  were  beheaded.  On 
hearing  this,  Gordon  instantly  changed  his 
plan,  and  marched  rapidly  on  Taitsan.  The 
rebel  force  numbered  ten  thousand,  of  whom 
a  fifth  were  picked  warriors,  with  several 
English,  French,  and  American  renegades 
working  the  guns.  Gordon's  army  num- 
bered three  Uiousand  of  all  arms.  He 
laid  si^  to  the  place  at  once.  The  out- 
lying stockades  fell  immediately ;  he  then 
seized  the  bridges  of  the  main  canal ;  and, 
working  round  out  of  gunshot,  captured  the 
forts  protecting  the  Quinaan  toad,  and  so 
isolated  the  town.     He  opened  fire  at  six 


25i     (Febniu;  S,  13S1.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUNT. 


handred  yardi;  in  two  honn  the  walla 
were  breached ;  the  moat  was  then  bridged 
with  ^nnboatB,  and  the  etormera  under 
Oaptain  B^nnen  croaeed  to  the  attack  A 
tremendoos  conflict  ensaed ;  fire  -  balls 
pelted  the  bridge,  bnlleta  th«  colamn, 
which,  however,  held  ita  way  into  the 
breach,  where  it  was  met  and  repalsed. 
Then  Gordon  bombarded  the  breach  for 
twenty  minstes;  once  more  the  stormert 
charged,  the  breach  wu  crowned,  the  city 
von ;  and  in  their  hurry  to  escape  the 
enemy  trampled  each  other  to  death. 
Gordoo'e  tooops  had  broken  mle,  and 

!>landflred.  He  pnniahed  them  by  maroh- 
Dg  Btnight  to  the  siege  of  Qainnn  bsforv 
they  conld  sell  Uieir  loot  At  Qoinaui 
OordoD  ordered  the  mandarine  to  IVont  the 
w«lla  with  strong  stockades,  and  man  them 
with  their  own  troops,  whilst  he  marched 
his  own  men  back  to  headquarters  to  reor- 
ganbe.  There  he  complained,  in  &  general 
order,  of  laxity  amongst  the  ofScers ;  and 
to  improTe  the  force,  filled  vacancies  whh 
certain  officers  of  the  Ninety-ninth  Begi- 
meiit,  who  bad  been  ^owed  to  Tolturteer. 
But  when  starting  again  for  QoitisaD,  his 
majors  struck  for  increased  pay.  Qordon 
refused  point-blank.  They  resigned,  with 
a  request  that  they  should  bo  allowed  to 
serve  on  the  peni^g  expedition.  Their 
red^ations  were  accepted,  their  services 
decUned.  Hie  majors,  finding  there  was 
"  only  one  commander  in  that  army,"  sub- 
mitted. 

The  story  ot  the  capture  of  Quinsan  is  a 
sort  of  wonder.  Thejplaee,  as  we  have  said, 
was  the  key  to  the  military  situation ;  it  was 
captured  in  the  most  brilliant  and  original 
maimer  —  particulars  of  which,  however, 
must  be  Bought  in  Mr.  Hde's  paees.  It  be- 
came theheaaquartraaof  theEver Tictorioua 
Army,  achange  which  caused  a  mutiny;  fm 
at  Qoinsan  the  men  conld  not  do  as  they  did 
at  Sung  Eiang— sell  their  loot  The  artil- 
lery renised  to  fall  in,  and  threatened  to 
blow  all  the  officers  to  pieces,  of  which 
Gordon  was  informed  by  written  proclama- 
tion. The  non-oommissioned  officers  were 
the  inatigaton ;  he  called  them  up,  and 
asked  who  wrote  the  proclamation.  They 
professed  entire  ignorance.  Gordon  replied 
that  one  in  every  five  would  be  shot.  They 
groaned,  and  Gordon  noticing  a  corporu 
who  groaned  loader  and  longer  than  the 
rest,  wiUi  his  own  hand  dragged  him  from 
the  ranks,  and  ordered  two  soldiers  stand- 
ing by  to  shoot  him  on  the  spot  It  was 
done.  Gordon  confined  the  rest  for  one 
hour,  telHng  them  that  within  that  time 


if  the  men  had  not  paraded,  and  if  the 
writer's  name  were  not  given  up,  eveiy 
fifth  man  among  ^em  would  be  shot 
The  men  "  fell  in " ;  the  writer  of  Uie 
proclamation  was  disckeed ;  he  was  the 
executed  corporal. 

Quinsan  captured,  it  remuned  to  invest 
Soochow,  which  means  that  a  number  of 
minor  places  clustering  round  it  had  fint 
to  be  carried.  But  Q«rdon  was  hampered 
and  disheartened — even  to  the  point  of 
throwing  up  his  command — ^by  the  bad 
faitii  of  the  Ohineae  authorities,  who  bn^ 
their  promise  to  pay  his  tooopa  regnlarly , 
and  even  fired  on  tiiem  oeoaaionally  oy  way 
of  proring  their  sense  of  hnmoor.  Bat 
Gordon  lud  buely  reaobed  Shanghai,  M 
of  his  determinanon  to  reaign,  than  he 
heard  that  Buigevine,  whose  intiWDs  snd 
blaster  never  ceased,  had  cdleoteda  well- 
armed  band  of  foreign  rowdies,  dedued 
for  the  Taipings,  and  seiEed  a  Chinese  war- 
steamer,  in  wMeh  he  and  his  desperadoai 
made  their  way  into  Soochow,  In  this 
Qordon  recognised  the  birth  of  another 
and  more  de^erate  phase  of  th»  cam- 
paign. To  resign  was  to  abandon  a  Bttffe^ 
ing  people  not  merely  to  the  Tsipingi, 
whose  dominion  was  one  of  blight  and 
murder,  but  to  a  most  unscrupulous  and 
violent  filibuster.  Moreover,  Burgevine 
bad  commanded  Gordon's  own  troops,  had 
plundered  treasuries  and  temples  with 
them ;  and  they,  with  i»eBent  pay  in 
aiTear,and  future  prospect  (^unlimited  loot, 
were  ready  to  desert  to  tiie  enemy.  Under 
these  conditiouB,  Gordon  was  bard  pressed 
by  the  rebels  at  Qoinsan  and  Eahpoa  "  I 
am,"  he  writes,  "in  a  very  isolated  podticHi, 
and  have  to  do  most  of  the  work  myself." 
He  was,  in  tact,  in  the  hands  of  traiton, 
and  coold  trust  no  ona  Desperate  fighting 
continQed,  and  some  neat  neeotiatioitf 
wi^  Bunravine's  "scum  of  Shanghai," 
which  ended  in  their  defection  from  the 
rebel  cause ;  and  in  the  latter,  Gordon's 
great  character  diines  in  a  curious  way. 
The  chiob  in  Soochow  suspected  Bui- 
gevine,  and  Imprisoned  him;  whereupw 
GordoD  wrote  b^ging  them  to  spare  his 
life.  Yet  all  this  while  Burgevme  ma 
planning  to  out  up  Gordon,  and'would  have 
Buoceeded  but  for  a  companion,  not  len 
desperate,  but  infinitely  more  honest  In 
the  multitudinoas  engagements,  too,  Gordon 
bad  always  to  be  in  we  front,  and  ofUa 
to  lead  in  person.  He  would  take  one  or 
other  of  his  officers  by  the  arm,  and  lead 
him  into  the  thickest  of  the  fire.  He  wu 
never  armed,  and  caniad  only  a  little  cant^ 


duilM  DldkaM.) 


EECBEATIONS  OF  MEN  OF  LETTEBS.   [ftbnw  8,1884.]     256 


vhieb'  the  natiires  colled  "Gordon's  magic 
wind  of  victory." 

Two  heroic  attacka  and  some  carioas 
iiegotiation  ouded  in  the  ctpituUtioD  of 
Scwchow,  vheienpon  occmred  one  of  the 
most  tremeiidoiis  eventa  in  Grordon's  career. 
The  ci^tare  of  Soochow,  as  we  bare  ex- 
gained,  iraa  tlie  vital  blow  to  tlie  rebellioa 
Tiw  fighting  which  made  it  possible  had 
all  been  planned  by  Gordon,  and  executed 
by  Gordon's  three  or  four  thousand  troops ; 
;et  no  sooner  was  the  end  acbioved  than 
(ha  Chineaa  authorities  betrayed  him. 
lliey  ref  OBed  to  pay  his  troopa ;  the  rebel 
vugs,  or  warrior-kuigs,  for  whose  lirea  he 
hid  pleaded,  were  treuheroosly  murdered, 
ud  the  fallen  city  waa  given  over  to  be 
looted  by  the  Imperial  troopa  of  Qovernoi 
Li  Hong  Ohaag. 

The  murder  of  the  five  kings,  with  ite 
accompanimentB  of  treachery  and  cold- 
blooded horror,  made  a  great  impreaaion 
in  this  country  at  the  time.  The  faddiata 
chai^  Gordon  with  the  deed;  but  the 
fsddiste  vera  confuted  by  the  facts 
elicited  in  an  official  enquiry.  Gordon,  as 
Te  have  said,  pleaded  for  the  lives  of  those 
men,  and  he  was  promised  th^  should  be 
honourably  dealt  with.  We  see  him  enter 
the  fallen  city  of  Soochow,  alone,  and 
innocent  of  wh^  waa  being  done;  the 
gates  are  shut  upon  him  by  the  Taiplngs ; 
he  is  a  prisoner  for  twenty-four  hoora 
among  the  thouaanda  of  men  he  had 
conquered.  He  eecapea — to  find  the  city 
■acked,  and  to  weep  over  the  mangled 
bodies  of  the  kings  for  whose  safety  he 
had  pledged  himMlf  For  the  first  time 
daring  the  war  he  armed — armed  and  went 
fotth  to  seek  Li,  the  tisitor.  There  is 
not  die  least  doubt  that  if  he  had  met 
liii  enemy  he  would  hare  shot  him  on 
the  apotk  Bat  Li  had  been  informed  of 
Gordon's  terrible  anger,  and  hid.  For 
many  dafs  Gordon  vas  "  hot  and  instant 
in  ha  tntoe";  hut  in  Tain.  Back  he  came 
to  Qoinsaa  with  his  troopa,  whom  he  had 
ordered  to  assist  in  the  pursuit,  and  there 
irith  deep  emotion  read  to  them  an  account 
of  what  had  happened. 

The  massacre  placed  him  in  unpar^eled 
difficolty.  On  the  one  hand  the  clamoor 
of  Burope  to  desist,  on  the  other  the  call 
of  his  conscience  and  the  mute  appeal  of 
the  people  to  finish  the  work  he  had 
bf^;nn  and  so  briUiantiy  carried  on.  "  To 
waver  was  to  fail"  He  ignored  the 
world's  opinion,  and  resnmed  command. 
Some  "  final  victories "  crashed  the 
rebeUion  for  ever ;    the  nrovinoes   were 


restored  to  peace  and  prosperity  ;  the 
empire  was  rescued  from  an  age  of  uvil 
war.  The  deetiny  of  China  had  depended 
on  him,  and  he  saved  itk 

Even  to  this  day  China,  the  treacherous, 
the  matter-of-fact,  the  mercenary,  is  grateful, 
as  weU  she  may  be.  The  campaign  against 
the  Taipings  is  oi^e  of  the  great  chapters 
in  militaiy  history ;  the  part  that  Gordon 
played  in  it  is  altogether  singular  and 
heroic. 


RECREATIONS  OF  MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

LiTERAJtY  men,  as  a  rule,  do  not  devote 
enough  time  to  outdoor  recreation.  They 
are  eloquent  advocates  of  it  in  others.  They 
lay  down  rules  for  the  guidance  of  the 
public,  but  do  not  practise  what  they 
preach.  Indeed,  the  qaestion  of  recreatioa 
is  very  much  like  the  qaestion  of  stimu- 
lants. It  is  impossible  to  lay  down  rales  for 
brain-workera,  because  it  ia  impossible  to 
know  the  temperament  and  oircnmstancea 
of  each  individual  case ;  but  the  conditions 
under  which  most  literary  men  work  prevent 
them  from  taking  even  a  little  recreation. 
Their  toil  is  pretty  equal  to  that  of  the 
galley-slave,  as  Mr.  Clark  Russell  says,  in 
these  days  of  severe  competition,  and  some 
of  them,  in  consequence,  bleak  down  befcore 
their  time.  But  many  coses  might  be  cited 
showing  that  excessive  mental  work  is  not 
hostile  to  health.  The  moat  striking  ia 
that  of  the  octogenarian  scientist,  the 
Abb^  Moigno,  who  seems  to  have  chained 
himself  to  lus  desk.  "  I  have  published," 
he  says,  "already  a  hundred  and  fifty 
volumes,  email  and  large.  I  scarcely  ever 
leave  my  work-table,  and  never  take 
walking  exercise,  yet  I  have  not  ex- 
perienced any  trace  of  headache  or  bram- 
weariness,  or  constipation,  or  any  other 
trouble."  This  case  is  no  doubt  excep- 
tional, though  the  famous  lexicographer, 
Littr^,  could  put  in  a  strong  claim  for  the 
non-necessity  of  rest  For  at  least  thirteen 
yeors,  whilst  he  was  engaged  upon  his 
dictionary,  he  never  allowed  himself  more 
than  five  hours'  rest  out  of  the  twenty- 
four,  and  he  worked  Sunday  and  week-d&y 
alike  all  the  year  round.  Even  whilst 
order  was  being  restored  in  his  bedroom, 
which  also  served  as  his  workshop,  he 
took  some  work  downatura.  In  the  in- 
tervals thus  employed  he  composed  the 
preface  to  his  dictionary.  The  great  age 
which  he  attained — ^he  was  eighty  when  he 
died — is  a  striking  proof  of  the  enormous 


266 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


unonnt  of  bnin-work  it  takes  to  break 
down  a  good  oonstitntion,  bat  the  valne  of 
the  teatimonr  ta  lessened  b;  the  fact  that 
OD  the  completion  of  his  dictionary  he  vat 
left  in  a  very  feeble  etate  of  healtk 

It  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  the  men 
who  can  work  onintermptedly  for  years  are 
few  in  namber,  and  that  those  who  neglect 
recreation  pay  the  penalty  either  in  ueep- 
lessness,  in  a  long  illness,  or  in  an  early 
death.  It  was  want  of  recreation  whicA 
killed  Bayard  Taylor.  His  anceston 
were  long-Jired,  and  nature  had  given  him 
a  stalwart  frame ;  bat  the  poeseeaion  of 
extraordinary  strength  led  him  to  n^ect 
the  precantions  iul<rated  by  his  leas- 
favonred  bre^u-ea  He  did,  it  is  t$ii, 
the  work  of  two  able-bodied  men  every 
day.  In  -consequence,  his  health  gave 
way,  and  he  was  cut  off  at  the  compara- 
tively early  age  of  fifty-three.  Hagh 
Uillei's  death  was  brought  about  by  a 
self-infiicted  blow,  when  reason  reeled 
under  tb^  exertion  of  an  overworked 
brain.  Bosetti,  after  his  w^'s  deatji, 
shut  himself  up  alone  amid  medieeval  relics 
in  a  large  gloomy  honsa  Instead  of  taking 
daily  exercise  or  travelling,  he  sought 
reti^  from  grief  and  BleepleesDeaa  in  chloral, 
which  becune  hie  tm"H»i-  friend.  Such 
cases  might  be  multiplied  indefinitely,  and 
Aimish  a  strong  plea  for  the  neee6dl7  of 
bodily  exercise. 

Anthony  TroUope's  recreation  took  a  fozai 
not  very  common  among  men  of  letters. 
For  many,  yean  of  bis  life  he  gave  a  large 
part  of  his  time  to  the  recreations  of  a 
country  gentleman.  He  loved  to  gallop 
across  country,  and  to  follow  the  hounds. 
Hunting,  he  said,  was  one  of  the  great 
joys  of  his  life,  but  he  followed  tiie 
pursuit  under  very  great  disadvantage^ 
"I  am  too  blind  to  see  the  hounds 
turning,"  he  confessed,  "  and 
therefoifl  tell  whether  the  fox  has  gone 
this  way  or  that.  Indeed,  all  the  notice  I 
take  of  hounds  is  not  to  ran  over  them. 
My  eyes  are  so  constituted  that  I  cannot 
see  the  nature  of  a  fence.  I  either  foUosr 
someone  or  ride  at  it  with  the  full  convic- 
tion that  I  may  be  going  into  a  horse-pond 
or  a  gravel-pit  I  have  jumped  into  both 
one  and  the  other."  He  regarded  it  as  a 
duty  to  ride  to  hounds,  and  for  thirty  yearn 
he  performed  this  duty.  Mr.  Trollope's 
sporting  proclivities,  as  a  matter  of  coarse, 
displeasea  Mr.  E.  A.  Freeman,  the  enemy  of 
field-sports  in  general  "  Was  it  possible," 
asked  Mr.  Freeman,  qnotuig  from  Cicwo, 
"  that  any  educated  man  should  find  delight 


in  BO  eoane  a  porraitt" 
educated  men  have  foond 
aportfl  neither  elevating  nor  gentJe.  Was 
not  cook-fighting  the  favourite  diveraon  of 
B<^er  Asdiaml  It  is  tme  the  practice 
was  oondemned  by  some  of  his  admiren, 
not  becanse  it  was  cruel,  but  became  it 
nnsoholarly.  "  Few,  if  any,  in  the 
sixteenth  century,"  wrote  Hartley  Cole- 
ridge, "  condemned  any  sport  becsoM  it 
involved  the  pain  or  destaruction  of  animili, 
and  none  would  call  the  pastims  of 
monarchs  low.  At  a  more  advanced  sge, 
Isaak  Walton,  when  in  describing  the  bat 
method  of  stitching  a  frog's  uigh  to  s 
pike-hook,  cautions  you  '  to  oae  him  ii  if 
yoa  loved  him,'  never  suspected  that  the 
time  woold  come  when  nis  instrurtioD 
would  expose  him  to  a  ohai^  ot  cruelty, 
of  which  there  was  not  a  particle  in  Us 
whole  composition,  or  in  Rc^er  Asehsm't 
either.  Angling  is  doabtleas  moch  fitter 
recreation  for  a  '  contemplative  man,' 
besides  being  much  cheaper  for  a  poor 
man  than  cock-fighting ;  bat  it  is  equally 
opposite  to-  the  poet's  rale,  which  bids 

i: 

' '  NsTer  to  bl«nd  our  ideasare  or  our  raids 


RECREATIONS  OF  MEli  OF  LEOTEBS.    [r.braurs,uu.i    267 


d  self -congratulation,  a  little  tickling 
NtfdftUer;,  in  the  idea  that  while  ;oa 
m  pkuing  aad  MmwJDg  yoonelf,  joa 
m  wrionaly  contribating  to  the  future 
mUm  of  tiie  eoimtry."  The  Amerieao 
hittorian,  G«oi^  Bancroft,  finds  equal 
plsMure  and  relief  in  cardenin^  Hia 
girdenat  Newport  is  said  to  contain  every 
nmty  of  rose  worth  raiaing,  and  although 
hs  kaepg  a  gardener,  hs  underatands  ail 
about  their  care  himself,  and  engagee  in 
the  work  whenever  he  foelfl  inclined.  But 
hit  chief  fonn  of  recreation  is  horeebaok 
riding    He  is  still  engtged  in  revieing  the 

Cwork  of  hia  life,  his  taatory  of  th« 
id  States,  and  stall  bc«;ini  his  ■w<ak  at 
five  o'clock.  After  a  light  breakfast  he 
rannaes  his  work,  which  he  conttnoes  until 
one  or  two  o'docV.  At  four  he  is  mounted 
on  his  horse,  and  usually  spends  three 
boors  in  the  saddle.  Although  in  his 
e^y-fonrth  year,  be  declares  t£at  be  has 
vigour  eaough  to  ride  all  day,  and  he 
ittributes  it  entirely  to  the  way  in  whi<di 
he  reeulates  his  work  and  his  reoreation. 
Uiuortonstely,  everyauthor  cannot  afford 
to  keep  a  horse,  but  tiiose  who  cannot,  may 
find  consolation  in  the  medical  declaration 
that  walking  is  the  beet  form  of  exercise. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  most  of  our  best- 
bnowa  aathoTB  have  been  satisfied  with 
this  form  of  recreation,  which  ia  not  with- 
out its  advantages.  It  ie.  safe,  as  well  as 
fsTourable  to  contemplation.  Wordsworth 
composed  his  verses  whilst  walking,  oarried 
them  in  his  memory,  and  got  his  wife  or 
daughter  to  write  them  down  on  hie  return. 
When  a  visitor  at  Bydal  Mount  asked  to 
tee  tJie  poet's  study,  the  maid  is  reported 
to  have  shown  him  a  little  room  containing 
a  handful  of  boola  lying  about  on  the 
table,  sofa,  and  shelves,  and  to  have  re- 
marked: "This  is  the  master's  library 
where  be  keqis  his  books,  but,"  returning 
to  Ae  door,  "  his  study  is  out  of  doors, ' 
whereupon  she  curtsied  the  visitor  into 
the  garden  again,  Landor'also  used  to 
compose  whibt  walking,  and  therefore 
always  preferred  to  walk  alone.  Buckle 
walked  every  morning  fer  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  breakfast,  and  said  that  having 
adopted  this  custom  upon  medical  advice, 
it  had  become  necessary.  "  Heat  or  cold, 
Eunshinfl  or  rain,  made  no  difference  to  him 
dUier  for  that  morning  stroll,  or  for  the 
afternoon  walk  which  had  its  appointed 
time  and  length,  and  which  he  would 
rarely  allow  himself  to  curtail,  either 
for  bUBioese  or  for  visits."  Equally 
carefal  was  Lonsfellow  in  the  nreservation 


of  his  health.  He  persisted  in  out- 
door exercise,  even  when  tlie  weather 
was  the  reverse  of  pleasant.  Both  in 
the  spring  and  autumn,  when  raw  and 
blustering  winds  prevailed,  he  never 
omitted  his  daily  walk,  though  he  might 
go  no  farther  than  the  bounds  of  his 
garden.  Darwin  was  at  one  time  fond  of 
horseback  exercise,  but  after  the  death  of 
his  favourite  horse,  some  ten  or  twelve 
years  ago,  he  never  rode  ^ain,  but  pre- 
ferred to  walk  round  his  garden,  or  along 
the  pleasant  footpaths  through  the  lovely 
fields  of  Kent. 

Walking  was  Macaolay's  favourite 
recreation,  but,  like  Leigh  Hunt,  he  seems 
to  have  been  unable  to  sever  himself  from 
his  books.  He  imce  said  t^at  he  would  like 
nothing  so  well  as  to  bury  hinnelf  in  some 
great  ubrary,  and  never  pass  a  waking 
hour  without  a  book  before  him.  Certainly 
he  oould  never  walk  without  his  book. 
"He  walked  about  London  reading;  ha 
rgamed  through  the  lanes  of  Surrey 
reading ;  and  even  the  new  and  surprising 
spectacle  of  the  sea — so  suggestive  of 
reverie  and  brooding  thought — could  not 
seduce  him  from  his  books,"  Macaulay 
reminds  us  of  Thirlwall,  who,  whether 
eating,  walking,  or  riding,  was  never  to 
be  seen  without  a  book. 

The  favourite  recreatbn  of  Charles 
Dickens  was  walking.  By  day,  Pro- 
f^Mor  Ward  points  out,  Dickens  found  in 
the  London  thoroughfares  stimulative 
variety;  and  by  night,  in  seasons  of 
intellectual  excitement,  he  found  in  these 
same  streets  the  refreshment  of  isolation 
among  crowds.  "  But  the  walks  he  loved 
best  were  long  stretches  on  the  cliffs,  or 
BMOse  the  downs  by  the  sea,  where, 
fellowing  the  track  of  his  '  breathers,'  one 
half  expects  to  meet  him  coming  along 
against  the  wind  at  four  and  a  half  miles 
on  hour,  the  veir  embodiment  of  energy 
and  brimful  of  life." 

Corlyle  usually  took  a  vigorous  walk.of 
several  miles,  enough  to  get  himself  into  a 
^w,  before  he  commenced  the  day's 
labour.  Whether  the  spirit  moved  him  or 
not,  he  entered  his  workshop  at  ten, 
toiled  until  three,  when  he  answered  bis 
letters,  saw  friends,  read,  and  sometimes 
had  a  second  walk.  Yictor  Hugo  Iotsb  to 
ride  outeide  an  omnibus ;  Carlylo  was  food 
of  riding  inside.  Apparently,  neither 
walking  in  the  streets,  nor  ndtng  in  a 
rickety,  bone-shaking  omnibus,  uded 
Owlyle's  digestion;  for  a  more  dyspeptic 
and    ill-natured    author    never  Iweathed. 


(PcbnuoT  i,  IBM.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


lOoDdwiMtii 


It  WM  he  iriio  called  Charles  Lamb  and 
Mary  a  "  very  aorry  pair  of  phenomena, " 
and  proQoanced  hia  talk  "  contemptibly 
small,  indicating  wondrona  ignorance 
and  BhallowneBB."  Never  did  men  of 
inch  dissimilar  tastes  meet  before ;  bnt 
they  had  one  taste  in  common,  and  that 
Via  walking,  for  which  Lamb  oonfessed  a 
restless  impnlae.  How  he  loved  London ! 
Thoagh  he  liked  to  plnck  buttercups  and 
daisies  at  times  in  the  country,  his 
sympathies  were  entirely  with  London. 
Like  Dr.  Johnson,  he  believed  that  when 
a  man  was  Mred  of  London  he  was  tired  of 
life,  and  he  seems  never  to  have  grown 
weary  of  aomding  the  prases  of  that 
wonderiiil  city,  "London,  whose  dirtieat 
arab-fraqnented  alley,  and  her  lowest- 
bowing  tradesman,"  he  told  Wordsworth, 
he  wonld  not  exchange  for  SMddaw  and 
Hdvellyn,  James  Walter,  and  the  parson 
into  the  bargain.  He  loved  not  only  the 
pnot-aht^,  the  dieatres,  the  bookstalls, 
bnt  the  crowds  of  hnman  feoes.  "The 
wonder  of  these  sight*,"  ho  says,  "  impels 
me  into  night-walks  about  her  crowded 
streets,  and  I  often  shed  tears  in  the  motley 
Strand,  from  fulness  of  joy  at  so  mach 
life."  But  his  walks  along  that  lively 
thoroughfare  and  elsewhere  were  not  with- 
out their  drawbacks.  "I  cannot  walk 
home  from  office,"  ho  said,  "hut  some 
offlcioos  friend  offers  hia  nnweloome ' 
conrtedes  to  accompany  me."  In  manyof 
his  letters  he  cora^ains  "of  being  a  little 
overcompanied,"  and  the  only  way  of 
escape  from  his  tormentors  was  to  wdk 
into  the  country.  He  was  not  altogether 
free  irom  them  at  Edmonton  and  Enfield. 
He  seems  to  have  been  as  fond  of  walking 
as  Scott  was  of  riding,  and  the  prospect  of 
an  early  release  from  the  dmdgeiy  of  the 
desk  tempted  him  to  enlarge  upon  the 
pleasure  tus  favourite  pursuit  would  bring 
him.  He  had  thought,  in  a  green  old  age, 
of  retiring  to  Ponder's  End,  "  emblematic 
name,  how  beautiful !  in  the  Ware  Road, 
there  to  have  made  up  my  accounts  with 
heaven  and  the  company,  toddling  between 
it  and  Cheshnnt,  anon  stretching,  on  some 
fine  Isaak  Walton  morning,  to  Hoddesden 
or  Amwell,  careless  as  a  beggar,  but  walking, 
walking  even  tDl  I  fairly  walked  myself 
off  my  legs,  dying  walking ! "  Three  years 
later  he  was  released  from  the  drudgery  of 
the  desk,  and  he  then  tells  ns  that  "  Mary 
walks  her  twelve  miles  a  day  some  days, 
and  I  my  twenty  on  others."  The  change 
worked  admirably,  hut  only  for  a  time. 
"  The  spur  and  discipline  of  regular  hours 


being  taken  away,"  remarks  tin  Ber.  Alfred 
Ainger,  "  Lamb  had  to  make  occupation, 
or  else  to  find  amusement  in  its  stead  He 
had  always  been  foijd  of  walking,  ud  he 
now  tried  the  experiment  of  a  eompamaB 
in  the  shape  of  a  dog,  Dash,  that  Hood  had 
given  him.  Bnt  the  dog  proved  unmaDsge- 
able,  and  was  fond  of  mnning  away  dom 
any  other  street  than  those  mtended  b; 
his  master,  and  Lamb  had  to  part  with  Mm 
a  year  or  two  later  in  despair."  Lamb's 
wish  that  he  might  die  walking  was  ahnoet 
realised.  Whilst  taking  his  daily  momiDg 
walk  on  the  London  road,  as  far  as  the 
inn  where  3cim  GiljHu's  ride  is  tktmei, 
he  stumbled  against  a  stone,  Idl,  and 
slightly  cot  his  face.  Erysipelas  set  is, 
and  Lamb  died  after  a  day  or  two's  illoMS. 
The  interest  of  a  walk  in  the  country  i> 
considerably  enhanced  hy  a  taste  for 
botany ;  but  literary  men  know  compart- 
tivdy  little  of  the  scieece.  Botanisiiig 
was  John  Stuart  Ifill'e  favourite  reereatiou. 
"  His  taste  for  plaDt^ollecting,"  says  Dr, 
Bain,  "  began  m  France,  under  Oeoree 
Bentham,  and  was  continued  through  Hff. 
It  served  bim  in  those  limited  ezcnrsioDB 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  London,  that  he 
faabitnslly  kept  up  the  needs  of  recreation. 
I  may  be  mistaken,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
this  taste  belongs  to  a  character  joyons  by 
nature,  and,  therefore,  easily  amused,  or 
noting  more  itimulatfaig  is  to  be 


RecHitly,  a  new  fotm  of  exercise  hsi 
been  commended  to  brain-workers  by  Dr. 
Richardson,  who  contends  that  tricycling 
will  enaUe  them  to  obtain  tJie  change  of 
tbongbt  and  scene  which  they  need. 
Tricycles  are,  unfortunately,  awkward 
machines  to  stow  away,  and  cannot  wiUi 
safety  be  used  after  dark,  Stobling  ac- 
commodation for  them  is  hard  to  find  in 
London,  as  welt  as  dear,  and  they  an 
scarcely  suitable  ornaments  for  a  drawing- 
room,  or  even  a  back  parlonr.  Dr.  Richard- 
son stables  his  machine  in  the  lobby  of  bis 
house  in  Manchester  Square  An  arrange- 
ment of  this  kind  is  convement  for  UB 
rider,  but  wonld  be  tolerated  by  few  wives. 
As  everybody  knows,  the  learned  doctor  is 
a  good  deal  heavier  than  Fred  Archer,  yet 
he  can  travel  with  ease  fifty  miles  a  day  on 
his  tricycle,  and,  therefore,  he  is  enthud- 
astic  in  his  praise  of  tricycling.  The 
popularity  of  the  pursuit  is  shown  in  tbe 
crowded  state  of  all  the  roads  out  of 
London  through  eight  or  nine  months  of 
the  year,  and  is  becoming  popnlar  with 
literatT  men. 


EEOLAIMED  BY  BIGHT. 


[YtbnuiT  S,  U81.1      259 


Some  men,  howerw,  need  auther  a,  hone 
nor  ft  teicyole.  They  we  so  ezceptitmallf 
flonit^ted  aa  to  be  ftbl«  to  do  with  very 
little  oatdoor  recrefttion.  Th^  find  rest 
in  chftoga  of  occnpation  or  of  ntbjeot  Sir 
John  Labbock,  for  initance,  banker  and 
politidftD,  oocaples  hie  hoars  of  reoreation 
m  stodTing  the  habita  of  ants  and  bees. 
Soatbajr  f<mnd  recreation  in  changing  the 
rabjectof  atndf.  He  had  siz  tables  in  his 
libru-j — one  for  poetry,  one  for  criticism, 
one  for  biography,  and  so  od  ;  and  he  swd 
that  BO  long  as  he  ooold  shift  from  one  to 
the  other,  he  coold  work  for  fifteen  boon  a 
day  easily.  But  if  be  we  ooofinad  to  one 
abject  ha  said  tlut  he  should  liave  broken 
dnrn.  Leigh  Hant  folloved  the  same 
plan.  Sir  Siehard  Alison  dedaied,  with 
much  BTiHinwwni,  that  the  oompoaitiui  of 
firo-andrthirty  lai^  volames  in  leas  than 
ai  many  years,  ainmltcoeoiisly  with  the 
disdiarga  of  ezfaaoatiDg  and  continual 
jadidftl  dittiea,  left  him  at  the  age  of 
Boreaty  nearly  as  strong  as  he  was  at  five- 
and-tweatty.  The  secret  of  this  oircum- 
ttance  was  to  be  found,  he  is  persoaded,  in 
the  dlvwdty  of  the  objects  i^ch  occafjed 
Hm  mind.  Half  of  eaeh  day,  he  says,  ia 
dsToted  to  lav,  and  half  to  Uteratore ;  bat 
his  residence  compelled  him  to  walk  six  or 
eight  mfles  a  day.  Either  tiDgly  would, 
he  considers,  bays  rained  his  health,  or 
terminated  his  life ;  bat  the  two  together 
aared  him.  Becreation  to  an  aotire  mind 
is,  he  points  oat,  to  be  sought  not  so 
mnch  in  rest  as  in  change  of  oceapation. 
"  I  never  fbmid,"  he  adds,  "  that  I  coald  do 
nore,  either  at  law  or  literatare,  by  work- 
ing at  it  alone  the  whole  day  uian  by 
devoting  half  my  time  to  the  other.  The 
fatigue  of  tiie  two  was  quite  different, 
and  neittep  disqoalified  fornndergoing  the 
(^iposite  on&  Often  on  retaming  home 
^tor  sitting  twelve  hoars  in  the  Small 
Driit  Coort,  and  fiad{n|ir  no  alleviation  of 
the  sense  of  Aitigue  by  lying  on  the  sofa,  I 
rose  up  and  said  :'  I  am  too  tired  to  rest '; 
I  most  go  and  write  my  history.' " 


KECLAIMED  BY  EIGHT. 

A  9EORK  IN  FOUK  CIHAPTBItS.  OHAPTER  IIL 
The  dingy  offices  of  Measn.  Quickly 
Brothers  were  in  a  disgy  street  in  the 
neaghbonrhood  of  Finsbury  Square,  and 
jodging  by  the  iq>pearance  of  the  people 
constantly  passing  m  and  out,  it  was  easy 
to  divine  that  the  bnaineas  of  the  firm  waa 
not  what  is  called  higb-claas.  Nor  was 
the  nerson^  amwarance  of  the  occananta  of 


the  nntidy  rooms  calculated  to  alter  this 
opinion.  From  the  head  and  only  enr^ 
viving  partner,  as  he  sat  at  Jiis  paper- 
Btcewn  writing-table  in  the  inner  apartment, 
down  to  the  dirty  little  errand-boy,  perched 
on  a  high  stool  at  a  deak  eatsblisbed  on  the 
landing  oaCaide  the  clerks'  of&ce,  there 
was  a  sordid,  money-grabbing,  hard-dealing 
look  about  everyhaay,  by  do  means  com- 
foFrting  or  reasaoring  to  boaioeas  applicants 
who  might  ha;ppen  to  be,  aa  one  may  say, 
on  the  wrong  nde  of  the  hedge. 

Mr.  James  Quickly,  sole  representative 
of  the  firm,  was  a  tall,  thiu,  bony  man  oi 
sixty,  with  a  bald  head,  frit^ged  with  long 
iron-grey  hair,  and  loingling  witJi  shaggy 
unkempt  whiskers  and  beard  of  the  sune 
doabtfol  hoe.  The  bland,  kindly  tone 
wiuoh  marked  his  speech,  and  tjie  soft 
words  wfainh  it  was  his  costom  to  use,  were 
so  palpably  at  Tariance  with  die  whole 
•■pect  of  the  man,  that  none  bat  the  moat 
inexperienced  could  have  been  deceived  by 
them.  The  effect  of  the  keen,  piercing  eye, 
the  compreased  month,  and  the  cro^  feline 
jaw,  waa  not  to  be  eftaced  by  any  subtlety 
of  manner  or  speech ;  and  when  he  looked 
up  &om  his  desk,  on  the  occasion  when  we 
have  to  make  his  acquaintance,  and  spoke, 
he  su^jested  nothing  so  much  as  a  purring 
but  savage  oat. 

"  A  very  good  day's  work  that  of  yours. 
Master  Mkrtm ;  about  the  beat  yon  ever 
did  in  your  life,  or  ever  will  do,"  he  said, 
addressing  the  flashy-looking  young  man 
who  figured  so  conspicaoasly  la  the  nilway 
jonmey  already  described.  ■ 

"  Yes,"  was  that  individual's  reply,  as 
from  his  stool  at  an  opponte  desk  he 
yawned  indolently,  and  displayed  his 
white  teeth  rather  more  than  usual.  "  Yes, 
J  fiattor  myself  it  was  a  fair  stroke  of 
bosiness,  and  it  makes  good  what  I 
always  say,  that  if  a  fellow  tua  got  his  wits 
about  him,  he  can  easily  combine  boainess 
with  pleasure — that  is,  if  he  goes  upon  my 
iHrinoipIe  of  patting  pleasure  b^ore  business. 
Here  is  an  instance,  as  yoa  moat  admit, 
■nde — if  I  had  not  beoi  np  to  my  own 
little  game  that  aftomoon,  ani,  taking 
French  leave,  cat  the  office  at  three  instead 
of  six  to  go  down  to  that  little  dinner- 
party Tommy  Dowse  had  aaked  me  to  join 
at  his  riverside  residence  at  Beading,  I 
ahoold  not  have  come  acavss  and  spotted 
Mrs.  Margaret  Ketbercombe,  n6e  Boyaton, 
otherwise  Mtb.  John  Crosemore." 

"  Oh,  I  must  admit  yoa  have  reason  in 
what  you  say  so  far,"  replied  the  aocle ; 
"  and  idle  doir  that  von  are.  since  it  is  as  it 


[Febrnuj  1,  1S84.1 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


is,  I  cannot  contradict  you,  only  it  ii 
predons  Incky  for  yon,  tny  boy,  that  it 
nappened  .vb«n  it  did,  for  I  afaould  not 
have  Btood  yonr  goings-on  here  mucii 
longer,  I  can  tell  yoa  Bat  there  1  we  will 
not  Bay  any  more  aboat  that  now;  yoa 
wUI  be  able  to  do  aa  you  like  for  the  fatore, 
and  pretty  ducks  and  drakes  yoa  will  make 
of  yonr  ahare  of  the  money  when  yoa  come 
into  it  I  have  no  doabt  I  Bnt  that  is  no 
affair  of  mine.  It  wiU  not  affect  my  share 
in  the  ^ood-fortone.  A  man  may  do  as  he 
likes  with  his  own.  By  the  way,  jost  let 
us  hare  a  look  at  old  Xethercombe's  will 
We  hare  a  copy  of  it  in  that  box  there.  I 
want  just  to  see  exactly  what  it  aaya 
Bather  hard  lines  to  doom  a  good-looking 
girl  of  two-and'twenty  to  celibacy  for  the 
rest  of  her  life.     Let  as  see." 

Mr.  James  Qaickly  parred,  aa  it  were, 
whilst  slowly  nttering  these  last  words,  aa 
if  the  sympathy  which  they  expressed  mnat 
convince  everybody  of  the  kindness  of  his 
heart.  The  young  man  slipped  off  bit 
stool,  and  doing  his  unde'e  behest,  laid 
before  him  a  legal-lookiDg  sheet  of  foolscap 
docketed,  "  Copy  of  the  last  will  and  testa- 
ment of  Edward  Druce  Nethercombe,  of 
Peckham,  in  the  coonty  of  Surrey,"  etc 

"Ah  yes — here  we  have  it — j'ast  so," 
presently  continued  Mr.  Quickly,  running 
his  eye  rapidly  over  the  p^)er,  and  then 
reading  aloud  :  "  Humph  1  yea ;  last  will 
and  testament  of  me,  Edward  Dmofl 
Nethercombe,'  etc.  Yes,  '  I  hereby  devise 
and  bequeath  tiie  whole  of  my  estate,  real 
and  personal,  to  my  wife,  Margaret,  for  her 
BoIe  use  and  benefit.  I  give  an  annuity  of 
four  hundred  a  year  to  be  paid  out  of  my 
estate  to  her  mother,  Mrs.  Mary  Boyston, 
of  Harwich,  in  the  county  of  Suffolk,'  etc., 
'  and  I  give  an  annui^  of  four  hundred 
poonds  to  be  paid  out  of  my  estate,  to  her 
sister,   Elizabeth  Boyston,   of    the    same 

5 lace ;  and  I  hereby  appoint  my  cousins, 
ames  and  William  Quickly,  solidtors^'  etc., 
'  to  be  executors  and  trustees  of  this  my 
will  But  in  the  event  of  my  wifb, 
Margaret,  marrying  ag^n,  after  my  decease^ 
the  whole  of  my  estate,  with  the  exception 
of  certain  legadea  hereafter  named,  shall  at 
once  revert  to  my  sud  cousins,  James  and 
William,  etc.,  and  the  annuities  above- 
named  shall  cease,  and  bo  longer  be  pud  to 
her  mother,  Mary  Boyston,  or  her  sister 
Elizabeth,'  etc.  Yes — yec,"  went  on  the 
reader  blandly,  "  that  is  the  pith  of  it,  as  I 
thought^  and  although  I  am  ute  last  person 
who  ought  to  grumble,  I  say  again,  th^ 
are  very  hard  conditions." 


"  Hard  conditions,  nnde  I  What  nomeDM 
you  talk!"  broke  in  young  Martin  Quieklf 
half  angrily,  bnt  lau^iing  his  ingoleat 
laugL  "  The  idea  of  a  man  coming  into 
all  that  money,  and  calling  tlia  con- 
ditions hard  1  There  really  is  no  utu- 
lying  some  people,"  he  added;  "bntjtut 
look  here ;  read  the  legacies  oat,  uncle,  w, 
at  any  rate,  read  mine ;  it  is  tiie  pleassntest 
reading  I  ever  found." 

"There's  the  copy;  you  can  reid  for 
yourself,"  replied  the  ddernuoi,  rising  ud 
standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire;  "yoa 
had  better  learn  it  by  heart" 

Mr.  Martin  Quimy  immediately  fol- 
lowed bis  unde'e  advice,  for,  taking  up  the 
paper,  he  read  aloud,  half-adoEen  times 
ovw,  the.deligbtfhl  hat  that^  "  To  my  first 
cousin  once  removed,  ISbrtiQ  Qnii^y,  I 
bequeath  the  sum  of  five  thousand  poiuds 
free  of  probate  doty." 

Meditating  for  a  minntA  or  two,  the  head 
of  the  firm  presently  enquired : 

"  And  you  realty  mean  to  say,  Martin, 
that  you  diseovei«d  Mrs,  Nethercombe, 
alias  CroBsmore,  by  her  VMoe  t " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "I  never  heaid 
sach  a  strange  croak  in  my  life ;  I  shodd 
have  known  it  again  anywhere.  One  of 
the  advantages  of  having  a  good  ear." 

"But  I  did  not  know  you  had  ever 
her,"  said  the  nnde. 

"  Neither  have  I,"  said  the  nephew, ' 
I  only  heard  her  once  before." 

"  And  when  was  that  1"  asked  Mr.  Jamea 
Quickly. 

"  Ob,  about  three  years  ago,  I  BBppose ; 
just  after  she  married  old  Netheroomba 
She  and  he  came  here  on  some  buatusA 
I  was  in  the  outer  office,  and  heard  hei 
talking,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  '  What  a 
wonderful  voice,  I  should  know  tiiat  sgitn 
anywhere ;'  and  I  was  rights  you  sae,  nnclc, 
I  did  know  it  again ;  but  I  did  not  see  her 
any  more  tJian  I  did  the  other  day.  I  wis 
only  told  who  it  was  when  tiiey  were 
gone." 

"  And  you  actaally  remembered  it  again 
after  all  that  time,"  remarked  the  uncle, 
"  merely  from  her  talking  in  that  railway- 
carriage  i " 

"Yes,"  waa  the  answer;  "bat  I  do  not 
know  that  I  shoatd  have  thoiuht  bo  mnch 
of  it  if  she  had  not  swaggered  about  her 
husband  as  she  did ;  that  is  what  eeemed 
to  give  me  the  tip  somehow — all  on  a 
sadden — for  I  have  always  been  on  the 
look-out  for  her  coming  this  caper  over  vi 
some  day." 

"And  the  sound  of  her  voioe,   and  a 


RECLAIMED  BY  RIGHT. 


llTsbrauT  i.  1SU.|     261 


n[«mi<»  to  her  hiubuid,  Kroiued  your 
EupJcioQ  that  it  waa  she  ] "  enquired  Mr. 

"  Yes—at  Kaj  rate  that  it  might  be ;  so  I 
dBlennlned  to  mark  her  dowQ,  and  pnt  yon 
m  the  ftcent" 

"WelJ,  it  does  yoa  credit,  if  a  man  can 
take  credit  for  mere  luck,"  said  the  elder 
iiwjer,  leeoming  his  seat,  and  beginning 
to  parr  aa  he  went  on  meditatively:  "The 
sly  little  minx  to  go  and  get  married  with- 
out letting  OS  liave  a  hint  of  it  for  more 
than  oioe  montha  It  would  eerre  yon 
right,  you  pass  yon,  to  make  yoa  and  yonr 
nother  ana  siater  refimd  the  laat  divi- 
dends; bat  they  are  doabtlesa  all  spent 
8ie  thu,  and  it  would  be  throwing  good 
DKHiey  after  bad  to  attempt  it,  wretched 
pvqierB  that  yoa  wUl  all  three  be  again 
nov  that  we  stop  the  sappUea.  One 
cannot  get  money  oat  of  a  atone,  not  even 
*hen  it  ie  a  Boyaton-e  1 " 

Mr.  Quickly  laoghed  unctaooaly  at  hia 
own  joke,  and  his  nephew  ahonted  aload 
at  it. 

"Capital, uncle, capital  l"heaaid;  "what 
«  thing  money  is  I  How  it  aharpena  a 
fellofr'a  wita  1  Bat,  I  say,  tell  ua  how  you 
have  Terifiod  all  my  suspiciona )  I  mean, 
bow  came  yon  to  make  cock-sure  ahe  waa 
maiiied,  ao  as  to  be  able  to  write  uid  tell 
her  we  knew  1 " 

"Oh,  very  simply,"  aaid  Mr.  Quickly. 
"We  pat  oar  friend  Doabledon,  of  Scot- 
land Yard,  on  the  trail,  and  be  soon  ran 
the  little  fox  to  earth — discovered  the 
whole  affair." 

"Well,  taU  ns  aU  aboat  it,  do,"  said  the 
foonger  man ;  "  yoa  know  I  have  never 
taken  mach  interest  in  bamiess  affairs — 
th^  are  not  mnch  in  my  line.  Beyond 
just  hearing  that  old  Ne&ercombe,  when' 
he  was  nearly  seventy,  married  the  daoghter 
of  some  naval  captain,  or  rather  the 
daoghter  of  the  captain's  widow,  living 
St  Harwich,  and  that  our  brancji  of  the 
family  was  consequently  done  cat  of  the 
money,  I  knew  rery  littl&  Of  course,  at 
his  death,  I  heard  of  Ms  qnaer  wilL  He 
ezecated  it,  I  waa  told,  only  a  few  days 
before  ha.  died.  How  did  be  first  come 
across  these  Boyston  people  1 " 

"  Oh,  the  old  idiot  was  at  Harwich  in 
hia  yadit  one  year,"  answered  the  elder 
nua,  "aod  met  the  girl,  I  suppose,  some- 
where dbouL  She  was  only  seventeen,  I 
believe,  and  he  fell  desperat^y  in  love  with 
her,  and  married  her.  There's  no  fool  like 
an  old  fool — like  an  old  fool,  yoa  know, 
Martin." 


"  Except  a  yoang  fool,  I  should  think," 
was  the  response ;  "  she  mast  have  been  as 
great  a  fool  to  marry  him  with  that  differ- 
esoe  of  age  between  them.  I  wonder  her 
people  let  her  do  it ;  bat  it  was  the  coin,  of 
course,  they  weot  for." 

"  Of  coarse  it  was,  for  the  mother 
and  two  daoghters  were  just  as  poor  as 
church  mice — genteel  paupers.  The  old 
lady  was  a  great  invalid,  and  there  was  a 
lot  of  rubbish  talked,  I  remember,  on  their 
aide,  about  the  daughter  sacrificing  herself 
for  the  sake  of  the  mother,  and  so  on,  and 
old  Kethercombe  made  settlements  on  them 
accordingly,  aa  you  see  by  hia  will  here," 
said  Mr.  Quickly,  purring,  and  softly 
patting  the  paper  in  front  of  him,  as  a  cat 
pats  a  mouse  too  cruelly  mumed  to  moT& 

"Yea,"  continued  the  nephew,  "I  see; 
and  then  he  does  not  like  IJie  thought  of 
hia  money  going  to  a  seoond  huaband,  and 
ao  he  puts  a  stopper  on  any  little  game  of 
that  sort  J  Well,  they  are  bowled  out  now, 
anyhow.  But  I  want  to  know  what 
DoubledoQ  has  discovered — where  waa  she 
married  1  and  who  is  Crosamore  i  He  will 
be  rather  sold  I  They  are  all  fools  together, 
it  aeems  to  me,  onlesa  he  be  a  knave  aa 
well." 

"That  is  not  unlikely,"  went  on  the 
nnde ;  "  bat  they  are  hard  condittona,  I 
repeatk  As  to  Doabledon — well,  he  has 
ascertained,  as  far  as  we  know  at  present, 
(hat,  about  a  year  ago,  old  Nethercombe's 
young  widow  goes  on  a  visit  to  some 
OQBophisticated  clerical  friends,  right  away 
in  Cornwall,  leaving  her  mother  and  aister 
at  Harwich,  where  they  had  always  con- 
tinued to  liva  In  Cornwall  she  picks  up, 
and  there  and  then  marries,  this  Mr.  John 
Crossmore,  a  gentleman  concerned  in  some 
miniug  operations.  Here  is  a  copy  of  the 
marriage  certificate,  dated  just  ten  months 
back.  I  suppose  her  mother  and  sister 
knew  nothing  of  it  until  it  was  too  late,  or 
they  might  have  interfered.  Probably  the 
young  widow  guessed  as  much,  and  kept  it 
dark,  for  of  course,  at  her  time  of  life,  love 
is  everything  and  money  nothing ;  but  it 
is  to  be  hoped  Mr.  Crossmore  has  got  some, 
for  he  baa  married  a  beggar,  aa  he  wUl 
find.  As  you  say,  Martin,  they  seem  all 
idiots  together,  for  one  would  have  thought 
he  would  have  taken  the  trouble  to  learn 
the  condition  of  his  predecessor's  bequests. 
But  I  dare  say  he  was  very  much  in  love, 
and  she,  being  the  same,  what  did  it 
matter  1  However,  the  mother  and  sister 
seem  to  have  been  frightened  when  they 
heard  of  it,  for,  you  see,  they  slipped  their 


(VabniurS.  IWl'l 


ALL  THE  YEAH  ROUND. 


cable  And  left  Harwich,  and  took  this  little 
place  at  Stokesly,  bo  as  to  keep  oat  of  the 
way  on  the  qniet,  without  oor  knowing  it, 
and  as  I  have  always  been  in  the  habit  of 
paying  in  their  dirtdendi  to  tiieir  bankers, 
we  should  not  have  heard  of  their  move — 
perhaps  for  years— bnt  for  yonr  lucky  dis- 
covery, Martin ;  indeed,  I  had  ceased  to 
think  abont  thent  I  looked  upon  the  case 
as  hopeless,  for  I  never  imagined  yonng 
Mrs.  Nethercombe  would  have  been  such  an 
idiot  as  to  get  married  again,  howctver 
much  she  might  have  been  in  love.  You 
woald  have  expected  that  she  wonld  have 
done  anything  rather  than  reduce  her 
mother  and  sister — to  say  nothing  of  her- 
self— to  penary  again.  Really,  Martin,  the 
firm  ought  to  hold  tbemaelvea  much  In- 
debted to  you ! " 

"  Yes,  I  think  they  oi^ht,"  was  that  gen- 
tleman's reply ; "  whieh  being  the  case,  I  will 
get  some  loncheoQ  with  your  permission, 
uncle ; "  and  pntting  on  his  hat,  he  left  the 
offica 

CHAPTER  IV. 

SiJ)  and  Borrowfbl  was  the  change  which 
overtook  the  Boyston  household,  soon  after 
the  arrival  of  that  fatal  letter  from  Messrs. 
Quickly  Brothers. 

The  pretty  little  country  home  in  the 
out-of-the-way  Oxfordshire  village,  with 
all  its  snag,  quiet,  rural  beauty,  had  to  be 
exchangea  foe  a  cheap  London  lodging  in 
Kennington,  with  all  the  penurious  and 
comfortless  surronndings  indigenons  to  such 
a  location  and  the  attendant  circumstances. 
Nearly  three  months  had  elapsed,  and 
Chriatmas  was  fast  approaching.  The  poor 
invalid  mother  had  been  utterly  prostrated 
by  the  removal  from  Elm  Lawn,  and  the 
withdrawal  of  all  those  delicacies  and  com- 
forts rendered  inevitable  through  the 
change  of  fortune  brought  about  by  her 
youngest  danghter'a  second  marriage. 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  but  just  retribution," 
tilled  Miss  Boyston  to  her  lover  one  even 
ing,  as  they  were  sitting  together  in  the 
little  parloar  adjoining  tJie  invalid's  room. 
"You  know,  Herbert,  we  were  retaining 
the  money  under  false  pretences.  We  had 
no  right  to  it ;  but  Heaven  knows  you  and  I 
had  but  one  thought,  and  that  was  only  to 
secure  for  the  last  daya  of  our  dear  one 
there,  a  home,  in  which  she  might  end 
them  in  decency  and  comfort  If  yon  and 
I  have  ever  had  any  selfish  thoughts  as 
well  about  our  own  marriage,  and  in  which 
this  money  played  a  part,  we  are  rightly 
punished  now." 

"Do  not  speak  of  it,  Lizzie,"  said  Joyce 


indignantly;  "yon  bear  it  more  hrsTeljr 
than  I  can,  and  take  a  bighar  view  of  it  all 
I  dare  say  yon  are  right,  dear  Lizzie,  and  mj 
legal  tnuning  ought  to  make  me  at  teiui- 
tive  to  this  question  as  your  own  Christian 
heart  does ;  but  the  fact  is,  dearest,  b  the 
face  of  that  abominable,  iniquitous  will,  m; 
very  sense  of  right  and  wrong  gete  twisted. 
I  do  not  think  I  realised,  until  we  were 
obliged  to  bring  your  poor  mother  an; 
from  8tokesIy  to  this  miserable  place,  u 
the  moat  convenient  thing  to  do,  how  truly 
heartless,  selfish,  and  atrocious  are  the  am- 
ditions  of  that  old  curmudgeon's  will  To 
doom  a  girl,  a  mere  child,  as  Maigant  it 
still,  to  remain  unmarried  for  the  rest  of 
her  life,  was  bad  and  cruel  enoi^h ;  but  to 
make  her  nearest  and  dearest  suffer  also- 
well,  really,"  exclaimed  the  yonng  bar- 
rister witli  increasing  warmth,  "it  ia 
beyond  anything  I  ever  heard  of,  and 
seems  to  make  what,  before  the  law  of 
man,  would  be  a  ftand,  appear  bnt  an  act 
of  duty  before  the  tribunal  of  a  higher 
power.  I  swear,  Lizzie,  I  should  have  had 
no  compunction  in  keeping  the  secret  to 
the  very  end,  if  it  had  been  possible.  How 
long  was  it  after  old  Nethercombe's  mar- 
riage that  he  executed  this  second  will  t " 

"  Very  shortly  before  his  death,"  an- 
swered Miss  Boyston;  "he  was  alwaya 
wickedly  jealous  of  his  wife,  and  when  h« 
knew  hie  end  was  near,  he  made  this  nev 
will  He  sent  for  me,  and  told  me  what  he 
had  done,  and  why ;  he  said  that  by  n- 
dacing  us  to  poverty  once  more,  he  would 
make  assurance  doubly  sore  that  she  should 
not  marry  again.  The  will  ha  signed  on 
the  day  he  was  married  had  no  soch 
conditions  in  it ;  this  one  seems  to  have 
been  quite  an  afterthought,  prompted  by 
the  arch-fiend  of  jealousy." 

"Yes;  well,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
his  doing  this,  of  coarse,"  went  on  Joyce, 
dropping  his  vehement  tone  to  one  of 
dejection.  "As  he  had  made  no  inde- 
pendent settlements  open  his  wife  or  any 
of  you,  as  he  ought  to  have  been  made  to 
do,  and  as  he  should  have  been  made  to  do 
if  I  had  been  at  hand  to  advise,  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  his  revoking  his  fiist 
will  By  Jove !  it  makes  my  blood  bo3  '■ 
Was  it  not  enough  for  yon  and  your  mother 
to  consent  to  this  horrible  sacrifice  on  any 
terms,  hut  that  you  should  still  h^ve  been 
left  to  the  mercy  of  this  old  bmte'e  capricei 
It  is  too,  too  dreadful  Well,  it  is  mor« 
than  ever  necessary  now  that  I  should 
make  some  mon^  to  help  yoa  along  with, 
for  yonr  mothers  poor  little  penuon  h 


BECLAIMED  BY  RIGHT. 


(Febnuir  £,1881.1 


Urely  sufficient  to  keep  one  body  and  eoul 
togeUier,  mnch  leas  three.  Hotr  you  ever 
mu^ed  to  jog  along  as  yon  did  before 
old  Nethercombe  tamed  np  is  a  marvel." 

"fint  sorely,  Herbert,"  protested  Miss 
Boyston,  "  Mr.  Cnwsmore  can  be  made  to 
muntain  Mb  wife  I  She,  at  least,  sh^nid 
not  enter  into  onr  -trays  and  means." 

"  Of  conise  he  most  mpport  bw,  if  be 
liM  anything  to  support  lu^  apon,  irhich  ie 
doablftJ,"  answered  Herbert ;  "  bnt  fint  (^ 
lU  we  most  find  him,  and  that  doM  not 
ifipeu  6»sy.  It  is  two  months  since  Mar- 
^t  has  had  any  tidings  of  htm,  and  he  is 
M(  to  be  heard  <^  at  either  of  the  addresaefl 
henTeher.  Yon  have  seui  that  her  letters 
to  Mm  are  all  retomed  by  the  postoffice. 
Tbero  never  was  a  more  flagrant  case. 
Depend  on  it,  ha  is  nodung  bat  a  low 
sdTantnrer,  as  I  an^pated  when  I  fonnd 
out  the  little  I  did  abont  him.  He  only 
married  that  poor  fot^ish  child  for  the  sake 
of  her  money,  and  now  he  has  got  wind  of 
tlie  Ine  state  of  affairs,  he  disappsars.  Do 
;<m  know,  Lizzie,  I  have  it  strongiy  in  my 
nund  to  mn  over  to  Jeraey  mysw,  uid  do 
a  tittle  private  detective  service  on  my 
own  aeconnt  I  It  would  be  far  leas  expen- 
nre  than  employing  a  professional,  and  as 
I  know,  from  previoas  information,  that 
he  was  <rften  to  be  heard  ot  there,  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  go  and  see  what  I  can  do 
in  the  bnainess  myself." 

Infinite  was  the  talk  whidi  this  sng- 
gaition  raised.  Argnmento  for  and  against 
(he  plan  were  nrged  from  every  point,  and 
finally  it  was  decided  that  Herbert  Joyce, 
umed  witit  some  additional  particulars 
omcwning  this  mysterioos  husband  of 
Margaret's,  shoold  go  himself  to  Jersey, 
and  try  aiKl  bring  the  fellow  to  book. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  narrative  to 
Mlow  the  yonng  barrister  throogh  all  the 
deviatu  and  difficult  paths  by  which  he 
ultimately  achieved  iaa  object  We  need 
only  look  in  upon  the  famHy  circle  once 
more  in  order  to  bring  the  story  of  this 
Mc<Hid  marriage  to  an  end. 

The  oecasiou  is  a  propitious  one,  for  it  is 
Christmae  Eve,  and  Herbwt  Joyce  has 
retomed  from  his  expedition  to  the  immble 
lodgings  in  EenniDgton.  There  is  a 
radiance  abont  Ma  earnest  face  aa  he  is 
welcomed  by  her  to  whom  hie  presence  is 
always  as  a  ray  of  light,  wMch  contrasts 
fcaably  with  the  gloom  and  sadness  per- 
vading the  little  home. 

"I  have  only  just  obtuned  the  final 
piece  of  evidence  necessary  to  conuilete 
toy  case.  Lizzie,"  said  Herbert  in  renlv  to 


the  enquiry  why  he  had  not  written  to 
warn  them  of  Ms  coming,  "  and  you  could 
not  have  received  a  letter  sooner  than  you 
have  received  me.  I  might  have  telegraphed 
you  certainly,  but  I  preferred  bringmg  you 
the  good  news  in  propria  person^ 

"Ah,  then,  you  have  found  Mr.  Cross- 
more,  aJid  he  is  willing "  began  Lizzie 

Boyston ;  but  her  lover  stoppea  her  by  a 
gesture  as  he  said : 

"Seabrain  your  curiosity,  dear  Lizzie, 
and  just  let  me  tell  you  the  main  facte  as 
briefly  as  poadble  in  their  proper  order ; 
they  are  very  few  and  simple.  I  discovered 
that  Mr.  John  Grossmore  is  a  fiction  alto- 

f  ether — that  is,  he  has  no  real  existence, 
)r  the  name  we  know  him  by  is  only  an 
aasumed  one.  I  rather  suspected  this,  and 
verified  my  suspicion  by  means  of  the  pho- 
tograph of  the  individual  which  you  gave 
me  out  of  Margaret's  deek  before  I  started. " 

"  Hash  I  she  has  not  missed  it,"  said 
Misa  Boyston,  raising  her  finger,  "  and  she 
ia  in  the  next  room  with  the  dear  mother." 

The  lovers  were  sitting  aa  usual  near 
oacb  o&er,  with  their  ba^  towuda  the 
folding-doors — wMch  were  shut — of  the 
mean  Uttle  parlours,  and  as  he  glanced  over 
his  ahoulder  the  young  barrister  went  on  : 

"  Well,  it  does  not  matter,  she  will  have 
to  hear  it  all  directly ;  bnt  yon  shall  tell 
her  if  you  pteasa  To  proceed.  At  the 
poet-offioe,  at  the  bank,  and  at  various 
other  public  and  likely  places  at  St. 
Heliers,  where  I  made  enquiries,  no  one 
had  ever  heard  the  name  of  Croesmore, 
but  at  the  registrar's  office,  when  I  showed 
the  photograph,  as  I  always,  did  when  I 
put  my  question,  a  knowing  young  clerk 
cried  out  with  perfect  conviction : 

II 1  Why,  that's  Mr.  Tumdale,  or,  if  it  is  not, 
his  ghost  must  have  sat  for  the  picture  ! ' 

"  '  Then,'  said  I,  '  who  ia  Mr.  Tumdale, 
and  where  does  be  live  1 ' 

"'Difficult  to  say  who  he  is,' replied 
the  clerk ;  '  he  is  to  and  fro  here  a  good 
deal,  something  in  the  conmiercial-traveller 
hue,  I  suspect — turns  his  hand  to  any- 
thing that  may  turn  up,  and  he  Uvea  at 
St«  Brelades  across  the  bay.' 

"This  answer  soggested  to  me  in  a 
moment  the  possibility  that  I  had  come 
upon  my  man. 

" '  Ah ! '  I  said,  '  you  do  not  know  who 

I  is.  That  !s  asking  too  much  in  a  place 
like  Jersey.  Strangers  here  are  not 
always  what  they  appear  to  be.' 

"  '  No,'  said  the  clerk,  '  we  iiave  a  good 
many  aliases  here  at  times,  but  I  do  not 
think  but  what  this  person's  name  is  his 


264 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


lFMcuiTl,IM.] 


reftl  one  anyhow,  eeeiog  he  tu  nutrried 
by  it,  here,  Id  this  very  office.' 

"  Lizzie,  my  du-ling,"  cried  Mr,  Joyce, 
anab]e  any  longer  to  continae  his  story 
in  its  proper  ieqnence,  "  in  two  words,  this 
scoondret  was  already  married  when  he 
first  met  Margaret,  uid  is  no  more  her 
hosband  than  I  am.  It  is  a  fiwt,"  Kor- 
riedly  went  on  the  apeahar,  disregarding 
Miss  Boyston's  startled  ezpreuim  of  mi- 
prise  ;  "  I  cannot  tell  yon  all  the  ins  and 
outs  of  the  way  in  which  I  proved  it,  and 
how  I  identified  Mr.  John  Croumwe 
with  this  man  TonidaJe ;  bat  I  did. 
He  was  married  at  that  very  office  to 
which  a  kindly  fate  guided  my  footsteps. 
I  saw  the  record  in  the  registrar's  book, 
with  the  fellow's  signatnre,  James  Tnm- 
dale,  in  the  handwriting  of  John  Crossmon 
unmistakably,  and  the  date  three  yeua 
ago — that  is,  rather  more  than  two  years 
before  he  contacted  this  biguuona  alliaace 
with  Maigaret 

"  I  fonnd  my  way  to  St  Breladee, 
and  after  some  trouble  found  the  man — 
confronted  him,  and  convicted  him  ont 
of  Ids  own  month,  before  bii  own  wtfe. 
He  bad  no  suspicion  at  first  as  to  what  I 
was  driving  at;  but  when  I  suddenly 
mentioned  the  name  of  Boyston,  and 
accused  him  point-blank  of  hie  crime,  he 
was  so  thnnd»stmek  that  he  could  not 
deny  it  I  never  saw  a  man  so  bowled 
over  in  my  life — a  mean,  contemptibje 
hound,  who,  when  he  partially  recovered 
himself,  began  entreating  that  we  should 
not  prosecute.  He  actually  went  down  on 
his  knOee  to  me,  and  the  poor  little  woman, 
his  wife,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  when 
she  realised  the  truth,  did  the  same. 
Directly  the  Christmas  vacation  is  over  I 
shall  put  the  case  in  legal  train,  and  Messrs. 
Quickly  Brothers  will  have  to  hand  back  all 
old  Netheicombe's  property,  for  it  belongs 
to  Margaret  and  you,  and  to  no  one  else." 

In  their  excitement  over  this  rapidly 
and  incoherently  delivered  recital  the  two 
lovers  had  drawn  closer  together  Ijian 
ever,  and  had  not  observed  that- the  fold- 
ingdoor  behind  them  had  been  softly 
opened,  and  that  Margaret  Nethercombe, 
emei^ng  from  it,  had  overheard  the  whole 
of  Uie  latter  part  of  what  Herbert  Joyce 
had  been  saying. 

Altogether  it  was  about  as  singular  a 
case  as  the  gentlemen  of  the  long  robe  had 
bean  engaged  in  for  a  considerable  time. 


The  fact  that  it  never  came  into  court  has, 
with  the  asastanoe  of  fictitions  names  of 
people  and  places,  permitted  its  narratira 
in  tiie  present  form,  and  that  it  was  Dot 
left  to  the  decision  of  a  judge  and  jury  wu 
due  to  the  skilfhl  management  of  it  by 
Mr.  Herbert  Joyca  Anxioos  to  shield 
his  fair  ftiends  from  all  nnnecessary 
annoyance  and  exposure,  he  conbrived,  1^ 
the  aid  of  ooiumI'b  opinion  and  many  little 
dexterouB  and  intricate  maacauvres,  lo  to 
show  Meaan.  Qnicfaly  Brotheta  that  they 
had  not  a  leg  to  stand  on,  that  after  tlv 
fint  at«»  bad  been  taken  in  the  aolica), 
those  distingaished  aolkitora  made  no 
attempt  to  defend  it 

Thus  "recbumed,"  and  now  "held  by 
right,"  by  Margaint  Nttbetoombe  sad  her 
motlwr  and  tistar,  the  properly  has  never 
again  been  jeopardiaad  dj  an^  imprudent 
act  on  the  jirl  of  the  young  widow.  The 
deo^tion  practised  on  hei  by  the  onsctu- 
I  pnlooB  adventurer  Crosnnoce,  alias  Tum- 
!  dale,  alias  anybody  else,  aeraaed  to  read 
I  her  a  salutary  lesson,  for  the  we^  and 
i  foolish  girl  has  developed  into  what  it  may 
not  be  too  much  to  call  an  uncom^o- 
misiog  champion  of  woman'a  rights.  Bar 
old  chaneter  has  unde^ona  a  migh^ 
change,  and  on  all  platforms  where  the 
most  advaaoed  ammeata  are  used  fiir  the 
emandpation  of  toe  aez  from  the  tyranny 
of  man,  she  stands  conspicaooa  as  a  fluent 
orator,  whose  remarkably  shrill  voic«  lends 
additional  vmom  to  her  uttarancee,  whilst 
the  acewfaiW  undecided  hands  have  aasumed 
a  vigour  of  action  which  adds  not  a  little 
intenaity  to  the  superabnndant  geaticda- 
tion.  'That  hw  logic  is  not  always  of  the 
soundest  is  to  be  excused,  remembering 
her  hard  experience,  and  Herbert  Joyee 
and  his  wife  are  only  too  glad  that  so 
harmless  an  outiet  has  been  finmd  for  tiie 
niirit  of  revenge  to  whidi  the  tnatnMBt 
she  had  recdv^  not  unnaturally  gave  liae. 
The  revulsion  of  feeling  whidi  came  over 
her  at  first  iuapired  her  witii  a  fierce  denre 
to  prosecute  her  deceiver  and  ponidi  him 
witn  the  utmost  rigour  of  the  law,  bat  aa 
he  was  carefully  aJlowed  to  decamp,  ehe 
was  easily  dissuaded  by  her  relatives  from 
this  course,  and  by  degrees  aha  readily 
adopted  that  in  which  she  has  become  a 
shining  light,  whilst  Herbert  Joyce,  Q.C., 
Esq.,  now  that  he  is  in  a  fair  way  of  being 
able  ultimately  to  conf^  on  his  wife  the 
dignity  of  a  judge's  wife,  can  afibrd  to  nnile 
at  the  vagaries  of  his  sister-in-law. 


ay  Go  ogle 


266    (venctuurs.uH.i  ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


horrible  sQCceBuon  of  pictures  of  death  by 
hydrophobia,  which  Sashed  in  a.  moment, 
viWd  as  teolit;  itself,  throogh  her  "brain. 

In  another  moment  Dick  stood  between 
her  and  this  death.  He  hod  not  even  seen 
Id«,  luid  tad  no  enspicion  of  t^e  dog's 
madness,  bnt,  catching  a  glimpse  through 
the  lanrels  of  Bran  being  pnrsned,  no 
rushed  out  to  save  hiiiL  ThibB,  too  late, 
he  saw  bis  doDger,  u  the  dog  was  Qtuois- 
taksblr  mod.  ,  Being  a  man  of  iron  nerve 
and  ot  t^^Af  resonica,  he  made  his  mind 
up,  in  the  mement  that  remaioed  to  bim, 
as  to  v]Mt  was  best  to  do,  He  had  in  bis 
hand  a  stick,  not  heavy  enough  to  brain 
the  dog,  and  with  this  he  struck  it  with 
all  bis  foioe  across  the  knees,  and  biwigbt 
it  down ;  then  he  caught  and  held  it  by  the 
throat  with  both  hands. 

Here  the  groom  came  up  with  a  gno, 
which  he  womd  have  fired  before  bnt  for 
the  fear  of  .shooting  Ida. 

"  Put  the  mu^le  to  hia  'ear  and  fire," 
cried  Dick. 

Bat  the  man,  not  having  Dick's  nerve, 
feared  to  ^  so  near  his  hands. 

"  If  yon'll  leave  hold  on  him,  sir,  I'll 
fire  before  he  can  raise  his  head." 

"  Why  can't  you  fire  now  t " 

"  I  daren't,  sir,  with  your  hand  touching 
the  muzzle." 

"  Why,  you  fool — well,  look  out  then." 

Here  he  let  go  his  hold  of  the  dog,  and 
the  groom  fired,  but  the  dog  was  too  qnick 
for  bim.  Dick's  hands  were  hardly  off  his 
throat  when  he  got  his  bead  from  under  the 
muszle  of  the  gun,  and  by  a  sudden  and 
savage  snap  buried  Ms  teeth  in  his  master's 
arm,  Tben,toolata,thegroomfired  anddia- 
abled  bim,  and  by  another  shot  put  him  ont 
ofp^ 

While  IKck  was  utidoiog  his  sleeve-link 
to  have  ft  look  at  his  1)itten  arm,  he  saw 
Ida  for  Uie  first  time.  She,  of  course, 
imagined',  that  he  bad  rushed  Into  the 
danger  to  save  her,  therefore  the  fear  that 
be  had  been  bitten  was  horrible  to  her. 
With  a  trembling  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
Buch  a  haggard  look  of  anxiety  in  her  face 
as  even  the  easy-going  Dick  did  not  soon 
forget,  she  Entered  out : 

"You've  been  bitten." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  thank  yon.  The  skin's 
only  just  broken.  I  shall  bum  it  out  and 
be  right  enongh." 

Hereupon,  Ida,  for  the  first  and  last 
time  in  her  life,  fainted.  The  strain  upon 
her  had  been  intense.  In  that  single 
minute  she  had  realised  in  her  vivid 
imagination  the  approach  of  this  frightful 


deatli,  her  escape  from  it,  and  the  «ost  of 
that  escape. 

Dick  sent  the  man  to  the  house  for  help, 
wliich,  however,  was  at  hand  befora  be 
reaflhed  the  door.  Hie  discharge  of  the 
gun  under  the  windows  hod  bi^ight  oat 
half  the  homehold,  and  Mrs.  Tack  among 
the  rest  To  her  Dick  commit|ed  Ids, 
r^feniBffJwbtqi  tiie,  groom  for  ankecount 
of  the  DUsineM,  as  b*  was  naturally  in  a 
hurry  to  canterize  bis  arm.  The  gtoom, 
being  also  under  the  impression  t£at  the 
captain,  swing  that  \ii»  iog  was  mtul,-ai)d 
Ida  in  doBger,  had  flung  bjmsolf  beroissliy 
between  them,  gaVe  this  account  to  Mrs. 
Tuck,  when  she  could  spare  attentitm  to  it 
on  Ida's  coming  to  herself, 

"  He's  been  ^tten  I "  gasped  Mrs.  Tuck. 

The  groom  "  didn't  rightly  know  "— 
knowing  right  well,  but  beginning  to 
realise  his  own  responsibility  for  this  bad 
business,  Mrs.  Tack  bid  him  saddle  a 
horse  at  once  and  be  ready  to  ride  at  life 
and  death  speed  for  the  doctor,  while  she 
hurried  into  ibe  house  to  find  Dick.  She 
found  him  in  the  kitdien — where,  at  this 
time  of  the  year,  was  the  only  fire — scien- 
tlficilly  cauterising  the  bite  with  a  red-hot 
poker,  to  an  accompaniment  of  afarieki, 
groans,  and  ejaculations  of  pity  and  iamt 
from  the  fascinated  cook  and  kitchenmaid. 

"Oh,  Dickt"  groaned  Mrs.  Tuck,  sint 
ing  sickened  and^  helpless  into  a  chair  by 
the  door. 

"  I'm  all  right,  aunt,"  in  a  voioe  iriioee 
coolness  was  not  affected.  H«  hod  no 
"nerves,"  and  little  thought  for  the 
morrow,  and  believed  that  the  virus  had 
probably  been  strained  out  by  his  ooat  snd 
shirt-sleeve,  and  at  any  rate  had  been  in- 
tercepted by  oanterizabion.  "I'm  aH  right, 
aunt;  it's  only  a  scratch,  and  my  coatwt 
the  poison  out,  I've  bnmed  tbe-  bM 
besides,  as  I  knew  you'd  make  a  fuss  if  I 
didn't,"  laying  die  po}»r  down  and  pdUing 
down  his  shirt-sleeve. 

"  Jane,"  gasped  Mrs.  Tack, "  tell  Ticknor 

■the  doctor," 

Jane  rightly  interpreting  this  spasmodic 
message,  rushed  off  to  send  the  groom  for 
Dr,  Kirk.  But  the  doctor  was  already  h^- 
way  up  the  avenue  on  one  of  bis  frequent 
visits  to  the  valetudinarian  Mr.  Tuck. 

Being  shown,  on  his  arrival,  into  the 
kitchen,  where  Dick  was  administering 
brandy-cmd-water  to  bis  half-fslnting  annt, 
be  examined  the  wound,  pronounced  the 
cautery  imperfectly  done,  and  an  imperfeot 
prophylactic  in  any  case,  aai  incited  on 
excision. 


A  DRAWN  GAME 


IFsbniUT  »,  18M.1 


Dick  rather  Rrambled  &t  h&ving  his 
lHidIe«nn  whittled  hwiy  at  thiB  rate,  but 
ahnnk  from  the  operation  on\j  on  that 
groand;  thongh  it  had  to  be  performed 
withont  chloroform,  vitfa  which  the  doctor 
wu  of  conne  unprovided. 

Dick  certainly  wonld  have  preferred 
chloraform,  if  it  was  to  be  had,  as  he  was 
^ad  to  inhale  laughiog-goB  when  he  had  a 
tooth  to  be  drawn.  He  was  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  conrt  unnecessary  pain,  bat 
he  bore  what  there  was  no  help  for  with 
rtoic  fortitnde.  Physically,  in  fact,  there 
was  no  finer  specimen  of  a  man  in  England 
than  oar  captain. 

He  bared  hie  arm,  and '  watched  the 
doctor  deftly  cntting  out  the  piece  without 
the  moyementof  a  muscle  or  the  qniTering 
of  in  eyelid,  greatly  to  the  advantage  of 
the  operation  and  to  the  admiration  of  the 
mrgeon. 

"your  nephew  is  made  of  iron,  Mrs. 
Tack — made  of  iron  inside  and  out,"  he 
«id  to  that  lady  in  Ida's  hearing.  "There's 
not  the  least  fear  of  hydrophobia  in  his 
es«a,  and  just  because  there's  no  fear  of  it ; 
for  I  believe  half  the  cases  come  from 
nervousnesa  But  Captain  Brabazon  doesn't 
know  what  nerronsness  means.  He  held 
hit  arm  whUe  I  cut  out  the  piece  as  still 
and  steady  as  I  hold  tMa  glass.  There  was 
no  need  whatever  of  chloroform,"  regard- 
mg  evidently  that  aniestlietjc  aa  proTiden- 
tiilly  designed  to  make  an  operation  easy 
rather  to  the  doctor  than  to  the  patient. 

"I  dare  say  you  got  through  it  very 
■wfAl  withont,"  said  lbs.  Tuck,  who  would 
hare  joked  if  in  extremis.  Bestdes,  she 
was  relieved,  by  the  doctor's  assurance  of 
Kek's  p^eot  security,  for  the  doctor  (as 
she  had  too  good  reason  to  know  in  the  case 
of  her  poor  deat  husband)  made  the  worst 
— that  is,  the  most  of  a  case.  And,  indeed, 
he  meant  to  make  something  more  out  of 
Dick.  He  promised  to  call  daily,  and  send 
purifying  blood-mixtures,  and  he  prescribed 
absolute  abeUnence  from  tobacco  and 
stimnlante. 

Dick  did  not,  of  course,  take  his  aunt's 
serious  vfew  of  the  prescriptions  of  "  the 
leech,"  which  obsolete  title  he  revived 
for  the  doctor  aa  appropriate  to  his  hlood- 
encking  attendance  on  Mr.  Tuok.  But,  as 
be  did  not  wish  to  make  her  uncomfortable, 
he  Gompronused  the  matter  by  consenting 
to  drink  nothing  stronger  than  the  mixtures 
on  the  condition  that  ho  was  allowed  to 
imoka  There  was  something  btispiciouH  in 
thealaeritywith  which  he  proposed  the  com- 
oromiae.  vet  it  took  Mrs.  Tuck  some  days 


to  discover  that  the  miztores  she  had  been  [ 
BO  gratified  to  find  him  drinking  even 
before  they  were  due,  and  in  even  undue 
quantities,  were  wines  and  spirits  which 
mimicked  the  doctor's  draughts  as  closely 
in  colour  aa  the  wholesome  Leptalis  butter- 
fiy  minucs  the  colour  of  the  poisonous 
Ithomia 

Her  BuspicioDS  were  at  last  aroused  one 
evening  by  seeing  Dick  take  two  table- 
spoonfuls  instead  of  one,  at  an  interval  of 
an  hour  instead  of  three,  of  a  light  brown 
draught.  She  took  up  the  bottle,  un- 
corked, and  smelled  it 

"Brandy  !"  she  exclaimed,  aghast 

"  My  dear  aunt,  you  didn't  really  think 
I  was  drinking  Kirk's  rot ) "  in  a  tone  of 
utter  and  innocent  amazement 

Dick  was  equanimous  in  other  emer- 
gencies besides  that  of  the  charge  of  a 
mad  dog. 

"  Well,  Dick,  you  know  what  the  con- 
sequences may  be  1 " 

"  If  you  mean  hydrophobia,  aunt,  Tve 
had  it  all  my  l)f&  Yon  know  I  never 
could  drink  dean  water,  and  is  it  likely  I 
could  stand  that  filth  1    U^h  ! " 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  allow 
Dick  to  drink  his  li»jnor,  without  pouring 
it  at  measured  intervale,  and  with 
measured  accuracy,  from  a  medicine-botlle 
into  a  table-spoon,  and  from  a  table-spoon 
into  a  wineglass — a  performance  he  had 
gone  through  many  times  a  day  with  a  wry 
but  resolvwl  face. 

Mrs.  Tuck  even  foroave  him  for  having 
passed  on  the  bon&  fide  mixtures  to  her 
poor  dear  husband,  who  drank  them  in 
perfect  good  faith  and  excellent  results, 
for  he  never  caught  hydrophobia.  lie 
must  have  caught  it  if,  aa  the  doctor 
suggested,  feat  alone  could  bring  it  on. 
He  was  wild  with  fear  when  he  heard  of 
the  affair.  In  his  secret  heart  he  thought 
there  ought  to  have  been  a  law,  by  which 
anyone  bitten  by  a  mad  dog  should  then 
and  there  be  slaughterod  like  an  ox  in  the 
rinderpest  to  stamp  the  plagne  out.  As, 
however,  ho  could  not  venture  to  suggest 
this  to  Mrs.  Tuck,  ho  insisted  to  her,  first, 
on  Dick's  instant  expulsion  from  the  house. 

Mrs.  Tuck,  by  representing  the  whole 
county  as  certain  to  bo  scandalised  at  this 
mode  of  rewarding  Dick  for  his  heroic 
rescue  of  Ida,  bronght  him  to  reason. 
She  had,  however,  to  give  in  to  tho  sole 
condition  on  which  he  would  consent  to 
harbour  bo  horrible  a  peril  for  another 
hour  in  the  houaa 

Dick  was  to  bo  locked  into  his  room 


268      [Febrau;  S,  18H.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


jvery  night,  and  not  set  free  in  the  morning 
untu  be  had  drank  to  the  last  drop  a  glass 
of  irater  broogbt  him  by  Mr.  Tuck'a  own 
confidential  vuet  Even  then  Mr.  Tack 
Tras  not  reaasared,  for  the  valet  conid  not  in 
conunoii  honeetf  Bay  that  the  captain  had 
shown  no  abhorrence  of  the  draught 

"Did  ho  Bobi"  Mr,  Tnok  would  aak 
eagerhr. 

"  No,  sir ;  not  eob,  or,  exactly ;  bnt  it 
was  a  trouble  to  him,  like." 

"  Did  ho  choke  in  brying  to  drink  it  t " 
"  Not,  as  yon  might  say,  choke,  sir ;  he 
jibbed  abitat it" 

"  But  there  was  no  paroxysm  1 " 
"  He  swore  tremendoas,  air,  and  threw 
the  pillera  at  me." 

"I  mean  be  wasn't  conTulsed I " 
"  Law,  no,  sir  1  aggrawated  rayther." 
Here  Mr.  Tack  turns  impatiently  from 
the  volet  to  send  Mrs.  Tack  for  a  more 
rational  report. 

It  was  in  revenge  for  this  morning 
dose  of  water  that  Dick  passed  on  his 
medicine  to  Mr.  Tack,  as  in  much  the 
more  danger  of  rabies  of  the  two. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Dick  took  this 
business  with  incredible  placidity.  It  was 
not  in  his  nature  to  be  anxious.  He  was 
BO  far  from  running  out  effusively  to  meet 
misfortune  half-way  that  he  would  cut  it 
when  it  met .  him  and  forget  it  when  it 
passed.  Besides,  he  had,  as  he  had  good 
reason  to  have,  perfect  faith  in  his  own 
and  the  doctor's  merciless  surgery. 

Mrs,  Tuck,  however,  did  not  share  Dick's 
serene  assurance.  Still  less  did  Ida.  The 
girl  was  wretched  in  the  thou^t  that  this 
dreadful  death,  if  it  overtook  Dick,  would 
lie  at  her  door.  For,  we  need  hardly  eay, 
Dick  did  Dot  take  the  trouble  to  correct 
the  version  of  the  afiaii  he  fonnd  cnttent 
Why  shoold  he  t 

Ha  hated  to  do  anything  unpleasant 
himself  or  unpleasant  to  others,  and  to 
undeceive  the  hoasehold  in  this  matter 
would,  he  thoaght,  have  been  both.  It 
would  certainly  nave  made  his  aunt,  Ida, 
and  himself  look  foolish  if,  after  aU  the 
praise  and  gratitude  heaped  upon  him,  he 
were  to  tell  them  coolly  that  he  bad  had  no 
idea  of  Ida's  danger,  or  of  any  danger, 
when  be  blundered  in  between  her  and  the 
dog. 

Therefors  Dick  contented  himself  with 
pooh-poohing  the  heroism  attributed  to 
him  with  a  magnanimity  which  crowned 
it,  to  his  annt's  winking  and  to  Ida's. 

"  Why,  what  would  you  have  had  me  do, 
aunt  1 "  be  woold  ask,  in  deprecating  Mrs. 


Tuck's  praisea  "  Would  yoa  have  bad  me 
stand  by  with  my  bands  in  my  pockets  to 
see  Miss  Luard  attacked  by  my  own  dog  I 
If  Dick  had  done  so,  you'd  dischai^e 
'  *m," 

Dick  was  a  page  of  tender  years.  This 
put  the  thing  low  enough.  But  then  Mrs. 
Tack  and  Ha  felt  that,  as  De  Qoincey 
somewhere  remarks,  there  are  occadous 
when  it  is  heroic  to  do  a  thing,  though  it 
would  be  dastardly  not  to  do  it,  and  though 
there  is  no  middle  way  of  escape  from  "  the 
great  refusaL" 

Therefore,  Dick,  in  making  nothine;  of 
his  heroism,  only  enhanced  it  in  Uieir 
eyes. 

As  for  Dick's  conscience,  it  troubled 
him  as  little  .as  his  digestion,  and  of  that 
vice  -  conscience,  self  -  respect,  be  knew 
nothing.  So  he  took  to  himself  all  this 
glory  and  gratitude  without  compunction 
— with  complacency,  rather — for  ne  came 
at  last  to  regard  them,  as  he  regarded 
everything,  as  his  mere  dua 

There  was  but  one  possible  motive  which 
might  liave  made  hiiu  disclaim  the  credit 
he  accepted  —  the  stimulas  this  heroic 
rescue  gave  to  his  aunt's  matchmaking; 
but  there  was  now  no  such  passire 
resistance  on  Dick's  side  to  her  sdiemea 
On  the  contrary,  there  was  more  even  thin 
a  passive  submission — there  was  au  aclire 
a4UieBion  to  them  on  the  part  of  our 
Adonis. 

For  Ida  seemed  now  no  more  far  off  and 
high  up,  only  to  be  won  after  long  siege, 
aiid  only  to  be  held  by  harassing  and  nevsr- 
remitted  vigilanca  From  seemiag  cold, 
proud,  unapproachable,  she  suddenly  seemed 
meek,  winning,  and  to  be  won  witiioot 
insuperable  or  insupportable  difliooltiea 

In  truth,  many  feelings  combined  to 
transform  Ida — remom,  umiration,  gr^- 
tnde.  She  had,  she  tbonght,  crnelly  mii- 
jud^ed  Dick,  She  had  tuen  him  to  be  s 
se]nBh,l&zy,pIeaaura-eeeker,  who  cared  only 
for  his  own  ease,  and  would  not  stir  foot 
or  finger  for  anyone  else  in  the  w<^d. 
Tet  beneath  all  this  seeming  easy,  selfish, 
and  indolent  pococorantiam  lay  the  most 
unlooked-for  kind  of  heroism,  still,  strong, 
unconscious,  magnanimous,  which  did  ■ 
great  thing  greatly,  and  cared  not  to  speak 
or  hear  of  it  agaiiL 

You  see,  Ida  was  of  a  romantic  sge 
and  sex,  and  bad  her  mind  so  possessed 
with  high  ideals,  as  to  be  readily  duped  bj 
the  appearance  of  their  realisation.  Yoar 
ghost-seer  is  always  a  man  who  believed  b 
ghosts  to  begin  with,  whose  mind  is  so 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


»■]    269 


pooessed  with  his  anperetitioii  that  a 
scarecrow  of  slireds  and  patcbes,  waving 
in  the  night  wind,  looks  to  bim  of  the 
other  awfol  world.  Similarly  Ida's  mind 
was  so  full  of  heroic  ideals,  that  Dick's 
apparent  heroism  imposed  on  her  com- 
pleteiy. 

All  that  Mrs.  Tack  had  snggested  in 
the  matchmaking  oonversation  with  Ida, 
recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  seemed  no 
more  incredible  to  the  girl.  So  much 
lay  nnanspected  beneath  Dick's  light 
manner,  that  love  itself  might  have  lain 
there  concealed,  and  concealed  for  the  very 
reason  assigned  by  Mrs.  Tuck — Dick's 
magnanimoos  repulsion  from  the  mere 
appearajice  of  fortimo-honting.  For  had 
he  not  shown  himself  magnanimous  in 
greater  things  t  And  was  this  not  love, 
which  now  at  last  b«ran  to  disclose 
itself} 

It  was — anch  love  aa  Dick  had  to  offer. 
He  took  Ida's  intense  anxiety  about  him, 
her  admiration  and  her  gratitude,  for  the 
first  begimungs  of  love  on  her  side.  It 
was  inexpressibly  pleasant  to  him  to  be  the 
centee  of  interest  to  this  superb  beauty,  of 
whom  bat  yesterday  he  stood  in  awe.  It 
W>eared  to  him,  as  to  tiie  hero  of  Locksley 
Hall,  that : 

Now  her  cheek  wte  pole  and  thinner,  than  nhould 

be  for  one  so  yoong, 
And  her  eyes   on  all  tn}r  motions  with  a  mute 

ofaaerTanoe  hnnf*. 

Nor  was  this  Dick's  coxcombry,  Ida  was 
baonted,  harassed,  harrowed  with  an 
anxiety  lest  Dick  ahoold  fall  a  victim  to 
the  horrible  death  from  which  be  had 
saved  her.  Now  Dick,  as  he  did  not  share 
this  anxiety,  did  not  understand  it,  and 
Uierefore  naturally  took  evidences  of  it 
for  symptoms  of  a  more  personal  and 
iobrinidc  interest  in  him— an  mtereat  made 
intelligible  to  bim  by  his  aunt's  confes- 
sion that  she  had  given  Ida  to  understand 
that  he  was  in  love  wiUi  her.  Mrs.  Tuck 
bad  made  this  move  in  the  game  jnst  at 
the  proper  moment,  when  he  was  beginning 
both  to  believe  it  himself,  and  to  wish  that 
Hi  should  believe  it.  Thinking  that  Dick 
kept  his  bands  off  the  prize  within  his 
reach  out  of  mere  and  pure  magnanimity, 
she  meant  by  this  confession  to  bum  ms 
boats,  break  down  his  bridges,  and  force 
him  forward  in  spite  of  himself. 

"It's  rather  like  dunnine  her  for  a 
debt,  aunt,  isn't  it  1 "  he  said  in  reply  to 
one  of  his  aunt's  exhortations  to  be  more 
explicit  and  pronounced  in  his  attentions. 
"  She  thinks  she  owes  me  her  life,  and  she 


might  think  I  was  asking  her  hand  in 
payment" 

"  My  dear  Dick,  she  doesn't  think  you 
love  her  because  you  saved  her  Ufe,  but  she 
knows  you  saved  her  life  because  you  loved 
her.  She  knew  you  loved  her  before  this 
thing  happened  at  alL" 

"  Knew  I  loved  her  1    But  I  never " 

"  But  I  did,  Dick.  There,  I  may  as  well 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  When  yon  said 
you  were  held  back  from  declaring  yourself 
by  some  silly  notion  that  it  was  unfair  to 
her,  I  thought  it  time  to  take  the  thing 
into  my  own  hands.  So  I  gave  her  a  broad 
hint  of  your  teelit^" 

You  did !  What  did  she  say  i " 
eagerly. 

"  Jnst  what  I  expected." 

"Whatl" 

"  Nothing." 

"  She  coudn't  have  s^d  much  less." 

"Much  .more,  you  mean.  She  might 
have  said  a  great  deal  less.  She  might 
have  said  she  was  very,  very  sorry — very 
much  distressed,  and  so  on.  What  would 
you  expect  her  to  sayt  'Thank  you,  I 
think  I  shall  change  my  mind  and  take 
him ;  he's  very  nice ' " 

"  It  all  depends  upon  how  you  put  it, 
aunt  If  you  offered  me  straight  out,  like 
an  ice,  she  m^ht  have  said,  'Thank  you, 
no ;  he  sets  my  teeth  on  edge,'  But,  if 
you  merely  hinted  my  feelings  to  her,  she 
might  affect  to  nuBunderstand  yon  as  the 
least  nngraciotis  torm  of  refusal" 

"She  might  easily  affect  to  misunder- 
stand you,  if  yon  offered  yourself  as  yon 
say  and  as  you  do,  Dick,  'like  an  ice.' 
But  I  made  what  I  meant  plainer  than  you 
are  doing,  and  Ida  is  quite  quick  enough  to 
take  a  hint  and  to  give  a  hiiit,  too.  If  she 
wished  to  say, '  No,  thank  yon,'  indirectly, 
she'd  have  said  it  more  plainly  than  by 
silence.  Silence  doesn't  stand  for  '  No,' 
generally." 

"  Do  you  mean  it  stood  for  '  Yes '  1 " 

"  Indeed  I  do  not,  Dick,  mean  anything 
of  the  sort.  A  thing  isn't  white  because 
it  isn't  black.  There  are  plenty  of  shades 
between." 

"  Conlenr  de  rose  1 " 

"  I  didn't  know  couleur  de  rose  was  a 
shade  between  black  and  white." 

But  you  know,  aunt,  with  me  'Nothing 
succeeds  like  success;'  couleur  de  rose  is 
winning  colour." 

A  blnsn  t  yes.  You  need  encourage- 
ment; you  were  always  difBdent,  Dick, 
always." 

"  Always  with  het,  aunt.   Not  with  other 


270     [Febnury  0.  lOt.} 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EODND. 


girk,  I  admit ;  bnt  she's  not  like  other 
girls." 

"  There's  no  ^1  like  h«r,  if  yoa  mean 
that,  Dick,"  wi^  much  warmth.  "  It  ian't 
that  she's  an  heiress — I  know  the  valae  of 
money,  no  one  knows  it  better,  or  has  had 
better  reason  to  know  it — but  I  forge(  her 
fortone  when  I  think  of  her.  And  you 
expect  her  to  Sing  herself  at  jour  head  1 " 

"I  don't  know  what  voa'd  have,  aunt," 
grombled  Dick.  "Woud  I  have  shown 
her  more  respeot  if  I  treated  her  like  Miss 
Bates  1 " 

"  There's  something  between,  Diok." 

"And  I've  hit  it, haven't  11  Anyhow 
IVe  gone  by  your  advice,  aunt  You  told 
me  I  most  be  seedy  to  fetch  her,  and  I'm 
sure,  except  that  I've  not  taken  Kirk's  rot, 
I've  done  what  I  could  to  be  knocked 
over,"  looking  ruefully  at  his  mangled  arm, 
aa  though  he  had  arranged  this  little  affair 
of  the  mad  dog  with  the  view  of  "fetching" 
Ida. 

This  was  a  tnunp-card  with  his  aunt,  as 
Diok  knew. 

"Well,  Dick,  uid  you  have  'fetched' 
her,  as  yon  caU  it,  She's  a  good  deal  more 
anxious  about  you  than  you  are  about 
yourselt  I  don't  think  you've  been  ever 
out  of  her  mind  since  it  happened." 

"  She  thinks  she  owes  her  life  to  me." 

"  There's  that,  of  course ;  but  I  tUok 
there's  more.  And  I'm  sure  there  might 
be  more  if  yoa  were  in  earnest  in  the 
matter." 

"  Well,  aunt,  if  yoall  make  the  ronning 
for  me  I  will  do  it,  if  it's  to  be  done  by 
the  spur." 

And  he  meant  it,  too.  He  was  now  as 
much  in  love  with  thb  strange,  new,  timid, 
tremulous  Ida  as  he  ever  had  been,  or  ever 
conid  be,  with  any  one.  And  of  this  he 
gave,  that  very  evening,  an  incredible 
proof. 

"The  doctor  has  been  askbg  i^ain  to- 
day after  you,  Bichard.  I  didn't  tell  him 
about  Uie  medicine,  bnt  I  did  about  the 
stimnlante.  He  looked  very  serious  over 
it.  He  said  yon  might  at  least  restrict 
yonrself  to  claret.  I  wish  yoa  would  for  a 
week  or  two.    Ida,  yoa  ask  him." 

"II"  stammered  Ida,  taken  completely 
aback. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  he'll  do  it  for  yon,  and 
you  are  almost  as  much  interested  aa  he.  If 
anything  were  to  happen  yon'd  think  it 
your  doing,  I  know." 

This  horrible  "if  anything  were  to 
happen,"  inspired  Ida's  anxious  face  and 
eager  tone. 


"  I  wish  you  would,  Captun  Brabazon  " 

Dick  promptly  put  down  the  decanter, 
and  Pn>^^  aside  the  half-filled  glass. 

"  Then  I  shall,  of  conrse." 

And  be  did,  at  least  while  under  their 
anxious  eyes. 


KEMINISCENCES  OP  JAMAICA.* 

IN  THREE  PARTS.  PART  L 
The  entrance  from  seaward  into  the 
harbour  of  Port  Eoyal,  ix  protected  by 
cays  ot  coral  reefs,  apparently  not  long 
risen  above  the  stuface,  as  little  soil  hat 
collected  upon  them,  and  one  is  nearly 
awash.  Tney  bear  curious  old  -  world 
names,  taken  from  the  ancient  navigatorB' 
charts,  and  sn^esting  wild  orgies  indulged 
in  under  the  brazen  sun  while  conducting 
the  survey  of  the  harbour.  Diunken-men'i 
Cay,  Rum  Cay,  Gun  Cay,  are  all  of 
small  dimensions,  clothed  with  green  nearly 
to  the  water's  edge. 

It  is  a  lovely  sight  on  nearing  these  cays 
to  watch  the  water  gradually  ahoaL  LitUe 
by  littie  the  limpid  depths  grow  clearer 
and  greener,  till  a  fairy  forest  of  liviiw, 
breathing  coral  appears  as  if  but  an  in^ 
w  two  below  the  snrface ;  yoa  cannot 
believe  that  six  feet  of  water  rolls  over 
it.  Sea-urchins,  sea  -  anemones,  star- 
fish, and  other  fleshy  zoophytes  enjoy 
themselves  in  their  own  flabby  way  among 
the  corals,  expanding  and  collapsing  with 
the  gently  heaving  water,  but  retiring 
within  themselves  and  lying  flat  at  the 
bottom,  shapeless  jellies,  at  the  slightest 
hint  of  captura  Nothing  more  lovely  can 
be  conceived  tban  the  corals  aa  seen  from 
a  boat  Large  flat  masses  of  the  shape  of 
a  toadstool;  great  white  branches  like  a 
deer's  antlers, '  tipped  with  blue,  red,  and 
violet;  rear  themselves  towards  the  surface 
in  fragile  loveliness,  white  mounds  of  brain- 
stone  look  as  smooth  and  ronnd  as  if  freeh 
trom  a  mason's  hands.  Delicate  filmy  sea- 
weed of  every  tint  forms  a  soft  carpet, 
showing  ofif  by  contrast  the  brilliant  white- 
ness of  the  coral,  but  disappointing  when 
brought  to  the  surface — a  collapsed  mass 
of  pulp.  Night  falls  here  so  suddenly, 
without  any  intervening  twilight,  aa  to 
leave  little  enough  time  for  getting  home 
while  a  glimmer  remains  sufflcient  to 
steer  clear  of  the  coral-reefs  just  awash.  It 
is  particularly  disagreeable  to  hear,  when 
harrying  homewards  belated,  crunch,  cnsb, 
crunch,  as  a  shaip  spike  of  coral  penetrates 


REMINISCENCES  OF  JAMAICA. 


ircbnui7S,iat.i    271 


the  thin  aides  of  the  boat,  and  yoa  are 
left  Umonting,  up  to  the  knees  in  water, 
and  despair  at  jronr  hevt,  till  perchance 
Bomebodf  sees  yon  from  the  ships,  and 
eoniBs  to  the  reecae. 

One  of  oar  pleasantest  amoaements, 
albeit  nther  a  toilaome  one,  vas  a  picnic 
to  Rock  Spiiog,  the  soorce  of  the  water- 
npplf ,  ten  miles  away,  at  the  head  of 
Kii^jston  Harbonr.  Havine  aacceeded  at 
great  personal  labonr  in  collecldng  all  who 
coasanted  to  be  dragged  from  their  beds 
it  four-thirty  &m.,  a  start  Tasmadein  the 
gon-boat  Heron,  steam-tender  to  the  com- 
modore's fiag-ehip,  abont  five.  ArriTing  at 
sbont  seven,  andT  landing  on  the  piles,  yoa 
walk  at  first  in  single  file  beside  the 
sqiteduct  and  pipes  that  convey  the  water 
to  the  holds  of  the  tank-vessels.  The 
reservoir  is  hewn  out  of  solid  grey-green 
lock  on  the  side  of  Long  Mountain ;  it  is 
ctqmble  of  containing  over  two  hundred  tons 
of  water,  and  thoogh  six:  feet  deep,  is  of 
mch  a  lovely  transparency,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  yon  are  not  looking  into 
"an  empty  space  with  a  clean  rocky  bottom. 
The  water  oozes  through  a  fissore  in  the 
green  stone ;  it  is  not  known  where  the 
ipring  exactly  rises,  hot  the  water  is 
absolntely  dean,  pore,  wholesome,  and 
free  from  the  shadow  of  impnrity — I  say 
Utis,  becanae  in  yellow-fever  epidemics  the 
water  -  sapply  is  the  first  thing  to  be 
suspected.  Beneath,  lies  a  tranquil  vale 
far  from  pollatioa  or  human  habitation. 
At  a  respectful  distance  (lest  a  single  leaf 
■hoold  fall  and  taint  the  carefuUy-gnarded 
water)  bananas  wave  and  fruit,  while  the 
course  of  a  small  streadi  is  marked  by  an 
impervious  forest  of  strong  Osmunda 
re^lis,  measuring  from  twelve  to  seven- 
teen feet  in  height,  thickly  carpeted  with 
penwnnint  and  water-cresa. 

The  scene  of  our  picnic  was  nsually  laid 
h^het  up  the  mountain,  between  the  great 
bnttress-like  roots  of  a  particularly  Targe 
cotton-tree.  Breakfast  being  ready,  also 
several  additional  guests  from  Kingston, 
Up  Park,  and  the  Gardens,  tea,  coffee, 
and  especially  iced  claret-cup  by  the  gallon, 
disappeared  as  soon  as  made;  and  black 
crabs,  deliciously  cooked  in  their  shells; 
cold  calipiver  (the  salmon  of  Jamaica), 
taken  in  the  mouutain  lakes;  chickens 
fed  by  oorselves  upon  the  white  meat  of 
the  cocoanut  ;  excellent  eggs  ;  scones  ; 
oranges ;  neesberries,  a  roughl>rown  fruit, 
second  to  none  when  eaten  at  the  exact 
moment  of  perfection ;  "  Matrimony,"  a 
delicious  compound  composed  of  star-applea. 


oranges,  ice,  and  sugar,  form  a  repast  not  to 
be  despised.  Cigars  and  idleness  followed, 
after  which  the  light-hearted  middies 
amused  themselves  by  making  tiie  young 
King  of  Mosqmto  wash  up  the  tumblers 
and  passes. 

"  William  Henry  Clarence,"  so  named  in 
honour  of  our  sailor  king,  William  the 
Fourth,  who  was  a  great  patron  of  his 
father  and  uncle,  succeeded  at  a  very  early 
age  to  the  almost  barren  honours  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Mosquito  on  the  death  of  his 
uncle,  a  courteous  sable  gentleman,  whose 
end  was  unlimited  conviviality. 

This  poor  young  lad  of  eighteen  died; — it 
is  believed  by  poison — abont  a  year  after 
returning  to  Blewfielda,  Honduras,  his 
seat  of  government,  which  might  have 
become  an  enlightened  and  habitable  place 
had  his  life  been  spared  to  exercise  any 
authority.  He  was  of  a  slngalarly  amiable 
disposition,  talented  and  well-meaning,  with 
fine  Indian  features  and  straight,  black  hair. 
Much  care  had  been  bestowed  npon  his 
education  by  the  Baptists  to  whom  he  had 
been  confided,  but  he  had  the  instincts  of 
a  soldier,  and  told  me  in  confidence  how 
he  longed  to  be  sent  to  a  military  college, 
but  the  funds  available  for  his  education 
out  of  the  Mosquito  "civil  list"  did  not 
allow  of  any  wild  extravagance.  On  snch 
festive  occasions  aS  a  grand  luncheon  at 
the  Admiralty  House  the  young  king  was 
attired  in  a  blue  military  frock-coat  and 
cap,  with  gold  buttons  and  red  facings, 
rendered  regalbyabroad  light-blue  watered- 
ribbon,  worn  across  his  chest,  like  the  Order 
of  the  Bath,  in  which  he  took  immense 
pride. 

Fleeing  before  the  first  hot  rays  of  the 
advancing  sun,  we  usually  got  home  by 
half-past  ten,  just  as  the  sea-breeze  set  in, 
bathed,  and  rested  for  the  day. 

Opposite  Fort  Royal,  and  guarding  the 
entrance  to  Kingston  Harbour,  are  two  once 
important  forts,  Apostles'  Battery  and 
Fort  Augusta.  To  seaward  of  the  former 
is  Green  Bay,  a  place  celebrated  in  olden 
days  for  duels.  Nothing  now  rewards  a 
visit  here,  but  the  grave  of  a  Frenchman, 
Lewis  Baldy,  of  whom  it  is  recounted  on 
his  tombstone  that  in  the  great  earthquake 
of  1692  he  was  swallowed  up  at  Port 
Royal  and  disgorged  agun  into  the  sea, 
but  survived  tSs  extraordinary  experience 
for  many  years. 

Beyond  Green  Bay  ag^n,  on  the  most 
hopelessly  sterile  spot  m  Jamaica,  herd 
together  under  Government  supervision 
the  lepers  of  the  isluid.    Shnnned  by  all 


372      (FabriUT  9,  USi.1 


ALL  THE  Y£A£  BOUND. 


[OoBdnoMlv 


mankiiid,  bereft  of  everytbing  that  makes 
life  endorable,  they  yet  live  on  withoat 
hope  or  joy,  oEteo  till  extreme  old  age. 
When  you  hare  said  they  tiave  enoc^ 
food,  you  have  said  all.  Theae  poor 
souls  are  beyond  the  reach  of  ererythiug 
but  death,  and  even  that  last  enemy  is  in 
no  hurry  to  claim  them. 

At  Fort  Augusta,  besides  the  povder- 
mag&zine,  there  is  still  standine  a  great 
range  of  barracks,  tenanted  only  t>y  flocks 
of  pigeons  and  by  bats  and  owls.  The 
graveyard  attached  to  the  fort  is  fall  of 
tablets  to  the  memory  of  a  vast  army  who 
were  allowed  to  perish  of  yellow-fever  in 
this  pestilential  placa  In  these  days  of 
sanitary  precandons,  it  seems  astonishing 
that  Engnshmen  should  have  been  brought 
out  here,  planted  ashore  at  Fort  Aognsta— 
a  place  surrounded  by  marshes  and  black, 
stagnant,  reedy  estnaries,  now  the  home  of 
alligators  and  screech-owls — and  have  been 
allowed,  about  seventy  to  one  hundred  years 
ago,  to  have  died  like  rotten  sheep.  Half 
hidden  among  giant  cacti,  mangrove,  and 
cashew,  a  scrub,  unpenetrable,  and  not  even 
picturesque,  are  to  be  found  hundreds  of 
tons  of  old  thirty4wo  pounders,  which, 
apparently  to  save  troupe  and  get  them 
out  of  the  way  when  the  two  or  three  big 
guns  replaced  them,  were  pitched  from 
the  ramparts  into  the  thicket  where  they 
lie  half-buried  in  marshy  debris.  Yarious 
projects  for  shipping  some  of  this  valuable 
old  iron  are  always  being  formed,  with,  as 
far  as  I  know,  no  immediate  result. 

Apostles'  Battery  is  perched  on  a  slight 
rocl^  prominence,  atid  is  far  healthier 
than  Fort  Augusta.  The  niinoos  buildings 
are  still  made  use  of  occasionally  for  a 
quarantine  hospital  Port  Henderson,  close 
by,  possesses  a  celebrated  well  and  bath, 
blasted  out  of  the  rock  and  arched  over 
with  greenish-grey  stone.  Looking  down 
into  it  yon  are  quite  unable  to  determine 
its  depth,  or,  indeed,  whether  it  contains 
any  water  at  aU,  it  is  so  absolutely  clear  and 
transparent  Once  a  poor  yonng  midsbip- 
man,  fancying  the  bath  most  be  very  deep, 
took  a  header  into  it;  striking  violeot^ 
gainst  the  bottom,  his  neck  was  dislocated, 
and  be  died  in  a  few  hoars. 

Food  is  a  difficulty  at  Port  Eoyal — 
eatables  ore  only  to  be  obtained  from  the 
market  at  Kingston,  five  miles  off.  Be(^ 
alone  is  cheaper  than  in  England,  mutton 
dearer  and  nastier;  goat  is  very frequeutJy 
Bubstitnted  for  mntton,  though,  when  taxed 
with  the  fraud,  the  butcher  disclaims  the 
insinuation  wttji  scorn.    Fowls  are  remark- 


ab^  thin  and  tough,  and  I  often  gave  a 
shiUing  for  four  egga  Turtle  is  cheap— 
sixpence  a  pound  ifor  fine  fat  alderman's 
turtle ;  but  notwitlistanding  ito  cheapness, 
an  accomplished  eook  prefers  to  have  plenty 
of  beef  stock  and  calves'  feet,  wherewith 
to  make  the  soup  both  strong  and 
gelatinous,  before  any  tnrtle  at  tdl  is  put 
into  it — ^in  fact,  the  turtle  is  the  least 
ingredient  in  good  tnrtle-sonp !  Black 
crabs  are  easily  obtunable ;  we,  however, 
always  bad  grave  doubts  as  to  the  nature 
of  the  last  food  upon  which  they  had 
gorged  themselves,  and  so  they  were 
educated  in  barrels  for  three  weeks  upon 
barley-meaL  The  crabs  are  then  boiled, 
minced,  seasoned,  Mid  served  ap  in  their 
shells.  One  of  oar  party  was  awoke  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  by  a  moat  curioiu 
sound,  as  of  some  creature  being  dragged 
along  the  corridor,  occasionally  tappins  a 
sharp  little  heel.  Daylight  revealed  a 
large  black  crab  which  had  escaped  from  tha 
ban«l,  mounted  a  long  flight  of  steps,  and 
hod  finally  taken  refuge  upon  the  mosquito 
net  of  the  bed,  where  it  clung  dequrately 
by  one  daw.  Game  there  la  none ;  a  few 
little  sandpipers  were  sometimes  ^ot  on 
Hie  palisades  between  the  lights,  and  were 
not  bad.  Fish  are  coarse  and  tasteless,  so 
that  gourmands  have  a  bod  time  of  it  in 
Jamaica 

Servants  are  a  grave  difficulty;  the 
climate  is  too  trying  for  English  people, 
whereas  our  Barbadian  or  Jamaican  cook 
and  cook's  mate  really  enjoyed  themselvei 
in  an  atmosphere  resembling  the  tropical 
orchid-house  at  Eew  Gardens.  One  was 
horrible  dirty,  the  next  inordinately  fat, 
the  last,  a  Barbadian,  clean,  and  a  veiy 
tolerable  cook,  though  wasteful  and  ex- 
travagant, and  his  tnrtle-soup  was  excellent 
enough  to  cover  a  multitude  of  sins. 

I  often  heard  that  the  native  servantsweie 
revengeful;  on  one  occasion  only  did  we 
find  t^em  so.  A  yoong  black  girl  in  our 
employ,  who  had  come  to  us  l^hly 
recommended,  was  convicted  of  flagiaot 
miscondnct :  she  was  accordingly  wuned 
to  pock  np  her  tilings,  and  be  ready  to  go 
to  Kingston  by  the  steam-launch  in  t£e 
morning.  During  the  afternoon  the  iced 
water  in  a  cooler,  always  standing  in  the 
dining-room,  was  observed  to  present  a 
cloudy,  whitish  appearance;  ao  much  so, 
that  it  was  thrown  away  untaated.  Next 
morning  when  our  early  cofl'ee  was  ponred 
oat,  a  broad  yellow  stain  still  remained  on 
the  aide  of  the  cup.  I  sent  for  the  cook 
and  pointed  it  out  to  him  ;  he  seemed  to 


EEMINISCENCES  OP  JAMAICA.         iFehnuiy9,i8w.i    273 


knoir  perfectly  veil  what  was  the  matter 
iritb  it,  and  quickly  carried  it  away, 
bnmedly  laying :  "  I  bring  missiu  &esh 
coffea"  Before  I  bad  the  least  realised 
Hut  an  attempt  had  been  made  to  poison 
DB,  the  coffee  was  poured  away.  I  after- 
virds  found  out  that,  after  being  dismissed, 
the  girl  hovered  aboat  tbe  sitchen  all 
the  afternoon,  quite  an  nnuBiial  thing, 
and  was  the  first  ap  in  the  morning, 
ftQl  loitering  abont  the  kitchen  door, 
lite  same  girl  afterwards  accoeted  ns  in 
tlie  market  at  Kingston  with  the  greatest 
eheerfblness,  as  if  nothing  whatever  had 
happened  to  prerent  a  cordial  greeting  on 
onr  part  I  firequently  heaH  of  cases 
irtiere  native  poisons  were  carried  abont  by 
native  Bervantfl — and  trusted  serrante — for 
yean,  "in  case"  they  might  be  suddenly 
vuted  to  "  pay  oat "  some  onlnc^ 
emidoyer  or  fellow -servant  who  had 
ofluided  them.  Obeah  poisoning  is  also 
extendvely  carried  oat  in  remote  nooks, 
puticnlarly  in  the  moontaina,  where  in- 
cantadons  reeembling  those  of  andent 
witchcraft,  arepractiMd  with  Uie  aid  of  a 
white  cock.  We  never  conld  keep  a  white 
tnid  in  the  hills ;  they  were  always  stolen 
for  Obeah  porposes. 

The  former  wife  of  a  friend  of  my  own, 
waited,  pined,  and  died  under  a  constant 
course  of  some  irritant  poison,  administered 
(it  was  afterwards  discovered)  by  her 
tmited  hoosekeeper,  in  the  expectation 
(hat  the  reins  of  government  would  pass 
into  her  own  hands  with  the  appurtenances 
thereof  However,  when  the  poor  ladydied, 
w  much  grave  suspicion  attached  to  this 
woman,  wao  had  carried  oat  her  cruel  task 
with  fiendish  malice,  that  she  disappeared 
no  one  knew  whither. 

That  there  is  a  diabolical  element  lark- 
ing in  the  apparently  good-tempered  and 
eaty-going  Jamaican,  was  amply  shown 
b  the  atrocities  committed  at  Morant 
Bay  during  the  rebellion  of  1866, 
thor  previously  adored  masters  and  mis- 
trestes. 

All  Uack  people  love  fine  clothes.  On 
one  of  the  rare  occasions  on  which  I 
appeared  in  a  ball-dresa  at  Port  Boyal,  my 
Gngtiah  maid  thoughtfully  proposed  that 
the  poor  old  black  acnllerywoman  in  the 
kitchra  ^oold  come  ap  and  see  ma 
"  Come  in,"  I  said,  hearing  a  sncceaaion  of 
lond  aniffs  outside.  No  sooner  was  the 
door  open  and  I  stood  revealed  to  sight, 
than  she  fell  upon  me  with  outstretched 
aims,  clasping  my  knees  in  the  wildest 
excitement  and  atuainttaon.    I  could  well 


have  dispensed  with  that  portion  of  it,  her 
apron  and  person  in  general  bemg  far  from 
immaculate.  She  was  an  excellent  creature, 
albeit  dirty,  and  when  she  died,  wishing  to 
mark  our  B«iBe  of  honest  and  foitbfnl  service, 
her  poor  little  shrivelled  black  body, 
enclosed  in  a  neat  coiBn,  was  borne  by 
six  stalwart  seamen  to  the  atem-sheets  of 
the  Commodore's  galley,  followed  by  her 
nearest  relations  and  friends  in  the  whaler. 
The  two  boats  were  then  slowly  rowed 
past  the  flagship  and  other  men-of-war, 
who  flew  their  flags  half-mast  for  the 
occasion,  to  the  landing-place  on  the 
paluades,  where  the  cLargyman,  and  a 
nnmerous  assemblage  of  Fort  Royal,  were 
awaiting  theuL  Oar  only  r^et  was  that 
she  could  not  have  attended  her  own 
funeral,  she  wonld  have  been  so  flattered 
and  charmed  at  the  attention  paid  to 
her. 

A  foneral  is  heartily  enjoyed  bv  the 
natives,  none  of  whom '  would  wimngly 
absent  themselves  from  one,  and  they  mil 
tramp  any  distance  in  the  blazing  sun  to 
attend  a  wake.  Aa  soon  as  the  breath 
is  oat  of  a  body,  it  is  treated  with  a  fear 
and  respect  which  are  far  from  being 
accorded  to  it  daring  life.  As  many  rela- 
tions as  can  be  couected  together  in  the 
very  limited  time,  pack  Into  the  death- 
chamber,  where  they  pass  the  whole 
of  the  succeeding  night,  singing  with- 
oat  one  moment's  intermission,  till  there 
are  signs  of  the  dawn.  Their  voices  then 
ascend  higher  and  higher,  till  an  excru- 
ciatingly high  key  is  attained,  when  with  a 
burst  of  shrill  and  prolonged  notes,  the 
straggling  Hiirit  is  thought  to  foe  at  rest, 
safe  from  the  violence  of  the  powers  of 
darkness,  who  are  always  in  wuting  the 
first  nif^t  to  seize  and  bear  away  tha 
dead.  The  ninth  night  after  death  is  also 
an  important  one.  Another  ceaseless 
period  of  singing,  another  great  gathering, 
and  Uie  spint  is  for  ever  at  peace.  It 
mast  be  highly  undesirable  to  possess  a 
lai^  circle  of  retaUons,  as  these  nights  of 
wild  excitement  are  most  exhaosting,  and 
daring  epidemics  of  cholera,  small-pox, 
and  measles,  were  the  means,  till  pat  an 
and  to  by  Qovemment,  of  largely  spread- 
ing contagion.  Even  after  the  most 
sbingent  prohibitions,  wakes  were  con- 
tinnuly  held  in  secret  on  the  hillsides, 
the  few  police  being  quite  powerless  to 

frevent  them—even  if  they  tried,  which 
doubt,  as  the  force  consists  of  black  or 
Golonred  men,  sympathising  with  their 
race  in  these  fetish  customs.      For  one 


274      [FcbnvT  9, 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


Dative  buried  in  the  cemeteriea,  certiunl; 
live  are  put  into  a  hole  in  their  own 
garden,  causing  the  particular  spot  to  be 
shunned  after  nightfall  with  abject  fear,  aa 
long  as  the  place  of  sepulchre  ii  remem' 
bered. 

The  negroes  are  not  Sequent  eaters,  but 
vhen  they  do  eat — a  favourite  time  is 
about  nine  at  night  —  the  quantity  con- 
sumed is  beyond  belief.  After  these  Gar- 
gantuan meals  they  lie  down,  and  deep  the 
sleep  of  the  gorged.  Very  little  change  is 
either  made  or  desired  in  their  diet  m>m 
day  to  day ;  a  pudding  composed  of  yun, 
salt-fish,  calavaucea,  ach6,  and  fat,  form- 
ing the  staple  of  tJieir  food  all  the  year 
round. 

These  people  think  we  are  qoite  absurd 
in  the  frequency  of  our  meals,  and  I  don't 
know  that  they  are  wrong,  A  man-aerrant 
of  ours  was  heard  to  wmloqnise,  with  a 
sigh  enough  to  blow  a  candle  out,  "Dem 
wbite  people  never  done  eat,"  as  be  pre- 
pared to  lay  the  cloth  for  the  fourth  time 
that  day. 

Their  naive  revelations  are  sometimes 
vel:y  amusing.  Here  is  a  typical  case. 
Illness  and  various  hindrances  had  pre- 
vented our  returning  a  first  visit  quite  as 
quickly  as  etiquette  demanded.  Some 
little   time    afterwards  we  |«oceeded  to 

enquire  if  Mrs, was  atnomel   "No," 

shortly  replied  an  ofEended-looking  black 
lady,  opening  about  two  inches  of  the 
door,  "she  has  waited  'pon  you  for  tree 
day,  and  now  she  has  gone  ont."  Our 
visit  had  evidently  been  expected  sooner, 
and  its  non-payment  freely  commented 
upon. 

Bidden  to  stay  with  the  Qovemor  we 
crossed  to  Fort  Hendeison  in  the  galley. 
The  Governor's  carriage  in  wdting  at  that 
desolate  landing  -  place  made  quite  a 
gotigeons  spot  of  coloor,  the  ridiculooely 
pompous  ebony  faces  of  bis  servants  look- 
ing comically  ont  of  their  smart  scarlet 
liveries.  An  ugly  drive  of  twelve  miles  over 
sandy  tracts  bordered  with  cashew  and 
stnught  scrubby  cactus,  brought  us 
to  Spanish  Town,  once  the  flonrishiog 
capital  of  the  ishmd,  when  Kingston  con- 
sisted of  a  few  mud  hats  upon  the  shore. 
Little  by  little  its  grandeur  has  departed. 
King's  House  (a  fine  relic  of  the  old 
Spanish  times,  with  vast  banqueting  and 
ball  rooms,  arched  with  black  chestnut), 
public  offices,  archives,  museum,  have  all 
been  removed  to  Kingston  and  elsewhere, 
leaving  the  once  handsome  square,  crowded 
with  fine  habitable  buildings,  desolate. 


One  great  attraction  Spanish  Town 
must  always  possess  for  travellers  in  the 
lovely  Bogne  Walk  close  by,  a  natural 
ravine  winding  with  the  Cobr^  river  at  the 
bottom  of  a  deep  gorge.  A  monntuu  met 
up  sheet  on  each  aide,  clotiied  and  bathed 
in  a  tangle  of  tropical  verdure,  with  just 
space  enough  at  the  bottom  for  the  nuhine 
nver,  its  Md  strewn  with  grey  rocks,  ana 
the  drive  beside  it  After  pasnng  the 
Bogne  Walk  the  mountuns  recede,  the 
turbulent  river,  no  longer  pent  up,  runs 
qnietly,  and  the  verdant  pluns  of 
Linstead  open  to  view ;  here  we  "  baited " 
and  melted,  before  commencing  iha  ascent 
of  Mount  Diavolo,  two  thousand  feet  high. 
The  view  from  the  summit  is  gloricos: 
miles  and  miles  of  yellow  cane  and  bloe- 
green  tobacco,  with  the  river  twisting  and 
turning  in  and  out  Dwarf  stone  paraftets 
were  our  sole  protection  against  a  full  mlo 
the  valley,  a  thousand  feet  below.  Mid- 
way in  the  descent  the  horses  swerved 
as  if  not  nnder  command,  there  was  s 
lurch,  and  then  a  nod  on  the  part  of  the 
driver.  The  horses  were  now  tearing 
down  the  steep  decline;  another  sverre, 
and  the  ofT-wneel,  striking  against  the 
stone  parape^had  half  its  tire  torn  vio- 
lenUy  oSl  The  coachman  was  asleep  I 
Feanng  that  the  flapping  tire  would 
alarm  the  already  excited  horses,  we  sot 
out  and  walked,  while  the  hones  wen  Ted 
into  Moneague,  where  a  tinker  of  a  wheel- 
wright "  diuked  "  the  wheel  the  wrong  way 
in  putting  on  a  new  tire,  causing  it  to 
wobbJe  about  i^  an  eccentric  manner  all  the 
rest  of  the  journey.  Moneague  is  a  veiy 
old  town,  with  the  remaina  of  many  fine 
Spanish  buildings,  blighted  and  decayed, 
and  fast  mingling  with  the  dust  Sun- 
down l^ught  us  to  our  jonmey's  end; 
here  a  fine  park-like  domain  of  great  beauty 
and  extent,  rolled  away  from  the  com- 
fortable well-kept  house.  A  thousand  head 
of  cattle  spread  over  the  pltuna,  and  dotted 
the  hillsida  Clumps  of  wide  -  spresdnig 
trees  made  delicious  shade  for  countless 
animals  all  the  hot  noonday,  but  in  dry 
seasons  they  enfiered  much  &om  want  of 
water,  often  being  driven  fifteen  or  twen^ 
miles  for  a  drink.  "Ticks,"  originally 
imported  from  Cnba,  infest  the  cattJe,  and 
nu^  it  a  dangerous  experiment  for  nan 
as  well  as  beast  to  roam  about  these 
beautiful  grasslands.  Here  the  large  land- 
owner seems  more  akin  to  the  Jamaica 
planter  of  old,  keeping  troops  of  black 
servants,  and  exercising  unbounded  hos- 
Itality.  The  return  from  St  Ann's  was  com- 


QiadM  DlckcDi.) 


"  CHINESE  GORDON." 


(Febrauyg,  IBM.]      376 


menced  at;  four-thirty  s,iil,  it  being  still 
pitch-dark.  As  morntnff  (Uvned  a  thick 
white  mist  la;  upon  uie  valley  like  a 
vast  lake,  hidmg  evetythiiig  below  frooi 
sight;  we  seemed  to  be  driving  into 
the  air,  leaving  the  donds  beneath  us. 
On  the  very  snmmit  of  Monnt  Diavolo 
a  halt  was  made  to  see  the  son  rise. 
First  it  toached  the  horizon)  then  blazed 
farth,  piercing  the  heavy  mistA,  which 
lifted,  rose,  and  sailed  away  into  the 
skies  at  the  fitst  tonch  of  its  hot 
nys.  The  Bc^ne,  Walk  seen  later  in 
the  day  assumes  an  altogether  different 
aspect  when  lighted  up  firom  the  opposite 
aidei  Sio  Cobr6  has  so  many  waterfalls 
down  which  to  tumble,  so  much  broken 
roek  to  bury  over,  that  it  is  often  very 
dangerous ,  especially  during  sudden  freshets, 
eanaed  by  an  afternoon  shower  in  the  hills. 
Early  in  the  day  the  river  ia  generally 
nutnin^  quietly.  Groups  of  gay-hearted 
chattering  women  then  collect  in  the 
stillest  inola ;  each  with  her  dress  kilted 
up,  standing  knee -deep  in  front  of  her 
favourite  akt  stone.  Here  she  will  talk 
iueessaotly  while  lazily  washing  out  the 
fiiDiily  rags,  which  are  ruthlessly  banged 
■gunst  the  stones  instead  of  being  rubbed 
and  wrung.  One  woman  reroains  longer 
than  the  rest,  perhaps,  unobservant  of  any 
change,  till  a  sadden  flood  lifte  her  off  her 
feet,  flings  her  head  against  a  jagged 
rock,  and  nothing  more  ia  ever  seen  of  ner ; 
nor  do  they  ever  seem  to  gain  experience, 
for  DO  week  passes  without  some  such 
accident  happening  in  one  or  other  of  the 
Duny  streams  in  the  jiilfrndi 


A  SBOB^T. 
I  TOu>  mjr  Mcret  to  the  iweet  wild  rows, 

Heavy  with  dew,  DBw-woking  In  tbs  morn, 
And  they  had  breathad  it  to  a  tboiuand  othecs, 

Befare  another  da;  wae  slowly  bom. 
"  "'    "■'  ' "  Bud  I,  "  yon  ahall  pariah  I  " 

1  for  my  Udy  sweet  to  wear, 
m-v  fliiuutjij  of  her  maiden  bosom, 
iiled  luxnrianoe  of  her  oheatnut  hair. 
t  told  the  secret  to  a  bird  new  building 


Thon  do»t  not  know,  there  in  tby  neet  above, 
That  secreta  are  not  made  to  tell  to  others. 

That  nlaocA  ia  the  birthright  of  true  love  I " 
I  told  Uie  secret  to  my  love,  my  lady, 

3ha  held  it  closely  to  ber  darling  breast  t 
Then  aa  I  clasped  her,  came  a  tiny  whisper ; 

"  Tbo  birds  and  floweia  told  me  all  the  rtet, 
Nor  shonld'st  thoo  cbide  tbem  that  thej  spake  the 

The  whole  world  is  a  chord  of  love  divine, 
And  bjida  and  Howei*  but  folfil  their  mission, 
la  telling  secrets,  sweet  ai  mine  and  thine  1 " 


"CHINESE  GORDON.'"* 

IS  TWO  PARTS.  PART  II. 
In  reading  once  again  the  story  of  the 
Ever  Victorious  Army,  we  hare  been  struck 
with  tlie  singular  military  capacity  of  its 
hero  and  its  captain.  It  seems  to  us, 
moreover,  that  in  a  general  way,  but  par- 
ticolarly  in  the  recent  voluminous  remarks 
in  the  newspapers,  to  that  capacity  Justice 
has  not  been  done.  People  give  to  Gordon 
the  credit  of  being  a  great  administrator, 
a  novel  diplomatist,  and  the  fortunate 
possessor  of  a  strange  and  wondrous  In- 
flnence  over  the  hearts  of  men;  but  his 
ability  and  aehievementa  as  a  leader  of 
armies  and  a  master  of  campaigns  seem 
to  have  been  considerably,  if  not  entirely, 
overlooked.  Gordon  the  Christian  gover- 
nor, and  Gordon  the  kindly  helper  of  the 
[loor,  are  realised  in  the  popnlar  mind,  and 
oved ;  Gordon,  the  consanimate  atrategist, 
is  buvly  understood.  And  yet,  as  it 
seems  to  us,  the  military  resource  and 
audacity,  the  oriKinality  and  keen  perfeeti- 
tude  of  plan,  and  the  almost  magic  insight 
into  an  enemy's  intention,  which  are 
visible  throughout  his  career  —  in  the 
Crimea,  in  China,  in  the  Soudan — are 
points  of  character  not  loss  important  nor 
less  admirable  than  the  qualities  which 
have  received  a  wider  recognition  because 
they  appeal  more  directly  to  sentiment  and 
imagination. 

Rectitude,  conrage,  simple  trust  in  God 
— these  qualities  are  great,  and  enable 
men  to  do  great  things ;  but  in  Gordon 
there  is  somethmg  more.  He  has  the 
eenios  of  a  great  general,  a  rapidity  of 
uiought  and  energy  of  action  which,  if  not 
entinly  singular,  perhaps,  in  themselves, 
become  bo  in  virtue  of  tus  peculiar  person- 
ality, the  daring  of  hie  invention,  and 
often  the  humour  of  his  methods.  For 
Gordon,  with  all  his  eamestnesa  and 
mysticism,  with  fUl  his  unsparing  thorongb- 
ness  in  every  department  of  action  assigned 
to  him  by  others  or  selected  by  himself,  is 
a  humourist 

At^the  close  of  the  Taiping  Rebellion, 
Gordon  returned  to  England  with  the  one 
idea  of  enjoying  well-earned  qoiet  in  the 
circle  of  nis  family.  But  "no  sooner," 
writes  Mr.  Hake,  "  had  he  set  foot  in  this 
country  than  invitations  came  in  npoa 
him  from  all  quarters,  and  to  have  him  for 
a  guest  wae  the  season's  ideal ;   friends 

■  "The  story  of  Chinese  Gordon, "  by  A.  Egmont 
Hoke.  With  twn  portraits  uid  two  maps.  LoDdoa  ; 
Remington  and  Co.,  1SS4. 


276       Febiuar)-  0, 1884.1 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


and  kioBiueii  were  made  the  bearen  of 
superb  invitatioiu,  all  of  which  he  had  the 
courage  to  decline."  When  he  found  him- 
self pronounced  a  hero  he  ceased  to  listen, 
and  even  hogged  a  feUow-officer  who  had 
written  an  account  of  the  campaign  to  let 
the  subject  drop.  "  To  posh  and  intrigae 
was  impossible ; "  and,  at  a  moment  whon 
most  men  wonid  have  accepted  with  proud 
pleasare  the  courtesies  of  society  and  the 
praises  of  the  great,  he  was  content  to 
resume  his  duty  as  a  Eoyal  Enginew.  A 
striking  instuice  of  this  exceptional 
modesty  ^or  is  it  an  exceptional  and  admi- 
rable Taiuty!)  is  related  in  connection  with 
his  Journal  of  the  Tuping  War.  This 
valuable  document  was  illustrated  by  him- 
self, and  he  had  sent  it  home  from  China 
OQ  the  understanding  that  it  should  be 
seen  by  none  but  hie  family.  But  one  of 
Her  Majesty's  Ministers  heard  of  the 
manuscript,  borrowed  it,  and  was  bo  im- 
pressed that  he  had  it  printed  for  the 
benefit  of  his  colleagues.  Late  one  even- 
ing Gordon  enquired  about  his  journal, 
and  being  told  what  had  happened,  rose 
from  table  and  sped  in  hot  haste  to  the 
Minister's  house.  The  Minister  was  not  at 
home ;  Gordon  hurried  to  the  printers, 
demanded  hisMS.,and  ordered  the  printed 
copies  to  be  destroyed  and  the  type  broken 
up.  No  one  has  seen  the  manuscript 
since,  and  Mr.  Hake  declares  there  is  every 
probability  of  its  having  been  destroyed. 

In  1866,  Gordon  was  appointed  Com- 
manding Engineer  at  Gravesend,  and  there 
for  sir  years  he  remained,  fulfiliing  his 
official  duties  in  the  construction  of  the 
Thames  defences  and  devoting  himself,  in 
a  manner  almost  unexampled,  to  the  poor. 
"  His  house  was  school,  hospital,  and  alms- 
house in  turn,"  and  his  delight  in  children, 
aud  espedally  in  boys  working  on  the 
river  or  the  sea,  is  one  of  the  sunniest 
traits  in  his  character.  Many  he  rescued 
from  the  gutter,  cleansed  and  clothed,  and 
fed,  and  kept  them  in  his  home  for  weeks 
until  work  and  place  were  found  for  them. 
He  called  them  his  "kings,"  and  marked 
their  voyages  with  iminmerable  pins  stuck 
in  a  map  of  the  world  that  hong  over  his 
mantelpiece,  and  these  pins  he  "moved 
from  point  to  point  as  his  youngsters 
advanced,"  and  day  by  day  prayed  for 
them  as  tJiey  went  The  lads  loved  him, 
and  scribbled  on  the  fences  a  touching 
legend  of  their  own  invention :  "  God  Mess 
the  Kernel ! " 

'  Pleasant  indeed  it  would  be  to  linger 
over  this  chapter  in  the  life  of  this  won£r- 


ful  man;  but  biography  is  long,  and  our 
pages  are  shorL  Let  us  pass  at  once  to 
what,  in  our  opinion,  is  by  far  the  mCst 
romantic  period  in  Gordon's  career — tlie 
years  that  ne  spent  in  the  Soudan,  the  land 
of  the  dry  desert,  and  mighty  rivers,  and 
fiery  sun ;  t^e  remote  nnfnended  country 
of  the  hunters  of  men  and  their  victims, 
the  suffering  and  human  blacks. 

Early  in  1874  Gordon  succeeded  Sir 
Samuel  Baker  aa  Governor  of  the  Tribes 
in  Upper  Egypt  The  Khedive — Ismafl— 
proposed  to  give  Mm  ten  thousand  pounds 
a  year.  He  would  not  hear  of  it;  he 
accepted  two  thousand  pounds.  This  set 
was  much  discussed  at  the  time,  and 
the  right  interp«tation  was  not  always 
forthcoming.  But  it  was  entirely  oon- 
sistent  with  Gordon's  conduct  in  similar 
affairs  in  China  and  elsewhere.  At  the 
conclusion  of  the  campugn  against  the 
Taipings,  the  Chinese  Government  pre- 
sented the  Captain  of  the  Ever  Victorioni 
Army  with  a  large  fortune.  He  not  only 
rejected  it  with  contempt,  but  actually 
thrashed  from  fajs  tent  the  messengers  who 
brought  it  1 

Egypt  had  mads  vast  strides  into  the 
heart  of  Africa  since  1853,  and  as  ib 
empire  ^read,  so  grew  the  slave-trade,  and 
BO,  nnder  the  unscrupulous  and  terrible 
rule  of  the  Pashas,  deepened  the  misery  of 
the  people.  The  Arab  capttdns,  "the 
hunters  of  men,"  attained  great  political 
power,  and  their  abominable  tndSc  wu 
the  dominant  interest  of  everybody  in 
the  land,  from  the  little  children  of 
the  blacks,  who  wanted  freedom,  to  the 
Governor-General  of  the  Soudan  himself, 
who  wanted  coin.  So  strong,  indeed,  did 
the  slavers  at  last  become  that  the  govern- 
ment got  at  once  ashamed  and  afraid.  The 
mightiest  and  clevereit  of  them  was  one 
Sebehr  Bahama,  who,  by  the  way,  has 
lately  come  to  tiie  front  again  in  a  very 
remarkable  and  entirely  Aiiglo-Egyptian 
fashion.  This  superiorman-hunter  wasc^led 
the  Black  Pasha,  and  cenuoanded  thirty 
stations.  Conscious  of  his  power,  he  set  np 
as  the  rival  and  equal  of  the  Khedive 
himself,  with  a  court  of  Arab  rnSana  and 
burlesque  of  princely  Btate.  The  Khedire 
was  considerably  moved  by  the  prepos- 
terous behaviour  of  this  upstart,  and  deter- 
mined forthwith  to  humble  him  to  the 
dust  An  attempt  to  effect  this  object  fsSed 
miserably ;  and  the  Khedive  was  west 
enough,  in  hie  dilemma  of  fear  and  doobl, 
to  make  Sebehr  a  Bey,  and  to  accept  his 
services  in  the  invasion  of  Datfur.    Daifti 


"CHINESE  GORDON." 


[PetmurT  0, 18UJ     S77 


Imng  conquered,  Sebehr  waa  rewarded 
w^  the  rank  of  Puha.  Bat,  tike  Hang  of 
Ohina,  he  cheriahed  vast  ambitions.  He 
would  be  content  with  nothing  less  than 
the  Qoremor-Generalship  of  ^e  Soudan. 
This  pretension  broaght  matters  to  a 
crisis.  Hitherto,  Ismail  had  encouraged 
il&T&dealing,  for  it  increased  his  revenue ; 
Imt,  the  moment  his  personal  sapremaay 
WIS  threatened  by  the  man  whose  power 
he,  by  his  own  cnpiditr,  had  helped  to 
make,  be  was  converted  into  what  Mr. 
Hake  happQy  terms  "  active  and  sonorous 
ptuUnthropy,"  Of  a  sadden  he  began 
to  regard  the  slave-trade  with  "  holy 
luwror,"  and  determined  to  sappresa  it — at 
leut,  BO  he  sud.  For  this  purpose  he 
engaged  Sir  Samuel  C.  Baker ;  to  this  end 
he  enliBted  the  genius  of  Gordon. 

Goidon  had  not  been  at  Cairo  many 
days  before  he  wrote  :  "  I  think  I  can  see 
the  tine  motive  of  the  expedition,  and 
believe  it  to  be  a  straw  to  catch  the  atten- 
tion of  the  English  peopla"  Neverthelees, 
ha  determined  to  go  through  with  his 
undertaking;  for  he  saw  that  be  could  help 
the  aoffering  tribes.  In  his  own  words 
mar  be  read  the  spirit  in  which  he  began 
and  carried  on  hia  perilous  task :  "  I  will 
do  it,  for  I  value  my  life  as  naught,  and 
■hoold  only  leave  much  weaiineaa  for 
perfect  peace." 

Gordon  wished  to  proceed  by  ordinary 
rteamer  to  Sonakim,  but  Nubar  Pasha 
(Che  able  miniater  who  is  once  again  in 
office,  «nd  who,  Mr.  Hake  aays,  in  many 
ways  tried  Gordon's  patience)  insisted  opon 
his  going  in  state.  The  apeclal  train  was 
engwed,  therefore;  but  the  engine  col- 
l^s^  Thus,  in  huge  delight,  Gordon 
wrote:  "They  had  begun  in  glory,  and, 
ended  in  shame," 

His  first  de<a«e  is  as  follows,  and  in  the 
light  of  his  new  mission  to  the  land  of  bis 
CM  labours,  it  will  be  read  with  interest, 
psrticnlarly  when  it  is  considered  that  the 
circumstanoea  differ  in  nothing  but  un- 


"By  reason  of  the  authority  of  the 
Governor  of  the  Provinces  of  the  Equa- 
torial Lakee,  with  which  His  HighnMS  the 
Khedive  has  invested  me,  and  uie  irregu- 
laritiee  which  until  now  Have  been  com- 
mitted, it  is  henceforth  decreed : 

"I. -That  the  traffic  in  ivory  is  the 
monopoly  of  the  Government. 

"2.  No  person  may  enter  these  provinces 
without  a  'teskere'  from  the  Oovemor- 
Qeneral  of  Soudan,  such  'teskero'  being 
available  onlv  after  it  shall  have  received  . 


the  visa  of  the  competent  authority  at 
GondokoTO,  or  elsewhere. 

"  3.  No  person  may  recruit  or  organise 
anued  bands  within  t^eee  provinces. 

"  i.  The  importation  of  firearms  and 
gunpowder  is  prohibited. 

"  5.  Whosoever  shall  disobey  this  decree 
will  be  punished  with  all  the  tisour  of  the 
military  laws.  Gordon." 

This  prochumed,  he  sailed  for  Gondokoro 
— a  strange  river  voyage,  amidst  crocodiles 
that  slumbered  on  the  mud,  and  ponderoas 
river-horses  that  splashed  and  blew  in 
the  stream,  whilst  little  mobs  of  monkeys 
came  downfrom  the  gum-trees  to  the  ma^jin 
to  drink,  and  wild  birds  sailed  in  flocks 
overhead.  One  night,  Gordon,  tbinking 
of  home  in  the  moonlight,  was  startled  by 
loud  laughing  in  d  bosh  on  the  river's  bank 
"I  felt  pat  out,  but  the  irony  came  from 

birds,  that  laughed  at  us for  some 

time  in  a  very  rude  way.  They  were  a 
species  of  stork,  and  seemed  in  capital 
spirits,  and  highly  amused  at  anybodr 
tViinlring  of  going  Up  to  Qondokoro  witii 
the  hope  of  doing  anything. " 

By  a  rare  coincidence  of  favourable  cir- 
cumstances— such  as  rarely  gladden  the 
traveller  in  any  land,  least  of  all  in  what 
is  called  Upper  Egypt— and  hastened  by 
Gordon's  invincible  energy,  the  little  band 
— consisting  of  Gordon,  his  etas',  and 
escort — reached  Khartoum  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time.  From  that  flat^roofed, 
mud-built  ciliy  Gordon  started,  after  a  busy 
stay  of  eight  days,  for  Gondokoro.  The 
journey  was  accomplished  by  steamer,  and 
was  not  without  romantic  incidents  Once 
when  cutting  wood  for  the  steamer's  fires, 
they  surprised  some  Dinkas — a  people  who 
are  black,  and  pastoral,  and  worshippers  of 
wizards.  The  chief,  in  full  dress  (a  neck- 
lace), was  induced  to  come  on  board.  He 
came  and  softly  licked  the  back  of  Gordon's 
hand,  and  held  his  face  to  his  own,  and 
"made  as  if  he  wero  spitting."  At  dinner 
he  devoured  his  naigbboiurs  portion  as 
well  as  his  own,  after  which  he  and  his 
liege-men  sang  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving, 
and  proceeded  to  crawl  to  Gordon,  that 
they  might  kiss  his  feet.  That  was  denied 
them,  but  they  were  sent  away  rejoicing, 
under  a  splendid  burden  of  beads. 

At  the  junction  of  the  Bahr-Gazelle 
with  the  Gondokoro  River  they  found 
swarms  of  natives  who  bad  rubbed 
themselves  with  wood-ash  until  tbeir 
complexions  were  "  the  colour  of  slate- 
penoL"  These  people  were  half-starved 
and  in  sreat  suSerine.     "  What,"  writes 


S7S      [FebniUT  0,  UU.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  EOUND. 


OordoD,  "what  a  mystery,  u  it  not,  why 
they  are  ereatedl  A  life  of  fear  and 
misery  night  and  day  1  One  does  not 
wonder  at  their  not  fearing  deatL  No 
one  can  conceire  the  otter  misery  of  theae 
landa.  Heat  and  moaqnitos  day  and  night 
all  tho  year  round.  But  I  like  the  work, 
for  I  believe  I  can  do  a  great  deal  to 
ameliorate  the  lot  of  the  people."  At  Bohr, 
a  alarers'  stronghold,  the  people  were 
"  anything  but  civil ;  they  had  heard  of  the 
Khartoum  decree ; "  bat  at  St  Croix,  a 
miaaion-Btation,  the  steamer  passed  to  the 
joyons  sonnds  of  dance  and  eong. 

Gondokoio  was  reached  in  twenty-four 
days,  and  ones  there,  Qordon  was  at  his 
seat  of  government,  and  in  the  very 
heart  of  his  periloos  tadc  So  swift  had 
been  his  joomey  that  the  townsmen  had 
not  heard  even  of  his  neminatioo.  His 
advent  amaeed  them.  Gondokoro  was 
a  trysting-plaoe  for  wretchedness  and 
danger;  tna  atata  of  the  people  was  "as' 
bad  as  it  well  coold  be ;"  and  so  terribly 
had  they  bean  treidied  that,  half  a  mile 
from  its  walls,  the  Qovemor-Oeueral  him- 
self woald  hare  gone  in  peril  of  hit  life. 
Bat  Gordon's  spint  did  not  fail  He  was 
confident  that  he  conld  relievo  the  people 
4^  their  aofTerii^s,  that  he  could  build 
a  better  state  of  life  for  them  if— there 
always  is  an  "if"— if  he  ooald  bat 
win  their  confidenoe.  To  achieve  that 
necesea^  consummation  ho  passed  hither 
and  thither  tiurongh  the  land,  there 
giving  grun,  here  employing  the  natares  to 
plant  uteir  patches  with  maJse.  Why 
employ  thsm  to  do  that  which  is  their 
normal  occupation  t  Beoaose  before  he 
came  they  had  ceased  to  sow  since 
they  could  never  reap  the  fruits  of  Uieir 
toil ;  they  were  systematically  robbed  of 
their  littb  harvest.  And  so  when  the 
strange  fame  of  this  kingly  white  roan 
apreaa  amongst  them,  in  their  simple 
hearts  they  thought  he  conld  do  all  things, 
and  flocked  abont  him  in  great  numbers,  and 
be^ed  that  he  would  buy  Uieir  children, 
whom  they  were  too  poor  to  feed,  them- 
selves. Clearly  their  confidence  was  being 
sorely  won ;  and  if  one  thing  in  this  world 
is  certain  it  is  that,  in  tnose  bare  and 
burning  lands,  the  name  of  Gordon  is 
remembered  to  this  day  with  gratitude. 

This  grand  result  was  reached  in  great 
part  by  his  nnco^romisii^  attitude  to- 
wards the  slavers.  The  slavers  are,  perhaps, 
as  unequivocal  a  race  of  blackguards  as  ever 
existed ;  and  they  were  in  collusion  with 
the  Government.     "  They  stole  the  cattle 


and  kidn^tped  their  owners,  and  they 
shared  the  double  booty  with  officials  of  a . 
liberal  turn  of  mind." 

Here  is  a  record  of  one  exploit,  typical 
of  many,  and  showing  how  Gordon  dealt 
with  tlus  Btais  of  tbioga.  By  the  thnely 
interception  of  some  letters,  he  discovered 
that  two  thousand  stolen  cows  and  > 
troop  of  kidnapped  negroes  were  on 
their  way  from  a  gang  of  man-hnnten  to 
that  estmiable  personage,  the  governor  of 
Fashoda.  The  cavali^e  was  promptly 
stopped.  The  cows,  linee  it  was  irapowible 
to  return  them  to  tiieir  pwners,  were  con- 
fiscated i  the  aUves  he  either  sent  home  or 
boDght  himself,  and  they  cama  abont  him, 
trying  to  touch  his  hand,  or  even  the  hem 
of  his  garment  In  China,  Gordon  had 
conquered  rebels  to  enlist  them  on  hit  own 
side ;  and  much  the  sune  happened  hste. 
The  chief  slavers  he  cast  into  prison,  bat 
after  a  while  those  who  proved  themselvu 
possessed  of  useful  qualities  he  released  and 
employed.  Equally  with  the  great  essential 
duties  of  bis  position,  the  most  tiinil 
matters  received  unremitting  attention. 
He  was  never  idle,  even  amueing  himsell 
in  odd  moments  of  leisure  by  "mventiDg 
traps  for  the  huge  rate  that  shared  hit 
cabin,"  And  he  writes  of  a  poor,  sick  old 
woman  whom  he  nursed  and  fed  foi 
weeks,  but  all  in  vEun :  "  She  had  her 
tobacco  up  to  the  laat  What  a  chtngs 
from  her  misery  !  I  suppose  she  filled  m 
place  in  life  as  well  as  Queen  Elisabeth. " 

His  work  grew  more  dangerous  and 
difficult  His  native  staff  was  useless  from 
intrigue  and  treachery,  and  his  Eoropeuii 
to  a  man  were  down  with  ague  ud 
fever.  Yet  notwithstanding  traitors  in 
the  camp,  and  enemies  wiuout,  Gordon 
toiled  on  at  his  post,  and,  tiiough  worn 
to  a  shadow,  was  at  once  GovemM  of 
the  Frovinoaa  and  nurse  to  his  stsfi'. 
His  difficulties  were  increased  by  die 
real  or  feigned  ineptitude  of  hie  subordi- 
nates. When  the  commandant  he  bad 
left  at  Gondokoro  was  ordered  to  send 
up  a  mountain  howitzer,  he  forwarded 
empty  ammunition- tubes  instead  of  foil 
Thus  Qordon  was  left  defenceloss  with 
ten  men,  in  a  place  where  no  Anb 
would  have  stay^  without  a  hundrtd. 
And  yet  we  find  him  always  cheeiful,  and 
devoted  to  the  people  —  teaching  tJiem, 
with  novel  methods,  the  use  of  monsy; 
whilst  he  delighted  his  ragamuffin  soldieiT 
with  the  wonders  of  a  magic-laatom,  and 
by  firing  a  gun  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
off  with  a  magnetic  exploder  I    In  tmtb, 


"CHINESE  GORDON." 


IFelmuTjp  B,  ia».]     279 


mtb  Gordon,  to  be  dogle-huided  is  to 
voik  marrais;  odA  dnriiig  tbia  period 
he  Ubonred  with  aBtomshing  energy  and 
soecaas.  He  converted  Khartoam  into  a 
Botany  Eay  for  do-nothing  govemon,  the 
bkckgoard  slarerB  whom  he  caught  and 
pmuahed,  and  the  traitors  of  his  own  etaff. 
To  punish  rebellioas  chiefs,  he  resorted,' 
not  to  fire  and  sword,  bnt  to  the  razzia,  or 
cattle-raid,  a  method  much  mote  homorons, 
and  iufinitely  more  final  in  its  results. 

Net,  however,  that  he  had  no  fighting. 
The  wizard- worsMppers  gave  him  mnch 
trouble,  and  many  of  Uie  tribes  would  not 
be  content  nntil  they  had  fait  the  might  of 
hisarm.  Brisk  batuea  were  frequent,  and 
in  one  of  them  the  balk  of  the  force  with 
Mm  at  the  time  was  completely  "eaten 
np,"  as  oar  Mends  the  Zulos  pleasantly 
describe  the  proceeg  of  annihilation.  This 
engagement  is  in  some  ways  typical  of  them 
til,  and  it  is  instructive.  In  travelling 
throng  a.  turbulent  r^on  of  his  kingdom, 
Gordon  observed  that  the  temper  of  the 
tribes  was,  to  say  the  least,  forbidding. 
Wizards  gathered  on  the  hills,  and  curs^ 
their  enemy — as  they  supposed  Gordon 
to  be — and  waved  him  off  the  face  of  the 
eirth ;  spies  hong  about  the  camp  and 
iu  the  long  grass  j  alb^ether  there  was 
general  warning  of  a  storm.  Gordon  was 
j<uned  about  this  time  by  his  good 
lieatenant  Linant  and  bis  party,  who 
came  in  from  an  outlying  station. 
Gordon  wished  to  find  a  steamer,  which 
lay  somewhere  in  the  river,  and  for  this 
porpoee  passed  thirty  men  over  to  the 
east  bank.  The  instant  they  landed,  down 
came  the  natives ;  Gordon  followed  at  once. 
Tile  natives  retorted  by  making  a  rush  at 
his  men.  They  were  repolsed,  and  Gordon 
attempted  to  parley.  They  refused,  and, 
knowing  him  for  the  chief,  tried  to  sur- 
iDund  him ;  he  let  them  come  near,  and 
than  drove  them  back  with  bullets. 
Linant  proposed  that  he  should  bum 
their  houses,  and  Gordon,  fearing  further 
mischief  nuless  he  effectually  retaliated, 

ried.  One  morning,  therefore,  he  sent 
a  party  of  forty-one  men.  At  mid- 
day he  heard  firing,  and  saw  Linant  in 
a  red  shirt  he  had  given  him,  on  a  bill; 
the  ted  shirt,  and  uie  party  led  by  its 
wearer,  were  visible  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
whan  they  dieappe^ed.  Later  on  thirty  or 
forty  blacks  were  seen  rnooing  down  to  the 
lirer,  and  Gordon,  concluding  they  bad 
gone  to  his  steamer,  fired  on  them  as  they 
ran.  Ten  minutes  afterwards,  one  of  his 
own  detachment  appeared  on  the  opposite 


bank ;  he  hod  been  disarmed,  and  declared 
that  all  the  others  of  the  party  were  killed. 
The  red  shirt  had  maddened  the  natives ; 
the  party  got  scattered ;  spears  did  the 
rest  Gordon  was  left  with  only  thirty 
men,  and  he  decided  to  make  a  strategic 
movement  to  the  rear.  Wonderful  to 
relate,  the  tribesmen  did  not  molest  him — 
with  the  exception  of  a  certain  wizard  who 
elected  to  survey  the  retreat  from  the  top 
of  a  rock,  whence  he  "grinned  and  jeered, 
and  vaticinated,"  as  Gordon  was  giving 
orders.  The  Governor  took  hia  rifle.  "I 
don't  think  that's  a  healthy  spot  from 
which  to  deliver  an  address,"  he  said,  and 
the  wizard  prophesied  no  more. 

After  a  brief  holiday  in  London,  Gordon 
returned  to  Egypt  early  in  1877.  He  was 
appointed  Govemor-G^eral  of  the  Soudan, 
with  Darfiir  and  the  provinces  of  the 
Equator — a  district  one  thousand  six 
hundred  and  forty  miles  long,  and  nearly 
seven  hundred  wide.  Furthermore,  he 
was  deputed  to  look  into  Abyssinian  affairs, 
and  to  negotiate  with  King  John  for  a 
settlement  of  pending  dispnteB.  Into 
events  Abyssinian,  however,  the  space  at 
our  disposal  does  not  permit  as  to  enter. 
Suffice  It  to  say  that  they  wore  every  whit 
as  full  of  romance  and  significance  as  any- 
thing else  in  Gordon's  wonderful  career. 

Ms  installation  in  the  new  porition,  so 
mnch  more  important  and  difficult  than 
any  he  had  yet  neld,  took  place  at  Khar- 
toum on  the  5th  of  May.  The  finnan  of  the 
Khedive  and  an  address  were  read  by  the 
Cadi,  and  a  royal  salute  was  fired.  Gordon 
was  expected  to  make  a  speech.  He  said  : 
"With  the  help  of  God  I  will  hold  the 
balance  level."  This  brief  and  trenchant 
sentence  delighted  the  people  more,  says 
Mr.  Hake,  than  if  he  bad  talked  for  an 
hour.  Afterwards,  he  ordered  gratuities 
to  be  given  to  the  deaerviog  poor ;  in 
three  days  he  had  distributed  upwards  of 
one  thousand  pounds  of  his  own  money. 
The  formalities  of  his  new  stete  disgusted 
him ;  be  was  "  guarded  like  an  ingot  of 
gold,"  and  was  given,  it  seems,  in  the 
midst  of  solemn  ceremonies,  to  making 
irrelevant  humourous  remarks  to  the  great 
chiefs — in  Engbsh,  which  they  did  not 
understand. 

.  Many  things  had  happened  iu  the  Soudan 
since  1874.  When  be  took  up  the  reins  of 
government  in  1877,  ha  found  the  country, 
as  Mr.  Hake  says,  "  quick  with  war." 
The  provincial  governors  were  worthless, 
and  often  mutinous ;  the  slavers  were  out 
in  revolt ;  the  six  thousand  Baehi-Bazonks 


280      [Febramrj  B,  16^] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUNB. 


vho  were  used  as  frontiergoarda  robbed 
on  their  own  account,  and  prinked  at  the 
doings  of  the  alareni ;  aava^  and  teckleae 
tribes  had  to  be  rabdiied.  "It  was  a 
atupendoiu  taslc,  to  give  peace  to  a  conotrf 
quick  with  war ;  to  snppress  alaveiy  among 
a  people  to  whom  trade  in  haman  fieeh 
was  life,  and  honour,  and  fortune;  to  make 
an  army  out  of  perhaps  the  worst  material 
ever  seen ;  to  grow  a  flooriBhing  trade  and 
a  fair  revenue  m  the  wildest  anarchy  in  the 
world." 

One  of  the  moat  difficult  and  desperato 
of  the  tasks  before  Gordon,  was  the  sub- 
jngation  of  the  vast  province  of  the  Bahr- 
Gazella  This,  itself  a  little  continent,  had 
been  lashed  to  anarchv  and  wretchedness  br 
Sebehr,  the  Black  Paaha,  alreadymentioned. 
It  was  necessary  that  he  and  his  son 
Suleiman,  with  their  army  of  man-huntois, 
should  be  subdued,  and  the  land  brought 
to  rule  and  order.  But,  before  that  could 
be  achieved,  it  was  of  the  utmost  urgency 
that  Gordon  shoold  go  to  Darfor,  where 
revolt  was  rampant,  and  the  Khedive's 
garrisons  were  besieged  in  their  barracks 
by  the  rebels.  Here  that  splendid  con- 
fidence in  himself,  which, is  one  of  his 
strongest  charactoristics,  helped  him  in  an 
extraordinary  degree.  His  army  was  a 
useless  mob  of  ragamuffins  —  "nonde- 
scripts," he  called  them;  the  tribes  and 
the  slavers  he  had  to  subdue  were  warlike 
and  fierce;  his  nondescripts  co^d  be 
trusted  only  to  run  away  from  danger,  or 
to  plot  the  murder  of  himself.  Most  men 
would  not  have  undertaken  such  work 
under  such  severely  trying  conditions ;  but 
Gordon  never  faltored. 

The  city  of  Dara  plays  &  strong  part  in 
these  chapters  of  Gordon's  story.  During 
the  revolt  caused  by  Haronn,  the  pretender 
to  the  throne  of  Larfnr,  its  people  were 
shut  within  its  walls.  They  had  heard 
nothing  from  without  for  six  months,  and 
when,  one  day,  there  was  a  sudden  stir  at 
the  gate,  and  the  Governor-General  himself 
rode  into  their  midst,  they  were  dumb- 
founded. It  was,  says  Gordon,  in  his 
trenchant  graphic  ww — "It  was  like  the 
relief  of  Lucknow."  The  illustration,  so  full 
of  moving  memories  and  great  suggestions, 
wasonlyjust  As  Gordon  advanced7dangers 
gathered  on  every  side,  until,  as  Mr.  Hake 
nafipily  puts  it,  he  was  "  ringed  about  with- 
peiiia"  A  crisis  came,  which  needed  all 
nis  energy  and  indomitable  will  to  keep 
him  master  of  the  situation.  His  pre- 
sence in  the  field  against  Haroun  was 
urgent;  on  either  hand  he  i 


by  poweriul  tribes ;  worse  than  all  elw, 
Suleunan,  son  of  Sebehr,  the  Black  Padis, 
sat  down  with  six  thonsand  robbus  before 
Dara,  and  ravaged  the  land  around.  la 
the  midst  of  all  this,  his  army  wasplottiiig 
his  life;  his  secretary  fell  ill.  The  meagoie 
of  his  troubles  was  full  indeed.  But  hii 
spirit  never  qoaOed.  So  rapid  were  Ma 
movements  now,  that  no  idea  of  them  cso 
be  conveyed  in  this  place ;  Mr.  Hake  him- 
self has  perforce  found  it  impossible  to 
give  more  than  a  sketoh  of  them.  Brief 
and  slight  as  that  sketch  is,  it  indicates 
with  a  sort  of  swift  dramaticism  the 
marvellous  activity  and  resource  of  its 
hero. 

Whilst  in  the  heart  of  all  this  battliog 
and  peril,  he  heard  something  which  ren- 
dered all  else  as  naught  Smeiman,  with 
his  tax  thoosand,  was  on  the  eve  cf 
attacking  Dara.  Not  an  instant  wu 
lost  Ignoring  nondescripts  and  allies 
alike,  and,  as  nsnal,  far  in  advance  of  bis 
lagging  escort  of  Basbi-Bazonks,  GordoD 
mounted  his  camel  and  rode  straight  away 
to  Dara.  The  distance  was  etghty-Gve 
miles;  he  did  it  in  a  day  and  a  half, 
unarmed  and  alone.  "  A  dirty,  red-&ced 
man,"  covered  wiUifiies,  he  burst  upon  hii 

Kople  as  a  thunderbolt;  they  could  not 
here  their  eyes.  Next  day,  as  dawn 
broke  over  the  city,  he  put  on  the  "  goldeu 
armour  "  of  his  office,  and  rode  to  the  camp 
of  the  robbers,  three  miles  oS.  The  chie6 
were  awestruck  and  startled.  Gordon 
drank  a  glass  of  water,  ordered  Snleimsn 
to  follow  with  his  people  to  his  divan,  and 
rode  back  to  Dara,  The  son  of  Sebehr 
came  with  his  chiefs,  and  they  sat  in  a  cirds 
in  the  Governor's  divan.  Then,  in  "  choice 
Arabic,"  as  Gordon  humorously  puts  it, 
Gordon  said  to  Hum :  "  You  meditate 
revolt;  I  know  it^  You  shall  have  my 
ultunatnm  now :  I  will  disarm  you  and 
break  you  up."  They  listened  in  a  dead 
silence,  and  went  awav  to  consider.  At 
any  moment  they  could  have  put  Gordon 
and  his  "  garrison  of  sheep  soldiers  "  to  the 
sword ;  amazed  by  his  utter  indifference  to 
danger,  and  quelled,  perhaps,  by  thenu^c 
of  his  eye,  they  submitted. 

Of  his  further  laboois  in  the  Soudan  and 
Abyssinia — in  the  latter  country  he  after 
wards  had  an  adventure  nearly  as  dramatic 
astbat  justrelated.and  even  mora  dangerous 
— we  cannot  now  speak.  What  they 
wero — how  varied  and  difficult,  how  amiu- 
ing,  how  pathetic,  and  how,  after  all,  they 
were  to  be  nnrequited — all  this  is  written 
in  &b.  Hake's  pages ;  to  these  the  cnrioua 


COMPULSORY  THEIBT. 


(Tebtui7S,l»8i]      281 


tod  Bympftthetic  reader  must  tnrD  for 
nun;  a  romance,  manf  &  piece  of  darinz, 
muy  a  tonch  of  sincere  and  gentle 
ehari^,  many  an  astoanding  proof  of 
cotnage,  that  considerations  of  Hiace  pre- 
Tent  onr  dealing  with  here.  With  ttiat 
rare  modesty  of  hia,  and  with  an  heroic  and 
sngBestiT-e  brevity  like  the  diction  oi  the 
KUe,  Gordon  has  said:  "I  have  cut  off  the 
■laTe^ealers  in  their  strongholde,  and  I 
mtde  Uie  people  love  me."  It  is  true.  To 
this  da^  the  poor  blacks  of  the  Sondan  beg 
the  white  traveller  to  send  back  to  thom 
the  "good  Pasha,"  and  it  is  the  knowledge 
of  this,  the  certainty  of  his  influence  npon 
the  people,  of  his  penonal  magnetic  power 
arer  the  wild  savages  and  pastoral  blacks 
of  the  Sondan — these  are  the  things  which 
feed  the  hopes  all  of  us  cherish  for  the 
raccesB  of  ttie  mission  upon  which,  after 
the  eleventh  honr  has  atrnck,  be  has  been 
hmriedly  despatched. 


COMPULSOEY  THRIFT. 

The  tinth  of  the  saying  that  Heaven 
helps  those  who  help  themselves,  is  not  in 
uiy  way  affected  by  the  inexorable  ethical 
law,  wmch  imposes  on  all  members  of  a  com- 
monity  the  duty  of  helping  each  other.  The 
difficnltiea  which  Bnrround  the  fulfilment  of 
that  duty  are  manifold,  but,  as  regards  tiie 
recipients,  they  may  be  broadly  clasaed,  as 
by  John  Stuart  Mill,  into  two  sets  of  con- 
■equeuces  to  be  considered.  These  are, 
"the  consequences  of  the  assistance  itsetf, 
and  the  consequences  of  relying  on  the 


The  ouerons  importance  of  the  last  of 
&e  "two  seta"  becomes  very  prominent 
m  cases  of  colliery  accidents  and  other 
diiaaters  affecting  the  circumstances  of 
large  numbers  of  psot^e.  The  immediate 
coDseqaences  of  help  a^orded  in  exceptional 
times  of  calamity  most  be  always,  or  nearly 
always,  beneficial  But  the  after-conse- 
qnences,  especially  in  industrial  com- 
mnnities,  open  Dp  serious  poastbiliUes. 
There  are  drfficnlties,  local  and  peculiar  to 
each  event  Bat  the  broad  and  general 
difficulties,  in  the  way  of  public  subscrip- 
taooB  to  repair  disaster  in  such  cases,  are 
that  the  assurance  that  assistance  will  be 
forthcoming  may  tend  to  discourage  habits 
of  providence,  mayrender  menless  attentive 
to  the  ordinary  precautions  of  then-  avoca- 
tions, and  less  dependent  on  their  own 
eneigtea,  skill,  and  foresight  A  charity 
which  deteriorates  the  moral  fibre  of  its 


object  may  be  nltimately  more  harmfol 
than  immediately  beneficial  Another 
difficulty  is  that  emotional  charity  goes 
nsnally  too  far,  whQe  ordinary  chant?  does 
not  go  far  enough.  Those  who  are  suddenly 
left  destitute  by  some  appalling  accident 
which  wrings  the  public  heart,  may,  by  a 
spasm  of  generosity,  be  better  provided  for 
to  the  end  of  their  days  than  they  ever 
had  any  reasonable  expectation  of  being, 
while  the  great  normal  mass  of  destitution 
in  the  country  is  left  to  the  partial  and 
ineffectual  care  of  Poor  Law  officials  and 
individual  philanthropists.  There  is  no 
lack  of  charity  in  the  world,  but  it  is 
woefully  ill-directed  and  is  too  often 
hopelessly  wasted. 

Whether  or  not  charity  should  take  the 
form  of  public  subscriptions  for  permanent 
provision,  in  the  case  of  accidents  to 
operatives,  incurred  in  the  pursuit  of  their 
daily  business,  is  a  matter  admitting  of 
mudi  discussion.  There  can  be  no  doubt, 
however,  that  if  the  needfiil  assistance 
could  be  assured  without  ntaemodic  public 
action,  it  would  be  infinitely  preferable. 
There  is  but  one  way  in  which  this  can  be 
done,  viz.,  by  insurance.  The  Post  Office  and 
other  institutions  offer  means  to  the  work- 
ing man  by  which,  for  a  small  payment, 
he  can  secure  provision  for  his  family,  and 
also  for  himself  during  temporary  disable- 
ment But  the  little  word  "  can  "  makes 
all  the  differenca  The  voluntary  accept- 
ance of  the  advantages  of  insurance  implies 
an  amount  of  prudence,  and  thought,  and 
thrift  which  are  the  characteristics,  not  of 
the  majority,  but  of  the  minority  of  men. 
The  men  who  voluntarily  insure  against 
death  and  accidents  are  probably  those 
who,  in  the  absence  of  the  facilities  offered, 
would  lay  by  something  every  week  against 
a  rainy  day.  It  is  to  provide  for  the 
improvident  and  thoughtless  that  these 
large  public  subscriptions  are  so  often 
needed.  Hence  has  arisen  one  of  the  ^eat 
questions  of  the  day :  Should  the  rehef  of 
improvidence  be  voluntary  or  compulsory  I 
It  is  admitted  that  we  cannot  make  men 
sober  by  Act  of  Parliament  la  it  possible  to 
make  them  thrifty  by  Act  of  Parliament  t 

The  Germans,  at  any  rate,  seem  to  think 
it  i&  They  are  going  to  try  it,  and  there 
are  some  points  about  tJie  Workman's 
Insurance  Bill,  which  has  lately  passed  the 
Reichstag,  wb^ch  merit  our  careful  con- 
sideration. 

It  has  been  found  that  in  Grermany,  only 
twelve  and  a  half  per  cent  of  the  work- 
people joined  voluntary  benefit  societies. 


[FebRtu;  0. 1S81.I 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


Therefore  a  system  of  compnlsoiy  iiuarance 
Koa  been  institated,  and  is  to  be  introduced 
into  all  blanches  of  indostry,  except  in 
agricnltura,  where  the  existing  piovisions 
are  believed  te  be  adequate. 

The  law  will  apply  to  all  persons  paid 
hj  salary  or  wages  in  mining,  ehipping, 
manufacturing,  and  mechanical  operations, 
wi£b  certain  limitations  in  the  case  of 
managers,  clerbs,  and  persons  temporarily 
employed.  The  funds  of  exisdng  benefit 
societies  are  not  to  ba  interfered  with,  but 
the  government  will  fix  the  minimum  and 
maximum  assistance  te  be  given.  Em- 
ployers of  labour  are  to  contribute  the 
lunda,  two-thirds  of  which  they  will 
collect  from  the  men  iu  deductions  from 
wages,  and  the  remaining  third  they  will 
provide  themselves.  Both  the  contribu- 
tions and  the  assistance  are  to  be  gauged 
in  proportion  to  the  wages  pud,  and  the 
assistance  for  medical  attendance  and 
maintenance  while  a  man  is  unable  to 
follow  his  calling,  will  be  at  the  rate  of 
fifty  per  cent  of  ms  usual  wages,  beginning 
from  the  third  day  after  his  illness,  and  con- 
tinuing, if  necessary,  for  thirteen  weeks. 

The  Act  is  a  provision  both  against  sick- 
ness and  accident.  Thefunds,althoughnnder 
government  control, are  not  tobecentralised, 
but  each  trade  may  o^anise  ite  own  fund, 
or  several  trades  may  join.  In  the  case  of 
such  organisations,  the  trades  may  fix  the 
amounts  of  contribuUous  by  the  members, 
but  these  must  not,  to  begin  with,  exceed 
two  per  cent  of  the  wages,  nor  ever  exceed 
three  per  cent,  of  the  wages.  Nor  must 
the  assistance  granted  ever  be  reduced 
below  the  minimum  fixed  by  gevemment. 
The  government  charges  itself  with  the 
custody  anl  investment  of  the  funds,  and 
the  stete  is  thus  the  insurer. 

No  operative,  however  improvident,  can 
avoid  saving  so  much  as  will  guard  him 
from  deetitudoQ,  and  the  receipt  of  assist- 
ance from  the  ^ds  will  not  interfere  with 
his  eiv3  rights  as  would  the  receipt  of  poor- 
lav  relief. 

Another  experiment  in  compulsory 
thrift  has  been  begun  in  Australia  The 
scheme  in  this  cose  ia  that  every  male 
member  of  the  community  shall  be  com- 

Eelled  to  pay,  in  his  youth  or  on  attaining 
is  majority,  a  sum  proportioned  to  his 
circumstances,  but  not  less  than  ten  pounds, 
which  shall  be  appropriated  and  Invested 
by  the  state,  in  onler  to  secure  him  against 
ctestitntion  daring  sickness,  for  the  re- 
mainder of  bis  life. 

Neither  the  German  nor  the  Australian 


novel  in  conceptiotL    Both  have 

been  frequently  proposed  for  this  conntry, 
and  have  been  discussed  by  economiatg 
and  in  Parliament.  But  in  both  instances 
the  schemes  are  for  the  first  time  going  to 
be  put  te  a  practical  test,  and  the  issue  will 
be  watched  with  the  deepest  interest 

It  has  been  ai^ed  that  becaose  it  is  in- 
cumbent on  a  state  to  compel  every  parmt 
to  educate  bis  child,  therefore  it  is  also 
incumbent  on  a  state  to  compel  every 
person  te  make  provision  for  Uie  future. 
There  is,  however,  no  analogy  between 
compulsory  education  and  compulsory 
thrift.  The  state  must  recognise  Uie  evi- 
dent duty  of  every  man  to  provide  for  his 
ofi'apring,  and  it  is  proper  that  it  should 
interfere  to  compel  him.  It  ia  proper  for 
a  state  to  insist  on  compliance  with  regu- 
lations to  prevent  the  spread  of  disease, 
and  it  is  proper  for  a  state  to  insist  on  the 
members  of  a  community  supporting  its 
friendless  pauper*. 

We  have  a  compulsory  Poor  Law  iriiidi 
provides  for  the  reenlbi  of  thrifUessness, 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  we  should  have 
the  state  to  interfere  to  prevent  thriftless- 
ness.  In  fact,  the  effect  of  such  interference 
would  be  to  destroy  individual  thrift.  It 
seems  paradoxical  to  say,  but  it  is  tne, 
that  thrift  which  ia  compulsory  u  not 
thrift.  That  which  is  done  on  compulsion 
ceases  to  be  a  virtue. 

Writing  of  the  poor  laws,  John  Stuart  Mill 
said  :  "  If  the  condition  of  a  person  receiv- 
ing relief  is  made  as  eligible  as  that  of  tha 
labourer  who  supports  himself  by  his  own 
exertions,  the  system  would  strike  at  the 
root  of  all  individual  industry  and  self- 
government"  The  Poor  Law  system  doei 
not  do  this,  but  a  compulsory  benefit 
society  would  render  the  future  of  a  cue- 
less,  thriftless,  and  self-indulgent  man  as  (cet 
from  care  and  destitution  as  that  of  the  pro- 
vident, thrifty,  prudent,  thoughtful  man. 

The  less  interference  we  have  of  the  state, 
in  affairs  which  men  can  and  should 
manage  for  themselves,  the  better.  The 
experiences  of  oat  voluntary  benefit  and 
insurance  societies  show  us  vastly  better 
results  than  seem  to  have  been  attained 
in  Germany.  These  societies  are  capable 
of  development  to  sufficient  extent  to 
meet  the  case  on  voluntary  principles.  It 
should  be  the  aim  of  all  leaders  and 
teachers  to  endeavour  to  raise  the  masses 
to  a  belief  in,  and  a  dependence  on,  their 
own  manliness,  not  be  iJways  craving  uid 
clamonrinK  for  the  state  to  do  that  which 
they  should  do  themselvea     Compulsory 


BETWEEN  TWO  STOOLS. 


IFelimaii  0,  ISM.l 


thrift,  ve  admit,  is  vastly  better  thaa  oni- 
nmi  improvidence,  but  what  is  better 
than  all  is  that  Laboor  shonld  recogniae 
itt  own  dignity,  and  shoold  realise  that 
providence  is  its  mainspring,  and  thrift  its 
motor.  Sixpence  set  aside  from  each 
nek's  wages  as  a  volantaiy  provision  for 
the  future,  is  worth  a  shilling  exacted  by 
lav  for  the  same  end.  Thnft,  like  tem- 
perance, should  grow  from  soeds  sown 
irithin.  While,  therefore,  it  will  be  in- 
tereeliDg  to  vatch  the  progress  of  the 
German  and  Australian  experimenta,  it  is 
moch  more  gratifying  to  observe  the  large 
ind  steady  growtii  of  our  own  Foresters 
ind  Oddfellows,  and  other  friendly  and 
industrial  societies. 


BETWEEN  TWO  STOOLS. 
A  STORY  IN  TWO  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  I. 

"I  HAVE  something  to  tell  you,  Mary," 

Hary  Hanley  let  her  work  fall  into 
her  lap,  and  looked  up  at  the  speaker.  She 
vu  a  tall,  slim,  dark-haired  woman  of  seven 
or  eight  and  twenty,  with  a  plain,  patient 
fiu:a,snd  wistfnl  eyes.  '  She  wore  a  dress 
of  a  quiet  grey  tint,and  the  room  in  which 
■he  was  seated  was  tnrnished  with  all  the 
good  taste  that  nowadays  ia  consistent  with 
strict  economy.  She  had  not  a  single 
cldm,  in  feature  or  colonring,  to  any  of 
ths  acknowledged  forms  of  prettiness,  and 
yet  something  about  her  would  havo  com- 
pelled a  second  glance  from  those  who  had 
obtained  a  first. 

"Well,  Tom,  what  is  itt"  Her  face 
Eoftened  as  her  glance  fell  on  Tom  Danveis, 
handsome,  blue-ejed,  fair -haired  Tom, 
whom  people  spoke  of  only  to  praise.  They 
had  been  playfellonrs,  these  two,who  were 
alike  only  in  years.  They  were  lovers  now, 
and  they  woold  be  husband  and  wife  one 
day,  at  least  that  hope  had  beautified  ezis- 
tence  for  both  of  them  during  seven  years . 
Seven  years  I  It  is  a  big  slice  out  of 
the  beat  part  of  the  allotted  threescore 
■nd  ten,  ttioagh  it  was  only  lately  that  one 
of  this  faithfnl  pair  had  begun  to  think 
so.  The  other  had  never  thought  it  yet. 
"What  is  it  you  have  to  tell  mel " 

Tom  crossed  the  room,  and  bent  over  her 
to  stroke  her  hair.  The  movement  was  a 
caress,  and  then  it  enabled  him  to  avoid 
her  eyes. 

"  I  have  been  offered  an  appointment  at 
Rangoon." 

"At  Eangoon."  She  echoed  the  words 
without  any  intonation  of  surprise.    "  Tliat 


"Id  Bormah.  As  if  yon  did  not  know 
that  and  everything  ehe,  my  little  scholar; 
and  Bangoon  is  a  big  place  with  openings 
for  lots  of  fellows.  Stephens  has  written, 
saying  he  needs  a  partner,  and  so  I  think,  if 
jrou  don't  mind,  Uiat  I  shall  go  out  there 
m  a  month  or  two." 

Mary  Itanley  did  not  answer.  In  the 
pause  that  ensued  she  beard  the  purring  of 
the  cat  on  the  hearth,  and  smelt  the  faint 
odour  of  the  mignonette  growing  in  the 
window-box.  She  knew  quite  well  that 
the  linnets  ontside  were  pipii^  to  the  roses, 
and  that  Tom  Danvers  was  waiting  for  her 
answer;  but  she  also  knew  that  her  pulses 
were  growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  that 
the  weight  of  a  long-dreaded  blow  had 
fallen. 

"Are  you  not  getting  on  heret"  she 
asked  after  a  pause.  "I  thought  you  told 
me  thatyour  work  was  increasing;  I  thought 
you  expected  that  we  might  marry  in 
Ijie  niring." 

"It  was  all  a  mistake,  due  to  my  con- 
founded hopefhlness.  I  got  a  new  case  or 
two  when  Smithson  was  away  for  his 
holidays,  but  he  holds  the  patients,  and 
will  go  on  holding  them.  The  fact  is, 
Mar^,  there  is  not  scope  here  for  two 
medical  men,  and  I  knew  that,  though  I 
settled  in  the  place  when  you  wished  it. 
But  I  have  not  made  a  hundred  pounds  in 
the  past  twelve  months,  and  yon  know 
that  means  fiulore." 

"  But  I  make  a  good  deal  by  my  teaching, 
and  I  thought  that,  working  together,  we 
might  get  on." 

"  That  is  quite  out  of  the  question,"  he 
said  fretfully,  turning  away  from  the 
pleading,  patient  eyes.  "  I  am  not  going 
to  have  my  wife  draining  all  day  long  that 
we  may  not  starva  rll  support  her  myself, 
or  do  without  her." 

The  pale  hands  lying  on  the  piece  of 
needlework  pressed  each  other  a  little,  then 
the  sweet  voice  spoke  softly  and  firmly  : 

"I  have  been  thinking  often  lately,  Tom, 
that  you  would  be  wiser  to  do  without  me. 
You  see  we  have  known  each  oUier  so  long 
that  we  have  really  grown  to  be  more 
friends  than  lovers,  and  I  am  far  older  than 
you  in  reality,  though  not  perhaps  in  years, 
and  so  I  cannot  help  beueving  at  times 
that  our  engagement  has  been  a  mistake." 

"  Oh,  you  do,  do  you  t "  wrathfnUy. 

"  You  see  it  has  lasted  seven  years  now, 
and  in  seven  years,  you  know,  your  science 
teaches  that  we  change  completely,  and  so 
I  think,  Tom  dear,  that  it  wonid  be  far 
better  if  von  nlanned  vonr  future  without 


284      (FabmuT  ft  18H.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUM>. 


letting  any  thonglit;  of  me  hamper  700.  I 
am  safe  eoongh,  yoa  know;  the  hish- 
Bchool  paya  me  a  comfortable  salary,  and  I 
have  grown  accoetomed  to  the  roatine  of 
life  with  Mrs.  Gtllet,  and  so,  dear,  I  can  offer 
quite  honestly  to  set  yon  free."  She  was 
smiling  at. him  bravely,  and  her  syes  were 
vary  clear  and  bright,  but  she  had  an  idea 
that  her  heart  was  weeping. 

"  Yon  are  tired  of  me,  I  suppose !  You 
imagine  that  I  am  Ukely  to  b«  a  failar«,  and 
yon  women  care  only  for  success,"  he 
answered  bitterly. 

"  I  aappose  the  working  ones  of  as  know 
that  success  comes  some  time  to  the  steady 
and  patient,"  she  said,  the  first  hard  tone 
sounding  in  her  voice. 

"  And  have  I  not  been  either  1 " 

"Dear  Tom,  doa't  imagine  that  I  wish 
to  find  fault  or  critioise,  I  love  yon  far  too 
well  fbr  that ;  there  is  no  one  in  all  the 
world  as  dear  to  ms  as  you  are.  But  do 
you  not  think  yourself  that  our  engage- 
ment has  been  too  protracted  to  seem 
hopeful  now  1  Yon  don't  feel  it  as  I  do ; 
it  seems  to  take  all  my  strength  away  to 
see  our  life  together  always  slipping  farther 
and  farther  off." 

"If  I  make  things  worse  for  you,  of 
coarse  that  altera  matters."  His  face  had 
lost  its  smiling  softness,  his  brow  was 
stem  and  angry. 

"You  are  my  youth  and  my  bappiness.the 
end  of  all  my  dreams,"  she  said  passionately; 
"the  want  of  you  will  leave  my  whole 
future  barren." 

"  Then  why  need  you  give  me  up  ] " 

"Because  I  think  you  will  be  A-eer 
without  me,  becatue  you  are  learning  to 
dread  me,  and  so  the  love  is  growing 
imperfect" 

"It  was  for  your  sake  I  thought  of 
Bangoon,"  he  sud  sullenly. 

"Yea,  dear,  and  it  is  for  your  sake,Heaven 
knows,  that  I  propose  to  give  you  up,  I 
am  a  drag  on  you,  and  what  you  fed  for 
me  is  far  more  friendship  than  lov&" 

"  If  you  think  so  I  have  nothbg  more 
to  say."  He  rose  to  go  stiffiy,  and  then 
the  tender  heart  in  her  faUed. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  if  it  were  not  best  for  yon, 
do  yon  think  I  would  have  spoken } " 

She  wanted  him  to  tell  her  that  it  was  not 
best  for  him,  she  wanted  him  to  prove  to 
her  that  all  her  doubts  were  needless  ;  but 
she  had  hurt  him,  and  at  her  relentiog  he 
hardened  himselL 

"  If  it  is  best  for  you,  that  is  enough,"  he 
said,  and  took  his  hat  and  left  her  wiUioat 
looking  at  her  again. 


When  the  door  bad  closed  behind  him 
Mary  Ranley  sat  five  minutes  motionleu. 
The  ury  babble  she  had  spent  seven  yean 
blowing,  was  shattered  by  her  own  tench. 
She  scarcely  realised  wlut  had  happened 
vet,  but  there  was  a  numb  aching  at  her 
heui,  far  worse  than  any  keen,  com- 
prehendine  pang.  Her  tears  began  to 
flow  heartbrdienly,  as  she  meckauically 
folded  the  piece  of  the  poor  little  tronnean 
on  which  she  had  been  working,  the 
trooBseau  that  never  would  be  needed  now. 
Tom  was  gone,  and  Tom  was  the  lover  of 
her  whole  me;  but — and  in  this  c^tudty 
she  would  miss  him  far  more — he  had 
always  been  her  pet  and  prot^&  What 
would  her  motherly  nature  do  now,  withoot 
anyone  to  plan  for  or  protect  1 

Women's  sorrows  seek  consolation  in 
the  Btrangest  ways.  In  the  first  hour  of 
her  loss  Mxry  Baiiley  went  np  among  the 
gatiiered  treasures  of  seven  hopeful  yean, 
and  tonched  with  reverent  fondness  the 
accumulated  trifles  destined  for  the  fntoie 
home.  There  were  the  little  bronEes 
meant  for  Tom's  study,  and  purchased  oat 
of  the  econonues  of  her  noliday-time ; 
there  were  pretty  vases,  and  little  brackets, 
and  scraps  of  tasteful  china — allthefeminiDe 
trifles  Uiat  would  have  given  a  home- 
likeness  to  his  bare  lodgings.  She  re- 
membered where  she  had  gartered  them  np 
— sometimes  in  Tom's  presence — and  even 
the  words  he  had  said  in  jest  over  rme 
thing  and  another.  And  now  Tom  wu 
out  of  her  life,  and  there  never  would  be 
any  home  for  Uiem  together.  She  felt  u 
if  the  big  oak  chest  were  a  coffin  containing 
all  her  youth  as  she  locked  it,  shutting  the 
relics  oat  of  her  sight ;  and  then  she  went 
down  and  drank  her  soUtary  tea  and  tried  to 
realise  all  the  emptiness  of  Uie  coming  jean. 

Would  he  wnte  to  her,  she  wondered, 
or  would  she  be  left  always  without  tidings! 
And  when  would  he  go  1  And  would  he  be 
relieved  that  they  Jiad  ported,  after  the 
first  edge  of  pun  had  worn  off  I 

Six  days  passed  without  even  on  indirect 
word  from  him,  and  the  morning's  work  wss 
acquiring  a  maddening  monotony,  and  the 
evening's  silence  a  despairing  lonelinesr. 
Mary  lud  few  girl-friends  and  no  coafidantes, 
and  so  her  heartache  missed  the  common 
alleviation  of  talking  it  over.  If  he  never 
came  or  wrote,  if  she  never  heard  of  him 
again,  there  was  no  one  in  all  the  world  to 
help  or  comfort  her. 

But  he  would  not  be  cr^el  enough  to 
treat  her  with  silence  for  ever ;  he  vonld 
send    her  a   message    one   day,,  and  it 


BETWEEN  TWO  STOOLa 


irsbnui]r«,1S8<.| 


286 


vould  be  one  of  peace  and  friendship. 
Th&t  faith  grev  in  her  day  bf  day,  battling 
with  the  growing  deepair ;  and  then  one 
day  fact  ranged  itaelf  onfaith's  side— a  letter 
■Tuited  her  as  she  returned  from  the  Talk 
the  had  taken  to  escape  from  her  thonghte. 
She  held  it  between  her  hande  for  a 
moment  withont  looking  at  it,  and  all  her 
GditioDB  strength  gave  way.  She  threw 
uide  the  cloak  that  bad  suddenly  become 
a  burden,  and  sat  down  in  her  bonnet  to 
raad  Tom's  message. 

Bat  the  letter  was  not  from  Tom ;  she 
aw  that  aa  she  unfolded  it.  The  writing 
wu  bigger,  bolder,  more  legibla  She  read 
it  all  Uirongh  before  she  reached  the  signa- 
tata  When  she  bad  seen  that  she  read 
the  letttf  again.  It  was  from  John  Hay- 
ward,  Hm  man  she  had  always  thooght 
Moade  G-raham's  lover,  and  it  contidned 
an  offer  of  marriage  for  herself. 

"I  have  loved  yon  always,  Mary,"  he 
wrotfl,  "and  I  have  only  refrained  from 
'sUing  yoa  so  because  I  had  so  little  to 
offer  mi  now.  I  did  not  dare  ask  you  to 
share  a  worse  home  than  yon  have  been 
Kcostomed  to,  and  so  I  held  my  peace. 
Bnt  at  last  I  have  attained  to  what  I  have 
honestly  coveted  so  long ;  at  last  Armstrong 
ud  Ca  have  made  me  head  of  my  depart- 
ment, and  BO  I  dare,  after  a  devotion  nearly 
M  protracted  as  Jacob's,  to  ask  yon  for  my 
own." 

It  was  a  plain  manly  statement,  and 
it  went  to  Mat;  Barney's  sore  heart. 
There  was  no  gosh,  no  agony  of  passion  in 
it ;  nothing  but  the  simple  tale  of  a  man 
who  had  known  how  to  be  very  patient 
and  faithful  Yet  his  love  for  her  startled 
hat  inexpressibly.  She  had  never  dreamed 
of  it  'There  had  never  seemed  anything 
bat  the  mereetgood'Comradeship  in  his  atti- 
tude towards  her — bnt  of  course  his  silence 
■nd  self-restraint  rendered  bis  love  all  the 
more  flattering,  andJohn  would  make  agood 
husband.  Mary  had  an  idea  that  the  man 
who  lived  atra^tly  and  earnestly  would 
love  steadfastly,  and  she  felt  that  the 
woman  who  became  John  Haywaid's  wife 
would  have  all  chances  of  happiness  in  her 
favour.  For  an  instant  she  wished  this 
offer  had  come  years  before.  Now,  although 
T<mi  was  not  half  so  fine  a  character  as 
John  Hayward,  she  loved  him,  and  that 
made  all  the  difference. 

When  she  came  to  think  of  it,  it  was 
odd  that  John  made  no  mention  of  Tom. 
Sorely  he  had  known  she  was  engaged  to 
him ;  sorely  they  had  ^waya  made  that 
patent  to   everyone  1    Mary  Eanley  sat 


thinking  over  her  offer  in  all  its  hearings, 
till  the  Sre  waned  and  her  tea  was  ice-cold. 

John  Hayward's  offer  was  nnexpected, 
but  it  was  very  fair  and  manly.  She 
almost  started  to  find  she  was  considering 
it,  that  opposing  counsel  seemed  to  be 
arguing  the  pros,  and  cons. ,  with  herself  for 
judge  and  jury.  On  one  side  were  love, 
and  ease,  and  pleasure  j  on  the  other  side  was 
a  barren  life,  holding  only  the  memory  of 
a  disappointment  ^e  was  not  a  heroine, 
and  teaching  for  her  bread  during  a  whole 
lifetime  seemed  sad  and  lonely  enough. 

But  then,  would  not  marriage  with 
another  than  Tom  seem  almost  sacrilege, 
after  all  Uiey  had  planned  together !  Why, 
theirwholefnture  Qad  beenmapped  oat  wi^ 
each  other,  and  union  with  John  Hayward 
would  be  but  a  dreary  deception. 

Then  she  went  on  to  think  of  her  pupils, 
whom  she  did  not  and  could  not  love.  She 
had  no  theories  about  them.  They  met 
her  as  unite  without  individuality.  They 
obeyed  her  becaose  they  feared  her ;  they 
would  defy  her  if  they  dared.  And  then 
there  were  her  fellow-teachers  —  Miss 
Griffiths,  who  was  growing  so  old  and  odd; 
Miss  Henderson,  whom  her  class  made  a 
habit  of  tricking  and  deceiving,  becanse 
she  was  short-sighted  and  tolerant,  as  the 
ageing  so  often  grow.  Would  she,  Mary 
Kanley,  ever  find  herself  in  the  case  of 
these — ever  see  herself  lonely,  oncared 
for,  just  endured  for  want  of  a  better  1  Oh 
no  I  Eather  a  hundred  times  a  marriage 
into  which  biendship  and  respect -at  least 
would  enter. 

Her  letter  wais  written  hurriedly  at  last, 
and  when  it  was  finished  it  was  an  accept- 
ance. But  sho  told  John  Hayward  the 
truth.  She  had  loved  Tom  Danvers 
honestly  for  years,  but  now  that  they  had 
parted  she  did  not  think  any  memory  of 
him  would  ever  rise  np  between  her  and  the 
husband  she  was  prepared  to  accept  and 
honour.  She  wrote  this  all  quite  calmly, 
but,  when  it  was  finished,  she  f^t,  somehow, 
as  though  she  were  twenty  years  older 
than  she  had  been,  and  as  if  life  had  sud- 
denly become  quite  humdrum  and  common- 
place. Yet  she  nad  no  thought  of  changing 
her  mind.  She  rang  the  bell  composedly 
for  Bessie,  the  little  maid-of-ali-work,  and 
gave  her  the  letter  with  a  hand  that  never 
Altered. 

"This  is  your  evening  out,  I  think, 
Bessie.  Yonmay  post  this  for  me  on  j^onr 
way  through  the  village,"  she  said,  bethink- 
ing herself  even  of  the  little  servant's 
flairs  in  that  crisis  of  her  life. 


286    iTcbnuiTe,isu,i 


ALL  THE  YEAH  ROTTND. 


"  Yes,  miea,  nuelj,"  Besaie  uuwered, 
bltuhiDg,  for  aiie  too  had  a  lover,  and  these 
evenii^  ont  meant  th«  jo;  of  the  -whole 
ireek. 

Somehow  Miss  Ranley  felt  that  she 
wanted  the  letter  out  of  her  reach,  and 
Tacill&tion  ont  of  her  power, 

CHAPTER  U. 

"  I  HAVE  como  to  make  things  right     I 

can't  do  without  70a,  Mary ;  yoa  are  my 

sheet-anchor ;  I  hare  felt  adrift  since  I  lost 

you." 

So  Tom  Danrers  spoke,  horryingafter  her 
as  she  came  home  firom  afternoon  school. 

There  was  a  drizzling  rain  falling,  and 
the  landscape  was  hlnrred,  and  the  heavy 
clouds  hnng  low,  and  the  woman  knew 
that  the  face  she  tnmed  to  her  lover  was 
pinched  and  whita 

"  I  thonght  yon  had  gone,  Tom ;  it  is  bo 
long  since  I  heard  of  yon." 

"  It  is  a  week,  and  perhaps  yon  did  not 
ask  abont  me.  I  never  thonght  of  going 
in  any  mad  hnrry  like  that  There  is 
nothing  decided  even  yet" 

"Is  there  nott  I  thought — I  had  an 
idea  there  was,"  she  answered  falteringly. 

"  Oh  no.  Stephens  only  wrote  to  offer 
me  the  t^pointtnent,  and  I  went  to  consult 
yon  about  it  when  yon  took  me  np  so 
shortly."  There  was  a  tone  of  reproach 
in  his  voice,  for  he  felt  sdll  that  he  had 
been  badly  nsed. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  yon,"  she  pro- 
tested meekly. 

"  Well,  perhaps  some  fellows  don't  mind 
being  thrown  over  after  seven  years' 
waiting,  and  jost  as  there  is  a  prospect  of 
something  definite  at  last  1 " 

"The  prospect  seemed  very  vagne  to 
me,"  smiling  faintly. 

"Oh,  because  yon  wonld  not  listen. 
Stephens  offers  me  either  three  hundred  as 
a  sala^,  or  a  share  in  the  proceeds,  which- 
ever I  like,  and  he  says  the  climate  is  good 
and  living  not  very  high ;  and  I  had  almost 
persaaded  myself,  Mary,  that  we  might  go 
out  together — married.  Bat  still,  if  yon 
prefer  me  to  gmb  on  here  I  shall  do  it,  bo 
as  yon  continue  to  love  me." 

She  had  stopped,  and  they  faced  each 
other,  and  he  saw  now  how  pale  she  was. 

"  I  wonld  go  with  yon  to  Rangoon  if  I 
could ;  it  all  aeems  so  easy  now  when  it  is 
too  late,"  she  answered  with  a  break  in  her 
voice. 

"  And  why  is  it  too  late  J " 
"  Because  I  have  promised    to   marry 
another  maa" 


Yon  have  i    Weil,  oertainly,  yon  have 
not  lost  any  time." 
"  I  have  not" 

She  could  have  laoghed  with  thedreariest, 
most  dismal  mirth.  She  was  so  con- 
temptible in  her  own  eyes ;  all  she  had  done 
looked  BO  strange  and  nncalled-for.  Why, 
tliat  very  morning  her  senses  had  returned, 
and  she  knew  that  a  brave,  strong-hearted, 
successful  woman— ior  she  was  snccessfnl 
in  her  own  way — has  no  right  to  throw 
herself  on  any  man's  charity,  jnat  because 
he  loves  her,  and  because  her  Ufe-story  ha 
been  mistold.  If  she  had  only  waited  to 
post  her  letter  next  day  herself  it  wonld 
never  have  reached  its  destination.  Nov 
John  Hayward  had  her  promise. 

There  was  no  escaping  from  the  position 

which  she  had  placed  herself;  there 

was  no  poBsibflity  of  showing  herself  even 

excusable ;  she  certunly  had  hastened  with 

all  speed  from  the  old  love  to  the  new. 

"I  had  thought  you  so  different  from 

that,"  Tom  said  with  bewildered  incredulity; 

'  tiionght  you  would  have  been  faithful  to 

even  if  we  had  part«d — for  a  while,  at 

least" 

But  I  was  weaker  and  meaner,  yon 
I  wanted  Bome  one  to  keep  me  in 
idleness  and  buy  me  fine  dresses  and  treat 
me  well,  and,  when  you  could  not  do  it,  I 
closed  with  the  offer  of  the  first  man  who 
could."  She  seenired  to  take  a  certain  hittw 
pleasure  in  her  self-accusation  now. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  I  can't  believe  it,  it's  not 
possible !  You  who  were  always  so  b^h 
and  far  removed  from  the  temptatitau 
that  beset  ordinary  women  I "  he  bunt 
forth,  groaning. 

"You  overrated  me;  I  overrated  mywll 
Yon  see  now  I  am  not  worth  taking  to 
Rangoon,  not  worth  loving  or  Uunkuig 
about." 

"But  IB  it  really  trnel  Are  yon  not 
torturing  me  with  a  cruel  jest  t " 

"  It  is  qnite  true ;  I  have  promised  to  be 
another  man's  wife,  and  I  wrote  him  that  no 
thonght  of  you  would  ever  stand  between 
us,"  she  answered,  arraigning  herself. 

"  Then  you  are  a  heartless  woman,  and 
I  shall  never  forgive  you ! "  he  burst  ioitb, 
pronouncing  judgment  on  the  spot,  and 
then  he  rushed  past  her,  and  oat  (^  b«r 
sight,  while  she  continued  her  solitoiy  way 
with  laggtud  steps,  and  a  heart  that  lay  in 
her  bosom  heavy  as  lead. 

What  can  she  do  now  1  She  has  sown 
the  wind,  and  the  harvest  of  the  whirl- 
wind has  been  very  swift  and  bitter.  She 
has    dallied    with    temptation,    and  het 


BETWEEN  TWO  STOOLS. 


,  isM.i     287 


moraentuy  onfaithfiilDeas  has  cost  her 
■elf-re^eot.  Bat  alie  will  be  true  to  herself 
ftt  lut ;  she  will  reokll  the  promlae  that 
ihonld  never  have  been  given.  It  will 
not  matter  as  &r  as  her  happiness  is  con- 
eemed,  bnt  it  will  be  the  &rat  step  in  the 
painful  process  of  self-restoration. 

When  her  reeantation  was  written  tiiere 
ms  a  load  off  her  mind ;  but  she  was  not 
in  any  fever  of  impatience  to  post  this 
letter,  it  would  keep  till  ehe  was  on  her  way 
to  school.  After  the  hurried  emotions  of 
tite  last  twenty-four  hours  she  was  pbysi- 
ally  tired,  and  so  she  sat  rocking  herself 
bai^ards  and  forwards  in  her  wicker  chair 
with  a  faint  sensation  of  relief  in  the  motioa 

Twilight  was  fading,  and  timid  little  stars 
were  trembling  into  the  sky  beyond  the 
QBcartaiaed  windows,  when  there  came  a 
soft  tap  to  the  door,  and  Mousie  Graham's 
rosy,  n^mish  face  peeped  in. 

"  Oh,  you  are  not  busy — thank  goodness 
for  that !  I  was  half  afraid  I  might  find 
yon  deep  in  the  Differential  Calculus, 
and  I  did  so  want  a  good  long  chat" 

"  Come  in,  dear,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you; 
it  is  on  age  since  you  Were  hero  before." 
Maty  took  the  sof b  little  face  between  her 
lianas,  and  kissed  the  delicious  pink  cheeks. 

"  Graonie  has  been  worse  lately,  weaker 
and  more  fretful,  aud  so  I  felt  I  could  not 
leave  her  without  a  special  errand." 

"  But  she  is  better  to-day  t " 

"  Oh  yes,  ever  so  much  better,  and  theu 
Atmt  Lizzie  came  to  pay  her  a  Uttle  visit, 
BO  I  lett  Grannie  with  her,  and  ran  over  to 
see  you." 

"Hiat  was  very  good  of  yon,  dear," 

"  Oh  no,  it  was  not;  I  came  on  business. " 
Mousie  laughed  and  flushed  a  litde,  then 
she  i«w  a  letter  from  her  pocket,  "  This 
cime  addressed  to  me  yesterday,  but  it  is 
evidmtly  meant  for  you.  It  is  from  that 
booby,  John  Hay  ward;  he  is  always  in  the 
clouds,  or  among  the  cog-wheels  of  his 
looms,  and  so  the  result  is  a  blunder."  She 
nnfolded  the  sheet  as  ^e  spoke,  and  handed 
it  to  Mary,  and  this  is  what  stood  before 
the  tatter's  astounded  eyes : 

"DBAS  Miss  Bakley, — In  the  pleasant 
ezcuruon  we  had  together  last  summer,  I 
remember  your  mentioning  a  book  on 
ferns  that  you  desired  to  have,  but  could 
not  get,  as  you  had  forgotten  the  author's 
name.  I  have  just  como  across  a  volume 
by  Teakarstone,  the  opening  chapter  of 
vliich  is  on  the  Osmunda  regalis.  If  yon 
think  this  is  the  work  in  question  I  shall 
be  happy  to  forward  it  to  you. — Sincerely 
yours,  John  Hayward." 


Mary  Eanlej  was  sore  some  complex 
maohinery  in  her  head  had  got  out  of 
order,  so  loud  and  persistont  was  the 
whirring  in  her  ears. 

When  she  spoke  at  last,  her  Toice 
sounded  faint  and  far  away. 

"Is  your  name  Maryl" 

"  Of  course  it  is,  or  rather  Mary  Ann, 
bat  everyone  calls  me  Mousie  except  John 
Hayward.  He  thought  Monsie  no  name  for 
a  girl,  and  so  he  always  called  me  M^T — 
Mias  Mary ;  it  did  sound  so  funny." 

"Then,  Miss  Mary,  I  have  an  ofTer  of 
marriage  for  you.  It  came  to  me,  and 
naturally  enough  I  took  it  to  myself." 

Mousie  was  so  flarried  that  she  did  not 
notice  her  friend's  perturbation. 

"  I  fancied,"  she  said,  holding  the  letter 
in  her  hand,  but  not  looking  at  it,  "  that 
he  must  have  been  writing  to  me,  and  had 
mixed  the  covers.  That  is  so  like  your 
very  clever  people  1  Bnt  bow  lucky  Uie 
letter  oame  to  an  engaged  girl  I " 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  the  luck  of  it,  for  I 
wrote  yesterday  and  accepted  him." 

"  Oh,  Mary  t    And  Tom ! " 

"Tom  and  I  had  quurelled,  and  John's 
lettor  came  at  my  worst  moment,  so  I 
accepted  bim." 

Poor  Moosie's  eyes  grew  dim. 

"  In  that  case,  Mary,  I  suppose  yon  had 
better  keep  the  lettor,"  she  said,  faltering 
a  little.  "It  was  really  sent  to  you,  and, 
after  all,  I  don't  mind  so  very  much." 

"  You  aro  a  generous  little  darling,  but 
there  is  no  necessity  for  your  sacrifice  even 
if  Mr.  Hayward  would  permit  it  I  wrote 
him  my  recantation  this  afternoon.  There 
is  the  lettor;  you  can  send  it  to  him  with 
your  own.  He  will  bo  sure  of  its  genuine- 
ness that  way." 

Then  the  two  girls  kissed  and  cried  over 
each  other,  and  after  the  exchange  of 
divers  confidences  Mousie  went  away, 
carrying  John's  letter,  still  unread,  in  her 
hand. 

After  she  liad  gone  Mary  took  out  her 
needlework  with  an  undefined  feeling  .that 
chaos  had  come  again,  and  that  in  the 
midst  of  it  it  was  well  to  hold  on  to  some 
commonplace  everyday  employment 

By-and-by  Bessie  came  in  with  the  tea- 
tray,  and  as  she  flitted  about  the  table 
Mary  spoke  with  the  feeling  of  desperation 
which  makes  us  always  want  to  lay  a  flnger 
1  our  wound. 

"You  posted  my  lettor  last  night, 
assie }  " 

Bessie  paused,  the  piotore  of  constema- 
tion. 


ALL  THE  TEAK  ROUND. 


ITsbnur;  S,  104-1 


"Oh.mieB,  I'm  afraid  I  forgot  a11  »boDt  it," 

"  Yoo  foi^ot  to  take  it  out,  I  sappose  1 " 
speaking  in  a.  voice  bo  high  and  eager  that 
it  scarmy  Bonnded  like  her  own. 

"  Ob  no,  inias,  I  took  it,  and  pot  it  in 
my  waterproof-pocket,  bat  Peter  met  me 
before  I  reached  the  office,  and  then  I 
forgot ;  but  I'il  nm  out  irith  it  now  in  a 
minute." 

"Bring  it  to  rae  instead,  please;  I  don't 
want  it  posted  now." 

Bessie  never  knew  till  this  honr  why 
Miss  Banle;  gavo  her  five  shillii^  instead 
of  the  BcoloiDg  she  expected,  neither  does 
John  Hay  ward  understand  why  letter 
Dumber  one  never  reached  him. 

Tom  Danvers  went  to  Rangoon,  as  he 
had  said,  in  mach  disgoBt  and  despair. 
Mary's  im faithfulness  had  tamed  the  snn- : 
tight  into  darkness  for  him,  but  through  | 
his  pain  a  certain  resolution  to  be  and  do  I 
something  crew  daily.  He  would  forget  j 
her,  he  womd  never  speak  of  her,  and  if  I 
men  uttered  her  name  he  would  turn  aside,  i 
but  be  wonid  do  so  well  wiUi  his  own  life  < 
that  one  day  she  would  know  him  the  j 
superior  of  the  man  she  bad  married.  So, 
in  much  wrath  and  scorn,  he  sailed  away 
to  succeed  or  fail  as  might  be. 

As  for  Mary,  her  life  was  all  at  the  dead 
level  of  monotony  now.  There  was  always 
the  morning's  work,  always  the  evening's 
enforced  idleness,  and  periodically  the  long 
empty  holidays  in  which  her  loneliness 
grew  only  more  assertive.  Like  many 
another  she  was  learning  that — 

It  ie  not  in  the  shipwreck  and  the  atrife 
Wo  feel  benumbed,  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 
Bnt  in  the  aiter  dlenoe  on  the  shore. 

When  ail  is  lost,  except  ft  little  life. 

She  was  growing  old,  she  would  soon  be 
thirty,and  already  there  werewhite  threads 
in  the  gl(HS7  smoothness  of  her  hair,  and 
she  knew  she  was  growing  odder  and  more 
unsocial  than  Miss  Griffiths  or  Miss  Hen- 
derson had  ever  been.  Bnt  she  was  a  good 
teacher,  she  was  a  success  in  the  high- 
school,  and  she  clnng  to  that  poor  triumph 
as  her  last  sonrce  of  happiness.  It  was 
she,  the  strong  one,  who  would  do  a  small 
work  in  a  small  groove  all  her  life,  and 
Tom  who  would  grow  to  success  and 
power.  But  she  deserved  that  for  her 
wrong  estimate  of  both  of  them.  And 
everyone  knew  he  was  doing  well  and  that 
he  had  forgotten  her.  Why,  it  was  only 
the  other  day  that  Mr.  mteelhouse  had 
stopped  her  to  tell  her  that  he  had  just 


been  asking  Tom  by  letter  why  be  was 
neglecting  Mar;  Ranley. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you,"  Bhebadsud, 
going  home  with  another  shaft  rankling  in 
W  sore  heart 

It  was  dusk  as  she  went  wearily  down 
the  street  The  early  October  niriit  was 
closing  ID,  aod  broad  bands  of  light  from 
open  doors  fell  across  her  path.  The  street 
was  very  still  and  empty,  and  she  felt 
thankful  toi  that  and  for  the  coming  peace 
of  her  solitary  parloor.  But  she  stood  for 
an  instant  on  the  doorstep  to  watch  the 
trembling  stars,  before  she  rang  the  bell 

Bessie  answ^ed  it  with  a  beaming  face. 
Bhe  was  very  fond  of  &Oss  Ranley,  who  had 
always  been  kind  to  her. 

- "  There  is  a  visitor  for  you  in  the  parlour, 
miss." 

"  Ob,  very  weU."  Mary  expected  one  ot 
the  pnph-teaoherB  who  wanted  a  certificate; 
so  she  went  upstairs  and  put  her  ontdoot 
things  away,  and  brushed  her  hair,  and 
then  cams  down  to  be  the  scboolmistieea 
at  home.  But  it  was  not  Jane  Blakeney 
who  rose  at  her  entrance,  but  a  tall,  brown- 
bearded  man,  who  looked  into  her  face, 
and  then  held  oat  his  hands  to  bet  with- 
out a  word. 

"  Tom ! "  she  said  with  a  little  flattering 
sigh;  "Tom!" 

"  Ifes,  it  Is  1. '  I  came  back  as  soon  as 
ever  I  knew  yon  were  frea" 

"  I  have  not  deserved  it" 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  then,  you  see,  I  coold 
not  do  without  you.  I  need  someone  to 
scold  me  and  keep  me  right" 

"Ob  no,  Tom,  never  again;  old  things 
and  old  habits  are  all  ended." 

"And  you  threw  the  other  fellow  overt" 

"  No,  not  that  exactly ;  it  was  all  a 
mistake — all  my  pride  and  his  stopidity ; 
but  I  have  beeoi  well  pniusbed  for  everf- 
thiDg.  I  never  thought  you  would  come 
back." 

"  I  did  Dot  mean  to  come  back  till  I 
found  there  was  no  getting  on  without  yoo." 

And  Uien  Mair  burst  into  tears,  and 
stood  sobbing  against  his  shoulder  : 

"  Oh,  Tom,  I  have  missed  yoa  so  1 "  she 
siud. 

"  Well,  I  am  here  now  to  take  csro  ol 
you ;  won't  that  be  reversing  the  old  order 
of  things  t  "  smiling  at  ber  fondly. 

And  so  it  came  ^ut  that  Mairy  Kanley, 
despite  her  dangerous  hesitation  between 
two  stools,  found  a  comfortable  seat  od 
one  of  them,  after  alL 


The  Bight  of  Tmnnlfling  Article  from  All  the  Year  Round  is  reservrd  by  l/ir,  A  iMort. 


A   DRAWN  GAME. 

BY  BASIL. 
AUTHOB  or  "  lovm  nu  dbbt,"  btc. 

CHAPTER  XIX.       "B.    TUCK   FECIT." 

Thvs  itte  interfered  to  fonrud  the 
;>lma  of  Mrs.  Tack.  Ida  was  diBwn 
tonrds  Dick,  not  merely  b^  his  herotcou, 
bat  by  the  entirely  new  conception  bis 
heTotBm  gave  her  of  his  chBT^ter,  while  her 
kitued  beiuing  tow&rds  him  set  ruht  bia 
misconception  of  ber.  She  woa,  be  now 
caw,  not  cold  and  proud,  not  generally 
,  and  certainly  not  towards  him.  In 
trath,  Dick  began  to  believe  his  aunt's 
Qggeetion  that  Ida  was  inclined  to  care 
arhim.  It  was  the  moBt  natural  mistake 
a  the  world  for  him  to  make.  In  the  first 
place,  be  was  —  as  he  hardly  could  help 
being  with  his  personal  advantages — some- 
thing of  a  coxcomb ;  in  the  second  place,  as 
Ihe  took  everything  that  was  done  for  him  for 
granted,  gratitude  was  a  feeling  to  which  ba 
was  not  given  himself,  and  wbicb  ho  could 
not  well  conceive  in  another ;  and  in  the 
third  place,  Ida's  gratitude  was  the  less  con- 
ceivable to  him  in  that  he  knew  it  had  no 
ground.  For  it  is  harder  to  realise  in 
another  a  feeling  whose  basis  we  know  to 
be  imaginary,  thM  one  whose  basis  we  know 
to  be  real.  Thus  Dick  came  to  take  Ida's 
gratitude  for  a  warmer  feeling. 

Now,  that  Ida  was  beginning  to  care  for 
him  was  enough  to  make  Dick  begin  to 
care  for  her.  It  would  not  have  been  so  in 
every  girl's  case,  or  in  the  case  of  most 
girls ;  rather  the  contrary.  If  they  had 
made  their  affections  cheap  be  would  have 
held  them  cheap.  But  it  was  not  possible, 
even  for  him,  to  hold  La  Soperba  cheap. 
She  was  simply  lowered  to  his  reach,  that 
waa  all  There  are  some  things  a  man 
doesn't  covet  because  they  are  too  cheap, 
and    there  are  others  be    doesn't    covet 


because  they  are  too  dear ;  but,  if  these  last 
are  brought  unexpectedly  just  within  his 
mean^,  he  covets  them,  ^ow,  though  Dick 
was  juat  the  man  to  tbink  little  o^  a  ^iil 
who  made  little  of  herself,  he  was  tdso  just 
the  man  not  to  think  at  all  of  a  girl  who 
made  too  much  of  berseU.  Difficulties 
daunted  bim,  and  he  would  enter  for  no 
race  that  he  was  not  certun  to  win  in  a 
canter.  Cooleur  de  rose,  as  he  said,  was 
his  winning  colour,  and  "Bien  ne  r^uasib 
comme  le  sneers  "  Ms  motto.  But  sow  La 
Superba  bad  suddenly  shown  herself  at 
once  winning  and  to  be  won,  and  Dick, 
therefore,  came  to  r^ard  the  suit  suggested 
to  bim  by  his  aunt  as  both  pleasftnt  — ^ 
practicable. 

He  did  not  again  ui^  his  magnanimous 
objection  that  it  was  unfair  to  Oie  girl  to 
keep  off  competition  by  the  report  that 
Mr.  Tuck  bad  disiaherited  her. 

As  for  Ida,  she  at  but  began  to  believe 
that  there  might  be  some  truth  in  Mrs. 
Tuck'a  reiterated  assurances  of  the  strength 
and  delicacy  of  Dick's  paeaion  for  h 
That  worthy  woman  would  artfully  depl< 
Dick's  rescue  of  Ida  on  the  sole  ground 
that  it  would  make  him  more  magnani- 
mously resolute  than  ever  to  stifle  his  love. 
For  would  not  his  auit  now  seem  like  a 
sordid  pressing  for  the  payment  of  a  debt  1 
Hardly  bad  Ida  ceased  to  be  an  heiress, 
and  so  become  approachable  by  the  disinte- 
reBt«d  Dick,  than  this  other  and  greater 
obstacle  to  his  suit  presented  itself.  It  wae 
too  bad. 

Certainly  this  regretting  the  bite  of  a 
mad  dog  only  for  ita  effect  on  the  super- 
fine feelings  of  the  hero  was  an  effective 
stroke  of  Mrs.  Tuck's.  For  how  fervent. 
muBt  be  the  feeling  which  could  tbink  only 
of  this  consequence  of  so  horrible  an  ^uci- 
dent  —  bow  fervent  and  how  generous ! 
Not  incredibly  generous,  either,  for  was  not 


290      [Fsbninry  18, 1884,1 


ALL  THE  YEAK  EOUND. 


the  captain's  whole  bearing  in  this  business 
from  first  to  last  generouty  itself  1  Thns 
was  Ida  brought  over  to  the  other  aide 
altogether  in  bar  Tiewa  of  Dick's  feeliogs 
and  motivea 

Mrs.  Tuck's  satisfaction  at  seeing  the 
fmit  ripen  in  her  forcing-honae,  under  her 
ejes,  ma;  be  imagined.  Dick,  it  is  tme, 
was  not  a  passionate  or  impetoons  lovei, 
but  be  conveyed  to  Ida,  through  his  eyes, 
the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  ever  hover- 
ing attentions,  as  much  passion  as  was 
compatible  with  his  aunt's  account  to  the 
girl  of  the  conflict  in  his  soul  between  a 
Fougiug  and  a  reluctance  to  press  a  suit 
that  seemed  ungenerous  upon  her.  Now, 
however,  the  time  had  come,  to  Mrs.  Tuck's 
thinking,  when  Dick  might  confidently 
shake  the  tree,  instead  of  looking  op  at  the 
fruit  with  an  indolent  longing.  The  time 
had  come,  only  the  man  and  the  oppor- 
tunity were  wanting;  these  Mrs.  Tuck 
must  prepare. 

"I  think,  Dick,  we  must  go  to  this  affair 
at  Woolstsiiholme." 

"Yesl"  inattentively;  and  then  indiffer- 
ently :  "  What  affair  1 " 

"  This  opening  of  the  Art  Exhibition. 
The  Duke  of  Connaught  is  to  open  it." 

"  But  why  most  we  go  1 "  asked  Dick  in 
much  perplexity.     "  It  isn't  like  church  1 " 

Church  attendance  he  regarded  as  one 
of  the  most  oppressive  of  the  taxes  of 
etiquette, 

"  Just  what  it  is  like,  Dick.  Everyone 
makes  believe  as  much  there,  and  is  as 
t^lad  to  get  through  the  catalogue  as  the 
Litany." 

"Why  on  earth  do  you  want  to  go 
thent" 

"The  wholecountrywillbe  there;  and, 
besides,  Ida  ought  to  see  it." 

"  I  don't  think  she  need  do  a  provincial 
ona  If  it  was  London  or  Paris  it  would 
bo  different." 

"But  perhaps  she  might  like  to  go. 
They  say  the  duchess  means  to  be  there. 

"  Oh,  if  she  likes  to  go,"  in  a  tone  of 
querulous  di^just  "  I  can  put  in  the  day 
with  Dacres." 

"  If  she  goes,  you  go,  Dick.  I  want  you 
to  take  her  round,"  Very  signiflcautly.  "I 
shall  not  stir  off  the  first  chair  I  can  get 
hold  (rf,  I  promise  you." 

"  Well,"  replied  Dick,  after  a  pause  of 
meditation,  during  which  he  took  well  in 
the  meaning  of  his  aunt's  significant  tone 
and  nod;  "well,  after  all,  it  isn't  half  a 
bad  place  to  spend  a  day  in  if  you  let  the 
picttltes  alone  and  keep  clear  of  the  band." 


"Besides,"  added  Mrs.   Tuck,  in   her 
delight  at  Dick's  complusanoe;  "bsiidea, 
I  mean  to  exhibit  you  twa    There'll  be : 
finer  picture  in  the  place." 

"  What  will  you  call  as  in  the  catalogue, 
aunt!" 

'"The  Proposal,'  Dick.  How  will  that 
dol" 

"  With  '  B.  Tuck  fecit,'  underneath." 

"  Marriages  are  made  in  heaven,  Dick." 

"And  are  turned  out  of  the  factwy, 
when  they're  made,  like  oUier  goods. 
Hadn't  I  better  linger  a  little  longer  is 
Paradise,  auntl " 

Dick  thought  all  movement  in  matters 
of  business  premature,  and  was  uot  k 
madly  in  love  as  to  make  this  jot^Kwd  an 
exception.  At  the  startling  mention  of 
marriage  he  began  to  waver  in  his  adhedon 
to  his  aunt's  progr&mma  Nevertheless, 
as  we  shall  see,  he  precipitated  mattera 
For  even  with  Dick  love  was  liable  to 
bolt 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation,  Ida'i 
entrance  gave  Mrs.  Tuek  an  opportunity  to 
nail  Dick^  colours  to  the  mast 

Richard  wants  to  take  us  to  this 
Woolstenholme  aflalr,  Ida." 

ICs  the  last  place  I  thought  you'd  care 
to  go  to.  Captain  BrabaKon." 

"  I  shouldn't  care  to  ^o  there  by  myialf, 
I  confess ;  but  aunt  thinks  yon  might  b« 
persoadcd  to  come." 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  go,  thank 
you ;  but  won't  it  be  a  very  long  day  for 
you,  Mrs.  Tuck)" 

"Oh,  aunt  goes  as  an  exhibitor,  which 
makes  all  the  difTerence." 

Is  Mr.  Tuck  sending  bis  old  china  1" 
in  a  tone  of  the  most  natural  amazement 
at  the  recklessness  of  this  risk. 

"Oh  dear  na  Something  much  lesa 
precious.  It's  yourself,  Miss  Luard.  Aunt 
says  you'll  be  tJie  picture  of  the  exhibi- 
tion." 

What  will  you  enter  me  as,  Hra 
Tuck)"  taming  in  some  confusion  from 
the  admiration  expressed  in  Dick's  eyes  to 
ask  this,  as  the  first  question  which 
occurred  to  her,  of  Mrs.  Tuck. 

"As  'The  Duchess,'"  thinking  to  pay 
Dick  back  by  the  introductioQ  of  one  of 
bis  names  for  Ida. 

Dick,  however,  was  uot  disconcerted  io 
the  least. 

"It  would  bo  unfair  to  the  oUier 
duchess,"  8«ain  pointing  the  compliment 
with  a  look  of  fervent  and  unaffected 
admiration. 

Mrs.  Tuck,  seeing   Dick's  ardour  and 


A  DEAWN  SAME. 


[Febnury  IS,  18S4.t 


291 


Ida's  conscionaneBS,  opportune!; '  remem- 
bered that  she  was  dne  at  the  aide  of  her 
poor  dear  husband. 

Diofe,  the  craatnre  .of  the  moment,  felt 
earned  off  bis  feet  by  a  gmt  of  sudden 
paedon.  Two  minntes  i^  he  was  medi- 
tatiog  an  eecape  from  an  inunedi&te  pro- 
potal,  to  which  now  he  felt  compelled 
irreustibly.  To  do  him  justice,  we  must 
allow  that  bis  instability  was  not  to  blame 
■ICogsther  for  this  revulsion  of  feeling 
Ida,  looking  her  loveliest  in  her  blnehii^ 
consdooflDesa  of  bis  admiration,  was  also 
to  blame  for  it  It  was  not  possible  for 
any  man  with  Dick's  idea  in  his  head,  that 
this  snperb  beauty  cared  for  him,  not  to 
feel  his  longine  at  this  moment  to  secore 
beL  But  d^  she  care  for  bim  1  Yes  and 
na  She  had  now  come  to  admire  Dick 
immensoly,  not  physically,  whore  he  was 
admirablo,  but  morally,  where  he  was  not 
admirable  at  all  But  admiration  is  not 
as  near  akin  to  love  as  pity.  There  is, 
hoverer,  another  feeling  which,  in  a 
voman,  ia  nearer  akin  to  love  than  either — 
mtitode ;  and  this  Ida  felt  deeply  towards 
Diek,  for  her  life  and  for  his  love.  Of  hia 
love  she  had  now  the  daily  assnrance,  not 
nily  of  Mrs.  Tuck's  vehement  declarations, 
but  of  DicVs  own  implicit  declarations, 
not  to  be  mistaken.  It  was  possible,  even, 
that  hia  love,  as  Mrs.  Tuck  asserted — 
seemingly  on  the  best  authority — dated 
ftoffl  his  first  visit,  when  Dick  suppressed 
it  for  the  magnanimous  reason  assigned  by 
his  aunt,  for  had  he  not  disclosedatterly 
unexpected  depths  in  his  nature  of  late  t 
Might  not  love  itself  have  lain  latent  onder 
that  still  surface  1  Ev^i  now  it  seemed  to 
stmggle  witii  bis  magnanimity,  for  though 
it  was  munistakable,  it  seemed  sometimes 
half  sappressed. 

StiU,  at  times,  a  feeling  as  indefinable  as 
a  presentiment  made  her  recur  to  her  first 
estimate  of  Dick.  She  would  recoil  from 
this — recoil  as  from  some  baseness  in  herself; 
yet,  dwcJl  as  she  would  on  facta  that  looked 
the  other  way,  she  coold  not  shake  her- 
self irholly  free  from  it.  This  is  the  best 
account  we  can  give  of  her  chequered,  or 
ranker  alternating,  feelings  towards  Dick. 

Mrs.  Tuck  having  withdrawn  herself  as 
a  Qon-condnctor,  which  alone  Intervened  to 
prevent  the  completion  of  the  electric 
drcolt,  Didi  rose  to  offer  Ida,  who  was 
■till  Bta&dintf,  a  chair. 

"  Thuik  yon,  I  can't  stay.  Mrs.  Casson 
is  waiting  orders  for  which  I  came  to  ask 
iSiB.  TncK,  bat  the  exhibition  pat  it  out  of 
mv  head." 


"  I  hoped  you'd  come,"  with  a  look  and 
tone  of  tenderness  that  was  almost  a  pro- 
posal in  itself. 

Ida  felt  that  the  crisis  for  which,  though 
she  had  been  so  well  forewarned  of  it,  she 
was  not  forearmed,  was  upon  her.  There 
was  nothing  she  would  not  have  given  for 
the  respite  of  a  day,  but  of  this  there  was 
no  hope. 

Dick  himself  was  somewhat  unnerved  ; 
difGdent  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and 
for  the  first  tJme  fully  consdoos  of  his  own 
unworthinesB  and  her  worth. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  go,"  she  answered, 
spewing  in  short)  quick,  nervous  sentences ; 
"I  am  very  glad  to  go.  I  had  thought  of 
asking  Mrs.  Tuck  to  take  me ;  bat  I  feared 
it  would  be  too  much  for  her." 

"  She  would  trust  you  to  me  for  the  day, 
if  you  would.  "Would  you  1  Would  you 
trust  yourself  to  me  then — always-r-Ida  t " 
He  caught  and  held  both  her  hands  in  bis, 
looking  pleadingly  into  her  troubled  eyes. 
"  I  know  what  I  ask — what  you  are — what 
I  am ;  yet  I  must  speak.  I  cannot  help  it. 
You  wUl  forgive  me  t  Yon  will  let  me 
hope  % " 

"  It  is  I  that  have  to  ask  foi^veness," 
cried  Ida  in  deep  distress.  "  I  owe  you 
so  mnch — everytlung.  But  what  have  I  to 
givet  I  have  nothing  to  give  that  you 
ought  to  hava" 

"  Owe  I  You  owe  me  nothing,  and 
nothing  you  could  owe  me  would  be  worth 
the  hope  of  your  loVe.  I  ask  you  only  for 
the  hope  of  it,  Ida ;  only  to  say  that  you 
might  yet  come  some  time  to  care  for  me." 
Dick's  diffidence,  it  will  be  seen,  was  in- 
creasing ;  but  the  increase  of  his  diffidence 
increased  of  course  his  ardour.  Idaha-l 
withdrawn  one  hand,  but  he  still  kept  the 
other  imprisoned.  Dropping  soddemy  the 
band  be  held,  he  said  in  a  tone  of  despair ; 
"But  no,  you  cannot;  I  see  my  fate  in 
your  face.  I  should  not  have  spoken.  I 
tried  not  to  speak.  I  fought  against  it — 
against  you — against  every  thought  of  my 
heart,  evenr  day  since  first  I  knew  you,  Ida. 
I  hoped  I  had  conquered  and  that  I  should 
have  spared  yon  this.  Yon  will  believe 
me,  you  will  forgive  me,  and  yon  will 
foiget  this  mad  dream  that  you  coiUd  ever 
come  to  care  for  me." 

Ida  was  too  inexperienced  to  know  that 
Dick  could  not  have  expressed  so  rhetori- 
cally a  passion  which  really  carried  bim 
away.  Besides,  the  speech  only  con- 
firmed Mrs.  Tack's  assurance,  and  was 
made  more  credible  by  Dick's  established 
maenanimitv. 


293      IFebnuiT  1«,  ISM-l 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROtmD. 


Accordinglj  Ida  very  tuturally  felt  tb« 
deepest  admiration  of  him,  and  disgust 
with  herself  at  this  moment.  Upon  Dick's 
taming  away,  as  though  to  quit  Eden  for 
ever,  sbe  pnt  her  hand  timidiy  on  his  arm, 
and  said  with  a  childlike  simplicity : 

"  But  I  do — I  do  care  for  you,  only  not 
OS  I  ought,  as  yon  ought  to  expect" 

"  As  I  ousht  to  expect ! "  exclaimed  Dick, 
Bcizing  andlussing  the  hand  that  touched 
his  arm.  "  What  ought  I  to  expect  1  That 
you  should  love  me  as  I  love  yon  1  Ida, 
(  ask  only  to  be  allowed  to  love  yon,  and 
to  hope  for  your  love.  I  shall  win  it.  If 
a  life's  devotion  can  win  it,  I  shall  win  it 
yet." 

Dick  protested  too  much,  as  he  always 
did  in  his  many  "  promises  to  pay,"  but 
Ida  had  not  now  the  least  distrust  of  his 
sincerity.  How  should  she  1  Had  not 
Dick  already  shown  this  devotion — the 
devotion  of  his  life  for  here  T 

"  It  is  that,"  she  said  distressfully ;  "you 
give  BO  much,  and  I  have  so  little  to  give." 

"  You  would  not  call  it  little,  Ida,  if  you 
knew  all  it  is  to  me,  uid  it  is  but  the 
promise  of  what  it  will  be,  of  what  I  shall 
make  it,  dear."  Here  Dick  stole  his  arm 
about  her,  and  ventured,  with  a  timidity 
very  notable  in  him,  to  kiss  her  on  the 
cheek  as  the  seal  of  their  engagement  He 
had  the  tact  not  to  startle  what  he  took 
for  the  fint  timid,  dove-like,  and  diffident 
hovering  of  love  by  further  endearments  at 
this  moment  Drawing  her  to  the  sofa 
and  seating  himself  there  by  her  side,  he 
spoke  more  of  his  happiness  than  directly 
of  his  love,  and  eiqiressed  such  exceeding 
gratitude  for  the  hand  he  had  latber  taken 
than  had  given  him  that  Ida  could  not,  if 
she  would,  have  withdrawn  it 

Would  she  have  withdrawn  it  t  Cer- 
tainly, if  she  had  consulted  only  her  own 
feelings.  At  the  touch  of  Dick's  lips  on 
her  cheek  she  realised  intensely  the  false 
position  into  which  she  had  been  hurried, 
and  from  which  there  was  now  no  retreat 
She  felt  as  though  she  had  sold  herself 
into  slavery  to  pay  Dick  the  great  debt  she 
owed  him,  and  yet  that  this  debt  was  still 
unpaid — was  as  far  as  ever  from  being 
paid — and  never  woold  be  paid.  She  did 
not  love  him  aa  he  loved,  and  as  he 
should  be  loved,  and  she  had  not  the  least 
hope  that  she  ever  would.  But  what 
could  she  do  1  Was  she  to  refuse  him  the 
little  retom  he  asked,  which  was  all  he 
asked,  and  in  which  he  seemed  to  place 
hia  happiness  t  And  not  hsvBig  refased 
him  at  the  critical  moment,  could  she  now 


withdraw  the  poor,  ungradous  gift  while 
he  was  overwhelming  herwith  his  gratitude 
for  it  1 

Indeed,  Dick  was  rather  strong  in  the 
expression  of  his  gratitude.  He  thought 
it  the  safest  subject  to  dwell  on.  He  vss 
at  first  taken  aback  by  the  discovery  th&t 
Ida  did  not  love  him  as  be  had  imaged, 
that  he  and  his  annt  had  taken  gratitude 
for  love.  But  there  was  no  gouig 
back,  and  no  wish  to  go  back,  either. 
For  not  only  was  he  more  in  love, 
and  Ida  more  lovely  and  lovable  in  bis 
eyes  at  this  moment  than  ever  before,  bat 
he  was  little  likely  to  think  less  of  a  thing 
because  it  had  ceased  to  be  cheap— that  is 
not  in  human  nature.  Therefore,  his  ardour 
redoubled  when  he  found  his  qo^ny  not 
so  tame  as  he  bad  expected.  Then  was 
enough  difficulty  to  give  zest  to  the  chase, 
and  yet  not  enough  to  daunt  even  our  easy- 
going Dick.  Having  got  her  into  his  (oils 
he  had  the  tact  to  see  that  she  might 
breakaway  again  if  be  startled  her  before 
she  was  absolutely  secured;  therefore,  he 
dealt  delicately  with  her,  expreesing  only 
deference  in  hu  manner,  and  gratatade  in 
his  words,  so  cutting  off  her  retreat 

A  knock  at  the  door  from  the  jiutiy 
impatient  Mrs.  Casson  startled  them  apait, 
ana  released  and  relieved  Ida  from  this 
embarrassing  ontbnrat  of  gratitude. 

While  she  went  to  appease  the  wortby 
housekeeper,  Dick  betook  himself  to  the 
billiard-room  to  digest  hia  happiness  with 
the  help  of  a  cigar.  It  was  not  perfect 
"The  very  source  and  fount  of  day  ii 
dashed  wi^  wandering  isles  of  night." 

Dick  could  not  help  misgivings  that  he 
had  exchanged  the  wholesome  food  of 
comfort  for  the  tntoxtcattng  wine  of  jof , 
with  its  ebb  and  flow  of  delirium  and 
depression.  Ida  was  a  superb  prize,  no 
doubt,  but  she  would  be  a  prize  like  a 
crown,  uneasy  to  the  head  of  the  wearer, 
while  Dick  loved  ease  of  all  things.  In 
fact,  we  cannot  better  express  Dick's  ntii- 
givines  than  by  the  homely  image  we  have 
already  used — he  feared  he  woiud  have  to 
walk  on  tiptoe  for  the  rest  of  his  days  to 
keep  up  to  Ida's  standard. 

However,  these  misgiviu^s,  as  we  hsTS 
said,  were  but  spots  on  the  sun  of  bi^ 
triumph. 

Dick's  love  was  like  the  sun  in  anothw 
respect,  ite  heat  diminished  in  geometric 
ratio  with  its  distance  from  its  object  Id 
Ida's  presence  he  thooght  mcstly  of  h«; 
in  her  absence,  mostly  of  himself.  If  ■» 
irresistible  invitation  to  hunt  or  shoot  bad 


A  DRAWN  GAMK 


'    (Tebnurir  IS,  U84.|      393 


lec&Ued  liim  to  Ireland,  the  diBtaace  wonld 
hare  BO  cooled  his  ardour  that  he  would  hare 
come  to  class  hia  love- letters  with  his  debt& 

To  Dieli,  thus  meditating,  entered  his 
sunt. 

"  Well  i  "  she  asked  eagerly, 

Dick  blew  slowly  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke 
from  his  lips,  and  then  answered  coolly : 

"  Well,  atmt,  that's  done." 

"  You've  won  her  1 " 

"By  a  neck." 

Mis.  Tuck  resented  Dick'a  coolness  as 
insulting  to  Ida. 

"  Yoa  should  hare  won  her  in  a  canter, 


of  c 


e!" 


So  my  trainer  led  me  to  think;  but 
yon  were  wrong,  altogether,  aant" 

"  She  hasn't  refused  yoa  ! " 

"That's   just    about    it.      She    hi 
refused  me,  but  she  has  only  not  reiiised 
me.    She  doesn't  care  a  straw  for  me.'' 

"Nonsense,  Dick !  If  she  accepted  yon 
at  all,  she  cared  for  yon.  She  wouldn't 
accept  a  duke  if  she  didn't  care  for  Hm. 
Yon  think  she's  no  heart,  because  she 
doesn't  wear  it  on  her  sleere." 

"  She's  a  heart,  I  dare  say,  but  I  haven't 
it,  aunt.  She  made  that  plain  enoogh. 
But  she  gave  me  her  hand  with  as  good  a 
grace  as  could  be  expected." 

"  If  she  accepted  yon,  she  cared  for 
you,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Tnek  decidedly. 
"Ton  may  depend  upon  that  All  the 
world  wouldn't  induce  her  to  give  her 
hand  without  her  heart,"  thinking  of  Lord 
Ellerdale  and  Mr.  Seville-Sntton,  who,  as 
the  impersonations  of  rank  and  wealth, 
represented  exhaustively  "  all  the  world  " 
(oMts.  Tack. 

"  Well,  aunt,  yoa  ought  to  know  better 
than  I.  Modesty  was  always  my  weak- 
ness." 

"  It  was  not  your  forte,  certainly,  Dick ; 
but  eoxcomb  aa  yon  are,  yoa  might  easily 
misondentand  Ida,  she's  so  reserved." 

"  Bat  she  wasn't  reserved.  She  said  in 
so  many  words  that  sBe  didn't  care  for  me 
at  all  in  the  way  I  widied." 

"  Her  girl's  nonsense  !  She  thinks  love 
comes  like  a  shower-bath,  all  at  once  with 
a  shock ;  hot  that  douche  is  soon  over  and 
leaves  you  shivering.  '  Love  me  tittle, 
love  me  long,'  Dick." 

"  Faith,  aunt,  if  she  pays  it  out  at  the 
present  rate,  it  ooght  to  last  as  long  as  the 
National  Debt." 

"  If  s  as  secure,  anyhow,  which  is  more 
Uiaa  you  can  say  of  moat  girls'  love,  or  of 
any  man's.  If  Ida  cares  %t  all  for  you 
shell  always  care  for  too  :  and  she  does 


care  for  you  or  she'd  not  accept  you.  I 
don't  say  she's  desperately  in  love  with 
you,  and  that  kind  of  thing;  Of  course 
not.  Such  a  feeling  in  a  cirl  like  her  takes 
some  time  t«  ripen,  and  some  sun,  too. 
And  she  hasn't  got  much  of  that,  Dick, 
you'll  allow." 

Here  Mrs.  Tnck  carried  the  war  into  the 
enemy's  camp,  and  took  Dick  ronndly  to 
task  for  the  languor  of  his  snit  and  the 
apathy  of  his  triumph. 

Then  she  hurried  off  to  assore  Ida  with 
her  next  breath  of  Dick'a  ardour  and 
rapture. 

"My  dearest  Ida,"  embracing  her 
effusively,  "you've  made  me  so  happy — 
and  him; "  then  holding  Ida  from  her  to 
look  anxiously  into  her  eyes,  she  added 
interrogatively :  "  And  yourself  I " 

"It's  happmesB  to  make  you  happy, 
Mrs.  Tuck,  *  evasively,  but  with  perfect 
sincerity. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,  yon  didn't  accept 
him  only  to  T^ease  me,  or  only  to  please 
him  either.  There's  love  enough  on  his 
side  for  both,  but  it's  not  all  on  his  side  t 
Yon  do  care  a  bit  for  him,  dear  1 " 

Mn.  Tuck's  question  sounded  as  the 
echo  of  Ida's  own  upbruding  conscience. 

"  Not  as  I  ought,"  she  answered,  with  an 
expression  of  contrition  in  her  face  and 
voice. 

"  Not  as  you  think  you  ought ;  but 
you've  got  such  notions,  child.  Yoa  seem 
to  think  yoa  should  meet  your  lover  half- 
way, and  be  as  much  in  love  with  him  as 
be  is  with  yon  1  Why,  how  do  you  think 
that  would  work  1  Pooh!  it-wonldn't  hold 
together  for  a  month.  A  man's  love,  my 
dear,  is  like  that  half-starved  foxhound 
^onwere  pitying  yesterday;  you  must  give 
it  food  enough  to  keep  it  alive;  but  to 
keep  it  keen  yon  most  half-starve  it  You 
can  give  Richard  quite  as  much  love  as  is 
gooa  for  him,  or  for  any  man.  They're 
great  babies,  my  dear,  and  throw  away 
what's  in  their  hand  to  cry  for  more.  I 
ought  to  know  them  by  this  time,  and  I 
do.     Of    course,    if    yon    reaUy   dislike 

Richard " 

Dislike  him !  It  is  not  that,  Mrs. 
Tuck — I  like  him  very  much,  but  I  ought 
to  do  more  tiian  like  lum." 

"My  dear  Ida,  your  ' liking '  means 
more  that  most  girls'  love.  Tney  mean 
just  half  what  they  say,  and  you  say  just 
half  what  you  mean.  You  don't  love 
Richard  as  much  as  he  loves  yen — that 
was  not  to  be  expected,  and  not  to  be 
desired  either — but  von  love  him  anite 


294      irabnurj  ie>  18M.) 


ALL  THE  YEAK  ROUND. 


cnaugb  to  tantaliw  and  torment  him,  and 
any  woman  who  knows  her  buuness  will 
tell  you  that  this  is  the  great  Beoret  and 
eecority  of  conBtanoy  in  nan." 


REMINISCENCES  OP  JAMAICA. 

IN   THREE  PARTS.      PART  IL 

About  the  middle  of  oar  time  in 
Jamaica,  the  dia»  of  the  roada  were  ob- 
served to  bo  covered  with  the  yellow,  riokly- 
smelling  bloeaoma  of  the  "  kill  backra,"  or 
yellow-ireTer  flower.  Erery  waete  space, 
even  the  gravelled  yard,  at  Port  Royal, 
preriotuly  quite  arid,  bloomed  like  a 
yellow  carpet.  Old  residents  shook  their 
heads  and  whispered  of  yeliow-feveT,  with 
the  grim  ceriAinty  of  former  experience. 
Each  evening,  too,  from  the  beginning  of 
March,  a  faint  and  sickening  odour,  w^ted 
with  the  first  breath  of  land-wind,  stole 
over  Port  RoyaL  It  did  not  last  leng,  and 
came  cUteot  mta  a  sort  of  lagoon  of  braokiab 
water  beyond  the  palisade  cemetery.  Ex- 
amination oE  this  water  revealed  a  reddisb 
foam,BeeUiingnproundtheedgeB.  Measures 
were  promptly  adopted,  first  to  cut  a 
commumcatioa  between  the  smelline  lake 
and  the  fresh,  outer  sea.  This  silted  up  in 
a  very  few  days.  A.  cut  was  then  made 
through  to  the  cookie-ponds  in  tbo  innerbar- 
bour,  and  kept  open  by  dredging,  and  aoon 
by  its  own  sooor,  tbia  cot  speedily  deuued 
and  purified  the  putrid  lake,  whose  waters 
quickly  became  alive  with  excellent  fish, 
leaping  luid  jumping  with  health  and 
vigour.  The  same  smell  was  reported  to 
have  prece<kd  a  former  yellow -fever 
epidemic  The  men-of-war  in  harboarwer« 
moved  to  the  outer  buoys,  where  a  fresher 
current  of  air  was  obtainable,  and  every 
sanitary  precaution  was  adopted.  But  ail 
was  in  vain — an  unwholesome  conditioD  of 
atmosphere  evidently  existed,  containing  the 
germ  of  what  waa  to  be  fatal  to  so  many. 

The  first  man,  a  stoker  of  the  steam- 
launch  plying  to  Kingston,  was  seized — and 
this  meant  generally  to  die  in  three  or  four 
days,  sometimes  in  leas  tima  The  flagship 
was  overcrowded  with  supemumerariefffor 
the  Pacific,  waiting  for  a  vessel  to  come  to 
Panama  and  take  them  on  board.  Each 
day  these  poor  souls  enquired  ever  more 
and  more  uudoasly,  "Any  news  from 
Panama ) "  "  No  telegram  from  Colon  t " 
till  their  hearts  were  sick  within  them. 
Each  man  looked  his  comrade  in  the  face, 
and  wondered  which  of  them  would  go 
next.  The  good  deputy-inspeotor  at  tie 
hospital — who,  if  hourly  heroism  could  win 


the  Victoria  Cross,  earned  his  a  hundred 
timeB  over — stood  by  the  bedside  of  the 
dyiog,  aome  in  violent  fever  held  down 
by  black  nunea,  some  in  the  deadly 
stertorous  coma  of  approactiing  dissolntitni, 
and  wrung  his  hands  in  despair  at  buiu 
nnaUe  to  do  anything  to  save  them.  Ea<£ 
aftemoon  about  four,  the  bospitsl-boat 
beitfing  a  ghastly  burthen  wended  its  way 
to  the  paluadee,  where  the  living,  at  aim's- 
length,  at  the  risk  of  therr  lives,  laid  the 
dead  in  long  rows.  Each  ni^t  about 
twelve,  one  of  the  galley's  crew  living  at 
the  Admiralty  House  was  seized,  till  five 
out  of  seven  were  dead.  Thmr  cries  and 
groans,  as  they  were  borne  away  in  a 
blanket  to  the  hospital,  oat  of  whose  gate 
tbey  were  never  to  come  alive,  were  ter- 
rible to  hear.  I  used  to  listen  with  miser- 
able dread,  rill  the  heavy  footstep  of  the 
black  steward  laboured  up  the  stairs  and 
along  the  silent  corridors,  lanthom  in  hand, 
to  announce,  "  Anoder  boat's  crew  taken  to 
hospital,  Bv,"  with  a  sort  of  grim  compla- 
cency in  his  own  immoni^  from  the  temble 
scourge. 

Oar  own  family  all  sufi'ered  at  the  same 
time  from  attacks  more  or  leas  severe  of 
bilious  remittent  fever,  fcoja  which  tbey 
rose  weak  and  tottering,  "  Poor  ting,  he 
don't  trong, good  king!"  remarked akindly 
black  servant,  picking  up  a  child  who  was 
peroetually  tumbling  down.  One  English 
mau  brought  out  a  new  chief-clerk  for  the 
dockyard,  witfi  wife  and  children;  Uie 
return  steamer  took  home  the  clerk 
and  four  motherless  babea ;  the  poor  wife, 
seized  with  yellow-fever,  had  died  in  the 
interioL  A  case  was  reported  at  this  time, 
which  goes  far  to  prove  that  to  do  nothing 
is  better  than  the  best  uid  most  careful  of 
nursing.  A  seaman  belonging  to  a  forei^ 
ship  imloading  at  one  of  the  wharves  m 
Kingston,  suddenly  disappeared  in  a  fit  of 
delirious  fever ;  aU  thoogbt  he  bad  jumped 
overboard.  Six  days  [wu^d  away,  he  was 
nearly  forgotten,  when  a  black  woman 
came  on  board  to  say  that  a  sailor  belong- 
ing to  tjieir  ship  was  lying  weak  and  hap- 
less, but  alive,  under  the  piles  of  the  wharf. 
He  was  speedily  brought  on  board,  gamit, 
hollow-eyed,  stiwing.  He  knew  nothing 
of  tJie  time  that  had  passed,  but  it  was 
certun  that  for  six  days  he  had  lain  on  the 
wet  mud,  just  above  bieb-water  mark — the 
rise  and  fUl  is  less  than  two  feet — and 
that  no  food  or  ,diink  could  bavo  passed 
his  lips,  and  yet  he  survived,  1i))^  meet 
of  his  shipmates  died,  AJthoTA^H 
definite  coaclueion  was  come   to  bvT, 


REMINISCENCES  OP  JAMAICA,        iEBbnivTi6,iaii.)    29i 


devoted  and  oooomplished  medical  officers 
in  charge  of  the  hospital  aa  to  any  real)} 
elBeacioiu  remedies^  it  was  diaeovered,  I 
believe  for  the  fint  time,  by  aelnsl  experi- 
nwiit^  that  the  cause  of  y ellow-fever  is  a 
parasite  in  the  blood.  If  the  patient  Tas  of 
weakly  conslitntion,  or  suffering  from  any 
other  ulmsBt,  the  paraaito,  nnable  to  lire 
in  the  irapoToriBhed  blood,  died,  and  the 
patient  ncovered ;  while  on  the  other 
hand,  in  the  sweet  blood  of  the  vigorous 
and  temperate,  these  creatures  throve  and 
mnltaplied,  till  they  had  consumed  aH  the 
liffr^ving  pn>pertieB,wlien  the  patient  died. 

When  uiii^  seemed  at  their  worst, 
and  the  "peawence  that  walketh  in  dark- 
aesa"  had  stalked  into  every  nook  and 
eaasBT  of  the  old  fiagship,  bearing  off 
viotim  after  victim  trembling  to  the  hospital, 
it  was  resolved  that  the  whole  of  the 
remaining  ship's  company  and  the  super- 
nnmeraries  sfao&hi  be  sent  north  to 
Bermuda  in  t^iree  vessels.  With  what  joy 
this  decision  wsa  hailed  by  the  sorrivors 
none  can  tell.  Hope  again  sprang  up  in 
their  depressed  hea^  they  were  not  to  be 
left  ({aietly  and  surely  to  die,  unoheered 
by  any  prospect  of  removal  as  in  former 
times.  One  dank,  mu^y,  windless  day — 
a  condition  of  atmosi^iere  lai^y  prevailing 
durii^;  this  Bconrge — hot  utd  oppressive 
beyond  conception,  all  were  got  on  board 
the  three  ships,  and  soon  were  out  of  sight 
on  their  way  to  the  ^ad  north.  No  single 
fatal  case  occurred  ^ter  their  departure, 
and  all  retained  in  safety  several  months 
ajter.  To  understand  in  the  least  degree 
the  fear  felt  by  gallant  men  who  would 
cheeifolly  walk  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth, 
or  jump  overboard  under  circumstances  of 
the  gtAvest  peril  to  save  a  comrade,  a 
yellow  •  fever  epidemic  must  have  been 
personally  ezpOTienced ;  the  stoutest  hearts, 
when  waakened  by  the  contemplation  of 
one  overpowering  subject,  quail  before  this 
pealiienca.  The  ur  was  foU  of  it,  weighing 
l&e  lead  npon  tiieir  spirits.  The  persistent 
attendance  of  a  quantity  of  hoary  old  Fort 
Boyal  sharks^  which  had  weathered  many 
a  fearsome  bout,  now  swimming  slowly 
round  and  round  the  flagship,  was  of  it«elf 
a  serious  dicAreas  to  the  old  coxswain.  "I 
nisdoabts  them  sharks,"  he  would  observe, 
taming  his  quid ;  "  they  means  Yellow 
Jack,"  upon  which  he  applied  himself  to 
his  fiivonrite  q>e<afiG — rum  and  peppermint 
—with  renewed  zest. 

A  dnll,  death-like  quiet  now  settled  down 
over  Fort  Boyal ;  the  hospital  doors  stood 
wide-open  to  the  air,  all  its  tenants  dead  or 


gone.  A  man-of-war  arriving  at  this  time 
fresh  from  England,  saluted  me  broad  pen 
dant  as  usual  onteide  the  reefs ;  half  an  houi 
passed,  she  was  inside  the  cays,  but  tberewa! 
no  return  salute,  nor  was  a  living  soul  to  b( 
seen  on  the  decks  of  the  flagship.  Landing 
at  the  stairs  he>  captain  wended  his  way 
wondering  at  the  extraordinaiy  stillness,  t< 

the  commodore's  office,  where  he  found 

alone,  his  secretary  dead,  his  crews  gout 
n(»th,  his  family  in  the  hilla  The  captain 
aftwwarda  told  me  that  he  had  never  seeu 
BO  ueUnchidy  a  sight.  The  ship  was  seni 
immediately  to  sea,  and  never  bad  a  single 
Gas& 

After  the  death  of  so  many  fine  sailors  oi 
the  galley's  crew,  it  was  not  considered 
desirable  for  us  to  remain,  as  the  dockyard 
and  Admiralty  House  seemed  the  most 
infected  parts.  "  Claremont,"  in  the  Fort 
Boyal  mouBtaius,  was  accordingly  taken  f  oi 
us,  A  long  steam  to  Kingston,  a  twelve- 
mfle  drive  to  "the  gardens,"  brought  as  to 
the  foot  of  the  mountains,  from  there  horses 
to  Claremont  landed  a  party  of  jaded, 
miserable  wretches.  Ill  as  I  was,  the 
extraordinary  beauty  of  the  view  from  this 
place  struck  me  with  admiration.  The 
le,  even  then  extremely  out  of  repair, 
was  the  usual  one-storeyed  building  with  a 
wide,  closed  yerandah  in  front,  standing  on 
a  flat  platform  of  good  size,  a  most  unusual 
feature  in  the  hills,  where  ten  square  feet  of 
even  ground  is  a  rarity.  Cotton-trees  of 
immense  height  cast  a  splendid  shade  all 
the  blazing  afternoon  over  the  front  of  the 
house.  Divested  of  its  most  melancholy 
associations,  Claremont  is  certainly  the  most 
attractive  site  in  the  island.  From  here, 
eacli  crowning  its  own  sharp  mountain-top, 
can  be  seen  Bermnda  Mount,  Craigton, 
Strawberry  Hill,  Ellerslie,  Bopley,  the 
Cottage,  all  comfortable  little  hill-cottc«es 
except  Graigton,  which  having  been  added 
to  by  various  governors  and  magnates  who 
have  lived  and  died  there,  from  time  to 
time,  is  quite  the  beet  monntidn  residence 
in  Jamaica,  possessing  even  a  beautiful  little 
church  at  the  very  gatea  Above  you,  at 
Claremont,  are  Uie  "everlasting  hills," 
mounting  peak  by  peak  into  the  air;  below 
a  winding  bridle-road,  occasionally  peeping 
into  sight,  leading  to  the  gardens,  the  foam- 
ing Hope  Biver  lying  like  a  silver  streak 
at  the  bottom  of  Uie  valley ;  while,  spread 
out  like  a  map,  lie  the  plams,  brightened 
with  the  yellow  cane -fields  of  Verley 
and  Bobinson's  sugar-plantation,  Kingston 
Harbour,  Port  Boyal,  and  the  vast  ocean 
beyond  the  cays.  Ships  at  anchor  or  coming 


296      [FebniMT  W 


ALt  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


in,  looked  like  flies  ap«n  a  plui,  whfle  the 
great  flag-Bhip,wi&faer  white  bn»dpenduit 
gleuning  in  the  son,  resembled  a  child's  toy. 
Looking  back  I  could  not  M.y  that  the 
Abonkir,  in  fnll  view,  was  at  tJiat  time  a 
dedrable  object     We  had  left  — ■ —  and 

aloDe,   at  Port  Eoyal,  in  the  very 

midst  of  the  fever,  bo  that  broad  pendant, 
seen  through  a  teleacope,  became  the 
very  focus  of  anxious  interest,   shoving 

that was,    at   all    events,  alive   at 

that  moment,  which  was  something  in 
thoM  miserable  days  to  be  sore  o£  A 
short  but  sharp  attack  of  yellow-fever  pros- 
trated me  the  day  after  oar  arrival  in  the 
hills — a  not  Dnfrequent  circnmstance  when 
fever  is  lurking  in  the  frame,  for  it  is  often 
brought  out,  not  prevented,  ae  might  be 
supposed,  by  a  groat  change  of  tempen^>ure. 

The  only  facts  that  remain  clearly  in  my 
mind  are  the  extraordinary  and  perristent 
violence  of  the  headache  which  accompanied 
the  attack,  and   the  land  and  charitable 

attention  bestowed  upon  me  by  Dr.  W , 

of  ^o  army  medical  department,  now  at 
Parkhurst,  who,  regardless  of  an  infected 
household  from  Port  Koyal,  rode  up  and 
down  the  mountains  from  NewcasUe  on 
several  occasions  to  see  ma  By  Heaven's 
iqercy  my  life  was  spared,  while  tlut  of 
many  a  strong  and  healthy  man  was  taken. 

Far  different  was  the  fate  of  poor . 

Seized  with  violent  fever  and  deliiiom 
within  two  hours  of  his  arrival  at  Clara- 
mont,  he  perished  in  five  days,  though 
nursed  with  the  tendereet  care.  He  died 
in  the  darkest  hours  of  a  night  I  never 
remember  without  a  pang.  The  sun  went 
down  in  clonds  of  Innd  red,  succeeded 
almost  immediately  by  an  inky  pall,  appa- 
rently descending  upon  the  house.  A  death- 
like atillnesB  prevailed,  no  leaf  stirred, 
when,  without  a  moment's  warning, 
one  of  the  fierce  mountun  hurricanes 
broke   upon  us,   raging  with    wild  fury 

all  night  long.     At  the  moment  of 's 

departnre  a  great  sobbing  blast  of  wind 
and  rain  burst  open  all  the  crazy  doors, 
careered  howling  like  a  wild  beast  through 
the  shaking  rooms,  and  out  across  the 
valley,  only  to  return  agiun  a(t«r  a  moment's 
pause,  with  fresh  vigour  to  be^  the  on- 
slaught anew.  The  slow  dawning  of  ttiat 
miserable  morning  revealed  a  scene  of 
pitiable  desolation  without  and  within. 
Great  trees  had  been  hurled  through  the 
lur  and  pitehed  head-foremost  into  the 
ravine  below.  The  wind  had  worn  itself 
out,  but  from  the  earliest  break  of  day  a 
vast  troop  of  Tulturee,  who  urived  singly 


from  every  quarter,  sailed  and  swooped 
id  slow,  great  circles  round  and  round  the 
valley  and  house  where  our  dead  lay.  The 
fanning  of  their  horrible  wings  could  Im 
heard  coming  ever  nearer  and .  neaier, 
verifying  the  worda  of  Scripture,  "the 
vultures  hasted  to  the  prey  " ;  "  where  the 
slain  are,  there  are  theyj "  nor  did  they 
leave  us  till,  late  in  the  day,  a  small  and 
melancholy  train,  bearing  the  coffin,  slowly 
ascended  the  stee^  windmg  paths,  and  dear 

was  laid  in  his  quiet  grave  on  Craigton 

hillside,  charitably  and  kindly  ministered 
to  by  the  good  archdeacon,  himself  t 
terrible  sufferer  by  yellow-fever.  A  more 
lovely  spot  than  where  he  lies,  lamented 
and  beloved,  could  never  be  seen — at  the 
top  of  a  mountain-crown,  the  beaatifol 
little  church  (now  newly  restored  after 
being  destroyed  in  a  hurrieane)  at  his 
headj  the  whole  green  fertile  valley  at  his 
feet,  all  breathing  of  peace  and  quiet  till 
the  day  of  resurreclion. 

Oar  melancholy  heee  and  enfeebled  con- 
dition warned  as  that,  if  anything  like 
health  was  ever  again  to  be  enjoyed,  s 
more  must  be  mada  (xardena  House  waa 
therefore  taken  for  us,  and  early  on  the 
morning  of  the  fourth  day  after  the  funeral, 
a  sad  and  melancholy  cavaleadewalkedaitd 
rode  down  to  the  {jaidens,  across  the  river, 
and  np  the  mountain  on  the  other  side,  till 
our  new  home  waa  reached.  Somethug 
like  a  gleam  of  hope  vinted  our  cheeriees 
spirits,  as  we  walked  Uirough  the  cleui, 
empty  rooms,  faithfully  built  a  hmidied 
years  gone  by.  This  house  promiaed  at 
least  shelter,  coolness,  and  change  of  scene; 
betides,  if  we  could  hope  to  sleep  in  a  bed 
that  n^t  we  must  bestir  ourselves.  It 
wss  past  five  before  the  last  of  a  long  tasin 
of  leisurely  bearers  sauntered  into  the 
house  with  our  belongings  from  Claremont 
on  their  heads.  By  eight  we  had,  one  and 
all,  drawn  in  a  close  wde  round  a  blasng 
los-fire,  pitifully  attempting  to  cheer  eaek 
ouBer  by  story-telling.  Many  a  long  year 
must  have  passed  since  a  fire  bad  been 
kindled  in  that  fine  old  room,  and  (be 
children  were  kept  amused  by  the  ehase  and 
slaughter  of  a  horde  of  red  ante,  about  half 
an  inch  long,  which  wen  brought  out  of  the 
old  wood  by  the  beat  of  the  fire.  With  what 
a  feeling  of  deep  thankfulness  we  laid 
down  that  night  I  can  never  fo^et,  but 
in  onxiouB  and  silent  dread  I  looked  into 
the  fiices  of  those  aronnd  me  eaoh  passing 
hour,  I«st  I  should  see  the  first  symploiu 
of  that  dreaded  ftver,  thankful  beyond 
measure,  as  time  slowly  ebbed  away — ho* 


1^ 


iuiAiiniauj!irtui!<o  uf  jam&kja. 


iribmtif  IS,  18S4.]      ^iU/ 


■lowl;  I — to  Bee  the  fint  rays  of  retaining 
health  coining  back  to  ob. 

A  peac«fal  month  with  no  new  anxietieB 
gave  na  roaaon  to  hope  that  this  wave  of 
licknMs  had  spent  itself,  when  one  of  the 
children  was  brought  to  death's  door  with 
typhoid-fever.  la  the  midst  of  this  distress 
our  hearts  were  stirred  anew  by  the  death 
of  two  dear  fHends,  a  brother  and  sister, 
who  perished  at  Bermuda  Mount,  of  yellow- 
ferer,  dying  within  twenty  mioates  of  each 
other.  Ill  and  weak  with  nursing  our  sick 
child,  it  was  a  terrible  shock  to  be  awakened 
at  three  in  the  morning,  whea  a  mounted 
measenger  from  Benaoda  Mount,  sent  to 

fire  OS  the  dreadfbl  news,  knocked  up  the 
ousehold.  Without  a  word  of  waming  or 
preparation,  our  coloured  nurse  stole  into 
my  room,  where  slie  stood  whispering  in 
an  awe-struck  tone;  "  All  the  two  of  dem  is 
dead!" 

Vigorous,  youthful,  full  of  high  spirit 
and  courage,  beloved  of  all,  it  was  pidful 
to  )os«  them,  and  they  could  ill  be  spared ; 
but  they  perished,  and  two  more  graves 
were  dug  on  Craigton  liillside.  Many 
of  oar  friends  died  in  the  plains  at 
Utis  time,  proving  that  yellow-fever  is  no 
nepecter  of  places,  and  is  as  often  to  be 
seen  in  the  sweet,  breezy,  isolated  hilltops 
■8  in  the  sweltering  streets  of  Kingston 
the  poison  is  in  the  air. 

Gardens  House,  or,  as  it  was  coi 
monly  known  among  the  country  people, 
"  Ga^ens  Great  House,"  is  solidly  placed  on 
a  bit  of  table-land  at  the  junction  of  ihetwo 
great  moontain  highways  into  the  interior 
— the  GoavaRitlge  and  Flampstead  roads,  at 
an  altitude  ot  thirteen  hundred  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  built  in  tlie  middle  of 
what  had  formerly  been  the  Botanical 
Gardens,  till  growing  impeconiosity  did 
away  with  ao  useful  an  institution.  This 
fact  accounted  for  the  variety  and  beauty 
of  the  shmbs  and  trees  anrrounding  the 
grey-stone  house.  This  one  had  been 
erected  in  the  sl&ve-o;ming  days,  when 
labour  cost  nothing;  its  walls,  always 
d^cionsly  cool,  were  three  feet  thi<^, 
ahelttffod  by  an  extremely  high-pitched 
grey  shingle  roof,  off  which  ihe  rays  of  the 
atin  glanced.  Great  wide  enclosed  verandahs 
in  ^Qt  commanded  a  lovely  view  across 
the  valley,  and  down  to  Gordon  Town,  with 
occadonal  glimpses  of  the  river  hurrying 
away  to  the  sea. 

A  loige  square  of  short  emerald  turf  of 
exceedingly  fine  close  texture,  abont  the 
siee  of  a  tenniaground,  and  bmntifolly 
even,  spread  before  the  front  door,  enclosed 


on  all  four  sides  by  the  house,  Idtobens, 
servants'  quarters,  coach-house,  and  a  large 
swimming-bath,  supplied,  as  was  all  our 
water,  by  an  aqueduct,  from  the  upper 
waters  of  the  Hope.  Shut  in  by  a  stout 
gate,  we  looked  able  to  stand  a  siege. 

Retumiug  health  and  spirits,  i^r  a  time, 
canaed  a  resumption  of  the  active  habita 
which  had  been  so  sadly  put  an  end  to  by 
our  troubles.  Morning  and  evening  one  of 
the  children,  in  turn,  would  scamper  about 
on  their  extremely  self-willed  little  pony, 
whose  determination  I  never  saw'  equalled. 
It  was  always  maintained  that  Tommy 
took  them  out  for  a  ride,  and  brought 
them  back  when  it  suited  himself,  not  his 
rider.  "  Kouse  up  there,  rouse  up  L  show  a 
leg,  show  a  leg  in  a  purser's  stocking  I "  was  a 
well-known  cry  abont  six  am.,  which,  being 
interpreted,  meant  that  we  were  requested 
to  get  up.  No  ablations  were  permissible 
at  this  time,  but,  having  partaken  of  coffee 
and  biscnitB,  as  many  as  could  be  got 
together  started  on  our  ramble.  In  the 
morning,  when  the  sun  is  well  behind  the 
frowning,  overhanging  mountain,  Guava 
Ridge  road  was  chosen,  in  the  ajftemoon 
exactly  the  reveracj  Fiampstead  road, 
Dublin  Castle,  and  Dublin  Caatle  Great 
House  being  the  usual  route.  By  a  Uttle 
management  of  this  sort,  no  sun  ever  in- 
convenienced us.  Vegetation  on  each  side 
of  the  precipitous  zig-zag  paths  was  a  per- 
petoal  pleasure.  Gold  and  silver  fern  lined 
one  reach;  maidenhairspleenwort,  with  black 
shiny  stalks  as  thick  as  a  lady's  riding-whip, 
aiuiost  filled  a  little  dell  adjoining;  while 
feathery  lace-plant  and  lycopodium  moss 
formed  a  carpet  among  the  rare  ferns,  un- 
equalled in  the  finest  conservatory.  Great 
clumps  of  bamboos,  the  most  graceful  of 
all  green  things  in  Jamaica,  fenced  in  one 
very  dangerous  turn,  where  the  path  was 
only  about  two  feet  wide,  a  wall  of  mountain 
on  one  side,  a  sheer  precipice,  seven  or 
eight  hundred  feet  down,  the  other.  We 
always  fled  past  thia  place  for  fear  a  pack- 
mole,  laden  with  baJging  bags  of  coffee, 
should  encounter  us,  in  which  case  we 
should  certainly  have  been  pushed  down 
the  ravine.  They  are,  in  these  narrow  paths, 
obstinate  "  as  a  mule,"  and  refuse  to  budge 
an  inch ;  they  are  also  extremely  cute,  and 
have  frequently  been  known  to  rub  their 
heavy  burthens  against  a  sharp  rock  until 
a  hole  is  torn  in  the  bag,  and  the  coffee- 
berries  run  ou^  having  learned  by  former 
experience  that  such  a  process  lightens 
their  load ;  but  as  it  also  destroys  the 
balance,  wary  old  beasts  have  been  known 


[Pebrniry  18.  ISM,] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


to  rub  a  hole  in  each  aide,  and  to  anire  at 
their  deetination,  walking  ten  or  a  dozen 
in  aingle  file,  witb,  perhaps,  one  black  hoj 
in  charge,  mounted  on  the  first  mule  in  the 
Btring,  without  a  coffee-berry  remaining  1 

The  vonderfol  growth  of  bamboo  always 
pntme  in  mind  of  Jonah's  gourd.  One 
morning  a  great,  fat,  greenish-grey  shoot, 
exactly  like  giant  asparagus,  would  appear, 
just  breaking  through  the  friable  reddish 
earth ;  next  day  it  was  twelve  inches  bigh, 
the  day  after  over  two  feet;  one  could 
really  see  it  crow,  till  a  fine  feathery  wand, 
tender  and  drooping,  shot  up  into  the  sky, 
Btrengtheningwithaga  A  coffee  plantation 
in  early  morning,  before  the  ann  has  kissed 
away  the  heavy  night  dews,  is  a  beautiful 
sight ;  each  plant  laden  with  white,  wax- 
lilte,  star  flowers,  emitting  a  faint  scent, 
something  between  orange-blossom  and 
stephanotis,  and  making  np  an  overpower- 
ing aggregate  of  sweetness.  The  steeper 
the  ground  the  better  the  coffee;  the 
best  in  the  island  grows  at  Clifton 
Mount  above  Newcastie,  at  an  altitude 
of  four  to  five  thousand  feet,  cling- 
ing in  a  precarious  way  to  the  nearly 
unattainable  heights  above.  Pendent 
from  the  forked  branches  of  cotton-trees 
magnificent  rose-coloured  orchids  fiaunt 
and  wave  over  the  paths  in  cheerful 
mockery,  suspended  by  a  single  hair,  far 
above  yonr  head,  as  if  saying :  "  D<Hi't  you 
wish  yon  may  get  me  1 "  I  have  no  doubt, 
like  the  fox  and  the  grapes,  th«t  we  were 
better  without  them,  lovely  as  they  were, 
for  their  smell — I  cannot  say  scent — closely 
resembles  that  of  dead  rata.  B^onia 
grows  by  the  wayside  to  an  exttaordmair 
height,  twelve  or  fourteen  feet ;  it  seemed, 
like  the  furze  at  home,  never  out  of  bloom, 
the  plants  being  always  covered  with  an 
endless  succession  of  deep-piok  fleshy 
flowers. 

There  are  no  venomous  snakes  in 
Jamaica,  while  in  Cuba,  only  about 
seventy  miles  ofl^  cobras,  ratUesnokes, 
deadly  spiders,  and  reptiles  abound. 
Extieme  care  is  taken,  by  order  of  the 
Government  of  Jamaica,  when  importing 
timber  and  other  likely  merchandise  fkrm 
Havanna  to  prevent  the  introduction  of 
snakffl  into  the  island,  and  hitherto  with 
success.  I  plunged  into  the  gtUlies  and 
bush  fearlessly  in  the  pursuit  of  some 
precious  fent,  knowing  this.  Scorpimis, 
however,  drop  on  your  head  from  the 
rafters  of  old  buildings  and  the  trunks 
of  decayed  trees,  ana  wriggle  into  an 
unused  key-hole,  even   in  this  favoured 


island.  The  "trap-door  spider"  is  not 
uncommon  either ;  its  bite  wheu  provoked 
is  considered  highly  dangerous,  if  not  fatal, 
and  the  way  it  retires  Laftily  whhin  its 
day-built  nest,  and  sluma  ttie  door  behbd, 
as  if  in  dudgeon,  iavEiy  curious.  The 
children  bought  some  from  a  native  when 
staying  at  Craigton  with  the  governor, 
and,  carefully  nttraing  the  litUe  ronnd 
brown  nests  widi  a  tr/e  spider  in  eadi, 
brought  diem  to  me  in  my  bedioom  te 
keep  safely  for  them  until  our  return 
home. 

The  cultivation  of  anything  in  the 
mountains  is  carried  on  with  gmt 
difficulty;  to  climb  even  an  ordinary 
yam-patch  requires  tho  ngility  of  a  Bquirrel 
and  the  endurance  rt  a  mole,  as  the 
ground  is  hardly  Kss  steep  than  the 
side  of  a  wall  These  perpetual  npa 
and  downs  are  most  fattening.  Small 
tenements  abounded  everywhere;  a  man 
squatted  down  ^parently  on  the  mountiun 
just  where  he  fancied,  ran  np  a  little 
wattle  and  daub  hut,  which  was  medily 
occupied  by  a  collection  of  rations, 
friends,  god-mothers,  and  babies,  number- 
ing from  six  to  a  dozen,  and  proceeded  to 
cultivate  yams,  mealliea,  and  goinea-grsst, 
without  let  or  hindrance. 

Ood-mothers  are  in  Jamaica  a  very  great 
power.  Far  from  considering,  in  the  osoal 
English  way,  that  her  responsibilities  cease 
with  the  ivesentatioii  of  a  cup,  fork,  and 
spoon,  she  is  expected  to  "take  to  "and 
provide  for  her  gbd-cbild  till  it  is  grown 
up,  often  removing  it  entirely  from  the 
family  circle  to  that  of  her  own.  This 
curious  custom  is  commoner  in  Port  Bojsl 
than  elsewhere,  and  is  principally  ^e 
result  of  fathers  being  a  scarcer  article 
there  than  in  other  parts. 

A  shadowy  owner  far  away  in  England 
sometimes  cropped  np,  actually  laying 
claim  to  his  own  lands,  but  he  certainly 
got  no  rent  if  it  was  a  "thrown  np  ' 
property,  and  he  was  alraid  to  take  steps  to 
enforce  his  rights  owing  in  most  cases  to 
the  long  years  his  own  Grovemment  taxes 
had  remained  unpaid.  The  long  columns 
of  "  Owners  wanted,"  advertised  for  year 
by  year  is  the  Jamiuca  Qasette,  give  some 
idea  of  the  enormous  number  of  "  thrown 
up"  properties  lying  nntended  and  un- 
profitable owing  to  the  poverty  of  their 
once  thi  lying  proprietors.  Pluited  with 
bananas  and  cocoa  nuts,  crops  that  reqmre 
BO  little  tending,  and  for  which  an  exceUent 
market  in  the  United  States  is  tdways  to 
be  obtained,  much  might  be  done  even 


OmtIo  Makma.! 


ONE  DINNER  A  WEEK. 


tFsbriurxle,  13S4, 


299 


picked  in  enonnotu 
btmches,  each  banch  as  mach  as  a  man 
cui  cany,  and  qaite  green,  ripen  on  tlio 
•eren  days'  voyage,  and  are  in  the  finest 
condition  on  amviog  at  New  York,  where 
th^  often  fetch  a  Bhilling-  apiece.  The 
plant  most,  however,  have  water,  and 
thrives  best  in  damp  places. 


ONE  DINNER  A  WEEK. 

As  my  years,  alas  t  are  more  than  are 
contained  in  half  a  centnry,  I  preenme  I 
am  considered  to  be  in  my  second  child- 
hood when  I  find  myself  invited  to  attend 
a  dtildren's  party,  I  generally  straggle  to 
accept  these  invitations,  al though  IwelTmay 
feel  soBpicioiis  of  their  covering  a  smile  at 
ny  protracted  juvenility.  Still,  I  am  par- 
tial to  small  people,  and  never  Hke  to  miss 
anopportnnitr  of  meeting  them,  and  of  leam- 
isg  something  new  aboat  society  in  general, 
iriiich  I  nsnuly  find  they  are  able  to  im- 
part to  ma  Bat  for  the  knowledge  thus 
acquired,  I  ahonld  never  have  discovered 
that  Jones,  whota  I  esteemed  as  the  most 
pompona  of  old  prigs,  was  so  excellent  a 
help  in  making  a  dirt  podding,  or  that 
Brown,  whom  I  regarded  as  the  proriest 
of  bores,  had  so  fanciful  a  talent  for  the 
telling  of  a  fairy-tale.  Tomkins,  too,  I 
thought  a  rather  shallow  fellow,  till  I 
learned  quite  accidentally  how  profound 
waa  his  knowledge  of  the  anatomy  of 
dolls,  and  how  perfect  was  his  Bkill  in 
Betting  fractured  (wooden)  legs,  and  mend- 
ing broken  (waxen)  noses;  while  I  must 
candidly  confess  that  my  esteem  for  my 
friend  Robinson  has  enormoDsly  increased 
since  I  have  discovered  how  renowned  ho 
is  for  saddling  a  cockhorse,  and  how  he  dls- 
tancea  all  tmi»  in  the  art  of  making  toffee . 

Having  thns  a  taste  for  juvenile  festivi- 
tiea,  I  accepted  with  great  pleasnre  a  recent 
invitation  by  Mr.  Walter  Austin,  of  the 
London  Cottle  Mission,  to  come  to  one  of 
his  small  we^Iy  children's  dinner-parties. 
Small,  that  is,  in  reference  to  the  stature 
(J  the  guests,  but  hardly  to  be  called  so 
in  considering  their  numbers.  The  aversge 
attendance  is  upwards  of  five  hundred, 
and,  when  funds  enough  are  iiimiahed  by 
the  charitable  public,  the  pot  is  kept  a  boil- 
ing for  as  many  as  a  thousand.  "  Small 
and  early  "  is  the  rule  of  these  little  social 
gatherings,  and  though  the  hour  named 
is  noon,  the  guests  are  not  so  fashionable 
that  they  needs  must  be  nnpunctnal. 
"First  come,  firat  served,"  is  •  motto  fair  to 


all,  and  one  easily  remembered  by  small 
boys  Vlth  lai^  appetites.  So  the  cooks 
who  are  employed  at  67,  Salmon  Lane,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Stepney,  have  no 
cause  for  complaint  that  their  cookery  is 
spoilt  by  waiting  for  late  comers. 

Salmon  Lanelkas  certainly  an  appetising 
sound,  and  seems  not  inappropnate  as  a 
place  to  give  a  dinner.  On  coming  from  a 
pantomime,  one  might  e:niect,  perhaps,  to 
find  it  close  to  Cod's  Head  Court,  and  not 
far  from  Turtle  Alley,  or  possibly  Fried 
Sole  Street  As  I  walked  along  the  lane, 
which  is  somewhat  of  a  long  one,  although 
it  has  no  turning,  I  felt  a  trifie  disap- 
pointed at  not  meeting  some  old  friends, 
snch  as  Mr.  Chalks  the  milkman,  and  Mrs. 
Suds  the  laundress,  with  whom  my  panto- 
mime experience  bad  long  mad  erne  familiar. 
I  confess  I  should  have  liked  to  see  upon 
the  shop-fronts  such  well  -  remembered 
names  as,  "  Batcher,  Mr.  Shortweight,"  or 
"Baker,  Mr.  Crusty,"  and  I  should  have 
further  found  reason  for  rejoicing  had  I 
come  across  a  chimney-sweep  wheeling  a 
perambulator,  such  as  in  the  festive  season  - 
I  have  seen  upon  the  stage,  or  possibly  a 
policeman  being  wheeled  off  in  a  vrheel- 
barrow  in  the  middle  of  a  pelting  shower 
of  cabbages  and  carrots.  Or  if  this  delight 
was  not  to  be,  I  might  still  have  been  con- 
tent if  I  had  bnt  seen  a  row  of  water-rate 
collectors  sitting  in  the  stocks,  or  a  kitchen- 
staff  supply-store,  with  the  sign  of  tho  Hot 
Poker. 

But  the  reality  was  not  of  this  dramatic 
character.  Salmon  Lane,  indeed,  is  a  most 
presaic  thoroughfare,  and  when  seen  upon 
a  foggy  day,  snows  little  to  remind  one  of 
the  glamour  of  the  footlights.  Its  small 
houses  are  all  of  the  most  ordinary  square- 
box,  plain,  back-slnmmy  order  of  archi- 
tecture. Miles  of  similar  dnil,  dreary, 
dismal,  dirty  little  tenements  surround  it 
on  all  sides,  and  the  eye  of  the  [esthetic 
may  look  vtunly  for  relief  from  the  sad, 
wearisome  monotony.  To  one  who  had 
been  trudging  throngh  the  slushy  little 
streets,  and  courts,  and  alleys  in  the 
neighboarhood,  the  sight  of  the  New 
Cottage  Mission  Hall,  with  its  cheerful 
white  brick  frontage,  and  clean  and  well- 
kept  aspect,  was  pleasant  to  the  eye ;  and 
the  mind  rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of  the  pro- 
mised transformation-scene,  wherein  tho 
good  fairy  Benevolence  would  defeat  the 
demon  Hunger,  who  would  be  banished 
from  the  blissfnl  realms  of  steaming  Irish 
Stew! 

The  dining-room,  or  rather  let  me  say 


300      Febnury  le,  18H.1 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOtJND. 


the  baDquet-h&ll,  whereia  on  every  Wed- 
nesday, from  November  ontil  Mty,  this 
happy  "  change  "  takes  place,  which  trans- 
forms a  croivd  of  wretched,  hangry  little 
children  into  a  cheerful-looking,  happy 
little  company,  is  supplied  with  fourteen 
tables,  at  each  of  which  is  fully  room  for 
seating  fourteen  of  the  guests.  Fifteen,  or 
even  sixteen,  sometimes  manage  to  find 
room,  for  a  child  of  four  or  $ve,  espedallj 
when  half-starved,  can  he  put  in  a  smaU 
space.  So  the  banquet  hall  accommodates 
above  two  hundred  guesta,  and  when  these 
hare  all  been  feasted  they  go  chattering 
away,  and  the  next  two  hundred  hungry 
ones  fill  the  vacant  seats.  In  accordance  with 
a  rule  which  is  printed  in  clear  type  upon 
the  carda  of  invitation,  or,  to  speak  less 
politely,  upon  the  tickets  for  soup,  each 
gnest  comes  provided  with  a  plate— or 
more  commonly  a  baab,  as  being  more 
convenient  for  holding  a  big  helping — and 
likewise  with  a  spoon,  of  very  varying 
dimensions,  and  in  few  cases  propor- 
tionate to  the  month  it  has  te  feed. 
,  Many  of  the  bigger  children  had,  I  noticed, 
nothing  better  than  a  battered  teaapoon, 
while  one  remarkably  small  guest,  who 
might  have  sat  for  Tiny  Tim,  bad  the 
forethought  to  be  fnmisbed  with  a  weapon 
so  prodigious,  tiiat  he  aeemed  prepared  for 
supper  with  that  illustrious  hoet,  in  con- 
nection with  whom  there  is  a  proverb  about 
a  long  spoon. 

On  the  morning  of  my  visit  the  hall  was 
three  times  filled,  and  the  order  of  pro- 
cedure was  the  same  in  eveiy  case.  Firat 
entered  the  guests,  marching  in  quick  time 
to  music  of  their  own  maMng,  a  chatter- 
ing choniB  in  the  minor,  with  brisk 
pedal  accompaniment  Attendants  quickly 
followed,  bearing  two  enormous  tin  tureens 
of  Irish  stew,  one  to  each  end  of  the  room. 
Then  a  whistle  aonnded  ahrilly,  and  silence 
was  proclaimed,  and  te  the  tune  of  tiie 
Old  Hundredth  the  children  rose  and  sang 
It  short  and  simple  grace,  whereof  the  finid 
line  bore  reference  to  "feasting  in  Para- 
dise," which  must  seem  a  heavenly  pleasure 
to  a  hungry  little  child. 

Young  singers,  as  a  rule,  are  apt  te  drag 
the  time,  but  I  am  bound  to  say  the  fault 
was  here  by  no  means  to  be  found.  Indeed, 
a  critic  might  have  fancied  that  the  grace 
towards  its  close  was  just  a  trifle  harried, 
and  certainly  the  "  Amen  "  was  sung  with 
an  alacrity  which  showed  no  sign  of  drag- 

fing.      Very  possibly,  however,  this  was 
ue,  not  quite  so  much  to  the  musical 
instnction  which  the  singers  had  received. 


as  to  the  toothsome  and  delightful  savoar 
of  the  atew.  This  with  a  delidous  fragmnce 
floated  in  the  air,  and  set  the  mouUi 
watering  with  pleasant  expectatjon,  so  that 
it  WW  small  wonder  that  the  time  was 


Then  there  arose  a  hungry  cUmoor, 
which  was  speedily  subdued,  for  when 
once  the  little  tongues  had  tasted  of  the 
stew,  they  ceased  with  one  eoiuent  to 
waste  their  energy  in  prattling.  And 
although  I  saw  jio  sign  of  uifair  striving  of 
the  stronger  to  get  helped  before  the 
weakly,  there  was  certainly  a  great  ODt- 
stretehing  of  the  arms  and  uprising  of  the 
hands,  miich,  but  for  the  fact  of  their 
holding  plates  and  basin*,  might  have 
called  to  mind  the  Crowd  Sc«ne  m  the 
t^ierman  Jnliua  Ctesar.  Hands  and  aims, 
however,  had  soon  other  wwk  to  do,  for 
plates  and  basins  were  filled  speedily,  and 
handed  to  their  owners.  Unlike  moat 
public  dinners,  there  was  no  cause  to  com- 
plain here  of  the  aluggiahness  of  wsiten. 
AfisB  Xapten,  the  kirn  lady  who  presides 
over  the  feasts,  and  the  yonng  ladies  who 
come  every  \^'edneBday  to  help  her,  are, 
by  constant  practice,  deft  and  active  with 
their  work,  and  give  general  satisfaction 
to  the  host  and  to  the  gnests.  If  in  her 
capacity  of  waitress  any  of  Uiem  wished  to 
^ply  for  a  new  place,  there  would  be  no 
question  of  her  getdnc  a  good  character. 
One  of  theae  lady  helps,  if  I  may  veutuie 
80  to  call  them,  is  a  lady  by  her  title  as 
well  OS  by  her  coortesy  and  gentle  birth 
and  bearing.  All  gratitnde  and  honour  be 
to  lady  hdps  like  these,  who  never  stint 
their  service  to  help  forward  a  good  work. 
And  it  is  surely  a  good  work  to  bring  to 
the  East  End  the  gracious  manners  of  the 
West,  and  lend  a  kindly  hand  to  bridge 
the  social  chasms  which  are  said  by  some  to 
yawn  between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  but 
which  are  not  so  deep  hut  that  good 
nature  can  aoon  fathom  them  with  the 
helping  of  good  sense. 

Bat  let  us  return  to  our  mutton,  w. 
rather,  to  our  Irish  stew,  whereof,  aoc(«d- 
ing  to  the  cookery-books,  mutton  ought  to 
be  the  meat  But  of  the  stew  in  Salmon 
Lane  the  principal  ingredient  is  that 
"  giant-like  ox<beef "  which  has  played  such 
havoc  with  the  house  of  Fairy  Mustard- 
seed.  Beef  is  here  preferred,  as  being, 
perhaps,  stronger  in  ita  potency  to  nourish 
and  give  power  to  small  elbows  and  plump- 
ness to  pinched  cheeks.  Qood,  savoury, 
substantial,  wholesome,  toothsome,  and 
nutritious,  I  certainly  can  certify  X  foimd 


ONE  DINN£R  A  WEEK. 


tlebnuurr  I*.  UM J     901 


Hm  childten'a  food ;  a  mew  anffidng  both 
for  meat  and  drink,  of  beef,  and  rice,  and 
ngetables,  veil-blended  and  well-boiled, 
vitti  nothing  tough  of  stringf  to  harass 
maiticatioi),  and '  with  a  daab  of  carry- 
powder  to  help  it  to  digeet.  Since  six  the 
jmyioua  morning  the  cuildron  had  been 
ammering,  and  ^e  cooks  hard  at  their 
vork,  and  the  result  was  really  qaite  a 
bimnpb  of  their  industn  and  art. 

"Mak'  yonmlf  at  wnoam,  air,  an'  tak' 
girt  moatlifDlfl ! "  uid  a  cheery  former  to 
me,  wiien,  after  walking  Uiroagh  his 
tnraipi,  I  found  anfficient  appetite  to  join 
him  m  his  oniUoght  on  a  half-boiled  1^ 
of  jxvk.  I  called  to  mind  his  kind  advice 
u  I  looked  along  Uie  tables,  and  saw  tlie 
wiitfot  eyes  that  watched  the  helping  of 
the  meat.  I  thooght  that  if  "  girt  moath- 
fok"  were  the  mle  with  these  small 
feeders,  the  chancee  of  a  choking  fit  could 
haidiv  be  remote.  But  to  Uke  great 
moDthfols  is  not  easy  with  a  teaspoon,  and 
this  in  very  many  cases  was  the  implement 
m^yed.  My  notions  of  self-help,  eepe- 
mUy  at  dinner,  might  astonish  Dr.  Smiles, 
bat  if  I  were  very  hungry,  and  were  allowed 
to  help  myself  to  Irish  atow,  I  sboold  not 
tekct  a  teaspoon  as  my  weapon  for  the 


The  picture  of  little  Oliver  asking  for 
more,  and  thereby  astounding  the  awful 
Mr.  Bumble,  could  never  find  a  parallel 
at  theae  poor  little  children's  dinner- 
partiei.  There  is  nothing  of  the  Bumble 
about  good  Mr.  Anatiu,  and  any  little 
han^y,  half-starved  Olivers,  or  Olivias, 
or  Juaa,  or  Jacks,  or  Jills,  may  have  their 
I^tea  refilled  as  ofton  as  they  please.  Hiss 
Jill  may  eat  her  fill,  with  no  acruple  and 
no  stint,  and  Master  Jack  may  peg  away 
nntil  he  is  "  serenely  full,"  like  Uie  salad- 
eating  epicure  described  by  Sydney  Smith, 
and  has  the  pleasant  sensation,  immor- 
talised by  Leech,  of  feeling  as  though  his 
jacket  were  buttoned.  This,  with  most 
of  the  Jacks  present  on  the  morning 
of  my  visit,  would  have  been  a  new  sensa- 
tion, and  one  difficult  to  realise,  for  buttons 
sefflned  a  luxury  whereof  not  many  could 
boast  A  pin  or  piece  of  string  was  mostly 
Diad  by  way  of  substitute,  though  at  the 
throat  of  one  young  masher  sparkled  such 
metallie  lustre  thatlfancied  he  wore  stnds. 
But  on  a  closer  view  I  found  that  the 
briUiant  was  a  bit  of  wire,  which  probably 
had  once  adorned  a  soda-water  bottle.  This 
served  to  keep  his  coat,  which  was  three 
sizes  too  lug  for  him,  from  ftlling  off  his 
iboolders.  and  makiQE  known  the  fact  that 


thwe  was  nothing  under  jt  to  cover  bis  bare 

It  may  be  guessed  from  the  last  para- 
graph that,  as  concerns  thiur  dinner  cos- 
tume, Mr.  Austin  is  by  no  means  too 
exactmg  with  his  gneits.  White  chokers 
and  dress-coats  are  far  from  being  neces- 
sary, and  it  is  not  esteemed  essential 
that  all  trousers  should  be  black  The 
nearest  approach  that  I  could  find  to  a 
drees-coat  was  a  garment  wbidi  had  been 
denuded  of  its  tails  and  shortened  for  a 
jacket.  Of  ties  there  were  none,  neither 
white,  nor  black,  nor  grey,  though  in  some 
cases  their  place  was  supplied  by  a  thin, 
threadbare  strip  of  shoddy  worsted,  called, 
in  mockery,  a  "  comforter,"  which  dangled 
to'the  waist,  and  if  it  afforded  little  condort 
to  the  wearer,  it  appeared  to  be  of  service 
as  a  napkin  and  a  handkerchief.  Masher 
cuffs  and  cat-throat  collars  were  conspi- 
cnouB  by  their  absence,  and  only  in  one 
instance  was  a  shirt-front  to  be  seen,  and 
this  was  simply  from  the  hct  that  the 
young  swell  who  displayed  it  wore  neither 
coat  nor  vesL 

The  girls  were  just  a  shade  less  shabby 
than  the  boys ;  for  a  shawl,  though  thin, 
may  cover  a  multitude  of  sins  in  the 
raiment  andemeath  it,  and  a  bit  of  faded 
ribbon  or  a  fragment  of  a  feather  may 
serve  to  give  some  colour  to  a  sorely  bat 
tered  bonnet  or  a  sadly  frayed-out  dress. 
One  pretty  child  I  noticed  who  seemed 
better  clad  than  moat,  and  looked  quite  a 
Utile  lady  as  she  sat  at  table,  the  scarlet 
poppies  in  her  hat  adding  colour  to  the 
paler  roses  on  her  cheek  Bnt,  alas  !  the 
hat  was  only  lent  for  the  occasion,  and 
when  ahe  left  her  seat  to  toll  me  her  sad 
tale — how  she  bad  bad  no  meat  since 
Wednesday,  and  scarce  enough  bread 
since,  and  there  were  three  children  at 
home,  and  no  father  to  feed  them,  and 
mother  oot  of  work — as  she  stood  to 
toll  me  this,  I  called  to  mind  the  saying 
about  "  desinit  in  pitcem "  which  I  had 
learned  at  school,  for  although  "formosa 
auperne  "  with  tiie  poppies  in  her  hat,  the 
poor  litUe  woman  boasted  the  fishiest  of 
boots. 

Other  cases  I  could  cite  of  singularity 
in  costume,  which  might  have  appeared 
humorous  if  ^ey  had  not  been  bo  pathetic. 
Perhaps  the  funniest  of  all,  and  also 
possibly   the  saddest,   were   a  couple  of  I 

lall  people  who  toddled  in  together,  and  | 
when  seated  seemed  inseparable,  like  the 
famous  Siam  twins.    The  cause  of   this 
dose  union  was.  I  found,  an  oilskin  table-  I 


[Febrniry  19, 18M.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


clotb,  which,  as  the  day  was  wet  and 
Etormf,-had  been  lent  them  for  a  cU>ak 

I  hope  that  no  teader  will  fancy  from 
the  mumer  of  my  writing  Uukt  I  have  any 
thought  of  making  ailly,  ill-timed  fan  oi 
these  poor  hungry  little  folks,  or  of  untudng 
myBelf  by  raising  »  coarse  laugh  at  their 
expense.  Qod  help  them  I  I  would 
sooner  thiow  my  pen  into  the  fire 
and  never  write  another  word  that 
should  appear  in  print  I  am  not  a 
man  of  sentiment,  or  much  inclined  to 
snivel  at  the  sight  of  a  dead  donkey  or  a 
babe  ciytng  for  the  moon.  But,  alb«t 
unused  te  the  melting  mood,  my  eyes  were 
somewhat  moistened  by  looking  at  these 
little  ones,  and  as  I  talked  with  them  and 
cheered  them  as  well  as  I  was  able,  if  I 
had  not  done  my  best  to  laugh — not  at 
them,  mind,  but  with  them  —  I  think  I 
must  have  cried.  A  child  without  a  pit/y- 
thing  is  a  pitiable  being,  and  here  were 
children  by  the  dozen  not  merely  without 
playthings,  but  without  the  hope  of  play. 
Most  of  them  had  to  work,  and  to  work 
hard  for  a  living,  and  probably  not  &ne  in 
ten  had  ever  leetrned  to  playt  One  urchin 
told  me,  with  some  pride,  that  he  could 
weekly  add  some  six  or  seven  shillings  to 
the  funily  support  by  working  every  day 
about  ten  hours  at  a  stretch.  To  fix  the 
bristles  in  a  scrub-brush  is  a  slow  way  to 
grow  rich,  for  you  only  gain  a  penny  if 
you  fill  two  hundred  holes,  and  yott  will 
soon  lind  that  your  fingers  suffer  &om  the 
work.  NoF  is  making  match-boxes  a  lucra- 
tive employment  when  yon  are  paid  a 
shilling  a  gross  for  them,  providing  your 
own  paste.  These  were  two  out  of  a  score 
of  handicrafts,  described  to  me,  which  just 
save  from  starvation  many  children  in  the 
East.  Poor  little  ill-paid  toilers  !  I  might 
have  well  been  moved  to  tears  as  I  listened 
to  their  sad  tales  and  looked  at  their  pale 
cheeks.  Bat  I  liked  better  to  see  them 
brighten  with  the  ennshine  of  a  smile, 
and  so  I  tried  to  cheer  them  and  not  grieve 
at  their  sad  plight 

As  to  the  good  done  by  these  dinners 
there  can  be  fattle  doubt  They  would  be 
well  worth  the  giving,  were  it  only  for  the 
fact  of  their  affording  to  the  guests  one 
bright  half-hour  of  happiness  to  think  of 
and  look  forward  to  through  aU  the  dull, 
dark  week.  But  their  physical  well-doing 
is  for  more  deeply  felt  One  good  dinner 
a  week  may  save  a  child  from  starving, 
and  be  the  means,  if  it  be  sickly,  of  help- 
ing it  to  health.  That  the  parents  in  the 
neighbotirfaood ,  as  well  as  the  poor  children. 


quite  appredate  tim  valae  of  tin  stew 
of  Salmon  Lane  is  well  proved  by  the 
many  ap^cations .  which  are  made  for 
leave  to  come  and  eat  of  it  Here  is  jntf 
one  specimen,  picked  at  random  from  s 
heap,  and  eopied  literatim.  There  can  be 
surely  no  mistake  about  the  force  of  the 
appeal,  although  the  writer  might  perhtpa 
have  improved  the  spelling  somewhat  had 

conceived  the  notion  that  it  wonld  be 
seen  in  print : 

"  Qentfllman  i  should  feel  AU^h  to  yon 
if  yon  would  give  me  a  free  tickets  hu 
my  Wife  has  gom  to  the  Inflmey  ti 
Bromly  and  Left  me  With  6  Children  hu 
i  ham  out  of  Work  and  no  wan  to  support 
them  I  should  feall  gratiey  Abligh  John 
Mclntier  31  Brenton  at" 

In  reply  to  sundry  questions  touching 
management  and  maintenance,  Mr.  Anstiii 
kindly  gave  me  an  aoeount  of  his  steward- 
ship, tlut  is,  his  Irish  stew-ardship.  He 
first  started  on  his  miseion — to  help  tbs 
East  End  poor — ^more  than  a  doeen  yean 
ago ;  but  the  first  of  his  small  dinners  ww 
giveu  on  the  first  Wednesday  in  I8T9, 
which,  it  chanced,  was  New  Year's  D»y. 
Smce  then  he  has  issued  his  invitations 
weekly,  except  on  one  oocasion,  throughout 
the  winter  months  and  far  into  the  spring. 
The  one  sad  exception  happened  in  the 
January  of  last  year.  On  this  terriUe 
Black  Wednesday,  the  poor  little  folk  who 
came  to  feast  as  usual  were  sent  empty 
away.  Due  notice  had  been  given  that 
through  lack  of  funds  that  day  no  dinoer 
could  be  had ;  but  the  gueata  came  not- 
withstanding, for  hunger '  often  leads  to 
hoping  against  hope,  and  it  was  a  hard 
task  to  persuade  them  of  the  melancholy 
truth. 

Considering  its  excellence,  the  expense 
of  the  banquet  can  be  hardly  thought  ex- 
travagant ;  for  ttie  dinner-bill  is  barely 
more  than  fourpence-farthing  for  each  one 
of  the  guests.  So  that,  in  fact,  to  save  a 
diild  from  starving,  and  give  him  a  good 
feed,  scarce  exceeds  the  cost  of  sw^owins 
an  oystflr,  as  the  market  price  now  mles. 
Perhaps  the  sybarite  who  sucks  down  hslf- 
a-score  by  way  of  prelude  to  his  dinner 
may,  in  some  visit  of  the'  nightman 
after  extra  heavy  feasting,  be  hanntsd 
by  the  ghosts  of  those  half-dozen  hungry 
children  whom  his  oysters  might  have 
fed.  As  penaoce  for  his  gluttony,  he 
may  enjoy  the  novel  luxury  of  doing  » 
good  deed,  by  sending  Mr.  Austin  a  daas- 
tion  for  his  mnners ;  and,  by  way  of  wbole- 
aomo  exercise,  he  may  try  a  course  of  East 


».j        CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.    iFebnury  le,  isst.)     303 


End  diBtrict-visiting,  which  he  vill  find 
TUtIr  different  to  the  visitine  in  the 
Weet 

To  snpport  the  Cottage  Mission,  the 
dimier-biUs  inoladed,  Mr.  Austin  receives 
Tekrlj  about  seTenteen  hundred  pounds. 
Gifts  from  Toltintaiy  donors  are  all  he  haa 
to  help  him ;  and  the  more  money  they 
give  the  more  food  will  be  giren,  the 
mora  visits  be  paid,  and  the  more  good 
nQ  be  done.  The  expenses  of  the  manage- 
ment ire  most  carefully  restricted  to  the 
lowest  point  consistent  with  the  work  being 
well-done.  Funds  are  not  wasted  on  fine 
boildinga,  ot  on  ornamental  gentlemen,  who 
receive  a  princely  salary  for  doing  pooiiah 
work.  Any  one  who  sends  a  sovereign 
to  be  spent  npon  the  stew,  may  be  sure 
he  will  thereby  be  filling  fifty  little  mouths, 
sndtiiat  fi%  little  bodies  wiU  be  gladdened 
by  his  gift  And  there  is  no  fear  of  the 
benefit  being  ill-bestowed.  The  district- 
rieiton  who  help  the  kindly  boat  in  his 
good  woric  will  scrapie  not  to  penetrate 
the  slummiest  of  the  alums,  and  inll  invite 
to  dinner  only  those  in  direst  need. 

The  Cottage  Mission  work,  as  carried 
on  by  Mr.  Austin,  is  completely  unsec- 
taiUD,  and  by  neither  church  nor  chapel  can 
a  Ua  reason  be  aaaigned  for  holding  aloof 
from  its  mpporL  When  he  meets  witb  a 
Bad  ease  of  spiritual  destitution — and  such 
cases  are  just  now  not  uncommon  in  the 
Esst—h  is  by  simple  Gospel  teaching  that 
he  strives  for  its  relief;  and  when,  as  on 
these  winter  Wednesdays,  he  does  his  best 
to  succour  cases  of  bodily  distress,  a  hnngry 
little  child  need  learn  no  "Open  Sesame" 
b  order  to  gain  entrance  to  his  hospiuble 
hsU  That  be  is  doing  a  good  work  I  am 
most  thoroughly  persuaded,  or  I  certainly 
should  never  send  this  paper  to  the  press, 
lliey  w;ho  may  be  moved  by  it  to  help 
him  in  Ms  mission  need  merely  sign  their 
names  at  the  bottom  of  a  cheque,  and 
poet  it  to  his  office,  at  Number  Forty-four 
in  Fiosbury  Pavement,  where  their  auto- 
gr^hs  wiU  be  moat  thankfully  received. 


CHBONIGLES  OF  ENGLISH 
COUNTIES. 

STAFPORDSHntE.  PART  IL 
It  wonld  hardly  do  to  leave  IJchfield 
wiAout  further  aUusion  to  its  cathedral 
and  its  bishopric,  seeing  that  the  town 
owes  all  its  importance  to  these.  And  in 
the  hands  of  a  writer  of  an  eccjesiological 
turn    what    an    exciting    history    could 


be  made  of  the  earlv  c 


I  of  the  eccle- 


siastical settlement,  a  sort  of  missionary 
church  among  the  heathen  Mercians,  and  a 
centre  of  Northumbrian  influence  j  of  its 
rise  to  the  dignity  of  a  metropolitan  see 
when  Ofta.  the  Conqueror  and  dyke-builder, 
thinking  it  not  worthy  of  him  thiat  a  foreign 
prelate  like  him  of  Canterbury  should  have 
authority  in  his  kingdom,  obtained  that 
privilege  from  the  Pope;  of  the  speedy 
decline  of  Lichfield  from  that  d%nity,  and 
of  how  presently,  after  the  Conqnest,  the 
Idshop's  seat  was  moved  away  to  Chester 
and  tbence  to  Coventry,  but  was  brought 
back  after  long  years  to  Lichfield  once 
more.  The  cathedral  in  part  dates  from 
this  home-coming  of  the  bishop,  when 
Koger  de  Clinton  the  new  bishop,  in  1129, 
began  the  rebuilding  of  it  upon  the  site  of 
the  former  minster  ;  but  the  exterior  is  of 
later  and  richer  styla  The  building  has 
Biiffered — much  more  than  any  of  its  f^ows 
— &om  the  damage  it  sustained  during 
the  civil  wars,  but,  however,  was  speedily 
repaired  under  the  first  energetic  and  con- 
structive bishop  of  the  Restoration.  As 
much,  perhaps,  it  suffered  from  the  neglect 
of  subsequent  times,  when  dean  and  canons 
removed  the  old  statuos  of  kings  and  saints 
to  adorn  the  summer-houses  of  their 
pleasant  gardens.  However,  all  has  now 
been  restored,  and  in  its  symmetry  and 
high  finish,  the  cathedral  su^ests  an 
elaborate  shrine,  rather  the  work  of  the 
silversmith  than  the  mason. 

Our  indignation  against  the  neglect- 
ful dignitaries  of  a  past  age  must  be 
tempered  with  the  reflection  that  many  of 
these  careless  Qallloa  were  themselves 
amiable  and  worthy  men.  There  was  a 
time  when  the  cathedral  close  of  Lichfield 
was  the  centre  of  a  literary  society  of  a 
vory  pleasant  and  genial  kind^whon  Miss 
Sewud  was  in  residence,  that  is,'  and  the 
old  cathedral  city  was  brightened  by  the 
presence  of  her  two  charming  and  sprightly 
wards,  Honoria  and  Elizabeth  Sneyd. 
Among  these  moved  tbe  graceful  military 
figure  of  Andr^,  whose  sad  subsequent 
fate  it  was  to  be  hung  as  a  spy  by  order 
of  General  Washington  in  the  American 
revolutionary  war.  Honoria  was  the 
choice  of  the  gallant  soldier,  while 
both  the  sisters  were  beloved  by  the 
^tistic  philanthropist,  the  awkward 
Thomas  Day,  author  of  -Sandford  and 
Merton.  Day  brought  Sabrina  with  him 
to  Lichfield,  the  girl  whom  he  was  educat- 
ing to  be  his  wife;  but  his  schemta  for 
elevating  the  female  character  in  her 
on   vaniahnd   intn  air   in  (' 


304    [r*biiMi>  le,  usi.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


[Cindnctalto 


of  the  clianniDg,  hidb-Bpirited  girls  of  the 
cathedral  close.  Honoria'a  heart  was 
alieadf  occupied,  and  Day  tumed  to  the 
jouDger  sister,  who  waa  brought  to  own  that 
she  had  no  greater  repngnanca  to  Mr.  Day 
than  might  be  attributed  to  his  awkwardneu 
and  want  of  every  polite  accomplishment. 
Upon  the  word  Day  started  off  for  France  to 
acquire  the  graces  of  a  petit-mat  tre — where 
was  the  respectable  Barlow  then  !  He  had 
masters  regardless  of  cost,  he  danced,  he 
fenced  with  quite  savage  determination, 
while  his  leisore  moments  he  spent  in  irons, 
to  correct  an  anfortnnate  inward  curvature 
about  the  knees.  When  his  education  was 
completed,  he  came  back  to  Lichfield  with 
all  a  lover's  ardour,  to  claim  his  rewuii 
But,  alas  I  the  fair  Elizabeth  regarded  her 
transformed  lover  only  with  wonder  and 
dismay  as  he  stood  before  her  in  bis  newly- 
studied  posture,  arrayed  in  the  latest  fashion 
of  Paris.  With  a  shudder  she  is  said  to 
have  declared  that  she  gi^a^  preferred 
Thomas  Day,  blackguard,  to  lliomas  Day, 
gentleman,  and  the  poor  man  was  led  away 
by  his  sympathising  friends,  no  more  to 
appear  in  the  little  world  of  Lichfield. 

The  fate  of  the  two  charming  girls  does 
not  strike  us  as  in  any  way  enviable.  Each 
of  them  married  in  turn  the  friend  of  Day, 
Lovel  Edgeworth,  the  widower,  already 
the  father  of  the  afterwards  celebrated 
Maria,  a  man  remarkable  in  his  influence 
over  women,  a  sort  of  engrossing,  absorbing 
quality,  as  if  he  had  been  a  devourer  of 
virgins,  and  had  flourished  greatly  upon  it, 
bat  anyhow  a  mach-marrying  man,  who, 
when  the  two  Sneyds  were  dead,  wont  on 
to  marry  somebody  else.  However,  this 
has  notlung  to  do  with  the  little  coterie  of 
Lichfield,  which  came  to  an  end*  with  Miss 
Seward,  whose  letters  were  of  sufficient 
literary  \alae  to  find  an  editor  in  Sir 
Walter  Scott. 

Before  leaving  this  comer  of  the  coonty 
we  must  pay  a  flying  visit  to  Tamworth, 
once  &  borier-fortress  of  the  Mercian  earls 
against  their  stirring  and  aggressive  neigh- 
bours of  -the  Danelagh,  and  before  that 
time  a  chief  seat  of  the  Mercian  kings. 
"A  rise  of  ground,"  writes  J.  R,  Green  in 
his  Conquest  of  England—"  a  rise  of  ground 
— now  known  as  the  Castle  Hill — breaks 
the  swampy  levels  at  the  junction  of  the 
Anker  with  the  Tame,  and  a  vill  of  the 
Mercian  kings  had  been  established  here  at 
an  early  time,  whidi  with  the  little  'worth' 
that  grew  up  about  it  commanded  what 
was  then  the  only  practicable  passage  over 
either  river  to  the  plains  of  the  Trent. 


On  this  rise  .^thelfloed  " — the  daughter  of 
Alfred,  the  same  lady  whom  we  have  seen 
raising  Chester  from  its  ruins — "  threw  up 
a  huge  mound,  crowned  with  a  fortress, 
portJODS  of  whose  brickwork  may  still  he 
seen  as  one  eigzags  up  the  steep  ascent" 
On  this  mount  at  a  later  date  the  Mannioiu 
raised  their  feudal  towei,  the  ntins  of 
which  give  an  air  of  dignity  to  the 
thriving  little  modem  town. 

To  most  of  us  Tamworth  recalls  mere 
especially  the  memory  of  the  late  states- 
man, Sir  Bobert  Feel,  the  origin  of  whote 
family  we  have  alreadytraced  in  Lancashire; 
and  Drayton  Manor  close  by,  &  fine  Tudor 
mansion  by  Smitke,  recalls  t^e  later  gloiiei 
of  the  house.  The  intermediate  link,  how 
ever,  between  Lanoaahire  and  Dnyton 
Manor  is  to  be  sought  at  Burton-oo-l^iit, 
of  which  a  local  historian  of  the  eaity  part 
of  this  century  writes:  "Its  profluent 
streams  supply  several  large  cotton  worb 
belonging  to  Mr.  Peele. '  Indeed,  tlie 
evidences  of  manufacturing  industry  aromid 
may  remind  us  that  we  are  still  on  the 
edge  of  that  wide,  wild  district  of  moor  and 
hill  and  stream,  whose  inhabitant*  have 
set  going  the  great  manufactoring  indnstties 
about  them  in  Yorkshire,  in  Lancaahire, 
in  Derbyshire,  in  Cheshire,  and  in  thess 
outlying  districts.  Perhaps  we  may  eves 
try  to  identify  this  indnstrioaa  race  with 
the  Comabii  who  famished  many  recruits 
to  the  Roman  legions,  and  whom  the 
Welsh  describe  aa  the  Coraniaid,  one  of 
the  three  invading  tribes  who  came  into  the 
Isle  of  Britain,  and  never  departed  from  it; 
a  race  certainly  not  Celtic,  although  setUed 
in  England  before  the  Roman  invasion,  soil 
of  which,  perhaps,  is  still  preserved  a  ftiot 
trace  of  local  habitation  in  the  district  of 
Craven  in  Yorkshire. 

At  Burton-on-Trent  we  are  reminded 
of  the  ancient  fame  of  the  StaffordsMre 
ales,  but  there  is  nothing  else  about  the 
town  to  recall  its  past  history.  The  town, 
probably,  was  not  in  existence  when  a 
holy  woman,  Modwena  of  the  Celtic 
Church,  founded  a  little  colony  of  nuns  on 
an  island  enclosed  by  two  branches  of  the 
river,  which  became  known  as  Mdwen 
stow,  after  the  holy  woman,  or  sometimes 
as  Andresey,  or  Andrew's  Isle,  bxm  the 
sunt  to  whom  the  little  church  on  the 
island  was  dedicated.  Idter  on  an  abbey 
was  built  by  a  Saxon  Earl  of  Mercia,  « 
which  some  faint  traces  are  still  to  be 
found.  Bat  the  most  ancient  monumeot 
in  Barton  is  the  old  bridge,  with  its  thirty- 
six  arches,   as    old   as  the    Conquest,  > 


CHEONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COIJMIES.  iF^bmuy  is,  18 


305  I 


bridge  that  hu  heard  the  dash  of  amis 
wd  the  noise  of  the  fray.  It  Trae  in  the 
ntgn  of  the  faineant  Edward  the  Second 
thit  the  barona  rose  against  the  De 
^tenaan,  and  were  joined  by  the  king's 
coonn,  Thomas,  Earl  of  Lancaster.  But 
tbe  earl  being  abaadoned  b;  most  of  bis 
trimdB,  was  not  in  a  condition  to  make 
b«ad  against  the  king,  "  which  made  him 
leMlre  to  withdraw  to  the  north,  and  join 
tbs  Soote,  who  had  promised  him  asstatance. 
Hm  king  poisued  Mm,  and  as  the  earl,  to 
■void  a  battle  with  him,  endearonred 
to  force  the  passage  of  a  bridge " — this, 
tm  Barton  bridge,  which  was  kept  by 
Sir  Andrew  Harclay,  the  constable  <^ 
Carlisle  —  "  he  was  made  prisoner,  and 
tATTied  to  Pontofntct,  where  the  king  took 
off  his  head."  Once  npon  a  time  an 
UGient  chapel  stood  on  one  of  the  arches  of 
the  bridge,  and  all  who  passed  by  implored 
Ae  intercession  of  holy  St.  Thomas  of 
Uocaster,  who  fell  thereabouts.  Bat  the 
chqtel  has  Icxig  since  disappeared. 

Not  far  below  Barton  the  Trent  is  joined 
by  the  beaotifnl  river  Dove,  which  forme 
the  boaadary  between  the  coontiee  of 
Stafford  and  Derby,  while  romantic  Dove- 
dale,'  beloved  alike  of  artist  and  fisher- 
man, is  shared  by  either  county,  Jast  in 
Ae  gate  of  Dovedale  lies  Tatbnry^  tJiat 
BtKing  and  famotu  castle  of  the  Earls  of 
Lancaster,  which  may  saggest  to  the 
historian  that  tbe  Earl  of  Lancaster 
trying  to  force  the  bridge  of  Burton,  had 
not  so  mach  tbe  distant  Scots  in  his  eye  as 
his  own  strong  castle,  which  lay  so  snagly 
and  conveniently  near,  bat  whose  walla  be 
was  destined  never  again  to  see.  The 
castie,  forfeited  to  the  crown,  was  in  the 
next  reign  granted  to  tbe  noted  John  of 
Gaont,  and  in  his  days  we  come  across 
coatome  and  practices  that  are  not  a  little 
pozzUng  to  the  antiquarian.  IHitbory, 
it  seems,  was  Uie  mnstering-place  of  the 
minstrels  from  all  the  conntry  ronnd,  and 
here  they  met  once  a  year,  and  crowned 
or  chaired    one   of  their   number,   who 

rided  over  the  festivities  of  the  day. 
all  this  we  see  rather  Celtic  than 
English  cnstoms,  for,  in  tmth,  minstrels 
and  bards  have  never  held  such  high  place 
among  the  onimaginative  Saxon  as  to 
jostify  these  solenmities.  But  then  we 
have  already  made  the  acquaintance,  at 
Chester  Fur,  of  a  hybrid  race  of  minstrels, 
the  same  who  are  said  to  have  rescued 
Earl  Eanulph  from  the  Welah,  and  who 
afterwards  sang  his  praises  along  with 
Robin  Hood.      Now  we  do  not  hear  of 


Earl  Banulph  at  Tutbary,  which,  indeed, 
belonged  to  tbe  De  Ferriers  before  it  came 
to  the  Earls  of  Lancaster,  but  the  inflnence 
of  the  powerful  Earls  of  Cfaestor  had  ex- 
tended all  over  the  district,  as  shown  in  the 
abbeys  and  priories  foonded  by  this 
Ranulph  the  "  Good  " — good  to  the  monks, 
that  IS — an  influence  whose  extent  is 
shown  in  the  following  litUe  Staffordshire 
legend. 

£arl  Banulph,  on  hia  way  to  the  Cru- 
sades, or,  perhaps,  back  from  them,  being 
on  board  a  ship,  fell  into  a  great  storm,  so 
that  all  the  people  about  tbe  earl,  fearing 
instant  shipwreck,  besought  him,  as  having 
most  influence  in  the  Court  of  Heayen,  to 
pray  for  a  good  deliverance.  But  the  earl 
said  nay ;  let  them  wait  till  midnight,  and 
then,  if  the  storm  were  not  stayed,  he  would 
pray.  Midnight  came,  and  the  storm  was 
still  raging,  and  tha  people  went  to  the 
earl,  and  besought  him  once  more.  "  Not 
so,"  sidd  the  ean,  "for  it  is  now  midnight, 
and  at  this  hour  in  England  thousands  of 
monks  are  rising  from  their  beds  to  pray 
for  me  at  their  dirines  and  altars,  so  where- 
fore should  I  pray  1 "  The  earl's  reliance 
on  the  force  of  other  people's  prayers  was 
justified  by  the  event ;  the  storm  was 
presently  stilled,  and  the  ship  came  safe  to 
port 

That  monks  and  minstrels  increased  and 
abounded  every  where  under  Earl  Banolph'a 
sway  is  snfSciently  evident,  and  perhaps  in 
this  we  have  the  origin  of  the  minstrels' 
gathering  at  Tutbury — a  motlev  crew, 
no  doubt,  Norman  jongleur,  and  Welsh 
harpist,  and  Saxon  gleeman,  retaining,  half 
in  mockery,  some  of  the  more  solemn  rites 
of  the  Welsh  bardic  fraternity.  On 
the  day  of  their  assembly,  it  is  aaid  by 
the  <dd  chronicler,  a  bull  was  turned  out 
among  them  by  the  lord  of  Tntbury 
— a  bull  carefully  shaved  and  greased  — 
and  if  the  nunatrela  could  grasp  him 
and  hold  htm  before  be  crossed  tlie 
river,  the  animal  became  their  own,  to  be 
first  baited  and  then  feasted  apon.  Now, 
this  degrading  and  cruel  custom  is  not  of 
the  soil  at  all.  It  bears  the  mark  of  John 
of  Gaunt,  and  he  probably  brought  the 
notion  home  with  him  from  Spain — he  wbo 
was  hardly  an  English  prince,  bat  some- 
thing between  a  Fleming  and  a  Gastilian. 
Thebull-aport  survived  for  many  centarie^, 
and  became  eventually  a  tough  contest 
between  the  men  of  Stafford  And  of  the 
adjoining  county  of  Derby,  but  was  discon- 
tinued at  last,  as  it  had  become  a  regular 
faction-fighb 


[teOnuUT  IS,  USt.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOUND. 


Another  whimsical  cuatom,  which,  per- 
haps, had  the  same  foreign  origin,  is 
connected  with  Wichnor-on-the-Trent,  a 
manor  dependent  on  Tntbory,  which, 
according  to  the  origbal  charter  from  the 
Earl  of  IiwioMter,  is  granted  on  condition 
that  the  lord  shall  provide  one  bacon  fiy ka 
for  any  married  pair  who  may  present 
themselTee,  upon  the  baaband  m^ymg  the 
following  declaratioii : 

"Here  ye  Lord  of  Whichenoor  mayn- 
tayner  and  giver  of  this  baconne  that  I  A 
syth  I  wediud  B  ray  wife  and  ayth  I  had 
her  in  my  keepyng  aod  at  wylli  by  a  yere 
and  a  day  after  our  marryage,  I  woald  not 
have  changed  for  none  other  farsr  ne 
fowler  richer  ne  powrer,  ne  for  none  other 
descended  of  gretter  lynage  slepyng 
waking  at  noe  time  and  if  the  seia  B  t 
sole  and  1  sole  I  wolde  take  her  to  be  my 
wife  before  all  the  wymen  of  the  world  and 
of  what  coodytions  soever  they  be  good  or 
evil" 

Any  man  of  relirion  may  also  come  a 
year  after  his  proMsioo,  and  claim  the 
bacon  if  he  can  truly  dedate  tlut  be  baa 
never  repented  of  hia  vows.  Some  acoonst 
of  the  bacon-flitoh  will  be  found  in  the 
earlier  Spectators,  and  the  wits  of  the  day 
pretended  that  only  three  oouplas  had 
ventured  to  claim  the  bacon  smce  the 
foundation  of  the  prise;  one  of  Uteae  being 
a  sea-captain  and  his  vnfe,  who  had  parted 
at  the  diurch-door,  and  n«y«  met  again 
till  they  met  to  claim  the  tlitoh.  Another 
pair  seemed  to  fulfil  all  conditions,  but 
quarrelled  so  fiercely  as  to  how  the  baoon 
should  be  cooked  that  they  were  adjudged 
to  return  it ;  while  the  third  couple  com- 
prised a  good-natured  simpleton  and  his 
dumb  wife.  These  old  j<^ea  and  stories 
are  also  told,  no  doubt,  in  oonnection  wiUi 
the  similar  costom  at  Duunow  in  Essex, 
which  was  revived  within  the  memory  of 
man  by  the  late  Harrison  Ains worth. 

About  Tutbury  lies  tiie  ancient  Soreak  of 
Needwood,  of  which  some  fine  old  oaks 
still  remain  scattered  here  and  there,  while 
farther  np  the  Bivei  Dove,  but  at  some 
distance  from  its  banks,  lies  Uttoxeter. 
It  was  in  Uttoxeter  market-place  that  Dr. 
JohnsoQ  performed  hia  well-known  penanoe, 
standing  bareheaded  in  the  rain  before  the 
in  stall  where  once  his  father  bad  been  used 
to  sell  his  books  aa  markel^day.  Fifty  years 
before,  young  Samuel  had  been  ordered 
by  his  father  to  take  his  place  in  attondii^ 
the  market,  and  Samuel  nad  refused,  and, 
in  later  years,  this  was  the  doctor's  expia- 
tion for  his  youthMfaul^  When  Nathaniel 


Hawthorne,  some  years  ago,  was  viiitiiiK 
the  literary  abrtnes  of  England,  he  noticed 
on  the  base  of  I>r,  Johnson's  statoe  in 
Lichfield  marlut-place  a  bas-relief  of  the 
scene  of  penance,  and  forthwith  made  a  pil- 
grimage to  Uttoxeter  to  see  the  placa  Bat, 
being  detained  ftnrBmaflhonrsmilingfors 
train,  he  complained  that  liis  penance  wu 
heavier  than  the  doctoc'a ;  whtdt  is  haidly 


dull  little  town.  Uttoxeter,  however,  hu 
sJjso  memories  of  Mary  Howitt,  the  dao^ter 
of  a  respectaUe  Quaker  pair  nnssd 
Botbaa.  On  her  mauler's  dde  dw  vu 
a  descendant  of  Wood,  of  Lish  halfptnnr 
fam&  Jilra.  Hewitt's  perhaps  fc^tten 
novel  of  Wood  Leighton  is  tiiought  to 
contain  descriptive  sketebee  of  Uttontsr 
and  its  society  of  those  days ;  and  she  wu 
long  remembered  in  the  plaoe  as  the  nrl 
whose  delight  it  was  to  wander  about  fields 
and  bring  home  quantities  of  wild  fiowen. 

Fcdlowing  the  littde  rivar  Tean,  wbieli 
joins  the  Dove  near  Uttoxeter,  we  nme  to 
Cheadle,  with  its  ancient  mannfaeture  of 
tapes,  which  seems  originally  to  have  been 
introduced  from  Hollsnd,  or  perhaps  by 
the  Walloons,  who  wore  driven  to  England 
by  the  peneontion  of  the  Grand  Monaiqna 
On  the  more  important  feeder  of  the 
Dove,  tiie  lUver  Chnmet,  lies  Alton  with 
its  Towers,  the  magnifioent  seat  of  &e 
Talbots,  as  famous  locally  as  Ohatsworth, 
and  a  great  centre  for  exennions  from  Uie 
Boanuulietiiriiig  towns  to  the  oorthwank 
An  old  tower  of  the  De  Verdons  cromu  i 
rock  three  hundred  feet  high,  rising  £rom 
the  bed  of  the  river. 

We  are  now  fairly  among  the  noorUndt, 
and  on  our  way  to  Leek,  the  capital  tA  iha 
Staffordabire  moorland  district,  a  vei; 
ancient  tovm  with  a  history  of  ita  own,  and 
happOy  not  without  anbistorian,  forSldgh'a 
history  of  Leek  is  one  of  the  fullest  and 
meet  elaborate  of  Utcal  histOTies. 

The  wild  and  lonely  mooriands  aboot 
Leek  abound  with  wild  traditions  and  simer- 
stitions.  The  headlees  horseman  daum 
over  stock  and  atone,  and  snatches  np  kbj 
onfortonate  wigbt  who  may  chaitce  to 
come  belated  in  bis  way ;  when  after  i 
wild  chase  over  hill  and  i^e,  the  victim  ia 
left  almost  lifeless  at  his  own  door.  Then 
there  is  the  ghantly  story  of  the  man-eatiiig 
family,  whose  crimes  are  discorered  at  Isit 
by  a  wandering  pedlar  who  seeks  shelter 
for  the  night  at  the  lonely  house  in  the 
waste.  The  pedlar  ia  aecoeted  in  the  door- 
way by  tiie  youngest  child  of  the  boose, 
who  remarks  admiriDKly  his  fat  hsitdB, 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENaUSH  COUNTIK. 


16,  int.]    307 


iqd  exdaiins :  "  Wliat  nice  pies  they  will 
moket"  The  padkrt&ku  to  flight  without 
utothei  word,  bat  the  men  of  the  hoiue 
parsae  hun  with  UoodlioQiida,  and  the 
pedlar  only  e»capoB  hj  erawUng  up  to  hia 
neck  in  water  noder  a  bridge.  Men  and 
hounds  are  close  aboat  him  above  and 
below,  but  the  dogs  are  foUed  hf  the 
nmning  water,  sod  at  dayligbi  the  chase 
ii  nwa  np,  and  the  pedlar  erawls  away, 
luifdead,  to  bring  the  officers  of  jnatico 
apon  the  acaiM  The  wretched  ghoala 
eqiiated  their  crimes  on  the  gibbet,  and  the 
baao  was  levelled  to  the  gronnd,  but  still 
it  night  the  men  and  hounds  are  heard  to 
TUge  tiieir  dreadful  chase,  and  woe  betide 
the  po<»  soul  that  meets  them  1  It  may  be 
■ud  that  <^cial  reeords  of  any  such  trial 
ud  condemnation  are  wanting.  But  it 
mast  not  be  hastily  eondnded,  therefore, 
that  tiie  story  is  alti^etfaer  bueleas. 

A  more  hnraoroui  story  is  that  of  the 
old  woman  who  was  a  witch  and  used  to 
traverse  the  country  under  the  form  of  a 
lore.  So  well  known  were  the  old  dame's 
Tiguies,  that  it  was  the  custom  of  the 
Mighboariog  farmers  to  brUw  the  old 
witch's  husbsBd  to  turn  her-  out  before 
their  dogs.  Puss  always  afforded  an  ex- 
cellent course ;  but  whra  hard  pressed  she 
would  saddeidy  disappear.  But  one  day 
at  she  was  '^M^'i'>g  over  a  stone -wall 
the  fwemost  dog  got  a  grip  at  her,  and 
drew  out  a  moatUul  of  hair;  but,  iHi 
the  other  side  of  the  wall,  nothing  was  to 
be  seen  but  an  old  woman  ruefully  rubbuig 
a  wounded  patc^  on  her  pate,  and  eyeing 
HMD  and  dogs  with  suoh  malignant  ^aooe 
tittt  all  slunk  hastily  away. 

But  Leek  itself  is  a  handsome,  well- 
built  town,  with  a  brisk  manufacture  in 
the  way  of  silks  and  laces  and  such  small 
wares;  mano&ctaree  of  considerable  an- 
tiquity, which,  like  those  of  neighbouring 
Macdeafield,  were  no  doubt  fonoded  by  Pro- 
teetsatimmigraDbB  froratheSoatbof  France. 
Fjvm  Leek  churel^ard  is  visible  a  fine,  wild 
landscape  with  a  oiriously-sbaped  summit 
called  ute  Cloud,  which,  from  the  time  of 
i>r.  Plot,  has  had  the  reputation  of  causing 
the  following  carious  phenomenon,  namely, 
a  double  sunset,  the  sun  disappearing 
b^ind  the  snnimit  of  the  mountain,  and 
crawlfaig  out  again  at  its  foot.  It  is  only  at 
the  summer  solstice  that  this  wondeifol 
light  is  to  be  seen ;  so  that  it  requires  a 
little  astronomical  Imowledge  to  Sx  the 
ri|^t  time  to  observe  it ;  and  then,  what 
w^  vapours,  fogs,  and  clouds,  the  chances 
are  that  nothine  but  disaonointment  is  the 


rasolt  However,  the  observn  will  have 
the  pleasant  chimes  of  Leek  to  console  him 
for  the  disappointment — those  pleasant 
chimes  that  ring  oat  all  manner  of  quaint 
old  tones,  one  of  which,  "St^  David's,"  has 
t^e  following  homely  and  pleasant  tradi- 
tional accompaniment  : 


Likewise  ffp  tvelve  and  li 

Then  there  is  an  ancient  thoogh  mutilated 
arose  still  to  be  seen  In  Leek  churchyard, 
which,  according  to  tradition,  unks  a  triSe 
deeper  into  the  ground  with  each  recurring 
y£ar.  VHien  the  dtobs  finally  disappears  the 
end  of  Leek  is  not  far  distant,  and,  it  is  to  be 
supposed,  of  the  world  in  general  Some 
amoont  of  keen  observation  has  gone  to 
the  making  up  of  this  legend,  for  the 
grado^  rise  of  the  surface  of  a  burial- 
ground  is  a  certain  faet  as  long  as  inter- 
ments are  contiBiied. 

Jn  the  seventeenth  century  Leek  saw 
t^e  rise  of  one  of  its  sons,  in  the  person 
of  Parker,  Earl  of  Uacclesfield,  who 
was  the  son  of  an  attorney  in  the 
town,  of  respectable  Puritan  desoent. 
Parker  was  bom  in  1666,  in  an  old  stone 
house,  that  may  be  standing  still,  at  the 
upper  end  of  tJie  market-place ;  and  was 
brought  up  to  bis  father's  profession,  which 
he  afterwards  practised  with  much  success 
at  Derby.  Presently  Parker  abandoned 
the  lower  walks  of  the  profession,  and  was 
called  to  the  Bar,  taking  at  onee  the  lead 
on  ihe  Uidland  Circuit,  where  he  was 
known  as  dlver-kmgoed  Parker.  He  rose 
rapidly  to  the  head  of  his  prefeseion, 
taking  also  a  leading  part  in  the  Hoaee  of 
Commons  as  membw  for  Derby.  Then  be 
was  made  Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  raised 
to  the  peerage,  and  in  1718,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  everybody  not  in  the  secret,  was 
made  Lord  OhosoeUor  and  Earl  of  Maccles- 
field. It  does  not  appear  that  he  was  more 
niiscmpnlouB  than  other  lawyers  of  the 
petiod,  bat,  trafficking  a  little  too  openly 
in  ^e  lucrative  posts  he  had  in  his  gift,  he 
was  pounced  upon  by  political  enemies, 
brought  to  the  Bar  before  his  peers, 
found  guilty  of  malpraodees,  fined  thirty 
thousand  pounds,  and  sent  to  the  Tower. 
On  his  way  to  his  prison  the  crowd  which 
had  gathered  to  see  the  curious  sight, 
not  unwelcome  perhaps  to  many,  of  the 
chief  justiciar  of  the  realm  committed  to 
prison  as  a  malefactor,  abused  the  fallen 
chancellor  by  repeating  the  then  common 
sayinK,    that  Staffordshire  had   produced 


308      [yabnun  le,  18 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


the  three  greatest  rogues  in  England — 
Jack  Sbeppard,  Jonathan  Wild,  and  Tom 
Parker. 

Tom  Parker,  however,  paid  hii  fine, 
perhaps  the  largest  ever  imposed  aod 
actually  recoTsied  by  process  of  law  in 
England,  and  still  retained  sufficient  for- 
tune to  endow  the  earis,  his  descendants, 
with  goodly  estates. 

The  rebels  of  1716  left  some  traces 
of  their  passage  at  Leek,  throiuh  which 
they  inarched,  both  on  their  advance  to 
Derby  and  on  their  retreat.  Among 
these  is  a  story  of  a  barrel,  left  by  the 
Highlanders  in  the  market-place  of  Leek, 
which  nobody  would  touch,  fearing  some 
surprise  in  the  nature  of  the  Trojan  horse, 
till  it  was  claimed  by  the  loras  of  the 
manor,  and  found  to  be  full  of  money. 
There  is  generally  some  kernel  of  truth 
in  the  middle  of  popular  stories,  and 
this  kernel,  in  the  present  instance,  must 
be  pronounced  to  be  the  empty  barrel — for 
that  the  Scots  left  either  good  Btller  or 
good  liquor  behind  them,  is  a  thing 
impoBsible  to  be  believed. 

At  Leek  are  some  small  remains  of 
Delaores  Abbey — originaUy,  periiaps,  De- 
lacroix— the  foundation  of  the  fiunoos 
Ranulph  of  Chester,  the  friend  of  monks 
and  minstrels.  That  his  title,  however, 
of  "the  good"was not unirenally  acknow- 
ledged, IS  evident  from  the  following 
legend,  taken  from  the  chronicles  of 
Delacrea.  On  &e  day  of  the  earl's  death, 
which  happened  near  Wallingford,  a  great 
company  in  the  likenese  of  men  paseed 
hastily  by  the  cell  of  an  anchorite  living 
near,  who  demanded  of  the  company 
whiter  they  were  wending  so  fasti  To 
which  they  replied  that  they  were  diemone 
making  speed  to  the  deaUi-bed  of  Earl 
Kanulpb.  But  the  dnmons  were  dis- 
appointed after  all,  as  when  the  earl's 
doom  was  made  known,  tbe  white  maetifis 
that  kept  guard  at  Delacres  set  up  such  a 
howling  and  roaring,  that  the  Prince  of 
Darkness  became  frightened,  and  tamed 
the  mighty  earl  out  of  his  dominions. 
Possibly  the  latter  part  of  the  legend  may 
be  taken  as  a  parable,  and  the  monks  to 
be  shadowed  forth  as  the  white  mastiffs 
of  Delacres,  and  their  servicesand  prayers 
as  the  means  of  intimidating  the  Enl  Ona 
Or  there  may  really  have  been  some  such 
breed  of  do^a  at  the  abbey,  the  gift  of 
Earl  Ranulph,  and  the  progenitors,  per- 
haps, of  certain  fine  lu'eeds  of  dogs  for 
whidi  some  of  the  moorland  regions  were 
noted.     But,  anyhow,  the  earl  left  bis  heart 


to  bo  buried  under  the  high  altar  of  the 
abbey,  where  the  monks  kept  it  ufe 
enough  till  the  dissolution,  when  monkg 
and  mastiffs  are  lost  to  sight 

It  now  only  remains  to  take  a  hu^ 
glance  at  tlie  centre  of  the  county  where 
Stafford  lies,  too  long  neglected.  But 
Stafford  does  not  stand  in  the  same  relation 
to  its  county  as  York  to  Yorkdiire,  or 
Lincoln  to  Liucolnshlre.  It  is  no  Hamlet 
in  the  play,  but  only  Fortinbras  who  cornea 
in  at  the  end  with  drums  and  alanimt. 
:t  is  doubtful  even  whetlier  Staffed  could 
iriginally  boast  of  a  stone  ford,  a  pared 
crossing,  to  its  not  veiy  important  Htw, 
the  Sow.  More  likely  it  was  only  a  itake 
ford,  a  crossing  marked  out  wim  ataku 
hare  and  there.  And  any  importance  it 
may  have  derived  from  ./EtJielflced,  who 
buut  one  of  her  castles  there,  has  long 
passed  away  with  the  castle  itself  and  its 
feudal  Bucceasors,  leaving  the  town  to  its 
natural  insignificance  as  a  seat  of  aseiEsa 
and  quarter  sessioDS,  a  polling-place,  and 
the  headqaarters  of  a  militwy  diHtrict. 
The  fflOBt  important  event  in  its  aonsls, 
perhaps,  is  tha  birth  of  laaak  Walton,  the 
genw  father  of  the  race  of  an^era,  who 
should  have  been  remembered  in  connec- 
tion with  Cotton  and  his  favourite  Dove- 
dale,  but  who,  after  all,  ia  more  <A  a 
Lcmdon  worthy  than  a  Staffordshire  ono, 
and  perhaps  more  at  home  on  tlie  Lea  tliui 
on  the  Dove. 

In  quitting  Staffordshire  we  pass  throof^ 
one  more  historic  scene  on  its  borden 
towards  Shropshire — Bloreheatfa,  that  ii, 
where  there  was  a  great  fif^t  between 
Yorkists  and  Lancastriana.  The  Earl  of 
Salisbury,  inarching  to  join  the  Daks  of 
York,  at  Ludlow,  was  here  intercepted  by 
the  royal  army  under  Lord  Andley.  'P'* 
I^caatrians  were  ten  thousand  aguiut 
five  thousand,  but  Salisbury  drew  hie 
adversary  by  a  feigned  retreat  from  an 
advantageous  poeition  on  the  steep  bank  oi 
a  small  rivulet,  and  then  turned  upon  the 
disordered  royalists  and  routed  them  cooi' 
pletely.  Lord  Audley  fell,  and  with  him, 
it  is  said,  two  thousand  four  bnndrsd 
Cheshire  gentlemen.  Queen  Ma^aret  hal 
watched  the  progress  of  the  battle  from 
the  top  of  MuccTeston  church-tower,  and 
when  uie  saw  the  day  was  lost,  she  fled  to 
Ecoleshall  Castle.  The  tower  ia  still  stand- 
ing, althongh  the  church  belonging  to  [t 
has  been  rebuilt,  and  the  travellsr  nuj 
survey  tiie  scene  of  the  battle  from  the 
seUsame  spot  that  the  queen  occupied  ever 
so  many  centuries  ago. 


AN  UHFINISHED  TASK. 


[FebrnuT  le,  1384.)      3 


AN  UNFINISHED  TASK. 

A  STORY  IN  FOtTB  CHAPTERS.       CHAPTER   I, 

Nearly  thirty-five  yean  Bince,  when  the 
mttaia  of  the  world'B  stage  wu  rieiog  for 
Noniuui  Leslie's  first  appearance,  she  had 
been  Ha  nurse.  Afterwards,  in  early  child- 
hood, she  had  played  the  part  of  governess. 
Inlater  life  she  acted  as  housekeeper,  and  in 
■11  that  time  Mre.  Pryor  ruled  in  an  absolute 
monarchy.  She  did  so  stUI,  for  the  natives 
of  Stanton  Pomrey,  a  scattered  parish  in 
the  heart  of  wild  Dartmoor,  had  learnt  to 
bow  as  meekly  to  her  sway  as  their  vicar 
himself,  and  the  Kev.  Norman  Leslie  never 
harboored  a  thought  of  rebellion. 

He  was  easentially  a  meek  man,  feeble- 
minded, so  some  said ;  albeit,  when  occasion 
called  it  forth,  this  Devonshire  vicar  had  a 
will  of  his  own. 

Bat  such  timea  were  rare.  All  strife  waa 
BO  foreign  to  his  nature,  that  the  wonder 
was,  that,  aa  a  young  man,  he  could  ever 
have  home  Her  Majesty's  commission  in  a 
marching  regiment,  ers  he  left  a  life  ntterly 
distasteful  to  him  for  service  under  the 
more  peaceTul  banner  of  the  Chnrcb.  The 
Rev.  Norman  Leslie,  beyond  doabt,  mode 
a  better  parson  than  a  soldier,  was  far 
more  fitted  for  the  pastoral  staff  than  the 
Bword.  Yet  he  waa  not  a  talented  preacher. 
When  Mrs.  Pryor  heard  Ms  first  sermon, 
that  good  lady  said  at  once  that  she  "  did 
not  think  mnch  of  it,"  and  her  theological 
views  were  quite  correct.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  its  author  was  far  too  humble,  too 
conaciona  of  his  own  demerits  to  think 
much  of  it  himself.  It  was  the  best 
he  coald  do,  but  he  knew  it  for  nothiof; 
very  grand,  and  it  is  poBBiblo  that,  if 
Hra.  ^yoT,  as  in  childish  daya,  had  ordered 
him  to  his  room  until  he  could  do 
better,  he  would  have  obeyed,  and  most 
certainly  have  remuned  there  until  now. 

Bnt  bs  was  loved  and  respected  despite 
that  Good  sermons  are  all  very  well,  but 
the  rough  toilers  around  valued  far  more 
the  band  which  was  ever  ready  to  open  to 
their  wants,  and  the  heart  which  held  a 
ready  sympathy  for  their  sorrows.  Possibly 
they  took  advantage.  Each  and  every  one 
seemed  to  think  that  the  vicar's  purse, 
scantily  filled  though  it  might  be;  the 
ricar'a  time,  fully  occupied  as  it  waa;  was 
quite  'at  their  service.  For  advice  or 
assistance  the  peasantry  would  knock  him 
up  at  any  hour  of  the  night,  and  Aunt 
ftyor — ^he  called  her  "aunt"  in  right  of 
some  distant  relationship  to  his  dead 
btiier — would  invade  his  study  a  dozen 


times  a  day.  She  regarded  these  heb( 
madal  diacouraes — which  ought  to  ha 
awakened  the  vicar's  parishioners,  ai 
sorrowful  to  say,  had  a  precisely  oppos 
effect— as  a  spontaneoua  growth.  Ignore 
of  the  exacting  requirements  of  t 
modem  editor,  she  fiuled  to  realise  tl 
the  magazine  articles  eking  out  his  pi 
income  were  not  written  without  patit 
labour  of  the  brain,  and  that  though 
more  free  than  the  birds  of  the  air,  cou 
tike  them,  be  chased  away,  to  return 
more. 

It  was  the  third  time  Mra.  Pryor  h 
interrupted  him  that  morning,  yet 
bore  it  with  unfailing  fortitude,  and  Usten 
calmly  to  various  home-tronblea ;  to  1 
details  of  Widow  Brown's  lumbi^o,  a 
the  decease  in  the  rapid  waters  of  ti^e  Di 
of  that  cherished  possession  of  the  Eld 
family,  their  only  pig, 

"  Well,  aunt,  what  can  we  do  : 
themt  There  are  it  few  bottles  left,  1 
port  is  bad  for  rheumatism.  And  as 
the  Ridlers " 

The  vicar,  seated  at  a  desk,  clear 
once  <^  all  manuscript,  absently  looked 
There  was  a  gleam  of  something — i 
gold  and  silver  of  the  realm,  nothing  wh: 
could  avail  for  the  Kidlers'  porcine  trout 
nothing  for  Mteu  Pryor's  eyes ;  and 
dosed  it  quietly. 

"  How  stands  the  exchequer }  Rati 
low  just  now,  I  fear,  but  we  must  do  soi 
thine  for  these  poor  people." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  M 
Pryor.  "  Trouble  and  poverty  are 
around  us.  It  is  natural,  after  such  a  hi 
winter,  and  no  one  to  do  aught  but  y< 
Norman.  Even  Miss  Perryman  has  i 
given  much  this  year,  and  as  for  the  Ho 
although  as  lord  of  the  manor  they  are  '. 
poor  as  much  as  yours,  Colonel  Laogrit 
has  done  nothing.  With  his  abundance 
is  a  shame." 

"  Hush  ! "  said  the  Eev.  Norman.  ' 
is  not  for  us  to  judge.  We  do  i 
know ;  and  if  rumour  speaks  truly,  t 
Langridge  wealth  is  not  so  great.  Still 
think  if  Pomrey  Hold  were  mine " 

"  Why,  you  would  be  aa  badly  off  as  j 
are  now,"  interrupted  his  aunt 

She  Btrovo  to  ^eak  with  asperity, 
buking  bis  lack  of  worldly  pradeucs,  a 
failed.  For  she  still  regarded  him  aa  1 
charge ;  loved  him,  and  admired  t 
staunch,  brave  heart  with  no  thought 
self. 

"  Yes,  as  badly  off',  I  say,  and  everybo 
else  the  richer." 


310      (FubruuTlB 


ALL  THE  TEAB  EOUHD. 


"Nov,  I  wonder  wh&t  yon  mean,"  he 
answered  with  a  qniet  imile ; "  Bomething is 
coming  when  you  begin  hy  praising  me  like 
I  that     For  it  is  praiw,  you  know,  annt" 

"Then  not  meant  as  such,"  she  retorted, 
smiling  herself  in  spite  of  her  vords.  "But 
I  came  to  apeak  about  those  children. 
There,  listen  to  that  They  are  supposed 
to  be  at  their  lessons.    Do  yeu  hear  1 " 

It  was  a  Buperfluons  question.  The 
vicarage  was  by  no  means  a  mansion,  and 
the  laughter  of  two  young  roicaa  waa  very 
audJble.  He  had  heard  it  before.  It  had 
broken  in  once  or  twice  on  the  sQenco  of 
his  study — had  disturbed  bis  thoughts, 
engaged  so  laboriously  over  tome  com- 
position,  that  he  had  been  writing  about 
one  line  in  ten  minntes,  until,  at  Mrs. 
Fryer's  entrance,  it  had  been  thntst  out  of 
sight. 

"Do  you  heart"  she  enquired  again. 
"  What  do  yott  think  they  are  doing  1 

"Well,  I  should  fancy  having  rather  a 
good  time,"  he  answered. 

"  They  are  laughing  and  chattering  over 
a  lot  of  valentinea  They've  been  wasting 
their  money  at  the  village  -  sht^.  I 
never  thought  of  such  things  when  I  wat 
yonng." 

■•  I  never  had  much  to  do  with  them 
myself,"  he  said  in  a  dreamy  way.  "  I 
don't  look  that  romantic  kind  of  man,  do 
I,  auntt  Hardly  a  young  lady's  idea  of  a 
Valentine  t " 

Mrs.  FiTor  regarded  him  curiously,  not 
replying  ror  a  momenL  His  words  were 
true  enough.  Theris  waa  nothing  gay  or 
debonair  about  this  Dartmoor  vicar.  He 
looked  even  more  than  his  thirty-five  years 
of  age,  and  the  bright  February  snnshine 
seemed  to  deepen  the  lines  in  a  grave  &ce, 
in  which  was  much  to  admire,  but  nothing 
to  call  handsome. 

Aunt  Fryor  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  kissed  the  broad  brow,  even 
as  his  dead  mother  might  have  done, 
and  there  waa  a  trace  of  sadness  in  the 
action. 

"  You  would  he  a  prize  for  any  woman," 
she  rejoined,  "Bnt  many  prizes  go  un- 
valued in  this  world." 

She  was  looking  at  him  so  earnestly, 
with  snch  a  pitying  glance,  that  he  tamed 
his  face  away,  with  a  slightly  heightened 
colour,  and  spoke  in  assumed  careless- 
ness. 

"Let  the  children  enjoy  themselves. 
There  is  no  harm  in  their  valentine&'' 

"They  should  ratherbe  at  their  lessons," 
she  suggested.    "  If  Grace — if  Miss  LuttreJl 


was  firmer  with  them,  more  like  a  proper, 
a  regular  governess " 

"  Y6a  forget,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  hava 
no  clfum  upon  Grace.  It  is  good  of  her  to 
do  what  she  does.  And  neither  Amy  nor 
Kate  is  quite  tractable." 

They  were  not.  It  was  true.  Then 
two  children  of  a  worthless  brother,  cand 
for  by  him,  because  there  was  no  one  die 
to  do  it,  disre^iarded  his  authority,  sod  ut 
at  nanght  the  mild  rule  of  Grace  LqUibU, 
the  vicar's  ward,  and  the  dan^ter  of  a 
dear,  dead  friend. 

"  I  am  not  so  sore  of  that,"  ansveisd 
Aunt  FiTOt.  "  Eemenbar,  Iforman,  Gnu 
has  sojourned  under  this  roof  for  tvo 
years,  and  you  have  received  not  a 
penny." 

"  'That  is  not  the  poor  girl's  fault,"  h> 
sud.  "The  lawyers  in  London  taU 
me " 

"The  lawyers  in  London,"  she  mtei- 
rupted,  "won't  pay  things  in  Devondiiiei 
and  the  delay  is  rather  hard  on  you." 

"  It  will  all  come  right  in  time,"  he  said 
quiet^.  "  Yon  know  now  my  poor  friend 
was  involved.  When  Captain  Lattrell's 
affairs  are  finally  adjusted,  Grace  ihonld 
own  some  two  thonsand  pounds.  Eaon^b, 
I  think,  to  settJe  my  small  bill." 

Aunt  Fryor  was  going  to  say  something 
further.  He  atopped  her.  It  was  an 
unusual  thing,  but  he  did. 

"Will  you,  please,  leave  me  now  I  I 
have  some  writing  to  finish." 

When  she  was  gone  the  vicar  of  Stanton 
Fomrey  reopened  his  desk.  It  waa  ceFtainl; 
not  a  sermon  which  his  aunt  had  inter- 
rupted. There  are  dandies  even  in  theChunh. 
But  t^e  duntieat,  most  highly-perfumed, 
curled  darling  of  a  ritoaliatic  curate  baa 
not  yet  taken  to  write  his  discourses  on 
lace-bordered  paper. 

CHAPTER  II. 

Thb  Bev.  Norman  Leslie's  ideas  were 
fairly  routed  at  length.  Slow  u  was 
his  work,  he  yet  had  made  some  prostsia 
Sut  that  last  invasion  had  scatteiea  hu 
thouehte  to  pieces,  and  when  Amit  Piyor 
left  him,  she  seemed  to  have  taken  even 
the  fragments  away  with  ber. 

He  laboured  over  one  or  two  noie 
sentences,  but  failed  to  shape  them  to  hi> 
satisfaction,  and  finally  he  lud  his  pen 
aside,  and  gazed  from  the  window. 

It  was  a  fair  prospect  As  if  repenting 
of  its  late  seventy,  winter  seemed  to  have  | 
passed  away  all  at  once.  The  birds  were  , 
twittering  to  each  other  that  there  ehoold  | 


AN   UNFINISHED  TASK. 


IFebruarji  IB,  ISM.)      311 


be  no  more  frost  and  bdow  ;  that  the  bare 
trees  would  soon  be  patting  forth  bud  and 
leaf  ]  that  it  vaa  the  £ve  of  St.  Valentine, 
utd  high  time  to  begin  to  think  aboutfaoose- 
keeping.  Under  the  late  afternoon  sun,  tho 
vide-epreading  moorland  waa  showing  a 
thoBsand  of  tboae  rare  tints,  neither  yellow, 
nor  grey,  nor  green,  in  which  Dame  Nature, 
caatJng  aside  her  sombre  wint«r  robes,  first 
endnee  herself,  ere  she  comes  forth  in  the 
^loiy  of  her  Bommer  fashions.  Far  away 
in  the  distance,  the  great  granite  tors,  like 
giant  sentiiielB,  rose  clear  against  the  skv. 
And  winding  in  and  out,  now  lost  in 
purple  shadows,  now  glistening,  a  silver 
streak,  through  the  landscape,  leaped, 
uid  ran,  and  babbled,  the  Rev.  Norman's 
ctieririied  tront^tream. 

"  It  is  fidl  late  in  the  day,"  he  muttered, 
glancing  longingly  at  bis  favourite  fly-rod. 
"  So  very  early  in  the  season  toa  And 
yet  they  ought  to  risa  No,"  roBieting  the 
thought  aa  he  was  accustomed  to  resist 
maoy  temptations,  "I  must  finish  my 
▼aik.  And  yet — and  yet,  what  use  wiU  it 
bel" 

J^parently  the  vicar  was  not  the  only 
one  who  had  thought  of  fishing  that  day,  for 
uhetumedagain  to  the  casement,  he  saw  a 
young  man  in  angling  attire,  carelessly 
swinging  a  rod,  and  by  his  side  Grace 
LuttreU. 

Was  it  an  omission  1  Was  Grace  so 
ibsotbed  in  low,  earnest  conversation  that 
she  could  ignore  his  ensteocel  Whenever 
Bhe  neared  the  vicar's  study  window,  there 
had  been  a  bright  glance,  a  happy  smile 
for  this  grave  g^rdian  of  hers.  Now  her 
face  w&a  averted,  turned,  perhaps,  from 
the  westering  sunlight,  which  made  a 
wealth  of  deeper  gold  in  her  fair  hair, 
lingered  on  the  rare  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  gazed  so  boldly  into  the  peaceful 
depths  of  those  grey  eyes,  that  they  sought 
theground  as  she  passed  by. 

Not  so  her  companion.  He  bent  his 
head  a  little  lower  and  whispered  a  word. 
It  brought  a  warmer  fiosh  to  the  nrl's 
cheek — at  twenty-two  blushes  are  swut  in 
coming  and  going — but  Grace  did  not  look 
ap,  the  other  did 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Leslie  1  I  had 
hoped  to  meet  you  by  the  water,  such  a 
day  as  thia." 

"  I  had  some  thoughts  of  it,"  rejoined 
the  vicar,  "  but  I  was  busy.  I  had  some — 
some  ta^  in  hand,  and,"  changing  the 
Gubject,  "I  did  not  know  you  were  with 
UB,  Mr.  Langridge." 

The  younger  man  laughed  carelessly. 


"Yes,  I  ran  down  two  days  since.  I 
got  leave,  as  my  father  wanted  me  on  some 
^al  business,  which  kept  me  from  the 
water  till  now-  It  is  a  wonderfully  early 
river  of  ours.  Fellows  in  town  will  hardly 
believe  in  a  dish  of  trout  killed  in  the 
middle  of  February.  But  here  they  are, 
and  I  wish  you  had  been  with  us — with 
ma" 

The  vicar  had  swung  open  tha  casement 
to  grasp  the  new  comer's  hand.  He  was  a 
handsome  young  fellow  enough,  but  despite 
his  cheery  voice  and  gay  manner,  there 
was  some  little  impalpable  restraint 
between  t^em. 

"  You  could  well  bear  solitude  if  the  fiah 
rose  so  well,"  was  the  reply.  "But  you 
were  not  alone  all  the  time  t " 

"No,"  answered  the  other.  He- was  a 
self-possessed  young  man,  almost  too  much 
so  for  his  years,  which  were  not  many 
more  than  Grace's,  and  in  no  way  to  be 
disconcerted.  "No,  my  last  brace  or  so 
should  have  been  grateful  to  fate,  for  they 
died  under  the  eyes  of  Miss  LuttreU." 

"  Which  reconciled  them  to  the  skill  of 
Mr.  Langridge;"  and,  gravely  smiling,  the 
older  man  prepared  to  close  the  casement. 

"One  moment  Why  'Mr.  Lang- 
ridgei'"  queried  the  young  officer.  "  It 
used  to  be  Cuthbort  when  I  was  your  pupU, 
a  better  one  b  v  the  stream,  I  fear,  than  with 
Sophocles  and  Xenophoa  May  I  come  in 
and  show  you  my  spoils  1  And,  Mr.  Leslie, 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  on  another — a  more 
important  matter." 

The  Eev.  Norman  Leslie's  face  was 
shadowed  with  a  sadness  which  he  was 
powerless  to  conceal  He  read  what 
was  coining ;  read  it  in  the  blushing  em- 
barrassment of  Grace  LuttreU,  stealing 
shyly  away  J  in  the  almost  triumphant 
pride  and  exultation  of  the  young  man, 
surely  too  much  for  the  capture  of  a  few 
fish;  and  it  was  the  voice  of  one  awakened 
to  a  deep  sorrow  which  answered : 

"  Come  m,  by  all  means.  My  task  is 
over,  and  I  am  quite  at  your  service." 

Then  the  vicar  of  Stanton  Fomrey  re- 
turned to  his  desk. 

It  lay  there  still  —  that  same  bit  of 
delicate  laced  and  gilt-edged  paper.  His 
task  was  over.  He  had  said  so.  Over, 
yet  not  completed.  So  he  took  it  up  with 
reluctant  hand,  and  once  more  hid  it  from 
sight,  as  the  lieutenant  was  at  the  door. 

Theirs  was  not  a  long  interview.  The 
■mitot  did  most  T>f  the  talking,  and  £i8 
utterances  were  rapid  and  eager,  in  marked 
contrast  with  the  almost  stem  buuness- 


313 


ALL  TEE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[^cbiUMy  16, 18SI I 


like  speech  of  the  other.  The  cofd  nn- 
itnpasBioued  tone  chafed  the  younger  mm, 
Mid  be  broke  out  at  lut  in  heaity  warmth: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Leelie,  is  this 
quite  generous  1 " 

"  Ib  what  generouB  1 "  came  the  quiet 
reply.  "  Of  what  do  you  complain,  Mr. 
Langridge,  or  rather  Gathbert  1  Do  I 
throw  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  your 
happiness  1  I  owe  a  duty  to  a  dear  dead 
friend.  Remember  Miss  Luttrell  is  my 
ward." 

"  You  ask  me  so  many  questions,"  said 
the  oUier.  "  As  my  father's  son — as  heir 
to  Pomrey  Hold,  I  should  be  a  fit  alliance. 
I  will  not  complain.  But  you,  sir,  are  so 
cautions ;  you  speak  as  if  love^were  always 
to  be  mistrusted,  as  if  no  one  could  prize 
my  dear  Grace  save  yourself." 

A  swift  spasm  of  puo  swept  over  the 
vicar's  features,  but  his  fiu:e  was  toraed 
away.  When  ha  spoke  w;a^l,  his  voice  was 
composed  as  ever,  and  he  rose  and  took 
the  yoong  man's  hand.  There  was  an  evi- 
dent reluctance  tn  the  action — a  reluctance 
of  which  this  poor  coontry  parson  was 
ashamed,  and  he  strove  to  bide  it. 

"  Your  Grace,  as  you  say,  Cnthbert  I 
stand  not  in  your  waj ;  I  wish  yoa  every 
good  thing,  now  and  tn  the  fatuta  I  sup- 
pose you  will  see  Grace  as  you  go  onti " 
trying  bravely  to  smDe.  "  Will  you  ask 
her  to  come  to  me  here  t " 

It  is  a  serioua  matter  the  diBOoesing  cJa 
marriage  offer  with  a  ward,  and,  left  alone, 
this  guardian  went  through  some  rather 
serious  preparations.  The  glow  of  the 
sunset  was  dying  away  outside,  yet  he 
drew  the  curtain  across  the  window.  The 
fire  was  leaping  merrily ;  he  took  the  poker 
and  beat  down  each  fiickering  fhunft 
When  he  looked  up,  Grace  Luttrell  was 
there,  and  with  grave,  old-fashioned 
courtesy,  he  placed  a  cDur  for  her  and  took 
one  himself  with  his  back  to  what  little 
light  there  was. 

"  Grace,  I  suppose  it  is  hardly  necessary 
tor  me  to  say  way  I  sent  for  you  1 " 

Again  that  pretty  pink  fiosh  was  in  the 
girl's  face — he  saw  it  even  in  the  shadowed 

"  I  know,"  in  a  whisper ;  then,  in  answer 
to  his  cold  tone ;  "  Mr.  Leslie,  you  are  not 
angry  with  us  1  Yon  do  not  dislike  him— 
Cuthbert  Langridge  t  You  will  not  oppose 
our  happiness  1 " 


"A  good  many  questions,  my  dearDrl," ' 
he  said  kindly.  "  Let  me  answer  uem 
wiUi  one  :  How  can  I  oppose  1  Yoa  are 
overage." 

"  If  I  were  over  age  a  hundred  tunas,  I 
yet  would  yield  to  your  judgment,  Mr. 
Leslie — my  poor  father's  friend,  and  mine." 

"  Thank  you,  Grace.  Buti*"  with  a 
smile,  "  in  that  case  my  duties  as  guardiao 
would  be  very  light.  However,  in  (Mb, 
the  authority  from  which  you  will  ool 
emancipate  yourself,  sees  nothing  tu 
disapprove.  Cuthbert  Langridge  should  be 
wealtJiy  and  of  good  family.  And,  tirue. 
you  love  bim  1  Foraive  me,  but  it  is 
I  all  so  new  to  me.  I  knew  not  that  yoa 
had  seen  much  of  each  other.  I  never 
dreamt " 

"  Nay,"  she  interrupted ;  "rather  for^e 
me.  It  is  my  only  deception.  I  ehonld 
j  have  told  you  before.  Bat  it  —  it 
.  was  only  this  day,  «ad  ycra  were  so 
,  absorbed  in  your  books,  your  atadies,  thit 
'  you " 

"Never  noticed,"  ho  fiuiAed  quietly, 
"  like  the  dull,  prosaic  man  I  am.  You  love 
him,  Grace  I  I  mean  yon  are  not  dazuled 
with  his  position — you  are  sore  of  yom 
heart  1 " 

"  I  am  sure." 

With  no  trace  of  doubt  she  uttered  the 
words.  Even  in  the  obsctirity  he  coold 
see  the  faith  and  afiection  in  those  ttnthfol 
grey  e^w. 

"  His  position  is  not  so  grand  as  some 
think,"  ahe  went  on.  "  He  naa  no  secnU 
from  me,  and  the  family  have  had  many 
reverses.  Bnt,  rich  or  poor,  Cnthbert 
woold  ever  be  the  same  to  qu." 

"  And  Cuthbert  is  a  mintfortimate  mso, 
my  dear,"  he  rejoined.  "I  pray  tiaA  yoo 
may  both  be  very  hai^y." 

He  rose  from  his  chair ;  he  took  her 
bands  in  his,  and,  bending  his  head, 
tenderly  kissed  her  cheek.  The  vi^  did 
it  slowly,  solemnly,  as  one  kiGUUg  (lie 
dead .  To  him  it  was  kissing  the  dead.  For, 
with  that  kiss,  the  Rev.  Norman  Leslie  pet 
away  from  his  heart  a  dear  love  which  be 
had  cherished  there — a  love  which  had 
been  growing  for  many  days;  a  love  cbich 
died  out  then  in  a  despairing  sorrow.  ^ 

Alone,  he  looked  again  at  his  unfiniahed 
task,  never  to  be  completed  now,  and  witb 
a  weary  smile  for  his  own  presumption, 
laid  it  away  to  be  seen  no  more. 


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314      [Fsbnurr  23,  IBBt.l 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROXTND. 


"  Oh,  once  joar  eDgagement  is  known 
we  can  safely  contradict  that" 

"Whxb  would  be  the  (^oodt  'Give  a 
lie  ten  minutes  atarti'eiiidlDan  O'ConneU, 
'  and  all  the  truth  in  the  world  won't  over- 
take it'  No,auDt;  I  Bee  nothing  for  it  but 
getting  married,  that  ia,  if  Mr.  Tuck  ib  safe 
to  come  down  with  something  handsome  on 
her  marriage.     He  wHl,  won  t  hel " 

"llell  give  something,  I  dare  say," 

"  Ten  tEouaand  ponnoB  I " 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds  1 " 

"  Five,  then ;  he  can't  give  her  leaa  than 
five," 

"Five  thousand  pounds  would  be  the 
very  outeide,  Dick." 

"Well,  I  might  make  five  thousand 
do." 

He  would  have  discounted  bis  prospects 
cheerfnllyfor  five  thousand  pounds  down,  if 
he  had  been  sure  of  its  extricating  him  from 
his  immediate  difficulties.  For  Dick  would 
not  merely  kill  the  goose  that  laid  golden 
eggs,  but  ne  m>nld  break  for  its  yolk  of 
gold  an  egg  from  which  such  a  goose  would 
certainly  nave  been  hatched. 

"  You  don't  owe  five  thousand  pounds, 
Dick  t "  in  consternation. 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  aay,  aunt,"  with  the 
utmost  nonchalance.  "Burgoyne  would 
know.  I've  a  letter  or  two  from  him  some- 
where, which  I  hadn't  time  to  read." 

Burgoyne  was  Dick's  man  of  law  and 
bnsineBB,  whose  letters,  as  certain  to  be 
uopleBBant,  he  had  thrown  aside  unopened. 

"  But  if  yon  do  get  five  thousBiid  pounds 
and  it's  all  swallowed  up  by  debts  at  once, 
what  have  you  left  to  live  on  % " 

"  You,  annt  you.  My  dear  aunt,  yoo 
cooldn't  live  without  Ida,  and  you  must 
take  her  with  her  engagements." 

Dick's  impudence  was  of  an  engaging 
kind,  and,  besides,  what  he  said  was  quite 
true — ^bis  annt  conid  not  live  witliout 
Ida. 

"There  must  be  no  more  duns  then, 
Dick." 

"  Amen  t  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  them, 
and  no  one  has  tried  harder  to  keep  clear 
of  them.  How  that  Byan  fellow  found  me 
out  I  can't  imagine  ;  but,  faith,  they're  like 
vultures ;  they  scent  their  prey  miles  off, 
and  ten  minutes  after  one  swoops  down  on 
it,  the  ground's  black  with  'em. ' 

"There's  but  one  aafe  way  to  keep 
clear  of  them,  I^ck — to  keep  within  your 
income." 

"  That  is  not  half  &  bad  idea,  aunt,  and 
I  shall  try  it  when  I  have  an  income." 

"I  dm't  know  what    you  call  three 


hundred  pounds  a  year,  Dick.  I  had  to 
make  two  hundred  and  fifty  poonds  do  for 
many  a  year." 

"  Aye,  but  you  had  no  expenses,  aunt," 
with  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  eyea 
HIb  aunt  was  as  much  tickled  as  Dick 
himself  by  this  patting  beyond  question 
"the  expenses,"  as  tJiough  they  were  not 
the  very  thing  in  question. 

In  tmtli,  his  aunt  was  infatuated  with 
Dick,  and  not  his  aunt  only.  Itwashaidly 
possible  for  anyone  not  to  be  overpowered 
m  his  presence  by  the  charm  of  uis  face 
and  manner — a  charm  which  he  had  tlK 
art  to  make  you  believe  only  to  oiiit,  or 
Only  to  be  exerted  for  your  sake,  while  he 
addressed  himself  to  you.  As  this  charm 
is  inexpressible  by  deMription  we  deepair 
of  making  credible  Dick's  conqnesta  of 
hearts,  from  those  of  belles  to  tiiosa  of 
bailiffs. 

Yet  Ida'a  was  not  conquered.  Dick, 
sore  pressed  for  the  payment  of  hia  debts 
to  others,  pressed  her  sore  for  the  payment 
of  her  debt  to  him.  Still  ahe  heaitaUd 
and  hung  back,  shrinking  from  the  final, 
irretraceable  step  as  certain  to  be  as  btal 
as  it  was  faka  But,  the  outworks  havug 
been  taken,  it  waa  not  to  be  e^^cted  Uut 
the  citadel  would  hold  out  long  ^auut 
Dick's  hot  assaults  and  the  daily  sappiDg 
and  mining  of  Mra  Tuck.  Nor  did  it 
Ida  waa  at  last  worried  and  wearied  into  a 
conaent  to  an  early  marriage,  and  Ka. 
Tuck  turned  then  her  victorious  amii 
against  her  poor  dear  husband  to  win  more 
than  a  mere  approval  of  the  match^a 
substantial  dowry — from  him.  The  main 
thing  was  to  come  upon  him  in  one  of 
those  rare  moments  when  his  mind  wu 
easy  and  unpreoccupied  with  fears  of  some 
imminent  and  deadly  disease.  At  present 
it  was  gloomy  with  the  terror  of  approach- 
ing paralyeis.  Whenever  hie  foot  or  band 
fefl  asleep  Mrs.  Tuck  waa  at  once  sent  for 
in  a  panic  to  prescribe,  or  to  reassure  ^~ 
tbat  a  prescription  was  unnecessary. 

These  fears  at  last  culminated  one 
evening  at  dinner,  when  Mr.  Tuck  soddenly 
exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  sad  resignation : 

"  It  has  come  at  last  1 " 

"What  is  it  now,  dearl"  asked  Mre. 
Tbck  in  a  tone  of  rather  thin,  womont 
mithy. 

Paralysis !  I've  lost  all  feeling  in  my 
left  leg."  ,      . 

Its  my  leg  you've  been  pinclun^  u 
,  __  mean  that,"  said  Dick  in  an  injured 
tone.  Mr.  Tuck,  by  carefully  tracmg  bii 
left  leg  from  its  eource,  was  tdieved  to  find 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


CFtbnuiT  SS,  ISU.)      315 


that  he  had  indeed  nusappropriated  Uie 
Ql-used  Dick's  right  1^. 

"I  really  beg  Toiir  pardon,"  vith  a 
damonstratiTe  pohteneu,  vhoaa  ferronr 
ins  due  to  this  relief  front  bis  hwrible 
misririna;. 

"  Doa%  mention  it,"  laid  Dick  cheerily. 
"  It  was  a  TeiT  natural  mistake,  for  my 
footwaaaileqh  1^  pleasant  acceptance 
<rf  Mr.  Tuck's  oonfosion  of  their  identity 
betped  to  torn  the  kiu;h  a  little  aade  ftom 
tbe  old  gentleman's  fatoity.  Dick,  how- 
ever, with  mneh  tact  took  the  thing  as 
Mrionaly  aa  Mi*.  Tuck  himself,  and  entered 
with  •otprising  eest  upon  a  dissertation  on 
panlysis,  laying  down  the  law  in  his  osnal 
taar,  abaolnte  way.  Both  Dick  and  his  annt 
bad  the  knack  of  [uJdng  npoddsand  endi 
and  nnoonaidered  trtfies  of  knowledge  on 
all  iobjecte,  and  of  piecing  them  t<^ther 
into  a  renew  that  seemed  sdid  at  first 
a^t  Besides,  Dick  lud  down  the  law 
whh  a  d<^matism  so  assured  as  to  sn^est 
that  be  most  hare  made  the  subject  in 
qnesdon  tiie  study  of  hie  Ufa  Acooniingly, 
Hr.  l^iok  listened  with  amasement  and 

Tot  to  Di<^'s  disquisition  on  paralysis 
its  mnptoms,  which,  it  seemed,  were 
precisely  the  oppoote  to  those  for  wfaichlVb, 
Tack  was  always  on  the  look-ont  In  vain 
Hr,  Tuck  quoted  all  his  medical  oradeo. 
Mck  made,  indeed,  loftily  the  ooneesrion 
dut  Ui«n  WM«  cases  of  iriiieh  these  were 
tbo  premonitory  symptoms,  but  they  were 
iuTariably  the  oases  <n  men  whose  habit  of 
body  was  the  precue  opposite  to  that  <^ 
Hr.  Tuck.  Here  DIek  was  on  the  right 
UcL  Mi-.  Tack  loved  to  talk,  and  to 
bear  talk,  about  his  oonstitutioD,  which 
Dick  made  out  to  be  in  the  main  some- 
tbing  like  tbe  British  constitution,  rather 
jmny,  plethoric,  and  flatulent,  but  sound 
on  the  whole.  Hr.  Tuck  was  as  much 
smaced  aa  delighted  by  the  extraordinaiy 
insist  and  interest  Dick  showed  in  his 
discourse  upon  the  only  constitation  wertii 
a  tiioagbt  in  the  world,  and  he  held  out  at 
some  length  that  night  to  Mrs.  Tuck  on 
the  mistESra  of  a  profession  her  nephew  had 
mad&  Most  certainly  he  ought  to  have 
been  a  doetor. 

"  A  doctor  1 "  Mrs.  Tuck  was  affronted  hy 
the  degrading  suggestion,  and  mentioned  a 
few  of  the  Irish  kings  to  whom  Dick  was 
akin.  Fromthisshebrancbedoffbyanataral 
dinression  to  all  the  brilliaot  matches 
wElfdi  had  been  ^posed  to  him  in  ri^t 
of  his  birth,  ezplunine  bis  rejection  there(rf 
quite  oaamdly  at  tiie  uose  by  his  constancy 
to  Ida.      This  was  one  of  Mrs.  Tuck's 


roondabont  ways  of  broaching  a  critical 
Bulnect  She  would  let  drop  cs^essly  and 
incidentally  a  passtne  allusion  to  it  while 
on  some  other  subject,  as  though  the 
startling  news  was  either  notorious  or  uq- 
important. 

"  Attached  to  Ida  I "  ezcUimed  Mr. 
Tuok.  "  I  should  have  thought  he'd  somo- 
thing  else  to  think  of,"  viz.,  hydrophobia. 

an.  Tuek  understood  the  aUiuion. 

"  Oh,  it  was  long  before  thatL  He  has 
loved  her,  I  think,  ever  since  lie  knew  her. 
He'd  have  asked  your  consent  to  pay 
his  addresses  to  her,  if  you  hadnt  been  so 
upset  witii  one  thing  or  aiiother  of  late." 

"But  she  doesn't  care  for  himl" 

"  I  think  she  does." 

"  Why,  you  told  me  she  oared  f ot  Seville- 
SuttoD,"  as,  indeed,  Mrs.  Tuck  had. 

"  Now,  James,"  in  an  aggrieved  tone  of 
remonstrance,  "  you  know  very  well  I  said 
nothing  of  the  sort,  I  said  the  Don  cared 
for  her,  or  for  her  fortune  at  least ;  but  he 
has  declared  off  since  you  told  him  you 
meant  to  leave  your  money  to  an  asylum — 
a  most  appropriate  bequest,  I  must  say," 
bitterly. 

"Itoldhiml" 

"WeU,  told  some  one  who  told  him. 
Anyhow  he  heard  of  it,  and  drew  off  at 
once.  Not  that  it  mattered,  for  she'd 
never  have  had  him,  he's  such  a  stick." 

"  It's  the  finest  estate  in  the  coonty." 

"  My  dear  James,  Ida's  not  tiie  girl  to 
manrastiok,  even  if  it  were  a  gold  stick — 
a  gold  sti(^  in  waiting,"  scornfully.  "  If 
you  changed  your  mind  to-morrow  he'd 
change  his ;  but  Ida  11  never  change  hers — 
you  may  depend  upon  tiiat." 

"  I  never  said  a  word  to  him  or  any  one 
about  leaving  money  to  a  lunatic  asylum," 
quemlouBly,  harking  back  to  l^s  grievance. 
His  thongnts  by  no  centrif ogal  force  could 
be  kept  long  flying  wide  from  himself. 
"  I  said  something  Mwut  leaving  money  to 
an  hospital  when  you  were  worrying  me  to 
make  a  wflL" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  worrying. 
I  merely  suggested  to  yon,  the  last  time 
you  were  going  to  die,  that  your  mind 
mubt  be  easier  if  your  will  were  mada  " 

iHn.  Tuck  regretted  her  vengeance  in 
the  moment  of  taking  it,  and  hastened  to 
Msa  the  place  and  make  it  well 

"  Indwd,  James,  the  worrying  is  all  the 
other  way.  You  keep  me  in  continuat 
misery  about  your  health,  Uiongh  you 
know  my  life  is  bound  up  with  yours.  I 
can't  bmr  to  bear  you  always  talking  as 
if  von  ware  iroiniF  to  di&      I  can't  even 


316      (Fel)niuyl3,lB91.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


hear  to  ibink  of  anch  meD  as  Mr,<Sevill«- 
Sutloii  connling  oa  your  deaUi,  wUhiiig 
for  it,  and  watching  to  find  you  worm 
every  day.  I'd  much  rather  you'd  give 
Ida  BomethiDg  on  ber  marriage,  asd  nave 
done  with  it  at  once." 

This  shaft  shot  homck  Mr.  Tuck  had 
always  imagined  his  health  a  subject  of 
universal  intoroet,  but  never  of  an  intnretl 
of  this  vulturous  kind.  It  was  sicketjing 
to  think  that  such  men  should  ezlrt- ;  but 
as  it  was  not  possible  to  prevent  or  remedy 
their  .existence,  it  romaiued  only  to  cut 
away  the  basis  of  their  ghouliw  specu- 
lations. Now  Mr.  Tuck's  horror  of  such 
Bpecuktions  was  not  merely  aentimentaL 
He  was  full  of  superstitions,  and  bad  a 
vagne  kind  of  idea  that  bis  health  might 
be  injuriously  affected  by  these  diabolical 
longiDgB  for  bis  death. 

This  brilliant  stroke  Mrs.  Tuck  followed 
up  by  observiog  that,  fortunately,  all  men 
were  not  to  mercenary  as  Mr.  SeviUe- 
Sutton,  instanciag  Dick,  who  didn't  due 
even  to  think  of  Ida  until  he  beard  that 
she  had  bfen  disinherited.  But  she  pro- 
tesled  Dick's  disinterested nese  so  much, 
that  Mr.  Tuck  began  to  hope  he  would 
Uke  Ida  not  only  without  prospects,  but 
without  even  a  presMit  dowry.  Where- 
fore Mrs,  Tack  had  to  lay  great  stress  on 
the  ioporbance  to  tiie  world  of  the  Tuck 
family  credit  being  kept  at  the  high  level 
it  had  attained  and  maintained  for  so  many 
centuries. 

When,  however,  Mrs.  Tuck  bad  made 
it  clear  that  Ida  mast  have  a  dowry,  not 
of  course  in  Dick's  interests,  but  in  those 
of  the.  honour  of  Uie  boose  of  Tuck,  ber 
poor  dear  bnaband  was  stricken  with 
sudden  and  serioos  misgivings  as  to  the 
propriety  oE  Dick's  marrying  at  all,  to  say 
notliing  o(  his  marrying  Ida.  For  was 
there  not  hydrophobia  in  bis  blood,  which 
might  break  out  at  any  moment,  and  might 
even  be  banded  down  to  his  children  I  In 
the  public  intorest,  and  as  a  matter  of  mere 
public  policy,  Dick  should  be  doomed  to 
celibacy.  This  public  spirited  objection 
Mrf.  Tuck  also  overruled  with  her  usual 
diplomatic  skill,  and  wrung  at  last  from 
her  poor  dear  husband,  not  only  bis  aasent 
to  the  marriage,  but  the  promise  of  a 
dowry  for  Ida  of  ten  thousand  ponndiL 
The  amount  was  beyond  ber  utmost 
expectations,  but  was  of  course  promised 
on  the  condition  that  neither  she  nor  Dick 
was  to  look  for  anything  more  at  bis 
death.  Mrs.  Tuck  in  thja  matter  had  over- 
shot the  marfa  a  littlOj  having  rwiaod  in 


Mr.  Tuck  such  a  morbid  horror  of  mskuig 
any  one  a  beneficiary  by  bia  death,  that 
henceforth  nothing  would  induce  him  to 
make  a  will  while  the  faintest  hope  of  lib 
remained  to  him.  Mn.  Tuck,  of  count, 
readily  agreed  to  thiBarnngemeDt.bywhidi, 
equally  of  course,  she  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  to  aUde.  She  knew  perfectly 
well  that  she  wonld  have  the  dictattou  of 
ber  poor  dear  husband's  will  when  it  came 
at  last  to  be  made,  and  she  had  geDerowlj 
determined  that,  with  the  reeervation  of  s 
moderate  provision  for  herself,  every  penny 
of  bis  fortune  should  go  to  Ida.  For  Mn. 
Tuck,  fNlse,  tricky,  anl  mercenary  as  she 
has  shown  herself,  had  yet  some  idea  of 
justice,  and  a  veiy  high  idea  indeed  of 
generosity.  If  she  had  been  bom  to  the 
good  fortune  she  achieved  late  in  s 
harassed  life,  she  would  not  have  been 
given  more  than  most  women  to  cimiiing 
and  deceit,  the  weapons  of  weakness ;  but 
in  ber  childhood  she  had  been  bullied  into 
falsehood  by  a  hanh  stepmotbw,  and  for 
the  rest  of  ber  life,  np  to  her  secoQii 
marriage,  she  bad  been  almost  forted 
by  circnmstanceB  into  a  wear?  strag^e 
to  make  twopence-halfpenny  in  copper 
pass  for  a  silver  threepence. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  JAMAICA. 

IN    THKKE   PART&       PAKT  IlL 

The  natives  of  Jamaica  are  childishly 
and  ridiculously  superstitious,  every  action, 
word,  and  thought  is  full  of  the  supenti- 
toral.  Hey  are  horribly  and  unmistakably 
afraid  of  spirits,  a  fact  which  induced  me 
to  think  that  sometbiog  mntt  be  visible  to 
them,  thoDgh  unseen  by  our  eyes.  1  came 
to  this  conclusion,  not  from  conviction,  or 
because  I  ever  saw  the  shadow  of  a  duppy 
(ghost),  though  Admiralty  House  was  aap- 
poeed  to  be  peopled  with  several  deoesaed 
commodores,  but  because  the  fear  is  everj- 
where — not  confined  to  hundreds  or  thon- 
sands,  but  universal  in  the  breast  of  evsry 
black  man,  woman,  and  child  in  Jamsica, 
educated  and  ignorant.  I  know  this  inor 
dinate  terror  was  extremely  inconvenicDl- 
When  once  a  duppy  bad  poeseesion  of  a 
house  its  value  went  down  proportionstely, 
as  no  native  servants  would  deep  in  it  foi 
love  or  money. 

"But,  Mrs.  M ,"  I  said  to  our  coloured 

nurse,  who  was  nervous  aboul^  going  out 
under  the  shadow  of  some  lai^s  trees  at 
night,  "have  youever  seen  any  yonrselfl'' 
"  Yee,  m'a  1 "  she  exclaimed  in  a  h^h  shritj 
tone,  her  black  eyes  openii^  vnd&    "I 


BEMINISCENOES  OF  JAMAICA.        ireb™r,»,UM.i    317 


luvs'ieen  ft  plenty,  m'a.  Good  kiDg  1 "  < 
"Die  last,  a  Junaica  ezolanution  resambling 
"  Good  Hesvetu  I"  at  ib»  bare  romembrance 
of  vtut  she  had  Been.  "Bat  what  are 
Uiejr  like  1 "  I  contiDued.  "  Like  doppie*, 
m'a,"  vas  the  only  axplanatitm  I  conld  get 

Wbm    Misa    K ,    the    celebrated 

amatenr  flower-pointer,  came  to  the  bilk 
to  paint  the  "  Mountain  glor7,"  as  it 
mteared  radiant  on  the  hillside,  she  tocA 
Gardens  Honae.  Hece,  aitting  befoie  her 
easel  in  the  cool  vmandah,  doable  glaases 
iQ  hand,  she  looked  acxon  the  ravine  and 
bdield  this  magnificent  lilac  flower  in  its 
greatest  beantj,  shooting  up  in  giant  spikea 
from  cliffs  quite  inaccessKle  to  man,  but, 
having  no  Ediglish  aerrant,  she  had  to  sleep 
in  the  Bpadova,  eOaitold  house  quite  alone. 
Each  day  at  sundown  the  servants  left  her, 
and  trooped  merrily  down  to  their  homes 
lit  Gordon  Town,  where  entire  families 
h«d  together  as  (hick  as  they  can  stow,  in 
u  atmoKihere  much  resembling  that  of  a 
slave-deck  in  'the  MoiamUque  ChanneL 
Gardens  Great  House  had,  unfortunately, 
"a  had  name." 

I  wae  retoming  home  by  moonlight  on 
one  occasion  alone  after  a  bazaar,  and  had 
KDt  the  servants  on  before.  I  had  passed 
safely  over  the  dangerous  plank,  which, 
at  that  time,  constitated  our  only  means  of 
croBsiog  the  river,  and  was  moonting  the 
Bleep  path,  when,  crouched  down  on  a 
stone,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  I 
recognised  our  stalwart  cook.     "  What  are 

you  doing  here,  F 1 "  I  said.     "  I  told 

you  to  go  OD  quickly  andgetmesome  tea." 
"  Yes,  missus,"  said  be,  starting  up  and 
following  me  closely.  "I  waitin  'pon 
missus,  de  earner  roimd  dere,"  pointing  to 
a  thick  damp  of  trees  ahead.  "Dat  earner 
have  a  bad  neam&  Plenty  duppies  dero, 
my  king  ! "     I  laughed    heartily  as  we 

red  the  suspected  comer,  in  which 
feebly  and  shakily  joined,  but  he 
never  left  my  shadow  till  a  cheerful, 
blaziug  fire  in  the  kitchen  and  cook's 
qoarten  came  into  view,  when  he  made  a 
dart  in  at  the  door,  sbittting  it  safely  behind 

Bats  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
dappiea,  I  am  convioced ;  our  house  had  a 
uDgnlarly  bad  name  for  both  tiiese  nightly 
visitants  j.but  our  s^rants  and  family  were 
altc^ether  so  numerous,  filling  up  every 
room,  thvb,  except  when  we  were  down  at 
Port  Boyal,  and  the  place  silent  and 
empty — when  awful  hutories  were  re- 
counted on  our  return — duppies  did  not 
tronble  onr  honsebold  much.  Lvinn  awake 


in  my  bedroom,  which  gave  on  to  the 
verandah,  I  often  heard  daring  the  quietest 
hours,  slow,  pattering,  uncertain  steps,  and 
then  some  heavier  body  being  dragged 
over  the  dry,  sounding  old  chestnut  floor, 
followed  by  a  stifled  cry.  Stockings,  boots, 
^oves,  uid  quite  large  dolls  used  mvste- 
riously  to  disappear  every  night,  and  for 
some  time  we  never  could  account  for  it, 
until  in  one  comer  of  the  verandah  a  hole 
was  discovered,  out  of  which  protruded 
the  foot  of  a  highly-respected  and  deeply- 
moumed  dolL  After  this  we  set  traps 
with  great  success,  catching  some  sged 
rats  of  enonnoos  size  and  strength,  capable 
of  mortal  combat  with  an  army  of  duppies. 
To  make  a  hideous  noise  is  cossldered 
efficactoos  in  soaring  away  duppies.  Long 
before  it  is  light,  hundreds  of  womeu 
bearing  the  produce  of  the  little  yam- 
patch  on  their  heads,  meallles,  bananas, 
coko,  skellion,  yam,  all  on  their  way  to  the 
market  at  Kingston,  stream  down  the 
mountain  paths,  each  one  in  tnm  making 
a  frightful  noiSe,  something  between 
scaring  crows  and  a  ydl ;  tjils  is  taken  up 
by  the  next  one  ahead,  and  thus  partially 
reassured  they  tmdge  on  till  welcome  day- 
light appears,  when  ttieir  spirits  rise,  and  the 
ceaseless  and  senseless  chatter,  peculiar  to 
the  Jamaican  female,  commences;  when  it 
ends  none  can  tell — certainly  not  till  son- 
downwidthereigDofduppiesagain.  Conver- 
sation is  carried  on  at  the  very  tt^  of  a  par- 
ticularly harah  voice ;  yon  would  fancy  that 
they  were  one  and  all  quarrelling  violently, 
Not  at  all,  they  are  only  converamg  in  their 
natural  tones  like  a  parcel  of  jays,  each 
4ady  addressing  her  companion  as  ma'am, 
shortened  into  m'a,  with  much  apparent 
formality.  Their  gait  is  remarkable : 
shoulders  square  ana  hips  swaying  under 
the  tremendous  burthen  carried  with  such 
ease  and  grace  on  their  heads ;  they  get 
over  the  ground  at  an  aatonishing  pace, 
their  gowns  kilted  high,  giving  free  play  to 
their  uube,  till  "  faamon  "  demands  that  it 
shall  be  loosed  to  trail  abont  a  foot  on  the 
ground,  along  the  filthy  streete  of  Kingston. 
'  AsMTantof  allwOTkis  almoat  unknown 
in  this  country,  each  one  having  his  or 
Iier  partioalar  department,  beyond  which 
they  rather  pride  themselves  on  knowing 
notning.  Their  leisurely  movements  ana 
alow  rate  of  work  would  scandalise  an 
active  English  housekeeper.  Oar  house- 
cleaner  In  the  hills  resided  at  the  Gardens. 
Aboat  nine  a.m.  she  would  saunter  In  pro- 
ved with  her  stock-in-trade,  which  con- 
sisted of  a  few  fresh  limea.  a  mbber.  and 


318     (7sbnurT  is,  ini.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  ROUND. 


{ooodKMtr 


some  beea-wu^  Pftiaffiae  was  occasionallf 
BUbatitated  for  the  limes.  After  living  apon 
her  knees  for  several  hours,  at  work  upon  the 
floor,  and  making  oar  nice  rooms,  though 
open  to  the  outer  air,  smell  dreadfiillf  of 
Jamaica  women,  flavoured  with  cocoa-nnt 
oil,  with  which  they  plentifaUy  b«laab 
their  heads,  she  would  anuonnce  that  her 
"toot  hurt  her"  (toothache)  and  depart, 
trailing  a  horrid  old  greenish-bladi:  gown 
after  her.  For  this  entertainment  we  paid 
two  shillings. 

The  budest  worked  and  worst  paid 
servant  is  the  market-woman,  an  instita- 
tion  peculiar  to  the  hiUa,  where,-  aa  there 
are  no  tradespeople,  aappUes  must  be  pro- 
cared  daUy  from  the  market  at  Kingrtou. 
For  the  poor  snm  of  one  eliiUing  aad 
sixpence  p^  day,  a  fine,  tidl,  strapplog 
yonng  woman  wiUingly  wsJks  twelve  miles 
into  Kingston,  bringing  back  a  hearf  load 
upon  her  hmd,  nphlu  the  whole  way. 
When  ioe  had  to  be  brotight  daring  the 
illness  of  oar  child,  the  poor  market-woman 
constantly  arrived  with  the  melted  water 
streaming  from  the  basket  on  lur  head, 
down  tiie  nape  of  her  net^  and  back,  and 
so  to  the  ground,  forming  little  pools  where- 
Bver  she  rested  for  a  moment. 

The  many  virtaea  of  oar  coloured  nurse 
have  been  roeoonted  in  a  former  paper 
upon  Port  BoyaL*  There  everything  was 
conducted  ia  the  lioaaehold  with  naval 
regularity,  but  in  the  hiUs  eaeh  servant 
would  have  squatted  outside  the  kitchen- 
door  in  the  sun,  doing  nothing,  thinking 
of  nothing,  for  at  least  ten  hours  out  of  the 
twenty-foar,  had  it  not  been  for  the  oesse- 
lesa  supervision  exercised  over  their  goings- 
out  and  comings-in,  by  my  trusty  Engluh 
maid  and  housekeeper,  of  whose  fine 
presence  and  awe-inapiring  demeanour  they 
stood  in  wholesome  dread.  She  was  a  great 
power  among  them,  and  coald  beat  down 
the  market-women  to  half  what  they  impn- 
denUy  bat  smilingly  demanded  of  me,  and 
when  their  "  toot  hurt  them,"  or  their  head 
— thoy  suffer  much  from  neuralgia  in  their 
rotten -teeth,  caused  by  an  inordinate  fond- 
ness for  Bugar-caue — they  would  come  to  her 
in  a  dejected  and  forlorn  way,  ridicnloos  to 
behold,  as  to  one  who  could  certainly  cure 
every  ill,  and  in  whose  pepper-plaisters  they 
had  unbounded  confidence. 

Except  in  the  comparatively  rare  inatanoe 
of  a  mountain  atom,  pic^oand  stillness 
UBual^  reigned  daring  the  night  at 
the  Cordons.     Leaning  oat  of  the  wide 


verandah-window  when  the  moon  had 
risen,  a  beautiful  soft  radiance  bathed 
the  lovely  valley  and  ^r^e,  Minting  upon 
the  shingle  roois  of  tlie  buildinga  at  Qoroim 
Town,  and  lighting  up  the  foaming  Uof« 
and  its  grey  rocks  with  burnished  diver. 
It  was  eq>MiaUy  resting,  when  worn  with 
esres  and  anxieties  as  to  what  the  moimv 
might  brii^  forth,  to  llaten  to  the  rejoinngi 
of  millions  of  happy  insects  who  tame  out 
of  their  shady  bowen  when  night  fell,  sod 
frolicked  in  the  glad  air.  Fire-flies  hnried 
themselves  across  the  grass,  comin|j  dovu 
with  such  force  as  to  ezttngoish  tJieir  light 
for  an  instant,  when  on  they  went  in  thmr 
mad  flight ;  frt^  and  tree-^gs  in  chonu 
croaked  ont  their  satisfaction;  bsetlea, 
motha,]oca8tfl,andagreatfat  green  insect  the 
abxpa  of  a  turtle,  ba^ed  themselves  agsinsti 
the  window-saehee  in  a  gallant  enduvou 
to  storm  the  lights  within.  All  Nstore 
seemed  glad  in  the  mere  fact  of  liring 
^-eaoh  voice  becoming  mate  as  if  bj  one 
consent  jost  before  the  dawS  of  day.  One 
night,  between  two  and  three,  I  became 
aware  that  the  soft  notes  of  a  multitade  of 
wind  instmmente  were  floating  down  the 
ravine ;  they  sounded  in  my  half-awakensd 
ears  like  the  music  of  heaven.  Now  itwsc 
gone,  and  must  have  been  only  a  drtam, 
when  lo  ]  a  fresh  burst,  coming  nearer, 
convinced  me  that  it  was  no  dream,  bat 
the  homeward-bound  regiment  marching 
by  night  from  Newcastle  to  KingstiMi  tot 
embarkation.  How  lovely  the  swelhog 
notes  of  a  wailing  march,  dying  aws; 
almost  to  silence  as  they  wound  round  one 
of  the  mountain  go^ee,  and  swelling  ont 
as  they  emerged  agam !  Gordon  Town  is 
reached,  and  level  ground ;  here  die  fidl 
iMud  bursts  forth  into  Home,  Sweet 
Home.  Loader  and  loader,  tramp,  tiuip, 
as  one  man,  I  could  hear  their  fina,  glsd 
feet  They  ore  going  home,  hone !  while 
we  have  yet  more  than  a  year  to  stay,  1 
could  hardly  bear  it  by  the  time  &ej  had 
played  the  last  note,  and  were  gone  fir 
beyoDd  my  hearing  down  to  the  plsina 
below.  Home-aickneas  seizes  one  with 
irresistible  force  when  unnerved  by  anxiety 
and  illness. 

Society  for  us  was  at  that  time  a  dead 
letter;  we  were  shunned  aa  if  plagne-stiicken, 
and  witii  reason,  after  the  yellow -&v«- 

Twice  a  week  when ■  returned  tnm 

Port  Eoyai,  we  trooped  down  to  the 
Oardens  to  meet  hia  carriage  and  canynp 
the  packages;  this  waa  the  only  gliiqee 
of  the  oater  world  we  evw  ^t.  After  s 
while  oar  visits   to  Port  Boyal  beeame 


REHnOSOENOES  OF  JAMAICA.       mbnuir  n,  um.]    319 


mare  freqaent  as  the  pUca  renimed  its 
healthineflB,  and  the  crews  returned  re- 
&QBhed  tad  cheered  from  Bermnda.  A 
lose  line  of  reddish  graves  oa  the  palisades, 
and  the  three  at  CraJgton,  reminded  lu, 
who  were  spared,  of  how  much  we  had  to 
be  thjinkM  fw.  At  first,  though  looked 
at  askance  hy  the  few  white  people,  we 
attended  the  well-kept  little  ehiuah  Id 
Gordon  Town,  where  tfa^  are  fortamato  in 
tiie  poMoamon  of  a  good  and  kindlrclei^- 
man ;  bat  as  a  tramp  np  and  down  in  the 
■on  front  elereo  to  oaa  knoebed  np  most 
of  OB  for  the  day — we  became  veiy  oare- 
h],  from  sad  experience,  only  to  go  out 
nuvaing  and  erening — a  regular  service 
of  onr  own  was  established  in  1^  front 
venmdah.  It  was  punctually  attended  by 
all  the  servants,  who  would  on  no  account 
have  "  shirked,"  as  many  an  English  house- 
hold does,  whenever  it  is  pntctacable.  A 
|4easant  iad  attentive  eo^iwation  they 
made  in  the  smarteat  of  Sunday  elotJies, 
and  eonntenances  to  match,  joining  in  the 
Iiynns  and  (junts  wiUi  melody  and  good- 
inD.  In  crosaing  the  rooms,  the  dry  old 
floors  resoonded  to  the  tread  (4  their 
heavy  splay  feet  Qnite  absord  it  was  to 
see  them  huddled  together,  each  one  con-' 
sdous  only  of  his  remarkably  thick  boots, 
and  trying,  but  in  vain,  to  subdue  some  of 
their  inordinate  ereakJAg  by  a  futile 
endeavour  to  tread  gingerly.  Safely 
arrived  at  the  sesta  providM,  tremendous 
sighs,  enough  to  blow  a  baby  away,  escaped 
them,  continued  at  frequent  intervals 
thron^out  the  service.  Sunday  must 
have  been  truly  a  day  of  penance,  for  on 
tx>  other  occasion,  save  a  wedding  or 
foDaral,  do  they  ever  wear  boote,  shoes,  or 
thick  Idaek  clotiL  clothes,  The  women,  if 
poaaible,  present  a  still  greater  contrast 
between  everyday  attire  and  a  gorgeous 
Sondsy  toilette.  Light-green  is  a  very 
favourite  colour,  w^  distended  over 
starched  pettiooota  that  stand  alone,  a 
train  of  ample  length  and  width  trailing 
b^ind  in  the  crast  or  mud,  aa  the 
case  nay  be ;  hair,  slistMiing  with  coooa- 
nnt  oil,  ti«^tly  plaited  in  innumerable  little 
tails,  as  ifin  a  vain  endeavour  to  straighten 
somo  of  its  wiry  crinkles,  Bumtoonted  with 
a  white  straw  hat,  loaded  with  gay  and 
cheap  flowers  and  ribbons  of  every  hue. 
A  prayer  and  hymn  book,  bound  round  with 
a  cleui  and  never-to-be-nnfolded  pocket- 
handkerchief,  is  considered  important, 
whether  they  can  read  or  not  Thus 
attized,    the    Jamaica    woman    proceedi 


bridling  and  smirking,  on  her  way  to 
church.  Very  seldom  is  a  really  luuid- 
some  woman  to  be  met  witL  The  eyes 
are  too  much  hke  restless  bUok  beads, 
oheek-bones  too  high,  and  the  noath  too 
coarse  for  beauty,  Irat  many  faces  are  most 
attractive,  particnlurly  when  ligjited  up 
with  pleasure  or  amusement 

Graigton  Chnrcb  was  always  well-filled, 
ministered  to  by  the  good  and  charitable 
man  who  for  ludf  his  lifetime  has  lived, 
beloved  and  trusted,  among  them.  When 
this  church  was  blown  down  in  a  violent 
hurricane  (so  violent  that  even  some  solid 
marble  oroases  were  laid  low  and  hurled  to 
the  bottom  of  the  valley,  where  they  were 
found  after  many  days'  search),  the  poorest 
dwellers  in  countless  little  huts  round 
about,  contributed  something  each  month 
to  the  rebuilding,  and  sat  contented  under 
the  shady  side  of  the  hill,  listening  to  their 
dear  pastor,  from  bis  pulpit  —  the  only 
thing  remaining  entire — under  a  pine- 
tree. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  revivalism  in 
tlie  mountains,  when  curious  scenes  of  real 
or  simulated  religione  enthoeiBsm  are 
enacted.  We  always  knew  pretty  well  if 
a  revival  meetiiu;  was  g<Hng  on  in  one  or 
other  of  the  litUe  tenements  above  us,  the 
most  heartrending  cries  and  groans  pro- 
ceeding from  the  subject "  whom  the  Spirit 
bad  moved;"  but  beyond  winding  them- 
selves up  to  a  pitch  of  fervonr  nearly 
resembling  insanity,  when  they  would  cast 
themsdves  upon  the  earth  and  writhe  as  if 
in  torment,  I  never  hesid  that  it  influenced 
them  any  way,  or  to  any  good  or  useM 
purpose. 

Two  earthquakes  occurred  while  we  were 
in  Jamaica;  the  first,  in  the  middle  of  the 
nighty  awoke  the  Aboukir's  people,  who 
thought  her  anchors  had  been  suddenly  let 
p  and  all  the  cables  run  out,  accompanied 
>y  a  violent  trembling  of  the  ship,  which 
caused  a  very  serious  leak  in  her  worm- 
eaten  timbers.  I  was  asleep  at  Trafalgar, 
St  Ann's,  when  I  awoke  feeling  the  bed 
being  first  rocked,  and  then  violently 
pushed  over  on  one  ride,  accompanied  by  a 
rattling  of  all  the  crockery.  But  with  the 
exception  of  the  great  historical  earth- 
quakes of  1603  and  1692,  no  earUiquakes 
or  hnrricanes  of  any  very  dangeroaB 
strength  are  recorded  in  Jamaica,  whereas 
in  many  of  the  neighbouring  West  India 
Islands  hurrioanee  are  at  amost  yearly 
occurrence  between  June  and  November, 
and  are  fearfully  destntotive  to  life  and 


leisureiv.  with  creat  diiniitv   of  carriaire.  I  nronertv.    A  wml-known  doecerel  amone 


320      l»e<miir]rU,  U84.1 


ALL  THE  YEAB  EOUitD. 


marincrB  id  the  West  Indies  is  very  macb 
ig  the  point,  namely  : 

July,  nUnil  by,  Aii^Bt.  »  gust: 
S«|.talnber  remeaiber,  October  ii\  uver. 

Tbo  secoiid  earthqnakA  happened  about 
tvo  p.m.  and  sounded  exactly  w  ii  an 
army  of  fonr-tooted  beairte  were  laahing 
about  overhead,  accompanied  by  a  great 
cresking  of  the  maadre  beaou. 

Jam^ca  hat  a  f  ntoiv,  and  a  great  fotare, 
first  in  the  cultivation  of  fhiit  for  export  to 
the  United  States,  to  which  indnstry  % 
J.  P.  Grant  gave  so  great  an  impetos,  and 
aecondly,  in  that  of  tobacco,  for  which  ^e 
soil  is  especially  favourable,  Year  by  year 
labour  becomes  scarcer;  Lascars,  Cooties, 
and  Kroomen  have  all  been  tried  and 
failed— financially ;  the  Jamaica  negro,  who 
U,  of  conne,  better  than  any  imported 
labour,  being  on  the  spot  and  acclimatised, 
will  not  work.  He  can  live  entirely  to 
his  own  eatisfaotion  on  the  wages  of  two 
days  a  week,  his  wife  "finding"  herself 
and  the  children ;  meanwhile  the  cane  rota 
during  the  other  fonr  days  in  which  he 
prefers  to  sit  still  and  do  nothing.  The 
women,  on  the  contrary,  often  work  very 
hard,  plodding  on,  ill  or  well,  with 
exemplary  pa&nce  at  their  task,  be  it 
cutting  and  carrying  ui  enormona  handle 
of  guinea-grass  on  their  head,  down  a 
declivity  hardly  less  steep  thaii  a  stone 
wall ;  he  it  dignng  over  the  ftmily  yam- 
patch,  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  d^jreea, 
and  conveying  the  proceeds  to  market 
By  cottag^oor  and  mountain-path,  men, 
asleep  on  their  faces,  axe  constantly  to 
be  seen  reposing  from  the  fatigues  of  an 
hour's  work.  "  Dom  well  lazy,"  exclaimed' 
a  smart  young  black  girl,  giving  each 
prostrate  body  a  sharp  cut  with  a  twig 
aa  she  passed  them,  and  then  looking  back 
at  ua  with  a  smile  that  showed  m  her 
mUk-white  teeth  at  once.  Native  labour 
being  absolutely  unattainable,  all  cultiva- 
tion must  be  carried  on  under  difficulties  ; 
for  these  reasons,  combined  with  excessive 
cheapneea  and  competition  in  the  sugar- 
maiket,  many  once  nch  "  Caymans "  at 
Liustead,  and  otiier  fertile  places,  have 
been  thrown  up.  Cuban  tobacoo-planters, 
weary  of  perpetual  rebelGoo  and  warbn  in 
their  own  island,  have  taken  these  "cane- 

tiioMB,"  cane  no  more,  brought  thnr 
abourera  over,  and  phmted  wem  vrith 
tobacco.  It  is  a  vreU-known  fact  that  only 
in  diat  part  of  Cuba  immediirtely  con- 
tiguous to  Havanna  is  the  very  beat  tobacco 
frown.  On  that  part  of  the  coast  (k 
itmaica  immediately  opposite  Havanna,  and 


which  the  shallower  eMmdinga  show  te 
have  once  been  connected  with  Jamaica, 
the  same  conditions  exist,  t^e  same  hsmid 
climate  with  hot  sun,  the  same  oolomed 
earth,  about  the  same  irrigation  ;'it  wonld 
•eem  aa  if  it  only  remained  for  Uie  lamfl 
care  to  he  exetciied  in  its  cultivation  ind 
manipolation  when  dried,  for  a  new  sod 
enormouily  valoaUe  industry  to  arise  oat 
of  the  dust,  it  nay  be  onoe  mon  to  elevats 
Jamaica  into  her  former  prosperous  coa- 
dition  among  the  islands.  At  present 
theae  greatly  desired  results  have  not 
urived,  Jamaica'  tobacco  not  obtaining  a 
"  '  price  in  the  market 

'hen  drawing  towards  the  close  of  mv 
reminiscences,  memory  seems  only  to  dmU 
upon  our  sweetaarly-moming  rambles ;  tlis 
lovely  mountain  aceaery,  iniioh  no  poor 
words  of  mine  can  adequately  describe ;  the 
helpful  kindness  bestowed  upon  ni  iu  oar 
taeed  by  unselfish  and  noble-hearted  people; 
the  great,  cool,  old  house  mellowM  and 
beautified  by  the  passage  of  a  handled 
vears  over  its  grey  roof.  I  remember  those 
lovely,  stiU,  tropiwl  nights,  whose  |»ofbiiiMl 
peace  did  so  mneh  to  Iwal  the  tnmbled 
minds  lying  under  the  shadow  of  a  great 
dread  —  all  our  busy  and  useful  life  of 
oeaselesB  oecnpation,  and  again  I  feel  oar 
intense  tlunkfulneas  when  once  more 
Teetored  to  the  bbwioKB  of  health.  All  elsa 
has  fled  into  the  dim  distanoe,  never,  how- 
ever, to  he  recalled,  save  with  grief  and  pain. 


THE  FISHERIES  EXHIBITION. 

It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  the  late 
Fisheries  Exhibition  has  stirred  up  such  a 
deal  of  envy,  if  not  of  habred,  malice,  and 
all  uDcharitableness. 

This  is  what  comes  of  giviuR  prixee.  It 
is  astonishing  how  people  wul  fight  one 
another  about  a  bronze  medal  No  doubt 
the  Gre^  did  the  sune  about  their 
crowns  of  paraley  and  bay- leaves.  If 
out  of  twenty  eompetaton  nineteen  get 
crowned,  the  odd  m»a  wonld  be  sure  to 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  prove  that 
"  somebody  "  had  acted  unfairiy. 

You  cannot  satisfy  evesybody,  I,  fat 
instance,  walking  the  other  day  in  Thanci, 
between  miles  of  land  beavilymanoredwith 
sprats,  could  not  help  blaming  the  Gi»i- 
missioneni  for  not  having  invented  a  mf 
of  bringing  the  fish  and  t£e  hnngry  mosthi 
togetJiw.  Of  course  they  can  do  nothh^ ; 
stU),  it  is  a  pity.  As  an  East  End  panon 
who  was  with  me  said,  if   Goremmnt 


THE  FISHERIES  EXHIBITION. 


oned  tiie  nilwftjB,  tbej  might  wnnge 
to  ran  np  a  rint  (U  ^nts  or  AMringi  »aA 
pst  it  intD  uu  baada  of  distribatore  wlto 
ibooid  therewitli  provids  &  fish-dinner  for 
Uie  shUdrm  irhom  wa  find  it  neeea- 
Muj  to  feed  at  boud^diools.  Bat,  bless 
Bt,  what  Ml  intetferenee  that  would  be 
m(k  Mpplj  and  demand  I  Better  fire 
haadied  ■UnrdinKB  ihoiUd  go  dinnarieas 
UuD  that  one  child  whom  parents  can 
iSori  to  gira  it  a  good  dinner  shonld  gat 
fad  fw  nothing, 

I  do  lUtt  tUnk  the  sixpenny  dinner  at 
the  Exhibition  was  a  iQcceB&  The  fiah 
ma  rary  coarse,  bnt  the  great  want  was 
IB  tray  of  waiters.  Nothing  less  would 
have  done  on  the  day  when  I  fed  there.  I 
ibodd  not  have  fed  at  all  had  not  a  kind 
p^eenun  taken  ma  roand  a  back  way  and 
pat  me  where  a  Tery  small  sUrer  key 
maorad  prompt  attentiML 

What  pleased  me  best  was  the  night 
view  of  the  place.  By  day  I  was  i^ways 
■tomUing  orer  c<h1b  of  rope  instead  of 
finding  what  I  was  looking  for;  and  I 
tanaot  my  that  the  boats  of  all  nations 
intereeted  me  ranch.  My  first  visit  was 
made  early,  when  suae  of  the  moat  cnrioos 
things— tboee  from  India,  for  instance,  and 
from  the  Sandwich  Islands — had  not  yet 
come ;  so  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
monotony  about  the  thing. 

Bat  what  of  the  net  resnlt  (rf  the 
Exhibition  1  Is  trawling  good  or  bad, 
for  instance  1  Does  it  destroy  millions 
on  millions  of  young  soles,  or  are  thay 
only,  as  some  one  said,  a  kind  that 
never  grows  any  bigger  and  would  only  eat 
np  the  food  of  the  more  profitable  species  t 
la  the  trawl-net  a  beneficent  engine,  stirring 
up  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  as  a  "  scarifier  " 
stirs  up  a  foul  bit  of  ground,  and  getting 
rid  of  uaeleaa  matter,  aniaial  and  vegetable, 
even  as  that  machine  gets  rid  of  "twitch") 
wrdoesit,onthecoutrary,  carry  destruction 
into  the  feeding  and  spawning  grounds,  as 
if  yon  mn  to  plough  up  a  good  field  of 
clover  in  order  to  gM  at  the  few  potatoes 
that  were  remaining  from  last  year's  cn^t 
Whoeantelll  Certainly  no  one  who  reads 
the  endless  little  bo(^  which  are  one  chief 
outcome  of  the  ExbibJtioa  A  says  one 
thing,  B  says  just  the  opposite;  and 
whether  A  or  B  is  right,  who  can  deter- 
mine 1  Again,  ooght  there  to  be  a  cloae 
time  for  aea  as  wall  as  for  river  fish  1  Mr. 
Haxley,  the  trawlers'  friend,  loudly  and 
emphiuicaUy  said,  "  No."  He  went  in  for 
froe-4iade  in  Gahing  of  the  moat  unreatricted 
kind  :  and  Mr.  Huzlev  is  a  irreat  anthorJtv 


-on  geology.  Moat  of  the  practical  men 
were  against  him  (though  there  was,  as 
we  tiitU  see,  a  grand  split  in  the  Canadian 
earop).  I,  living  not  far  from  the  East 
Anglian  Coaat,  have  questioned  several 
Lynn  fishermen ;  and  I  certainly  gathered 
from  them  that  trawling  does  cause 
immense  waate  of  vary  young  cod  aa  well 
as  of  other  thmgt,  and  that  shrimping  is 
worae  atiW,  and  has  quite  ruined  what  were 
once  good  spawning-beds.  Will  anything 
come  of  aU  this  vast  amount  of  fishery 
literature  i  Will  anybody  settle  the  trawl- 
iae  question  1  Will  anybody  atop  the 
pollution  of  rivers  1  WQl  it  do  any  good 
to  have  aired  all  these  theories,  and.  to 
have  used  up  so  much  paper  and  printers'- 
ink,  and  the  nerve-force  of  so  many 
authors  and  oompoaitotsi  One  practical 
qneatiiMi  I  want  to  hear  about— what  is  to 
become  of  the  surplus  t  Will  some  of  it 
be  used  to  found  a  school  of  obaervation 
like  that  which  has  been  for  some  time  at 
work  at  N^iles  1  and  would  such  a  school 
be  likely  to  do  any  real  good  or  would  it 
degenerate  into  a  means  of  giving  a  small 
income  to  a  tew  dilettanti  1  Then  there 
is  the  great  question  of  breeding  coarse 
fiah  for  poor  men's  eating.  Mr.  Blomefiald 
calculated  how  much  the  acreage  of  the 
small  Irishjakes  amounts  to,  and  how  many 
pounds  of  carp  tiiey  might  send  weekly 
to  the  Manchester  markeb  If  carp  is 
really  worth  breeding  (and  they  would  not 
go  in  for  it  ao  lately  In  Germany  if  it  were 
not),  why  not  atock  all  our  ponds,  and 
dig  out  the  stewa  which  yet  remain  as 
hollows  at  the  bottom  of  many  an  old 
manor-honse  garden,  especially  if  the  said 
house  is  built  on  the  ruins  of  some  abbey  1 
And  to  do  all  this,  money  would  be 
wanted.  Even  thrif  ^  America  keep)  a  big 
pond  dose  to  the  White  House,  ont  of 
which  it  gives  awayyoung  carp  for  stocking. 
We  ought  to  spend  some  of  the  anrplus  in 
doing  the  aame,  if  the  thing  is  worth 
doing;  but  my  mind  misgives  me  about 
carp.  I  never  tasted  it  but  cmce,  and  then 
it  was  detestable.  "Fault  of  cooking." 
Probably.  Our  weakness  in  fish-cookery 
waa  forcibly  brought  oat  in  one  of  the 
most  intereating  of  all  the  p^iera — that 
on  the  Japaneae  Fisheriea,  read  by  Mr. 
NartDOvi  Okoahi,  with  Mr.  Sonoda  Kokichi 
in  the  chair. 

The  Japaneae  eat  more  fish  than  any 
other  people  in  the  world.  With  them  meat- 
eating  is  a  fneign  innovation,  confined  to 
the  rich,  or  rather  to  those  rich  people  who 
nrefer  it  to  the  national   diet.     Clearlv 


[Pabrsur  O,  ISS*.) 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


Mr.  Okoahi  is  oot  one  of  then.  He  was 
enthnaiutio  aSxmt  the  excellence  of  his 
native  fish  duinen.  He  told  m  th&t 
the  reason  w|iy  fish  is  not  more  eaten  in 
England,  is  not  beeaose  of  its  |aioe  ot 
because  of  the  difficolty  of  tnuuport,  hot 
b«caiU6  we  cook  it  ao  badly.  "To  boil  it 
is  simply  to  take  away  the  best  part  of  its 
flavonr ;  with  na  theie  are  as  many  varietiee 
of  fUh-oooking  as  there  are  diffierent  kinds 
offish." 

The  Japanese  fishing  acret^  is  given  at 
more  than  half  as  much  again  as  the  tUl^le 
area  of  the  islands,  and  the  lea  ia  said  to 
yield  seventeen  times  as  mnch,  acre  for 
acre,  as  the  land.  Mr.  Okoahi,  whose  facts 
were  taken  from  Japanese  blue-books, 
seemed  rather  staggered  at  the  number  of 
fisber-folk — over  one  and  a  half  nullion ; 
whUe  in  the  United  Kingdom  the  men  and 
boys  are  given  at  only  a  hnndred  and  four- 
teen thooaaad.  He  doabted  if  all  were 
boni-fide,  even  including  the  siiens  in  red 
bathing-dress,  who  dive  for  sea-ears  and 
other  delioaoiee.  However,  as  they  have 
a  htindred  and  eighty-aeven  thooaand 
boats,  thoy  need  a  gMtd-siaed  army  to  man 
them. 

They  have  fiah-coltnre — tbey  have  even 
began  to  pnt  fish  in  tins — bat  strange  to 
say,  tb^  do  not  seem  to  brwd  salmon, 
which  is  confined  to  the  northern  island, 
Yeso.  Oarp  and  eels  and  Invam  are  the 
chief  f^«eh-water  fiafa.  In  the  sea  tiiey 
catch  thousands  of  tons  of  sardines,  fi» 
food  as  well  as  for  manure,  and  tminfea, 
and  bdche  de  mer,  and  octopus.  In  Mr. 
Lee's  Sea  Monsters  Unmasked,  ia  a  picture 
ot  a  fishmongar's  shop  in  Toluo,  with 
customers  buymg  octopus  jost  as  naturally 
as  if  it  were  cod  or  turbot.  Octopus-pots 
areaare|nlur  an  inatitntion  in  Japan  as  crab- 
pots  in  England.  The  bSche  is  speared  as  it 
liesat  the  8eabottom,aUttle  oil  beingthrown 
on  the  surface,  to  help  thb  fisherman's  eyea 
by  making  the  water  smooth.  Japan  did  not 
send  over  so  much  to  us  as  she  would  have 
done  had  she  not  had  a  nati<mid  fisheries 
exhibition  of  her  own  this  year ;  but  one 
thing  was  worth  noting — the  way  in 
which  the  nets  are  diessed  with  peraimou- 
juice ;  it  ought  to  be  much  cheaper  than 
tanning.  In  tiie  discusUon,  the  chairman 
was  justly  very  severe  on  the  old  toeatiea ; 
they  were,  he  said,  imposed  under  preasore, 
and  most  be  revised.  Whether  they  are 
or  not  will  depend  on  the  relative  strengUi 
of  "  British  interests  "  and  Bridah  justice. 
Oar  merchants  will  say :  "  Leave  things 
alone ;"  our  oonscisnce  will  whiepsr :  "  Bo 


the  right  tiling,  and  do  not  dday  any 
kHiger  about  it,"  Mr.  Kokichi  pat  it 
very  mildly  when  he  said :  "  TreatJea  so 
omdnded  naturally  lack  that  equitabifl 
efaataeter  whidi  is  essential  between  niendl}' 
powers."  In  plain  English,  the  Japanen 
knew  nothing  of  onr  commero^  and  other 
usages,  and  we  made  profit  ont  of  their 
ignorance;  they  were  atrai^eft  and  we 
took  them  in. 

It  takes  well-nigh  the  ciicmt  of  thewo^ 
to  bring  UB  from  Japan  to  West  Africa, 
whose  nshmee  were  deacribed  l^C^tuo 
Moloney.  It  will  be  news  to  most  that 
the  ahrimp-catching  at  Lagos  ia  almost 
aa  important  as  that  round  tae  Nore ;  and 
tiiat  tbe  "ni^er"  (always  clever  in  lay- 
thing  relating  to  cookery)  has  a  way  ot 
half-roaating,  half-smoking,  which  may 
be  compared  with  the  m^ng  of  bloaters. 
The  difference  is  that  bloaters  will  not  kem>; 
whereaa  a  basket  of  sluimpa,  dried  in  the 
firejdace  after  being  smoked,  will  go  aa 
far  aa  'Timbaotoo  without  getting  apuleii 

The  need  of  a  oloae  time  for  ^ve^fish  it 
nniversally  acknowledged.  Thanks  to  iti 
being  adopted,  we  b^m  to  have  salaumin 
rivers  whence  that  £ng  of  fish  bad  been 
exiled  since  the  Hanoverian  dynasty  came 
in.  But  how  about  sea-fish  1  We  used  to 
read  in  the  old-achool  Bdenco  catechismi 
of  tiie  countless  number  of  ^jgs  in  a  eod'i 
roe.  Why  protect  the  cod,  or  the  herring, 
or  the  sole,  or  the  mackerel  I  "Why, 
indeed  t "  reply  Mr.  Huxley  and  a  chonu 
of  aavana.  "You'll  be  fbols  fiw  yonr 
pains  if  you  do."  One  gisin  of  fact,  nov- 
ever,  is  worth  more  tlum  tons  of  theory; 
and,  aa  M  Joncas,  the  Canadian  com- 
misaioner,  proved,  the  Canadian  banks  ate 
suffering  froni  b^ng  over-fiahed.  In  tiie 
Baie  dee  Chalenre  on  the  St  L&wrencA 
from  Bimonski  to  Cap  Chat,  there  was  a 
few  years  ago  a  cod-fiehery  on  a  laiga  scale 
whidi  has  wholly  died  out  1%e  earns  vitli 
the  in-shore  fiahories  in  the  Gsspe  district 
Everywhere  the  men  have  to  go  farther 
out,  becanae  the  fish  have  not  been  pro- 
tected when  they  oame  in  ahore  to  q»wn. 

And  this  need  of  going  ao  fv  out 
means  the  ruin  of  the  smtul  man.  It  is  what 
keeps  back  the  Irish  fisherman  on  the 
west  coast  For  him,  in  hia  akin  conacb, 
five  miles  are  the  farthest  limit  of  safety. 
But  the  fiah  have  been  driven  far  beyond 
that,  and  now  can  only  be  followed  in  tbe 
b^;-decked  boats  of  Manxmen  or  £ait 
A^lians.  In  Canada,  likewise,  the  che^) 
little  boats  that  used  to  answer  very  well  an 
iiowuaeleBs,andthe  greater  coat  of  boats  that 


THE  FISHEfilES  EXHIBmON. 


[Pebtu»7ll.l8M-l      323 


wUl  weather  &om  twenty-five  to  forty  miles 
of  eea  has  doabled  the  price  of  cod.  Then, 
kgiin,  so  much  time  ia  lost  owing  to  the 
fiahing-groinidB  haviog  been  moved  80  fuofF. 
The  men  are  often  kept  aahoreidle ;  &  gde 
«SteB  comes  on  jost  ai  they  hare  got  to  the 
gionnds;  and  &Rer  a  take,  instead  of  being 
within  rowing  distance  of  their  maiket, 
they  must,  if  becalmed,  see  their  fish 
spoiled  unless  they  have  the  Inch  to  ship 
them  OD  board  a.  steamer. 

I  sud  thei«  was  a  division  of  opinion 
in  Canada  ;  the  Hon.  A.  W.  M'Lelan, 
Fisbories  Minister  for  the  Dominion,  and 
most  of  the  Canadians  hold  with  Dr. 
Ooode  Brown,  the  American  fish  minister, 
ttiat  protection  is  needed  if  the  harveet  of 
the  sea  is  to  be  kept  ap.  Mr.  WilmOt  was 
i^iecially  hard  on  Professor  Hiudey'e  in- 
angnral  address ;  bat  the  free  fishers  have 
a  small  following  even  in  the  Dominioa 
When  I  read  first  one  and  then  the  other, 
each  thoronghly  proving  his  own  case,  I 
now  almost  as  moddled  as  those  poor 
Welshmen  who  came  np  by  an  excnrsion 
train,  sod  got  so  hopelessly  dnmk  on  the 
jonmey  QaA,  when  they  were  landed  from 
the  private  omnibos,  they  could  do  uothing 
bat  lie  down  and  go  to  aleep  round  the 
enfn&oe.  That  eertatnly  was  not  an 
edifying  result  of  the  Exhibition. 

Among  the  authoritative  handbooks  is 
one  OB  "  the  un^preciated  fiaher-folk." 
Unappreciated  by  whom  1  I  thought  every- 
body knew  about  the  Newhaven  fishwives 
— hov  they  always  manage  the  house 
and  ke^  the  pone ;  how  they  are  mighty 
stnng,  and  as  handsome  as  they  are 
strong.  Foot  of  Uiem  once  trotted  vrith  a 
creel  full  of  fish,  the  twenty-six  miles  from 
Dunbar  to  Edinbur^  in  five  hoars.  Sir 
Walter,  who  studied  them  at  Aaofamithie, 
saw  them  rushing  into  the  water  to  bring 
th^  husbands  and  sons  ashore  on  their 
shoulders.  "  You  take  a  dram,  I  per- 
ceive," Bud  he — how  had  he  found  that 
out,  I  wonder  t  "  Oh,  'deed  we  dee 
that,  an'  we  hse  muckle  need  o'  't  tee." 
The  bane  of  the  Scotch  herring  fishermen 
is  the  speculative  "  cnrer,"  who  supplies 
sangoine  young  men  who  don't  Uke  to 
serve  other  bratmaeters  with  boat  and 
gear  complete ;  and,  then,  if  the  poor  fellow 
has  a  ran  of  ill-lock,  it  goes  hard  with  him. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  a  few  (d  those 
nights  whea  one  boat's  load  is  worth  a 
hundred  pounds,  he  soon  clears  all  off.  A 
few  very  good  takes  may  be  bad  for  the 
oarer ;  his  salt  may  run  short ;  he  may  not 
have  hands  enouirh  to  keen  uu  with  the 


gutting,  for  to  get  the  best  brand  the  herring 
most  be  cored  the  day  they  are  caught 

Boats  are  much  dearer  than  they  were. 
The  open  yawls  of  twenty  years  i^  have 
given  place  to  decked  boats  costing  some 
two  hundred  and  seventy  pounds  a  piece ; 
but  this  is  more  than  made  up  for  in  the 
greater  value  of  the  takes.  Bnt  it  ia  no  use 
having  big  boats  unless  yon  use  steam-tuga. 
A  little  yawl  might  be  rowed  to  land,  a  big 
one  may  chance  to  be  becalmed  till  all  the 
take  is  spoiled. 

One  gets  an  idea  of  the  importance  of 
the  fishery  when  one  reads  that  the  nets 
of  the  herring  fleets  that  may  be  seen  any 
ni^t  during  the  season  off  the  Abra?deen- 
sbire  coast  would  stretch  six  times  across 
the  North  Sea.  One  boat  will  often  have  two 
miles  of  nets.  As  to  the  gutting,  that  can 
bs  done  by  an  active  woman  at  the  rate  of 
two  dozen  a  minute,  so  that  she  can  fill  a 
barrel — of  which  more  than  a  million  are 
yearly  filled  in  Scotland — in  thirty-five 
minutes,  and  the  price  is  fourpenoe  a 
barrel,  except,  of  course,  when  there  is  a 
glut,  and  the  "  gutter  "  ^  at  a  premium.  It 
is  in  Scotland  at  herring  time  as  it  is  in 
Oomwall  when  "the  boon  have  sighted 
fish  "  (Le.  pilchards):  everybody  becomes  a 
fisher  or  a  "gutter"  for  the  nonce. 
Cobblera,  gardeners,  and  their  wives  and 
daughters  run  down  to  the  coast  A 
crowd  of  Highlanders  and  islanders  cMoing 
to  earn  "an  orra  pound  or  may  be  twa," 
add  novelty  to  the  scene,  and  the  produce 
of  all  this  bustle  is  worth  about  two  and  a 
halfmillions  sterling. 

The  Yarmouth  men  are  not  satisfied 
with  the  herring  at  hom&  They  go  ofi* 
and  seek  the  cod,  turbot,  sole,  etc.,  m  the 
great  North  Sea  Fishery,  though  their 
boats,  though  a  good  deal  bigger  than  the 
Scotch,  do  not  nearly  come  up  to  those  of 
Qreat  Qrimsby.  A  Grimsby  smack,  with 
all  its  gear,  costs  as  mu<^  as  sixteen 
hundred  pounds. 

The  conservatism  of  fishermen  is 
shown  in  the  bait  they  make  such  a 
fuss  about  The  Scotch  go  in  for  musselei, 
sending  for  them  down  to  the  Humber,  or 
round  to  the  Clyde,  or  even  to  Hambui^ ; 
and  the  Dutch  will  have  lampems,  for 
which  they  send  to  England ;  while  the 
herring,  a  surer  bait  than  either,  is  com- 
paratively little  ased. 

I  am  quite  sure  the  Cornish  fishers  are 
not  unappreciated.  The  amount  that  has 
been  written  upon  "haers,"  who  go  to  the 
difi'-tops  to  look  out  for  shoals,  and  signal 
them  to  the  boats  below,  bv  waviufc  furise- 


3  24      [FebnuiT  B,  ISSLT 


ALL  THE  TEAE  BOUND. 


buBhea,  uid  about  mum,  and  pilchaid 
p&Ucw,  and  "  fair  matdB,"  aa  the  mmadoB 
(smoked  fiah)  are  cnmntlf  called,  is 
enough  to  hare  taudit  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  the  United  Kbgdom  all  abont 
them.  Down  in  the  Weat  those  imeoro- 
promisii^  Comish  Proteataoto  alwavi  need 
to  drink  "  long  life  to  the  Pwe,"  beoaiue 
he  waa  auppoaed  to  promote  the  eating  ol 
salt  fiih,  and  thereb)'  to  further  their  tntde. 
Wages  are  low  in  Cornwall — from  eight  to 
twelve  shilliDgs  a  week^  the  master-aeamen 
only  getting  hia  weekly  guinea  and  a  bonaa 
an  every  hundredth  ht^head.  St  Ives  is 
one  of  the  great  centrea ;  and  there,  aa 
more  lately  in  the  far  north  of  Scotland, 
there  uaed  to  be  rows  between  the  local 
men  and  the  Loweatoft  crews  about  Sunday 
fiahiDg.  The  Comiahmen  thoaght  it  veiy 
unfair  that  their  rivals  should  he  able 
to  send  off  a  train-load  on  Monday  morn- 
ing, while  they  had  to  wait  till  next  day. 

This  "  un^preoiated  fisher-folk"  work 
is  provokingly  brief  about  the  Chinese 
fishermen,  not  finding  apaoe  even  to  trot 
out  the  familiar  <^rmerant ;  and  it  does 
not  aay  a  word  about  that  destructive 
aubslitnte  for  fishing  which  goes  on  in  the 
Indian  paddy-fields.  At  the  monaoon  the 
fields  are  abeolutely  "strained  "  to  get  the 
fry,  and  every  irrigation  channel  has  its 
wicker-work  trap ;  and  yet,  ao  exuberaiA 
is  Nature,  that  one  hears  not  a  word  about 
the  supply  nimijng  abort. 

One  of  its  suggestions  ought  certainly 
to  be  followed  up^  Fishermen  ahould 
insure.  They  do  not  as  a  rale,  just  aa 
sailors  do  not  learn  iwimming.  It  might 
be  done  either  by  a  voluntary  payment  of^ 
say,  sixpence  a  barrel  from  the  herring 
men,  or  by  a  cheap  licence,  the  proceeda 
of  which  should  form  a  Government  in- 
surance. If  forty  thousand  fishermen 
paid  each  five  shillings  a  year,  there  would 
be  an  ample  provision  againat  accidents. 

Aa  I  walked  through  the  Swedish 
Department,  and  looked  at  the  long  ling- 
lines  and  seal-nets,  and  the  great  trap-net 
with  arms,  and  the  tangle  (pimpeldon),with 
shiny  hooks  instead  of  bait,  shown  by  the 
Royal  Agricultural  (Landtbruka)  Academy, 
I  remembered  the  oM  story  in  Olaua Magnus, 
Bishop  of  Upsaal  in  1563,  about  winter- 
fishing — hreauDg,  two  hundred  paces  apart, 
two  big  holes  in  the  ice,  joined  bya  narrow 
chann^;  casting  a  net  into  one,  and 
Lugging  it  with  corda  to  the  other,  out  of 
which  it  waa  quickly  drawn  by  men  on 
horseback,  who  galloped  off  aa  soon  as  the 
corda  were  ptaaed  to  them. 


The  Danes  ought  to  be  practised  fideis ; 
but  aomehow  Denmark  made  a  very  poor 
ahow  at  South  Keasiagton.  Do  we  still 
fish  Ihe  coMti  of  loeliud  as  we  uaed  to 
four  centuries  ago,  thereby  calling  forth 
rsmonstrancee  from  the  Danish  am- 
bassador t  It  waa  we,  too,  who  at  Uia 
very  end  of  the  aixtaenth  cantarj-  found, 
and  for  fourteen  yean  kept  to  onrselvM,  a 
aplendid  Greenland  fiahing-gronnd, "  a  gold 
mine,"  our  old  writers  call  it,  the  ore  being 
whalea.  By-aod-by  we  had  to  let  in  Danei, 
and  Dutch,  and  French ;  and  our  own  trade 
came  to  ncrthing. 

Let  any  one  who  cares  for  the 
literature  of  fishing,  and  how  Isis  wu 
worshipped  as  a  fish-tailed  woman,  and 
how'Jciian  talka  of  fly-fisbiog,  and  of 
tickling  trout,  and  how  Oppiau  got  hii 
father  restored  from  buiishment  by  recit- 
ing his  Halieutics  before  Emperor  Sevenu, 
and  how  Charles  the  Fifth  visited  the 
tomb  of  Will  BelkinBon,  the  En^bmaii 
who  in  tho  fourteenth  century  taught  the 
Dutch  how  to  pickle  herrings,  look  into 
Mr.  Mauley's  ^ndbook  and  that  by  Mr. 
Davenport  Adams.  He  will  leara  that 
about  one  hundred  and  forty  yeua  ago 
there  waa  a  company  for  carrying  fiah  bf 
postchaiae  &om  the  south  coast  to  Lradon, 
the  coat  for  the  eeventy-two  miles  bwng 
foar  pounds  five  shillings  for  half  a  ton, 
and  the  time  twelve  hours.  He  will  lean 
that  in  Japan  the  aalmon  is  the  type  of 
perseverance,  and  when  a  boy  is  bwn,  a 
paper  aalmon,  so  oonstmcted  that  the  wind 
swells  it  into  proper  roundness,  is  put  oi 
the  houae-top.  X^-and-by  it  ia  taken  and 
kept  among  the  honaehold  goda  (like  a 
French  peaaant-girl'a  wedding  wnath) ;  and 
whenever  the  boy  wants  a  talking  to,  he  ii 
bidden  to  meet  the  trials  of  life  in  a  salmon- 
like  way,  I  wonder  if  the  boys  ob 
trawlers'  smacks,  who  so  easily  lip  ove^ 
board  while  they  are  baUng  up  water  (see 
that  sad  Bising  Sun  case), look  on  the  sohsoD 
aa  their  pattern ;  by  all  accousta  they  need 
something  to  keep  the  heart  olive  in  them. 
Carelesa  as  we  are  of  our  fiahet-boy%  wa 
were  alwaya  careful  of  our  fisheriea 
Edgar,  fond  of  high  Bounding  titlea — Altito- 
nantis  Dei  Isrgifluente  dementia — claimsd 
to  be  Baaileua,  not  only  of  the  English 
but  alao  of  all  the  ocean  and  whatever 
therein  ia.  When  the  English  ^ppii^ 
used  to  be  summoned  out  through  feir  of 
French  invaaitm,  the  east-coast  fiaberman 
I  spooftlly  exempted.  Hetfty  the 
Seventh  ordered  that  for  every  sixty-ei^ 
acres  of  tillage  one  rod  shall  be  sown  with 


ROBIN  Y  REE, 


(Fabnury  IS,  1SM.B      325 


flax  or  hemp  for  cordage.  Our  poets 
hiTB  Dot  fonotteu  the  gentle  craft.  Da 
Butas,  and  Drayton  of  the  Polyolbion, 
m  haxdlf  poeta ;  bat  they  are  only  two 
in  a  list  which  b^na  with  Chancer  and 
inebuieB  Qay,  who  tella  na  that  not  caring 

Anxmi]  the  hgok  the  tnrtutod  warm  ta  twine, 
beprafarred 

Td  cwt  the  feathered  hook. 
And  wttii  the  fiir-wiuuKht  Hy  doliida  the  pniy. 

Not  mneh  more  than  two  hondred  yeara 
ago,  Gilbert  published  hia  Angler's  D  Jight, 
cantaining,  The  Method  of  Fishing  in 
Hackn^  Marshes,  and  bida  piscator  go 
to  the  Flower  de  Luce,  at  Cl^ton, "  where, 
vhilat  yon  are  drinlcing  a  pot  of  ale,  they 
will  make  yon  two  or  three  pennyworth 
of  paste  for  gronnd-bait.  They  do  it  yery 
neatly  and  well,"  he  adds ;  and  here  are 
the  ingredients :  "  Of  Man's  Fat,  Cat's 
Fat,  Heron's  Fat,  and  of  the  best  Ass&- 
fcstida,  of  each  two  drams ;  mommy  finely 
powdered,  two  drams;  cummin-seed,  two 
semples ;  and  of  camphor,  galbanom,  and 
Venice  turpentine  of  each  one  dram ;  civet 
gnins  two.  Treat  it  as  a  jewel,  for  'tts 
nsgDentom  piscatomm  mirabile." 

As  amnsing  as  any  of  these  handbooks 
is  Mr.  Lee's  Sea  Monsters  Unmasked, 
which  anma  np  all  that  has  been  written 
ahoub  the  Krake,  since  Bishop  Fontop- 
l»dan  copied  Olans  Mi^os,  who  had  some- 
how heard  the  tradition  of  the  living  island 
that  BO  suddenly  went  down  to  the  con- 
fiiaioa  of  Sindbad  and  his  company. 
P<attoppldan  says  the  Krake  is  a  polype — 
he  is  clearly  descrilung  a  sort  of  octopna. 
Mr.  Lee  girea  doaens  of  cases  of  men 
pulled  nmur  by  octopi,  cases  which  show 
that  Victor  Hngo  was  not  at  all  wrong 
with  hia  pieovre  that  people  langhed  at  so 
mnch.  The  Japanese  eat  these  monsters — 
see  a  cnt  by  a  native  artist  of  a  Tokio  fiah- 
nusiger's  shop;  thongh  the  companion  pic- 
tare  of  a  boat  attacked  by  a  huge  octopus, 
■bows  that  the  polypes  are  sometimes  able 
to  retnm  the  compliment  The  sea-serpent 
appeus  to  be  another  huge  polype,  the 
eaUmary,  which  has  a  beak  and  retractile 
claws  instead  of  sackers  at  the  end  of  its 
thoi^-like  tentacles.  Mr.  Lee  gives  pic- 
tores  of  all  the  sea-serpents,  from  those 
figured  by  Ohtns  Mj^os,  to  that  seen 
from  Her  Majesty's  yacht  in  1877,  and 
leaven  as  in  doubt  whether  all  these  can 
have  been  "  sqnids "  (calamariea),  or 
whether  we  must  suppose  that  some  of  the 
vait  santians  of  the  Lyme  KegU  beds 
are  still  alive. 

Mr.  Lee.  too.  eoes  throuKh  the  history  I 


ai  merman  and  mermaids,  from  Dagon  as 
he  is  fonnd  at  Nineveh,  and  Haa  (Noah) 
at  Kbonabad,  down  to  the  Japanese  or 
Malay  artificial  mermaids,  which  used  to 
be  shown  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  are  still 
found,  I  believe,  in  Mr.  BamniB's  collec- 
tion. 

Mr.  Lee  thinks  the  Lemean  hydra  was 
an  octopus  (the  octopus  wlU  come  to  be  as 
generally  useful  in  fish  lore  as  the  snn  is  in 
comparative  mythology),  and  he  corrects 
two  "  vulgar  errora."  Whales  do  not  spout 
through  tAeir  blow-holes  the  water  which 
they  have  taken  in  through  their  mouths 
— whatever  water  there  may  be  in  a 
whale's  "  blow  "  is  only  condensed  vapour. 
The  paper  nautilos  does  not  sail  on  the 
surface — is  but  a  female  octopos  with  a 
portable  nest,  which  serves  to  protect  her 
head  as  she  crawls  along  the  bottom. 

This  is  ^  very  well,  bnt  really  a 
Fisheries  Exhibition  ought  to  do  a  great 
deal  more  than  give  occasion  for  scores  of 
neat  little  boon,  some  of  which  tell  old 
stories  in  a  lively  way,  some  are  full  of 
forgotten  fish-lore,  ancient  and  medieval, 
while  others  discuss,  "  burning  qnestions  " 
about  the  cnltnre,  and  catching,  and  trans- 
port of  fishes,  but  without  settling  any- 
thing. One  looks  to  a  national  affair  of 
this  kind  to  set  some  of  these  moot 
questions  at  rest  Perhaps  our  Exhibition 
may  help  to  do  so  by-and-by  as  its  real 
results  come  to  be  better  ascertained. 


VEARNlNtl. 
TIH  the  veit  the  iflor;  dies  nwfty, 
Fiunt  riiie  flecks  gleaniing  in  the  darkenine;  sky  ; 
And  the  lnw  toimda  that  mtrk  the  clnsa  of  day. 
up  triim  wood  wid  upland— rUe  and  die  ; 
ienoe  falls  o'ei  meadow,  hill,  and  gruve, 
And  in  the  hush  I  want  you,  oh,  my  love. 
Iri  the  Kay  radiai 
In  the  warm  b 

Then  man  and  1 , .. 

With  the  day's  fulness  blond  in  eager  ti 
The  rush  of  life  forbidn  the  \i\>]m  to  move. 
That  now,  in  yearning  passi'in,  wantfl  you,  li>ve. 
Wants  you  to  watch  the  erlmson  glow  and  fade, 
Through  the  great  branchen  of  the  broadeDing 
lime  J 


Wanta  you  to  whiai 


"Come,  your  power  ti 


The  gloaming  needs  ita  angol,  come,  my  love." 


ROBIN  Y  EEK 
A  STOKY 
Hark  I  there  it  was  agfun,  that  strange 
melody,  floating  over  the  silent  sea  and 
moorland,  and  falling  on  the  ear  as  aofUy 
as  thistledown.  It  was  one  of  the  old 
Bon^s  of  the  country,   perhaps  sung  by 


336      IPsbnittylS,  IB 


AT.T.  THE  TEAK  EOUHD. 


boihq  fisherman  u  he  walked  homeward 
through  the  antamn  twilight  with  his 
empty  creel  on  his  back  and  money  in  hii 
pocket.  The  Binger  was  invisible,  but  the 
wordi  were  these  : 

Red  toi>-kni)ta  and  ribbona  of  green  thoolt  wwf, 
If,  Bweet  little  Betsy,  with  me  thoult  pair, 

llobiii  the  kiun;,  Kubin  tbe  king  ridkit.* 
The  prevailins  atilbiesB  made  it  difficult 
to  say  whether  tix  'words  came  from  far  or 
near.  The  breeze  was  too  slight  to  stir 
the  bracken,  and  the  peatrsmoke  hong  in 
motJonleas  wreaths  over  the  cottage  chim- 
neys in  the  glen,  and  the  clouds  of  tiny 
butterflies  that  had  flitted  over  the  gorse 
and  heather  daring  the  daytime  had 
mysteriously  vooisbed  at  sunset.  The 
eooiea  were  awake,  no  doubt,  but  they 
pmdently  kept  out  of  sight  The  curlews 
were  asleep  among  the  turnips,  the  grey 

§  lover  were  away  on  the  hillside,  and 
own  yonder  among  thie  cliffs  the  gulls,  and 
gannete,  and  guillemots  wen  stukUog  in 
lo^  white  rows, 

,  Bat  a  the  solemn  night  was  voiceless,  it 
had  a  wonderful  charm  of  its  own,  though 
the  moon  was  yet  to  unerge  like  some 
gilded  dragon-fly  from  its  slumber  beneath 
the  waters.  The  air  was  laden  with  the 
freshness  of  the  sea  and  the  perfume  of 
the  moorland  flowers ;  the  sky  was  a  deep 
undappled  blue,  to  which  the  countless 
stars  flickering  in  its  dome  imparted  a  vast- 
ness  immeasurably  greater  than  that  of  the , 
sunlit  day ;  immediately  overhead  lay  Yn 
Raad  Mooar  Bee  Qhorres,t  the  Qreat  Boad 
by  which  King  Orry  brought  his  yellow- 
bearded  Norsemen  to  the  coast  of  Man ; 
and  at  its  northern  extremity  a  pinkish 
glow  was  now  advancing  and  now  reced- 
ing, afraid  of  invading  the  realm  of  night, 
yet  unwilling  to  leave  a  scene  of  so  much 
beaaty.  Away  to  the  south,  beyond  a 
great  sweep  of  tranquil  ^ter,  broken  only 
by  the  spear-points  of  the  stars,  a  dense 
mist  was  winding  around  the  bays  and 
headlands,  and  as  it  drew  aside  for  a 
moment  there  came  from  its  midst  the 
bright  flash  of  a  lighthouse ;  bat  elsewhere 


IS  of  works  pubhahed 

-,  - — J bwriberg  Hume  ytait 

ago.  It  is  of  fluch  great  imtiqiiity  that  the 
peaauitiy  bave  no  tradition  concerDiosthepecaliar 
heod'dnuii  referred  to.    The  refcain  ii  u  foUowa : 

Bobid  f  Re«.  BobiB  ya  Baa  ridliin. 

Aboo,  Aban  I  tal  <ty  rldlui. 

Aboo,  Aban  !  Kobla  j  Kee. 
''Abi>o,_  Abon  1"  waa  probably  part  of  a  form  of 


the  atmosphere  was  so  dear  tiutt  the  loeki 
stood  out  in  bold  relief,  their  shadowi 
nmiiii'g  all  mantier  of  fantastic  sh^Ma 

In  the  background  the  hills  cut  into  the 
Uue  s^  like  a  row  of  «iormous  shaikV 
teeih,  and  iJter  sweeping  past  fields  of 
com  and  clover  with  many,  a  oosy  littlo 
homestead  nestling  among  the  trees,  thsy 
at  last  arrived  at  this  wild  spot  where  gorse 
and  heather  and  bracken  tumbled  into  ■ 
deepgleti,andthen  spread  out  on  either  hsnd 
into  a  sheet  of  gold,  and  brown,  and  parple, 
studded  with  an  oceasional  boulder,  si  if 
to  prevent  the  wind  from  blowing  it  away. 
A  couple  of  hundred  yards  farther  down, 
the  moorland  terminated  soddenly  in  s 
perpendicular  wall  ol  schist  that  dropped 
mto  the  sea  many  hundred  feet  below,  bat 
parted  in  the  centn  as  if  it  had  been 
cleft  with  a  mighty  hatchet  A  hw 
thatched,  whitewashed  cottages  <xouched 
upon  the  sides  of  the  glen,  for  the  wiad 
sometimes  blew  such  a  ahnll  blast  down 
that  narrow  channel  that  it  was  necesssiy 
to  take  advantage  of  the  little  shelter  to 
be  found  there.  In  the  femy  depths  there 
wasagUstenof  silver,  and  a  keen  ear  mif^t 
have  detected  the  babble  of  ibe  Inook  u 
it  hurried  seawards. 

Except  for  the  inviuble  singer,  the  whole 
world  seemed  to  be  asleep,  and  the  itin 
looked  down  upon  an  unbroken  solitude. 
Presently  the  Toioe  went  on  : 

H«d  top-kniHa  and  ribbons  of  black  tbonit  wear ; 
111  make  thae  Queen  of  the  Ma)-.  I  swau. 
Bobin  the  king,  Robin  the  king  lidlui. 

The  words  had  scarcely  died  away  wboi 
two  Ggoree  mounted  the  steep  side  of  tiie 
glen  and  slowly  made  their  way  towaidi 
the  clifis.  The  one  was  a  tall,  handsome, 
well-dressed  man  with  a  brown  beard ;  the 
other  a  woman,  young  and  beautifoL  Hs 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Elsie,  I've  been  thinkiDg — thinkiDgveiy 
seriously  of  askiDg  you  to  marry  me. 

"  Me  marry  you  ! "  She  bad  stopped 
enddenly  to  stare  at  him,  her  dark  eyes 
brimful  of  astouisbment,  a  warm  flush  on 
her  brown  cheeks,  which  were  putl; 
shaded  by  loug  black  hur  flowing  aroona 
her  shi^tely  shoulders,  and  her  hsnda 
clasped  in  &ont  of  her.  Standing  tboeio 
the  midst  of  the  heather,  she  looked  tike  i 
startled  fawn.  "Me  many  you,  Mr. 
Graham  1 "  she  repeated,  weighing  out  Uie 
words  one  by  one  as  if  to  get  at  their 
meaning  that  way.  ^, 

"  You  shouldn't  say  'Me  marry  youl  ' 
he  said  with  a  slight  shiver.  "  You  ihoiild 
say,  ■  I  marry  you  I '  And  it  woold  be  nieei 


ROBIN  Y  REE. 


mtmurr  St,  UM  J     S27 


if  yon  were  to  subetitnta  Bobin  for  Mr. 
Onhftm,  whi<di  has  an  abomiiubly  formal 
lODiid  botireen  sach  great  friendi  of  qnite 
two  months'  Btanding.  Thus  corrected, 
the  sentence  mns, '  I  mtrrj  yon,  Robin  I ' 
to  which  Robin  replies, '  Why  not  t ' " 

It  is  doabtfol  whether  she  fully  appre- 
(iftted  this  ■ingnUr  miztnrfl  of  teaclmig 
ud  wooing ;  indeed,  it  is  doabtfol  whether 
Ab  even  nnderstood  it. 

"Tis  only  a  poor  fisher-girl  I  am,"  she 
uswered,  "  and  'tis  yon  t&t  are  a  grand 
gentleman,  with  money,  and  lands,  and 
homea,  so  the  neighbonrs  tell  me.  Oh,  but 
it  wonld  be  a  strange  thing  for  me  to 
mury  you,  Mr.  Orahiun." 

Womanlike  she  glanced  from  his  fine 
dothee  to  her  own  humble  garb — a  coarse 
grey  drees  of  bomespnn  wool,  a  bloe  shawl 
crossed  over  her  breast  and  fiutened  at  her 
waist,  and  i  kind  of  son-bonnet  In  this 
tespect  the  disparity  between  them  was 
tnffidently  obvious,  though  it  would  have 
been  bard  to  match  the  girl's  graceful 
figure  or  beautiful  face. 

"I  am  not  acting  in  haste  to  repent  at 
Idsnre,"  said  Robin  Graham  with  deli- 
beration. "  Some  ai^nments  may  be  uived 
rlnat  our  marriage,  I  admit ;  bat  as  they 
spring  from  an  accident — the  accident 
of  birth — tiiey  can  be  easily  brushed  asid& 
And  then,  Elsie,  the  sacrifice  won't  be 
^together  on  my  side.  Oh  no  I  yon'll 
have  some^ng  to  give  up  toa  Yon  see, 
I've  thought  the  matter  well  over." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  her,  as  if  he 
had  asked  her  a  question ;  bnt  she  was  too 
utonished  to  speak ;  this  wonderfbl  tfiing, 
Utat  he  wished  her  to  mairy  him,  quite 
stupefied  her.     Se  he  went  on : 

"  Fine  ladies  are  all  ve^  well  for  a  time, 
but  a  man  gats  tired  of  them — Ured  of 
their  fine  feathers,  and  their  fine  speeches, 
and  their  fine  ways.  That  sort  of  thing  is 
Uking  in  the  showroom,  bnt  inexpressibly 
wearisome  in  the  house.  There's  not  au 
ounce  of  sincerity  in  a  ton  of  such  staff. 
No,  there  is  nothing  like  a  quiet,  domestic 
life :  a  pleasant,  humdrnm  husband,  and  a 
cheerful,  chatty  wife  to  make  tea  and  sew 
on  buttons,  and  do  things  generally.  You 
could  manage  that,  Elsie  1 " 

"  Oh  yes,  Mr.  Graham,"  she  exolumed, 
her  dark  eyes  wide-open  with  surprise ; 
"  and  I'm  thinking  old  Kitty  Oorktll  could 
do  tliat  for  yoa  The  words  tonched 
rather  a  discordant  note,  but  the  voice  was 
ungularly  sweet,  having  learnt  its  cadences 

?  mind  about  Kittv 


CorkilL  She  is  old  and  ugly,  and  yon  are 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Which  is 
it  to  be,  Elsie,  yes,  or  no  1 " 

And  now  from  across  the  heather  came 
the  last  sad  wordu  of  the  song,  bat  so 
softly  that  neither  of  these  two  heard  it. 

Oh,  Bweob  litUa  Betay.  thou'rt  breaking-  my  heart, 
Courting  Robin  th«  king,  thoy  uy  thou  ut, 
Itubin  the  king,  Robin  tho  king  ridlau. 

When  the  invisible  singer  ceased,  the 
dark  hHIs  Be>emed  to  grow  darker,  and  a 
gloom  to  fall  over  the  nndulating  moor- 
land and  the  wide  sea  beyond,  though  the 
sky  still  remained  atany  and  cloudless. 
Elsie,  perceiving  that  the  "  merry  dancers  " 
had  vanished,  could  not  repress  a  little 
shudder,  but  she  was  soon  al»orbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  bri^t  prospect  sud- 
denly opened  out  before  her. 

She  saw  ft  beautiful  picture  of  fairyland, 
for  it  was  quite  impossible  to  imagine  its 
existence  in  real  life.  Wild  billy  coast 
scenery  is  fruitful  in  marvels;  but  set  a 
man  down  in  the  middle  of  a  plain  and  he 
would  suppose  the  earUi  to  be  flat,  and  life 
a  mimotonous .  level  track  along  it  Here, 
in  this  lonely  glen,  the  whole  air  was  full 
of  mysteiT ;  the  tales  that  the  old  folk  told 
aronnd  their  cottage-fires  ^ter  nightfall 
were  of  things  and  bein^  invisible  to  dull 
citizens.  There  was  Ben  Yarrey,  the 
mermaid,  who,  before  every  great  festival, 
imparted  to  her  jewels  new  brilliancy  by 
setting  them  in  the  wave-tops,  and  there 
they  might  be  seen  flashing  in  tiia  sanlight, 
whUe  the  syrens  sang  bewitching  melodies 
to  entice  mortals  away  from  them.  Who 
had  not  heard  of  the  splendid  city,  with 
its  gilded  towers  and  minarets,  which  that 
mighty  magician,  Fin  MacConl,  had  sunk 
beneaui  the  waves  off  Fort  Soderic  t 
Though  he  hod  transformed  its  inhabitants 
into  blocks  of  granite,  yet  curiously  enough 
they  were  summoned  to  charch  regularly 
every  Sanday,  for  the  sailors  often  heard 
die  tinkling  of  the  bell ;  and  the  whole 
idand  rose  to  the  sur&ce  once  every  seven 
years,  and  wonld  remain  above  water  if 
only  one  could  see  it  and  lay  a  Bible  upon 
it  And  beneath  Cas^e  Rushen  was  there 
not  a  wonderful  race  of  giants,  who  drank 
oat  of  golden  goblets,  and  wore  magnificent 
cloUies,  and  whose  sabnrban  retreat  was 
illaminated  by  a  reckless  profusion  of  wax- 
candles  I  TUs  was  incontestable,  for  an 
adventuresome  mortal  had  interviewed  one 
of  them,  and  the  giant,  after  asking 
how  things  were  going  on  in  the.  upper 
regions,  had  crashed  up  a  ploughshare  as 
esflUv  as  if  it  had  been  a  filbert,  and  then 


328     [F.i» 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


wjd  pleaauttly :  "  Then  are  aUll  men  in 
the  lud  of  Man."  Why,  EUie  had  aeen 
with  her  own  eyea  in  Kirk  Malew  & 
chalice  which  had  been  carried  off  from  an 
elfin  bonqnet  And  witli  Buch  wonden  she 
had  to  fashion  her  picture. 

First  of  all,  there  waa  to  be  a  houae 
twice  u  large  aa  her  father's  thatched 
cotti^e  in  the  glen  ;  the  crockery  on  the 
dreaser  was  to  be  replaced  by  silver  platea, 
like  those  nsed  for  collectiag  in  churchea 
on  grand  occaaions ;  the  brass  candlesticks 
upon  the  mantelpiece  were  to  make  way 
for  gold  ones ;  the  stone  floor  would  be 
hidden  beneath  a  gorgeous  carpet;  the  deal 
tables  and  chairs  must  ga— something  of 
dark  wood  like  the  old  Dutch  clock  would 
look  better;  outside  there  should  be  a 
handsome  porch  and  a  garden,  and 
geraniums  in  the  window,  and  no  split 
congers  hanging  against  the  walls ;  and  la 
the  midst  of  ul  thie  grandeur  would  be 
Elsie  herself,  dressed  in  ailk  and  be- 
decked with  jewels,  like  Ben  Vaney,  and 
doing  nothing  all  day  long  but  sitting  in 
an  armchair,  and  ordering  her  aerraota 
about,  As  this  splendid  vision  passed 
through  her  brain,  her  dark  eyea  flaahed 
with  delight^  and  half  unconicionsly  she 
swept  the  long  black  hair  from  her  beautiful 
face,  to  makeheraelf  look  more  like  thevicar's 
daughter,  whose  hair  was  fastened  behind. 

Herrings  for  dinner  today ;  herriugs 
yesterday ;  herrings  to  -  morrow.  There 
would  be  no  more  herrings,  thoi^ht  EUie ; 
the  barrel  would  vanish  from  the  comer 
of  the  room,  and,  instead,  she  woold  dine 
upon  bacon  and  beef,  and  delicacies  of 
every  kind.  Good-bye  to  amvlass  (bntttf- 
milk  and  water),  aotlaghan  (a  kind  of 
porridge),  braghtan  {a  sandwich  of  battered 
oatcake,  potatoes,  and  herrinse),  and 
biojean  (curds);  instead  of  these  she  would 
fare  aa  if  every  day  were  a  Sunday-school 
feast,  and  she  would  have  plenty  of  jough 
(beer)  for  her  father  and  the  neighbours. 
Oh  yea,  her  enjoyment  waa  not  to  be 
wholly  selfish,  'niere  was  to  be  a  chair  for 
her  tather  by  the  chimney-comer,  aqd 
tobacco  in  plenty,  and  he  waa  to  ait  there 
and  smoke  from  morning  till  night ;  and 
the  neighboora  were  to  come  in 
some  ahare  of  her  comforts.  For  sc 
she  would  purchase  t^eir  winter  stock 
of  henings;  for  others,  she  would  pay 
men  to  cut  and  stack  their  peat ;  and  for 
othera  whose  nets  had  been  carried  away, 
she  would  hny  new  ones.  You  see,  Elsie's 
notion  of  paradise  was  smiling  idleness, 
tempered  by  a  little  well-directed  kindneaa. 


It  would  be  interesting  to  learn  how 
many  have  noticed  a  aingnlar  omission 
from  her  reflections  Among  the  fair  ssx, 
probably  not  one.  The  idea  of  love  for  the 
man  who  had  asked  her  to  marry  him  had 
never  entered  Elsie's  bead.  She  regarded 
him  as  a  convenient  sort  of  fairy  who 
cbold  supply  her  with  an  illimitable 
number  of  good  things ;  and  thi«  stirred 
her  fancy  rather  than  her  avarice,  as  it 
woald  have  done  with  better  educated 
girls.  Kobin  Graham  was  too  high  above 
her  for  her  to  think  of  loving  him ;  she 
might  have  worshipped  him,  but  love  him 
— no,  that  was  quite  impossible.  She  felt 
that  he  belonged  to  some  entirely  difl'erent 
order  of  beings  from  herself ;  and  though  he 
was  well  fitt^  to  be  the  centre  ornament 
of  the  magnificent  scene  she  had  depicted, 
she  conld  not  briug  herself  to  think  ol 
him  as  a  flesh -and-blood  h'osband. 

But  in  all  this  golden  amber,  it  must 
be  confused  that  there  was  a  nrj  in- 
appropriate tly,Joe  QuiUiam  by  name,  and 
the  question  was,  not  how  did  he  get 
there,  hut  bow  to  get  him  out.  He  waa 
a  plain,  simple-minded  fisherman,  a  good 
deal  older  than  Elsie,  but  without  doubt 
desperately  in  love  with  her.  There  was 
no  actual  pledge  between  them.  Hia 
natural  baahfiilneaa  bad  prevented  him 
from  declaring  htmaelf,  and  he  had  not 
been  goaded  into  doing  so  by  the  liateful 
presence  of  f^  rival ;  while  she  had  had  do 
need  to  question  her  own  heart — a  specici 
of  catechism  that  the  dilatory  fair  aei 
seldom  resorts  to  until  the  last  moment. 
Probably  she  was,  as  she  believed,  heart- 
whole  ;  for  this  carious  ot^au  is  very  like 
a  "  Rupert's  drop  " — hard  and  obdurate  ai 
iron  nntil  it  is  touched  upon  one  particular 
spot,  when  it  undei^oes  a  sudden  sad 
irreparable  tranaformation.  In  Elaie'a  case 
this  catastrophe  had  not  yet  happened. 
She  had  listened  attentively  to  all  that  the 
fisherman  had  to  say,  and  she  had  occanoD- 
ally  chaffed  him  about  hia  want  of  auocesa 
with  the  lobsters  or  the  congers ;  but  this 
surely  is  not  a  very  advanced  stage  of 
love-making,  and,  beyond  accepting  a  few 
bright  ribbons  from  him  last  HoUandtids 
Eve,  she  had  given  him  no  definite  encon- 
ragemeut 

Se  far,  all  well  and  good.  Bat,  oufotta- 
nately,  Joe  Qnilliam  waa  rather  a  hot- 
tempered  fellow,  with  a  disagreeably  phua 
way  of  speaking  his  mind,  and  thwe  waa 
no  Knowing  what  he  might  do  or  say  when 
he  heard  that  she  waa  going  to  marry  Uie 
fine  gentleman,  Robin  Grohai 


It  nay 


ROBIN  Y  KE& 


[Fabnurj  jj,1bh.)     339 


^pnr  stnnge  that  she  should  oonuder 
turn  in  thiB  matter  &t  all,  bat  ehe  did ;  ih« 
evM  tied  to  devise  some  sohame  for 
benefitiiig  him.  This  aDruBonaUe  fdlow 
woold  be  angry,  she  knew;  he  would 
refnM  to  take  anything  at  her  hands ;  he 
mifdit  even  refiiae  to  speak  to  her.  There 
reuif  eeemed  no  way  of  managing  him. 
What  waa  ahe  to  do  t 

By  this  time  tbey  had  reached  the  end 
of  the  moorland.  They  had  walked  in 
alenee  through  the  heather,  and  were  now 
itaadtDg  npon  one  of  the  great  black  head- 
lands that  flanked  the  entrance  to  the 
glen,  irikere  the  rivniet  widened  and  ran 
smoothly  over  the  glistening  sand  to  meet 
the  waveleto.  Close  beside  them,  and 
vpm  the  very  verge  of  the  clifiti,  a  la^ 
bonlder  was  poised  so  that  it  seemed  as  if 
the  slightest  toach  woold  hurl  it  into  the 
water  many  hnndred  feet  below.  It 
had  been  deeply  out  and  farrowed  by 
ieriiei^,  bot  the  fenu  and  lichens  growing 
thickly  upon  it  ^ave  it  a  rounded  appear- 
ance in  the  twilight,  though  there  was  a 
■harply-defined  shadow  at  its  farther  side. 
He  rocky  ledges  upon  the  face  of  the 
perpendicolar  cuff  were  wldte  with  sea- 
birds,  and  a  drowsy  murmur  came  up  from 
the  caverns  at  its  base.  Away  among  the 
bracken  in  the  glen  there  might  occasion- 
ally be  aeen  a  gleam  from  soma  cottage- 
window,  bat  not  often,  for  the  tuhte  are 
csrefally  gnarded  by  the  fisher-ffuk  along 
tiw  coast,  leat  they  should  lure  an  unwary 
vtmei  to  deetroetion.  Not  a  moving  thing 
was  in  sight;  not  even  a  ship  npon  that 
peaeefol  aea.  The  lighthouse  had  long 
disappeared  in  the  ga^ering  mist  towards 
the  soatb.  Bat.  at  such  a  time,  when  all 
ia  lifeless,  inanimate  objects  hare  a  strange 
way  of  becoming  lifbHke ;  the  winds  acquire 
human  speech,  and  the  stars  sight,  and  the 
very  faills  bend  forward  in  an  attitude  of 
amdons  watching  and  listening.  In  Elsie's 
ease  this  feeling  was  so  strong  that  she 
drew  a  little  nearer  to  Robin  for  protec- 
tion. 

"  Well,  Elsie,  will  you  marry  met"  he 
asked,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his  and 
tooking  straight  into  her  dark  eyes, 

"I-— Idon^tknow." 

Surely  the  diadow  on  the  fardier  side 
of  dw  boulder  started  I  And  it  might  have 
been  the  wind,  or  it  might  have  been 
fuicy,  but  there  certainly  seemed  to  be 
sighed  out  in  a  low  voice  foil  of  such 
maumfiil  pathos : 
"  Oh,  Hireet  little  Betay^  thou'rt  braakiug  my  heart 


Both  were  too  engaged  to  notice  this  sin- 
gular phenommon;  indeed,  Robin  GrafaAm 
was  rather  staggered  at  Elns'a  answer. 

"  You  don't  know  1 "  he  exclaimed  in  an 
aggrieved  tone.  "Come,  Elsie,  what  do 
you  mean  t  Yoo  know  I'm  very  fond  of 
you,  and  I  hoped  you  were  fond  enough  of 
me  to  marry  me ;  but  if  you're  not — well, 
I've  made  a  mistikke,  that's  all" 

"  Listen — oh,  listen,  Mr.  Graham,"  she 
<aied  in  sudden  terror. 

"  Merely  a  rabbit.'' 

"  Oh,  but  it's  no  rabbit.  It's  the  boagane 
that's  about,  I'm  aore.  Let's  away !  Oh, 
do !  let's  make  haste  back,  for  it's  neither 
a  boUan  croas  nor  a  dreain's  feather  that  I 
have." 

"  You  really  muat  get  rid  of  such  absurd 
notions,"  aaid  Robin,  who  felt  keenly  that 
ignorance  to  a  wife  would  be  bad  enough, 
nA  that  BUperslition  would  be  quite  un- 
bearable. "At  your  age,  Elsie,  you  ought 
to  know  that  boaganes  are  '  gone  extinct ' ; 
oiviliBati<m  has  drowned  them,  every  one  ; 
in  fact,  they  never  existed  anywhere  but 

in  the  imaginations  of  silly  old  worn 

I  mean,  of  those  who  didn't  know  any 
better.  And  how  on  earUi  coold  a  miser- 
able fishbone  or  a  wren's  feather  protect 
yon  from  harm  t  It's  sheer  nonaenae.  Ob, 
I'm  not  blaming  you,  but  those  who  put 
Boeh  folly  into  your  innocent  head ;  they 
oofdtt  to  be  aabMned  of  themaelvee." 

She  waa  moi«  astoniahed  now  than  when 
he  bad  asked  her  to  many  him,  and  in  her 
indignation  she  forgot  all  about  the  sound 
that  had  startled  her.  Drawing  her  hands 
away  from  him,  ahe  stepped  back  a  little, 
and  with  her  dark  eyes  flashing  and  her 
head  thrown  back,  she  looked  more  like  a 
beautifal  queen  than  a  simple  fisher-giiL 
The  feeling  that  bids  us  cheriah  what  our 
fathers  have  cherished,  is  akin  to  parental 
instinct;  it  was  very  strong  in  El^e.  What 
did  this  stranger  mean  by  saying  that 
there  were  no  such  things  aa  boaganes,  when 
their  existence  was  anown  to  persona 
of  the  meanest  intelligence,  even  to  Black 
Barney,  the  idiot.  The  ignorance  of  the 
man  waa  pitiful  I  Why,  the  Phynnodaree 
was  quite  a  well-known  character  in 
Rnahen,  where  he  mowed  hay-fields  and 
corn-fields,  and  sometimes  tossed  boulders 
about  by  way  of  a  change,  and  the  boulders 
m^t  be  seen  aa  proof  podtive  of  bis 
exiatence.  Waa  not  tbe  spectee-honnd  seen 
nightly  in  Peel  Castle  t  And  was  it  not 
matter  of  notorie^  that  "  Dame  Eleanor 
Cobham,  Glouoester's  wife,"  haunted  the 
same  t>lace  1     But  there  was  no  need  to  «> 


IFsbnurrViUUl 


ALL  THE  TEAE  BOUKD. 


beyond  the  glen  itself;  it  wu  full  of 
goblina.  The  waterbnl],  the  gUahtys,  and 
the  mehtBte«d  had  been  seen  by  many  old 
enough  to  believe  their  otu  eyee  ;  and  aa 
for  the  horriblQ  groans  of  theae  noisy 
■pints,  on  a  winter's  night  it  was  not  wfe 
'  to  go  oat  of  doors — at  any  mte^witbont 
the  protection  of  a  chaplet  of  bollan-^eaill- 
eoin.*  And  yet  this  stranger  had  the 
impadence  to  say  that  it  was  all  nonse 
that  boaganes  were  a  myth  t 

"  Qh,  but  I've  heard  toem,  Mr.  Graham," 
said  Elsie. 

"  Yon  heard  the  wind,  Elsie." 

"And  I've  seen  them,  toa" 

"  You  tboDght  so,  ;E^sie,  but  yoa  were 
wrong.  You  could  not  see  what  does  not 
exist" 

"It's  all  very  well  for  yon  as  hasn't- seen 
them  to  say  they  don't  exist ;  but  it's 
other  people  that  have  seen  them,  and  they 
know  ttiat  there  are  boaganes  everywhere. 

Here  was  on  awkwaK  stumbling-block. 
To  marry  a  woman  who  believed  in  goblina 
did  seem  ontrageona.  Every  night  she 
might  be  putting  oat  bowls  of  water  for 
them  to  drink,  and  laying  dust  on  the 
floor  to  observe  their  fmtstepa  in  the 
morning,  imd  then  bmahing  it  carefnlly 
from  the  dow  toward  the  Dearth  lest  a 
whole  houaeflil  of  good  Inck  riionld  be 
swept  away.  There  would  be  no  doing  any- 
thing for  fear  of  offending  these  ridicnloua 
spirits. 

Robin  Graham  had  decided  upon  at- 
tempting a  very  dangerous  thing — nothing 
more  or  less  thian  an  experiment  in  matri- 
mony. He  really  had  become  somewhat 
tired  of  the  trammels  and  ways  of  the  sociaty 
in  which  his  life  had  been  spent,  and  he  had 
grownsofondof  Elsie  that  ha  haddetermined 
to  marry  and  educate  her.  The  same  thing 
bad  been  done  before,  why  not  again  1 
About  three  monUia  before  t^  time  he 
had  come  to  the  glen  for  the  poroose  of 
fishing  and  he  had  taken  and  fdrmshed  a 
pictareeque  little  ootta^.  He  had  been 
thrown  much,  into  Elsie's  company  ;  she 
had  helped  him  with  hia  boat  and  his 
lines,  and  she  had  shown  him  the  beet 
pUces  to  go  to  for  cod,  and  whiting,  and 
mackerel  In  this  way  their  aoquaintAnce 
had  progressed  rapidly,  until  it  had 
reached  the  present  stage.  He  was  sore 
that  she  was  good  ana  heantifol;  what 
more  could  he  want  in  a  wife  I  Of  oonrae 
it  would  be  naeleas  to  think  of  raiedng  her 
to  his  level ;  it  would  be  equally  naeleas  to 

'  Mugwort. 


think  of  descending  to  hers;  but  surely 
somewhere  between  there  must  exist  s 
platform  on  which  they  could  meet  on 
equal  terms.  Compromise  is  the  very 
easenoe  of  a  happy  married  life ;  BoUn 
Graham  had  resolved  to  put  this  ^indple 
into  practice  withoot  delay.  He  had 
stndied  the  sim^e  habits  of  the  peo^ 
about,  and  he  was  quite  convinced  thst 
the  thing  was  praotieable^  tltough  perhaps 
not  without  some  little  friction  at  first 
This  erening,  however,  two  or  three  triflas 
such  as  Elrie's  grammar  had  jazred  ra^er 
patnftilly  upon  his  ansoeptabilitjes,  bnt 
nothing  so  much  as  this  revelaUon  about 
her  snperstitian.  She  had  dispkyed,  too, 
an  noezpected  amonnt  of  obmnaoy;  in 
the  interest  of  her  education,  ttiia  Md  to 
be  eradicated  at  onoe. 

"Elsie,  yonr  charms  would  he  just  u 
uiefiil  to  you  as  a  straw  to  a  drowning 
man.  Such  notions  are  out  of  date ;  they 
belong  to  the  days  of  witehcraft  and  non- 
sense ;  I  aasnre  you  they  would  make  jtn 

ridiculous    in   sod among    edno^ 

people.  And  as  tot  these  prepoeteioDs 
boaganes,  yon  must  give  up  believing  in 
them — you  really  most  There  never  wan 
such  things,  and  Fll  prove  it  to  yon." 

Though  he  had  adopted  ^e  foolish 
device  of  trying  to  strengthen  his  case  by 
a  mere  aaeertion,  Elaie  waa  so  atzong  in  hs 
oonvictions,  that  she  refrained  from  attack- 
ing him  at  his  weak  point    She  aaid  ainqily : 

"  It's  Joe  Quilliam  that  has  fadd  me 
about  them  nutny  a  timei  Ob,  and  I 
believe  him  toa" 

"  What  can  an  ignorant  fisherman  know 
about  m6b.  matters  t " 

Or  an  ignorant  fisher-girl  either,  Ur. 
Graham  t " 

Thia  harsh  classification  of  his  intoided 
wife  with  an  awkward  common  lout  of  a 
fisherman  ma  exceedingly  objectiwabla. 
Like  many  others,  he  considered  himself 
vastly  superior  to  every  woman  in  his  own 
rank  of  life,  but  he  looked  upon  the 
women  on  a  lower  rung  of  the  social  ladder 
aa  much  superior  to  the  men.  Somehow 
or  other,  these  two  opinions  had  never 
been  brought  into  inxtaposilaoD  in  bis  own 
mind ;  if  they  had  bem,  periuqw  he  mif^t 
have  been  able  to  reconcile  tlmm,  eonfiiet- 
in|  though  they  seem.  The  very  idea  that 
thia  beautifal  girl  belonged  to  the  same 
class  as  that  rough  fellow,  Joe  QuHliain, 
was  enough  to  make  one  shudder.  •Bobin 
Graham  hastened  to  repudiate  it 

Joe  Qailliam  is  all  very  vrell  in  bis 
way,  no  doubt,"  he  said  ;  "  but " 


BOBIN  Y  REE. 


IKbnof  tS,  UU.]      331 


The  shadow  enereed  from  the  tax  side 
of  the  boulder,  and  took  the  abxpe  of  a 
kll,  povetfol-lookiiig  fisherman,  in  knee- 
beote  and  blue  gaanaey.  He  had  a  plea- 
tut,  open  face,  though  it*  expression  was 
hilf-sad  and  half-angty  as  he  advanced 
towards  the  conple  on  ^e  edge  of  the  cliff 
"  Yoa  here,  Joe  t "  exolaimed  £lsie  in 
•rident  alarm.  Even  this  annoyed  Robin. 
"What  does  it  matter  1"  he  aaked. 
"  lifteoen  nerer  hear  any  good  of  them- 
selves, and  QoiUiam  is  no  exception  to  the 
nle." 

"  Aw,  Fm  here  plainly  oBOOgh,  an'  yoa 
may  say  I  came  to  listen  if  it  suits  yon, 
Ur.  Uraham,"  said  QoiUiam ;  "  but  this  I 
know,  that  it  wasn't  my  own  doin'  at  all, 
an'  I  thought  it  better  to  keep  quiet  than 
to  be  distorbin'  Elsie  by  sneakin'  off— any- 
way, until  you  b^jsn  for  to  speak  o'  me, 
and  then  it  was  best  to  come  out  for  sure." 
Elsie  gave  him  a  timid  little  smUe  of 
dunks. 

"ITiat  w»s  vary  thoughtful  of  you,  Joe," 
she  nmimured. 

"  And  now  I  want  to  come  to  a  plain 
on'erstaala'  with-  yon,  Elsie,"  QniQiam 
went  on.  "Wb  not  for  me  to  deny 
Aat  I  haven't  heard  what  you've  been 
aayin'  between  yourselves,  for  I  have — 
tn'  it's  vexed  me  more  than  enough. 
An'  first  of  all  let  me  bare  my  say 
about  the  boaganes,  which  this  lamed  gen- 
tleman bete  comin'  from  England  where 
they  know  so  much,  though  they  live  in 
towns  for  all  that,  says  is  all  nonsensa 
Tut  t  any  fool  with  eyes  and  ears  in  hia 
bead — and  that's  not  much  to  ask  for  him, 
I  reckon — could  talk  of  boaganes  that  he 
has  heard — aye,  an'  seen,  too,  by  the 
hnonerd.  It's  on'y  this  very  night — an' 
it's  solemn  truth  I'm  tdlin'  you — as  I  sat 
watcbia'  for  the  Mary  Jane,  which  is  about 
dna,  I  saw  a  great  black  thing  rear  itself 
out  of  the  water  juBt  inBide  o'  the  tideway 
yonner,  an'  it  looked  aroun'  an'  gave  a 
ter'Ue  moan,  an'  then  sank  agun,  aiT  I  saw 
no  more  of  it ;  an'  on'y  for  my  bc^an  cross 
here,  I'd  ha'  run  for  tiie  glen,  for  it  was 
■omethin*  dreadfoL" 

This  horrible  picture  wroaght  upon 
Elaie's  imagination  to  such  an  extent  that 
she  uttered  a  slight  scream;  whereupon 
the  fisherman,  hastily  disengaging  the  fish- 
bone that  was  tied  round  his  ne^  handed 
it  to  Elsie,  who  took  it  eagerly.  He  shot 
a  triomphant  glance  at  Robin ;  but  Robin 
was  uneqnal  to  the  occasion — he  could 
only  langa  ctmtemptnoualy.  To  pat  him- 
self in  oDTMsitinn  tn  this  iMiorant  fellow. 


and  run  the  rii^  of  fulure,  was  what  he 
widwd  to  avoid  at  all  hazards;  unfor- 
tunately, however,  it  was  forced  upon  bim 
in  a  very  unpleasant  way. 

"Maybe,  yonll  remember  last  Hollan- 
tide  Eve,  Elsie,"  oontinaed  Qoilliam. 
"  Anyway  those  ribbons  round  your  neck 
will  help  bring  it  to  your  mind.  It  was 
for  a  p^dge  that  I  gave  them  to  you, 
though  I  am  so  stupid  at  talkia'  that  I 
held  my  tongue  foolishly.  Surely,  Klsit^ 
you  knew  I  was  madly  fond  of  you,  and 
your  sweet  face,  and  your  pretty  ways — 
surely,  surely.  Aw,  but  it's  a  poor,  plain, 
awkward  feUow  that  I  am  to  tlunk  of  such 
as  yoa ;  -an'  likely  anoagh  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  oold  proverb,  '  Black  as  the  raven 
is,  he'll  find  a  mate,'  which  I  kept  repeatin' 
aa'  repeatin'  to  mysdf  continually,  I  would 
never  have  ibun'  the  courage  to  look  up  to 
yoo,  beautiful  thing  that  yon  are.  There's 
one  here,  thon^,  that's  not  so  backward 
at  all ;  an'  now  the  qoeetion  is.  Which  is 
it  to  be  1  for  one  or  otiier  it  must  be,  an' 
ib's  for  you  to  decide  ibis  very  oighb 
Heaven  help  tliee,  my  Elsie  1  an'  Heaven 
help  me,  too,  if  yon  torn  your  back  upon 
me  this  night;  but  if  so  be — well,  I'll 
take  ship  in  seme  oceau-goin'  vessel,  an' 
never  trouble  you  more,  so  you  needn't  fear 
at  all,  but  jost  give  your  answer  straight." 

And  ho  stood  like  a  soldier  oo  parade, 
though  the  quivering  about  his  mouth 
look»l  strangely  paUtetic  in  that  brown, 
weather-worn  face. 

Here  was  a  horrible  cataetfophe  I  It 
had  been  a  lovely  picture  :  Elsie  with  her 
pretty  face  and  dark  eyes  and  flowing 
bUck  hair,  with  the  still  water  glistenmg 
at  the  base  of  the  bluff  precipice  whitened 
witii  sea-biids,  and  the  heather  all  around 
her,  and  the  stars  shining  overhead,  and  the 
rivulet  deep  down  in  the  ferny  glen.  And 
aaddenly  there  had  come  into  it  a  dis- 
cordant element,  this  radely-olad  fellow 
witii  his  awkward  speech  and  ungainly 
ways,  and  all  its  beauty  had  vanished. 
Robin  Graham  was  at  once  disgusted  and 
indunant ;  disgusted  at  being  brought  into 
riva&y  with  a  rough  fisherman,  indig- 
nant at  this  fisherman's  impertinence  in 
aspiring  to  Elsie's  hand,  and  in  pladng 
him  in  such  an  undignified  position.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  this  last  considera- 
tion had  the  most  weight  with  him.  But 
how  was  he  to  extricate  himself  from  this 
unpleasant  dOemmal  That  he  and  Joe 
QniUiam  should  be  matched  against  one 
another  for  Elsie's  hand  would  be  a  Ufe- 
lontr    disirraoe.    even    should     he    nrove 


332 


|F<braw]r  23, 1«M.| 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND, 


BucMwf  ul ;  to  be  rejected  in  the  praience  of 
hie  hamble  rival  would  be  rimply  intoler- 
able ;  and  to  witlidnir  from  this  diaagree- 
able  contest  voold  be  conatnied  Into  » 
aeknowledgment  of  defeat.  Clearly,  he 
could  neither  advance  nor  retreat,  nor  even 
renuuD  where  he  was  without  enconnterJng 
disBBter.  It  wae  difficult  to  diaoorer  the 
least  of  the  evils  presented  for  hia  aeleotion. 

Meanwhile,  Elsie  stood  rilent  between  tbe 
two  men.  Holding  the  bollan  croae  in  heir 
hand,  she  kept  slanciog  from  <Hie  to  the 
other,  and  then  down  into  the  pictaresqne 
glen  where  she  had  spent  her  simple  Ufe 
among  the  bracken  and  the  heather  and 
the  gorse.  There  were  boaganee  there,  no 
doubt,  for  they  love  the  peat^moke  and 
the  moorland  flowen,  and  tbev  revel  in 
the  babbling  brook  and  the  spai^ling  waves. 
There  her  faUier  lived,  and  then  her 
cnuidfalher  had  lived  and  her  anceatore 
for  many  centnriee,  and  if  their  lives  had 
been  uneventful  except  for  the  perils  of  the 
sea,  they  had  not  been  unhappy.  Was  she 
to  break  away  from  all  these  old  tradhiona 
and  become  a  great  tady  I  (»  was  she  to 
continue  in  the  peaceful  groove  Uiat  bad 
been  so  pleasant  to  her  fathers  t  Which  of 
these  two  1  Oh,  that  some  fairy  woold 
help  her  in  this  distreaaing  situation  I 

No  sooner  bad  ahe  eonceif  ed  this  wish 
than  there  was  a  swift  mah  of  something 
black  through  the  air.  It  was  immediately 
followed  by  the  pitiful  squeal  of  some 
creature  in  acony.  They  all  tamed,  and 
saw  on  a  hiltock,  a  few  yards  distant,  a 
young  rabbit  in  the  clutch  of  a  hawk, 
which  had  swooped  down  upon  the  over- 
ventoresomo  little  ball  of  wool  before' it 
could  take  refuge  in  its  burrow.  Robin 
Graham  regarded  the  scene  with  curiosity. 
It  was  new  to  him,  and  he  was  wondering 
whether  the  hawk  would  proceed  to  devour 
ita  prey  then  and  there,  or  whether  it 
would  carry  it  off  bodily  in  its  talona. 
But  Elsie  was  deeply  moved. 

"Oh,  do  save  the  poor  little  thing  1" 
she  cried. 

Pride  kept  Robin  motionless;  even  now 
he  was  determined  to  bold  aloof  from  auy 
appearance  of  rivalry.  But  three  n^iid 
atridea  carried  the  fisherman  to  the  spot, 
Hie  great  bird  relinquished  its  prey,  and 
rose  slowly  in  the  air ;  while,  apparently 
none  the  worse  for  its  adventure,  the 
rabbit  scampered  off  and  tumbled  into  its 
hole. 

"Oie  vie,*  Hr.  Graham,"  said  Elsie  in 

•  Goad-night. 


her  atateliest  manner.  Her  use  of  the 
Manx  ezpreaaion  made  her  mesning  anS- 
eieotly  clear.  Without  another  word  she 
walked  across  to  Joe  QnilUam  and  put  bar 
hand  in  his,  and  tc^ether  thef  want  vrnj 
through  the  heather  and  vaniahed  in  tin 
glen. 

Aa  for  Robin  Graham,  the  lenon  wu 
naefnl,  though  galling  in  the  eztoeae. 
Sitting  alone  upon  the  eliff  he  thought  tba 
matter  orer,  and  at  length  admitted  that 
worse  might  have  befallen  him.  Bat  it 
was  decidedly  unpleasant  to  hear  tiu 
voice  of  his  aucoessftil  rival  nngiog  oat 
merrily  in  the  distance : 
"  R«d  Lop-bnoteand  ribbonB  nf  bUok  thoultiMr; 
I'll  make  thee  QoesD  of  tbe  Mky,  I  awsu. 
RubJD  T  Ree,  Bobin  ;e  Be«  ridUo- 


AN  UNFINISHED  TASK. 
A  STORY  IN  FOUR  CHAPTERS.   CHAPTER  111, 

Frubably  Mr.  Leslie  had  never  been 
the  owner  of.  so  much  wealth  in  all  hia 
life.  But  there  it  lay  bt^fore  him— & 
banker's  ditSt  for  three  hundred  poonda, 
and  a  letter  from  his  brother  in  the  colonist 
to  say  that  it  was  some  return  for  bia 
kindnees  and  protection  to  the  wtiter'i 
children. 

"  Now  that  is  very  good  of  GhaiJea,"_lM 
said.  "  Foot  fellow !  tbe  world  is  Dang 
him  better  at  lut^  I  am  glad,  too,  for 
the  Utile  ones— for  Amy  and  Kate." 

It  would  have  been  but  natural  if  th> 
Rev.  Norman  had  been  glad  also  for  him- 
self There  was  no  reason  why  he  ahoold 
have  taken  entire  chaige  of  his  brother'a 
motherless  children ;  but  then  he  did 
many  things  for  whicji  there  was  no  leason 
save  the  promptings  of  his  own  kind  heart 
Certainly  there  were  many  relatives  much 
better  able  to  aid  Charles  Leslie,  whso 
extravagance  and  rash  speculation  com- 
pelled him  to  cross  the  seas  ;  but  the  viesr 
was  elder  broiher ;  he  held  the  family 
living,  and  might  be  regarded  ai  hevi 


AN  UNFINISHED  TASK. 


333 


onu]  uiodyne  for  tribolalion — a.  fisbing- 
rod  and  ha  w&y  acroM  tha  moor. 

"  It  hu  beeo  a,  capital  seuoQ,"  BO  na 
hU  Bt^oquy  as,  reacliiiig  his  favourite 
itreun,  he  made  resdy  hia  lackla  "  How 
airljr  they  be^aD,  too !  Why,  that  was 
quite  a  good  take  which  yoDOR  Langridge 

brought  me  when — when "    The  vicar 

paused  a  moment,  and  then  with  an  effort, 
u  if  he  would  Bchool  himnlf  to  the 
Item  reidity  :  "  When  Grace  promised  to 
be  his  wife.  Ah  me !  little  more  than 
nx  montha  ^o.  And  it  leemfi  bo  long — 
■0  long." 

A  light  motion  of  his  practised  hand. 
Ttit  line  went  circling  through  the  air,  and 
(he  delneive  fiies  were  on  the  water, 
whilst  this  disciple  of  the  "gentle  Iziak," 
til  his  Borrowa  forgotten  for  a  while, 
watched  them  keenly  aod  in  vain.  So  one 
boor  pasBed,  and  another,  and  yet  another, 
ud  not  a  single  tront  vonchsafed  a  glance 
at  the  tempting  offer. 

"There  must  be  something  wrong  in 
the  weather,"  he  surmised,  angler  like 
never  at  a  loss  for  a  reason. 

Bat  beyond  doubt  something  was  wrong 
with  the  weather.  The  moorland,  which 
had  been  glowing  so  lately  under  the 
BDtamDal  sun,  was  disf^ipeanng  in  a  dense 
cdonrleas  mist.  There  was  a  stiUness  in 
tbe  air,  an  oppressive  silence,  save  when 
the  wind  came  and  went  vitii  a  wailing 
Bigh.  No  bird  sang.  Tbe  very  horn  of 
the  iosecte  ceased.  There  was  not  a  sound 
BBve  the  murmnr  of  the  brook,  and  that 
seemed  whispering  weird  secrets.  Nature 
itself  teemed  mute,  waiting  in  hashed 
Bilenca  for  t^t  awfnl  voice  whose  low 
Dtterances  were  coming  nearer,  growing 
loader,  amidst  the  purple  blackness  over- 
flbadowing  the  sky,  and  in  this  gathering 
ominous  gloom  the  vicar  of  Stanton 
Porarey  turned  to  find  himself  not  alone 
ss  a  horseman  reined  up  by  his  aide. 

"What,  Mr.  Langridge!  You  might 
be  one  of  the  children  of  the  mist,  you 
ride  so  swiftly;  and  heather  and  moss 
make  noaonnd." 

The  young  man  diBmotmted,  and  grasped 
the  other's  ontstretched  hand.  With  each 
was  an  attempt  at  cordiality,  and  with  each 
wasftilnrei. 

"  Yes ;  the  Duchess  carries  me  well  She 
is  very  restless  to-day,  though." 

"  Doubtless  the  poor  brute  thinks  it  is 
time  to  aee  about  home  There  it  a  storm 
iotpendinft  I  nippoae  you  come  ftom  the 
vicarage,  Cothbert,  and  from  Grace  t  Aa 
I  reached  the   water.  I  saw  voa  in  the 


distance.  TherevaaadiBtoncethen."  Asthe 
mist  gathered  more  closely  around  them. 

"  I  come  from  the  vicarage,  sir ;  not 
from  Miss  LuttrelL  I  purposed  to  see  her, 
but  I  have  not  done  so.  And,  as  I  was 
seeking  you,  Mrs.  Piyor  charged  me  with 
this  mackintosh. " 

"  It  waa  very  good  of  Aunt  Pryor.  And 
I  am  Uiankful  to  you  aUo,"  Baid  the  vicar, 
aa  he  put  it  on.  "But  it  waa  a  chance 
that  you  found  me.  And  you  have  come 
out  of  yonr  way  too." 

"Not  much,  sir,"  replied  the  other; 
"I  coo  make  for  home  round  Under  Cheale 
Tor.  It  is  rough,  but  I  am  naed  to  the 
moor.  I  detired  to  soe  you.  I  would 
r^er  we  met  hare  than  at  home,  near 
Grace.  There  !  1  want  to  aay  it  and  I 
hesitate — even  as  I  rode  to  see  her,  and 
was  cowardly  enough  to  be  glad  she  was 
from  homo."  Then,  with  rjuiok  abrupt- 
ness: "  Mr.  Leslie,  do  yon  think  that  Grace 
lovea  me  I " 

"That  is  a  strange  question  to  put  here, 
and  with  such  weather  ooming,  too,"  ob  two 
or  three  big  rain-dropa  fell  sullenly.  The 
vicar  only  spoke  for  time — time  to  still  one 
throb  of  hia  heaiL  He  went  on  :  "  Do  I 
think  80 1    No — I  know  it." 

He  looked  at  the  young  man  steadily. 
The  vicar  was  used  Jto  read  faces,  more 
ek>quent  than  words,  and  be  added : 

"  Why  do  yon  put  that  question  to  me  t 
Have  you  hsord  anything  I  Are  you  come 
to  own  yoorself  unworthy  of  her  I  Have 
yoa  weoiied  so  soon  I " 

"  I  am  unworthy  of  her.  I  own  it  with 
shame.  Not  weary — do  not  miijudge  me, 
Mr.  Leslie,  I  love  Grace  Luttrell  this  day 
as  fondly  as  ever.  Yet  am  I  here  to  say 
the  thing  may  not  be.  Will  you  not  help 
me  in  this,  to  me,  bitter  confesaion  1  Have 
you  heard  nothing,  sir  1 " 

"  Yea,  I  have,  and  diamiasad  it  aa  idle 
rumour.  You  see^  Mr.  Iiaogridge,"  and 
there  waa  cold  scorn  in  each  accent, 
"thinking  well  of  your  honour,  valuing  it 
more  highly  than  you  do,  I  would  not 
credit  the  news.  I  heard  you  were  often 
with  a  lady — w^,  a  little  advanced  in 
years,  old  enough,  in  ftict,  to  be  your 
mother.  I  baud  it,  when  I  waa  last 
in  London.  I  would  not  question  you  on 
the  matter — deemed  it  but  mere  gossip. 
I  heard  of  MUe  Ferryman — and  her 
wealth." 

■'  And  you  heard  truly,  air ;  hut  the  tale 
waa  incomplete.  It  shouid  have  told  you 
of  my  father's  lands,  each  acre  mortgaged 
-T-ot  the  novartv  of  Fomrev  Hold  :  of  mv 


334      IPtbnun' £>.  UM.I 


ALL  THE  YEAK  EOUITO. 


mother,  and  mv  slaters,  their  vttijvn  to 
me — the  one  who  oan  ud  them. 

"  With  what  result  t  Isk  meaii,dutardl7 
action  ^e  less  so  because  more  than  one 
is  engaged  in  it  1 " 

"  Mr,  Leslie,  do  tou  dare  t  "  The  yonng 
man's  face  was  aflame  at  the  laat  aneer. 
"  Naf,  of  coarse  yoa  de.  Yoa  are  Miss 
Lnttrell'a  gnardian — and  mora  And  yoor 
cloth  protects  yon." 

"  Do  not  consider  that." 

Few  men  had  ever  seen  that  qoiet,  grare, 
country  parson  so  moved.  Oontampt  was 
in  each  line  of  his  face — the  tight  of  batUe 
glittering  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  was  a  soldier  ere  I  was  In  the  Chnieh, 

and — and Heaven  forjpe  me,  of  what 

am  I  talking  1  Mr.  Langndge,  you  want 
your  freedom  1  For  my  ward  I  say,  take  it 
She  is  a  worse  match  even  than  yon  tiiink. 
Her  misfortunes  accnmnlate.  This  day, 
I  believe,  she  has  lost  every  penny  of  her 
small  foitnne,  and  now  a  most  valuable 
love  joins  it  Nay,"  for  the  other  would 
have  intermpted,  "let  me  finish.  I  will 
do  as  you  wish — I  will  tell  Miss  Lnttrell 
you  are — what  you  are.  Ck>  your  way, 
and  see  her  no  more," 

"I  deserve  tiiia" 

As  Cnthbert  Langiidge  spoke,  the  storm, 
ever  drawing  nearer  unnoticed  by  them, 
broke  over  their  beads  in  one  loi^-BUstained 
crashing  thunder  •  peal,  at  which  the 
friehtened  horse  plunged  and  reared  as  his 
rider  moonted,  whilst  the  rain  begitn  to 
fall  in  a  torrent. 

"  I  deserve  it — her  hatred,  your  seoni, 
and  yet  I  most  see  her  once  agun.  I  will 
see  her,  and  after  that  hi^pen  what  may. 
I  will,  though  the  tempest  beat  me  to  the 
earth,  though  the  wrath  of  the  sky,"  as  a 
gleaming  &Hh  seemed  to  envelop  them 
in  fire,  "  end  a  wretched  existence." 

He  held  forth  his  hand,  but  the  other 
made  no  response.  Another  instaat  and 
it  was  too  late.  Only  one  person  should 
ever  clasp  the  hand  of  Gathbert  Langridge 
in  life  again,  , 

The  storm  was  at  its  height  Hie  wind, 
awakened  in  its  fmy  at  last,  swept  aver  the 
wild  land,  and  dashed  the  rain  before  it 
The  lightning  gleamed  incessantly,  and 
overhead  was  the  ceaseless  deafening  roar 
of  thunder. 

Drenched  and  weary -the  vicar  reached 
his  home,  bo  find  no  Grace  Lubtrell.  She 
had  gone  over  the  moor  tdone,  on  a  misBton 
of  clwiby  to  some  poor  cottage  toilers,  and 
still,  as  Uie  hours  waned,  returned  not 

She  mijuht  have  stayed  for  the  stcMin. 


No;  the  afternoon  lengthened  into  even- 
ing, and  the  tempest  roiled  away  and  died 
over  the  sea.  The  night  came  down  in 
thick  darkneas  at  first,  then  throngb  the 
storm-rack  the  moon  was  peeping  f<»th, 
and,  guided  by  iU  Ught,  thoae  who  had 
gooe  forth  to  seek,  found  her. 

Found  heron  the  wet  and  soddflognmtd, 
whare  the  granite  precipicea  of  Ohnle  Tor 
frowned  darkly  above  her.  Found  her 
aetudesa  and  ccdd,  the  preeentment  d 
death  itself,  which  was  so  near.  Bm 
arms  were  round  the  still  form  of  Gathbert 
Langridge,  wliom  no  caress  on  this  earth 
shomd  ever  awaken  again.  Hie  tempest 
had  indeed  crushed  hun.  The  tale  wu 
lead  in  the  hoof-prints,  telling  of  a  wild 
sbrunla  on  the  treacherotu  road,  and  * 
feaiM  fall,  in  which  horse  and  rider  hid 
perished,  where,  hastening  homewsid, 
Grace  found  them. 

Cuthbert  Langridge's  words  had  come 
true.  He  bad  seen  her  once  again.  AH 
unknowing  his  weak  nnwcrthinees,  bee 
hand  had  held  his  as  he  entered  the  did 
valley,  her  loving,  sorrowing  e^es  had  teen 
the  light  of  life  quenched  in  hia. 

CHAPTXR  rv. 

"The  house  seems  very  silent^  Anot 
Fiyor,  since  Amy  and  Kate  have  left  na 
They  are  far  cm  the  sea  now,  but  I  ahnwt 
wish  my  brother  Gharies  had  never  sent 
for  them." 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that,"  said  Un. 
Pryor  in  aniwer  to  the  Bev.  Ncxmsn^ 
rwet 

Hn.  Pryor  was  jnat  two  years  Met 
than  when  she  made  her  first  ({tpeanmcg 
in  this  chronicl&  At  her  age  two  yean 
mean  a  great  deal  There  had  grown  in 
her  a  little  more  regard  for  self,  a  Ion 
of  peace  and  quietness,  and  she  hardly 
moumed  the  lost  noise  and  diatter  at  a 
couple  of  irrepresaibie  children. 

"It  was  better  for  you,  Norman,  and  fiw 
them,"  and,  inwardly,  "for  me  toa" 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  rejoined  ths 
vicar,  as  he  turned  over  Uie  bundle  of 
letters  before  him,  "  One,  two,  five,  eix, 
and  all  for  Grace.  They  do  oot  look  like 
valentines  mther  j  Uiere,  who  shonld  send 
valentines  to  this  out-of-the-way  ipotl 
Poor  Grace !    It  is  a  dreary  life  for  her," 

"  Yet  she  has  been  very  happy  here." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Grace  henelf  enteriDg 
silently,  to  hear  his  woi^ds.  She  stood  by 
his  aie.  A  little  sadder  than  of  yore,  u 
befitting  her  half-monming  robe,  bol  fw 
as  ever,     Loveable  as  when  she  flitted 


AN  UNFINISHED  TASK. 


(F«brDU]r  H,  UN.)      335 


put  his  itadj  windov,  when  Cnthbert 
LtDgridge  told  tuB  tale,  and  the  vic&r  pat 
uide  his  unfinuhed  task. 

"  She  ^  been  tst;  happy  here,  and  will 
erer  runeviber  Stantoii  Pomrey,  and  its 
kind  heaiite." 

She  took  the  letters  from  his  hand.  She 
could  not  bnt  notice  hia  glance  of  surprise, 
bat  only  answered  it  with  a  smile,  as  ihe 
■ud: 

"  Is  that  all  1  I  expected  a  great  many 
more," 

Then  she  drew  a  little  away,  and  opened 
them  one  by  one.  Her  face  changed  oa  she 
read  them.  Watching  her,  he  saw  hope, 
expectant  at  first,  gradually  fade.  He  saw 
anuuemeut,  a  tnce  of  contempt,  and  finally 
something  akin  to  sadness. 

"  Ah  me  I "  she  almoat  sighed,  "it  is  a 
hatd  lesson  for  vanity.  The  world  does 
not  vahie  Grace  Lattrdl,  and  her  few  poor 
sceompUahmentB,  so  highly  as  she  thought 
Will  yon  give  me  your  (pinion  on  this, 
pleve  1 "  timidly  holding  &«tb  one  letter 
only.     "  There  b  no  other  worth  a  reply," 

"Why,  what  does  tius  meani"  The 
vicar  of  Stanton  Fomrey  laid  it  down  in 
eorprisa.  "  An  answer  to  your  advertise- 
ment, as  a  govemees  1 " 

"  EzacUy,"  she  rejoined,  trying  to  apeak 
calmly,  llien,  in  quite  a  business-like 
tone :  "Pleaae  ooonsei  me.  I  am  so  igno- 
rant of  the  world.  The  writer  seems  to 
expect  a  great  deal,  and  ofTera  but  small 


He  tossed  the  letter  aside. 

*'  Mrs.  Brovnj(dui,  which  appears  to  be 
the  lady's  name,  might  be  hiring  a  cook. 
That  she  should  address  yon  so  I "  The 
vicar's  tone  was  scornful,  but  it  changed 
all  in  a  moment  "  Grace,  why  was  I  not 
told  of  tills  1  Was  I  unwormy  of  your 
confidence  1 " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  answered  with 
a  quick  catching  of  the  breath.  "  I  ought 
to  hare  consulted  yon  as  my  goardiao," 

"  As  your  friend,"  he  interrnpted,  "  and 
one  who  would  do  maoh  to  serve  yoa"  . 

"  I  know  it  Perhaps  I  seem  onnatefol. 
Believe  me,  I  did  not  mean  it  so.  Bnt  yoa 
were  so  immersed  in  your  books,  I  did  not 
care  to  worry  you  witn  my  small  affurs.  It 
was  not  a  secret    Mrs.  Piyor  knew." 

"  You  knew,  aunt )  You  adviaed  this. 
You  would  have  let  this  poor  child  go  forth 
into  the  world.   Was  tbat-kindt " 

Aaut  Pryor  deliberately  put  down  her 
knittii^; — the  qoantity  of  wool  she  got 
through  in  that  way  fot'the  neighbouring 
noor  was  a  marvel — and  lavinn  it  aside. 


even  for  a  moment,  was  evidence  of  her 
beine  in  earnest  She  rose  from  her  chair. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  she  said.  "  It  was  my 
advice.     It  was  better  for  both  of  you." 

She  looked  at  Grace — waiting  almost 
like  a  culprit  for  sentence — at  the  Rev. 
Norman,  with  a  slirange  indefinable  glance, 
under  which  his  calm  face  grew  restless, 
and  without  another  word,  ^s  left  them 
together. 

"Grace,  my  poor  child" — be  smiled  just, 
alittle — "I  ought  not  to  call  you  bo,  but 
you  are  a  child  as  compared  with  me, 
your  guardian  — are  you  so  anxions  to 
leave  us  1 " 

"  No,  and  yes,"  she  replied  sadly.  "  No, 
for  a  kindness — a  protection  for  which  I 
am  ever  sratefnl ;  yes,  that  I  may  prove 
that  gratitude.  It  is  my  duty.  What 
claim  have  1 1  What  right  to  be  a  harden ! 
Nay,  hear  me,"  when  he  would  have  atayod 
her. '  "  I  thought — I  hoped  to  repay  you, 
but  that  was .  ere  my  little  fortune  was 
wreaked.  Even  aft»  that  there  was  work 
for  me  in  the  edacation  of  your  brother's 
children.  Now  Amy  and  Kate  are  gone 
and  left  me  no  excuse  to  eat  tho  bread  of 
idlenees,  why  should  I  not  ^o  also  t" 

"  Because  I  cannot  live  without " 

He  checked  the  words  with  a  Weary  sigh. 
Had  she  heard  what  was  little  more  than  a 
whisper  t  Surely ;  or  why  that  heightened 
colour,  that  averted  face,  those  downcast 
eyest 

"Grace,"  he  went  on  afler  a  while, 
"  have  I  seemed  onkind  to  yoa  t  It  is  the 
second  time  I  have  heard  of  my  books 
taking  my  thoughts  away.  Once  before, 
two  years  ago,  when  be  who  is  gone  won 
yonr  heart— you  told  me  sa  Did  you 
think  me  careless  of  tiie  future } " 

"No,  never  that" — her  eyes  were 
upliiled  one  instant,  but  suik  agun 
before  the  unutterable  tenderness  in  his — 
"never  that.  Bnt  our  aims,  our  pursuits, 
our  very  lives,  were  so  different  You 
were  so  grave,  so  serious,  so  earnest  in  all 
you  deemed  duty,  and  I  was  young  and 
thoughtless,  I  Imow  I  do  not  make  my- 
self dear.  But  I  could  not  tell  a  love-tale  to 
you.  Yoa  seemed  annoyed.  I  thought  you 
avoided  me,  and  that  it  was  natural  My 
lost  Cuthbert  was  so  different  Forgive  mc, 
Mr.  Leslie.  I  was  young.  I  know  now  bow 
good  and  noble  you  are,  and — and " 

Then  the  girl  broke  down  utterly.  Little 
by  little  the  fair  face  turned  from  him  to 
be  hidden  in  hw  trembling  hands,  and  the 
pleading  voice  was  lost  in  choking  sobs. 

He  did  not  speak.     He  sat  there  quiet, 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


unmored,  odUI  she  recovered  heneH.  Tbe 
Borrowing  girl's  accents  hkd  been  >  rerelt- 
tion  to  him.  She  knew  then  her  lover's 
unwortbineee.  Hsrdljr  expreved  in  words 
he  read  so  much.  Tet  the  knowledge  had 
not  come  to  her  throngh  him. 

"  You  are  foung,  Graoe,"  he  said  kindly, 
"  and  life  maf  have  much  in  store  for  joa 
yet.  For  myaelf  there  is  naught  to  for- 
giva  Yoor  thoughts  were  but  tae  outcome 
of  your  years.  lam  nearly  old  enough  to 
be  your  father.  A  humdmm  country  | 
poison,  what  should  I  understand  of  love  1 1 
Bat,  my  child,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  j 
be  in  servitude  to  Mrs.  Browniotut — if  I , 
have  the  lady's  name  correctly,'  tiring  to  ' 
force  a  smilo.  "  There  is  a  home  for  you  '■ 
at  Stanton  Pomrey — a  home  for  the ' 
daughter  of  my  dear  dead  friend,  until —  i 
until  " — despite  his  Belf-comtnand,  tbe 
vicar's  voice  trembled  a  little ;  but  with  an 
effort — "  ontU  some  happy  mao  hears*  her 
awaylo  a  brighter  fata" 

"That  wiU  never  be,"  she  whispered; 
"this  pisoe  will  always  be  dear  to  me 
for " 

"The  memory  of  the  dead,"  he  said. 
But  she  answerM  bim  : 

"  No ;  for  the  love  and  tenderness  of  the 
living" 

"Do  you — can  you  love  the  living, 
Grace  1" 

He  put  the  question  eagerly.  Stirred  at 
last  out  of  his  assumed  composure,  a  wild 
hope,  long  crushed  down,  was  springing  in 
his  heart,  and  the  hands  were  trembTing 
which  would  draw  hers  away  from  a 
blushing  face.  He  saw  it  glowing  rosy  red 
through  the  slender  fingers,  and  he  saw 
more  tiian  that  in  one  look  which  brought 
him  a  great  joy. 

"Grace,  will  you  stay  at  Stanton 
Pomrey  1 " 

"  If  you  can  make  me  of  any  service  to 
you,"  came  a  soft  whisper.  "  If  you  wish 
it  80." 

He  left  her  then.  He  walked  into  hie 
study,  and  to  where,  so  long  8^,  he  had 
lud  aside  an  unfinished  task.  The  gilding 
in  its  flimsy  lace  edges  had  tarnished,  the 
ink  faded  a  little.  But  there  still  were  the 
few  sentences,  telUng  the  unfinished  tale  of 


his  love.  And  this  was  the  Rev.  Nonau 
Leslie's  valentine. 

"  Dearest,  will  you  read  1 "  as  he  came 
wain,  and  laid  it  before  her.  "Yon  were 
right,  I  did  avoid  you.  I  dared  not  inut 
myself.  See  what  I  wrote  once  — two 
yeara  ago — was  writing  wfa«D  life  grew  so 
dark  with  me,  I  could  not  write  more." 

Again  he  left  her.  With  forced  calm- 
ness he  seated  himself  away,  and  so  waited 
whQe  she  read. 

"Will  you  stay,  Grace  1"  be  asked  tt 
lengtJi.  "I  can  make  you  nsefal,  dear, 
as  Uie  vicar's  wife." 

"  I  will  sUy  with  you  ever,"  she  mw- 
mured,  "and  can  ask  no  happier  fat&" 

"  You  are  sure,  dear  one  1 "  He  wu 
holding  her  away  f^m  him,  gazing  with  sll 
the  deep  affection  of  his  nature  into  the 
grey  eyes  shining  through  happy  lean. 
"  Sure,  darling,  it  is  not  Imidnesa  to  me— 
not  gratitude  for  what  is  little  enough  1" 

"Yes,"  striving  to  hide  her  &ce  apoo 
his  breast;  "it  is  both  kindness  and 
gratitude  ^m  a  heart  sure  of  itaelf  at  last" 

His  streiw  hands  yielded.  Hidden  in 
his  embrace  mere  came  yet  a  softer  wtusper: 

"  It  is — it  is  alBO — love." 

There  wan  an  affinity  betwixt  Annl 
Prycff  and  that  valentine— if  valentine  it 
may  be  called.  Of  course  she  reentered 
at  that  momentk  But',  discreet  soul  thit 
^e  was,  she  calmly  pursued  her  knitting, 
where  she  left  it 

"  Aunt,  you  see,"  he  said. 

"I  see,"  she  answered,  well  pleased. 
"But  then  I  have  seen  it  for  yem 
My  advice  was  not  so  bad.  It  wasliine  to 
understand  each  other.  I  knew  that  Gnee 
loved  yon." 

"  And  I  had  ceased  to  hope  that  it  eoold 

be  so.  What  am  I T  An  elderly,  plain " 

"  Humdrum  country  parson,  and  the 
best  in  all  the  world." 

The  words  were  Grace's.  Really,  it  is  to 
be  feared  that  as  a  vicar'S'  prospective  wife 
she  was  somewhat  irreverent  But  the 
humdrum  parson  was  content.  He  folded 
his  valentine.  Aunt  Pryor  never  had  sees 
it,  and  was  not  to  see  it  even  then.  So 
with  deep,  heartfelt  joy  he  laid  it  away,  to 
remain  ever  an  unfinished  task. 


Tke  Sight  o/Trant!<Uiri{fATtiel«i from  AlA^raE  YeakRovkd  is  reiervedhi/thtAvtion 


No.796.NEwSERiES.a         SATURDAY,  MARCH  1,  1884. 


Price  Twopbnce 


A  DRAWN   GAME. 

B7  HABIL. 

CHAPTER  XXI.  A  SUBJECT  FROM  '" 
TATLMt." 
Dice  had  the  fortitude  to  adhere  to  hia 
engagement  to  euort  Ida  and  his  aunt  to 
the  opening  o(  the  Wooletenholme  Exhihi- 
don,  though  there  wu  nothing  noir  to  be 
gained  therefrom  bnt  weariness  to  the  fiesh 
and  spirit  However,  he  was  enstained  in 
bis  heroic  resolution  hy  his  prida  in  the 
beaaty  of  his  betrothed.  Aa  for  Ida,  she 
looked  forward  stUl  to  the  affair,  but  now 
only  as  a  distraction  from  the  trouble  of 
her  thoiuhtfl. 

Therefore,  on  the  opening  day,  the  three 
left  Kingsford  early  to  catch  at  Ryecote  a 
special  train  for  Woolstenholme.  At  Rye- 
cote tbey  found  the  special  drawn  np  at 
the  platform,  but  waiting  still  for  a  teain 
from  Elstree  due  in  ten  minutes.  These 
ten  minutes  Mrs,  Tuck  preferred  to  spend 
In  the  carriage,  and  Dick  on  the  platform 
with  Ida,  whom  Mrs.  Tuck  with  a  pleasant 
peremptoriness  bade  accompany  him. 

Aa  Uiey  walked  up  and  down  tt^etlier, 
Dick  was  struck  by  the  engine  of  the 
special,  which  was  not  only  brand-new,  but 
of  a  brand-new  type.  While  he  stopped 
lor  a  moment  to  look  at  it,  he  was  con- 


ing costume — his  ordinary  clothes,  in  whid 
be  meant  to  appear  at  the  exhibition,  bein] 
in  the  van. 

Bat  how  came  the  undemonstratire  Idi 
to  step  forward,  hold  her  hand  out,  tan 
exclaim  with  an  impulsiTenesa  tralj  extra 
ordinary  from  her : 

"  Archie ! " 

In  the  first  place,  Archie,  detected  bj 
his  stately  cousin  riding  his  engine-driviDs 
hobby,  waa  surprised  into  a  sunny  and 
hnmorouB  Anile,  which  recalled  to  Ida 
irresistibly  old  days  and  astomtions ;  and 
in  the  second  place,  she  felt  at  that  moment 
— she  knew  not  why  or  how — drawn 
towards  Archie  as  towards  the  last  and 
dearest  link  in  that  old  life,  from  which  she 
was  being  torn  away  so  tiQwiUiiigly  and 
despairingly. 

"  Archie  I " 
Ida  I    Are  yon  going  to  Uie  exhibi- 
tion 1 " 

Well,  I  was ;  bat  then  I  didn't  know 
yon  were  going  to  drive." 

"Oh,  if  that's  all,  I  shall  joomiae  to 
keep  my  hands  off  the  regulator  and  leave 
the  bu^ess  to  Ben.  You  remember  me 
ig  you  abont  my  good  old  friend  Ben ) 
Here  no  is." 

Ben,  stepping  to  the  running  -  plate, 
stooped  and  held  his  hand  out  Yorkshire- 
fashion,  without  the  slightest  sense  of 
doing  an  odd  thing,  and  Ida,  oqually  un- 
conscious of  the  singularity  of  the  pro- 
ceeding, put  her  little  exquisitely  gloved 
hand  into  the  great  sooty  palm  of  the 
driver,  whom  she  regarded  as  an  old  friend 
for  his  old  kindness  to  Archie— Dick  in 
mute  amazement  the  while. 

"  Are  ye  middlin',  misa  1 " 

"  I'm  qttite  well,  thank  you" 

"  Thats  reet',"  Then,  stepping  on  to  the 
platform  in  his  eagerness  to  set  Ida  right  on 
a  matter  of  momentous  importance,  he  sdd 


338      (Mmh  1, 1884.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


in  a  coofideatUl  and  impreaaive  tone,  vtth 
an  emphatic  nod,  and  a  chuck  of  his  thumb 
over  his  Moulder  iu  Archie's  direction 
"  Tha  hast  no  occadon  to  be  flayed,  miss 
he  mad  drive  t'Qneen.  He  knaws  what  be 
langs  to  a  engine  amoast  aa  veel  as  my  sen," 
whie^,  from  a  West  Biding  man,  was 
equivalent  to  saying;  "He 8  aa  nearly 
perfect  an  engine-driver  as  it  is  posublefor 
mortal  man  to  be." 

HavJDg  thus  set  at  rest  Ida's  dread  dis- 
turbing doubts  of  Archie's  capacity,  Ben 
stepped  back  without  another  word  to  the 
footplate,  and  by  turning  the  excess  steam 
into  the  tender,  put  an  end  to  the  possi- 
bility of  any  farther  audible  conversation. 
But  indeed  there  was  no  time  for  more, 
for  the  £Istree  train  came  in  at  this 
moment,  and  Ida,  having  again  shaken 
hands  with  Archie,  was  homed  back  by 
Dick  to  their  earriage. 

"That  wu  my  conain,"  said  Ida,  as  she 
took  her  seat 

"  Which  t "  asked  Dick  with  an  amusing 
assumption  of  perplexity. 

"  They're  so  difficult  to  distdnguish,  I  can 
hardly  tell  you,"  replied  Ida,  retutnhig  hia 
smile. 

"  The  one  yoa  shook  hands  with,  or  the 
one  who  shook  bands  with  you  t " 

Dick's  pride  was  of  rather  a  fiunkey 
kind,  and  he  was  not  over  pleased  at  the 
part  which  had  just  been  played  by  his 
princess  before  a  platform  iiiil  of  people, 
"  The  one  I  shook  hands  with     He  has 
mania  for  engine-driving.     It  was  Archie 
Guard,  Mra.  "Tuck." 
"  Oh,  indeed,"  with  exceeding  dryness. 
Mrs.  Tuck  believed,  or,  at  least,  believed 
that  she  believed,  her  poor  dear  husband's 
version  of  his  relations  with  Mrs.  John  and 
Archie,  and  would  nqt  listen  to  Ida's  glow- 
ing account  of  them.    It  was  the  only  sore 
subject  between  herself  and  Ida,  and  came 
at  last  to  be  tacitly  tabooed.     Therefore 
there    was    nothing    more    said    of    this 
rencontre  during  the  journey.     All  the 
same,  they  thought  much  about  Archie — 
Ida  especially — and  were  to  think  more 
about  him  before  the  d&y  was  done. 

As  it  was  to  be  a  long  day — since  to  suit 
Ida  they  were  to  stay  for  the  concert  in 
the  evening — Dick  insisted  that  they  should 
take  things  easy,  which,  being  interpreted, 
meant  that  with  the  ezo^tion  of  lunch  and 
dinner,  and  many  int^vening  refresh- 
ments, they  wexe  to  do  nothing.  And 
truly  Ida  would  not  have  seen  much  of  the 
ediibition  if  she  had  not  made  use  of  the 
intervals  in  which  Dick  had  to  take  the 


narcotic  of  a  cigar  to  deaden  his  suCeringa. 
Then  she  weidd  now  and  again  leave  bba 
Tuck  seated  where  all  the  dresses  mmt 
pass  her  in  review,  and ;  seek  oat  such 
pictures  as  seemed  from  the  catalogue  of 
most  promise. 

She  stood  opponte  one  of  these  whose 
subject  was  described  in  the  cataLigue  by 
an  extract  from  the  Tatlet — ^.poor  Dick 
Steele's  tender  picture  of  his  first  intiodnc- 
tion  to  death  : 

"The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew 
was  upon  the  death  of  my  father,  at  which 
time  I  was  not  quite  five  years  of  age ;  bat 
was  raUier  amazed  at  what  all  the  house 
meant,  than  possessed  of  a  real  understand- 
ing why  nobody  would  play  with  to.  I 
remember  I  went  into,  the  room  where  his 
body  lay,  and  my  mother  sat  weeping 
alone  by  iL  I  had  my  battledore  in  my 
hand,  and  fell  a-beating  the  coffin,  md 
calling  papa;  for,  I  know  not  how,  I  had 
some  idea  that  he  was  locked  up  there." 

The  painter,  diverging  a  little  from  bit 
text,  represented  the  child  as  arrested  in 
the  act  of  beating  the  coffin  with  his 
battledore  by  hia  mother's  struggling 
throu^  tears .  to  explua  to  him  irtiat 
death,  and  a  father's  death,  meanL  The 
stealing  dawn  of  awe  and  woe  in  the 
child's  face  was  masterly  done. 

Aa  Ida  stood  transfixed  before  this 
picture,  the  sorrow  of  her  own  childhood 
to  its  least  circumstance  rose  up  vividly 
before  her.  She  travelled  over  again 
in  thought  every  step  of  that  via  isAo- 
roaa  tiU  ahe  atood  by  the  grav»«ide 
in  a  thick  darkness  of  desolation  that 
might  be  felt.  But  out  of  that  deepest 
darkness  broke  the  dawn.  She  looked  up 
from  the  grave -side  into  Mrs.  Johns 
face,  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel, 
and  heard  again  that  voice  which  tremUsd 
like  a  tear  aa  it  aympatbised  with  her. 

By  the  gravenside,  too,  ahe  saw  Archie'a 
bright,  generous,  boy's  face,  blu^iing  as  she 
thuiked  him  for  making  it  a  gardrai. 
And  then  a  quick  blush  sufTused  her  own 
face  at  the  remembrance  of  hia  kiss  and 
hers,  and  her  promise:  "I  shall  always 
love  yon,  Archie — alwaya,  and  I  shall  many 
you,  if  yon  want  me,  when  you're  a  man." 

"  You've     forgotten "     whispered 

Archie's  voice  in  her  ear. 

She  turned  startled,  and  so  suddenly  as 
to  arreat  the  temamdar  of  t^e  saoteoce. 
The  pink  flush  in  her  face  de^wned  to 
scarlets  For  a  seccmd  she  was  certain  he 
was  answering  thoughts  clear  as  speech  to 
hetself. 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


luui^h  I,  isu.]     339 


"  I  beg  jovT  pardon  fov  BtAttling  y oa 
I  waa  going  to  uy  yoa've  forgotten  toot 
tatalogae." 

Oh,  bathos  ineffable  1  Ida,  rising  to 
examine  the  picture  more  cloeely,  had  left 
her  catalogue  on  a  chair,  whence  a  fierce 
<Ai  dame,  thinMng  it  meant  aa  a  retainer 
of  a  seat  she  coveted,  had  indignantly 
removed  it  to  tho  floor.  Archie,  who  had 
been  watching  and  worshipping  Ida  for 
(ome  Une  at  a  ehoit  distance,  then  stepped 
forward  to  t^e  np  the  catalogae  and 
return  it  to  her. 

"Worshipping  her"  we  Bay,  for,  since 
they  last  met  he  bad  heard  of  Seville- 
Sutton'a  jflting  her,  and  put  at  once  his 
own  generous  constenctjon  on  the  story, 
jut  Ida  I  If  diat  automaton  of  a  man 
was  not  engaged  to  her,  most  certainly  she 
had  refused  him. 

"  You've  forgotten  your  catalogue." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  replied,  recovering 
herself  with  a  great  effort  "I  hod  for- 
gotten everything  for  the  moment." 

"  You  think  the  picture  so  good ! " 

"I'm  no  judga  It  may  be  poor  as  a 
picture,  bat  I  like  it  as  I  like  Home,  Sweet 
Home,  or  Anld  Lanz  Syne.  The  mosic 
mmy  be  poor,  or  poorly  played,  the  charm 
is  in  the  association." 

"It  is  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  eaid  Archie 
in  a  low  v<noe  of  ^mpatiiy,  seeing  now  the 
meaning  and  tlie  memories  the  picture  had 
for  Ida. 

"You've  not  fo^otten  1 "  she  answered 
in  a  low,  sweet,  appealing  tone. 

The  girl  at  the  moment  had  a  longing 
inexpressible  that  those  old  days  and  old 
relations  might  come  back. 

"  I  can  never  forget,  but  from  an  oppo- 
site reason  to  yours,  Ida.  They  were  the 
luippwst  days  of  my  life." 

"Yes ;  I  remember  Mrs.  Fybns  telling 
me  you  were  always  happiest  in  doing 
kmaneaaes.  Yon  might  well  have  been 
happy  then ; "  her  lustrous  eyes,  aglow  with 
■mon  UiBD  gratitude,  turned  full  upon  him. 
This  the  girl  he  tried  to  scorn  as  the 
incarnation  of  a  sordid  pride  I 

Then  with  a  sudden  smile  she  said,  to 
allow  his  escape  from  a  mood  whose 
he    might    find    embarrass- 


"  Tve  got  all  your  present*  stil),  except 
the  white  mice." 

"  And  I,  yours,"  in  a  low  tone. 

He  was  by  no  means  anxious  to  escape 
firom  the  serious  mood. 

"  Mioe  t  Why,  I  never  gave  you  any- 
thiner.     I  had  never  anvtJune  to  irive." 


"Not  this  I  "opening  a  locket,  and  show- 
ing a  shining  tress. 

"  Oh,  that,"  with  a  burning  blush.  Then 
in  a  quick,  confused,  breathless  tone,  she 
was  driven,  she  could  not  have  told  why, 
to  add :  "  You  adopted  me,  then,  like  Mrs. 
PybuB,  and  were  more  than  a  cousin  to  me 
— a  brother  to  me,  Archie,  and  ore  slillt" 
with  a  pleading  look.  "  And  there's  some- 
thing  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  aa  a  brother, 
and  that  I  should  like  you  to  toll  Mrs. 
Pybus.  Gould  we  get  into  a  less  crowded 
room  V  In  truth,  she  was  less  anxious 
to  escape  the  crowd  than  to  gain  a 
moment's  reprieve  from  her  miserable  oon- 
fesaioiL  "  There ;  one  can  breathe  more 
^ely  here,"  though  she  hardly  seemed  to 
find  this  relief.  Then  after  a  pause  she 
plunged  headlong  in,  as  It  were,  with  shut 
eyes  and  a  shudder.  "I  wanted  to  tell 
you,  and  I  wanted  yon  to  tell  Mrs.  Pybus, 
since  she  thinks  it  best  I  should  not  writo 
to  her — I  wanted  you  to  tell  her,  Archie, 
that  I'm  engaged." 

Dead  and  dismal  ^ence  for  a  moment 
or  two. 

"  To  Mr.  Seville-Sutton  1 "  gasped  Archie 
at  last. 

"  Oh  no,"  in  a  tone  which  would  have 
convinced  Mrs.  Orundy  that  Ida  had  not 
been  jilted  by  that  gentleman.  "  To 
Gaptun  Brsbozon,  Mrs.  Tack's  nepl:  !w, 
whom  you  saw  with  me  on  the  platform." 

"  Oh  1 "  ruefully ;  and  then  after  a  pause, 
in  aperfimctory  voice,  he  added  ;  "  I  hope 
you'll  be  happy,  Ida" 

"  Thank  yon,  Archie,"  as  thoagh  she  wae 
acknowledging  his  promise  to  attend  her 
funeral  She,  of  course,  did  not  mean  hei 
voice  to  be  aa  dismal  as  it  soonded.  Archie 
was  distressed  by  its  dismal  ring )  Well, 
no  ;  we  can't  say  he  was.  He  found  some 
cold  comfort  in  it  rather,  with  the  selGshneee 
ofoursex  Again  there  fell  a  forlorn  silence 
between  them  for  a  few  seconds.  Then 
Ida,  OS  thoagh  to  turn  the  subject,  broached 
another  bit  of  startling  news.  "  You  musl 
teU  Mrs.  Pybus  also,  Archie,  another  piece 
of  sensational  news,  if  she  has  not  seen  il 
already  in  the  paper.  I  had  a  narrow  escape 
from  being  bitten  by  a  mad  dog  a  short 
time  ago.  It  was  making  right  at  me 
when  Captain  Brabazon  rushed  between  us, 
and  got  badly  bitten  on  the  arm,  and  had 
to  bum  out  the  part  himself  with  a  hot 
poker." 

"  Since  yoa  were  engaged  1" 

"  No,  before,"  growmg  scarlet  with  the 
consciousness  that  she  was  meanly  account- 
ins  for  their   ensaeement.     She  scorned 


340     |Uucb1,18Sl.) 


ALL  THE  TEAfi  ROUND. 


ICondncMl^ 


herse]!  the  more  for  this  meannew  bec«iise 
she  felt  that  Archie  saw  throogh  it. 
"  He  has  shoirn  hiuualf  noble  in  every 
way,"  she  added,  trying  to  patch  the  busi- 
ness up,  "  and  he  is  a  great  deal  too  good 
for  me." 

"  I  suppose  it's  all  settled  t "  with  some- 
thing like  a  groan. 

"Yes." 

"The  time  too  I" 

"It's  to  be  soon." 

"Not  before  you  see  mother,  Ida,  I 
thint  you  ought  to  tell  her  of  it  yourself. 
Don't  you  think  Mrs.  Tuck  might  let  yoo 
come  to  08  for  a  week  1 " 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  It  isn't  Mrs,  Tuck, 
Aichie.  She  would  let  me  do  anything. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  kind  the  has  been  to 
nm  always.  But  Mr.  Tuck  seems  to  be 
quite  upset  by  the  mere  mention  of  your 
name,  and  she  has  him  to  consider." 

"  Ida,  you  must  see  mother  before  you 
do  this." 

You  see,  Archie  spoke  as  though  there 
was  not  the  least  question  of  Ida's  heart 
being  in  the  business ;  and,  indeed,  with- 
out intending  it  deUberately,  she  made  this 
plain  enough  by  her  manner. 

"  There's  no  one  I  should  so  mnoh  like 
to  see,"  she  sighed  wistfully. 

"  No  one  would  bo  much  like  to  see  you. 
Ida,  you  ought  to  see  hex;  you  must  see 
her." 

"  I  don't  know.     If  I  can,  but " 

At  this  point  Dick  appeared. 

"  I've  been  through  all  the  rooms  looking 
for  you,  Ida." 

"  I'm  glad  you've  got  through  them  all 
at  last,"  Bhe  replied  with  rather  an  embar- 
rassed smUe,  "Let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
cousin.    Mr.  Guard — Captain  Brabazon." 

Dick  honoured  Archie  with  a  super- 
cilious bow  and  stare,  and  muttered  some- 
thing about  hia  aunt  wasting  Ids. 

"I  shall  see  you  again,  I  dare  say, 
Archie,  as  we  stay  to  the  bitter  end," 
Bhaking  hands  with  Mm,  nevertheless. 

We  are  aware  that  there  ia  much  in  the 
young  lady's  share  of  the  foregoing  conver- 
sation which  seems  to  need  explanation,  or 
exculpation,  even.  She  seems  to  show  bad 
taste  both  in  the  time  and  manner  of  the 
disclosure  to  Archie  of  her  engagemenL 
She  tells  him  of  it  apparently  to  prevent 
his  making  love  to  her,  though  he  may  not 
havo  had  the  least  intention  of  the  kind ; 
yet  in  telling  him  of  it  she  makes  it  pretty 
plain  that  she  is  heortwhole,  so  far  aa  her 
betrothed  is  concerned.  But,  in  truth,  it 
Ida  was  safeguarding  any  heart  by  the 


diedoBure,  it  was  her  own.  The  piotuie, 
the  boat  of  associstions  it  aroused,  and 
Archie's  treasury  of  the  tress  of  her  hur, 
bad  the  curious  antithetical  effect  of  blink- 
ing her  engagement  to  Dick,  and  all  it 
involved,  vividly  and  miserably  before  her 
mind,  and  by  no  effort  at  the  aomeot 
could  she  have  forced  herself  to  ^peu 
happy  in  it  She  had  never  felt  so  unhappy 
in  it. 

Accordingly,  Dick,  finding  her  abunl 
and  out  of  spirits,  was  inclined  to  jeslomy 
of  this  detrimental  couein. 

"Who  ia  this  engine-driving  cousin  I" 
he  asked  his  aunt,  when  Ida  had  left 
Uiem  for  a  few  minnt«s,  ostensibly  to  look 
a  little  closer  at  some  of  the  pictoret; 
really,  to  indulge  her  own  sad  thoughts  in 
peace. 

"  I  don't  know  who  he  is,  but  I  can  tell 
joa  who  he  claims  to  be." 

She  then  narrated  to  Dick  Mr.  Tuck's 
preposterous  version  of  the  affair,  accoid- 
ing  to  which  Archie  was  a  pretender  pnt 
forward  by  the  designing  Ura.  Pybus.  In 
her  heart  Mrs.  Tuck  did  not  really  believe 
this  aluurd  story,  nor  did  Dick. 

"By  Jove  I "  he  exclaimed  with  unnsuil 
enei^.  "  Then,  if  be  dies  without  a  will, 
there'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay.  You  never 
told  me  about  this  befor&" 

"  What  was  the  good  1  My  poor  dui 
husband  gets  into  such  a  state  if  any  one 
talks  of  ib" 

"  lliere'll  be  talk  enough  about  it  if  be 
dies  without  a  will ;  and  bhe  lawyers  will 
bag  every  penny  yon  have.  It  will  be  s 
very  ugly  businees,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  He'll  not  make  a  will,  Dick — not  now." 

"Hell  make  it  fast  enough  if  you  tell 
him  tbal^  if  he  don't,  all  he's  got  will  go  lo 
the  lawyers." 

Not  a  bad  BUggestion  at  all,  bought 
Mrs.  Tuck. 

"  Well,  Dick,  III  see  what  he  says." 

"And  the  sooner  you  see  to  it  the 
better.  He  can't  go  on  taking  medicins 
like  that  for  ever." 

For  Dick,  if  he  bad  bad  the  writing  of 
Mr.Tu<A'flepitaph,wonldhave  coroposedfor 
him  a  similar  one  to  that  quoted  by  Pliny  '■ 
"  Tutba  se  medicorum  periisa"  For  hiia- 
self  Dick  considered  that  the  sooner,  under 
these  circumstances,  he  secart>d  Ida  and 
her  ten  thousand  pounds  the  better.  Then- 
fore  the  immediate  effect  upon  him  of  bii 
aunt's  dlscloenre  was  the  redonbling  Ihen 
and  there  of  his  attentions  to  Ida— u 
obseqnioueness  which,  as  we  ahall  find,  htd 
unforeseen  and  unfortunate  reaolts  for  him. 


M-] 


AK)UT  SOME  OLD  MASTERS. 


p[uvhi,uB<.i     341 


For  when  Mn.  Taok,  we&riod  oat,  {no- 
powd  to  ntnm  tome  »t  once,  /oi^;oiiig 
tbe  concert,  and  Ida,  now  in  no  mood  to 
enjoy  music,  hoireTer  celostul,  at  once 
usented,  Dick,  to  the  un&umest  of  both, 
vouldu't  bear  of  it.  Ida  hadn't  «>  many 
ehanoee  of  hearing  good  mnsic  that  abe 
could  afford  to  lose  this  one.  And  that 
new  nnger,  too,  MaHarpa  Cambric,  or 
whatever  her  name  was,  that  she  was  so 
anxioaa  to  heu,  down  for  f  onr  thiiun  1  Hi* 
umtirasqtiite  pleased  wittiDiok'a  gulantiy, 
lod  Ida  grateful  and  remorsefoL  Why 
should  she  feel  only  gratitnde  for  all  thia 
devotion,  and  feel  even  gratitode  a  burden  I 
She  took  henelf  swely  to  task  fpr  this  bad 
and  base  s|Hrit^  and  resolved  to  force 
benelf  into  a  more  gracioos  acceptance  of 
Dick's  attentions.  She  did  what  she 
could  to  repay  them  at  tbe  moment  by  an 
attempt  to  spare  him  the  concert  She 
umred  him  inth  perfect  sincerity  that  she 
didn't  care  in  tbe  wast  for  it,  that  she  macb 
preferred  returning  home  at  once.  But 
Dick,  having  tasted  for  the  first  time  of 
tbe  sweets  of  martyrdom,  was  deaf  to  all 
dissnanon,  and  mast  manfiilly  go  throngh 
with  it  to  the  end. 

Thus  they  stayed  tbe  concert  out  to  tbe 
last  bar,  with,  as  we  have  above  su^ested, 
resnita  which  Dick  did  not  take  into  account 
in  reckoning  up  tbe  cost  of  his  martyrdom. 


ABOUT  SOME   OLD  MASTEfiS 

In  the  laige  gallery  at  Burlington  House, 
and  in  that  pls^  of  honour  lately  filled  by 
SirFredttick's  Leigbton'sPhryneat  EleusiB, 
hangs  Keynolds'a  Mrs.  Shuidan  as  St 
Cecilia.  It  is  one  of  the  loveliest  pictures 
ever  painted  by  Sir  Joshoa,  which  is 
saying  moch ;  it  is  one  of  the  best  and 
most  original  in  die  present  exhibition  of 
Old  Hasten,  which  is  saying  infinitely 
more.  tu  point  of  charm  and  simple 
beauty  it  is  better  than  anytMog  in  the 
collection  at  the  Grosvenor  Qalleir ;  better 
even  than  tbe  delightful  Child  with  a 
Moose,  or  than  Miss  Cholmondeley,  that 
charming  presentment  of  a  little  girl  carry- 
ing a  dog  across  a  brook.  The  original  of 
this  St  Cecilia  was  tbe  once  celebrated 
actress  and  singer,  Elizabeth  Linley,  a 
daoghter  of  tbe  moscal  composer.  She 
m*med  Sheridan  in  1773.  Beynolds  has 
painted  her  seated  on  a  low  stool  flaying 
an  o^an,  with  a  beaotifnl  simphcity  of 
poee,  a  grace  of  gesture,  and  a  sweetness  of 
exDTSBsion.  such  as  even  he  has  rarolr  if 


ever  surpsased.  She  wears  a  white  dress, 
draped  about  her  with  Hm  simple  and  con- 
snmmate  elegance  which  appears  pecoliar 
only  to  the  art  of  classic  times — the  art  of 
Greece,  of  Eaphael,  and  of  a  brief  period 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  backbond, 
like  the  general  tone  of  the  picture,  is  a  soft 
warm  grey,  h^-biown,  balfsUver;  si^^es- 
tive  and  dreamy  as  the  eoaiid  of  singing 
heard  acrosa  tbe  sea.  GecUia,  pressing  the 
keys  with  dainty  and  loving  fingers,  listens 
to  the  sound  she  oharms  from  u>e  flutes  of 
her  organ,  whilst  two  little  ohOd-augels 
nestle  to  her  side,  and,  r^t  in  a  lovely 
delight,  lift  thdr  voices  in  a  song  of  adora- 
tion. Seldom  has  the  efi'ect  of  music 
been  suggested  by  line  and  colour  vith 
moh  supreme  snocess.  Raphael  painted 
a  St  Cecilia,  and  to  see  it  is  to  imagine 
in  a  dim  and  mundane  way  some  ine^ble 
music  of  Psradise;  Millet  painted  The 
Angelas,  and  to  see  it  is  to  feel  the 
unconscious  epic  of  peasant  existence, 
the  pathetic  calm  and  beanty  of  twilight, 
and  the  soft  persaasion  of  the  bell  ringing 
the  world  to  prayer.  Reynolds's  picture, 
and  the  sentiment  it  expresses,  is,  as  it 
were,  poised  between  these  two;  having 
something  in  common  with  both,  and  some- 
thing that  neither  possesses.  Ragbael's 
saint  dreaming  of  heaven,  is  divine ; 
Millef  B  peasante,  so  devout  and  simple,  are 
deeply  and  loucbingly  bamaa  Reynolds's 
beantifiil  girl,  and  t£e  singing  babes  beside 
her,  are  human  too,  in  a  different  sphere  ; 
bat  the  impression  they  create  is  akin  to 
that  with  which  we  are  filled  by  the  celestial 
purity  of  Raphael's  maater^ieoe.  The  im- 
pression is  mneh  weaker,  it  is  true,  and  less 
noble  perhaps ;  but  it  is  nob  less  lovely. 
ReynoMs,  living  in  a  society  distingolshed 
by  singular  grace  and  amenity,  stadied  it 
and  painted  it  through  the  medium  of  the 
Old  Masters,  and  tbe  result  is  as  obvious 
in  this  [^ure  as  in  any  oUier  from  the 
same  band.  In  a  great  measure  the 
pecoliar  charm  of  it  is  dis^ctive  of 
Beynolds  and  the  eighteenth  centary. 
But  bis  imagination  worked  in  constant 
reference  to  the  ancient  kings  of  art — to 
Michael  Angelo,  and  Baffaelle,  Gorreg^o, 
and  Titian.  And  bo  it  would  seem  tbat  in 
painting  thia  portrait  with  poetical  sur- 
roundings and  significance,  he  must  have 
had  in  his  mind  the  noble  charm  of  the 
work  of  him  of  Urbino — T)ossibly  that 
sune  St  Cecilia  we  have  spoken  of  And 
as  for  the  children,  those-  lovely,  eameat 
little  singers,  with  their  angel-wings  and 
innocent  eyes,  do  they  not  remina  us  of 


342    (Mu<bi,usi.i 


ALL  THE  TEAS  EOCin). 


iba  ■waaimog  oh«nib6  &t  Um  toot  of  the 
Sui  Siato  Madoniu  I  Sanij,  jw.  And  it  is 
notable  tint,  alia^y  paintfld  u  tbe^  ue, 
the7  tek«  no  loirlj'  rank  in  nich  trying 
oomparison  u  this.  SeynoldB,  u  all  tlie 
Torld  well  kaowi,  ezcellad  in  tjio  porti^jral 
of  ohildren,  and  these  in  the  St  Cedlia  are 
KPumgat  the  sweetest  he  ever  did.  It  ia  not 
too  mach  to  name  them  in  the  same  breath 
with  the  little  ones  of  Van  D/uk,  and  the 
babes — divine  and  hnmaa — of  the  prinodj 
host  of  painters  of  Italian  RenaJBaanctt 

And,  ite  oomma&ding  besnty  apart,  this 
picture  ia  hietoricallf  verj  intateatmg.  Key- 
noldfi  himself  prized  it  more,  perhaps,  than 
aaf  other  he  prodnced.  In  the  letter  to 
Sheridan,  in  whioh  he  offered  to  the  wit 
and  diamatiit  the  portrait  of  his  wife  for 
less  than  half  its  valae.  Be; nolds  wrote  : 
"  It  is  with  great  r^;ret  that  I  part  with 
the  best  picture  that  I  ever  painted."  It 
was  painted  in  1T75,  three  years  after 
Sheridan  had  ran  away  with  his  lovely 
bride,  and  aboat  the  time  thiri)  The  BivaJs 
was  prodaced  at  Oovsnt  Garden;  bnt  it 
did  not  leave  Sir  Joshua's  posseasion  nntU 
fifteen  years  afterwards — that  is  to  say,  it 
remained  with  the  artist  until  Sheridan 
found  himself  in  a  position  to  pay  for  it 
The  little  angels— it  is  worth  noting,  also 
— are  portoaits  of  the  children  of  Sir 
Joshua's  good  friend  Coot«. 

In  this  samA  Third  Gallery  are  several 
ezamplca  of  Bomney,  of  whom  Eeynolds 
ai^>earB  to  have  cherished  a  profound  die- 
like, and  who  at  one  time  was  at 
able  rival,  looiBlly  q>eaking,  of  the  first 
president  of  the  Soyal  Academy.  There 
is  a  Lady  HamUton  as  a  Bacchante, 
bat  not  of  much  artistic  aooount;  there 
are  two  other  canvases  which  illustaite 
Bomney,  in  the  one  case,  at  his  very  worst 
and  sillieet,  in  the  other,  at  his  very  beet 
The  first  picture  in  the  Third  Gallery  is 
Flaxman  Modelling  the  Bast- of  Hayleyj 
it  is  not  merely  one  of  the  most  prepos- 
terous absurdities  Bomney  ever  produced 
— and  he  produced  a  gi>od  many  —  bnt 
one  of  the  worst  things  ever  seen  on 
the  walls  of  the  Academy.  Hayley — a 
mild  poetaster,  only  remembered  now  as  the 
author  of  a  pretentious  biography  of  the 
painter — stands  full  length,  iu  an  attitude 
which  ia  meant  to  be  heroic,  but  is  merely 
affected  and  inept  Behind  him  a  feeble 
person  dabs  at  a  shapeless  mass  of  day, 
after  the  manner  of  one  who  is  indeed  a 
raw  apprentice  to  the  bnainese,  and  beset 
with  vast  doabta  about  everything,  par- 
Uoularly himself  AndyetthievaKue  dabber. 


this  wooden  dpfaer  of  imbecility,  standa 
for  Flazmao,  uie  graatoat  soolptor  ^ 
country  has  ever  produced,  the  rapreme 
artist  who  drew  from  the  stones  of 
Greece  the  spirit  of  Greek  design— the 
grandeur  of  its  line,  the  beauty  of  its 
imagination — and  in^>reased  it  upon  his 
own  work,  so  that  almost  everything  he 
did  is  masteriy.  Odd,  i>  it  not,  tiat "  the 
man  in  Gavendi^  Square, '  as  Beynolde 
called  him,  should  treat  genius  thos  1  And 
yet  Bomney  was  a  good  friend  to  Flanuu, 
and  the  sculptor  who  could  oarre  better 
than  the  painter  eoald  paint  has  said  of 
him:- "I  always  remember  his  notice  of  m; 
boyish  years  and  productions  with  gnii- 
tude ;  his  original  and  strikiBg  ocmversstion, 
his  masteriy,  grand,  and  strildng  com- 
positions are  continnally  before  me,  sad  I 
still  feel  the  benefits  (rf  his  acquaintance 
and  recommendationB."  A  mbute  u 
honourable  as  it  was  hearty. 

Let  ua  turn,  however,  to  Ura.  Jordan  u 
Peggy  in  The  Comitry  GirL  Here  Bomnef 
is  indeed  at  his  best.  Nothing  of  Bonmsy's 
exhibited  in  recent  years — and  a  good  msoy 
of  his  pictures  have  been  shown  of  late- 
equals  it  in  pictorial  and  technioal  qnahtin, 
nothing  so  pleasant  and  harmonioUB  in 
colour,  sobroadandgipreasiveaBtohandling, 
so  simple  and  yet  so  conqdete  aa  to  desi^ 
Mrs.  Jordan  was  a  Mngnlariy  Cascdnatiiig 
and  lovely  woman ;  her  expression  here  ia 
charming,  and  her  gesture  is  caught  and 
fixed  wteh  a  spontaneity  and  Uvelineit 
not  often  equalled  and  rarely  snrpassei 
Indeed,  we  shall  not  feel  in  the  letet 
surprised  if  many  people  are  inchned  to 
appreciate  its  laughing  cheerfiilneM  and 
healthy  grace  better  even  than  the  nun 
pensive  charm  of  Beynolds'e  St  Cedliv 
Mrs.  Jordan  (Dorothy  Bland)  was  bom  st 
Waterford  in  1762,  and  made  her  fiat 
appearance  on  tiie  stage  in  Dublin  at  the 
tender  ^e  of  fifteen.  She  aftermrds 
came  to  London,  and  performed  at  Dnii; 
Lane  in  1786.  She  was  also  paiidedby 
Lawrence,  whose  picture  may  be  lemem- 
bered  by  those  of  our  older  readers  wto 
saw  it  at  the  Interoation^  Exhibition  o! 
1868.  Eomney^s  deli^tful  woi4,  if  w« 
are  not  mistaken,  was  engiared  by  Jo^ 
Ogbome  in  1788,  and  prints  are  vortb 
having.  Probably  no  prettier  Peggy  Iw 
been  seen  before  or  since. 

In  this  wonderful  Third  Galleiy  ii  > 
ngantio  masterpiece  by  Rubens — The 
Glorification  of  a  Prince  of  Om^fi,  lent  bf 
the  Earl  of  Jersey.  This  hrgfi  oeti^MU 
work  presents  (aoc<»:diug  to  the  oataMf^) 


ABOUT  SOME  OLD  MASTERS. 


OOaOt  1,  UHJ      343 


m  apoliheogia  of  Frederick  Henry,  third 
son  of  William  the  SUent,  and  erandfathOT 
of  our  own  William  the  Third  It  is,  of 
coarse,  an  allegory,  and  of  mach  the  same 
order  as  the  migbty  achievements  from  the 
same  hand  which  glorify  the  Louvre.  TIig 
Prince,  to  all  appeajancea  perfectly  daft 
with  excess  of  ecstasy,  is  lifted  by  Minerva 
to  a  shrine  amongst  tJie  clouds ;  Envy — a 
sortof  desperate  serpentine  horror — clutch- 
ing at  him  in  an  agony,  Ib  repelled  by  that 
munificent  creature,  Truth ;  beneath,  and 
galloping  through  space  in  a  fierce  friaki- 
neas  bom  of  nnadnlterated  joy,  is  a  lion ; 
whilst  around  are  grouped  various  chubby 
Coptds,  and  Graces  who,  notwithstanding 
a  decidedly  Flemish  development  of  form 
and  feature,  are  very  goi^^as  and  alluring 
beings  indeed.  On  the  whole,  therefore, 
the  apparent  looacy  of  Frederick  Henry 
is  not  in  the  least  surprising ;  indeed,  hu 
imbeoOe  expression  amounts  to  a  master- 
touch  of  truth.  If  All  the  Year  Round 
were  purely  an  sjlistic  periodical  we  might 
lay  much  of  the  technical  splendours  of 
this  remarkable  work ;  bat  writing  as  we 
do  for  each  and  all,  it  must  suffice  to  say 
that  in  every  technical  quality  it  is  simply 
magisterial  and  splendid.  The  power,  the 
versatility,  the  invention  and  resource,  the 
daring  of  Bubens  are  here  displayed  in  a 
manner  most  impressive. 

Let  us  go  back  now  to  the  Second 
Gallery,  ana  look  at  the  landscapes  of 
Subens  —  best  of  them  The  Farm  at 
Laeken,  lent  by  the  Queen — and  the  very 
vigorous  and  striking  Lioness  and  the  Wild 
Brar  by  Snyders,  friend  and  collaborateoi 
of  Rubens,  and  mighty  painter  of  animals 
into  the  bargain.  In  ttus  room  are  three 
Bembrandtfl  and  a  Ferdinand  BoL  The 
mellow  Portrait  of  a  Lady,  by  Rembrandt 
(106},fromLanBdowiie  House,  has  attracted 
mach  attention  from  the  critics,  and  it  is 
undoubtedly  a  fine  example  of  one  style  of 
the  mastw.  Still,  we  prefer  the  rich  and 
powerful  Portrait  of  a  Young  Man  (119), 
whioh  shows  this  king  of  painters  at  his 
beet.  Tills  should  be  compared  with  the 
Head  of  a  Yonng  Man  (113),  by  Ferdinand 
BoL  Bol  was  perhaps  in  some  respects  the 
most  Buccesafnl  of  Bembrandt's  pupils,  and 
here  the  master's  influence  is  strcmg  indeed. 
But  there  is  great  individuality  also  ;  and 
if  in  point  of  warsi  imaginative  colour 
this  is  scarcely  as  beautiful  as  the  Head  of 
a  Girl  of  last  winter's  exhibition,  it  is 
nevertheless  a  remarkably  fine  example  of 
the  artist's  achievements  There  are  two 
Van  Dvoks — a   Charles  the   First  and  a 


Queen  Henrietta — hut  they  are  not  first- 
rate  specimens.  Far  more  representative 
are  a  couple  of  very  fine  portraits  by  Franz 
Hals,  hanging  in  the  Second  G&llery  on 
either  side  of  a  large,  glorious,  golden 
landscape  by  Albert  Guyp.  Everybody 
must  appreciate  tJie  vigour  and  vitality  of 
these  heads ;  the  eyes  look  at  ns  as  in 
life,  and  the  noble  swagger  of  the 
seventeenth  century  is  set  buore  us  with 
dash  and  distinction,  and  a  sort  of  heroic 
humour.  Apropos  of  Van  Dyck  and 
Hals,  we  may  r^eat  here  a  story  which 
possibly  has  been  heard  or  read  before 
to-day,  but  is  worth  telling  i«aiu.  Van 
Dyck  being  in  Haariem,  where  Hale 
resided,  called  upon  him  to  paint  his 
portrait  Hals  was  drsgged  from  some 
drinking  -  shop  near  by,  but  forthwith 
started  the  portrait,  whi<^  he  finished 
with  a  rapidity  almost  miraculous.  But 
Van  Dyck  was  not  to  be  outdone — ^not 
he  1  He  asked  Hals  to  change  places, 
observing  significantly  that  "  he  thought 
he  could  do  as  good  as  that"  When  Hals 
saw  his  visitor^s  work,  he  cried :  "  You 
are  either  Van  Dyck  or  the  devil  t "  He 
had  recognised  the  master's  touch.  This 
story  is  told  by  Houbraken  ;  if  it  is  not 
true,  it  is  certainly  ben  trovato,  for  it  is 
entirely  charaoteriatic  of  Hals,  who  without 
doubt  was  a  drunkard,  and  a  wife-beater  to 
boot  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  only  of 
late  years  have  his  great  merits  as  a  por- 
trut-painter  been  acbioiriedged.  He  was 
bom  is  1584,  yet  it  is  recorded  that  so 
late  as  1745  a  portrait  of  himself  fetched 
only  fifty-five  florins,  say  four  pounds  five 
shillmgs,  whilst  m  1823  a  Girl  with  a 
Kitteu  realised  only  thirty-five  guineas. 
But  we  have  changed  all  ^at,  and  lucky 
indeed  would  he  be  who  should  "pick  up'' 
a  genuine  Hals  for  such  paltry  sums  as 
theee.  In  these  times  to  be  a  successful 
collector  one  must  be  a  millionaire,  unless 
one  happens  to  be  even  as  Professor  Legros, 
gifted  with  a  magic  eye  for  unsuspected 
genuine  old  masters,  and  possessed  of 
consummate  knowledge  withal. 

The  exhibition  is  particnlatly  strong  in 
landscape.  Indeed,  students  sddom  enjoy 
such  an  opportunity  of  tracing  the  influence 
of  one  painter  upon  another — of  the  old 
schools  on  the  new — as  is  afi'orded  ttus 


upon  Richard  Wilson,  who,  not  unhappily, 
has  been  dubbed  "the  !^glish  Cluide." 
There  are  several  excellent  Wilsons ;  and 
there  are  two  or  three  srood  Claudes,  as 


311 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


[OoodaMW 


well  as  ona  mpramelTjtood.  No.  57,  The 
Lake  of  Nemi,  is  Wusoa  «t  his  beat ; 
lovely,  an^^eetive,  toached  with  romantic 
my Btety,  and  yet  serenely  classical  after 
the  manner  of  Clande.  Bat  Claude's  master- 
piece in  the  Third  Gallery  is,  we  take 
it,  a  more  perfect  and  commandW  work. 
It  is  ntusbet«d  167,  and  entitled  Philip 
Baptising  the  Ennnph ;  but  it  goes  with- 
out saying  that  the  incident  of  the 
baptism  is  an  entirely  secondary  matter, 
alike  in  the  painter's  intention,  and  the 
spectator'a  mind.  St.  Philip,  and  the 
Eanncb,  and  the  chariot  with  its 
heroic  horses,  are  as  nothing  to  the 
lovely  landsci^  in  which  Uiey  are  set. 
In  gradations  which  one  feels  rather  than 
perceives,  the  loud  melts  away  to  where 
the  "quiet  coloured  end  of  eveninit  smiles"; 
on  the  left  is  a  elimpse  of  the  illimitable 
sea ;  on  the  right  the  soft  and  noble 
contonrs  of  the  "  everlasting  hills  " ;  and 
in  the  forc^ironnd  Claude's  own  qoietpool, 
and  tall  trees  dreaming  in  the  evening  air. 
The  perfect  balance  of  form  and  composi- 
tion ;  the  unity  of  effect,  and  the  oomplete- 
ness  and  aapreme  eleeaaoe  with  which  it  is 
rendered ;  the  depth  and  charm  of  the 
sentiment — these  combine  to  make  it  one 
of  the  finest  examples  of  the  master  that 
has  been  seen  for  many  a  4ay.  From  such 
aohierements  as  this  Wilson  learned  to 
gather  what  is  best  in  his  work;  such 
triumphs  as  this  Crome  and  Constable 
respected  and  admired,  and  Gorot  loved 
f  aiuif  ally  to  the  end. 

The  mention  of  Constable  and  Crome 
reminds  ns  that  each  is  represented  this 
year  by  a  single  canvas.  Constable's 
Sketch  tor  the  Pictore  of  Salisbnry  Cathe- 
dral (9)  is  almost  the  first  thing  to  attract 
the  visitor's  eye  in  the  First  Oulery.  The 
tall  and  delicate  spire  is  vignetted  between 
over-arching  trees,  behind  it  a  s^  of 
spacioos  blue,  broken  by  one  sailiDg  cload, 
snining  white  and  foil  in  the  sonlight.  It  is 
more  properly  a  "atody"  rather  than  a 
sketch ;  and  it  is  partacokrly  interesting  in 
that  it  proves  that  Constable,  the  painter 
of  the  broad  brash,  the  master  of  swift 
effects — the  artist  who  with  seven  strokes 
sets  before  you  the  "White  Horse,"  harness 
and  all ;  and  in  as  many  more  gives  yon  a 
summer  shower,  with  its  airy  mingling  of 
shadow,  and  shine,and  dew — could  be  very, 
very  careful  when  he  felt  that  care  was 
necessary.  The  cathedral  here  is  pointed 
with  an  affectionate  r^aid  for  detail  which 
should  please  a  pre-B^haelite  and  win  the 
admiration  even  of  Mr.  fiuskin. 


The  Landscape,  by  John  Crome  (13), 
is  close  by  ConsuUe's  fresh  and  deli^tfot 
study ;  and  it  offers  interestins  contrut 
lU  method  is  not  less  broach  bnt  ib 
maimer  is  altogether  quieter.  Bat  then, 
the  time  is  sunset,  when  tJie  air  is  itill, 
the  light  warm  and  golden,  sad  the 
shadows  full  and  deep.  We  have  s  nutic 
bridge  across  a  stream,  and  cattle  staadisg 
dubious  and  drowsy  in  the  qoiet  wster 
under  the  trees,  whilst  a  high  tower- 
rather  like  a  chimney-shaft,  by  the  way- 
rises  in  the  distance.  The  whole  thing  ii 
wonderfully  simple  and  complete,  very  fine 
ia  qualities  of  colour  and  tone ;  and  full 
of  light  and  air.  In  fact,  it  is  one  of 
the  Mst  things  in  the  entire  eihibilion. 
And  Crome  was  an  apprentice  to  a  hooM- 
painter] 

It  is  no  very  easy  matter,  this  chst^ 
about  the  Old  Masters.  It  is  nobpouible 
altogether  to  repress  enthusiasm.  'To  do  k 
would  be  correct,  no  doubt;  but  it  wonid 
also  be  very  dull  And  yet  if  one  giova 
honestly  entbosiastic  about  this  or  thst 
picture,  one  is  sure  to  be  nonplussed  bj 
those  awful  experts.  We  were  mdined, 
for  instance,  to  feel  a  great  many  noble 
things  concerning  the  Portrut  of  Himself, 
ascrioed  to  Andrea  del  Ssrto.  But  we  God 
the  critics  have  been  fightine  about  it  sa 
is  their  wont,  with  results  cUaasttom  to 
some  of  them,  uid  bevrildering  to  the 
public. 

Two  prominent  writers  boldly  declsn 
tliat  Andrea's  work  is  not  visible  on  tlut 
canvas  at  all;  the  Fiend  of  BestOTStion 
having  obliterated  it  with  complete  soctea. 
Another  critic  holds  up  the  picture  si  i 
supreme  example  to  the  portrait-painlen 
of  our  own  time;  which  is  rather  seven 
satire,  if  it  be  true,  as  tlie  Daily  T< 
puts  it,  that  the  restorer  has  " 
Andrea  del  Sarto." 

It  is  clear,  therefore,  that  in  «  esse  like 
this  humble  commentators  bad  better  be 
careful  of  their  words.  However, .  we 
confess  to  feeling  considerable  sdmkatifHi 
for  this  remarkably  disputed  work;  sod, 
let  us  quickly  add,  we  are  not  sisgnbr 
in  our  weakness,  having,  in  fact,  seveiU 
redoubtable  critics,  and  any  number  of 
amateors,  to  support  us  therein.  Indeed, 
we  may  safely  remark  that,  restored  or  not 
restored,  ibo  picture  is  really  a  fine  one, 
and  stands  out  from  the  unqnestioosd 
masterpieces  which  surround  it,  with  quite 
distinctive  strength  and  charm.  AgenuiiM 
Andrea  might  be  expected  to  do  as  mneb, 
and  with  excellent  reason.  Michael  Angelo 


MEDITATIONS  IK  A  COUNTING-HOUSE.      (m»«].  i,  ib«.i    345 


<nica  uid  to  Riffaelle — when  the  Ikttei  was 
It  the  pinnacle  of  his  fame — "  There  is  a 
little  allow  in  Florence  who  wonld  bring 
the  sweat  to  yoor  brow  were  he  engaged 
on  works  as  great  aa  yonre."  The  little 
fallow  in  Florence  was  Andrea  del  Sarto ; 
lod  nuuter-works  of  his  yet  exist  which 
show  how  very  tme  was  Angelo's  criticism. 
When  Angelo — who  rather  relished  in  his 
gloomy  way  the  infliction  of  verbal  stabs — 
made  that  remark  to  Baffaelle,  -  Andrea 
would  be  abont  twenty-five  years  old,  and 
it  was  probably  about  that  time  that  this 
portrait  of  himself,  if  really  by  himself,  was 
painted.  If  it  is  anything  like  him,  he  was 
a  Tsry  handsome  genius,  worthy,  indeed,  to 
mate  the  beaatifm  Lacrozia  della  Fede,  hu 
wife  and  model,  whoae  fair  face  and  stately 
figure  ^pear  again  and  i^ain  in  his  work. 
He  loved  her  so  that  he  neglected  both  his 
friends  and  hla  daty ;  ana  in  the  end  his 
derodon  wrecked  hi^  life,  and  warped  his 
Hi  Andrea's  love^tory,  in  tnith,  is  one  of 
the  saddest — as  all  who  know  their  Brown- 
ing (who  did  not  read  Vasari  for  nothing) 
are  aware.  They  called  him  Andrea  the 
Panltlees ;  bat  the  compliment  was  not  en- 
tirely joatified.  Had  he  been  wiser  in  his 
love,  that  "  UtUe  fellow  in  Florence  "  might 
hare  equalled  Baffaelle,  and  possibly  have 
ontahooe  him  altogether;  as  it  is,  his 
work  is  vantbg  in  feeling.  He  was  rained 
by  a  deathless  passion  for  a  woman  who 
"  had  no  soal." 

The  Italian  pictores  are  nameroas  this 
year;  bat,  on  tiie  whole,  the  Venetian 
school  is  not  represented  as  well  as  nenaL 
Some  half-dozen  portruts  are  notable, 
however,  and  one  ascribed  to  Oiorgione  is 
very  beaatifiiL  It  is  a  Portrait  of  a  Lady 
— one  (^  those  lovely  faces  whose  type  is 
the  pecnliar  potseasion  of  this  master,  and 
perl^ie,  too,  not  the  least  of  the  tlungs 
that  constitate  his  special  charm.  It  is 
coEunon  to  hear  Titian  described  as  the 
king  of  the  great  scbod  of  Venice;  and  in 
some  sense  the  description  is  right.  Bat  it 
ahoold  never  be  forgotten  that  he  wonld 
not  have  been  the  mighty  leader  he  was 
if  Gioigione  had  not  shown  the  way,  and 
— died.  Titian,  indeed,  only  surpassed  his 
pttpil  beoauae  he  outlived  him  by  over  sixty 
years ;  and  notwithstanding  that  advan- 
tage, some  of  our  ablest  anthorities  give 
ihe  palm  for  colour  to  Oiorgione.  He 
becuno  not  mer^y  the  master  of  his  fellow- 
papils,  bat  the  master  of  his  master;  in 
fact,  he  led  the  whole  Venetian  school  into 
that  worship  of  colour  which  is  their  chief 
elorv.     He  died  at  tlurtv-three.  or  here- 


abouts ;  and  the  story  mns  that  he  was 
killed  by  the  infidelity  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  Is  that  she  whose  beauty  so  often 
arresta  us  with  its  spell  in  Qiorgione's 
pictures,  OS  in  some  measnre  it  does  in 
this  Portrait  of  a  Lady  t  —  the  woman 
whose  presentment  is  a  classic — the  worn  an 
with  the  sonny  brown  hair,  and  lovely  face 
quiet  with  a  sweet  and  grave  serenity,  and 
eyes  that  tottly  speak.  Was  it  she  who 
killed  hunt 


No  breath  of  wind  to  siir  the  heavy  ur, 

No  fleck  of  cloud  to  break  the  cruel  gUia 

Uf  the  fierce  aauahins,  as  the  reeling  bniiti 

SCrivee  to  farce  on  the  fajUog  Btrengtb,  ia  vain. 

Nay,  for  acroaa  the  deaect-stretch  it  liv, 

GleaminR  and  cool  beneath  the  modcin^  Bkiea, 

The  sparkling  lake — almuBt  the  fevergsh  gaze 

Can  aae  its  ripplee  through  tba  silvery  haze  ; 

AlmiMt  the  straining  ear  can  hear  the  plash, 

As  its  light  wavelets  on  Che  pebbles  dsBh. 

Ooa  desperate  eEfort  more,  and  then  to  lave, 

Parched  lip  and  burning  forehead  in  the  wave  ; 

Odb  desperate  effort  mora,  and  at  the  brink 

In  agony  of  thankf  uliiass  to  sink, 

Where  the  great  palm-trees  by  the  waters  stand. 

And  their  cool  sliadoirs  rest  upon  the  sand. 

Poor  wretch  I  the  treaoheroiis  vision  lures  him  on, 

Till,  faith,  and  hope,  and  strength,  and  courage 

He  falls  and  perishes,  and  leaves  to  life, 

This  lesion — arm  ye  tor  the  prraent  strife. 

On  no  Bweet  future  build  a  futue  faith, 

Do  for  each  boiir  thy  best.    So  armad  for  Death. 


MEDITATIONS  IN  A  COUNTING- 
HOUSE. 

CouuESOB  is  &s  most  potent  force 
operating  in  the  relations  of  mankind.  It 
has  grown'  with  civilisation,  and  is  moat 
poweriul  where  civilisation  is  most  ad- 
vanced. And  yet,  strange  to  say,  it  has 
not  always  been  regarded  as  a  pursuit 
adapted  to  persons  of  education — in  the 
aenae  in  which  we  apply  ediication  to  the 
"learned  profesaions.  In  point  of  fact, 
members  of  the  learned  preiessions  have 
been  accustomed  to  rank  themaelvea,  and 
have  by  general  accord  been  ranked,  as  not 
only  superior  to,  but  as  of  some  fibre 
quite  different  from  "  persons  engaged  in 
bnsinese."  And  yet  we  think  it  womd  not 
be  difficult  to  show  that  a  wider  ran^  of 
faculties  is  brought  into  play  in  the  higher 
walks  of  commerce  and  industry  than  in 
any  single  one  of  the  professions.  It  is 
not  worth  while,  however,  to  enter  upon 
the  comparison,  becaoee  in  our  generation  a 
considerable  change  has  taken  place  in  com- 
merce, and  in  the  manner  of  regarding  it 


346      (MlKh  1,  IBS).] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


It  is,  for  one  thing,  no  longer  regarded 
by  those  not  engaged  in  it-  aa  a  mere 
strife  in  which  the  moat  cnnntDg  is,  as  a 
rale,  the  most  successfoL  Sasinesa  and 
deception  were  once^  to  some  people,  it 
IB  no  exaggeration  to  say,  STnonymons 
terms.  The  art  of  trading  appeared  to  these 
the  art  of  deluding — t^e  art  of  making 
Hack  appear  white — the  art  of  exchanging 
old  lamps  for  new. 

This  delasion  has  vaniahed,  and  with  it 
the  reproach  that  used  to  be  in  certain 
circles  attached  to  any  "  person  in  trade." 
The  caste  distinction  has  disappeared, 
and  nowadays  it  is  no  oncommon  thing  to 
find  scions   of  the   nobility  and  landed 


in  the  City."  There  is  now,  indeed,  such 
a  mixture  of  noble  and  burgher,  that  it 
cannot  be  said  that  we  have  any  longer  a 
distinctively  "idle  class."  Idlers  in  all 
classes  we  shall  always  have,  of  coarse, 
but  no  looker  a  select  breed  whose  sole 
privilege  it  la  to  "laza"  The  profits  of 
landowning  are  so  reduced,  that  almost 
every  landowner  is  compelled  to  seek 
augmentation  of  income  from  some  other 
source.  Some  of  the  holders  of  onr  oldest 
titles  of  nobility  are  amtmg  our  largest 
manufacturers  of  iron,  others  are  engi^ed 
in  textile  indnstries,  several  are  extensive 
shipowners,  and  one  at  least  in  Scotland 
has  lately  tnmed  shipbuilder.  A  still 
larger  proportion  finds  employment  in  the 
management  of  public  companies;  and 
amongst  the  younger  members  of  the 
same  class,  many  are  now  to  be  found 
occupying  stools  in  City  counting-houses. 

It  is  natural,  perhaps,  that  such  an 
innovation  should  not  have  been  regarded 
with  nniversal  favour  by  the  rising  gene- 
ration of  the  mercaotOe  classes.  The 
avenues  o!  trade,  these  say,  are  akeady 
overcrowded,  and  we  have  no  room  for 
interlopers.  But  the  avenues  of  commerce 
always  have  been,  and  always  will  be, 
crowded,  and  a  man  with  a  title  hat  just 
as  much  right  in  the  crowd  as  a  man  -mtix- 
out  one.  The  infusion  of  new,  and  if  yon 
like,  bluer,  blood  is  a  distinct  gain,  we 
hold,  and  whether  oanse  or  not,  it  is  cer- 
tainly coincident  with  a  marked  improve- 
ment in  the  manners  of  bueiness  people. 
The  present  writer  has  been  engaged  in 
business  from  boyhood,  and  well  remem- 
bers the  heart-breaks  which  the  brusque 
unceremonioos  modes  of  dealing  twenty 
or  thirty  years  ago  used  to  occasion  him, 
fresh  from  a  genUe-mannered  home-circle. 
Now  he  finds  in  all  parts  of  the  country, 


courtesy  in  business  transactions  to  be  the 
rule  rather  than  the  exoeptiML  Boon 
there  are  sUU,  of  course,  s^  none  more 
objecUonable  than  yoor  so-called  "self- 
made  man,"  but  they  are  in  the  minority. 
There  are  few  large  counting-hooses  in  any 
one  of  our  great  dtiea  where  a  gentle- 
man's son  may  not  enter  with  the  assar- 
anoe  that  he  will  mix  with  gentlemen. 

We  take  leave  to  doubt,  however,  if  the 
influence  on  the  members  of  the  nppei 
circles  who  «i>g^  in  trade  is  always  a 
favourable  one.  We  are  inclined  to  Uiink 
the  effect  in  the  first  instance  must  be 
deteriorating.  The  yoatbfol  aristocrat 
who  ventures  into  bnsinesa,  does  so  witit- 
out  the  traditions  or  the  inherited  instincts 
of  the  mercantile  scion.  Although  the 
first  (^jeet  oi  conuierce  is  to  make  mmiey, 
the  sole  enjoyment  of  commerce  as  a  pur- 
suit is  not  in  the  making  of  money. 
There  is  something  a  good  deal  higher 
than  avarice  in  the  thoughtful  planning 
of  affairs,  and  in  the  exereise  of  tact, 
energy,  and  skiU  in  carrying  them  through 
All  the  intellectual  faralties  are  brought 
more  or  less  into  play,  and  the  professor 
of  commerce  need  not  necessarily  be  any 
more  mercenary  in  his  thoi^hte  and  auu 
than  the  professor  pf  chemistry  who  pm^ 
sues  his  avocation  for  pemniary  reward. 
In  the  game  of  nwculation  a  man  mosl 
have  the  same  qualities  as  a  soldier  in  the 
game  of  war,  and  similarly  in  breas^ 
the  waves  of  a  financial  storm  he  requires 
all  the  coolness,  and  nerve,  and  feitihtyof 
resource  of  the  perfect  sailor. 

And  trade  has  its  eesthetic  aspects  u 
well  To  examine  a  good  sample  of  some 
commodity  may  impart  to  the  merchant^ 
and  to  handle  a  piece  of  fine,  or  what  the 
Americana  call,  "  gilt-edged "  pi^  ^ 
other  words  a  good  bill),  may  impart  to  ths 
banker  a  pleasure  as  genuine  as  that  with 
which  the  bibliomaniac  fondles  a  jvecoooi 
tome,  or  a  chinamaaiac  gloats  over  an  old 
teapot  Commerce,  we  repeat,  is  not  all 
sordidity.  Money  may  he  its  first,  but  it 
is  not  its  last  object,  and  there  is  mtffe  true 
and  healUiful  enjoyment  in  the  process  of 
making  than  in  the  possessing 

Commerce,  a^ain,  inculcates  many  hi^h 
virtues.  Industry,  perseverance,  and  thrift 
at  once  suggest  themselves,  but  besides 
these,  fortitude  under  misfortune  most  be 
a  leading  charactwistic  ofr  tiie  perfect 
business-man.  In  an  old  book  of  travels 
in  Morocco,  which  we  caoe  across  lately, 
the  author  tells  pf  a  merchant  of  Fes  who 
had  had  his  caravans  plundered  by  tbt 


MEDITATIONS  IN  A  COrNHNO-HOUSE.        (Miriii,isM.i    M7 


Anbi  three  lereral  times  and  Mmaelf  three 
times  redoeed  to  aboolnte  porerty,  bat  who 
mmmared  not  at  kd;  one  of  tiie  diufitors, 
bal  Mt  himMU  patientiy  and  quietly  to 
letrieve  his  fbrtimes.  A  dud  wiio  oumot 
fiee  losses  and  bad  debts  with  equanimity 
mikes  bat  a  poor  merchant.  This,  howerer, 
ii  a  matter  of  temperament  aaid  of  ex- 
perience in  which  ttie  ariitoerat  mty  be  on 
kll-fonn  with  the  toader-bom. 

Where  the  latter  has  the  ad^tntf^  ia  in 
the  traditions  of  hia  class.  He  has  been 
Ixonght  up  in  an  atmosphere  impr^|;n&ted 
Tith  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  snccesses 
and  fuhires,  of  trade,  "  Shop "  may  or 
may  not  hare  been  taltod  in  lus  domestic 
orele,  bnt  he  has  aeqaired  certain  nebnloas 
ideiB  foonded  on  such  ensoul  remarks  as 
the  infidlibHity  of  A  in  judging  cotton,  or 
wbeat,  or  something  else  ;  the  shrewdneis 
of  B  in  forecasting  markets ;  the  noartDess 
of  C  as  a  buyer,  and  of  D  as  a  salesman ; 
the  cleTemeee  of  E  as  a  finander,  and  so 
oa  These  ideas  may  be  oebnloaa,  bnt 
they  cryBtallise  Tory  r^idly  wften  the  lad 
enters  into  active  business.  And  even  in 
a  state  of  nebula  the  young  aristocrat  has 
them  not  He  has  a  vague  notion  that 
"bosmees"  connsts  in  sitting  &t  a  desk, 
altonately  writing  letters  ana  adding  np 
eofamins  of  ^ures  in  big  books,  varied 
vith  occamonal  ezdlad  roahing  aboat  a 
luge  room  among  a  crowd  of  oilers  doing 
the  ltk&  He  goes  into  commerce  without 
any  innate  eoncepti<m  of  the  higher 
^oalities  required  in,  and  the  nobler  feel- 
ii^  engendered  by,  commerce.  He  enters 
it  to  make  money,  and  he  is  disappointed 
to  find  the  prooees  not  by  any  means  so 
nmple  as  he  expected.  He  rarely  rises 
above  the  mere  soididity  of  his  profession, 
and  thus  its  ponnit  has  a  deteriombing 
effeot  upon  him. 

An  anpleasant  figone  in  the  bosinew- 
vorid  of  me  day  is  the  meresn^  "  masher." 
By  him  ve  mean  the  youUi  iriio  at  sdiool 
and  elsewhere  has  assamed  the  airs  and 
graces  of  the  class  above  him.  When  he 
enters  his  father's  oounting-honse  be  pats 
OQ  an  amanng  amonnt  of  "side,"  to  the 
disgust  of  the  old  clerkB  and  the  ridicule  of 
the  young  ones.  There  is  always  nowadays 
a  t(^€9abTy  large  supply  of  the  mercannle 
"  masher,"  bat  bis  individual  life,  happily, 
it  not  a  long  one;  He  either  moult«  kus 
feathers  and  developes  into  an  active,  in- 
telligent merchant,  or  he  drops  out  of  the 
ranks  a]t<^ether. 

Our  remarks  thus  far  have  had  refbrence 
to  certain  personal  f  eatoree  in  the  commeree 


of  our  day;  but  there  are  otiier  features  in- 
dicative of  a  change  much  more  serious. 
The  speculative  element  obtains  now  in 
all  branohes,  has  extended  to  departments 
where  it  was  quite  unknown  in  the  writer's 
yout^  daya  Middlemen  no  longer  con- 
tent themselves  with  buying  from  A  to 
sell  to  K  They  probably  sell  to  0,  and 
D,  and  E,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  alphabet, 
before  they  have  bought  a  single  fraction, 
and  bare  taken  the  chance  of  buying 
cheaper  when  the  time  cornea  -  This  is 
what  the  Americans  call  "selling  short." 
and  what  we  call  "bearing."  It  is  a 
favourite  saying  (»i  the  Stock  Exchange, 
that  it  is  "the  bearwho  makes  the  money," 
which  being  literally  interpreted  means 
that  markets  more  often  go  down  than 
up,  which  is  obvioosly  absurd.  If  the 
"  bear  "  in  the  Stock  Exchange,  as  a  rule, 
makes  money,  it  is  not  becatise  markets 
have  a  partially  for  him,  but  beeause  he 
can  exact  a  profit  from  those  to  whom  he 
has  sold  who  do  not  want  what  they  have 
bought  They  pay  a  fine,  called  a  "  con- 
tango," to  the  seller  to  poatpone  delivery, 
and  an  aoeumnlation  of  those  contangos 
forms  the  profit  of  the  "  bear,"  He  can 
choose  his  own  time  to  buy  in  what  he 
has  sold,  BO  long  as  he  has  capital  at  com- 
mand to  pay  bis  way  againat  adverse 
movements  in  the  markets. 

With  commodities  it  ia  different  There 
is  no  "contaa^,"  and  tiie  seller  cannot 
oboose  his  time  for  delivery.    While  be  is 

Xly  seltii^,  the  market  tor  what  he  is 
g  may  be  riiii^;  gradoally  aninat  him, 
and  yet  he  most  hi^  in  order  to  fulfil  hisoon- 
tracta  It  is  a  hit  or  miss  style  of  doing  busi- 
ness, which  is  much  more  common  than  is 
generally  supposed.  It  is  the  result  of  keen 
competition,  and  it  is  fruitful  of  miecbiel 
The  advice  which  tiie  elder  Yanderbilb 
gave  to  his  son,  "  Sonny,  never  sell  what 
yon  haven't  got,"  was  sound  and  wise, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  worst  ocunmercial 
featnrea  of  the  day  that  it  ahoidd  be  so 
extensiv^  disregarded. 

It  may  be  a^jued  that  be  wiio  buys 
what  he  has  not  sold  occupies  an  analogous 
position  to  him  who  has  sold  irtiat  be  has 
not  got  But  there  is  no  real  analogy. 
It  is  the  foundation  of  all  legitimate  oom- 
menw  to  first  acquire  that  which  you 
propose  to  sell  Toe  life  of  a  merchant 
of  tae  old  school  waa  a  continuoos  process 
of  education  in  the  art  of  baying — when  to 
buy,  where  to  bny,  and  iriiat  quantity  to 
buy.  And  these  old -school  merchants 
accurately  gauged  thrar  outlets,  so    that 


348     liwcib  1,  uat-i 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOtTND. 


they  knew  tiiat  what  tbey  bought  tiioj 
could  BalL  Oar  modem  tnder  Vno  is  not 
of  a  "bearish"  tam  of  miad,  is  nenallf 
poesesaed  vritji  the  idea  that  the  particular 
commodities  in  which  he  is  interested  will 
"  go  up."  He  buys,  therefore,  not  in  propor- 
tion to  the  absorbinK  capacity  of  his 
connection,  bnt  as  ma<£  as  he  can  finance, 
and  often  more.  That  is  to  say,  he  does 
not  bay  for  his  cnstomers,  but  he 'bays 
"  for  the  rise."  He  is  cai^ht  jast  as  often 
as  his  naighbonr  the  "  bear." 

We  do  not  condemn  specolation  in  busi- 
ness. Speculation,  indeed,  is  the  soul  of 
commrrce.  We  regard  it,  however, 
most  ubjectionsble  featare  that  the  prac- 
tices as  well  as  the  slang  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  shoold  liars  been  imported  into 
mercantile  transactions.  It  is  not  always 
easy  to  define  what  is  legitimate  and  what 
is  illegitimate  specnlation;  but  oertaioly 
that  ia  ille^timate  which  seeks  to  override 
the  operations  of  the  law  of  supply  and 
demand.  Jo  "sell  short,"  not  in  anticipa- 
tion of  a  fall  bat  ia  order  to  make  a  fedl ; 
to  bny,  not  in  anticipation  of  a  rise,  bat  to 
form  a  "comer,"  and  force  a  scarcity,  are 
distinctly  improper  and  Tidous  practices. 
.  Yet  they  are  becoming  almost  as  familiar 
wiih  us  as  they  are  in  America. 

In  speaking  of  Ut0  Stock  Exchange  we 
do  not  wish  to  decr^  Uiat  important  and 
most  osefiil  institution.  It  represents  a 
distinct  and  indispensable  branch  of  com- 
merce, but  a  brandi  whidi  should  always 
stand  by  itself.  It  has  developed  a 
spedea  of  trading  suitable  to  its  arena, 
but  not  suitable  to  other  branches.  We 
do  not  range  ourselves  among  tliose  who 
condemn  wholesale  the  system  on  the 
Stock  Exchange  of  buying  and  selling 
what  is  not  intended  either  to  be  taken  or 
delivered.  The  prices  of  stocks  and  shares 
are  afi'eoted  by  i^  gi'^t  variety  of  influences 
which  have  no  e^t  on  other  commodities. 
It  is  the  business  of  the  dealer  in  them  to 
forecsst  and  gauge  these  influences,  and  to 
trade  upon  his  knowledge  and  ezperienoa 
He  may,  with  perfect  propriety,  buy,  not  a 
certain  stock,  bnt  tfae  advance  in  price 
which  he  expects  to  see  in  that  stock  a 
fortnight  hence,  and  if  at  the  expiration  of 
that  time  the  advance  has  not  come,  there 
is  nothing  immoral  in  his  postponing  the 
operation  for  another  fortaiight,  and  bo  oa 
In  other  words,  it  is  quite  legitimate  to 
bay  or  sell  probalnlities,  provided  the 
trader  operates  within  his  means,  which 
proviso  IS  applicable  to  every  department 
of  trade.    But  dealings  of  this  kind  require  I 


a  natural  qualification  and  ondirided 
attenlioQ.  Therefore,  opentionB  on  the 
Stock  Exchange  are  not  adt^ted  to  penoni 
engaged  in  businesses  which  shonld  en- 
gross all  their  attention,  monopolise  theii 
enei^es,  and  ^nploy  all  their  available 
capital  It  is  hijnl  to  say  whether  the 
t«ndency  has  developed  from  the  Stock 
Exchange  outnrds,  or  me^;ee  inwards  u 
to  a  common  centze  of  specnlation,  but  in 
every  department  of  tnde  there  ii  now 
prevalent  a  disposition  to  dabble  in  sUicka 
Men  who  have  neither  the  time  nor  the 
money  to  spare  out  of  their  own  busineoMi 
roah  ofi'  to  m^n  wild  purchases  or  islet  of 
shares  about  which  uiey  know  little  or 
noUimg,  and  the  movemente  in  which  they 
have  neither  the  muital  training  awtiw 
experioice  to  anderstand.  As  a  rule  Hksj 
lose  at  bodi  ends— in  their  ill-advised  spseu- 
laUons,  and  in  weakened  allegiaiice  to  their 
own  special  aSairs.  We  hold,  then,  that  it 
is  illegitimate  speculation  in  which  anyone 
engages  outside  his  own  chosen  walk. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  the  tendency 
of  the  time  is  to  dispense  with  middle- 
men. To  some  extent  this  is  troe,  and  it 
is  ncfortonate  both  for  the  middlemen  and 
for  the  print^pals.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
theorise  about  the  advantages  of  brii^g 
prodocer  and  consumer  into  immediate 
relation,  but  the  piactioe  is  productive  cf 
much  evil 

For  one  thing,  it  foroes  iba  middle- 
men into  specoutive  operations  whidi 
hurt  everybody  oonneoted  wiUi  them. 
For  another,  it  stimulates  over-trading  on 
the  part  of  Uie  producer ;  and  for  a  tmid, 
it  restricte  the  range  oi  cdioice  of  the  oco- 
BOmer.  The  special  tmining  required  to 
make  a  man  a  sueoeasful  mannfaotoier  doea 
not  qualify  him  to  become  a  Bacoessful 
merchant  Perhaps,  indeed,  it  may  have 
a  contrary  efiect,  and,  at  any  rate,  the 
worry  and  anxiety  and  liaka  of  distzibulun 
most  be  immensdy  greater  to  one  who  can 
only  give  a  part  of  hia  attention  to  it) 
than  to  one  who  has  been  truned  to  it, 
and  whose  sole  occupation  it  ia.  There  it 
a  disposition  among  eoononuats  to  df^m- 
ciate  the  distributor,  but  he  is  as  nsoeBtsiy 
to  the  general  welfare  as  the  producer,  and 
we  have  always  the  coosolatioii  of  reflect- 
ing that  the  limitationa  of  oi^pital  will 
alwaya  prevent  his  utt«r  exterminatioB. 
The  attempts  to  do  wiUioat  him  ao  far  have 
not  been  remarkably  saceessfiil. 

The  practice  of  "  making  comers,"  tlist 
is,  of  baying  up  commodidsB  in  order  to 
make  an  artificial  scardtj,  and  therefon  | 


TEAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


M.1    349 


■n  trtifioul  eiihancem«nt  of  price,  has  not 
become  so  commoo  with  oa  as  it  nolutfipily 
ii  in  America.  The  reason  is,  not  that 
there  is  leas  inclination,  bat  tl»t  there  is 
last  opportnnitj  here  tor  speculations  o! 
the  kino.  They  are  occasionidlj  attempted, 
udve  hare  never  known  a  single  one  end 
soccessf  oily  for  the  specolators.  These  last 
ilways  seem  to  foi^t  that  what  they  are 
bnjing  must  be  sold  some  day,  and  tiie 
more  a  |Hice  is  artificially  in^ted,  the 
mwe  rapidly  will  it  ran  down  when  the 
utificial  support  is  withdrawn.  We  have 
noticed  some  efforts  being  made  in  the 
United  States  to  make  operations  of  this 
kind  ill^al  The  evil,  however,  is  one 
which  vrill  work  its  own  cure.  Adversity 
has  a  wondeifol  effect  in  checking  vidons 
specolatioa 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  in  "  doll 
timsB  "  the  highways  and  byeways  of  oom- 
maice  are  alwaysmnch  sweeter  and  cleaner 
than  in  toit  lively  times.  When  trade  is 
quiet,  people  havv  more  leisure  to  oonsider 
their  actions  and  to  pick  their  steps.  Thus 
it  is  that  financial  crises  act  like  thonder- 
■torms  in  pnrifjdng  Uie  commercial  atmo- 
sphere. Doll  tunes  are  to  the  business  man 
as  the  Tirtuons  leisure  of  Opposition  to  the 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 

PART  r. 

BooKR  or  Eastern  travel  have  been  {den- 

tifnl  enough,  and  many  are  the  marvels 

irtuch  have  therein  been  recorded.  Volumes 

vamng  is  their  siee  as  well  as  in  their 


convinced  me  that  my  fears  were 
wholly  groundless.  For  the  fact  is,  I  have 
never  travelled  farther  East  than  Venice, 
and  I  have  no  thought  of  attempting  to 
rival  Mr.  Eoskin,  and  to  write  about  that 
city.  The  isles  of  Greece  are  only  known 
to  me  in  Byron,  and,  except  in  pictore- 
^llenes,  I  have  never  seen  the  Parthenon. 
Home-lover  as  I  am,  I  have  never  gone  to 
Egypt,  much  less  to  Jerusalem,  whereof, 
apart  from  sacred  lore,  the  only  things  I 
uiow  are  its  artichokes  and  ponies. 

But  the  country  I  have  visited  in  my 
late  travels  in  the  East  may  be  reached  with 
no  long  flight  by  a  home-bird  such  as  I 
am.  The  strange  scenes  I  have  looked  at 
lie  no  farther  off  than  Stepney,  and  the 
most  distant  point  I  gained  most  certiunly 
be  placed  within  three  miles  of  London 
Bridge,  and  may  readily  be  reached  by 
road,  or  rail,  or  river.  In  fact,  the  purpose 
of  my  journey  waa  to  make  myself  ac- 
quainted, in  some  degree  at  least,  with  the 
poor  at  the  East  End,  and  to  gain  a  certain 
knowledge  of  their  dwellings  and  their 
doings. 

B«ng  wholly  new  to  the  strange  land 
I  wished  to  see,  Z  thought  it  prudent  at 
the  outset  to  engage  a  skilful  guide,  who 
should  direct  my  progress.  The  conductor 
whom  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  select 
was  Mr,  Walter  Austin,  who  for  years  has 
been  the  manager  of  the  London  Cottage 
Mission.  This  genUeman  has  long  been 
familiar  with  the  country  and  the  customs 
of  its  people,  and,  although  as  yet  not 
famous  in  ^e  Annals  of  the  Geographical 
Society,  he  has  certainly  done  wonders  in 
the  way  of  Eastern  exploration.  Some 
account  of  his  good  work  there  has  been 
published  in  these  pages,*  and  having  seen 
how  well  he  was  able  to  conduct  himself 
on  the  occasion  there  described,  I  felt  sore 
of  a  safe  guide  if  he-  would  perBonally 
conduct  me  in  my  course  of  Eastern  travel. 

Explorers  who  intend  to  visit  a  strange 
count^  provide  themselves  in  general  with 
a  vast  number  of  things  which  may  be 
useful  in  emergencies,  that  somehow  never 
happen,  and  so,  when  starting  on  my 
journey — on  the  morning,  let  me  add,  of 
the  first Wednesdayin  February — I  tJiou|;ht 
it  only  prudent  to  carry  an  umbrella,  which, 
except'  a  sandwich,  was  indeed  my  only 
baggaga  Imighthaveforeseenthatthepre- 
caution  would  be  quite  needless,  and,  in  fact, 
throughout  the  day  it  never  rained  a  dropv 

•  All  tbb  Yiab  Rodmd,  Nbw  Serias,  V<.L  SS, 
.  299,  "  One  Dinnec  a  Wedc." 


350     [March  1,  im.] 


ALL  THE  TEAK  BOUKB. 


Even  the  City  Btreets  won  dean  as  I 
poihed  my  vay  along  them  fhim  the 
station  miscalled  "Muuion  Hoose,"  the 
station  being  in  Cuinon  Street,  while  the 
Mansion  House  is  not.  So  on  reaching 
Aldgate  Pump,  vhich,  if  memoiy  aetvea  me 
rightly,  ODce  was  famous  in  a  farce,  I 
decided  to  take  neither  a  hanwm  nor  a 
tram,  bat  to  walk  like  Mr.  Weston  and  mch 
heroes  of  the  footpath,  along  the  conple 
of  miles  or  so  which  led  to  SfJmon  Lane. 

Here  I  arrived  at  noon,  and  foand  the 
usnal  little  crowd  of  Wednesday  diners- 
out  All  bad  their  spoons  and  plates,  and 
donbtless,  too,  their  appetites,  quite  ready 
for  the  feast  which  was  about  to  put  some 
colour  into  their  pale  cheeks.  Above  a 
hnndred  entered  while  I  stood  at  the  door, 
and  though  I  kept  a  sharp  look-ont,  I 
declare  I  only  noticed  one  good  pair  of 
boots.  Three  tiny  little  trots  bad  scarce  a 
pair  of  soles  between  tfaem,  and  many  a 
Baby  Barefoot  might  have  been  observed. 
One  little  Cinderella  ctune  in  a  fancy 
costume,  whidi  looked  as  though  it  had 
been  made  of  an  old  counterpane  of  patch- 
work, and  I  wished  that  some  good  ^ry 
could  have  seen  her  wretched  slhipers, 
which  were  certainly  tnnsparmt,  taoogh 
they  were  not  made  of  glass.  Ilien  pos- 
sibly the  fiury  might  have  waved  her  masic 
wand  and  have  presented  the  poor  child 
witii  a  good  strong  pair  of  shoes.  Ah, 
ladies  of  the  West^  who  have  children  of 
your  own,  whom  you  delight  to  see  well 
clad,  will  you  sometimes  spare  a  thought 
for  these  poor,  children  of  the  Eaett 
When  yon  think  Miss  Lucy's  cloak  is 
beginning  to  look  shabby,  or  that  Master 
Tommy's  jacket  is  just  a  bit  too  small  for 
him,  or  his  boots  a  trifle  tight — for  h^  is 
such  a  growing  boy,  and  his  appetite  so 
hearty,  bless  hm  1 — will  yon  kindly  make 
a  parcel  of  the  raiment  yon  discud  and 
send  it  to  the  Cottage  Mission  Hall  in 
Salmon  Lane  t  Thus,  at  no  great  cost  or 
trouble,  you  may  assume  the  part  of  the 
benevolent  good  fairy,  and  by  your  per- 
formance for  their  benefit,  confer  much 
real  comfrat  on  many  a  little  Jack  and 
Jill,  and  Sue,  and  Cinderella,  who  are  now 
so  poorly  clothed. 

My  guide  wm  ready  for  a  start,  soon 
after  his  small  guests  had  sung  their  usual 
grace.  We  left  the  lady-helpera  all  btiey 
at  their  work,  and  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of 
incense  as  it  were  to  the  deity  of  dining, 
arising  from  the  big  tureens  of  fragrant, 
steamiuK  stew.  AJas  I  our  nostrils  had 
been  filled  with  odonrs  &r  less  savourr 


when,  after  three  honia'  tmvelHng,  «« 
next  entered  the'halL  Than  was,  how- 
ever, a  Caint  smell  of  something  like  to 
cookery  in  the  first  house  that  we  visited ; 
faint,  Uiat  is,  when  cMnpared  with  the  fine 
eavour  we  had  sniffed  while  the  stew  was 
being  served.  Still,  the  smell  was  qmteas 
strong  as  one  conld  well  expect,  when  cue 
had  traced  it  to  its  sonroe,  and  found  that 
it  proceeded  from  so  very  small  a  pot 
This  was  slowly  simmering  on  a  fire  wbi<A 
tor  its  smallness  must  have  been  made  to 
match.  Despite  its  littlsness,  however, 
it  made  a  bright  spot  in  the  nxnn,  which 
otherwise  was  sadly  dull  and  dismal  to  the' 
eye,  and  broogbt  to  mind  a  vision  of  the 
blue  chamber  m  Bine  Beard,  for  the  w^ 
were  of  that  colour,  exoepting  in  the  places 
where  the  plaster  had  peeled  off.  Hxn 
was  no  dow  on  the  table  and  no  carpet 
on  the  floor,  and  but  a  scanty  show  of 
crockery  on  the  sfaelfl  Signs  of  comfort 
there  were  none,  though  then  was  certainly 
a  cat,  whoso  preaence  often  seems  to  give 
a  room  a  ooey  look.  But  posay  in  Mm  case 
looked  sorely  thin  and  careworn,  as  thouf^ 
mice  were  rather  scarca  Near  the  cefling, 
which  was  less  tiian  eight  feet  from  tbt 
floor,  there  hung  a  poor  little  canary, 
imprisoned  in  a  cage  so  small  that  it  oould 
hardly  bop.  As,  during  my  iriiole  visit, 
he  stood  ulent  on  his  perch,  and  neither 
sang  nor  even  chirped  a  single  not«,  pn- 
haps  the  inference  is  Mr  that  his  life  was 
not  more  cheerful  than  that  of  the  oat — 
not  to  mention  the  six  other  usual  inmates 
of  the  room. 

Curiodty  is  vulgar  and  may  be  offenaire; 
but  I  could  not  help  confessing  that  I  fttt 
a  little  curious  as  to  what  was  in  tlie  pot 
"  Three  penn'orth  of  meat,  penn'orth  of 
potatoes,  ba'porth  of  pot-herbs,  and  »  pinch 
or  so  of  stlt.  That  was  in  tba  pot  with 
about  a  quart  of  water ;  and  that  was  the 
dinner  for  mother  and  two  children — Joey, 
a  small  boy  of  twelve,  and  Jim,  a  biggish 
one  of  four;  her  other  two  to-day  being 
guests  in  Salmon  Lane.  Mother  is  a 
comely,  bright-eyed,  mvil-speaking  woman, 
"fcMl^-twolast  birtltday,"  she  says  withoid 
relnotance,  and  hardly  smiles  when  tM 
that  she  lo<^  younger  than  bar  aga  Filth 
of  Novemba  is  hw  birthday,  rememben 
it  by  Gay  Fawkes.  Father's  fbrty-eight 
Gone  to  the  hospital  be  is,  because  ne'i 
got  hurt  in  the  back.  Eh  birtiiday  wsi 
yesterday.  Oh  no,  sir,  'tweren't  like  that 
Father  didn't  have  no  birthday  jollifiea- 
ttML  Bless  yon,  he's  too  poor  to  apead 
bis  moner  in  a  st^ee.     You  see,  iib't  i 


TBAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


[Undi  1,  vsLi     351 


deek-Ubonrar,  and,  now  vork  u  eixart, 
Umfo's  Boeh  a  crowding  at  the  gate& 
IDtafe'a  how  he  got  jammed.  A  Btrongish 
miD  he  ia,  too,  bat  not  being  overfed,  yon 
Me,  a  emalt  hurt  tells  oa  ham.  Wane  t 
WeQ,  he  earns  two-and-el^Teopence  »  day, 
when  he  ean  get  full  wtak,  bat  there  isn't 
one  day  oat  of  three  he  get«  it.  Yea,  I 
know  there's  many  as  works  half-time 
'caosa  they  likea  to.  fiat  he's  not  ^mm  to 
ehirk  or  lase  about  in  that  way.  There 
ain't  a  drop  of  idle  blood  in  all  his  body, 
that  there  ain't. 

Modker  looks  a  litde  fierce  as  she  says 
Oua,  and  her  bright  eyes  gleun  defiance  ot 
attack  opon  the  absent.  I  divert  her 
wrath  by  pointing  to  the  sad  want  of 
repair  which  is  apparent  in  the  piendses, 
and  her  anger  biases  out  at  the  mean  sreed 
of  the  lanw>rd,  whom  she  holds  to  blame. 
"He  won't  do  nothing,  bleee  yon;  not 
spend  a  peony,  he  won't  Yes,  the  plaster's 
off  the  mils,  aiid  the  floor  is  half  id  holes, 
and  the  roof  it  leta  the  rain  in.  Bat  it's 
no  good  our  complaining,  Honse-room's  pre- 
cioas  scarce,  although  yon  woaldu't  tlunk 
it  to  see  the  miles  there  is  of  'em.  Fonr 
diilUngs  a  week  we  pay  for  oar  two  rooms 
(which,  except  a  staircase,  is  all  the  bouse 
contains),  and  if  we  were  to  leave  he'd 
easy  find  another  tenant." 

Might  we  see  wliare  th^  alept  1  Why, 
ye^  we  might,  aad  welcome.  Mother 
briskly  leads  the  way  apstairs,  and  I,  as 
bri^y  following,  get  a  blow  from  a  low 
beam,  which  sets  my  bnun  reflecting  that 
a  sodden  rise  in  life  is  not  nnfraoght  with 
dai^w.  The  bed-ohamber,  we  find,  is  of 
the  same  sise  as  the  sitting-room — or,  shall 
I  say,  the  parlonr  1  for  there  were  not  many 
chaus  in  it — the  floor,  say,  ten  feet  sqaare, 
with  seven  feet  to  the  ceiling.  There  are 
a  eoaple  of  beds,  both  covered  with  coarse 
eackeloth,  and  neither  showing  sign  of 
eittiar  sheet  or  blanket,  Tba  parents 
steep  in  one  and  their  foor  children  in  the 
oUi^;  and  for  the  purposes  of  toilet 
thw  is  &n  old  cracked  looking-glass,  The 
floor  is  hare,  the  walls  are  blue,  the  ceiliii^ 
rain-discoloored ;  there  is  neither  cbair, 
nor  table,  nor  clothes-closet,  nor  washing- 
stand.  I  presume  there  is  a  pomp  some- 
where handy  in  the  neighbourhood,  bat, 
as  Car  as  I  can  see,  there  is  notJung  in  the 
hoiwe  to  serve  the  purpose  of  ablation. 

Retomiog  to  the  parlour  —  or,  shall  I 
say,  the  kitchen  I  —  I  remark  upon  the 
dunp  which  stains  the  comer  by  the  cup- 
bowd.  The  last  tenant,  it  seems,  hid 
used  this  closet  as  a  doe-kenneL  and  had 


Irft  it  rather  disagreeably  oveivpopnlated 
aod  sorely  needing  disinfedaoD.  Assanung 
for  the  nonce  the  part  of  sanitary  inspector, 
I  go  behind  the  house,  and  there  I  flnd  a 
small  enclosure,  wherein,  if  one  may  judge 
from  the  Sltb  which  lies  a-featering,  any 
rabbish  may  be  shot,  and  no  count  be  taken 
of  Uie  shooting.  A  heap  of  this  lay  pUed 
against  the  wall  whose  dampness  I  had 
noticed,  and  I  proclaim  my  <>^pion  that 
the  vestry  ought  to  see  to  tt.  "They  won't 
do  nothmg,"  says  mother;  "not  if  you 
goes  on  your  ^ees  to  'em.  Why,  yes,  it 
do  smell  bad  at  times,  bat  there,  it's  no  us» 
our  compulsing.  The  landlord  Nid  soon 
turn  us  oat  if  he  caught  us  a-gmmbling. 
How  long  has  it  been  wett  Well,  mostly 
since  last  winter.  Ah  yes,  Mr,  Austin, 
when  I  think  how  those  three  children 
were  all  took  away  so  sudden,  one  after 
another,  somehow  it's  my  belief  the  damp- 
ness might  ha'  done  it.  Yes,  air,  they  all 
d^  in  a  fortnight;  leastways,  in  fifteen 
days  they  did.  ,  Oh  no,  sir,  they  wasn't  the 
last  tenant's  [for  she  had  told  the  tale  so 
calmly  that  1  put  the  question].  My  own 
children  they  was,  now  weren  t  they,  Mr. 
Austin  1  An'  they  all  died  last  ApriL  An' 
a  j'olly  good  cry  I  had  when  they  was  took. 
An'  I've  had  ctany  a  ay  since.  But 
there,  crying  ain't  no  good.  Poor  little 
souls,  maybe  they're  happy  now  they're 
dead,  an'  whiles  they  lived  I  know  they 
hadn't  much  to  make  'em  happy." 

Wlulfl  she  is  telling  me  tlus  tragedy,  I 
see  that  mother's  bri^t  eyes  look  a  little 
dim,  and  there  is  a  something  in  her  voice 
which  is  like  a  smothered  sob.  But  I  ean 
detect  no  other  sign  of  sorrow.  I  indeed 
might  fancy  ^t  she  hardly  felt  her  recent 
loaa.  However,  I  know  better,  from  having 
in  my  life  had  stnoe  acquaintance  with  poor 

Eeople.  Any  one  who  knows  them  knows 
ow  great  is  their  endurance  of  the  arrows 
of  affliction,  and  how  little  they  indulge  in 
the  luxury  of  griel  "  I  wouldn't  wish  him 
back,  though,^  added  a  poor  mother,  after 
telling  me  now  fever  had  jost  kiUed  her 
only  boy.  "  He's  better  where  he  is,  I'm 
pretty  sure  of  that,  sir ;  and  though  I  were 
main  proud  of  him,  I  wouldn't  wish  him 
back." 

The  first  halt  in  my  travelling  had  been 
in  a  Court,  and  Uie  next  was  in  a  Place. 
There  was  nothing  very  courtly  in  the 
court,  or  princely  m  the  place — although 
they  both  alike  bore  the  title  of  the  Begent, 
whose  memory  be  blest  The  scene  of 
court-life  I  had  witnessed  prepared  me  for 
one  similar  ;  bat  I  foond  one  poorer  still. 


3S2      (Hmrch  1,  IBSl) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


In  tSaa  royaUr-iiuned  qotrter  all  the 
houeB  look  alike— sniall  ■qn&re  boxes  of 
bad  brickwork,  a  score  ot  feet  or  so  in 
height,  with  one  room  on  the  first  floor — 
there  seldom  is  a  second — and  one  room 
on  the  groond.  In  the  brick-box  we  next 
viuted  there  lived  in  the  ground  room  a 
widow  with  her  family,  and  she  for  one- 
and-ninepence  weekly  let  the  top  room  to 
another  widow  and  her  family,  on  whom 
wc  came  to  call  Bat  it  is  not  quite  so 
easy  to  make  calls  in  the  East  aa  it  ia  in 
the  West  When  the  mistress  is  away,  it 
often  hap|)en8  there  ia  nobody  to  answer  at 
ihe  door.  This  waa  so  when  we  anired, 
and  we  were  musled  for  admittance  aa 
there  was  neither  bell,  nor  knocker,  nor 
handle  to  the  door.  Presently,  howeyer, 
there  came  a  litUe  child  who  had  been 
dining  at  the  Hall,  and  she  speedily  pro- 
duced the  handle  irom  its  hiding-place, 
and  gave  oa  entrance  to  her  home.  Here 
was  no  cat,  no  canary,  no  gleam  of  feeble 
firelight  to  enliven  the  a4  gloom.  The 
bed  had  not  been  made,  there  waa  indeed 
no  bed  to  make.  It  is  tme  there  was  a 
bedstead  and  some  bits  of  sacking  on  it,  all 
huddled  in  a  heap ;  but  to  hare  "  made" 
it  into  a  bed  would  have  puzzled  any  hoase- 
maidwhowiahedtodothework.  Twochairs, 
a  small  deal  table,  and  a  aack  half-filled 
with  straw,  were  the  only  other  furniture, 
except  a  broken  fender ;  and  this  seemed  a 
real  loxnry,  for  had  there  been  a  fire,  it 
could  have  proved  of  little  nse,  A  big 
handle  of  new  sailcloth  lay  on  the  amall 
table,  which  waa  farther  occnpied  by  a 
hank  or  two  of  rope-yam;  so  that  its 
service  aa  a  work-table,  mnch  more  than 
aa  a  dinner-tible,  waa,  hy  these  encum- 
brances, made  present  to  the  mind.  Qrand- 
motber  and  mother  were  employed  in 
making  hammocka.  Stiffish  work  it  seemed, 
too,  for  the  cloth  was  hard  to  sew.  They 
could  earn  four-and-aixpence  by  making 
half-a^core,  which  was  as  mndi  as  ever 
one  could  manage  in  a  week.  The  worst 
of  it  was  that  they  lost  much  precious 
time  in  walking  to  Uie  workshop,  where 
they  drilled  the  eyelet-holes,  wMch  they 
ooold  not  do  at  home. 

The  little  giri  had  hastened  home  to  get 
on  with  her  "  splicings."  These  she  made 
with  the  tarred  yam,  whereof  her  fingers 
bore  the  trace.  A.  tonghish  job  it  was,  for 
hands  ao  thin  and  weak.  Making  twenty 
pairs  for  sixpence,  she  conld  earn  three 
shillings  a  week.  But  did  she  never  go  to 
school t  Oh  yes;  she  had  been  pretty 
regular  since    Christmas,   till  just    now. 


Mother  thought  it  mightn't  matter  if  ibs 
kept  away  a  bit,  now  work  waa  conuag  in, 
for  it  had  been  so  very  slack.  Home-voik 
or  school-work,  which  did  she  preferl  tot 
it  appeared  that  the  poor  child  had  seldoin 
any  chance  of  the  alternative  of  play.  Oh, 
she  liked  home-work  the  best,  she  anaweiad 
rather  quickly,  aa  though  there  could  not 
be  a  doabt  But  sarely  it  was  harder) 
Oh  yea ;  it  certainly  waa  harder,  but  then 
it  brought  in  something,  and  mother  vu 
aopoor. 

A  pleasant,  civil-speaking,  pretty,  sad- 
eyed  little  maiden  ^e  appeuvd  as  the 
stood  by  me,  enlightening  my  ignorance  of 
the  commerce  of  the  East  Thirteen  on 
her  next  birthday,  although  ae^ng  her 
small  limbs  I  should  have  guessed  hw  two 
years  less.  There  was  a  ^y  smile  on  hei 
lips  as  she  corrected  my  mistake  in  sup- 
posing that  she  had  to  deep  somewhere  on 
the  floor.  Oh  no ;  grandmother  and 
mother,  they  both  slept  on  the  bed,  and 
she  slept  at  their  feet,  and  there  were 
the  thne  children,  and  they  lay  on  the 
floor.  Yes,  they  all  three  slept  tt^ether  on 
the  sack  down  in  the  comer  there,  between 
the  bedstead  and  Uie  w^L  Clearly  the 
little  woman  hardly  thought  heraelf  a 
child ;  she  probably  was  nursemaid,  if  not 
housekeeper  and  cook.  Clearly,  too,  the 
children  had  not  grown  very  big,  for  the 
aack  whereon  they  slept  was  barely  a  yard 
wid&  But,  I  could  not  help  reflecting,  six 
to  sleep  in  that  email  room,  and  two  of  the 
six  certainly,  if  not  three  nearly,  adults  I 
Perhapa  for  sake  of  warmth  oTemowdinc 
might  be  pardoned,  if  it  wne  not  hnrtm 
to  nealth,  Bnt  here  the' bedroom  was  a 
workshop,  and  the  little  air  there  was  in  it 
must  have  well-nigh  been  exhausted  before 
the  day  was  done.  Still,  there  were  mx  to 
sleep  in  it,  and  but  one  bed  for  three  tt 
them,  and  for  the  other  three  a  sack  And 
had  tiiey  nothing  for  a  covering  1  "  Oh  yes, 
sir,"  the  little  girl  replied,  "we  have  onr 
clothes. "  Clothea  I  Poor  little  child  1  W«e  a 
httterfroet  to  come,  her  clotheawould  hardly 
give  much  comfort.  All  she  wore  wss  s 
thin  jacket  pinned  together  at  the  throat, 
and  a  scanty  skirt  beneath,  and  a  crippled 
pair  of  boots  j  and,  as  ftr  as  could  be  teen, 
a  pair  of  cotton  socks  were  aU  the  linsn 
she  poBsessed. 

Had  ahe  ever  had  a  doU  1  or  tasted  a 
plum-pudding  1  or  gathered  a  wild  prim- 
rose! or  been  taken  to  a  pantoauinel 
Many  a  query  like  to  these  I  felt  inclined 
to  ask  of  this  hard-working  little  maiden, 
who  had  answered  very  prettily  in  a  soft 


GEOBGIE:  AN  AKTIST*S  LOVE.  iM«chi,isM.i    353 


ud  gentifl  voice  the  mtay  qneatioiu  I  had 
pat  Bat  there  were  her  apUcings  to  be 
done,  and  we  were  taking  up  her  time, 
and  ahe  could  ill-afford  to  waste  the  only 
money  she  posBessed.  To  make  np  for  the 
predoos  minntea  she  bad  lost  in  telling  na 
ner  ato^,  I  slipped  somethiiig  in  har  hand 
while  bidding  her  good-bye ;  and  from  the 
(tare  which  it  attracted,  and  the  smile 
which  quickly  followed,  I  came  to  the  con- 
elodon  that  a  coin  not  made  of  copper  is 
not  a  common  gift  to  a  poor  chUd  m  the 
East. 

Here  for  the  present  I  most  pause,  for  I 
hare  filled  the  space  assigned  to  me.  They 
who  would  hear  further  of  what  happened 
in  my  ooutae  of  Eastern  travel  will  do  me 
the  favour  to  wait  ontil  next  week.  Before 
I  close,  however,  I  may  correct  an  error 
which  crept  into  my  lut  paper.  I  there 
stated  that  poor  workers  in  the  East  who 
Uved  by  making  match-boxes  received  a 
ihilling  a  gross,  providing  their  own  paste. 
This  may  well  seem  labonr  at  atarvation 
point,  bat  the  wage  ia  five-fold  greater 
than  the  rate  now  carrent.  Twopence- 
brthing  for  twelve  dozen  ia  the  present 
market-price,  including  cost  of  paste  and 
time  flonaamed  in  malung  it.  la  fact,  by 
dafly  slaving  for  some  nine  hours  at  a 
atretch  a  woman  in  a  week  can  barely 
earn  two  shilliDga.  I  am  told  of  one  sad 
case  where  father,  mother,  and  seven 
cluldrea  by  their  collective  labour  manage  to 
earn  a  shilling  a  day,  and  put  food  in  their 
nine  months  by  the  profit  of  their  work. 


GEOEGIE :  AN  ARTISTS  LOVE. 

A  ffTORT  IN  SIX  OHAFTERS.  CHAPTER  L 
Miss  Mtsa  Thompson  was  an  artisti- 
cally inclined  young  lady  with  mathetic 
tostea  She  was  clever  and — her  frienda 
added — conceited;  bat  her  mother,  who 
(metaphorically)  sat  at  her  faet  and  wor- 
ahipped  from  this  resjtectful  distance,  put 
it  ^fferently.  She  said  that  Myra  was 
consdoaa  of  superior  intellect,  and  then, 
mother-like,  defending  this  asswtioo  before 
anyone  had  time  to  dispute  it,  she  would 
add: 

"And  why  noti  A  beantiM  woman  ia 
not  found  fault  with  for  a  knowledge  of  her 
beaohr  I  Why,  if  Myra  felt  a  aaperiority 
to  girls  of  her  age,  ud  to  such  irivolous 
amuBaiaents  aa  lawn-tennis  or  waltzing — if 
ahe  felt  that  ahe  understood  great  poets 
with  a  certun  penetrating  clearness  denied 
to  the  gaoeral  ran  of  mankind,  and  not 
•Iwavi  the  trift  of  the  said  ereat  voete 


themselves — why,"  would  repeat  this  fond 
mother,  "  should  she  not  feel  intellectaally 
above,  if  not  altogether  apart  from,  her 
neighbonra  1 " 

Mrs.  Thompson  gave  utterance  to  theee 
and  to  similar  remarks  while  administering 
afternoon-tea  to  her  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances in  her  small  nsthetic  drawin^room 
in  the  Bayawater  district  Myra  would 
often  be  absent  on  these  occasions,  copying 
at  the  National  Gallery,  or  assisting  at 
some  debating  or  literary  aodety. 

She  had  as  yet  favonred  the  world  with 
no  printed  exposition  of  her  aentimente, 
but  her  tastes  were  literary — indeed,  one 
of  her  ambitions,  not  by  any  means  the 
most  aspiring,  was  to  obtain  a  readership. 

And — to  quote  Mrs.  Thompson  again — 
although  so  young  (iS.^  was  twenty- 
two),  her  powera  of  cnUciam  were  mar- 
vellous. 

Nobody  contradicted  her.  The  Thomp- 
sons were  poor,  bat  in  their  small  oiide  of 
more  or  less  commonplace  people,  the 
mother  and  daughter  were  rather  looked 
up  to  and  talked  about, 

Mra.  Thompson,  a  pretty,  fiur  woman 
with  laugnid,  graceful  movements,  and  with 
a  remembrance  of  better  daya,  was  the 
more  popular  of  the  twa  Women  were 
somewhat  frightened  of  Myra,  and  men 
were  more  frightened  stilL  So,  although 
she  received  a  fair  share  of  admiration 
from  the  aterner  sex,  no  member  of  it  had 
ventured — even  supposing  him  to  have  had 
the  inclination,  wluch  is  doubtfal,  bearing 
in  mind  the  wholesome  dislike  men  have 
to  anything  approaching  to  auperiority  in 
their  womankind — to  exprea84iis  admira- 
tion in  the  form  of  a  proposal. 

Myra  looked  forward  to  a  life  of  single 
blessedness  with  a  sufficient  amount  at 
equanimity.  It  is  true  that  ahe  was  poor, 
and  full  of  nstbetio  dislike  to  poverty,  bnt 
ahe  held  herself  above  marrying  a  man  for 
the  amount  of  the  balance  at  lua  banker's, 
and  among  these  commonplace  nineteenth- 
century  men,  where  was  to  be  found  a 
CrichtOD  admirable  eno^b  to  satisfy  the 
requirements  of  a  Miss  llompson  t 

He  must  be  a  most  determined  demo- 
crat, and  at  the  same  time  refined  and 
highly  cultured ;  he  must  be  by  no  means 
a  lady's  man,  and  yet  full  of  chivalrous 
respect  for  woman ;  he  must  be  intelleotoal, 
and  know  not  conceit, 

Myra  at  times  aired  very  democratic 
opinions ;  ahe  had  for  heroes  such  men  aa 
the  Firtt  Conaul,  Victor  Hugo,  Gambetta, 
«ad  Famell.  On  one  occasion,  after  sivinsr 


354    (ifUch  1,  aKi 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


[OOBdDtM^' 


vent  to  idoM  of  almost  djnamite  tendenoy, 
she  had  I^  the  window  in  disgost,  becanee 
■ome  eommoD  people  were  making  meiry 
in  too  close  proximity  to  her  artistic  klt- 
Toimdiogfl;  it  had  jarred  on  her  nsthetic 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things.  Hn,  Thomp- 
son had  been  present. 

She  had  sinoe  been  less  alarmed  at  the 
eeditions  sentiments  ofherKadieal  daughter. 

It  was  a  cold  day  early  In  Kov%mber. 
Poor  London!  declared  on  soientific 
authority  to  be  sverahadowed  on  the 
brightest  mmmer's  day  by  a  hasy  blanket 
of  smoke ;  it  does  not  exact  much  faith  in 
Bcienoe  to  beliere  in  tiie  tluekness  ot  in  the 
yellownesB  of  the  blanket  which  descends 
npon  yon,  and  sffathea  yon  with  snch 
mistaken  kindness  throngh  the  greater 
part  of  the  winter  months. 

On  the  porticnlar  day  I  am  writing  abont, 
one  could  go  on-  one's  way  withonb  the  aid 
of  a  will-o -the-wisp  in  the  mortal  shape  of 
a  small  boy  dodging  erratically  about  you 
with  a  promisenons  tondk  liable  to  audden 
extinction.  There  waa  also  no  particular 
danger  of  hang  mn  over  by  some  be-fo^ed 
omnibni,  or  of  bruning  oneself  against  the 
nearest  lamp-post.  The  worst  behaviour  of 
the  tog  on  this  day  was  to  prodttoe  a 
amarting  sensation  in  the  eyes,  and  a 
peculiar  taste  in  the  month,  not  to  be 
experienced  anywhere  bat  in  London.  It 
is  one  of  the  advantages — there  are  several 
— that  we  have  over  foreigners. 

Mrs.  Thompson  was  sitting  by  the  fire. 
Afternoon-tea  and  an  open»  letter  were 
on  a  small  teble  by  her  side.  She  was 
wrapped  in  a  pale  blue  knitted  shawl,  bnt 
this  coveiisg  failed  to  keep  oat  the  oold 
water  which  was,  figuratively  speaking, 
running  down  her  back.  In  common  with 
most  of  our  delightfully-boilt  eubttrban 
villaa,  it  was  quite  possible  to  sit  almost 
on  the  dogs  of  (hat  high-art  fireplace  and 
there  to  anfier  Ae  extr»nes  of  heat  and 
cold,  it  being  only  possible  to  scorch  one 
side  at  a  time. 

The  cosy  wan  on  the  teapot;  it  was 
terro-ootta  in  colour,  and  the  flowers  tJiereon 
had  been  deaigned  by  Myra,  and  worked 
by  her  mother.  It  was  keeping  the  tea  hot 
for  the  former,  who  was  expected  home 
every  moment  from  the  National  QnlleTj. 
Mrs.  Thompson  was  rather  restlesely  await- 
ing her  daughter's  aniva].  That  foreign- 
looking  letter  lying  by  the  untouched  tea 
will  be  the  subject  of  discussion,  of  possible 
dissmsiea  between  tiiem,  and  ahe  wi^ed 
it  were  over. 


In  every  faoosehold 
believe,  there  is  some  parfJcnlar  he  oi  die, 
who,  by  force  of  superior  strength  of  nnnd, 
or  of  will,  or  of  intellect,  or  somettniBE  liy 
mere  aelfiahneas  or  bad  temper,  takes  aa  it 
were  the  first  place,  whose  opmion  ii  the 
one  which  carries  with  it  the  most  weight, 
and  whose  wishes  are  the  only  ones  wmch 
decide. 

In  that  little  household  of  two,  Myn, 
irom  the  time  she  could  walk,  and  even 
before  this  interesting  period,  had  occupied 
this  happy  position. 

Mrs.  Thompson  poked  the  fire  somevlut 
nervously — a  poker  is  a  reeonrce  not  con- 
fined to  Englishmen  of  the  lower  datsat 
who  have  provoking  wtveo — she  had.  hoard 
the  opening  of  the  little  iron  guie  which 
enclosed  the  small  make-beHeve  of  a  gsiden, 
and  then  the  sharp,  decided  click  of  the 
latchkey.  She  rang  the  bell ;  the  remit 
of  which  proceeding  was  that  Miss  Mjn 
Thompson  and  Euth,  the  maid'Of-aU-work, 
appeared  on  the  threshold  simultaDeontily. 

"  Bring  up  some  hot  buttered-towt, 
Ruth,  nice  and  hot,  just  as  Mbs  Myn 
likes  it" 

Rath  vanished  &om  the  acene  with  & 
not  too  well  pleased  expression  of  concte- 
nance,  and  Miss  Myra  came  up  to  the  fire. 

She  knew  already  that  something  tu 

the  matter,  and  that  the  hot  bnttered-toatt 

was  to  be  administered  in  the  way  of 

consolation,  or,  if  matters  were  not  to  bid 

to  need  consolation,   at  any  rate  for 

hing  purposes 

What  is  it,  mother!    Money t    Hu 
Mr.  Oreen  written  1" 

Mr.  Oreen  was  Mr&  Thompson's  lawyer. 

The  girl  spoke  a  little  WearUy;  it  wu 
such  an  old  story — ^that  want  of  money. 
She  was  standii^  straight  and  tall,  looki^ 
into  the  fire  and  pnmng  off  her  gloTes, 
She  was  five  feet  seven,  but  did  not  look 
her  height.  Ifature  had  given  tier  &bn- 
lutely  perfect  proportions — one  of  the 
rarest  of  her  gifto,  by  the  way;  so  rare, 
indeed,  that  it  takes  some  amount  of 
artistic  training  to  be  able  to  appredats  it 

Her  features  were  short  and  finely  ca^ 
and  ahe  wore  her  thick  dark  hair  short  to 
hev  head  like  a  boy ;  it  was  soft  and  early, 
and  made  a  becoming  frame  to  the  hud- 
some,  somewhat  peculiar  style  of  face ;  her 
eyes  were  black  and  a  little  hard-lookiDg. 
Her  hat  was  of  black  velvet,  large,  home- 
made, and  pictnreaoue. 

She  was  deddedly  a  atriking-lDOiiDg 
girl,  too  much  so,  one  wooldhavo  thoi^^to 
have  gone  about  London  done ;  bat  iba 


GEOBGIE:  AN  ARTIST'S  LOVE.  iMu<aii,uM.)    305 


}nd  oenr  met  wit^  Any  greater  annoy&nce 
(tns  BOW  and  then  «  litl^  penietent 
lUring — a  penfklky  that  eveiy  good^ook- 
ii^  women  nu  to  p^.  Aa  a  rale,  thej 
nxm  get  accoBtomsd  to  it,  and  eDbmit  to  it 
with  the  prorerbial  sweetneH  of  their  sex 

"No,  it  IB  not  moaoy — money  hu 
nothii^  to  do  with  it,  or  at  leait  not  in 
the  way  yon  Uiink." 

The  tout  had  oeme  np;  Myra  had 
taken  off  Im'  hat  and  had  made  herself 
'  eomTortable. 

"  If  money  haa  anything  to  do  with  it, 
it  cant  be  anything  pleasant,"  aaid  the 
girl  with  her  twmby  yearn'  experience  of 
norm  having  had  quite  snongfa  to  make 
both  ends  meet  eOmfiwtably. 

"Do  yos  remember  hearing  me  talk  of 
my  old  schoolfellow,  Katie  Milne^  who 
made  mch  a  good  matdi,  and  then  was  left 
a  widow  1 " 

"  fee,"  said  Myra  after  a  moment's 
nfleetion.  "  Vfwi  she  not  dreadfully  silly  t 
drore  her  husband  oat  of  his  mind  ahnost 
—hastened  his  death,  anyway )" 

This  was  not  a  promiiing  beginning, 
especially  as  libs.  Thompson  had  to  admit 
the  trath  of  this  somewhat  oocompU- 
mentary  eketoh  of  her  old  companion. 

"  'WvSi,"  she  continned  detpeiat^, "  thia 

letter  ifl  from  her,  and Batpei^i)^  yon 

had  bettev  read  it" 

"  Oh  no,  please,"  cried  Myra,  catching 
nght  of  the  tiiin,  closely-written  aheeta, 
"Soreiy  it  is  not  neaessaty  to  wade 
thnnigh  aO  that  Do  condense  the  on- 
pleasantneas,  wfaaterer  it  may  be,  and  let 
us  have  it  over." 

"  I  am  a&aid  yon  will  think  it  rather 
a  nolsaoco."  said  Mis.  Thompson,  still 
weiAly  bwting  ^ut  the  bnsh.  "  I  know 
jrou  don't  like  people  in  the  house,  but  it's 
BO  romantic  meetmg  her  old  lover  again, 
and  then  being  obliged  to  go  oat  to 
Aoitralia,  and  all ' 

"  Mother,  mother,"  interrupted  the  girl, 
"  who  ia  going  to  AaatraUa }  And  if  they 
are  going  to  Australia,  why  do  yon  say  I 
shsU  not  like  them  to  come  here  1 " 

"It  is  her  litUe  girl,  but  she  Is  grown- 
up now ; "  and  .thrai  Mra,  Thompson  en- 
deSTOUced  to  be  more  lucid  and  to  explain 
how  Mrs.  Bickaids  had  lately  been  par- 
doned  by  her  oonsin,  Harold  Spauces, 
whom  she  had  jilted  yean  ago  to  many 
the  now  defhnct  Mr.  fiickards,  a  rich  tea- 
broker,  and  how  that  this  same  Harold 
Spaikes  was  in  an  advanced  stage  of  con- 
ion — not  IntKu^t  on  by  hu  eouain's 
;t.  for  be  had  been  enoaeed  on  and 


off  continually  since  then — that  in  spite  of 
thia  the  wedding  was  to  take  plaoe  im- 
mediately, and  the  honeymoon,  by  the 
doctor's  advice,  was  to  be  spent  in  a  sailing 
trip  to  Aostcalio.  The  only  impediment 
to  all  these  delightful  arrangements  was 
the  extstenoB  of  a  little  dangh^'  of  seven- 
teen, who  had  been  knockmg  about  with 
hw  still  young  widowed  mother  on  ^e 
Continent  from  the  age  of  five,  when  her 
father  had  died ;  bat  whose  absence  at  any 
rate  for  those  sir  months  of  honeymoon 
was  more  to  be  desired  than  her  presence. 

"And  BO,"  finished  Mrs.  Thompson, 
"Kate  proposes  that  she,  her  dao^ter, 
should  come  to  us  until  the  spring.  She 
offers  one  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

"  This  is  the  first  time  for  years  that 
Mrs.  Rickards  has  taken  the  alighteet 
notice  of  you,  is  it  nott"  asked  Myra 
coldly ;  and  then,  after  a  short  uncomfort- 
able silence  :  "  I  suppose  you  woaldlike  to 
have  this  giil,  would  you  not  t " 

"  It  would  be  a  Mndness,  and  the  terms 
ate  liberal,"  replied  her  mother ;  "  indeed, 
Kate  has  made  so  sure  of  my  consent  that 
she  has  enclosed  the  first  quarter  in 
advance.  But,  Myra,  if  you  dislike  the 
idea  too  mnch  I  will  not  make  you  utterly 
miserabls.    I  can  refuse,  of  course." 

But  this  was  said  rather  faintly,  and 
indeed,  truth  to  tell,  Mrs.  Thompson  was 
already  looking  forward  to  many  small 
lozuries  to  be  [wooured  by  means  of  that 
unoroected  twenty-five  pounds. 

t'lt  will  not  mske  me  utterly  miserable, 
although  I  do  dislike  the  idea  of  a  tlurd 
persoa  in  our  small  house,"  answered  the 
girl  with  her  usual  candour.  "I  dislike 
also  the  idea  of  giving  up  my  studio,  as  of 
course  I  must" 

Mrs.  Thompson  eagerly  protested  agunst 
this  being  a  neoesdty,  proposing  first  that 
Miss  Ri^ards  should  be  put  m  a  small 
attic  at  the  top  of  the  house — next  to  Ruth, 
and  ^len  that  she — Mrs.  Thompson — 
should  give  np  her  own  room  to  the  new 
comer,  and  go  upstairs  herself. 

But  Myra  s  common-sense  and  onselfish- 
nesB  won  the  day,  and  the  studio,  scarcely 
ever  used  in  the  winter  on  acconnt  of  the 
extra  fire  this  would  entail,  was  to  be 
converted  into  a  bedroom  forthwith. 

"What  is  her  name,  and  when  is  she 
coming  I "  a^ed  the  girl  as  she  gathered  up 
her  things  preparatory  to  going  to  her 
room. 

"  Ge(^te— ^GleOTgie  Rickards.  She  will 
be  at  VmtOTia  at  a  little  after  ten  on 
Saturday  momine." 


(Hunh  1,  UH.) 


ALL  THE  TEAE  EOUITO. 


CHAFTKR  IL 
Mttla.  was  atanding  by  her  euel, 
Hoffidently  near  the  windoir  to  we  on^ 
and  sofiSciently  far  there^m  to  remore 
any  impreeaiou  tbat  ehe  might  poMtbly  be 
so  doing. 

Her  mother  had  gone  to  meet  Hiu 
Bickarda,  had  been  gone  since  a  little  after 
nine ;  it  was  then  almost  eleven.  In  iH 
probability  she  had  not  long  to  wait  before 
seeing  the  girl  whom  she  coold  not  help 
regarding  in  the  light  of  an  intnideT. 

"I  am  sure  she  vill  find  it  very  dnil 
after  her  life  of  Continental  boarding- 
honses  and  hotels;  she  will  want  to  drag  ni 
about,  and  I  hate  that  sort  of  tiihig  nuew 
one  can  afford  to  do  it  comfortably."  So 
Myra  had  spoken  at  the  breakfast-table  to 
her  mother,  and  she  was  still  thinking 
these  thoughts  as  she  stepped  back  from 
time  to  time  to  get  a  better  view  of  the 
background  she  was  finishing; 

To  wonder  about  the  personal  appearance 
of  the  new  comer  had  not  oocnrrad  to  her. 
Myra  was  as  little  vain  as  it  is  possible 
for  a  good-looking  woman  to  be,  and 
whereas  the  first  qaestion  with  moat  women, 
when  another  member  of  their  sex  is  on 
the  tapis,  would  be,  "Is  she  pretty  t" 
Myra  wonld  probably  specolate  as  to 
whether  she  were  more  than  ordinarily 
stTipid  or  commonplace. 

A  cab  drew  np ;  Buth  went  down  to 
fetch  umbrellas  and  rugs ;  the  inevitable 
discuBsion  took  place  with  the  driver,  and 
also  with  a  gaunt,  noUow- cheeked  individual 
who  had  apparently  bereft  himself  of  the 
better  half  of  his  breath  in  a  vUd  chase 
after  Miss  Kickards's  nnmeions  boxes.  The 
cabman  and  this  outsider  began  by  abusing 
each  other,  and  then,  upon  Mrs.  Thompson 
refusing  to  pay  a  shilling  more  than  the 
right  fare,  became  amical,  and  abused  Mrs, 
Thompson. 
Myra  stayed  where  she  was. 
Presently  the  door  opened  to  admit  her 
mother  and  a  small,  almi  girl  in  an  ulster 
and  EVench-looking  toque. 

"Here  she  is,"  said  Mrs.  Thompson, 
rather  unnecessarily,  perhape.  "Qeorgie, 
this  is  my  daughter  Myra." 

Georgie  oapie  up  to  the  taller  girl  and 
greeted  her  in  a  pretty,  warm,  rauer  on- 
English  way. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  ooming," 
she  sud ;  "  it  is  very  kind  of  you.  Mamma 
did  not  know  a  bit  what  to  do  with  me." 

And  then,  perhaps  not  finding  Myra 
very  responsive,  she  turned  to  the  elder 
lady  and  kissed  her. 


Mrs.  lliompsoii  glanced  allttle  nsrrond; 
at  her  danghter.  •  She  knew  Myia'i  dis- 
like to  anything  damonitntive,  and  then 
she  patted  the  nd's  soft  oheek  and  tcJd 
her  not  to  be  ntly,  that  they  wen  both 
very  glad  to  see  her — and  had  she  not 
better  go  upstairs  and  make  herself  eom- 
f  oitable  while  Kuth  got  some  Ineskfist 
ready  for  her  t 

Myra  offered  to  show  her  tiu  way,  and 
the  two  girls  left  the  room  together. 

After  an  absence  of  about  five  minutes 
Myra  returned  alone. 

"Weill"  said  Mrs.  Hiompaon,  ssihegave 
a  few  toQflhea  to  the  aint»emeut  of  the 
table.  "Well,  what  do  you  think  of  herl" 
"  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  her," 
answered  Myra,  gtung  baok  to  her  etaeL 
"  But  her  appearance  t" 
"  Ofa,  she  is  a  pntlbj  little  thing,  rather 
childish  looking ;  not  much  in  her,  I  shooM 
say." 

"  She  reminds  me  a  little  of  what  Kate 
med  to  be,"  said  Mrs.  Thompson  redw- 
tively ;  "  but  her  eyes  are  better.  Qeor^'s 
eyes  are  lovely — I  don't  know  if  you  have 
remarked  them — and  so  bine." 

Mrs.  Thompson  oame  of  a  family  of 
brown  eyes.  Her  husband's  bad  besn 
brown,  Myra's  were  black,  and  so  Uus 
gentle  lady's  admiration  for  blue,  grey,  (» 
even  green  in  eyes  was  easily  to  be  acceuitod 
for,  and  was  only  another  pnx^  of  the  Iotb 
of  change  ibherent  in  us  ^ 

Myra  smiled  slightly,  but  nude  do 
direct  answer.  The  last  time  Mrs.  Thimf- 
son  had  been  enthnaiaBtio  abmit  penooal 
beauty  was  over  the  shuio  of  a  cook's 
nose.     The  cook  had  endea  very  badly. 

"  I  suppose  Miss  Bickards  won't  mind 
going  away  for  Christmas !  Did  you  tell 
her  of  our  arrangements  1 "  she  asked 
presently. 

"  No,  not  yet ;  but  I  don't  think  Geoi^ 
is  the  sort  of  girl  to  mind  anything." 

As  she  spoke  Oeorgie  appeared.  She 
looked  even  more  ft^ildiiiti  without  her  hst ; 
her  golden-brown  hair  was  floating  nxud 
her  small  face  in  nntidy,  fluffy  cons ;  hsi 
eyes,  which  had  caught  and  kept  the  colaar 


GEOEGIE;  AN  ARTISrS  LOVE. 


[Muchi,  UH]     357 


u  vere  some  of  My  ra's  remaikt,  but  then 
for  dttja  together  Myra  was  wrapped  in 
g^my  eiknca,  or  ebe  makiiig  retlections 
on  hfe  and  things  in  general,  aa  depressing 
u  they  were  nnanswerablft 

Myrk  need  have  been  under  no  appre- 
hension that  Miss  lUokards  irould  object 
to  Uaring  London  for  Chriatmas,  for 
slthoogh  she  could  even  extract  some  little 
imosement  from  a  dense  yellow  fog,  and 
was  childishly  elated  at  Ute  necessity  of 
breakfasting  by  gaslight,  she  was  equally 
chsmied  at  the  prospect  of  going  out  of 
town  for  a  month  at  the  Mginning  of 
December. 

"I  hare  always  heard  bo  mnch  of  an 
&iglish  ChriBtmaa  in  the  coontry,"  she  said 
gleefully,  while  visions  of  yole-Iogs,  holly, 
mistletoe,  and  men  in  shooting-jacketa 
or  red  coats  floated  before  her  bram. 

Kyra  hastened  to  dispel  any  misleading 
notions. 

"It  is  not  to  a  country 'house  full  of 
people  that  we  are  going.  You  must  not 
expect  any  balls,  or  iniMed  amusement  of 
any  sort.  We  are  jost  going  into  lodgings, 
tiiat  is  all" 

"  YoD  see,  dear,"  explained  Mrs.  Thomp- 
lon  in  a  alieblly  deprecatory  tone,  for  sbe 
had  seen  the  momentary  falling  of  the 
^I's  face,  "  we  generally  take  our  outing 
m  the  winter.  Mynk  so  hates  the  fogs,  and 
they  are  always  very  bad  about  Christmas." 

Georgie  agreed,  and  fell  into  the  plans 
of  an  early  flitting  to  Lyme  B«giB  wiUi 
almost  all  her  nsn^  brightness. 

However,  Myra  was  not  convinced,  and 
Ae  expressed  her  dissatisfaction  to  her 
mother  after  Georgie  had  gone  up  to  bed. 

"I  am  sure  G^eoi^e  dislikes  the  idea 
most  thoroughly,  aod  really,  mother,  if  we 
had  not  made  all  our  arrangements — you 
tee,  paying  what  sbe  does,  she  has  no  right 
to  be  made  uncomfortable.  It  is  a  hatefnl 
bnuneas,  and  we  could  have  come  across 
DO  girl  more  onsoited  to  our  mode  of  life, 
in  every  possible  way." 

Mrs.  Thompson  mnnnured  something 
about  Mies  Rickards's  sweetness  of  disposi- 
tion. 

"  Yea,  she  is  a  nice  Uttle  thing  in  ber 
way,  but  it  is  not  our  way.  Don't  you 
we,  mother  t  Caa't  you  understand  how 
painfully  dull  she  will  find  it  afler  the  life 
die  has  been  leading  abroad  I " 

"  She  does  not  give  one  ^e  impression 
of  finding  it  dull,"  said  Mrs.  Thompson, 
but  speaking  not  at  all  in  the  decided  tone 
of  her  daughter. 


"  Miss  Bickarda  will  have  been  here  a 
week  to-morrow,"  waa  Myra's  answer. 
"Things  are  atUl  new  to  her;  she  has 
shopping  to  do,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing," 
rather  contemptuously.  "  But  Lyme 
Begis  I  where  there  is  nothing  but  the 
beauty  of  the  scenery  and  the  sunsets. 
No,  mother,  depend  upon  it,  Georgie 
Bickaids  Is  the  sort  of  girl  who  cannot  do 
really  happy  if  she  has  not  a  man  to  flirt 
with.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  she  haa 
done  nothing  else  since  she  waa  five  years 
old.  It  is  outrageous  to  bare  a  girl  of  that 
kind  thruet  upon  one  I  We  shall  a)l  be 
miserable  shut  up  in  that  old  farmhouse 
together." 

Poor  Mrs.  Thompson  looked  rather  miser- 
able already.  Why  did  her  clever  daughter 
insist  upon  feeling  things  bo  deeply  t  No 
doabt  Georgie  was  not  averse  to  flirtation. 
No  girl  was  about  whom  Mrs.  Thompson 
knew  auytJiing,  except  Myra,  bat  then 
Myra  was  a  genius,  and  couBequently  an 
exception  to  all  feminine  rules — her  feel- 
ings were  too  deq>  for  mere  flirtation. 

The  simple  lady  lay  awake  some  con- 
siderable time  that  night,  reflecting  on  the 
awfolness  and  intensity  of  Myra's  capacity 
for  loving,  if  ever  awakened.  She  had 
always  given  her  daughter  credit  for  hidden 
feelings  of  a  strength  and  profoundnesB 
that  it  would  be  perhaps  as  well  not  to 
investigate  too  closely  in  these  shallow, 
pleasure-loving  daya 

The  three  ladies  were  seated  at  that 
sort  of  nondescript  meal,  high  tea,  so 
dear  to  their  sex.  Men  as  a  rule  energeti- 
cally avoid  it;  they  are  bo  much  more 
careful  of  their  digestions  than  are  their 
weaker  sisters. 

The  tea  was  lud  in  a  room  whose  only 
attraction  was  its  view  of  the  Lyme  Begis 
bay ;  this  attraction  being  then  shut  out 
with  the  ^d  of  a  green  blind  and  red 
merino  curtains.  One  perfotce  admired 
the  diplomacy  of  little  Mrs.  Wright,  the 
landlady,  who  always  led  new  arrivals 
straight  to  the  window,  and  there  expa- 
tiated on  the  beauties  of  Nature. 

The  broad  stretoh^f  sea,  the  tall  white 
clifis,  the  irrogular  steep  descent  of  house?, 
imprinted  themselves  on  the  mind,  and 
one  more  easily  overlooked  the  rickety 
ao^,  and  the  chaita  covered  in  glaring 
cheap  cretonne,  each  flower  thereon  a 
separate  eyesore  to  an  arUatic  mind. 

How  Myra  supported  the  yearly  inflic- 
tion of  such  surroundings  somewhat  per- 
plexed her  mother — Myra,  who  was  known 


358      [Much  1,  UBt,] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  ROUND. 


to  flhndder  &t  an  nndseonted  pUno-b&ck, 
uid  who  diseoaised  at  lensth  kboat  wlut 
slie  called  "  expuisea  of  ugmieBB.'' 

Alas  I  thia  room  was  nouiiog  better  than 
an  expanse  of  ugliness  ia  iteel£  Let  Miss 
TbompaoD  tarn  ner  eyes  vhere  she  would, 
there  was  angoiah  and  deaotatton  of  spirit 
for  this  disciple  of  the  beantiful,  on  eveiy 
flida 

Wtiether  it  was  owing  to  tha^  or  to 
more  remote  oaoaes,  on  that  particolar 
evening  Myra  was  depressed,  or,  in  plainer 
words,  decidedly  cross.  Mra.  Thompson 
was  tired  and  shaken  with  the  long 
omnibtis  journey  from  Axaiineter  (Lyme 
Begis  is  still  unspoilt  by  railway).  Geoigie 
was  too  hungry  to  do  mTioh  beyond  eating 
— between  whiles  she  wondered  a  little 
at  superior  people's  manner  of  enjoying 
themselves. 

She  admired  Myra  immensely,  she  had 
never  seen  anyone  quite  like  her  before, 
and  was  ready  to  give  her  as  much  hero- 
worship  as  this  somewhat  peooliar  young 
lady  would  receive  at  her  hands.  But  at 
the  same  time,  she  conld  not  help  wonder- 
ing now  and  ag^  at  some  of  Myra's 
remarks  and  proceedings.  She  often 
wondered  aloud,  maeh  to  Hie  aim<mnca  of 
Miss  Thompson,  who  often  detected  hidden 
irony  in  (George's  moat  ionooant  speeofaes. 

Her  hanger  being  somewhat  appeased, 
Oeorgie  miule  one  of  tiiem,  breaking  a 
long  silence. 

"  We  seem  to  have  brought  the  fog  with 
us,"  she  said  ebeerfnlly. 

She  addressed  no  one  in  parlicalar,  but 
Myra  felt  called  upon  to  defend  her  chosen 
winter  abode.  She  spoke  with  some 
severity : 

"  It  ia  not  a  fog,  as  anyone  but  a  child 
could  see.  It  is  a  sea-mist — quite  another 
thing.     It  is  very  healthy." 

"  It  is  rather  dense  to-night,"  said  the 
elder  lady ;  "  but  I  assure  you,  Oeorgie,  it 
is  quite  the  exeeptioa  here.  .  The  chmate 
is  charming,  as  even  yon,  spoilt  as  yoa  are 
for  England^  will  be  obliged  to  own ;  will 
she  not,  Myra  I " 

But  Myra  made  no  reply.  She  got  up 
and  went  over  to  a  somewhat  smoky  fire, 
which  she  gave  a  vioious  poke.  She  was 
most  thorough^  put  oat  She  hated 
travelling  seoond-olass;  she  held  omniboses 
in  detestation ;  and,  like  most  people,  evui 
quite  commonplace  ones,  was  averse  to 
being  thwarted  in  hex  wrangMients.  All 
these  things  bad  bafailea  har,  ud  in  an 
afiKravated  form. 

In  the  omnibus,  smaller  and  narrower 


than  those  in  London  she  will  walk  sny 
distance  rather  than  avail  herself  of,  ane 
had  been  cramped  about  the  limbs,  and 
generally  shaken,  in  company  with  three 
or  four  sturdy  ooantry-women,  smelli^  of 
onions,  snd  worthy  of  England  in  the 
anpietareaqueneas  of  their  attire.  That 
she  might  have  borne  by  shutting  her  eyes 
and  letting  her  mind  dwell  on  something 
beaatifbl — a  picture  of  Borne  Jones  or  a 
poem  of  Browning  Unfortnnately,  tfce 
dosing  of  her  eyes  had  not  been  so  es^  a 
matter.  In  spite  of  her  most  heroic  tSfgtA, 
her  ntother  had  allowed  one  of  Uiose 
objectionable,  inartistic,  onion-eating  fdbiw- 
creatures  to  enter  into  a  detailed  aeconnt  of 
her  life,  and,  when  tJiat  was  finished,  the 
family  lustory  of  several  of  her  neighboon. 

There  was  something  about  Hia 
ThouqiBon  iriiich  inspired  ocmfidence  to  an 
almost  unlimited  degree  in  such  people  aa 
cab-drivers,  railway-porters,  aad  b^an, 
in  fact,  as  Myra  said,  in  the  breasts  of  the 
great  anwadied  at  luge.  Miss  Thompson 
had  never  been  able  to  quite  exonerate 
her  mo^er  IrMa  blame  in  tiio  matter. 

People  never  oome  to  me,  motbWt  with 
histories  of  their  lives,"  she  had  remarked 
more  than  once. 

Bat  Mrs.  l%Dmp8(m  had  only  Btniled, 
and  declared  it  was  all  owing  to  a  want  of 
finuoess  in  the  outline  of  her  nose. 

The  climax  to  Miss  Thompson's  woee 
was  the  impossibility  of  having  for  studio  a 
smalt  room  with  the  only  good  north  li^t 
Id  the  houae.  The  peculiar  bittemesa  of 
tiie  matter  was  that  the  person  who  had 
appropriated  what  she  had  almost  come  to 
look  upon  as  har  own,  was  an  utisb  She 
told  herself  she  oonld  have  endured  it 
better  had  he  been  a  doctor,  pedlar,  tinker 
—  anything  but  that  Mrs.  Wri^t  had 
been  eloquent,  too,  in  hia  bdiall  Mjn 
thought  it  vulgar  to  listen  to  the  pmsw 
of  ui  unmarried  man.  The  landlady  bad 
enlarged  on  the  fact  of  his  being  quite  the 
gentleman,  although  he  was  an  artist  Si» 
had  even  volunteered  tiie  remark  that  she 
was  sure  he  would  not  be  the  one  to  hinder 
such  a  young  lady  as  Miss  Myra  from  any- 
thing ahe  had  set  her  heart  on,  and  that — — 
But  Myra  had  cat  her  short,  and  begged 
that  no  word  on  the  subject  of  the  qtnao 

^ht  be  Bud  to  the  artnst 
Ics.  Wright  bad  inomised,  holding  ont, 
as  consolation  to  Myra,  that  the  gendeDup 
might  be  goii^  any  day,  "  only  that  he  u 
that  distracted  and  dreamy  lih^  ttm*^  «> 
real  calcnlatim  posoUe." 
Myra  had  listened  in  Bil«ice    Sbs  *>■ 


GEOKGIE:  AN  ARTISrS  LOVE. 


(Mircb  1,1384.1      3S9 


■ort  th<ntnghiy  annexed,  aod  her  aanoj- 
UM0  wai  not  diminiihed  by  an  inward 
(xmriction  tdut  the  presence  of  thia 
unloded-foi  lodger  was,  from  different 
motzreB,  by  no  meaoB  so  diiagEeeable  to 
her  oompanions  as  to  henelf. 

After  yentiiig  her  fselinga  to  some  small 
axtent  on  the  ooals,  Myra  declared  it  woold 
hire  beea  better  mit  to  have  left  Iiondoa 
Una  year,  and  enggeeted  staying  only  a  week, 
ratarnii^  to  Bayswater  ior  Christmas. 

Bat    Mn.    Thompson,    who   had    left 
entain    inatnmtions  at   home   at 
taHng-ap   of    cu^to,    rabbing-down    of 
valb,   eta,  (n>posed   this    mewm^a   with 
unwonted  decmoa. 

"Bendea,  really,  Hyra,  it  is  only  for  a 
lew  dsjB.  This  artist,  whoever  he  may  be, 
is,  yoa  see,  expected  to  leave  almost  at  any 
moment  I  can't  see  any  soffioient  reason 
for  being  so  pat  oat" 

"Pain  Bentoal,"  said  Georgie,  coining 
op  and  kneeing  down  in  front  of  the  fire, 
where,  tiunks  to  Myrs,  tiiaie  waa  a  snudl 
■tni^liiig  flame.  "  Sach  a  pretty  name  I 
I  am  sore  he  is  nice,  and  an  artist  I  Yoa 
oi^t  to  be  pleased,  Myra." 

"Thai   I  un    not  what  I    ought    to 
be,"  said  BAka  Thompson  rather   uiortly. 
"  Might  I  enquire  how  you  come  to  know 
bis  name  already  1     We  have  not  bean  ' 
the  hoosfl  for  more  than  an  hoar." 

"  I  saw  a  latter  on  the  hall-table  as  I 
went  apstairs ;  of  eoorse  it  can  be  for  no 
one  else," 

"  Kentoal  1 "  repeated  Mrs.  Thompson , 
"  and  an  artist !  Is  not  that  the  name  of 
Linda  Watts'a  ootuin,  the  inw  she  is  always 
Calkinff  about ) " 

"  I  dare  say — yes — very  likely ;  how  ex- 
casiively  tiresome  1  We  may  nave  to  be 
etril  to  him,"  said  Myra  impatiently.  "And 
from  what  Unda  says,  I  believe  mm  to  be 
intensefy  conceited.  My  holiday  will  be 
comi4etely  i^iled ;  he  is  sore  to  be  sketch- 
ing tite  very  bits  I  want  I  can  see  we 
have  a  moat  wretched  month  before  a&" 

And  with  this  gloomy,  Oassandra-like 
ntteraoca,  Miss  Tm»apson  left  the  room, 
snd  waa  seen  no  more  for  the  night 

It  was  three  days  later ;  the  mist  which 
had  persistently  covered  everything  as  with 
saoft  white  shroud  had  vanished — whether 
it  had  been  swallowed  np  by  the  sea  to 
which,  according  to  Myiat  it  owed  its  birUi, 
or  whether  it  bad  gone  the  way  of  ordinary 
togi,  is  not  for  ua  to  determine,  and  is, 
met  all,  of  secondary  importance. 

There  was  onlt  one  thinar  to  be  done  I 


with  sach  a  bine  aky,  such  sunshine,  such 
delicious,  invigorating  criepqees  in  the  air, 
and  that  waa  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

Myra,  English  bom  and  bred,  compre- 
hended this.  She  came  down  to  breakfast 
in  all  the  paraphernalia  of  ulster,  tMck 
boots,  and  ucetohing  ^paratus. 

"  I  shall  make  a  day  of  it,  mother,  if  I 
can  have  some  sandwiches ;  it  is  so  tire- 
some to  have  to  disturb  oneself  for  meals." 
"My  dear,  how  imprudent  at  this  time 
of  the  year  I  Yoa  are  certain  to  catch  cold ;" 
and  IkW  Thompson  shivered  a  little  at  the 
mere  idea,  drawing  her  inevitable  shawl 
closer  round  her. 

"  I  am  goins  along  the  Underclifi ;  you 
know  how  sheltered  it  always  ia  Uiere — 
beddesilnevercatchoold.  Youmightbring 
Georgie  later,  in  time  to  see  the  sunset 
We  could  all  come  home  together.  Where 
ia  Geonie,  by  the  way  I  Not  down  yet  t " 
As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened,  and 
Geo^pLe  entered.  Myra  looked  at  her  with 
a  certain  amount  of  artistic  pleasura  She 
wore  one  of  her  pretty  Paris  dresses ;  it 
was  sreeny-brown  in  colour,  and  over  this 
she  had  pinned  a  turkev-red  art  apron, 
copied  from  one  of  Miss  Thompson's.  Her 
>1deD- tinted  hair  was  untidily  picturesque, 
&er  blue  eyes  sparkling;  she  seemed 
part  of  the  brightness  of  the  morning.  She 
made  a  pretty  little  apology  for  being  late, 
and  then  taking  in  Myras  attire,  asked  : 
"  So  you  are  going  oat  sketohlng  as 
welir" 

"  Ah  well  1 "  repeated  Myra,  but  with 
an  instinctive  knowledge  of  what  was 
coming. 

"  Yes,  he  baa  gone ;  I  saw  him  from  my 
window — I  had  such  a  good  view — I  leant 
ri^t  out  He  is  nice-looking^  but — old." 
Daring  this  speech,  Gooigie  had  put 
sugar  in  her  tea,  helped  herself  to  the 
goodly  wholesome  -  looking  Devonshire 
butter,  and  otherwise  ministered  to  her 
inner  wants.  She  did  not  notice  Myra's 
look  of  disgust  Mrs.  Thompson  did,  and 
hastened  to  interpose : 

"  Leant  right  out,  dear  T  I  hope  Mr. 
Bentoul — for  of  course  it  ia  he  you  are 
talking  aboat — did  not  see  you  t 

"  No,  of  coarse  not,"  answered  Georgie 
sweetly ;  "  I  waited  until  he  waa  quite  a 
long  way  off — nearly  up  the  hilL" 

"I  knew  ibl"  exclaimed  Hyra  almost 

tragically.     "He  has  gone  to  the  Under- 

cliff  I "    Ati«r  a  pause :  "  Old,  do  you  say, 

Geoi^e — is  he  grey ) " 

The  younger  girl  langhed. 

"Oh.  not  BO  old  aa  that,  but  etave.  a 


360 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


pointed  beard,  ancotnmon-looking — aboat 
forty,  I  should  think." 

"  IE  he  is  Lind&'a  conain  he  it  not  mneh 
over  thirty,"  eaid  Mrs.  Thompeon.  "  I 
dare  say  yon  did  not  see  bim  rery  veil  after 
all,  Georgie." 

Hero  the  matter  dropped,  and  Myra 
departed  with  her  sandwiches,  bat  with 
the  firm  resolve  to  come  back  at  once  if  the 
objectionable  artist  was  in  possession  of  her 
Undercliff. 

Mrs.  Thompson  sn^sted  that  she  and 
Georgie  shonld  go  out  and  enjoy  a  little 
sea  air,  bnt  Georgie  begged  to  finish  a  book 
she  was  reading  first,  and  Mrs.  Thompson, 
never  unwilling  to  stay  by  the  fire,  did  not 
press  the  invitatioD. 

The  girl  took  her  book  to  a  wide  low  win- 
dow seat,  half-way  up  the  old  oak  staircase. 

There  she  cnrled  herself  up  in  the  ann- 
shine,  and  was  soon  lost  to  outer  things. 

The  BtaircasB  at  Holy  Monnt  is  the  only 
original  part  that  is  left  of  what  was 
once  &  fine  old  house.  In  the  time  of 
Charles  the  First  it  bad  belonged  to  the ! 
Heatheratones,  an  old  Royalist  fa^mily  famed 
for  the  beauty  of  its  women  and  the  licen- 
tiousness of  its  men.  Later  on  the  last  of 
the  race  had  fallen  at  Sedgemoor,  fighting 
for  Monmouth.  The  old  place  had 
gradually  fallen  into  decay  and  had  been 
sold,  partly  rebuilt  and  patched  up,  and 
converted  into  a  girls'  school.  Since  then  it 
had  fallen  lower  stilL  Those  little  white 
cards,  with  "Apartments"  printed  thereon, 
which  were  to  be  seen  in  conspicuous 
parts  of  the  windowp,  announced  but  too 
plainly  its  degradation. 

That  blackened  oaken  aturcase  1  What 
memories  must  it  not  possess  of  days  gone 
by  1 — those  days  when  old  Sir  Carver 
Heatherstone,  and  his  sons  after  him,  enter- 
t^ned  there  the  beauty  and  the  wickedness 
oftheCourt.  Whattales  those  steps  might 
toU,  of  rustling  silken  dresses  sweeping 
over  them,  of  little  feet  in  high-heeled 
shoes,  and  the  clanking  of  sword  and  spur  ! 
Must  they  not  havo  been  the  discreet 
witnesses  of  many  a  stolen  meeting,  or  soft 
whisper,  or  Court  iuttigue  I  Ab,  if  they 
could  but  speak  1  But  perhaps  after  all  it 
is  well  that  speech  is  denied  them.  No 
one  takes  to  reverses  kindly,  and  even 
those  old  oalcen  steps  might  aa^  bitter,  sour 
things  we  shonld  not  care  to  bston  to. 

Georgie  had  finished  her  book,  and  sat 


idle  in  the  nuwhine.  She  was  not  tlutikiDg 
of  the  old  staircase  and  its  pevible 
memories  or  r^rets.  If  she  was  gnihyof 
any  distinct  thought  at  that  moment  it  was 
that  it  was  very  pleasant  and  warm,  but  thsl 
it  would  be  still  more  pleasant  to  havewme 
one  to  talk  to — some  one  nice.  Mr. 
Rentoul  for  instance  I  She  got  up,  and 
standing  on  the  low  wtndow-«ill  loobd  ont 
Up  the  steep  white  road,  Mid  aeroti  ths 
fieidc,  shehaidaTiewof  bothwaysofgettiiig 
to  the  Undercliff.  There  was  no  me  in 
sight.  Neither  of  the  artists  had  apparenll; 
as  yet  frightened  the  other  away. 

She  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  then  bethooj^t 
her  ofMrs.  Thompson's  offer  to  go  out  She 
could  change  her  novel,  at  any  rate.  Sfa« 
wondered  what  the  time  was.  Standinc 
there  in  indecision,  a  strong  and  dresdUd 
inclination  came  into  her  aioall  head  The 
balustrade  to  that  ancient  staircase  wu 
broad,  and  shiny  with  the  touch  of  muf 
thousands  of  hands.  How  niceit  would l» 
to  slide  down  it  1  Shonld  she  t  Tbm 
was  no  one  to  see  her.  She  hesitated,  and 
being  a  woman  was  naturally  lost  She 
scrambled  up,  arranged  h«r  petticoats  u 
gracefiiUy  as  might  be — ahe  was  oS.  Ai 
she  reached  the  bottom  ao  outer  dooi 
creaked,  there  was  the  sound  of  voico, 
and  a  man  and  woman,  both  tall,  botli 
with  portfolios,  entered  the  inner  halL 

Miaa  Rickards  got  down  in  hot  hatt«, 
she  grew  red  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and 
atood  before  them  a  miserable  study  o! 
shamed  conaciouaneu 

Myra  just  said,  "Geoi^a!"  The  lens 
was  expreBsive.  She  then  mUt  thiongb  a 
form  of  introduction.  "  I  have  met  Ht- 
Rentoul — I  find  we  have  many  mataal 
friends — Miss  Rickarda 

Geoigie  bowed,  but  did  not  dare  to  look 
up  and  read  all  thedisgust  she  was  sure  mutt 
be  written  on  the  artist's  faoa  She  mui- 
mnred  something  unintelligible,  and  has- 
tened  to  seek  refuge  with  Mr&  Thompson. 

"What,  a  fine  old  atairoase  it  is,"  re- 
niarkedMr.Reatoa),aaGeoTgiediB^fieared. 
"  I  had  no  idea  of  its  artistic  merit  until 
just  now." 

And  then  he  went  up  to  his  room,  while 
Myra  went  to  tell  her  mother  that  Hr. 
Rentoul  was  Linda's  conain ;  that  for  a 
man  he  was  not  anbearably  conceited,  nor 
yet  an  utter  fool,  and  that  he  was  comiog  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Thompson  that  aftemooa 


Tht  Bight  of  Translatt'ng  Artkles  frovfi.  All  the  Year  Rovhd  m  re»ervtd  6y  tkf.  Aulitrt. 


ay  Go  ogle 


362      (Uir. 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


There's  nowt  for  it  bat  to  clear  'em  clean 
aat  o'  gait.'  And  lie  was  riglit,  too.  I 
meaD  as  regards  the  goods,  not  the  other 
baggage,"  said  Archie  amiluig.  "If  he'd 
slowed  instead  of  sharpening  ue  pace,  and 
so  strack  the  goods  with  less  force,  he'd 
have  knocked  ue  waggons  over,  instead  of 
cutting  through  them,  s&d  probably  sent 
us  off  the  load  down  the  bank." 

"It's  a  terrible  life,"  said  Ida  gravely, 
thinking,  we  mi^t  confess,  less  of  Ben'a 
than  of  Archie's  exposure  to  perfl  "  Waa 
the  other  as  bad  as  that  1 " 

"  Oh,  the  other  was  nothing.  Ben,  who, 
I  think,  is  tlie  kindest-hearted  man  that 
erer  lived,"  said  Archie  entbosiaBticallj, 
"had  jnst  got  home  after  a  hard  day'i 
work  vheD  ue  wife  of  a  goods  driver  oame 
to  say  tiiat  her  bosband,  whose  train  was 
due  out  in  five  mioatea,  waa  helpleesly 
dmnk.  What  was  she  todol  The  man 
woold  certainly  lose  his  place,  and  her  six 
children  would  be  left  without  bread. 
Where  waa  his  mate  1  Oh,  bia  mate  was 
worse  than  himself;  they'd  been  working 
a  Scarborough  excursion  up  to  three  o'clock 
that  morning,  and  bad  got  heavily  tipped 
and  Spent  it  in  drink.  <  Tha'lt  bear  a  hand 
here.  Master  Archie  f '  said  Ben  to  mo,  and 
very  proud  I  was  to  be  his  stoker.  Within 
five  minutes  we  were  steaming  out  of  the 
goods-ytud,  and  all  went  well  till  we  came 
to  Crossleigh  Junction,  where  we  were 
stopped  by  fog-signals,  for  there  was  a  dense 
fog.  In  about  ten  minutes  our  gnard  came 
lounging  up  for  a  chat,  and  then  we  found 
that  he'd  been  drinking  also,  though  he 
could  stand  it  better  thsn  the  other  two. 

" '  Thee'st  put  daan  fog-signals,  Billy  1 ' 
asked  Ben. 

"  '  Nay,  there  were  sionala  eneu.  There 
was  Bankside  distant  and  Lower  Crossleigh 

home '     A  wild  whistle  cut  him  abort. 

"  '  Jump  1 '  shouted  Ben,  but,  as  he  spoke, 
the  express  crashed  through  the  brake  and 
fourteen  or  fifteen  waggons." 
"  Were  many  people  killed  1"  gasped  Ida. 
"  No  one  was  seriously  hurt,  or  seemed 
to  make  much  of  it  either.  When  Ben 
had  waddled  bade  to  the  vrreckage,  he  said 
with  a  grin  to  the  driver  of  the  express 
who  had  run  half  through  us, '  There's  a 
matter  of  twenty  waggons  to  get  through 
jet,  George;  two  on  'em  powder,  aw 
reckon.  If  thee'st  still  i'  t'  mind  to  be 
ficBt,  thee'lt  find  it  gainer  to  back  aat  and 
wark  raand  by  Salteea,'  that  is,  forty  miles 
round.  Those  are  my  two  accidents,"  con- 
cluded Archie,  "  and  they'd  hardly  count 


Then  Archie  tried  to  ^t  Ma  to  talk  of 
such  of  her  affairs  as  might  t>e  discassed 
before  others,  yet  with  an  ominous  fsaciua- 
tion  she  would  letum  agai>  and  again  to 
railway  life  and  its  accidents. 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  it  up,"  she  said 
earnestly,  at  last. 

"Ob,  I  don't  go  often  now.  Beslder, 
the  engine,  after  all,  is  about  the  taietl 
place.  You  are  the  first  to  see  the  daoger. 
Then,  if  you  choose  to  chance  it  and  stick 
to  her,  the  weight  of  the  engine  saves  ;ou 
half  the  shock ;  while,  if  yon  like,  you 
can  leap  ofi!  Boxed  up  here  in  a  canisge 
you  can  see  and  do  nothing." 

"  Do  you  get  no  warning  oi  danger  in  i' 
carriage  1 " 
"  You  may  hear  three  sharp   whistles, 

but  before " 

They  sounded  as  be  spoke,  and  he  had 
time  only  to  fiing  hia  arm  round  Ida  and 
fix  his  feet  firmly  against  the  oppoaite  seat 
when  the  crash  came,  and  both  were  flosg 
together  sharply  forward  and  back  again  as 
shaipty. 

"  You're  not  hurt  1 " 
"  No,"  said  Ida,  a  little  confused  by  the 
shock. 

"Thank  Heaven !  I'm  ^raid  it's  a  bad 
business,"  as  heartreodiDg  shrieks  were 
heard  &om  (he  front. 

"  Mrs.  Tuck  ! "  exclaimed  Ida,  when  she 
came  to  realise  what  had  happened. 

"It  mayn't  be  her  train,"  hes&id,  though 
knowing  well  it  must  be,  "  But  if  it  is, 
she's  well  in  front,  and  aa  safe  aa  we  arci  I 
may  be  of  some  use,  Ida ;  I  must  get  ouL" 
"  I  might  do  something  1 "  appealioely, 
for  the  cries  of  fear  and  pain  wrong  her 
heart 

You'd  better  not  come,  Id&  You'll 
be  so  upset  and  unnerved.  I  don't  know 
that  you  will,  though,"  he  said  impulaively, 
gathering  this  new  idea  of  her  from  the 
expression  of  her  face,  on  which  he  was 
garing.  "  No ;  you'll  be  better  for  doing 
something,  if  Uiere'a  anything  to  he 
done."  So  saying  he  helped  her  oat 
on  to  the  line,  and  they  hnrried  together 
to  the  front  It  waa  a  bad  business. 
No  one  in  their  train  was  serioualy  in- 
juiod,  except  the  driver  and  stoker  who 
had  leaped  ofi^,  The  driver  was  killed— 
impaled  on  a  points  lever  which  moved  a 
switch  serving  to  connect  the  up  and  down 
lines ;  and  the  stoker  was  badly  injured 
internally.  With  these  exceptions  no  one 
in  their  train  was  hurt  aerioosly ;  but  five 
of  the  passengers  in  the  real  of  the  first 
train  were  killed  outright,  and  majiy  moie 


A  DRA.WN  GAME. 


[March  S,  ISM.)      363 


varo  morUllf  iigared,  or  maimed  for  life. 
Mrs.  Tack  and  Dick,  hoverer,  escaped  the 
colliaion  altogether  in  this  iny  : 

The  accident  happened  at  the  foot  of  a 
long  and  rather  ateep  incline  about  thirty 
milae  from  Woolstanholme.  Here  the  driver 
of  the  first  special  waa  brought  to  a  stand, 
by  finding  the  load  too  heavy  for  his  engine 
with  the  raib  in  thd  greasy  state  in  which 
tbey  were  that  night  After  consultation 
with  the  guard,  he  decided  to  divide  the 
train,  and  take  it  np  in  two  detachments 
as  fiu"  aa  the  little  wayside  station  of  Denton, 
where  there  was  a  loop-line,  Jost,  how- 
ever, as  he  had  ^t  the  first  half  of  the 
train  into  the  loop,  and  was  uncoupling 
his  engine  to  ron  back  for  the  aecond,  the 
collision  occurred.  The  two  svoalmen, 
with  whom  the  blame  was  aKerwarda 
funnd  to  rest,  had  taken  the  first  part  of 
the  train  for  the  whole — neither  of  them 
having  looked  oat  for  the  tail  -  lights. 
When,  then,  the  relief  special  came  up, 
and  whistled  for  the  red  light  to  be  pulled 
off,  the  aignalman,  having  just  got  "  line 
clear  "  from  the  next  box,  showed  a  white 
light,  and  the  second  train  telescoped  the 
latter  half  of  the  first.  Bat  Mia  Tuck  and 
Dick  were  safe  at  Denton  in  the  first  half. 

This  Archie  soon  ascertained,  and  re- 
asBored  Ida  as  to  their  safety.  Then, 
finding  guard  and  sigualman  too  bewildered 
to  do  more  than  Uock  botii  lines,  he  at 
once  took  tlie  command  into  his  own 
bands.  He  telegr^hed  to  Woolstenholme 
for  doctors,  etc.,  and  got  Uie  reply,  after 
the  interval  it  took  to  waken  the  station- 
master,  that  there  was  no  engine  in  steam 
to  take  them  on.  Now,  as  both  lines  were 
foaled  with  the  debris  of  the  accident,  the 
engioe  of  the  first  special  was  cut  off  from 
them.  After  a  moment's  thooght,  Archie 
questioned  the  signalman  as  to  the  cross- 
over coQDections  between  the  up  and  down 
lines,  and  found  that  the  points  lever,  which 
bad  Impaled  the  poor  driver,  worked  a 
switch  that  would  get  the  engine  of  the 
second  special  on  to  the  down  line,  and 
that  four  miles  farther  back  were  another 
crossover  road  and  a  points  lever,  which 
would  work  it  back  to  the  up-line,  and  so 
get  it  round  to  the  rear  of  the  train, 
fiunuing  down  the  steps  of  the  box  he 
examined  the  engine,  and  found  it  battered, 
bat  BO  far  as  he  could  see,  not  materially 
injured.  Thence  he  harried  to  the  goard, 
who  was  making  a  fire  ont  of  the  fres- 
mente  of  the  carriages,  and  got  his  help 
first  to  keep  patsangers  oat  of  the  way, 
while  he  backed  tlu  train  clear  of  the 


pointa — ^then  to  uncouple  the  engine,  and 
torn  it  on  to  the  down  line.  This  done, 
he  bid  the  guard  (who,  like  the  signalman, 
took  him  for  the  chief  engineer  of  some 
railway  company,  if  not  of  their  own)  have 
the  dead  and  wounded  lifted  gently  into  the 
relief  special,  which  he  would  get  to  the 
rear  of  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  drive 
back  to  Woolstenholme  if  he  could  get  a 
stoker.  But  here  was  a  hitch.  All  were 
too  unnerved  by  the  accident  to  volunteer 
for  a  service  which  would  take  them  on  the 
wrong  line.  It  was  no  use  for  Archie  to 
explam  that  the  telegraph  would  keep  it 
clear. 

"  Ob,  Archie,  coold  I  do  it  t "  asked  Ida 
ID  an  imploring  tone.  If  it  is  necessary  to 
explain  her  request  and  its  passionate 
tone,  we  may  say  that  at  the  moment  she 
had  turned  away  from  a  scene  which 
haunted  her  for  long  enough  after.  A 
poor  fellow,  with  both  his  legs  crushed  to 
the  thighs,  under  a  mass  of  wreckage,  held 
up  in  nis  arms  above  his  head  his  little 
girl—safe.  When  Ida  took  her  from  his 
arms  he  asked  anxiously : 

"  Shoe's  noan  so  ill  hurt,  is  shoo  1 " 

"  She's  not  hurt  at  all,  I  think — are  you, 
dear )  No,  she's  not  the  least  hurt ;  but 
you " 

"Eh,  awthowt  shoo  war  lamed,"  he  said 
with  a  happy  look  of  relief  in  his  face. 

"Xo,  no ;  she's  not  hiut  at  all,  not  at 
all, "* sobbed  Ida;  "but  you " 

"  Nay,  it's  ower  wi'  me.  Aw'm  mashed 
up,  aw  am,  an'  reet."  At  this  point  the 
child's  aoQt,  who  had  got  separated  from 
them  in  the  crush  at  Woolstenholme,  and 
who  being  higher  up  in  the  train,  eacap-  d 
with  a  £aMng,  came  up,  took  the  chid 
irom  Ida,  and  while  she  covered  it  with 
kisses,  moaned  piteously  over  its  father, 

"  ph,  Jem,  Jem — eh,  my  pnir  lad  I  " 

Tha  mun  tak'  her  aat  o'  sect,  Maggie. 

Shoo's  that  tender,  tha  knaws,  that  shoo'll 

fiayed  wi'  atudyin'  on  it"*     And  so 

the  poor  fellow — who  hadn't,  and  knew  he 

'  I't,  many  more  minutes  to  live — lobbed 
himself  of  a  last  kiss  from  his  child,  in  the 
fear  that  the  scene  might  haunt  her  ever 
after. 

Such  sights,  making  Ida  feel  intensely 

a  sense  of  helplessness  and  a  longing  to 

help,  accoant  for  her  entreaty  to  Archie : 

Oh,  Archie,  could  I  do  it  1 " 

You  ! "  then,  after  a  moment ;  "  Yes, 

yon  could.     You  can  do  the  little  I  want" 


•  "  FUyed  wi'   rtudyin'  on  it  "—i.e.   frightened 
with  thinking  of  it. 


36i      (SUrch  8, 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


Without  aDother  word  h6  took  her  hand, 
led  her  acrosB  the  line,  and  helped  her  up 
the  6teep  narrow  steps  of  the  engine. 
Then  standing  opposite  to  her  for  a  moment 
on  the  foot-plate,  and  holding  both  her 
hands  in  hie,  while  she  conld  see  in  the 
glare  of  the  engine-fire  all  his  worship  of 
her  shining  in  his  eyes,  he  said,  "  Ida,  it  is 
like  }'ou."  Ida  thought  there  was  nothing 
she  would  not  have  done  for  such  praise 
from  him. 

Archie  then  took  the  shovel,  and  initiated 
her  into  the  mysteries  of  firing.  He 
bhowed  her  how  to  handle  the  shovel,  and 
explained  that  all  she  had  to  do  vaa 
fling  the  coal  as  far  in  as  she  could — as  far 
towards  the  side  as  she  could — and  (since 
she  could  not  put  much  in  at  a  time)  as 
ofton  as  she  could.  He  would  himself  be 
able  to  relieve  her  now  and  then.  As  they 
ran  tender  first,  Archie  could  watch  the 
b lately  figure  bent  unwearied  at  its 
drudgery,  till  his  heart  overflowed  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  pity  and  worship. 

It  did  not  take  many  mioutes  for  them 
to  reach  the  next  block  cabin,  where  was 
the  other  cross-over  road  by  which  he 
could  get  the  engine  back  on  to  the  up  line. 

Here  Archie  helped  Ida  down,  and 
showed  her  how  to  hold  the  switch- 
lever  till  ihe  engine  had  well  passed  her. 
It  was  a  nervous  business,  as  anyone  who 
tries  it  for  the  first  time  will  find,  and  Ida 
was  all  but  unnerved  aa  she  stood  alone 
holding  the  lever  while  the  engine  thun- 
dered past  within  a  foot  of  her.  It  seemed 
for  the  moment  aa  if  it  must  mn  over 
her. 

They  ware  back  to  their  train  before  it 
was  ready  for  them,  and  Archie,  leaving 
Ida  on  the  engine,  hurried  to  the  signal- 
box  to  give  again  directly  instructions  he 
had  already  sent  the  signalman  by  the 
guard — namely,  to  telegraph  to  Woolsten- 
liulme  to  have  all  things  ready  to  receive 
the  dead  and  wounded,  and  to  have  every 
intervening  train  shnnted  till  the  ambu- 
lance-train had  passed.  These  messages 
the  sigDalmsD  had  sent  ten  minutes  since, 
and  had  had  acknowledged,  and  Archie 
was  relieved  to  hear  that  the  only  three 
triuns  —  all  goods — between  him  and 
Wooletenholme  on  the  np-line  were  already 
in  the  sidings  of  the  stations  at  which  they 
had  been  stopped  by  the  news  of  the 
fouling  of  both  lines.  Being  thus  abso- 
lutely secure  of  a  clear  line  he  could  help 
Ida  with  the  firing  and  teach  Woolsten- 
holma  in  less  than  forty  minutes,  if  the 
water  held  out — hie  only  anxiety.     For 


the  rest,  having  a  good  engine,  a  light 
train  of  five  carriages  and  a  van,  and  a 
clear  road  with  but  few  and  easy  gridienta, 
he  was  happy  in  thinking  that  at  the  cost, 
perhaps,  of  a  slight  increase  in  the  shakiti| 
he  could  bring  the  sufferers  within  reach  <S 
all  that  could  be  done  for  them  in  the 
shortest  possible  time. 

He  honied  from  the  signal-cabin,  to  help 
the  guard  and  such  of  uie  pasaengen  u 
were  unhurt  to  lift  the  dead  and  the  in- 
jured into  the  carriages.  But,  this  ai 
work  having  just  been  done,  he  rejoined 
Ida  on  the  engine  and  drew  very  gently 
out,  gradually  sharpening  the  pace  up  to  s 
mile  a  minute.  A  mile  a  minute  on  sn 
engine  seems  double  t^e  pace  of  what  it 
does  in  a  first-class  carriage.  The  rocking, 
jerking,  bounding  motion  of  the  engine 
and  the  hurricane  rush  of  the  wind  and 
roar  of  the  train  make  the  pace  seem 
terrific 

It  seemed  so  to  Ida  at  those  times  when, 
Archie  having  taken  the  shovel  from  her 
hands,  she  stood  alone  on  the  look-out 

It  wae  a  strange  and  weird  experience 
to  her  to  thunder  at  that  frigh^ul  rtle 
along  an  nnknown  road  and  through  so 
pitchy  a  darkness,  that,  if  she  had  been 
walking  in  it,  she  must  have  groped  her 
way.  And  then  the  heart-shaking  sooudB 
which  followed  each  other  swift  and 
sudden  as  the  notes  on  some  stnpendons 
organ,  with  the  deep  pedal  boom  of  the 
train  as  a  constant  undertone — the  savige 
roar  of  the  tunnel  softening  suddenly  in 
the  open,  followed  then  in  quick  anceession 
by  a  crash  over  a  bridge,  a  rattle  through  s 
cutting,  and  the  thnnder  through  a  station 
that  seemed  to  reel  out  of  their  path. 

Sometimes  the  great  enginfl  seemed  to 
her  excited  imagination  alive  and  flying 
for  life,  panting  and  in  torment,  the  st^am, 
with  the  red  glow  of  the  furnace  reflected 
from  it,  like  a  lolhng  tongno  of  flame; 
while  then  theae  sounds  were  as  the  roar 
of  its  pursuers,  who  rushed  at  it  and  tried 
to  close  it  in,  bat  it  tore  madly  through 
them  all  with  the  fierce  strength  of 
despMr. 

''We  shall  do  now,"  said  Archie  cheer- 
fully, with  a  boyish  exaltation  in  the  tre- 
mendous pace.     "  There's  water  enough  in 


the  boiler  alone  to  take  her  in,  and  yon 

needn't  put  on  another  ounce Ida 

Oh,  my  God 


In  a  moment  the  steam  was  off,  Uie 
brake  on,  the  whistle  opened,  and  the 
engine  reversed,  while  Archie  cried  hoarsely 
to  the  girl  transfixed  before  him  : 


CHRONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa      [u«obs,i8M.]    366 


"  Hold  tut  I " 

It  she  had  not  been  vrlth  him  he  would 
hftve  taken  Uie  slight  and  sole  chance  of 
life  that  seemed  to  remain — a  leap  from 
the  ennne.  For  there,  as  he  ronnded  a 
ciirre,  he  saw  bat  a  few  seconds  off,  the 
forelightB  of  an  engine  that  most,  there- 
fore, be  facing  them  on  the  same  metals. 
Moat  probably  it  alao  was  in  full  steam, 
and  then  it  would  have  been  engine  to 
engine,  and  speed  to  speed,  but  even  if  it 
were  at  a  stand,  there  was  not  the  least 
chance  of  pulling  up  in  time  to  prevent  a 
tremendous  collision. 

In  such  an  intense  moment  thought  ia 
intense  as  a  flash  of  lighting  which,  at 
night,  shows  vividlya  whole  country  boried 
but  a  moment  before  in  darkness.  So, 
forgotten  scenes  and  sins  of  Ida's  past  life 
Eprsng  ont  of  the  darkneas  of  distance  with 
startling  distinotneBa.  But  while  she,  with 
closed  eyes,  thought  only  of  these  and  of 
God,  Archie  could  think  only  of  her.  His 
eyes,  too,  were  shut  against  the  horror  of 
us  death,  for  they  were  fastened  in  remone 
on  ttie  still  white  face  turned  ^m  death 
towards  him,  her  cheek  pressed  tight  upon 
both  hands  as  they  clutched  the  side  of  the 
taitder.  Willingly  he  would  have  died  for 
her,  yet  her  death— this  frightful  death- 
was  at  his  door. 

Another  moment  and  he  had  leaped 
forward,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
her  twice  in  the  delirium  of  relief. 

"  Safe ! "  he  shouted  as  she  opened  her 
eyes  on  this  happy  celebration  of  a  happy 
escape. 

They  had  shot  past  the  light&  They 
were  the  lamps  of  a  goods  train,  of  such 
length  that  it  took  up  the  whole  loop-line 
into  which  it  had  been  shunted,  and  that 
ita  engine,  whose  lights  the  driver  had  not 
removed,  faced  them  within  a  foot  or  two 
of  their  metals, 

"  Oh,  Aichie ! "  was  all  Ida  could  say  as 
she  gruped  his  hands  ht  both  of  hers. 

He  helped  her  to  a  seat,  where  she  sat 
silflDt  for  a  moment,  holding  still  his  hand, 
bat  having  only  Gtod  in  all  her  thoughts. 

"  It's  been  a  horrible  shock  to  you.  How 
I  wish  I  hadn't  taken  you." 

"  I  do  not  wish  it,  Archie." 

As  for  those  foolish  kisses — they  were 
foolish,  that's  all — no  great  cause  of  shame 
to  Archie,  or  of  offence  to  Ida.  Perhaps, 
if  the  truth  were  known,  they  seemed  to 
Archie  to  be  cheap  at  the  cost  of  all  that 
agony,  and  they  seemed  to  Ida  to  double 
tiie  aweetnMs  of  her  eaeane  from  death. 


CHRONICLES  OP  ENGLISH 
COUNTIES. 

SHROPSHIKE.      PART   I. 

If  we  enter  Shropshire  by  old  Watling 
Street ;  which  is  here  a  still-frequentedbigh- 
way,  pursuing  a  track  marked  ont  by  men's 
footsteps  from  a  time  that  is  lost  in  the 
mists  of  dim  antiquity ;  we  shall  not  have 
travelled  far  before  we  come  in  sight  of  the 
great  hearthstone  or  altar  of  all  the  county 
round,  the  solitary  and  wild  looking 
Wrekin.  A  bold  and  rocky  primevu 
mountUD,  rising  Irom  &6  fertda  plains  to 
a  height  of  tUrteen  hundred  feet — the 
abode  of  storms  and  clonds,  when  the  land 
beneath,  perhaps,  rejoices  in  calm  and 
sunshine — the  Wrekin  has  ever  strongly 
appealed  to  the  imagination  of  all  the 
dwellers  in  the  land  arsnnd.  To  this  day 
there  is  a  sort  of  tribal  solidarity  about  the 
men  of  Shropshire,  and  their  favourite 
toast  when  they  meet  in  foreign  lands  is  to 
"All  friends  round  the  Wrekin."  The 
Welshman  from  his  monntain-tops  catches 
sight  of  its  bold  outline  rising  above  the 
shining  distant  plains,  and  may  recall  the 
days  when  men  of  his  race  pastured  their 
flocks  over  those  rich  plains,  and  held  their 
fort  or  their  city  of  refuge  on  the  summit 
of  that  solitary  height.  And  yet  our 
Welshman  will  be  doubtful  whether  his 
ancestors  gave  that  mount  its  name.  For 
Wrekin  is  not  distinctly  Welsh,  and  that  it 
is  not  Saxon  we  may  decide  from  the  fact 
that  the  name  appears  wrapped  up  in  the 
Roman Uriconinm,  which  seems  to  say,  town 
by  the  Wrekin,  or  something  equiv^ent 

From  Wrekin's  lofty  brow,  furrowed  by 
the  mounds  and  trenches  of  tribes  whidi 
have  vanished  from  the  land,  a  noble  pros 
pect  is  to  be  seen  of  all  the  country  round. 
To  the  south  are  the  fires  and  furnaces 
of  the  iron  and  coal  r^ons ;  and  looking 
westwards,  beyond  the  towers  of  Shrews- 
bury, rise  the  blue  hills  of  Wales,  the 
massive  bulwarks  of  the  Berwyns.  Nay, 
by  a  strong  and  eagle-like  eye  even,  perhaps 
the  peak  of  old  Snowdon  may  be  seen 
crowning  the  distant  ranges.  But  not  of 
mountains  or  of  rugged  moors  is  the 
Wrekin  most  eloquent,  but  rather  of  the 
great  Fertile  plains  over  which  it  presides, 
and  which  here  stretch  almost  without  a 
break  from  west  to  east,  and  from  north  to 
south.  At  your  feet  the  broad  and  placid 
Severn  flows  down  to  Bristol  and  the 
western  ocean,  and  at  the  foot  of  those 
distant  hills  the  Dee  winds  its  way  towards 
Chester,   while  in  the  same  exptnse   of 


366      CUuchS,  18841 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


varied  fertile  plun  the  feeders  of  the  Trent 
make  their  way,  willoT- shaded,  towards 
the  northern  aea. 

Here  one  would  uy  ie  the  site  for  some 
boantifal  motJier  city  of  the  plains,  a  place 
where  the  ereat  highways  should  meet  and 
divide,  and  where  peasants  should  bring 
the  produce  of  theirfieldafrom  far  and  near ; 
while  from  its  walla  one  ahonld  hear  the 
busy  ham  of  men,  the  ringing  of  anvile, 
the  merry  clink  of  masons  trowels,  the 
cries  of  market-people,  and  the  pleasant 
hubbub  of  human  exist«iice.  Even  a  little 
exercise  of  imagination  will  l»iDg  this  all 
back  to  us,  for  there  below  as,  at  the  point 
whero  the  pleasant  river  Tern  joins  the 
more  famous  Severn,  once  lay  the  great 
city  of  Uriconiom. 

A  considerable  city  would  Uriconium 
now  be  deemed,  even  in  these  days  of  con- 
gested population,  with  its  walls  some  four 
miles  in  compass — an  extent  eqaal  to  that 
of  mediaeval  London — enclosing  handsome 
buildings  and  wide  streets  : 

High  towers,  fair  temples,  goodly  theatres. 


All  is  silent  now  and  lonely ;  the  eye 
may  trace  here  and  there  a  fragment  of 
masonry  laid  bare  by  recent  excavations. 
There  on  the  site  of  the  boried  city  stAuds 
the  village  of  Wrozeter  and  its  church, 
itself  ancient  with  eepulchrei  of  long- 
forgotten  knights  and  worthies  who  lived 
and  died  centuries  s^o,  and  whose  bones 
lie  about  the  foundations  of  a  city,  of  the 
very  existence  of  which  in  their  lives  they 
were  ignorant..  How  the  great  city  fell 
recent  writers  have  attempted  to  show. 
"With  its  storm  by  the  West  Saxons," 
writes  Mr.  Green,  "  the  very  existence  of 
the  city  came  to  an  end.  Its  mina  show 
that  the  place  was  plundered  and  burned, 
while  the  bones  which  lie  scattered  among 
them  tell  their  tale  of  the  flight  and 
massacre  of  its  inhabitants,  of  women  and 
children  hewn  down  in  the  streets,  and  of 
wretched  fugitives  stifled  in  the  hypocausts 
whither  they  had  fled  with  their  little 
hoards  for  shelter.  A  British  poet,  in 
verses  still  left  to  us,  sings  piteoualy 
the  death-song  of  Uriconium,  the  white 
town  in  the  valley,  the  town  of  white 
stones  gleaming  among  the  green  wood- 
lands." 

Whether  the  elegy  of  the  British  poet, 

Lwyarch  Hen,  whom  the  Welsh  claim  as 

one  of  their  kings,  refers  to  Uriconium  as 

"  the    white    town    between    Tren   and 

I  Trodwyd"   is  a  matter  of   fierce  dispute 


among  rival  anttqoariea.  Bat  anyhow  the 
wail  over  the  ruined  town  seems  wonde^ 
folly  appropriate  to  the  scene : 

Ita  poapls,  are  the;  not  gone  ! 

And  truly  Uriconium  seems  to  hsve 
been  the  very  last  of  the  Soman  cities  to 
survive  in  its  ancient  impcstance.  The  old 
geogr^hers  show  it  as  the  chief  town  of 
the  Comabii,  whom  the  Welsh  describe  u 
an  intruding  tribe  from  the  country  id 
Pwyl,  or  the  Low  Coontries,  who  settled 
here  before  the  Koman-  invasion — a  people 
like  the  Swiss,  it  may  be  imi^ined,  good 
handicraftflmea,  and  yet  good  soldiers, 
skilled  in  the  management  of  their  barren 
upland  farms,  and  yet  crowding  into  the 
cities  as  artificers  and  traders.  Now,  from 
its  position,  Uriconiom  was  evidently  a 
commercial  and  manufactorin^  centre;  it 
was  not  a  great  military  station,  and  its 
walls,  in  their  full  compass,  were  evidently 
built  to  protect  the  city  itself  and  the 
inhabitants  within  its  circuit,  and  not  as  a 
military  post.  Terrible  mast  have  be«D 
the  suffering  involved  in  the  destruction  of 
this  great  city,  but  it  is  hardly  possible 
that  its  inhabitants  were  completely  anni- 
Mlated.  Even  in  the  savage  wars  of 
Assyrians,  Medes,  and  Persiaiis,  the  arti- 
ficers and  skilled  workmen  seem  to  have 
been  spared  in  the  destmctioQ  of  a  city, 
and  we  may  suppose  tiiat  the  fugitives 
Irom  Uriconium  spread  themselves  over 
the  country  round,  and  we  maj  perhapi 
trace  in  the  skilled  workmen  of  Bimung- 
ham,  of  Wolverhampton,  and  of  tbe 
adjacent  towns,  desoendauts  of  the  lost 
tribes  of  Uriconium  ;  the  Coranians  of  the 
Welsh  triads.  One  carious  bit  of  evi- 
dence of  the  existence  of  this  people  and 
its  origin  is  to  be  found  in  t^e  name  of 
two  small  rivers  of  the  district — the  Mees 
and  the  Mose  recalling  the  Maas  and  tbe 
Mouse  of  the  Rhine  district. 

For  hundreds  of  years  aftec^ita  destruc- 
tion the  remains  of  Uriconiaor  rose  sadlf 
over  the  plain  as  a  monument  of  destruction 
and  decay,  and  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
appearance  they  presented  in  a  legend 
which  has  probably  a  foundation  of  fact 
William  the  Oonqueror,  it  ia  said,  on  a 
visit  to  the  Welsh  bordere,  saw  avetyh^ge 
town  all  burnt  and  ruined  within  theiemains 
of  its  high  walls,  tbe  appearance  of  which 
aroused  strong  curiosity.  A  Welsh  peaisnt 
being  interrogated,  told  a  long  story,  such 
as  Hotspurwould  have  described  as  skimble- 
skamble  stufif,  about  tho  destruction  of 
the  oity  by  some  enchantment,  in  which  Uw 
inant  Geomaeog  took  a  part .  Hen  WM  so 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.     [Much  s.  ibm.i    367 


idrentoie  rewly  for  WtUtam's  Nonn&n 
ehinliy.  Accordingly,  one  Payn  Peverfl 
umad  himBeir — pero&ps  it  is  our  friend 
PeTeril  of  the  Peak,  a  natural  son  of  the 
Conqueroi — and  with  fifteen  other  knights 
took  up  his  lodging  in  the  highest  paUce, 
u  a  tacit  challenge  to  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness. At  night  a  terrible  storm  came  on,, 
sod  the  Normal)  knights,  scattered  here 
sad  there  hj  the  lightning,  lay  for  dead 
aboiit  the  placa  Then  the  giant  appeared, 
or  rather  the  fool  fiend  in  his  person, 
bat  Pereril  vas  ready  for  him,  and  a 
terrific  combat  ensned,  like  that  between 
Cfaristiaa  and  Apollyon  in  Pilgrim's 
Progress.  Bat  in  the  end,  with  the  aid  of 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  Peveril  triomphed, 
and  tine  fiend  was  overcome.  With  a 
iword  at  his  throat  the  prostrate  giant  was 
made  to  own  himaolf  vanquished,  and  then 
the  Christian  knight  sank  a  little  ^m  his 
moral  altitude  by  trying  to  extort  the 
■ecr«t  of  the  buned  treasure. 

Bat  this  last  is  a  secret  which  it  seems 
die  good  knight  failed  to  obtain,  nor  has 
anyone  as  yet  been  successful  in  finding 
the  clue  to  the  bnried  wealth  of  Uriconium. 
With  the  advent  of  the  Normans,  however, 
and  the  b^inning  of  on  era  of  solid  baild- 
iag  in  wrooght  stone,  the  nuns  of  Uri- 
conium, like  those  of  many  other  Koman 
(owns,  began  to  be  of  value  as  a  quarry 
of  ready-inade  building  materials.  A  little 
way  down  the  Severn  tose  the  Abbey  of 
Biuldwas,  whose  nuns  are  still  impressive 
with  their  background  of  the  lonely 
Wrekio.  Haugbmond  Abbey  also  was  pro- 
bably built  from  the  mins  of  Uriconiam, 
and  the  abbey,  the  friaries,  and  the 
BumeroDS  churches  of  Shrewsbury  no  donbt 
were  constnicted  of  the  same  materials. 
Uriconium  was  carried  off  piecemeal,  and 
levelled  even  with  the  ground.  Bat  that 
ground,  luckily  for  posterity,  was  not  the 
originallevel  of  the  city  streets,  for  in  the  five 
or  six  centuries  that  had  elapsed  since  its 
destruction,  soil  had  accnmnlated  about  tiie 
baildings  to  a  depth  of  seven  or  eight  feet 
Nothing  was  visible  of  the  old  city  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago,  except  a  mass  of 
masonry  twenty  feet  high,  and  some 
seventy-two  feet  long,  that  stood  by  the 
village  smithy,  and  was  known  to  the 
incurious  villagers  as  the  old  wall.  Tra- 
dition indeed  had  preserved  some  memory 
of  the  city,  and  treasure-seelcers  at  various 
times  drove  pita  into  the  ruins,  and  ex- 
cavated here  and  t'here,  as  directed  by  the 
divining-rod,  according  to  signs  extorted  by 
the  incantations  of  the  cunning  wizard  of 


the  district     A  bnried  well  was  said  to 
aidst,  containing  onheard-of  treasures. 

Near  the  brook  of  Bell, 
Thera  la  k  wall^ 

Which  a  richer  than  anj  hud  can  tell. 
The  copper  coins  which  appear  to  have 
been  sown  broadcast  over  the  site  were 
known  to  the  peasantry  as  dindeiv,  in 
which  some  see  a  reminiscence  of  the 
Boman  deturios. 

In  1859  r^;nlar  excavations  were 
begun,  commencing  with  the  old  wall, 
vmoh  proved  to  ^  in  the  centre  of  the 
buried  dty,  and  probably  the  containing 
wall  of  Uie  centra]  basilica,  or  hall  ol 
justice,  that  stood  fronting  the  market- 
place. The  buildings  dug  out  proved  of  a 
very  solid  and  substantial  stmcture,  the 
walls  oftbehouseswere  three  feet  thick,  the 
streets  wide  and  well  paved.  Pottery  was 
found  in  plent)^;  a  g(xid  d^  of  the  well- 
known  red  Samian  ware,  with  specimens  of  a 
kind  evidently  made  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  probably  of  the  fine  white  Brosely 
clay  which  is  still  celebrated  for  the  making 
of  tobacoo-i^ies.  Oyster-sheUs,  too,  were 
found  in  large  numbers,  showing  that  the 
popularity  of  the  delicious  moling  is  of  no 
recent. origin.  The  medicine  stamps  of  a 
physician,  the  moulds  in  which  coins  were 
made,  painters'  palettes,  a  surgeon's  lancet, 
the  workshop  of  a  metal-worker  and 
enameller,  these  are  a  few  of  the  interesting 
finds  of  which  the  nLoveable  objects  have 
enriohed  the  museum  of  the  town  of 
Shrewsbury.  But  only  a  small  part  ef  the 
city  has  been  as  yet  excavated.  As  odd 
fifty-pound  notes  have  come  in  from  rich 
and  enthusiastic  archaeologists,  a  corres- 
ponding amount  of  digging  and  excavating 
has  been  done,  but  our  Bntiah  Troy,  with 
all  the  romance,  and  poetry,  and  mystery 
of  its  axistence  but  hsJf  understood,  must 
wait  patiently  for  ^e  day  of  its  complete 
revelation. 

After  the  destruction  of  Uriconium,  a 
lighbonring  height  above  the  river,  almost 
Mdosed  by  a  loop,  or  as  the  Scotch  would 
call  it,  a  hnk  of  the  Severn,  seems  to  have 
become  a  centre  of  populatioa  The  Welsh 
called  the  place  Pengwem,  meaning  the 
headland  rising  from  the  alder  swamp, 
and  sometimes  Amwithig,  or  AHpIeas&nt — 
awfully  pleasant  as  we  should  call  it  now. 
And  here,  if  we  may  put  faith  in  Lwyarch 
Hen,  was  the  hall  of  Kyndylan,  the  chieftain 
who  was  slain  in  defending  Uriconiam  from 
its  assiulants. 

Kyodylsa'a  ball  fa  forloTn  to-nigbt, 

On  the  top  uf  C&rrea  Kytwytb, 

Without  lord,  without  compsny,  without  tcant. 


368      (Much  B,  ISBi.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


[CaudDcUd  I7 


And  thu  ie  the  lite  of  the  Shrewsbury 
of  the  present  day,  a  pleasant,  pictaresqae 
site  on  a  wooded  height,  rising  gradoally 
from  the  bend  of  the  river  to  uie  cutle 
mound,  which  defends  the  neck  of  the 
isthmus.  All  about  the  watery  meadows 
were  scattered  aiders  and  willows,  from 
which  the  Sazone  gave  the  place  the  name 
of  Scrob,  or  Shrabsboiy,  while  an  alterna- 
tive name,  derived  from  the  willows  that 
bordered  the  streams,  would  be  Saulshnry, 
or  Sallowbnry,  vfaeoce  no  doubt  Salop, 
or  Salopia,  as  another  name  of  the  county. 

The  fighting-men  who  killed  Kyndyl^, 
probably  took  possession  of  his  hall — little 
better  than  a  mad  hat  in  itself,  bat  once 
voca  1  with  feasting,  with  stories,  with  songs, 
and  the  strains  of  the  harp  beyond  any- 
thing that  it  is  given  us  to  enjoy  in  these 
dull  days.  But  the  town  was  not  of  much 
Bccoant  in  Sazon  times,  although  we  may 
get  a  dim  vision  of  a  vuit  from  Harold  on 
his  way  to  put  the  Welsh  in  order.  There 
is  a  doubU'nl  tradition,  indeed,  that  the 
great  cairns  on  the  ridge  of  the  Steperatones, 
towards  the  Welsh  border,  were  thrown 
up  in  honour  of  Harold's  victories  over  the 
Welsh.  But  under  the  stern  Norman  rule 
the  town  soon  became  of  importance  from 
the  castle  which  Roger  da  Montgomery 
built  npon  the  site  of  the  British  fort  A 
strong,  arrogant,  cruel  race  were  these 
Montgomeries,  who  soon  came  to  a  bad 
end  in  Uie  person  of  Robert  de  Beleeme, 
whose  rebellion  against  Henry  the  Flret, 
the  lion  of  justice,  with  his  defence  of 
Shrewsbury  Castle  against  the  king,  has 
recently  been  dwelt  upon  by  Mr.  Freeman. 
Once  more,  ere  long,  Shrewsbury  Castle 
stood  out  against  a  king,  in  the  wars 
between  the  Empress  Maud  and  the  popular 
hero,  King  Stephen,  and  again  was  farced 
to  surrender  to  the  royal  power.  Were 
there  any  peaceful  inhabitants  of  the  litUe 
burgh,  they  must  have  been  aorely  per- 
plexed and  harassed  by  the  incessant 
turmoil  aboat  them.  If  kins  and  barons 
were  qniet,  then  the  Welrfi  would  be 
utirring,  and  in  1215  we  find  Llewellyn, 
Prince  of  Wales,  strong  enough  to  defeat 
all  the  power  of  the  Lords  Marchers,  and 
to  lay  siege  to  Shrewsbury  itself,  vrhich 
was  speedily  surrendered  to  him.  The 
WeUh  prince,  however,  did  not  remain 
long  in  posseseion,  and  with  the  coming  of 
stem  Edward  tbe  First,  the  aconrge  alike 
of  Welsh  and  Scotch,  matters  assumed 
quit«  a  different  aspect,  Edward  was 
determined  to  make  an  end  of  the  Welsh 
difficulty,  and  encamped  at  Shrewsbury 


bodily  with  bag  and  baggage^  Court, 
exchequer,  parliament,  all  the  maehinety 
of  government,  were  hurried  off  to  ttu 
Welsh  bordere  to  await  the  issue  of 
Edmird's  war ;  a  fine  haul,  indeed,  for  tbe 
Welsh  could  they  have  broken  through  Ihe 
iron  net  that  Edward  was  drawing  around 
Ihem.  But  the  ruthless  king  was  too 
strong  for  the  moant«ineers ;  and  the  long 
struggle  between  Teuton  and  Celt,  which 
may  be  said  to  have  lasted  for  more  than 
eight  centuries,  was  apparently  brought  to 
an  end  by  the  death  of  Llewellyn,  the  last 
of  the  native  princes  who  conld  rightly 
style  himself  Pnnce  of  Wales. 

The  Parliament  at  Shrewsbury  in  King 
Edward's  time  is  noticeable  as  being  tbe 
firat  in  which  citizens  of  Itondon  are 
recorded  as  having  served  as  members. 
Six  notable  citizens  made  the  long  and 
perilous  journey  to  Shrewsbury  to  meet 
the  king.  The  lower  house  was  lodged  in 
a  barn  attached  to  tbe  monastery  of 
SS.  Peter  and  Paul,  while  the  barons  were 
quartered  in  the  castle. 

It  was  the  lot  of  these  citizens  of 
London  to  be  among  the  judges  of  Prince 
David,  the  brother  of  Llewellyn,  whom  the 
Parliament  condemned  to  the  cruel,  bar- 
barous execution  of  being  dragged  to  death 
in  the  streets  of  Shrewsbury  at  the  tail  of 
a  spuited  horse.  It  was  with  a  grim  kind 
of  satisfaction,  no.  doubt,  that  the  London 
citizens  carried  back  ammg  their  baggsga 
the  ghastly  head  of  the  mnnlered  prince  to 
be  placed  over  London  Bridge.  The  king 
had  done  a  cruel  deed  upon  a  brave 
adversary,  but  he  had  highly  pleased  the 
commercial  interest  by  an  act  of  vigonr, 
and  no  doubt  found  his  account  in  it,  when 
next  he  hod  to  go  into  the  city  for  money. 

However,  the  stem  cruelty  of  the  king 
had  its  effect  in  making  the  Welsh  marshes 
a  safer  place  of  residence,  and  the  neit 
appearance  of  an  English  monarch  at 
Shrewsbury  was  of  Edward  the  Second  in 
all  his  bravery,  with  his  brilliant  court  and 
favourites,  and  an  assemblage  of  barons 
and  knights,  for  whose  entertainment  a 
splendid  tournament  was  arranged ;  sporta 
which  ended  tragically  enough  in  the  death 
of  Koger  Mortimer,  Earl  of  March,  the 
ancestor  of  the  line  of  Yorkist  kings. 

In  the  reign  of  lUchard  the  Second,  tbe 
town  was  again  the  seat  of  a  Parliaraeot, 
adjourned  to  Shrewsbury  from  West- 
minster ;  a  Parliament  which  was  held  in 
the  chapter  .house  of  tJie  abbey  wiUi  grsit 
splendour.  .Among  the  attendaota  of  the 
young  and  light-hearted  king  was  a  Welsh 


CBRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.      [««d.«,i8M.i    369 


(quire,  an  adopted  sod,  u  it  were,  of  the 
raigliiji  court,  where  he  had  received  hia 
edncatioD  and  his  training  in  all  knightly 
exercises.  This  waa  Owen  Glendwr,  and 
afterwards  we  find  the  young  Welsh- 
man  one  of  the  faithful  few  among  the 
futhjees,  whoserred  hia  master  to  the  last, 
ud  was  taken  prisoner  with  him  in  Flint 
Ciittl& 

Upon  the  death  of  Richard,  Owen 
retired  to  his  own  estate  in  Wales,  to  that 
pleasant  Glyndyfrdwy  from  which  he  took 
his  name— a  sunny,  solitary  nook  looking 
oat  npon  the  lovely  Dee,  as  the  river  flows 
on  its  way  to  Llangollen,  In  little  favour 
at  court,  Owen  soon  found  the  hand  of  an 
English  noble  stretched  out  to  snatch  away 
bis  snxall  estate ;  and  so,  with  all  the  spirit 
ofakoight-errant,  he  f arbiahed  up  his  arms 
and  his  pedigree,  and  with  a  gathering  oE 
wild  Welsh  hillmen,  set  himself  in  arms 
^iost  the  mighty  monarchy  of  Kagland. 
KjDg  Henry  himself  took  the  field  against 
this  seemingly  insignificant  opponent,  and 
qaartered  himself  once  more  at  Shrews- 
bary.  But  Henry  was  no  great  warrior, 
and  his  expeditions  against  Oiven  all  ended 
in  failure  and  disaster. 

The  keen  intelligence  of  the  Percys  had 
noted  the  king's  weakness,  the  feeble  hold 
he  bad  npon  the  people,  and  the  elements 
of  disorder  in  the  realm,  and  presently 
b^an  the  great  rebellion  of  Hotspnr,  the 
story  of  which  is  so  well  told  by  Siiake- 
ipeare.  The  commencement  of  the  revolt 
foand  the  king  almost  unprepared,  while 
the  Percys  hod  already  a  large  following 
under  arms  and  were  marching  southwards. 
But  Henry,  rising  to  the  desperate  nature 
of  the  dtnation,  dashed  forward  almost 
alone,  leaving  hia  sons,  Prince  Harry  and 
Prince  Joha — him  of  Gaunt — with  the 
Earl  of  Westmoreland,  to  put  the  counties 
nnder  array  and  join  him  with  their  force 
at  Bridgnorth.  Henry  was  fortunate 
enough  to  overtake  and  detain  at  Buiton- 
on-Trent  a  body  of  men  who  had  been  raised 
for  the  warfare  on  the  Scots'  border,  and 
hearing  that  his  enemy  had  reached 
StafTora,  and  had  tamed  aside  to  join  his 
forcaa  with  Owen  Glendwr,  the  king  threw 
himself  npon  Shrewsbury  with  the  energy 
of  desperation. 

Tiiis  rapid,  march  upon  Shrewabury  in 
effect  saved  Henry  his  crown.  For  Owen 
had  succeeded  in  mastering  a  good  force  of 
fighting  Welshmen  at  Oswestry,  to  join 
thie  Percys,  but  hearing  that  the  king  had 
already  occupied  Shrewsbury,  he  began  to 
doubt  the    issue,  and  so  susnended   his 


march.  And  then  all  over  the  south  and 
west  of  England  the  king's  name  bad 
proved  its  power,  and  a  strong  force  of 
stout  yoemen  and  men-at-arms  was 
marching  northward  with  the  princes. 

Both  sides  were  soon  ready  for  action, 
and  on  the  22nd  July,  1403,  the  king,  as 
soon  as  dawn  lighted  up  the  sky,  marched 
out  his  forces  into  the  Open  fields  to  the 
north  of  the  town.  Already  Hotspur  was 
in  the  saddle  with  Douglas,  hia  late  enemy 
and  present  ally,  ana  uncle  Worcester, 
whose  age  and  experience  might  balance  the 
impetuosity  of  the  daring  young  warriois. 

We  are  told  that  the  peas  were  then 
ripe,  and  their  haulms  turning  yellow,  but 
they  grew  so  thickly  and  abundantly  on 
the  fields  that  Hotspur  took  advantage  of 
their  cover  to  harass  the  king's  advance 
with  his  best  archers.  But  the  cumbrous 
hosts  were  presently  drawn  out  in  a  long 
line  extending  from  Berwick  westward  to 
Haughmond  Abbey  in  the  east.      Hotspur 


night,  and  had  been  strangely  cast  down 
when  he  learnt  the  name  of  the  place. 
For  some  wizard  had  prophesied  that  he 
should  not  live  long  after  he  had  seen 
Berwick,  and  he  had  avoided  the  familiar 
northern  town  ever  since ;  but  now  fate 
was  awaiting  him  on  this  unknown  ground. 
"Yet  will  I  not  be  cheaply  won,  "muttered 
Hotspur. 

And  so  in  the  bright  summer  morning, 
the  sunlight  stealing  across  between  the 
hostile  lines,  suddenly  the  trumpets  sounded 
with  portentous  blare ;  while  at  the  signal 
a  great  shout  arose  from  thousands  of 
throats :  "  St.  George,  St.  George  ! "  cried 
the  king's  men,  while  the  Northumbrians 
replied  as  stoutly,  "Esperancel  Percy!" 
And  then  the  cries  were  stilled  for  a 
moment  as  from  either  side  a  tremendous 
shower  of  arrows  hurtled  through  the  air, 
casting  a  dim  shadow  over  the  hosts. 
Then  many  a  steel  coat  was  riven;  and 
many  a  stout  fellow  bit  the  dust  as  the 
opposiiig  lines  strusgled  together,  and,  with 
a  noise  like  the  neating  of  a  thousand 
anvils,  sword,  and  spear,  and  axe  tested 
every  joint  and  rivet  of  casque  and 
cuirass.  And  thus  for  honrs  and  hours  the 
fight  wavered  to  and  fro,  with  various 
success,  hut  tending  on  the  whole  to 
Hotspur's  advantage. 

The  lion-hearted  Hotspur  saw  the  critical 
moment  of  the  day,  and  calling  to  him 
Douglas  and  the  bravest  of  his  knightc, 
thev  all  made   a  desperate  drive  at  the 


370      lUucb  8,  ISH.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


king's  Btandard.  The  itaadard  was  reached, 
Douglas  clove  the  skall  of  the  king's 
standard-bearer ;  the  king  ir&a  carried  away 
in  Uie  rash.  All  aeemea  lost  for  him,  and 
the  star  of  the  Fercj S  triumphant^  already 
horsemen  had  ridden  off  to  bear  the  glad 
tidings  to  the  north,  when  an  arrow  from 
some  onknawn  hand  pierced  the  heart  of 
Hotspur,  and  he  fell  at  the  moment  of 
victory. 

The  death  of  Hotspur  paralysed  every 
arm  on  the  Northnmbrian  aide.  What  was 
there  to  fight  for  now  that  the  great  chief 
had  faUen  t  Confusion  followed,  and 
dismay,  and  the  rebels — we  may  so  call 
them  now — began  to  fly.  Douglas  rode  off 
at  full  speed  for  the  north,  but  was  over- 
taken and  made  prisoner,  and  soon  after 
uncle  Worcester  was  captured.  The 
knights  and  gentlemen  of  Cheshire  who 
had  taken  arms  from  a  feeling  of  personal 
loyalty  to  Richard,  and  personal  dislike  to 
his  BUpplanter,  were  cat  off  in  their  flight, 
and  iJmoat  annihilated.  Bnt  the  loss  of 
the  northern  forces  was  chiefly  snstained  in 
the  flight.  Up  to  the  moment  of  defeat 
the  king's  army  had  suffered  bx  more 
severely ;  all  its  chief  leaden  had  been 
slain.  Thus  all  the  chnrchea  round  about 
were  long  rich  with  the  scolptored  efSgtes 
of  those  who  had  fallen  beneath  the 
trenchant  blades  of  the  Percys  and  the 
Douglases. 

Henry  returned  thanks  for  his  victory 
on  the  battle-lield,  and  decreed  the  erection 
of  a  collegiate  chmrcfa  in  honour  of  his 
victory.  This  church,  or  part  of  it,  BtQI 
eziats  as  the  parish  church  of  Albrighton, 
and  on  its  site,  tradition  says,  the  monarch 
pitched  bis  tent  on  the  night  after  the  battle. 

All  this  time  Glendwr'a  army  had 
remained  encamped  at  Oswestry ;  bat 
Owen  himself,  it  is  said,  watched  the  fight 
from  the  convenient  shelter  of  a  lofty  oak 
And  when  Qlendwr  saw  the  result  of  the 
day,  he  rode  silently  back,  and  his  forces 
dissolved  like  a  mist 

In  after  days,  when  the  wars  of  the 
Roses  began,  Shrewsbury  definitely  assumed 
the  badge  of  the  White  Rose.  After  the 
fatal  battle  of  Wakefield,  when  the  Duke 
of  York  was  captured  and  beheaded,  his 
Bon  Edward  made  for  Shrewsbury,  where 
he  raised  men  enough  among  the  hardy 
borderers  to  fight  and  win,  soon  after,  the 
battle  of  Mortimer's  Cross.  Daring  the 
later  scenes  of  the  war,  Edward's  queen 
resided  there  permanently  for  safety,  and 
in  the  convent  of  the  Black  Friars  were 
bom  two  of  her  children,  one  destined  to 


die  in  infancy,  while  the  other,  Bichard, 
came  to  a  tragic  mysterious  end,  for  it 
seems  still  doabtfal  whether  he  was 
murdered  with  his  brother  in  the  Tower, 
or  survived,  to  die,  as  Perkin  Warbeck,  by 
the  hands  of  the  executioner. 

With  the  accession  of  Richard  the  Third, 
Shrewsbury  ag«n  figures  in  the  national 
annals.  When  the  Doke  of  BnckiD^iam 
deserted  Richard's  party,  he  took  refuge  in 
Wales,  and  raised  an  army  there  with 
which  he  had  planned  to  seize  upon 
Gloucester,  and  begin  a  campaign  in  the 
west  But  a  violent  storm  of  rain  raised 
a  flood  in  the  Severn,  which  cut  the  doke 
off  from  Gloucester,  and  at  the  same  time 
dissolved  his  army.  The  duke  took  refuge 
in  Shropshire,  where  he  had  estates,  and 
concealed  himself  in  the  house  of  his 
steward  Banister.  The  steward,  however, 
betrayed  his  master  to  the  King's  sheriff, 
who  took  the  duke  forthwith  to  Sbrews- 
baiy,  where  be  awaited  the  ling's  pleasure 
— so  forcibly  conveyed  by  the  Shake- 
spearean adapter : 
"  Off  with  his  head  :  to  mntii  lot  Buddi^im." 


DEAN  WHARTON'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  UTOKV   IN   BEVEN   CHAPTEItS. 
CHAPTKR  L      AN   OLD   TONE. 

To  commence  with  an  assertion.  It  ia 
an  undoubted  fact  that  cathedral  towns, 
like  the  fat  boy  in  Pickwick,  can  seldom 
or  never  be  said  to  be  fairly  &wak& 
Furthermore,  should  some  rare  event  or 
shock  galvanise  by  chance  their  centres 
into  some  faint  presentment  of  life  or 
wakefalnesB,  tbeirrelapse  is,  as  with  that  im- 
mortal yontb,  sure,  sudden,  and  complete. 

If  you  chance  to  know  PosUeton  at  all, 
you  know  how  very  far  that  solemn  dty  is 
firom  being  any  exception  to  the  rula  It 
is  indeed  at  the  moment  I  take  up  its 
peaceful  records  illustrating  it  to  the  full 
An  event  has  occurred,  the  shock  has 
been  given,  and  the  city  is  even  now 
hastetung — if  anything  so  slow  can  be  sud 
to  hasten — into  a  respectable  and  d^nified 
relapse. 

BesidcB  its  cathedral,  a  grandly  solemn 
structure  of  which  the  city  is  justly  proud, 
Postleton  boasts,  just  creating  the  hill,  and 
some  quarter. of  a  mile  beyond  its  prim 
but  pretty  outskirts,  a  goodly  block  oE 
grey  stone  bnildings,  known  to  all  men  tt 
the  barracks.  Here  a  regiment  of  cavi^ 
finds  its  quarters,  to  the  advantage,  no 
doubt  (though  over  this  heads  are  shaken), 
social  and  owerwise  of  the  neighbourhood. 


DEAN  WHARTON'S  DAUGHTER."        iMirei. e. um.i    871 


The  event  {rom  which  the  city  is  at  present 
recovering,  or  rather  relapsing,  is  no  less  a 
one  than  a  change  of  regiments,  with  all 
the  battle  and  excitement  indiipensable  to 
that  proceeding.  The  old  regiment  but 
yesteixlay  played  itself  daahingly  oat  to 
the  appropriate  strainB  of  The  Girl  I  Left 
Behind  Me ;  to-day  the  new  one — doubtless 
to  equally  appropriate  etnine — has  played 
itself  as  dashingly  in. 

Farewell  aighs  and  wistfal  glances  have 
ftdlowedtheone;  and — suchis  life  I— bright 
fitces  and  welcoming  smiles  have  greeted 
the  other ;  and  thns  with  a  poenble  ultra- 
Uthfiil  heart  (feminine)  btn  and  there, 
thinga  are,  so  to  apeak,  sqoarod  in  Postle- 
ton,  ajid  KETairs  once  more  roll  placidly  on. 

CHAPTER  IL  A  NAME. 
It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which 
Posdeton  had  welcomed  the  new  comers. 
Rain  wae  falling,  streeta  were  emptied, 
silence  and  respectabili^,  wet  through, 
SDd  in  a  forlorn  state  of  dampness  and  limp- 
mss,  had  the  place  to  themselves.  Gas 
flared  wastefuUy  in  shops  where  for  the 
last  hour  never  a  customer  had  entered ; 
where  shutters  were  at  last  being  put  up 
over  windows  into  which  nobody  looked: 
Eight  o'clock  had  struck  from  tower  and 
steeple.  A  church -bell  was  going  ding- 
dong  ;  from  the  barracks  on  the  hill,  where 
the  stranger  red-coats  had  settled  down, 
Uie  familiar  tattoo  came  faintly  sounding. 
In  the  cathedral-yard  the  grey  minster 
towers  loomed  in  misty  silenoa  In  the 
long,  soft  evenings  of  summer  the  Close  was 
a  tempting  spot  enough  to  Uioee  for  whom 
rest  and  silence  did  not  necessarily  mean 
dolness  and  despair.  Tfarongb  all  the 
long  procession  of  years  on  which  the  old 
grey  pile  had  looked  so  calmly  down,  how 
many  a  one  had  loved  the  quiet  spot,  how 
many  a  hot  and  restless  heart  had  sought  rest 
and  peace  within  its  shadows — quiet  nooks 
and  comers  where  glare  of  eaa  and  turmoil 
of  the  world  never  seemed  to  penetrate, 
and  where  only  the  chirp  of  birds  and  the 
cool  rustle  of  the  trees  came,  mingled,  it 
might  be,  with  the  tones  of  the  great 
oigan  to  break  the  stillness  I  There  was 
stulness  enough  to-night,  no  sound  even 
of  passing  footsteps  in  the  place,  only 
the  dreary  drip^  drip,  of  the  fast- 
falling  rain.  Through  the  mist,  here  and 
there,  stray  lights  blinked  from  the  old 
red-gabled,  ivy-covered  houses  where  the 
cathedral  dignitaries  found  shelter.  At  the 
comer,  the  one  spot  of  real  brightness,  the 
deanerv  looked   cheerilv  out  tbroofrh    its 


red-cortained  windows,  for  Mr.  Dean  was 
entertaining  a  party,  principally  composed 
of  clergymen  and  old  fogies,  at  dinner.  The 
Dean  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  white, 
scanty  locks  and  a  great  droop  in  his 
shoulders,  gained,  it  was  said,  by  mnch 
stooping  over  his  beloved  cello. 

The  Very  Rev.  Arthur  Wharton,  D.D., 
had  been  a  widower  for  more  than  ten 
years  past,  and  was  known  for  many  a 
mile  beyond  the  Precincts  for  his  kindly 
heart,  strange,  shy  ways,  and  his  devotion 
to  his  children  and  hie  violonceUo,  It  was 
his  daughter  Agatha,  his  first-bom  and 
veritable  ri^t  hand,  who,  such  a  mere 
child  when  the  poor  moUier  died,  had  ever 
since,  with  strangely  old-fashioned  ways 
just  at  first,  done  the  housekeeping  and 
"looked  after  papa."  And  ehe  it  was — 
alas,  that  possible  fidthfal  heart ! — who  had 
looked  with  wistful  eyes  {thou^,  truth  to 
tell,  it  was  but  in  thought  she  had  trusted 
herself  to  follow  them)  after  the  departing 
heroes  of  the  day  before^  Poor  Agatha  1 
It  was  bat  an  cAi  story,  but  her  experience 
of  the  world  was  not  very  great,  or  she 
might  have  taken  comfort  to  herself  in  the 
knowledge  that  men  love  and  ride  away 
every  day,  and  if  women's  hearts  are 
broken  now  and  then,  women's  hearts 
should  not  be  won  so  easily.  "Had  her 
love  been  so  easily  —  too  easily  won  t " 
Agatha  had  asked  herself  the  question, 
bow  many  times  already  I  She  ooold  not 
say,  she  cotUd  not  telL  Just  now  she  only 
knew  that  she  had  let  her  heart  go  from 
her,  and  she  could  not  call  it  back.  It  had 
been  won  from  her  by  what  Meeness,  what 
treachery  I  and  now  it  was  cast  back  to 
her,  and  she  could  not  take  it  op.  How 
the  red  flamed  into  lier  cheeks  aa  aho 
remembered  it  all  I  How  ahe  railed 
gainst  herself  fbr  the  past  I  What  im- 
possible vows  she  made  for  the  future  I 
Poor  Agatha !  Her  experience  of  life,  as 
I  have  said,  was  not  very  great,  and  as  ahe 
sat,  uck  and  ashuned,  h^ing  her  aching 
heart  as  best  she  might  in  the  deanery 
schoolroom  this  evening,  she  kept  asking 
herself  if  anyone  before  her  bad  ever  been 
BO  footisb,  so  unhappy.  In  the  cosy,  old- 
fashioned  room  quiet  was  supposed  to 
reign,  and  lessons  for  the  morrow  to  be  in 
progress.  But  it  was  a  supposition  merely. 
The  other  occupants  of  the  room  were  but 
three,  but  one  of  them  alone  contrived  to 
make  noise  enough  for  double  the  number. 
In  vain  Agatha  cried  : 

"  Hush  I  th^  will  hear  yon  in  the 
dininc-room. " 


372 


3hS.UU.l 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


"  And  &');ood  thing  too — mke  'em  up, 
sleepy  old^Rip  Van  Winklea,"  shouted  the 
culprit,  Jack,  aged  fourteen,  and  a  grammar- 
school  boy. 

"Oh,  Artlmr,  do  make  him  be  quiet," 
implored  A^tha. 

"  Quiet,  you  sir ! "  cried  Arthur,  thua 
appealed  to,  looking  up  from  his  study  of 
the  new  Army  List 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  cried  the  irrepressible  Jack, 
as  his  eyea  fell  on  the  little  pink  cover 
"let's  see  who  these  new  fellows  are.  I 
saw  yon.  Miss  Frank,  hiding  over  in  old 
TowDseod'a  shop  this  morning,  when  they 
came  in,  and  yesterday  too,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  when  the  others  went  out." 

"I  was  with  Miss  Thome,"  Frank  began. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know — all  nght ;  but  where 
was  Agatha  1  Too  proud  to  go,  I  sap- 
pose!" 

Frances,  otherwise  Frank,  Jack's  twin 
and  boon  companion,  shook  her  frizzy  head. 

"Agatha  does  not  care  about  military 
men — not  as  a  rule;  do  you,  Agatha  I  I 
do,  though  Mrs.  Tywman  does  not  think 
they  are  satisfactory  acqiudptaaces." 

The  boys  laughed  outright,  and  even 
Agatha  snuled. 

"  Most  of  the  others  were  nice  enough," 
said  Arthur.  "I  don't  see  why  some  of 
these  shouldn't  be." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  they  are  all  veiy  nice," 
said  Frank  pleasantly,  ma^g  a  place  for 
herself  on  Jack's  chair,  "if  only  Agatha 
had  not  made  up  her  mind  not  to  know 
anything  about  them.  Mew,  then,  Arthur, 
Two  Hundred  and  Tenth  Bed  Boyalu" 

"Frank's  in  love  with  the  whole  lot,  I 
do  believe,"  cried  Jack.  "I  didn't  think 
much  of  'em  myselt" 

"How  disappointed  they'd  be  if  they 
knew  I "  ssid  Frank. 

"Well,  I  shall  bear  their  names  first, 
and  &U  in  love  with  them  afterwards. 
People  with  ugly  names  are  always  so 
stupid.    Go  on,  Arthur." 

"  I  can't  very  well  go  on  unlJi  you  let 


"  Well,  be^  then." 

" '  Two  Hundred  and  Ten^  Bed  Royals 
— Lieut-OoL  Patrick  Joseph  Porter,  V.C" 

"  And  a  nice  little  party  he  is,"  inter- 
ruptedJack.  "They  haven't  got  his  weight, 
have  they  1     Not  room  for  it,  perhaps  1 " 

"Now,  Jack,  do  be  quiet;  sever  mind 
him,  Arthur." 

"Majors  Walter  B  Leslie,  James 
Browne." 

Frank  gave  a  movement  of  disapproval. 

"  Ob,  James  Browne  won't  do." 


"  Why  not,  Miss  Clevert "  cried  JadL 
"  Now,  I  dare  say  he's  the  best  fellow  of 
the  lot" 

"  Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  good  Brownes 
about,"  said  Arthur.  "  But  what's  in  a 
namel" 

"Ever  BO  mud,  I  think,"  chattered 
Frank.  "  Look  at  old  Canon  Crump ;  no 
wonder  he  has  never  got  anyone  to  take 
bim,  poor  dear  I  Fancy  being  Mrs.  Crump  1 
Yours  sincerely,  Frances  Crump;"  and 
pretty  Frances  Wharton  laughed,  the 
others  perforce  joining  in,  till  the  echo  of 
their  young  voices  must  have  almost 
reached  the  poor  old  Canon  himself,  smiling 
in  happy  innocence  over  the  Dean's  old 
port  downstairs. 

"  As  for  fine  names,  if  that  is  what  yon 
want,"  said  Jack  scornfully,  "  just  look  at 
that  Dr.  Lacey  fellow — a  nice  snob  hewasi 
gave  himself  airs  enough  for  the  whde 
regiment,  and  was  leas  than  nobody,  after 
aU." 

"  By  the  way,"  put  in  Arthur,  "  I  never 
thought  much  of  your  favourite,  Dsnbyi 
AgaUia." 

"  My  favourite,  Arthur  I "  protested  poor 
Agatha  faindy. 

"Well,  he  was  always  at  your  ^bov 
when  he  got  the  ehance ;  not  that  he  got 
it  here  so  very  often,  though  I  have 
wondered  at  the  governor  having  him  evao 
as  much  as  he  did." 

"  Asked  himself,  I  expect,"  growled  Jack 
pareotheticaUy. 

"It  was  because  he  was  musical,  I 
think,  papa  sometimes  asked  him,"  said 
Agatha,  with  a  desperate  feeling  that  if 
ever  "  the  boys  "  only  came  to  suspecdng 
her  secret,  she  mnst  nin  away  and  hide 
herself  for  ever. 

"He  maaical!"  shouted  Jack;  "the 
humbug  I  why,  he  couldn't  so  much  ss 
turn  over  your  music  for  you,  Agatlis, 
without  someone  to  poke  him  up  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page." 

"  Well,  he  will  have  to  turn  ovm  some- 
one else's  music  now,"  put  in  Frank  cllee^ 
fully. 

"  I  think  it  is  bed-time,"  Agatha  said 
presently ;  there  was  a  litUe  tremor  in  her 
voice,  which  no  one  noticed. 

"  Oh,  but  Arthur  has  not  read  half  tbc 
names ;  just  another  quarter  of  an  hour," 
Frank  pleaded. 

"It  is  long  past  your  time,  Frank,"  said 
Agatha.     "  I  am  going  too,  for  my  head  i* 


And  so,  Frank  protesting  so  more,  good- 
nights  were  said.     But  there  was  no  sleep 


for  Agatha  that  night — there  had  been  but 
little  for  many  a  night  put. 

The  great  bell  in  the  cathedral  tofrer 
close  by  boomed  out  stroke  by  stroke  the 
hevry  hours.  From  near  and  far  the 
nomerons  church  clocks  one  by  one  took 
up  the  tale,  and  clanged  or  chimed  them 
forth ;  still  the  weary  head  tossed  on  its 
]nllow,  and  the  hot  tears  fell  like  scorching 
rain.  Happiness,  forgetfalness,  even,  it 
seemed  to  Agatha,  could  be  herd  never 
sgsin.  Bat  yonth  and  pride  are  stronger 
t^  she  knew ;  forgetfalness  nearer  thsn 
she  thoa;;ht ;  and  love — ^well,  it  is  Agatha 
Wharton's  love-story  that  I  am  abont  to  tell. 

CHAPTER  III.      THE  DEAN'.I  JAUES. 

Four  o'clock  had  aoonded  from  the 
cathedral ;  the  bell  had  ceased  to  call  for 
service.  Mrs.  Thome,  Frances  Whsrton' 
daily  governess,  had  passed  from  the 
deanery  and  disappeared  with  the  other 
dozen  or  so  of  worshippers  in  the  old  Nor- 
man doorway  oppodCe.  Upstairs  in  the 
deanery  schoolroom  sat  Frank,  herself  hard 
at  work  on  a  harmony  lemon,  tor  little 
Mr.  Fhilp,  the  cathMral  organist  and 
Poetleton  mosic-master.  She  had  not  sat 
there  long  when  the  schoolroom  door  was 
thrown  open  with  a  bang,  and  Jack's 
bc^ish  voice  proclaimed  tiie  in  trader. 
Jack's  face  was  veiy  excited, 

"Frank!"  he  cried;  "Frank,  jost  leave 
off  and  listen  to  m&" 

"I  can  hear  you.  Jack — I  really  can,  so 
can  the  old  jackdaws  in  the  tower  there,  I 
sbonld  say,  if  they  haven't  cotton-wool  in 
thehfears." 

"Cawkl"  cried  Jack,  close  to  poor 
Frank's  pretty  pink  ones,  and  away  went 
Frank's  book  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
"Now,  who  isthe  old  monstache  the  gover- 
nor has  got  in  the  library  1  '  No  admittance 
enept  on  bosineBs,'  yon  know ;  but  there 
the  interesting  stranger  sits  wiUk  his  hands 
in  his  teonsers-pockets,  calm  as  a  cherub 
on  a  tombstone.  Agatha's  there  too ;  as  for 
the  dear  old  Dean,  he  actually  looks  as  if  he 
wasn't  wishing  the  fellow  the  other  side  of 
Jordan," 

"  If  yon  have  quite  done,  perhaps  you 
will  kindly  bring  me  back  my  book,"  said 
Frank  quietly. 

"  Now,  Frank,  don't  be  aggravating.  Do 
yon  or  don't  yoa  know  who  the  party  is  1 " 

"  Of  course  I  do  !  The  '  party,'  as  yoa 
o«L  him,  you  very  mlgar  little  boy,  is 
James  Browne— my  Browne." 

"  Your  Browne  1 " 

"  Oh.  Jack,    what   a   stunid    von    ara ! 


DEAN  WHARTON'S  DAUGHTER.  iM«reh  s.  isw.]    373 

Major   James    Browne,    Red  Royals,  of 
coursa'' 


Don't  see  how  that  makes  him  yoors," 
said  Jack. 

"  I  should  hope  not,  indeed  I "  retorted 
Frank.  "  Didn't  I  say  at  the  very  first  I 
couldn't  put  up  widi  any  such  namel 
James  Browne  1  I  can  just  see  J.  Bl,  short, 
stout,  hair  a  cheerful  red,  face,  ditto." 

Jack  could  stand  no  more,  he  broke 
into  a  derisive  shout. 

"If  yon  could  cmly  see  him  1  Short  and 
stout  is  he  1  and  red  1  Oh,  Frank,  you 
duffer  I " 

"  Thank  you  I "  interrupted  Frank  with 
much  dignity. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  returned  Jack 
politely.  "  All  I  can  say  is,  if  that  is  your 
major  he's  taller  than  the  governor,  and  jast 
as  thin ;  as  for  his  hair  it's  all  but  black  ; 
mouataohee  likewise ;  to  conclude,  hia  face 
is  a  pleasing  bronze,  and  he's  got  eyes  like 
gimlets.  He  knew  all  about  the  book  I 
wasn't  looking  for,  blMs  you  I  Oh,  Frank, 
yoDore  a  muff!" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Frank,  "  there  are 
Brownes  just  like  that,  I  know.  I  wish 
Agatha  would  come  up  and  tall  as  all  about 
it.  But  don't  talk  any  more,  please ;  I  have 
my  lessons  to  do." 

"  So  have  I,"  aaid  Jack,  "  worse  luck," 
and  was  silent  for  two  minutes. 

Downstairs  in  the  Ubtary  James  Browne 
still  sat  Five  came  booming  from  the 
cathedral  The  quarter  aonndea,  then  the 
half-hour,  and  at  the  same  moment'  the 
library  bell  rang. 

"  At    last,"    cried    Jack   and    Frank 
together.     Jack  was  out  of  the  school- 
room, with   all   but  his   heels  over  the 
'banisters,  by  the  time  Ruffles  the  butler 
had  got  to  the  library  door.     Jack  went 
back  to  Frank  too  astounded  for  speech. 
"Well  I  "cried  Frank.    "Weill" 
"  He's  going  to  stop  I " 
"Whatl    Who)" 

"James  Browne."  Then  Frank  and 
Jack  sat  and  looked  at  one  another. 

The  Dean  of  Postleton,  whatever  he  might 
be  to  outsiders,  was  no  enigma  to  his  children. 
No  father  was  better  loved  or  more  loving, 
but  his  odd,  shy  ways,  his  misery  and  dis- 
comfort in  the  presence  of  strangers,  were 
fully  known  to  them.  His  old  friends — 
and  he  had  many — were  welcome  enough, 
but  to  the  making  of  new  ones  he  was  not 
given — certunly  not  in  this  sudden  and 
altogether  unlooked-for  manner.  And  here 
was  this  mysterious  major,  who  had  barely 
been  in  Postleton  a  week,  and  who  had 


374    fMuchs,  1SU.1 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


tOOBAMMtr 


never  orosaed  his  threihold  nntil  uihourago, 
made  free  of  the  hoiue  at  once  1  However, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  sit  and 
wait  with  what  amount  of  patience  the; 
might  until  Agatha  ihonld  be  available. 
This  was  not  until  the  first  gong  sounded, 
when  the  library  door  was  beard  to  open, 
and  Agatha's  soft  footsteps  came  np  the 
stairs.  At  the  schoolroom  door  Jack  and 
Frances  ponnced  ont  upon  her. 

"  What  does  it  mean  t "  they  cried,  and 
dragged  her  into  the  room. 

Agatha  looked  at  them  with  aa  MnOBed 
smQe.  A  ftunt  rose  bloomed  on  her  cheek, 
her  soft  brown  eyes  were  shiiung.  Frank's 
sharp  ones  noticed  it  all. 

"Why,  Agatiia,  your  headache  is  gone, 
la  it  the  wonderml  major  who  has  done 
that — has  he  bewitched  yoa  and  p^M 
botht" 

"  I  think  it  is  yon  who  ar«  h«witehttdl," 
lanshed  Agatha.  "As  for  Major  Browne, 
he  IS  nothing  more  wonderful  than  the  son 
of  papa's  very  oldest  friend — the  Browne 
we  have  heard  him  so  often  talk  about" 

"Oh,  that  ia  itt"  said  Jack;  "then  I 
hope  he  is  one  of  the  right  ^ort,  for  I 
suppose  we  shall  see  plen^  of  him." 

"Bat,  Agatha,  yoa  didn't  care  about 
knowing  any  of  them,  don't  you  remember  1 " 
andFr^k  looked  np  at  her  sister  in  honest 
perplexity. 

"  But  this  is  diflFerent  Papa  seems  as 
if  he  had  known  him  all  his  life,  indeed 
he  has  seen  him  before,  though  it  is  years 
ago.  Besides,  he  is  not  a  young  man,  or — 
or  anything  of  that  sort,"  AgaUia  addod  a 
little  vaguuy.  "  It  will  be  only  as  if  we 
had  suddenly  found  a  new  relation.  Papa 
is  calling  him  James  already."' 

"  Uncle  James  i  Yes,  that  will  do  very 
nicely,"  said  Frank.  "He  can  take  us 
skating  and  all  Uiat  sort  of  thing  when 
Arthur  is  gone  to  t^at  horrid  Woolwich." 

"  Yon  just  tell  him  so,  Miu  Frank.  If 
he  doesn't  think  yoa  a  coot  young  person, 
I'm  a  Dutchman. " 

"  He  will  think  me  a  most  charming 
niece.  Come,  Agatha,  let  as  go  luid  pat 
on  our  best  frocks  for  'oar  anue.'" 

It  was  the  good  Dean's  fancy  to  have  his 
four  children  round  him  at  his  late  dinner. 
Without  some  such  arrangement  he  would 
have  seen  little  or  nothing  of  the  two 
younger.  It  woold  have  been  worse  than 
useless  quoting  "  custom  "  to  the  Dean  in 
Buch  a  esse,  so  when  the  Major,  descending 
from  the  Dean's  dressing-room,  entered  the 
drawing-room,  he  fbund  his  hoat  and 
children  alreMdy  tfaer& 


Frank  looked  up  and  saw  a  tall,  soldierly, 
dark-faced,  dark-moustached  man,  "quite 
middle-aged,"  as  she  afterwards  declared  to 
Jack,  "and  every  inch  an  uncle,"  The 
major  saw  the  Dean,  his  kindly  face 
looking  more  kindly  still,  as  he  stood 
before  the  fire — for,  though  August  sdll, 
the  day  had  been  cold  and  oheeriess — ooe 
hand  in  Agatha's,  the  other  laid  on  Jack's 
young  shoulder.  And  the  Dean's  eldest 
daughter,  be  saw  her  now,  as  it  were,  for 
the  first  tima  In  the  dim  light  of  the 
lov-ceilinged,dusky  library  he  could  scarcely 
have  been  said  to  see  her  at  all  Bot  he 
saw  her  now,  tall,  fair,  white-robed,  lamp 
and  firelight  full  upon  her,  a  little  queenly 
looking,  a  little  stately;  dark,  smooth, 
rippling  hair,  a  broad,  smooth  brow,  a  calm, 
rather  sad,  sweet  face.  The^ow&omthefire 
lent  a  flush  to  the  soft,  creamy  compleziim, 
and  lighted  np  the  soft,  dark  eyes  that  were 
raised  to  greet  his  entrance.  James  Browne 
was  not  quite  the  sober,  middle-aged  indi- 
vidual the  Dean's  children  deemed  him. 
At  five-and-thirty  a  man  has  scarcely  oat- 
lived  all  ^e  fire  and  passion  of  youth,  and, 
even  as  this  man  looksd,  his  heart  wai 
stirred,  his  pulses  throbbed.  The  cAd- 
fashioned,  fire-lit  room,  the  Dean,  the 
little  groQp  surrounding  him,  faded.  Tims 
had  rolled  back;  once  more  goddesses 
walked  the  earth — one  was  smiling  on  him 
now.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment;  To 
whatever  wild  flights  the  outwardly  calm 
Major's  fkncy  might  have  wandered,  be 
was  speedily  recalled  by  his  host's  voice. 

"  Come,"  the  Dean  was  saying,  "oome  to 
the  fire  and  let  me  introduce  the  rest  of  my 
youngsters.  This  is  Arthur,  an  embryo 
brother  in  arms,  and  this  is  Jack.  I  leoUy 
don't  know  what  we  shall  do  with  Jack 
Never  make  a  Dsan  of  him,  I  fear— eh, 
Jack  I" 

"  Make  a  lawyer  of  htm,  papa.  He  can 
talk,  can  Jack,"  said  Frank,  with  a  friendly 
nod  to  their  visitor. 

"  Poor  Frank  I "  said  the  Dean.  "Look 
at  her,  James ;  doesn't  she  look  like  a 
young  lady  who  can  never  get  in  a  word 
edgeways  1 " 

"  My  name  is  Frances,  if  papa  would 
only  remember,"  said  the  Dean's  youngest 
daughter. 

"  And  I  am  to  try  to  remember  too— 
eh,  Miss  Frances  1 " 

"  Of  coone ;  why,  you  could  not  csll  me 
Frank,  you  know.  You  are  neitiier  papa 
nor  Jack." 

"  Certainly  not" 

"  Imagine  yon  calling  Agatha  Aggy," 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EiST. 


[Much  B,  IBM.)      375 


Jmum  K:owne  gave  a  gsoQute  shudder. 

"I  can  imagine  nothing  so  horrible." 

"Wo  nsed,  yon  know,  years  ago;  but 
ihe  didn't  like  it,  so  ve  gave  it  np.  I 
don't  think  she  looka  a  bit  like  an  Aggy, 
do  yon  T "  Frank  went  on  confidentially, 
gkonnig  over  at  Agatha,  who  with  the 
Deao  faiid  gone  over  to  a  side  table,  and  was 
at  that  moment  tnming  over  some  mnsic 
that  lay  upon  it 

"Heaven  forbid  1" 

At  the  exclamatjon  Agatha  tnmed. 

"  What  is  it  1 "  ahe  asked,  coming 
forward. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Frank,  "  I  was  only  telling 
Major  Browne  that  he  had  better  not  caH 
yon  Aggy,  beeaose  yoa  didn't  like  it." 

"  Oh,  Frank,"  cried  Agatha,  with  a  little 
Sash  and  langb. 

"I  don't  think  there  was  much  fear," 
the  Major  said — ha  was  laughing  too.  "How 
coold  they  do  it ! " 

At  this  moment,  happily,  the  door  was 
opened,  and  Ruffles  announced  that  dinner 
was  served.  As  James  Browne  felt  the 
Dean's  danshter's  hand  within  hia  arm,  as 
ho  looked  down  upon  the  face  so  Jiear  his 
own,  he  told  himself  if  he  only  might  come 
to  call  her  Agatha  he  shoold  be  quite 
contented. 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 

PART  II. 

A  cARAVAJf  is  not  uncommon  in  the 
East,  and  when  a  traveller  falls  in  with 
one,  he  generally  visits  it.  I  should  have 
as  litUe  dreamed  of  finding  a  cream  ice  in 
tiie  desert  as  a  caravan  in  Stepn^;  bnt 
somehow  I  fell  in  with  one,  and  fonnd  it 
well  worth  visiting.  As  it  was  hidden  in 
a  sort  of  oasis  as  it  were,  a  traveller  might 
eauly  have  passed,  and  not  canght  sight 
of  ib  Bat  the  sharp  eyes  of  my  guide 
were  not  to  be  deceived,  and  a  single 
glance  enabled  him  to  indicate  it«  where- 
abonts. 

The  oasis  wherein  the  caravan  had  halted 
was  not  far  from  the  spot  I  have  described 
in  my  last  paper.*  Although  by  way  of 
enphemy  1 4^  it  an  oasis,  it  bore  no  trace 
of  vvrdure  or  refreshing  vegetation  ;  and  in 
fact  it  differed  little  in  its  dark  and  dismal 
ngliness  from  the  doll  and  dreary  district 
that  surrounded  it.  Perhaps  it  might 
sppesr  that  I  was  using  a  misnomer  u  I 
were  to  speak  of  this  same  region  as  a 


desert,  for  in  the  spaoe  of  three  miles 
square  there  live  above  a  million  peojde, 
I  simply  speak  of  an  oasis,  because  I  am 
descrilHDg  nty  late  travels  in  the  East,  and 
I  may  as  well  endeavour  to  impart  some 
Oriental  flavour  to  my  narrative.  In  the 
directory,  however,  my  oaiis  is  more  prosily 
put  down  as  "  King's  Arms  Yard,"  abultitig 
npon  Carr  Street.  After  quitting  Begent's 
Place,  it  seemed  a  fit  advancement  to  be 
brought  to  King's  Arms  Yard,  and  as  far 
aa  the  name  went,  one  conld  hardly  think 
it  strange  to  find  a  caravan  in  Carr  Street, 
This  thoroughfare,  however,  like  certain 
lordly  folk,  is  honoured  with  a  second  title ; 
which,  although  distingoisfaing,  has  not  yet 
been  inserted  in  the  postal  directory.  The 
dwellers  in  the  neighbourhood  have  s^led 
it  "  Donkey  Row,"  possibly  because  of  the 
preponderanceofooBtermongws,  who  mostly 
keep  their  carriages,  amoBg  its  bfluentaal 
residents. 

After  a  glance  at  this  last  paragraph,  the 
intelligent  reader  wiU  have  r^dily  sur- 
mised that  the  caravan  I  eaw  was  a  yellow, 
old,  roofed  vehicle,  which  had  probably 
belonged  to  a  showman  ot  a  gipsy.  Doubt- 
less it  had  joomeyed  many  a  nule  in  shady 
lanes,  and  over  sunny  heaths,  and  breezy 
open  commons ;  and  had  halted  in  the 
shelter  of  many  a  leafy  wood,  ere  it  came 
to  its  last  resting-place  in  this  great  wilder- 
ness of  brick.  But  its  wanderings  were 
over  now.  Its  rural  haunts  and  hiding- 
places  would  see  its  yellow  face  no  more. 
Its  wheels  had  been  removed — and  sold  by 
the  last  occupant — it  had  come  down  in  the 
world,  and  had  sunk  helpless  on  the  ground, 
and  having  ceased  to  be  a  vehicle,  was  now 
hired  as  ahouse,  at  a  shilling  a  week  rental, 
by  a  reputable  tenant 

This  nonse,  or  caravanserai  aa  Oriental- 
ists might  call  it,  not  being  very  capacious, 
eould  only  hold  one  room,  and  this  room, 
though  not  very  large,  yet  served  as  cellar, 
kitchen,  senltery,  dining-room,  and  draw- 
ing-room, workshop,  hbrary,  and  bedroom 
for  a  conple  of  old  people.  Opposite  the 
doorway,  which  was  half  closed  by  a  batch, 
there  was  a  bed  at  the  far  end,  which 
filled  the  space  from  ride  to  side— if  the 
word  "far"  may  be  used  to  denote  so 
small  a  distance^  Between  the  doorway 
and  the  bed — in  the  dining-room,  that  is — 
there  were  a  work-table,  or  rather  a  work- 
bench, and  a  chair,  and  in  the  comer  to 
the  left  there  stood  a  little  iron  stove,  with 
a  amoke-pipe  through  the  roof,  which  barely 
served  to  let  the  smoke  oat  A  small  old 
man  stood  bv  the  table  tvins  nn  in  little 


376      (UH<:h8,lBSI.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


bundlea  the  firewood  he  had  cut.  The 
house  being  such  a  tiny  one,  it«  contents 
were  email  to  match,  and  the  bondlea  were 
BO  little  that  they  seemed  to  be  intended 
for  especially  small  fires.  It  might  easily 
be  guessed,  too,  that  the  little  old  man  was 
making  them  for  a  woefully  small  price. 

Above  the  bed,  that  is  about  three  feet 
from  the  floor,  there  was  a  narrow  little 
shelf,  which  held  a  little  crockery  and  some 
few  little  odds  and  ends,  which  seemed 
somehow  to  impart  the  notion  to  my  mind 
that  a  petticoat  was  somewhat  familiar  to 
the  place.  Among  them  waa  a  little  bottle, 
holding  a  little  water  and  a  little  sprig  of 
fir ;  which,  being  carefully  preserved,  bad 
possibly  been  gathered  from  a  Ust  year's 
Christmas-tree.  Beside  it  stood  a  little  flower- 
pot with  a  oouple  of  green  hyacinths,  green, 
but  giving  show  of  coming  richly- coloured 
bloom.  These  latter  were  the  gift  of  some 
Good  lady  Samaritan  who  had  visited  the 
Uttle  hoose,  and  thought  a  little  floral 
decoration  would  improve  it  as  a  dwelling. 
"  She  gives  me  a  little  treat  like,"  remark^ 
the  old  man  gratefully ;  "  an'  it  makes  a 
man  feel  chewfol  to  see  a  bit  o'  green 
about  him  while  he's  working." 

It  seemed  veil  that  there  was  something 
pleasant  in  the  place,  for  the  look  outside 
was  certainly  not  cheering.  The  yard  lay 
inches  deep  in  dirt,  so  that  the  notice 
appeared  needless  that  there  was  no 
thoronghfaie.  All  around  him  looked 
indeed  in  a  slovenly  condition,  albeit  the 
old  man  declared  he  got  on  "pretty 
tidily."  He  wonld  confess,  however,  that 
his  dwelling  was  a  trifle  dranghty  in  cold 
weather.  Dranghty  certunly  it  must  have 
been,  not  to  say  even  tempestuous,  when 
the  stormy  winds  did  blow ;  and  not  very 
warm  either  when  Jack  Frost  was  at  the 
door,  and  tiiere  was  only  half  an  inch  or 
so  of  deal  to  stop  his  entrance.  The 
caravan  required  caulking  as  badly  aa  an 
old  boat.  Tliere  were  great  cracks  between 
the  boards,  which  seemed  to  make  the  walla 
transparent,  and  certainly  the  inmates 
conld  not  truthfully  complun  of  any  want 
of  ventilation. 

Half  sheltered  by  a  shed,  just  in  front  of 
hia  own  doorway,  a  couple  of  sons  of  the 
old  man  were,  Uke  him,  busy  catting  fire- 
wood. With  a  gusty  drizzle  falling,  and 
the  ground  so  deep  in  slosh,  the  yaid 
appeared  a  dampish  place  for  such  an 
occupation.  When  questioned  aa  to  income, 
the  old  man  showed  no  reticence.  He 
frankly  stated  that  he  made  four  hundred 
or  so  bundles  in  a  week,  and  sold  them, 


being  small,  at  eighteenpence  the  hundred. 
But  he  had  to  go  about  with  a  banow  for 
the  sale  of  them,  and  the  hiring  of  that 
vehicle  reduced  the  weekly  profits.  Still, 
he  and  his  old  lady  somehow  managed  to 
live  on,  and  they  were  both  of  t^  ssme 
age,  which  might  seem  a  little  singular, 
and,  being  matched  in  years,  they  might 
last  it  out  together.  Seventy-six  they  were, 
and  that  was  the  real  truth,  as  surely  snd 
as  certainly  as  that  his  name  was  Jonia. 
And  he  was  bom  in  Willow  Gardens,  nigh 
to  Curtain  Koad.  Ah,  'twere  a'most  is 
the  country  then.  Well,  yes,  now  yon 
came  to  think  of  it,  the  name  did  sonnd  a 

?retty  one,  and  seemed  a  little  rural  like, 
'es,  they  got  on  fairish  well,  except  of  ■ 
hard  winter.  But  times  were  fairish  bad, 
too,  seeing  as  they  really  hadn't  booght  a 
pound  of  butchers'-meat  this  two  years, 
"Indeed,"  added  the  old  man,  "1  do 
believe  we'd  a'most  forgotten  how  it  tasted 
like,  till  we  got  that  Christmaa-dinnw  as 
you  gave  na,  Mr.  Austin." 

The  old  wood-cutter  put  forth  his  i^ht 
hand  as  he  said  this,  and  gave  my  guide  a 
hearty  grip  of  gratitude,  which  showed 
how  weU  the  Christmas-meal  etill  lingered 
in  his  memory.  While  taking  leave  of 
him  I  saw  that  there  was  pasted  by  the 
doorway  a  legal-looking  docameat,  which 

f  roved  to  be  a  notice  of  distreaa  for  rent. 
b  was  dated  the  3rd  of  August  in  last 
ear,  and  was  addressed  in  clerkly  hand  to 
'r.  William  Glibbery — not  a  bad  name  for 
runaway  who  does  not  stop  to  pay  his 
rent.  This  gentleman  was  informed  that, 
aa  the  sum  of  three  pounds  sterling  mi 
then  dua  on  his  account  to  his  landloid 
therein  named,  certain  chattels  had  been 
seized,  as  specified  thereunder,  and  which 
ill  the  inventory  were  briefly  thus  described: 
"  Four  old  Chairs,  Mixed  md,  and  Shaving- 
glass." 

What  may  be  a  "mixed  "bed,  the  reader 
must  be  left  to  guess.  I  have  no  snggestion 
to  help  him  in  the  matter,  save  that  when 
a  clown  puts  on  his  nightcap  in  a  panto- 
mime, the  bed  is  pretty  sore  to  get  "a 
little  mixed."  And  indeed  the  notion  of 
the  Law,  in  all  ita  solemn  majeety,  bemg 
set  to  work  to  sell  up  all  the  goods  of  Mr. 
Glibbery,  might  well  appear  suggestive  of 
a  first-rate  comic  scene. 

A  thought  of  something  homorons  is 
worth  having  in  the  East,  where  the 
traveller  will  find  his  spirilfi  eaul;  de- 
pressed. So  the  tableau  of  the  Sheriff 
entering  to  slow  music  (to  indicate  the 
tardy  proxress  of  the  Law),  and  seising  the 


yeai 
Mr. 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


tMmh  S,  UM.1      377 


four  dd  cfatin,  and  the  mixed  bed  uid  the 
■hflving-glass,  formed  a  pleuant  subject  for 
t  menuJ  picture,  to  occupy  oui  fancy  as 
ve  ireitt  npon  our  way.  The  next  halt 
that  we  came  to  was  made  in  certain  (so- 
called}  Gardens,  which  had  nothing  horti- 
enltora]  about  them,  save  their  name.  No 
hyacinths  grow  here,  nor  any  sprig  of 
ereen,  and  the  only  thing  approaching  to  a 
fir-tree  weis  a  cloth  ea'-prop.  The  g^ens 
formed  a  no-thoroughfare,  with  a  blank 
wall  at  the  end,  and  beyond  was  a  canal, 
and  on  all  sides  the  horizon,  which  was 
not  very  distant,  was  monotonoos  with 
chimney-pots.  Here  we  had  a  smiling 
welcome  from  a  comely  little  woman, 
whose  cheerful  voice  and  manner  formed  a 
pleasant  contrast  to  the  dreariness  around 
tier.  Ab  we  entered,  she  was  busy  giving 
dinner  to  bei  baby,  who  appe&red  to  relish 
highly  the  plentiful  maternal  nourish- 
ment  Three  cleanly  little  girls  wera 
clustered  by  the  fire,  with  a  cat  by  w^  of 
plaything  somewhere  in  their  midst.  Two 
lii^r  girls  were  absent — at  school,  their 
mother  said,  and  she  likewise  owned  ahoy, 
who,  like  his  father,  was  at  work  There 
were  some  ugly  china !'  ornaments"  paraded 
on  the  chimney-piece,  and,  in  the  way  of 
higher  art,  there  was  displayed  a  coloured 
photograph  of  General  Garibaldi,  to  be 
recc^msed  qnite  readily  by  his  prominent 
red  shirt.  On  the  shelves  to  right  and 
left  of  him  there  was  a  goodly  show  of 
crockeiT,  which  she  said  she  had  bought 
cheap,  for  it  was  given  with  the  tea;  and, 
to  complete  the  household  loxuriea,  there 
were  a  leash  of  clock's.  These,  however, 
were  "  all  cripples,"  said  the  cheery  little 
woman  j  but  her  husband  had  a  weakness 
for  seeing  clocks  about  him,  though  they 
weren't  of  any  use. 

Four  shillings  a  week  was  the  rent  pud 
for  their  house — for  this  room  of  ten  square 
feet,  say,  andforthe  bedroom  overiL  This 
latter  we  were  shown  by  the  little  dame 
in  person,  still  carrying  her  baby,  who 
was  still  at  his  repast.  The  stairs  were 
steep  btit  clean,  and  the  chamber,  though 
not  large,  looked  quite  palatial  in  appoint- 
ment, OS  compared  with  all  the  other  sleep- 
bg-places  we  bad  seen.  There  was  actually 
a  caipet  in  it,  not  a  very  large  one,  it  is 
true,  hnt  still  a  carpet;  and  there  was 
anodier  clock,  and  this  was  really  going ; 
and  there  was  a  little  table— let  us  say  a 
toilette-t^le,  for  a  clothes-brush  lay  upon 
it ;  and  there  was  a  bed  with  sheets  and 
counterpane — yea,  real  sheets  and  counter- 
pane ;  and  by  the  window,  cortuned  off. 


was  a  small  bed  for  the  son,  and  a  bed,  a 
trifle  bigger,  was  there  for  the  five  little 
daughters  by  the  door. 

Everything  seemed  clean  and  neat, 
above  stairs  and  below.  The  bouse  looked 
poor,  no  doubt,  but  still  there  was  some 
comfort  in  it.  "Ab,"  excltdmed  the 
little  mistress  as  baby  ended  his  repast, 
"ah,  it  weren't  always  like  this,  now 
was  it,'  Mr.  Austin  1  Difference  1  Why 
yes,  it's  made  a  difference  in  all  way^, 
both  to  him  and  me  toa  There,  he'll 
work  from  mom  to  midnight  now  he 
will,  and  never  grumble  not  one  bit  he 
won't.  And  he  gives  me  all  he  gets  too, 
an'  I  can  feed  the  children  well  now,  an' 
keep  'em  clothed,  an'  tidy  like.  And  I 
never  could  do  that,  you  know,  an'  we 
was  mostly  all'yB  glompy  afore  he  took  the 
pledge," 

I  found,  by  farther  questioDing  the 
cheery  little  woman,  that  her  husband  was 
a  sort  of  clever  Jack- of -all- trades,  who 
"  did  up  houses  "  here  and  there  and  any- 
where, she  said,  and  was  able  by  so  doing, 
working  late  and  early,  to  earn  a  ^ound 
or  so  a  week.  He  seemed  well-nigh  a 
Crceaus,  when  compared  with  all  the 
wretchedly-paid  workers  I  had  heard  of, 
and  had  seen  too,  in  the  East  But  per- 
haps his  calling  needed  more  than  common 
brain-work;  more,  for  instance,  than  a 
costermonger's,  which  chiefly  needs  good 
lungs. 

By  way  of  a  sad  contrast  to  this  cheer- 
ful little  Bonl  and  her  children,  who,  with 
baby,  might  have  w«bled,  "  We  are 
Seven,"  we  found  a  family  next  door  who 
were  terribly  afflicted  by  the  badness  of 
the  times,  which  has  long  been  an  epi- 
demic ailment  in  the  East.  The  mother 
we  had  met  just  as  we  left  the  caravan. 
She  was  trying  to  earn  a  sixpence  by  the 
selling  of  her  "  creeses,"  and  was  tying 
them  in  farthing  bundles  as  she.  briskly 
trudged  along.  "  Hard  at  worki  Well, 
yes,  sir,"  as  we  exchanged  a  greeting. 
"One  had  need  to  work  hard  nowadays, 
if  one  don't  want  to  starv&"  She  seemed 
a  bustling,  active,  clean-oheeked,  civil- 
speaking  body,  who  tried  to  make  the 
best  of  things,  and  had  seen  better  days. 
Her  shoes  were  in  boles,  and  she  was  very 
poorly  clad,  and  there  was  a  worn  and 
anxious  look  upon  her  face.  That  this 
was  not  without  a  cause  became  pretty 
clear  to  me,  when  I  had  seen  her  home 
and  the  children  she  was  toiling  for,  out 
there  in  the  wet  street. 

Their  father  was  at  work  too ;  making 


378 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BODHD. 


fish-baaketa  he  was,  and  when  in  lack'a 
way  he  could  do  a  tidy  trade.  Make  a 
coaple  of  gross  a  day  he  oonld,  and  more 
too  if  he  stack  to  it  and  didn't  stop  a 
minnte  'cept  for  swallowing  of  hia  meals. 
Profit  1  Well,  he  reckoned  he  conld  make 
four  bob  a  day  a'most,  but  then  yon  had  to 
go  and  Bell  'em  fiist,  and  that  was  mostly 
a  day's  work.  But  the  worst  of  it  was 
as  yon  couldn't  get  the  stuff,  now  the 
sugar-trade  were  slack,  laastways  down 
there  in  the  East 

The  obvious  connection  between  fish- 
baskets  and  sugar  not  being  apparent  to 
my  uncommercial  mind,  it  was  explained 
thjit  the  baskets  were  made  of  the  msh 
wrappers  wherein  the  raw  sugar  was  sent 
to  be  refined.  Since  this  business  had 
been  sorely  crippled  by  the  foreign 
bounties,  the  basket-maker  suffered  no  less 
than  the  sugar-baker  from  the  want  of 
work.  My  voluble  informant  had  but  one 
eye,  and  he  kept  this  keenly  fixed  on  me 
while  he  imparted  his  instruction;  as  a 
schoolman  sharply  notices  the  dulness  of  a 
dunce.  Having  done  hia  best  to  enlighten 
my  crass  ignorance,  he  lefb  his  basket- 
making  (which  was  done  al  fresco,  in  ft 
driaele  and  a  draught),  and  showed  the 
way  indoors.  A.  wretched  room  it  was, 
this  sitting-room  or  kitchen — call  it  which 
one  pleased,  the  name  would  scarce  be  fit 
For  there  was  not  a  scrap  of  fire,  nor  any 
sign  of  cookery  put,  present,  or  to  come ; 
and,  for  purposes  of  sitting,  there  were  but 
two  old  chairs,  one  with  a  broken  leg. 
Floor  and  ceiling  were  in  holes,  and  the 
plaster  in  great  patches  had  crumbled  from 
the  walls.  A  pale-cheeked  little  boy,  with 
the  thinnest  threadbare  clothing  to  cover 
his  thin  limbs,  was  nursing  a  sick  chUd, 
wrapped  up  in  an  old  petticoat ;  while 
another  boy,  still  smaller  and  stiU  more 
thinly  clad,  was — playing,  shall  I  say ! — 
with  a  remarkably  lean  cat  A  bit  or  two 
of  crockery  lay  huddled  in  a  comer,  and 
the  only  ornament  displayed  was  an  old 
discarded  horse-shoe,  which,  the  man  sud, 
with  grim  iixwy,  was  hanging  there  "for 
lack." 

Upstairs  we  found  two  beds,  one  with  a 
patched  coverlet  and  bat  little  underneath 
it ;  and  the  other  with  some  scanty  bits  of 
sackcloth  to  cover  its  defects.  In  these 
two  beds  the  parents  and  their  half-dozen 
children  (five  boys  and  a  girl)  contrived 
somehow  to  sleep.  Possibly,  for  warmth's 
sake,  close  quarters  were  endurable ;  for 
the  walls  seemed  hardly  westher-tigbt,  and 
in  the  ceiling  also  the  bare    laths  were 


revealed.  "  Well,  yef,  it  do  drip  thiougli  a 
bit,"  the  man  was  free  to  own,  after  telling 
us  that  he  paid  four  shillings  weekly  for  liu 
rent,  and  tiiat  the  landlord  had  promUed 
to  look  to  the  repairs.  "Look  to  'emi 
Well,  yes,  yon  see,  he  do  look  in  a'  times 
and  give  us  a  look  round,  fiut  if  we  bd 
much  as  p'ints  to  'em,  he  'ooks  it  prett; 
quick." 

One  of  the  window-panes  was  broken, 
and  mended  with  a  bit  of  newspaper, 
which,  however,  hardly  served  to  keep  the 
wind  out  I  remarked  that  as  the  room 
was  little  more  thOn  ten  feet  square,  and 
there  were  nightly  eight  to  sleep  in  it, 
perhaps  it  was  as  well  to  have  a  lilUa 
ventilation.  Plenty  of  freeh  air  was  a 
famoOB  thing  for  health,  and  there  wu 
nothing  so  unwholesome  as  a  close  and 
stuffy  bedchamber. 

"Well,  sir,"  observed  the  man  wilb 
rather  a  giim  smile,  "  I  don't  think  as  you'd 
much  complain  o'  feeling  stuffy  if  you  iru 
to  sleep  here  a  bit  We  ain't  in  want  of 
lur,  scarce,  with  a  door  as  hardly  shuts  and 
a  windy  as  half  closes.  Kor  yet  we  ain't 
much  short  o'  water  neither,  leastwafs 
when  it  rains  we  ain't,  with  a  roof  w  'a 
half  rotten  and  about  as  full  o'  boles  u 
an  old  collander.  An'  were  a  jolly  good 
frost  to  come,  we  wouldn't  be  over  warm 
neither.  Ah,  you  may  well  say  it'a  a 
blessing  that  we're  having  a  mUd  winter 
If  it  h^  hem  a  hard  one,  God  knows  what 
would  ha'  become  of  tu.  It's  a  predoDS 
bad  time  that  we're  a  having  as  it  is,  but 
if  we've  a  month's  frost  you'd  better  put 
me  in  my  coffin.  I  ain't  a  lazybones,  I 
fun't,  nor  yet  a  Ue-a-bed,  I  ain't  neither, 
now  am  I,  Mr.  Austin  t  You've  knowed 
me  for  some  years  now,  and  you  ain't 
catched  me  a  skylarkin',  no,  noi  yet  a 
lusbin'  neither,  not  but  what  I  Ukes  a  drw 
o'  beer  when  I've  been  workin'  'aid  and 
I've  a  few  spare  coppers  'andy.  But  it'a 
precious  few  they  are  just  now,  and  tid; 
hard  to  get,  and  a  pint  o'  beer's  as  sca'ce 
here  as  a  pinch  o'  baccy." 

I  asked  him  how  he  earned  hie  liveli- 
hood when  he  could  not  get  the  stuff  for 
fish-baskets ;  whether,  for  instance,  he  bad 
ever  been  working  at  the  docks,  snd 
whether  there  w^  much  of  a  scramble  for 
admittance,  for  I  had  heard  of  a  man  being 
sadly  hurt  white  in  the  crowd  there. 
"Shouldn't  wonder,  sir,"  he  answered 
"  You  see  it's  this  way,  just  at  present 
There's  a  hunderd  of  'em  waiting,  and 
there's  forty  or  so  wanted.  An'  the  weA 
'una  gets  the  wall,  and  the  strong  'uns  geU 


GEOKGIE:  AIS  ABTISTS  LOVE.  [u«ohe,u».i    379 


tbfl  vork.  Seen  '«m  t  Yes ;  I've  seen  'em 
ind  I've  been  among  'em  too,  looree  an' 
Korea  o'  times,  I  have.  If  a  a  reg'lar  knock 
Bie  down  for  labour  is  the  docks.  And 
what  wit^  all  the  waitin',  I  declare,  sir,  it 
don't  pay.  Ifs  heart-bieakin',  it  is,  to 
■Ian'  there  'moet  all  day,  an'  never  get  a 
job,  and  then  come  hcnne  without  a  copper, 
md  find  the  children  all  a  cryin'  and  a 
wbbin'  for  their  eapper,  and  most  like  they 
an'  their  mother  too  ain't  'ad  not  a  mouth- 
fol  nor  a  mossel,  not  since  yeat'day.  Work  t 
Look  here,  air,  I  ain't  alraid  o'  work,  nor  I 
ain't  no  waye  proud  neither.  In  the  way 
of  a  day's  work,  I'd  put  my  hand  a'moat  to 
injthin' ;  M>.  Austin  '11  tell  yoa  Uiat,  sir. 
Yes,  an'  there's  thousands  such  as  me,  too, 
down  here  in  the  East,  there  ia.  An'  what 
I  says,  ae  it's  hud  lines  on  a  man  as  have 
a  family  to  keep,  an'  ia  willin'  enough  to 
work  for  'em,  and  then  to  go  from  week's 
end  mito  week's  end,  an'  not  get  nona"    . 

Here  my  guide  mitdly  interposed  a  hint 
thatStato-nelped  Emigration  perhapa  muht 
prove  a  remedy,  by  ndding  the  East  End 
of  its  Borplosi^  of  labour.  "  But  look 
here,  Mr.  Austin,  it's  like  tltis  way,"  said 
the  basket-maker.  "  The  more  there  goes 
away,  the  more  there  oomes  to  fill  the  gapa 
See  here  now,  sir.  Last  month  about  fire 
hondred  was  shipped  off  to  HorsetraiUer. 
WeU,  thinks  I,  a  good  riddaooe.  There'll 
be  fewer  mouths  to  fill,  and  fewer  hands  to 
work  here  now.  But  last  veek  there  come 
about  a  thousand  from  abroad,  an'  they  all 
landed  at  the  docks,  an'  here'  th^  seem  to 
stick,  and  it's  moetly  Polish  tfews  they 
are." 

The  few  last  words  he  added  with  some- 
thing of  a  snort,  as  though  the  creed  and 
foreign  conntry  had  made  the  grievance 
worse,  and  the  iHresence  of  these  im- 
migrants in  Stepney  still  more  odious. 
P^iaps  his  temper  might  hare  led  him  to 
ipeak  harshly  of  the  strangers,  Those 
arriral  he  lunented,  had  not  my  guide 
enquired  if  he  were  comingto  the  Hall 
next  Sunday  morning.  "Well,"  replied 
the  basket-n^er,  with  as  straightforward  a 
look  ai  his  one  eye  wonld  allow  him,  "I'd 
be  willin'  enough  to  come  an'  hear  a  bit  o' 
gospel.  It  allya  seem  to  do  me  good,  and 
make  me  feel  the  better,  though  perhaps  I 
mayn't  quite  rightly  onderstand  it  Thongh 
yoa  seem  to  put  it  plain,  too;  I'm  not 
denyin'  that,  air.  But  you  see,  sir,  I  ain't 
proud,  still  I  ain't  one  to  be  sneered  at. 
Now,  joat  aee  this  old  coat  o'  mine.  It's 
the  on'y  one  I  got,  and  there  ain't  much  of 
a  ffo-to-meetin   sort  of  cat  about  it     I 


don't  think  u  you'd  fancy  being  seen  in  it 
o'  Sundays,  an'  'specially  by  daylight" 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he 
said  this,  which  seemed  the  outward  dgn 
of  much  inward  hilarity.  "  But,  air,"  cod- 
tana^  he,  "my  miasuii,  she'll  be  there. 
She  allys  somehow  manages  to  rig  herself 
up  tidy,  though  she  ain't  one  to  spend  a 
fwden  upon  finery.  But  ahe's  allys  neat, 
she  is,  leastways  on  a  Sunday.  An'  she'll 
oome  in  the  morning,  sir,  'oaose  one  of  ua 
must  stay  at  home  to  mind  the  Utile  'uns. 
And — well,  yea — perhapa  you'll  see  me  in 
the  evening,  'cause  after  dark,  yoa  know, 
an  old  coat  ain't  much  noticed." 

Ah,  my  friend,  thought  I,  as  I  ahook 
him  by  the  hand,  ou  bidding  him  farewell, 
many  a  well-off  man  makea  many  a  worse 
excuse  for  not  going  to  morning  service, 
than  the  want  whii^  you  allege  of  a  decent 
coat  to  go  in. 

Leaving,  then,  the  basket-maker  to  look 
after  his  children,  while  seeing  also  to  his 
work,  as  well  as  his  one  eye  could  perform 
the  double  labour,  we  emerged  from  the 
G^ens  which  had  been  so  wrongly  named, 
and  continued  to  explore  the  wildemeaa  of 
brickwork  wherewith  we  were  encompassed. 
But  we  had  hardly  proceeded  fifty  paces 
on  onr  way,  when  suddenly  my  gnide 
exolaimed 

Alas  I  my  sheet  is  fall,  and  I  caa  only 
beg  the  reoider,  who  would  hear  this  sadden 
outcry,  to  wait  for  my  next  paper. 


GEORGIE:  AN  AETISTS  LOVE 
A  sToay  IN  SIX  chapters,    chapter  IIL 

Mrs.  Thoi£P30N  was  very  happy  during 
the  first  days  of  their  new  aoqoaintanceahip. 
Hers  was  that  happiness  peculiar  to 
mothers  when  they  think  they  have  met  a 
man  able  and  willing  to  provide  for  the 
material  requirements  of  ^eir  daughters. 
The  Bon-in-law  later  becomes  ratner  a 
despicable  object  than  otherwise ;  but  that 
is  afterwards,  when  he  is  perhapa  working 
hard  to  make  both  ends  meet ;  the  reqoire- 
ments  of  the  wife  generally  inoreaaing  in 
exact  proportion  as  any  cb&rma  she  may 
have  once  possessed  diminish. 

Never  daring  her  twenty-two  years  of 
life  had  Myra  snubbed  a  man  so  littla 
At  times  she  was  almost  gracious,  and  a 
graciousnesB  so  rare  waa  indeed  flattering, 
u  Mr.  Bentoul  would  only  arrive  at  appre- 
dating  it  Poor  Mis.  Thompson  felt  she 
wonld  like  very  much  to  point  it  oat  to  him 

But  the  arUst  was  not  altoge^ier 
satisfactorv.     Mrs.  Wrieht  had  snoken  of 


[March  S,  au.1 


AT.T.  THE  TEAS  ROUIID. 


him  u  being  dream^-litce  j  and  chuminK 
as  the  anxious-  mother  found  him,  and 
couTt«ons  Bud  intelleotual,  there  iras 
certainl;  something  provokingly  vagne  and 
unresponsible  about  him. 

Myra  ssid  that  he  had  the  mind  of  a 
poet;  her  mother  did  not  dissent,  and 
found  herself  going  over  the  names  of 
poets  vho  had  been  practieal  enough  to 
take  unto  themeelves  wires. 

But  as  the  days  sped  by,  and  each  day 
brought  with  it  an  additional  hour  or 
ao  of  the  artist's  aociety,  a  dreadful  fear 
began  to  lie  coldly  on  Mrs.  Thompson — a 
fear  which  was  accompanied  by  something 
very  like  a  feeling  of  remorse ;  for  was  it 
not  her  doing  that  Georgie  was  with 
them )  Georgie,  with  her  untidy,  fluffy  hair, 
and  blue  eyes,  and  silly,  bewitobing  ways  ! 

Alas  I  Mrs.  Thompson  was  old  enough  to 
know  how  few  men  there  are  who  oan 
resist  utter  silliness  in  a  pretty  woman. 

The  three  young  people  were  constantly 
together,  for  Geoi^e  had  lately  developed 
much  taste  for  out-of-door  sketching.  No 
more  devouring  of  three-volume  novels  on 
the  old  staircase.  Why  interest  hers^f 
in  imaginary  love-Bcenee  and  admiration  T 
It  was  more  amusing  to  be  a  heroine  one- 
self than  to  read  about  one.  It  was  not  at 
the  sound  of  Lucinda's  or  of  Violet's  voice 
that  a  grave,  somewhat  absent  man  was 
instantly  attentive ;  it  waa  not  on  their 
lightest,  most  trivial  words  that  a  presum- 
ably clever  man  hung,  as  if  each  syllable 
were  disclosing  some  most  precious  truth. 

It  was  not  Lucinda,  nor  yet  Yiolet,  who 
could  bring  a  snddon  tender  light  to  a  pair 
of  brown  eyes  with  a  smile,  or  a  "  Thank 
you,"  or  a  "  Please  do." 

Mrs.  Thompson  had  indeed  cause  for 
anxiety,  but  she  eonld  do  notbtng — could 
only  sit  passivo  and  look  on  at  things 
ebaping  themselves  joet  as  pOTversely  and 
crookedly  as  they  well  could. 

It  was  not  only  that  a  possible  son-in- 
law  was  beoomicg  every  day  less  possible. 
That  would  have  been  a  misfortane 
certainly,  but,  after  all,  one  to  have  been 
borne ;  she  had  had,  indeed,  already  some 
experience  in  bearing  it. 

Poor  gentle  woman !  she  had  long  tried 
to  accept  the  fact  that  Myra  waa  above 
mere  commonplace  matrimony,  with  its 
prosaic  adjuncts  of  weekly  bills,  washer- 
women, and  other  domestic  evils.  Still, 
ever  and  anon,  the  motherly  instinct  wonid 
become  strong  within  her,  and  she  would 
feel  as  if  nothing  less  than  a  son-in-law 
could  give  her  teue  happinesa. 


And  lo !  most  unexpectedly,  in  an  ontol- 
the-way  comer  of  the  world,  was  a  being 
as  if  created  for  no  other  pnrpose.  An  srtut 
with  charmingly  radicu  iaea«,  well-tead, 
earnest,  and  not  cooeeited.  A  man  who 
listened  with  reepectfnl  attention  toMyia'i 
most  advanced  opinions,  who  argued  ndth 
her  on  abatrose  subjects  far  beyond  the 
ken  of  ordinary  women,  who  appredated 
her  sketches,  and  generally  ptud  hom^to 
her  genius. 

To  lose  all  hope  of  closer  relationibip 
witli  such  a  man  was  distinctly  an  evil,  but 
there  was  worse  than  this. 

With  a  mother's  keen  eyes,  Mrs.  Thomp- 
son had  noted  a  change  in  Myra,  an  un- 
wonted softness  which  almost  approached 
humility.  She  did  not  insist  upon  ^nng 
the  artist  her  opinion  on  every  posdhla 
occasion.  She  aaked  for  his  very  oheo 
instead.  Wbeo  engaged  in  oonversatioa 
with  him,  she^sd  not  the  air  of  beii^  at 
the  top  of  a  very  high  mountain,  talking 
to  someone  scramblineaboDt  at  the  bottom. 

What  could  be  inferred  from  signs  bo 
pregnant  with  meaning  as  were  these,  but 
that  Myra  was  in  love  t 

Poor  Mrs.  Thompson  I  poor  Hyra ! 
poorer  blind  Mr.  Bentonll  hateful  Gec^! 
Snoh  had  become  the  sentiments  of  ttiie 
disappointed  mother. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening ;  Myra  and 
her  mo^er  were  sdll  sitting  over  the  Gr& 
Geoi^e  had  gone  up  to  bed.  A  tray  on 
which  weresome  empty  tumblers  was  stand- 
ing on  the  tabla  Mr.  Rentoul  bad  been 
spending  the  evening  with  them  as  nimL 
He  had  not  long  gone ;  he  had  said  "  Qood- 
night"  about  five  minutes  after  Georgie, 
declaring  she  was  tired,  had  left  them. 

Mrs.  Thompson  had  watched  him  open 
the  door  for  her,  bat  had  not  caught  the 
low  words  he  had  spoken,  as  he  beat  over 
her  for  a  moment  They  might  only  have 
been  "Good-night,"  but  Mrs.  ThompKHi 
had  fancied  tbey  were  mora  interesting 
Georgie  had  smiled  and  blushed,  and  even 
Georgia  was  scarcely  silly  enough  to  change 
colour  for  a  simple  "  Good-night." 

The  mother  and  daughter  were  alent, 
but  they  were  both  thinking  of  the  sane 
person.  Mrs.  Thompson,  being  the  weaker, 
gave  first  utterance  to  ber  thought 

"  Mr.  Bentoul  did  not  stay  so  late  sa 
usual  this  evening,"  she  said,  feeling  ber 
way  a  little. 

"  Did  he  not  1 "  said  Myra.  "  I  suppose 
be  is  as  tired  as  we  are.  Besides,  really, 
Georgie  gave  r^her  a  strong  bint,  makti% 
ancb  a  fuss  about  going  to  bed." 


GEOBGIE:  AN  ARTISrS  LOVE. 


3*Jl 


"Yes,"  aaeented  Mn.  Thompeon;  and 
Uien,  with  some  saddeDnew,  the  result  of 
her  nerroosness:  "Do  yon  know,  Mjra, 
[&lmoBt  regret  having  met  Mr.  RentouL 
I  find  m^fielf  awkwardly  placed ;  there  ia 
something  so  vague  about  Him  I  don't 
qtdta  like  to  ask  faim  his  iotentionsi  he 
may  not  have  any.  Yet  I  can't  help  feeling 
I  am  ia  some  way  responsible." 

Myra  flashed  a  dMp  hard  red,  and  looked 
straight  at  her  mother. 

"  His  intentions  I  Mother,  how  can 
jon  t  What  do  you  mean  t  Do  you  want 
to  drive  me  away  t  Cannot  a  man  and 
woman  be  decency  civil  to  one  another 
without  laying  themselves  open  to  snch 
d^rading  remarks  1  Mother,  promise  that 
you  Tvill  say  nothing  of  the  sort  to  him." 

Her  voice  was  softer  as  she  finished, 
dwjlling  a  littie  on  the  personal  pronoun. 
She  was  leaning  forward  in  her  excitement, 
and  the  firelight  ahoDo  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Bat,  my  dear,  remember  I  am  respon- 
^le  to  Mrs.  Rtckards,  or  Mrs.  Sparkes,  as 
she  is  now,  and  Georgie  is  sacb  a  child." 

"  Geoi^e ! "  repeated  Myra ;  and  then, 
becoming  conscious  of  what  her  amazement 
implied,  she  grew  a  deeper  red. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  but  Myra 
was  soon  herself  again.  Her  only  fear  had 
been  self-betrayal.  Georgie's  name  bad 
been  no  revelation  to  her.  She  looked 
upon  her  as  a  pretty  bnt  vety  silly  child, 
BO  utterly  beneath  the  serious  attention  of 
a  man  aucb  as  Mr.  Rentonl  that  she  felt 
she  could  afford  to  smile  at  the  very 
absurdity  of  her  mother's  idek 

"  MoUier,  please  say  nothing  of  this  to 
Ur.  Kentonl  or  to  Georgie.  I  know  she  ia 
fond  of  admiratioD,  and  inclined  to  flirt, 
hot  I  am  quite  sure  there  is  no  cause  for 
interference.  Mr.  Rentoul  looks  upon  her 
u  a  complete  child.  Have  yon  not  re- 
marked how  he  treats  her—hon'  familiar 
he  is  1  Sometimes  I  really  think  he 
believes  her  to  be  younger  than  she  is." 

Myra  waa  so  convinced  that  her  view  of 
the  matter  was  the  right  one,  that  Mrs. 
Thompson  almost  let  herself  be  persuaded 
into  a  like  belief.  It  is  so  easy  to  make 
ourselves  believe  that  which  is  pleasant  to 
us.     She   fell   asleep   that   night    full    of 

reable  thoughts  and  delightful  vague 
s  for  the  future.  As  a  natural  conse- 
quence, she  dreamt  that  Myra  waa  married. 
Bnt  Myra's  thoughts  were  not  of  so 
agreeable  a  nature.  She  had  been  disturbed, 
more  than  she  could  account  for  herself,  by 
what  her  motbw  bad  said.  She  had  also 
no  great  confidence  in  her  mother's  discre- 


tion. She  felt  she  could  not  rest  until  she 
had  seen  Georgie,  and  at  once  put  her  foot 
on  any  possible  misconception.  It  would 
be  a  thousand  pities  to  let  Georgia  get  any 
false  notions  into  her  head.  So,  ^Tter 
hearing  her  mother  turn  the  key  in  ber  door, 
she  softly  entered  Miss  Eickatds's  room. 

Georgie  was  in  bed,  but  awake,  and  she 
sat  np,  blinking  a  little,  as  Myra  advanced 
upon  her,  candle  in  hand. 

"  What  is  the  matter ) "  she  aaked,  aod 
stared  in  some  amazement,  for  the  girls 
were  not  on  those  terms  of  intin)acy  which 
encourage  bedroom  confidences. 

"You  are  very  young,"  Myra  began,  a 
little  hurriedly.  "  I  have  more  eiperience 
than  you  have.  You  must  not  be  angry  at 
wh&b  I  am  going  to  eay," 

Miss  Thompson  disposed  of  ber  candle 
and  leaned  against  ttie  foot  of  the  bed. 
Georgie  as  yet  felt  nothing  but  surprise. 

"You  are  such  a  child,'  Myra  coniioued, 
her  eyea  resting  on  the  little  figure  in  its 
white  nightdress  and  loosely  falling  hair. 
"  You  bare  been  so  short  a  time  in  England, 
you  scarcely  know  our  ways,  perhaps. 
Georgie,  I  think  you  allow  Mr.  Rentoul  to 
be  too  familiar  with  yoa  You  are  eighteen, 
remember.  I  know  he  treats  you  quite  as 
a  child,  but  you  are  not  one  in  years.  I 
am  speaking  for  your  good,"  she  eaid  more 
gently,  as  Georgie  put  up  two  small  hands 
to  bide  her  burning  cheeks.  "  You  might 
be  sorry  afterwards  when  it  would  be  too 
late.  Do  not  forget  that  even  the  best 
sort  of  man  will  take  liberties  with  a  girl 
entirely  wanting  in  self-respect" 

"  Myra,  don't ! "  gasped  Miss  Rickards. 
"What  have  I  done)  Why  are  you  so 
cross  to  me  t " 

"  I  am  not  cross,"  returned  Mentor 
impatiently ;  "  but  I  only  know  that  if  you 
continne  to  allow  Mr.  Rentoul,  or  any  other 
man,  almost  to  lift  you  over  stiles,  as  he 
did  yesterday,  you  will  end  by  being  liissed 
or  otherwise  insulted.  Good-night !  That 
is  all  I  have  to  say." 

Miss  Rickards  made  no  response^  her 
face  was  buried  in  the  pillows. 

Myra  left  her,  not  altogether  displeased 
with  the  result  of  her  good  counsels. 

The  weatiier  was  still  bright  and  frosty 
the  morning  following  Myra's  impromptu 
lecture;  but  the  young  lecturer  had  a. bad 
headache — perhaps  a  result  of  last  night's 
eloquence.  Be  that  as  it  might,  she  lay  in 
a  darkened  room ;  her  mother  and  eau-de- 
cologne  remained  within  calL  Georgie 
was  free  to  do  exactiy  as  she  liked. 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


Asketching  expedition  had  bsen  planned, 
bat  Mias  Thompson  h&d  sent  a  small  note 
in  her  legible,  cbaracteristic  handwriting, 
asking  Mr.  Bentoul  to  defer  it 

The  artist  had  come  himself  to  express 
his  aoirow  at  Miss  Thompson's  indiqtOBi- 
tion.  He  had  only  seen  the  elder  lady, 
and  was  generaUy  sapposed  to  have  set 
out  with  the  intention  of  sketching  on  his 
own  account. 

Georgie  stayed  in  the  whole  morning. 
It  should  not  be  said  she  was  desirous  of 
meeting  Mr.  Bentonl ;  indeed  she  was  not, 
01  so,  at  any  rate,  she  was  pleased  to  tell 
hersell  Myra  had  impressed  her;  besides, 
she  had  an  idea  that  the  artist  might  have 
said  something  derogatory  of  her,  and, 
after  all,  she  was  not  entirely  wanting  in 
self-respect 

Bat  after  Inndieon  the  indnoement  of  a 
bright  snn,  and  the  clear  crispness  of  a 
frost  in  the  country,  were  elxonger  than  tliat 
valiant  resolution  of  keeping  within  doon. 

She  took  the  road  towai^  Charmoath. 
The  last  time  she  had  come  along  it  she 
had  been  with  Mr.  Beatonl  and  Myra ; 
they  had  brought  skates,  and  had  dis- 
ported themselves  the  best  part  of  a  day 
on  some  wretchedly  bad  ice  that  is  some- 
times to  be  found  jiut  on  the  Charmouth 
coast.  It  is  a  small  creek,  formed  by  the 
sea,  which  is  occasionally  kind  enough  to 
freeze  into  uneven  and,  some  people  say, 
unsafe  ice.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  very 
shallow,  and  there  is  no  danger  beyond 
that  of  a  wetting. 

On  the  day  Oeorgie  waa  thinking  about 
there  had  been  no  mishap ;  it  had  all  been 
very  delightfol.  Myra  had  steuck  out 
with  her  usual  energy  by  herself,  leaving 
to  Georgie  the  monopoly  of  helplessness, 
that  womanly  adjunct  which  ia  so  charm- 
ing to  superior  man.  And  Geo^e  iiad 
been  very  helpless  indeed.  She  h^  dang 
to  the  artist's  strong  arm  as  to  dear  life ; 
she  had  uttered  sondry  little  cries,  like 
some  sweet,  frightened  bird ;  her  colour 
had  deepened,  her  blue  eyes  distended  at 
the  wonderful  danger  of  being  pulled 
swiftly  along,  she  doing  no  more  than 
standing  upright  on  her  skates  and  trusting 
herself  to  her  teacher.  Ah,  it  had  aU 
been  very  delightful  I  But  no  doubt  he 
bad  been  amusing  himself  with  her.  Cer- 
tain words  and  looks  that  still  dwelt  in 
her  memory  meant  nothing,  then  I  It  was 
a  point  of  view  as  unpleasant  as  it  was 
new.  She  had  thought,  if  any  distinct 
thought  on  the  subject  could  be  said  to 
have  entered  her  small   bead,   that  the 


amusement  had  all  been  on  her  own  aidoi 
any  eamestneaa  or  paauon  on  bis. 

She  passed  through  Charmoath  and 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  looking 
down  at  the  sea.  Golden  Cop  was  at  her  , 
left,  a  view  of  the  bay  and  old  Cobb  far  ! 
away  to  her  right ;  every  ontiine  stood  out 
boldly  in  the  clear  frosty  atmosphera  She  ' 
heard  a  step,  a  glad  exclamation  of  ssr- 
inise,  and  she  turned  and  shook  hands  with 
Mr.  Bentoul,  who,  with  his  litUe  artist's 
knapsack  on  his  back,  was  coming  from  die 
direction  of  Chiddcock.  He  was  so  glad  to 
meet  her  that  she  found  his  cordiality 
contagious,  and  fo^tting  all  her  recent 
resolutions,  was  soon  chattering  away,  and 
smiling  and  hltuhing  jost  as  usoaL 

They  stood  looking  at  the  view  for  some 
time,  and  then  Georgie  announced  that 
she  was  going  down  to  the  sea,  and  b^sn 
descending  uie  moat  predpitons  part  of 
the  clifC 

"  Take  care  ! "  he  cried  "  If  yos  will 
come  a  little  fartJier  this  way  there  are 
some  steps." 

But  she  went  on,  disregarding,  wilful, 
and  laughing.  She  thought  it  very  alee 
to  have  the  power  to  frighten  him. 

He  looked  on  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  he  too  b^an  the  descent,  but  he  ^d 
not  follow  in  Georgia's  footsteps,  and  soon 

fiassed  her.  She  saw  him  springing 
ightly  and  easily  from  rock  to  rock  far 
beneath  her. 

Her  progress  was  much  more  slow. 
However,  .she  at  length  found  herself  on 
a  sort  of  table  of  rock,  some  faet  from  the 
beach,  where  Mr.  Bentoul  was  standing 
looking  up  at  her.  There  was  a  provoking 
smile  on  his  face. 

Miss  Bickards  felt  she  conld  not,  if  she 
would  in  the  Bmallest  degree  preserve  her 
dignity,  descend  from  her  present  position. 

She  turned  and  began  to  retrace  her 
steps.  In  her  haste,  she  stumbled  and 
almost  fell. 

"  Miss  Rickuds — Georgie,  it  is  no  use 
going  back,"  he  called  out  from  below. 
"  Yon  will  only  come  to  dreadful  grief  of 
some  sort." 

This  t^e  Geoi^ie  was  not  wUfuL  It 
was  not  very  amusing  to  tumble  about 
slippery  rocks  by  herself.  She  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  shelf  of  rook,  and  prepared  to 
spring  into  the  pair  of  strong  arms  held 
out  to  receive  her 

"  One,  two,  three  1 "  he  cried.  At  thiss 
he  was  holding  her  in  bis  arms,  and  he  wu 
apparently  in  no  particular  hurry  to  looua 
his  hold.     Looking  dowu  &t  her,  a  swift 


GEORQIE:  AN  ABTISrS  LOVK  cuuoh8,iaM.j    383 


temptatioQ  usoiled  Mm,  and,  man-like,  h« 
gave  in  to  it  at  once.  He  bent  over  her 
ntddenly,  and  preased  hie  lips  to  the  moat 
accessible  part  of  her  cheek. 

The,  next  moment  she  was  frm,  and  was 
standing  in  front  of  him  with  burning  face. 

"  How  dare  yon ! "  she  cried,  Myra's 
words  coming  back  to  her  with  a  msh. 

"Yon  said  I  might  help  you,"  he 
answered. 

"  It  was  ra^er  a  savage  way,"  said  the 
girl,  the  bright  colour  still  deeper  than 
Qsnal  on  the  soft  sldn,  an  angry  glitter  in 
tite  dear  eyes. 

Bat  he  only  looked  at  her,  and  laoghed 
a  low,  tender  laugh  of  posaesaion. 

' '  My  darling,  you  did  not  mind.  Confess 
now  you  rath^  liked  it"  He  went  over 
to  her  as  she  stood  leaning  against  the  rock 
and  tried  to  take  her  hands.  She  tore  them 
away. 

"  No,  I  did  not  like  it ;  I  hated  it  I '  _ 
cried  passiDQately ;  "and  you  are  not  a 
gentleman." 

She  paosed  and  looked  at  hioiL  Her  words 
had  rang  oat  so  distinctly  in  the  frosty  air, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  about  tlie  moat  catting 
thin^  she  ooold  say.  What  effect  would 
they  have  t  She  had  read  qaeer  stories  of 
Biad  lore  taming  at  a  moment's  notice  into 
hatoed  even  more  mad.  They  were  in  about 
tiie  most  solitary  part  of  the  pretty  winding 
Devonahirs  coast,  and  there  was  the  sea 
close  at  hand.  Visions  of  anew  version  of 
Ddaroche's  Christiao  Martyr  came  into  her 
mind.  It  was  a  pity  she  had  so  much  fur 
aboat  her.  It  m^ht  give  hex  a  draggled, 
drowned-cat  sort  of  appearance.  She 
looked  at  him  full  of  these  tragic  t^onghts, 
"'  ~~"    '     '  itaring  in  utter  amasemeDt 


He  had  fallen  back  two  or  three  steps, 
and  was  gazing  at  her,  his  head  slightly  on 
(me  side,  through  hiJf-shut  aye*.  There 
was  not  the  slightest  expresaioa  of  resent- 
ment on  his  face. 

"Don't  mora.  There,  that  is  perfect  1" 
and  he  held  up  his  walking-atick  horizon- 
tally between  them,  shutting  one  eye 
entirely. 

Ealightenmmt  dawned  upon  her.  She 
wmt  oat  of  position  abruptly.  Was  it 
possible  he  had  not  beard  those  words,  to 
her  BO  awfully  distinct,  or  was  this  only 
overacted  indifference  t  How  was  ahe  to 
conrey  to  this  dense  and  witbal  charming 
man  her  indignation  and  contempt, 

"  Why  did  yon  move,  Geoi^e  1  Yon 
have  no  idea,  against  that  bacl^ouod  of 
dark  rnnlt.  what  a.  nrpt.bv  nlntorfi  voa  made. 


Still,  I  think  I  have  it  fixed  in  my  head, 
except  perhaps  the  position  of  the  right  arm, 
Wotud  you  mind  posing  again  just  for  a 
moment  1 " 

She  was  speechless.  Tears  and  lai^hter 
were  both  equally  and  dangerously  near ; 
either  would  have  meant  an  ignominions 
defeat  Oh,  for  Myra's  height,  her  dignity, 
her  power  of  keeping  people  at  a  distance  I 
Why  did  men — that  man  in  particular — 
treat  her  as  some  child,  to  be  spoiled,  and 
petted,  and  insulted  at  will  1 

She  turned  quickly  and  began  walking 
away.  She  had  reached  the  narrow, 
slippery  steps  in  the  cliff  before  he  over- 
took her. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Oeoigiel  Yon 
are  not  really  angry  1  What,  tears  t  What 
is  the  meaning  of  this  t "  he  asked  tenderly. 
Were  there  tears  t  She  had  not  known 
it  With  a  tan-coloored  glove  she  brushed 
them  hastily  away,  and  then  she  stopped 
and  faced  him. 

"  The  meaning,  sir,  is  that  you  have  in- 
salt«d  me,  and  uiat  I  wish  never  to  speak 
to  you  again.  What  do  you  take  me  for  t 
Is  it  because  I  am  bo  " —  she  paused, 
and  then  remembering  Myra's  impressive 
remarks  as  to  her  youth,  continued,  "  so 
young  that  you  tzeat  me  as  if  I  were  a 
shop-girl  1 " 

"I  insulted  youl  l!"  he  repeat«d,  be- 
wildered, but  in  another  inatant,  recollection 
ooming  to  htm,  he  smiled — ^yea,  actually 
even  then  dared  to  smile. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "  why  aie 
you  so  foolish  as  to  talk  about  things  you 
don't  understand  t  I  could  never  iosolt 
yon,  my  little  Georgie,  my  little  wife  who 
is  to  come  and  make  my  whole  life  glad. 
Georgie,  my  darling,  don't  you  see  that 
such  a  thing  is  impossible  t  Don't  you 
know  that  I  love  you  t"  As  he  had  spoken, 
his  voice  had  deepened,  and  there  was  that 
in  his  face  no  woman — not  the  veriest 
novice — could  mistake. 

Georgio  was  trembling,  and  her  heari; 
was  beating  fast  and  strong.  Ah,  why 
was  there  no  one  by  to  tell  her  that  life  is 
not  prodigal  of  its  treasures — no  one  to 
wani  her  not  to  trifie  with  the  happiness  of 
a  lifetime  1  She  was  but  a  child,  and 
words  were  still  to  her  little  more  than 
words.  She  was  scarcely  even  conscious 
that  she  loved  this  man,  who  was  looking 
at  her  so  gravely. 

Myra's  warning  was  fresh  in  her  memory: 
■■  The  best  sort  of  man  will  take  liberties 
with  a  girl  entirely  wanting  in  self- 
resDect."    Mvra  was  riitht — but  let  her. 


384 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[Uwch  S,  UH.I 


poor,  weak  little  Georgie,  show,  even  at  the  | 
eleventh  hour,  that  thoae  wards  of  cohumI  ' 
have  not  been  altogether  thrown  away. 
Let  her  prove  to  thie  man  that  she  was 
Dot  BO  ntterly  deficient  in  womanly  pride 
as  not  to  resent  being  played  with.  I 

She  looked  up  at  him.  If  it  was  play,  it 
had  surely  but  little  merrinient  about  it 
But  there  ie  the  thought  of  his  recent 
conduct  to  harden  her,  and  aha  said  words 
neither  of  ihem  could  ever  forget. 

It  was  over.  The  girl  was  crimson  with 
excitement,  and  perhaps  want  of  breath ;  it 
would  need  but  little  to  produce  tears,  and 
sobbing  reconciliation. 

The  man  was  very  white  and  stem- 
looking,  and  his  words  had  the  calmiDg 
effect  of  cold  water. 

"  It  ia  only  left  for  me  to  ask  your  pardon,  | 
Kliss  Rickards.  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  '■ 
caused  you  so  much  annoyances  It  has 
all  been  a  great  mistake,  but,"  here  he 
paused  for  a  moment,  "  I  must  ask  you  to 
believe  that  nainsultwasintended."  Then, 
wilh  a  slight  change  of  tone  :  "  Had  you 
not  better  be  thinking  of  getting  home  1  lb 
will  soon  be  dark." 

"But  you  are  coming  1"  faltered  the 
girl.  Her  heroic  mood  nad  melted  with 
moet  uoheroic  rapidity,  and  she  was  lougiog 
to  make  up. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  answered,  not 
looking  at  her. 

Tbey  then  proceeded  to  moont  the 
narrow,  almost  perpendicular  steps,  Indian- 
file,  and  in  silence. 

The  steps  were  slippery  with  frozen 
snow.  Gieorgie  stumbled  once  or  twice ; 
if  it  had  not  boMi  for  the  strong  man  close 
behind  her  she  would  have  fallen. 

When  at  lengUi  they  stood  on  terra- 
firma,  the  long  white  toad  winding  away 
into  cold  mist  before  them,  the  son  a 
distant  red  ball  sinking  into  the  west, 
Oeorgie,  thinking  of  the  long,  cold  walk 
home,  and  of  how  its  discomfort  would  be 
aggravated  if  her  companion  remained  so 
cross,  held  out  a  small  hand,  and  murmured 
something  weak  about  being  friends. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  thickening  mist  that 
prevented  him  from  seeing,  or  was  be 
looking  (mother  wayt  At  any  rate  the 
hand  retreated  into  the  muff  without  having 


touched  his,  and  thorongbJy  chilled  for  its. 
foolishnesa 

They  walked  some  hundred  yuds  well 
apart,  when  he  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Do  yoanot  hear  the  sound  of  wheels ! " 
he  asked,  and  without  waiting  for  an 
answer  he  pulled  oat  his  watch,  and 
informed  her  that  it  was  just  the  time  die 
Chiddcook  coach  waa  dua  "¥ou  had 
better  get  in,  if  there  is  room,"  he  continned. 
"  You  can't  walk  fast  enough  to  keep  yonr- 
eelF  properly  warm." 

"  And  you  1 "  very  softly. 

"Oh,  I  shall  walk,  make  a  short  cat 
across  the  fields  probably.  If  you  get  out 
at  the  top  of  the  High  Street  you  will  only 
have  that  short  piece  of  hill  to  walk  alone 
up  to  Holy  Mount.     Yon  do  not  mindt " 

No,  she  did  not  mind.  Hia  desire  to  be 
rid  of  her  was  too  evident,  too  humiliating 
for  her  to  express  any  sort  of  wish  as  to 
the  manner  of  her  homeward  journey. 

And  BO  the  coach  was  stopped,  and 
Georgie  was  houdtd,  or  rather  pushed  in, 
with  the  united  efi'orta  of  Mr.  Rentoul  and 
the  benumbed  conductor,  aoroes  the  knees 
of  half-a-dozen  sturdy  countrywomen, 
whose  mingled  breath  gave  an  unpleaunt 
damp  feel  to  the  atmosphere.  After 
several  false  starts,  and  the  noiaa  of  horses' 
sliding  feet,  the  coach  waa  off. 

Geoi^ie,  after  making  an  inefiiectaal 
attempt  to  brush  a  seeing  place  in  the 
thickened  panes  with  her  muff,  shrank 
away  into  her  comer  behind  her  furs.  Oh, 
to  be  walking  home,  with  even  the  width 
of  the  road  between  them,  and  the  possi- 
bility of  forgiveness !. 

Later  in  the  evening  Mrs.  Tbompscm, 
with  uplifted  finger  and  hoahed  brattli, 
mat  her,  a  tired,  naif-frozen,  dejected  littie 
mortal,  on  the  stoircaseL 

"  Don't  make  a  noiee,  dear ;  Myra  hai 
just  gone  to  bed,  her  head  is  st^  vay  bad. 
What  makes  you  so  late  t " 

"  I  don't  know,"  murmured  Georgie,  on 
the  point  of  crying,  portly  from  fat^ns 
and  cold,  partly  from  other  causea  "I 
am  very  tired  J  Ithink  I  shall  go  to  bed  toa" 

And  for  all  anstrer  to  Mrs.  Thompsoo'E 
look  of  surprise,  she  esc^ied  upstoin  to 
her  room. 


The  Sisht  of  Trarslalinij  Artidcs from  All THE'Vfar  Eoi-ND  is  rrstTvat btfinc  Avthan. 


Sa79&NEwSKRimB       SATURDAY,  MABOH  15,  1884 


Price  Twopence.  I 


A   DRAWN   GAME. 

BT  BASIL. 

AVTHOS  or  -LOVB  TUB  DBBT,*  ETC. 

COAPTEB  ZXin,  "i.  MIDSUMMER  KIClHl'S 
DREAM." 
Five  minatea  later  Archie  drew  ap  at 
Woolatenholme,  and  found  the  medical  men 
and  i^pliajtces  awaiting  their  arriral. 
While  the  patienta  irere  SaLog  carried  from 
the  carriages,  he  helped  Ida  off  the  eneine 
tod  into  the  waiting-room,  and  then 
brought  her  there  some  wine  which  had 
berai  provided  for  the  nee  of  the  injoied. 

Meantime,  the  guard  informed  the 
station-matter  and  the  traffic-manager — 
who,  happening  to  be  in  Woolstenholme, 
hurried  to  the  etation  on  hearing  of  the 
collision — that  the  train  had  been  driven 
b;  «  gentleman,  who  aeemed  to  be  the 
^  luad  engineer  of  some  railway  company, 
and  whoee  "lady,"  aa  the  guard  reveren- 
tially called  the  stately  stoker,  had  under- 
takeu  to  fire  for  him.  The  traffic-manager  at 
ODce  Bought  out  Archie,  to  thank  him,  and 
to  get  his  name  and  address  for  the  thanks 
<A  the  directors  to  be  sent  to  him.  He  had 
heard  such  an  aocount  of  Ida  from  the 
guard  that  he  begged  Archie's  permiasioa 
to  thank  "  his  lady  "  in  person.  Arohia  ex- 
plained that  the  lady  was  not  his  wife,  and 
,  b^ged  that  her  came  might  not  be  brought 
into  the  affitir  at  alL  It  would  be  bat  a 
poor  acknowledgment  of  her  services  to 
have  her  name  published  in  every  news- 
paper in  England.  Aa  this  did  not  decrease 
the  teaffic-nunager's  anxiety  to  see  a  lady 
who  was  ao  much  above  "  the  laat  infirmity 
of  noble  minds,"  Archie  was  f<Nrced  to 
mitify  him  by  an  introduction  to  Ida, 
Besides,  he  bad  an  interest  in  conciliating 
a  num  apon  whom  it  depended  whether 
Ida  could  be  got  to  Leeds  that  night. 
Bat  why  should  she  go  to  Leeds  1    It  is  | 


more  than  time  for  m  to  explain  Archie's 
cool  abdottion  of  Ida.  Immediately  after 
the  collision,  most  of  the  uninjured  pas- 
sengers of  both  trains  made  their  way  along 
the  raUway  to  Denton,  to  be  taken  thence 
after  some  hours'  delay.  By  one  of  these 
passengers  Archie  sent  Mrs.  Tack  a  hasty 
note  to  say  that  Ida  was  aafe,  and  that,  as 
Denton  was  within  seven  miles  by  road 
from  Leeds,  he  would  take  her  in  a 
conveyance  to  Mrs.  Pybus  for  the  night. 
This,  in  truUi,  was  the  best  thing  to  be 
done  under  the  circnmstances,  as  Mm.  Tuck 
.herself  did  hot  reach  home  till  two  o'clock 
in  the  mommg,  and  as  Ida,  who  could  only 
have  got  on  by  a  later  train,  would  not 
hare  reached  'The  Keep  till  five  or  six.  In 
nnalring  this  arrangement,  however,  Archie 
never  reckoned  on  himself  and  Ida's  return- 
ing to  Woolstenholme,  which — since  the 
direct  line  was  blocked — was  over  fifty 
miles  trom  Leeds  by  rail  Therefore,  he 
was  interested  in  conciliating  the  traffic- 
manager.  He  hoped  by  this  introduction 
to  Ida  to  win  from  hia  gallantry  what  he 
might  not  have  won  from  his  graUtude — a 
apecial  train.  The  result  was  unfortunate. 
The  traffic-manager  would  not  have  made 
the  least  difficulty  in  nanting  them  a  special 
witiiout  the  sight  of  Ida,  and  the  only 
effect  of  his  introduction  to  her  was  ao 
immense  a  foss  made  aboot  her  at  the 
station,  that  all  on  the  platform— doctors, 
reporters,  "  own  correspondents " — were 
agape  to  gaze  upon  this  personage.  It  was  j 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  therefore,  that  in 
the  next  day's  papers  Ida  figured,  anony-l 
mously,  but  more  lately  than  the  other 
victims.  "  A  young  lady  of  extraordinary 
personal  attractions,"  "A  daughter  of  the 
gods,  dirliiely  tall  and  most  divinely  fair," 
"  A  Dea  super  machinam,"  "  Una  subduing 
the  lion  to  beneficent  service,"  etc,  etc., 
were   among  the  choice  descriptions  she, 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


bond  of  herself  in  the  papers  Archie 
brought  to  tease  her  with.  But  Ida  ira« 
Mriousl;  disquieted  hy  the  fear  that  Mrs. 
Pnck — possibly  Mr,  Tuck  also  —  wonld 
identify  ber  as  the  heroitte  of  this  ad- 
venture, through  Archie's  name  being  given 
in  full  Of  course  on  her  return  she  would 
have  confessed  her  share  in  the  business, 
but  it  would  not  seem  so  bad  in  Mrs.  Tack's 
eyes,  if  she  had  been  able  to  explain  to  that 
kind-hearted  woman  the  piteous  state  of 
things  which  drove  her  to  volunteer  for  a 
service  no  one  else  would  undertake. 

Tlkus  Archie's  introduction  of  the  traffie- 
mansger  to  Ida  was  not  the  happy  stroke 
he  thought  it.  It  got  him  a  special  a 
minute  or  two  sooner,  but  that  was  all.  A 
driver  and  stoker  were  soon  found  who, 
after  a  short  delay  to  co^  and  'water  the 
engine  Archie  had  driven,  took  them  on  by 
it  to  Edgbum. 

It  waa  a  hwpy  ionmey  on  the  whole, 
for  there  were  long  intervt^s  during  which 
Archie  succeeded  in  beguiling  Ida  into  for- 
getfulneee,  both  of  the  scenes  she  had  iust 
phased  tiuvugh  and  of  her  impen^j 
marriage.  Indeed,  he  himself  lorgot  botJ 
altoge^er,  and  thought  only  of  Ida  and 
old  days.  Her  presence  hsid  the  intoxi- 
cating effect  upon  him  of  the  touch  of  the 
wine-dipped  laoiel  of  the  Muse  in  the 
Lyrical  Monologue : 

I  dedgfl  her  silent  at  the  boftrd  ; 

Har  gradual  fingora  steal 
And  touch  upin  the  niBster  choid 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel— 


Oldw 

Ad<  . 
And  that  child's  heiirt  within  the 

BogiiiB  to  move  and  tremble. 
Thro'  many  an  bour  of  Hammer  suns 

B^  man;  pleasant  ways, ' 

The  ouiTBnt  ol  my  daye  [ 
I  Ida  the  lips  I  once  have  kiwed.  .  .  . 

Aboul  this  kiss  of  Ids  boyhood  his 
teffliniscences  fluttered,  like  a  moth  about 
a  candle,  longing  to  apptvach  it,  but  fearing 
extinction  in  the  act.  For  Ida  by  a  look  or 
a  word  might  hare  withered  him  if  he 
Heemed  by  this  path  to  be  making  his. 
insidious  way  from  past  to  present  lore- 
passages. 

Ida's  memory  also  lingered  about  this 
kiss,  and  the  boyish  passion  it  expressed — 
nothing  to  her  at  the  time,  everything 
now  when  it  was  "  orbed  into  the  perfect 
star  she  saw  not  when  she  moved  therein  " 
Of  course,  therefore,  she  kept  the  subject, 
whenever  it  was  approached,  at  a  discreet 
distance.  Thus  dnnne  their  journey  both 
thur  lines  of  thought,  like  asymptotes — to  |  But  now- 


use  a  simile  more  an«opriat«  to  the  "  Loves 
of  the  Triangles" — though  always  approach- 
ing yet  nerer  touched  tttcir  focus. 

The  special  not  only  took  them  to  Leedi, 
hot  took  them  to  Edgboni,  the  first  station 
on  the  line  from  Leeds  to  Sedgethoipe— 
took  them,  indeed,  almost  to  the  rsry  gate 
of  the  vicarage. 

Archie,  having  giren  tiie  driver  one  of 
his  usual  eztraragont  tips,  walked  linger- 
in^y  by  Ida's  side  up  the  garden  path. 

Day  was  just  breaking,  and  there  mi 
that  intense  stillness  as  of  expectancy 
which  precedes  a  summer  sonnse.  All 
Nature  seoned  to  hold  her  bresth  in 
suspense,  and  look  up,  at  first  darkly  at  in 
doubt,  then  more  bnghtiy  as  in  hope,  till 
at  last  her  god  appears  and  floods  hxx 
face  with  the  joy  of  certainty.  Now,  how- 
ever, it  was  rather  "the  raven's"  dun 
"the  dove's"  twilight^  to  use  the  poetic 
Jewish  distinction  between  the  dariter 
and  the  lighter  approaches  of  the  dawn. 
Still,  there  was  light  enough  tat  Ida  to 
distinguish  well-remembered  objects. 

"  This  was  your  garden,  Archie,"  panaiog 
at  it  for  a  moment 

"  You  remember  it  1 " 

"Of  course  I  remember  it,  and  year 
promise^" 

"And  your  promise,  Ida ) "  Now  reek- 
less  with  the  eertunty  that  he  wonld  iu?er 
again  have  such  a  chance. 

He  stepped  forward,  and  stood  opposite 
her  with  an  expression  of  life  and  death 
auspense  in  his  eagw  eyes. 

"And    your   promise,    Idat    Do  ;ou 


Her  eyes  fell  before  his,  and  he  could 
see  in  the  growing  light  her  face  flub 
and  pole  again,  idmost  as  quickly  as  ber 
heart  beat 

She  stood  silent,  for  what  coold  ihs 
say  t  _  There  waa  no  mtsondentanding  or 
affecting  to  miaundeistand  the  meaning  of 
the  allusion  as  inteipreted  by  the  intend^ 
of  his  tone. 

"When  you  gave  me  this,"  added 
Archie,  as  she  did  not  answer,  touchi  „ 
he  spoke  the  locket  in  whidi  her  hair.wts, 
"you  said,"  he  continued  in  great  agita- 
tion, yet  encouraged  by  her  silence  and 
consciousness;  "you  said  then  you  would 
be  alll  wanted  you  to  be  to  me,  if  1 1  '"' 
you  again  when  I  was  a  man." 

"  You  didn't  ask  me,"  she  faltered  it 
last,  in  a  low  vnoe. 

I  didn't— I  dared  not.  Yoa  seuasd 
so  far  off  and  high  above  me  till  ttHoigbt- 


A  DRAWN  QAME. 


(Ibroh  IS,  UU.I      387 


"  Mow  t    It  is  too  kte  now. " 

"  Now  it  is  not  too  late,"  seizing  both 
her  hinds  with  the  grup  of  the  drowning. 
"Ida,  belore  it  is  too  Ute,  hear  me.  I  We 
jm ;  I  ioTO  yon  with  my  whole  sont  I 
hm  always  loved  yon— ^wayi.  It  is  I 
who  have  the  first  claim — I,  not  he;  He 
mui  too  late,  if — if  you  ever  cared  for  mo 
at  all,"  in  a  lowered  tone  that  trembled 
with  anxiety.     "  Yod  did,  Ida ;  yon  da" 

"It  is  too  late  now,"  ahe  said  again, 
with  a  piteona  ring  of  nmorse  in  her  voice. 

"Too late !  You  do  not  know  now  what 
the  words  mean,  Ida.  But  two  months 
bence,  or  three  months  hence,  when  yon 
are  married,  bonnd  for  life  to  a  man  for 
whom  you  do  not  eare " 

"Archie,   I  most  not  listen;    it   isn't 

*'Ii  it  ri^t  to  do  it  1  Is  it  right  to 
marry  withoat  love  I  la  it  right  to  him, 
arm  1  Yon  wUl  be  wretched ;  bat,  if  that 
is  notbii^  to  yon,  will  he  be  luppy  1  Will 
he  not  be  tlie  more  nnhappy  the  more  he 
lorea  yoa,  if  be  does  love  yoa  t  Bight  I 
Ida,  if  yon  think  only  of  what  is  right  yon 
cannot  do  this.  It  is  not  right  in  itself,  or 
r^jfat  to  yon,  or  right  to  him.  It  is  all 
wro^  and  all  wreQiedneta.  Even  if  you 
cai«d  for  no  one  else — but  you  do,"  losing 
himself  oatmaUy  in  this  intiudcating 
d^ression.    "  Oh,  Ida,  yon  do— yon  do  care 

Her  answer  rose,  sOent  as  the  roseate 
simrise,  to  her  cheeks,  and  Archie,  with 
an  andatuty  which  surprised  himself  after- 
wards, took  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed 
hifl  lips  to  hers  in  a  clinging  and  passionate 
kiaa.  Having  submitted  to  this  in  eUence, 
iriiat  now  could  ^e  say  t  In  tmth,  Archie 
had  cat  the  Gordian  t^ot  of  tiie  diffionlty 
1^  this  swashing  blow.  Hia  kiss  made  IdA 
realise  bettor  than  all  the  words  in  the 
worid  that  the  gnilt  of  breaking  off  her 
engagement  with  Dick,  deep  as  she  felt  it, 
waa  aa  nothing  to  the  guilt  of  giving  her 
hand  to  one  man  while  her  whole  heart 
was  another's.  In  fact,  Archie  by  this 
kiss  had  ronsed  thetrutor  within  her  heart 
to  betray  the  citadel,  if  we  may  be  pardoned 
thu  Btartlingly  origuial  image. 

Having  foived  hia  answer  from  her 
in  this  aodacions  fashion,  unrebuked, 
took  eore  to  eat  off  her  retreat  to  her  old 
position  by  giving  hw  no  chance  to  speak 
at  oil  Cor  some  minates.  He  poured  ont 
hii  maaioa  into  her  ear,  and  close  to  her 
ear,  in  a  tempestaons  torrent  of  whtriing 
words  whioh  she  could  not  have  stemmed 
if  she  tried :   but  she  did  not  trr.     She 


gave  heraelf  up  to  the  sweet  intozicatioD 
of  the  moment,  and  forgot  Mrs.  Tack, 
Dick,  to-moTTow — everything  but  Archie. 

Mr&  John  alept  undisturbed  for  yet 
another  hour.  For  another  hoar  these  two 
walked  and  sat  together  in  the  garden,  in 
the  dreamy  light,  aud  in  a  stiUaesaso 
breathless  that  Uie  leaves  of  the  aspen 
seemed  asleep.  At  last  the  sun  rose,  silent 
as  a  thon^t  of  Ood,  and  broke  the  spell, 
and  all  faded  back  into  the  light  of  common 
day.  They  walked  once  more  through  the 
garden,  lii^eringly,  as  Eve  throngh  Eden 
for  the  last  time ;  and  Archie,  as  they 
neared  the  boose,  plucked  a  rose,  and 
shook  off  its  tears  of  dew,  shed  at  this  sun* 
Bet,  not  yet  dried  by  its  return,  and  gave 
it  to  Ida,  and 

With  one  long  kiss  bar  whole  bouI  thruugh 
H«r  lipa,  OS  molight  drinketh  dew. 

Then  he  threw  gravel  with  some  vigour 
up  at  Mra  John's  window,  which  instanta- 
neously produced  the  Bev.  John  on  the  qui 
vive  for  a  christening.  As  every  bapt&m 
at  birth  by  total  immeision  hastened 
appreciably  the.  date  of  the  millennium,  he 
had  strictly  enjinned  his  parisiuoaeFS  to 
send  for  him  and  the  doctor  by  the  same 
messenger,  who,  that  the  servants  might 
not  be  disturbed,  was  to  do  what  Archie 
had  jnst  done — fling  gravel  at  the  window. 
Accndingly  the  Bev.  John  had  no  doubt 
at  all  that  he  was  wanted  by  some  one, 
and  little  doubt  that  this  some  one  was 
Mrs._  Flatts ;  who  had  already  made  the 
considerable  contributJon  to  the  millennium 
of  five  immaculately  immersed  IwheL  and 
was  now  expecting  hourly  to  preanit  a 
sixth  to  the  Chnr^  It  was  impossible, 
therefore,  for  Archie  not  to  think  of  Mrs. 
Gamp  and  Mr.  Pecksniff  as  the  Bev.  John 
shouted  eagerlyashe  threw  up  the  window: 

"  Is  it  l&a  Platts  % " 

"  No,  uncle ;  it  is  I — Archie." 

"  Ob,  Archie,"  with  a  sadden  and  deep 
drop  of  dis^pointment  in  hjs  tone, "  I  shaU 
be  down  in  a  minuta" 

"  I've  Ida  with  me,  uncle.  I  wish  you'd 
wake  mother  and  tell  her." 

The  Bev.  John  was  not  in  the  least 
sm^rised,  He  was  hardly  ever  surprised. 
Things  worked  their  way  into  his  mind 
drop  by  drop,  as  through  a  filter,  so  that  a 
sudden  flood  <^  amoEement  was  well-nigh 
imDossibla  He  woke  Mrs.  John  deliberate^', 
and  said  aa  he  got  back  himself  leisoruy 
into  bed: 

"  My  dear,  Archie  and  Ida  are  at  Uie 
door.   ItbouehtitwasMrB.  PUtts'fiojuM'' 


nlu<AU,UBi.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUVD. 


"Who'Brtthedootl" 

"Arctue  uid  Icli^" 

"John,  jaa'n  dreamiiu; ! " 

"  Why  do  you  think  aoi'dear  1"  perplsxAd, 
uid  half  thinkuig  there  moat  be  some 
trnth  in  the  aocoutiDn  rince  she  made  it 

"  Archie  and  Ida !  Why,  what  time  i 
iH" 

"  It'B  half-past  four.  I  thoogbt  it  was  a 
chriBteoing  vhea  I  haard  the  gravel  at  the 
window," 

In  a  moment  Mn.  John  waa  at  the 
window. 

"  Archie  1 " 

"  Yee,  mother.  Gome  down,  Ida's  here." 

It  did  not  take  Mrs.  John  long  to  put 
on  a  drewing-gown,  and  a  pair  of  slippen, 
and  hairy  down  to  the  hall-door.  She 
canght  Ida  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her 
again  and  again,  and  then  held  her  oat 
from  her  as  thoagb  for  reassarance  Uiat  it 
was  the  girl  hersell 

"Ida,  my  dear  child,'  where  have  yen 
dropped  from  \ " 

"We've  jnst  dropped  firom  heaven, 
mother,"  sua  Archie,  as  indeed  they  bad. 
Mrs.  John  was  not  slow  to  catch  and  con- 
strue Archie's  look  of  love  as  he  Said  this, 
and  Ida's  answering  blnsh.  The  hope  of 
her  life  was  folfilled.  Again  she  eanght 
Ida  in  her  anna  and  devoured  her  with 
hisses. 

"  But  what  has  hapoened  t " 

"  Get  Ida  to  bed,  ana  m  tell  yon,  mother. 
She's  quite  done  up.  She's  been  knocked 
abont  all  night,  in  a  collision,  and  on  an 
engine." 

"  In  a  colliuon  1 " 

"  Iin  not  hurt  in  the  least,  thank  yon, 
Mrs.  Pybns." 

"  No ;  she's  not '  hurt,  mother,"  said 
Archie,  in  answer  to  hie  mother's  anxious 
look  «E  enqoiiy,  addressed  to  him.  "  Bnt 
she's  been  nurse,  surgeon,  engine-driver, 
and  a  ministering  angel-of-all-work,  and 
must  be  completely  knocked  up." 

Then  Bfrs.  John,  without  anotiier  word, 
carried  Ida  off,  hnrried  her  npetairs,  set 
to  to  undress  her,  as  though  she  were  a 
baby,  and  allowed  herself  to  ask  hut  one 
question,  just  to  stay  the  parehing  thirst 
of  her  loving  curiod^. 

"  You're  my  own  diughter  now,  dear } " 
she  whispered. 

Whereupon  Ida  burst  Into  tears  I  Cer- 
tainly an  amazing  display  of  feeling  for 
her.  Bat  she  was  utterly  overdone,  and 
the  question  brought  the  desperate  diffi- 
culties in  which  sm  had  involved  herself 
vividly  before  her,  just  at  the  moment  of 


reaction  after  tense  and  continned  exdte- 

l(rs.  Jobs,  setting  down  these  teata  to 
nerroas  proatntion,  stayed  only  long 
enou^  to  soothe  her;  and  tlm,  leaving 
her  to  herself,  she  returned  for  a  hurried 
toilet  to  her  own  room  before  she  sought 
ont  Archie. 

"She's  accepted  you t"  she  asked  breath- 
lessly, when  uie  found  him  pacing  to  and 
fro  in  t^  dining-ioom. 

Archie  nodded  brightly,  and  returned 
her  mtolatory  kiss. 

"Yes ;  she's  accepted  me,  mother ;  bat 
at  a  great  cost,"  he  added,  the  brightness 
fading  from  his  face. 

Then,  making  his  mother  sit,  and  sitting 
by  her  dde,  he  narrated  all  the  incidents 
of  that  eventful  night,  Mrs.  John  the 
while  breathless,  or  breathing  exdamatians 
of  amasement  <n  adaurataon.  Yet  will  it 
be  believed,  that  one  of  the  things  which 
Bbuck  this  admirable  little  woman  most 
was  Archie's  im^priety  in  h«;iuUng  Ids 
into  that  dim,  Btill,  dreamy  twuight  walk 
of  an  hoot  t  After  all,  Mrs.  John  was  but 
a  woman,  though  the  best  of  womui. 

"  It  waa  thooghtlesa  and  selfish,  and  un- 
like yon,  Archie.  Any  one  might  have 
seen  yon,  or  nay  have  seen  you  at  t^ 
hour.  As  for  Ida,  she's  as  much  above  the 
thought  of  such  thinga  aa  an  angd.  She's 
just  grown  np  like  a  flower  wi^  her  face 
tomra  always  towards  heaven,  and  with 
no  idea  at  all  of  the  eartii,  ox  the  woim- 
caatx  beneath  her.  Bat  you  ehoold  have 
known  better,  and  you  did  know  better, 
Archie.  However,  it  can't  be  helped  now." 
This  bad  businees  having  Urns  been 
given  over  as  hopeless,  Mrs.  John  next 
addressed  henelf  to  tbe  consideration  (^ 
the  diffiealties  of  Ida's  doable  engage- 
ment. 

"I  believe  that  mad  dog  businesswai 
got  ap  by  Mn.  Ta^  Yes,  I  do,"  in 
answer  to  Ardue's  smile.  "  Tliat  woman 
would  take  in  anyone,  and  anyone  coold 
take  in  Ida." 

Archie  only  laughed  at  this  feminine 
interpretation  of  the  affair. 

"  He'd  hardly  bam  a  hole  in  his  ann, 


mother,  as  a  mere  stage  accessory  to  ths 
all  lack.  Any  stable- 
boy  would  have  done  what  he  did,  if  he'd 


play.     No  ;  it  1 

boy  would  have 

had  the  chance.  He  h^pened  to  be  in  the  j 

way,  that's  all" 

"  Very  much  in  the  way,"  echoed  Uia  I 
John,  in  a  tone  at  once  petulant  and  pff-  I 
plezed,  as  with  knit  l«ow  and  tronbled  I 
face  she  tried  to  see  her  way  throngh  tbs  a 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


[Uircb  U,  1884.1      389 


tnumess.  Bnt  the  thought  ap^iennoet  in 
her  mind  was  one  of  Belf-reproach.  It 
somehow  seemed  as  thongh  ibe  eonld 
bring  0DI7  trouble  into  the  Uvea  of  those 
die  loved  most.  Wu  it  not  ^irongh  her 
tiut  Archie  wu  disinherited,  and  if  now 
Ida  also  was  to  be  disinherited,  as  she  was 
certain  to  be,  would  it  not  be  indirectly 
her  di»ng1  Bnt  Archie's  love  wonld  more 
Oan  make  np  to  Ida  for  this  disinheritance. 
Well,  Archie's  lore  was  wortii  a  great  deal 
No  one  could  set  on  it  a  higher  value  than 
she,  his  mother.  Bat  there  was  only  his 
loTs.  He  had  no  means,  or  profession, 
or  proepecta.  He  had  less  than  none.  He 
was  extravagant  and  in  debt  Poor  Mn. 
John  for  years  had  scraped  and  screwed, 
and  worn  her  old  clothes  till  they  were  a 
shame  in  their  shabbiness,  and  stmted  the 
Bev.  John  in  his  charities,  to  supply  this 
yoath  with  money,  which  he  flang  away 
on  tilings  and  peiaona  that  were  WOTthless, 
or  worse  than  wortiilesa.  It  seemed  in  his 
Uood — this  eztrari^ance. 

He  was  not  very  vain,  or  very  selfish. 
He  loved — he  worshipped — his  mother,  and 
would  have  gone  to  the  ends  of  ti^  earQi 
to  do  her  a  kindness,  ta  to  spare  her  a 
pang.  And  yet,  in  part  through  sheer 
thooglitleBsnesB,  and  in  part  throngh  a 
tendency  to  recklessness  derived  from  his 
&tiier,  he  flong  away  in  waste  and  on 
wasters  the  money  that  would  have  made 
all  tiie  difference  between  easy  comfort  and 
anxioas  economy  to  poor  Mrs.  John.  It  is 
tme  that  Mrs.  John  never  complained — not 
merely  because  she  was  so  generous  and  so 
loved  him,  but  also  because  she  had  rooted 
in  her  mind  an  absurd  idea  that  she  owed 
him  fdl,  and  more  than  all  she  could  scrape 
together,  as  an  indemnity  for  his  disin- 
heritance, of  which  she  held  herself  to  be 
the  cause. 

But  she  must  now  apeak.  For  Ida's 
sake  she  must  speak  now,  since  her  lot 
iras  to  be  bound  up  henceforth  with 
Archie's.'  The  girl  would,  beyond  a  donbt, 
be  di^nherited  for  accepting  Archie,  and 
what  had  he  to  offer  her  t 

"Archie,"  she  said  at  last,  after  thinking 
this  thing  well  over  and  in  all  its  bearings, 
Bpesking  in  a  tone  that  expressed  the  deep 
grief  it  gave  her  to  pain  him ;  "  Archie, 
Ida  gives  up  everything  for  you.  Mr. 
Tuck  will  resent  so  deeply  her  marrying 
yon,  and  Hra.  Tuck  her  not  marrying  her 
nephew,  that  she's  certain  to  sacrifice  all 
her  brilliant  prospects  for  you.  She  will 
think  nothing  of  the  sacrifice,  or  rather  she 
will  be  elad  of  the  sacrifice :  bnt  for  that 


reason  you  will  think  the  more  of  it, 
Avchie,  and  will  try  to  make  for  her  the 
position  she  gtvee  np  for  you.  You'd  not 
hke  to  dn^;  her  down  to  debts  and  diffi- 
culties and  all  that  degradation.  Archie, 
it  would  kill  her,"  vehemently. 

"I've  been  a  selfish  brute!"  ho  ex- 
olumed,atartingupBuddeiily|heart4trickeiL 
They  were  the  first  words  of  even  indirect 
rehtLke  he  had  ever  heard  from  those  lips, 
and  they  therefore  struck  stnught  home. 

"  You've  been  thoughtless,  Archie ;  but 
it  was  not  of  you,  dear,  I  was  thinking." 
And  then  after  a  pause,  in  which  ber 
thoughts  wandered  far  back,  she  continued : 
"I  was  thinking  of  a  woman  I  once  knew 
who  was  like  Ida,  not  so  beautiful  or  so 
clever,  or  of  such  spirit,  but  like  her  in 
heart,  innocent,  tnistfiil,  clinging  as  a 
child.  She  married,  against  the  wish  of 
her  family,  a  man  who  was  thoughtless 
and  eztrav^ant,  and  who  draped  her 
down  into  aU  that  degradation  of  debt. 
He  was  very  generons ;  he  worshipped  her 
with  all  his  soul ;  he  would  have  died  for 
her ;  and  he  killed  her,  Archie — ^he  killed 
her.  I  do  not  mean  that  she  died  of  these 
terrible  anxieties;  I  mean  that  butfor  them 
she  would  not  have  died."  Then  rising, 
putting  a  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders, 
and  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  pathetic 
pleading  in  her  eyes  for  pardon  for  the 
pain  she  was  going  to  give,  she  said 
tremulously :  "  She  died  in  giving  birth  to 
you,  Archie." 

Mrs.  John  would  have  endured  anything 
rather  than  have  dealt  this  blow  in  selt 
defence,  but  for  Ida's  sake  and  for  Archie's, 
she  dealt  it,  and  suffered  in  dealing  it  at 
least  as  much  pain  as  she  gave. 

Archie  stood  white  and  silent,  looking 
down  into  the  appealing  faee  uptomed  to 
his,  bat  not  seemg  it — seeing  only  his 
mother's  wretched  and  wrecked  life,  and 
thinking  that  what  his  fitther  had  been  to 
her,  he  had  been  to  Mrs.  John,  and 
promised  to  be  to  Ida.  It  was  a  revelation 
of  himself  to  himself  in  letters  of  fire,  that 
not  only  glared  but  burned,  and  it  was  the 
turning-point  of  his  life.  He  was  "con- 
verted, to  borrow  a  theological  expression, 
but  to  apply  it  in  the  only  sense  in  which 
it  can  be  tme ;  that  is  to  say,  his  whole 
nature  was  not  changed,  but  purified,  in  a 
moment  The  instantaneous  transmutation 
of  a  base  into  a  noble  nature  by  any 
process  of  fire  is  as  little  likely  as  the 
transmutation  by  fire  of  a  base  metal  into 
gold;  but  there  is  no  donbt  that,  in  a 
:  moment  and  so  as  br  fire,  what  is  base  in  a 


390    [UuchnsUu.) 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


man's  natoie  nu?  be  pn^^  away,  and 
the  gold  already  uiere  may  be  refined.  .  It 
was  BO  with  Archie  at  thii  moment.  Such 
words  from  Mrs.  Jolin  irare  as  a  refiner'B 
fire.  They  bnmed  into  his  yery  soul  with 
all  the  agony  of  fire,  but  also  with  all  its 
lefiaiDg  effect.  He  tamed  away  and  leant 
his  head  on  his  arm  npoo  the  mantelpiece, 
and  poor  Mrs.  John,  miserable  with  remorse, 
soothed  him  as  she  used  to^  soothe  him 
when  he  was  a  ehild. 


THE  LANDES  OF  TO-DAY. 

Very  few  travellers  torn  aude  trom  the 
beaten  paths  of  travel  to  explore  what  is 
perhaps  tlie  wildest,  and  certfunly  the  least 
known  of  French  departments — tiie  stern 
and  solitaiy  Landes.  There,  hemmed  in 
by  the  Atlaiitic  to  the  west,  and  the  monn- 
tuns  to  the  sonth,  the  oldest  of  the  pre- 
historic races  in  Europe  seems  to  stand  at 
bay.  The  Basqaes  can  count  kindred  with 
Finn,  Magyar,  and  Esthoniau  in  oar  own 
time,  and  with  the  vaniahed  Etrnscans  of 
the  past  Their  very  language  is  a  relic  of 
Turanian  antiquity,  and  the  stock  from 
which  they  spring  a  Mongolian  one,  thongb 
Celt  and  Goth  and  Frank,  mushroom 
invaders,  as  they  deem,  have  thmst  them 
long  ago  into  this  forgotten  comer  of  OtaaL 
Shat  oat,  as  a  nou-Eomance  speaking 
people,  firom  the  sympathies  of  the  so-called 
Latin  Union,  they  remain  a  tribe  as 
pecnliar,  though  rooted  to  the  ground, 
the  restless  gipsies  themselves.  And  the 
Freach  Basques  are  in  some  respects  worse 
off  than  those  of  Spain,  as  b«ng  denied 
any  recognition  of  their  nationality.  Their 
consins  on  the  Spanish  bank  of  the 
Bidassoa  count  for  very  much  more,  in  the 
kingdom  of  "the  Spains,"  than  do  the 
poor  handful  of  Basques  in  centralised 
France.  Spanish  Navarre  is  no  mere  unit 
of  a  symmetrical  set  of  districte,  to  be 
manipulated  by  a  prefect  and  sub-prefects, 
according  to  the  desire  of  the  government 
of  Paris.  But  the  French  Basque  has  do 
privilegee  or  local  laws,  such  as  those 
which  CasUliaa  tc^alty,  when  it  U  not 
too  strong,  treats  with  ostentations  respect. 
Had  there  been  sncb  institutions  in  French 
BaaqueUnd,  titBy  would  have  been  swept 
away— as  were  the  customs  of  Britanny, 
as,  bat  for  English  sway,  would  have  beui 
the  old  Soman  law  of  Jersey  and  GnemsOT 
— before  the  rush  of  the  great  FtencL 
Sevolution. 

If  you  talk  with  discontented  French 


workmen  in  the  larger  towns,  in  Toulouse, 
say,  or  in  Bordeaux,  you  will  probably  hear 
the  Basqaes  of  the  Luides  described  as  "ces 
r^aotionnairea,"  and  be  told  that  tbef  are 
under  the  corporate  thumb  of  the  pneits, 
detest  enlightenment,  and  aie_  ready,  at  a 
given  signal,  to  hoist  the  white  flag,  scd 
^h(  for  the  king.  None  of  these  asser- 
tions will  be  found,  on  a  more  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  peopls  and  their  habits 
of  thought,  to  be  true.  Your  Basque  is  & 
sound  Catholic,  but  he  is  much  less  under 
ecclesiastical  authority  than  either  the 
melancholy  Breton  or  the  Romanised  Qanl 
of  the  Fyrenean  slopes.  He  does  not  even 
dislike  enlighteninent  for  other  pe(^>le,  so 
as  it  lets  him  and  his  womankind  aloos, 
to  knit  their  stockings,  intermarry,  rear 
young  horses  and  bulls  fox  the  u^ud 
markets,  and  keep  ap  tlie  old  ostneism  of 
strangets,  after  the  old  fashioa  Glib 
revolutionary  talkers  in  dly  caf6s  pmnt  to' 
the  Landes  as  a  source  of  danger.  Sat  && 
Rue  J^rnsalem  and  the  French  Ministry  of 
the  Interior  know  better,  and  never  send  i 
detective  to  watch  the  Landea.  There  sie 
Celtic  peasants  in  Britaunyaod  LaVend^ 
who  reaUy  would  shed  their  blood,  it 
properly  stimulated,  for  the  suocessor  ol 
St.  Iionia.  But  there  is  no  personal  loyalty, 
in  the  sterile  Landes,  to  attach  itself  to  the 
Honse  of-  Bourbon.  How  ahoold  thers 
be  t  The  Basques  had  no  sovereign 
duchess,  like  that  Anne  of  Britauny  no 
carried  off  the  regalia  when  she  went 
to  wed  a  French  king.  They  were  men 
worried  by  farmers -general  and  inlsu- 
dants,  uoder  the  old  i^tem,  than  ther 
are  now  by  plausible,  and  often  veil- 
meaning  officials.  Henry  the  Fourth  him- 
self, BO  idolised  in  nejghbonring  B^ain, 
is  less  forgotten  than  ignored  by  tka 
descendants  of  his  former  subjects.  To 
them  a  king  of  France  was,  as  king  of 
Navarre,  a  master  to  be  feared,  not  s 
chieftain  to  be  loved.  They  have  » 
Bupplvssed  royal  race  of  their  own.  They 
have  no  nobility.  Their  old  families  sis 
as  proud  of  their  caste  as  Brahmiiis  snd 
Rajpoots  are,  bat  no  one  of  Basque  descent 
aspires  to  be  above  the  condition  of  a  uiniJt 
yeoman. 

It  is  very  hard  to  win,  so  town-folk  nj, 
the  confidence  of  the  Ba^qoes.  Sock  s 
task  is  probably  very  much  easier  to  so 
Englishman  than  to  the  avoage  Ftendi- 
man.  But  then  no  Epglishman  who  hu 
not  a  rare  command  of  langoage,  ooinbii>M 
with  tact  and  patience^  is  (joalified  to  dire 
into  the  hearte  of  diis  ntioent  nwe.    Ti* 


THE  LANDES  Or  TO-DAY. 


lUarch  15, 1884.] 


391 


Franeli  of  Paris,  iho  eternal  taking  off  of 
the  Iiftt,  the  flonrialiee  of  Gallic  poutenoss, 
■l^ktly  caricatored,  hy  which  the  Iiamesce 
Stttiwe  of  our  decade  try  to  make  tJieir 
TTtj,  will  not  answer  witii  the  thy,  low- 
stiiorod,  manly  people  who  inhabit  ihe 
w«gtem  deaerta  of  Fruice.  Scrape  of 
lADgoedoe  patoia,  a  Spaniah  pntrerb  or  two, 
BOch  M  the  Fyrenean  smngglers  ose,  and 
good,  roogb,  bliindering  A^o-IWich,  do 
stand  the  tonriat  in  some  atead.  As  nsaal, 
iatmk  maaasra  aad  a  pleaauit  address  s^e 
to  thaw  the  frost  of  sofipicaon.  Bat  many  a 
riib  Yidtor  is  siupeoted  of  being  that  wolf  in 
ttieep'a  clothing,  a  PoriBian  iouraatiat  in  dia- 
base, come  to  earn  editorial  cash  by  depict- 
ing the  savages  of  the  Landea.  And  many 
a  yoang  Bwque  who  has  beoi  Barpriaed 
in  the  act  of  eonversit^  or  flirting  in 
hia  own  wild  tongae,  wul  dt^gedly  per- 
sist when  qaeationed  that  heknows  no 
langtt^;e  bat  French,  and  has  no  dialeet  <rf 
bis  own,  joat  aa  a  gipsy  wiU. 

A  Baaqoe,  in  Gucony  and  B^am,  is 
q>okeQ  of  with  a  certain  amount  of  pre- 
iodice,  jost  like  a  Welshman  in  the 
Engli^  border  ahirea,  or  a  Fleming  in 
Pic«idy.  They  an  not  thot^ht  clever; 
they  are  old-fashioned.  Bnt  many  of  those 
who  talk  of  "  cee  Basqnes  "  are  probably  of 
almost  nnmixed  Baaqne  blood,  and  yon  may 
trace  the  peculiar  Basque  black  eye— eo 
melancholy,  bat  not  snlnndly — the  sqnare 
month,  and  high  cheek-bones,  all  the  way 
to  Perpignan  or  Pampelana.  They  are 
nropoeed  to  have  invented  the  bayonet,  bat 
with  this  philanthropic  contrivance  ends  the 
Ijat  of  Basque  contnbutionB  to  the  stock  in 
timde  of  civilised  society.  In  no  workshop 
will  yoa  find  a  Baaqne  journeyman,  in  no 
fikctory  a  Basque  operative.  Yet,  in  their 
owir  villages,  the  smith,  the  farrier,  and 
the  wheelwright  are  sure  to  be  Basqaes, 
and  dexterous  in  their  craft,  while  the  car-- 
petrter  and  the  glarier  and  the  tUer  are 
almost  as  certainly  "  EVenchmen "  and 
ibreignere. 

Tu  Baaqaesarebraveenon^h.  Theyarea 
little  too  brave,  for  they  are  slightly  qoarrel- 
Binae.  Tlie  BO-«alIed  "  Frenchman  "  from  a 
naighbonring  department,  when  he  goes 
among  them,  as  commercial  traveller,  billed 
aitiaan,  or  hawker,  soon  learns  Uiat  he  must 
suspend  his  hanntesa  crowing  and  renounce 
his  mtrtinl  swagger,  if  he  desires  his  whole 
skin.  Ibsquee  rusly  brag,  bat  tiiej  are 
jealooB  aad  reaentlal  aa  so  many  S^mards. 
They  never  use  the  knife  in  their  broils, 
thowh  vendettas,  and  what  in  IreUnd  would 
becked  &ctioii-fiiHits.are  freaoent  amomcst 


tiiem.  The  cudgel  is  tiieir  only  weapon. 
None  of  the  yoang  men  of  a  Landes  villtwe 
would  dream  of  walking  or  stalking — ftr 
they  are  of  tenest  on  stilts — to  church,  with- 
out his  tough  aah-plant  or  oaken  sapling 
attached  to  his  wnst  by  a  leathern  loop. 
And  the  cm6,  in  his  cassock,  often  has  to 
setmy  oat  into  the  porch  to  check  a  boat  at 
single-fibick  as  the  worshippers  sally  forth. 
Their  "goordios"  do  not  come  from  the 
treeless  Landes,  but  are  imported  from 
Gascony  by  fluent  dealers,  who  descant  on 
the  relative  merits  of  the  knotted  black- 
thorns, crab-sticks,  and  yoang  asfa-trees  of 
their  stock.  In  their  encoauters  they  show 
more  courage  Uian  skill,  having,  like 
Spaniards,  only  one  cut  and  one  guard, 
and  a  Brakshue  or  Wilts  player  would 
probably  discomfit  their  champions  easily 
enough.  Some  musical  taste  they  have, 
and  many  hamlets  contain  amateurs  famous 
for  their  manipnladon  of  the  flute  or  the  old 
French  hunting-bora,  but  the  fovourite  airs 
are  always  sad  and  plaintive.  The  Basques 
sing,  too,  in  sweet,  low  voices,  with  a  marked 
preference  for  the  melancholy  ballads  that 
in  western  France  are  called  "  complaintes," 
bftt  thev  are  shy  of  singing  before  a  stranger. 
Tfae^  dance  with  singular  spirit  and  ani- 
mation at  their  rare  merrymaldugs,  to 
the  strains  of  fiddle,  and  castanets,  and  bag- 
pipe ;  bat  holidays  are  not  so  frequent 
among  them  as  with  the  Latin  races. 

The  chief  external  cbaracturiBtic  of  the 
French  Basques  is  the  extraordinary  skiU 
with  which  they  walk  on  stilts.  Tbia 
hereditary  accomplishment  has  been  forced 
upon  them,  so  to  speak,  by  the  nature  of 
the  country  t^ey  inhabit — a  waste  of  shifting 
sands,  intersected  by  runlets  of  water  that 
produce  admirable  pasturage,  but  in  places 
occasion  very  dangerous  morasses.  The 
Basques,  used  &om  infancy  to  make  their 
way  through  drift  and  quagmire,  seem 
sometimes  to  be  actually  unaware  that  they 
are  perched  up  aloft,  like  so  many  stor^ 
or  herons,  as  they  tend  their  shew  or 
eany  home  their  oat-sheaves.  And  the 
women  are,  perhaps,  still  defter  on  their  stUts 
than  are  the  men,  who  invariably  cast  off 
their  wooden  props  when  cudgel  play,  or  a 
bargain,  claims  attention,  and  who  are, 
also,  a  little  uneasy  in  the  presence  of 
stTangers. 

It  IS  in  matshy  districts,  where  straggling 
lambs  and  half-wild  calves  have  to  be 
sought  for,  or  in  deep  loose  sand,  that  the 
stilts  find  their  main  employment,  and  best 
exhibit  the  dexterity  of  the  wearers,  who, 
with  the  help  of  an  iron-shod  pole,  can 


392     lUudiU,U8<.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


knit  th«  wooUen-stockiDfis  aaA  nightcap 
which  both  BexoB  are  cbrar  in  aukiog, 
practiae  the  flate  and  the  binion,  and  eren, 
it  IB  eaid,  go  to  sleep  for  hoars.  Nothing 
more  amnses  the  people  of  the  Landes  than 
when  a  troop  of  ittollmg  motmtelwi^ 
with  its  two  or  three  damseU  in  spangled 
nnulin,  and  mounted  on  stilta,  ventorea 
into  BasqneUnd.  To  Bee  the  aaltimbanqnea 
i°  g»y  apparel  painfully  trying  to  do,  for 
mosey,  what  the  spectators  have  done 
with  practised  ease  since  childhood,  erokcs 
Homeric  burst*  of  Unghter,  oaoally  followed 
by  »  shower  of  soos.  It  aometuiMe 
happens,  in  rural  life,  that  the  stilts  act  as 
sai^uardfi.  For  (lie  fondri^rea,  as  the 
French  call  them-~"  funda  "  is  the  E^wnish 
word  employed  by  the  small  dark  peo[4e 
of  the  land — are  quicksands  as  p«ilous 
to  pass  as  any  between  Avranches  and 
St  Michael's  Mount,  and  the  sinking  over- 
deep  of  the  ashen  prop  is  a  warning  that 
has  saved  many  a  nerdaman'a  life,  when 
an  incaotaouB  foot  would  have  been  held  for 
ever  in  the  grip  of  the  tenacious  mire  below. 
The  list  of  annual  victims  by  such  accidents 
is  almost  wholly  made  up  of  traTelling 
tinkers,  chapmen,  knife-grinders,  and  e«pe- 
oially  glaziers  or  ^lumben  in  qnest  of  a  job. 
French  statislacal  books  describe  the 
Department  of  the  Landes  as  an  agricol- 
tuial  district,  but  the  country  is  really  a 
pastoral  ona  Wheat  can  scarcely  be  grown. 
The  only  crop  oonsistB  of  oats  or  rye. 
The  maize  -  flour  that  is  wanted  for  the 
huge  yellow  loaves,  the  thin  hot  tortillas, 
and  the  bowls  of  polenta,  must  be  pur- 
chased bom  the  more  fertile  province  to 
the  east  Tiny  porkers,  which  there  are 
no  vegetables  to  feed,  eggs,  salt,  home- 
spun woollens,  horses,  auT^  Uioee  yearling 
cattle  that  the  Irish  peasants  desiraiate  as 
"  bnlfiheens,"  are  the  exports  of  the  LandsB. 
The  Basques  value  their  long-legged  sheep 
more  for  their  fleeces  thuk  for  tiiea  mutton, 
while  their  pooltry,  as  in  all  sandy  dis- 
tricts, yield  eggs  in  abondance,  but  are 
difficult  to  fatten  for  the  Uble.  Horses 
are  their  moat  valuable  staple ;  but,  thon^ 
they  Bell  ao  many,  they  have  none  of  that 
oatentatious  jookeyship  or  knowinnieas 
which  distinguish  those  French  Yorkuire- 
men,  the  bai^aining  Normans.  Indeed,  a 
Basque  is  bad  at  a  bargain,  naming  his 
price  at  the  first  word,  and  sticking  to  it, 
simply.  The  young  horses,  a  legacy  of 
the  Saracens,  are  gallant  brutes  enough, 
fleet,  weU-shaped,  fit  for  t^e  saddle,  and 
with  gentle  tempers,  the  reeult  of  the  kind 
handhng  to  whish  they  have  been  accus- 


tomed,  for  the  Basque  is  very  tender  with 
ftiijmf(l«^  aawtth  children. 

On  the  verge  of  the  I^ndea  yon  b^n  te 
lose  sight  of  &e  monotonous  blue  bkoiaef 
the  French  peasant  The  blouse  ib  a  GaiiM 

b,  and  the  Basques  are  not  Gtnls.   The 

iwn  jackets,  and  the  brown,  Uue,  or  led 
berets  ofth»  men,  are  not  very  pietaresqas. 
You  may  see  the  same  jaccets  siide^ii 
throughout  the  Pynnean  diitricia.  Bat 
the  women's  blue  or  ciunsoa  kittka,  thdr 
•aoods  and  ooifs,  ud  their  rare  hoUcU^ 
floery,  are  better  wwtii  notio&  Thoe  u 
apsoiliar  narrow-atiwed  wooUea  stuff  irf 
many  etdonrs,  and  witlk  a  thread  of  gfAi 
numing  acroea  the  gi^  stripes  at  intemli, 
which  is,  or  was,  mann&otured  raly  at 
Bayonne,  and  larks  in  deep  old  cedn 
eheitB,  to  be  worn  by  the  daaghtua  <d 
rich  farmers  on  Church  festivals,  and  daji 
of  fuoily  rq'oidng.  And,  amongst  ths 
gold  and  ulver  crosses,  and  ear  and  fingn 
rings  worn  on  sach  occasionB,  you  msT 
sometimea  see  necklaoea,  eitlier  composaa 
of  heavy  golden  beads  or  balls,  or  of  ^int; 
filigree  yroA,  as  fine  as  that  <d  old  Genoa, 

There  is  something  sad  about  the  people'i 
lives,  as  there  commonly  is  where  ue  bud 
is  sterile,  and  the  bul  monotonotu.  Bat 
compared  with  Britanny,  the  only  other 
iBolated  [  part  of  France,  the  Landes  m 
cheerfdL  Your  Breton  peasant  takes  his 
pleasure  sadly ;  even  a  wedding,  among 
the  grey  aomlechs  and  menhirs  of  the 
Nine  Btshoprics,  might  well  be  mistibm 
for  a  fiinentL  But  in  thur  modest,  geatls 
way,  the  Basques  know  bow  to  tojoy  ^on- 
selves  on  ocoaaion,  tribe  consorting  with 
tribe,  and  s^t  with  sept,  ao  toi 
Moategue  may  be  present  to  mar  the  mirtli 
of  the  assembUd  Onpulets. 

One  of  the  most  marked  peculiarities  of 
the  Basques  is  their  aversion  to  militaiT 
BerTio&  This,  of  course,  they  share  with 
other  Frenchmen.  We  need  not  go  back 
so  far  as  the  end  of  the  ei^teenth  century, 
when  the  dreaded  conscription  was  new, 
and  a  recraiting  colonel  t<^d  Kigadier 
General  Wolfe-Tone,  tit<  Irish  rebel,  that 
"  we  have  to  tie  the  jeuneeses,  neck  and 
heels,  like  ao  many  calves,  and  fling  them 
into  a  cart"  Bat  fonr  hundred  poondi 
sterling  became  the  market  -  ^ce  of  a 
sabBtitute  before  Napoleon  had  played  his 
laat  stakes  at  Leipeic  and  Waterloa  And 
even  in  these  piping  times  of  peace,  whoi 
a  stem  law  of  equably  forUds  the  pnrohaia 
of  a  pro^  to  endure  barrack  discomitHtii 
no  Eiench  family  above  the  class  of  day- 
labourers  will  allow  a  son  to  pat  on  w 


THE  LANDES  OF  TO-DAY. 


lUuoh  It,  UH.]    393 


luted  tivety  of  the  »imj  natil  bribes,  ind 
pTOT«n,  and  tean  bare  been  e^taotted, 
and  doctor,  depaty,  and  mayor,  and 
eooDcillor  -  genera  invoked,  to  sare 
Alphonse  or  Joseph  from  tbe  tax  of  blood. 
The  people  of  the  Landee  have  rery  seldom 
any  uiends  at  Court  While  sabstitatea 
were  to  be  bonght,  th^  would  clnb  their 
numey  to  bay  tiaem,  every  aunt  and  conain 
sontribating  to  the  ransom.  Now  that 
mch  exemption  is  beyond  purchaae,  with  a 
sad  simplicity  of  beari^,  the  Baaqaee 
■nhmit  to  the  inevitable.  Their  yotmg  men 
eome  passive  and  resigned  to  the  burack- 
gate  on  the  ^pointed  day.  And  it  is  rare 
to  see,  what  may  so  often  be  seen  in  rural 
Frano^  monnted  gendarmes  scouring  the 
coontiy,  to  discover  in  whose  hayloft  the 
futore  defender  of  his  country  is  hidden. 
The  quiet  pride  of  the  lonely  race  would 
revolt  from  the  unominy  of  being  led  into 
D&x  with  manacled  hands,  and  tied  to  the 
crupper  of  a  troop-horse.  Yet  the  Basques 
have  a  bad  example  close  at  hand,  for  in 
the  adjoining  department  of  the  Lower 
Pyrenees  the  recmiting  -  officer  averagee, 
anee  Uie  German  War,  en  his  black  list  the 
•xtraordinaiy  number  of  fourteen  tiiouaand 
"  r^fractatres,"  runaway  conscripts,  wbiHs 
the  peasantiy  of  the  H^h  Pyrenees  for  the 
moat  part  h^bour  at  the  expense  of  their 
aDxiooB  relatives  at  home,  and  who  take 
refuge  in  Andorre  and  Spain,  when  hard 
jessed  by  the  police. 

Jt  iflvery  difficult  to  elicit  ftom  a  Basque 
how  much  and  how  little  he  knows  con- 
oeraing  the  origin  of  his  people.  Most 
likoiy  ne  does  not  trouble  Mmself  about 
niceties  of  ethnology,  but  believes  what  his 
grandmother  told  hjm  about  his  own  lineal 
superiority  to  the  upstart  Gauls.  What  he 
dislikes  is  French  centralisation,  French 
law,  the  minute,  rigid  accuracy  with  which 
everything  gets  mapped  and  gauged,  and 
weighed,  and  measiu«d,  the  pressure  of 
the  Goranuaeut  at  electbn  times,  or  when 
a  loan  is  launched.  All  this  he  calls 
"  chicane."  He  wants  to  be  let  alone.  He 
has  no  sympathy  with  the  red  flag,  and  a 
Communist  lecturer  would  be  ill  received 
in  the  Landes.  Those  socialist  doctxinss 
which  ace  so  coquetted  with,  even  by  the 
rich,  in  south-eastern  France  are  execrated 
inBasqueUod.  "How Iwould barricade  my 
house,  and  how  I  would  fire  my  gun  from 
tiie  upper  windows  I "  is  no  unusual  com- 
ment on  the  part  of  a  Basque  yeoman  fresh 
from  the  newspaper  study  of  a  revolu- 
tionarydiseonrse.  Of  the  one  great  hisbHical 
event  in  which  thev  ulaved  a  Dart  thev 


seem  quite  oblivious.  That,ofcourBa,iBthe 
memorable  slaughter  of  Bonoesvalles,  when 
Baland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  ever;  p^wUn  tmd  peai, 
perished  in  tiie  defiles  of  the  Pyrenees, 
slain,  as  medieval  minstrels  loved  to 
declare,  by  the  Paynim.  Yet  it  was  by 
Christian  Boaques,  not  by  tnrbuied  Moors, 
that  the  rearguard  of  Gharlee  the  Great's 
army  was  so  dgnally  cut  to  [deoee  in  the 
Fontarabian  pass. 

There  is  an  aristoaw;y  in  Basqueland, 
just  as  there  is  one  in  the  B^tic  provinces, 
which  are  tenauted  by  a  kindred  race,  and 
under  Bussian  rule.  But,  just  as  no 
Esthonian  or  Lett  claims  to  be  of  the  rank 
gentleman,  so  are  the  counts  and 
marquises  who  own  estates  and  inhabit 
castles  in  the  Lsndes  of  quite  another 
stock  from  the  people  of  the  country. 
These  " seigneurs"  are  not  disliked  by 
the  Basque  peasantry,  as  happens  east  of 
the  Bhone,  but  neither  are  they  r^arded 
with  clanmah  afTecUon,  as  is  often  the  case 
in  Morbiban  or  Finisterre.  Oddly  enough, 
they  are  generally  called  Gascons,  seldom 
Frenchmen,  whereas  a  lawyer,  a  school- 
master, a  stray  workman,  is  invariably 
deemed  to  be  as  French  as  Hugues  Oapet 
Hospitable  kindly  magnates  are  these  vis- 
counts, barone,  and  so  forth,  whose  dilapi- 
dated ch&teaux  overlook  a  waste  of  sand, 
and  whose  business  relatJons  with  their 
vassals  are  generally  very  good.  The  titled 
fomilies  who  stUl  exist  in  the  poorer  porta 
of  rustic  France  are,  aa  a  rule,  good-natured, 
frugal,  and  delighted  to  make  acquaintance 
wi&  a  foreigner  who  is  fluent  and  un< 
abashed  in  hu  French.  Their  own  lives  are 
strangely  dull  None  of  the  gusty  that 
we  associate  with  contiuental  life  seenu  to 
fail  in  tieir  way.  There  are  bright«yed, 
gentle  young  ladies  in  Basquehmd  to 
whom  even  the  mild  disdpations  of  English 
country  existence  would  appear  as  a  whirl- 
wind of  excitemeDt,  girk  who  never  had  a 
dance  since  they  left  school,  and  who 
never  saw  a  fiower-ohow,  or  a  raoe,  or  a 
cricket-match,  or  a  regatta.  There  are  a 
few  packs  of  hounds  kept  up  at  a  cheap 
rate,  but  they  suffer  from  a  superfluity  of 
foxes.  The  "red  rascals,"  as  the  late 
Mr.  Apperiey  was  wont  to  call  them,  are 
as  alrandant  in  Uie  sandy  hillocks  of 
Basqueland  as  rabbits  in  a  warren,  and 
after  a  little  gentle  exeroise  in  front  of  tbe 
bewildered  doga,  run  to  earth  as  prranptly 
as  rabbits  would  do.  It  is  from  the 
Landes  that  ludf  the  bag-foxes  in  England 
oriirinallv  come,  and  nothine  can  be  more 


394      (H>reblE,UU.l 


ALL  THE  YEAK  EOUin). 


coriom  than  to  w&tch  the  uuvilliDg  steps 
of  BOared  Keynaid  as,  leaahed  and  umssled, 
ha  finds  biinself  led  b;  his  captor  along 
the  dnsty  road. 

A  doctor,  in  the  Laades,  as  in  Sologne 
or  Vend^  has  no  bed  of  rosee  to  He  upon. 
He  is  in  constant  antagonism  with  a  rival 
profeseioniJ,  the  sorcerer,  or  witch-healer, 
who  cnree  agne  and  fever  by  the  aid  of 
simplea  and  charms ;  and  he  finds  himself 
eternally  thwarted  by  those  maJeficent 
hage,  the  "  wise  women,"  or  "  diienses," 
who  are  the  peat  of  mral  France,  and  who 
negative  every  precept  he  can  utter  aa  to 
fresh  air,  cleanliness  for  the  sicb,  and 
especially  the  hygienic  conditions  neoeaaary 
iot  the  rearing  of  weakly  children.  It 
may  seem  scarcely  credible  that  in  the 
nineteent]i  century  there  should  be  crones 
who  make  a  living  by  preaching  dirt, 
vermin,  uid  neglect  as  essential  for  the 
health  of  Uie  yonng;  but  every  village 
practitioner  {rom  Tours  to  Bayonne  knows, 
to  his  vexation,  that  such  is  the  case. 
Medical  science  does  not  receive,  in  the 
country,  the  nnbeBitating  respect  which  it 
meets  with  in  the  ereat  towns.  If  a  rural 
doctor  is  also  a  skilled  veterinary  Burgeon, 
aa  eometimea  happens,  well  and  good. 
The  cure  of  a  lame  horse  or  a  sick  cow 
does  more  to  influence  the  bucolic  mind 
than  the  most  eloquent  of  expositions. 

The  Basques  are  superstitious.  This  is 
a  result  that  follows,  as  the  mereet  matter 
of  course,  &om  their  isolated  poBition  and 
the  seclusion  of  their  lives,  but  they  have 
no  belief  so  monatrons  as  those  of  the 
were-Wolf  of  Anjou,  the  vampire  of 
Britanny,  or  the  "  grosie  bSte  "  of  Poitou. 
The  vampire,  in  especial,  aa  a  belief  almost 
confined  to  non-Aryan  races,  and  which 
prob&bly  existed  in  Britanny  before  there 
was  ft  Breton  in  the  Armoiic«n  peninsula, 
might  have  been  expected  to  reappear 
amongst  the  Turanian  Basques.  Yet  the 
wild  mythology  of  the  lAndes  finds  no 
place  for  this  or  for  cogntte  horrors.  What 
really  impresses  the  Basque  imagination  is 
the  malunant  power  of  the  forces  of 
Nature,  the  peril  of  hail  to  the  crops,  of 
blight,  and  weevil,  and  black-fly,  of  cutting 
winds  to  kill  the  tender  lambs,  of  shifting 
suids  that  swallow  ap  green  pastures, 
of  birda  and  beasts  of  prey,  and  all 
the  ills  ^at  farmers'  flesh  is  heir 
to  in  that  climate  and  country.  Tlie 
Landes  are  too  far  ftojn  the  high  Fyreneea 
to  have  many  visits  from  the  wolves  which, 
in  spite  of  breechloaders  and  Btrychnine, 
are  now  more  numerous  than  wh^  Iionis 


the  FifteenUi  was  king,  and  which  wwk 
such  misdiief  among  upland  flocks.  Hence 
the  wolf  is  boldly  called  a  wolf,  i^tereas 
the  fox  is  almost  always  spoken  of  respect- 
fully as  "  the  rod  one,"  while  the  very 
^timers  who  pay  the  trapper  from  B^am, 
with  his  bewles  and  Bnares,  who  comes  to 
rid  them  of  Uie  robber,  lay  down  the  coins 
in  a  sbamefa)^  way,  and  ecrupnlously  with 
the  left  hand,  on  a  moanting-Uoek  er 
bank,  as  if  fearful  lest  the  foxes  should 
resent  the  thimiing  of  their  numbera 
Eagle,  kdte^  osprey,  and  tfaat  even  more 
dreaded  enemy  of  the  lambe,  the  Fyreneui 
vulture,  an  generally  desigaated  by  a 
mere  wave  of  tne  hands,  as  if  in  imitation 
of  the  fl^ping  of  a  bird's  wings. 

The  Basque  agriculturist  stands  in  great 
awe  of  the  weaUier.  Sharp  unseasonable 
winds,  the  icy  tramontana  from  due  south, 
will  make  havoc  among  the  woolly  weak- 
lings of  his  flock.  Hiul,  or  tJiat  heavy 
semi-tropical  rain  which  sometimee  cornea 
down  like  a  waterspout,  will  crash  the 
tender  sprouts  of  his  oat-ciop  or  thresh 
the  grain  out  of  the  sUvered  ear.  Hence 
his  nervous  solicitude  lest  the  spirits  that 
he  vaguely  believes  to  preside  over  showers 
and  sunshine  should  ti^o  umbrage.  £ven 
to  point  a  finger  at  a  black  cloud  is 
regarded,  in  the  Landes,  as  rash  and 
fowsh.  The  dood — ^who  knows  1 — may 
be  annoyed,  or,  if  not  the  doud,  then 
some  m^wrioHs  being  behind  thatvapmxius 
veil  Wise  old  hea^  are  shaken  at  the 
sight  of  a  ahan>-p(Hnted  lightning-conductor 
towering  aloft  over  the  topmost  roof  of 
some  model  farm.  Such  a  piece  of  i^pa^ 
ratus  appears  to  the  natives  like  Ajax 
defying  the  thunderbolts.  A  strolling 
photo^pher  meets  with  but  a  cold  recep- 
tion am<H^;Bt  a  people  who  hold  that  lUB 
method  involves  the  taking  a  liberty  witJi 
the  sun,  and  who  are  by  no  means  oom- 
fortable  as  to  the  morality  of  dark  cham- 
bers, negative  -  phrt«s,  and  mysteriow 
chemicalB.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Lan- 
dais  are  very  willing  to  give  every  reason- 
able encouragement  to  the  roving  artist 
who  oomes  to  iak»  theit  pcntraite  in  the 
time-honoured  old-fashiimea  style,  "  like  a 
Chiistaan,"  as  they  say.  The  Raphael  who 
enters  on  this  humble  walk  of  art  will  find 
tliat  his  cHents  are  not  onwilUng  to  pay 
in  Mapper  and  silver  for  the  narrow  gilt 
frame  of  the  picture  or  for  it4  glazing,  but 
that  they  consider  goose  and  maisoK»kea, 
garlic,  soup,  and  wfne,  ample  remuneration 
for  mere  colours  and  handiwork. 
It  is  generally  a  very  onprofitaUe  task 


DEjVN  WHABTOITS  daughter.  |]iu»his,iaM.)    396 


to  ateehiBa  &  middle-aged  Basque  as 
to  the  natore  or  reasons  of  hu  anpar- 
ititkns  and  strange  ways,  while  the 
jnrenOe  members  ol  the  tribe  are  aen- 
atire  to  amy  attempt  at  croas-examins- 
tton.  It  is  better  to  wait  and  ^ean  vbat 
odd  phiatea  and  dogmatic  asaertionB  may 
bm  in  one's  way  tnan  to  aak  questions 
whkh  are  almost  certain  to  seal  np  the 
foontain  of  information.  No  peasant,  of 
ai^  stock,  likes  to  be  thrust  into  the 
witaees-box.  The  Bavaiiaii  boor  who 
points  to  the  cherries  on  the  tree,  or  the 
sheaf  left  jn  the  field,  or  the  hops  nn- 
pickod,  and  says  with  a  nod,  "  Those  are 
for  Wotan;  mustn't  foi^t  the  Old  One, 
brother,"  assumes  an  austere  air  and  looks 
cndgels  and  pitchforks  at  the  f<»eigner, 
who  imagines  that  he  has  cangbt  a  real 
niaeteentn^sentnry  Pagan  and  tries  to  put 
him  thnmgh  his  paces  as  to  the  gods  of 
Talhatla.  Probably  these  strange  suirivals 
of  a  remote  past  are  very  imperfectly 
imderstood  by  tJiose  who  are  yet  under 
their  influence,  and  whose  education  is  too 
narrow  to  allow  them  to  measure  their 
myths  by  other  standards.  One  tbing,  as 
concents  the  Basques,  is  patent  and 
notable.  The  people  ask  only  to  be  let 
alone,  dread  change,  reform,  and  improve- 
ment, and  wiBh  to  be  left  to  their  stilts 
and  their  isolation,  and  such  of  their  old 
ways  as  have  survived  the  touch  of  time. 
AndUiis  is  the  most  distinguishing  feature 
of  those  who  inhabit  the  I^ndes  of  to-day. 


Where  flickering  sbtuJowa  aoftly  t<\ny — 

That  this  «bonld  be  but  one  long  lueiuDry  '. 
A  bnmk  was  wnging  id  the  sun, 

Ai  if  it  strove  our  lips  to  teach 
Some  geciet  of  it«  waters  run. 

Soma  words  that  scarce  find  Round  in  speech  : 
And  >o 

We  dnmlc  love's  CDp,  and  lidtened  ti>  its  Sow, 
Mr  aweet,  we  linRered  near  the  stream 

Till  melting  gold  turned  all  to  grey  ; 
And  now  it  oofy  teems  a  dream 

The  menmry  of  that  perfect  day. 
Thus  pass 

Love's  faoai«  like  brcatb-etainB  breathed  upon  l 

giSM 


DEAN  WHARTON'S  DAUGHTER 

A  STOKT  IN  SIVES  CHAPTERS. 

CHAFTEB   IV.      OOStJiP. 

Wise  Jack  was  right.  James  Browne, 
being  James  Browne,  the  Deanery,  un- 
Bccnstomed  though  it  was  to  throwing 
omeB  its  patea  to  BtTanffeis.  ESW  a  irreat 


fell  into  his  place  in  the  quiet  household  in 
the  most  natural  manner  possible.  After 
that  first  astounding  a^mooQ  no  one 
seemed  to  boo  anything  at  all  strange  in  it 
He  was  "James  "  to  the  good  old  Dean, 
and  it  was  indeed  only  his  absence  that 
was  at  all  likely  to  be  commented  npon  by 
anyone  in  the  old  coraer-hoose.  The 
Dean's  Agatha  welcomed  him,  his  boys 
made  a  hero  of  him,  while  Frank,  waxing 
more  friendly  and  confidential  stQl  as  the 
days  went  on,  called  hha  "  Uncle  James  " 
to  his  Bunbnmt  face,  and  in  return 
graciously  rescinded  her  earlier  decision, 
and  permitted  him  to  hail  her  "  Frank  " 
wiUioat  remonstrance.  Indeed,  before  the 
friendship  was  many  weeks  old,  she  had 
kindly  confided  to  him  Agatha's  reoently- 
ezpreeaed  views  regarding  the  new  arrivals; 
her  present  friendly  and  onreatrained 
reception  of  him,  James  Browne,  belog, 
as  she  insisted,  entirely  on  the  "aged 
relative  "  basis,  but  for  which  Frances  was 
furthermore  careful  to  assure  him  his  pre- 
sent footing  at  the  Deaneiy  would  have 
been  a  simple  impossibility, 

"So  yon  see,'  Frank  added  on  th^ 
occasion  wi^i  a  charming  candour  intended 
to  be  reassuring,  "  it's  very  lucky  yoo  are 
papa's  friend,  and  rather  old,  or  we  should 
have  never  known  how  nice  you  are,  and 
you  would  never  have  known  how  nice  we 
are,  so  it's  all  right" 

But  the  Major  did  not  look  altogether 
so  satisfied.  What  if  chattering  Frank 
were  right  1  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  be.  What  if  the  smiles  and 
welcome  with  which  the  Dean's  daughter 
was  wont  to  greet  him — that  had  even 
now  become  so  dear  to  him — were  only  for 
her  father's  friend,  and  nothing  moret 
Her  father's  "  old  "  friend.  Was  he  really 
so  very  old  I  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
James  Ktiwne  sat  eonnting  up  his  yean, 
and  wondering  if  his  yonth,  in  these  young 
prls*  eyes  at  least,  had  really  fled. 

But  whatever  might  foe  the  efibct  ( 
Frank's  little  confideneea,  they  did  not 
deter  the  steadfast-fiwed  Major  from  his 
purpose.  It  must  be  something  more  than 
the  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  between  them, 
he  told  himself,  that  should  rob  him  of  his 
heart's  desire.  This  being  so,  as  the  days 
went  by  ,the  Deanety  saw  more  of  him 
nUiher  than  lees,  until  at  last  there  were 
those  in  Poetleton  who  began  to  bethink 
themadvea  that  they  ought  to  have  some- 
thing to  say  in  the  matter. 

That    Poetleton  —  cathedral  -  shadowed 


396      (UkTch  IE,  UM.) 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


city  as  it  waa — poBseaaed  its  fair  share  of 
eoBsips  and  bmjbodiei,  I  dare  not  deny. 
Some  indeed  went  farther,  and  said  it  had, 
indeed,  more  than  ite  share ;  but  these 
were  tiwKjB  understood  as  csstiiig  no  par- 
ticnlar  reflection  on  Fostleton  generally. 
There  was,  I  may  ssy,  no  doobt  at  whom 
their  remarks  were  levelled,  and  certainly 
if  ever  mortal  woman  was — in  her  own 
belief — bom  to  set  the  world  to  rights,  to 
take  it  by  force  and  mend  its  ways, 
whether  it  would  or  not,  that  wcmun  waa 
Uie  Beatoresa  of  St.  Swithin's. 

Mrs.  Tyerm&n  was  a  lady  of  majestic, 
I  may  say  awe-inapiring  appearance,  and 
was  wont,  when  holding  forth  for  the 
benefit  of  anyTictima  she  muht  have  cap- 
tured, to  adu«ss  them  in  a  fine  deep  voice 
that  added  greatly  to  the  terror  of  the 
occasion.  Parishea  marked  no  boondary 
for  the  Sectoresa  of  St  Swithin'a ;  she  would 
not  only  bounce  &om  one  end  to  the  other 
of  her  own  half-a-dozen  timea  a  day,  hot 
she  wonld  bonnce  into  neighbooring 
parishes,  to  the  mntnal  dismay  of  priest 
and  people.  And  then  the  ^Sector,  as 
might  be  expected,  wonld  be  appealed  to. 
Poor  little  Sector  1  what  conld  ne  do  I  He 
who  wss  himself  never  reslly  safe  from  that 
OTerwhelming  raeeence  even  in  hia  own 
pnlpit,  save  on  those  daya,  it  might  be,  when 
as  a  mark  of  high  diaplesanre  Mra.  Tjei- 
man  wonld  beta£e  herself  to  the  cathedral, 
and  there  londly  lift  up  her  voice  in  behalf 
of  the  miserable  ainneta  around  her. 

She  it  was  who  now  felt  heraejf  called 
on  to  remark  npon  the  Major's  intimacy  at 
the  Deanery.  "  And  it  is  not  onlv  there," 
she  said,  "it  is  the  same  everywhere;  he 
is  for  ever  at  Agatha  Wharton's  elbow. 
What  can  her  father  mean  by  allowing 
iti  But  I  shall  apeak  to  him— I  ahaU 
certainly  speak  to  the  Dean." 

"If  you  will  take  my  advice  yon  will 
certainly  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  aaid 
Mrs,  Dorman,  the  invalid  Indian  Judge's 
wife,  on  whom  the  Beetoresa  waa  caUing. 

"  It  is  by  no  means  the  first  time," 
Mt^  Tyerman  went  on,  not  noticing  the 
interruption ;  "  bnt  if  you  will,  go  on  with 
your  work — your  knitting,  or  whatever  it 
was  yon  were  doing." 

"  I  don't  knit — ^I  was  doing  nothing;  in 
fact     You  were  saying  t " 

Fat,  round-about  Uttle  Mra  Dorman 
cared  not  one  braaa  farthing  for  Mrs, 
Tyerman  nor  her  awe-inapiring  voice.  She 
sat  with  calmly-foided  han<u  and  placid 
smile ;  an  unmistakable  twinkle  waa  in  her 
rather  aleepy  bine  eyes. 


Her  vintoT  eyed  her  silently  for  Um 
space  of  half  a  minute,  then,  I  think,  the 
futility  of  anything  ^e  might  tfoable 
herself  to  say  in  that  quarter  dawned  upon 
the  Bectoresa. 

"  About  Agatha  Wharton,  jm.  It  is  by 
BO  means  the  first  time  either.  Then 
waa  that  Captain  Danby,  he  waa  always 
there." 

"Men  win  go  where  pretty  giria  are," 
interrupted  Mn.  Donnan, 

"Pretty  girla  have  no  bosiness  to  get 
themselves  talked  about" 

"  Who  talka  about  her  I "  Mml  Dormsn 
was  sitting  up  in  her  chair ;  ahe  spoke  quite 
shar^. 
■  "Whol"  echoed  her  visitor,  andfora 
moment  actually  appeared  unable  to  s^ 
more.     "Why,  evarybody." 

"  Then  everybody  ought  to  be  ashamed. 
Is  a  girt  bound  to  send  a  man  away  die 
moment  he  begina  to  make  himself  sgree- 
able  to  her  T " 

"  She  is  bound  not  to  allow  herself  to  be 
talked  about" 

"  But  if,  as  yon  yourself  aeem  to  imply, 
people  will  talk  I " 

"They  never  talked  about  me,  Mn. 
Dorman." 

"  No,"  aaid  Mrs.  Donnan,  "really !  Well, 
they  did  about  me,  a  good  deal  on  the 
whole,  I'm  afraid.  You  see  there  are  a 
great  many  men  in  India,  and  thay  nuke 
tJiemaelves  very  pleasant" 

"  At  any  rate  I  hope  you  will  not  i^tesk 
on  the  subject  in  that  decidedly  Sippsnt 
manner  to  Agatha  Wharton." 

"  I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  speak  to 
Miaa  Wharton  on  that  or  any  other  anbject 
aa  I  may  see  fit,"  said  Agatha's  defender 
quietly. 

"  By  all  meana,"  Mra.  Tyerman  a^ 
qoiesced  with  a  little  flutter  of  her  bonnet- 
atringa,  riaing  as  she  spoke ;  "  bat  I  have 
a  duty  to  perfonn.  I  uiall  most  certainly 
apeak  to  the  Dean." 

"Which  I  don't  believe  even  she  will 
have  the  face  to  do,"  said  Uttle  Mm 
Dorman  to  her  husband  when  giving — as 
ahe  did  with  much  guato — an  account  of 
the  interview. 

CHAPTER  V,      COME  BACK. 

Mrs.  Ttbrhan's  tiireat  waa  never  canied 
out;  even  she,  I  suppose,  as  little  Mm 
Dorman  had  prophesied,  not  caring  to  face 
the  qoiet,  conrteoua  old  Deao  on  each  so 
errand. 

So  time  aped  on.  Autumn  had  si^ied  it- 
self somewhat  blusteringtyout;  and  winter. 


like  old  see,  had  stolea  qnietl^,  almost 
impercflpti&lf  in. 

As  time  went  on,  and  the  Major  became, 
if  that  were  possible,  a  atill  more  frequent 
Tiaitor  to  the  Deanery,  his  confidence  did 
not  increase,  and  he  saw  no  waj  to 
■peaking  irhat  was  nearest  to  his  heart 
At  times  it  had  seemed  to  him  indeed 
that  the  time  for  speiOcmg  would  never 
come  to  him  at  all.  Was  he  «a  the 
daji  went  on  becoming  leas  to  the  Dean's 
daughter  instead  of  morel  Were  her 
■miles,  herwelcome,  really  lotdng  something 
of  th^  warmth  and  readiness  1  Was  she 
a  goddess  still,  bat  a  goddess  freezing  into 
m  arhle  as  his  o  wn  fire  and  ardonr  inorrased  1 
latterly  there  were  days  even  when  he 
Uionght  she  shunned  him,  and  when  the 
remambraoce  that  another  had  beoi  before- 
hand with  him  would  force  itself  upon  him 
and  hannt  him  with  a  persistency  that 
made  the  outlook  very  dark  indeed.  For 
of  coarse  he,  too,  bad  heard  of  Captain 
Danby.  Mrs.  Tyerman,  fbr  one,  had  taken 
care  that  he  should  not  be  in  ignorance  on 
that  subject. 

That  the  Major  doded  that  lady  in  every 
possible  way  I  need  not  say.  At  the  first 
sound  of  that  dreaded  voice  he  .would  turn 
and  floe.  But  this  was  not  always  possible. 
Calm  and  impassive  as  the  Major  cotdd  be, 
Uie  Bectoress  knew  well  where  the  shoe 
fonched,  and  pertinadonsly  insisted  when- 
ever they  met  at  social  reunions,  street 
eonieis,  ^e  cared  not  where,  upon  trying 
it  on. 

"The  unfijrtonate  part  of  it  is,"  she 
loodly  declared  one  day,  under  the  veiy 
walls  of  the  Deanery,  where  she  had  cap- 
tared  her  victim  coming  oat ;  "  the  un- 
fratunate  part  of  it  is  the  girl  cares  for  him 
still — anyooe  can  see  it  Oh,  she  is  very 
much  altered — very  much.  But,  as  I  was 
saying  the  other  day,  the  man  may  come 
back  yet.  Yon  military  men  seem  to  think 
you  can  let  a  girl  down  and  pick  her  up  as 
yon  please." 

l^s.  Tyerman  came  to  a  fall  stop.  The 
Slajor'a  dark  &ce  was  qniet  and  impassive 
as  tuual,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
keen  grey  eyes,  which  Jack  had  likened 
to  gimlets,  that  she  had  never  seen  there 
before.  \^iat  was  it  the  owner  of  the  eyes 
was  saying  I 

"  Say  what  you  choose  of  ub,  Mrs.  Tyer- 
man, bat  I  must  ask  yoa  to  undeistend 
for  the  future  I  utterly  decline  to  hear  yon 
discuss  MisB  Wharton  or  her  affairs."  The 
Major  laieed  his  hat  and  was  gone. 

Ura.  Tverman  stood  lookinn  after  him. 


DEAN  WHARTON'S  DAUaBTER.         iM«ch  i&,  um.1    397 

ahnost  doubting  her  own  identity.    This 
was  worse  than  Mrs.  Dorman. 

AndthevictoriousMajor!  TheRectoress 
might  have  taken  comfort  to  herself  could 
she  have  heard  him,  as  he  strode  barrack- 
ward,  repeating  her  lately  uttered  words  : 
"  She  cares  for  him  still ;  the  man  may 
come  back  yet" 

It  was  already  growing  late,  bat  he 
repeated  them  to  himself  a  good  many 
tunes  before  the  day  was  dona  They 
haunted  his  dreams,  they  were  on  ids  lips  the 
first  dung  when  he  awokethe  next  morning. 

It  was  not  the  custom  for  the  troops  at 
Fostleton  to  attend  the  cathedral,  &ough 
a  Ted  coat  or  two,  with  its  accompaniment 
of  gold  Uce,  was  generally  to  be  espied 
gleaming  here  and  there  at  morning 
servio&  One  of  the  stray  red  coats  on  the 
Sunday  following  Mn.  Tyerman's  reboff 
was  &e  h^jor  himself,  bnt  he,  as  you  may 
suppose,  was  often  to  be  found  there.  This 
morning  service  had  already  began  when 
he  entered.  The  Dean'a  family  were  long 
since  in  their  places,  and  the  Dean's  James, 
who  was  wont  to  find  a  seat  with  them, 
had  to  content  himself  with  a  modest  place 
among  the  crowd  of  general  worshippers, 
from  whence,  however,  he  could  catch 
glimpses  of  the  face  for  which  he  hongered, 
aad  which,  I  fear,  was,  on  this  particular 
morning  tA  least,  all  that  he  had  gone 
there  for. 

Jack's  &esh  young  voice  rang  oat  from 
his  place  in  the  choir  ;  the  Dean  himself 
preached  the  sermon ;  bat  neither  Jack's 
fresh  young  voice,  nor  the  Dean'a  silvery 
tones,  reached  him.  For  James  Browne  just 
now  there  was  only  one  voice  in  all  the 
world,  and  he  was  telling  himself,  alas  I 
that  it  would  have  been  oetter  for  him, 
perhaps,  if  he  had  never  heard  it 

But  other  eyes  were  upon  the  Dean's 
daughter  this  morning,  and  iwon  the 
Major  too.  The  Rector  of  St  Swithin's 
was  breathing  freely  in  his  own  pulpit  He 
was  in  disgrace,  and  his  very  much  the 
better  half  was  procluming  it  aloud,  as 
was  her  wont,  in  furs  and  nistling  winter 
garments,  to  the  best  families  in  Postleton. 

Service  over,  choir  and  clergy  were  filing 
from  their  places,  then  Mrs.  l^ennan, 
scarcely  waitmg  for  the  last  surplice  to 
flutter  and  disappear,  elbowed  her  way  out 
withanod  here  and  Uiere,  reaching  the  great 
west-door  jast  in  time  to  lay  a  detaming  , 
hand  upon  a  soldierly  figure  leaving  it         { 

"  Captain  Danby  I "  she  said. 

When  the  Dean'a  daaghter,  one  of  the  ' 
last  to  leave,  came  oat  some  three  ot  four  I 


[Uuch  IS,  IBH.I 


ALL  THE  Y£AB  BOUND. 


mlnnteB  Iftter,  she  came  straight  upon  the 
two  still  stand ing  ther& 

Poor  Agatha !  She  saw  at  once  who 
Mrs.  TyeiTDan's  companion  was.  A  flnsh 
came  to  her  cheek,  a  little  throb  to  her 
heart,  bat  that  was  all.  Then  ^e  put  oat 
her  hand. 

"  How  do  70a  do  ! "  ahe  said  qnistly,  ao 
quietly  that  the  captain,  who  was  looking 
for  something  qmte  different — snrpiiBe, 
pleasore,  agitation— lost  some  of  his  own 
coolness  and  began  a  hurried  enquiry  after 
all  at  the  Deanery. 

Frank  and  the  Major  were  not  far 
behind.-  As  the  three — Agatha,  Mra  Tyw- 
man,  and  Captain  Danby — torned  down  the 
path  between  the  leafless  elms,  ihem  two 
appeared  at  the  big  door. 

"  Good  graciooB ! "  cried  Frank,  coming 
to  a  standstill  at  sight  of  the  retreating 
figures ;  and  Jack,  who  had  just  come  np, 
made  a  face  of  dissost. 

It  was  not  mncn  either  to  say  or  do, 
bat  the  Major  had  seen  enough.  He 
needed  to  ask  no  questions,  he  knew  at 
once  what  had  happened.  Mrs.  Tyerman's 
words  had  fulfilled  themselres,  and  "the 
man  had  come  back."  For  a  moment  or 
two  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  else,  then 
Frank's  voice  recalled  him 

"She  will  never  ask  him  in,  Jack." 

"  By  Oeorge  1 "  cried  Jack  with  a  savage 
jump,  "  bnt  she  has,  though  1  Oh,  come 
alo^,  Major,  and  let's  turn  him  out." 

The  Deanery  door,  through  which  the 
three  had  disappeared,  stood  horoitably 
open  still,  but  the  Major  shook  his  head. 

"  Xot  in  all  this  war-paint  and  feathers. 
What  would  Mrs.  Tyerman  say  I "  and  with 
a  farewell  wave  of  his  hand  be  was  gone, 
spurs  jingling,  chains  rattling. 

The  two  young  people  stood  looking  after 
the  brilliantly-clad  figure. 

"  Well,"  said  Jack,  "  to  think  he  should 
be  as  a£raid  of  old  Mother  T.  as  all  that  I" 

Frank  looked  at  Jack  a  moment,  a  fnnny 
little  look  had  stolen  to  her  eyes,  then  : 
"  Oh,  Jack,"  she  cried,  "who  is  the  duffer 
now,  I  should  like  to  know  1 " 

CHAPTEB  VL  SHUT  OUT, 
When  Gay  Danby  turned  his  back  on 
Postleton  and  upon  the  Dean's  daughter,  as 
be  told  himself  for  ever,  he  was  quite  cour 
scioosof  his  own  perfidy  and  dishonour. 
But  the  knowledge,  as  you  may  suppose, 
troubled  him  but  Uttla  The  only  thing 
that  did  trouble  him,  and  what  he  was  not 
at  all  prepared  for,  was  to  find  that  having 
BO  tamed  his  back  upon  it,  he  was  wishing 


himself  back  in  the  quiet  city  once  mora 
As  the  weeks  rolled  on,  and  the  imwvj 
beautifnl  face  continued  to  haunt  not  ralf 
his  days  but  his  dreams,  he  could  combit 
the  spell  no  longor.  Postleton  vas  to  be 
revisited,  the  dropped  thrcadB  taken  ap ;  it 
was  to  be  a  simple  thing  enough.  Bat  the 
Dean's  daughter  met  him,  as  we  have  leeo, 
and  suddenly  the  dreams  in  her  bebilf 
seemed  to  melt  and  vanish.  How  he  dnng 
to  them  then,  how  more  and  more  dear  ibe 
became  to  bun  as  he  found  her  slipping 
from  himt 

Id  the  days  that  followed  on  that  Sun- 
day, although  he  got  no  invitation  to  enter 
the  Deanery,  and  although  his  welcome 
then  waa  of  the  scantiest^  he  could  not 
keep  away.  The  love  denied  caused  Hi 
own  passioa  to  rage  and  bum  with  a  fieiee- 
ness  be  conld  no  longer  conteol,  and  avoid, 
repel  him  as  she  might  and  did,  he  told 
himself  that  he  would  speak  and  she 
should  listen. 

Daring  these  days  the  Dean's  Jamei 
came  not  at  all  to  uie  old  cwner-hovse  in 
the  Close,  and  the  Dean's  daughter,  ^», 
too,  had  her  secret,  was  thankfal  to  re- 
member that  she  had  kept  it  so  well 

And  now  it  wanted  bnt  a  week  to 
Christmas.  Winter  had  already  set  las 
seal  on  earth,  ur,  and  water.  Quiet  pondi 
hidden  aWa^-  in  nnfreqaented  heUovi 
resounded  with  the  ring  of  skates,  and  6t« 
shouts  of  healthful  voices.  By  white,  wind- 
swept roads  the  tall  trees  stood  bhtck  and 
bare-armed,  and  over  all  a  leaden  s^  gsn 
promise  of  winter's  crown — a  fall  of  mow. 
A  few  feathery  flakes  were  already  lof^ 
floaUng  here  and  there  as  Agatha  Wharton 
cane  walking  briskly  along  the  high-roid 
some  two  miles  beyond  Poetleton.  She 
had  been  lunching  at  a  neighbouring 
rectory.  Arthur  baa  promised  to  meet  her, 
but  as  yet  he  was  nowhere  to  be  noi. 
Presently  a  torn  in  the  road  brought  ta 
approaching  fignre  in  sights  Not  Arthnr'B 
s^ht,  trim  fi^ire  and  light,  boyish  step— 
tiaa  was  that  of  a  man,  tall,  sqaaie- 
shouldered,  well  set  np,  with  a  sonieriy 
swing  and  tread. 

'  Agatha  recognised  it  at  once.  One  look 
at  his  face,  and  she  knew  what  he  bad 
come  for.  One  look  at  hers,  and  he  knew 
the  utter  hopelessness  of  hie  errand.  Bri 
it  did  not  deter  him. 

"Don't  send  me  away,"  he  sud  sbari^i 
as  after  a  word  or  two  she  once  more  put 
out  her  h&nd.  "  I  came  out  here  puiposdy 
to  meet  yon,  to  speak  to  yoo." 

Then  Agatha  Wharton  knew  that  ake 


DEAN  WHARTON'S  DAUGHTER.  [M«chis,i8M.j    399 


mort  nibmit  benelf  to  her  fate,  and 
huteiied  her  homswud  footsteps  u  the 
(mly  thing  left  her  to  do. 

"  I  thmk  yon  mn£t  know  what  I  h&ve 
eome  oat  here  to  say,  what  I  must  say  f " 

"No,  no,"  she  inteimpted  him.  "If  I 
know  what  it  is,  don't  say  it — better  not, 
far  bettw  not" 

"Why  nott"  he  cried.  "What  ia  it 
has  dumped  yoni" 

'*  Who  changed  first  t "  ahe  asked  qnietlT, 
bn  eyes  not  on  him,  bat  looking  stra^nt 
aw»y  atong  the  dnll,  grey  line  of  ntA 
stretching  before  them. 

He  canght  at  her  words. 

"  Is  it  that  I "  be  cried  eagerly ;  "  ia  it 
tiiatt  Fotget  it,  only  remembor  that  I 
tored  yon  mora  than  I  knew,  that  I  love 
yon  atuL     Yon  cannot  donbt  it  t " 

She  did  not  donbt  it  She  conld  not 
look  upon  his  faoe,  she  eoold  not  hear  his 
Toice,  and  donbt  it  Bnt  she  only  diook 
bwhead. 

"  Too  late,  too  late  1" 

It  was  litde  man  than  a  whisper,  bat  he 
heATdit 

"  Too  late,"  h«  repeated,  "  and  yon  cared 
fyt  me  not  so  long  ago  I  Yon  loved  me — 
do  yon  deny  it  1 " 

He  had  cmoght  her  hand,  and  they  stood 
being  one  another,  two  solitary  figoree  on 
the  Ueak  ban  luKfaway. 

"  No,  I  do  not  deny  it,"  she  said  quietly ; 
"  why  shonld  ,1  attempt  to  do  so  1  Yon 
knew  it  well  enongh,  and  yon  conld  leave 
me." 

They  were  the  first  bitter  worda  he  had 
ever  heard  from  her  lips.    Too  late,  indeed  1 

Sie  stood  fronting  him,  a  little  shade 
of  pain,  of  prid«,  upon  her  face,  bnt,  as  he 
know,  with  not  a  tlirob  in  pnlse  or  heart 
for  him.  Bnt  he  conld  not  give  her  np 
even  then. 

"  Can  yon  not  forgive,"  he  began  hoarsely, 
"  or  is  there  someone  else,  someone 1 " 

A  little  pale  flush  had  come  to  Agatha's 
cheek,  a  startled  look  to  her  eyes.  There 
WM  the  clatter  of  swift  horse's  hoofs  npon 
the  iron  road ;  another  moment,  horse  and 
rider,  swifter  and  swifter  yet  at  sight  of 
tiiem,  were  dashing  wildly  past ;  another, 
and  in  answer  to  Uie  spur,  the  hone  had 
swerved,  and  his  rider,  stuimed  and  sense- 
loM,  lay  idmost  at  'their  feet  It  was  the 
Dean's  James,  the  man  who  at  that 
moment  had  been  in  both  their  thonghts. 

Then  Gny  Danby's  pnnishment  began. 
He  taw  we  woman  who  no  longer 
loved  him,  throw  herself  by  his  rival's 
side.  iaraeMl  of  his  verv  otesence.     He 


saw  the  look  npon  her  face  that  might 
have  been  for  him ;  he  saw  her  take  the 
unconscioos  figure  to  her  olasp  and  hold  it 
there,  pillowing  the  wonnded  head  npon 
her  lap,  careless  alike  of  whether  he  or  all 
the  world  looked  on,  so  cmly  she  night 
gnaid  and  shelter  him. 

Gny  Danby  had  taken  off  his  great-coat,  _ 
and  would  have  thrown  it  over  her 
shonlder& 

"Ko,  no,"  she  cried,  when  she  fottnd 
what  he  was  doing ;  "  here,  here,  on  him," 
and  covered  the  white,  stUl  figure  as  best 
she  conld. 

Her  companion  went,  back  to  the  middle 
tA  tba  road,  and  looked  anxiously  np  and 
down. 

"  If  only  someone  wonld  come  by,"  he 
said,  returning  to  Agatha  "  I  cannot  leave 
yon  hen,  and  see,  the  snow  is  falling." 

Bnt  Agatha  heeded  neither  Guy  Danby 
nor  the  falling  snow,  save  that  she  strove 
to  cover  the  prostrate  form  mora  closely. 
Only  once  she  looked  up  at  her  com'panioa 

"Ifl  he  dead,  do  yon  think  t"  she 
whispered  with  white,  trembling  lips, 

"  Only  stunned,  I  think,"  he  answered, 
letting  tall  the  listless  hand,  and  went  back 
to  his  watch  once  more. 

But  Guy  Danby's  ordeal  was  nearly 
over.  A  sound  of  distant  wheels  that, 
growing  nearer,  presently  brought  a  carriage 
dose  upon  them.  At  sight  of  them  the 
coachman  draw  up  sharply,  a  familiar  head 
was  popped  oat  of  the  window;  another 
moment,  and  the  Rectoress  of  St  Swithin's 
was  standing  by  Agatha  Wharton's  side. 
Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  it  could  not  have 
been  anyone  better. 

Mrs.  Tyerman  gave  one  glance  about  her 
— a  glance  that  took  in  all  three,  and  the 
state  of  afiairs  ae  well  as  if  she  had  been 
there  from  the  beginning.  Then  she  asked 
a  question  or  two,  felt  the  Major's  pulse,  and 
in  thne  minntes  from  her  first  appearance 
on  the  scene  had  him  safely  in  her  carriage 
with  Agatha  ntUng  opposite,  and  the 
Captain  on  the  box,  under  orders  for 
Postleton,  "  and  carefully  mind,  or  I  shall 
get  out  and  drive  myself." 

CHACTBB    VIL 

CHBISTUA3  Eve,  but  early  morning,  so 
early  that  day  is  only  just  stealing  over 
the  city,  and  the  happier  half  of  Postleton 
slumbCT  yet  The  ur  is  sharp  and  still, 
and  snow  lies  thick  and  white  on  every- 
thing and  everywhere — over  quiet  fields; 
over  small  country  towns  and  busy  cities ; 
over  the  bat  half -awakened  citv  of  Postleton 


400      (Hucb  16, 1SU.I 


ALL  THE  TEAK  ROtTND. 


itself ;  over  the  cathedral,  grey  and 
solemn  in  the  winter's  dawn,  whete  in 
their  niches  the  saints  stand  grim  and 
irliite,  sheeted  like  linnen  at  their  penanoe; 
thick  and  white  abont  the  quiet  Oloie, 
where  the  stiff  red  booses  stand  like  whited 
sepolchies,  and  where  in  the  Deanecf  itself 
AgathaWharton'e  eyes  are  just  opening,  and 
the  world  is  beginning  for  her  once  mora  - 

For  all  the  merry  Christmas-tide  her 
heart  ia  heavy,  and  the  short  winter's  day 
drags  wearily  to  its  close.  The  Deans 
James  had  ts^en  farewell  of  Fostleton,  his 
broken  head  has  been  mended,  and  he  is 
off  to-day  on  aick-l^aTe,  and  has.  hinted  of 
India  and  exchange,  so  the  Deanery  scarcely 
looks  to  see  him  again.  As  dosk  fell  he 
shonld  have  been  many  a  mile  away,  and 
yet  who  paced  with  resuesa  steps  the  ssow- 
covered  Sam  of  the  cathedral-yard  1 

Frank  Wharton  crooaing  it  came  npon 
the  well-known  fifnire.  It  was  quite  dark, 
bnt  she  recognised  it  at  once,  and  even  in 
her  surprise,  I  think,  what  bron^tittiiere. 

"Why,  Unde  James,"  she  cried,  "I 
thongbt  you  were  miles  away  1 " 

The  Major  gave  a  little  guil^  start  ae 
she  touched  his  shoulder. 


"Wbat  are  yon  here  for,  then!"  said 
Frank  bluntly, 

"  Can't  yon  guess ) "  the  Major  asked 
qnieUy,  "  I  have  heard  somethuig,  and  I 
cannot  go  till  i  have  seen  her." 

"If  yon  mean  Agatha,  and  I  snppose 
you  do,  she  is  in  there,  and  oh,  Uncle 
James,  she  is  reiy  unhappy!" 

In  tjie  cathedral,  aftranoon  service  was 
just  condudinf^  Lights  shone  here  and 
there  through  the  itamed  windows.  Pre- 
sently Uie  doora  were  thrown  open,  one  of 
Handel's  choruses  came  rolling  from  ^e 
or^an.  Then  the  little  group  of  wor- 
Bhippers  came  quietly  out. 

The  Dean's  daughter  was  one  of  the 
last  to  leave.  She  stood  still  a  moment, 
her  face  upturned  to  the  Btarlit  sky,  then 

Srepared  to  more  away.  As  she  did  so,  a 
ark  figure  came  out  of  the  shadows,  a 
hand  was  laid  upon  her  arm,  a  voice  she 
knew  spoke  her  name.  It  was  not  fire 
minutes'  walk  from  the  cathedral  to  the 
Deanery,  but  to-night  it  took  so  much 
longer  that  before  it  was  reached  the 
Major  had  learned  all  he  wanted  to  know, 
and  India  was  worlds  away.  Instead  was 
only  the  Deanery  door  standing  hospitably 
open,  with  the  Dean,  who  had  just  come 
up,  holding  out  a  welcoming  hand.    The 


•oil  light  fromtlie  lamp  bomingin  the  htll 
streamed  out,  and  tell  warmly  on  the  Oatt. 

Then  the  door  closed,  and  ihnt  then, 
the  lamp-light,  and  the  waimth,  safe  with- 
in. It  shut  out  the  winter's  night,  iiit 
darkness,  and  the  snow.  It  shut  oat  tha 
paaaer>-by ;  it  shnt  out  one  who  lingend 
there,  and  coold  not  take  himself  snyj-i 
man  with  a  dark,  despairing  face,  snd  wild 
passion  at  his  heart ;  shut  hun  out  fix  em 
from  what  might  hare  been  his  own. 

As  he  turned  away  at  last,'  the  cathsdnl 
bells  clanged  out,  and  someone  pauing 
wished  him  "  A  Mwry  Ghristmis  1" 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 

PAST  IIL 
"  Yon  ought  to  see  the  Smoke  Holes !" 
This  was  tiie  exclamation  wherewith  I 
had  so  suddenly  been  startled  by  mygoide, 
shortly  after  we  had  left  our  friend  the 
one-eyed  basket-maker,  who,- by  a  f Dimj 
freak  of  memory,  somehow  had  reinmdea 
me  of  the  one-eyed  Second  Calender  in 
the  Arabian  Nights.  The  dear  Aisbiin 
Nights  1  For  how  many  pleasant  diji 
have  I  to  thank  those  predous  Nights! 
What  magical  delights  hare  been  coDJsnd 
by  their  trpM !  Like  orient  pearls  it 
random  strung,  these  gems  of  Euten 
fairy  lore  have  been  fastened  on  mf 
memory,  and  in  many  a  dark  hour  hsT8 
flashed  upon  my  brain.  How  I  have  pitied 
poor  Aladdin  when  his  palace  diss^eind, 
and  with  it  hia  fair  princess,  whose  ItHig 
name  Badroulbadour  no  schoolboy  dm 
pronounce ;  and  how  I  have  rejoiced  when 
she  so  pluckily  had  poisoned  this  magiosn, 
and  Aladdin  had  regained  possessioii  of 
his  lamp  1  How  I  have  envied  Camtnl- 
Eaman  the  lore  of  his  Badonra,  and  hive 
enjoyed  the  ducking  of  his  servant  in  the 
well !  How  sorry  I  have  felt  for  the  yoong 
king  of  the  Black  Isles,  who  from  tlM 
waist  downwards  was  marble,  and  not 
-man  1  How  I  have  read  with  bieathlw 
interest  every  detail  of  the  battle  fooght 
between  the  Queen  of  Beauty  and  the 
Evil  Genius,  who,  appearing  as  a  lion,  wu 
halved  neatly  by  a  hair  (tnuosfonned  into 
a  scythe),  then  was  changed  into  a  scor- 
pion, a  serpent,  a  possy-cat,  and  a  poms- 
granate-seed,  and  ^ter  escaping  as  a  M 
m>m  the  jaws  of  his  pursuer,  rose  from  the 
water  all  aflame,  and  was  burned  finsUf 
to  bitsl  How  I  hare  laughed  at  poor 
Alnaschar,  the  barber's  fifth  brothw,  wbsD 
he  kicked  over  his  glass-ware,  sua 
;  awoke    £rom    his    sweet    day-dieam  « 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAOT. 


proflperitf  and  pomp  I  How  I  have 
Wged  to  have  a  moimt  on  the  fiielumted 
Horse,  and  to  go  witiL  Prince  Firooz 
Schah,  that  boldnt  of  aU  high-flyen,  on  a. 
Blg^t  towards  the  numn  1  I  remember, 
niien  I  climbed  a  tree  to  peep  into  a 
pigeon's  nest,  I  often  pleased  myself  with 
thmVing  how  yonng  Sindbad  we  Sailor 
had  diseorered  tiie  100*8  em  br  a  similar 
uceat ;  or  bow  dear  old  Afi  Baba,  being 
nmilariy  perehed,  heard  the  magical 
"Open  Seaamfi"  of  tlie  fiunons  Forty 
Thnrea  I  beliara  I  coold  still  find,  on 
the  Maflhore  ni^  to  Felixstowe,  the 
precise  spot  where  tiia  fisherman,  to  my 
hacj,  waa  at  w<nk  when  the  Getuos  {tlu 
"  Qmie  "  in  my  tAA,  ill-printed  Teraon)  was 
eics^iiiig  wrapped  in  smob  from  the  yellow 
copper  vase ;  and  I  ooold  readily  show  the 
place  in  the  qnaint  M.  town  of  Harwich 
where  AUddin  saw  the  piinoees  coming 
from  her  bath.  The  dear  Arabian  NighU  1 
As  TalleynBtd  exelsimed,  "Ah,  iraat  a 
Bad  old  age  yoa  are  preparing  for  yonr- 
■elf  1 "  to  a  yoong  man  woo  protested  tliat  be 
eared  not  to  leoni  whist;  so  wonld  I  ery  ont, 
"  Ab,  what  liMoag  [deanires  of  memory  yoa 
may  lose  if  yoa  care  not  in  yoor  yonth  to 
read  the  dear  Arabian  Nights  I " 

Bat  I  have  mx>nnted  on  my  hobby-horse, 
and  am  galloping  away  from  the  goidance 
of  my  gude,  who  had  suddenly  exclaimed 
to  me: 

"Now  we  are  so  near  them,  yoa  ondit 
to  see  tiie  smoke  •  holes."  The  smoke- 
boles  f  Why  yes,  oertunly.  Since  he 
thooght  it  was  my  dnty,  I  wonld  surely 
see  ue  smokfr-boles.  As  a  travelleT,  I  was 
bound  to  see  the  strange  sights  of  the 
eonntry  I  was  bent  upon  exploring.  The 
smoke-holes  1  What  on  earth  th^  were, 
I  coold  not  imagine.  There  was  a  magic 
in  their  name  that  whetted  cariosity, 
and  made  me  anxious  to  behold  these 
marvels  of  the  East 

As  we  trudged  along,  my  fancy  revelled 
in  the  smoke-holes.  Were  they  geysers, 
or  volcanoes,  or  deep  caverns  in  the  earth; 
fissores  snlphnrous  and  g^iaetly,  vomiting 
huge  volnmes  of  vaporous  obscarity, 
Smoke  -  holes  like  to  these  seemed 
BO^geated  by  my  memories  of  Oriental 
fairy-tale  and  scenes  described  in  ttavellen' 
books.     Bat  the  reality  fell  abort  of  the 


We  found  the  smoke  -  boles  simply 
chimneys,  square-built  of  thick  plauks, 
about  four  feet  in  width,  and  a  dozen  or 
ao  in  height  In  each  a  &e  of  sawdust  lay 
amoolderme  at  bottom,  while  above  bunr 


sprats  or  haddocks,  rmnlar  in  rows,  and 
spitted  apon  sticks.  A  "  maobine  "  of  fish, 
I  learned,  was  &  truck-load  of  two  tons; 
and  such  were  often  bought  and  shared 
among  the  renters  of  the  smoke-holee, 
whose  tnde  it  was  to  clean,  and  salt,  and 
dry,  and  smoke  the  fish.  In  the  shed 
which  we  had  entered,  a  couple  of  mm 
were  busily  employed  in  qdittii^  haddocks 
at  a  most  *rn»»iiig  pace ;  cleaning  them 
and  sotting  them  according  to  their  sises, 
and  a  little  too,  it  seemed  to  me,  according 
to  tbeir  smell.  Another  man  and  a  small 
boy  were  opening  their  giUs,  and  stringing 
them  on  sticks,  which  they  htmg  across  the 
holea  Above  the  heads  of  the  two 
spUttera,  in  a  cage  six  inches  square,  A 
pret^  little  linnet  was  warbling  to  the 
woikeri,  irtio  seemed  to  have  sm^  leisure 
to  listen  to  his  song. 

In  Oia  yard  next  door,  a  man  and  boy 
were  lUwwise  hard  at  work,  spitting  sprats 
npon  tiie  atidu.  This  seemed  a  work  more 
delicate  and  slower  to  accompliab,  as  they 
were  smaller  fi»b.  They  looked  ailvery  and 
bright  as  they  were  taken  from  tbe  salting 
tab.  Id  the  room  through  which  we  passed 
— ud  whiob  seemed  sculery,  and  kitchen, 
and  dlning-wvwn,  and  workshop,  and  bed- 
chamber to  boot — two  women,  brisk  and 
bnxom,  with  their  sleeves  tacked  to  tbeir 
elbows,  were  nnployed  in  cleaning  dmQar 
small  fish,  A  cat  lay  snoozbg  by  the  fire, 
looking  comfortably  sleek,  and  presenting 
a  rare  contrast  to  tbe  lean  cats  we  had 
seen.  She  was  doubtless  fond  of  fish — 
pussies  generally  are — although  I  guessed 
her  to  be  a  newcomer,for  she  must  have  bad 
a  glat  of  it  in  such  a  fiahy  place.  However 
good  her  appetite,  abe  most  soon  feel  like 
the  gitocer^  boy,  who  finds  that  sugar  is 
too  sweet  for  him  after  a  week's  work. 

I  remarked  upon  the  number  of  what  I 
mistook  for  mice-bolea,  in  the  flooring  by 
tbe  hearthstone,  and  the  comers  (d  tbe 
walls.  I  said  I  thought  the  cat  must  be 
a^;lectfal  of  her  duty,  and  was  banlly 
worth  her  keep ;  she  looked  ao  aleek  and 
aleepy,  and  the  mice  seemed  so  abundant 
"  Mices  'olee  1 "  cried  tbe  woman,  smilii^ 
at  my  ignorance.  "Law,  sir,  tbey  aint 
mices  'olea,  they're  rats'  'oles,  that's  what 
theyara  An'aplentyof 'emwehastoo,  an' 
can  t  no  ways  keep  'em  out,  we  cant;  Fast 
as  ever  we  Uocks  one  'ole,  there  they  makes 
another  bigger.  They're  too  absrp  for  tbe 
cat  to  catctC  and  as  for  aettin'  o'  traps,  it 
ain't  a  mite  of  uaa  Bait  'em  as  yon  may, 
Uiey  won't  never  go  anigh  'em.  I  s'pose 
an  it's  thehoffla  as  temns'em  to  flock  in  sa 


402    (utRk  IS,  ie«t,] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOUNI). 


V'see,  sir,  after  a  goodish  upell  o'  work, 
an'  spMhly  cleanin'  'addoelo,  tiun'a  tHyt 
lota  o'  boffle,  aod  I  &11C7  aa  tbe  rata  they 
like*  it  for  their  su[raen.  Blesa  70a,  vhttL 
th«  light's  oat,  and  thera'i  nobody  to  aeo 
'em,  'came  they're  'mazin'  ahy  it  rats,  they 
cuts  ont  of  their  'oles,  and  lacka  np  sach  a 
atpsr )  One  can't  hardly  sleep  a'  times, 
they're  ao  a  sqnealin',  an'  aaqueakin',  aa'  a 
kiokin'  op  a  shindy.  Nnisance  %  Wdl  yAi, 
nov  yoa  come  to  think  of  it,  they  are  a 
sUghliEh  mnsance.  I've  often  felt  'em  on 
tile  bed,  and  'ad  to  keep  a  stick  aoigh  me 
"andy  for  to  knock  'em  off  it  Mora  nor 
ODce  or  twice  they've  nuined  orer  aczost 
my  face  they  have,  and  my  'oflband  eaye 
he've  eered  'em  a  goawrin'  of  bis  whiaktea. 
Why  yes,  yon  may  say  that,  sir.  'Tis  well 
aa  they  likes  fish,  or  some  fine  night  they'd 
be  a  nibblin'  of  onr  noses  off." 

A  very  little  boy,  with  very  little 
olotliing  on,  was  prattling  to  his  mother, 
iriule  he  played  aboat  the  room.  He  had 
no  playmate  to  help  him,  nor  had  he  any 
pI&ytbmK,  and  he  seemed  playing  a  smaJl 
game  of  hide-and-se^  all  by  lumself.  His 
cheeks  were  plump  and  rosy — they  were  the 
firat  Eastern  rosea  I  had  aeen — and  he 
looked  certainly  as  thon^^  a  fish  diet  agreed 
wiUi  him,  as  it  did  dearly  with  the  oat 
To  vary  the  monotony  of  his  playing  all 
alone,  I  took  him  by  the  arms,  and  gave 
him  the  delight  of  some  jumping  in  the  air. 
He  seemed  mightily  to  relish  this  new  form 
of  entertainment ;  and,  when  I  bade  good- 
bye to  bim,  he  eyed  me  rather  wis^illy, 
much  as  a  dog  may  eye  his  master  when 
the  dog  deeires  to  be  taken  for  a  walk. 
Chancing  to  look  round  when  I  was  half- 
way down  the  street,  I  perceived  my  young 
playmate  closely  following  at  my  heels,  ana 
he  began  to  cry  a  little  when  his  mother 
called  htn  back.  Well,  thought  I,  as  he 
left  me,  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  please  a  child 
who  wants  a  game  of  play ;  and  this  little 
fellow  can  certunly  have  known  bat  little 
pleaanre  in  his  life,  when  he  finds  so  much 
eni^ment  in  a  few  jumps  from  the  tioor. 

Xnere  are  .plenty  of  these  smoke-hotea 
to  be  met  with  in  the  East ;  and  some  few 
of  their  occapanta  appear  now  to  be  doing 
a  &irly  thriving  trade,  in  comparison,  at 
leaat,  with  other  Eastern  folk.  In  using 
the  word  "occupants,"  I  write  a  little 
figuratively,  for  certainly  the  occupation  of 
a  smoke  ■  hole  would  be  anything  but 
pleasant,  and  hardly  even  possible  wi^L 
the  sawdust  well  alight  Some  amount  of 
capital  must  certainly  be  needful  to  enable 
a  few  traders  to  buy  -two  tons  of  -fish. 


Indeed,  I  beard  some  whiapera  ,i<Wing 
S0]iMwh«9«  in  the  tix,  about  4M  toituma 
that  were  rumoured  to  be  stored  up  in  old 
stockings,  or  otherwise  oonoetled.  Bat  I 
fancy  thve  are  middlemm  with  fingers  in 
tbe  pie,  who  help  t^ifinuetves,  no  doubt,  to 
a  good  slice  of  its  contents.  The  fitb- 
marketa  are  in  a  rather  fiahy  state  at 
pnaent,  and  if  some  few  among  the  snoken 
somehow  manage  in  some  years  to  put  b; 
something  handsoDie,  they  do  so  1^  bira 
working  at  a  rather  ugly  trade. 

It  must  be  nndentood,  moreover,  thit 
many  ot  tbeae  fish-enrers  are  compelled  to 
live  by  [uacework,  for  they  are  far  too  poor 
to  ahue  in  buying  a  "Buchine."  As  tbe 
work  is  intenmttent,  and  oomes  by  Buddsn 
fit«  and  starts,  it  can  hardly  bb  regarded  u 
a  regular  employment  Indeed,  in  a  aitik 
seaoon  there  are  many  workless,  and  than- 
fiwe  wageless  days ;  and  at  suck  timet  it  is 
difficult,  if  not  inqtoasiUe,  for  any  man  \o 
sam  above  a  crown  or  so  a  week. 

We  had  scarcely  left  Um  amoko-bolai, 
and  the  eoent  of  ewiain  aprata  was  still 
&eab  in  our  nostrils — though  "fresh," 
perhaps,  is  hardly  the  right  adjedive  to 
use — when  we  were  suddenly  enveloped  in 
an  odour  far  more  savoury,  whereof  a  few 
sniffs  called  to  mind  the  fragrant  smell  of 
Iiiah  atew.  Quickly  following  our  notes, 
we  traced  the  perfume  to  a  pint  mug  which 
was  wrapped  in  an  old  handkerchief,  and 
was  being  carried,  by  a  poor  newly-widored 
woman,  home  to  her  sick  child.  The  tteir 
had  dearly  come  from  the  Cottage  Mitiion 
kitchen,  for  where  else  was  procurable,  at 
least  in  tbat  poor  neigbboorfaood,  sadi 
richly  smellbg  food  T  Now  tho  mitiion 
stew  was  made,  as  I  well  knew,  "  to  be 
conBomed  upon  the  premisee,"  and  wis 
"  supplied  in  their  own  jngs,"  or  plates,  to 
its  consumers,  who  were  flowed  to  eit 
their  fill  then,  but  to  carry  none  away. 
This  was  tbe  rale,  and  very  sensible  it  vu. 
My  guide,  however,  now  informed  me  that, 
in  case  of  serious  illness,  the  role  was  not 
made  absolute,  and  that  children  or  their 
mothers  were  very  properly  allowed  to  take 
away  a  hdping,  if  they  had  a  litUe  one 
lying  sick  at  homa  Of  the  good  done  bf 
tiieee  dinnere  I  had  already  taken  coast, 
and  here  was  fnrther  procn  of  how  tlwf 
were  esteemed.  This  poor  wtnnan  bad 
been  walking  for  a  mile  or  two,  and  wait- 
ing for  an  hour  or  so,  to  get  a  little  wbo^ 
some  food  to  carry  home.  Her  littlt  ^ 
had  hardlyyet  recovered  from  the  whoofUDg- 
oon|^  and  was  so  weak,  tjie  ioctot  said, 
that  she  must  have  some  meat    Feriufs 


T&AVELS  IN  THE  EASX 


[Uuch  15, 1B84.)      403 


lie  might  u  well  have  preambed  &  slice  of 
peicock,  or  an  ortolan  or  tvo,  or  a  piiie- 
■ppl^  wapeach.  How  waa  a  poor  widow  to 
my  meat,  she'd  like  to  know,  when  she'd 
four  chUdien  to  feed,  and  with  all  her 
slanpg  only  earned  fire  bob  a  week  t  For 
deaiote  of  all  the  adyertised  adruitagee  of 
machines,  stitching  shirta  is  atiU  a  Btura- 
lion  sent  of  work,  and  the  wages  to  be 
gained  are  little  higher  than  mey  were 
when  the  famous  sOng  about  it  was  first 
pat  into  print 

The  next  halt  that  we  made  was  in  the 
bonse  of  a  poor  woman,  a  widow  like  the 
hat,  and  like  her  a  hard  worker,  and  one 
who  Ytry  literallr  had  hard  work  to  lire, 
while  living  hy  hard  work.  She  was  idle 
now,  however,  for  she  had  spramed  her 
back,  and  so  her  daughter,  somehow, 
managed  to  do  the  work  of  both  And  it 
wasn't  easy  neither,  to  make  fifty  beds 
a  day,  leastways  forty-seren,  if  yon  d  like 
to  speak  exact,  besides  a  cleaning  of  t^e 
rooms  and  a  sweeping  of  the  stairs  a  bit. 
An'  then  there  waa  a  washing  every  week 
of  fifty,  leastways  of  forty-sevea  sheets, 
and  a  score  or  so  of  towels — not  little  'una, 
nelthw,  mind  yoo,  bnt  regular  big  jades. 
This  was  the  bard  labour  to  which  she  and 
her  daughter  had  been  condemned,  periiaps 
for  life,  or  at  any  rate  for  a  living  A 
certain  poor  men's  lodging-house  just  down 
there  in  the  Causeway,  was  the  place  where 
this  life  punishment  waa  being  so  worked 
out.  Nine  shillings  a  week  was  all  the 
wages  they  could  earn,  and  there  were 
throe  mouuis  besides  her  own  to  fill 

Eigl^eenpeace  a  week  was  the  rent  of 
the  teceptioD-room  wherein  we  were 
received.  We  found  it  was,  in  fact,  the 
rait  of  the  whole  house.  Explored  &om 
ground  to  roof,  the  mansion  held  no  other 
chamber ;  indeed,  so  tumbledown  a  boose 
it  was  that  hardly  it  held  tbis.  I  could 
scareely  say  with  truth  that  we  were  in  a 
downstairs  room ;  for  staircase  there  was 
none,  and  no  attempt  at  a  first  floor.  The 
walla  seemed  thinand  tottering;  and,  if  they 
did  not  let  the  air  in,  it  entered  pretty  freely 
through  the  window  and  the  door.  There 
were  Dig  holes  in  the  ceiling  which  served 
to  admit  daylight ;  big  holes  were  visible 
likewise  in  the  roof.  Perhaps  for  a  day- 
worker  this  might  be  esteemed  a  benefit, 
for  tiie  window  was  a  small  one,  and  the 
glass  was  much  bwrimed.  A  smell  of 
eumething  filthy,  ana  likewise  something 
smoky,  seemed  to  hang  about  the  place, 
and  as  there  waa  no  fire  Aere,  I  confidently 
'  '     inst  he  cominsr  from  outdde. 


"You're  about  right,  sir,"  replied  the 
poor  widow.  "  tt  comes  in  through  the 
window  and  down  the  chimney  too,  and 
mayhap  through  the  roof  a  bit.  Tou  see, 
Uiey're  burning  tins  down  in  the  yard 
yonder,  and  when  the  tins  are  extry  fool, 
the  smoke  is  apt  to  stink." 

I  peeped  through  the  dim  casement  as 
well  as  I  waa  able  ;  and  not  far  off  I  aaw, 
all  piled  up  in  big  heaps,  a  moontainoos 
range  of  tma  of  differing  formation,  and 
varying  antigoity,  all  mingled  in  a  chaos 
that  would  oertunly  have  puzaled  a  savant 
to  have  sketched.  There  were  biscuit-tinp, 
and  flour-tins,  and  parafBa-tins,  and  ctAea.- 
tina,  and  sardine-tins,  and  candle-tins,  and 
tins  of  half-a.hnndred  shapes,  and  sorts, 
and  sizes,  whose  past  oses  were  quite  past 
my  present  powers  to  explain.  They  were 
different  in  anape  and  different  in  sabstance, 
and  in  one  thing  only  they  seemed  to  be 
alike.  All  were  old,  and  all  were  dirty, 
and  most  of  them  moat  tool,  and  all  were 
there  awaiting  some  strange  puri^ring  pro- 
cesa,  which  seemed  not  very  odorous,  to 
sweeten  their  fouled  substance  into  some- 
thing useable,  when  seen  in  a  re-melted 
and  re-modelled  state. 

Half  filling  the  small  room  was  a  bed 
with  an  old  counterpane  and  some  little 
substance  under  it.  What  that  substance 
was,  whether  hay,  or  straw,  or  horsehair, 
I  did  not  care  to  ask.  It  really  seemed  too 
little  to  be  of  much  account.  Nor  did  I 
care  to  gnesa  how  the  joaotiier  and  three 
children  oonld  all  sleep  in  that  one  bed. 
Unless  the  latter  were  extremely  small, 
ihey  must  have  fbund  it  a  tight  fit. 

A  cat  mewed  at  Uie  door,  vid  her 
miatrasB  let  her  in.  Pass  wore  a  shabby 
coat  of  black  and  dirty  white,  which  sadly 
needed  to  be  washed.  Nor  was  her 
personal  appeanmce  improved  in  other 
pointa.  Her  tail  was  out  of  curl,  and  her 
whiskers  were  unbruBhed,  and  there  were 
traces  of  a  gutter  tramp  left  stacking  to 
ber  feet,  She  seemed  indeed  too  hnngir 
to  attend  much  to  her  toilette,  and  I 
almoat  doubted  if  ahe  were  in  her  right 
mind.  A  cat  of  any  common.sense  would 
have  surely  left  a  place  where  she  appeared 
so  htUe  cared  for,  and  this  specimen  seemed 
indeed  to  be  half  starved. 

"I  fonn'  ber  in  the  street  one  night, 
nigh  Bromley,"  awd  the  widow.  "It  were 
a  oiizzUn'  a  bi^  and  there  were  a  east  wind 
blowin'  enough  to  blow  your  'at  off,  and 
she  were  a  mewing  piteous  she  was.  So  I 
wrapped  her  in  my  apron,  and  carried  her 
sbraiBht  'ome  with  me.     An'  here  she  have 


404      fMiTcb  15, 1384.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOTTND. 


lived  since,  thongb  it  un't  mtich  of  &  living. 
Well  now,  I  dessaf  yoa  ma^  think  I  txa  t 
ftfford  to  keep  a  cat  mnch.  Bat  there,  she 
don't  cost  nothin'.  I  never  bay  no  milk 
for  her,  nor  meat  neither,  for  that  matter. 
An'  yon  knoTT,  sir,  she  grovs  all  her  ovn 
clothing,  and  she  ain't  like  my  boy  Billy, 
'cansa  she  don't  wear  oat  no  booti.  She 
catches  of  her  mice  somewheree ;  it  ain't 
here,  for  we've  got  none:  There's  nothin' 
for  'em  to  eat,  so  they're  wise  to  keep  away 
from  'ere.  Welt  yes,  sir,  she  un't  mnch  of 
a  beanty,  but  Fd  be  sorry  to  looe  her,  that 
I  vonld  Yon  see,  she's  company  like,  she 
is,  and  is  somethin'  as  one  can  talk  to 
when  one's  feeling  a  bit  lonesome,  an'  the 
children  lun't  at  home.  An'  then  they 
likes  to  play  with  her  they  does,  and  it 
ain't  mnch  one's  got  to  play  with,  yon 
know,  sir,  when  one's  poor. 

I  remarked  npon  the  bad  state  of  repair 
in  which  the  hoose  was  kept,  and  suggested 
that  the  roof  did  not  seem  wholly  water- 
tight. "  Well  no,  sir,  I  can't  say  as  it  do," 
replied  the  widow,  with  something  like 
the  ghost  of  a  dead  smile  on  her  wan  face. 
"  Wnatwith  all  them  'oles,  and  the  plaster 
off  the  ceiling,  we  often  wants  an  nmbe- 
rella  a'most  to  keep  the  rain  off.  Yen, 
I've  spoken  to  the  landlord,  and  he  tells 
me  as  ne'll  see  to  it,  And  so  peraps  he 
may — leastways,  if  he  lire  long  enough. 
Oh  yes,  ur,  he's  well  off  enongb.  One  of 
the  pious  ones  he  is,  and  goes  to  service 
regtuar.  He  looks  sharpish  for  his  rents, 
though,  an'  he  don't  give  'em  away  much ; 
leastways,  about  here  he  don't.  The 
Parish  onght  to  know,  you  say  I  Law 
bless  yoo,  who's  the  Parish  t  You  see, 
the  'ouse  is  tidy  cheap,  as  'oases  go,  an'  if 
I  was  to  leave  I  mightn't  find  another 
easy.  And  there,  it  never  ain't  no  good 
to  pick  a  quarrel  with  your  landlord.  You 
Kets  the  key  o'  the  streiet,  instead  o'  the 
jront  door,  you  does.  The  'ouse  wn't  over 
water-tight,  nor  wind-tight  neither,  mind 
you;  but  it's  better  than  none,  an'  one 
mustn't  be  too  pertickler  when  one  can't 
afford  it." 

With  this  philosophic  aphorism  to 
re&esh  me  in  my  travels,  I  took  my  leave 
of  the  good  widow,  whom  I  mentally  com- 
mended for  the  brave  attempt  she  made 
to  seem  content  with  her  hard  lot  After 
making  a  few  more  halts  upon  my  way, 
and  traversing  a  mile  or  more  of  brick- 
work BO  monotonous,  by  thorough&res  so 
amilar,  that  I  wondered  how  my  guide 
could  find  his  way  along  them,  we  re- 
Lane,  where  tiiere  was 


business  that  awaited  him.  Among  other 
news,  Miss  Napton,  the  kind  lady-super- 
intendent, rnrorted  a  visit  she  had  nude 
the  day  before,  which  had  very  much 
distressed  her.  Calling  Jost  at  nightfall 
on  a  family  hard-by,  she  round  the  mother 
and  her  children '  anxiously  expecting  the 
home-coming  of  the  father,  who  was  a 
dock -labourer.  He  presently  returned, 
looking  sorely  worn  apd  hasgard.  "  Look 
here,"  he  cried  half  savagely,  ffinging  his 
hat  upon  the  floor;  "I've  been  a  tryin' 
hard  all  day,  an'  haven't  earned  a  bleased 
farden.  I  been  a  standin'  at  the  gates,  an' 
a  trampin'  through  the  streets,  till  it's  right 
down  faint  I  am  And  God  A'm^ty 
knows  what  we're  to  do  to-morrow  to  keep 
ourselves  from  starving." 

*'  Oh,"  exclaimed  tiie  kindly  visitor,  "  if 
you  had  but  heard  the  cry  that  those  poor 
nungry  children  gave,  when  they  found  uieir 
father  hadn't  brought  home  food  for  them, 
t  declare  you  must  almost  have  cried  your- 
self, as  I  did.  But  I  hurried  home  at  once 
and  sent  them  a  loaf  of  bread ;  and  so,  poor 
little  things,  they  didn't  sleep  qnite  supper- 
less." 

I  bade  my  guide  good-b^,  after  hearing 
this  sad  sto^,  and  promising  ere  long  to 
resume  my  Eastern  travels.  As  I  tmoged 
home  through  the  City,  I  entered  tliQ 
Cathedral  How  lofty  and  how  noble 
appeared  its  spacious  dome,  compared  with 
all  the  mean  and  wretched  rooms  I  had 
beeu  visiting  I  The  organ  was  just  peidiDg 
forth  the  grandest  of  its  tones,  and  the 
chubby,  clean-cheeked,  white-robed  little 
choristers  were  sweetly  carolling  their 
evensong  of  thanksgiving  and  prais&  Ah, 
thought  I,  my  young  friends,  you  may  well 
sing  f  Oh,  be  joyfal  t "  How  many  are 
ymir  joys,  and  how  few  can  be  your  griefs  I 
Well  catered  for,  well  clad,  and  well  cared 
for  as  you  are,  what  a  contrast  are  your  lives 
to  those  of  the  poor  children  whose  mothen 
starve  at  shirt-makiDg,  and  who  go  supper- 
less  to  bed  when  their  fothete  get  no  work  I 


GEORGIE :  AN  AETIST'S  LOVE. 
A  BTORY  IN  SIX  CHAPTERS.      CHAPTER  IV. 

Georqie  overslept  herself  the  next 
morning. 

Poor,  nnheroic  little  Georgie  I  she  had 
lain  so  long  awake ;  she  had  heard  every 
hoar  strike  until  long  past  midnight,  for 
it  was  not  until  then  that  Mr.  Bentoul 
had  come  in,  and  that  her  fears  on  bis 
behalf  had  been  set  at  rest. 

Might  he   not   have  fallen  into  some 


GEORGIE:  AN  AETISTS  LOVi: 


[UwiA  u,  uu.]    405 


ditch,  and  be  lying  there  helplen,  perh&ps 
witli  a  broksD  1^;  might  he  not  have 
been  mnrdeied  by  some  footpad  1  She 
hid  read  of  sach  things  in  the  news- 
p^>en.  Tbete  iras  indeed  scarcely  any 
Uinit  to  the  agony  she  piled  np,  nor  was 
there  any  limit  to  her  remone. 

She  resolved  to  ask  his  forgiveness  as 
soon  as  mig^t  be,  she  would  make  him 
forgive  her ;  if  there  vaa  no  other  vay, 
she  ivoold  tell  him  that  she  loved  him,  for 
— ah,  the  did — abe  did  1  She  imarined 
to  herself  a  most  patbetic  little  tablean, 
or  rather  a  series  of  tableaux.  She  saw 
■  wounded  man  being  tended  by  a  wst- 
eyed,  remorseful  little  nurse — alitUe  nurse, 
no,  in  spite  of  total  ignorance  of  the  most 
elementa^  sick-room  knowledge,  and  with 
a  propensity  to  faint  at  the  si^t  of  a  cut 
finger,  ahoiud  yet  by  her  skilful  and  tender 
care  save  the  wounded  man's  life  and  make 
whole  his  shattered  limbs.  Oh,  she  would 
have  earned  his  f  orgiveneas  I 

Had  she  posoeased  that  most  unde- 
sirable gift  of  fairy  story-books,  the  gift  of 
beholding  loved  objects  when  at  a  distance, 
she  would  have  seen  Mr.  BentiMil  among 
all  the  proeuc  surroundings  of  the  billiara- 
room  at  The  Red  Lion.  It  was  true  he 
looked  somewhat  cross,  bat  the  firiend  with 
whom  be  played  attributed  it  to  his 
repeated  noo-eaccess,  and  who  can  say  that 
be  was  not  right  t 

Yes,  had  she  been  the  poesessor  of  that 
fuiy  gift,  Geome  might  nave  been  spared 
many  wakeful  hours ;  but  it  would  have 
been  at  the  cost  of  some  very  romantic 
and  tragic  imaginings,  and  to  render  diese 
imposeihle  is  ^ways  a  depriratioo  to  Uie 
young.         . 

When  Miss  Bickards  did  make  her  tardy 
appearance,  the  sun  was  high  in  the 
Iwavens ;  ttto  hands  of  the  eight-day  clo^ 
on  the  sturcase  showed  it  to  be  eleven. 

Her  tragic  mood  had  departed,  leaving 
in  its  place  a  certain  feeling  of  excitement 
irtiich  was  not  unpleasant  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  could  read  forgiveness  written 
in  the  blue  sky,  could  feel  it  in  every  ray  of 
warm  sunshine. 

She  lingered  a  litUe'on  her  va.y  down- 
stairs ;  might  he  not  be  in  wait  tor  her  I 
Must  he  not  be  at  leait  as  eager  as  she 
herself  for  leccmciliadon  t  But  there  was 
no  sign  of  his  presence,  and  she  entered  the 
aittxi^-room  just  a  little  dismpointed. 

Brukfast  was  still  on  the  table,  the 
teapot  was  down  in  the  fender  keepii^  hot 
for  ner.  Mrs.  Thompson  looked  up  from  a 
letter  the  was  writina:,  to  tell  her  to  rioK 


for  anything  she  wanted.  Myra,  who  was 
tonehmg  up  a  sketch  at  the  window,  made 
no  sign  whatsoever. 

The  silence  was  very  uncomfortable  to 
Qeorrie ;  by  degrees  it  became  unbearably 
so.     She  addreraed  herself  to  Myra : 

"  How  are  yon  1 "  she  said.  "  Is  your 
headache  quite  gone  t " 

"  Quite,  thank  you ;  and  you,  after  yonr 
long  walk  1 " 

uyra  looked  keenly  at  Georgie  as  she 
pat  this  last  question,  and  had  the  pleasure 
;  of  seeing  the  girl  become  a  rich  raimson 
ondet  her  gaze. 

"I  don't  think  you  should  stay  out  so 
late,"  said  Mrs.  Thompson,  looking  up 
firam  her  letter-writing ;  "  we  did  not  even 
know  where  you  were  going.  It  is  not 
quite  the  thing,  Geoigie  dear. ' 

"  I  am  sorry,"  murmured  Georgie ;  "  but 
I  was  not  alone — I  met  Mr.  RentouL" 

"That  scarcely  improves  matters,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Thompson;  "however,  it 
cannot  happen  again. 

She  was  nervous,  and  a  little  perplexed, 
and  BO  did  not  look  up  from  her  blotting- 
book.     If  only  Myra  were  not  there  ! 

But  Myra  was  there,  and  it  was  she  who, 
with  eyes  fixed  on  the  uncomprehending 
Geoivie,  proceeded  to  enlighten  her. 

"  Mr.  Rentonl  has  gone,  she  said ;  "  he 
came  to  say  ^ood-bys,  before  yon  were 
up.  I  believe  it  is  some  news  he  received 
this  morning,  that  has  obliged  liim  to 
leave." 

Goose's  e^tressive  face  was  a  study, 
and  Myra  studied  it,  until  Georgis,  driven 
to  desperation,  suddenly  went  np  to  her : 

"  It  is  all  your  fault,  she  cried  excitedly. 
"  I  was  rude ;  but  it  is  yoor  fault  Why 
could  yon  not  leave  me  alone  I  And  now 
he  has  gone ;  I^have  driven  him  away." 

On  uie  point  of  tears,  Miss  Bickards 
rushed  from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Thompson  stopped  writing,  and 
looked  at  her  daughter  with  a  sort  of  "  I 
told  you  BO  "  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"  How  childish  she  is  1 "  returned  Myra 
in  answer  to  the  look;  "  excitable  and  un> 
reosonaUa  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Rentoul 
has  the  nnallest  intention  of  asking  her  to 
be  his  wife ;  bat,  anppodog  ho  has,  he  has 
not  gone  to  tiie  Antipodes.  London  is 
large,  certainly,  but  it  will  not  be  im- 
possible for  him  to  eome  and  see  us  if  he 
feels  so  inclined ;  however,  I  do  not  think 
he  will  feel  inclined,  he  is  just  the  sort 
of  man  to  run  awar  from  a  girl  who  flings 
herself  at  his  head. ' 

After  this  speech  the  oracle  was  silent. 


406      lHnnh  li,  ISM.) 


ALL  TBE  YEAE  EOUND. 


and  ut  somewhat  gloomily  stuiiig  oat 
into  the  suneliiDe.  She  did  not  like 
tiiat  reproach  of  Geoigie's.  Had  ehe  been 
mistaken  all  along  f  Had  her  irords  of 
warning  and  advice  to  Goodie  come 
between  two  loring  souls ! 

She  was  obliged  to  console  herself  with 
the  thought  that  it  was  not  irremediable. 
She  womd  write  a  little  note  to  Mr. 
Kentool,  reminding  him  that  the^  were  at 
home  on  Sundays,  as  soon  as  ever  shft  was 
in  toWn. 

Ten  days  siter  Mr.  Eentonl's  sadden 
departora,  the  three  ladies  retamed  to 
London.  Myra  had  carefully  observed 
Miss  Bickuds  daring  those  ten  da^,  and 
having  discovered  no  loss  of  appetite,  nor 
any  other  fatal  sign  of  the  "  wtam  being  in 
the  bad,"  was  easier  in  her  mind.  Ifever- 
theless,  one  of  her  first  acts  was  to  write  a 
litUe  note  to  the  artist  asking  him  not  to 
forget  his  promise  to  come  and  see  them. 
She  showed  the  letter  to  Geoi^e,  who 
blashed  very  roach,  bat  made  no  commenL 
Three  days  later  there  came  a  latter  from 
Mr,  EentonL 

"  Deas  Miss  Thompsun, — I  r^ret  very 
mnch  that  I  am  anable  to  call  upon  you 
before  leaving  England.  I  start  for  Rome 
to-night,  where  I  shall  remain  some  little 
time;  after  that  my  movements  will  be 
somewhat  erratic  My  present  intention  is 
to  spend  a  coaple  of  years  abroad.  Hoping 
at  s<Hne  fatora  time  to  renew  oar  very 
pleasant  acquaintance,  and  with  kind 
r^ards  to  yoor  mother  and  Miss  Eiokards, 
I  remain,  dear  Miss  Thompson,  very  sin- 
cerely yonrs,  PAUL  Ekntoui." 

Myra  handed  the  letter  to  Georgie  in 
silence.  She  might  have  sud  much, 
with  this  proof  of  her  own  wisdom  and 
Geoigie's  folly  staring  them  in  the  face, 
bat  she  really  felt  sorry  for  the  little  thing. 
She  looked  away  from  the  eager-  flushed 
face  and  questioning  eyes;  die  almost 
made  np  her  mind  to  leave  the  room,  she 
did  not  want  to  see  Gteorgie  cry.  As  it 
tamed  oat  she  need  not  have  feared  any 
display  of  emotion.  Georgie  was  no  longer 
quite  the  childish  Georgia  of  former  day*. 
She  gave  the  letter  back  to  Myia  without 
a  word  and  with  a  calmness  wMihy  of 
Miss  Thompson  herself.  If  later,  when 
alone  in  her  room,  she  did  let  hers^  cry  a 
little,  let  it  be  rememb««d  that  that 
letter  meant  to  her  a  sadden  crashing  of 
hopes   that   had    been  very  sta)ng  and 


The  winter  went  by  uneventfully;  the 
weather  even  gave  no  surprises  or  any  but 
the  poorest  ezcose  for  talking  about  it, 
so  ooQventional  was  it  in  its  behaviour. 
March  was  almost  too  orthodox,  it  arrived 
in  so  painfully  lion-like  a  way,  with  sach 
catting  north-east  winds  and  such  tJouds 
of  dust.  Mrs.  Thompson  and  Georgie  both 
succumbed,  they  remained  swauied  In 
fleecy  woollen  s^wls,  and  rang  the  ohangos 
in  beef-tea,  gniel,  and  hot-i^iced  wine. 

Miss  Thompson  alone  conttnaad  to  &c« 
thoee  penetrating  bUsts.  She  was  very 
busy  just  than  competing  for  a  prize  for 
design  at  Sooth  Kensington ;  besides,  she 
agreed  with  Kingsley,  and  declared  with 
hun  that  a  genuine  nor'-eoster  is  beneficial 
both  to  mind  and  body. 

As  Mardi  proceeded  to  depart,  clothed 
in  the  meekness  of  the  very  weakest  of 
lamlw,  Mrs.  Thompson  became,  to  quote  her 
own  words,  herself  again;  it  was  the 
younger  invalid  who  was  apparently  on- 
able  to  shake  off  her  cold.  The  doctor 
prescribed  change  of  air.  But  Myra  treated 
both  doctor  and  patient  to  a  little  whole- 
some scorn,  and  was  entirely  opposed  to 
leaving  town  at  that  particolar  time  mi 
account  of  her  work.  However,  it  so 
oame  to  pass  Uiat  Miss  lUckards  obtwned 
change  of  air  in  spite  of  Myra'a  scun. 
A  letter  came  from  Mrs.  Sparkes.  She 
was  for  the  second  time  a  widow,  and 
had  fixed  upon  Brighton  as  the  one  spot 
possessing  all  the  atmospheric  and  social 
qualities  necessary  to  her  grief.Blricken 
condition.  She  went  on  to  b^  for  the 
immediate  company  of  her  dear  litUe 
Georgie. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  April  that 
Georgie  left  London  ;  bright  sonshine  and 
soft;,  warm  showers  had  touched  the  trees 
with  that  fiesh,  tender  green  that  lasts  so 
abort  a  time  with  as. 

Sweet  spring  flowers  were  being  hawked 
aboat  the  streets,  winter's  somwe  wn^ 
had  been  discarded ;  eveiyooe  was  looking 
gay  and  happy,  and  refused  to  listen  to 
those  wiseacres  who  shook  their  heads  at 
the  blae  sky,  declaring  that  such  we^ha 
in  April  would  be  dearly  bongbt^ 

Georgie,  driving  to  the  station  with 
Mrs. Thompson,  autUe  pale,  perh^w, from 
long  confinement  to  the  house,  uid  with  bet 
brightness  subdaed,  perhaps  f<a  the  same 
reason,  felt  her  energies  awaken  in  the  new 
life  of  the  year. 

That  same  spring  that  took  Qeoigie  to 


GEOEaiE:  AN  ARTIST'S  LOVE. 


_„_.  in  brongbt  with  it  changes  to  tiie 

ThompsoQ  boaBebold.  Myra  guned  the 
lecond  prize  for  her  design,  a  som  of  fifty 
poandB. 

"Let  US  spend  the  money  in  Paris, 
mother,"  she  wid. 

And  Mrs.  Thompson  datifoUy  replied : 

"  Tea,  if  yoa  like,  dear." 

Had  Myra  proposed  spending  the  money 
in  a  trip  to  the  sonth  of  Africa,  or  to  the 
North  Pole,  the  aaswer  ironld  have  been 
tlie  eama 

Mrs.  Thompson  in  her  tax-oS'  better 
days  had  spent  a  couple  of  weeks  in  the 
world's  capital  of  pleasure,  and  had  raKue, 
delightful  recollections  of  crowded  tables 
d'hdte,  theatres,  and  shopping;  but  to 
Myra  it  was  all  new  and  full  of  charm.  The 
Lonrre,  the  Luzemboni^,  the  churches,  she 
did  them  all,  note-book  in  hand  ;  for  the 
most  part  nncousuous  of  the  admiration 
■he  excited  in  ttie  breasts  of  sundry  little 
carly-luri4«d  Frenchmen,  who,  never  mis- 
taking her  nationality  for  a  single  moment, 
paid  a  trifant«  to  our  beauty  and  to  our 
oruinality  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

One  day,  Miss  Thompson  was  at  the 
Lonvre,  standing  with  her  note  -  book 
before  the  well-uiown  "Cmche  Casa^e," 
when  she  heard  a  step  approach,  and  then 
paose  close  behind  her,  a  new  reflection  was 
risible  in  the  polished  floor,  a  voice  she 
knew  Boonded  is  her  ear  : 

"  Miss  Thompson  1  this  is  a  very  unex- 
pected pleasure  1 " 

She  turned  quickly,  blushed  one  of  her 
rare,  vivid  bloahes,  and  shook  hands  with 
Mr,  BentouL 

"  You  are  alone  t "  he  said,  casting  an 
enquiring  glance  round  the  room,  luB  ejre 
resting  on  a  alight  ^lish  figure,  tmmis- 
takably  English,  whose  back  was  turned  to 
them ;  he  was  near-sighted,  it  was  possible 
he  might  have  fancied  that  Mrs.  Thompson 
was  uie  wearer  of  that  well-fitting  New- 
market and  velvet  toque, 

"  Yes.  Mamma  is  not  strong  enough  to 
do  much  sight-seeing,  and  we  have  no 
Mends  in  Paris." 

They  went  round  the  worid-renowned 
galleiy  together,  he  giving  ber  his  artist's 


appiedatioD  on  all  that  struck  them. 
Myra  found  it  very  pleasant;  they  were 
both  artists,  both  with  an  artist's  love  of 


the  beantifol ;  the  woman  a  little  spoilt, 
perhaps,  by  conceit  and  the  affectation  of 
ifae  teathetic  school ;  but  with  him  she 
always  at  her  bmt.  Many — nay,  most 
people  who  knew  her,  as  well  as  friends 
and  acanaintances  do  usiiallv  know   one 


another — would  scarcely  have  recognised 
this  appreciative,  almost  diffident  woman  for 
the  clear-spoken,  decisive  Miss  Thompson 
of  their  acquaiutmce. 

"  You  and  Mrs.  Thompson  must  do  me 
the  honour  of  coming  to  see  some  of  my 
work,"  he  said  at  parting — he  had  already 
told  her  he  had  taken  a  stodio  for  a  few 
months — and  Myra  promised. 

Mrs.  Thompson  was  much  elated  on 
hearing  of  Mr.  Bentoul's  residence  in  Paris. 
It  had  been  indeed  a  happy  idea,  of  Myra's 
to  come.  Long  ago,  in  her  young  days, 
before  her  early  «lucatton  had  been  cor- 
rected, and  her  thoughts  generally  amended 
by  her  daughter,  she  would  have  felt 
grateful  to  Providence  —  now  she  felt 
erateful  to  Myra  instead,  and  perhaps  this 
friendly  feeli^  was  extended  also  to  Mr. 
Reatoiu,  Be  that  as  it  might,  she  was 
always  very  cordial  and  charming  to  him 
when  he  visited  them,  aa  he  often  did. 

She  was  delighted  to  visit  his  studio, 
and  was  rapturous  over  bis  pictures ;  she 
was  equally  enchanted  to  chaperon  Myra 
to  the  theatre  on  every  occasion  that 
Mr.  Bentoul  took  places. 
.  Lyme  Regis,  Georgie,  and  her  dis- 
appointment of  a  few  months  back,  faded 
away  in  the  present  bright  light  of  victory, 
for  surely  victory  had  come  at  last  I 

It  came  one  night  at  the  Francais.  The 
second  act  was  over.  Mrs.  Thompson 
remained  sitting  in  the  box ;  Mr.  Kentoul 
and  Myra  wiJked  about  in  the  galleiy  out- 
side.   They  bad  been  discussing  the  pla^. 

"It  is  umost  too  well  done,"  he  said. 
"  What  bom  actresses  women  are  I  How 
is  a  man  to  know  when  a  woman  really 
cares  about  him  1  how  can  be  be  sure  she 
is  not  merely  acting  a  part  I " 

"  I  d<Hi't  agree  with  you,"  she  answered 
shortly.  "  When  a  woman  really  loves,  I 
beUeve  her  to  be  incapable  of  actmg — it  is 
sometimes    almost    more    than   she    can 

do "  But  here  Myra  stopped  abruptly, 

and  became  scarlet 

Mr.  Bentoul  looked  interested. 

"Almost  more  than  she  can  do,"  he 
i«peated  gently. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  reoaU-bell  was 
rung — the  long  passages  were  quickly 
deserted — they  were  alone. 

Myra  never  completed  her  unfiuiahed 
sentence,  but  there  was  no  need,  he  could 
not  help  undwatanding,  and  be  was  too 
chivalrous  or  too  weak  to  pretend  that  be 
did  not 

Ten  minutes  later  two  people  noiselessly 
entered  a  box  on  the  second  tier.     The 


408 


AXL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


lU>ldllS,U84.1 


boose  was  bre&tUe§a,  and  in  that  almoat 
p«trifi«d  condition  chancteriBtic  of  ^e 
Fran^tus  andiencee.  No  orchestra,  no 
^plause;  the  very  Unghter  was  haihed. 
TUb  late  eaixy,  tip-toed  and  silent  as  it 
vas,  drew  many  deprecatmg  glances 
towards  their  box.  Mn.  Thompson  turned 
and  looked  at  them  as  well,  but  her  glance 
was  not  deprecatory,  it  was  trinmplunt 
She  knew  with  the  onerring  instinct  of  a 
woman  and  of  a  mother  that  the  deed  was 
accomplished. 

Myra's  engagement  improved  her  in 
many  ways.  She  modified  her  somewhat 
eccentric  taste  in  dress,  and  stadied  the  i 
artsngement  of  her  hair.  Her  very  sar- 
oasm  was  softened,  and  mei^ed  into  an ; 
attractive  sparklingness  ;  while  towards  i 
her  betrothed  her  hnmiUty  continued  to  | 
be  very  charming.  Mrs.  Thompson  told  { 
herself  over  and  over  agun  that  even  if, 
he  did  not  love  Myra  as  yet,  that  love 
must  come.  The  good  lady  had  watched 
him  BO  narrowly  on  a  former  occasion,  that 
the  absence  of  certain  little  exterior  signs 
was  the  cause  of  no  small  anxiety  to  her. 

Myra  had  no  such  reminiscences,  was 
exercised  by  no  such  doubts.  Those  little 
nothings — an  inflection  of  voiee,  a  passing 
ezpreasion,  missed  by  her  mother,  were 
unknown  to  her.  She  never  doubted  his 
love  for  her  for  one  moment 

And  he  t  Had  be  forgotten  already  his 
love  9f  fonr  months  ago  t  Alas !  some- 
times he  sadly  tbonght  that  such  entire 
forgetfnlness  as  alone  could  bring  him  peace 
would  never  come.  Bat  he  was  quite  con- 
vinced of  his  mistake ;  she  did  not  love 
him,  he  was  too  old,  too  grave,  too  com- 
monplace, to  attract  so  lovely  and  brilliant  I 
a  little  thing.  He  pictured  to  himself 
the  sort  of  man  she  would  marry :  young, 
and  bsndsome,  and  rich — very  rich ;  he 
could  not  fancy  Greoigie  otherwise  than 
surrounded  with  the  luzories  of  life,  its 
velvets  and  its  silks. 

And  so  with  the  sweetest  dream  that  his 
life  could  hold  put  on  one  side  for  ever, 
what  could  he  do  better  on  discovering 
poor  Myra's  secret,  than  stoop  and  gather 
up  the  treasure  so  generously  laid  at  his 
feetl  Besides,  he  bad  always  admired 
Miss  Thompson ;  over  and  above  her  being 
an  artist  like  himself,  many  points  in  her 
character  were  congenial  to  him — her  frank- 


I  ness,  her  entire  absence  of  self-oonscJoos- 
1  ness ;  her  very  wrong-headed  radicalism 
amused  and  interested  him.  Hia  affectipB 
I  for  her  had  much  of  the  camandetie  and 
j  calm  confidence  that  exists  between  two 
I  men  friends^  it  had  nothing  of  tlie  blind- 
.  ness  and  crodnlity  of  love,  none  of  its 
i  doubts,  or  fears,  or  mad  jealousies — none  of 
its  intoxication. 

j  He  never  spoke  to  Myra  of  Misa 
BJckards,  but  once  happening  to  find  him- 
I  self  alone  with  Mn.  Thompson,  he  had  in 
'  a  casual  sort  of  way  mentioned  her  name. 
i  It  BO  chanced  that  tliat  morning's  post  had 
I  brought  a  long  letter  from  l^s.  Spwkes, 
,  in  which  she  had  dw^t  much  on  the  guety 
of  Brighton, 

"Dmt  Georgie  is  so  much  admired," 
she  wrote;  "shegoeaontagrratdealwitii 
my  old  fnend,  Mrs.  Cooper;  it  is  indeed 
fortunate  she  has  secured  such  a  chaj>eron." 

Mrs.  Thompson  had  somewhat  enlarged 
upon  this  passage ;  ta  hear  her,  one  might 
easily  have  imagined  Georgie  on  the  point 
of  being  engaged  to  six  or  seven  men  at 
the  same  time. 

"I  am  glad  she  is  having  so  much 
amusement,"  was  all  that  Mr.  Eaitoul  had 
felt  called  upon  to  say;  however,  he  left 
the  Thompsons'  pretty  rooms  more  than 
ever  convinced  of  Georgie's  unaaitalulitry 
to  him  as  a  wife. 

The  soft  sprinK  days  went  by ;  P«ris  was 
still  very  full,  although  much  of  ita  fashion 
bad  departed  to  repose  itaelf  in  country 
chftteanx,  prepantor;  to  shining  forth  wi^ 
renewed  splendour  at  Tronville  and  Dieppe, 

The  marriage  was  arranged  to  take  place 
in  the  autumn,  and  the  winter  following 
the  artist  couple  were  to  pass  in  Borne. 

Myra  was  almost  afraid  of  her  own 
happiness ;  she  found  her  mother's  frequent 
ebullitions  of  joy  a  little  irritating.  The 
elder  lady  was  already  busy  with  the 
taviusseau,  and  she  had  enough  to  do,  for 
Myra  left  it  entirely  to  her  taste,  only 
urging  on  her  mother  the  expediency  of 
getting  everything  as  cheap  as  possible. 


BMdj  the  17th  ol  UiTdi,  pilca  M., 

THE    EXTRA    SPEING    NUMBER 
ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


The  Eight  of  Trantlating  Artklu/rom  ALL  IHE  Veab  Boomd  i#  reserved  by  tne  Avthort. ' 


^ESTO^OF  •  OVRji'VIS  JRpM  ^V^^R^iO  ^*^R; 


Na799.NEwSERies.B        SATURDAY,  MARCH  22,  188*. 


A   DRAWN   GAME. 


Archie,  u  he  was  retiring  for  an  hour's 
rest,  kissed  Mrs.  John,  with  snsTen  deeper 
tesdernesa  than  nsiuU,  and  said  ont;  : 

"  Mother,  I  shall  say  nothing.  Wovda 
are  nothing — at  least  my  woids  ! "  with  a 
bitter  self-Bcom.  His  lira  was  to  speak, 
and  he  nieant  it  and  would  make  it.Bpeak. 
He  had  hitherto  wasted  everything,  not 
merely  money,  but  oppottunities  and 
facnlties,  now  he  wonld  retrieve  them  so 
far  as  they  could  be  retrieved^not  far. 
Time  is  like  the  Cumcean  Sibyl ;  she  comes 
to  us  in  childhood  and  offers  us  everything 
she  has  to  sell,  all  her  nine  books.  If  we 
think  the  cost  too  great  and  let  the  chance 
pass,  in  manhood  there  are  but  six,  and  in 
middle-age  but  three,  offered  us  at  the  cost 
at  which  in  cbildiiood  wo  could  have 
acquired  all  the  nine.  But  still  less  retriev- 
able than  what  we  might  have  done  are  the 
things  we  have  dona 

T'a  law  ai  Bteadfut  u  the  thmns  of  Zeus 

Our  d&jTB  are  heriton  o(  duya  gnoe  by. 

Archie,  as  we  shaU    see,  had  given   life 

in  the  past  to  a  haunting  Frankenstein 

monster,  saeier  to  create  than  to  destroy. 

Atlei  Archie  had  left  her,  Mrs.  John 
stole  into  Ida's  room  to  make  sure  that  she 
slept — as  she  did  soundly.  Then  duly 
bound  her  to  tell  the  news  to  the  Eev. 
John.  As  the  Rev.  John  was  not 
sound  asleep,  or  more  asleep  than  he 
usnally  was  m  his  waking  momenta,  Mrs. 
John  proceeded  to  vez  his  dull  ear  with 
.  the  wondrous  tale.  Expecting  him  to  take 
'  it  placidly,  after  his  manner,  she  was  quite 
stutied  by  the  extraordinary  effect  it  had 


upon  him.     He  absolutely  sat  up  in  bed 
and  exclaimed : 

I  couldn't  have  thought  Archie  would 
have  been  such  a  fool  I " 
Such  a  fool  t " 
To  take  Ida,  too  1 " 
But  why  not,  John  1 "  more  and  more 
amazed. 

"  Why  not  1  It's  penal  servitude,  Mary." 

This  view  of  marri^e,  and  of  a  marriage 
with  Ida,  sounded  starring  from  those  mild 
lips.  Mrs.  John,  however,  knew  now  that 
he  must  have  pieced  what  bits  of  the  story 
he  had  heard  into  some  portentous  shape. 

"  What's  penal  servitude,  John  1 "  , 

"  Killing  those  people.  It's  nothing  less 
than  manslaughter."  , 

"But  what  bad  Archie  and  Ida  to  do 
with  it  1 " 

"  Why,  you  say  they  drove  the 
engine -" 

"They  drove  the  engine  that  brought 
back  tho  wounded  after  the  accident,  but 


410      [iluch  23, 1«B1.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


emergency.  The  first  thing  to  contrive 
was  we  keeping  of  Ida  as  long  aa  possible. 
To  this  end  Mrs.  John  composed  and  wrote 
out  a  telegram  to  have  ready  to  send  to 
Mrs.  Tuck  the  moment  the  office  opened : 

"  MUs  Liuid  arrived  all  right,  but  tired 
oab  and  in  need  of  a  week's  rest  Shall 
write  to-night" 

Then,  as  she  must  bo  doing  some- 
thing, she  proceeded  forthwith  to  the 
writing  of  the  letter,  which,  however, 
she  would  take  care  not  to  send  till  the 
last  post.  In  it  she  said  coolly,  and  as 
mere  matter  of  course,  that  she  thought 
Ida  might  recover  the  shock,  fatigue,  and 
excitement  she  had  undergone  in  a  few 
daya  Indeed,  ehe  (Mra.  John)  hoped  to 
be  able  to  send  her  back  to  The  Keep, 
soma  time  next  week.  This  letter  being 
off  her  mind,  Mra.  John  stole  again  into 
Ida's  room  nnder  the  pretence  of  reassuring 
herself  that  she  still  slept,  but  really  to 
hang  over  and  admire  her,  as  a  mother 
over  her  first-bom.  Truly  no  one — not 
Archie  even — admired  Ida  so  much  aa 
Mra.  John.  She  was  so  generous  a  woman 
that  ehe  would  have  unsjfectedly  admired 
what  was  admirable  even  in  a  rival — if  a 
division  of  the  Kev.  John's  attentions 
is  conceivable.  Ai  for  Ida,  Mrs.  John 
admired  her  almost  with  a  lover's  in 
tensity,  and  now  felt  a  kind  of  mother' 
pride  in  her  beauty  as  something  soon  to 
belong  to  herself.  She  sat  long  by  her 
bedadmiringher  and  pitying  her;  thinking 
only  of  her  and  for  her,  without  seeing 
what,  indeed,  was  not  to  be  seen — a  clear 
way  out  of  her  dif&culties. 

At  last  the  stir  of  the  servants  in  the 
house  drew  her  away  to  caution  them 
against  distorbing  the  sleeper,  and  to  send 
the  telegram  by  one  of  them  into  Leeds, 
where  the  office  opened  earlier  than  in 
Edgbum. 

She  need  not,  however,  have  been  in 
such  haste,  as  Mrs.  Tuck  did  not  come  down 
to  breakfast  that  morning  till  one  o'clock. 
She  read  the  telegram  a  little  earlier,  and 
sent  an  answer  a  little  later.  Mra  John 
tore  open  the  envelope  with  trembling 
fingers,  but  had  no  sooner  read  the 
contents  than  she  nished  eS'asively  at  Ida, 
and  kissed  her  in  a  transport  of  surprise, 
relief,  and  deh'ght.  And,  indeed,  the 
answer  was  the  very  opposite  to  her  certain 
foreboding  of  it;  for  it  was  a  grateful 
ackuowledgmont  of  Mrs.  Py bus's  kind 
offer  of  a  week's  hospitality  to  Ida,  What 
conld  this  mean  1  It  was  impossible  to 
imagine  any  explanation  of  an  answer  so 


utterly  unexpected.  The  truth  vss  Mr. 
Tuck  was  perfectly  furious  at  the  discoveiy 
which  couldn't  he  kept  from  him,  tiiat  the 
yonn^  lady  who  was  (ae  he  conddered  it) 
pDloned  id  every  newspaper  in  the  thi«e 
kingdoms  as  having  acted  as  stoker  (to 
Armie  of  all  people !)  was  no  other  than 
Ida.  That  a  relative  of  his  should  bo 
disgrace  herself,  and  that  tl^e  diagnn 
should  be  known  in  every  pothome  in 
Kingsford  and  in  the  kingdom,  was  leall; 
terrible  to  him.  If)  then,  Ida  had  returned 
to  The  Keep  at  once,  Mr.  Tuck  would  most 
certainly  have  so  insulted  her  in  his  tnaij 
that  she  would  have  been  driven  back  to 
take  refhge  for  good  with  Mrs.  John. 
Therefore  Mrs,  Tuck,  in  her  perplerity, 
could  not,  OD  the  spur  of  the  moment,  think 
of  any  better  escape  from  the  difficulty,  than 
to  let  Ida  stay  where  she  was,  tdl  the 
storm  had  somewhat  subsided.  Hence  her 
telegram. 

Ida  accepted  its  welcome  permisElana) 
she  had  accepted  Archie,  and  as  we  accept 
delightful  impossibilities  in  a  dream,  with 
a  disquieting  mi^ving  that  it  is  a  dream 
from  which  any  moment  we  may  be  waked 
to  a  wretched  reality.  As  for  Archie, 
being  a  sanguine  youth,  he  persuaded  him- 
self, and  almost  persuaded  Mrs.  John,  th&t 
somethipg  terrible  had  turned  up  sguott 
Captain  Brabozon — possibly  a  low  manisge 
— which  had  upset  all  Mrs.  Tuck's  plans  for 
him. 

Anyhow,  here  was  an  entire  week  of 
entire  happiness  before  Archie — absolnte 
happiness  to  him;  to  Ida  not  unalloyed. 
The  dawn  of  love,  like  the  snnrise,  tnns- 
figures  all  that  before  was  dark,  and  doll, 
and  grey,  and  cold.  The  sun  rises  and 
transmutes  in  a  moment  the  leaden  lake 
into  silver,  and  the  leaden  douds  into  gold, 
the  grey  mist  into  all  the  riches  of  Uie 
rainbow,  and  the  carbon  blackness  of  the 
night  dew  into  the  diamonds  of  the  dawn. 
So  the  dawn  of  love  transfigured  in  most 
moods  and  momenta  to  Ida  all  that  it 
shone  upon  ;  and  what  yesterday  was 
weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable,  a  sterile 
promontory,  a  foul  and  pestilent  congre^ 
tion  of  vapours,  to-day  is  fresh  and  bril- 
liant, a  goodly  frame,  a  most  excellent 
canopy,  a  majestical  roof  fretted  with 
golden  fire. 

Yea,  Ida  hod  crossed  enioh  a  fairy  bridge 
as  Tieck  describes  in  his  charming  stoty 
of  The  Elves,  and  what  but  now  seemed  a 
weary  waste,  blossomed  in  a  moment  into 
a  glorious  garden ;  while  Love,  like  Zeiini, 
scattered  from  her  golden  box  Uie  glittering 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


[llnrchE,  13811      411 


dost  which  strewed  her  path  with  all  the 
flowen  of  Paradise. 

Yet,  ia  spite  of  love,  in  spite  of  Archie's 
perpetoal  presence,  and  in  spite  of  the  per- 
snasire  pleading  of  Mrs.  John,  Ida  had  her 
momenbB,  her  hours,  of  poignant  remorse. 
How  conld  she  help  it  t  She  was  the  last 
girl  in  the  world  to  he  easily  persuaded 
into  the  belief  that  she  was  not  behaving 
abominably  both  to  Dick  and  to  Mrs.  Tack. 
So  she  was.  But,  as  Mrs.  John  pointed 
OqI  again  and  again,  thiswas  not  really  the 
question.  The  queBtion  was,  whether  she 
woold  not  be  behaving  more  abominably 
to  both,  if  she  married  Dick  whUe  loving 
Archie.     Mrs.  John  would  say  : 

"  My  dear,  you're  in  a  scrape,  I  admit, 
and  you've  to  get  out  of  it  in  the  best  way 
yoa  can.  The  only  thing  to  consider  is, 
which  is  the  best  way.  If  you  think  it  the 
beat  way  to  make  every  one  wretched  all 
round,  I've  nothing  more  to  say.  You 
may  be  behaving  badly  to  Captain 
Brabazon  by  bres^ing  off  your  engage- 
ment, but  wiU  yon  be  behaving  better  to 
bim  by  keeping  to  it,  while  you  don't  care 
for  him  ana  do  care  for  someone  else  I  Yoa 
tiank  it  wrong  to  break  your  plighted  word 
to  marry  him  1.  But  there's  your  solemn 
vow. to  love  him,  Ida,  to  be  made  to 
him  at  the  altar,  and  to  be  made  with 
the  certainty  that  yoa  can't  keep  it 
Will  it  mend  matters,  dear,  to  bre^  an 
oath  in  order  to  keep  a  promise,  and  to 
miJce  every  one  who  loves  you  wretched 
f(M-  life  in  order  to  spare  one  man  who 
does  not  love  you  a  month's  mortification ) 
Yon  know,  you  told  me  you  didn't  think  it 
woold  break  his  heart  to  lose  yoa" 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  it  wonld,  but  I  owe 
bim  so  much,  Mrs.  Pybus ;  and  there's 
Mra  Tuck,  to  whom  I  owe  everything ;  she 
has  set  her  heart  npon  it" 

"Mrs.  Tack  didn't  know  you  loved 
another,  Ida." 

"And  my  promise,"  continued  Ida,  fol- 
lowing her  own  train  of  thought. 

"  My  dear,  you're  as  provoking  as  John," 
who  was  present,  and  looked  up  here  at 
Mra  John  with  an  expression  of  perplexity 
and  mild  remonstrance.  "You're  as  pro- 
voking as  John.  Yoa've  not  been  listen- 
ing to  a  single  word  I  said." 

"  Indeed  I  have,  Mrs.  Pybos.  You  said 
it  was  better  to  break  a  promise  made  to 
him,  than  a  solemn  vow  made  before  the 
altar,"  speaking  with  exceeding  reverence. 

"  Just  BO,  my  dear  Ida.  I  don't  want  you 
toconrider  in  Uiis  matter  what  is  pleasant 
or  unpleasant,  bat  what  is  right  or  wrong. 


There's  no  doubt  that  if  you  marry  Captain 
Brabazon,  you'll  make  every  one  unhappy, 
and  bimseU  most  of  all  But  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  question  is, 
is  it  right  to  marry  one  man  while  you  love 
another !  You  make  him  wretched,  and 
Archie  wretched,  and  yourself  wretched, 
for  what  t  To  do  what  is  right }  There  is 
nothing  you  can  do  which  is  less  right" 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Ida  said,  "  It's 
BO  pleasant  to  think  it-,"  in  a  tone  which 
suggested  that  what  was  pleasant  to  think 
was  plausible  and  to  be  suspected. 

"  My  dear,  what  is  pleasant  isn't  always 
wrong.  Besides,  you'll  have  plenty  of 
unpleasantneES,  if  that  is  all  you  need  to 
persuade  you.  Mrs.  Tuck  wiU  m^e  it 
unpleasant  for  you,  and  so  will  Mr.  Tuck. 
For,  Ida  dear,"  in  a  lowered  tone  of  con- 
dolence, "  I  think  you  are  giving  up  all 
your  prospects  for  Archie.  Mr.  Tuck  will 
never  forgive  you  for  marrying  him." 

"I shall  be  sorry  for  Archie's  sake,  Mrs. 
Pybos ;"  and  then,  with  a  sudden  hope  in 
her  tone,  "  He  will  make  Captain  Brabazon 
his  heir  instead  1 "  interrogatively. 

"  Mrs.  Tuck  will;  I  luve  no  doubt," 
reading  Ida's  mental  relief  iu  the  thought 
that  Dick  would  be  compensated,  and  con- 
soled also,  in  this  substantial  way  for  the 
iujary  done  to  his  bruised  heart. 

By  such  arguments  Ida  was  brought  to 
see  that  it  was  less  wrong  to  break  off  than 
to  keep  to  her  engagement  with  Dick,  but 
of  course  she  was  not  thereby  relieved  of 
her  remorse.  She  felt  it  bitterly  in  the 
intervals  of  the  happiness  of  this  week, 
and  would  even  have  expressed  it  forth- 
with in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Tuck,  at  the  certain 
cost  of  an  immediate  recall  to  The  Keep,  if 
Archie  had  permitted  her.  It  was  not  in 
human  nature  for  him  to  permit  her. 

To  him  it  was  a  week  of  delirious  hap- 
piness— of  more  than  a  lover's  happineex, 
for  he  felt  himself  a  new  man  as  well  as  in 
a  new  world.  His  old  self  was  exorcised, 
and  Ida  would  henceforth  be  the  guiding 
and  guardian  angel  of  hia  life.  Being  a  san- 
gatne  young  man,  he  discounted  the  future, 
and  felt  now  as  though  he  was  all  that  he 
meant  to  ba  He  never  wearied  of  telling 
Ida  what  he  would  be,  and  what  he  would 
do,  in  the  strength  of  the  inspiration  of  her 
love,  nor  how  he  abhorred  and  abjured  the 
selfishness  to  which  Mrs,  John  had  been  a 
meek  martyr  for  so  many  years. 

"  Youmuat  have  changed  since  yoa  were 
a  boy,  Archie.  You  never  seemed  to  me 
then  to  be  thinking  of  yourself,  but  always 
of  me." 


413      [Uuch  3!,  lBa4.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOUHD. 


I 


"Because  you  vete  then  myself — & 
dearer  self,  Ida.  Heaveml  how  I  lored 
you  1 " 

"Loved  t"  in  a  tone  of  playful  reproach, 
vhich  Archie  eilenced  firat  with  voiceless 
lips,  and  thou  by  going  through  all  the 
tenses  of  that  delicious  verb,  as  though  tho 
old  time  bad  come  back,  and  be  was  conju- 
gating it  again  at  school : 

"Loved  you  always,  and  will  always 
love  yon — always,  always,  dearest," 

"  I  hope  the  '  always '  in  tho  future, 
Archie,  means  more  than  the  '  always '  in 
the  past" 

"It  couldn't  mean  more.  I've  loved 
yon,  dearest — you  only,  and  always,  ever 
since  I  was  a  boy." 

"  On  my  last  visit  t  When  we  met  at 
Bolton  1 " 

"  Yes,  Ida,  on  yonr  last  visit  and  at  our 
last  meeting.  I  loved  you  then,  as  I  love 
you  now,  only  without  hope.  Yon  seemed 
BO  proud  and  distant,  and  I  was  too  proud 
not  to  be  distant  also.  It  was  '  the  desire 
of  the  moth  for  the  star,'  dearest ;  but 
■now " 

Archie  fiUed  np  this  break  with  all 
the  dumb  eloquence  of  love,  and  then 
aesnred  her  again  and  again  that  he  had 
loved  her,  and  her  alone,  all  these  years. 
The  assurance  was  not  as  true  as  Archie 
thought  it,  but  to  Ida  his  words  seemed 
truth  itself,  for  they  gave  a  very  echo  to 
the  seat  where  love  was  throned  in  her  own 
heart 

To  this  point,  of  his  constancy  to  Ida 
through  discouragement,  of  his  heart  being 
True  an  the  dial  to  the  aun, 
Although  it  be  not  shined  upon, 
Archie  returned  again  and  agiuo,  for  his 
own  reassurance,  perhaps,  as  much  as  for 
hers,  For  though  his  love  far  Ida  had 
never  gone  altogether  out  into  darkness 
all  these  years,  yet  it  had  waxed  and 
waned,  and  been  occulted  by  an  earthier 
passion  more  than  once. 

But  Ida  needed  not  these  repeated  pro- 
testations of  constancy.  Had  not  she  mis- 
judged Archie's  reserve )  He  might  well, 
therefore,  have  misjudged  hers.  Had  not 
she  through  all  these  years  been  constant 
through  discouragement  to  him,  and  might 
not  he,  therefore,  be  credited  with  an  equal 
constancy !  She  did  not  need,  then,  these 
protestations,  though  of  course  she  could 
not  hear  them  too  often. 

Ah,  those  days  of  early  love  1  Those 
few  drops  of  the  water  of  heaven  which 
Eve,  like  Hagar,  was  allowed  to  take  with 
her  for  her  children  into  the  wUdemess  1 


Those  moments  which  alone  realise,  and 
more  thui  realise,  all  the  hopes  of  youth 
and  all  the  memories  of  age  1  To  us,  as 
to  Jndas  in  the  l^end  of  St,  Brandan,  an 
uigel  comes  once  to  quench  our  restless 
thirst  'from  the  very  springs  of  heaven. 
From  these  springs  Archie  and  Ida  were 
drinking  now  grwtt  draughts,  as  though 
tliey  would  never  know  thirst  mora 

Ida,  sitting  with  him  under  the  length- 
ening shadow  of  the  great  horse-chesbiot 
in  the  garden,  forgot  her  trouble  and  Iier 
remorse,  and  Mrs.  Tuck  and  Dick,  and  the 
world  and  life,  and  time,  and  everything, 
AnnihiUtine  sU  that's  made 
To  ft  green  thought  in  b  greeD  shsde. 

And  Archie,  with  an  idolatrous  worship, 
found  heaven  where  she  was. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  and  the  day 
before  Ida  was  to  retnm  to  The  Keep, 
Archie  had  to  give  evidence  at  the  enquiry 
into  the  railway  accident  held  at  Woolsten- 
holme,  and  Ida  was  fain  to  content  herself 
with  hearing  Mrs.  John  speak  of  him. 

This  the  little  woman  did  all  the  day 
through  with  as  much  impartiality  as  could 
be  expected  from  her,  speakine  on  such  a 
subject  to  such  a  listener.  So  the  day  was 
got  through,  not  heavily,  and  evening 
came,  and  the  train  by  which  Archie  was 
expected.  Then  they  heard  him,  as  they 
thought,  at  the  door,  Ida  with  a  happy 
blush  and  quick-beating  heart,  and  Mrs. 
John  with  an  exclamation  and  an  arch 
look  of  congratulation  at  Ida. 

But  it  was  not  Archie. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  there's  a  Wn.  Bompas 
wants  to  see  you." 

"  Mrs.  Bompas  t " 

"Yes,  'em.  She  aaled  first  for  Mr. 
Archie,  and  then  for  the  master,  and  then 
for  you." 

"  Mrs.  Bompas  t    Is  she  a  lady,  EUeo  1 " 

"  Her  dress  is,  ma'am ;  but  I  showed  her 
into  the  study  "  (where  she  wouldn't  have 
shown  her  if  she  had  thought  the  lady 
went  deeper  than  the  dress). 

"  You  had  better  show  her  in  htm, 
Ellen." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Bompas  was  shown  in  accordingly 
— a  very  stout  woman,  dressed  in  widow's 
weeds,  and  in  the  deepest  black,  bnt 
making  even  black  look  vulgar.  Her 
manner,  even  when  she  was  sober,  wbieh 
she  hardly  was  now,  was  more  than  con- 
ciliatory—cringing  and  servile  :  a  nuuuier 
which  usually  slips  into  insolence  on  very 
short  notjca     Excessive  protestations  of 


Chnk*  Dfckant.] 


A  DEAWN  GAME 


[March  M,  1SS4.I      413 


leipect  are  worth  ta  little  u  any  other 
ezcesBiTe  protestotiona  ;  while,  on  the 
other  band,  self-reapect  and  respect  for 
others  are  so  far  from  being  incompatible 
that  they  go  generally  together. 

Anyhow,  Mm  Bompaa  had  the  command 
of  bot  two  eqnklly  offenaive  manners — the 
servile  and  the  insolent.  She  waa  alwaya 
either  "over-violent  or  over-civil."  Now 
she  waa  over-civiL  She  apolt^jised  abjectly 
for  the  intmaion,  for  the  honr  of  the  in- 
tnui»n,  dne  to  her  having  missed  a  train, 
and  lastly  and  most  deeply  for  the  cause 
of  the  intnuion.  But  what  waa  ita  caose  i 
It  was  not  eaay  to  discover.  As  far  as 
Mrs.  John  could  disentangle  it  oat  of  a 
bewildering  maze  of  excoses  and  apologies, 
it  was  that  Mrs.  Bompas  had  the  singular 
miafortuDe  to  be  a  mother.  Bat  had  she, 
as  she  asserted,  travelled  aeventy-five 
milea  to  ask  the  syinpatihy  of  a  Btrangsr 
for  this  extraordinary  trouble  T  Really 
Urs.  John  began  to  fear  that  the  woman 
was  mad,  so  incoherent  and  inconsequent 
was  her  appeal  If  ahe  waa  insane  there 
was  all  the  more  reason  to  be  conciliatory 
and  soothing,  nntil  the  Rev.  John  or 
Archie  came  home  to  the  rescue.  There- 
fore Mrs.  John,  after  exchanging  a  look  of 
perplexity  with  Ida,  thought  it  safest  to 
say,  "  I'm  aure  I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  Mrs, 
Bompas." 

"  I'm  sure  you  are — I  hnew  you  would 
be,  Mrs.  Onard."  She  took  Mrs,  John  for 
Archie's  own  mother.  "  I  knew  you  would 
be,  Mra,  Qaard.  When  I  saw  your  face  1 
felt  as  if  a  straw  would  knock  me  down. 
It's  my  own  boy's  face,  I  thought,  hia  very 
face."  Here  Mra.  Bompaa  had  to  hide  her 
feelinga  in  her  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  Have  you  lost  him  f "  asked  Mrs.  John, 
now  with  real  sympathy,  thinking  this 
bereavement  had  unaeated  her  reaaon. 

"  I  thought  I  had,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Bompas 
briskly,  with  a  sudden  rebound  Arom  the 
prostration  of  grief.  "  I  thought  I  had  till 
I  saw  hia  name  and  address  in  the  news- 
paper. My  heroic  boy  I  It  was  so  like 
him.  Isaidto  Anastasia  ibwasaolikebim. 
Bat,  poor  child,  she  could  only  cry,  '  Take 
me  to  him,  ma,  take  me  to  him.'  '  No,  no, 
Anastasia,'  I  said,  ■  it  woaldn't  be  proper. 
Ue  shall  come  to  yoa,  but  yoa  cannot  go 
to  bim.'" 

Here  Mr&  Bompas  had  t^in  recoarae  to 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  in  part  probably 
from  the  funereal  association  awakened 
by  these  pathetic  words.  Conquering  her 
emotion  by  a  great  effort,  ahe  resumed : 
"  I  thought  to  wean  her  from  him.     I 


hurried  her  away  from  Cambridge,  leaving 
no  address  or  trace  for  him  to  follow  and 
find  na  out  by,  in  the  hope  to  wean  her  from 
him.  But  no ;  it  was  no  nae ;  it  had  gone  too 
deep.  She  withered,  Mra.  Guud ;  I  saw  her 
wither.  I  waa  her  mother,  theae  are  a 
mother's  tears,"holdingont  her  handkerchief 
as  though  to  assure  Mrs.  John  that  the  tears 
she  had  put  into  that  bottle  were  of  this 
priceleaa  brand.  Then  Mra.  Bompaa  irre- 
levantly relapaed  into  profuse  apologies 
for  being  a  mother,  for  being  a  widow,  for 
being  poor,  for  being  preaumptuous,  for 
having  a  pretty  daaght«r,  for  [having  a 
warm  heart,  and  for  having  a  stationer's 
shop.  To  these  apologies  Mrs.  John 
listened  with  all  the  amiability  of  fear,  for 
now  her  only  doubt  of  Mrs.  Bompas  being 
mad  lay  in  the  hope  that  she  was  tipsy ; 
and,  indeed,  that  good  lady  waa  not  quite 
aober — it  was  not  ner  custom  to  be  at  this 
hour.  In  fact,  it  was  by  stajing  too  long 
in  the  refreshment-room  at  Holcroft  Junc- 
tion that  ahe  miased  an  earlier  train,  and 
through  misaing  the  train  and  having 
three  hours  to  wait  for  the  next,  she  waa 
exposed  again  during  that  trying  interval 
to  the  irreaiatible  temptationa  of  the 
ref reshm  ent-room. 

Emboldened  by  Mrs.  John's  exceeding 
friendlineas,  Mra.  Bompaa  took  a  higher 
flight,  and  proceeded  to  find  a  close 
relationship  between  herself  and  Archie's 
mother.  Being  both  mothers  of  the  one 
boy,  ahe  aeemed  to  come  to  the  conclneion 
that  they  must  be  tvrins,  and,  indeed, 
"  times  and  times  Archie  said  to  me  I  was 
as  like  his  mother  aa  two  peas." 

"Archie!"  echoed  Mrs.  John  involun- 
tarily, while  a  horrible  clue  to  Mra. 
Bompaa's  maundering  suggested  itself  to 
her.  Women,  even  the  beat  of  women, 
are  quick  to  suspect  a  love-intrigue.  It 
is  always  the  first  explanation  of  any 
mystery  which  occurs  to  them. 

"  Archie  1    Do  yon  mean  Mr.  Guard  1 " 

But  Mra.  John's  stress  on  the  "Mr." 
was  nothing  to  that  which  Mrs.  Bompas 
put  upon  it  in  her  retort 

"  Mr.  Guard  1  I'm  aure  I  humbly  ask 
your  pardon,"  with  sudden  offence  and 
ofiensivcneas  in  her  muiner.  "Mis— ter 
Guard  1  Oh,  indeed  1  Thank  you,  ma'am, 
for  the  correction,"  rising  to  cnrtsy,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  fumble  in  her  pocket, 
from  which  ahe  drew  at  last  a  packet  of 
letters,  tied  neatlywith  a  black  silk  ribbon. 

Having  untied  the  ribbon  with  trembling 
fingers  she  took  oat  one  of  the  letters. 

"  Do  yon  think,  ma'am,  I'd  allow  any 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[OniaiirM  If 


Mr.  Guard  to  write  in  that  way  to  my 
daughter  1"  with  a  sadden  transition  to 
statelinesfl,  marred  Bomewhat  by  a  hiccough. 

Mra.  John  took  tlie  letter  with  a  heart- 
sick certainty  that  Archie  was  either 
engaged  to,  or  in  a  still  worae  way  entangled 
with  tliin  cre.itare'a  daughter. 

"Deakest  Nesty. — Couldn't  come,  as 
I've  sprained  my  ankle.  Send  locket  by 
the  Frcnchy.  Mbd  yon  wear  it  where  you 
promised,  darling.  How  I  envy  it  I  It  will 
touch  your  hand,  your  lipa,  your  neck,  be 
with  yon  always  night  and  day.  I  believe 
you  wanted  a  lock  of  my  hair,  you  little 
witch,  only  to  torture  me  while  I'm  away 
from  you.  But  I  shall  pine  and  consume 
away  without  that,  little  one,  unless  yon 
come  to  nurao  me.  Fancy  Mumps  as  a 
nurse !  He's  the  only  one  I  have.  You 
might  come  in  yonr  Jessica  suit,  and  pass 
porters  and  proctors,  and  even  old '  Black- 
and-Tan.'  Anyhow  you  muat  write,  and 
write  at  once,  and  write  at  length,  not  a 
scrap,  remember,  only  to  madden  my 
thirst,  but  a  long,  long  draught  of  love 
that  wilt  lost  me  till  I  see  you,  and  drmk 
from  the  fountain-head.  My  own  darling ! 
Ever,  ever,  ever  youra,  Archik" 

Ida,  white  and  trembling,  with  terror  in 
her  wide  eyes,  watched  Mra.  John  while 
she  read  this  pretty  production  ;  the  first 
part  standing,  then  towards  the  end  sitting 
suddenly  down,  with  face  now  fiushed,  now 
pale,  and  hands  that  could  not  keep  the 
paper  steady.  No  woman  in  the  world 
could  be  more  shocked  than  Mm  John  by 
such  a  letter,  and  the  connection  it  seemed 
to  suggest ;  and  poor  Ida  read  her  doom 
in  the  misery  of  Mrs.  John's  face  as  she 
folded  up  the  note.  Jnat  as  she  was  folding 
it  Archie  burst  joyously  in. 

"  Well,  mother,  that  business " 

He  took  it  all  in  in  a  moment,  at  e:  ^ 
of  Mra.  Bompas  with  the  packet  of  letters 
in  her  hand.  Ho  glanced  over  at  Ida,  and 
then  sat  down  on  the  nearest  seat,  the 
picture  of  remorse  and  despair.  It  needed 
hardly  this,  and  only  this  to  convince 
Mrs.  John  of  his  disgraceful  connection 
with,  and  Ida  of  his  d^ading  engagement 
to,  the  daughter  of  this  drunkard. 


IN  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICE. 

The  Government  clerk  baa  been  for 
many  years  the  recognised  butt  of  small 
wits.  He  ia  said  to  be  like  the  Trafalgar 
fountains — to   play    from    ton    till    four 


(which  the  fountains  do  not,  by  the  way). 
He  is  represented  as  refnsing  to  read  Uie 
paper  on  his  journey  to  town  in  the  mora- 
ing,  because,  if  be  doe*,  he  will  be  stranded 
for  occupation  when  he  reaches  the  office, 
and  so  forth.  Ked-tapeism  ia  aupposed  to 
be  rampant  still  throughout  the  service, 
and  the  Circumlocution  Ofiice  even  to  this 
day  a  not  very  exa^erated  picture  of  whit 
a  Government  office  really  is. 

However  true  it  may  have  been  i 
generation  ago,  there  is  no  doubt  tfaiagi 
have  altered  greatly  for  the  better  nov. 
Jobbery  is  not  common,  at  all  eventt.  Sir 
Arthur  Helpi,  who  bad  a  wide  experience, 
declared  that  he  had  never  met  with  s  cue. 
His  good  fortune  is  not  that  of  everyone; 
there  is  no  doubt  that  jobs  are  occasionally 
perpetrated,  but  they  are  the  exceptios, 
not  the  rule.  The  growth  of  a  healiJi; 
feeling  in  matters  of  this  sort,  combiaed 
with  a  wholesome  fear  of  exposure,  m^e 
the  possibility  of  jobbery  every  day  more 
difficult. 

Different  offices  differ  so  widely  in  tiieir 
constitution  and  work,  that  it  is  dilficdt 
to  describe  life  in  one  without  it^  appeariog 
a  false  picture  to  those  conversant  with  the 
details  of  some  other.  For  the  purposas 
of  this  paper  it  will  be  wisest  to  take  an 
imaginary  office,  describing,  however,  no- 
thing that  doea  not  exist  in  some  office  or 
other,  and  endeavouring  to  picture  tie  kind 
of  life  tliat  with  more  or  less  modification 
is  passed  in  alL 

Suppose,  then,  that  the  Govemnwnt 
office  in  question  is  one  charged  with  ths 
supervision  of  alt  pablic  places  of  amuse- 
ment throughout  England,  except  the 
metropolis.  It  consists  of  a  controller- 
general,  a  secretary,  assiatantsecietary, 
two  principal  clerks,  three  firat-chas  clerbj 
five  second,  ten  third,  twelve  lowor-diviuou 
clerks,  and  four  copyists.  In  addition, 
there  is  a  technical  sta^  of  faispectors,  and 
a  solicitor. 

This  seems  »  lai^  body  of  men  to  oon- 
duct  such  a  department  When  ones 
everytlting  is  in  order  it  must  be  a  mere 
matter  of  routine  to  keep  thinp  going. 
So,  at  least,  it  muat  appear  to  the  public 

Bat  to  begin  with,  the  controller  it  in 
Parliament,  and  can  therefore  give  but » 
limited  portion  of  his  time  to  the  work  of 
the  office.  Very  likely,  too,  he  was  chosen 
for  his  ability  in  some  field  utterly  unrelated 
to  public  amusements,  and  because  his  being 
in  office  would  strengUken  the  hands  ^ 
Government  Nevertheless,  if  he  ia  a  good 
man  of  husiness,  and  heads  of  departmenta 


ChutH  Dlckeu.] 


IN  A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICE. 


generally  &re,  he  earns  bis  salary  well,  even 
if  he  only  comes  to  the  office  at  twelve  and 
goea  to  the  Houae  at  four— to  work  till  two 
next  morning  for  oothing. 

The  EOcretary  ia  the  permauont  head 
of  the  ollicG,  and  on  bis  capability  and 
energy  depends  ia  a  great  measure  the 
eit'iciency  of  the  department.  Every 
matter  of  any  importance  ia  brought  under 
his  personal  notice;  constant  practice 
enables  him  to  attend  to  an  astonishing 
number  of  affura  without  losing  bis  grasp 
of  any,  and  to  seize  the  points  of  the 
SQ^ect  under  diacaaaioa  with  certainty 
and  quicknes!.  He  decides,aU  ordinary 
questioua — reserving  the  mora  important 
for  discussion  with  his  chief.  To  most  of 
the  staff  he  is  the  real  head.  The  controller 
is  generally  invisible,  and  communicates 
vritn  the  office  almost  entirely  throngh  the 
secretary. 

The  assistant-secretary  is  what  his  title 
implies.  He  fiUa  the  secretary's  place 
when  the  latter  is  away ;  takes  under  bis 
charge  routine  work  and  the  more  ordinary 
questions  that  arise,  and,  generally,  helps 
to  relieve  the  secretary  of  the  pressure 
that  will  come  on  him  if  he  does  bis  duty 
thoroughly. 

To  come  to  the  body  of  clerks  who  form 
the  great  mass  of  what  is  usually  under- 
stood by  the  Civil  Service.  Let  us  take 
a  day  in  the  Kfe  of  one  of  the  first-class  ; 
a  man  probably  of  thirty-eight  or  over,  and 
whoae  income  is  about  four  hundred  and 
fifty  pouoda.     We  will  call  him  Mr.  Jones. 

It  is  ten  minutes  past  ten  ae  he  enters 
the  house  which  serves  for  the  oliice,  pend- 
ing the  erection  of  proper  premises,  Hia 
first  duty  is  to  sign  the  attendance-book 
This  is  taken  away  at  a  quarter  past  ten, 
and  those  who  are  not  present  then  have 
to  sign  next  day,  marking  the  hoar  at 
which  they  arrive.  Mr.  Jones  looks 
ominous,  as  he  discovers  that  his  two 
assistants  have  not  yet  signed,  though  the 
quarter  of  an  hour's  grace  is  just  up.  They 
come  in  ten  minutes  late,  and  Mr.  Jones 
calls  their  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  is 
the  third  time  within  a  fortnight 

"My  train  was  late,  sir,  pleads  the 
lower-division  man. 

The  third-class  clerk,  conscious  that  some 
day  he  may  be  a  first-class  clerk  like  Jones, 
makes  no  excuse,  but  changes  his  coat  for 
a  shabby  otTice  one,  washes  his  hands,  and 
flita  down  to  work. 

"  Have  yon  prepared  that  statement  of 
rents  receivable  for  me  1 "  asks  Mr.  Jonea 
of  Mr.  Smith,  the  lower-division  man. 


"  No,  sir,  I  haven't  quite  finished  it." 

"  Do  make  haste  about  it,"  pleads 
Jfr.  Jonea  He  knows  well  enough  the 
cause  of  the  delay.  Mr.  Smith  is  working 
up  for  an  examination  for  a  superior  clrrk- 
ship,  and  devotes  every  moment  ho  can 
to  working  unoflicial  sums,  or  solving 
algebraic  problems;  hence  the  neglect  of 
official  work.  But  Mr,  Jones  also  is  aware 
that  Smith  knows  his  work  thoroughly, 
that  he  can  do  twice  as  much,  when  he 
tries,  as  the  average  lower-division  clerk, 
and  do  it  twice  as  correctly,  so  he  puts  up 
with  his  eccentricities  with  a  sigh  of  help- 
lessness, bewailing  the  system  under  which 
every  good  lower-division  man  leaves  the 
ofRce  just  as  he  has  learnt  hia  work 
thoroughly. 

This  ia  a  busy  day,  however,  and  Mr. 
Jones  has  but  little  time  for  bemoaning 
the  state  of  the  aervice  generally.  He  has 
a  pile  of  papers  before  him,  and  is  pain- 
fully aware  that  the  constant  thud  over 
his  head  is  the  stamp  of  the  registering 
clerk,  bnaily  preparing  the  morning's  letters 
for  distribution  amongst  the  various 
branches.  The  day's  deliveries  are  per- 
haps one  hundred  and  fifty  letters;  most 
of  them  on  matters  of  routine,  or  simple 
accounts.  Mr.  Jones  gets,  perhaps,  fifteen 
for  a  stftrt;  the  rest  reach  him  in  driblets, 
as  they  are  ready. 

He  sorts  them  as  they  coma  Seven 
of  them  are  accounts.  He  passes  them  on 
to  be  checked,  after  a  glance  at  them  to 
see  there  ia  nothing  unusual  about  them, 
then  looks  at  the  others. 

Mr.  Jones  takes  only  the  correspondence 
relating  to  the  ground  on  which  the  pre- 
mises under  the  inspection  of  the  office 
are  built.  This  morning  brings  him  in  two 
applications  for  permiasion  to  erect  build- 
ings on  land  which  is  the  property  of  cor- 
porations, and  one  on  land  belonging  to 
trustees  for  almahouses.  With  a  want  of 
business  tact  which  Mr.  Jones  has  met  with 
too  often  to  be  surprised  at,  neither  corre- 
spondent has  sent  with  his  letters  anything 
to  show  that  permiasion  has  been  obtained 
from  the  landlords  to  build.  The  pro- 
cedure is  simple ;  Mr.  Jones  prepares  a 
form  of  instructions  as  to  the  information 
required  by  the  Department  before  the 
application  can  be  considered ;  it  is  sent 
up  to  the  copying-room  for  despatch,  and 
that  piece  of  business  is  postponed  for  a 
few  days. 

In  all  probability  half  the  applications 
will  never  be  renewed,  die  demands  of  the 
circular  being  too  stringent.     Mr.  Jones, 


416     [Uuth  IS,  1«»4,] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


ICondncM  tiy 


as  he  puts  the  form  of  qneatioiis  ap,  thinks 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  improve  it, 
and  determines  th&t  as  soon  as  he  can  find 
time  he  will  see  about  it.  Bat  when  will  he 
find  time  1  Work  increues  every  day,  bo 
clerks  think;  the  Treasnry  are  always 
putting  fresh  work  in  the  office  because  it 
is  the  only  office  in  the  service  that  does 
its  work  well,  and  yet  directly  a  move 
is  made,  and  application  made  tor  another 
clerk  or  two,  they  "fail  to  see  the  neces- 
sity," or  "do  not  feel  jostified  in  the 
present  state  of  public  finances  to  increase 
the  expenditnre  on  the  establishment." 

At  any  rate  there  u  plenty  to  do  this 
morning.  Brown  of  the  next  room  is  on 
leave,  so  Jones  has  his  work  thrown  on 
hie  hands  as  wetL  Aa  if  that  were  not 
enough,  he  reada  in  the  paper  that  a 
Eadical  member  has  moved  for  a  return  of 
all  groand-rents  pidd  for  land  occupied  by 
premises  under  the  department.  The 
demand    for   this    wretched    return    will 

arrive  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then Jones 

does  not  contemplate  the  prospect  with 
relish.  He  is  only  too  well  aware  that  the 
vast  and  intricate  question  of  gronnd-rents 
is  one  which  he  has  yet  to  master.  How- 
ever, he  will  have  to  master  it  now,  and 
no  mistake,  or  else  proclaim  himself  as  a 
duffer,  and  that  won  t  do  with  only  three 
men  between  him  and  promotion.  No; 
the  Kegister  of  Ground  K«nto  will  be  his 
companion  for  a  good  many  evenings 
during  the  coming  fortnight. 

At  this  juncture  of  affairs  Mr.  Robinson, 
hia  osaUtant  third-class  clerk,  brings  him  a 
paper  at  which  he  glances  angrily.  It  is 
an  estimate  of  expense  which  will  be  in- 
curred in  surveying  the  ground  attached 
to  the  buildings  iu  charge  of  the  office. 
The  object  of  the  survey  is  to  isolate  as 
far  as  possible  these  buildings,  ao  ai  to 
reluce  the  chance  of  fira  Mr.  Jones  takes 
considerable  credit  to  himself  for  the  idea ; 
it  id  one  of  the  cansolations  of  a  Govern- 
ment official  that  he  can  sometimes 
originate  a  measure  for  the  public  benefit. 

"You're  sure  this  is  right)"  queries  Jones. 

"  Oh  yes,"  is  the  reply, 

Jones  looks  severe. 

"  This  is  the  third  time  you've  made  out 
this  statement,  Robinson,  and  its  been 
wrong  each  time.  How  on  earth  am  I  to  give 
the  secretory  the  information  he  wants,  if 
I  can't  depend  on  you  for  the  merest 
routine  )  " 

Robinson  rather  quakes  at  the  mention 
of  the  secretary,  but  isn't  going  to  be 
bullied  by  Jones,  who  only  entered  the 


place  six  years  before  him,  and  has  had 
tramendoOB  luck.  But  Jones  turns  over  tfae 
big  registers  with  the  air  of  a  man  vho 
knows  them  backwards,  and  soon  convince! 
Robinson  that  he  is  wrong. 

"  Look  here,"  says  Mr.  Jones  severely, 
"you've  allowed  three  pounds  fifteen 
shillings  for  survey  of  ground  at  Boltoa, 
when  you  could  have  found  out  from  thla 
book  that  the  ground  there  was  let  to  Uis 
vicar  for  a  mission  chapel.  And  here  at 
Farehurst  we  have  a  survey  already,  for 
the  land  is  the  property  of  the  Ecclesiastical 
Commissioners,  and  thev  had  it  surveyed. 

And  look  here "     And  so  on  till  poor 

Robinson  is*  thoroughly  convinced,  and 
wishes  that  he  had  an  easy-going  fellow  Iil(e 
Jenkins  for  a  chief,  instead  of  a  martinet 
like  Jones,  who  is  always  poking  his  nwe 
into  everything. 

Jones,  on  the  other  hand,  curses  his  luck 
in  having  a  man  like  Robinson  under  him; 
he  being  a  jovial,  careless  sort  of  fellow, 
very  good  compan}*,  but  a  very  poor  clerk 
He  was  dancing  till  four  that  morning,  so 
it  ij  no  wonder  that  he  was  late  in 
arriving,  and  not  very  macb  inclined  for 
business  when  he  did  turn  up. 

Here  is  half  past  eleven,  and  the  day's 
work  scarcely  begun.  Jones  sita  down  to 
it  iu  earnest.  He  writes  thtee  or  font 
letters,  one  a  complicated  one  which  will 
probably  lead  to  litigation ;  he  consa- 
qnently  feels  he  mast  be  careful  and  choose 
his  phrases,  He  could,  if  he  liked,  get 
the  draft  sent  to  the  solicitor  to  see  if 
there  was  anything  wrong  in  it,  but  Jooes 
hae  a  amall  opinion  of  the  solicitor's 
wisdom,  and  a  considerable  belief  in  his 
own,  so  he  prepares  the  draft  himself  for 
the  approval  of  the  secretary.  The  file  of 
papers  in  connection  with  the  question  n 
growing  very  thick;  no  paper-fastener  will 
reach  tiirongh  it ;  but  Jones  knows  ever; 
letter  in  the  £1<>,  and  has  mastered  every 
point  that  can  arise ;  knows  every  precedent 
bearing  on  the  case,  and  does  not  fear  to  be 
"  bowled  out "  by  a  sudden  piercing  qnes- 
tion  from  the  secretary  as  to  "  whether  we 
did  not  act  somewhat  differently  in  1857, 
in  the  case  of  Morris's  application  1 " 

Jones  has  not  spent  twenty  years  in  tha 
office  for  nothing,  and  he  will  "  run  "  that 
business  through  without  a  hitch,  till  at 
last  he  can  proudly  write  the  letters  P.  A. 
("put  away")  on  the  pile,  and  send  it  np  to 
the  paper-keepers  to  be  deposited  amongst 
the  archives  of  the  office. 

Just  as  he  has  finished  his  letters  there 
is  a  resounding  shriek  from  the  whistle  of 


IN   A  GOVERNMENT  OFFICE 


lUiirch  ££,  18S4.]      417 


the  BpeaUng-tabe.  That  means  that  Mr. 
Withers,  the  prmdpal  clerk,  wants  to  see 
him.  Jones  hurriea  np,  angry  at  the  in- 
tomption.  He  la  stUl  more  angiy  when 
he  finds  that  he  has  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
Enclosure  Commission  Office  to  clear  up  a 
question  which  is  in  dispute  about  the 
ownership  of  a  piece  of  land  whicli  the 
commissioners  claim,  bat  which  Mr.  Jones 
is  of  opinion  is  the  property  of  hia  office. 
By  the  time  he  retnms  it  is  half-past  one, 
and  time  for  lunch.  He  finds  that  Mr. 
Robinson  has  already  departed,  and  that 
Hr.  Smith  is  busily  engaged  over  a  German 
grammar  while  he  manches  a  hasty  lunch 
of  bread-and-cheese. 

Mr.  Jonee  is  quite  ready  for  hb  chop, 
which  is  duly  brought  him  by  a  boy-mes- 
senger. It  ia  burnt,  but  he  is  accustomed  to 
that ;  he  soon  despatches  it,  and  takes  away 
the  taste  with  a  biscuit,  which  he  keeps 
in  hia  drawer,  washing  it  down  with  a 
gUss  of  sherry.  There  is  a  refreshment- 
room  for  those  who  care  to  viat  it,  but 
Hr.  Jones  prefers  to  take  his  meal  quietly 
in  his  room,  or  else  to  so  out  and  have  it  at 
a  restaaraok  His  club  is  too  far  ofT,  and  if 
he  goes  there  he  is  well  aware  he  will  not 
be  back  at  work  by  two,  for  only  half  an 
boor  is  allowed  for  lonch;  and  though  it  is 
all  very  well  for  the  fellowa  in  rooms  ten 
and  twelve,  who  have  nothing  to  do,  to  take 
an  hour,  it  won't  do  for  room  number  six, 
Uie  apartment  honoured  by  bis  presence. 

Of  conrse  Mr.  Smith  sticks  to  his  German 
grammar  till  told  to  shut  it  up,  and  almost 
equally  of  course  Mr.  Robinson  is  five 
minntes  late  in  returning.  However,  by 
this  time  Mr.  Jones  is  getting  angry,  and 
his  aubordinates  see  it,  so  there  ia  very 
little  more  time  wasted  that  day.  Mr. 
Smith  finishes  his  return  of  rents  receivable 
in  half  an  hour,  and  brings  It  up  for 
ezaminatioQ  and  signature. 

It  is  found,  however,  on  inspection,  that 
allowance  has  not  been  made  for  various 
taxes  which  can  be  deducted,  and  that 
certain  properties  have  been  built  since 
the  last  quarterly  return  was  made,  which 
alters  the  sums  receivable.  A  recent  Act 
of  Parliament,  too,  afiecting  Government 
and  corporation  lands  generally,  hai  come 
into  operation,  and  fresh  calculations  wUl 
have  to  be  made  in  many  cases,  some  of 
them  of  considerable  intricacy,  Mr.  Smith, 
well  up  in  mathematics,  thanks  to  his  ap- 
proaching examination,  attacks  these  with 
some  amount  of  enthusiasm,  but  it  is  clear 
that  the  return  cannot  be  finished  to-day. 
And  it  is  due  iu  two  days,  or  else  the  wrath 


of  the  principal  clerk,  who  has  the  accounts 
branch  under  his  charge,  will  be  outpoured 
on  Mr.  Jones  in  the  shape  of  a  minute 
calling  attention  to  the  delay.  Mr.  Jones 
begins  to  think  that  a  civil  servant's  lot  is 
not  a  happy  one.  He  wishes  some  of  those 
people  who  are  always  imagining  Govern- 
ment clerks  as  reading  the  newspaper  and 
thinking  what  they  shall  do  next,  could  be 
in  his  shoes  for  a  day.  Hardest  of  all,  he 
knows  that  men  in  other  rooms  are  having 
easy  times  of  it,  yet  it  is  impossible  for 
him  to  say  so.  All  he  can  do  is  to  report 
that  he  has  more  than  he  can  get  through, 
and  that  be  is  loth  to  da  The  secretary, 
he  knows,  looks  upon  him  as  a  msn  who 
can  get  through  his  work  well,  and  ha  does 
not  want  to  give  the  impression  that  he  is 
not  as  quick  as  he  has  credit  for. 

So  the  short  day  paues,  all  too  soon  for 
the  work  that  has  to  be  done,  and  when 
Big  Ben  strikes  four  Mr.  Jones  wishes  that 
he  could  strike  too.  Mr.  Smith  goes  at 
the  very  minute;  be  knows  the  terms  of 
his  contract  and  makes  up  for  his  lack  of 
prospects  in  the  office  by  spending  as  much 
time  as  he  can  out  of  it.  His  unfortunate 
chief  buckles  to  for  another  hour,  and 
finally  takes  home  with  him  a  portiolio  of 
pressing  work  to  look  at  at  home. 

However,  this  is  only  one  side  of  a  civil 
servant's  life — a 'side  that  exists  more  often 
than  is  supposed.  A  very  different  exist- 
ence  is  led  by  Sanderson,  a  second-class 
clerk  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage 
which  divides  the  ground-floor.  He  is  a 
great  musical  man,  a  composer  of  some 
small  celebrity,  and  critic  on  a  weekly 
paper.  His  office  address  is  the  only  one 
known  to  his  business  friends  outside,  and 
every  morning  he  has  to  begin  his  day's 
work  by  opening  and  answering  hia  private 
letters.  He  gets  through  his  work  somehow; 
be  is  in  the  room  connected  with  the  erection 
of  buildings,  so  he  is  able  to  shelve  all  ques- 
tions by  referring  them  to  the  technical 
inspectors  for  report,  and  then  acting 
blindly  on  their  inatructiona  Of  course 
his  duty  is  to  exercise  control  over  them, 
looking  upon  them  as  the  executive 'branch 
of  the  department,  whilst  bis  is  the  ad- 
ministrative; but  that  is  not  his  view,  and 
provided  he  can  keep  out  of  scrapes  he  does 
not  mnch  care. 

But  the  heads  of  the  office  are  not 
deceived  as  to  Mr.  Sanderson's  powers  and 
method  of  work.  He  will  find  when  the 
time  for  promotion  comes  that  one  of  his 
juniors  is  put  quietly  over  his  head,  and  he 
may  consider  himself   fortunate  it  some 


418      [Utrcti  !2,  ise4.] 


ALL  TEE  YEAR  EOUND. 


[Ctmdiicleiibr 


caralosB  blunder  does  not  before  that  lead 
to  bia  losing  part  of  his  leave,  ot  even  (if 
his  carelessneaa  is  flagrant)  to  the  loss  of  bis 
yearly  inclement 

This  last  mark  of  his  superiorG'  dls- 
pleaaiire  is  no  alight  punishment.  If  an 
increment  is  stopped  for  a  year,  and  six 
years  pass  before  the  victim  obtains  bis 
promotion,  it  ie  equivalent  to  a  fine  of 
about  one  hundred  pounds.  A  still  more 
severe  punishment  b  Buspension,  during 
whicli  time  salary  ceases  altogether ;  and  it 
is  very  difficult  for  a  auapended  clerk  ever 
to  regain  the  confidence  of  bis  chiefs. 

One  case  of  suspension  only  recently 
occurred  in  the  office,  and  Sanderson  has 
been  talking  it  over  with  Menziea  during 
lunch.  A  very  black  sheep  has  been  at 
last  convicted  of  deceiving  the  con- 
troller in  the  matter  of  sick-leave.  The 
usual  medical  certificate  was  sent  in, 
declariug  that  he  was  suffering  from 
diptberetic  catarrh,  and  quite  unable  to 
attend  at  the  office.  However,  by  an  un- 
fortunate accident,  the  assistant-secretary 
met  him  in  Hyde  Park,  and  he  was  written 
to  for  an  explanation.  His  excuse  was 
that  he  .was  better,  and  that  he  thonght  a 
little  exercise  would  do  him  good.  As  be 
was  taking  his  exercise  on  a  rather  vicious 
mare,  the  controller  was  of  opinion  that  he 
was  quite  well  enough  to  attend  to  his 
rapidly  accumulating  arrears  of  work.  As 
he  was  BOspected  of  similar  conduct  once 
before,  he  was  suspended  for  a  month,  his 
arrears  being  saddled  on  to  some  un- 
fortunate man  of  the  class  of  Jones,  who 
never  took  a  day's  sick-leave  aa  long  as  he 
could  stand. 

The  great  leave  question  is  one  which 
causes  a  considerable  amount  of  discussion. 
Five  weeks  is  the  regular  allowance,  and  by 
no  means  a  bad  one.  The  difficulty  is  how 
to  arrange  it  so  that  every  one  shall  get 
away  when  he  wishes.  In  some  of  the 
large  offices  certain  of  the  clerks  have  to 
take  their  holiday  in  the  joyful  month  of 
November;  toiling  away  at  the  official  oar 
all  through  the  summer,  with  added  work 
owing  -to  the  absence  of  their  happier 
colleagues.  Then,  too,  the  painters  and 
whitewashers  descend  in  force,  and  make 
the  whole  place  unbearabla  One  consola- 
tion is,  howev6r,alIowed  when  this  incursion 
is  made — everyone  is  allowed  to  smoke, 
a  privilege  denied  during  ordinary  seasons, 
though  occasionally  furtively  indulged  in  by 
clerks  in  distant  rooms  seldom  visited  by  a 
chief. 

The  Public  Amnsementa  Inspection  Office 


is  rather  a  literary  office.  Several  of  its 
members  write  for  magazines  oi  joumals. 
BeyfUB,  one  of  the  second-class,  is  known 
as  a  rising  dramatic  author.  Carlton's 
essays  on  Ancient  British  Art  have  met 
with  some  attention  from  the  arcbxologtcal 
world.  It  is  very  pleasant  lor  three  or 
four  of  these  kindred  spirits  to  meet  after 
otHce,  and,  tabooing  "  shop,"  toforgetfors 
while  that  there  are  such  things  in  the 
world  as  leases  and  contracts.  SomelimM 
business  is  slack,  and  gives  them  a  dunce 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  s  literary  discussion 
in  some  room  whither  they  have  vandei«d 
in  search  of  official  information.  But  there 
is  an  uneasy  feeling  in  their  minds  as  they 
talk,  that,  although  their  work  does  not 
press,  the  sooner  it  is  done  the  better.  And 
then  there  are  the  stock  jobs  to  be  taken  ii[L 
These  stock  jobs  are  the  bane  of  offidsl 
existence.  They  hang  as  a  swotd  ot 
Damoclea  over  tne  head  of  every  reepon- 
sible  clerk.  Current  work  may  bo  slack ; 
for  some  reason  no  one  wants  to  pat  oji  a 
new  bnilding  of  any  kind ;  then  is  the  time 
for  attacking  the  vast  mass  of  work  for 
which  there  is  no  harry,  but  which  onght 
to  be  done.  Old  rasters,  scored  and 
altered  in  the  course  oi  years,  need  reviiion 
and  recopying;  volumes  require  re-indei- 
ing ;  time  is  lost  in  having  to  refer  to  half- 
Brdozen  books,  which  could  be  digested  into 
one  if  only  there  was  time  to  do  it.  Jones 
is  certain  that  under  certain  Acts  of  laat 
century  the  office  has  wider  powers  than  is 

generaJly  believed,  and,  briefly,  there  is  no 
kelihood  of  the  office  expiring  ihiDi 
inanition  for  some  time  yet 

The  worst  of  it  is  that  just  as  some 
Hercolean  labonr  is  started  by  some  in- 
dustrious or  ambitions  man,  bis  assiBtsiit 
ifl  sure  to  be  ill,  or  go  away  on  leave,  or  s 
press  of  current  work  comes  in,  and  the 
stock  job  has  to  be  postponed  till  a  more 
convenient  Beasou. 

Whether  the  Government  service  ii  ■ 
pleasant  profession  or  not  depends  entiie'y 
on  the  individual  To  a  man  of  gtudioos 
habits,  jealous  of  his  leisure,  not  entirely 
dependent  on  his  salary  for  his  income,  it 
is  admirably  suited.  The  ambitious,  lai^e- 
viewed  man  is  out  of  place  in  it;  he  finds 
after  a  few  years  that,  however  hard  hs 
works  at  computations  or  returns,  his 
chance  of  promotion  out  of  his  turn  is  but 
slight  For  a  few  years  a  junior  is  toler- 
ably content :  one  hundred  pounds  a  yetr 
to  begin  with  is  more  than  he  could  mike 
elsewliere  j  bnt  when  be  is  thirty,  and  he 
is  still  making   less  than  three  hundred 


TKAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


419 


ponndfl,  ha  begins  to  irish  he  bad  entered  a 
profeaaion ;  he  looks  with  envy  at  his 
brother,  a  doctor,  who  is  only  two  years 
older,  and  has  a  practice  worth  eight  handred 
or  a  thoQBand  poiinda.  He  forgets  that  bis 
brother  stodiod  five  years,  and  then  bought 
a  partnership,  whilst  he  entered  the  service 
straight  from  school,  and  had  a  salary  the 
first  year. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  "plums"  for 
the  Incky.  Sometimes  a  clerk  is  made 
an  assistant-secretary,  or  even  secretary; 
possibly  he  is  chosen  private  secretary  to 
the  head  of  his  office,  and  has  an  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  what  he  is  made  of. 
Then  when  his  chief  is  promoted  to  a  post 
in  the  Cabinet,  he  follows  him,  and  perhaps 
his  fortune  is  mada 

Bnt  these  things  are  rare ;  mneh  more 
common  is  it  to  find  a  man  grown  grey  in 
the  service,  and  embittered  by  constant 
disappointments.  Waiting  for  dead  men's 
shoes  is  proverbially  unpleaaant,  and  as  a 
rule  it  is  only  through  the  death  or  retire- 
ment of  those  above*hIm  that  a  clerk  can 
obtain  a  rise.  Men  reach  the  mazimnm 
salary  of  their  class  and  remain  there — 
those  in  the  class  above  tbem  being  perhaps 
but  a  year  or  two  older,  and  showing  no 
signs  of  a  disposition  to  make  room  for 
ouers.  When  bis  family  increases,  the  un- 
happy civil  servant  wishes  too  late  that  he 
were  id  some  employment  where  harder 
work  meant  more  money,  and  feels  that  he 
would  readily  give  up  some  of  his  once 
prised  leisure  if  he  could  only  obtain  a 
corresponding  increase  of  income: 

Bnt  the  last  word  shall  not  be  a 
naelancholy  one.  After  all,  a  civil  servant, 
if  ho  is  only  tolerably  fortunate  in  bis 
career,  has  small  reason  to  complain,  when 
he  compares  himself  with  those  who  began 
the  world  as  he  did.  True,  some  of  his 
friends  have  made  their  fortunes,  bnt 
others  have  failed ;  some  are  saccessfnl  at 
the  bar,  or  in  the  City,  but  he  knows  they 
work  twice  as  hard  as  he  does,  and  have 
not  a  moment  they  can  call  their  own; 
others  of  his  old  schoolfellows  he  sees 
boved  down  with  anxiety,  and  scarcely 
able  to  make  both  ends  meet  For  him- 
self, he  knows  he  will  never  make  his 
fortnne,  so,  if  he  is  wise,  he  is  not  dis- 
appointed at  not  doing  so ;  bnt  he  can 
attain  a  modest  competence ;  his  incoi 
a  certainty,  paid  to  the  hour;  he  is  not 
overworked,  he  has  plenty  of  leisure,  he 
has  good  holidays,  he  mixes  with  pleasant 
people  in  his  office,  and  is  treated  with 
consideration.      Ferhana.    after   all.    the 


pleasantness  or  otherwise  of  official  life  is 
a  question  of  temperament,  but  to  those 
who  think  that  the  beat  state  for  a  ma.n  is 
neither  poverty  nor  riches,  the  Civil  Service 
offers  great  attractions.  To  those  who  hold 
that  withont  leisure  life  is  not  worth  living, 
its  attractions  are  still  greater. 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 

PART  IV 
It  was  on  the  morning  of  Ash  Wednes- 
day that  I  was  able  to  resume  my  journey 
in  the  East;  a  proper  day,  I  thought, 
whereon  to  mortify  the  flesh  by  taking  a 
long  tramp. 

As  I  jumped  into  the  tndn  that  took  me 
to  my  tryeting-place,  I  somehow  fell  into  a 
train  of  sentimental  thought.  It  may  have 
been  suggested  by  some  salt- fish  in  a 
window,  as  I  approached  the  station.  But, 
whatever  was  its  origin,  there  arose  the 
meditation  that  many  an  idle  lounger,  who 
lolls  about  the  West,  might,  by  way  of 
Lenten  penance,  do  well  to  make  a 
pilgrimage  some  fine  day  to  the  East  If  it 
were  a  wet  day,  the  penance  might  be 
greater,  but  the  walking  might  be  less. 
Worn  out  eight-seer  though  ne  were,  he 
would  behold  a  novel  sight  or  two,  and 
some  perhaps  might  make  him  stare ;  and, 
though  reflection  is  fatiguing,  some  might 
even  make  him  think. 

To  one  who  leads  a  life  of  luxury  and 
ease,  It  must  seem  a  strange  idea  to  have 
to  slave  in  a  back  slum,  and  scarce  get 
bread  enough  to  eat,  The  point  "  Is  life 
worth  living  1"  may  be  put  before  a 
Sybarite,  who  deems  it  a  hard  labour  to 
strike  a  match  in  order  to  light  a  cigarette ; 
but  it  certainly  presents  a  very  different 
aspect  when  viewed  by  a  poor  shirtmaker, 
who,  to  save  herself  from  starving,  must 
daily  work  for  fifteen  hours  at  a  stretch.  A 
man  who  chiefly  spends  his  time  between 
his  stable  and  his  club,  might  haply  get  a 
trifle  of  his  selfishness  shamed  out  of  him, 
if  he  were  to  pay  a  penitential  visit  to  the 
East,  and  see  the  sort  of  lives  that  his 
fellow-men  are  living,  and  the  sort  of 
dwellings  wherein  they  have  to  live. 

With  some  few  thoughts  like  theee  to 
beguile  me  on  my  way,  I  set  forth  on  my 
day's  travel ;  and  shortly  after  noon  I  met 
my  punctual  guide  at  the  appointed  place. 
We  bad  not  proceeded  far,  when  some- 
thing ted  me  to  remark  that  I  wished  to 
see  the  rooms  of  some  of  those  poor 
sempstresses,  of  whom  there  had  been  told 
such  oitiabte  tales.      "NothtDK  is  more 


420     [Mmb^-i, 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


ICondacMby 


easy,"  he  replied,  "there  are  plenty  of 
them  hereabouts,"  and  well-nigh  directly, 
on  rounding  the  next  corner,  we  entered  a 
small  street  which,  as  it  bore  the  name  or 
an  Eastern  bird  of  prey,  conveyed  a  covert 
reference  to  the  sellers  of  cheap  slop-work, 
ttiado  by  starving  o(  the  poor. 

Here,  in  a  amiul  house — though  I  need 
harilly  use  the  epithet,  for  in  the  £Ust 
there  are  none  large — we  climbed  a  few 
Eteep  stairs,  aiid  knocked  at  a  small  door. 
This  we  found  od  the  Arstfloor  ;  at  least  it 
would  have  been  the  first-floor,  if  there 
had  been  a  second  and  an  answer  to  our 
k  J  lock  bade  us  cheerily,  "  come  in."  We 
were  welcomed  very  heartily  by  a  pleasant- 
looking  woman,  in  the  poorest  of  poor 
clothes,  who  was  " machining"  at  a  table 
that  stood  beneath  the  window  j  a  small 
bedstead  being  opposite,  close  beside  the 
door.  Her  machine  was  on  the  table,  and 
there  likewise  was  her  baby — a  thin  and 
solemn  baby,  sitting  qnite  sedately  in  a 
very  tiny  chair,  and  staring  silently  at 
mother  while  she  pursued  her  work.  A 
curly,  light-haired  little  boy  was  standing 
by  her  side ;  and  in  spite  of  all  his  ragged- 
n  iss  ho  really  would  have  looked  &  very 
pretty  little  fellow,  but  for  tho  sore  skin 
that  showed  the  poorness  of  his  blood.  Ho 
was  trying  to  make  playthings  of  two  little 
bits  of  Hrewood,  to  which,  in  shape  of  cat- 
o'- nine- tails,  he  hod  tied  some  scraps  of 
tape.  The  cheapest  of  cheap  clocks  was 
ticking  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  a  small 
kettle  was  simmering  beside  a  smaller  fire, 
but  neither  of  these  noises  stood  a  chance  of 
iaterfering  with  the  sound  of  the  machine. 
Piled  upon  a  chair,  and  put  quite  ready 
to  her  hand,  lay  a  lot  of  little  pieces 
of  thickisb  grey  tweed  cloth,  shaped  as  the 
two  sides  of  what  in  the  cheap  clothing 
lists  are  recorded  as  "boys'  vests."  These 
were  to  be  sewn,  and  neatly  fitted  to  the 
back,  and  in  point  of  fact  the  garment, 
buttoD-hoIes  excepted,  was  to  be  sewn 
throughout 

Buttons  1  Oh  yes,  certainly.  She  had 
to  put  the  buttons  on,  and  to  press  tho 
work,  when  finished.  And  she  also  had  to 
pay  for  the  hire  of  the  machine,  and  to  buy 
her  needles  too,  she  had,  and  pay  for  her 
own  thread.  Sewing  pretty  steadily  from 
seven  in  the  morning  until  nine  or  so  at 
night,  merely  stopping  for  her  meals,  and 
not  long  neither  for  iheta,  she  could 
manage  pretty  well  to  make  three  wiust- 
eoats  in  a  day,  and  she  was  paid  sometimes 
sixpence,  sometimes  sevenpence  apiece. 

That  was  all  they  could  depend  on  just 


at  present  (or  their  living,  because  her 
husband,  a  dock  labourer,  could  scarcely 
get  any  work.  •  Tried  his  uttermost,  he 
did,  she  was  sure  of  that,  but  there,  jbu 
know,  luck  didn't  always  come  to  them 
who  wanted  it  the  most  Shirts?  Yei, 
she'd  made  shirts;  but  it  really  didn't 
pay,  scarce.  Starvation  sort  o'  work  U 
was,  a'most  as  bad  as  making  match- 
boxes. You  had  to  machine  'em  when 
shaped  out,  and  do  'em  regular  right 
through,  you  had,  ezcep'  the  batton-'cfei, 
you  know ;  and  there  was,  well,  a  ttiffish 
bit  o'  stitcbin'  in  a  dozen  shirts.  And  ;oa 
had  to  find  your  needles  and  your  cotton, 
too,  you  had,  and  that,  you  know,  wcnld 
come  to  close  on  twopence- farthing,  or  even 
twopence -halfpenny,  'cause  both  thread  and 
needles,  too,  they  on«n  would  get  broke, 
when  the  stufi"  were  extry  stiff.  And 
there,  a  shilling  a  doEon  was  all  as  yon 
could  get  for  'em,  so  yon  scarce  earned  moR 
nor  ninepence  by  a  hardish  day  o'  work. 

Her  statement  was  interrupted  at  thii 
point  by  the  arrival  of  a  visitor,  who 
entered  without  knocking,  as  though  her 
visits  were  too  frequent  to  need  any 
announcement  She  was  rather  a  pretty 
girl,  with  features  small  and  delicate ;  and 
she  might  have  looked  much  prettier  hsd 
her  cheeks  been  somewhat  plumper  and  a 
shade  less  pale.  She  was  very  plainlj 
clothed  in  an  old  dress  of  thin  materiti, 
which  in  respeot  of  thinness  was  loitod  to 
her  figure.  Her  voice  was  rather  thin  loo, 
and  high-pitched  in  its  tone,  as  thoagh  it 
had  been  sharpened  to  a  business  sort  of 
points  She  spoke  quite  pleasantly,  how- 
ever, and  her  words  were  well  pronoanced, 
with  no  cockneyfied  misuse  of  ^s  eighth 
letter  of  the  alphabet ;  but  with  a  cerUin 
briskness  which  showed  that  she  wu 
capable  of  speaking  her  own  mind. 

On  her  entrance  she  exchanged  a  friendly 
greeting  with  my  guide,  whom  she  seemed 
much  leased  to  sea  He  called  her  by  hei 
christian -name,  having  known  her  from  her 
childhood,  and  she  had  long  been  a  good 
helper  to  him  in  his  mtssiou-work. 

Soon  letting  her  tongue  loose,  aa  thoogb 
it  needed  exercise,  and  this  five  minutes' 
leisure  were  too  rare  a  treat  to  miss,  sbe 
replied  to  all  my  questions  well-Digben 
they  were  put  Her  age  was  twenty-one, 
she  owned  without  a  scruple,  although  the 
hardly  would  be  thought  as  much,  except 
for  her  worn  face,  Aliard  worker  all  tto 
week,  she  worked  hard  at  the  Sncdif- 
school,  where  she  had  herself  been  tai^kl 
most  of  the  knowledge  she  posseued.  She 


{ftuln  Mckeiu.] 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


tUirch  £3,  ISU.)      431 


WIS  liring  with  her  mother,  as  she  had 
done  all  her  life,  and  ahe  didn't  meaa  to 
laave  her,  though  it  wasn't  ftltogether  what 
yoa'd  think  an  easy  life.  Machining  all 
day  long  isn't  what  yon'd  call  qatte  fancy 
needlework,  yon  know,  such  as  ladies  like 
to  do  when  they're  tired  of  sitting  idia 
Ah  yes,  she  was  often  tired  of  sitting,  but 
she'd  never  had  the  chance  of  getting 
tired  of  being  idle.  How  long  would  it 
take  herl  Well,  she  couldn't  tell  exactly. 
Bat  it  wouldn't  take  her  long  to  go  and 
have  a  try. 

Briskly  taking  part  in  the  commercial 
convereaUon  interrupted  by  her  visit,  she 
added  a  fei^detaila  from  her  own  experience. 
With  a  rapid  stream  of  words  which  it  was 
difficult  to  stem,  and  which  seemed  flow- 
ing from  her  heart,  she  vividly  described 
and  vehemently  denounced  the  dtsad- 
vantagea  of  piecework,  so  far,  at  least,  as 
the  worker  was  concerned.  "  Yon  can  do 
your  work  at  home  1 "  "  Oh  yes,  of  course 
yon  can.  But  there's  not  much  good  iu 
that  whea  you've  your  meals  to  cook,  you 
know,  and  your  fire  to  pay  for,  if  you 
can't  stand  freezbg.  And  there's  yoar 
candle  you  must  find,  and  that  ain't 
bonght  for  nothing.  Then  there's  the 
time  you  lose  in  going  for  your  work,  and 
returning  it  when  finished.  And  you've 
got  to  take  the  tram,  for  you'd  tire  your- 
self to  death  by  walking  all  the  way  with 
a  bw  bundle  on  your  head,  and  they'd  not 
think  you  respectable  if  you  didn't  wear  a 
bonnet  Well,  yes,  the  tram's  only  two- 
pence, but  every  penny  counts  when  you 
work  for  auch  small  profit.  Then  there's 
the  time  you  lose  when  yon  bny  your  silk 
or  cotton,  for  you  must  get  it  to  match  the 
colour  of  the  cloth,  and  that  ain't  always 
eaiy.  But  the  wocst  is,  you're  kept  wait- 
ing auch  a  tJme  when  you  want  to  get  yonr 
work,  and — well,  yes— a  good  deal  more, 
too,  when  yon  want  to  get  your  money. 
You  see,  the  foreman  won't  be  hurried,  and 
the  clerks  they  won't  ho  bothered  for  the 
likes  of  you,  you  know.  Ah,  it's  tiresome 
work  that  waiting.  It's  all  lost  time,  you 
know,  and  it  ain't  pleasure  either — and  it's 
honra  and  hours  maybe  before  you  leave 
the  warehouee." 

I  enquired  whether  she  thought  that  any 
diflerence  of  creed  led  to  any  difierence  in 
the  terms  of  her  employers ;  whether,  for 
instance,  she  considered  that  the  Christians 
or  the  Jews  were  the  harder  of  her  task- 
masters. She  replied,  and  her  reply  was 
echoed  by  the  woman,  as  sharing  her  expe- 
rience, that  Ghristiar  and  Jew  were  pretty 


much  alike,  in  regard  to  their  capacity 
for  driving  a  hard  bargain.  If  there  were 
a  shade  of  preference,  jierhaps,  upon  the 
whole,  she  would  rather  work  for  Jews, 
for  there  was  less  pretence  about  them. 
They  didn't  much  pretend  to  being  better 
than  they  were ;  and  this  she  thought 
could  not  be  said  so  truly  of  the  people 
who  belonged  to  the  more  popular  religion. 
Oh  no,  there  was  nothing  of  the  Jewess 
about  her.  She  didn't  look  much  like 
Kebecca  Isaacs,  did  she  i  Bat  she  must  say 
what  she  thought,  yon  know.  And  really 
now,  as  far  as  their  commercial  conscience 
is  concerned  in  heating  down  their  work- 
folk to  the  lowest  of  low  wages,  she 
thought — well,  yes,  since  you  put  it  so,  she 
really  thought  the  Jew  was  pretty  nigh 
the  better  GhristiaD. 

Baby,  who  had  sat  quite  silent  in  his 
chur,  and  who,  indeed,  from  his  lofty 
position  on  the  table,  appeared  to  be  the 
churman  of  this  little  trade-meeting,  at 
this  point  of  the  conference  emitted  a  small 
cry,  which  might  have  been  construed 
as  a  speech,  to  intimate  the  need  of  taking 
some  refreshment  Whereupon  his  mother 
stopped  her  sewing ;  and  the  honourable 
chairman,  having  left  the  chair,  was  taken 
to  her  bosom,  and  the  meeting  was 
adjourned,  perhaps  to  the  Oreek  Kalends. 

With  the  vigour  of  her  vpice  stUl  ring- 
ing in  our  ears,  and  having  a  desire  to  hear 
some  further  morsels  of  lier  wisdom  and 
oxperienco,  we  followed  the  chief  speaker 
to  her  dwelling,  not  far  distant  Here  she 
introduced  me  to  her  mother,  a  poor  widow 
who  lived  poorly  by  her  needle,  as  her 
chatty  child  did  also.  She  had  two  sons 
besides,  one  of  whom  lived  with  them  and 
helped  to  pay  the  rent  by  doing  certain 
barge- work ;  her  two  tiny,  tidy,  little  rooms 
costing  every  week  jnet  half-a- crown 
apiece.  Her  other  son,  a  sailor,  had  been 
wrecked  on  his  first  voyage,  and  bad  brought 
home  precisely  sixpence  after  seven  months 
at  sea ;  whereto,  notwithstanding  this  bad 
start,  he  had  returned. 

The  room  looked  on  the  whole  less  badly 
furnished  than  the  last,  and  there  were 
several  small  photographs  hung  about  the 
chimney-piece,  and  on  it  were  a  (doubtful) 
china  ornament  or  two,  which  to  Eastern 
connoisseurs,  no  doubt,  were  precioui 
works  of  arts.  In  one  of  the  small  portraits 
taking  by  the  sun,  my  guide,  after  a  minute 
of  the  deepest  meditation,  thought  he 
recognised  some  semblance  to  a  somebody 
called  "  Charley,"  to  whom  he  smilingly 
accused  Uie  girl  of  having  been  engaged. 


423     lUirch  22,  lasi.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


Whereto  she  answered  naively :  "  No,  no, 
Mr.  AuBtin,  I  made  lore  to  himpeihapa,  but 
I  never  got  engaged  to  him.  Beddes,"  ehe 
added,  gravely  smiling, "  he  couldn't  marry 
much  of  me,  while  he  was  out  of  work,  and 
I  hadn't  saved  a  sixpence  to  be  settled  as 
my  fortune ;  and  perhaps  we  should  have 
found  you  forbidding  of  the  banns,  for  yon 
know  you  never  would  have  spared  me 
from  the  Sonday-schooL" 

Here,  to  change  the  subject,  which 
might  have  led  from  smiles  to  tears  if 
she  were  longer  to  pursue  it,  I  asked  for 
further  details  as  to  her  plain  needlework ; 
and  I  gained  more  knowledge  of  the  noble 
art  of  tailoring  than  I  had  ever  dreamed 
of  in  my  latter-day  philosophy,  or  could 
gather  from  the  wisdom  of  Sartor  Resartua. 

Buttons  always  are  a  bother,  as  every 
man  and  woman  knows.  But  button-holes, 
in  fact,  are  a  bigger  bother  still,  at  least 
BO  far  as  the  process  of  their  making  is  con- 
cerned. And  button-holes,  the  girl  said, 
were  included  in  the  bargain  lat^  driven 
by  her  taskmaater ;  and  they  were  to  be 
sewn  with  silk  too,  which  increased  their 
cost  to  her.  And  there  were  pockets  to 
be  sewn,  too,  in  the  waistcoata  she  was 
making ;  and  this  was  extra  labour, 
though  she  had  no  extra  pay  for  it.  She 
thought  the  poor  folk  of  the  East  were 
sure  of  being  beaten  down  when  they 
applied  for  work.  They  were  known  to 
be  half  starving,  and  advantage  had  been 
taken  of  the  pitiable  fact.  She  and  her 
mother,  by  working  pretty  hard,could  make, 
each  of  them,  a  couple  of  good  waistcoats  in 
a  day ;  and  each  earned  upon  the  whole 
aboutashillingbyherwork.  Norwooldthe 
nether  garments  yield  more  profit  to  the 
family.  For  making  them  outright,  button- 
holes and  all,  the  cloth  having  been  cut 
out,  from  sixpence  to  dghtpence  was  now 
the  current  piice^  and  uiere  were  a  dosen 
buttons  to  be  sewn  on,  and  the  sewer  bad 
to  find  both  needles  and  thread. 

After  singing  us  a  little  solo,  as  it  were, 
in  her  high-pitched  little  voice,  about  the 
hardness  of  her  life  and  the  avarice  of  trade 
—the  Chant  of  the  Cheap  Clothes  Maker, 
I  might,  peihaps,  have  called  it,  if  I  had 
only  tried  to  string  her  phrases  into 
rhythm,  and  to  make  them  rhyme — the 
little  daughter  took  a  part  in  a  trio,  or 
quartette  I  may  say  even  (for  my  own  fine 
basa  was  heard  in  it),  having  for  its  theme 
tlie  slavery  of  slop-work  and  the  scarcity 
I  of  food.  Then  she  joined  her  mother  in 
singing  a  duet,  wherein,  as  in  an  eclogue, 
I  they  mutually  extolled  the  virtues  of  my 


At  length,  by  way  of  a  refrain, 
the  daughter  chirruped  suddenly  :  "  Well, 
I  know  that  yoa've  been  quite  a  father  both 
to  me  and  moUier.  Hasn't  ha,  now, 
mother } "  To  which  astounding  question 
mother  smilinsly  assented,  though  it  waa 
patent  at  a  guncs  that  my  guide,  to  say 
the  least,  is  a  score  of  years  her  junior. 

Leaving  this  good  widow  and  het  <:^eer- 
fnl,  cliatty  little  daughter  to  resume  tbeir 
ill-paid  laboor,  we  descended  from  the 
lowly  height  of  their  first-floor,  and  re- 
Bomed  our  Eastern  journey  through  tite 
wiMemess  of  brickwork.  After  half  a 
mile  or  so,  which  seemed  well-nigh  a 
league,  of  its  dull  wearisome  monotony, 
we  at  length  ajtproached  some  Buildings, 
which  bore  their  builder's  name ;  at  least, 
so  one  might  think,  for  certainly  no  other 
than  the  architect  himself  would  have  been 
proud  to  put  his  name  to  such  a  difiual- 
looking  place.  The  special  "building" 
that  we  entered  looked  hardly  like  a  house. 
An  out-bnilding  one  might  call  it,  for  it 
stood  at  the  row's  end ;  and  it  appeared  so 
tumbledown  that  one  wondered  how  it 
stood.  The  walls  were  all  of  wood,  and 
more  than  hall  of  it  looked  rotten ;  and 
they  seemed  somehow  held  together  by 
tjieir  contact  with  tlie  roof.  Of  one  smaU 
storey  was  the  building,  like  the  fabric  of 
a  fairy  tale.  It  possessed,  however,  a 
small  piece,  of  ground  behind,  where  ku 
fonts  could  be  fattened,  which,  periiapi^ 
they  rarely  were  j  a  real  back  yard  one 
might  term  it,  for  it  barely  mesBured  more. 
Perhaps  on  this  account  the  rental  of  the 
mansion  and  estate  reached  the  formidable 
figure  of  twelve  shillings  a  week. 

Bells  and  knockers  are  at  present  luxu- 
ries unknown  to  the  poor  dwellen  in 
the  East  My  guide,  however,  using  his 
knuckles,  obtained  a  speedy  hearing  and, 
cheerily  as  before,  we  were  bidden  to  eome 
in.  liie  mention  of  the  rest  demanded 
for  the  maouon,  which  was  thrice  as  much 
as  any  before  atated,  ha<l  raised  my  expec- 
tations to  rather  a  high  pitch,  and  t  was, 
therefore,  not  surprised  to  find  the  family 
assembled  around  a  good  sized  table, 
which  dispkyed  the  unexpected  possession 
of  a  table  cloth,  and  the  perhaps  still  less 
expected  sight  of  a  boiled  fowl  Not  a 
whole  one,  mind  you,  but  merely  het 
remains.  I  learned  her  gender  afterwsrds, 
when  I  was  told  her  date  of  birth,  and 
accidental  deatL  Inasmuch  as  both  her 
drumsticks  and  a  fragment  of  hw  breast, 
even,  had  resisted  the  attack  of  no^fas^' 
,  than  seven  appetites,  I  concluded  thatutt 


iUAVfiljEi    in      Itltj    £.A»i. 


[March  S2,ISS4.]      423 


resembled  the  old  tutkey  (mentioned  by 
Sam  Waller)  whose  one  consolation  was, 
when  dying,  that  he  was  "  verry  tough." 

The  spven  appetites  belonged  to  a  mother 
and  five  children,  and  a  poor  old  half-blind 
creature  who  sat  crouching  by  the  chimney- 
corner,  in  a  chair  that  seemed  a  size  too 
large  for  her  spare  limbs.  I  mistook  her 
for  the  erandmother,  till  her  feeble  voice 
corrected  me.  "  No,  sir,  I  ain't  no  relative. 
I'm  only  a  lodger,  and  a  trouble  to  'em  alL 
I'm  a  burden,  that's  what  I  am,  now  as  I'm 
gettii^  blind."  "No,  no,"  cried  mother 
Hearti^,  "  jon'ra  no  burden,  not  a  bit  of  it. 
There,  don't  you  go  a  whunperin',  there's  a 
dear  good  souL  There  ain't  nothin*  to 
whimper  for,  'caose  yon  un't  a  mite  of 
troable  to  oa.  And  you  needn't  think 
about  it  now  my  husbin's  in  full  work 
again." 

These  few  kindly  words  appeared  to 
cheer  the  poor  old  woman,  whose  spirits 
seemed  depressed  by  the  dinner  she  had 
eaten — perhaps,  indeed,  the  fowl  bad  been 
too  tough  for  her  old  teeth.  I  somehow 
gaeseed  Uiat,  thoogh  a  lodger,  she  pud 
nothing  for  her  rent,  and  next  to  nothing 
for  her  keep.  Indeed,  how  could  she,  poor 
old  soul,  nearly  blinded  as  she  was,  earn 
anything  to  pay  t 

Untidy  though  it  was,  and  littered  every- 
where with  "  orts  " — which  Dr.  Johnson 
has  defined  to  be  "  things  left  or  thrown 
away,"  and  has  furthermore  declared  to  be 
an  obsolete  expression,  though  in  the  East 
it  is  still  extant — the  room  looked  really 
^lendid,  compared  with  the  poor  aemp- 
atreaa'B.  It  was  far  more  spacious  than 
any  we  had  seen,  and  was  in  fact  a  double 
room — the  bed  being  about  four  feet 
distant  from  the  dinner-table.  Odds  and 
ends  of  clothing  lay  scattered  here  and 
(here,  amidst  a  cliaos  of  cheap  nicknacks 
and  some  domestic  crockery.  The  floor, 
not  overclean,  was  partly  covered  by  some 
carpet,  and  the  walls,  not  over  white,  were 
well-nigh  wholly  hidden  by  a  lot  of  large 
cheap  pictures,  and  a  number  of  small 
photographs,  "  Plenty  of  colour  for  your 
money,"  had  very  plainly  been  the  maxim 
of  the  purchaser,  and  viewed  only  from 
this  point,  his  buying  had  been  fortunate. 
One  of  these  high-toned  works  of  art 
showed  a  clown  in  fall  stage  costume,  with 
a  six-feet  string  of  sausages,  giving  a 
daucing-lesson  to  a  pretty  little  cMld,  who, 
attired  as  a  fairy,  was  practising  her  steps. 
Another  biggish  picture,  more  highly- 
coloured  atilJTVith  plenty  of  red  about  the 
Uds  and  che^a.  and  black  about  the  curlr 


hair  and  bushy  beard,  had  been,  not  very 
obvionsly,  enliu'ged  fi'om  father's  photo- 
graph, which,  for  purpose  of  comparison, 
was  hanging  close  at  hand.  A  little  empty 
cage  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  just 
over  the  table.  Noticing  its  emptiness,  I 
hoard  a  piteous  tale  of  how  (the  lamp 
behaving  badly  in  the  absence  of  its 
mistress)  a  poor  little  feathered  prisoner 
had,  by  sad  mishap,  been  slowly  smoked 
to  death. 

There  were  Hkewise  six  brass  candle- 
sticks ranged  upon  the  chimney-piece,  and 
these  aroused  my  admiration  more  than  all 
the  works  of  art.  "  But  they're  dreadful 
dusty,  an'  want  a  polish  badly,"  said  the 
woman  in  apology  foi  their  neglected  state. 
"  They'll  get  it  too,  come  Saturday,"  she 
added,  as  she  caught  my  eye,  just  gluiciug 
at  the  chaos.  "  Yea,  its  a  rare  mess  as  the 
room  ia  in.  But  you  know  you  can't  be 
all'ys  as  you'd  like  to  be.  'Speahly  when 
you've  got  a  lot  o'  little  una  to  look  after, 
and  your  huabin'a  clothes  to  see  to,  and  him 
a  workin'  in  the  coal  too,  it  takes  a  sight  a' 
washin'  to  m^e  his  shirt-sleeves  clean." 

The  "  husbin"  worked  at  certain  gas- 
works not  far  distant,  whence  he  weekly 
brought  his  wife  a  sovereign  for  her  house- 
keeping. "  He  earns  more  nor  that, 
though,"  said  the  mother  with  a  smile; 
"  but  he  puts  it  away  somewhera  No,  it 
don't  go  down  his  throat  now.  He's  a  tee- 
tottler,  is  my  husbin'.  We're  all  teetottlers 
here,  and  he's  the  strictest  of  the  lot.  But 
he  investes  of  it  somewheres,  in  the  post- 
orfice  per'apB.  'Cause  he's  precions  careful 
now  he  is,  now  as  he've  took  the  pledge. 
Says  he,  '  It's  well  to  Iiave  a  trifle  'andy 
like,'  says  he,  '  case  as  you  falls  ill  or  gets 
a  accident,'  he  says.  For  one  can't  all'ys  be 
healthy,  though  he's  a  careful  one,  he  is, 
and  he  don't  go  a  runnin'  of  no  risks  as  he 
can't  help.  But  there,  savin's  better'n 
borryin','  that's  what  be  says.  An'  mind 
you,  he's  about  right  there,  he  is.  Borrytu's 
a  bad  thing.  When  folks  begin  a  borryin', 
they  mostly  ends  a  buryin'.  Often  dnnka 
theirselves  to  death  they  does,  'cause  they 
keeps  gettin'  deeper  in,  until  they're  right 
down  desperate." 

The  sp^er,  a  Creole,  was  bom  at  Havre, 
it  appeared,  though  speaking  English 
fluently,  and  with  no  trace  of  foreign 
accent  She  looked  strongly  built  enough 
to  be  the  parent  of  ten  children,  her  two 
flratborn  being  twin  sons,  aged  now  twenty- 
aix.  Six  of  her  children  still  lived  with 
her,  five  of  whom  were  present,  and  all 
were  dark  and  woolly-headed  like  herself. 


424      IM«rch2!,  IBM.) 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


"  They're  a.  deal  fondor  o'  him  now," 
Unued  she  reflectively,  and  then  added 
with  a  laagh,  "now  as  he  don't  vallup 
them.  They  used  to  catch  it  hot  a,'  times, 
vhen  he  *ere  in  the  drink.  An'  they're 
fonder  o'  me  too,  an'  ain't  so  much  afeerd 
o'  me,  now  as  I've  reformed.  Well  there,  I 
was  a  bad  'un,  now  weren't  I,  Mr.  Austin  t 
A  blessed  day  it  was,  when  your  mission- 
chaps  got  hold  o'  me,  that  time  I  were  ao 
mad.  An'  a  'ardish  work  you  had,  too, 
when  you  first  took  me  in 'and.  Many's 
the  time  I've  been  a  lying  on  the  one  side 
o'  the  gutter,  an'  there  was  my  own  husbiii' 
a  lying  on  the  t'other,  an'  both  of  us  so 
tight  as  we  had  to  be  picked  out  of  it^  I 
often  wonder  I'd  not  done  tor  some  o'  them 
poor  children,  when  I'd  got  the  devil  in  me, 
through  the  drink.  One  time  I  rem'ber 
kstchm'  up  the  bilio'  kettle,  and  a  chackin' 
it  bang  at  'em,  but  it  missed  'em  by  good 
luck." 

I  asked  her  if  she  recollected  when  it 
was  her  house  was  last  put  in  repair ;  for 
it  looked  rather  rickety,  and  seemed  only 
lath  and  plaster.  "  Well,  sir,"  she  answered 
with  a  smile,  "maybe  my  memory  is  bad, 
but  I  can't  really  reck'lect  as  any  thin's  been 
done  since  we've  been  here,  and  that's  now 
seven  year  come  next  August  And  it 
don't  took  over  air-tight,  do  it,  when  yon 
come  to  see  the  cracks  there  la  !  Nor  it 
wouldn't  take  a  hearthquake  to  bring  it  on 
our  'eads  neither.  But  there,  we  somehow 
makes  it  do,  an'  it  keeps  us  fairish  warm, 
for  there's  a  pretty  tidy  lot  of  us  to  live  in 
it.  My  boy  Tom,  he  often  says  to  me, 
'  Mother,'  he  says, '  I  wonder  why  you  likes 
to  live  in  that  old  pigsty.'  But  he've  a 
house  of  his  own,  has  Tom,  now  as  he've 
got  married,  an'  he  seems  proud  about  his 
place  too,  'cause,  you  see,  his  missuB  keeps  a 
little  shop  there.  'Why,  you  papers  it,'  he 
EBys, '  and  painteB  it  yon  does,  and  'angs 
your  pictur's  on  the  walls,  an'  there  you 
cosies  yourself  up,  an' makes  believe  as  you 
lire  comfor'abla.  But  it  ain't  much  of  a 
'ouse  for  a  family  o'  Chriatyuns.  Why,  my 
old  moke,'  says  he, '  would  hardly  like  to 
live  in  it' 

"Ah,  you're  a  lookin'  at  that  box,  sir," 
continued  my  informant,  whose  tongue  ran 
on  so  glibly  that  possibly  some  slight  im- 
pediment  in  her  speech  might,  when  it 
occnrred,  be  welcomed  by  her  family. 
"  Well,  yes,  it  do  seem  a  bit  cur'oos. 
That's  a  'armonium,  that's  what  it  is,  an' 
plays  The  Bells  of  'Eaven  be^tifoL  My 
husbin'  bought  it  speshal  for  to  give  me 
my  last  buthday.     Cost  him  a  sight  o' 


money.  Two  pun'  seven  an'  six,  it  did) 
true  as  ever  I  stan'  here  it  did.  Says  he, 
'Old  woman,  I've  been  thtnkin'  as  yooi 
voice  is  growin'  a  bit  'usky  like.  Toin't 
so  'earty  as  it  were,  nor  yet  so  strong  for 
singin'  neither.  So,  as  you're  fond  o' 
music,'  he  says,  'I've  bought  you  this 
here  hinetrument,'  says  he.  '  Well,  yes,' 
he  says,  'it  cost  me  a  bit  dear,  an'  it's 
kinder  of  a  lux'ry.  But  since  we've  give 
the  drink  up,  we  can  pretty  well  afford  it' 
So  now,  yon  know,  be  often  plays  a  toon 
or  two  to  amuse  us  in  the  evenin';  and 
sometimes  of  a  Sunday,  when  he's  a  playin' 
of  a  'im,  we  get  a  reg'lar  congeregation  out 
there  in  the  court,  we  do." 


"BACHELOR'S  HALL" 
m  TWO  PABT8.    PART  L 

Most  readers  are  familiar  wiUi  many 
incidents  in  the  Ufs  and  writings  of 
Gharlos  Dibdin  the  elder.  Few  probably 
know  of  hia  visit  to  Willey,  in  St^opsfaire, 
and  his  cordial  reception  by  Salopian  fox- 
hunters.  He  came  down  at  the  invita- 
tion of  the  Willey  Squire,  George  Forester, 
as  he  was  familiarly  called,  a  renowned 
foxhunter  about  the  latter  end  of  the 
last  century,  and  one  of  tfae  family 
of  Foresters  of  which  Anthony,  or 
Tony  Foster,  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
novel,  was  a  member.  Dibdin's  object 
in  coming  into  the  country  was  to  collect 
materials  for  the  hunt^g  -  song  be 
afterwards  wrote,  which  Incledon,  t£en  in 
the  height  of  hb  fame,  made  fiunone  at 
D1U17  Lane  Theatre,  and  which,  as  we 
scarcely  need  remind  our  sporting  friends, 
begins: 

You  all  knew  Tom  MiHidy,  the  whippei-in,  welL 

The  veteran  sportsman  and  patriotic 
song-writer  were  "  good  fellows,  well  met," 
and  Dibdin  found  hunself  in  snch  congenial 
society  that  he  stayed  some  time,  and 
visited  many  places  of  interest 

He  was  highly  pleased  with  what  he 
heard  and  saw,  particularly  with  the  old 
hall  itself,  presenting  as  it  did  a  picture 
of  the  homes  of  the  country  gentry  at  a 
period  prior  to  the  settug  in  of  the 
modem  spirit  of  revision  and  renewal. 

This  old  mansion,  indeed,  or  bo  much  as 
remains  of  it,  is  still  as  suggestive  of 
olden  times  as  when  Dibdin  saw  it  It 
is  all  tho  more  striking,  perhaps,  from 
standing  near  -  neighboor  to  the  more 
aspiring  modem  mansion  of  the  present 
Lord  Forester.     It   is  situated  on  rising 


Cluriei  DIckeoB,] 


"BACHELOR'S   HALL." 


[UuchS£,lSH.]      425 


grotud,  at  the  foot  of  a  wooded  ridge 
which  formed  put  of  a  royal  ch&ce, 
of  which  the  WilUleyB,  vho  lived  here,  were 
OTeneers ;  so  that  it  came  down  aasociated 
with  national  sports  and  pastimes  into  the 
huids  of  the  ForeBten,  who  originally 
were  foreateTB  by  royal  appointment.  One 
of  them,  John  Forester,  of  Watling  Street, 
WM  priril^^  by  royal  gr&nt  to  wear  his 
hit  in  the  presence  of  the  hing.  Little  is 
left  of  these  wide  forestrlands  where  kinga 
uid  lordly  priors  sported,  but  the  buntiog- 
lodga,  where  sportsmen  of  that  day  bung 
ap  their  bugle-horns,  bows,  and  cross-bows, 
lodsongihtrefreshmentaiidrepose,  remains; 
u  also  do  names  of  pUces,  like  the  "  Deer- 
leap,"  the  "  Ilay  "  (hua),  the  "  Hunt,"  the 
"Frith,"  not  to  mention  a  few  forest  trees  to 
indicate  its  extent  Loudon  describes  one 
of  these  monarchs  cut  down  in  Willey  P&rk 
which  spread  one  hundred  and  fourteen 
feet,  ana  had  a  trunk  nine  teat  in  diameter, 
exclusive  of  the  bark.  It  contuned  twenty- 
four  cords  of  yard-wood,  eleven  and  a  huf 
cords  of  four-feet  wood,  two  hundred  and 
fifty-two  park  palings  six  feet  long,  one 
load  of  cooper's  wood,  sixteen  and  a  half 
tons  of  timber  in  all  the  boughs ;  twenty- 
eight  tons  of  timber  in  the  bwly,  and  this 
bwidea  faggots  and  boughs  which  had 
dropped  oB.  The  few  patriarchal-looking 
trees  remaining  are  now  carefully  tended ; 
some  being  looped  and  propped,  and  all 
highly  cared  for  on  account  of  early 
associations ;  but  in  old  George  Foteater'a 
time  the  place  might  have  stood  for 
Sir  Walter  Scott'n  sketch  of  Cumnor  Place, 
in  which  he  describes  formal  walks  and 
avenues  in  part  choked  up^  with  grass, 
interrupted  by  billets,  piles  of  brushwood, 
and  an  old-fashioned  gateway  in  the  outer 
wall,  with  door  of  oaJcen  leaves,  studded 
with  nails.  This  picture  of  the  approaches 
to  the  mansion  of  Anthony  Foster  was  no 
doubt  a  more  faithful  representation  than 
the  character  Scott  gave  of  the  man  him- 
self ;  at  any  rate,  it  is  one  which  in  many 
respects  applied  to  Willey  Uall  and  its 
surroundings  about  the  time  to  which  the 
novelist  ruers.  Everything  was  old  and 
old-fashioned,  as  its  owners  prided  them 
selves  it  should  be,  and  m  grey  as  time  and 
lichens  growing  in  a  congenial  atmosphere 
could  make  it  Hollies,  yews,  and  junipers 
were  to  be  seen  in  the  grounds,  and  outside, 
as  we  have  said,  were  oaks  and  other  aged 
trees,  scathed  by  lightning's  bolt  and 
winter's  bbwt,  carrying  the  Uioughts  back 
to  the  days  when  the  wild  deer  bounded 
throueh    wild    conse    and    tanzled   dell. 


Who  first  built  the  baO  neither  histoiy 
nor  tradition  informs  us ;  and  we  are  left 
equally  to  conjecture  by  a  study-  of  the 
building  itself.  Like  primary  rocks  in- 
truding into  secondary  formations  there 
were  outcrops  of  ancient  structures  pro- 
jecting into  more  modern  masonry. 

From  lawn  and  grounds  adjoining,  paths 
led  to  flower-gardens,  intersected  by  walks 
and  grassy  terraces  where  a  sun-di^  stood, 
and  a  fountain,  fed  by  copious  supplies 
from  an  unfailing  spring  on  the  high 
grounds,  threw  silvery  showers  above  the 
shadows  of  the  shrubs  into  the  sunlight. 
Judging  from  its  quaint  gables  and 
chimneys,  it  must  have  had  something  of 
the  poetry  of  art  about  it  when  it  was  com- 
plete :  its  irregularities  of  outiine  must 
have  fitted  in,  as  it  were,  with  the  undu- 
lating landscape,  with  which  its  walls  were 
everywhere  tinted  into  harmony  by  brown 
and  yellow  lichens.  It  had  nothing 
assuming  or  pretentious ;  it  was  content  to 
stand  close  neighbour  to  the  old  coach 
road  which  came  winding  by  between  two 
old  borough  towns,  Bridgnorth  and  Wen- 
lock,  and  passed  beneath  the  arch  which 
now  connects  the  high- walled  gardens  with 
a  shaded  walk  leading  to  the  present  seat 
of  the  Foresters. 

In  the  hall  ware  horns  and  antlers,  and 
other  trophies  of  the  chase ;  antique  speci- 
mens of  guns  which  had  done  good  service 
in  their  time;  ancient  timepieces,  singular 
in  construction  and  quaiut  in  contrivance, 
one  of  which  on  striking  the  hours  of  noon 
and  midnight  set  in  motion  figures  with 
trumpets  and  other  instruments,  giving 
forth  appropriate  sounds.  Next,  a  lamp, 
hoisted  into  position  by  a  rope,  lighted  up 
the  ball,  from  which  a  staircase  ascended  to 
the  gallery.  Indeed,  the  interior  was  every- 
where in  character  with  the  exterior— the 
same  air  of  antiquity  reigned  inside  as  oat. 
There  were  capacious  chimney-pieces,roomB 
wainscoted  with  oak,  and  on  the  walls  por- 
traits of  the  Squire's  predecessors  of  the 
Weld  and  Forester  lines,  in  e tiff  starched 
frills,  capacious  vests,  and  small  round  hats 
of  Henry  the  Seventh's  reign,  with  others  of 
the  fashion  of  earlier  and  later  periods  by 
distinguished  painters.  Here  and  there, 
by  less  famous  artists,  were  pictures  of 
favourite  horses  and  dogs,  the  virtues  and 
special  merits  of  which  local  poets  had  been 
employed  to  set  forth  in  verse.  These 
cherished  eiforts  of  the  painter's  and  poet's 
cat  have  boon  honoured  in  the  new  hall  with 
a  gallery  to  themselves;  and  the  late  lord, 
I  who  was  for  manv  vears  master  of  the 


426    iM«Ki> «.  isMi 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


Belvoir  Hunt,  took  a  special  pleasure  in 
showing  them  to  brother  Bportamon,  serviDg 
as  they  do  to  illustrate  the  development  of 
the  breed  of  tho  modern  foxhound,  which 
difi'era  much  from  ita  anccBtora  in  what  has 
been  called  the  golden  age  of  fox-hunting 
even.  The  lines  beneath  the  earliest  effort 
contain  the  following  invitation : 

Si">rtHm6ii  look  up,  old  Childern'  iiicture  viow, 
Ilis  virtues  many  were,  hiu  fftUiDga  few  ; 
Keynnrd  with  dread  oft  beard  hia  awful  name, 
Aud  grateful  Miisterit  thus  tewarda  his  famo. 

Pigm}',  said  to  have  been  the  smallest 
hound  then  known,  has  onderneath  her 
portrait  the  lines : 
Itohold  iu  miniatute  the  foxhound  keen, 
Thru'  rouffh  lud  unooth  ■  better  ne'er  wu  eeen  ; 
As  cbampioD  here  tbe  beauteous  Figiay  atand^ 
She  challenges  the  globe,  both  home  and  foreign 

(Date  1778.) 

Another,  of  the  same  date,  has : 
Ye  that  remember  well  old  Savoury'a  call. 
With  tdoaiuce  view'd  her,  as  ahe  pleMed  70a  all ; 
In  distant  countries  bUU  her  fame  reaonudB, 
The  huntsman '«  gloiy  and  the  pride  uf  hounde. 

The  fourth,   a  white  dog,  Pilot,  is  thus 

described : 


Pilot  rewards  hi 


tr  Rowley's  care, 


His  tongue  Bud  ateme  proclaim  an  arrant  burst. 
(Date  1774.) 

Like  all  trbe  sportsmen,  the  Squire 
prided  himself  much  on  his  hounds.  Tom 
Rose — honest  old  Tom,  as  lie  was  called — 
used  to  say  ft  man  must  breed  his  pack  to 
suit  his  country,  a  view  the  Squire  had  long 
taken,  and,  although  he  admired  the  Duke 
of  Gfrafton's  dogs,  he  preferred  hia  own, 

Curioas  and  highly  characteristic  letters 
of  the  Squire  are  before  ns,  containing 
correspondence  frith  noblemen  and  others 
on  the  technical  features  desirable  in  the 
breed  of  dogs ;  bat  it  may  suffice  to  say 
that  both  the  kind  of  hound  in  nse  and 
style  of  hunting  in  vogue  in  Sqaire 
Forester's  day  differed  much  from  the 
present  It  was  no  anusual  thing  to  see 
Moody,  the  whipper-in,  taking  the  hoands 
to  covet  before  daylight  in  a  morning. 
Like  other  sportsmen  of  the  period,  the 
Squire  was  an  early  riser;  four  o'clock 
on  a  hunting  morning  found  him  preparing 
bis  inner  man  with  a  breakfast  of  underdone 
beef,  and  egga  beaten  up  in  brandy  to  fill 
ttie  interstices.  Thus  fortified,  althongh 
what  is  termed  rather  a  heavy  rider,  he 
could  top  a  flight  of  rails,  skim  ridge  and 
furrow,  and  charge  a  fence,  with  Moody, 
Phoebe  Hi^s,  or  any  of  tJiem.  Phcebe, 
who  often  accompanied  him,  was  a  com- 


plete Diana  in  her  way.  She  would  take 
haEardous  leaps,  beckoning  Mr.  Foieeter 
to  follow,  which  led  him  to  wager  heaiy 
sums  that  in  leaping  she  vonld  beat  any 
woman  in  England.  With  Phoibc  and 
Moody,  and  a  few  other  choice  spirits,  on  a 
scent,  there  was  no  telling  to  what  pout 
between  the  two  extremities  of  the  Severn 
it  might  carry  them.  They  might  tnni  op 
some  few  miks  from  its  source  or  iU 
estuary,  and  not  be  hoard  of  at  Wilier  f'"' 
a  week.  One  lon§  persevering  nm  into 
Radnorshire,  in  which  a  few  plucky  riders 
continued  tbe  pace  for  some  distance,  and 
then  left  the  field  to  the  Squire,  Hoody, 
and  one  or  two  others,  who  kept  the  heads 
of  their  favourites  in  the  direction  Beycard 
was  leading,  passed  into  a  tradition ;  bat 
the  bmsh  appears  not  to  have  been  fsiily 
won,  a  gamekeeper  having  sent  a  shot 
through  the  leg  of  the  "varmint"  b  a 
churchyard  —  an  event  commemorated  in 
doggrel  lines  extant.  One  tradition  of  a 
run  Doasted  of  at  t^e  time  of  Dibdin's  visit 
was  with  a  fox  which  had  repeatedly  non- 
plussed hounds  and  huntsmen  by  escaplog 
up  a  tree  in  Mog  Forest  Only  one  man 
knew  of  it,  and  he,  a  neigbboormg  aqnire, 
honourably  kept  the  secret  Another  was 
of  a  fox,  also  with  more  than  the  usoal 
cunning  of  his  speciea,  that  as  often  prored 
a  match  for  the  hounds.  One  morning, 
Mr.  Forester,  having  made  op  his  mind 
for  a  run,  repaired  to  Tickwood,  where  tlus 
foz  was  put  up.  Reynard  went  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  Brown  Clee  Hilla,  then 
took  ft  turn  for  a  noted  cover  calleil 
Thatcher's  Coppice ;  from  there  he  started 
for  the  Titterstone  Hills,  then  back  to  Tick- 
wood,  where  thehoundaouated  him, and  then 
he  took  them  over  the  same  ground  again. 
By  this  time  the  huntsman's  horse  was  so 
blown  that  he  took  Moody's,  sending  Tom 
with  his  own  to  an  inn  to  get  spiced  ale 
and  a  feed.  The  fox  was  now  on  his  viy 
back,  and  the  jaded  horse  on  wluch  Tom 
was  seated  no  sooner  heard  the  horn  than 
he  dashed  away  and  joined  the  chase.  Ten 
couple  of  fresh  honnds  were  then  let  loose 
from  the  kennels  in  Willey  Hollow,  wbicb 

Sain  turned  the  fox  in  the  direction  of 
denham,  but,  with  the  exception  of 
Moody,  whose  horse  now  fell  dead  under 
him,  all  were  far  behind.  Tho  dogs  toa 
had  had  enough,  and  the  fox  once  more 
beat  his  pursuers,  but  only  to  die  in  s 
driun  on  the  Aldenham  estate,  where  h* 
was  found  a  week  afterwards. 

These  and  other  adventures  were  related 
for  Dibdm's  information  at  a  aodal  gather- 


dwriMOklcana.] 


"BACHELOE'S  HALL." 


[Much  22,  ISit]     427 


ingat  the  hall.  The  Squire  irfta  accustomed 
to  these  meetmgs,  which,  when  sport  was 
not  the  topic  of  conversation,  assamed  the 
character  ot  a  sort  of  local  Parliament  of 
the  ruling  powers,  or  lesser  lights  of  the 
district,  who  were  themselves  in  tarn  njled 
by  the  Squire  of  Willey,  These  embraced 
justices  of  the  peace,  mont  of  them  parsons, 
dtwtors,  lawyers,  and  owners  of  small 
neighbotmng  estates  which,  to  the  number 
of  ten  or  twelve,  have  since  been  absorbed 
in  that  of  Willey.  On  this  occasion  more 
than  the  usual  number  of  local  notablea 
assembled,  the  Willey  chaplain,  the  Rev. 
Michael  Pye  Stephens,  a  foxhunter  and 
justice  of  the  peace,  with  several  others, 
being  amongst  Uiem. 

BeiDg  a  distant  relative,  Stephens  was  on 
familiar  terms  with  the  Squire,  and  the  more 
Eo  as  he  was  able  to  tell  a  good  tale  and  sing 
a  good  song.  The  rural  clergy  then  were 
gnat  acquisitions  at  the  tables  of  these 
country  squires,  and  were  not  unfrequently 
among  the  most  enthuuasUc  lovers  of  the 
chase. 

A  "meet"  at  Willey  or  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood was  sure  to  be  well  attended,  not 
only  because  of  the  certainty  of  sport,  but 
because  sport  was  preceded  or  followed  by 
receptions  at  the  hall,  so  famous  for  its 
cheer.  Jolly  were  the  doings  on  those 
occasions,  songs  were  sung,  tales  were 
told,  old  October  ale  Sowed  freely. 
Ttte  Squire  generally  dined  about  four 
o'dlock,  and  the  invited  came  booted 
and  spurred  ready  for  the  hunt,  and 
rarely  left  the  festive  board  beneath  the 
hospitable  roof  of  their  host  till  they 
mounted  in  the  courtyard  next  morning. 

The  Squire  was  never  married,  and 
Dibdin,  in  Bachelor's  Hall,  has  given  a 
representation  of  these  gatherings,  his 
portnutfl  of  horses  and  dogs,  together 
with  his  descriptions  of  the  soct^  nabita 
of  the  squire  and  his  friends,  being  thus 
■et  forth : 

To  Bftchalot'B  Hall  we  good  fellowe  invite 
To  i>artake  of  tha  chase  which  maVea  up  out  deliKbt, 
We Ve  ipiriU  liica  Are,  and  of  health  such  a  stoclc. 
That  our  puUe  Btrikea  tha  aacoDda  aa  trua  as  a  clock. 
Did  fan  gee  oa  you'd  awear  that  we  mount  with  a 

grace, 
That  IMana  had  dnbb'd  some  new  gode  of  the  chaee. 

Hark  away  1  hark  away  I  all  nature  tooka  ^y. 

And  Aurora  with  amlloB  uabera  in  the  bright 

Dick  Thiclnet  came  mnunted  upon  a  fine  black, 
A  finer  Sect  oetdiog  ne'er  hunter  did  bnck ; 
Tom  Trig  rode  a  bay  full  of  metal  and  bone. 
And  ciiily  Bob  Bucfcaon  rode  on  a  roan  ; 
But  the  horaa  of  all  horaea  that  rivalled  the  day 
Was  the  Squire'i  Neck-or-NoUiing,  and  that  was  a 

Hark  away !  etc. 


i  Nimble    who   well 


And  beetle'browsd  Hawk'e  Kye  ho  dead  at  a  lurch  ; 
Yoong  Shy-locJa  that  aconta  the  stroi^;  breeze  from 
the  eoath. 


(Jur  IjorscH,  thufl  all  ot  the  very  bent  blood, 
Tis  not  likely  you'd  uaaily  find  such  a  atud  j 
Then  for   foxiinundB,  our  opinion    tor  thousands 

we'll  back. 
That  all  England  thruugliout  can't  produce  mch  a 

ThoB  having  deacribed  you  our  dogs,  horeea,  and 

Away  we  set  off,  for  our  foK  is  in  view. 


Sly    Reynard's   brought  home,  whilst   the   horn 

eounda  the  call, 
And  now  you're  all  welcome  to  Bachelor's  Hall ; 
Tlie  aavoury  sirloin  gracefoUy  smokes  on  the  boaixl, 
And  Bacchus  pours  wine  from  his  sacred  hoard. 
Come  on,  then,  do  honour  to  this  Jovial  place, 
And  enjoy  the  sweet  pleasures  that  have  spniDg 
from  the  chase. 
Hark  away  !  hark  away !  while  our  spirits  aos 

gay. 
Let  us  drink  ta  the  joys  of  next  meeting  day. 

At  the  gathering  to  which  we  more 
especially  now  refer,  as  a  treat  to  Dibdin, 
the  second  course  at  dinner  consisted  of 
the  best  Severn  iah,  few  of  which  are 
now  found  so  high  up  in  the  river,  consist- 
ing of  eela  cooked  in  various  ways,  flounders, 
perch,  trout,  carp,  grayling,  pike,  and,  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  that  king  of  fish,  a 
Severn  salmon. 

Dibdin  :  "This  is  a  treat.  Squire,  and  I 
now  understand  why  the  Severn  is  called 
the  '  Queen  of  Rivers ; '  it  deserves  this 
distinction  for  its  king  of  Bsh,  if  for  nothing 
else." 

Mr.  Forester :  "  Do  you  know,  Dibdin, 
that  engineering  fellow,  Jessop,  wants  to 
put  thirteen  ot  fourteen  weirs  in,  which 
would  shut  out  every  fish  worth  eating." 

"  What  can  be  his  object  1 "  asked 
Dibdin. 

"  Oh,  he  believes,  like  Brindley,  that 
rivers  wore  made  to  feed  canals  with,  and 
his  backers  say,  to  make  the  river  navigable 
at  all  seasons ;  but  my  belief  is  that  it  will 
crush  ont  what  bit  of  trade  remains,  and 
give  them  a  monopoly  in  the  carrying  trade, 
as  our  bargemen  wonld  be  taxed,  whilst 
their  carriew  would  be  free  lower  down." 

"We  beat  them,  though,"  said  Mr. 
Pritchard,  a  country  banker. 

"  So  we  did,"  added  the  Squire ;  "  but 
it  was  a  hard  job.  Begad,  I  thought  out 
watermen  had  pretty  well  primed  me  when 
I  went  up  aa  a  deputation  to  see  Pitt ;  hut 
I  had  not  been  with  htm  five  minutes 


428     lUwA  Si,  IBS4.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CoDdncUdbr 


berore  I  found  he  kn«T  more  ftbont  the 
river  than  I  did : 

"  I  am  DO  nrktor,  m  Brntn*  u, 
But,  u  you  know  me  kit,  s  ijunkndhonwtmui." 

Several  voices :  "  Bravo,  Sqaire." 

To  Stephens:  "Will  yon  take  a  fioandert 
'  Flat  as  a  flounder,'  thef  eay ;  and  yon 
have  a  sympathy  with  flats,  if  not  a  liking 
for  them." 

"They  made  a  flat  of  him  when  they 
dragged  his  pond  for  the  fish  he  was  so 
gratefal  for,"  said  HiDton,  the  town  clerk 
of  Wenlock. 

The  laagh  went  agunst  the  parson,  who 
felt  that  he  was  not  quite  himself,  having 
missed  his  share  of  venison-pasty,  a 
favourite  dish  of  his.  He  had  been  helped 
to  a  slice  from  a  hannch  in  the  centre  of 
the  table,  and  a  cut  from  a  saddle  of 
mutton  at  the  end,  but  didn't  get  his 
usual  allowance,  ho  said. 

"  Is  it  true,"  enquired  Dibdin,  looking 
round  at  roast,  and  boiled,  and  pasties, 
"  what  we  bear  in  London,  that  there  is 
very  considerable  scarcity  in  the  conntryt" 
(Laughter.)  The  remark  brought  up  ques- 
tions of  political  economy,  excess' of  popu- 
lation, stock  -  jobbing,  gentlemen  taking 
their  money  out  of  the  country,  and  aping 
Frenchified  stick-lh)g  fashions  on  tbeir 
return.  The  latt^waa  a  favourite  subject 
with  the  Squire,  who  was  an  M.P.,  and 
could  not  see,  he  was  wont  to  say,  what 
amusement  gentlemen  could  find  out  of 
the  country  equal  to  fox-hunting  in  it,  and 
who  held  the  theory  of  taxing  heavily  those 
who  did  sa  The  discussion  Tasted  over  the 
fifth  course,  when  the  more  potent  liquors 
were  put  upon  the  table  with  Broseley 
pipes.  The  latter  afforded  a  temptation 
Stephens  could  not  reust  of  retaliating 
upon  the  Squire  by  telling  of  his  having 
purchased  a  box  for  which  he  paid  a  high 
price  ID  London,  and  finding,  on  showing 
them  to  a  tenant,  that  they  had  been  made 
upon  his  own  estate.  The  laugh  went 
against  the  Squire,  who  by  a  meny  twinkle 
in  bis  eye  gave  indication  that  be  would 
take  the  first  opportunity  of  being  quits. 
Discussions  ensued  upon  the  refusal  of 
Parliament  to  allow  a  census,  one  of  the 
guests  expressing  a  belief,  founded  upon  a 
statement  of  Dr.  Price,  that  the  population 
of  England  and  Wales  was  less  than  itwas  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  "  Which," 
added  the  Squire,  "  is  not  correct,  as  poor- 
law  statistics  before  Parliament  show  that 
there  are  from  three  to  four  births  to 
death." 

Mr.  Forester :  "  A  truce  to  politics,  let 


us  have  Larry  Palmer,  our  local  Incledon, 
in  to  sing  Dibdin'e  songSL"  (General  appro- 
bation.) 

Larry,  who  was  blind  and  purposely 
kept  in  ignorance  of  Dibdin  being  present, 
gave  in  succeeeion  what  Incledon  called 
his  "sheet-anchors,"  The  Quaker,  My 
Trim-built  Wheny,  Tom  Bowling,  etc., 
with  such  effect  and  force  as  made  the 
author  exclaim  that  he  never  heard  greater 
justice  done  to  his  compositions.  This  led 
to  an  exhibition  of  feeling  which  made 
the  old  ball  ring  again. 

Dibdin's  healthwaBofcoorae  given,  with 
laudatory  remarks  a>  to  the  eSect  of  his 
effusions  on  the  loyalty,  valour,  and 
patriotism  which  at  that  time  blaEod  >o 
intensely  in  the  bosoma  of  British  tarsi 

The  author,  in  acknowledging  the  toaat, 
related  incidents  he  several  times  witnessed 
at  sea ;  told  of  his  indebtednees  to  Incle- 
don and  others,  and  added  particulars  as 
to  the  sources  of  his  inspiration  and  means 
of  his  Boccess. 

The  Squire  wae  next  rallied  on  his  not 
marrying ;  the  last  bit  of  Court  scandal  was 
discussed;  some  tales  told  of  the  king,  with 
whom  Mr.  Forester  had  been  on  terms  of 
friendship,  when  regent,  were  told ;  and  the 
festivities  of  the  evening  hod  extended  into 
the  small  hours,  when,  during  a  pause,  a 
great  crash  was  heard,  and  the  Sqaire  rush- 
ing oat  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  found 
that  the  sound  came  from  the  larder,  whitlier 
herepaired.  Looking  in,  he  saw  Stephens  in 
his  shirt,  on  which  he  turned  the  key  and 
went  back  to  hia  company  to  consider  how 
to  turn  the  incident  to  accounts 

Stephens,  it  appears,  hod  been  several 
hours  in  bed,  when  waking  up  alter  a  first 
sleep  he  fancied  he  should  like  another  dip 
into  the  venison-pie ;  and  forthwith  went 
<lown  into  the  lai^er,  where,  whilst  search- 
ing for  the  pie,  he  knocked  down  the  dish 
with  one  or  two  more.  The  Squire,  who 
was  not  long  in  making  up  his  nund, 
declared  that  it  was  time  to  retire,  but 
before  doing  so  be  said  they  must  have  a 
country  dance;  and  he  insisted  upon  the 
ladies  and  the  whole  household  being 
roused  to  take  port  There  was  no  resist- 
ing the  host;  the  whole  of  the  inmates 
assembled,  and  formed  sides  in  the  ball, 
through  which  Stephens  must  necessarily 
pass  in  going  to  bis  room.  Mr.  Forester 
then  slipped  the  key  into  the  door  and 
nnkennelled  his  fox,  getting  behind  him 
and  making  the  parson  run  Uie  gonntiet  in 
his  shirt  amid  an  indescribable  scene  of 
merriment  and  confusion ! 


GEORGIE:   AN   AETIST'S  LOVE.  iM«chM,wM.i    439 


GEORGIE :  AN  AETISrS  LOVE. 
A  STOBY  IN  SIX  CHAPTEia,  CHAPTER  V. 
One  aonfihiay  afternoon  in  the  early 
put  of  June,  Myra  wu  making  her  way 
scroas  the  pretty  little  Park  Moncean,  full, 
as  uaoal,  of  bonnea  with  their  clean  white 
caps,  and  their  little,  shrill-Toiced  charges. 
She  waa  going  to  her  lover's  studio  ii 
ibe  Boulevard  de  CoorcelleB ;  he  wai 
finishing  a  picture  he  had  been  painting 

for  the  Cointe  de  L ,  a  well-known 

Italian  connoisseur,  and  she  had  promised 
to  go  and  see  it.  It  had  been  agreed  that 
Mr.  Rentonl  was  to  bring  her  back,  and 
then  to  convey  the  two  ladies  to  Vincennes, 
where  they  were  to  dine  al  fresco. 

Hyn  was  in  no  hurry,  she  had  allowed 
heraelfmore  than  time  to  keep  her  appoint- 
ment, and  she  found  it  pleasant  to  linger 
there,  In  the  shade  of  the  trees,  with  the 
distant  hum  of  the  city  just  audible. 

Life  had  become  very  sweet  to  her ;  it 
was  good  to  be  young,  good  to  be  strong, 
good  to  Iov& 

She  reached  the  studio  a  little  breathless, 
it  was  at  the  top  of  a  house  of  fire  storeys. 

Mr.  Kentoul  opened  the  door  himself — 
palette  and  bruBhes  in  hand. 

"You  are  punctuality  itself,"  he  told  her, 
smiling.  "  I  will  use  up  what  I  have  on 
my  palette,  and  then  I  shsJl  be  ready." 

"  Oh,  I  like  prowling  about  your  studio ; 
yon  must  not  harry  on  my  account,"  and 
after  standing  for  some  minutes,  her  hand 
resting  on  his  shoulder,  while  she  looked 
adminngly  at  his  work,  she  turned  to  a 
side-table  and  began  to  look  through  some 
portfolios. 

He  hated  himself  for  the  feeling,  but  it 
was  a  certain  relief  to  him  when  that  large, 
well-shaped  hand  waa  withdrawn. 

There  was  alongsUence ;  he  painted  on, 
almost  forgetful  of  her  presence,  and  she 
was  at  no  time  talkative  merely  for  the 
pteatrure  of  hearing  the  sound  of  her 
voice.  Bhe  hod  routed  out  a  little  dusty 
portfolio  from  behind  the  others,  and  was 
turning  over  its  contents.  Many  of  them 
were  familiar  to  her,  they  were  those  of 
last  year  at  Lyme ;  she  fingered  them  a 
little  tenderly.  And  then  suddenly  she 
eTcliumed,  and  stood  still,  looking  intently 
at  the  small  sketch  she  held  in  her  hands. 
It  was  much  more  finished  than  the  others. 
Against  a  background  of  dark  rock  a  girl's 
figure  stood  out,  a  girl  in  velvet  and  aoft 
fun,  with  a  lovely  face,  a  pathetic  look  of 
appeal  in  the  blue  eyes  and  about  the 
trembiinff  lina.     He  most  have  seen  her, 


after  all,  when  she  held  out  her  hand  that 
time  in  vain,  for  certainly  that  expression 
of  woe  woe  not  habitual  to  Miss  Rickards. 

"  You  never  showed  me  this  one  -of 
Georgie,"  she  said,  not  taming,  for  he  was 
close  beside  her  now. 

"  Did  I  not  t "  he  answered,  and  then 
their  eyes  met  for  an  instant 

Myra  laid  the  picture  down  on  the  table, 
and  went  over  to  the  window.  She  stood 
there  alone  for  a  minute,  although  it 
seemed  to  her  much  longer,  lootdng  down 
at  the  busy  street  far  beneath ;  the  little 
moving  figures,  the  swiftly  passing  vehicles, 
all  struck  her  with  a  strange  sense  of  un- 
reality. Wti&t  hod  love  or  sufiering  got  to 
do  in  such  a  world  of  pigmies  1 

"Well,  Myrs,  are  you  ready t"  He 
had  put  Georgie  away  out  of  sight  among 
the  other  Lyme  sketches,  he  would  foi^t 
themall.  "Shallwe  gonowt  "berepeated, 
coming  to  her  at  the  window. 

Myra  looked  perse venngly  into  the 
street 

"No,"  she  said  gently; "  we  have  changed 
our  minds.  I  forgot ;  I  came  on  purpose 
to  tell  you  I  dont  want  to  go  to  Vin- 
cennes." lb  was  the  only  lie  she  had  ever 
told  him,  and  she  still  kept  her  eyes  away 
from  bis, 

"  You  do  not  often  change  your  mind," 
he  aaid,  a  little  surpriaed.  "  I  wish  I  hsid 
known  a  little  aooner — at  an;  rate  yon  will 
let  me  walk  home  with  yoal " 

Myra  left  ofT  looking  out  of  the  window 
and  looked  at  him  instead. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  I  had  told  you 
sooner  1"  she  enquired  in  her  usual  direct 
fashion. 

"Oh,  only  that  De  Vigne,  that  artist 
fellow — I  think  you  have  met  him  here — 
came  ia  to  aak  me  to  go  with  him  to  his 
place  at  Fontainebleau  until  Monday ;  but 
it  does  not  matter.  I  was  glad  of  the 
excuse,  Myra — I  was  indeed,"  he  insisted 
with  his  courteous  smile. 

But  Myra  apparently  thought  differently. 
She  jumped  at  the  idea  of  her  lover  spend- 
ing the  next  two  days  away  from  Paris 
with  an  alacrity  that  waa  scarcely  flatter- 
ing. However,  he  was  not  hurt,  only  a 
little  amused  at  hor  eagerness.  And,  to 
please  her,  he  went  down  to  his  friend's 
rooms,  and  foond  that  De  Vigne  was  only 
too  delighted  that  he  should  change  his 
mind  at  the  eleventh  hour. 

And  so  Myra  had  her  way,  and  took  the 
fashioning  of  her  life  into  her  own  hands 
in  her  usual  strong-minded  manner. 

The  two  friends  went  off  toicether.    The 


430      [MinhS^lS 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


Frenchmaii  had  met  Mjn  once  or  twice 
before,  and  when  they  aaid  good-bye, 
standing  on  the  clean  vhite  fiag-BtOQea, 
the  fiacre  that  was  to  convey  them  to  the 
station  waitinj;  for  them,  he  shook  hands 
with  her,  English  fashion. 

"  Mais  eile  eat  superbe  I  ton  Anglaise," 
he  said,  settling  himself  in  the  carriage, 
after  casting  a  backward  look  at  Myr&'s 
retreating  figure.  "Ma  foi,  ta  as  dc  la 
chance," 

Bat  bis  friend  was  silent;  perhaps  he 
resented  this  openly  expressed  admiration 
of  his  lady-love. 

In  the  meantime  Myn,  noconscious  of 
the  little  Frenchman's  appreciative  remarks, 
walked  back  alone. 

The  park  was  deserted,  the  bonnes  and 
tbeu-  tittle  charges  bad  gone  homa  The 
snn  was  no  longer  unpleasantly  hot; 
there  was  just  enough  left  to  slant 
through  the  trees,  making  pretty,  flicker- 
ing shadows  on  the  gravel  path,  and  to 
burnish  a  stem  or  hough  here  and  there 
vith  gold. 

Bat  the  girl  had  do  ineliiiation  to  linger 
then ;  there  was  something  to  be  done, 
the  doing  of  which  wonld  coat  her  a  pang 
or  two.  And  it  was  not  in  Myra's  nature 
to  piit  off  anything  unpleasant,  to  weakly 
shut  her  eyes  and  let  things  take  their 
course.  She  despised  people  who  let  their 
lives  be  shaped  for  them ;  cost  her  what  it 
might,  she  would  shape  hers.  Perhaps  it 
was  for  the  beat !  Ha!a  she  not  always  said 
that  she  would  live  for  art,  that  no  man 
was  worthy  to  take  the  fiiet  place  in  an 
intelligent  woman's  heart  t  She  had  been 
weak,  very  weak,  almost  like  an  ordinary 
woman — but  it  was  over.  She  had  reached 
the  gate,  and  turning,  looked  at  the  little 
park  for  the  last  time.  The  snn  had  set ; 
the  trees  that  bad  been  golden  looked 
grey ;  the  rosy  flash  had  faded  from  the 
sky.     Yes,  it  was  over. 

Mrs.  Thompson  was  consolii^  herself, 
iu  the  absence  of  the  aftemooa-tea  of  her 
heart,  with  a  large  cup  of  chocolate,  and, 
in  the  absence  of  her  daughter,  was  indul- 
ging in  a  somewhat  dogs -eared  French 
novel,  borrowed  from  the  black-eyed, 
voluble  little  conciei^. 

"  Oh,  Myra  I "  she  said,  "  I  did  not 
expect  yon  back  so  soon.  Where  is 
PauM" 

"  I  am  alone,"  answered  Miss  Thompson 
coldly ;  it  seemed  to  her  her  mother  had 
never  said  "  Paul "  with  such  an  entire  Eur 
of  appropriation. 

"  Mother,  how  soon  can  you  leave  Paris 


— to-night — to-morrow — when  t "  was  her 
next  startling  speech. 

The  novel  slid  on  to  the  floor,  and  Ura 
Thompson  sat  staring  at  her  daughter  in 
blank  astonishment. 

"  To-night ! "  she  repeated.  "  Has  any- 
thing happened)    Is  Paul " 

"  For  goodness  sake,  mother,  let  m 
leave  Mr.  Rentonl  out  of  the  qnestjon," 
interrupted  Myra  almost  violently.  "Wa 
are  not  staying  here  for  him ;  I  hate  tiie 
place — I  must  go  away.  Oh,  mother," 
suddenly  coming  over  to  Uie  sofa  and 
putting  her  hand  on  her  mother's 
shonlder,  as,  one  short  boor  ago,  she  had 
laid  it  on  her  lover's,  "  let  us  go  home." 

Poor  Mrs.  Thompson,  beinldered,  and 
yet  with  an  instinctive  sickenmg  fear  that 
all  that  was  most  to  be  dreaded  had  cons 
to  pass,  agreed  with  her  nsnal  meelmesa 
to  her  daughter's  nev  whim,  and  it  wai 
arranged  tnat  they  were  to  start  on 
their  homeward  journey  the  following 
night. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  Myra  feel 
free  to  act  She  went  ap  to  bet  room, 
locked  the  door,  and  wrote  the  folloviog 
letter: 

"DbarMr,  Rentoui, — I  un  gomglo 
be  very  frank.  I  don't  know  tut  it  ia 
very  womanly  to  be  frank,  but  I  have 
always  thought  it  best  to  say  exactly  vh* 
I  think.  I  am  sure  that  you  agree  with 
me  in  thinking  that  our  engagement  is  a 
mistake.  I  have  been  very  olind,  and  fear 
very  much  that  my  blindness  may  have 
come  in  some  way  between  yon  and  the 
woman  yon  love.  I  will  now  do  my  beet 
to  repair  any  unhappinesa  I  may  have 
caused.  I  could  not  nelp  reading,  periispi 
more  than  you  meant  me  to  read,  m  your 
face  to-day  when  I  was  looking  at  the  por- 
trait of  Georgie  Rickarda.  when  we  were 
at  Lyme  in  the  winter,  I  did  not  beliere 
that  you  cared  or  ever  would  care  for  ll&t 
Rlckards  sufficiently  to  make  her  your  wif& 
I  told  her  so.  I  know,  of  course,  nothing 
of  what  may  have  passed  between  yon,  bnt 
I  think  that  Miss  Rickards  may  have  been 
influenced  by  me.  I  am  extremely  soiiy 
for  the  part  I  have  nnconsciously  played  io 
this  chapter  of  mistakes,  and  I  hope  yon 
will  not  think  that  it  has  in  any  vay 
nnfitted  us  to  continue  to  bo  frienda— 
Believe  me  to  remain,  very  sincerely  yoon, 
"  Myba  Thompsok. 

"P.S. — I  enclose  Mrs.  Sparkes's  addrea 
at  Brighton,  as  you  may  not  have  it" 

Myra  was  rather  pale  when  she  came 


GEORGIE:  AN  ABTISrs  LOVE. 


[Much  iS,  18S1.1      431 


iown,  ber  hat  still  on,  for  she  would  trust 
no  one  to  post  that  letter  bat  berselF. 

Her  mother  met  ber  on  the  l&nding,  aod 
stir  Uie  letter  in  her  hand.  There  was 
iie?er  the  posalbility  oE  mistake  in  Myra's 
handwriting.  She  asked  no  question,  but 
her  danghter  answer^  tho  unspoken 
tnqoirf. 

"  Yes,  mother,  this  is  to  break  off  our 
engagement.  And  then,"  still  in  answer  to 
the  enquiring  look,  "  he  never  loved  me." 

CHAPTER  VI, 

Mr.  Kentoul  did  not  return  to  Paris 
until  Monday  morning;  he  found  Myra's 
letter  waiting  for  him.  His  first  feeling 
was  one  of  intense  irritation.  It  is  not 
pleasant  to  a,  man  to  be  thrown  over,  even 
by  a  woman  he  does  not  love. 

"  What  nonsensB  1 "  he  exclumed  angrily. 
"  I  did  not  think  she  wa?  bo  childish  1 " 
and  he  went  to  see  her  full  of  all  sorts  of 
superior  arffuments  to  prove  to  her  her 
extreme  foolishness. 

The  concieige  called  after  him  as  he 
was  half-way  upstaira 

"  Monaieni  knows  not  then  that  these 
ladies  are  gone  1  Mais  oni,"  as  monsieur 
descended  with  rather  a  blank  face ;  "  they 
are  gone  for  England,  Saturday  at  the 
night." 

Here  was  startliag  news  I  He  thanked 
the  officious  little  Frenchwoman  who  so 
much  preferred  talking  bad  Ecgliah  to  ber 
own  pretty  Parisian  Frencfi,  and  walked 
back  a^ain  to  his  rooms.  He  was  already 
beginning  to  admire  Myra  for  her  rejection 
of  him. 

"  She  ia  a  fine  girl,"  he  said  to  himself, 
throwing  away  the  end  of  a  cigar  he  bad 
taken  for  soothing  purposea  And  then 
with  a  msb  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
other  woman. 

He  took  out  the  little  banished  portrait 
which  had  just  played  so  important  a  part 
in  his  life,  and  let  himself  look  at  it  to 
his  heart's  fill 

Would  Myra  have  lai^bed  in  scorn,  or 
wept  for  simple  pity,  could  she  have  seen 
him  kissing  that  painted  piece  of  card- 
board 1 

Later,  he  read  Myra's  letter  i^iun,  copied 
the  address  she  gave  him  into  hia  note- 
book, and  folded  up  and  carefully  put 
away  the  first  and  last  letter  he  received 
from  Miss  Thompson  during  their  eng^e- 
menb 

He  did  not  leave  Park  for  nearly  three 
weelra  after  tiie  Thompsons'  Sight,  and  it 
was  late  in  Jaly  before  he  made  use  of 


the  address  which,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Myra  bad  fonod  somewhat  hard  to  give 
him. 

Number  Twenty-four,  Bedford  Square. 
He  knew  the  address  by  heart,  and  bo 
filled  was  he  with  the  thought  of  that  near 
meeting  that  he  wonld  scarcely  havo  been 
surprised  had  Georgie  herself  opened  the 
door  to  him.  Instead  of  that,  however, 
a.  rather  slatternly-looking  servant  in- 
formed him  that  Miss  Bickards  was  not  at 
home. 

"  Mrs.  Sparkea  is  in,  air,"  added  the 
girl,  seeing  his  disappointment 

And  then  it  flashed  across  him  that  per- 
haps he  ought  to  have  asked  for  this  lady 
in  the  first  place,  as  of  course  she  must  be 
Geoi^ie'a  mother. 

He  was  shown  into  a  dimly-lighted 
room,  smelling  lather  too  strongly,  he 
thought,  of  perfumery. 

Coming  in  from  the  glare  of  the  King's 
Road,  he  at  first  could  diatinguia  b.  othing, 
but  he  presently  became  aware  that  a 
black-dad  figure  with  wonderfully  golden 
hair  was  approaching  him. 

"  Mra.  Sparkea  1 "  he  bowed. 

She  held  out  a  thin  white  hand,  ra&er 
overladen  with  rings. 

"  I  dare  say  I  ought  to  know  you,"  she 
said  with  a  little  upward  glance  of  her 
blue  eyea— Georgie'a  eyes,  as  he  noticed 
with  a  sort  of  pang ;  "  but  mj  memory 
Ls  80  dreadfuL  Too  bad  of  me,  is  it 
not  % " 

He  took  her  hand. 

"  You  must  not  be  too  severe  on  your 
memory,"  he  said  "  I  have  never  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  before — in  fact,  I 
must  apologise.  The  truth  is,  we — that  is 
to  say,  I — bad  the  pleasuie  of  meeting 
your  daughter,  Miss  Rickarda,  at  Lyme 
Regis  in  the  winter." 

It  waa  rather  a  lame  speech,  but  the 
tone  waa  courteous  and  well-bred,  and  Mrs. 
Sparkea  smiled  aweolly.  She  had  sunk 
back  again  among  her  cushions,  and  with 
her  hands  loosely  clasped  on  her  lap,  was 
flashing  her  blue  eyes  at  him. 

At  Sret  sight  she  had  struck  him  as 
looking  surprisingly  young,  but  now  as  he 
looked  at  ber  more  critically,  he  was 
^moat  shocked  to  see,  through  its  coat  of 
enamel,  what  an  old  worn  face  it  waa;  the 
unnaturally  red  lips,  and  vivid  golden  bur, 
ahowed  up  too  plunly  the  crows'  feet  round 
the  got-up  eyes  and  the  snnken,  blue-veined 
temples. 

But  she  was  Georgie's  mother,  and  so 
there  waa  more  pity  than  disgust  in  his 


432 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


llURll2f,UU.) 


face  as  he  aat  and  received  the  battery  of 
her  Bmiles  and  glances. 

"  Dear  Geoi^e  ia  to  fond  of  the  sea,"  she 
told  him,  "  and  so  neglectful  of  her  com- 
plexion. She  b  quite  too  dreadfully 
brown;  she  makes  me  look  altogether 
ghastly." 

Mr.  Rentoal  was  silent ;  perhaps  he  was 
thinking  that  Georgie's  brown  complexion 
could  not  make  that  poor,  punted  face  look 
much  more  ghastly  than  it  already  did.        I 

"  Perhaps  I  may  meet  Misa  Eickarjg,"  | 
he  said  pres«ntly;  "  I  am  going  down  to  I 
the  aea,"  | 

But  Mrs.  Sparkea  would  not  allow  him  | 
to  escape  just  yet ;  Georgie  would  soon  be 
in ;  be  must  have  some  tea ;  a.  nice,  cosy 
littie  aftemooD-tea,  &  deux  !  And  so  he 
stayed  and  endured  another  hour  of  small- 
talk,  which,  only  owing  to  a  strong  deter- 
minaUon  on  one  side,  did  not  merge  into  a 
flirtation.  At  six  o'clock  he  did  make  his 
escape. 

"  So  odd  of  Georgie  to  stay  out  so  late,  j 
Ofcourse  Susan  ia  with  her;  but  she  is  very  i 
wilful,  very  peculiar.  We  have  few  tastes  in 
common." 

Mr.  Rentoul  refrained  from  any  open 
expression  of  thankrulness ;  he  was  indeed 
almost  tender  in  his  dealings  with  the 
little  hand  lying  bo  confidingly  in  his  own ; 
he  bent  over  it  with  old-faahioned  courtesy, 
and  touched  it  with  bis  lips.  He  left  her 
standing  there  in  the  doorway,  with  her 
dyed  hair  and  painted  face,  and  with  the 
comfortable  feeling  that  she  bad  been 
appreciated. 

As  for  him,  he  felt  as  if  he  could 
not  breathe  freely  nntil  he  was  oat  of  the 
bouse,  out  of  ul  reach  of  the  acent  of 
perfumery,  and  of  those  dazzling  smiles. 
He  found  himself  already  making  plans  to 
spend  much  of  his  married  li^  abroad. 
He  was  walking  in  the  direction  of  Hove, 
and  was  presently  blessed  with  a  sight  of 
his  love,  whom  indeed  he  hod  come  to 
seek ;  she  was  coming  towards  him  slowly. 
She  wore  a  white  dress,  and  there  was  a 
quantity  of  soft  lace  fajliug  about  it;  a 
servant  was  walking  by  her  side,  carrying 
some  books. 

She  did  not  see  him  until  he  stood  almost 
in  front  of  her,  and  when  he  apoke,  holding 


out  his  hand,  she  flushed,  and  then  became 
very  pal& 

He  sent  the  maid  home  with  a  cool 
audacity  that  fairly  took  Georgie's  breath 
away,  but  she  would  not  have  been  a 
woman  had  she  not  liked  him  all  the 
better  for  this  display  of  master  fulness. 

"Let  us  go  down  to  the  sea,"  he  said 
genUy. 

They  walked  over  the  loose  shingle 
together,  and  tihere  to  the  famifiar  ranac  of 
the  sea  all  misunderstanding  camd  to  an 
end. 

"  Yon  forgive  me  at  last,  then  t "  he 
asked,  smiling.  "My  darling,  how  could 
you  have  been  so  unkind  1 " 

"  I  was  horrid,"  she  acknowledged  re- 
moraefally.  "Do  you  know  what  I  said. 
I  said " 

But  ha  atopped  her. 

"No,  doQ^  tell  me.  What  does  it 
matter  —  what  does  anything  matter 
now  t " 

Tratti  to  tell,  he  had  so  vivid  a  re- 
collection of  hia  love's  capacity  for  plaio- 
speaking  that  he  would  jnst  as  aoon  she 
did  not  recommence. 

"  I  must,"  she  whispered.  "  I  cannot 
be  happy  unless  you  know  tJie  worst,  and 
that  yon  forgive  me.  I  said  yoa  were  not 
a  gentleman." 

It  was  auch  a  shamed  little  voice,  that 
he  could  not  help  smiling.  He  drew  her 
very  close  to  him. 

"Is  that  ain  that  ia  not  so  dreadfal; 
perhaps  I  am  not,  who  kuowa  1  I  believe 
my  father  made  his  money  selling  lamp- 
oil,  or  far ai Lure- polish,  or  something  of 
the  sort,  and  that  ia  not  aristocratic  ex.i«t]y, 
ia  it  1  Rut  admitting  I  am  not  a  gentle- 
man, Z  am  at  least  an  artist,  and  I  love 
you ;  is  that  enough  for  you,  Georgie  1 " 

The  girl  made  no  verbal  reply,  but  she 
raised  her  face  to  his,  and  he  read  her 
answer  in  the  eyes  that  he  loved. 


Now  Reulf,  price  (W., 

THE    EXTRA    SPRING    NUMBER 
ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


TALES   BY  POPULAR   AUTHORS. 
I  Sold  at  all  Raliirif  BookiUlia,  ma  bf  nil  Bookwlkn 


_.ooglc 


A   DRAWK   GAME. 


CHAPTER  XXV.  FOB  EVER. 
Mrs.  Bohpas  felt  henelf  mistress  of 
the  sitnatioa.  She  was  advancing  towards 
Archie  as  her  own,  her  long-lost  boy,  with 
maeh  mandlin  aiFection  in  her  manner, 
when  h«  rose  to  shrtnlc  from  her  so  nn- 
miatakablf  that  she  at  once  resumed  the 
ofiieneive — the  very  ofiensive. 

'  Db,  we're  Mr.  Guard,  are  we  i  And 
I'm  the  dirt  under  your  feet,  am  1 1  Me 
and  my  daughter  to  be  trampled  into  the 

mad  of  tibe  streets  by  the  llbea  of  yon -" 

"Ida,  this  is  no  place  for  yon,  dear; 
come,"  said  Mrs.  John,  rising.  Her  tone 
cut  Archie  to  the  very  heart  In  all  his 
life  he  coold  recall  no  word  of  hers  that  had 
not  been  loving  and  lovingly  uttered.  He 
opened  the  door  for  them  to  pass  ont,  bnt 
Mrs.  Bompas  tlirust  herself  forward  and 
filled  the  doorway  with  arms  akimbo. 

"Not  till  I  get  back  my  letter.  You 
shall  not  leave  the  room  till  I  set  my 
letter.    I  shall  send  for  the  polioe.' 

"  Hold  yotir  tongue,  woman  I "  cried 
Archie,  exasperated  to  madness. 

"  Here  is  the  letter,"  said  Mra.  John,  at 
the  same  moment,  tboa  diverting  the 
worthy  woman  from  a  savage  retort  npon 
Archie.  She  took  the  letter  and  sollenly 
retreated  from  the  doorway.  When  Mis. 
John  and  Ida  had  passed  ont  and  got  clear 
into  another  room,  Archie  stepped  into 
the  hall,  opened  the  front  door,  and  called 
to  Mrs.  Bompas,  who  hurried  forward  wiUi 
some  alacrity,  thinking  he  was  about  to 
come  to  terms  with  her. 

"There's  the  door,  Mrs,  Bompaa."  Then 
the  storm  broke,  and  dirty  weather  it  wa& 


audible  to  Mrs.  John  and  Ida,  who,  in  tlie 
study,  were  clinKing  together  as  in  a 
common  and  cnuhing  Dereavement  Archie 
stood  silent,  holding  the  door  open,  while 
Mrs.  Bompas  poured  a  fonl  mixture  of 
accusation  and  abuse  upon  him,  and  at  its 
dose,  as  she  cooled,  declared  she  had  come 
to  give  him  a  chance  to  make  honourable 
amends  to  her  daughter,  bnt  now  she 
wonld  let  the  law  take  its  course.  Finally, 
as  she  departed,  she  Sonrished  the  packet 
of  letters  in  his  face,  declaring  she  had 
evidence  enondi  there  to  get  a  verdict 
from  any  jury  in  England. 

Archie  felt  that 'she  had,  and  he  knew 
her  too  well  to  doubt  her  doing  what  she 
threatened,  if  it  promised  her  the  least 
advantage  He  was  as  certain  as  if  the 
writ  had  been  served  npon  him,  that  before 
long,  in  court,  he  would  be  made  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  world.  What  did  it 
matter  t  What  did  anything  matter  now  t 
His  world  was  Ida  and  his  mother,  and  the 
thought  of  their  scorn  seemed  to  scorch  into 
his  brain.  And  to4ay,  an  hour  seo,  their 
love,  and  such  love,  had  been  all  his  !  He 
had  flnng  himself  on  his  bed  with  bis  face 
buried  in  the  pillow,  and  the  remembrance 
of  the  love  he  bad  lost  paralysed  thought 
His  son  had  gone  down  at  noon — dropped 
into  midnight  from  meridian  splendour, 
and  his  mind  staggered  aboat  in  the  enddtm 
blindness,  groping  helplessly  in  a  world  not 
realised. 

He  did  not  know'how  long  he  had  lain 
thus,   when  a  knock  at  the  door  roused 

"  Archie ! " 

"  Yea,  mother." 

"May  I  come  int" 

Archie  rose,  unlocked  the  door,  opened 
it  as  hi  a  dream,  and  stood  hi«gard, 
stunned,  lookine  years  older,  before  her. 


434      |Hud>£»,  1881.1 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


sight  of  him.  For  this  visit  had  been  a 
matter  of  remorse  to  heiL  From  Archie's 
letter,  and  still  more  from  Mrs.  Bompai's 
wild  and  whirling  words,  she  had  gathered 
tliat  he  had  committed  what,  in  her  eyes, 
was  one  of  the  basest  and  blackest  of  all 
crimes  —  the  betrayal  and  abandonment 
of  a  busting  girl  He  bad  not  contradicted 
the  terrible  impeachment,  nay,  its  troth 
was  written  in  giiilt  and  in  remorse  in  his 
face.  Otherwise  Mrs.  John  might 
have  thought,  what  any  woman  in  the 
world  wonld  be  sure  to  ttiink,  that  in  this 
case  the  daughter  of  ench  a  oreatore  as 
Mre.  Bompas  was  mnch  more  likely  to 
have  been  the  seducer  than  the  sednced. 
Bnt  his  silence,  and  his  face,  and  the  very 
misery  th^t  wrong  her  relaet&nt  pity,  pot 
ihe  thing  beyond  doubt. 

If  then  he  had  done  this  cmel 
r— and  there  was  no  hope  that  he  had  not 
— ought  she  to  treat  it  as  of  no  account,  to 
condone  it,  to  condole  wjth  him  upon  it  I 
If  she  ooold  have  helped  herself,  most 
certainly  she  would  have  left  Archie  to  go 
alone  throagh  hia  wholesome  angoish.  But 
she  could  not  help  herself.  She  must  go 
to  him,  as  a  doting  mother  moat  soothe 
the  pain  of  the  punishment  she  has  infUoted, 
and  almost  in  the  moment  of  its  infliction. 
But  if  Mrs.  John  could  not  help  coming  to 
sliare  his  trouble,  she  coold  not  help  either 
a  sense  of  remorse  as  thongh  she  became 
thereby  an  abettor  of  his  goilt 

This  remorse,  however,  as  we  have  said, 
melt«d  at  the  sight  of  the  white  and  blank 
despair  in  ArcUe's  face.  Setting  down 
horriedly  the  tray  she  had  hrooght  him — 
as  he  oonld  not  have  had  anywing  to  eat 
or  drink  for  some  hours — she  sat  down  on 
the  nearest  chair,  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  cried  almost  hysterically, 
Archie  standing  the  whiU  silent  before 
her. 

At  last  she  took  her  hands  from  her 
eyes  to  look  up  into  his  faee,  ss  though  to 
read  there  that  it  was  but  a  bad  dream. 
And,  indeed,  there  was  in  his  frank,  fear- 
less, kindly  face  an  assurance  Btr<ffiKer 
than  words  that  he  conld  not  do  ddihe- 
rately  a  base,  and  cruel,  and  cowardly 
thing. 

'-Oh,  Archie,  it  is  not  true — lay  it  is 
not  true — what  she  said." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  sud,  mother. 
She  could  not  have  .said  more  than  the 
letters :  and  you  read  them.  Did  — 
did " 

Here  he  hesitated.  But  hie  mother  read 
his  thoogbt 


"  Ida  1  No,  of  coorse  not.  How  could 
yoo  think  itt  They  weren't  tor  her  to 
read." 

"TheyTl  be  for  everyone  to  read  soon," 
"  For  everyone ) " 
"They'll  be  in  every  paper." 
"  Is  she  going  to  aena  tnem  tothenews- 
papers  1 "  cried  Mrs.  John,  aghast 

She  hadn't  overheard  Mrs.  Bompu's 
final  threat  of  legal  proceedings,  which 
was  not  screamed  oat  as  loudly  u  bet 
abuse. 

"She's  going  to  Jaw  aboot  it" 
"  Going  to  law  1    To  make  moifey  oat 
of  it ! " 

"She  wants  to  make  a  promise  to  many 
oot  of  it" 

"  But  did  yoo  mean  to  marry  her  1 " 

"  Why,  mother,  you  read  the  letters." 

"  I  read  only  one,  Archie,  and  1  had  no 

right  to  read  that,  dear,  but  I  couldn't  help 

it      But  did  you  really  mean  to  muiy 

her  I"  , 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  meant  I 
was  mad.  Yes,  I  believe  I  should  bare 
married  her." 

"  Oh,  Archie  I "  she  exclaimed,  lieing  to 
fling  her  arms  round  him  in  her  reUef  and 
in  her  remorse  for  having  misjudged  him, 
"  oh,  Archie,  I  am  so  glad — I'm  so  glad  I 
How  could  I  have  thought  it  of  you ! " 

"  You  couldn't  have  thought  me  w«bs 
than  I  was,  mother.  Yes,  I  should  hare 
been  mad  enough  to  mury  her,  I  belie?e, 
if  she  hadn't  found  out  that  I  was  poor, 
and  thrown  me  over  for  another  fellow." 

But  if  it  was  she  who  gave  yon  sp, 
she's  no  case,  has  she  I " 

Mrs.  John's  natural  shrewdness  bid 
been  sharpened  by  oonslant  exercise  thnwgh 
doing  duty  daily  for  the  Eev.  Jahn's  mind, 
absent  on  pentetoal  leav& 

"  She  d^Qt  give  me  up.  She  kept  me 
.  and  him  on,  and  half-a.dozen  otherB,  I 
dare  say ;  but  I  don't  suppose  any  of  them 
were  fools  enough  to  put  themselves  m  hei 
power,  as  I  did. 

"  By ,  those  letters )  Don't  you  think 
she'd  sell  them  t " 

Archie  threw  himself  into  a  seat  mtb  i 
gesture  of  despair. 

"Sell  t^emt  Who's  to  boy  theml 
Hasn't  enough  of  the  money  yon  saved 
and  pinched  to  give  me  gone  to  snd 
creatores  as  these  t  And  ul  the  leeolo- 
tions  I  had  made,  and  meant  to  keep,  lud 
wo>iId  have  kept,  to  be  at  no  more  ezpsaH 
to  you,  to  repay  you  all  the  ezpeue  I  hsd 
been,  to  do  somebtung,  to  be  Ktmt^atg, 
that  yoi^  would  be  proud  of,  that  she — 


OatlM  IHclMBi.] 


A  DBA.WN  G&MK 


[UinhU,18S4.]      435 


Ske'll  BQTw  forgive  me,  mother,"  loolcing 
op  deBpuringly  mto  her  face. 

"She's  turiblf  ehoched,  Aixdiie,  that 
yon  conld  engage  yooraeli  to  the  danghter 
at  Boch  a  woman,  uid,  at  the  name  time, 
propose  to  her.  She  thinki  it  a  joBt 
nonjahment  ou  herself  tor  making  and 
breaking  her  own  engagement  ao  lightly. 
Ah  if  she  could  have  helped  either  BUiking 
it  or  breakisg  it  1 " 

"  She  despiaea  me,"  he  groaned. 

"Well,  ^ohie,"  speaking  beaitatingif, 
at  breaking  bad  news,  "  I  d<m't  think  she 
teapeote  yon  aa  she  did.  You  couldn't 
expect  it.  Of  coarse  she  didn't  saspect 
what  X  anapeoted,  for  the  girl  haa  no 
more  ideas  of  such  things  than  a  baby. 
Bat  that  joa  should  engage  y oorself  to 
this  low  woman,  and  that  yon  ahould  then 
throw  her  aside  so  lighUyv  and  offer  her 
place  to  Ida  1 " 

"  Her  place  ! " 

"  Or  give  Ida's  place  to  her ;  for  you 
told  her  yon  had  loved  her  before  yon 
conld  have  seen  this  girl.  Oh,  Archie  1 
how  coold  you  so  forget  her  and  forget 
yonrself }" 

He  walked  np  and  down  the  room  in  a 
frenzy  of  agitation,  and  at  last  stopped 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  his  mother. 

"  I've  loat  her  1 "  he  cried  misenibly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  time  may  do,"  she 
answered  doabtfoDy,  and  it  was  phtin  that 
this  was  the  utmost  ahe  could  say. 

"Mother,  do  you  think  she'd  see  met" 
ha  asked  eagerly,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  don't  think,  Aichie,  I  should  ask  her 
now,  ahe  feels  so  sore  and  sick  at  heart 
Yon  see,  dear,"  laying  her  hand  soothingly 
and  apologetically  upon  hU  arm — -"you 
see,  dear,  yon  told  her  over  and  over  again 
that  you  had  always  loved  her  alone,  and 
so  got  her  to  open  oat  to  you  her  whole 
heut  and  all  ita  lifelong  love  for  yon,  and 
now  ahe  finds  you  were  all  the  time 
engaged  to  this  woman." 

"  AU  the  time  1  It  was  only  a  month's 
madness  j  and  even  through  that  month  I 
loved  Ida  ht^eleesly,  but  with  the  only 
love  worthy  of  the  name." 

"Yet  you'd  have  married  this.womwil" 

"Mother,  you  cannot  understand — I 
cannot  explaui.  I  was  mad,  and  this 
girl " 

Here  he  cl^ked  hiniseK.  There  was 
much  he  might  have  told  his  mother  about 
Anaetasis,  which  would  have  gone  a  good 
way  towards  the  justification,  oi  at  the 
least,  towards  the  palliation  of  his  conduct, 
but  it  would  have  been  to  nut  the  whole 


blame  on  the  girl,  at  the  oost,  moreover,  of 
making  himseU  look  ridiculous. 

"  Well,  Archie,  I  shall  do  what  I  can  for 
yon  with  Ida,"  interpreting  his  hesitation 
as  a  magnanimous  reluctance  to  throw 
the  whoie  blame  (where  ahe  was  sure 
it  was  due)  on  tiie  girl  "I'm  afraid 
only  time  can  do  much — and  yourself. 
Yoq  most  win  back  her  respect,  Archie. 
Ida's  love,  more  than  tJiat  of  most  girls, 
leans  on  her  req>eot.  She  couldn't  oave 
loved  you  as  she  did,  if  she  hadn't  thought 
as  highly  of  you  aa  she  did." 

This  was  tru&  Ida  had  oaaouized 
Archie,  and  now  her  god  was  proved  an 
idol  of  cla^.  And  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  girl  had  no  idea  of  the  two  hinds 
of  worship,  which  Archie  just  now  assured 
his  mother  had  co-existed  in  fais  heart.  She 
had  no  idea  of  a  higher  and  a  lower  kind  of 
love,  but  only  of  one  kind,  whose  root  might 
be  of  the. earth  and  in  the  earth — she  never 
saw  it — bat  whose  flower  filled  her  whole 
life  with  its  incense.  This,  the  sole  kind 
of  love  she  knew,  was  what  she  bad  given 
Archie,  and  this  was  what  she  thought 
Archie  had  given  her. 

In  the  full,  asBuranoe  of  this  belief,  she, 
the  most  reserved  of  g^la,  bad  laid  bare 
her  whole  heart  to  hun,  and  let  him  see 
how  every  beat  of  it  had  been  his  for 
years  1  And  all  these  years  he  had  not 
only  cared  nothing  for  her,  but  had  cared 
for  the  danghter  of  this  woman  I  And 
then  his  vows,  his  passionate  and  repeated 
protestations  that  he  bad  loved  her  alone, 

The  shock  waa  as  the  shock  of  an  earth- 
quake, in  which  everything  gives  and  goes 
together.  The  very  foundations  on  which 
her  life  had  rested  seemed  to  slip  from 
beneath  her. 

To  many,  Ida'e  innocence — or  ignorance, 
if  you  will — must  seem  unnatural,  and  her 
prostration  at  this  discovery  of  Archie's 
iniquities  incredibia  Was  she  a  fool  1  Or 
had  she  never  read  a  novel  written  by  n 
lady }  She  was  no  fool,  and  ahe  had  read 
novels  in  which  love  was  represented  as 
something  not  quite  divine,  not  quite 
human  even;  but  she  had  read  her  own 
meaning  into  them.  Pitch  doesn't  dehle 
always ;  nay,  the  cbemist  extracts  frcun  it 
the  most  exqubite  colours  j  and  so,  too,  Ida 
gathered  honey  from  the  weed. 

"I  couldn't  belp_  going  to  him,"  said 
Mrs.  John  ^ologeticwy,  on  her  return  to 
Ida,  sitting  forlorn  in  her  own  room.  "I 
couldn't  helo  eoin^  to  him.  dear,  and  I  am 


(Marcb  »,  IDM.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


(CoDdDolad  It 


a  ring  of  acorn 


gUd  I  wenL     He's  lo  wretched,  uid  he 
Eun't  behaved  as  badly  u  1  thought" 

"  It  waen't  trno  1 "  gasped  Ida,  half  rising 
From  her  seat  with  an  impetaority  startling 
in  her. 

"  A  great  deal  of  it  wasn't  true." 
"  He  wasn't  engaged  to  her  1 " 
"  He  was  engaged  to  her,  dear,  but  be 
was  entrapped  mto  the  engagement     Sha 
was  a  very  designing  woman." 
"  Do^B  he  say  so  I    with  a  ri 
in  her  Toice. 

"That's  not  UheyoQ,  Ida.  Of  oonrsehe 
didn't  say  so ;  but  I  inferred  it  from  Bom»- 
tJiing  he  did  say." 

"Whatever  she  was,  he  moat  have  loved 
her  to  engage  himself  to  her." 
"Loved  her  in  a  way." 
"Only  enough  to  engage  himself  to  her," 
bitterly. 

"  It  was  a  passing  fancy,  or  rather  freni^. 
Yon  cannot  understand  it ;  he  can  hardly 
nnderstand  it  himself  now;  for  now  he 
knows  what  love  really  is." 

"^ce  when,  Mrs,  Pybost  Sinoe  last 
Tuesday  1 " 

"  Ida,  I  do  believe  he  did  love  you  all 
along,"-  Mrs.  John  rejoined,  in  answer  to 
this  satiric  reference  to  Aiohio's  protesta- 
tions of  past  constancy.  "  But  he  despaired 
of  yonr  love,  dear,  and  that  made  him 
recklesa," 

Of  coarse  Mrs.  John  more  than  half 
believed  this  &eory  herself,  or  she  wouldn't 
tiave  broached  it ;  bat  she  hardly  expected 
[da  to  believe  it,  or  understand  it  even. 

And  Ida  didn't  She  bad  herself  felt 
be  despair  of  love,  and  knew  in  her  own 
■MB  its  nature  and  its  effect.  It  certainly 
vae  not  to  dispose  her  to  love  another.  It 
nade  her  shrink  with  almost  abhorrence 
rom  the  love  of  another.  Still,  had  not 
he  herself  accepted  another  t  This  re- 
nembrance  and  remorse  kept  her  sUent 
hough  unconvinced.  At  the  same  time 
ler  passive  and  shrinking  acceptance  of 
Mck,  under  the  compulsion  of  gratitude, 
ras  a  very  different  thing  from  Archie's 
•esionate  pursoit  of  a  creature  so  unworthy, 
s  thadaiuhter  of  this  MraBompas  must  M. 
This  Ida  felt,  though  she  did  not  express 
i,  or  expressed  it  only  through  a  silence 
'hioh  lua.  John  saw  from  her  face  was 


rething  bat  ai 
"Wefl,] 


,  Ida  dear,  time  will  telL" 
■  I  think  it  has  told,  Mrs.  Fybns." 
"  My  dear  child,  you  imeak  always  as  if 
•m  were  my  i^    Von  uiould  remember, 
7  dear,  that,  though  yoa  were  almys  a 
Oman,  he  has  been  but  a  boy  till  now. 


Now,  this  toonble  has  made  him  a  man, 
and  the  hope  to  get  yoor  love  back  will 
make  him  a  good  man — if  he  may  hope. 
He  may,  dear,  mayn't  be  1 "  in  a  tone  of 
low  and  pathetic  entreaty.  "  It  will  make 
all  the  difference  in  his  life  if  you  let  him 
hope  to  get  back  your  love  when  he  ihowa 
himself  worthy  of  it" 

"  My  love  !  I  feel  as  if  I  had  none  now 
to  give,  I  think  it's  gone,  Eveiytbiog's 
gone,  I  think." 

Here  the  girl  broke  down  utterly.  Mia. 
John,  putting  both  her  aims  about  her, 
soothed  her  like  a  little  child  with  ming^ 
kisses  and  words  of  love,  till  she  broo^t 
her  back  at  last  to  comparative  calm. 

Ida's  love  was  not  dead,  of  coarse.  It 
was  at  leaat  alive  enough  to  make  her  hard 
and  cold  as  steel  to  Archie  the  next  morn- 
ing. It  was  enough  for  so  reserved  and 
s^-respecting  a  girl  to  have  shown  him 
her  heart  once  with  the  result  of  sndi 
bitter  mortification.  Besides,  the  m<»e 
she  thought  of  it —  and  she  had  all  tiie 
sleepless  night  throagh  to  think  of  it — the 
less  could  she  see  any  justification,  or 
extenoatioQ  even,  of  Archie's  faithleasnefla 
Either  his  love  was  worthless,  or  bis  tows 
were  worthless.  If,  as  Mrs.  John  su^eated, 
be  could  love  her  and  tlus  girl  at  the  same 
time,  what  was  his  lore  worth  %  And 
might  not  his  heart  be  as  easily  and  eqnally 
divMed  in  the  future  As  it  had  been  in  the 
past! 

On  the  other  hand,  if  he  could  love,  and 
had  loved  this  woman,  with  his  whole 
heart,  what  then  was  the  worth  of  his 
solemn  protestaUons  of  past  constancy  to 
herself  t  It  was  impossilMe  for  a  girl  (rf  so 
single  and  sincere  a  heart  as  Ida  to  oonoeire 
an  escape  from  this  dilemma. 

For  both  these  reasons,  then — tiiat  she 
still  loved  Archie,  and  that  she  thought 
him  still  unworthy  of  her  love — Ida  waa 
freezing  in  her  bearing  to  him  the  next 
morning — the  last  morning  of  her  stay. 

He  must,  of  course,  see  her  alone  before 
she  left,  to  make  out  what  caae  he  could 
for  himself,  and,  altar  a  silent  break&st, 
Mrs.  John  left  them  together.  '  ._ 

Ida  sat  stiU,  cold,  vraite  as  marble — to  ^ 
all  appearances  not  in  the  least  nenroaa,  ]| 
though  every  nerve  in  her  body  quivered.  I| 
Archie,  sitting  opposite  to  her,  with  I 
troubled  eyes  fixed  on  her  face,  songht  I, 
some  encooragemeot  there  in  vain.  Th«  11 
silence  ^w  uid  deepened  till  the  tensioii^ 
became  mtolerable,  and  Archie  made  idS 
last  a  plunge  of  deapur.  .^ .  ^         ^^ 


ChariH  Mckaiu.] 


CHRONICLES  or  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.    [umh89,i8M.i    437 


"Ida,  I  vanted  to  see  yoo.     I  wanted 

to  explain "  A  paoaa  What  intelligible 

ezpbuutioii  had  he  to  give  1  "  I — I  ihink 
f  oo  are  under  a  miBtake." 

"  We  h&va  both  made  a  mistake.  I 
tfaink  there's  no  more  to  ea;,"  freezingljr. 

"  There  is — there  is,  Ida,  if  I  conld  m; 
it ;  if  I  coald  explain.  I  was  mad  when  I 
wrote  those  lett»B.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
•aid,  or  what  I  did.  Besides — I  cannot 
ezi^un ;  bat  if  you  knew  all  I  think  yon 
woilld  forgive  me.  I  know  yon  would 
foi|;tve  ma  You  would  kt  me  nope — Ida, 
yoa  willt"  He  rose  as  he  spoKe,  and 
stood  before  her,  and  tried  to  take  her 
hand.  She  withdrew  it  and  rose  also, 
more  to  fly  from  herself  than  &om  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  give  you  pain.  I  owe 
iSa.  PybuB  so  maoh.     But  yon  will  soon 

fon^t  it." 

She  seemed  to  speak  witJi  the  ubnost 
deliberation;  yet  she  hatdly  knew  what 
she  sud  or  she  would  have  spoken  more 
^eronsly.  Every  word,  as  he  interpreted 
It,  was  a  stab. 

"I  was  not  suing  you  for  a  debt  you 
owed  my  mother,"  he  answered  bitterly ; 
"  nor  even  for  that  yon  gave  me  yesterday 
and  have  forgotten  to-day.  It  is  not  I  who 
•oon  forget" 

This  reference  to  Ida's  confession  of  her 
love  was  most  unFortonate.  It  ronsed  her 
pride  to  the  reinforcement  of  her  wavering 
reeolution. 

"I  was  mistaken,"  she  said  merely,  but 
with  a  suspicion  of  scorn  in  her  voice. 

"  Ida,  it  is  now  you  mistake  me.  You 
will  como  to  think  so  yet     I  shall  not 

S've  up  that  hope;  I  cannot.  It  is  my 
e.  I  shall  live  in  the  hope  that  if  I 
prove  myself  what  yoB  once  thought  me, 
yoa  will  be  to  me  again  all  that  you  were. 
Now,  I  ask  you  only  to  wait  and  to  think 
of  me  as  kindly  as  you  can."  Here  he 
paosed,  bat  Ida  remained  silent  also  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said : 

"  I  have  so  ntaoh  kindness  to  thank  ^oa 
for,  that  I  cannot  think  otherwise  of  you ; 
bat  aa  to  our  engagement,  it  is  beat  Uiere 
ahoald  be  no  misnnderstaoding  that  it  is  at 
an  end." 

"For  ever  t "  piteonsly. 

"For  over,"  in  a  low  aud  tremnlous 
voice. 

In  another  moment  she  would  have 
broken  down,  and  Archie  might  have  read 
his  reprieve  in  her  team,  and  wrung  it  from 
her  lips,  if  the  fear  of  such  a  selfnlMtrayal 
had  not  hurried  her  from  the  roooL 
Hurried  her  1     No.     She  turned  horriadlv 


from  him,  but  walked  to  the  door  with  her 
asual  calm  stateUness,  and  not  till  it  was 
closed  behind  her  did  she  fly,  as  from  her- 
self, to  her  room,  to  lock  herself  in  alono 
with  her  misery,  exolading  even  Mxi. 
John. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the 
two  had  the  more  wretched  hoar;  nor 
was  their  trouble  lessened  by  the  thought 
that  they  had  brought  it  upon  themselves — 
for  Ida  also  felt  that  it  was  m  some  sense  self- 
inflicted.  Bat  what  could  she  have  done  t 
Had  she  answered  Archie's  piteous  appeal 
otherwise,  it  would  have  been  simply  to 
make  over  again  a  confession  of  her  love. 

She  was  not  the  girl  to  wear  her  heart 
upon  her  sleeve  a  seoond  time,  to  feed  this 
youth's  reckless  vanity. 


CHKONICLES  OF  ENGLISH 

COUNTIES. 

SHROPSHIRE.      PART  IL 

Whsn  the  lion  and  the  unicorn,  as  the 
old  ditty  has  it,  were  fighting  for  the 
crown,  and  axe  and  sword  were  thinning 
the  ranks  of  the  fieadal  nobility,  even 
among  the  storm  and  stress  of  civil 
war  and  commotion,  the  civic  life  of  oar 
English  towns  had  developed  to  ite  fullest 
life  of  pictureequenesa  and  dignity.  And 
thus  old  Shrewsbury,  towards  the  close  of 
the  turbid,  tamaltuoas  fifteenth  century, 
shows  forth  with  a  pomp  of  civic  pride  that 
impresses  the  imagination.  All  the  pic- 
tnresqae  elements  of  the  mediteval  days, 
which  were  coming  to  an  end,  were  tinged 
with  the  colour  and  brightness  of  the 
dawning  renaissance.  The  walls  that  ear- 
rounded  the  city,  the  massive  towers,  and 
grass -grown  ramparts  with  the  cannon 
peering  from  the  battlements,  gave  an 
element  of  compactness  and  securitry ;  and 
Uienarrowstreets,  with  the  tall,  overhanging 
timber-houses,  afitorded  vistas  of  chequered 
light,  and  deep  and  gloomy  shadows  in 
wnioh  the  gleam  of  anns  and  the  glow  of 
rich  trappings  found  an  appropriate  setting. 
There  stood  the  grand  old  abbey,  with  its 
wealth  of  monamenta  and  slmnes,  the 
friaries  with  their  brethren  of  the  cowl, 
whose  gowns  of  black  and  grey  gave  a 
foil  and  contrast  to  the  civic  state  of 
the  citizens  and  the  gay  apparel  of  the 
citizens'  wives.  With  all  this  was  a  con- 
stant dramatic  change  of  incident  and 
personage,  now  a  nolueman  marching  to 
the  Bcafibid,  again  a  king  entering  in  the 
pomp  of  his  power. 

The  irreatest  dav  of    the   fear  in   old 


[ltuch£9,U«.l 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


Shrewsbury  waa  the  feaat  of  Corpoi  Chruti, 
which  itiil  itin  old-fuhioned  Noniun 
towns  to  a  pageanby  that  recalls  the  old 
English  life  that  hiu  paned  away.  Then 
would  all  the  houses  be  featooned  with 
hangings — rich  silk  and  cloth  of  gold  for 
the  wealthy,  and  the  hoosehold  store  of 
bleached  linen,  wiiite  and  radiant,  for  the 
re(t — while  the  procession  slowly  filed 
thrangh  the  narrow  streete,  the  ^reat 
golden  crazier  in  front,  and  the  Lord 
Abbot,  under  a  silken  canopy,  bearing  in 
his  hands  the  jewelled  Pyz.  Followed  him 
all  the  bratherbood,  prior  and  chamberlain, 
treasurer  and  sacrist,  in  all  the  dignity  of 
violet  and  gold,  the  humble  frian  in  uieir 
coarse  gowns  and  sandals,  tlie  mayor  and 
the  elders  of  the  town,  and  the  guilds  with 
their  brare  banners  and  quaint  emblems. 
At  every  step  the  silver  censers  swayed 
and  swung,  and  through  the  amoke  of 
incense  over  a  path  of  flowers  and  twigs  the 
procession  advanced  till  halting  at  some 
temporary  altar,  adorned  with  all  the 
silver  vessels  and  rich  plate  of  some  solid 
dtisen  and  his  friends,  the  jewelled  Fyx 
wonid  be  raised,  and  all  the  aesembhige 
would  fall  on  their  knees  before  ft — riouy 
caparisoned  knights  with  bright  armour 
gleaming  beneato  silken  trappings,  beggars 
in  their  rags,  the  venerable  citizeas,  the 
nrohins  from  St.  Peter's  School,  the  little 
girls  in  white  or  blue,  with  their  ^irons 
mil  of  flowers — while  the  cannon  sounded 
&om  the  walls,  and  the  bells  rang  in 
volleys  from  all  the  church-towers. 

Such  was  old  Shrewsbury,  in  1486,  ^e 
year  following  that  which  had  seen  the 
Duke  of  Buckiogfaam's  ezsontion  on  the 
tall  scaffold  before  the  high  cross  in  Shrews- 
bury market-|)lace.  After  that  high-huided 
exertion  of  kingly  power,  people  felt  that 
Bichard's  crown  sataecura  upon  his  brows. 
Some,  here  and  there,  might  grieve  for  the 
hapless  fate  of  the  young  princes  in  the 
Tower,  and  prophesy  in  seo'et  that  no  good 
could  come  of  a  reign  so  inaugurated — 

Things  bad  began  mxlce  strong  (hemselvei  b;  ill ; 
but  the  general  sentiment  acknowledged 
the  want  of  astroug  ruler,  and  the  terrible 
evils  which  had  followed  a  long  minority, 
when  first  one  set  of  rapacious  nobles,  and 
then  another,  ruled  the  destinies  of  the 
country,  wue  still  fresh  in  men's  minda. 
'Woe  to  that  land  that'll  ({oromed  by  a  child, 
sa^  one  .of  Shakespeare's  citizens  in 
Bichard  the  Third.  And  it  might  weU  be 
the  genera]  feeling  among  the  commonalty 
and  the  dtazeos   of  the  chief  towns  of 


the  kingdom,  that  they  owed  a  hearty 
acqnieaoence  to  a  ruler  who  had  saved  tlie 
country  from  snch  a  dangerana  pass.  And 
yet  all  this  time  the  end  of  the  king  wu 
prepared.  A  keen  and  strong-mmded 
woman  had  pitted  heiaelf  against  Bichard 
with  his  vigorous  genius,  and  the  wonuo 
was  destined  to  triumph.  This  woman 
was  Margaret,  the  mother  of  Henry,  the 
young  Eail  of  Hichmond,  at  that  time  an 
exile  m  France.  Margaret  was  oS  the  blood 
of  the  Beauforts,  the  descendants  of  John 
of  Gaunt  and  Catharine  Swynf  ard,  and  her 
son  was  the  last  representative  of  t^e  honse 
of  Lancaster,  although  he  held  as  much  to 
the  line  of  Valois  as  to  that  of  Plantagenet, 
and  was  rather  a  Welahmaa  than  either 
through  his  ancestor  Owen  Tudor.  The 
Welsh  descent  of  the  prince  proredastnog 
point  m  his  favour.  All  along  the  Une  « 
the  Welsh  coast  the  emissaries  of  the  yoimg 
pretender  to  the  throne  found  shelter  and 
weloome ;  and  when  the  moment  of  aettoc 
arrived,  the  flotilla  of  the  young  j^ce 
found  a  safe  and  friendly  harbour  in  Wales, 
protected  from  all  danger  of  surprise  by 
the  bulwark  of  a  whole  nation.  The 
Welsh,  it  may  be  judged,  went  solidly  for 
their  countryman,  and  all  the  fotore  loog't 
couains,  many  of  them  but  simple  farmers 
and  cattie  dealen,  but  all  with  the  pride 
and  long  pedigree  of  their  race,  finmed 
nseful  agents  and,  recruits:  And  tJien 
Margarot  had  been  busy  among  the  great 
families  of  the  land,  uneasy  at  tiie  neir 
state  of  things :  a  popular  hing  depmd- 
ing  upon  the  commonalty  and  cittzeni,  and 
sending  great  nobles  to  the  block  with  a 
word.  Maivaret  had  married,  no  doubt 
with  strategical  motavea  directed  to  this 
very  issue,  Lord  Stanley,  whose  power  in 
the  districts  of  Lancashire  and  Cheshire  wie 
lufBcient  to  have  seriously  threatened  any 
advance  on  the  part  of  the  invaders  beyond 
the  Welsh  mountaina,  while  the  Taltwts 
had  been  gained  over  by  Maigaref  a  subUe 
influence,  a  family  which  could  roiie  in 
Shropshire  iteelf  between  two  and  tiiree 
thousand  fighting  mea 

But  of  all  this  plot  the  men  of  Shiewi- 
bury  con  have  known  little,  and  must' have 
been  rather  aatoniahed,  one  day  in  August, 
to  see  a  strong  mixed  force  of  armed  men 
marching  from  the  side  of  Wales  towards 
their  gates.  The  strong  castle  of  Sbrewt- 
bury  was  then  held  for  the  king  by  a 
Mytton,  one  of  a  Shropshire  family  noted 
for  a  vigorous  and  eccentric  individnili^ 
down  to  our  own  times.  When  the  heraUi 
in  advance  <rf  the  little  amy  deannded  that 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLKH  COUNTIES.    [M«roiii!8,i8M.i    4S9 


ntw  should  ba  opMied  aad  drawbridges 
liowai«d  to  revetvB  his  majestj,  King 
.Henrj-  the  Seventh  of  EDKl&nd  and  Wolee, 
the  b&iM  atontiy  EsptJed  that  he  knew 
of  no  king  but  King  Richard,  who  h&d 
fflven  him  this  ehkrge,  and  he  swore  a 
gieab  oftdi  that  if  any  entered  the  place  it 
miut  be  orer  his  (tba  baiiifTs)  body.  Bat^ 
these  biaT&worda  were  changed  for  excuses 
vken  the  bailiff  saw  that  all  the  great 
people  of  the  country  ronnd  were  coming 
ut  to  greet  the  nevly-arri.Tod  prince,  and 
ttien  BsUiff  Mytton  at  once  fulfilled  the 
temu  of  liis  oath,  and  paid  acceptable 
hiHBaga  to  the  now  rising  sun,  by  pros- 
trating himself  before  Henry  and  reqneat- 
ing  the  prince  to  make  a  at^ping-stone  of 
hifl  body.  And  so  the  kin^  entered  the 
gates  of  old  Shrewsbury  amid  the  joyous 
ahoats  of  the  Welsh,  who  saw  in  this  the 
fulfilment  of  the  ancient  propbecaes  of 
Merlin  and  Taliesin  that  one  day  the  sove- 
reigaty  of  Britain  shonld  come  back  to  the 
British  nation : 


The  prince's  army  soon  passed  on  to 
meet  Richard,  who  wai  mustering  his 
tmj  at  Nottingham ;  bat  the  mixed 
assembL^e — ^Bretons,  Normans,  French, 
and  wild  Welshmen  from  the  bills — bad 
left  behind  them  an  evil  legacy  in  the 
ahape  of  a  twrible  ph^e  whieh  devas- 
tat«d  the  town  and  ^terwards  spread  over 
the  coonbry  under  the  name  of  tlie  sweating 
sickness. 

The  Tudors  had  gi«-en  place  to  the 
Stuarts,  the  Welsh  to  the  Scotch,  before 
&irewri)ury  again  became  a  place  of  his- 
toric importance.  And,  in  the  meantime 
what  changes  in  the  (rid  place !  The  abbey 
was  a  ruin,  and  only  a  fragment  of  its 
diareh  still  remained ;  the  monks  and 
friars  had  been .  replaced  by  Presbyte- 
rian and  Independent  preachers.  When 
Charles  the  First,  after  raising  his 
standard  at  Nottingham,  made  Shrews- 
bory  his  headquarters,  he  found  a 
comnnoity  strongly  divided  in  opinion 
as  to  the  merits  of  his  cause..  How- 
ever, he  found  the  eaatle  on  its  com- 
manding rock  strmg  and  well  fortified. 
The  w^Ib  were  put  in  a-state  of  defence, 
and  a  mint  was.  established,  in  which,  as 
fiwt  as  the  loyal  people  of  tba  country 
brought  in  their  silver  plate,  it  was  turned 
into  coin  and  devoted  to  the  expenses  of 
the  war.  But  while  the  Bt^al  cauw  was 
denendent    on    these    casual   and    trivial 


sources,  the  Pariiament  had  all  ihe 
machinery  of  taxation  at  its  dispesal,  and 
levied  its  assessments  with  all  the  ragu< 
larity  of  peaceful  timM — scanetimes  even 
from  distriets  which  were  aatually  occupied 
by  the  king's  troops.     - 

In  Shropshire  itseH  there  was  a  strong 
party  for  the  Purliament,  at  the  head  of 
whieh  vras  Colonel  Mytton,  a  descendant, 
no  doubt,  of  t^e  stoat  bailiff  or  sheriff  of 
other  daya  Mytkon  was  member  for 
Shxevfibniy  in  tne  Long  Farliament,  and 
even  if  he  no  kmger  retained  the  confidence 
of  kit  cdDstitoenta,.  they  had  no  chance  of 
•['bye-election  iu  which  to  express  their 
opinion.  In  fact,  the  colonel  was  in  com- 
mand of  a  hostile  garrison  at  Wem,  about 
eleven  miles  to  the  northwards  of  Shrews- 
bury, scheming  how  he  could  best  pay  a 
visit  to  his  constituents.  He  had  beaten 
off  several  attacks  from  the  king's  garrison, 
and  presently  judged  that  the  time  was 
ripe  for  reprisala 

On  a  dark  winter's  night  the  colonel 
set  out  from  Wem  with  abont  two 
hundred  and  fifty  foot  and  as  many  horse, 
and  they  marched  secretly  and  silently 
along'  the  highway,  till  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  hghtfi  that  burned  here  and  there  in 
gnard-room  and  bivouac  within  the  lines  of 
Shrewsbury.  The  attempt  to  surprise  a 
plaoe  80  ttroQ^y  guarded  seemed  fool- 
hardy in  the  extreme ;  but,  possibly,  the 
Parliamentarians  had  a  secret  intelligence 
with  some  one  within  the  walla  which 
made  the  enterprise  less  desperate  than  it 
looked. 

The  site  of  Shrewsbury,  almost  encircled 
by  the  river,  is  protected  at  the  neck  of 
the  isthmus  by  the  hokl  brown  rock  on 
which  stands  the  castle,  whose  ancient 
strength  may  be  judged  from  its  present 
lins ;  and  the  space  between  rock  and 
river,  where  the  road  from  Wem  entered 
the  town,  was  guarded  by  a  strong 
palisade  in  liont  of  the  old  city  gate. 
Happily  for  the  Parliamentary  troops,  they 
were  rich  in  artisans,  and  eight  undaunted 
men,  accustomed  to  wield  hammer  and 
saw  aa  well  as  pike  and  musket,  had  already 
volunteered  aa  a  kind  of  foriom  hope.  A 
boat  was  obtuned  and  rowed  quietly  up 
the  stream,  when  the  eight  men  dis- 
embarked on  the  inner  side  of  the  palisade 
and  b^an  to  saw  and  hack  at  the  barrier. 
The  sentinels,  puzzled  at  first,  and  per- 
haps thinking  that  here  were  men  em- 
ployed by  their  own  engineers,  at  length  i 
fired  upon  the  carpenters,  and  the  alarm 
eriven.     But  in  the  meantime  a  niac-    I 


440    [ifuEtiia,i8U.) 


ALL  THE  YEAS,  BOUND. 


[CMidncMtT 


ticable  breacli  had  bsen  made,  MTtton's 
dumoanted  troopers  atormed  in,  their 
preacher,  the  Eer.  Mr.  Hnson,  among  the 
fint,  the  inrantiT  followed,  and  all  nubed 
for  the  market-place,  where  the  main  guard 
was  stationed,  who  all  were  made  priaoners 
before  the;  had  recovered  fh>m  their 
bewilderment ;  the  other  posts  were  seized 
in  like  manner;  and  as  daylight  oame  the 
Parliamentarians  were  in  tmaiBpnted  pos- 
session of  alt  the  town.  The  castle,  indeed, 
still  held  ont,  but  made  only  a  faint 
reeutaace,  and  snrreDdered  before  noon. 
The  ^vemor,  however,  refused  quarter, 
and  died  sword  in  hand,  bat  the  lientenant- 
goveraor  escaped,  to  join  the  Bojal  forces, 
and  was  thereapon  tried  by  court-martial 
soon  after,  and  hanged  for  negligence 
and  cowardice. 

Another  victim  of  the  siege  of  Shrews- 
bory,  according  to  local  tradition,  waa  a 
certain  Colonel  Benbow,  who  having' de- 
serted the  Parliament  for  the  King,  was 
shot  on  the  Reen  before  the  castle.  The 
Benbows  had  once  been  citizens  of  import- 
ance in  the  town,  bat  had  lost  all  their 
sabstance  either  by  their  loyalty  or  their 
improvidence,  and  the  nephew  of  the  victim 
of  the  Civil  War  was  apprenticed  to  a 
mariner  who  traded  from  the  port  of 
Bristol.  Young  Benbow,  either  by  marry- 
ing his  master's  daughter,  or  by  other 
rec<^nised  means  of  promotion,  came  in 
time  to  command  a  vessel  for  himself,  and 
in  1686  we  find  him  in  command  of  the 
Benbow  frigate,  an  armed  trader,  not 
bearing  the  king's  commission,  but  an 
awhwud  customer  to  tackle  for  all  that 
On  her  voyage  the  ship  was  attacked 
by  a  Sallee  rover.  Benbow  fought  his 
ship  gallantly,  and  when  the  Moors  ran 
aboard  him  and  swarmed  upon  his  deck, 
he  and  his  men  beat  them  off  and  killed 
thirteen  of  the  pirates.  The  heads  of  his 
fallen  enemies  Benbow  ordered  to  be  cut 
off  and  thrown  into  a  tub  of  pork-pickle, 
intendmg  them  perhaps  as  an  ornament  for 
his  cottage  home  in  England.  But  on  hie 
entering  the  port  of  Cadiz,  the  Spanish 
officials  overhauled  the  ship,  and  suspecting 
contraband  in  the  carefully  headed-up  cask, 
broke  it  open,  and  discovered  Benbow's 
grisly  trophies.  The  fame  of  this  discovery 
reached  the  King  of  Spain,  who,  ddighted 
with  Benbow's  courage  and  modesty,  re- 
commended the  sailor  to  the  notice  of  his 
own  King  James.  The  English  king  gave 
Benbow  a  commismon  in  the  royal  navy, 
and  Benbow  won  his  way,  by  shser 
coQia^  and  peraererance,  to  the  command 


1   great 
n  later 


of  a  sqaadron.  And  in  1702,  in  a  sea- 
fight  with  French  and  Spaniards,  Benbow 
beat  off  a  superior  force  and  held  the  lea, 
although  deserted  by  the  captains  of  hii 
own  fleet  His  leg  was  cut  off  by  a  cannon- 
ball,  bat  Benbow  still  kept  on  de^  and  gave 
orders  to  his  seamen ;  a  cinrnmstanca 
commemorated  in  many  popolar  ballads, 

In  its  oxistinK  state  Shrewsbury  stiD 
retains  much  of  its  ancient  aspect  With 
all  its  vicisaitndee  the  town  has  never 
suffered  seriously  from  fire — that 
enemy  of  antiqmty  which  boo —  ~ 
devours  the  relics  that  time 
And  so  the  town  has  many  ancient  hoaaei, 
and  quaint  narrow  streets,  and  pictoreiqiie 
vistas.  Bemains  may,  perhaps,  itill  be 
discovered  of  the  ancient  mansion  or  palace 
of  the  Welsh  Princes  of  Powys,  whoas 
heiress  in  the  thirteenth  centory  married  t 
Norman,  one  John  de  Charlton.  The  old 
mansion  of  the  Charltons  afterwards  wu 
turned  into  a  theatre,  and  here  in  the 
palmy  days  of  the  provincial  stue,  the 
Shakespearian  drama  was  always  we  Momed, 
eBpeciaUy  the  First  Fart  of  Henry  tiisFoortb, 
when  Ffdstaff'B  speech,  "  We  fought  a  long 
hour  by  Shrewabury  clock,"  was  sme  lo 
bring  down  the  house.  The  dock  in 
question,  to  whose  solemn  chime  Shake^ 
speare  himself  may  have  listened,  is  no 
doubt  that  on  the  great  wMtern  tower  of 
the  abbey  church ;  and  the  old  nave  of  the 
abbey  chnrch  is  stall  impressive  with  its 
solemn  Norman  arches,  and  huge,  round, 
squat  columns.  The  church  nanowlf 
escaped  being  made  a  cathedral  in  the 
days  of  the  Refonnation,  when  Dr. 
Bouchier,  the  last  abbot  of  Leicester,  wu 
actually  nominated  to  the  see,  but  the 
proceeds  of  the  vast  possessions  of  Uie 
monasteries  bad  been  spent  before  tb« 
scheme  was  perfected. 

On  the  mins  of  the  andent  collen 
of  St  Peter's,  which  came  to  on  end  with 
the  abbey  that  supported  it,  rose  the  csle- 
brated  grammar  -  school  of  Shrewsbniy, 
which,  with  its  rich  endowments  aod 
renown  for  scholarship,  holds  high  place 
among  the  great  public  schools  of  the 
count^.  The  quaint  Jacobean  qnadiangle 
has  seen  full  many  a  sprightly  race  of 
schoolboys  pass  out  into  the  great  worid, 
where  many  have  held  their  places  wiUi 
honour — none  so  generally  distingniehed 
perhaps  as  one  of  the  earlier  scholars  of  the 
foundation,  the  brilliant  Bir  Philip  Sidney, 
while  few  have  been  more  notonous  thsn 
the  typical  bad  hoy  of  the  school,  the 
inAunous  Judge  Jeffreys. 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa   («»ch  j», mm.]    441 


We  mar  '^ve  Shrewsboiy  either  by  the 
Welsh  or  English  bridge,  both  of  them 
handsome  stnictiiiet  of  the  eighteentfa 
canttuy.  By  the  former  we  shall  soon 
reach  the  Walsh  borders,  with  little  of 
interest  on  the  way  onleas  we  tnm  aside 
at  Weatboiy  to  visit  the  rains  of  Caox 
CasUe,  an  ancient  border  fortress,  built  by 
the  Corbets,  whose  mound  afiFords  a  fine 
Tiaw  of  all  the  coontry  roond.  In  the  name 
of  this  castle  we  have  a  cnriona  reminder 
of  the  pleasant  Norman  coontry,  the  original 
home  of  the  foonders  of  the  castle.  For 
the  Corbete  were  anciently  De  Canz,  from 
their  possessions  in  the  Pays  de  Caox, 
the  land  whose  wbit«  cliffs  glitter  over 
the  aea  between  Havre  and  Dieppe,  and 
they  named  their  castle,  Canz  Castle, 
after  their  fatherland.  The  name  Canz 
BOggested  Corbean,  and  the  family  losing 
right  of  the  original  meaning  of  the  word, 
adopted  the  raven  as  tbair  crest,  and 
became  known  as  Corbet — are  still  known, 
indeed,  as  an  inflaential  family  in  the 
ooonty  which  takes  its  share  with  the 
Myttona  in  local  celebrity  and  spotting 
traditions. 

From  this  point  northwards  along  the 
border,  there  U  only  Osweatry  to  require 
any  particular  mention,  a  town  whose 
name  embodies  a  morsel  of  early  history. 
It  IB  Oswald's  town,  called  after  the  old 
Northumbrian  King  so  dear  to  popular 
tradition  as  St  Oswald,  who  here  met 
his  fate  in  a  battle  with  the  fierce  heathen 
Penda,  of  the  Mercians.  A  memory  this 
that  carries  us  away  from  this  pleasant 
pretty  country  to  Oswald's  fortress  town 
on  the  stem  Northumbrian  coast,  where 
Bamborongh  frowns  over  the  northern 
sea*.  The  scene  of  the  battle  may  pro- 
baUy  be  looked  for  in  the  meadows  about 
the  town.  Old  Oswestry,  a  fine  aucient 
earthwork,  was  probably  only  a  British 
ttnmghold,  and  the  Welsh,  whose  nomen- 
clature may  generally  be  trusted,  do  not 
connect  the  place  with  Oswald,  but  call  it 
CaerOgyrfau.  There  are  only  sl^ht  remains 
of  Oswestry  Castle,  which  was  built  by  the 
Fitzalans,  a  family  which  is  reasonably 
snppoaed  to  have  furnished  the  Steward 
of  ScoUasd,  who  founded  the  royal  line  of 
Stoart. 

More  lasting  after  all  than  tiie  strong 
stone  castles  of  the  NormanS)  the  earth- 
works of  earlier  races  are  thickly  studded 
everywhere  in  this  debate&ble  land,  while 
the  names  of  places,  now  Welsh,  now 
English,  and  now  an  undistinguishable 
eorniptton  of  one  or  the  other,  show  how 


the  border-line  has  wavered  to  and  fro. 
Selattyn  may  be  either  Welsh  or  English, 
and  Gobowen,  which  is  clearly  Welsh,  but 
not  a  pleasing  specimen,  may  be  matched 
with  rorkington,  which  has  a  truly  Saxon 
intonation,  Offa'a  Dyke  and  Watt's  Dyke 
are  still  to  be  traced  over  field  and 
moorland ;  of  the  meaning  of  which,  with 
all  our  modem  research,  we  know  about  as 
much  at  did  Poet  Churchward  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  days — a  Shropshire  worthy  be, 
by  the  way — who  writes  : 

There  is  a  f&nuius  thing 
C*Ude  OSara  Dyks,  that  roacheth  farrs  in  length. 


And  traSuke  etill ;  but  pouine  boundea  br  sleight, 
The  one  did  take  the  other  pmoneTitrafgbt. 

Another  of  these  border  towns  is 
EUeamere,  among  a  neat  of  small  lakes, 
which  once  boasted  a  strongroyal  castle, 
on  a  commanding  brow.  The  castle  is 
gone,  but  the  oastie  hill  commands  a  noble 
view  over  portions,  it  is  said,  of  nine 
adjacent  counties.  Whitchurch,  near  the 
Cheshire  border,  a  eheerful  little  modem 
town,  had  also  its  strong  castle,  and  ita 
church  contains  the  bones  of  the  famous 
John  Talbot,  the  scourge  of  the  French. 

Where  IB  tbe  great  Alciden  of  tfae  field. 
Valiant  lord  Talbut,  E&rl  ul  Sbtewabuty, 
Knight  of  tho  noble  order  of  St.  Geotve, 
Worthy  St.  Michael  and  the  Golden  ( leeoe, 
Great  Maraechal  to  Henry  the  Sixth, 
Of  all  faia  ware  within  the  realm  of  France  ? 

Well,  here  he  lias,  while  a  battered  efBgy, 
which  hardly  retains  a  semblance  of  form  or 
feature,  is  all  that  remains  of  the  once 
proud  monument  that  recited  his  honours 
and  achievements. 

From  Whitchurch  the  road,  alike  with  raU 
and  liver,  makes  through  the  centre  of  tfae 
county,  with  fine  parks  and  pleasant 
scenery,  but  no  great  centres  of  interest 
We  must  cross  Watling  Street  wiin — at 
Wellington,  we  will  say,  where  the  town 
has  taken  iU  name  firom  the  street,  having 
originally  been  Watling  town.  And  here, 
near  the  Stafibrdshire  border,  we  have 
Shifnall,  an  ancient  little  town  of  the  in- 
dustrial kind,  with  furnaces  and  mines  all 
about ;  and  close  by  is  Tong,  with  ita 
castle,  and  then  on  the  very  verge  of  the 
county,  Boscobel,  with  its  famous  royal 
oak. 

There  is  a  foreign  ring  about  the  name 
of  Boscobel  which  is  rather  puzzling  till  we 
find  the  reason  of  it  It  seems  that  one 
John  Giffard  built  this  hoiue  among  the 
woods,  some  time  in  the  reign  of  the  first 
James,  when  foreisn  influences  had  beimn 


442      n<*rcb!9,  ISM.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


to  be  felt  among  the  English  gentry,  and 
the  conrtier  fubions  of  France  and  Italy 
were  leavening  the  boiateroas  hospitality 
native  to  the  aoiL  At  the  hoose-irarm- 
ing  feaat,  one  of  the  gnesta,  Sir  Basil 
Brooke,  of  Madeley  Court,  having  jiut 
retomed  from  Italy,  named  the  nooBe 
Bosoobello  or  Falrwood,  which  happy 
name  was  forthwith  adopted  by  accU- 
mation.  The  'fiiffards  were  Btannch 
Soman  Catholics,  and  Boscobel  was 
partly  deugned  ae  a  tefoge  and  hiding- 
place  for  inch  of  thoir  commuaion  as 
were  in  danger,  Sarronnded  by  woods, 
and  at  a  distance  from  any  main-road,  the 
very  existence  of  the  place  was  little  known 
out  of  the  immediate  neighbombood.  The 
wooden  framework  of  the  house  waa  in 
places  made  doable,  with  a  secret  chamber 
between,  and  other  less  commodious  hiding- 
places  were  contrived  between  the  joists  of 
the  fiooiing.  During  the  civil  wars  the 
honsehadBbeltered  sundry  Cavaliers  in  their 

Erogress  ftom  camp  to  camp,  and  although 
log  onoccnpied  by  its  proprietors,  the 
place  was  looked  after  by  trusty  servants 
well  affected  to  the  right  cause. 

Thus,  when  Lord  Derby,  a  fugitive  from 
his  own  county  of  Lancaster,  struck  across 
the  country  to  join  his  royd  master,  who 
was  marching  southwards  with  bis  Scotch 
allies,  he  fonnd  lodging  and  concealment 
on  his  dangerous  way  at  Boscobel ;  and 
when  Charles,  after  the  lost  battle  of 
Worcester,  found  himself  a  fugitive  amid  a 
hostile  population,  Lord  Derby,  who  rode 
with  him,  saggested  tbis  house  at  Boscobel 
as  an  excellent  hiding-place  daring  the  first 
heat  of  pursuit  Lord  Derby  guided  the 
King  to  the  place,  and  then,  with  a  fine 
setise  of  loyalty,  rode  on  to  his  doom,  for 
a  more  prndent  man  would  have  kept  the 
hiding-place  for  hie  own  use,  and  Itft  the 
King  to  shift  for  himsell 

At  BoBoobel  Charles  found  faithful 
servants  ready  to  help  in  hie  escape.  He 
slept  one  nigbt  in  the  priest's  cap- 
board,  and  part  of  one  day  he  spent  among 
the  branches  of  an  oak-tree  that  grew  in 
the  midst  of  dense  underwood.  Crom- 
well's troopers  were  riding  up  and  down 
the  open  tracks  in  the  woods,  and  voices 
could  be  heard  occasionally  as  of  parsons 
approachbg;  but  it  was  yet  early  in 
September;  the  trees  were  still  in  full 
leaf,  while  patches  here  and  there  of  the 
russet  tinge  of  autumn  bewildered  the  eyes 
of  the  searohers.  The  way  of  escape  which 
first  suf^ested  itself  was  down  the  Severn 
to  Briatol,  there  to  take  shipping;  but  it 


waa  feared  titiA  there  waa  little  chance 
of  avoiding  recognition  in  that  nest  of 
malignante.  From  one  country  house  to 
another,  aometimea  dl^juised  as  a  woDum, 
sometimes  as  a  groom  riding  with  Mb 
mistress  behind  on  a  pillion,  Charleg 
was  guided  to  the  coast  of  Dorset  At 
Charmoutb  he  narrowly  escaped  captoie. 
His  hone  had  cast  a  ahoe,  and  was  taken 
to  the  village  blaoksmidi.  "This  hone 
has  but  three  shoes,"  said  the  smith,  "and 
they  were  all  set  in  different  ootmties,  asd 
one  in  Worceatenihire."  The  hoatier  pet 
this  and  that  together,  and  told  his'  nis- 
picion  to  the  minister  of  the  place,  otie 
Mr.  Westley — the  ancestor,  it  seems,  of 
the  celebrated  foander  of  Methodism— ud 
the  minist«r  did  his  best  to  stop  the  King. 
However,  Charles  manued  to  get  away, 
and  ovw  the  downs  to  Brighton,  where  he 
found  honest  Captun  Tattersal,  who  took 
the  king  on  board  his  vessel  at  Shorehsm. 
And  it  was  noted  that  at  the  very  hom 
when  Charles,  his  tronblee  over,  waa  giilj 
sailing  over  a  sunny  sea,  his  ftithhl 
servant,  Lord  Derby,  was  standing  on  '* 
scaffold  in  Bolton  market-place. 

Boscobel  ia  still  standing  in  very  mudi 
its  ancient  state,  and,  with  its  oak,  it 
one  of  the  show-places  of  the  district, 
althouGh,  perhaps,  the  fervid  interest  with 
which  It  was  once  regarded  has  a  good  deal 
abated.  The  faithful  servitoiB  who  did  to 
much  for  Charles  were  not  forgotten  at  the 
Restoration.  Bichard  PendenI,  or  Tnutf 
Dick  as  he  was  called,  was  entertamed  at 
conrt,  and  a  handsome  rent-charge  wu 
settled  upon  the  family,  which,itseenu,  there 
are  descendants  still  left  to  claim. 

Striking  across  coantry  to  the  Seven 
valley  again,  and  passing  by  the  coal  ud 
iron  diatricta  of  Coalbrook  Dale  and  Iron- 
bridge,  we  come  to  the  pleasant  town  d 
Bridgenorth,  famed,  like  Pisa,  for  its  lean- 
ing tower.  He  noble  red  sandstone  rook, 
on  which  the  castle  and  the  upper  part  of 
the  town  are  built,  seems  to  mu-k  the 
place  for  a  stronghold  commanding  the 
ooursa  of  the  river,  while  caverns,  cellan, 
and  dwellings  hollowed  in  the  rock,  ^>peai 
to  testify  to  the  existence  of  an  earlier 
race  of  inhabitants,  who  had  a  fancy  f« 
cave  dwellings.  As  a  Saxon  settlunent 
it  clearly  owed  its  importance  to  its 
bridge  over  the  Severn,  which  may  have 
been  built  by  the  Bomans  originally,  and 
the  town  might  very  well  have  hJ4)p«ied  to 
have  been  called  BroKea,  as  the  name  [■ 
sometimes  spelt  !n  old  ehwters,  only  tfaat 
the  more  important  part  pf  Ute  town,  n 


CHRONICLES  or  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.   [M^bi»,i8sii    443 


the  Wohh  side  cf  Uie  mer,  was  called 
Bm^e,  Doith,  to  distingaish  it  from  ibe 
lower  town  The  htuj  Ethelfleda,  the 
"  Virgo  Titago  "  of  the  old  chromolex,  left 
ber  mark  here,  in  the  fortress  she  raised 
agaioBt  the  Duiee,  although  it  is  generally 
thon^t  ^lat  her  "  burg  "  was  not  od  the 
rite  M  the  castle  rock,  mit  on  a  partly  arti- 
ficial motmt,  known  by  the  curious  name 
of  Panpadding  HilL  Some  modern  anti- 
qaariosmi^t  see  In  this  last  name  traces  of 
Uie  "  ing,"  or  mark  of  the  Panpaddw,  bnt  a 
more  natural  explanation  i;  to  be  aoi^t  in 
the  shape  of  the  hill,  which  may  be  held 
to  resemble  a  pudding,  well  cteen,  baked 
inaroondpan.  Anyhowthe  great  Norman 
chieftain,  Boger  of  Montgomery,  speedily 
atilised  Uie  great  rock  for  a  stroDg  castle, 
which,  like  Shrewsbury,  more  than  once 
sustained  a  siege  against  Uie  kingly  power. 
The  first  siege,  by  Henry  the  First,  when 
the  castle  held  out  for  wicked  Bobert 
of  BelSime,  is  noticeable  for  the  stand  made 
1^  the  native  English  gainst  the  Norman 
nobles.  The  great  Norman  chiefs  were 
rdoctuit  to  press  a  brother  in  arms  to 
extremity.  But  the  English  fighting  men 
assembled  to  the  number  oi  three  tbotuand, 
and  thus  ad4re8aed  the  King  ;  "  Sir  Kiog, 
r^ard  not  what  these  traitors  say.  We 
vill  8aiq>ort  you,  and  never  leave  yon  till 
your  foe  is  brought  alive  or  dead  to  your 
feet."  And  the  English  were  as  good  as 
tbetr  word,  and  from  that  time  forth  the 
i^iaeity  and  lawlessness  of  the  great  barons 
were  sensibly  checked.  . 
'  The  seoond  uege  of  Bridgenorth  was 
when  Soger  de  Mortimer,  a  strong  ad- 
herent of  the  lat«  kmg,  Stephen,  held 
King  Henry  the  Seoond  at  bay  Jrom  the 
trilateral  defended,  by  his  three  castles, 
Wigmore,  Cleobnry,  and  Brug  or  Bridge- 
north.  Cleobury  was  soon  taken  and 
destroyed,  hot  Brug  held  oat  for  more 
than  two  months,  and  Henry  narrowly 
escaped  death  by  an  arrow  from  its  walls, 
Thomas  &  Bedcet  was  present  at  this  siege, 
fi»  his  signature  is  found  attached  to 
docnmentA  which  are  dated  from  the  siege 
of  Bmg. 

Town  and  castle,  too,  stood  out  stoutly 
in  later  days  for  King  Charles.  When 
the  town  was  stormed  the  garrison 
retreated  to  the  castle,  pursued,  it  is  said, 
by  showers  of  missiles  from  the  inhabitants, 
who  were  mostly  for  the  Parliament,  and 
the  governor,  either  in  revenge  for  this 
treatment  or  to  aid  his  defence,  set  the 
tomi  on  fire,  so  that  it  was  almost  entirely 
deateoved.     The  castle  was  carried  at  last 


by  sap  and  mine ;  and  to  this  we  owe  the 
leaning  tower  which  remains  as  a  solitary 
witness  to  the  storm  and  stress  of  those 
evil  days.  Evil  days  for  Bridgenorth  at 
least,  which  was  long  in  recovering  from 
the  destraction  wrought  upon  it. 

The  town  began  to  look  up  with 
the  increase  of  trade  and  inanufacture  in 
the  north,  when  it  became  a  port,  whence 
the  cloths  of  Lancashire  and  the  pottery  of 
Stafi'ordshire  were  conveyed  to  Bristol 
But  aithough  poor  Bridgenorth  can  no 
longer  attempt  to  vie  with  Liverpool  as  a 
shipping  centre,  yet  it  enjoys  a  certain 
snug  prosperity  of  its  own,  and  may  still 
point  with  pride  to  the  opinion  of  King 
Charlai  the  First,  who  was  eminently  a 
man  of  taste,  that  It  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  places  in  his  dominions: 


SIR  WILLIAM  DOUGLAS. 

"Sir  WJtLiASi  Douglas  ;"nothingiiiore,  carved  on 

tbe  old  erey  stone, 
Deep  in  the  mah  groen   bnnkage,  by  lichuna  over- 


atound  him  keep. 
There  in  the  fliuh  of  Hpring-time,  ths  primnwe  stiirs 


Tliere  in  tbe  golden  suminer  even,  the  lingering 

loven  come, 
And  tell  the  BB-eet  old  Btory,  aa  they  reat  bosidehis 

There  fall  the  leavBi 


red. 


n,  all  rusHet,  gold,  and 


like  a  monarch's  jetvelted  robe,  bedeck  his 

lonely  bed. 
And  when  the  nind  of  winter,  the  wood  around 

him  rocbs, 
And  deepens  to  in  angry  roar,  the  babble  of  the 

Wide  Bwee^ng   from   their   mountain-home,  the 

whirlwinds  of  the  north, 
Lush   into   leaping,  touing   foam,   tbe  glittering 

waves  uf  Fort^ 
Thbt  crash  upon  the  fair  green  Links,  and  thunder 

faint  and  far, 
Where  from  ju  height  the  massive  Hold  looks  down 

Yet  nndisturbed  the  soldier  lien,  while  the  Beasoos 

While  tjie  roses    laugh    at   Broxmouth,   or   the 

Lomonda  couch  in  snow. 
And  no  man  knows  bia  story— if  be  fell   in  fray 
Elliott  mst  Ker  or 


Wherom  the  wUd  hiU  p 

Scott. 

Or  in  the  furious  battle,  where  Dunw  looks  grimly 
Where  on  the  storied  pUiu  below,  the  Stcuui  staked 

When,  oiged  by  fool  and  fanatic,  bnf  e  Iieilie  left 

bis  stand. 
And  Cromwell  sternly  smiled  to  see  his  foemea  "  in 


m      [Much  t»,  ISU.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


Vybitf   for   king  tad  amatty,  m  dis  &  Doaglu 

niould? 
None  know,  for  very  ulently  he  lies  in  Broxmouth 

And   only  ntrangera   tracking   the    ferny    pathR 

Pause,  to  muse  a  wondering,  moment,  on  a  name, 
and  on  a  itone. 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 

BART  V. 

Leaving  the  owner  of  the  "  'umoniom  " 
in  her  rickety  old  dwelling,  with  the  ez- 
preaeion  of  a  hope  thkt  a  anddeo  puff  of 
wind — not  to  oontempUte  to  earthquake — 
might  not  bring  it  tmnbltng  down  abont 
her  ean,  we  went  upon  our  way  throogh 
the  wilda  of  the  far  East.  A  few  minnteB' 
brisk  walking  bronght  na  to  the  foot  of  a 
'ittle  flight  of  itairs,  which  we  proceeded 
t»  ascend  for  a  dozen  feet  or  so,  until,  on 
entering  a  small~room,  we  found  ourselves 
in  presence  of  a  neat  little  old  lady,  whoae 
hair  was  nearly  white,  and  who  wai  sitting 
bard  at  work. 

Ererything  abont  the  chamber  looked 
n?ost  Bcropnlooslydean,  forming  a.  marked 
coQtoaat  to  die  house  we  had  joat  left. 
Fully  one  half  of  the  floor  was  covered  by 
the  bedstead,  asd  a  tiny  strip  oE  carpet 
was  laid  upon  the  rest.  The  bare  boards, 
where  revealed,  appeared  aa  though  the 
xcrabbing-bniah  were  not  a  chance  acquaint- 
ance, but  a  constant  Aiend  and  visitor. 
Equally  well  acTubbed  was  the  top  of  the 
small  table  which  stood  beneath  the 
window,  and  which,  except  the  bedstead, 
and  no  fewer  than  seven  churs,  was  all  the 
fumituie  displayed.  The  number  of  these 
chairs  a  little  piuszled  me  at  first,  for  I  had 
learned  that  the  only  otiier  dw^er  in  the 
room  was  another  neat  old  lady,  who  was 
out  in  quest  of  work.  Bat  overhearing  a 
stage-whisper  about  certain  "better  days," 
and  a  hosband  who  had  charge  of  "  fifteen 
hundred  lamps  "  (whereof  that  of  Aladdin, 
alas  ]  had  not  been  one),  I  concluded  that 
the  chairs  were  kept  aa  relicsttf  the  past, 
and  possibly  at  midnight  were  filled  by  a 
select  society  of  ghosts. 

A  tiny  fire  was  flickering  in  a  tidily-kept 
grate — we  spelling  of  the  last  word  must 
be  carefully  attended  to,  for  the  adjective 
woold  be  completely  out  of  place.  So 
very  little  heat  waa  engendered  by  the 
process  that  the  fire  appeared  to  flicker 
merely  for  form's  sake.  The  amount  of 
coal  expended  at  that  alow  rate  of  con- 
sumption could  hardly  have  exceeded  a 
farthin^a-worth  a  day.  A  small  kettle 
atood,  utent  by  the  side  of  the  email  fire ; 


indeed,  thrice  the  heat  emitted  oonld  have 
scarcely  made  it  sing.  In  front,  by  way 
of  hearthrug,  lay  a  solemn-lookh^  cat, 
who  aM)eared,  like  hia  old  mistress,  to 
be  aaadened  by  Uie  memory  of  depirted 
better  days.  Sy  way  of  decoration,  he 
von  »  bright  brass  collar,  which  had 
probably  bewi  saved  when  the  fortunes  of 
the  family  had  been  nnttme^  wrecked. 
Ezoeptiug  the  wom'weddiog-riiig  adonung 
the  old  lady,  the  oat's  collu  was  the  only 
ornament  or  jewellery  displayed  in  tu 
apartment,  or  upon  the  peison  of  eidier  of 
its  inmates. 

"Ah,"  sighed  the  old  lady,  "I  wasu't 
born  like  this,  you  know,"  and  her  state- 
ment,  taken  literally,  must  have  been  quite 
trua  "I've  lived  like  a  lady,"  she  continued 
rather  sadly,  "for  I  kept  a  servant  once.* 
This  she  added  aa  a  proof  of  her  ladylike 
existence,  and  to  ahow  as  what  high  alti- 
tude her  rank  had  once  attained.  She  still 
kept  np  her  old  position  in  society,  and 
abstained  from  the  word  "  sir  "  when  she 
addressed  me  or  my  guide.  She  claimed 
plainly  some  distinoticm  from  the  poor  folk 
who  uved  near  her,  at  whom,  indeed,  I 
fancy  I  detected  a  alight  shadow  of  a  sneer, 
when  I  tried  to  compliment  her  on  the 
cleanness  of  her  room.  "Ah  yes,"  she 
replied  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  "  you 
aoe  Fve  always  been  brought  np  to  it 
When  I  kept  my  servant  I  waa  alirejs 
used  to  seeing  things  kept  nice,  and  dean, 
and  tidy.  I  could  nevw  live  in  a  Utter  ai 
those  poor  people  do,  you  know." 

Those  poor  people  !  Poor  old  lady ! 
And  she,  perhap')i  among  tie  poorest  of 
the  poor,  and  duly  workine  her  old  fingen 
to  the  bone  that  ehe  might  live.  Bat  who 
could  smile  at  her  small^ vanity,  in  the  slgbt 
of  her  sad  poverty  and'bhe  terrible  i«ivs- 
tion  which  appeared  so  bravely  bnnel 
And  who  conld  help  admiring  her  per- 
severing cleanliness,  and  tidineas,  and  nest- 
ness,  in  all  the  trial  and  the  trouble  of  her 
sorely  fallen  fortune  and  her  sadly  faded 
life  t  Surely,  in  despite  of  all  the  lUrknesa 
of  her  days,  she  had  set  a  bright  example 
to  some  of  "those  poor  people"  who  appear 
to  hold  that  poverty  must  be  allied  irich 
dirt,  and  that  they  must  be  slovenlybecaius 
they  are  not  rich. 

Fallen  from  her  high  estate,  wherein  she 
kept  a  servant,  and  had  been  mated  v 
the  keeper  of  fifteen  hundred  lampa— the 
provider  of  eiilight«nnient,  if  not  hinuelf 
a  brilliant  man— the  old  Udy,  while  she 
prattled,  kept  her  needle  briskly  going, 
and  her  white  hairs  low  bowed  down  ova 


TRilVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


[Uuchw,usL|    446 


a  coana  bat  clean  blue  shirt.  Such  gar- 
ments it  ma  now  her  fate  to  "  finish,"  as 
she  phraeed  it — a  process  which  involved 
the  catting  and  the  stitching  o[  halfa- 
dosan  button-holes,  the  sewing  on  of  seven 
bnttona,  and  tire  final  stitching  of  a  pair 
of  flaps  and  cuffs.  A  fi^rt^ing  a  abirt  was 
all  tlu  wages  she  received ;  hot  even  this 
was  not  all  i«ofit,  for  there  had  to  be 
dedoctod  the  coat  of  the  cotton,  whereof 
a  ^enny  reel  was  barely  sufficient  for  the 
finwhing  of  foor^nd-twenty  shirts.  By 
working  pretty  hard  for  fourteen  hours  at 
a  sitting,  abe  could  contrive  to  finish,  aay, 
two  dozen  in  the  day,  and  the  rent  she  and 
ber  friend  (who  was  a  single  lady  still,  and 
had  likewise  seen  better  days)  were  forced 
to  pay  for  their  small  room,  was  just 
defrayed  by  finishing  ten  dozen  every  week. 
Thos  the  labour  of  five  days  of  fourteen 
hoars  work  apiece  was  entirely  devoted  to 
tlie  sum  due  to  the  landlord,  in  so  far  as 
one  of  the  two  workers  was  concerned,  and 
on  her  remnant  of  tbe  work,  and  on  the 
week's  w(xk  of  the  other,  the  pair  of  poor 
old  ladies  were  dependent  "for  their  cloth- 
ing and  their  firing  and  their  food. 

There  were  three  other  small  rooms  in 
the  boose  which  these  old  ladies  had 
honoured  by  their  residence ;  and  each  of 
these  small  rooms  was  separately  tenanted, 
and,  indeed,  might  truly  be  regarded  as  a 
hoin&  AU  the  occupants  were  absent, 
excepting  a  stray  child  or  so,  too  small  to 
seek  for  work ;  but  a  peep  into  their  rooms 
sufficed  to  prove  that  the  old  ladies  were 
omivalled  in  possession  of  a  dean  and 
tu^  home. 

Desirous  of  a  contrast,  J  bethcmght  me 
of  a  dustmao,  whose  home  perhaps  might 
mdtcatebistnde,  and  pOMibly  show  tracesof 
Uie  dirt  whwewith he  dwelt  Asacobbler'a 
wife  proverbially  seldom  goes  well  shod, 
so  a  dostmao's  wife  might  rarely  see  her 
room  undimmed  by  dust  Moreover,  I  had 
heard  in  my  youth  a  comic  story  about  a 
dustman  whose  profession,  I  remember, 
was  made  to  rhyme  with  "fast  man,"  to 
whom — Le.,  to  Adam — his  pedigree  was 
briefly,  but  ingeniously  traced.  By  a 
sodden  freak  of  memory  the^  refrain  of 
this  old  ditty  flashed  across  my  mind,  and 
I  felt  impelled  to  ask  if  there  were  dust- 
1  in  ue  neighbourhood,  that  I  might 
visit  the  abode  of  one,  and  make  a  mental 
note  of  what  was  comical  aboat  it. 

My  wish  was  granted  as  readily  as  a 
iriiim  is  in  a  fairy-tale.  Withont  Uie  aid 
of  any  magical  appliance  for  our  transport, 
Such,  for  instance,  as  the  movine-carpet  of 


Prince  Ahmed,  half-a-dozen  minutes  after 
quitting  the  poor  shirt-maker  sufficed  to 
bring  us  to  the  dwelling  whereof  I  was  in 
quest.  It  stood  at  the  far  end  of  a  filthy 
cut  de  sac,  which  formed  a  tittle  outlet  from 
a  rather  narrow  street ;  the  beauty  of  whose 
aspect  was  not  rendered  more  attractive 
by  a  quantity  of  dotbea'-lines,  whereon 
were  dangling  sundry  garments  which 
hardly  looked  much  cleaner  for  having  been 
to  the  wash.  One  side  of  the  court,  which 
bore  a  royal  title,  comprised  some  six  or 
seven  exto«mely  shabby  tenements — they 
really  seemed  too  small  to  be  spoken  of  as 
houses — while  in  the  middle  of  the  other 
stood  a  rusty  iron  post,  which  proved, 
upon  a  nearer  view,  to  be  a  dirty  pomp. 
This  was  flanked  to  right  and  lut  by 
sundry  little  squares  of  brickwork,  whose 
chief  puipose  seemed  to  be  the  emission  of 
bad  smelu.  In  some  of  these  small  out- 
buildings lay  a  little  heap 'of  cinders  or 
a  lump  or  two  of  coal ;  and  in  the  comers 
there  were  gathered  a  few  useless  odds  and 
ends,  which  might  have  well  been  shot  as 
rubbish  on  the  dust-heap'  that  was  near, 
although  then  hidden  from  our  sight  As  we 
were  uterwards  informed,  all  the  dwellers 
in  the  court  threw  their  dirt  into  one  dust- 
bin ;  and  this  being  used  in  common  by  two 
score  or  so  of  people,  and  very  s«dom 
emptied  more  than  twice  a  month,  perhaps 
it  was  no  wonder  that  by  followmg  our 
noses  we  soon  found  out  its  whereabouts, 
and  were  able  to  acknowledge  that  it  roally 
seemed  to  focus  all  the  fom  smells  of  the 
coort. 

On  the  loose  and  broken  tiles  which 
formed  the  roof  of  these  out-buildings, 
sat  an  evil-^ed,  torn-eared,  and  mangy- 
lookingcat.  Pointing  "the  pleased  ear,"  or, 
at  any  rate,  its  tatters,  and  w^;ing  "  the 
ex^tant  tail,"  as  well  as  conldbe  wished 
in  tts  abbreviated  state,  he  looked  nistfally 
at  somebody,  who  prebably  was  eating 
something,  in  a  room  which  was  Just  level 
with  the  roof  whereon  he  sat  Presently 
this  somebody,  invisible  to  us,  through  a 
broken  pane  of  glass  pitched  a  small  piece 
of  potato,  which  with  great  alacrity  was 
pounced  on  by  poor  puss.  He  instantly 
was  joined  by  two  other  torn-eared  cats, 
whose  coats  sadly  want«d  brusbii^  and 
whose  genefal  appearance  showed  a  life 
much  oat  of  lack.  Another  morsel  of 
potato  being  chucked  out  on  the  roof, 
there  ensued  forthwith  the  freest  of  free 
feline  fights  for  iia  possession,  and  we  were 
left  to  fancy  what  a  battle  would  ensue 
were  a  pennyworth  of  cat's-meat  thrown 


446    (Uucbn.i»S4.) 


ALL  THE  YEAK  BOXmD. 


before  the  combatants,  who  cImtIj  found 
it  difficult  in  that  poorlf-feeding  dutrictto 
save  thflnuelreB  from  Btarring  by  the  few 
mice  thejr  could  catch. 

Of  the  Home  of  the  Happy  Diutman 
(happy  beoaoae  exempt  by  law  from 
Sanday  labour)  a  pretty  piotore  might  be 
made  tffr  a  piona  uu^aiine ;  but  I  ahall 
not  attempt  to  draw  upon  my  fancy  for 
any  uich  a  work.  The  sketch  I  here 
present  woa  made  upon  Uie  spot,  and 
though  aome  few  minor  details  may  hare 
escaped  my  notice,  the  points  of  special 
pictareeqneneBS  have  been  foithfolly  pre- 
served. I  abstain  from  highly  colonring 
the  plain  pencilling  I  made,  and  from 
blackening  the  description  by  extra  work 
with  pen  and  ink. 

The  door  of  the  house  was  open,  and 
the  door  of  the  room  likewise,  whit^  was 
on  the  ground-floor,  Uiere  being  one  floor 
over  it.  This  room — of  ten  feet  square,  a»,y 
— formed  the  Happy  Dnstman's  Home,  and 

Save  shelter  to  his  wife  and  two  young 
ustmen  of  the  future,  who  at  present 
were  small  boys.  In  the  doorway  stood  a 
woman  of  abontfour  or  fire  and  fifty,  some- 
what frowsy  and ill-faronred,  who.althaugb 
the  doors  were  open,  did  not  bid  ns  come 
in.  On  the  contrary,  indeed,  she  did  her 
beet  to  keep  Ua  oat,  idleging  as  areason  that 
the  place  was  "  in  a  litter,"  which  recalled  to 
me  the  literan'  dustman  of  the  song.  8he 
likewise  urged  as  her  ezciue  that  she  wsa 
"  tidyin'  np  a  bit,"  for  her  daughter  was 
engaged  in  working  at  "the  'Eaps."  We 
said  politely  that  we  were  sorry  for  the 
absence  of  the  lady ;  but  that,  though  we 
were  denied  the  pleasure  of  her  company, 
we  hoped  we  might  enjoy  the  privilege  of 
entrance  to  her  room.  This  at  length  was 
granted  with  a  gmnt,  wbfch  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  negative  reply  to  oar 
request.  Bat  we  construed  the  sound 
otherwise,  and  passed  the  threshold  of  the 
hpme,  with  a  promise  to  make  due  excuse 
for  its  untidy  state.  "  You  see,"  sud  the 
old  woman,  "she  lef  it  la  a  litter,  beiu'  a 
bit  'arried  like  for  getdn'  to  the  "Eaps,"  and, 
indeed,  throughont  the  coarerBstion  which 
ensned,  continnal  hints  were  dropped  aboot 
the  littw  being  "  temp'ry,"  and  soon  to  be 
set  right  by  the  task  of  "  tidying  up." 

Tidying  np  1  Well,  yes.  It  ^earl^was 
not  qaite  a  needless  operation,  to  judge 
from  the  first  glance.  The  confusion  we 
had  witnessed  in  the  bouse  of  the  good 
Creole  was  as  order  to  the  chaos  which  we 
discoreied  here.  "  A  place  for  everything 
and  everything  in  its  place ; "  Uiis  was  the 


rale  of  13e  enjoined  me  is  my  yonth,  and 
a  vastsaringoftime  this  fins  old-faihioned 
maxim  is  certain,  if  adhered  to,  to  foster 
and  induce.  Here  the  rule  of  life  observsd 
was  precisely  the  rerersa  "A  jdaoe  for 
ncthiBg,  and  nothing  in  ita  ptaee.-"  Saoh 
seemed  to  have  been  the  lu^ipy  dustman's 
happy  thought,  frhen  asked  what  was  hii 
notion  of  a  motto  for  a  hoaaciiold;  and 
considerahle  puns  appeared  to  have  been 
taken  in  obeying  its  behest 

The  dirty  floor  was  partly  hidden  by 
small  scraps  of  dirty  sacking,  which  chisfly 
serred  to  make  the  bare  boards  look  mors 
bare.  Dirty  bits  of  sackinK  lay  also  on 
the  bedstead,  and  formed,  intleed,  the  bed- 
linen,  for  there  were  neither  blsaket,  nor 
ooonterpane,  nor  ^eete.  Hie  sabatitates 
were  anything  bat  sightly  to  bebold,  as 
they  lay  tJl  heaped  and  hnddled  anyhow, 
in  what  a  tidy  mistreaB  would  have  termed 
a  "  horrid  mess."  A  limp  bolster  and  lean 
pillow  lay  also  aa  the  bed,  and  might,  M^ 
haps,  have  lately  been  picked  out  of  a  mist- 
hole,  so  grimy  was  their  look.  Under  the 
unclean  window  stood  a  small  deal  tatde, 
whereon  a  battued  tafqmt  and  aome  un- 
washed cups  and  saucersi  and  iome  half- 
munched  crusts  of  brmd,  lay  acattend  all 
abont,  and  seemed  aa  though  they  all  had 
met  there  by  the  mereet  aoodent,  and  wen 
not  to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  matul 
friends.  Huddled  in  one  oomu',  as  if  haU- 
a^iaoied  of  taking  so  mneh  room,  and 
being  of  so  Utde  lue,  stood  a  dingy  chest 
of  drawers,  witii  a  oonple  of  poreelaiB 
poodles,  hideona  to'behold,  and  some  other 
china  ornaments,  enoambering  its  doat^ 
bni.  Half-a-dosen  wooden  chairs,  taoe 
with  a  fiactnred  leg,  and  aome  with  a 
broken  back,  were  sceittered  here  tai 
there;  one  lay  npside  down,  and  another 
bad  apparently  been  need  by  way  irf 
toilet-table,  for  on  ite  grimy  seat  tJieie 
lay  a  scrap  of  soap,  beside  a  partly  tooth- 
less and  a  wholly  andean  <)omb.  For 
farther  porposes  of  toilet,  a  tab  stood  on 
the  hearl^,  with  a  little  -dir^  water  in  it ; 
and  near  it  ma  a  bit  of  ra^ed  linen  which 
might  once  hare  been  a  towel,  when  it 
lired  in  better  days.  Before  Uie  enp? 
fireplaoe  stood  a  ababby,  broken  fender,  sad 
in  the  way  of  fire-irons  it  held  an  M  bent 
poker,  which  I  hoped  had  not  be«a  used  si 
an  instrament  of  torture,  or  a  wuqton  of 
offence. 

On  the  wall,  by  way  of  ornament,  then 
hung  an  old  Dut«h  clock,  wi^  a  dirty  pair 
of  lunda  eai  an  extremely  fUt^  fsoa  I 
aay,  by  way  of  wnuofetit,  for  it  was  dea^ 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


pUrBli»,UM.]      447 


tit  no  use.  Both  its  hands  were  pointing 
idlyto  thfl  figure  YL,  and  to  stir  tnem  into 
motion  there  were  to  be  seen  neither  pen- 
dulnm  nor  weights.  "  It  ain't  o'  maoh 
acconnt,  or  it  wouldn't  be  a  'angin'  there," 
remarked  the  old  woman,  with  rathsr  an 
air  of  mvBt^oy ;  bnt  I  own  I  fuled  to 
fa^om  the  deep  meaning  of  her  words. 
For  fortber  mnral  decoration  there  were  a 
pair  of  coloured  printe — one,  with  a  rew 
of  blooming,  potted  lilies  and  blazing, 
lighted  candles,  representing  the  "  Interior 
of  the  GraTB  of  the  Holy  Virgin,"  if  we 
might  beKeve  the  legend  printed  at  the 
foot  The  other,  equally  ill  designed, 
though  hardly  so  pretentions,  depicted  the 
"  Interior  of  the  Grave  of  Ohrist"  These 
samples  of  high  art  were  of  foreign  mann- 
facture,  and  bore  the  name  of  "  Lipscbitz," 
in  gratefol  recognition  of  their  publisher's 
great  fame.  They  had  been  bonght,  sud 
Uie  old  woman,  by  the  payment  of  a 
shtUing  weekly  for  eleven  weeks.  Were 
they  pnt  np  for  sale  at  Christie's — remote 
aa  seams  the  likelihood  of  any  snch  erent 
— it  is  doabtf  ul  if  the  bidding  conld  by  any 
means  be  raised  to  one-eleTenth  part  of  the 
price  which  they  had  cost. 

Another  tawdry  print,  coarsely  coloured 
like  the  pair,  was  hang  on  the  wall  opposite ; 
its  title,  "Ecce  Homo,"  being,  with  the 
printer's  name,  in  foreign  type.  The  room 
fnrther  was  embellished  by  a  few  more 
cheap  engravings,  chiefly  sacred  in  theb 
subject,  and  one  coarse  sporting  print 
Something  in  the  sight  of  these  decorative 
objects  impelled  me  to  enquire  if  their 
owner  were  a  OathoUc,  and  as  a  denial  was 
given  with  some  vehemence,  I  excused 
mysolf  by  saying  that  the  name  of  his 
wife's  mother  had  induced  me  to  imagine 
him  Hibernian  by  birth.  "  Shnre  we're 
Cockney-bom,  the  hull  of  us,"  affirmed  that 
lady  forcibly,  but  I  am  A-ee  to  own  that 
there  was  something  in  her  accent,  as  she 
made  the  affirmation,  which,  if  notified  in 
a  witness-box,  might  have  been  cited  as  a 
reason  for  a  doubt  of  her  good  faith. 

The  dnsbnan  was  her  son-in-law,  she 
proceeded  to  reiterate,  and  "a  goodish  sort 
he  was,  too,"  she  furthermore  remarked. 
He  daOy  "  amed  two  shillen,  or  it  might  be 
'atf-a-crown," while  his  better  half  contrived, 
if  she  were  lucky,  to  gi^  eighteenpence  a 
day  b^  labour  previonsly  described  as 
"  worlung  at  the  Eaps."  Dimly  gneseing 
what  the  "  'Eapa  "  were,  I  shyly  put  a  ques- 
tion which  led  to  my  enlightenment,  "She 
siftes  of  the  dust,  shnre,  an'  sortes  of  it  out, 
for  tliere's  staff  in  it  may  be  as  is  wnth  the 


piokiu'  over,  and  a  sellin'  to  the  Stores."  I 
presumed  she  meant  the  stores  where  tht 
Black  Doll  is  suspended,  as  a  sign  to  attract 
custom.  Few  other  stores,  I  fancy,  would 
deal  much  in  the  merchandise  exported 
from  the  'Eaps. 

"  Walables  t  Tunt  likely.  Shure  the 
sarvante  picks  'em  out  afore  they  gits  into 
the  dust 'ole.  There  ain't  a  bleasM  bone  as 
the  cook  don't  get  a  'old  on.  Waste  f 
Yis  shnre,  she'd  heard  there  was  a  sight  o' 
waste  a'  times,  down  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
swells,"  Bnt  she  did  not  somehow  noUce 
the  crusts  of  bread-and-butter  which  lay 
scattered  on  the  table,  and  which  would 
probably  be  thrown  into  the  dust-bin  in  the 
course  of  her  "  tidying  up." 

The  rent  of  this  one  room  was  two  and 
threepence  weekly,  the  landlord  "doing" 
the  repairs,  and  the  tenants  too,  perhaps. 
There  were  large  cracks  in  the  walu,  which 
looked  as  though  they  were  fast  losing  the 
only  coat  of  whitewash  which  ever  had 
been  theirs.  The  little  paint  there  was 
had  nearly  disappeared  beneath  the  dirt 
that  covered  it  A  window-pane  was 
broken)  and  stuffed  up  with  some  paper, 
and  the  plaster  in  big  patches  was  peeling 
from  the  ceiling,  and  bits  of  it  were  lying 
on  the  bed  and  on  the  floor.  "Shuro  an' 
it'll  be  tnmblin'  on  the  boys,  and  crackin' 
of  their  skulls  when  they're  aalape,"  said 
their  old  grandmother,  her  biogue  getting 
the  better  of  her  as  she  poured  some  of  the 
viala  of  her  wrath  upon  the  landlord,  with 
whom  she  plainly  had  a  feud. 

Onmy  noticing  the  dust-bin,  just  opposite 
the  door,  and  remarking  that  it  hardly 
could  be  deemed  a  wholesome  neighbour, 
judging  by  ita  smell,  she  replied,  "  Deed, 
it  tain  t  so  bad  jbt  now.  Shore  'tis  in 
summer  you  should  smell  it"  And  then 
her  anger  blazed  forth  at  the  misdeeds  of 
the  neighbours — nine  families  there  were 
of  them — who  misused  their  common  pro- 
perty, and  mistook  the  pavement  for  the 
dust-bin  of  the  oourt.  ' '  They  throws  their 
stuff  down  anywheres  a'most,"  she  plain- 
tively complained.  "  They  do  make  me  so 
aggarewatod,  'Pon  me  sovl,  they  scatters 
it  about  for  all  the  world  like  sowing  seed." 

We  paid  one  or  two  more  visits  before 
we  left  the  court,  to  which  I  mi^  perhaps 
find  reason  to  return.  In  the  West,  as  in 
the  East,  one  may  be  easily  presented  at 
such  a  court  as  this,  and  doubtless  many 
an  honest  home  may  be  discovered  even 
dirtier  than  the  one  I  have  described. 
There  may  be  nothing  very  singuiar  in  the 
sketch  wbicdi  I  have  drawn,  and  maybe 


446      CUudl £>,  UM] 


ALL  TH£  YEAB  BOUND. 


many  of  my  reAden  may  know  where  a 
compuuon  picture  migfat  be  made.  Poverty 
may  make  a  man  acqausted  with  queer 
beading  aa  well  at  with  atrange  bedfellows, 
and  there  is  no  reaion  why  honesty 
should  never  dwell  divorced  from  cleanli- 
ness of  life.  StJll,  nnlesa  upon  the  prin- 
ciple that  the  driver  of  fat  oxen  should 
hunself  be  fat,  I  was  puzsled  to  make  oat 
why  the  dmtman's  home  I  saw  was  so 
conspicuous  for  dirt  Whether  any  drop 
of  Irish  blood  were  flowing  in  the  veins  ca 
the  family  who  lived  in  it,  or,  if  bo,  whether 
such  a  fact  was  sufficient  to  accoontfor  the 
filthiness  we  fonnd — these  are  problems 
which  are  far  too  deep  for  my  philosophy 
to  fathom,  and  which  the  reader  will  exenae 
me  from  endeavouring  to  solva 


"BACHELOR'S  HALL" 

IN  TWO  PAXtS.  PABT  IL 
The  very  Sev.  Dr.  Pye  Stephens  had  paid 
sufficiently  for  his  nocturnal  escapade,  it  may 
be  thought  But  the  Squire,  joat  ripe  for 
fun,  inusted  that  he  should  dress  and  come 
ipto  the  dining-room  to  finish  the  night; 
whilst  the  fiirwer  penalty  was  inflicted  of 
joining  the  chorus  of  the  song,  suog  with 
boundless  approbation  by  one  of  the 
company,  beginning 

A  Dftnon  onco  hftd  n,  remarkablB  foible 
Of  lovinc  good  limiur  far  mure  than  bie  Bible  ; 
Hia  neifchboure  all  said  he  wan  much  lese  perplext 
In  hsomtDg  a  tankard  than  in  handling  a  text. 
Derry  dawn,  down;  down,  derry  down. 

"  Chevy  Chase  "  succeeded,  and  the  night 
closed  with  Dibdin  singing  his  last  new 
song,  to  music  of  his  own  composing,  witii 
a  jolly  chorus  by  the  whole  company. 

Stephens  was  one  of  a  class  of  parsons  so 
peculiar  to  and  characteristic  of  the  past 
that  we  the  more  readily  dwell  upon  these 
traits  of  character  as  they  can  never  re- 
appear. He  was  kept  in  countenance  by 
lus  brother    rector  of    the  neighbouring 

Earisb  of  Stockton,  whose  high -spirited 
unter  might  have  been  seen  waiting  on 
the  Sunday  at  the  church  door,  that  he 
might  start  immediately  service  was  over 
for  Melton  Mowbray.  His  clerk,  old 
Ltttlehales,  who  to  more  secular  professions 
added  that  of  village  tailor,  was  wont  to 
tell  how  his  master,  being  in  need  of  s 
pair  of  hunting-breeches,  closed  the  church 
one  Sunday  in  order  to  give  him  the 
o^rtunity  of  making  them,  remarking, 
"Hang  the  church !  you  stop  at  home  and 
make  the  breeches.  But  the  rector  of 
Willey  was  by  no  means  so  enthusiaatic  a 


sportsman  as  Ms  brother  of  Stockton ;  on 
the  other  hand,  he  by  no  means  resembled 
thoae  bilious  members  of  the  profeimon, 
^^'ho  epit  theii  iHiny  spit«  on  humlew 


He  held,  what  it  might  be  difficult  to 
gunsay,  that  amnsementa  calculated  to 
strengthen  the  frame  and  in^trove  the 
health,  if  fitting  for  gentlemen  are  not 
unfitting  for  cleigymeu.  His  presence,  at 
any  rate,  was  welcomed  by  neighbouring 
squires  in  the  field,  as  "  Hark  m !  Haik 
in  1  Hark  1  Yoi  over  boys  1 "  sounded  on  the 
morning  air;  and  as  he  sat  mounted  on 
the  Squire's  thorooghbred  it  would  have 
been  oifficolt  to  detect  anything  of  the 
divine;  the  clerical  waistcoat  and  black 
single-breaated  outer  garment  giving  place 
to  more  fitting  field  garb.  He  also 
willingly  associated  with  hia  more  humble 
neighbours,  joining  in  ^eir  pastimes  and 
amusements ;  would  sit  down  with  them, 
and  take  a  pipe  and  moisten  his  clay  from 
a  pewter  taidurd  at  a  clean-scoured  table 
in  B,  roadside  inn.  As  a  jostice  of  the 
peace  he  waa  no  regarder  of  persons,  pro- 
viding th^  equally  brought  grist  to  hit 
mill,  and  bad  no  objection  to  litigants 
smoothing  tiieway  to  a  decision  by  preseDts, 
whether  of  a  piece  of  pork,  a  pork-pie,  or 
a  dish  of  fish ;  but  he  had  the  misfortune 
once  or  twice  to  find  that  the  fish  had  been 
caught  the  previous  night  out  of  his  own 
pond^  Next  to  a  we^ess  for  fish  was 
one  for  knee-breeches  and  top-boots,  which, 
in  the  courseof  much  riding,  required  fre- 
quent renewal ;  and  seated  in  a  judicial  chair 
he  had  the  satisfaction  at  times  of  seeing 
a  pair  of  new  cbalked-tops  projecting  alike 
from  pUintiff's  and  defendant's  pockets. 
In  sudi  cases,  with  head  thrown  back  w 
though  to  look  above  petty  details,  he 
would,  after  sundry  hums  and  haws  and 
enquiries  after  the  crops,  find  the  evidence 
balanced,  and  suggest  a  compromise.  A  good 
tale  was  told  to  Dibdin  of  this  reveiend 
justice  wanting  a  hare  for  a  Mend,  and 
employing  a  notorious  poacher  to  procure 
one.  The  man  brought  it  in  a  bag,  when 
the  following  colloquy  took  place.  "  You've 
brought  a  hare,  then  1 "  said  the  jnstiea 
"  I  have,  Mr.  Stephens,  and  a  fine  one  too," 
replied  the  other,  as  he  tamed  it  out,  pus 
flying  round  the  room  and  over  the  table 
amongst  the  papers  like  a  mad  thing. 
"Kill  herl  kiU  herl"  shouted  Stephen). 
"No!"  replied  the  poacher,  who  knew 
that  by  doing  so  he  would  bring  him- 
self within  the  law;  "^u  kill  her,  I'n 
hod  enough  trouble  to  catch  her."    After 


"BACHELOR'S  HiLL." 


(Hwob  w,  1S81.1    449 


two  or  threenme  the  jaatic«  suooeeded  in 
hitting  her  on  the  hsod  with  the  ntler,  and 
thus  brought  himself  within  the  power  of 
the  poacher,  who  swore  that  if,  when  ho 
came  before  him  again,  he  "  did  not  pull 
him  through,"  he  would  peach. 

Another  gneat  invited  to  meet  Dibdin 
WB8  Hinton,  town  clerk,  who  was  called 
King  of  Wenlock.  He  was  a  match  for 
Stevens  in  legal  knowledge,  and  better 
posted  up  in  Acta  of  Parliament ;  for  when 
an  Act  was  passed  and  two  sent  down,  he 
kept  one  for  his  ose,  and  the  other  he 
threw  into  a  dark  room,  where  hundreds 
more  lay  rotting.  Among  the  guests 
also  assembled  were  Whitmore  of  Apley, 
IIP.  for  a  neighbouring  borough;  John 
Wilkinson,  "  Father  of  the  English  Iron 
Trade,"  as  he  has  since  been  <»lled,  who 
had  works  on  the  estate,  where  James 
Watt  erected  the  first  engine  made  at  Soho ; 
also  Thomas  Tamer,  of  Caaghley,  whose 
china  is  now  so  much  sought  after  by 
collectors,  and  to  whom  Mr.  Forester  gave 
one  of  a  pair  of  oil  portraits,  showing  the 
squire  in  scarlet  coat,  nolding  a  fox's  bnuh, 
a  painting  now  in  possession  of  Hubert 
Smith,  Eki.,  Town  Clerk  of  Bridgenortb, 
and  author  of  Tent  Life  in  Korway,  and 
other  works. 

Dibdin  was  made  much  of  by  these  local 
notables,  and  was  literally  trotted  out  for 
show  on  neighbouring  estates.  One  such 
visit  was  asso<»ated  with  a  somewhat 
romantic  incident,  locally  historical,  and 
fraught  with  consequences  anything  but 
pleasant  to  a  young  lady,  the  principal 
personage  concerned.  Most  of  Mr.  Forester's 
friends  were  "  three  bottle  men,"  who, 
under  the  influence  of  Bacchna  and  the 
inspiration  of  Diana  combined,  sometimes 
allowed  themselves  to  perform  Btrange 
feats.  Squire  Boycott,  who  hunted  the 
Shifnal  coontry  with  his  own  hounds,  was 
one  of  these,  and  one  who,  like  others, 
had  issued  invitations  to  the  host  and 
goeet  of  Willey,  taking  care  to  include  the 
squire's  chaplain,  the  Eev.  Michael  Pye 
Stephana 

A  jovial  company  assembled,  bat  between 
the  mvitation  and  the  general  muster  an 
incident  occurred  which  added  to  Squire 
Boycott's  family,  and  which,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  might  have  been  thought 
sufficient  to  caase  the  postponement  of  the 
festive  gathering,  but  which,  as  the  sequel 
will  show,  by  original  ingenuity  and  clever 
device,  only  served  to  give  variety  to  the 
amusement  and  to  sAi  ^olat  to  the  pro- 


The  conversation  turned,  as  usnal,  on 
iucidents  associated  with  the  favourite 
sport ;  much  fine  sherry  and  crusted  port 
lud  been  drank,  and  the  three  bottle 
standard  bad  been 'well-nigh  reached,  when 
the  health  of  the  generons  host  was  given, 
an^  it  occurred  to  the  most  inebriated  to 
toast  the  new  comer ;  the  next  step  then 
Ideated  itself  of  naming  the  fair-haired 
stranger,  who  was  brought  down  by  the 
nnrse  for  exhibition.  The  matter  broached 
in  jest  was  speedily  debated  in  earnest,  , 
The  family  pedigree  was  ransacked,  and 
every  name  discarded  as  unsuitable,  when 
it  was  decided  to  leave  it  to  one  of  the 
company  to  fix  npon  one  suitable  for  the 
occasion,  and  to  adopt  it  whatever  it  might 
ba  Diana,  one  might  have  thought,  would 
have  sn^^ted  itself  but  Ba  cchus  bein  gin  the 
ascendant,  drunken  ingenuity  could  rise  no 
higher  than  the  name  of  Foxhnnting  Moll. 
And  the  Willey  chaplain  being  in  readiness, 
with  a  basin  of  pomp-water,  amid  bois- 
terous merriment  and  frantic  shouts  of 
whoo- whoop,  tally-ho,  etc.,  the  little 
innocent  was  baptised  Foxhnnting  Moll 
Boycott,  without  reference  to  any  incon- 
venience that  might  ensue  to  the  uncon- 
scious recipient  of  the  name  in  after  life. 

As  Foxhunting  Molt  Boycott  the  young 
lady  grew  up ;  by  this  singular  name  she 
was  known;  with  it  she  signed  all  le^ 
documents,  including  her  marriage  certifi- 
cate. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  direct  attention 
to  the  special  and  more  direct  object 
of  Dibdin's  visit  to  the  country,  which 
was  to  collect,  as  we  have  said,  materials 
for  his  song  of  Tom  Moody.  The  gronp 
of  sporting  worthies  indicated  had  by  this 
time  seen  their  best  days,  and  were  con- 
tent to  rest  on  their  laurels.  Tom  Moody, 
admittedly  the  best  whipper-in  in  England, 
had  gone  to  his  grave  m  Barrow  church- 
yard, followed  by  nis  favourite  horse,  his 
"  Old  Sonl,"  as  he  called  him,  carrying  his 
last  fox's  brush  in  front  of  his  bridle,  with 
his  cap,  whip,  spurs,  and  girdle  across  the 
saddle,  and,  by  his  own  special  desire, 
three  rattling  view  halloos  had  been  given 
over  his  remains. 

Excepting  for  the  brief  period  during 
which  he  lived  with  Mr.  Corbett,  with  the 
Met  Seabright  for  his  fellow-whip,  when 
the  Snndome  roof-trees  rang  to  the  toast  of 
"  Old  Trwan,"  he  spent  his  whole  life  at 
Willey.  He  was,  iu  fact,  what  Mr.  Forester 
made  him.  Nature  supplied  the  material, 
and  SquireForester  did  the  rest  He  entered 
the  squire's  service  when  a  youth,  having, 


150      (Uuvh  !&,  IBU.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROmTO. 


like  moBt  boys  of  tlie  period,  been  tbroTn 
apoQ  lua  awn  resouroes,  a  aUte  ot  thinga 
ffhich  fostered  that  self-reliance  and  hnmble 
tieroism  which  help  to  make  life  whola- 
lome.  It  was  a  feat  of  pluck  and  daring, 
performed  on  the  bare  back  of  a  crop-eared 
3ob,  which  gave  birth  to  the  after  events 
>f  ilia  life.  Hts  first  dtttiea  were  to  go  on 
jrranda  from  the  Hall,  and,  once  outside 
Me  park,  he  failed  not  to  make  use  of  his 
jpportanities.  In  riding,  it  was  generally 
ip  hill  and  down  dale  at  neck-or-nothing 
ipeed,  stopping  neither  for  gate  or  hedge, 
lua  horse  tearing  away  at  a  rate  which 
lometimea  gave  him  three  or  four  lomer- 
laoltiB  at  a  slip ;  bnt  he  seldom  turned  his 
lorae's  bead  if  he  could  help  it,  and  if  he 
irent  down  ha  waa  soon  up  again.  Extia- 
irdinary  tales  are  told  of  him  in  sporting 
lirolas,  a  few  only  of  which  we  give. 
Saving  a  apite  against  a  pike-keeper,  for  not 
ipening  the  gate  in  time,  Tom  "  taneelled 
lis  hide,"  as  he  called  it,  and  next  time  he 
vent  that  way,  touching  his  horae  on  the 
lanks,  he  went  over  the  gate,  scarce  start- 
ng  a.  stitch  or  breaking  a  buckle ;  but  on 
trying  the  aame  triok  on  another  ocoasion, 
Jib  horse  went  over,  but  the  gig  caught 
;he  top  rail,  and  Tom  was  thrown  on  oia 
}Bck.  "  Just  aarres  you  right  1 "  waa  the 
Erecting  of  the  old  pike-keeper.  "  It 
loea,"  replied  Tom,  "  and  now  we  are 
luitB,"  and  tbey  were  friends  ever  after, 
indeed,  with  or  without  the  buff-coloured 
^,  there  were  no  risks  he  was  not 
>repared  to  run.  "  Aye,  aye,  air,"  said  an 
i^ed  informant,  "  you  should  have  seen 
um  on  his  horse,  a  mad  animal  that  no 
tne  but  Tom  could  ride.  Savage  as  he 
vas,  on  a  good  road  he  would  pass  mile- 
stones in  as  many  minutes,  but  give  him 
;rean  meadows,  and,  Lord,  bow  I  have  seen 
lim  whip  along  the  turf !  Ho  was  like  a 
ringed  Mercury,  a  regular  Centaur,  for  he 
md  his  horse  seemed  one." 

Tom  had  a  famous  drinking-horn  which 
to  carried  with  him,  embellished  with  a 
lunting  scene,  elaborately  carved  with 
he  point  of  a  pen-knife.  A  windmill 
raa  at  the  top,  and  below  a  number  of 
korsemen  and  a  lady  well-mounted  in  full 
hase,  and  hounds  in  full  cry ;  in  shape 
jid  size  it  resembled  those  in  use  in  the 
uanaions  of  the  gentry  in  past  years,  when 
lospitality  was  dispensed  with  free  and 
;enerone  hands.  It  ia  a  relic  still  treasured 
ly  members  of  the  Wheatland  Hunt,  who 
ook  back  to  the  time  when  Moody's  shrill 
'oice  cheered  the  pack  over  the  heavy 
iVheatlands,  and  is  made  to  do  duty  at 


annual  social  gatherings.  Tom  waa  denned 
"the  beat  whipper-iu  in  England;"  none, 
it  was  said,  could  bring  up  tbe  tail  end  of 
a  pack,  or  sustain  the  burst  of  a  long  duus, 
am  be  in  at  liie  death  with  erwy  hoand 
well  up,  like  him. 

His  voice  waa  something  extraordinsiy, 
and  capabla  of  wonderful  modulation;  to 
bear  him  recount  the  aports  of  tbe  day  m 
the- big  kitchen  at  the  hall,  and  to  give  his 
tally-ho  or  wbo-who-hoop  was  a  treat 
On  one  occasion,  when  in  better  trim  than 
usual,  the  old  housekeeper  remarked: 
"  La,  Tom  I  yon  have  given  the  wbo-who- 
hoop,  as  you  call  it,  so  very  loud  and 
strong  to-day  that  you  set  the  cups  and 
saucers  a-dancing  1 "  To  which  a  gentle- 
man, who  had  purposely  placed  himself 
within  hearing,  replied  Uiat  he  waa  not  at 
all  surprised,  for  he  had  never  heard  any- 
thing so  impoaing  or  attractive,  some  of 
the  tones  being  aa  &ne  and  mellow  a>  a 
French-horn. 

■'  Tom  was  a  frequMit  visitor  at  "  Hang- 
ster's  Gate,"  a  wayside  Inn,  where  tbe 
coaches  called;  a  cheerful  glass,  he  wu 
wont  to  say,  wotild  hurt  nobody;  and  he 
could  toss  off  a  horn  <x  two  of  the  strongest 
"  old  October  "  without  moving  a  muscle 
or  winking  an  eye;  and  whilst  he  could 
get  up  early  and  sniff  the  morning  air  or 
fragrant  gale  they  did  not  appear  to  tell ; 
but  the  spark  in  hia  throat  which  required 
such  frequent  libations  finally  told  upon 
him,  and  finding  bis  end  approaching,  he 
e^ipressed  a  desire  to  see  his  old  master. 
"I  have,"  he  said  to  the  squiro,  "one 
request  to  make,  and  it  is  the  last  favour  I 
shall  crave ;  it  is  that  when  I  am  dead 
I  may  be  buried  under  the  yew-tree  in 
Barrow  Churchyard,  and  be  carried  there 
by  si:c  earth-atoppers ;  my  old  horse  with 
whip,  boots,  spurs,  and  cap,  alung  on  each 
side  of  the  saddle ;  the  brush  'of  the  last 
fojc  when  I  was  up  at  the  death,  at  the 
side  of  tbe  forelock,  and  two  couples  of 
hounds  to  follow  as  mourners.  When  I 
am  laid  in  the  grave,  let  t^ree  halloos  bs 
given  over  me ;  and  it  I  do  not  then  lift 
up  my  head,  you  may  fiuily  conclude  that 
Tom  Moody's  dead."  Moody'a  last  wish 
waa  earned  out  to  tbe  letter,  and  a  shoal 
waa  given  by  the  side  of  tbe  open  grave 
which  made  the  welkin  ring. 

Such  were  the  facta  placed  bef oro  Dibdin, 
who  faithfully  adhered  to  them  in  his  song; 

When  the  song  first  came  out,  Chsrlei 
Incledon  by  "  human  voice  divine "  ws( 
drawing  vast  audiences  at  Drury  I^ne. 
On  play-bUls,  in  largeat  type,  forming  ths 


"BACHELOR'S  HALL." 


(HU(*»,U81.]      4S1 


most  attntotiTe  item  (rf  the  bill  of  fare,  this 
RonK  varied  by  othen  of  Dibdin'a  com- 
pootiota,  ironld  be  seen.  When  it  was  first 
aimoimced  to  be  mng  a  few  foz-hiintiiig 
fHenda  <rf  the  sqiura  w«nt  from  Willey  to 
LfHtdon  to  hear  it  Taking  up  their 
poeitioiu  in  the  pit  they  vere  all  attention, 
u  the  inimitable  singer  rolled  ost,  vith 
that  full  vtdame  of  voioe  which  delighted 
and   astounded   his    audience,   the  vvne 


You  all  knew  Tom  Uoodjr,  the  whipper-in,  well, 
bnt  the  singer  not  succeeding  to  the  satia- 
betion  of  this  small  knot  of  n>z-hunters  in 
the  "  tiUlf-ho  chorus,"  they  jumped  upon 
ite  stage  and  gave  the  audience  a  specimen 
of  what  Shropshire  Innga  could  do. 

The  soifg  soon  seised  upon  the  sporting 
mind,  and  became  popular  the  country 
throogh.  Tlie  London  publishers  took  it  up, 
and  sold  it  with  the  mnaic,  together  with 
illnstrations,  and  it  soon  found  a  ready  sale. 

On  leaving  Willey,  Wr.  Forester  asked 
Dibdin  how  he  could  beat  discharge  the 
obligation  he  felt  himself  under  for  his 
servicei.  The  great  ballad-writer,  whom 
Pitt  pensioned,  replied  that  he  would  have 
nothing  ;  he  had  been  so  well  treated  that 
lie  comd  not  accept  anything.  Finding 
artifice  necessary,  Mr.  Forester  asked  him 
to  deliver  a  letter  personally  at  his  banker's 
on  his  arrival  in  London.  OF  course  Dibdin 
consented,  and  on  doing  so  found  it  was  an 
order  to  pay  Mm  a  hnndred  pounds. 

Tom  died  November,    1796,   and   was 
cnrrently  reported    to    reappear  on   the 
ground  of  his  former  exploits,  a  tradition 
embodied  in  the  following  lines  : 
See  the  ah«dB  of  Tom  Moody,  you  all  have  knuivn 

well, 
To  our  aporta  now  retumlng'.  not  tildn^  to  dwell, 
In  a  region  where  plewitre's  not  found  in  the  cbane. 
So  Turn'*  jurt  returned  to  view  hie  old  place. 
No  *ooner  the  hounds  leave  the  kennels  to  try, 
Than  hia  ipirit  ^^>ean  to  loin  in  the  cry ; 
Now  all  with  attention,  bia  agaai  well  mark, 
For  eee  bi«  hands  up  for  the  cry  of  hark  !  hark  ! 
Than  cbaer  him  and  mark  him— Tallj-ho  t 
BofB  I  Tallyho  1 

The  Squire,  who  SDrrived  hisold  aeri^ant, 
lived  on  daring  the  troubled  period  of  the 
threatened  invasion  by  the  French  Minister 
of  Marine,  and  raised  and  equipped  a  corps 
sailed  the  Wenlock  Loyal  Yolunteers, 
iriiich  he  commanded  and  supported  at  his 
own  coat.  This  was  disbanded  in  1802, 
bathe  rused  another  in  1803,  when  bea- 
OMU  mrfl  erected,  and  bonfires  prepared 
on  tiie  Wrekin,  and  oUisr  hills  the  ooontry 
throngh,  as  the  means  of  txansinitting  the 
newa  of  the  u^ffoaoh  of  the  enemy. 

The  Sauire's  foz-lmDtera  readily  joined, 


and  made  an  impoatng  show  if  they  did 
nothing  else,  their  nniform  being  hand- 
some. The  coat  vas  scarlet,  turned  up 
with  yellow ;  the  trousers  and  waistcoat 
were  white,  the  hat  was  a  cnbe  with  red 
and  white  feathers  far  the  grenadiers,  and 
green  for  the  light  company. 

Bachelor's  Hall  resounded  with  the 
clang-of  arms,  with  sound  of  drums  and 
fifes,  and  patriotic  songs.  Clarionete  and 
bugles  were  to  be  seen  piled  with  guns 
and  accoutrements,  patting  deer-horns, 
foxes'  heads,  and  cabinets  of  oak,  black  as 
ebony,  out  of  countenance.  The  Wiiley 
tenantry  became  as  familiar  with  military 
bands  as  with  the  sound  of  chnreh  bells ; 
^y  were  often  heard,  in  fact,  together, 
Snnday  being  the  day  usoally  selected  for 
drill,  for  heavy  war-taxee  were  laid,  and 
people  had  to  work  hard  to  pay  them, 
which  they  did  oognidgingly.  Open  house 
was  kept  at  Wiliey,  and  no  baron  of  olden 
time  dealt  out  hospitality  more  willingly  or 
liberally.  The  Squire  was  here,  there,  and 
eveiywhere,  visiting  neighbouring  sqnires, 
giving  or  receiving  information,  stirring 
np  the  gentry,  and  frightening  the  conotry 
people  out  of  their  witR  Boney  became  a 
name  more  terrible  than  bogey,  alike  to 
children  and  grown-up  people,  and  the  more 
vague  the  notion  of  invasion,  the  more 
horrible  were  the  evils  dreaded. 

Parson  Stephens  found  Boney  in  Uie 
Revelations,  and  preached  abont  him  to 
gaping  congregations.  But  Boney  did  not 
come,  the  invasion  did  not  take  place,  the 
excitement  passed  away,  and  time  hnng 
heavy  on  the  hands  of  the  Squire,  who  no 
loog«  fonnd  incentives  to  an  active  lifb. 
Tears,  too,  were  4>eginmng  to  tell  npon  the 
veteran  sportaman,  reminding  him  that 
his  career  was  drawing  to  a  cloee.  He 
made  arrangements  accordingly  in  perfect 
keeping  with  the  character  he  had  dis- 
played through  life,  He  expressed  a 
wish  that  those  who  had  known  him  best 
should  be  chosen  to  attend  his  fhnerd ; 
that  the  servants  who  had  experienced 
his  kindness  should  carry  him  to  his 
tomb  when  the  sun  had  gone  down  and 
the  work  of  the  day  was  over;  that 
each,  too,  should  have  a  guinea,  that  he 
might  meet  his  neighbour,  if  he  chose, 
and  talk  over  the  merits  and  demerits  of 
the  old  master.  His  estate  he  left  to  his 
cousin  Oecil,  who  became  the  first  Lord 
Forester,  father  of  the  present  "Bight 
Hon.  Lord  Forester.  He  died  on  the 
13th  of  July,  1811,  in  the  sOTenty-third 
rear  of  his  age,  and  was  buried  by  torch- 


452    cu*mi  to,  1AU.3 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


[CoidaoMlv 


light — r^ber  an  impoeiDg  aight — beneath 
the  family  pew,  in  the  church  fonnded  and 
endowed  b^  the  lordi  of  Wiliey  at  a 
remote  penod,  which  atonds  within  the 
shadow  of  the  old  Hall,  and  might,  from  its 
appearance,  have  formed  the  text  of  Qny't 
ivf-mantled  tower,  being  covered  with  a 
luznriant  growth  of  this  clinging  ever- 
green to  the  very  top.  Peering  throngh 
small  Norman  windows,  which  admit  a 
sober  light,  glimpses  are  obtained  of  costly 
monnments,  with  names,  titles,  and  escat- 
cheons,  bnt  the  Sqoire's  tomb  itself  remains 
uninacribed.  Near  it,  however,  a  marble 
Ublet  erected  by  Cecil  Weld,  the  fint 
Lord  Forester,  bean  this  simple  record ; 
"  To  the  Memory  of  my  late  Coasia  and 
Benefactor,  Geoi^e  Forester,  Esq.,  WiUey 
Park,  May  10,  1821." 


JOHN  DOLBY'S  GOLD  SECRET.  , 

CHAPTKR  L 

Op  all  oddly-aasorted  friendships,  that 
between  John  Dolby  and  Oswald  Vandeleur 
was  sorely  the  strangest.  It  bewildered 
even  the  miners  of  Hobbing's  Golch — a 
rough,  rollicking  sample  by  no  mean 
prone  to  gratoitODS  speculation  concerning 
myateries  in  either  earth  or  heaven.  In 
the  pauses  of  the  alternative  digging  and 
card-playi&g  the  relations  between  the  pair 
formed  a  prominent  feature  of  camp  con- 
versation. 

"  I  lechoQ  Uiere's  mor'n  the  snr&ca 
shows,  mates,  in  the  bnsineas,"  remarked 
Brum  Buckles,  who  had  guned  hia 
Bobriqaet  from  the  possession  of  a  couple 
of  enormooB  brace  omamente  presumably 
hailing  from  tha  capital  of  the  British 
Midlaoda 

"  As  yon  hope  ia  tbe  case  with  your 
claim  down  valley — eh,  Brum  1 "  suggested 
Freckled  Sam  ironically, 

A  hoarae  laugh  ran  round  the  group.  It 
was  known  that  a  consistent  ran  of  bad 
luck  had  not  yet  made  the  man  of  jewellery 
leaa  sanguine  than  at  the  commencement 
of  his  arduous  adventure. 

"Exactly.  So  I  firmly  believe  it  is," 
he  replied. 

"  De  younker  ob  de  two  bredren  is  auch 
a " 

"  Ninny,"  interpolated  somebody. 

"Ye-oB,  ninny,  continued  Datch  Joe, 
with  all  the  air  of  a  magistrate  giving  an 
irreversible  decree  of  condemnation. 

"  And  Dolby's  never  pre-cisely  posed  as 
a  fool— fit  for  cap  and  bells— 'fore  this,  I 


calkerlate,"  drawled  Di<^  Archer,  in  un- 
mistakable Yankee  tones. 

"  No,  that's  what  beats  us,"  said  Brum 
Buckles,  returning  to  the  cha^ ;  "  that's 
what  makes  me  vow  aa  there's  more  in  the 
affair  than  we  can  guess  at  all  easy  like. 
Dolby  and  Van  are  uways  U^ether  nowa- 
days, and " 

The  speech  was  cut  short  by  the  cresk- 
ing  of  the  cabin-door  on  its  maty  binges, 
and  the  entry  of  the  very  "  youiker, "  so 
oontemptuonsly  discussed, 

Oswald  Vandelear— a  name  quickly 
abbreviated  to  "  Van  "  at  Robbing's  Gulch 
— was  in  appearanoe  a  mere  boy  compared 
to  the  bronzed  and  weather-beaten  miners 
amongst  whom  his  present  lot  was  csst. 
By  the  record  of  a  register  away  in  a 
quiet  English  village,  hia  years  numbered 
on  this  10th  of  March,  1862,  jost  twenty- 
three  ;  but  no  casual  observer  would  have 
given  him  credit  for  the  odd  numeral  He 
was  alim  and  upright  of  fignra,  with  a 
fair,  frank  face,  revealing,  like  a  ttans- 
parent  window,  evety  ctumging  mood  of 
the  soul  within.  He  had  dreamy  blue 
eyes,  and  soft,  curling  locks  above  which 
gave  him  in  certain  lights  an  almost 
effeminate  delicacy.  It  was  this,  and  a 
sadness  which  seemed  unconquerable,  that 
had  prooored  him  his  reputation  for  weak- 
ness and  ultra-simplicity  amongst  his  out- 
cast companions. 

His  errand  at  Norford's  store  was  to 
replenish  a  supply  of  camp  "dips,"  and 
was  soon  accompliahed.  With  a  bow  to 
the  general  .company  which  made  several 
feel  vaguely  their  own  utter  lack  of  polish 
(and  so  insensibly  increased  the  prejudice 
against  him)  he  withdrew. 

The  half-mile  between  the  store  and  hia 
own  shabby  little  tent  was  not  passed 
without  an  encounter  with  the  one  frigid 
Oswald  Vandeleur  had  contrived  to  make 
at  Hobbing's  Gulch. 

In  physique  and  phvsiognomy,  at  least, 
John  Dolby  was  a  striking  contrast  to  his 
tHrot^4  If  Vandeleur  lotued  three  yean 
younger  than  in  troth  be  was,  Dolby,  on 
the  contrary,  appeared  ten  years  older. 
He  was  a  big,  buny  fellow,  somewhere  in 
the  thirties,  with  caiewom,  deeply-lined 
&CS,  scrubby  beard,  brown  eyes,  and  haii 
already  streaked  with  grey.  And  up  to 
this  hour  he  had  been  one  of  the  most 
reticent  men  in  camp.  Now  be  drew 
the  lad's  arm  tightly  within  his  own,  and 
walked  back  to  Van  a  shanty. 

"  I  want  to  hare  a  t^ — may  be  to  tcfl 
you  my  story,  in  return  for  yours^"  he  aid. 


JOHN  DOLBY'S  GOLD  SECRET. 


[Utrah  t»,  1884.)      453 


Oswald  Vandelenr  iras  too  Borpriaad  to 
do  more  than  incoherentlf  mttmble  his 
ugemees  to  play  the  part  of  an  attentive 
listener.  The  idea  that  there  wu  i 
inscnitable  mystery  in  Dolby's  oareer- 
perbapa  a  mystery  of  pain  and  crime — had 
hng  since  fixed  itself  in  Van's  mind  as 
waU  as  in  the  minds  of  his  neighbours, 
bi  these  matters  there  is  frequently  a 
nameless  contagion  of  belief.  Was  the 
boy  destined  to  be  taken  into  a  confidence 
which  none  other  in  the  tiny  makeshift 
town  wotdd  ever  be  asked  to  share  t 

It  was  even  sa  Bnt  first  there  was  a 
still  more  startling  surprise  in  store. 

"They  are  wondering,  yonder,  at  Nor- 
ford's  store,  I  haven't  a  doubt,  how  it  is 
that  you  and  I  hob-and-nob  so  much,  V&n. 
Seems  passing  qaeer  to  'em.  Can  you 
explain  it }  " 

"  Only  that — that  yoa  are  very  kind, 
Mr.  Dolby." 

"Kindt  may  be  I  am.  We'll  see 
directly.     Any  luck  to-day,  Van  1 " 

"No,  nor  ever  will  be,  I'm  fearing. 
Dutch  Joe  was  abont  right,  who  told  me 
in  that  barbarous  lingo  of  tus — wish  they 
could  hear  him  at  mbbledale ! — that  the 
claim  was  clean  played  out.  'Tia  a  dull 
prospect." 

The  gloom  upon  Van's  face,  which  had 
bri^tened  a  little  at  mention  of  his 
distant  Devonshire  home,  thickened  into  a 
more  impenetrable  cloud  than  ever. 

"  And  yoor  western  Ma^e  —  your 
Daitfy — wiU  have  to  wait  yet  a  bit  longer  for 
the  news  that  her  lover's  fortune  is  made  I " 
Vandelenr  first  fix>wned,  and  then  gave 
a  hollow,  hoarse  laugh.  If  this  was  meant 
for  pleasantry  on  Dolby's  part  it  was 
singiuarly  ill-timed. 

"  I  suppose  BO,"  he  said. 
There    was  a  pause,    and    both    men 
watched  in  an  outwardly  moody  silence 
the  dickering  spark  on  the  broken  botUe 
that  served  for  oondlestick. 
Then  Dolby  spoke : 

"  Well,  tell  'em  at  Sorford's  store — them 
who  are  anxious  for  the  information,  a 
new  pickaxe  'nd  be-  more  useful— toll  'em 
that  I  took  a  fancy  to  Oswald  Vandelenr 
because  Fortune  had  seemingly  taken  a 
spite  against  him.  Becanae  he  s  in  love, 
and  means  te  win  the  girl  he  loves,  in 
spite  of  a  guardian  whose  only  creed  is 
'  gold  to  gold.'  Because  I  taw  that  he  was 
homesick,  as  I've  been  many  and  many  a 
dMj.  Becaoee  be  took  me  for  what  I  am — 
anhonestman!  and  laid  barethe  emotionsof 
his  inmost  heart  before  me.   Tell  'em  that  1" 


It  was  a  strange,  almost  an  eerie  mono- 
logue, and  Van  could  only  listen  in  »a 
astonishment  not  unmixed  with  terror. 
Had  txouble  tnmed  Dolby's  brain  t  'The 
fierce,  passionate  emphasia  with  which  the 
declaration  of  integnty  was  uttered  lent  a 
of  colour  to  the  paralysing  sappo- 


And  the  sndden  change  of  tone  and 
subject  which  followed  did  not  tend  to 
disabuse  the  young  man  of  his  awful  fear. 

"  But  your  lack  is  bettor,  Van,  than  you 
think,"  Dolby  continued.  "I've  struck  a 
lode  at  last,  aftor  years  of  waiting,  here 
and  elsewhere,  and  nobody  knows  it  but 
myself.  I'll  sell  it  to  you,  for  a  few  shil- 
lings down,  jnst  to  make  the  bargain 
square,  and  not  a  gift.  In  a  week  or  two 
yoall  be  rich ;  in  a  month  or  two  you  can  go 
back  to  your  Hibbledaleand  many  Maggie." 

The  scared,  searching  enquiry  of  the 
boy's  glance  disclosed  once  more  what  was 
passing  in  his  thougbta 

"Ob,  I  am  sane  enough — never  more 
BO ;  and  every  syllable  I've  uttored  is  true," 
Dolby  sanl. 

Van  fiushed,  and  a  wild  tide  of  conflict- 
ing emotions  swept  upwards  from  his  heart 
and  Btayed  even  an  attempt  at  speech. 
Waa  the  offer  genuine  t  Were  the  facts 
as  stated  t  What  coold  be  the  key  to 
such  unparalleled  magnanimity  1 

"I  am  afraid — I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand," he  contrived  at  length  to  gasp. 

"  "Tis  a  simple  proposal  too.  I've  got  a 
gold  secret  for  wlucb  the  fellows  yonder — 
every  man- jack  of  them — would  slave  night 
and  day  tUl  they  dropped,  and  it's  yours 
for  the  taking — on  one  condition  only." 

"And  that t" 

"  Is— to  believe  me.  Come,  as  I  stud  at 
the  beginning,  I'll  give  you,  in  as  few  words 
as  I  can,  the  story  of  a  miaed  life." 

The  lines  about  the  wrinkled  foce  took  a 
fresh  harshness,  the  eyes  were  fixed  and 
dilated,  the  voice  resonant  and  high- 
pitched.  It  was  evident  that  the  proposed 
recapitulation  of  bygone  wroi^  must  give 
acute  pain. 

Van  chivahonsly  interposed  to  stay  the 
narrative,  bnt  Dolby  to(dc  no  heed  of  his  pro- 
test Itmaybeqneationedif  heevenheardit 

"  I,  like  you,  am  country  bom  and 
reared,"  he  said ;  "  a  quaint  old  town 
sequestored  amidst  the  lovely  Berkshire 
lanes  was  the  home  of  my  youth,  and  I  too 
have  loved  in  vun  1  I  was  cashier  in  the 
Grenbuiy  Bank,  and  one  day  there  fell  a 
frightful  blow  upon  me.  A  forgery  was 
committed,  and  anspicion  turned  in  my 


454      lUaidh  29, 1884.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ^tOXJSD. 


directioiL  The  evidenoe,  I  admit,  wu 
black — black,  bat  half  false.  I  was  tried 
before  a  merciful  iuiy,  and  eBC^>ed.  But 
everybody  believed  me  guilty,  nevertlielesi. 
I  dued  not  go  back  borne.  The  stain  was 
ap«u  me.  rshoald  have  been  ebiumed  by 
alL  Even  Agnes  would  have  scorned  me  I " 
A  rare  and  toaching  tone,  as  of  far-off  mauo, 
was  in  the  faltering  accents.  "  I  emigrated, 
and  have  been  a  wanderer  ever  aince." 

"I  am  very  sonyforyou,"  Vanmunnured. 

The  simple,  grave  sympathy  nearly  broke 
the  strong  man  down.  He  panaed  and 
contracted  hie  brows  into  a  frown  that 
would  assuredly  have  cowed  and  disturbed 
even  Freckled  Sam,  who  had  the  repate  of 
being  the  most  daroMJevil  member  of  the 
Hobbing's  Gulch  community.  That  frown 
alone  prevented  the  dropping  of  a  great 
salt  tear.  The  spasm  of  tumultuous  feeling 
passed,  and  Dolby  resumed : 

"And  to-night  J  offer  yoa  wealth — to 
me,  after  all,  of  little  value — for  &itb  that  I 
am  innocent  One  being  in  the  world  shall 
believe  that  I  had  neither  part  nor  lot  in 
that  crima" 

"  And  without  what  you  propose  I  do 
so  believa  I  am  sure  of  it  I  Van  replied 
warmly. 

"  That  is  wIeU,  then ;  I  thank  yoo.  And 
you  will  go  to  England,  and  if  by  any 
chance  you  hear  the  story  there,  and  I  am 
accused — . — " 

"  I  will  declare  that  John  Dolby  is  as 
incapable  of  such  a  crime  as  the  child  in 
his  mother's  arms.  But,  indeed,  sir,  I 
cannot  rob  you  of  your  reward  thus  1 " 

"Pshaw  I  Yon  will  obey,  Van,"  the 
other  said  sternly :  "anyhow,  I  shall  strike 
no  pick  into  that  lode.  I  leave  Hobbing's 
ftulch  tomorrow  for  ever.  Tis  a  dreu^ 
place  at  besL" 

"  I  have  found  it  so,"  said  Vandelenr. 

"Come  now,  audi  will  showyou  the  spot" 

The  two  went  out  into  the  chill  night 
breeze  together,  the  man's  puUes  slowly 
subsiding  into  their  wonted  calm — what 
to  him  was  the  abandonment  of  gdd  after 
loss  of  character — the  boy's  beating  highand 
yet  higher  with  mingled  hope,  bewild^- 
ment,  and  gratitude.  It  was  a  sb'ange 
errand,  and  they  were  a  strange  couple. 

Within  four-and-twenty  houn  a  throng 
— facsimile  of  the  earlier  one — ^was  dis- 
cussing at  Norford'a  store  two  pieces  of 
camp  intelligence.  The  first,  and,  as  they 
h«la,  .most  important,  was  that  Oswald 
Vandeleur  had  made  a  rich  discovery  of 
precious  metal;  the  second,  that  John 
Dolby  had  left  for  San  Francisco. 


CHAPTER   IL 

If  possession  is  nine-tenths  of  the  law,  as 
we  are  so  frequently  assured,  continual 
proximity  to  the  object  of  his  affectious  ts 
at  least  half-way  towards  victoiy  in  the 
lover's  battle.  Combined  with  his  rival's 
abrupt  disappearanoe,  and  the  arguments 
of  Sir  Frederick  Mitton,  it  had  nearly  won 
the  fight  for  Eustace  Boss. 

At  first  Maggie  Hayes  bad  been  frigid 
and  difficult  ofapproach  as  an  arctic  ice- 
berg. Then  she  had  thawed  into  the 
subnmest  indifi'ereiice,  a  phase  equally 
awkward  and  tantalising  to  the  eager 
wooer.  Lastly,  she  had  come  to  listen  with 
forbearance  and  a  measure  of  cordiality,  .if 
not  with  something  more,  to  Eustace's  «rft 
speoohes.  The  nunonr  flitted  about 
Hibbledale  that  the  pair  were  "engaged," 
and  Maggie  knew  that  this  was  sa  Kven 
in  suffering  the  report  to  pass  uncon- 
tradicted, and  continuing  her  favours  to  t^e 
suitor,  she  was  in  a  sense  deliberately  fore- 
casting a  very  probable  future.  Her  uncle 
wished  her  to  marry  this  man.  Eustace 
was  handsome  and  apparentiy  veJl-to4a 
Where  coold  the  objection  be  1 

And  at  this  moment  Oswald  Yandaleur 
returned  with  a  well-lined  purse,  older, 
browner,  as  much  in  love  as  ever. 

Mawie  was  gone  on  a  visit — be  had  a 
difficulty  in  discovering  where:  It  was 
quite  settled,  so  said  the  Hibbledale  hotel- 
keeper,  that  she  was  to  marry,  in  the 
ensuing  summer,  Mr.  Eustace  Boas.  This 
was  the  early  news  for  which  Oswald  bad 
been  hungering,  with  a  vengeance  !  In  high 
dudgeon  he  went  off  to  Grenbury. 

A  cynic— at  lust  in  this  instance — has 
defined  gratitude  as  the  lively  sense  of 
favours  to  coni&  Sut  Oswald  Tandeleur 
subscribed  to  on  opposite  and  more  old- 
fashioned  creed.  All  the  way  home  he 
had  been  revolving  in  his  mind  how  he 
could  repay  his  eccentric  comrade  of  the 
western  wilderneBS  on  the  linfs  John  Dolby 
had  himself  marked  out  Be  had  resolved 
to  devote  both  time  and  money — was  not 
the  latter  John  Dolby's  own  ? — to  the 
unravelling  of  the  andent  mystery.  And 
alighting  at  the  Greubuiy  station,  he  stood 
on  the  Uu'eshold  of  his  self-imposed  task.   . 

The  bank  forgery  1  Oh  yes ;  it  was 
well-remembered  in  the  lazy  provinciat 
town.  The  bank  cashier  was  undoabtedly 
the  culprit;  one  Dolby,  a  tall,  fine-built 
fellow,  and  wonderfully  liked  for  such  a 
rogne.  He  was  tried  for.it.  To  be  sure 
he  got  ofi^  through  some  swerve  of  Daine 
Justice's  descending  sword.    But  nobody 


JOHN  DOLBY'S  GOLD  SECKET.  iu«cbsff.iB84.i    i55 


briieved  btm  Unooent.  He  kbtcondedfroni 
Gnnbazy  imnwdiately  tfter  his  uquittai ; 
tlut  fftot  tione  wu  Bnffieient  pnoi  of  criini- 
naUtf  for  11114)16  fdk.  This  vu  ika 
mmmsiT  of  the  loesl  judgment. 

"And  he  wu  u  guutlese  u  I  «m  of  that 
put  deed,"  Oswald  boldly  dedared.  "  I 
know  him  w^,  and  have  no  doubt  at  all 
apon  the  matt^." 

An  incredoloas  smile  and  some  ehinggiiig 
of  the  shonlden  showed  the  unutterable 
convicttoQ  of  each  and  every  tistener. 

"  What  is  more,  I  have  come  here  foi 
the  ezpresB  pnrpoBe  of  {noviiig  it,"  Oswald 
Hid ;  and  then  even  some  degree  of  anger 
minted  with  the  rastic  aorprise.  Who  or 
what  was  this  would-be  ujuetter  of  accepted 
and  ctamnon-nnae  theones  1 

Oswald  tbraw  his  whole"  sonl  into  bis 
and  when  a  man  does  thats 


tiie  lioDS  ia  anv  path  are  apt  to  dwindle 
into  veiy  harauess  and  diminutive  beasts 
indeed.  He  made  elaborate  enqoiiy  in 
evray  quarter  from  whence  the  least  light 
was  to  be  expected.  He  ransacked  official 
records  tA  bis  friend's  trial,  and  Bnbjected 
the  evidence  to  a  more  exhaustive  Borutiny 
Hiati  it  had  received  in  either  the  Gren- 
buy  polic»«oi)rt  or  the  Ickworth  assise- 
room.  intimately  he  constructed  a  theory 
of  his  own,  and  ue  central  figure  in  this, 
as  yet  far  from  perfect  outline,  was  one 
Kiohord  Fonlton,  a  olei^  in  the  Grenbury 
Bank  at  the  time  of  the  forgery.  Ponlton 
also  had  vanished  from  the  Berksiiire  town 
within  twelve  months  of  Dolby's  acquittal, 
and  Oswald  was  convinced  that  he  and  not 
the  cashier  had  been  the  real  criminal 

The  question  of  how  to  prove  it  was 
more  difficult  of  solution.  But  a  kindly 
fate  smiled  once  more  on  the  young  man's 
entimsiastic  endeavour.  Aid  came  f  rom  ^n 
hamblebutexceedinglyaathoritative  soorce. 
In  the  oonne  of  his  investigations  Oswald 
had  bad  occasion  to  interview  an  old  man 
who  had  till  recently  acted  as  the  bank 
porter  and  general  factotum.  From  him  he 
bad  at  first  gleaned  little.  Peter  Swales 
was  in  the  lafit  stage  of  physical  decay, 
and  persistent  questioning  seemed  cmeL 
Osw^d  acquainted  the  sofferer  with  his 
errand,  waa  told  that  Peter  had  few 
reminiecences  to  offer,  and  went  away,  not 
proposing  to  return.    He  was  Bent  for. 

"  I  cannot  die  wi'  »  sin  o'  this  sort  upon 
my  conscience,"  the  old  man  groaned.  "Yon 
bs  Mlstm  Dott^'a  liieiul,  boui't  yoii  t " 

*?  Yes." 
.  "  And  want  to  show  as  he  didn't  do  that 
as  mined  him  1 " 


"Such  is  my  object" 

"  Nor  more  he  didn't.  Twas  Bichard 
Poulton,  an'  I  'elped  him,  for — tar  fifty  pun 
as  he  gie  me.  Atween  us  we  worked  it 
as  Dolby  was  thought  the  party.  But 
Dolby  bad  nought  to  do  wi'  it  'Twas  a 
blaok  business — a  black  busineasl  I've 
niver  bin  easy  night  nor  day  since.  'Tie 
that  has  as  mosuy  broken  ne  down.  I'll 
made  a  clean  breast  of  it  now." 

Visited  by  the  bank  proprietor  and  a  local 
p<dice-inBp6ctor,  the  penitent  told  his  story 
at  length,  and  his  depositions  were  taken. 

"  It  is  a  most  wretched  afiair,"  sud  Ur. 
Mavis,  as  he  and  Oswald  walked  away 
together  from  the  riverside  hovel  "  In 
six  months  time  John  Dolby  would  have 
married  my  niece,  and  have  become  a 
partner  in  my  firm.  I  never  conld  under- 
stand bow  he  threw  away  alt  hia  chances, 
unlcBS  it  was  at  the  bidding  of  some 
sudden  and  oTerwhelming  temptation,  such 
as  we  sometimes  read  of  bat  B^om  witness. 
The  blow  wrecked  my  niece's  life  ako. 
Agnes  loved  him,  and  has  never  married.*' 

"  The  next  step  will  be,  if  possible,  to 
find  Poulton  I " 

"Yes;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  were 
safely  out  of  England — the  Bcoundrell" 

"  You  can  describe  him  pretty  accurately, 
I  euppoae,  Mr.  Mavis ) " 

"  I  have  bis  photograph  at  home.  Gome 
in  and  see  it,  Mr.  Vandeleur." 

Oswald  readily  accepted  the  invitation. 
He  was  curious  to  scan  the  lineaments  of 
the  nnscrapnlous  villain  who  had  built  up 
his  own  fortune  upon  the  broken  hearte  of 
those- who  bad  never  wronged  him.  Tbis 
was  worse  even  than  the  theft  of  the  gold. 

A  carte-de-visite  was  produced,  and 
Oswald  recognised  Eustace  Bobs. 

For  a  fall  minute — to  use  a  hackneyed 
but  convenient  metaphor — the  amateur 
detective  was  smitten  into  stona  Every 
veslage  of  colour  fied  frvm  hit  cheeks— 
speech  was  impoBsible.  He  could  only 
stand  paralysed  and  helpless  before  this 
presentment  of  a  double-dyed  traitor. 

The  banker  was  lynx-eyed  and  observed 
his  agitation. 

"  You  have  seen  this  face  before  to-day, 
Mr.  Yandeleor ) "  he  said. 

The  query  recalled  Oswald  to  the 
probkm  of  the  moment 

"I  have,  and  I  believe  that  I  know 
Kichard  Poulton's  present  whereabontc," 
he  anAvered;  "he  ia  residing  iinder  an 
assamed  name  in  the  Devon^iire  village 
which  has  been  for  years  my  own  home.' 

"Wheel  within  wheel,"  Mr.  Mavis  said. 


458 ALL  THK  YBAB  ROUND. Utoi*  ».  laM-i 

"  He  is  pMUDg  for  m  ^Uenan "  "  I  fear  I  b«d  bat  IttUe  nitjoB.    I  vu 

"  On  borrowed  capital — to  emploj  a  ,  aware  of  Sir  Fredariok'a  predueotiat  in  mv 
polite  enpbeminn."  :  rival'*  favour.  But  all  ia  veil  that  enda  well, 

"And  neiiactaally  wooing  ayonnglady  Haggle.  I  can  even  feel  pity  fw  Fonltoa 
wbo  ia  the  ward  of  a  baronet — tn  S^  this  af t«moon — miaoreant  aiheis." 
Frederick  Mitton,  of  Mitton  Court  When  Eventa  had  ao  flagrantly  proved  tia 
I  was  loat  in  Hibbledale  the  story  went  iDcoTTeotneu  of  Sir  Frederick  Mttttm's 
that  the  young  oonple  would  be  man  and  |  jodgnent  that  that  gentleman  deemed  hii 
wife  by  AnguaL"  :  only  reaonrce  a  reluctant  sabmiuion  to  bii 

"  If  that  prophecy  ia  to  be  foMlled,  the  !  ward's  wishes.  Long  before  Uie  harvest- 
next  few  hours  most  witness  the  ceremony,"  ahocka  had  began  to  gleam  and  sway  in 
dryly  remarked  Mr.  Mavis;  "forafterthat  |  lommer  breezea  on  the  Devonahire  hillndea, 
brief  respite  he  is  likely,  I  ahoold  say,  to  '  C^wald  and  Maggie  VandaWr  had  set  np 
spend  a  fur  stretch  of  yean  '  in  dorance  a  hj^y  if  nnoateotalioiu  home  of  their 
vile.' "  I  own.     Hibblediale  was  not  robbed  of  its 

Oswald  Vandeleur's  knocking  to  and  fro  excitement  in  the  matter  of  a  wedding 
in  a  hard  and  censorioas  world  had  given  ^  after  all. 

him  a  somewhat  more  effectoal  oontzol  of  ^  There  remained  the  fnlneas  of  reparation 
his  feelings  than  he  could  have  boasted  »t  to  John  Dolby.  Advertisements  were 
Hobbing's  Gnlch.  Moreover,  there  was  inserted  in  Engliah,  American,  and  ocdonial 
sorely  ezcose  on  the  surface  for  consider-  papers  ad  libitam.  Bnt  for  two  yean  with 
able  emotion.  The  banker  little  gnessed  |  no  saccesa.  Then,  in  a  roondaboat  way,  a 
with  what  keen  personal  interest  and  de^  message  did  eom&  John  Dolby  had 
Bonl-relief  his  yonng  acquaintance  had  ,  emba»ed  for  England  on  board  a  Cnnaid 
received  this  latter  revelation.  steamer. 

The  tfainueet  gleam  of  the  most  watery  "  And  yon  will  take  back  what  is,  in 
sunshine  brings  joy  to  the  weary  watcher,  commoa  truth  and  honesty,  yoor  own,  Mr. 
alter  the  blaoknesa  and  tormoO  of  a  pro-   Dolby  1 "   Oswald   said.      "  Now  that  we 

longed  atonn.     And  a  hope  was  springing  i  are  married,  my  wife's  fortune " 

up  in  Oswald'a  heart  that  this  unexpected  ^  "  Say  no  more — not  a  syllable  I"  inter- 
ontburat  vi  potential  deliverance  might  ^  ropted  the  wanderer,  with  a  frown  Uiat 
prove  far  more  than  a  gleam.  I  vividly  recalled  to  lus  companion's  nond 

He  was  not  disappomted.  .  the  memorable  conversation  in  a  moantain 

The  Bword  of  Damocles,  of  which  Biohard  ,  shanty  on  the  evening  of  Oswald's  twenty- 
Poulton,  alias  Eustace  Boas,  bad  re- ,  third  birthdav.  "  Yon  have  dtnw  far  more 
mained  in  a  profound  ignonuce  up  to  ■  for  me ;  ana  you  bought  the  datm  by 
the  last  moment^  had  fallen,  and  all  the  .  miner's  law  equitably  enough.  No,  so; 
gossips  of  Hibbledale  were  discussing  the  i  the  debt  is  mine  to-day.  You  have  given 
romantic  unmasking  of  a  villain  and  a :  me  back  the  very  bank  partoerehip  for 
hypocrite.  '  which  I  toiled  in  those  past  years,  my 

Maggie  Hayes  was  back  in  the  village  [  character,  and — Agnes  1 " 
now,  and  knew  all     As  chance  would  have       And  with  this    decision,   Oswald  was 
it — arranging  its  tableaux  better  than  any   forced  to  remain  content, 
dramatist    conld    scheme —  Oswald    and  ■  -^ — --r~.-^^^-  =.--- — .r^^: — - — ^ — -=--  - 
Maggie    met,    for    the    first    time    sinoe  ^'""  *'""  *""  ■■  c™™««»i 

Oswald's  departure,  on  the  broad  pluitation  A   NEW    SERIAL   STORY, 

pathway    tnat     fringed     Sir    Frederick '  iimn«i>, 

Mitton's  park.     With  a  pretty,  fawn-like  ;  GERALD. 

gesture  of  surprise  the  girl  darted  forwSid.  [  U^  ELEANOB  C   PRICE, 

Somehow,  without  the  need  of  words—  j,„^^„  ofxmatk  Hri™-,''v^i,iin.;  "ihe 
neither  could  have  quite  explained  it — the  Fondgmn, "  etc.  etc. 

lovers  were  locked  in  a  dose  embrace.  ,  Z     ~T~,      ~     : 

"  And  did  you  reaUy  dare  to  think  that      „  N«PnhiwuDi.pri«M., 

I  could  ever  have  cied  for  that  man, !  THE     EXTRA    SPRING    NUMBER 

'^r?'^'  '■  *         J  ^1.  .,  J  ALL  THE  YEAK  ROUND, 

"  I  was  informed  that  yon  were  engaged  ookaitow  - 

I  marr^  him."  talbs  bt  popular  AUTaou. 

Sold  It  tU  Kiilinj  Bookitalli,  ind  tr  *n  BaolMlkn- 


"  And  you  belteved  it.' J-,  , 


CHAPTER  ZXTI.  BKCAPTURE  OF  IDA. 
Arcsib  hftd  been  more  fool  tb&n  knave, 
more  ■tnned  ngunat  than  linniug  in  this 
Bompu  bnainess ;  end  he  had  been  a  fool 
too  m  good  and  largo  oompany.  That 
fatal  packet  of  letters  was  bnt  one  of  a 
nimber  whkh  Mrs.  Bompaa  had  made 
mgoketabla  When  she  was  in  low  wat«r 
— «Dd  her  dnmken  improTidence  left  her 
oStea  in  low  water — she  took  a  packet  from 
ita  pigeon-hole,  songht  oat  the  writer,  and 
extorted  all  she  oonM.  Anastana'i  maiden 
heart  had  been  mto-tg^ed  to  ao  manj  that 
lier  mother  was  like  to  make  a  fair  ineome 
oat  of  it,  io  long  aa  ihe  oonld  keep  each 
mortg^ee  pemiaded  that  he  al<Hie  had  a 
lien  oa  the  yonng  lady's  affeotiona 

Anaitasia  was  herself  a  bnainealike 
yOQiig  person,  and  took  a  proper  pnde  in 
— a)  well  as  a  proper  ahare  of — the 
amoonta  realised  by  these  lettera.  And, 
indeed,  she  was  reasonably  prond  thereof, 
since  she  owed  the  number  and  brilliance 
of  her  triumphs  aa  much  to  her  cleremesa 
M  to  her  beaaty.  She  was  very  pretty, 
eertainly,  with  the  most  artlessly  innocent 
bee,  and  soft,  large,  meek,  appealing  brown 
eyes  that  seemed  to  say-  to  yon,  with 
Sterne's  donkey,  " Don't  be  cruel  to  me; 
hot,  if  yoa  will,  yoa  may."  This  patient 
plaintiveness  of  expression  she  turned  to  the 
ntmoat  adtrantage,  for  she  pursued  almost 
invariably,  and  with  almost  invariable 
success,  one  single,  simple  system  of  tactics 
— the  confidence  toiok,  prettily  played. 

Having  chosen  her  victim,  she  would 
riiyly  and  tremalously,  aa  though  driven 
to  it  and  at  bar.  make  him  her  confidant. 


gentleman  who  persncnted  her  continnallj  ' 
and  to  rudsnest.  Whst  was  she  to  do  t 
She  daren't  tell  her  mother— a  ^Iragon  ol 
propriety — who  woald  be  far  more  enr^^ 
with  her  than  with  her  persecutor,  andi 
who  would  probably  forthwith  fly  from  Gam- , 
bridge.  Bnt  she — Anastasia — couldn't  bear] 
the  thought  of  (quitting  Cambridge.  She| 
bad  snoh  dear  ties  there — dear  mends — 
who  had  been  kind  to  her,  oh,  kindness, 
itself  to  her.  (Here  tiiedove-likeeyesmade 
it  unmistakable  that  she  meant  the  yonog 
gentleman  in  band. )  What  was  she  to  do  I ' 
The  young  gentleman  in  hand  would 
demand  f  erocioasly  the  name  of  ber  base . 
persecutor.  Then  would  ADaatasia  start 
aghast  A  qnanell  And  her  spotieM< 
name  mixed  upwithitl  Her  mother's  anger! 
Exile  from  Cambridge  I  Never  more  to 
see  her  friends,  ber  protector  1  Ob  no,  she 
couldn't  tell  his  nama  She  was  so  sony' 
she  had  mentioned  it,  bnt  she  felt  so  Iriend- 
Ims  and  defenoeleas,  withoat  a  broUier 
even ;  bnt  there  was  something  in  his  face, 
in  bis  manner,  wUcb  snr^vised  her,  as  by 
a  sudden  and  irrMistible  impulse,  out  of 
her  confidence.  It  was  very  fbolisb,  and 
forward,  and  selfish  of  her  to  trouble  him 
with  her  troubles.  Would  he  forgive  her 
and  forget  itt  etc.,  etc.  What  youth, 
boming  to  prove  himself  a  man,  could 
resist  an  appeal  like  this  to  what  is  most 
manly  in  manhood,  made  by  beauty  in 
distress. 
ITooftlit  is  Uien  imdsr  hwiven'i  wide  hAnowntsse 

Tbkt  niavM  mare  dau«  compunon  of  ■nui'], 
TtiAD  bwutie  bmughtt'  imworthie  wretdiedneau 

Through  enviM  muats,  or  forttuiN  frskket  un- 

sCher  Ut« 

__  ;hrough  > „.    .  . 

Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankjnd 
Feole  my  heart  pierced  »ith  »o  great  *eon;. 
When  BQoh  I  see,  that  all  for  pi^  I  could  dy. 
There  was  not  in  England  a  youth  more 


458    uptu  i,  1B81-I 


ALL  THE  Y£AB  BOUND. 


not  from  hU  vanity  menly,  but  £roin  Ms 
generosity.  He  vu  vain,  of  coane,  u  all 
young  men  ue,  bnt  he  wu  cMvalrooi  alio 
as  few  ara  And  to  do  Anaataaia  jtutice, 
she  diBoemed  hia  meriU,  and  made  lovff  to 
him  less  as  a  piece  of  busineaa  than  to  any 
other  of  her  victims.  In  hia  case,  in  fact, 
the  -yoQng  lady  was  canght,  u  far  &b  she 
could  be  caught,  in  her  own  neL  What 
love  ahe  had  to  give  she  gave  Archie,  and 
was  very  much  more  ttian  "  half  thtt 
wooer."  What  then  of  his  admiiBioD  to 
his  mother  tiuX  he  would  probably  have 
married  her  1  In  the  first  place  tie  had 
retunied  the  kind'  of  love  she  gave,Hiueb  aa 
it  was,  and  in  the-  seooad  place,  her 
pathetic  and  plaintive  appeals  were  ad- 
dressed at  onee  to  his  itrwKth  and  hia 
weakness — hit  generosity,  made  up  in  part 
of  vanity,  and  in  part  of  chivalry. 

Then  ai^)eared  suddenly  upon  the  aoene 
the  true  Amphitryon,  a  owtain  Hr.  Hyalop, 
whose  presents  tod  prospects  wttn  much 
more  magnifioant  than  Ardhie'a  Of  course, 
the  first  efiiset  of  his  rivalry  was  to  raise 
Archie's  passion  to  a  white  beat,  and 
AnasUaia  would  probably  have  found  the 
diBeneomberiag  herself  of  him  as  difficult 
a  boainesB  ••  the  ensoaiing  of  him,  if  a 
Mr.  Jacox,  a  friend  of  Archie's,  had  not 
helped  her,  by  comparing  ideatioal  notes 
with  him  as  to  the  siren's  seducUon  of 
himselL  Soon  after  Archie's  disenebant- 
ment,  both-  moUier  and  danehter  dis- 
appeared bom  Cambridge,  and  Irom  Uiat 
day  to  this  he  had  heard  nothing  of  them, 
and  would  have  heard  nothing  of  tfaem 
now,  if  Mrs.  Bompaa  had  not  warned  his 
address  from  a  report  in  a  Byeoole  news- 
paper of  the  Denton  railway  aooideDL 

This  being  the  simple  truth  of  the  story, 
it  is  li^e  wonder  if  Archie  felt  he  had 
hard  meaanre  dealt  to  him,  and  if  he 
expressed  the  feeling  to  his  mother,  when 
— after  a  vain  attempt  to  interview  Ida — 
she  came  down  to  auc  him  how  he  >ped. 

' '  All  is  over  for  ever  between  us,  mother," 
he  .groaned. 

"What  did  she  say  r' 

"  Only  that  she  has  no  feeling." 

"  No  feeling  I " 

"  Or  she  thinks  I  have  nona"  Then 
Archie  recounted  whst  bad  passed  between 
them,  raving  alternately  and  inconsistently 
over  Ida's  goodness  and  heartleasness,  and 
winding  np  with  an  appeal  to  his  mother 
to  see  the  girl  and  plead  for  hope  for  him. 
'  Mrs.  J<^  shook  her  head. 
\  "  I  couldn't  intrude  on  her  now,  Ardiie. 
[She  bagged  so  phiutively  to  be  1^  to 


herself.  You  see,  dear,  since  she  was  a 
child  she  has  been  so  driven  in  upon  bar- 
self,  that  now  she  cannot  hear  to  show  ha 
heart  to  anyone.  She's  like  that  Bostile 
prisoner,  who,  having  passed  nearly  all  hii 
life  in  a  dungeon,  couldn't  bring  himself  to 
leave  it  when  he  had  the  chance  at  last" 

"  But  they  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutsa 
now,"  he  argued  desperately. 

"'They,"  were  Mra  Tuck  and  Dick,  who  had 
annonnceid  their  intention  of  coming  to 
fetch  Ida.  They  were  not  going  to  allow 
this  daogtiroos  cousin  another  tdt»i-tite 
railway  journey  with  her.  However,  Mn, 
John  convinced  him  that  another  interview 
with  Ida  woold  be  at  once  impossible  and 
impolitic  ;  and  be  did  not  see  her  agiin 
till  Mrs.  Tack  and  Dick  appeared. 

Mrs.  Tuck  asked  at  once  for  Ida,  snd 
when,  after  a  short  interval,  the  girl  came 
downstairs,  she  saw  in  a  moment  that  she 
was  in  deep  troubla  Attributing  it  to 
Ida's  sorrow  at  parting,  Mrs.  Tnck  was 
forions  with  a  twofold  jealonsy — jealou 
herself  of  Mrs.  John,  and  jealous,  forDick'i 
sake,  of  Archi&  Neverthelees,  she  was  so 
consummate  an  actress  that  she  ^peaied 
overpowered  with  gratatnde,  to  Mn.  J<^ 
for  her  hospitality,  and  to  Archie  for  his  care 
of  Ida  on  the  night  of  the  aocident  Nay, 
she  even  proceeded  to  rally  Ida,  in  hsr 
wittiest  way,  on  her  world-wide  eelebri^ 
as  a  stoker. 

Dick,  too,  after  his  manner,  was  jocoas 
and  genial,  but  with  lees  effort  He  was 
too  easy-going  to  be  tormented  by  utW 
love  or  jealousy.  Still,  he  waa  deeply  dis- 
gusted by  Ida's  dejection,  m  which  hie  pot 
the  same  constouotion  as  his  aunt,  andhii 
cheery  chaff,  therefore,  was  creditable  to 
his  politeness  Thus  wi^  words  soft  ii 
butter  on  their  tongues,  and  war  in  their 
hearbi,  they  carried  off  Ida  most  dejected 
and  wretched. 

"She  seems  very  grateftil  and  friendly," 
said  Archie  aa  he  and  Mra.  John  retomed 
together  after  seeing  them  off  by  the 
train. 

He  was  trying  to  find  some  faint  hope 
in  Mra.  Tucks  effusive  manner. 

Mrs.  Tuck  t  She  has  her  Teanws  for 
it,  Archie,  you  may  depend  upon  it  I 
don't  know  what  they  are,  but  I  do  knov 
what  they'ro  not  They're  not  that  ihe 
wishea  you  and  Ida  ever  to  see  or  hear 
again  of  esdi  other." 

"  Why  then  did  she  allow  her  to  ttsj 
with  UB  at  all ! " 

Yon  ran  awi^  wiUi  her;  and  I  nppon 
she  tltoaght  It  nude  the  tlung  look  bettst 


chiita  Dicbnfc) 


A  DRAWN  GAM& 


[AprUE,lgU.|      459 


to  ftUoir  her  to  Bt»,j  with  bh  for  a  week  oi 
BO,  u  though  it  had  been  a  pre-arranged 
visit     Bat  she's  done  vith  us  nov." 

"Why  Bbould  yon  think  Bot".qnem- 
lonsly. 

"  Whj  I  What  ia  the  one  thing  she  has 
set  her  heart  on  t  Ida's  marriage  to  that 
nephew  of  hen.  Would  it  heip  it  for- 
ward if  she  and  yon  were  allowed  to  fall 
in  lore  1  She'll  never  allow  Ida'  to  come 
here  again,  Archie.     Of  that  I'm  anre." 

"But  she  was  so  firiendly,  and  even 
affectionate,"  nrged  Archie  again,  clinging 
desperately  to  this  straw. 

"  Her  manner  was  like  her  complexion, 
Archie — too  glowing  to  be  natoraL  People 
always  overdo  roage." 

At  this  point  tkej  perceived  the  Bev. 
John  approaching  them  in  (br  him) 
brMthlesa  baste  and  perttubation ;  and 
they  harried  forward  to  meet  him,  sore 
that  something  very  nnusnal,  and  probably 
nnfortonate,  l^  occurred. 


The  Bev.  John,  as  we  say,  appeared  at 
thia  moment  much  perturbed. 

"  Poor  Tom  has  come  back,  Mary  t " 

"TomChownt" 

"Yes ;  I  don't  know  where  we  could  put 
him,  unless  in  that  room  Ida's  been  in." 

Thia  was  Uie  Bev.  John's  manner.  He 
was  flo  absent-minded  that  it  was  almost 
aa  hard  to  get  anything  clearly  out  of  him 
as  to  get  anything  clearly  into  him.  He 
often,  for  instance,  aa  now,  took  it  for 
granted  either  that  you  knew  already,  or 
that  he  had  already  told  yon,  the  essential 
port  of  his  newa. 

"  Put  him  in  Ida's  room  1 " 

"Well,  as  yon  Hke,  Mary;  bat  the  attic 
is  so  draughty." 

"Now,  John,"  taking  him  by  the  lapels 
of  his  coat  to  wake  him  up ;  "  now,  John, 
'  Tom  Chown  has  come  back  * — go  on  from 
there,"  aa  though  he  had  skipped  a  sentence 
in  reading  from  a  primer. 

"  He's  conie  back  very  ill,  Mary — dying 
— and  that  place  isn't  fit  for  a  pig." 

"  Poor  Tom  1     What  place  V' 

"A  wretched  cellar  in  Leeds." 

Archie,  on  hearing  the  news,  started  up 
in  far  the  deepest  trouble  of  the  three. 
Not  eren  Mrs.  John  had  a  Idnder  heart 
than  he,  and  Tom  had  been  far  more  to 
him  thaii  to  Mrs,  John.  All  true  lovers 
wiO  despise  him  when  we  confess  that  he 
forgot  for  the  moment  his  other  trouble  in 
this.     Bat  Archie  had  loved  Tom  as  lone 


as  he  could  tomeAber  aoythitag,  and  loved 
him  all  the  more  warmly  lor  being  a 
dependent. 

Prond  people  can  love  only  dependents; 
but  again,  there  are  people  who,  not  from 
pride,  bnt  from  generosity,  love  dependents 
most,  and  Archie  was  of  this  latter  class. 

"Poor  Tom  I"  he  cried,  echoing  Mrs, 
John,  but  with  even  more  emotion. 
"Mother,  I  shall  have  him  here  in  two 
hours,  if  you'll  get  the  room  ready ; "  and 
getting  the  address  from  the  Bev.  John,  bs 
hurried  away. 

Let  UB  ezplun  Tom's  disappearance 
and  reappearanoa 

Upon  -  Archie's  departora  for  Cam- 
bridge Tom  became  unsettled,  and  took  it 
into  his  head  to  go  seek  his  fortune. 
Having  got  this  idea  into  what  he  was 
pleased  to  caB  bis  mind,  no  dissuasions  of 
the  Bev.  John's,  or  even  of  Mrs.  John's, 
could  dispcfflsess  him  of  it.  AccOTdingly, 
he  went  ftj-  north  to  Newcastle,  where 
work  then  was  plentifnl  and  wages  high. 

At  first  he  wrote  regularly  to  Archie, 
but  when,  ra^er  from  weakness  than  from 
wickedness,  he  fell  into  bad  company  and 
bad  ways,  and  lost  his  work,  and  had  to 
leave  Newcastle,  he  gave  up  writing  from 
sheer  shama  Archie,  writing  stili  to  New- 
castle, had  his  letters  returned  to  him 
through  the  L^ead  Letter  Office.  Then  he 
appli^  to  the  firm  for  whom  Tom  had 
worked  for  inibrmatioD  about  him,  and 
heard  from  its  secretary  that  Chown  had 
gone  to  the  bad  altogetiier,  had  lost  his 
work  and  left  ihe  town,  uid  set  off  no  one 
knew  whitiier.  Archie  didn't  in  the  least 
believe  that  Tom  had  gone  utterly  to  the 
bad,  but  he  bad  no  doubt  that  he  had  got 
into  some  scrape  which  had  coat  him  hia 
work,  and  bad  shamed  him  out  of  answer- 
ing bis  old  playmate's  letter.  Archie 
then  tried  the  only  other  way  he  could 
think  of — advertisement  in  the  Newe«atl<i 
papers  —  without  result,  and  finally  and 
sorrowfully  had  to  give  up  all  hope  of  dis- 
ooTering  Tom's  whereabouts. 

Meantime  Tom  had  gone  to  Glasgow, 
and  got  good  work  there,  and  had  almost 
made  up  his  mind  to  write  to  Archie  a  full 
confession  of  his  past  backalldings,  coupled 
with  a  redeeming  resolution  to  keep  strait 
for  the  fntnie.  But  everyone  knows  that 
no  debt  gathers  snch  compound  interest 
as  the  debt  of  a  letter.  If  you  don't 
answer  it  when  the  answer  is  ma,  every 
day  yOu  delay  doubles  your  disinclination 
to  write  it.  If  tjiis  is  so  ordinarily,  how 
mnch  more  would  it  be  so  with  a  weafc^ 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOTTND. 


minded  man  like  Tom,  who  was  a  poor 
baud  at  vriting,  and  had  but  a  poor  tale 
to  tell  t  So  Tom  pat  off  wriUng  tUl  he  lutd 
a  poorer  tale  itill  to  tell,  and  oooldn't 
bring  himself  to  tell  it 

After  he  had  been  nearly  a  year  in 
Glasgow,  he  again  got  led  away  and  astny, 
and  seemed  bent  at  this  plnnge  to  tonoh 
the  bottom. 

Even  his  Glasgow  employers,  who  were 
much  more  tolerant  of  vaeb  infiimitiea  dian 
those  with  whom  ha  had  had  to  deal  in 
Newcastle,  lost  patience  with  him  and  dis- 
missed him.  Then  Tom  took  again  to  the 
tramp,  and  sought  work  ap  and  down,  and 
sometimes  got  it,  bnt  more  often  didn't, 
and  was  pwniless  therefore,  and  endnred 
terrible  hardsfaips.  At  lasb  the  poor  prod  i^ 
turned  homewsrds, 


A  simile,  by  the  way,  which  Goldsmith 
seems  to  have  borrowed  from  Dryden : 
The  hue  In  nutona  or  in  plsins  u  found, 
Kmblem  of  human  life,  who  runa  the  mund, 
And  after  all  bis  vandering  wave  are  done, 
Hii  circle  filli  and  enda  where  he  begun, 
JoEt  as  Uie  Mttii^  meeta  the  ruing  sun. 

Anyhow  the  imue  expresses  only  too 
faithfolly  poor  Tom^s  bunted  aod  harried 
oouTse  homewarda 

ETsry  man's  hand  was  against  him,  and 
he  was  driTsn  from  town  to  town,  from 
village  to  village,  from  door'  to  door,  and 
even  from  ditch  to  ditch — when  he  tried 
there  to  get  an  hour's  sleep — as  though  he 
were  leproos,  and  tainted  the  air  he 
breathecL  Itmaybe  said  that  he  had  brought 
it  all  on  himself  tuid  deserved  it  all;  bnt  if 
we  all  had  our  deserts  who  sboold  'scape 
whipping  I  Certainly  poor  Tom  paid  up 
to  Uie  uttermost  farthing.  When  at  last 
he  reaehed  Darlington,  with  twopence  he 
had  begged  to  pay  for  a  bed,  his  health 
was  so  broken  down  by  hunger,  exposure, 
and  exhaustion,  that  he  caught  there  in  a 
low  lodging-hoose  one  of  those  feven 
which  ue  always  prowling  abont  in  such 
places,  to  fall  like  tamisbed  wolves  on  the 
weak  and  worn-out.  He  staggered  on  till 
he  reached  Leeds,  and  had  there  to  take 
at  once  to  the  wretobed  bed  in  Mrs.  Stnbbe's 
cellar  where  the  Bev.  John,  having  been 
sent  for,  found  him. 

Here  Archie  fonnd  him,  and  oonid 
hardly  recognise  him — rect^^nised  him  only 
when  poor  Tom  at  eight  of  him  grinned 
the  fiuntest  reflectioD  of  an  old  smile  which 
used  to  spread  slowly  over  his  fttce  long 
ago,  when  Archie  had  ingeniously  got  him 
out  of  some  scrape  he  hw  tngeniouely  got 


him  into— a  smile  expreasire  at  once  of 
relief,  pleasure,  and  admiration.  So  smiling, 
Tom  tried  to  rise  into  a  sitting  posture^ 
but  fell  back  through  weaknesa,  and 
through  weakness  began  to  cry  qoietiy. 
Archie  stood  holdlug  the  wasted  hand 
without  speaking,  for  he  couldn't  speak. 
Till  now  he  had  known  death  by  hearaay 
only,.and  he  was  struck  dumb  by  the  ^gfat 
of  it  in  a  face  so  endeared  to  bun,  and  so 
associated  with  all  the  exuberance  of  life, 
and  all  the  rollicking  memories  of  boyhood. 
Tom  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Eh,  Master  Archie,  bat  aw'm  fain  to 
see  thee.  Aw  thowt  aw'd  niver  see  thee 
again,  no  mOTe." 

"I'm  come  tofetch  you  home,  Tom,"  was 
all  Archie  could  say. 

"  Aye ;  aw'm  bahn  hoam,*  Master 
Archie." 

"  f  on'll  mend  up  when  yoa  get  back  to 
the  old  place,  Tom." 

"  Nay,  there's  nowt  nobbnt  one  road  for 
me.  8itJiee,t  Master  Archie,"  holding  up 
his  arm,  wasted  to  skin  and  bone,  "  aw've 
been  pined,  aw  hev — that's  where  it  is, 
aw've  been  pined." 

"Ob,  Tom  r'groaaed  Archie,  "and  yon 
never  wrote  to  me." 

Tom  tried  again  to  rise,  this  time  to  reach 
his  coat,  bnt  again  fell  back,  and  Archie 
handed  it  to  him.  He  feltfeebly  in  one  of 
ibe  pocketa  of  this  ragged  garment  for  a 
packet  of  letters,  which  be  drew  oat  at  last, 
and  held  towards  Archie  with  a  hand  which 
trembled  as  with  pal^,  even  from  ao  alight 
an  exertion. 

"  Tha  miod'st  when  tha  used  to  nsak' 
gam'  on  me,  Master  Archie,  'cos  aw  oooldn't 
say  my  cst'chism  and  collec'g  off  t  Aw  can 
say  them  off,"  pointing  to  the  packet  of 
Archie's  letters,  "  ivery  one  on  'em,  aw  can. 
An'  when  aw've  been  liggin'  aat,  at  neet, 
in  t'  rain,  too  cowld  an'  hungry  to  sleep, 
aw've  said  'em  all  ower  to  mysen  for 
company  like,  an'  thowt  mysen  back  at  t' 
ould  place." 

Here  Tom  gave  way  again  to  teaa. 

"  If— if  yotfd  only  written,  Tom,"  gasped 
Archie. 

Tom  wiped  the  blinding  tears  away  with 
the  back  of  his  hand,  to  look  solemnly  aod 
steadfastly  at  Archie,  and  see  the  effect 
upon  him  of  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"Aw  couldn't  fashion,  Master  Archie, 
'cos  aw'd  been  such  a  shocker^ — eb,  aw 
hev  been  a  shocker  I " 


"  Bahn  hoam  "— ie.  going  to  din. 

>'Sithea"-Le.look. 

"  A  ahioker  " — i.e.  BhoekioKly  bad. 


A  DBAWN  aAME. 


[iprii  t,  UU.1    461 


It  WIS  plainly  the  utmost  relief  to  Tom 
to  find  itai  thii  disdosora  did  not  check  or 
chill  Archie's  i^mpaithy,  for  he  only  took 
snd  piMwd  the  hand  Tom  had  held  up  to 
wnpuriae  his  confeeBioo. 

"  Yoa  thoald  b»ve  written.  Ton,"  said 
Archie  once  more ;  "yoa  might  have  known 
I  ahonld  have  helped  yoa  whatever  yoa 
weie^  and  I  dare  aa.r  yoa  were  no  worse 
than  IVe  bem  myself." 

*'  Eh,  Master  Archie,  tiia  knaws  nowt — 
nowt  ttta  knaws.  AVm  noau  fit  to  tak' 
thae  by  t'  hond." 

"Well,  it^  over  and  done  with  now, 
Tom,  and  yoaVe  paid  terribly  for  it,  poor 
fellow !" 

Hiis  sDggeetion  of  an  expiation  of  his 
involuntary  penance  Boemed  to  comfort 
Tom  a  bit.. 

"Aw've  been  ooined*  wanr  nor  a  mad 
dog,  Master  Archie.  Aw've  been  that  done 
wi*  hanger  Uiat  aw  couldn't  bide  to  stan', 
an'  when  aVre  ligged  me  daan  aw've  been 
faoDted  like  varmint  thro'  ditch  to  ditch, 
tiU  aw'm  dona  T"  doctor  calls  it  faver, 
bat  it's  ran  in  aw  am,  an'  reet ;  an'  there's 
nowt  but  t'  brash  left  for  faver  to  tak' ; 
there  isn't" 

A  metaphor  drawn  from  an  old  delight 
of  Tom  and  Archie's,  the  neighboanng 
Bramham  Uoor  Hont.  And  in  truth  it 
was  tite  hoands  of  hunger,  exposure,  and 
exhaustion  which  bad  really  run  bim  io 
and  torn  him  to  pieces,  and  left  little  bat 
the  name  of  bis  death  for  fever  to  claim. 

Tom  was  one  of  those  nnfortunate  tramps, 
of  which  there  are  a  few,  who,  not  being 
loat  to  shame,  are  the  failures  of  the  pro- 
feesion;  "poor  beggars  I"  the  seom  both 
of  the  pobuc  and  m  theii  fellowa,  and  in- 
viting by  their  sheepislmess  the  officiooi 
brotality  of  the  police. 

All  he  aaid  of^  his  Bufferings  was  rather 
len  than  more  than  the  truth,  and  what  he 
said  of  his  stckneaa  was  true  also.  He  was 
dying  of  exhaostion  accelerated  by  fever. 
This  the  doctor  told  Archie  a  few  minutes 
after  Tom  himself  had  told  it  to  him,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  doctor  strictly  forbade 
his  bemg  moved  nnder  pain  of  almost  im- 
medii^  death.  Nothing  could  be  done 
beyond  making  him  as  comfortable  as  they 
could  in  Mrs.  Stubbs's  cellar  for  the  few 
hours  of  life  that  remained  to  him. 

For  these  few  hours  of  course  Archie 
would  stay  with  him;  he  woold  have 
st^ed  wim  hint  if  the  doctra  had  thought 
demi  less  immiaent.     He  had  the  deepest 


e.  hsnused  and  baniMl. 


afiectjon  for  his  old  playmate,  which  poor 
Tom  repaid  with  interest  and  eon^und 
interest.  He  worshipped  Arebie,  and  it 
was  an  ine^ressible  comfort  to  him  to  see 
him  sitting  by  his  bedside,  and  not  merely 
because  he  loved  Archie  above  every  one, 
and  prized  his  love  above  everything,  but 
also  for  another  reason.  For  more  &an  a 
month  past  he  had  been  scorned  by  every 
one  as  the  very  filth  and  oEF-econring  of  ^e 
earth,  and  in  this  scorn  he  heard  but  Ui^ 
echo  of  his  own  conscience.  Tom  was  not 
stronger  than  most  of  as — weaker  rather — 
and  Cke  most  of  na  his  self-respect  rose 
and  sank  with  the  respect  of  others. 
Therefore  his  self-abatmnent  now  was  pro- 
found. Bnt  while  the  world  soomed  him 
for  the  crime  of  poverty,  Tom  interpreted 
its  scorn  as  due  to  his  other  sins,  and  now 
that  these  sins  had  found  him  out  and  struck 
him  down,  and  brought  death  near,  he  was 
deeply  troubled  in  his  conscience,  and 
tronbled  for  a  ourioos  reason.  He  bad 
believed  in  his  own  way  in  the  Bev.  J(^'s 
theory  aboat  the  protective  effecta  of  his 
total  immersion  at  birth  in  consecrated 
water;  bnt  his  own  way  was  a  strange 
way,  or  would  seem  strange  to  those 
unversed  in  the  mode  in  which  many 
ChriBtiaa  sects  will  find  any  doctrine  io 
any  passaee  of  the  Bible.  For  Tom,  in  the 
midst  ana  in  the  teeth  of  his  h«idlong 
plunge  into  vice,  still  held  in  a  muddle- 
headed  way  to  the  Bev.  John's  theoiy  that 
he  couldn't  sin — ^Le.  that  what  would  have 
been  sin  to  others  was  not  sin  to  him. 
Now,  however,  that  he  was  plainlypunished 
for  his  sins,  and  universally  scorned,  and 
in  the  grim  grip  of  death,  Tom  took 
a  diametrically  opposite  view  of  his  im- 
maculate immetrion,  and  held  that  so  far 
&om  being  an  absolatton  it  was  an  tmgn- 
vation  of  his  gailt  Therefore,  he  clang 
now  to  Archie  as  a  child  in  the  horror  of  a 
great  darkness  dings  to  Uie  hand  of  an 
elder  brother. 

On  tiie  doctor's  departure  Tom  ex- 
pressed bitter  remorse  for  his  past  Ufe, 
and  then  recurred  to  the  sufferings  of  his 
tramp,  making  it  evident  to  Ar^iie  that 
be  regarded  these  as  expiatory;  but 
suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  story  of  his 
brutal  ill-treatment  by  a  policeman  irito  had 
hauled  him  before  a  magistrate  for  having 
slept  onder  a  haystack,  be  began  to  wander, 
his  mind  slipping  back  without  a  break,  and 
a&in  sleep,  to  far-off  days  and  eon^na.  As 
in  a  dream  the  magistrate,  in  a  moment,  is 
transformed  into  &&S.  John,  the  proaecntbg 
policeman  into  Mrs.  Fybns,  uid  Tom,  a 


46S    rMra(,UM.i 


ALL  taz  YEAR  BOITMD. 


child  BgBifi,  is  tolling  hii  childish  plajmato, 
Arohift,  of  his  delirennoe  out  at  the  old 
Indy'i  h&ndB, 

"Eh,  an'  aboo  did  nttii'  up  to  f  onld 
lady,  ye  mind,  Master  Arohia  '  He's  been 
puniahed  enea,'  shoo  says,  'ye  mnnnot 
foTgst,  Mrs.  Pybos,'  riioo  says,  '  that  he's 
nobbat  a  child  and  knawa  no  better.'  As' 
then  aboo  tnma  to  me,  an'  put  her  band  on 
my  afaoolder,  and  looka  at  me  Borrowful- 
like,  an'  aw  thowt  sboo  vor  bahn  to  soold 
me,  bat  shoo  says  nowt  nobbat,  'Aw 
couldn't  Mt  Usee  aat  before,  Tom,'  that 
wor  all  woo  said,  '  Aw  oonUnt  get  thee 
aat  before,  Tom,'  an*  aw  buret  aat  cryin'. 
Matter  Archie,  aw  did,  aw  couldn't  help  it, 
shoo  w0r  that  forgivin'." 

He  appeared  moved  by  the  mere  re- 
membranoe,  and  lay  quito  still  with 
moiBtened  eyes,  which  he  closed  after  a 
littie,  aeemingly  in  rieep.  Bnt  he  wasn't 
asleep,  (or  when,  a  little  later,  Archie 
moved  very  quietly  to  rea<di  a  chur  and 
aet  it  to  dt  on  near  the  bed,  Tom  opened 
his  ejea  and  said  in  a  startled  way : 

"Eh,  aw'd  lost  mysen.  What  wot  aw 
telMn'  thee,  Master  Archie  I " 

"You  were  telling  me,  Tom,  how  you 
went  wrong  in  Glasgow,  and  how  yon 
suffered  for  it,  and  how  it  reminded  you  (rf 
a  scrape  you  got  into  long  ago,  irtim  we 
were  children  together,  and  Mrs.  Pybns 
had  loeked  you  up  for  it;  bnt  mother 
begged  you  off  after  a  bit,  saying  you  were 
puniahed  enough,  and  were  only  a  child 
and  knew  so  better ;  and  then  mother  put 
her  hand  on  your  Moulder,  and  wben  you 
thought  she  was  going  to  acold  you,  ahe 
aaid  only,  '  I  couldnt  get  you  oat  before, 
Tom,'  and  you  were  ao  moved  by  her  for- 
giveneBS  that  you  borat  out  crying.  I  think, 
Tom,"  added  Archie  after  a  panae,  during 
whitJi  Tom  was  taking  in  this  hia  own 
reminiscence,  as  aMneuiiug  of  which  he 
had  no  remembrance ;  "I  think,  Tom,  you 
had  it  in  your  mind  that  God  would  be  no 
leas  forgiving  and  forbearing  than  my 
mother." 

Then  Tom,  in  his  weakness  and  yearn- 
ing for  something  to  grasp  and  to  lean  on, 
seemed  to  regard  thia  story,  not  as  hia  own, 
or  as  Archies,  or  as  an  account  of  a  real 
incident,  but  as  an  inspired  parable  oent 
him  to  draw  from  it  what  eomfort  he 
could. 

"  Shoo  eaid  I  wor  nobbnt  a  child  1 " 

"  That  you  were  only  a  ohUd,  and  knew 
no  better." 

"An'  that  aw'd  been  punished  eneu 
abeady)" 


"Yes,  Tom." 

He  remained  sOent  for  a  little,  interpre- 
tlng  thia  parable  bit  by  Int  At  last  h« 
said,  lookmg  aniiouely  at  Archie : 

"  But  aw  did  knaw  better.  Matter  Archie. 
Aw  knew  aw  wor  going'  t'  wrang  road. 
Aw'm  noan  a  child  nah,  tha  knaws. ' 

When  yon  got  into  that  old  scrape, 
Tom,  you  knew  you  were  doing  wrong, 
and  mother  knew  that  you  knew  it,  but 
ahe  meant  that  allowaoces  were  to  be  made 
for  a  little  child's  weakneae  and  thougbfless- 
ness.  I  think  we  are  all  but  little  children 
in  the  eyea  of  Ood,  Tom." 

Tom  tiionght  a  t^t  upon  this,  and  toied 
to  find  in  it  what  comfort  he  could.  It 
waan't  much. 

"  It  wor  noan  soa.  Master  Archia  It 
wor  noan  like  a  bairn  that's  in  an'  aat  o' 
mieoheef  in  a  minute.  It  wor  week  in  an' 
week  aat  wi'  me  till  aw'd  weared  all  t* 
brasa*  aw  bed,  or  oonld  raise  on  my  bits 
o'  things.  But— eh,  I  wor  punished  I 
Shoo  aaid  I  wor  punished  eneu,  Master 
Archie  t " 

"  Yes,  Tom." 

"  I  wor  that  If  aw'd  an  enemy  who 
wor  all  apito,  he  wadn't  ba'  put  me  to  more 
poniahment." 

"  And  she  said  ahe  had  set  you  free  as 
soon  as  ever  ahe  coold,  Tom." 

Tom  mused  a  moment  on  tbia,  and  then 
made,  after  a  pause,  the  unexpected  reply: 

"Aw'd  gie  t'  warld  to  see  her,  MMter 
Archie." 

A  wiab  whose  intensity  was  due  in  part 
to  his  loving  and  reverencing  Mrs,  John 
next  to  Archie  in  t^e  world,  and  in  part  to 
bis  hope  of  being  reassured  oi  a  oigher 
forgiveneas  through  obtaining  han. 

"  She's  coming,  Tom  She'Q  aoon  be 
here."  Asd  almoat  with  the  word  ahe 
appeared,  (or  Archie  had  sent  at  onoe  for 
her,  on  heating  that  Tom  was  not  to  be 
moved. 

Mn.  John  was  as  much  shocked  as 
Archie  by  Tom's  appearance,  but  did  not 
show  it  She  had  a  habit  of  seH-SQppreg' 
sion  whex«  the  feelings  of  others  were  con- 
cerned and  to  be  considered,_uid  she  did 
not  yet  know  whether  Tom  had  been  told 
be  had  but  a  few  houre  to  Jive.  She  soon 
knew  it  from  Tom  himself.  Archie  left 
them  togetiier,  knowing  that  his  mother 
was  curate  of  Edgbum,  and  bad  had  for 
years  to  do  and  deal  with  every  case  of 
temporal  and  spiritual  trouble  in  (he 
village.     He  left  bis  mother,  therefore. 


"  Weared  aU  t'  bivias  "-  i 


I.  spent  all  the  Tarmtj. 


A  DEAWN  GAME. 


■lone  with  Tom,  jnrt  a>  he  would  have  left 
the  CeT.  John  atone  with  him,  only  with  a 
greater  ceitaintj  of  epiiitoal  benefit  to  the 
patient. 

Then  ^r  Tom  told  all  the  piteous 
tale  of  hiB  sina  and  of  hia  aafTerings,  as 
wbQ  as  his  weakness  and  his  occasioTial 
wandering  would  allow  him,  trnd  told  also 
the  story  of  his  childish  scrape,  and  how 
it  seemed  sent  into  his  mind  for  his  com- 
fort and  encouragement  Mrs.  John  put 
aside  this  feeble  parable,  and  in  its  place 
read '  for  Tom,  as  only  she  could  read  it, 
and  explained  for  him,  as  only  she  could 
explaiD  it,  the  parable  of  The  Prodigal  Son. 
We  beliere,  at  least,  that  no  man  could 
express  in  tones  and  words  so  steeped  in 
lore  and  pity  all  the  yearning  of  this 

Cble  towaroB  those  whose  divine  hope 
its  sooice  in  tears,  as  the  rainbow  is 
painted  upon  the  cloud.  For  Mrs.  John 
was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  conversion, 
which,  indeed,  is  no  art,  no  mere  echo  or 
reflection,  like  a  punting,  play,  or  poem, 
but  the  very  divine  love  and  pity  them- 
selves going  out  of  our  own  hearts  to  run 
to  meet  and  welcome  the  prodigal  Little 
wonder,  then,  that  Mrs.  Jonn,  speaking  out 
of  the  depth  of  her  own  love  and  pity  for 
Tom,  brought  the  divine  forgiveness  home 
to  his  heart,  to  the  perfect  peace  of  his 
conscienca 

When  Aiohie  returned,  he  inusted  on 
bis  mother's  going  home  at  once,  in  part 
bhiough  fear  of  infection,  and  in  part 
because  of  the  foulness  of  the  cellar  and 
the  lowneas  of  the  neighbourhood. 

Mrs.  John  was  very  much  affected  in 
taking  leave  of  Tom,  whom  she  knew  she 
would  never  see  again  in  this  world,  but 
he  himself  seem^  oncoDscioos  of  the 
leave-taking.  A  great  change  had  come 
over  him  in  that  hour  of  Archie's  absence. 
Not  only 
Hk  vmy  faea  with  cbaofia  of  heu?t  wu  obuigod ; 

was  not  now  drawn  and  haggard  as  with 
physical  pun;  but,  besides  this  positive 
peace,  and  besides  the  passive  peace  of 
death  rtealing  over  it,  over  it  fdso  had 
stoles  a  bright  look  of  tiAppineBs,  replacing 
the  shrinking  ezpresdon  of  trouble  and 
tem»,  aa  the  clouds  that  obscure  the  sun 
one  hour  become  in  tb^  next  Uie  glory  of 
its  setting. 

But  presently  again  he  began  to  wander. 
He  toDK  no  notice  of  Mrs.  John  when  she 
pressed  hia  hand  for  the  last  time,  and  in 
a  broken  voice  bid  him  good-bye ;  and 
long  after  she  had  left  him  he  remained 


[April  E,  1S84.I     463 

of  everything  around,  except, 
in  a  dim  and  indirect  way,  of  Archie.  He 
kept  his  eyes  fastened  on  him  with  a  wild 
ana  wistful  gaze,  and  now  and  again  hia 
mind  was  plainly  dwelling  on  him,  for  he 
repeated  fragments  of  his  letters,  making 
upon  them  probably  the  very  remarks  be 
had  made  in  those  weary  ni^ht-watches, 
when  be  lay  out  under  the  rain,  sleepless 
with  hunger  and  cold.  Always  in  his 
wandering  Archie  was  the  centre  of  his 
thoughts,  and  the  expression  of  his  devo- 
tioEi  to  hia  old  playmate  in  these  his  last 
moments  would  nave  been  afCectins  even 
for  a  stranger  to  listen  to — howmum  more 
to  Archie  himself!  Spmetimes,  with  a 
dieam-like  confusion,  he  seemed  at  once 
to  know  that  it  was  Archie  he  was  looking 
at  with  that  wide  and  child-like  fixedness 
of  gaze,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  to  apeak 
of  Archie  to  himself  as  if  he  were  some 
third  person.  Then  he  would  agun  repeat 
passages  from  the  letters,  and  make 
remarks  upon  them,  as  though  he  were  by 
himself,  or  with  another  than  Archie: 
" '  Dear  Tom,  I  am  very  uneasy  about  you. 
Why  don't  you  write  1  Do  write  when 
you  get  this.  I  think  sometimes  you  must 
be  ill,  or  in  want,  or  in  trouble,'  Eh,  what 
wad  he  think  by  me  if  he  seed  me  nah  1 " 
feeling  with  hie  right  hand  hia  left  arm,  as 
though  it  were  soaked  with  rain.  "He 
wor  that  tender,  tha  knaws,"  addressing 
Archie  as  though  he  were  a  third  person ; 
"  he  wor  that  tender,  tha  knaws,  that  he 
couldn't  bide  to  see  a  ratton  coined,  as 
aw'vebeenooined,foraw've  been  clemmed,* 
tha  sees,"  holding  up  hia  wasted  arm.  "  Ay, 
aw've  been  clemmed.  An'  aw  tell  thee 
what  aVm  moaat  afeard  on,"  raising  him- 
self on  his  elbow,  in  the  strength  of  ^he 
excitement  of  fever,  and  looking  with 
intense  earnestness  at  Archie.  "Aw'm 
afeard  aw'll  be  fun'  deead  in  a  ditch  afore 
aw  can  reach  Leeds,  an'  then  aw'll  niver 
see  him  agin  no  more — niver  no  more  I " 
falling  back  upon  his  pillow  with  a  piteous 
moan.  There  he  remained  qmte  still  for 
a  bit,  while  Archie  forced  some  brandy 
between  his  lips.  Whether  this  conquered 
hie  weakness,  to  which  in  part  his  wander- 
ing was  due,  or  whether  it  was  the  lighten- 
ing before  death,  Tom  came  slowly  i^ain 
to  himself.  He  looked  wistfully  round  the 
room,  after  his  first  glance  at  Archie,  and 
said  then : 

Shoo's  goao ! " 

Yes ;  she  had  to  go,  Tom.     She  Ud 


"Clemmed"— -Le.  itarved 


464    (Aprii5,usii 


ALL  THE  TSAB  BOUND. 


OoBdsctedbr 


yoa  good-bye,  bat  yoa  bad  loet  yonneU  ft 
bit,  and  didD't  notice." 

"  Master  Archie,"  be  said  solemnly, "  ye 
man  tell  her  that  aw'm  noan  flayed*  nab. 
Aw'm  forgi'en,  aw  am ;  aw  seed  it  in  her 
face." 

Poor  Tom's  faitb  in  his  absolution  was 
not,  perhaps,  as  iU-founded  as  it  seema  at 
first  eight.  If  be  could  have  stated  it 
iodcally,  it  would  probably  have  taben 
this  form.  That  as  no  author  could  put 
into  a  book  more  brains  than  he  had  in 
his  head ;  no  painter  into  a  pictore  more 
beanty  ^an  he  had  in  his  mmd ;  no  com- 
poser into  an  anthem  more  mnsic  than  he 
had  in  bis  soul;  so  God  could  not  hare 
pat  into  Mrs.  John's  heart  more  love  than 
He  bad  in  his  own  heart  For  it  waa 
Mrs.  John's  ftce  and  voice  that  interpreted 
to  him  the  parable  better  even  thui  her 
words. 

"I'll  tell  her,  Tom." 

"Ay,  tell  her  aw  seed  it  in  her  face, 
and  aw  shall  knaw  t'  face  of  t'  angela  by 
it" 

Then  he  lay  still  a  little,  with  that 
ezpresrion  of  lerenc  happiness  in  his  face 
Archie  remarked  just  before  Mrs.  John  left 
and  before  he  began  to  wander.  Presently 
he  said,  looking  with  yearning  affection  at 
Archie  : 

"  An'  aw've  see  thee  a^,"  meaning  that 
the  one  other  tiling,  without  whi^  he 
couldn't  have  died  happy,  had  also  been 
granted  to  him. 

"I  did  all  I  could  to  find  you,  Tom," 
said  Archie,  wishing  naturally  tlwt  Tom 
should  know  before  he  died  how  bis 
affection  had  been  returned.  "  I  wrote 
again  and  agun  to  you.  I  wrote  to  your 
employers  to  ask  about  you.  I  advertised 
tor  you  in  the  newspapers." 

"  Nay  I "  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
pleaanie.  "But  aw  thowt  tba'd  think  a 
bit  on  ma.  An'  tbalt  think  a  bit  on 
when  aw'm  goan.  Master  Archie.  Aw'd 
like  to  lig  where  iba  canst  see  t'  grave 
from  thee  room,  an'  think  o'  me,  happen."! 

"  Yea,  Tom,"  with  a  choking  sob. 

"  Near  V  road  to  schooil.  Master  Archie. 
Shoo  tak's  that  way  ivery  morning,  tha 
knawB." 

"  Shoo,"  was,  of  course,  Mrs.  John,  who 
passed  each  morning  by  a  short  cut 
through  the  churchyard  to  take  a  class  in 
the  day-school.  There  was  silence  again 
for  some  time,  for  Tom,  whose  breatunj 
had  become  more  and  more  laboured,  anc 


his  voice  weaker  and  weakar,  seemed 
exhansted,  while  Arohie  couldn't  speak  for 
tears. 

Presently  Tom,  trying  to  raise  himself 
on  bis  elbow,  but  falunK  hack  in  the 
effort,  cried  out  in  a  startled  whisper  : 

"  Master  Archie  I " 
Yes,  Tom." 

Eh,  aw  thowt  tha'd  goan.  It's  so 
mnrk,  aw  cannot  see  thee,  Tha  man  gi'e 
me  thee  bond.  Master  Archie."  Then,  as 
Aicbie  held  his  hand,  be  added,  speaking 
in  gasps,  and  using  a  whole  breath  for 
each  syllable  :  "  Aw'm — noan — flayed — 
but — it's — awesome — lonely.  Aw'd — like 
— them — let-ters — wi' —  me  — them — let- 
ters," looking  up  at  Archie  with  eyes  that 
did  not  now  see,  and  yet  with  an  intense 
wistf  ulness  in  their  gaze. 

In  this  desire  to  have  Archie's  letters 
buried  with  bim  waa  there,  besides  his  love 
for  Arohie,  a  dim  Scythian  idea  that  in  the 
awful  loneliness  of  ue  journey  before  him, 
the  letters  might  be  to  htm  the  company 
they  had  been  to  him  in  his  lonely  tramp  t 

There  might  possibly  be  an  undefined 
notion  of  £is  sort  in  a  mind  dolled  to 
dreaminess  by  weakness  and  the  nombing 
chill  of  death. 

For,  when  Archie  had  mastered  his 
voice  to  answer,  Tom  waa  dead. 


TEAVEI£  IN  THE  EAST. 

PART  VL 

"And  now,"  said  I,  on  quitting  the 
mother  of  the  dustman's  wife,  engaged 
upon  ber  Sisyphean  task  of  tidying  tqi; 
"  and  now  I  want  to  see  tJie  home  of  one 
of  the  poor  matchbox-makers,  for  I  have 
heard  they  are  the  worst  paid  of  all  the 
very  iU-pEud  workers  in  the  East." 

"  Have  then  thy  wish  I "  my  guide 
might  have  replied,  had  be  been  ^ven  to 
i^uote  poetry.  But  bdng  more  business- 
like, be  simply  said  :  "  All  right ; "  and 
without  leaving  the  court  where  the  dnst- 
man  had  his  home,  wa  found  the  other 
boms  whereof  I  was  in  quest 

The  room  was  on  the  ground,  and  waa 
of  the  same  smaUnees — I  «an  hardly  call  it 
size — as  most  of  the  apartments,  or  dwell- 
ings, one  may  term  them,  we  had  pre- 
viously seen.  The  walls  were  full  of 
cracks  and  blotches  bare  of  plaster.  What 
their  colour  once  had  been  it  was  not  easy 
to  determine,  for  all  th«r  surface  was 
absorbed  by  a  prevuling  hue  of  dirt  ^e 
ceiling,  too,  seemed  sipstly  made  to  match 
the  walls,  both  in  regard  to  falling  plaster 


TBAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


[Apia  E,  IBM.]    466 


and  all-perradiDg  griDuoeas,  and  dingineu, 
and  doBt.  The  hue  floor  was  half-covered 
by  a  worn-oat  wooden  hedstead,  which,  in 
the  way  of  bed,  had  nothing  but  the  sack- 
ing atretched  acrosB  whereon  the  mattress 
should  hare  lain ;  together  with  a  little 
hay  or  straw,  or  fodder  of  soma  sort — it 
was  certainly  not  feathers — stuffed  limply 
into  what  might  once  have  held  potatoes, 
but  was  far  too  shmiik  and  meoere  in 
dimension  to  be  likened  to  Jack  Faiataff's 
"  intolerable  quantity  of  sack." 

A  widowed  knife  without  a  fork ;  a 
wedded  pair  of  teaapoona,  as  different  in 
size  as  many  married  couples,  bnt  bearing 
each  a  aadly  worn  and  battered  look ;  a 
bra«  or  two  of  cups,  estranged  from  their 
own  sauceiB  and  mated  to  others  which 
did  not  appear  to  match;  some  half-a- 
do2en  plates,  that  were  generally  cracked  ; 
and  a  teapot  which  was  leading  a  terribly 
loose  life,  in  so  far  aa  touched  its  handle 
and  its  lid — these  were  the  only  signs, 
TiiiUe  and  ontward,  of  anything  like  eat- 
ing or  sitting  down  to  meala.  Sitting 
down,  indeed,  would  have  been  a  little 
difficult,  ezoept  in  TorkiBh  fashion  by 
squatting  on  the  floor,  for  there  were  only 
a  couple  of  chairs,  and  one  was  serving  as 
a  wo»-stooI,  and  was  covered  with  paste 
and  paper,  while  the  other  seemed  an  in- 
valid, and  was  propped  against  the  wall, 
as  though  weak  in  tke  legs  or  injured  u 
the  back. 

By  the  door  stood  a  small  table  with 
strips  of  thin  wood  ranged  upon  it, 
together  with  a  pair  of  very  venerable 
scissors,  and  more  paper,  and  more  paste. 
Beside  a  tiny  fire  there  stood  a  little  pile  of 
boxes,  made  for  holding  nigbt-lighta,  which 
were  doing  their  very  best  to  be  dried  by 
the  small  heat.  Near  them  sat  erect,  as 
though  a  sentinel  on  guard,  a  sharp-eyed, 

fny  -  and  -  white,  euaptcious  -  looking  cat 
xcept,  peihaps,  the  paste-pot,  whiih  was 
valuable  for  boainess,  there  was  little  house- 
hold property  worth  the  care  to  watch. 
But  pussy  kept  her  eye  on  u^,  as  tbough 
prepared  to  make  a  poucce,  like  a  police- 
man on  a  burglar,  if  she  detected  the  least 
symptoms  of  nefarious  design. 

On  a  shelf  by  the  chimney  lay  a  bit  or 
two  of  crockery,  niade  less  for  use  than 
ornament,  and  of  little  use  for  that. 
Conspicuous  in  the  centre,  and  kept  doubt- 
less aa  a  relic  of  departed  days  of  com- 
fort, stood  a  large  two-handled  mug  of  not 
quite  modem  make.  A  dealer  migbt  have 
bought  it  for  a  shilling  at  a  sale,  or  possibly 
for  sixpence  if   sold  by  private  contract, 


and  very  likely  afterwards  have  labelled  it 
"Old  Staffordshire,"  and  have  allowed 
some  young  collector  to  acquire  it  as  "  a 
bargain,"  say,  for  balf-a-gninea,  or  failing 
the  collector,  have  eventually  sold  it,  in  a 
spasm  of  generosity,  for  the  stun  of  throe 
half-crowns.  The  only  other  sign  of 
luxury,  departed  from  Uie  dwelling  with 
departed  better  times,  was  apparent  in  a 
leash  of  tiny  little  cages,  sospended  near 
the  ceiling,  which  was  hardly  more  than 
six  feet  from  the  floor.  There  was,  how- 
ever, nothing  moving  in  these  small 
BasUIles.  The  Utile  prisoners  had  all 
been  sold,  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well  for 
them,  or  else  they  might  have  starved. 

While  we  were  surveying  this  sad  scene 
of  desolation,  its  mistress  returned  sud- 
denly, and  gave  a  feeble  echo,  being  aome- 
what  out  of  breath,  to  the  greeting  of  my 
guide.  She  was  very  thinly  cloued,  but 
with  some  slight  show  of  mourning.  On 
her  head  she  wore  a  something  which 
might  (moe  have  been  a  bonnet,  but  could 
hardly  make  pretence  of  having  kept  its 
normal  shape.  Her  face  was  very  pale, 
and  her  bands  were  thin  and  shaking,  and, 
as  she  spoke,  there  seemed  to  be  a  ahiver 
in  her  voice.  Wrapped  under  her  old 
shawl  she  carried  a  snuUl  bottle,  to  fetch 
which,  she  told  us,  she  had  been  to  the 
hospital  She  was  an  out-patient,  for  her 
congh  was  very  bad.  It  was  "  shaldng  the 
life  out  of  her,"  she  qoiveringly  declared. 

Pitiably  sad  was  the  story  of  her  life, 
and  her  present  way  of  living— or  shall  I 
say  of  dying  1  After  every  dozen  words  or 
so  she  paused  to  gasp  for  breath,  and  held 
her  hand  pressed  to  her  side,  as  if  in 
frequent  pangs  of  pain.  She  had  been 
left  a  widow  leas  than  fifteen  months  ago ; 
her  husband,  a  dock-labourer,  having  died 
in  the  inBimary  at  Bromley;  and  her 
grown-up  Bon  and  daughter,  who  weie 
living  with  her  then,  had  been  living  with 
her  since.  The  son  pursued  the  same  pro- 
fession as  hid  father,  and  found  it  full  of 
workers  and  not  so  full  of  work.  To  help 
to  pay  the  rent  (which  for  their  one  room 
was  two  and  threepence  weekly),  and  to 
buy  such  food  and  clothing  us  the  son 
failed  to  provide,  the  daughter  with  ber 
mother  worked  at  making  match-boxes,  or, 
when  she  got  a  chance,  sold  watercress  or 
flowers,  which  she  was  doing  when  we 
called. 

The  poor  widow  confessed  that  the 
match-box  manufacture  was  not  a  paying 
trada  The  poor  people  who  worked  at  it 
were  rewarded  for  their  labour  at  the  rate 


466      [AptU  b,  1881.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


of  tvopence-f&rthing  for  each  completed 
groH.  That  vas  the  gross  price,  if  I  ma,f 
ventaie  so  to  term  it ;  t>Dt  t&e  net  antooi^ 
received  wu  actoaUy  leaa.  Taskmasters 
of  old  had  declioed  providiDg  e^wfor  the 
poor  who  slaved  at  briwmaktng,  and 
merchants  nowadays  demanded  of  the  poor 
who  made  their  match-boxes  that  they 
Bhoold  provide  the  pasta  The  cost  of  the 
materials  was  little,  it  was  true,  bnt  time 
was  wasted  in  the  making,  and  time  was 
rather  preciooi  when  counted  in  the  prioe. 
Fire  too  was  reqoired  both  for  the  making 
of  the  paste  and  for  the  drying  of  the 
boxes  after  they  were  made.  Bat,  these 
drawbacks  notwithstanding,  twopence- 
farthing  for  twelve  dozen  was  the  uberal 
rate  of  payment,  and  on  the  same  scale  of 
monificenoe  was  the  wage  for  making  night- 
light  bozei,  although  npon  the  whole  the 
work  was  ratiier  harder,  U10  boxes  being 
longer  and  being  made  with  lids. 

I  enquired  of  what  disease  it  was  her 
husband  died,  "Same  as  I'm  a-doing — 
Starvation,"  she  replied  a  little  grimly,  with 
a  gasp  that  added  emphasis  to  the  plain- 
ness of  her  speech.  "I've  had  no  food 
since  Simdap','^  she  proceeded  to  observe  j 
and,  mind,  it  was  on  Wednesday  that  we 
heard  the  observation.  Being  a  litUe 
startled,  I  questioned  her  more  closely. 
Perha^  her  memory  was  &ulty,  or  perhaps 
she  tried  to  make  the  worst  of  her  sad 
plight.  But  all  she  could  remember  was  a 
cup  or  two  of  tea — the  last  pinch  they 
had  left — and  a  morsel  of  dry  bread  scarce 
big  enough  to  bit& 

"And  we've  sold  everything  we've  got 
a'most.  Excep'  the  bed  we're  lying  on. 
And  there  ain't  much  0'  that  Mot  as 
many  'ud  core  to  boy.     But  there,  Qod's 

food,  they  say.  Ue'U  help  us  yet  maybe, 
trust  in  Him,  I  do.  But  I'm  a'most  past 
His  help." 

All  this  was  said  in  gasps,  with  a  dry 
cough  now  and  then,  that  well-nigh  choked 
her  utterance;  and  with  a  quiver  In  her 
figure  and  a  quaver  in  her  voice.  If  she 
were  acting,  as  Mr.  Bumble  might  suggest, 
she  certainly  bade  fair  to  shine  upon  the 
stage,  and  might  "star  "it  in  the  provinces 
with  great  prospect  of  success. 

I  questioned  her  about  her  husband,  and 
the  causes  of  his  illness. 

"He  worked  mostly  at  the  docks,"  she 
said, "  and  we  got  on  pretty  comfor'able. 
But  there  come  a  baddish  time,  on'  he 
couldn't  get  no  work  sca'ce,  an'  he  got  weak 
for  want  o'  food.  An*  then  he  catohed  a 
chill  a  waitin'  in  the  wet     So  he  went  to 


the  infimey,  an'  lay  there  till  he  died.  Day 
arter  Chnstmas  Bay — merry  Christmas 
as  they  calls  it  We  wasn't  very  merry  with 
him  there  lying  dead,  and  we'd  nothtn' 
much  to  eat" 

From  farther  information,  elicited  in 
mps,  I  learned  some  ghastly  details  as  to 
the  death  which  hod  occuired,  and  the 
days  that  had  elapsed  before  Uie  fiinend 
took  place.  The  body,  it  appeared,  had 
been  sent  home  in  a  "  BheU,"  for  the  widow 
wished,  if  possible,  to  avoid  a  parish  burial, 
having  perhaps  heard  of  the  grim  chorus 
of  the  song : 

It»ttle  hii  bone* 

Over  the  BtonM, 
Ha'i  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  oma. 

So  her  son  got  up  a  "  Lead  "  (pnmouiieed 
to  rh^e  with  "  need"),  which,  as  sbe 
explamed,  was  a  meeting  of  their  friends 
and  neighbours,  who  were  privately  invited 
to  Eubscribe  towards  a  private  buriaL  They, 
however,  were  so  poor  that  only  forty 
shillings  was,  in  puinies  and  in  sixpences, 
collected  at  the  "  Lead,"  and  this  being 
less  than  half  the  undertaker's  loiraat 
charge,  she  was  reluctantly  compelled, 
after  fifteen  days  of  waiting,  to  seek  for 
parish  help. 

"But,"  I  could  jiot  resist  enquiring, 
"did  he — did  the  shell  remain  here  aU 
this  while  I " 

"  Tea,"  replied  the  widow,  gasping  as 
before.  "  It  stood  here  upon  trestles,  just 
where  you're  a  st«n'in',  an'  me  an'  my 
daughter  slep'  beude  it  on  the  bed,  and 
her  brother  slep'  beside  it  down  Um«  on 
die  floor.  No,  we  never  saw  no  doctor, 
nor  no  Sanitaray  'Spectre,  nor  we  didn't 
want  to.  They  ollys  make  a  ftiae,  an' 
quarrels,  too,  like  oats.  Leastways  so  they 
say.  Bnt  I  don't  know  much  about  'em, 
tbottgh  I  don't  think  they're  much  good." 

To  change  this  painful  subject,  I  pointed 
to  the  plaster  which  was  peeling  from  the 
walls,  and  foiling  from  the  ceiung,  and  I 
asked  her  when  she  thought  the  uiidlord 
would  repair  the  room. 

Haven't  got  no  landlord,"- was  the 
answer.  "  She's  a  lady.  Leastways  so 
they  calls  her.  She's  a  'ard  'un,  ene  it. 
Lives  down  in  the  Dog  Road,  nigh  to  The 
Blind  Beggar.  Yes,  that's  a  public-'ousa 
Reg^or  'ard  'on,  she  is.  Told  me  on'y 
yest'day  if  rent  wom't  paid  to-morrer  she'd 
)ut  my  thin^  out  in  the  street  An'  God 
Luows  how  I'm  to  pay  it,  if  my  son  don'l 
get  a  job." 

She  said  this,  not  complainingly,  but  as 
though  stating  a  plain  fact     ^ere  was 


DO  covert  appeal  to  us  for  ch&rity,  nor  el; 
ghnoe  to  see  if  we  were  moved  by  her  Bad 
stoty;  thati  sharp  but  fartlve  look 
which  a  beggar  by  profeadon  often  finds  a 
nseful  jgaidA  in  framing  tiia  next  speech. 
Mr.  Ebenezer  Scrooge,  before  the  hour  of 
his  conversion,  might  have  sworn  that  she 
waa  shamming,  and  hare  buttoned  np  his 
peseta  in  a  fit  of  rigbteons  wrath  at  her 
nuuufeat  imposture  and  mendicant  attempt. 
Bat  after  seeiae  the  three  Spirits,  Mr. 
Scrooge,  if  he  had  listened  wliile  the  widow 
told  her  story,  would  no  doubt  have  done 
aa  I  did,  and  relieved  her  of  the  fear  of 
being  turned  into  the  street 

Just  aa  the  poor  widow  was  ending  her 
nd  atory,  and  with  trembling  bands  had 
remunad  her  ill-pud  work,  we  were  cheered 
by  the  arrival  of  a  sturdy  little  girl,  with 
loigbt  blown  eyes,  aud  hair  all  towded  by 
the  wind,  and  some  out-door-gtown  and 
kealtby-Iooking  roses  on  her  cheeks.  She 
wore  a  very  shabby  dress,  but  had  good 
thick  shoes  to  her  feet  Brisk  in  manner, 
if  not  bnisqae,  and  qieaking  in  short 
santencas,  she  seemed  as  if  she  had  much 
business  on  her  hands,  and  her  voice,  like 
her  hair,  was  roughened,  as  it  were,  by 
expoBnre  in  the  straets. 

She  had  been  out  selling  a  few  "creeses," 
she  informed  us,  and  had  now  returned  to 
look  after  the  children,  and  to  finish 
washing  a  few  "  thitms "  of  theirs,  and 
some  of  ber  papa's.  But  for  her  mention- 
ing the  children  in  this  maternal  manner, 
I  might  have  foolishly  mistaken  her  for 
being  one  of  them  herself  My  guide, 
however,  with  doe  deference,  addressed 
her  as  "  Little  Mother,"  which  she  appa- 
rently accepted  as  her  rightful  titla  Being 
delicately  questioned  on  the  subject  of  her 
ago,  she  owned  to  being  sixteen,  but  con- 
fessed the  age  was  counted  from  her  birth- 
day in  next  August^  for  young  ladies  love 
to  reckon  a  few  months  in  advance. 

As  I  wished  to  hear  a  little  of  her  ways 
and  means  of  life,  she  invited  me  politefyj 
albeit  a  little  grafHy,  to  visit  "her  at  home. 
So  we  bade  adieu  to  the  poor  widow,  and 
followed  Little  Mother  up  some  steep  and 
narrow  stairs,  to  the  unusual  altitude  of 
an  Eastern  second  floor.  Entering  a  low 
doorway,  we  etood  in  a  small  room  of 
barely  seven  feet  in  height.  This  chamber 
formed  the  home  of  Little  Mother  and 
three  children  and  dieir  father,  whose 
wife,  we  learned,  had  died  in  "the  dark 
days  before  Chrlstiaas  "  hut,  which  certainly 
had  not  been  br^fatened  by  her  death. 
Father  was  nursing  baby  doriog  Little 


Mothers  absence,  a  poor,  pale,  sad-^yed 
baby,  wr^ped  in  an  old  threadbare  shawl, 
and  carried  tenderly  in  his  arms  with  never 
a  whine  nor  whimp^,  the  while  father 
walked  about^ 

Squatting  on  the  floor  was  a  white-faced 
little  boy,  half  dressed  in  a  Uue  jersey, 
with  patches  in  the  sleeves,  which  scarcely 
reached  below  the  elbow.  He  wore,  like- 
wise, some  blue  "small clothes,"  which  were 
worthy  of  their  name,  for  they  reached 
hardly  to  the  knee,  and  showed  a  longUh 
bit  of  bare  leg  over  a  bare  foot.  In  the 
absence  of  a  lollipop  or  piece  of  barley- 
sugar,  he  was  emplt^M  in  sucking  his  thumb 
with  amasing  perseverance.  I  asked  him 
what  his  name  was,  and  his  father  answered 
"Henry,"  ^le  boy  having  his  mouth  too 
fall  of  thumb  to  make  an  audible  reply. 

Father  was  clean-abaven  and  tidy  in  bis 
appearance,  though  be  had  not  nuich  to 
boast  of  in  the  matter  of  attire.  He  spoke 
very  civilly,  in  rathec  a  weak  voice,  and 
his  cheeks  bore  out  the  notion  of  bis  being 
underfed.  He  waa  a  costermonger  by  pro- 
fession, bat  wasn't  no  ways  pertickler.  Go 
anywheres  he  would, .  and  do  anything 
a'most,  if  so  be  as  he  could  earn  aa  aonest 
penny  by  his  work.  ,To:day  he'd  been 
acrost  the  river  to  the  Commercial  Pock^ 
having  heerd  there  were  a  ship  in,  and  a 
prospeo'  of  a  job.  But  bless  Inia,  though 
he  got  there  afore  six,  there  waa  scores  of 
'em  a-waiting ;  and  alter  all  it  wom't  no 
go,  'cause  the  ship  hadn't  come  in  yet 
And  that  waa  about  the  way  of  it,  'most 
everywheres  it  was.  "  If  there's  ever  snch 
a  little  bit  o'  work  arwa&tin'  to  be  done, 
there's  hunderds  of  'em  flocks  to  it.  And 
it's  'ard  lines  on  a  chap  as  have  got  his 
mouth  to  fill,  and  four  little^  una  beside, 
too.  Not  BO  very  little  ueitber^  leaatways 
some  of  tbem  there  mouths  ain't"  This 
he  added  with  a  smile  as  he  looked  at 
Little  Mother,  who,  however,  was  too  busy 
at  her  wash-tub  to  notice  the  amall  sarcasm 
her  papa  oast  in  her  teeth. 

Two  ahillings  and  tbreepence  a  week  was 
the  rent  of  his  small  room,  whiih  was 
higher  from  the  ground  and  lower  in  its 
ceiling  than  any  I  had  seen.  Some  €oor- 
boards  were  loose,  and  when  troddeq  on 
abruptly  seemed  to  threaten  a  descent  into 
the  chamber  underneath.  There  was  not 
a  scrap  of  carpet  to  hide  any  defects,  nor 
were  there  any  pbott^raphs  or  cheap 
pictures  on  the  walls  to  conceal  their  want 
of  paint  There  was  a  wooden  bedsteal, 
with  the  usual  Eastern  bedding  <^  some 
huddled  bits  of  sacking ;  and  there  were  a 


468    IAPIUS.U 


ALL  THE  YFAR  ROUND. 


table  and  a  ehair  or  tiro,  with  a  atooi, 
wherooD  the  wash-tab  waa  eonapiououalj 
placed.  A  large  sUio  on  the  oeilisg  betrayed 
a.  leaky  roof,  and  in  the  imall  window  I 
•aw  two  broken  panea. 

"They're  Maater  Sackthumb'a  dMug," 
said  his  father  in  apology.  "  He's  to  blame 
for  them  there  breakages,  he  is.  Broke 
'em  with  hia  ball,  be  diX  He  were  a'most 
all'ya  a  chuckJn'  it  aboat  whmeo^ver  me 
an'  Molly  worn't  upun  the  watch.  If  they's 
left  ever  to  tbeinelvee,  boyo  is  all'ya  up  tO 
miKchiel  And  one  must  leave  'em  a  while 
whr-n  one's  got  to  atii  some  grab  for  'em. 
You  cuu't  wfU  be  at  home  an  be  oat,  too, 
that's  lorsartin." 

"  Well,  yes,"  cried  I,  eorroeting  him, 
"yon  may  be  at  home^  yon  know,  and  y«t 
be  out  of  temper.  Bat  I  think  yon're  too 
good-hnmoared  to  be  ever  ont  of  that," 
I  added  with  a  amile,  for  indeed  he  looked 
the  piotore  of  contentment  and  good- 
nature, as  he  briskly  walked  aboat  with 
the  baby  in  hia  arms.  He  seemed  to  reliah 
my  small  joke,  and  gaTe  a  little  laugh  as 
be  repeated  it  to  Litue  Mother  at  the  tuK 
She  was  far  too  baay  to  indulge  in  idle 
laughter,  but  she  dugned  to  liaten  gravely, 
and  appeared  to  comprehend  the  purport 
of  the  jaat 

Enquiry  being  pat  why  father  had  not 
gone  to  momine-aervice  for  many  Sondaya 
past — "Why,  how  can  It"  he  replied, 
"when  I  haven't  got  no  coat  I've  on*; 
this  aid  jacket,  which  it  ain't  fit  to  be  seen 
in,  speeial  of  a  Sunday.  I'd  be  willin' 
enongh  to  come,  but  I'd  like  to  look 
respectable.  An'  with  them  little  uus  to 
feed,  I  really  can't  afford  it  Beaide, 
there's  baby  to  be  nuased,  an'  he'a  gittin'  a 
bit  'eavyiah,  an'  Molly  can't  be  all'ys 
mindio'  him,  you  know.  So  1  has  to  take 
my  turn  at  it ;  an'  Molly  works  so  'ard  o' 
week  days,  she  ought  to  rest  a  bit  o' 
Sunday.  Why,  when  she's  a  sellin'  creeses, 
she  must  be  early  at  the  market,  on'  tfaat's 
nigh  Obun  way,  yon  know,  an'  a  tidy 
tramp  from  'ere  that  is.  Sbe've  to  get 
there  afore  five,  an'  aome  momin'e  afore 
four,  an'  she'll  'ave  to  be  afoot  a'  times 
till  aix  or  seven  a'  night,  if  so  be  the  aint 
no  luck.  But  it's  a  goodiah  trade  is  oreesee. 
When  I  finds  I've  'arf-a-crownd  as  I  can 
spare  her  for  a  spec,  she'U  make  it  nigh 
to  double  by  investin'  it  in  creeaea." 

The  conversation  taking  a  commeicjal 
turn,  I  was  ablp  to  acquire  aome  further 
knowledge  of  the  match  trad&  Little 
Mother  had  worked  at  it,  for  lack  of  better 
labour ;    and  had  not  merely  made  the 


boxes,  but  had  fiUbd  thim  "iui  th&r 
matehea — first,  with  a  fixed  knile,  ruiting 
all  of  Uiese  to  fit  For  this  twofold 
operation  abe  had  received,  upon  the 
average,  threepenoe,  or  it  might  be,  three- 
pence-farthing, for  four  dozen  boxes  filled. 
"  StArtmg  work  at  seven  punctual,"  aa  her 
father  phrased  it,  and  working  pretty 
reg'lar  till  nigh  on  eight  at  night,  she  had 
ooLtrived  to  earn  as  much  as  four  ahiilinga 
a  wuek.  She  had  even  heard  of  workers 
who  could  weekly  earn  a  crown  ;  but  they 
mudt  kevp  tightish  at  it,  aod  be  most 
unoommon  handy  with  their  fingers,  aha 
opined,  and  not  given  much  to  gab. 

Little  Muther  condescending  to  join  as 
in  our  talk,  I  put  a  shilling  in  her  hand, 
just  wet  out  of  the  wash-tub,  and  asked  if 
she  coold  nad.what  was  impressed  upon 
the  coin.  She  frankly  anawered,  "  No," 
for  she  had  "  never  gone  to  sehooL  Never 
had  the  time,"  she  added  with  some  brisk- 
ness, to  which  her  father  by  a  nod  in 
silence  signified  assent  She  knowed  it 
were  a  shilling  thoiuh,  aha  proceeded  to 
observe,  and  she  knowed  how  many 
bundles  of  creeses  she  oould  buy  widi  it 
and  how  much  she  could  sell  'em  for,  if 
she  had  any  luck.  She  stemed  sadly  posed, 
however,  when  I  propounded  the  old 
problem  which  had  puziled  me  in  yoaUi ; 
anent  the  herring  and  a  half  that  oould  be 
bought  for  just  Ihreehalfpence,  and  the 
number  left  indefinite  to  be  puicbased  fw 
elevenpence ;  the  terns  of  buying  being 
nmilar  m  either  cas«  of  sale.  Redaction 
being  made  in  the  aatimate  demanded,  at 
length,  by  rather  slow  degrees,  her  father 
prompting  audibly,  she  succeeded  in  stating 
a  solution  of  the  problem ;  and  she  seemed 
verymnch  relieved  when,  at  my  suggestion, 
ahe  had  pocketed  the  shilling  which  had 
caused  such  needless  trouble  to  her  mind. 
I  shook  hand)  with  Little  Mother  on 
wiahing  her  farewell,  and  a  good  iaane  of 
her  wasL  I  waa  likewise  honoured  with 
a  shake  by  Master  Suckthnmb,  who  by  a 
superhuman  effort  had  succeeded  in  ex- 
tracting hia  digit  from  hia  lips.  He 
seemed  rather  in  low  spirits ;  possibly 
from  taking  thought  about  the  broken 
window,  which  his  father  had  recalled  to 
him;  or  about  the  ball  which  he  had  lost 
in  consequence  of  that  lamented  fracture, 
and  whi^  in  his  dearth  of  things  to  play 
with  waa  doubtless  a  sad  Iossl  He  cheered 
up  a  little  when  I  ptodaced  a  penny,  and 
suggested  that  perhaps  he  might  buy 
another  ball  with  it  But  patetnal  wisdom 
hinted  that  anotbw  pane  jnight  luffer;  and 


POISONOUS  EEPTILEa 


Uprti  B,  IBM.]     469 


BO  a.  p^-top  Vab  proposed  and  cheerfully 
accepted,  on  condition  that  the  pegging 
ihoiud  be  done  on  the  pavement  of  the  court. 
Another  half-mile  valk,  and  half-hom'i 
Tint  at  the  end  of  it^  both  of  which  I  may, 
perhaps,  describe  hereafter,  brought  to  a 
eonclusioD  myBecondEaatemtravel;  which, 
on  the  whole,  had  Baddened  me  more  than 
the  first.  Again  I  entered  the  Cathedra), 
in  my  tramp  through  the  City,  and  found 
the  white-robed  litUa  choir-boya  boeied  is 
their  Lenten  service,  and  miuicatly  chant- 
ing in  a  plaintive  minor  key.  In  the 
pans**  of  their  singing  the  roar  of  the 
street  traffic  beat  npon  the  ear,  and  re- 
called me  to  the  scenes  of  life  and  laboar  I 
had  left.  How  peacefol  seemed  that  haven, 
where  all  sat  at  their  ease,  and  where  no 
signs  were  visible  of  misery  and  want  I 
Ajod  then  there  came  the  thought  that  the 
poor  were  "  always  with  us,"  though  the 
want  of  decent  clothing  might  keep  them 
out  of  church.  And  there  came,  too,  the 
romembrance,  reverential  and  refreshing, 
that  the  finest  of  all  sermons  was  preached 
chiefly  to  the  poor:  who,  with  the  promise 
of  a  share  in  ttie  kingdom  of  heaven,  were 
rightly  and  divinely  accounted  to  be  blessed. 


PATIENCK. 


Hold  tbou  mills  hand,  bch.ved,  with  the  caIdti 

Clobe  clMp  of  love  asaurird  and  at  mt. 
And  let  the  peace  o[  hrnne,  n  bles»ed  balm, 

FftU  on  u.,  folding  faithful  breast  to  breaat. 
Hold  thou  mine  hand,  belored,  while  I  speak 

Of  aU  Ui;  tove  bath  dune  and  borne  for  me, 
The  Mrouger  noiil  luppurting  still  the  weak. 

The  good  hand  giving  royalty  and  free  ; 
The  tender  heart  that  put  man's  rooghaeeB  by, 
To  wipe  weak  tears  from  eyei  too  ■eldom  dry. 
I  tooufa  this  thing  and  that,  thy  pretty  gifts. 

The  silver  zone,  the  jewelled  finger-riog, 
The  outward  symbols  of  a  love  that  lifts 

My  fate  and  me  beyond  life's  buffeting. 


lliy  patience—through  the  lung  yean  with  their 


Ah,  It 

Taara  of  (freat  joy,  and  deep,  aarana  coOteot , 
And  Qod  be  thanked  that  through  the  WHary  yean 

We  saw  together  ere  our  lives  were  blent, 
Although  the  years  were  desolate  and  lun>;, 
Thy  patience  matched  thy  love,   and   both   vrere 


POISONOUS    REPTILES    AND 

INSECTS  OF  INDIA 

IN  TWO  PARTS.       PAKT  L 

It  is  during  the  rainy  season,  beginning 

with   July  and   endmg  with   September, 

that  the  insect  and  reptile  life  of  India  is 


in  full  force  ;  when  the  steaming  heat  has 
evoked  a  sadden  burst  of  intense  vegeta- 
tion which  the  scorching  drought  of  the 
prerions  three  months  has  kept  dormaat. 
Then  also  these  lower  forms  of  the  animal 
creation,  as  if  hitherto  dormant  from  the 
same  cause,  burst  into  sudden  and  redoubled 
life.  Each  patch  of  the  almost  visibly  grow- 
ing grass  teems  with-mtdtitudes  of  insects, 
whose  ephemeral  life  seems  to  begin  and 
end  with  the  season,  or  may  conceal 
reptiles  hannless  or  noxious  to  man.  Each 
footstep  has  now  more  than  ever  to  be 
watched  against  the  chance  of  lighting  at 
any  time  upon  a  dangerous  reptile. 

Among  the  daily  and  familiar  signs  of 
the  insect  and  reptile  life  of  India,  water- 
snakes,  harmless  in  bite,  may  be  seen 
swimming  abont  in  pools  of  water,  rejoic- 
ing in  the  frogs  which  these  supply,  or 
along  the  margins  of  lakes  with  heads  just 
showing  above  the  surface ;  droves  of  fross 
may  be  seen  trooping  up  your  venmdan- 
stepB  as  if  intoxicated  with  the  shower  uf 
rain,  to  be  ignominioasly  shot  out  again 
by  chankeedar  or  sweeper  standing  guard 
over  the  doors;  wasps  and  large  fierce 
hornets  pounce  upon  every  unprotected 
eatable;  dark  clouds  of  the  house-fly, 
now  swelled  to  numbers  easily  tb  safest 
a  plague,  contest  possession  oi  the  break- 
fastntable;  ants  large  and  small  defile 
in  long  columns  down  the  walls  of  your 
room,  exploring  fresh  country  »  establish- 
ing Gommnnicatioa  between  their  nest  and 
an  unprotected  sugar-bowl;  hunting-spiders 
are  stalking  fliea  on  the  glass  doors  opening 
on  your  verandah  ;  liz^s  percbauce  are 
stalking  the  n>iders  themselves,  or  other 
flies  on  the  w^l ;  splendid  ichneumon-flies 
dart  in  and  out  of  your  room,  making 
minute  examinations  of  your  furniture,  or 
dragging  live  caterpillars  or  huge  spiders 
up  to  their  little  mud  cells  along  the  edge 
of  your  bookcase ;  bees  of  both  species, 
wild  and  domesticated,  and  of  various  sizes 
of  each,  from  no  b^ger  than  a  house-fly, 
pursue  their  flight  to  and  from  their  nests 
in  the  densest  foliage  of  the  trees.  Aa 
darkness  falls  the  various  beetles  huge  and 
small,  moths,  and  multitudes  of  noisome 
insects  that  wing  their  noisy  way  through 
the  night  air,  and  strike  in  showers  upon 
your  face,  take  up  the  tale ;  and  the  mos- 
quitoes, true  beasts  of  prey,  minute  but 
savage,  eznerge  from  the  folds  of  your 
door-curtains  to  prey  upon  yourself,  and 
mf^e  the  air  once  more  alive  with  their 
hostile  buzz. 
Chief  among  reptiles  of  India,  as  else- 


470      [April  S,lgS4.J 


ALL  THE  TEAK  ROUND. 


vbere,  is  the  Bcake,  uid  amoDg  the  makes 
of  India,  the  cobra  ia  moat  £^aded  and 
deadly.  Third  in  order  of  virulence  ia  the 
krait,  and  as  this  and  the  cobra  are  moat 
commonl;  to  be  met  vith  of  the  poiaonons 
varieties,  I  will  cbiefiy  allude  to  them.  Of 
these  two  the  cobra,  1^  reason  of  its  nature 
to  bite  from  the  pure  love  of  attackin|t,  ia 
by  far  the  moat  dreaded  and  fatal  l^ey 
are  both  partial  to  dry  places,  sach  as 
hollows  of  trees,  etc,  and  also  find  suitable 
quarters  in  the  mud  and  thatch  houses  of 
the  bulk  of  the  native  population.  The 
cobra  reaches  a  length  of  five  feet,  and 
is  of  a  light  brown  shade,  which  alone 
diatiugnishea  it  &om  other  snakes,  but. 
added  to  this  a  the  ominous  fan-shaped 
hood,  with  its  black  horse-shoe  mark,  wluch 
it  distends  from  its  neck  when  angry,  and 
which  singles  it  out  from  every  variety. 
It  has  besides  a  fierce  and  venomous  look 
peculiarly  its  own,  as  if  indicaUng  at  once 
its  nature  and  its  own  conscioosness  of 
power.  The  krait,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
jet-black,  with  pure  white  bands,  and 
attMDS  even  a  greater  length,  but  does  not 
possess  either  the  venomous  look  of  the 
cobra  or  its  destructive  propensity.  The 
eggs  of  the  krait  I  have  repeatedly  come 
acroaa  in  old  cellars  or  beneath  masses  of 
lumber,  as  Urge  as  big  hen-eggs,  white  and 
soft,  but  never  have  I  found  thoae  of  the 
cobr& 

The  European  is  not  long  in  the  country 
without  making  acquaintance  with  one  or 
the  other  of  these  snakes,  and  generally 
when  least  e^>ected  or  desired.  Indeed, 
the  marvel  of^  most  Anglo-Indians  after 
leaving  the  country  ia  now  they  have 
weathered  so  many  hairbreadth  escapes, 
and  are  still  extant  to  tell  the  tale ;  especially 
so,  when  they  recall  the  very  familiar 
remembrance  of  the  numbers  of  their  darker 
brethren  who  succnmbed  all  around  them 
to  snake-bite.  This  immunity  they  attri- 
bute a  good  deal  to  the  constant  presence 
in  their  bungalows  of  one  or  more  pet  doga, 
who  are  generally  to  be  found  beside  their 
master'e  beda  at  night,  eharing  along  with 
them  the  cooling  breeze  of  the  punkah. 
My  first  acquaintance  with  a  cobra  was  one 
night  when,  awoke  by  a  loud  barking, 
rising  half  up  in  bed  I  aaw  through  the. 
open  door  of  the  adjoining  bath-room 
where  the  night-light  burned,  my  two 
terriers  barking  furiously  in  full  battle 
front  of  a  large  cobra  that  was  reared  on 
its  tail  and  facing  them  in  torn.  It  was 
motionless  except  for  a  slow  swaying  of 
the  head,  its  hood  was  distended  to  a  com- 


plete circle,  its  tongue  darted  in  and  out, 
while  every  now  and  again  it  emitted  a 
loud  hissing  sound  ( which  at  first  had  made 
me  think  of  jungle-cats) ;  but  never  once 
did  it  show  trace  of  fear,  or  remove  trom 
the  d(%s  the  fierce,  &8ciuatiog  stare  that 
seemed  to  rouse  them  to  freniy,  as  they 
kept  advancing  and  retreating,  but  still 
carefully  outrida  the  danger-line.  Fearing 
their  wrath  might  get  the  better  of  their  dis- 
cretion, I  leaped  hastily  up  and  dispatched 
the  reptile  with  a  stick  ;  when  tlie  dogs, 
no  longer  dreading  their  enemy,  vented 
their  rage  on  bis  inanimate  body.  I 
remembered  that  durine  the  day  I  had 
been  snrprised  while  tudag  my  bath  at 
the.  dogs  silently  and  persistentiy  snuffing 
around  an  old  trunk  in  the  ba^i-room,  and 
that  Dot  in  their  usual  way  when  a  rat  or 
mouse  was  in  the  question,  but  took  litUe 
notice  of  it  at  tiie  time,  though  it  was  in 
front  of  this  trunk  the  snake  was  reared, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  him  they 
scented.  I  had  to  thank  them,  in  tbu 
instance  at  least,  for  the  timely  warning. 
Doga,  however,  will  never  attack  a  cobra  at 
bay.  Their  instinct  aeems  to  apprise  them 
of  the  risk. 

During  the  dry  months  preceding  the 
raina,  the  cobra  and  krait  often  make  their 
haunts  among  the  numerous  rat-burrows, 
where  they  find  temporary  head-quartei* 
and  a  food-supply  in  the  intttreepted  rata. 
From  mistaking  the  occupant  of  a  boirow, 
the  lower  castes  of  Hindoos,  who,  like  the 
Chinese,  are  very.partial  to  fieJd-rats  as  an 
occasional  delicacy,  sometimes  get  bittea 
An  instance  of  the  kind  came  within  my 
own  notice.  The  ground  aronnd  a  la^ 
tamarind-tree  fannting  my  bungalow,  where 
the  horses  were  wont  to  get  their  daily 
feed  of  oats — a  custom  to  prevent  ti» 
bulk  of  it  g<Mng  to  the  basaar  lor  the  ^ce's 
benefit — had  got  very  much  cut  up  by  rata, 
which  had  teen  attracted  there  by  the 
stray  gruns,  and  were  extending  their  ruds 
to  the  bungalow;  so  I  sent  word  to  tiie 
nooneaa,  who  had  long  cast  wistful  eyes  on 
the  spot^  After  digging  out  some  five  or 
six  nests,  and  uneart^ng  about  thirty  rats— r 
the  terriers  finding  delightful  «port  in  ac- 
counting for  them  as  quickly  as  they  appeared 
— they  weredigging  out  another  bnrrow.and 
had  come  near  the  end  by  the  indication  of 
signs  familiar  to  them,  when  as  usual  one 
of  them  inserted  a  hand  to  bring  out  the 
rats  single  file,  and  so  prevent  their 
emei^g  in  a  body,  and  some,  perhaps, 
escapmg.  In  an  instant  the  man,  with  a 
temfied  yell,  drew  back  his  band  with  a 


POISONOUS  REPTILEa 


[AprU6.18M.J      471 


eobn  clingiDg  to  it  The  repUle  IluI 
aeieed  bis  fii^;er,  bat  was  dispatched  im- 
mediately, and  a  i^pid  incision  with  a 
penknife  and  cautery  with  a  hot  icon  in  the 
kitten  pai:t,  along  with  a  t^ht  ligature 
above  that,  saved  the  man's  lue.  Beyond 
a  heavy  drowsiness  as  from  a  strong  dose 
of  opium,  owing,  no  doubt,  to  the  very 
minute  particle  of  the  poison  that  had 
pwmeated  his  system  from  the  moment's 
delay,  he  experienced  no  farther  ill  effecta. 

A  source  of  great  annoyance  occurs  when 
a  cobra  gets  into  a  fom-honse,  where  it 
makes  terrible  havoc,  seeming  to  destroy 
iiom  the  pore  love  of  destroying,  and 
coming  back  agun  and  agun  to  swell  the 
aarab^  of  its  victims.  Ii  is  no  uncommon 
tlting  to  find  half-a-dozen  fowls  lying  dead 
each  morning. 

Finding  mine  once  getting  diminished 
in  this  wholesale  fashion,  and  nanng  vainly 
■hut  np  all  the  holes  ia  the  fowl-house  that 
might  shelter  an  enemy,  I  i«flolved  to  keep 
watch  one  evening  just  after  dusk,  at  which 
time  the  servants  said  they  had  more  than 
ODoe  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  snake  disappear- 
ing near  the  fowl-house.  Hardly  had  I 
reached  the  wicker  enclosure  outside,  when 
something  glided  in  between  my  feet, 
which  I  oarely  managed  to  avoid  by  a 
le^,  and  towards  whiob,  lowering  the  gun, 
I  fired.  On  the  smoke  clearing  I  was  just 
able  to  distingaish  in  the  dark  the  head  of 
a  snake  rearing  up  and  beating  the  ground 
alternately,  wmch  told  me  my  shot  must 
have  been  soccesBfoL  The  arrival  of  a 
l^ht  confirmed  this  by  disclosing  a  large 
cobra  cut  nearly  in  two  by  the  chaige.  He 
was  evidently  tJie  marauder,  aa  the 
mortaUty  among  my  fowls  ceased  from 
tiiat  moment,  except  through  the  legitimate 
medium  of  the  cook. 

The  great  mortality  among  n&Uves  from 
snake-bites  in   the   absence  of  almost  a 


single  case  amouj 


Dng  Europeai 
t^     It  IS  c 


lans,  seems  to 
chiefly  among 
tiie  poorer  classes  and  agriculturists,  who 
form  the  bulk  of  the  population,  that  snake- 
bites occur ;  those  whose  daily  struggle 
for^read  aabjects  them  to  constant  risk 
and  exposure  from  which  their'  more 
fortunate  brethren  are  exempt. 

Their  thatch  and  mud  houses,  with  walla 
often  honieycombed  by  rats,  afford  anatural 
shelter  to  the  cobra  and  krait.  The  want 
of  light  in  their  houses  by  night  when  nine- 
tenths  of  the  snake-bites  occur ;  a  footstep 
in  the  dark ;  a  hand  or  foot  resting  over 
the  edge  of  their  low  charpoys  during 
sleeo— an    irresistible    temntation    to    a 


prowling  cobra;  the  accidental  striking  or 
seizure  by  the  hand  of  asnake  while  cutting 
their  crops,  and  crop-watching  by  night; 
are  among  the  most  common  occasions  of 
snake-bite.  Often  so  slight  is  the  bite  on 
finger  or  toe  that  it  is  not  enough  to  break 
sleep,  snd  thus  the  sleep  of  life  gradually 
and  unconeciouslj  merges  into  that  of 
death.  The  poison  eeems  to  steal  in- 
sensibly and  painlessly  through  the  system, 
gradually  benumbing  the  springs  of  life, 
till  it  brings  them  to  a  standstill  for  ever. 
Nor  is  there  anything  left  to  tell  the  ca^ se 
except  the  miuntest  speck,  like  a  flea-bite, 
only  visible  to  a  close  examination.  In 
the  morning  the  bitten  person  may  be 
found  either  dead  or  in  the  last  stage  of 
snake-bite  poisoniog;  it  may  be  a  dead 
mother  with  her  living  child  still  clinging 
to  her,  drinking  in,  in  the  milk,  the  poison 
which,  even  in  such  a  minute  quantity,  also 
leaves  the  child  dazed  and  lethargic  for 
many  hours  to  coma  Strange  to  say,  so 
apathetic  are  natives  that  often  they  get 
bitten  and.  go  to  sleep  again,  without 
thiDking  more  about  it,  on  the  frail  chance 
of  the  bite  being  non-poisonous,  and  so 
sleep  on  till  their  friends  find  them,  or 
sleep  ceases  in  death.  One,  among  many 
instances  of  snake-bite  poisoning  I  have 
seen,  was  a  strong  young  Brahmin  of 
twenty,  well-known  to  me,  who  had  been 
bitten  during  the  night  while  watching  his 
maize  crop.  Ere  I  knew  of  it  they  bad 
brought  lum  into  my  compound  in  front 
of  toe  bungalow.  As  yet  he  walked 
quite  steadily,  only  leaning  slightly  on  the 
arm  of  another  man.  There  was  that 
peculiar  drowsy  look  in  his  eyes,  however, 
as  from  a  strong  narcotic,  which  indicated 
his  having  been  bitten  for  some  time,  and 
left  but  little  room  for  hope  now.  He 
could  still  clearly  tell  me  particulars.  He 
had  been  bitten,  he  said,  on  putting  his 
foot  to  the  ground  while  moving  off  his 
charpoy  in  the  dark,  but,  thinking  the  bite 
was  that  of  a  non-poisonous  snake,  had 
given  no  more  heed  to  the  matter,  and 
gone  to  sleep  again,  till  he  was  itwoke  by 
his  friends  coming  in  search  of  him.  ^ith 
some  difficulty  I  was  able  to  find  the  bite — 
very  faint,  no  larger  than  the  prick  from  a 
pin,  but  slill  the  unmistakable  double  mark 
of  the  poisOQ-tanga  He  felt  the  poison,  he 
said,  gradually  ascending  the  limb,  and 
pointed  to  a  part  just  above  the  knee, 
where  he  felt  it  had  already  reached,  the 
limb  below  that  being,  he  sud,  benumbed, 
and  painless  to  the  touch,  like  the  foot 
when  "asleep,"    I  fflve..hi^^the   usual 


172      UpillS,lS34.] 


ALL  IBK  TEAR  BOUND. 


[CdndwMbj 


'emediea,  and  kept  him  irftUdng  to  and 
ro,  but  gradaally  hu  limba  seemed  to  be 
oaing  their  power  of  volontarf  motion,  and 
lis  head  wu  beginning  to  droop  from  the 
iverpowering  drowaineu  that  was  sarely 
;athering  over  him.  At  intervals  he 
minted  ont  the  poiaon-liae  steadily  rising 
kigher,  and  waa  still  able  to  answer  qaes- 
ions  clearly  on  being  roused.  At  length 
t  seemed  to  be  of  do  use  torturing  him 
artber  by  keeping  him  moving  about,  and 
le  was  allowed  to  remain  at  rest.  Shortly 
liter  this,  while  being  supported  in  a  sitting 
KiBtare,  all  at  once,  without  any  premoni- 
tory sign,  he  gave  one  or  two  long  sighs, 
md  life  ceased,  about  an  hour  after  he  had 
limself  walked  into  the  compoand.  There 
vas  something  terribly  real  in  this  faculty 
if  pointing  ont  each  stage  of  the  ascending 
mison  (as  the  snake-bitten  patient  always 
an)  that  was  gradually  bringing  him 
learer  and  nearer  to  death,  wibn  the 
irospect  of  only  another  hour  or  half-hour 
>f  lue  nunaining  to  him;  and  yet  the 
uttient  does  not  seem  to  realise  this  with 
he  keenneas  that  aa  onlooker  does,  pro- 
lably  from  the  poison  benumbing  at  the 
ame  time  the  powers  of  the  mind  as  well 
IS  of  the  body. 

The  native  remedy — it  is  needless  to 
4y  there  ia  no  care  bat  immediate  excision 
)r  cautery — consists  partly  in  some  herb 
uixture  administered  internally,  but  chiefly 
n  witchcraft;  and  one  of  their  hopes  of 
ecovery  lesta  in  not  killmg  the  snake  that 
las  bitten  them.  This,  if  done,  would, 
hey  believe,  be  next  to  sealing  their  &te, 
ind  so  the  enemy,  instead  of  receiving  his 
leserte,  escapes  onbaimed,  to  repeat  his 
ittack  when  the  next  opportunity  offers, 
jtrangely  opposed  to  this  in  the  native  belief 
egardiDg  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog — so  terribly 
irevalent  in  India,  where  so  many  mangy 
lalf-fed  dogs  and  over-gorged  jackals  prowl 
^he  country — which  they  rest  quite  eatis- 
ied  must  prove  harmless  if  tbe  dog  is 
mmediately  killed.  This  superstition,  by 
he  way,  is  not  confined  to  India,  but  even 
>revaiU  among  the  labouring  classes  at 
lome.  When  a  person  is  bitten  by  a 
^nake,  the  first  thing  done  is  to  "anoint 
lis  head  with  oQ,"  as  iu  each  and  every 
lative  ailment  Then  an  individual  skilled 
n  witchcraft,  whose  spells  are  known  to 
le  most  pot«nt,  is  easily  procured  from 
.  neighbouring  village.  Thereupon,  the 
•atient  is  seated  amid  a  gathering  crowd 
>f  natives,  including  one  or  two  Brahmins 
o  recite  aloud  their  "sbsstrae,"  and  the 
lorcarer  begins    his    spells.    Seizbg  the 


patient's  hand,  he  r&ttlea  over,  in  a  load 
and  rapid  voice,  oertun  incantative  phraaea 
which  are  supposed  to  fight  the  demon  of 
tbe  poison,  and  ever  and  anon,  as,  despite 
his  spells,  the  poison  seems  to  be  gaining 
way,  he  rouses  tdmself  to  fury,  dashes  over 
the  man  a  white  powder  (mppoaed  to  be 
sand  from  the  sacred  Ganges),  and  shout*, 
threatens,  and  rages  at  the  rebellious  spirit 
which  persists  in  defying  him.  All  t^ 
mummery  at  length  fails.  The  man  gra- 
dually sinks  in  the  presence  of  his  reUtivee, 
and  dies  in  their  hands,  perhaps  two  or 
three  hours  after  being  bitten.  The  noisy 
jabber  of  the  sorcerer  and  drawling  chant 
of  the  Brahmins  suddenly  give  plaos  to  a 
dead  stillness,  to  be  brok^  pr«aently  by 
the  loud  wail  of  the  female  relatives  from 
the  village.  Should  the  bite,  aa  ia  fre- 
queuUy  the  case,  chance  to  be,  unknow- 
ingly, from  a  non-poisonous  snake,  the 
sorcerer,  of  course,  takes  full  credit  for  the 
recovery,  and  obtains  corresponding  re- 
nown. Perhaps,  before  a  fatal  termination, 
the  relatives,  losing  futh  in  the  sorcerer, 
may,  as  a  last  resource,  seek  European  aid, 
or  the  more  enlightened  may  have  done  m 
at  an  earlier  staga  In  this  case  the 
Eoropeaa  cauterises,  if  posrible,  the  wound, 
and  administers  a  dose  of  strong  ammonta 
or  ean-de4uoe  internally,  with  a  glass  of 
brandy  at  intervals,  and  insists  on  the 
patient  being  kept  moving,  to  fight  against 
the  drowaiuesa  tad  gradnal  stsgnation  tA 
the  blood  which  seem  the  prominent 
features  of  the  poisoning.  The  latter  may 
assist  the  cauterising,  but  it  is  eertain  that 
alone  it  would  faO  in  saving  life  where  tbe 
bite  Jrom  a  cobra  or  krait  in  full  vigour  U 
concerned,  which  hitherto  has  baffled  all 
medical  science  for  an  antidote.  Injec- 
tions of  ammonia  into  the  blood  have  also 
been  tried,  and  though  in  a  degree  more 
efficacious  than  the  internal  administration, 
have  equally  been  found  to  fail. 

Ssoke-poison  can  easQy  be  collected 
from  the  gland  at  the  base  of  the  poison- 
fangs,  which  is  large,  readily  found,  and 
contains  it  plentifully.  These  fangs,  by 
the  way,  are  only  to  be  found  in  poisonous 
snakes,  and  ore  two  long,  hallow,  curved 
teeth  in  the  centre  of  the  upper  jaw,  which 
much  exceed  tbe  others  in  length,  and 
through  which  the  poison  daring  a  ^te  is 
driven  into  the  wound  by  pressure  upon 
the  gland  from  the  fang.  Possibly,  heir- 
ever,  these  mokes  may  have  the  power  of 
either  dispensing  nith  tbe  use  of  the  fangs 
by  depression,  or' restraining  the  action  of 
the  gland  except  when  wanted,  aa  seeBta 


POISCHIOUS  REPTILB8. 


(ApiUG,t8B4.)      473 


probable.  In  the  eue  of  non-pouo&oos 
tnakes  the  teeth  ue  kh  oven  low,  mnch 
smaller  In  azo.  The  facility  of  obttuaing  so 
deadly  a  poiBon,  and  one  »  atterly  beyond 
detoctiaa  as  a  poiBoning  medium  by  any 
known  medical  or  chemical  testa,  woald 
make  it  a  terrible  weapon  for  evil — one, 
potsibly,  which  has  too  often  figured  as  a 
means  of  removing  political  obstacles  in 
India,  and  which  may  accoont  for  many  of 
thoee  mysterioas  deaths  that  from  time  to 
time  have  characterised  private  life  among 
the  natives  of  that  country,  and  which  even 
still,  under  cover  of  the  senana  and  of  the 
eSaciag  medium  of  cremation — the  Hindoo 
fnoem  rite  foUowing  death  within  an  hour 
or  two — are  said  to  be  much  more  frequent 
than  is  publicly  known. 

In  experimenting  with  snake-poison  I 
have  repeatedly  tested  the  comparative 
effect  from  the  bite  of  a  live  cobra  and 
from  that  injected  from  a  glass  capillary 
eoUected  from  the  gland  of  the  dead 
reptile,  and  have  found  the  resnlt  nearly 
similar,  vatying  only  in  proportion  to  the 
amount  of  the  injection.  A  large  cobra 
that  was  intercepted  while  crossing  the 
compoand  in  full  march  for  the  fowl-house, 
and  stood  at  bay  within  a  piece  of  wicker- 
work  surrounding  a  young  tree,  was  allowed 
to  bite  a  fowl  that  passed  near  him,  which 
be  did  savagely  on  the  wing.  The  fowl, 
seemingly  nothing  the  worse,  flattered 
away  at  first,  and  began  pecking  about  as 
osou.  Then  something  caused  it  suddenly 
to  stand  still  and  stare ;  then  it  began  to 
stuger  and  flutter  round  in  a  circle,  and 
wi^m  five  minutes  from  the  time  it  was 
Utten,  it  lay  down  on  its  side — dead. 
The  result  with  another,  immediately  after, 
was  exactly  similar.  Then  a  frog,  which  I 
had  heard  was  proof  against  snake-poison, 
was  bitten  very  slighUy  on  the  leg.  It, 
too,  leaped  about  at  first  as  if  none  tiie 
worse;  then  it  came  to  a  halt,  elevated 
itself  on  its  1^  into  a  hoop,  and  swelled 
till  it  looked  ready  to  burst,  and  there  it 
remsiued  without  ever  moving  again — 
dead. 

Inoculating  a  fowl  on  the  Uiigh  with 
the  minutest  quantity  of  the  poison  from 
a  glass  tube  resulted  similarly  to  the  above, 
except  that  the  effect  took  ten  minutes 
instead  of  fire,  owing,  no  doubt,  to  the 
smaller  quantity  of  the  injection.  Larger 
injections  proved  as  rapid  in  their  result 
as  the  bite.  For  this  reason  of  the  poison 
from  a  live  or  dead  snake  being  equally 
dangerone,  natives  are  most  particular  in 
burying  dead  cobras  or  kraites,  In  case  of 


aoyone  acddentally  treading  upon  the 
fangs.  The  action  of  the  gland  being 
mechanical,  pressure  i^n  the  &i^  prssses 
on  the  gland  and  forces  out  the  poison 
Aether  thfr  animal  be  dead  or  alive. 
Happily  there  is  one  counteractive  pro- 
vided by  Nature  against  reptiles  so  deadly, 
in  the  shape  of  the  mongoose,  a  beautiful 
littie  creature  about  half  a  foot  high  and 
^hteen  inches  to  two  feet  long,  ul  long 
sirvery-lsx>wn  fur  tapering  into  a  bushy 
tail  wiiich  seems  its  larger  hali  It 
possesses  great  activity  and  strengtii, 
and  a  pair  of  piercing  eagle  eyes.  The 
mongoose  being  the  inveterate  foe  of  the 
snake,  is  equaUy  the  benefactor  of  man, 
and  for  the  sake  of  its  habits,  as  an  enemy 
not  only  to'  snakes,  but  to  reptiles  and 
vermin  generally,  it  is  encouraged  and 
protected  by  the  natives,  and  is  often 
domesticated  by  Europeans  as  a  means  of 
prevention  as  well  as  cure.  Beptiles  scent- 
ing its  vicinity  are  much  shyer  in  intruding 
than  they  otherwise  would  be ;  and  when 
BO  domesticated,  it  runs  about  the  bunga- 
low tame  and  playful  as  a  kittea  Snakes, 
frogs,  rats,  mice,  are  all  fair  game  to  it,  as 
well  as  the  loathsome  musk-rat,  whose 
irritating  patter  acroes  your  rooms  at  night 
is  so  hostile  to  sleep,  and  at  whose  bouquet 
even  dogs  sicken.  In  the  tenth  part  of  the 
time  thab  a  dog  would  take,  even  when 
worked  up  to  the  attacking  point,  it  will 
exterminate  a  whole  colony  of  musk-rats, 
and  banquet  upon  the  only  part  of  them  it 
fluds  worth  feeding  upon  —  their  blood. 
Once,  to  teat  the  accepted  belief  about  the 
mongoose  and  snake,  I  managed  to  secure 
a  vigorous  cobra  in  a  large  ewthen  water- 
jar,  and  summoned  the  mongoose.  Pre- 
sently he  came,  peering  about  soapi- 
ciously  as  be  drew  near,  as  if  divining 
the  presence  of  an  enemy  without  exactly 
knowing  where,  till  his  attention  was 
drawn  to  the  open  mouth  of  the  jar.  In 
an  instant,  with  a  glance  like  fire,  he  had 
descried  bis  foe,  as  his  raised  for  coat  and 
glittering  eye  showed,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  darted  backinirds.  Then,  rising 
on  his  hindJegs,  he  advanced  his  head 
again  over  the  mouth  of  the  jar,  only  to 
dart  back  again  as  the  cobra  struck  at 
liim,  though  too  late  for  the  lightning 
retreat  of  the  mongoosa  Again  the  latter 
repeated  his  scrutiny,  and  again  the 
cobra  darted  at  him  ineffectually,  sinking 
back  each  time  into  the  jar.  This  was 
repeated  again  and  again,  the  mongoose 
each  time  enticing  the  cobra  farther  and 
farther  out  of  the  jar  as  its  rage  increased, 


47 1      [Aprils.  L 


ALL  THE  TXAB  ROUND. 


[Coudoctcd  bf 


till  once,  irhen  its  head  and  neck 
appeared  dear  beyond  the  montb,  in 
an  instant,  too  qaick  for  the  eye  to 
follow,  Uie  mongoose  had  it  jnet  below  the 
head,  secnrely  and  safely,  and  vaa  coolly 
dragging  it  out  of  the  jar.  Truling  it 
along  the  gronnd  to  a  convenient  spot,  he 
soon  gave  it  its  conp-de-gr&ce,  and  we 
vatchra  the  marrellons  instiDcli  with  which 
he  disabled  the  reptile  and  at  the  same 
time  avoided  the  least  chance  of  a  bite. 
Several  times  since  then  I  have  seen  the 
attack  repeated  under  different  circom- 
stances,  but  always  Buccesefnlly  and  with 
the  same  dexterity  and  cunning. 

Immense  as  is  the  number  of  snakes 
annually  killed  in  India,  for  which  the 
GoTCFDmeDt  reward  of  two  anas  a  head  is 
paid,  yet  these  are  but  an  imperceptible 
drop  in  the  backet  so  far  aa  really  reducing 
their  number  goes.  Only  when  the  con- 
ditions of  native  life  are  somewhat  changed, 
and  mud  and  thatch  give  place  to  Inrick 
and  plaster,  will  there  be  any  sensible 
diminution  of  them.  Once,  while  present 
at  the  breaking  down  of  an  old  wall,  I 
counted  nearly  a  hundred  cobras,  old  and 
young,  which  had  made  their  home  there 
— a  gold-mine  to  the  fortunate  coolies  on 
the  work,  in  the  shape  of  the  Government 
reward  for  the  snakes.  So  great  a 
number  found  in  one  spot  thows  the 
absurdity  of  assunting  any  actual  dimi- 
nution in  numbers  from  the  official 
figores,  in  fact  the  Govemmeut  reward  is 
perhaps  little  more  effectual  in  reducing 
the  number  of  snakes  than  the  crusades 
against  them  by  the  so-called  snake- 
cbanners.  These  individuals  patrol  the 
country  in  company,  always  with  a  basket 
or  two  of  their  supposed  friends,  the  cobras 
and  kraites,  between  which  and  themselves 
they  declare  a  secret  understanding  exists, 
and  going  from  house  to  house,  they  profess 
to  wue  oat  larking  snakes  from  their  lairs 
by  the  charms  of  mosic — as  they  term  the 
execrable  discordant  piping  to  which  they 
treat  their  reptQe  friends.  Having  arranged 
with  a  couple  of  thenl  to  pay  so  much  a 
head  for  each  snake  they  extracted,  one 
took  his  stand,  along  with  his  basket  of 
snakes,  in  an  outhouse  specified,  containing 
plenty  of  suspicions  holes,  and  began  his 
piping.  I  had  already  discovered,  by  in- 
sisting on  their  showing  me  the  months  of 
the  snakes  in  their  baskets,  that  these  were 
minus  their  poison-fangs,  a  drcumstance 
which  qnite  explained  the  affectionate  fami- 
liarity between  the  snakes  and  their  keepers, 
as  the  latter  hong  them  about  their  necks. 


had  mock  fights  with  them,  etc.,  to  the 
horror  of  the  admiring  native  onlookers. 
Soon,  in  answer  to  the  "  music,"  one  snake 
after  onoUier  glided  ont  (^  the  holes,  and 
with  a  soft  swaying  of  the  head,  gradually 
advanced  towards  the  charmer,  till,  coming 
opposite  to  him,  they  reared  themselves  on 
their  tails,  and  fixing  their  eyes  upon  him, 
kept  up  the  swaying  motion  as  if  keeping 
time  to  the  music.  After  this  had  cod- 
tinued  a  little  while,  the  charmer  stopped 
his  music,  and  fearlessly  seizing  the  snakes, 
deposited  them  one  after  another  in  his 
basket  and  closed  down  the  lid.  This 
place  was  now  supposed  to  be  cleared,  and 
we  left  it  for  another,  considered  to  be 
equally  fruitful.  The  same  thing  was 
tepeated  here,  bat  with  a  different  con- 
clusion. Conindering  that  I  was  paying 
for  the  snakes  extracted  at  the  rate  (S 
two  anas  each,  and  had  a  right  to  regard 
them  as  my  property,  I  dispatched  a  coaple 
of  them  before  the  snake-charmer  could 
interpose,  and  evidently  to  his  great  conster- 
nation. He  immediately  began  to  bewail 
his  loss,  saying  I  had  deprived  him  of  hia 
power  over  the  snake  tribe,  that  his  trade 
was  gone,  and  so  on.  In  the  midst  of  this 
tirade  I  bent  down  to  examine  the  months 
of  the  snakes,  a  movement  which  caused 
the  charmers  to  look  rather  foolish,  and 
discovered,  as  I  had  begun  to  suspect,  that 
the  poison-fangs  and  gland  were  gone, 
which  discovery,  it  is  needless  to  add, 
resulted  in  the  very  hasty  and  uncere- 
mouioufl  exit  of  the  snake-charmers  from 
the  premises.  The  explanation  was  clear. 
They  had  simply  introduced  their  own 
snakes  into  the  holes  by  a  sleight  of  band 
with  which  they  were  fozailiar,  snd  had 
afterwards  drawn  them  out  by  the  music, 
to  which  they  were  trained  to  respond. 
Never  after  this  was  I  able  to  get  a  snake- 
charmer  to  practise  his  jugglery.  Before 
ever  they  could  be  brought  into  actios 
they  hod  somehow  got  wind  of  something 
snspiciona,  and  disappeared  from  the  field 
As  a  rule,  indeed,  they  fight  shy  of 
Europeans.  The  Uiriving  trade  which 
these  men  drive  is  but  an  instance  of  the 
marvellous  simplicity  with  which  a  native 
will  swallow  the  most  manifest  imposture 
if  it  contains  but  a  taint  of  the  super- 
natura].  Were  the  Imposture  not  reully 
so,  what  a  further  harvest  might  not  these 
charmers  reap  in  the  Government  reward ! 
The  largest  common  snake  of  the  plains 
the  dhamin,  which  reaches  a  length  of 
eight  feet,  with  corresponding  thickness. 
Its  peculiarity  ia  that  its   upper  half  is  I 


ezacUy  that  of  the  water-snake  In  colour 
and  marking,  while  its  lower  ia  as  anmiBtak- 
ably  that  of  the  cobra,  from  between  which 
two  it  is  beiierod  to  be  a  cross,  thongh 
mach  lai^r  than  either.  Its  bite,  like  that 
of  all  f  reeh-water  Boakes,  is  noD-poisonons. 


GERALD. 

BY  BLKUiOK  C.  PBICK 


CHiPTKR  L       THREE 

LiNWOOD  St.  John  is  one  of  the  qoieteat 
Httie  towns  in  the  south  of  England.  Its 
only  excitements  are  a  county  election,  a 
&tr  once  in  the  year,  and  any  special 
event  in  the  Praser  family.  The  Frasers 
hare  been  sqoires  there  for  generations, 
and  the  London  road  nins  for  a  long  way 
under  the  shadow  of  their  high  red  garden- 
wall,  just  outside  the  town.  Between 
elostering  teee-tope  one  catches  a  glimpse 
ofweather-beaten,nioaE^^prownoId  chimneys, 
and  presently  at  a  turn  in  the  road  one 
looks  back  and  sees  the  great  comfortable 
house  itself,  set  sqnarely  in  the  midst  of 
lawns  and  gardens,  with  sloping  mradows, 
mnch  shaded  by  trees,  leading  down  to  a 
slow,  qniet  river. 

Moat  of  Linwood  belongs  to  the  Frasers, 
as  well  as  a  good  deal  of  land  in  the 
nei^bonrhood.  People  supposed  that 
Helen  Fraser,  who  for  a  long  time  was 
the  sqoire's  only  child,  would  be  a  great 
heiress,  bat  in  these  calcolationa  Uiey 
reckoned  without  her  father. 

Helen's  mother  di^  while  she  was  still 
very  yonng,  and  she  was  about  twelve 
years  old  when  Mr.  Fraser  married  again. 
Then  came  a  large  family  of  boys  and  girls ; 
then  came  long  bills,  bad  times,  fuling 
rents,  and  difficulties  threatening  on  aU 
aides.  Mji.  Fraser  was  extravagant,  she 
was  also  worldly  and  ambitious,  and  she 
did  not  at  all  uke  to  meet  these  troubles 
by  reducing  her  expenses.  Mr.  Fraser 
waa  weak  and  did  not  insist ;  so  everything 
went  on  as  usual,  except  that  the  little 
squire  grew  smaller,  and  paler,  and  more 
ewewom  every  day,  and  that  Helen,  now 
a  fat,  placid,  pretty  creature  of  two-and- 
twenty,  with  long  eyelashes  and  beautiful 
fair  hair,  calmly  accepted  tbe  rich  man  her 
stepmother  found  for  her,  and  on  a  certain 
day  in  April  was  to  be  married  to  Mr. 
John  GoodalL 

Even  her  stepmother  was  surprised, 
though  quite  pleased  and  satisBedT  She 
had  never  got  on  very  well  with  Helen, 
who  was  not  demonstrative,  and  took  no 


UiD.  [Apm  s,  U84.]    475 

interest  in  the  younger  children.  Not  that 
they  had  qoarrelled,  for  both  were  good- 
tempered,  but  Mrs.  Fraser  always  felt  that 
Helen's  marriage  would  be  a  happy  thing 
for  the  whole  family.  They  had  met  this 
man  in  the  winter  at  Torquay;  she  had 
taken  him  up  at  first  for  amusement,  then 
seeing  his  admiration  of  Helen,  had  en- 
couraged it,  still  partly  for  amusement 
But  things  grow  serious  very  soon.  The 
man  was  rich ;  there  was  nothing  against 
him ;  be  and  Helen,  who  was  an  odd  girl 
in  some  ways,  got  on  remarkably  well 
together.  At  the  end  of  a  month  all  waa 
settled,  and  Mr.  Fraser  gave  a  reluctant 
consent ;  he  waa  fond  of  his  eldest  child, 
and  thought  a  good  deal  of  his  pedigree. 

"  But  in  times  like  these,  what  can  you 
dot"  he  said  in  apology  to  his  nephew, 
Captain  iNorth,  who  thought  that  Helen 
was  throwing  herself  away. 

For  many  years  Linwood  had  not  had 
aooh  an  excitement  as  this — tixe  wedding 
of  its  chief  yonng  lady.  The  inhabitants 
stood  about  the  wide,  quiet  street  in  the 
light  of  a  yellow  sunset,  and  watched 
the  preparations  for  a  triumphal  arch  at  the 
churchyard  gate,  and  atared  with  satisfac- 
tion at  the  squire's  visitors  as  they  drove 
from  the  station. 

Far  away  from  the  bustle  of  arrivals, 
and  from  all  signs  of  to-morrow's  festivity, 
in  a  solitary  part  of  the  garden,  where  a 
grand  old  cedar  stood  at  the  end  of  a 
terrace-walk,  and  overlooked  the  peaceful 
view  of  meadows,  and  river,  and  distant 
hills,  now  in  a  glow  of  gold  and  purple 
that  deepened  every  moment,  Helen  Fraser 
was  havmg  her  last  talk,  as  a  girl,  with 
the  girl  friend  who  had  belonged  to  her  all 
her  life. 

Helen's  head  waa  resting  on  Theo's 
shoulder,  and  Theo's  arm  was  round  her, 
and  she  was  looking  down  with  a  aad 
gravity  in  her  dark  eyes  which  was  hardly 
suited  to  the  occasion. 

"My  dear,  what  are  you  doing t"  she 
said.     "  Don't  you  care  for  him,  then  t " 

"  Sometimes  I  hate  him,"  said  Helen  in 
a  whisper. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  been  kept  away  from 
yon  all  this  time.  It  is  too  horrid.  Actually 
to  think  that  I  have  never  seen  him !  But 
I  can't  stand  this,  N^ell,  you  know.  It  is 
not  too  Ute  to  stop  it,  even  now.  Come 
along,  we  must  go  to  my  uncle  at  once." 

"  Nonsenae,  Thea  Don't  be  ully ;  it  ie 
a  great  deal  too  late." 

"  What  I  when  you  say  yoa  hate  the 
man  1 "  sud  Theo,  frowning. 


476    ui«U5.u«4.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  HOimD. 


"  You  ahoald  not  take  hold  of  one's 
worda  lik«  thftt  It  is  only  lometimBe, 
when  he  bothers  me,  and  I  hare  to  pretend 
I  lik«  it,  or  when  he  ie  moat  particnlarlr 
unlike  Hugh  and  all  the  rest  of  one's 
people.  But  he  is  a  nice,  satiifaotory  old 
thing,  and  tremendonslj  kind,  and  much 
better,  I  can  tell  yon,  Uian  all  your  officers 
that  you  think  ao  agreeabla  Yes,  yon 
always  used  to  be  held  up  to  me  as  snch  a 
pattern  of  sense,  but  I  am  wieer  than  yon 
now,  Theo." 

She  ended  langbinff,  and  glanoiDg  np 
into  her  conain'a  face;  but  Theo  was  not  to 
be  so  easily  pacified. 

"  Unlike  ono's  own  people  I  "she  repeated 
in  low,  indignant  tones.  "  Well,  I  suppoeed 
Bomethin^  M  the  kind,  bnt  your  ideas  on 
thoae  subjects  are  always  ao  strange,  that  I 
thought  yon  cared  for  him  in  spite  of  that 
You  wrote  to  me  as  if  yon  cared  for  him, 
Helen.  Do  yon  know,  I  think  you  are 
veiT  wicked.  Yon  are  deceiving  this  man, 
and  yourself,  and  everybody  dse." 

"Except  yon,  dear,"  sud  Helen,  with 
provoking  amiability,  "But  you  take 
things  n^,  and  exaggerate,  don't  you  see. 
He  ia  quite  satisfied,  so  it  doesn't  matter, 
and  when  yon  come  to  stay  with  me  in  the 
aatumo,  yon  will  aee  it  is  all  right." 

"  But  why  did  you  do  itt "  i^  Thea 

"Ob,  I  don't  know.  How  la  one  to 
answer  such  an  absurd  queationt  As  if 
those  things  could  ever  be  explained." 

But  she  did  her  beat  to  explain,  and 
Theo  listened  with  thoroueh  sympathy, 
though  with  srowla  of  impatience  now  and 
then.  An  old,  strong,  constant  tendemeas 
kept  her  from  being  very  uwry  with  her 
cousin,  whatever  ahe  muht  do.  If  theee 
two  girla  had  met  now  for  the  first  time, 
it  is  probable  that  they  would  not  have 
made  frienda  Theo,  seeing  Helen's  weak- 
nesses clearly,  would  have  scorned  them 
and  her ;  and  Helen  would  have  sbrunlE 
from  a  person  so  different  from  herself  in 
every  way.  Bnt  they  had  been  friends 
almost  from  their  cradles ;  both  their 
mothers  had  died  early,  and  they  had 
been  brought  up  very  much  together. 
Theo's  father,too,  had  died  young,  and  her 
lot  in  life  would  have  been  a  lonely  and 
sad  one,  if  she  had  not  been  uken 
possession  of  by  Colonel  North,  the  kindest 
of  tmdea,  the  Mother  of  her  mother  and  of 
Helen's.  His  wife,  too,  was  dead,  and  he 
was  left  with  one  son,  a  few  years  older 
than  these  girls,  who  had  gone  into  the 
anny  and  was  now  a  very  rising  officer. 

While  Helen  and  Theo  were  children. 


they  were  together  a  great  deal  at  Linvood 
House,  but  soon  after  Mr.  Fraser  married 
again.  Colonel  North  retired  from  the 
army,  and  took  Theo  to  live  with  him 
entirely.  He  did  not  like  Mn.  Fraeer, 
who  on  her  part  dis^)proved  of  his  way 
of  educating  Theo,  and  thus  through  the 
following  years,  though  the  cousins  atUl 
loved  each  other  dearly,  they  were  not 
much  together,  and  grew  np  in  vety 
different  atmospheres. 

They  had  now  been  separated  for  some 
months  by  Colonel  North's  illnesa,  He 
had  been  Ul  aU  the  winter,  and  Thoo,  his 
constant  companion,  could  hardly  brine 
herself  to  leave  him,  even  for  Helen^ 
wedding.  Perhaps  her  coming  from  a 
house  of  suffering  may  partly  account  fu 
a  certain  sadness  which  weiehed  on  Theo 
at  this  tima  It  was  not  sJl  disappoint- 
ment at  Helen's  choosing  this  mas,  who 
was  evidently  unworthy  of  her;  though 
that  waa  had  enongh,  and  a  subject  of 
melancholy  pnizle  to  Helen's  oldest  friend. 
No  explanation  could  be  i«ally  aatiahctory. 
Helen  might  not  care  for  her  stepmother, 
she  might  be  tued  of  living  at  home ;  Mr. 
Goodafl  might  be  the  kmdest  and  mod 
generous  man  living,  his  defecta  saeh  as 
would  only  be  minded  by  foolish  little 
prejudice.  It  was  aU  very  fine;  these 
were  not  reasons,  to  Theo's  mind,  for 
marrying  Mr.  GoodoIL  No  doubt  he  was 
very  fond  of  Nell,  and  Noll  liked  people  to 
be  fond  of  hw;  no  doubt  she  womd  be 
well  spoilt  all  her  life,  never  be  troubled 
with  money  cares,  have  every  fancy  earned 
out,  be  trMted  like  a  buy  httle  piinceat ; 
all  that  would  suit  her  thoroughly.  At 
the  end  of  their  talk  Theo  reaUsed  that 
Helen  would  not  on  any  account  have  the 
marriage  broken  off  now,  though  she  oould 
say  that  she  sometimes  hated  Mr.  QoodaU. 
And  Theo  also  realised  with  a  mental 
shiver  that  her  old  Helen  was  dead,  w 
perhaps  had  never  exiated,  and  HuX  her 
own  huh-flown  ideas  on  these  snbjeots  had 
better  Se  kept  to  herself  in  future. 

Presently  some  one  came  from  the  hoose 
to  cidl  Helen,  and  Theo  let  her  go,  and 
went  alone  along  the  terrace  watching  the 
western  aky.  The  sadness  of  coining 
twilight  seemed  to  make  it  right  to  be  sad. 
Theo  had  taken  off  her  hat,  for  her  head 
aeboi  with  vexation,  and  she  stood  there 
against  the  yellow  sky,  tall  and  straight 
and  graceful,  her  head  lifted,  and  her  dark 
eyes  looking  away  into  the  distanoe,  TbB 
curves  of  her  mouth  and  nose  w«i«  very 
handsome,  and  very  proud  and  scornful; 


ChwiM  UekeiH.]  GEfi 

berconain  once  said  that  he  had  never  seen 
u>  much  acorn  in  any  profile  as  in  Theo's. 
Her  front  face  was  mach  more  amiable, 
partly  from  the  beanty  and  aoftnesa  of  her 
Cf  ea,  and  the  smile  in  them  whan  she  waa 
uppy;  but  sometimes  her  whole  ezpres- 
uoQ  waa  sad  and  bard,  and  it  vas  so  at 
this  moment,  when  Helen  no  longer  needed 
her  aytnpathy,  and  had  jgone  away  and  left 
ber  to  a  solituy  fit  of  diagnst. 

"  Well,  Theo,  my  dear  I "  said  a  man's 
voice,  soft  and  grave,  and  her  consin, 
Hugh  North,  came  down  the  terrace  steps 
and  joined  ber.  "Are  yon  bating  any- 
body I  Yon  don't  look  so  cheerful  as  you 
ought  on  this  happy  occasioa" 

"  I  dou't  know  about  the  happiness," 
■aid  Theo  sorrowfully.  "  Hate  1  Oh  yea, 
I  hate  the  world,  and  marriage,  and  men, 
and  women,  and  money,  and  all  the  oon- 
seqaenoes." 

"A  good  wide  sphere,"  said  Hugh, 
smiling  faintly.  He  was  fair,  stiffly  hand- 
some, and  very  seldom  amused.  "  I  met 
Helen  juBt  now.  Has  she  given  you  these 
nasty  feelings ) " 

As  Theo  did  not  answer,  be  went  on 
after  a  nminte : 

"  Is  she  ofi'ensively  happy,  or  what  is  the 
matter  with  her  t " 

"  Everything— nothing,"  aaid  Theo  im- 
patientty.  "She  makes  me  miserable, 
and  I  thiink,  Hugh,  you  might  have  stopped 
this  at  the  beginning." 

"  What  I  this  marriage  t  It  was  no 
affair  of  mina  I  did  what  I  could,  you 
know.  I  said  something  to  Uncle  Dick, 
but  as  he  was  inclined  to  make  the  best  of 
it,  of  cooise  I  could  say  no  more.  I  would 
not  rex  myself,  Theo,  if  I  were  yon ;  she 
will  do  very  well,  I  dare  say." 

"  Yon  don't  feel  ^bont  it  as  I  do." 

"  Perhaps  not.  It  is  a  pity  to  be  too 
Eentimental  on  these  occasions.  They  come 
in  the  course  of  nature,  and  we  may  as 
well  take  them  easy.  I  have  heard  of 
much  worse  marriages  than  this  of  Helen'a 
The  man  is  a  stodgy  sort  of  fellow,  and 
thinks  a  good  deal  of  his  money ;  bat  he's 
solvent,  he's  respectable,  and  appears  to 
be  good-tempered.  Helen  doesn't  dislike 
him,  does  she  1 " 

"  Could  she  marry  him  if  she  did ! "  said 
Thea 

The  qnestion  vas  asked  as  much  of 
herself  as  of  Hugh.  She  did  not  feel 
inclined  just  then  to  answer  for  Helen  in 
any  way,  and  of  coarse  she  could  not  tell 
Hugh  what  Helen  had  sud. 

"No.  1  don't  think  ebe  would."  said  her 


ALD.  »priie.i88*.]    477 

cousin,  after  a  moment's  consideration. 
"  We  may  trust  Helen,  I  think,  to  follow 
her  own  inclinations.  So  don't  distress 
yourself.  Yon  may  find  the  man  better 
than  you  expect" 

"  He  is  not  a  gentleman,"  sud  Theo, 
with  BO  much  pain  in  her  Toice,  that 
Captain  North  smiled  again. 

"My  dear,  excuse  me,  that  is  Helen's 
affair,  and  you  will  be  wiser  if  you  accept 
the  inevitable,  and  don't  talk  alxiut  it.  If 
you  pull  a  long  face  to-morrow,  it  will  be 
unkind  to  Helen,  and  rude  to  Mrs.  Fraser." 

Xhe  effect  of  these  grave  words  was  to 
make  Theo  smile  and  soften  suddenly. 
Captain  North  looked  at  her  with  approval, 
which  from  another  man  might  have  been 
affectionate  admiration. 

"  Men  never  nnderatand,"  she  said.  "  I 
vrill  just  telLyon  this.  I  Uiink  we  all  have 
something  low  and  something  high  in  oar 
natnres,  and  we  may  follow  one  or  the 

other.     I  think  Nell Biit  I  won't  say 

any  more^" 

"  Better  not,  I  would  rather  you  kept 
clear  of  metaphyaics.  And  as  to  your 
hard  judgment  of  Nell,  III  observe,  ^iieo, 
that  a  girl  may  hare  a  low  motive  for 
marrying  a  duke,  and  a  high  motive  for 
marrying  a  tradesman." 

"  Yes,  if  the  tradesman  were  poor,"  said 
Theo.  "Do  yon  think  I  am  so  hixd  on 
Nell,  though  t  Poor  dear  1  I  didn'c  mean 
to  be.  Don'tletus  talkabout  it  anymore; 
only  please  do  me  this  favour,  Hugh.  If 
you  ever  see  any  signs  of  my  following 
Nell's  example,  please  lock  me  up  in  some 
safe  place  till  I  have  recovered  my  senses." 

"You  promise,  then,"  said  Hugh  very 
gravely,  looking  at  her  under  his  sleepy 
eyelids,  "never  to  marry  withoat  my 
consent." 

"  Yes ;  I  think  you  are  a  good  judge  of 
people.  I  think  I  may  safely  promise  that," 
said  Theo.     "  Good-bye. " 

She  went  away  towards  the  house,  and 
Captain  North  looked  after  her  till  she  was 
bidden  among  trees.  Theo,  who  from  ber 
childhood  had  regarded  him  as  a  kind 
elder  brother,  sometimes  prosy,  and  always 
particular,  would  have  been  perfectly 
astonished  at  the  thoughts  and  calculations 
in  his  mind  as  he  watdied  her  that  even- 
ing. He  was  thinking  of  a  certain  wish 
of  his  father's,  which  at  first  had  not  been 
his  own,  so  that  he  had  let  time  pass  on, 
and  he  waa  now  thirty-one  and  Theo 
twenty-three,  without  any  sign  of  change 
in  their  relations  to  each  other.  His 
father  knew  that  he  wai  not  in  love  with 


478    lAprii  s,  iMi-i 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


ICondadsd  br 


Tbeo ;  he  may  perhaps  haT«  had  a  stoi^ 
of  his  own,  which  was  not  confided  to  his 
father;  bat  Colonel  North  knew,  and  bo 
did  he,  that  he  conld  ofTer  her  an  affection, 
already  existing,  and  strengthening  every 
year,  which  might  do  almost  as  well  Theo, 
with  her  high-flown,  ways,  was  this  qoiet 
Hugh's  modu  of  a  woman ;  she  was  a  uttle 
wild,  and  very  obstinate,  and  had  beea  a 
tomboy  in  her  younger  days;  but  he  rather 
enjoyed  all  that,  which  hu  father  bad  cer- 
tainly enconraged,  and  qnite  nnderstood 
the  gentleness  underneath.  He  had  many 
safe  and  excellent  opinions,  one  of  which 
was  that  cousins  onght  not  to  marry ;.  but 
yet  the  idea  of  Theo's  marrying  anyone 
else  was  hardly  bearable. 

Theo  was  so  used  to  him  and  his  fidgety 
ways,  at  which  she  and  her  nncle  oft«n 
laughed  together,  that  she  would  not 
have  been  surprised  at  his  anxious  con- 
aideration  of  her  fatore,  much  as  hia  con- 
clusion would  hare  shocked  and  startled 
her.  Captain  North  felt  very  Berions  that 
evening.  He  did  not  think  his  father 
would  live  long,  and  then  what  was  to 
become  of  Theo  t  It  was  true  that  she  had 
a  grandmother,  Lady  Bedcliff,  who  might 
not  object  to  having  her  for  a  time,  bat  she 
was  a  horrid,  disagreeable  old  woman,  like 
all  the  Bedclifis.  Theo's  father,  George 
Meynell,  should  be  excepted.  He  was 
Lord  Bedcliffs  younger  son.  He  ran 
through  all  his  money,  lived  a  wild  life, 
and  died  early  in  consequence  of  his 
wildness;  but  ne  was  so  charming  that 
everybody  loved  him.  His  death  broke 
his  father's  heart,  and  thoroughly  soured 
his  mother.  She  quarrelled  with  her  elder 
son's  wife.  He,  too,  was  now  dead,  and 
the  present  Lady  Reddiff  and  her  children 
saw  nothing  of  the  grandmother,  who  had 
now  lost  everyone  she  cared  for,  and  lived 
a  savage,  solitary  life  alone  in  London. 
The  thoaght  of  her,  as  Theo's  only  resource, 
wa?  very  distressing  to  Captain  North. 
Yet  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  just 
yet  to  ask  Theo  to  marry  him.  Feritapa, 
not  beiug  a  stupid  man,  be  felt  some 
doubt  of  her  answer. 

OHAFTEH  IL  IN  THZ  CHANOBI. 
A.  WISE  woman  wrote  once,  in  a  letter 
to  somebody  who  was  going  to  be  married: 
"  Congratulation  on  such  occasions  seems 
to  me  a  tempting  of  Providence.  The 
trlumphal-pTocession  air,  which,  in  our 
manners  and  customs,  is  given  to  marriage 
at  the  outset — that  singmg  of  Te  Deum 
before  the   battle  has  begun — has,  ever 


since  I  could  reflect,  stnck  me  as  some- 
what senseless  and  somewhat  impioos. 
If  ever  one  is  to  pray,  if  ever  one 
is  to  teel  grave  and  anxious,  if  ever 
one  is  to  shrink  from  vain  show  and 
vun  babble,  snrelf  it  is  jtist  on  the  occasion 
of  two  human  beings  binding  themMlres 
to  one  another,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
till  death  part  them ;  just  on  that  occasion 
which  it  is  customary  only  to  celebrate  with 
rejoicings,  and  congratulations,  and  trous- 
seanz,  and  white  nbbon  1 " 

Theo  Meynell  did  not  snppoae  heraslf 
to  have  a  deep,  or  clever,  or  reflective  mind, 
but  these  were  very  much  the  feelings 
which  went  to  sleep  with  her  the  night 
before  Helen's  wedding,  and  woke  with 
her  the  next  morning.  She  sighed,  and 
wished  to  go  to  sleep  again,  bat  her  maid 
would  not  allow  that ;  so  she  got  np,  and 
soon  found  that  in  broad  daylight,  with 
bells  ringing,  and  snn  shining,  ana  alovely 
bridesmaid's  dress  banging  in  the  wardrobe, 


it  was  impossible  to  keep  up  these  feelings 
of  i^nical  philoatqihy.  Everything  and 
everybody  seemed  so  happy,  though  H< 


Fraser  was  going  to  be  married  to  John 
Goodall,  that  Theo,  in  spite  of  herself, 
began  to  feel  happy  too.  She  never  thoo^t 
much  of  her  appearance,  but  it  was  satis- 
factory to  know  that  she  was  looking  par- 
ticularly well  tiiat  moming.  Combe  tM 
so,  and  Tbeo  saw  that  aie  was  right 
Captain  North  need  not  have  warned  ner 
against  pulling  a  long  face  on  itm  joyfnl 
occasion,  for  she  did  not  feel  at  all  indued 
to  do  80,  and  when  Helen  came  to  her  room 
a  little  later,  she  received  her  with  all  the 
cheerful  affectioD  that  could  have  been 
expected. 

"  That's  a  dear  old  Theo,"  said  Helen, 
who  was  in  her  osnal  placid  spirits.  "  Ton 
look  quite  jolly  this  morning.  Do  yon 
know,  Oombe,  last  night  in  the  garden  she 
was  scolding  me  like  anything." 

"  You  don't  seem  much  the  worse  for  it, 
Miss  Helen,"  said  Combe,  who  had  come  to 
Theo  as  her  nurse  twenty  years  ago,  and 
had  stayed  with  her  ever  since.  She  was 
an  important  person  in  Theo's  life ;  she  told 
her  home-truths,  and  knew  all  her  tempers. 
Once  she  bad  said  that  she  would  die  for 
Theo,  and  there  came  a  time  when  she  was 
not  far  from  proving  the  truth  of  her  word& 
Mrs.  Combe  wasan  aristocrat  In  her  notions, 
with  a  supreme  contempt  for  money,  tad 
all  possessions  which  had  not  descended  at 
least  from  a  grandfather.  She  could  not 
for  some  time  get  overthe  shook  of  HaUm% 
marrying  a  man  who  had  made  his  money 


Ouln  Dlckena.] 

in  pottery  works.  "  It's  a  style  of  thing 
ve're  not  aconstbmed  to,"  Bud  Combe. 
"  Not  for  millionfl  and  billions  woold  my 
young  Udy  ao  demean  herself." 

"  Theo  dear,"  said  Helen,  vben  Oombe 

'  was  gone  away,   "yon  hope  I  shall  be 

'  1^PP7>  don't  yoa  t     And  you  know  quite 

well   that  my  being  married  will  never 

make  the  smallest  difference  to  yon  t " 

"  flow  could  itl"  said  Theo.  "  Yes;  I 
hope  you  will  be  very,  very  happy." 

"I  believe  you  will  lUce  bun  a  great 
deal  better  than  you  expect" 

"  So  Hugh  told  me  laat  night." 

"  Did  he  t  What  a  good  old  fellow  !  I 
wonder  if  he  would  care  to  come  and  stay 
with  -na  some  day.  Yon  might  come  at 
the  same  time,  and  then  yon  can  amnse 
each  other.  I  shall  want  you  this  summer, 
Theo,  or  early  in  the  antumn." 

"I  can't  leave  Uncle  flenry  as  long  as 
be  is  so  ilL" 

"  01^  he  muat  get  better.  What  a  pity 
he  can't  be  hero  to-day  1 " 

"  Yes,  a  dreadful  pity ! " 

"  I  believe  he  and  John  would  get  on 
together;  they  are  both  so  straightforward. 
ITocIe  Henry  is  dmple,  like  John,  and 
hasn't  so  many  prejudices  as  some  people." 

"  You  don't  hate  John  this  morning  t " 

"  No,  not  this  morning.  I  am  rather  in 
a  good  temper,"  8»d  flelea  with  a  pretty 
smile.  "  fiy-the-bye,  there's  one  bore  i 
must  tell  yoa  about.  You  know  I  told 
you  that  John  had  a  friend,  a  nice  clergy- 
man, iriio  was  going  to  be  his  beet  maq. 
Well,  in  his  letter  this  moming  he  says 
that  Mr.  Langton  is  ill,  and  can't  come, 
and  he  most  bring  somebody  else  instead." 

"That  doesn't  much  matter,  does  it t " 
said  Theo  indifferently. 

"  Don't  yon  think  so  1  You  are  the 
person  most  concerned,  for  he  will  have  to 
take  you  in  to  breakfast,  I  suppose,  and  that 
was  why  I  told  John  most  particularly 
that  he  must  bring  his  very  nicest  Mend. 

"  Thanks ;  yon  need  not  have  bothered 
bim,"  said  Theo,  smiling. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  thought  it  was  best  at  once 
to  give  iiim  ^e  nght  impression  of  you. 
Bat  I  am  afraid  he  has  made  rather  a  mess 
of  it ;  men  are  so  stupid.  This  is  what  he 
says :  '  When  I  got  Langton's  letter  I  was 
at  my  wits'  eod,  for  I  have  very  few 
friends,  especially  in  London.  But  this 
moming  I  tiappened  to  meet  young  Fane, 
a  colliery  manager  in  our  neighbourhood,'" 
here  Helen  stole  a  glance  at  her  cousin, 
who  looked  quite  nncoacemed,  " '  and  I 
asked  him  to  oome  downmthme  to-morrow. 


\LD.  [ipriiMSM.)    479 

He  made  some  difficulties,  but  at  last  con- 
sented. He  is  a  nice  boy,  and  I  hope  you 
will  like  him ;  though  of  course  we  ahruld 
both  have  preferred  Langton.'  Fane  is  a 
good  name,"  said  Helen  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "  but  I  suppose  a  colliery  manager 
can't  be  anybody.  I  shall  know  all  those 
terms  better  presently,  though.  Do  you 
mind,  Theo  1  '^ 

"  Not  in  the  very  least,"  said  Theo. 
"  I  shall  never  Bee  Uie  man  again ;  what 
difference  can  it  possibly  make  to  me  t  " 

Helen  looked  at  her  rather  oddly. 

"None,  of  coarse,"  she  said  after  a 
moment  "  But  yon  will  be  conscious  of 
his  existence  for  this  one  day,  won't  you  I " 

She  went  awa^  smiling,  a  little  piqued 
by  Theo's  grand  indifference,  and  wishing, 
as  she  did  sometimes,  that  her  pet  cousin 
was  more  like  other  giria-  But  then  she 
would  not  be  old  Theo,  with  all  her 
oddities  and  originalilooa,  finest  when  she 
was  moat  absurd. 

"I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  Theo  in 
love,"  thought  Helen.  "  Her  ideas  about 
it  are  so  splendid — but  the  man  will  want 
a  litUe  courage,  poor  fellow  1 " 

Helen  was  in  no  agitation  about  herself, 
that  inqwrtant  day.  She  made  no  fuss,  or 
hurry,  or  delay;  she  looked  very  pretty 
and  quite  contented,  and  kissed  her  step- 
mother and  the  children  with  placid 
sweetness.  Mrs.  Fraaer  had  certainly  tried 
to  do  all  honour  to  Helen's  marriage.  She 
bad  asked  half  the  county,  and  did  not 
show  the  smallest  outward  sign  of  being 
ashamed  of  Mr,  OoodalL  She  smiled 
agreeably  on  all  Linwood,  which  bad 
assembled  in  the  street  leading  to  the 
churcb,  with  flags,  and  flowers,  and  wel- 
comes, and  wishes  of  joy.  The  sun  shone 
on  the  crowd  in  its  Sunday  clothes,  on  the 
children  in  blue  and  white  who  were  to 
throw  flowers  in  the  bride's  path.  All  the 
rejoicing  seemed  to  be  very  hearty,  for 
though  people  rather  disliked  Mrs.  Fraser, 
and  laughed  a  little  at  the  squire,  they 
all  liked  Helen,  who  had  a  pleasant 
manner  with  them,  and  knew  now  to 
admire  their  babies. 

The  church  was  old,  and  low,  and  dark, 
with  heavy  pillars,  and  high  pews  blocking 
up  the  nave.  The  chancel  was  of  a  later 
date,  a  high  raised  space  with  three  or 
four  great  Perpendicular  windows,  which 
haying  lost  their  ancient  glory  of  colour, 
except  a  few  fragments,  let  in  a  full  flood 
of  sunshine  on  the  wedding-party.  This 
was  where  Theo  first  saw  her  new  cousin 
and  his  -  friend,  as  she,   with  the   other 


480 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


btidesnuuds,  folloired  Mr.  Fraser  and  Helen 
op  the  churcb.  Jolm  Goodall  looked  much 
more  norvoiu  than  his  brid&  He  wu  & 
tall  fOQDg  mui,  rather  fat,  and  very  pale, 
viLh  a  uiort  reddiah  beard  and  keen, 
honest,  dark  eyea.  He  had  an  ezpreatdoii  | 
of  the  deepest  and  most  anxioiu  ■olemmty, ! 
which  cleared  up  a  little  when  Helen  was  ' 
actually  standing  hj  his  aide,  and  the  old 
rector  was  b^tnning  the  service. 

Theo  was  glad  to  feel  that  she  rather 
liked  him,  though  he  gave  her  a  trembling 
inclination  to  smile.  It  appeared  to  her 
that  the  man  was  very  fond  of  Helen,  and 
would  think  a  great  deal  about  making  her 
happy.  And  Uiough  he  looked  solid,  he 
did  not  look  vulgar.  Theo  perceived  that 
Hiigh  was  .right.  Though  of  conne  very 
different  from  Hugh,  John  Goodall  was 
not  of  an  absolutely  inferi<»  creation. 

Theo  had  a  free  way  of  looking  abont 
her  at  Uie  most  inappropriate  momenta, 
and  not  with  quick,  slight  glances,  bat 
with  a  grave,  deliberate  etare,  whidi  no 
person  conid  enconnt«r  without  feeling  it 
Mrs.  Fraser  had  often  complained  of  this 
trick,  one  of  the  resnlt^  she  said,  of 
Colonel  Iforth'fl  system  of  no  education, 
and  copied  exactly  from  him.  But  Theo 
anfortonately  neve^  troubled  herself  abont 
Mrs.  Fraser's  opinion  while  she  wa«  a  girl, 
and  Mrs.  Fraier  had  now  given  np  as  hope- 
less any  idea  of  training  her  to  better 
manners,  so  she  stared  about  her  as  usual 
at  Helen's  wedding,  noticing  in  a  vague 
sort  of  way  the  people's  dresses,  the  effects 
of  light  and  shade,  the  beauty  of  Helen's 
fair,  bent  head  nnder  her  veil,  the  sturdy 
breadth  of  John  Goodall's  shooldeis.  She 
was  in  one  of  her  most  absent  moods,  but 
it  was  a  tender  mood  too ;  she  did  not  look 
at  all  scornful ;  het  face  was  full  of  gentle 
thought,  not  exactly  arising  from  the 
service,  of  which  she  did  not  bear  a  word. 
She  was  thinking  of  Nell's  childhood  and 
her  own,  pitying  and  loving  her  coasin, 
perhaps  all  the  more  because  she  had  dis- 
appointed her.  She  was  thinking  also  of 
their  talk  last  night,  and  pitying  Mr. 
Goodall,  and  wishing  that  Nell  had  not 
said  those  things  about  him.  If  the  man 
had  been  much  worse  than  this,  surely 
Nell,  having  promised  -  to  marry  him, 
ought  not  to  have  allowed  herself  to  see  or 
mention  any  defects  in  him.  Poor  Nell  1 
Everybody  does  not  see  things  in  the  same 
way,  and  it  now  seemed  possible  that  she 
might  be  happy  after  aU. 


Many  people  in  Uie  diurch  that  day 
looked  at  Theo  as  tnuch  as  at  the  bride. 
There  was  something  so  noble  and  nn- 
conscions  in  the  way  she  stood — closer 
to  Helen  than  any  of  the  others — the 
flowers  drooping  carelessly  from  her  handi, 
her  head  held  very  erect,  with  her  own 
little  air  of  spirit  and  splendour.  One  of 
the  lookers-on  sud  afterwards  that  she 
"  took  away  his  breaUi."  Another,  Uiat 
she  was  "  a  magnificent  young  woman." 
Theo  thonght  of  nobody's  opinion,  ^e 
stood  a  litue  sideways  in  the  chancel,  in 
a  broad  sunbeam,  and  looked  abont  her 
with  the  absent,  deliberate  coolness  which 
so  deeply  irritated  Mrs.  Fraser.  But  the 
Fates  were  lying  in  wait  for  llieo,  and 
her  h^py  unconscioasneBB  did  not  *Iast 
long;  She  had  been  gazbg  intently  atone 
person  in  the  little  group  near  her,  and  had 

Ct  routed  herself  to  wonder  who  he  could 
She  certainly  had  never  seen  him 
before,  at  Linwood  or  in  the  county.  He 
wsis  a  very  tall  young  man,  taller  than  the 
bridegroom,  wiUi  a  dark,  pale  skiu,  brown 
hair  cut  close,  and  a  thin  line  of  moustache 
which  did  not  hide  a  rather  firmly-set 
mouth.  The  upper  part  of  his  face  was  very 
good,  with  latve,  handsome,  hazel  eyes.  He 
was  thin,  and  looked  a  little  worn,  a  little 
iti-tempered,  and  very  like  a  gentleman.  As 
Theo  looked,  his  r^er  tirod  eyes  wore 
lifted  suddenly  and  fixed  upon  her.  It 
was  a  moment  before  she,  at  least,  knew 
how  straight  and  bow  intently  tbey  were 
staring  at  each  other.  Then  she  slowly 
dropped  her  eyes,  her  whole  face  and  air 
became  scornful,  and  daring  the  rest  of  the 
service  she  looked  abont  hw  no  more. 

In  the  vestry  afterwards,  she  fonnd 
herself  being  introduced  to  Mr.  Goodsn.who 
grasped  bar  hand  with  quite  unnecessan 
warmth.  She  was  also  made  acquainted  wiu 
his  best  man,  who  bowed  and  looked  shy. 
They  had  both  written  their  names  as 
witnesses  of  the  marriage.  There  tbey 
stood  for  the  world  to  see,  on  the  sanw 
sheet  of  the  register — Theodosia  Meynell, 
and  Gerald  Fane. 


Saw  PnbllitilDf,  price  Sd.. 

THE    KXTRA    SPRING    NUMBEB 
ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


ay  Go  ogle 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


in  his  coffin ;  and,  after  a  long  look  at  the 
white,  worn  face,  left  the  cellar  with  his 
uncle,  and  retumed  home,  silent  for  the 
most  part. 

On  reaching  home  he  sought  his  mother, 
to  tell  her  with  tears  of  Tom's  last  words 
and  moments. 

Mrs.  John  wept  quietly,  and  said  at 
last: 

"  Are  those  the  letters  t  M&y  I  read 
them  I " 

'Of  course,  mother.  There's  nothing 
in  them.  They  spoke  of  home  to  the  poor 
fellow;  that  was  all." 

Mt&  John  took  the  letters  upstairs  to 
her  loom,  but  in  half  ao  hour  hurried  back 
in  great  agitation  to  seek  the  Bev.  John  in 
his  study. 

"  John,  who  was  Tom  Chown  I " 

"  Who  was  he  1 "  bewildered. 

"Who  was  his  mother  1  " 

"  I  think  I  told  you  at  the  time,  my 
dear,  whea  I  baptised  him,  didn't  1 1  She 
waB  that  poor  woman  who  came  to  Colaton 
to  seek  her  husband,  who  had  deserted  her." 

"  She  didn't  find  him ) " 

"  She  was  confined  the  night  she  reached 
the  town,  and  died  in  her  confinemenL 
She  asked  me  to  find  turn,  if  I  could,  and 
if  not  to  take  care  of  the  child  for  her. 
But  I  cooldn't  find  him.  I  pat  the  case 
into  the  hands  of  the  police,  and  I  went 
round  myself  to  the  clei^gy,  but  no  one  of 
that  name  was  known  in  the  neighbour- 
hood.    But  why  do  you  ask,  dear  t " 

"  Because  of  these,"  handing  him  a 
couple  of  yellow  letters. 

"  Those  t  I  gave  them  to  him  myself 
after  hia  confirmation.  His  mother  asked 
me  to  keep  them  for  him." 

"  Yon  never  told  me  about  them." 

"  Didn't  I,  my  dear  1  I  must  have  told 
you  about  tiiem." 

Mrs.  John  shook  her  bea4. 

"  No,  I  never  read  them  before,  and  I 
don't  think  yon  can  hare  either." 

"  I  might  have  read  them  without  think- 
ing," he  said  meekly,  and,  indeed,  this  was 
highly  probable.  Now,  however,  he  read 
and  re-read  them  carefully,  concentrating 
upon  them  his  utmost  attention,  without 
discerning  the  sUghtest  reason  for  the 
importance  Mrs.  John  attached  to  them, 
At  last  he  looked  up,  perplexed  and 
apol^tic     "Well,  dearl 

"  Well  I    Don't  you  see  t " 

The  Rtv.  John  looked  back  blankly  at 
the  letters,  and  agtun  blankly  up  into  Mrs. 
John's  face.  She  had,  Uierefore,  to  explain 
heteelf,  which  she  did  as  clearly  as  her 


extreme  agitation  would  permit,  with  the 
effect  of  converting,  oonrucing  confound- 
ing the  Eev.  John. 

"  Tou  think  there's  no  doubt  about  it, 
Maryf" 

"  What  doubt  can  there  be  t  John,  we 
moat  keep  the  letters.  It  would  not  be 
right  to  bury  them  with  him." 

"  To  bury  them  1 " 

"  He  wished  them  and  some  letters  of 
Archie's  to  him  to  be  buried  with  him." 

"Don't  you  think,  Mary,  itwoald  all  be 
beat  buried  widi  him  now  1 " 

Mary  was  silent  She  paced  up  and 
down  ^e  room  swiftly,  her  brow  knit,  her 
head  bent,  her  hands  wrung  together 
spasmodioUy  behind,  her  baolL  ^ 

"There's  no  need  now  to  decide,  at  any 
rate,"  ui^ed  the  Rev.  John,  so  roused  oat 
of  himseu  by  this  startling  discovery  as  to 
counsel  hie  counsellor. 

"No;  but  we  must  keep  the  letters, 
John.  We  moat  keep  them,"  she  groaned. 
"  We  have  no  choice." 

"  It  was  his  own  wish  that  they  should 
be  buried  with  him,  dear." 

"And  if  they  concerned  only  bim  we 
should  have  the  right  to  do  it.  Bu;t  we 
have  not  the  right  to  do  it  when  th« 
interests  of  others  are  concerned.  Have 
we,  John  dear ! "  looking  up  wistfully  and 
woefully  into  his  face. 

"You're  always,  right,  Mary;  always, 
dear." 

Next  morning  when  the  body  was 
brought  and  laid  in  the  church,  Mrs.  John 
placed  IQ  the  coffin  only  Archie's  letters. 

Two  days  later  poor  Tom  was  lud  in  tbt 
spot  he  had  chosen  for  his  grave— in  sight 
of  the  vicarage,  and  beside  the  path  used 
daily  by  Mrs.  John  on  her  way  to  the 
school  He  attained  the  little  and  loving 
immortality  he  wished  for  in  this  world, 
since  Archie  often  thought  of  him,  and  Mrs. 
John,  while  she  lived,  made  his  grave  each 
year  beautifnl  with  flowers.  And  be 
attained  also  another  earthly  immortality, 
for  which  he  would  not  have  greatly  cared. 
The  Rev.  John's  theory,  of  his  confession 
of  a  headlong  plunge  into  vice  having  been 
an  hallucination  of  fever,  had  time  in  two 
months  to  root  itself  and  grow  up  into  a 
sturdy  and  dogged  conviction,  which  Mw. 
John,  of  course,  waB  at  no  pains  to  distort). 
Somehow  he  never  spoke  much  about  the 
matter  to  her ;  and  for  the  first  and  last 
time  in  bis  life  acted  without  advising  wifli 
her  or  even  confiding  in  her.  She,  there- 
fore, was  no  less  surprised  tb^n  the  r«st 
of  the  parish  to  see  a  simple  headstone 


Chuln  DlcteiM.] 


A  DEAWN  GAME. 


[April  12, 188         483 


on  Tom's  grave   with   this  inscription : 
"Thomas  Chown,  the  first  of  the  Neo- 
pedo-holo  Baptists.      Baptised  November 
!  9th,  1865.    Died.  July  4th,  1878." 

It  is  not,  however,  to  this  distinction 
thst  Tom  owes  the  space  we  have  given  him 
in  this  history,  but  to  the  bearing  of  his 
foTtnnes  upon  those  of  Archie,  to  which  it 
is  time  that  we  return. 

CHAPTER  XXIX,  AN  ASSIGNATION. 
On  the  morning  of  poor  Tom's  funeral, 
Archie  got  from  Mre.  Bompaa's  solicitor 
the  notice  he  had  been  expecdDg  of  pro- 
ceedings to  be  taken  agunst  him  for  breach 
of  promise  of  marriage. 

For  aught  that  I  could  ever  read,  could 
ever  hear  by  tale  or  history,  the  course  of 
true  love  never  yet  was  crossed  {in  fiction) 
by  anything  so  onheroie,  nodignified, 
Indieroua,  as  tiie  prosecution  of  the  hero 
for  breach  of  promise.  Fancy  a  string  of 
tach  letters  aa  that  we  have  already  given 
being  read  out  in  court,  printed  in  every 
newspaper,  laid  on  every  breakfast-table, 
and  laughed  at  by  every  man  and  it'oman 
in  England,  from  Ida  down  to  Dick  I 

You  may  make  a  hero  brutal,  selfish, 
sensual,  vicious,  criminal,  and  find  for  him 
sdmirera ;  but  a  ndiouloos  berg  is  a  con- 
tradiction in  terms.  Yet  here  is  our  hero 
about  to  be  pilloried  in  the  most  ridiculous 
position  in  which  it  is  possible  for  a  man 
to  stand. 

Being  in  a  state  of  extreme  mental  and 
physiou  prostration,  Aichie  was  desperate 
in  his  resolutiona  He  would  disappear 
altogether,  quit  £kigland,  lose  himself  in 
the  wilds  of  America.  Even  Mrs.  John, 
to  whom  Archie's  exile  would  have  been 
as  a  most  Utter  bereavement,  could  see  no 
other  way  oat  of  the  scrape  than  his  dis- 
appearance, at  least  for  a  time.  There  was 
no  money  to  bay  off  these  harpies  with, 
and  only  money  or  marriage  would  prevent 
this  crushing  scandal 

"  I  think,  Archie,  I  should  like  to  con- 
sult Dr.  Grica  about  it,  if  you  don't  mind 
my  telling  him  the  whole  story." 

"  Of  course,  mother,  if  you  like ;  but  I 
cannot  see  what  else  anyone  could  sug- 
gest" 

But  Mrs,  John,  who  put  merited  and 
immense  faith  in  Dr.  Orice's  practical 
wisdom,  and  who,  besides,  wished  to 
consult  him  upon  the  letters  which  had  so 
startled  her  and  the  Eev.  John,  was  not 
to  be  dissuaded  from  oonsuhing  the  oracle. 
Therefore,  she  started  early  the   next 


morning  for  the  train,  in  order  to  catch  the 
doctor  before  he  set  out  on  hie  professional 
rounds.  To  do  this  she  had  to  leave 
KdgbnTn  at  nine  o'clock — that  is,  half  an 
hour  before  the  post  brought  a  letter  which 
might  have  altered  her  plane.  It  was  a 
letter  to  Archie,  which  ran  thos : 
"  Brid^fatrater  OoUage, 

"  Heatherley,  Ryeeote. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Guard, — I  cannot  tell  yon 
how  distressed  I  was  to  hear  to-day  from 
my  mother  that  she  had  been  to  you  with 
those  letters.  Some  time  since  she  took 
them  fixim  me,  under  the  pretext  that  I 
was  injuring  my  health  in  reading  them. 
Little  did  I  dream  of  the  disgracefiu  nse  to 
which  she  meant  to  put  them.  I  have, 
however,  got  them  back,  and  think  that 
now  the  only  reparation  I  can  make  to  you 
is  to  return  them,  though  I  part,  in  parting 
with  them,  with  what  has  been  the  sole 
happiness  of  a  very  unhappy  life.  It  is 
not  the  least  of  my  unhappiness  to  think 
that  I  have  never  been  able  to  ezplidn  to 
you  conduct  which  gave  yon  just  o£Fence 
during  the  last  few  weeks  of  oor  stay  in 
Cambridge,  nor  even  our  departure  without 
leave-taking  from  the  neighbourhood.  I 
cannot  explain  all  this  in  a  letter,  and  I 
cannot  hope,  after  my  mother's  behaviour, 
for  the  lavour  of  one  last  interview.  Yet, 
when  I  recall  all  your  generosity,  I  almost 
think  you  would  do  me  this  great  kind- 
ness, if  only  yon  knew  how  wretched  the 
thought  of  b^ng  misunderstood  by  you 
makes  me. 

"  I  sh^  keep  your  dear,  dear  letters  one 
Hi^le  day  longer,  in  the  hope  that  I 
may  have  the  sad  pleasure  of  giving  them 
myself  into  your  hands.  I  ask  only  to  see 
yon  once  more,  and  only  that  yon  may  hear 
my  explanations.  WiU  you  come  t  Pray 
do  not  answer  this,  as  my  mother,  seeing 
your  writing,  would  suspect,  and  might 
frustrate,  my  design  of  restoring  your  let- 
ters. I  shall  meet  the  train  whic^  reaches 
Heatherley  from  Leeds  at  two-fifty  to- 
morrow afternoon — such  is  my  confidence 
in  your  generosity.  For  I  thmk  you  will 
come.  I  know  you  would  come  if  I  could 
give  you  an  idea  of  what  I  have  to  tell 
you,  how  I  long  to  tell  it,  and  how  utterly 
wretched  I  shall  be  if  you  deny  me  this 
one  last  chance  of  an  explanation. 

"I  have  long  lost  the  hope  that  you 
have  kept  my  letters,  but  if  by  any  chance 
you  have,  you  will,  I  know,  exchange  them 
for  yours.  Pray  do  not  send  them  by 
post,  as  then  they  must  fall  into  my 
mother's  hands.      If  j^on  will  not  como 


484      [April  U,  1881.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


(Condnotod  br 


to-morrow,  bum  tham.  Bat  ;roa  will  oome. 
I  cannot,  dare  not  think  otherwise.  I 
might  in  time  grow  reconcUed  to  the  loss 
of  yonr  love,  but  never  to  tlie  loea  ot  your 
OGteem.  I  must  explain  the  conduct  by 
which,  I  fear,  I  hxve  forfeited  it.  Forgive 
this  long  letter,  this  lut  letter,  from — 
Yours,  Anastasia  Bompas." 

It  will  be  Been  that  this  clever  letter  lefb 
Archie  no  oltenuttdve  but  an  acceptance  of 
the  Bnggeeted  uai^naUoa  He  moat  on 
no  acconnt  write,  since  his  latter  would  be 
recognised  by  Mfs,  Bompas ;  if,  therefore, 
he  was  to  get  back  his  letters  at  all,  he 
must  meet  the  maiden. 

Seeking  the  Rev.  John,  he  explained 
hurriedly  to  him  the  reason  of  the  sudden 
journey,  so  hurriedly  that  lus  reverence — 
though  he  bronght  all  the  forces  of  his 
mind  that  he  could  summon  at  so  short  a 
notice  to  bear  upon  the  explanation — 
received  the  distinct  impression,  which  he 
confidently  conveyed  to  Mrs.  John,  that 
another  letter  from  tliese  Bompas  people 
had  driven  Archie  to  instant  headlong 
flight — whither  and  for  bow  long  he  could 
not  say. 

Archie  had  only  time  to  catch  his  train 
by  a  rush.  He  had  hardly  got  into  the 
carriage  when  it  started,  and  then  he  would 
have  given  the  world  to  have  been  back  at 
home.  He  had  felt  ill  when  be  had  got 
up  that  morning,  but  the  excitement  of 
the  letter  and  the  minor  exdtement  of  a 
rush  for  the  train  had  driven  back  the  feel- 
ing ontU  he  foond  himself  in  the  oarriage 
and  the  train  had  started;  then  the  re- 
action set  ia  He  lay  back  in  the  carriage, 
helpless  witi  that  kind  of  pain  and  prostra- 
tion which  comes  from  excessive  sea- 
sickness. The  journey  and  its  object 
receded  in  his  mind  until  it  became  dim  as 
a  cloud,  as  a  dream,  and  he  was  vividly 
conscious  only  of  pain,  which  at  each  throb 
of  his  pulse  seemed  to  break  over  him  in 
successive  waves,  and  beat  upon  him,  and 
beat  him  down,  till  he  lay  helplesa  as  a 
wreck  at  their  mercy. 

In  fact,  h«  had  caught  the  fever  to  which 
poor  Tom  had  succumbed. 

At  Kyecote,  where  all  had  to  change,  he 
was  roused  by  a  porter  and  got  upon  the 
I  Utform  and  Into  the  refreshment-room, 
where  a  glass  of  wine  brought  him  more 
to  himself,  so  much  so  that  he  felt  now 
equal  to  going  through  with  the  business. 
Aiid,  indeed,  apart  from  the  effect  of  the 
wine  he  had  a  kind  of  lucid  interval^  and 
was  altogether  better  and  brighter.  He 
was   able,    when    the    train  started    for 


Heatheriey,  to  collect  and  concentrate  his 
thoughts  upon  the  unpleasant  interview 
before  him.  At  beet  he  felt  that  he  must 
cut  a  sorry  figure  in  it,  having  nothing  to 
give  the  girl  in  return  for  her  love  and  her 
generosity.  He  had  not  even  kept  her 
letters,  and  had  nothing  to  return  to  her 
but  a  locket  with  her  likeness  in  it,  which 
he  bad  brought  with  him  in  case  she  should 
think  it  necessaiy  to  give  him  back  his 
presents. 

But  why  should  he  believe  in  her  love 
andgenerosityt  Becansehe  could  notbelieve 
that  she  hoped  to  re-invei^  him  into  her 
toils  in  a  single  interview.  His  heart  being 
garrisoned  in  such  force  by  Ida,  the  idea 
of  an  attempt  to  take  it  by  a  conp  de  main 
was  inconceivable  to  him. 

^or  was  it  the  precise  idea  conceived  by 
Ansstasta.  She  had  certainly  hope  of  re- 
awakening his  old  love,  for  she  had  no 
suspicion  of  having  been  replaced  by 
another  in  his  heart;  but  she  did  not 
expect  to  regain  her  power  over  him  in  a 
single  interview.  She  merely  meant  this 
interview  to  be  the  first  of  a  series  by 
which  he  might  gradually  be  re^ubdoed. 
But  on  his  re-subjugation  she  was  bent 
Through  living  in  the  neighbourhood  ot 
Byecote  she  had  oome  to  hear  of  Mr. 
Tuck  and  of  Archie's  relationship  to  him, 
and  had  formed  her  own  conclusions  tiiere- 
from  upon  his  proapecte.  The  young  lady 
was  oi^y  less  mercenary  tJian  her  mother ; 
but  being  young,  and  as  much  in  love  with 
Archie  as  i^e  could  be  with  anyone,  she 
preferred  rather  to  lure  than  to  drive  him 
to  submission.  At  the  same  time  she 
had  not  the  least  intention — if  she  fonndher 
arte  fail— of  restoring  Archie  his  letters. 
She  resolved — if  she  gained  nothing — to 
lose  nothing  by  the  interview. 

When  the  train  drew  up  at  Heatheriey, 
and  Archie  got  out  upon  the  platiorm, 
Anastasia  advanced  with  a  timid  step  and 
deprecating  face  to  meet  him. 

"  Yon  are  ill  1 "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I've  not  been  very  well,"  taking  ha 
offered  hand. 

"  Yet  you  have  come ! "  expressing 
through  her  voice  and  eyes  the  greatness 
of  her  gratitude.  It  was  a  bit  overdone, 
and  oppressive  to  Archie,  who  was  irre- 
sponsive.     "  How  I  wish  I  could  ask  you 

home,  but "  An  apoaiopesis  dedicated 

to  her  mother,  "  You  are  not  too  faUgaed 
for  a  walk )  We  might  go  down  by  the 
river ;  it  is  not  far,  and  we  shall  be  to  oar- 
selves." 

Archie  assenting,  she  led  the  way  out  of 


CtuHM  Dlcksna.] 


A  DRAWN  GAMK, 


uptiiia,  188*.)    486 


the  little  station  uid  oat  of  the  higb-road 
into  a  bye-path,  vhich  soon  brought  them 
to  the  rivet's  bank.  As  the  path  waa  a 
mere  track,  they  had  to  walk  in  Btogle  file 
and  in  silence  till  they  reached  the  river, 
narrowed  here  to  »  mill-race. 

"Yoa  had  better  sit,  you  look  so 
tired,"  she  said  then  gently  and  sym- 
pathetically. Beating  herself  on  the  trunk 
of  a  fallen  tree. 

Archie,  glad  of  a  rust,  sat  beside  her, 
There  was  a  short  silence,  which  he  broke 
at  last 

"  Your  letter  was  very  generous,"  he  said, 

"  It  is  yoQ  who  are  generoua  to 
coroft     But  I  knew  yoa  would.    Yoa  were 

always  generous,  except — except Oh, 

Archie,  why  did  you  show  my  letters  1 " 

Here  was  a  sudden  and  surprising 
assault.  She  was  drawing  a  bow  at  a 
mere  venture  to  account  for  her  cooling 
to  Archie  upon  the  appearance  of  Mr. 
Hyelop.  She  thought  it  probable  enough 
that  Archie  had  shown  her  letters  as  un- 
scrupulously as  she  had  shown  his ;  but 
she  spoke  upon  mere  suspicion.  The  bolt 
shot  home,  however,  for  Archie,  upon  Mr. 
Jacox  disillasioning  him  about  Anastasia, 
had  compared  his  own  letters  from  her 
with  his  friend's,  and  allowed  him  also  to 
compare  these  nearly  identical  effusions 
together.  As  Archie,  therefore,  looked 
confused  and  guilty,  Aiiastasia  confidently 
followed  up  her  attack. 

"I  cooldn't  believe  it;  I  didnt  believe 
it  till  the  very  words  of  one  of  my  letters 

were  repeated  to  me  by — by But  I 

promised  not  to  give  bis  name.  Then 
only  would  I  believe  what  mother  always 
told  me  from  the  first— that  you  were  but 
trifling  with  my  affections.  For  mother 
wished  me  to  marry  Mr.  Hyslop  because  be 
was  rich,  and  because  we  were  poor,  and — 
and  in  debt.  I  brought  these  letters,"  she 
said,  taking  a  packet  from  her  pocket ; 
"  they  will  explain  all  better  Uian  I  can. 
These  are  letters  from  my  mother,  urging 
me  to  marry  Mr.  Hyslop,  and  these  are 
letters  Mr.  Jacox  wrote  to  me  before  I 
knew  you,  which  mother  threatened  to 
show  you  if  I  did  not  myself  break  off  our 
engagement  I  got  them  out  of  her  hands 
at  last,  bat  could  not  bring  myaelf  to  bum 
them  till  yon  had  seen  them,  that  there 
iuight  be  no  more  any  misunderstanding 
between  UiB.  You  will  read  them ! "  plead- 
ingly. 

Archie,  however,  rather  to  her  relief, 
said  there  was  no  need;  and  Anastasia, 
being  thus  free  to  put  what  contents  she 


pleased  into  the  letters,  toned  downlhose 
of  Mr.  Jacox,  and  exaggerated  the  pressure 
put  upon  her  by  her  mother  to  discard 
Archie  and  accept  the  more  eligible  Mr. 
Hyslop. 

Still,  they  were  bonft-fide  letters.  When 
Mrs,  Bompas  went^  as  ahe  often  did,  to 
London,  under  the  pretence  of  bosiness, 
she  wrote  in  her  sober  moments  long 
letters  of  such  advice  to  her  daughter, 
some  of  which  Anastasia  happened  to  have 
kept  She  had  also  kept  all  Mr.  Jacox'a 
letters,  though  she  had  made  a  choice 
selection  from  his  extensive  correspondence 
for  Archie's  eye ;  in  fact,  only  the  earliest 
and  therefore  most  modest  of  his  effusions, 
which  were  taken  up,  for  the  most  part, 
with  remonstrances  upon  her  prudery. 

Having  explained  her  sudden  coolness  to 
Archie  by  her  versions  of  these  letters,  and 
by  her  ducovery  that  he  was  making  mere 
and  cruel  sport  of  her  ingenuous  affections, 
she  proceeded  to  unravel  the  mystery  of 
their  sudden  disappearance  from  Cam- 
bridge. It  was  simple  and  prosaic.  They 
lefc  Cambridge,  ahe  said,  because,  owing  to 
her  poor  mother's  extravagance,  they  were 
deep  in  hopeless  debt,  from  which  there 
was  no  escape  but  through  her  marriage 
with  Mr.  Hyslop. 

"  But  could  I  marry  one  I  did  not  love, 
and  while  I  loved  another  1 "  falteringly. 

This  was  her  explanation  of  their  flight 
from  Cambridge,  which  it  is  only  fair 
to  give — our  own  is  somewhat  difi'erent 
One  wet  night  Mr.  Hyslop,  visiting 
Anastasia,  hung  up  his  dripping  overcoat 
in  the  passage.  Here  Mrs.  ^mpas,  coming 
to  eavesdrop,  found  it,  and  in  it--for  she 
whiled  the  tedious  time  away  by  ransack- 
ing its  pockets — a  purse  bulgiag  with  bank- 
notes. One  of  these  for  a  large  amount 
she  abstracted  without  a  qualm  of  con- 
fidence, though  not  without  a  qualm  of 
fear.  Drink  had  reduced  her  Co  bank- 
ruptcy at  once  of  money,  of  principle,  and 
of  shame.  Next  morning  she  went  to 
London,  and  tendered  the  note  in  payment 
of  a  smfiU  account.  The  shopkeeper,  how- 
ever, declined  to  change  it  unieBS  she  would 
endorse  it.  She  endorsed  it,  received  tlie 
change,  returned  to  Cambridge  to  find  Mr.i 
Hyslop  with  Anaetasia,  telling  her  of  the 
robbery,  and  congratulating  himself  upon 
having  known  the  number  of  the  note,  and 
having  telegraphed  that  morning  to  have 
it  stopped.  Hence  their  sadden  flight, 
which  could  be  made  in  a  moment  without 
loss,  or  rather  with  advantage,  since  they 
left  nothing  but  debt  behind.     Not  were 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOTmD. 


they  in  the  least  danger  of  parsnit  and 
prosecatioQ.  When  the  note  was  stopped 
and  the  signature  of  Mrs.  Bompas  was 
found  endorgfld  npon  it,  Mr.  Hyslop  bodied 
up  the  business — not  certainly  for  Anas- 
taaia's  sake,  but  for  his  ami;  since  his 
relations  with  these  ladies  must  have  come 
out  in  evidence,  to  the  delight  of  his  friends 
anil  the  disgust  of  his  parents. 

Thus  it  came  about,  that  only  the  three 
immediately  concerned  had  any  idea  of  the 
reason  why  the  bright  particular  star  of 
Cambridge  should  have  shot  thos  madly 
from  its  sphere  into  the  jaws  of  darkness. 

Anastasia,  having  made  her  explanations 
eloquently  and  with  the  eloquence  also  of 
pkintive  and  appealing  eyes,  and  handa 
clasped  together  convnlsively,  waited  her 
sentence. 

"  Archie,  can  you  forgive  me  I " 

Archie  felt  so  ill  that  it  was  only  by  a 
great  effort  he  could  follow  her  ezplanationa 
It  may  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  he  was 
in  the  worst  mood  in  the  world  for  the 
part  Anastasia  expected  him  to  play. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive;  or  it  is  I 
who  need  forgiveness,"  he  said  wearily. 
"  I  did  show  your  letters  to  Mr.  Jacoz,  but 
only  when  he  had  shown  me  eimiiar  ones 
which  you  had  written  to  him." 

Here  she  withdrew,  as  tlioagh  stung,  the 
band  she  had  laid  imploringly  on  his  arm. 
If  Mr.  Jaooz  hod  shown  her  letters,  there 
was  small  hope  of  reconciliation  with  Archie. 

"  Dastard  I "  she  hissed  with  sudden  fury 
in  her  eyes  and  her  voice;  but  then  re- 
membering and  recovering  herself,  she 
added  in  a  milder  tone  :  "  It  was  dastardly 
to  show  letters  I  had  written  before  I  knew 
my  own  heart;  before  I  knew  you.  If  you 
Lad  read  his  letters  to  me — i£  you  wUl 
read  them,"  holding  again  the  packet  out 
to  Archie,  confident  now  of  his  declining  to 
look  at  them. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  read  them  to  know 
that  they  were  foolish — foolish  as  my 
own," 

"  Yoats  1  Archie,  you  do  not  know  what 
they  have  been  to  me — what  a  struggle  it 
has  been  to  me  to  give  them  up." 

"  It  is  most  generous  of  you,  murmured 
Archie  in  a  conventional  voice,  which  con- 
vinced her  that  her  assault  had  failed 
utterly. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment  with  half- 
averted  face.  Then  she  said  in  a  chilling 
voice,  as  she  handed  Archie  another  packet 
to  his  great  relief : 

"I  have  brought  you  your  presents — 
such  of  them  as  I  coud  teke  wiUiout  the 


chance  of  their  being  missed  by  my 
mother,"  in  other  words  those  of  least 
value.  "  She  seems  to  have  suspected  my 
intention  to  restore  your  letters  to  you,  for 
she  broke  open  my  desk  last  nl^t,  and  has 
•gMu  got  possession  of  them.  When  I  can 
neua  them,  I  shall  retnm  them  And 
nmiet" 

"They  are  destroyed;  bat  there  is 
this,"  handing  her  tiie  locket  with  her 
likeness  in  it — hei  one  present  to  him. 

She  took  it,  and  flung  it  petulantly 
towards  the  river.  The  chain  caoght, 
however,  on  the  low  bongh  of  an  aider 
which  hung  over  the  water. 

Archie,  who  now  suspected  the  true 
motive  and  meaning  of  the  interview  into 
which  he  had  been  tricked,  rose  disgusted, 
and  said  in  a  voice  of  construned  dvility : 

"Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered,  without 
moving  or  taming  back  towards  him  her 
averted  head. 

Archie  walked  slowly  and  feebly  back 
towards  the  station.  She  waited  untU  he 
was  well  out  of  sight,  and  then  rose  to 
recover  the  locket,  which  she  was  very 
glad  to  find  retrievabl&  By  stooping  fa^ 
forward  she  could  just  touch  it,  but  as  she 
tried  to  grasp  it  she  over-reached  herself, 
and  fell  headlong  into  the  milt-race.  She 
was  swept  away  by  the  swift  current,  and 
would  certainly  nave  been  drowned  or 
crushed  by  the  mill-wheel  if  a  policeman 
had  not  plunged  in  gallantly  ttom  the 
opposite '  bank,  and  with  great  difficulty 
brought  her  out 


POISONOUS   REPTILES   AND 
INSECTS  OF  INDIA 
IN  ■nVO  PARTa      PART  11. 

Two  reptjles  much  lower  and  less 
dangeroos  in  the  poison  scale  than  the 
snake  are  familiar  to  Anglo-Indians  in  the 
scorpion  and  centipede.  It  is  no  onasual 
experience  of  the  European,  especially  if 
resident  in  the  conntry,  where  thatch,  for 
coolness,  onderlies  the  tile  roofing  of  his 
bungalow,  to  see  one  or  other  of  these 
repdles  drop  down  &om  the  eaves  of  his 
verandah,  or  a  centipede  uncoil  itself  from 
one  of  the  crevices  which  the  irrepressible 
white  ant  has  excavated  along  the  jambs 
of  his  doors. 

The  first  sight  I  got  of  a  lire  scorpion, 
was  when,  wa&ing  outride  to  breatheTH. 
cool  early  air  after  eiz  o'clock  breakfast,  . 
saw  a  creatnre  not  nnlike  a  crab  right  ii 
the   path  before  me.      Indeed,  I  realll 


Charlei  DiclisDi.] 


POISONOUS  REPTILES. 


[April  12,  ISU.l      4S7 


took  it  to  be  Bome  laod  Bpecies  of  crab, 
thoogh  Tondering  at  its  sharp,  threatening 
tul  aod  n)ider-Iike  head.  While  examin- 
ing it  careleBsly  I  marraDed  afterwards  how 
I  had  escaped  being  stung,  when  informed 
that  the  croatnre  I  had  tteen  overhaoling 
was  a  scorpion.  Though  acquainted  with 
its  appearance  in  glasa  cases,  the  resem- 
blance had  never  occurred  to  me  on  meeting 
the  live  reality;  and  its  position  in  the 
midst  of  bare  ^elds,  without  graaa  or  shelter 
of  any  kind,  had  also  been  misleading. 

Freqnently  thongh  the  scorpion  is  met' 
with,  yet  a  sting  from  one  is  rare.  An 
instance  coming  within  my  obaerratioQ  was 
tiiat  of  my  chowkeedar,  who  had  been 
stong  daring  the  night  while  asleep  on  his 
mat  in  a  comer  of  the  verandah,  where 
Uie  reptile  had  evidently  dropped'  down 
from  above.  I  was  awoke  by  a  loud  "  bap- 
re-bap"  and  the  very  familiar  "sftp 
kdtdyia"  ("Father,  oh,  father,  a  snake  has 
bitten  me  I"),  and,  on  going  to  the  spot 
with  a  light,  we  discovered  the  assailant  to 
be,  not  a  snake,  bnt  a  scorpion,  which  was 
standing  motionless  in  the  comer,  stOI 
angrily  curving  its  tail — a  discovery  which 
afforded  unspeakable  relief  to  tha  chow- 
keedar, who  had  thought  his  last  hours 
were  come,  and  who  now  wiUi  folded  hands 
and  upturned  eyes  devoutly  acknowledged 
his  escape  in  the  exclamation  :  "  Doha! 
Ram  Ji,  J&n  bochgaia  ("  Mercy,  oh.  Ram, 
my  life  is  spared  I ").  He  had  pressed  upon 
the  reptOe,  no  doubt,  while  turning  round, 
and  had  been  stang  on  the  arm,  which 
rapidly  swelled  to  a  great  size,  accompanied 
by  pain  so  excessive  as  to  cause  a  feeling  of 
faintness.  With  his  mind,  however,  re- 
lieved from'  the  "  worst,"  he  soon ,  set 
about  collectiag  herbs  from  the  compound 
and  garden,  under  the  applicadon  of  hot 
mashee  of  which  the  pain  gradually  sab- 
sided,  and,  along  with  the  swelliug,  dis- 
appeared in  a  couple  of  days. 

Being  carious  to  watch  the  habits  of  the 
scorpion,  I  placed  one  under  a  glass  case 
along  with  a  grasshopper  two  inches  long, 
whose  sharp-spiked  l^a  constituted  its  strong 
natural  defence.  For  a  while  the  scoroion 
took  no  notice  of  the  wild-  leaps  of^  his 
companion,  though  every  now  and  again  it 
struck  against  him  in  rebonnding  from  the 
glass  cover,  but  at  length,  irritated  by  the 
continuance  of  tiiese,  it  assumed  the  offen- 
sive. After  several  unsucceasful  clutches, 
he  managed  to  seize  with  his  toes  a  leg  of 
the  grasshopper,  which  he  held  in  hia  jaws, 
while  endeavouring  to  transfix  him  with 
his  sting,  till  he  succeeded  in  driving  it 


through  and  through  him.  The  leaps  of 
the  grasshopper  now  speedily  grew  feebler, 
and  soon  he  lay  motioalesa  and  dead.  For 
twenty-four  hours  the  scorpion  took  no 
Airther  notice  of  his  companion,  and  then, 
pressed  by  hunger,  he  bethought  himself 
of  him,  and  apeedUy  devoored  him. 

Like  the  scorpion  the  centipede  also 
seems  partial  to  grasshoppers,  wh«i  it  can 
get  them.  An  enormously  magnified  copy 
as  it  is  of  the  little  home  centipede,  the 
sight  of  one  five  or  six  inches  long,  with 
ita  multitude  of  prehensile  feet  all  moving 
at  once,  and  its  long  feelers  ateering  its 
way,  oaosea  an  involantary  creeping  of  the 
flesh.  Once  whUe  reclining  on  a  sofa 
perusing  a  daily  paper  after  mid-day  break- 
fast, preparatory  to  "  tnming  in  "  for  the 
customary  siesta,  I  was  surprised  by  a 
thump-thumping  against  a  newspaper  which 
was  lying  in  a  comer  of  the  room,  and  thecon- 
tinnanceof  the  sound  induced  me  to  jump  up 
to  ascertain  the  cause,  suspecting,  of  course, 
a  snake  and  frc^.  The  raising  of  the  paper 
disclosed  a  centipede  of  about  five  inches 
long,  holding  In  his  jaws  a  large  grass- 
hopper, which  he  was  quietly  hollowing 
out,  without  the  least  regard  to  the  frantic 
kicks  of  his  victim,  which  had  oooasioned 
the  noise  against  ^e  paper.  Nor  did  he 
seem  disposed  to  relinquish  so  choice  a 
morsel,  but  allowed  himself  to  be  turned 
over  and  over  without  even  relaxing  his 
hold;  and  as  the  grasshopper  could  not 
physically  recoup  his  loss,  I  let  his  devonrer 
continue,  till  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  only 
the  shell  remained,  and  only  then  did  the 
diminishing  kicks  of  the  griushopper  oease 
altogether, 

Ou  another  occasion,  in  the  hot  month 
of  May,  daring  my  morning  ablutions, 
while  raising  the  sponge  to  my  face,  I  was 
met  by  the  near  view  of  an  ugly  pur  of 
horns,  followed  by  a  head,  emerging  from 
one  of  the  pores.  Not  an  instant  too  soon, 
I  dropped  it  down  again  on  the  basin  stand, 
upon  which  the  full  length  of  a  hideous 
centipede  gradually  unwound  itself. 

Such  are  instances  of  the  way  these 
reptiles  are  come  upon  now  and  ^am  in 
India,  generidly  when  and  where  least 
expected,  and  showing  the  wariness  people 
require  to  practise  in  every  movement,  even 
in  lifting  a  book  or  paper,  or  putting  the 
hand  anywhere  where  the  eye  does  not 
also  reach.  The  bite  of  the  centipede  is 
rarely  heard  of,  but  it  is  more  or  less 
poisonous,  and,  like  the  sting  of  the 
scorpion,  is  considered  serious  to  children. 

.Very  opposite  to  cobra  and  krait,  centi- 


488     [April  12,  u 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


[CoadBstadbr 


pedfl  and  scorpion,  and  one  of  ttie  moat 
harmless  of  reptiles,  is  the  fro^  which,  in 
Ind  ia,  is  represented  by  two  widely  differeot 
varieties.  One  of  these  is  so  namerom  in 
some  years  as  easily  to  safest  one  of  the 
plagues  of  Egypt,  and  this  most  form  the 
apology  for  introducing  a  non-poiaoaooa 
reptile  in  this  paper.  Of  the  two,  the 
common  little  frog,  called  the  beng,  of  a 
dirty  yellow,  appears  more  or  leas  all  tha 
year  round,  especially  during  the  rains, 
and  from  its  intmsion  into  dwellings  and 
every  possible  place  where  it  can  find  a 
footing,  is  the  variety  that  becomes  such  a 
nuisance  of  the  country.  Besides  its 
rather  repulsive  appearance,  it  poaaessea, 
like  the  skunk,  a  strong  natural  protection 
Id  a  most  offensive  fluid,  which  it  dis- 
charges when  molested.  So  hateful  is  this 
to  dogs,  that  when  one  has  once  experienced 
the  nauseous  dose  through  teaui^  a  frog,  he 
takes  great  care  never  to  risk  it  again.  The 
discbarge  causes  him  to  turn  away  with 
intense  disgust,  shaking  his  head,  while 
huge  flakes  of  foam  drop  from  his  mouth, 
and  ha  appears  moat  uncomfortable  indeed 
for  some  time  to  come.  A  shower  of  rain 
in  the  hot  weather  is  the  signal  for  this 
fro^  to  emerge  in  fresh  swarms  from  its 
hidmga,  and  spread  about  in  all  directiona ; 
and  then  chowkeedar,  sweeper,  and  bearer 
And  at  length  something  to  do  in  ejecting 
them  from  the  bungalow,  and  preventing 
their  defilement  of  your  rooms.  Bat 
it  ia  during  the  night,  when  it  is  so 
neceasary  to  keep  open  the  glass  and 
vene^an  doors  to  cool  the  rooms  from 
the  day's  heat,  that  their  raids  are  moat 
troublesome,  and  their  incessant  hopping, 
and  occasional  loud  croak  just  as  you  are 
closing  your  eyes,  ia  very  irritating  and 
destructive  of  sleep.  Occasionally  this  is 
varied  by  the  omiaoua  aqueak  which  tella 
of  a  anake,  probably  attracted  indoora  in 
pursuit,  having  seized  on&  On  one  such 
oucaaion  I  was  awoke  by  the  well-known 
squeak,  and  getting  up  oat  of  bed,  and 
carefully  "  scanning  the  country  "  by  the 
night-light,  was  guided  by  the  aouud  from 
room  to  room,  till  I  found  it  proceeded  from 
a  hole  in  the  doorway,  the  mouth  of  which 
was  filled  by  a  frog.  On  looking  closer  down 
I  found  the  frog  was  held  there  by  a  anake 
from  within,  whose  dark  head  and  glittering 
eyea  just  appearing  now  and  then,  ahowed 
to  be  a  krait.  The  queation  was  how  to 
nnearth  such  a  dangerous  neighbour  instead 
of  driving  him  farther  in,  and  finding  that 
he  held  tenaciously  to  the  frog,  the  only 
feasible  plan  appeared  to  be  to  draw  the 


latter  gently  up  with  a  pair  of  long  nippers 
tiU  the  head  of  the  snAe  could  be  s^zed 
with  another  pair,  which  was  the  work  of  a 
moment,  and  enabled  its  being  easily  dis- 
posed of  by  a  simple  pressure  of  the  pincers. 

Another  enemy  of  the  frog  is  the  mnak- 
rat — though  not  a  dangerous,  yet  a  very 
offensive  intruder  in  a  bungalow,  from  the 
putrid  smells  which  sometames  permeate 
a  room  from  the  hidden  remnants  of  his 
feasts.  I  had  been  distorbed  night  after 
night  by  periodical  raids  of  one  from  the 
outside,  always  about  the  same  time,  just 
as  I  was  dropping  ofi'  to  sleep.  First  was 
the  disagreeable  patter  and  "  click  "  of  the 
rat,  then  the  quickly  smothered  sqneak  of 
a  captured  frog,  and  the  sound  of  crunch- 
ing bones,  followed  by  a  more  irritatii^  noise 
of  scrambling  or  cUmbing,  which  I  could 
not  comprehend.  In  the  course  of  some 
days  I  became  conscious  of  a  faint  putrid 
odour  gradually  increasing  in  strength,  till 
the  room  soon  became  unbearable,  and 
after  a  long  search,  we  noticed  that  the 
smell  was  stronger  near  a  wardrobe  that 
stood  an  inch  or  two  from  the  wall. 
Jumping  up  to  glance  over  this  seeminglv 
inaccessible  place,  to  my  astonishment  I 
found  on  the  top  the  putrefying  remains  qf 
about  a  dozen  fr^  amid  a  perfect  gol- 
gatha  of  bones.  1^  had  been  the  musk- 
rat'a  dining-table,  and  the  scrambling  noise 
I  had  heard  had  been  bis  gymnastic  feat  of 
drawing  up  the  frogs  between  wall  and 
wardrobe,  though  why  he  had  been  at  such 
trouble  is  hard  to  say. 

Climbing  is  the  frog's  special  vanity,  and 
it  ia  no  unusual  thing  to  hear  a  load 
triumphant  croak  overhead  from  a  fros 
perched  on  the  ledge  of  a  door,  as  if  in  foQ 
enjoyment  of  his  precarious  post.  Some- 
times he  gets  crushed  in  his  ascent 
between  door  and  jamb,  and  there 
remains  till  the  same  putrid  odour  leads  to 
his  discovery.  A  favourite  food  of  the  frog 
is  the  fly.  Wherever  a  patch  of  refuse 
oataide  collects  black  masses  of  these, 
there  the  frogs  soon  circle  roand,  and  keep 
up  a  short,  lazy  hopping,  insufficient  to 
scare  the  flieo,  though  the  constant 
smacking  of  the  froga'  jawa  proves  that  a 
double  feast  is  going  on.  On  emptying  out 
some  half  -  dozen  quart  bottles  of  fliea, 
caught  in  the  verandah  when  they  were 
troublesome,  relays  of  froga  kept  coming 
in  to  the  feast  till  the  whole  loathaome 
mass  soon  vanished.  This  bottle  procesa  of 
capturing  fliea  ia  perhaps  worth  mention- 
ing, from  its  cleanliness,  cheapness,  and 
efficacy.     Water  is  poured  into  a  bottle  to 


the  depth  of  an  inch  or  tvro,  and  floated 
over  with  a  little  oil.  The  inaide  of  the 
moadi  is  then  moistened  with  some  Byrnp 
or  preeeiTe,  and  the  bottle  placed  at  the 
disposal  of  the  flies.  These  keep  clustering 
over  the  month  and  dropping  within,  each 
iji  the  moment  it  touches  the  oil,  sinking 
through  and  getting  drowned ;  and  as  the 
flies  accnmolate  the  water  keeps  rieing  till 
the  bottle  ma^  become  filled  with  them 
nearly  to  the  neck.  Bj  ranging  some 
half-dozen  bottles  along  the  edge  of  the 
vwaodab,  day  after  day,  for  some  time, 
they  were  removed  nearly  foil  in  the  even- 
ing, and  thos  gave  great  relief  by  attract- 
iog  the  flies  from  other  parte  of  the 
bnngalow,  and  I  verily  believe  immensely 
redaoed  their  nnmbera  in  the  vicinity. 

I  remember  the  frogs  were,  one  year,  so 
nnmerona  that  I  was  compelled  to  shut  the 
glass  doors  at  night  to  prevent  the 
tnngalow  bemg  inundated  with  them ; 
and  each  morning  the  sweeper  regularly 
went  round  with  a  large  jar  to  collect  the 
Itaaaees  tiiat  lay  piled  a  foot  and  a  half 
deep  in  each  comer  of  the  doorways.  As 
this  nuisance  continued  it  occurred  to  me 
to  utilise  them  in  a  practical  form,  and  for 
this  porpose  I  had  a  narrow-mouthed  hole 
dng  in  the  garden,  into  which  each  jar-full 
of  m>gB  was  successfally  emptied.  Several 
holes  were  filled  in  this  manner  containing 
some  fifty  jars  full  ere  the  snpply  ceased, 
the  holes,  as  filled,  being  sprinkled  over 
with  quicklime  and  closed.  Some  months 
later,  when  the  time  for  manuring  the 
vines  came,  and  the  gardener  required  his 
costomary  sum  to  buy  fish  for  this  purpose, 
I  directed  him  to  the  frog-holes  in  the 
garden,  which  now  supphed  a  manure 
ready  for  use,  and  yielding  a  crop  of 
grapes  in  quality  and  quantity  far  superior 
to  anything  I  had  bad  before. 

The  other  variety  of  frog,  called  the 
d&boose,  is  an  agile,  handsome  animal,  much 
larger  in  size,  of  great  leaping  capacity — of 
eight  to  ten  feet  at  a  time  (its  powers  of 
escape  being  its  only  natural  defence) — and 
doee  not  possess  the  oA'cnsive  secretion  of 
the  beog.  It  appears  only  during  the 
rains.  As  soon  as  the  first  heavy  shower 
towards  the  end  of  June  begins  the  rainy 
season,  and  cools  the  panned  earth,  then 
every  roadside  puddle  suddenly  becomes 
alive  with  them,  all  of  a  bright  yellow, 
rolling  and  tossing  over  each  other  as  if  in 
the  h^hest  enjoyment  of  their  new 
quarters,  while  their  loud  croak  sounds  in 
the  distance  like  a  policeman's  rattle. 
"Wlkere  they  come  from — in  the  midst,  it 


may  be,  of  bare  fields  without  shelter  of  any 
kind — is  the  mystery;  and  should  these 
pools  diy  up  again,  they  disappear  as  sud- 
denly and  mysteriously  as  they  came. 
Sometimes  by  putting  the  ear  close  to  a 
rent  in  the  low  rice-lauds  a  croak  far  down 
may  be  beard,  showing  that  some  of  them 
at  least  find  a  home  here,  where  they  pro- 
bably keep  sinking  along  with  the  sinking 
moisture  till  the  first  shower  warns  them 
again  to  the  sur&ce;  which  Beema  one, 
though  a  not  very  satisfactory  solution  of 
the  qaeetion.  Bnt  how  they  can  travel  so 
quickly  ftom  anch  distances,  and  as  (^nickly 
vanish,  and  how  they  come  to  discover 
these  pools,  atill  remains  an  enigma.  As 
the  rainy  season  advances,  their  original 
bright  yellow  gradually  changes  to  a  darker 
shade,  and  they  leave  the  water  to  hunt 
over  the  fields  for  insects,  where  they  in 
turn  aometimes  become  the  prey  of  the 
amphibious  water-snake.  The  dean  look 
of  the  d&boose  suggests  the  wonder  why 
it  is  not  more  used  for  food  by  the  natives, 
at  least  during  famine  time,  instead  of 
being  used  only  by  the  lowest  castes  in  the 
extremity  of  hunger,  and  to  the  great 
diagiut  of  their  superior  castes. 

Among  insects,  or,  more  properly  apeak- 
ingi  "reptiles,"  it  may  seem  almost  absurd 
to  allude  to  one  so  well  known  as  the 
spider,  and  yet  there  is  no  insect  more 
varied  in  species,  and  in  which  the  dtfl'e- 
rence  of  a  tropical  over  a  cold  climate 
becomes  more  manifest  In  India  the 
spider  is  to  be  seen  of  sizes  varying  from 
a  mere  speck  to  that  of  a  walnut,  and  of 
colours  varying  from  brown  and  black  to 
bright  aemi-tranalacent  green.  There  is 
the  little  hnnting-Bpider,  moat  active  of  his 
species,  who  obtains  his  prey,  not  by  the 
lazy  web,  bnt  by  stalking  and  bounding 
upon  it,  flattening  down  as  he  draws  near 
till  he  hardly  seems  to  move,  when  a  leap 
secures  bis  prey.  There  are  the  different 
kinds  of  web-spiders,  indoor  and  out,  most 
of  them  cannibals,  preying  on  each  other' 
as  often  as  hunger  prompts,  or  speed  or 
strength  decide  a  victory.  There  are  the 
green  field-apiders,  one  like  the  ordinary 
brown  in  ahape  and  size,  bnt  yet  able  to 
attack  and  devour  it,  and  transparent  as  a 
drop  of  amber.  Another  green  kind  is  an 
ngly  creature,  like  a  bug  in  shape,  which 
moves  sideways,  and  like  the  former  is  to 
be  guarded  against  from  its  blistering  pro- 
perty. A  third  green  variety  is  a  tall 
lanky  creature  like  a  graeahopper,  exactly, 
even  to  the  head  and  spiked  legs,  but 
unlike  in  its  ^ider-like  action,  absence  of 


490      [April  11.  ISU.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


leaping  power,  and  in  &  peculiar  awayiag 
"daTotionafmovement,  which  has  obtaioed 
it  the  name  of  tbe  "praying  grasshopper." 
Still  more  is  it  anlike  in  its  ferocious  habit 
of  attacking  and  devouring  grasshoppeis 
seemingly  stronger  and  better  aimed  than 
itself.  Lastly,  and  largest  of  the  spider 
race,  is  the  tarantula,  a  hideons  creature  all 
covered  with  fine  hair,  and  whose  clumsy, 
bloated  look  makes  one  wonder  how  a 
reptile  so  inert  can  possibly  obtain  its  food. 
I  had  an  opportunity  of  watching  one, 
which  had  taken  up  its  post  inaide  a  fixed 
blind  on  one  of  the  glass  doors  of  the 
verandah,  from  the  outside  of  which  it 
could  be  well  seen.  It  was  not  nearly  so 
large  as  some  tarantolaa  of  other  countries, 
bat  sUll  a  formidable  enough  looking 
creature,  as  big  as  the  bowl  of  a  clay  pipe. 
When  I  first  noticed  him  he  was  compara- 
tively lithe  and  lean,  but  to  my  great 
surprise  he  daily  inoreaaed  in  girth,  though 
never  once  did  he  move  from  the  spot  he 
first  occupied  in  a  corner  of  the  pane.  He 
was  evidently  getting  food,  but  how  1  At 
length  we  noticed  him  at  times  roll  about 
in  hia  claws  a  black  boll  the  size  of  a  small 
bean,  which,  as  he  applied  it  to  his  mouth, 
decreased  in  bulk.  Much  oecapied  as 
my  time  was,  I  had  little  leisure  to 
devote  to  watching  him,  and  the  matter 
would  have  remained  a  mystery  but  for  a 
friend  who  was  staying  with  me.  Observ- 
ing narrowly,  he  noticed  that  the  flies 
circling  about  the  tarantula  decreased  at 
times  unaccountably,  as  he  had  seen  none 
of  them  escape  outside  the  blind  He 
next  noticed  uia  wings  and  debris  of  flies 
occasionally  appear  for  a  moment  in  the 
black  ball  Uie  spider  was  rolling  about,  then 
disappear  in  the  mass,  and  soon  satisfied 
himself  that  this  ball  consisted  of  m&shed- 
up  flies.  Afterwards  we  observed  that  each 
time  a  fly  flew  within  reach  of  the  spider  it 
disappeared,  and  simultaneously  a  fresh 
fly  was  added  to  the  paste,  and  also  that 
on  every  such  occasion  there  was  a  lightning 
movement  of  a  long  leg  of  the  tarantula, 
which,  like  the  others,  was  armed  with  a 
sharp  hook.  This,  doubtless,  explained 
the  method  of  capturing  ita  prey.  Here, 
then,  was  a  reptile  we  had  thought  so 
helpleas,  yet  with  such  marvellous  rapidity 
and  precision  of  stroke  as  even  to  strike 
down  flies  in  the  act  of  flight,  so  surely  as 
never  to  require  its  moving  from  the  spot 
Once  a  large  moth  settled  in  an  opposite 
comer  of  the  pane,  and  for  two  days  both 
retained  their  respective  posts,  but,  on  the 
morning  of  the  tiiird,  only  the  wmga  of 


the  moth  remained,  and  the  spider  bad 
shifted  camp  to  t^e  moth's  comer.  The 
amount  of  flies  he  got  "outside  of"  in 
a  day  must  have  been  enonaous,  and  was 
evidenced  by  hia  swelling  till  he  looked  as 
if  he  would  burst.  His  fate,  however, 
remained  in  obscurity,  as  one  night  he 
disappeared  for  good.  The  bite  of  the 
tarantula  is  considered  venomoos,  but  of 
rare  occurrence. 

The  blistering  spider  is  the  only  really 
troublesome  one  of  ^le  spider  spedes,  &om 
the  property  which  gives  it  its  name,  and 
that  chiefly  to  the  inaigo-planter.  During 
mann£ai;tare  in  the  rainy  season,  as  the 
planter  stands  on  his  vats  in  white  duck, 
a  tai^t  for  l^e  myriads  of  creeping  things 
that  emerge  from  the  cartloads  of  plant 
that  are  being  emptied  around  him,  scuna- 
times  a  blistering  spider  get«  crashed  within 
his  shirb-eleeve,  and  only  a  slight  itching  is 
experienced  at  the  tima  In  two  or  three 
days,  however,  without  any  further  warn- 
ing, a  crop  of  most  unsightly  blisters  b^in 
to  appear  on  the  arm,  and  spread  over  it, 
causing  him  no  small  anxiety,  till  they 
slowly  and  reluctantly  disappear  after  days 
of  careful  treatment  If  an  "  old  hand," 
the  moment  the  premonitory  itching  is 
felt,  he  rushes  away  and  washes  thoroughly 
with  soap -uid- water,  which  seDendly 
averts  any  after  resolts.  Shonia  any  of 
the  virus  get  into  the  eye,  as  sometimes 
happens,  even  from  a  touch  of  the  finger, 
the  case  is  more  serious,  and  may  enda^^er 
loss  of  sight  in  the  severe  inflammation 
and  closing  up  of  the  eye  which  follows, 
and  which  often  occurs  to  natives  without 
their  having  any  idea  of  the  cans& 

A  very  different  insect  from  the  s|»der, 
and  its  greatest  enemy,  is  the  iohneomon- 
fly — a  beautifal  creatnre,  all  splendid  in 
^reen  and  gold,  from  one  to  <»ie  and  a  half 
inch  long,  with  thread-like  waist,  a  most 
formidalue  sting,  and  of  great  strength  and 
rapidity  of  flights  It  is  ever  on  ute  qni 
Vive,  hunting  for  one  or  other  of  the  in- 
sectB  that  form  the  food  of  ita  larva.  One 
of  the  most  familiar  indoor  sights  is  the 
fly  labouring  along  with  a  hage  spider 
suspended  from  its  legs  towards  its  mud- 
cell,  which  it  has  previously  constructed 
with  great  labour  in  some  convenient 
corner  of  the  room.  The  favourite  occu- 
pation of  the  ichneumon-fly,  however,  seems 
to  be  cricket-hunting,  and  it  is  constantly 
to  be  seen  on  exploring  expeditions  among 
cricket  -  borrows.  Wherever  the  fredily 
turned  up  earth,  covering  the  month  as  a 
gnord  by  day,  indicates  a  tenant  within. 


Chub*  Dickem.] 


POISONOUS  REPTILES. 


CAprU  12, 1BU.1      491 


there  the  fly  Tigorooelf  digs  away,  and 
makes  the  fine  earth  fly  from  his  long  wiiy 
legs.  At  a  loss  first  to  nnderstand  these 
nntiring  labours,  I  watched  one  patiently. 
Aft«r  half  an  hoar's  hard  vrork,  at  last 
it  seemed  to  have  pierced  through  t^e 
obstacle,  and  disappeared  inside,  but  I  was 
sorprised  to  see  it  instantly  emerge  again, 
and  once  more  begin  digging  Tigorously  as 
before,  but  now  as  if  to  widen  the  aper- 
ture. Repeatedly  it  attempted  to  go  in, 
bat  aa  often  returned  to  resume  its  dig- 
ging, and  on  looking  closer  I  found  out 
what  had  puzzled  me  explained  by  the 
lai^  head  and  formidable  jaws  of  a  cricket 
fillmg  up  the  entrance.  Whichever  way 
the  fly  tamed,  the  head  turned  to  meet 
him,  and  he  was  now  evidently  bent  on 
storming  the  stronghold  b;  widening  the 
approach.  Bat  this  was  not  left  for  him 
to  do.  In  a  faint-hearted  moment,  the 
cricket  made  a  fatal  retreat,  and  in  an 
instant  the  fly  was  in  after  him.  For  a 
few  seconds  neither  appeared,  then  the 
cricket  bolted  out  with  wild  leaps  away 
from  home  as  if  for  bare  life,  and  in 
two  seconds  more  the  fly  was  out  and,, 
making  stnught  for  him,  fixed  upon  him 
for  a  moment.  Then  tlie  leaps  of  the 
cricket  grew  shorter  and  feebler  as  at  each 
leap  the  fly  momentarily  fastened  upon 
him,  till  at  last  he  could  only  drag  along 
at  a  walk,  and  the  fly,  once  more  settling 
on  him,  dug  in  his  sting  long  and  deeply, 
during  whidi  process,  no  doubt,  he  deposited 
the  germ  of  another  fly.  Without  any  delay 
he  then  began  dragging  the  cricket,  at  least 
six  times  his  own  bulk,  along  the  ground 
towards  his  nest.  Great  as  tne  number  of 
crickets  most  be  which  Uie  ichneumon-fly 
thoB  disposes  of,  the  cricket  has  not  around 
it  the  domestic  halo  of  romance  which  it 
bears  at  home,  and  small  pity  is  felt  for 
one  so  destructive  to  vegetation  and  so 
troublesome  in  the  evenings,  when  its 
deafening  whirr  almost  drowns  the  voica 
It  is  wonderful  how  long  the  msects 
deposited  by  the  ichnetunon-fly  in  its  cell  re- 
mainalive.  Evenif  this  be  broken  open  days 
after  it  has  been  closed  and  left  by  the  fly, 
these  will  still  be  found  with  a  remnant  of 
life  in  them  ;  no  doubt  for  a  purpose — to 
keep  the  food  supplies  fresh  till  the  eggfi 
deposited  in  them  have  fairly  burst  and 
the  young  larva  begins  to  feed  on  its  sur- 
roaudiogs,  these  comprising  a  hetero- 
geneous mass  of  spiders,  caterpillars,  and 
crickets.  The  ichneumon-fly,  Plough  too 
intent  upon  its  own  business  to  trouble 
any  one,  is  savage  enough  when  interfered 


with,  and  its  sting  is  a  thing  well  to  bo 
avoided. 

The  ant  is  so  well  ventilated  a  subject, 
even  to  the  destructiveness  of  the  white 
variety,  in  cutting  through  clothes  like  a 
pair  of  scissors,  aud  hoUowing  out  to  a 
shell  the  hard  rafters  of  bungalows,  some- 
times to  the  unconscious  danger  of  life, 
etc.,  that  I  will  confine  myself  to  some 
features  perhaps  not  so  well  known.  In 
old  conntry  bungalows  it  is  no  unusual  thing 
of  an  evening  daring  the  rains  to  find 
dense  clusters  of  white  ants  hanging  along 
the  frame  of  a  doorway,  from  among  which 
Urge-winged  drones  are  pouring  out  and 
beating  helplessly  about  in  their  clumsy 
flight  against  windows  and  furniture,  pre- 
senting exactly  the  appearance  of  a  hive 
of  bees  swarmmg.  As  the  doors  are  opened 
and  they  get  outside,  kites,  kiu^-crows, 
and  jays  presently  crowd  the  air,  and 
sustain  an  extirpating  flight  among  tJiem 
as  fast  as  they  begin  the  joys  of  winged 
life  and  open  air.  Unlike  bees,  the  ant 
drones  are  the  only  members  of  the  family 
endowed  with  wings,  and  that  as  if  for  the 
pumose  only  of  their  owners  being  got  rid 
of  the  more  eauly,  for  when  once  the  drone 
has  left  its  nest  it  never  returns ;  nor  does 
it  seem  to  leave  under  compulsion,  as  with 
bees,  but  voluntarily  and  as  if  from 
instinct  It  is  strange  to  see  creatures  so 
immense  as  the  drones,  an  inch  long, 
emerge  from  among  insects  so  miauto  as 
the  workers  or  neutrals,  each  drone  being 
equal  to  six  or  eight  of  them.  The  only 
other  winged  ant  is  the  qneen,  which  is 
more  lithe  and  elegant,  aud  easily  recog- 
nised from  the  drones. 

Another  variety  is  the  black  ant,  most 
troublesome  in  the  pantry,  and  the  untiring 
assailant  of  sweetmeats  and  the  sugar-bowl. 
In  their  desperato  eSbrts  to  cross  the 
water  in  which  these  are  insulated,  they 
often  sacrifice  themselves  for  the  sake  of 
their  community,  and  plunge  into  the  water 
to  enable  their  friends  to  form  a  bridge 
of  their  dead  bodies  and  so  to  reach  the 
tempting  goal  Long  thin  columns  of  them 
may  be  seen  reaching  from  ceiling  to  floor, 
across  the  'floor,  and  up  the  leg  of  a  table, 
in  one  unbroken  line  till  they  reach  a 
sugar-bowl  or  other  unprotected  sweetmeat 
on  the  table ;  and  their  peculiarity  is  the 
giants  which  accompany  these  marching 
columns,  and  who  seem  the  soldiers  or 
warriors  of  the  tribe,  always  patrolling  to 
and  fro  along  the  line,  and  ready  to  rush 
to  the  attack  wherever  an  adversary  offers. 
They  do  not  always  confine  themselves  to 


"  Bmall  metal "  or  provoked  attacks,  as  I  once 
foand  oat  in  a  moat  nnezpected  maoner. 
I  had  BOTenl  young  pea-fowl  of  Trhich  I 
was  rather  prond,  and  which  used  to  be 
nightly  corered  orer  with  a  large  hamper 
in  the  verandah.  One  morning  on  raising 
the  hamper  I  found,  to  mj  great  vexation, 
the  chickens  one  black  mass  of  the  giant 
ants,  and  all  dead.  They  had  been  bitten 
to  death,  Bucciunbing  no  donbt  to  the 
infinite  nomber  of  bites,  all  slightly 
poisoQOOB,  infiicted  on  them  by  the  ants, 
which  had  probably  kept  collecting  from 
different  quarters  daring  the  whole  night, 
though  I  could  not  have  believed  anqh 
multitudes  conld  turn  oat.  A  cloth  thrown 
over  the  hamper,  and  a.  little  salphnr  lit 
within,  soon  disposed  of  the  marauders. 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 
PART  VIL 

Whsn  I  first  projected  my  travels  in 
the  East,  J  had  no  idea  that  I  shonld  go 
as  far  aa  China,  nor  had  I  any  notion  that 
a  knowledge  of  Chinese  would  be  useful  in 
my  journey.  Well,  though  I  have  not  been 
to  China,  I  have  vieited  a  boose  where  a 
Chinaman  ia  living;  and  thoogb  I  found 
him  conversational,  as  far  as  his  imperfect 
English  would  permit,  I  might  have  gained 
more  information,  if  I  had  been  able  to 
talk  in  his  own  language. 

We  found  Jack  Chinaman's  abode  in  a 
shabby  little  court,  reached  by  a  narrow 
passage  from  a  shabby  little  street,  within 
well-nigh  a  sling's  tlm>w  of  the  Shadwell 
rail  way -station.  Setting  forth  from  Stepney 
with  my  guide,  soon  after  noon  upon  bright 
St.  Patrick's  Day,  a  pennyworth  of  travel- 
ling had  brought  me  down  to  Shadwell ; 
for,  though  Great  in  name,  the  railway 
condescends  to  take  small  fares,  and  to 
snit  the  little  incomes  of  t^e  poor  folk  in 
its  neighbourhood. 

There  was  nothing  New  about  the  conrt 
except  its  name,  and  there  was  nothing 
new  at  all,  not  even  in  her  name,  about  the 
woman  who  there  greeted  as.  Old  and 
haggard  in  her  loou,  and,  through  effect 
of  evil  living,  plainly  looking  older  than 
her  actual  years  womd  warrant,  she  wore 
a  shabby  bonnet  that  well-matched  the 
shabby  court,  and  a  dress  which  in  an- 
tiquity appeared  to  match  herself.  Her 
hands  were  skinny  claws,  crooked  aa  with 
habit  of  holding  in  their  clutch  a  gin-glass, 
let  us  say,  or  something  of  the  sort.  There 
seemed  a  palsy  in  their  shaking,  as  she 
drew  her  r^ged  shawl  about  her  scra^y 


throat.  Her  eves  were  Uear  and  blood- 
shot, and  their  lids  were  raw  and  red ;  and 
these,  with  sundry  pimples  and  some 
blotches  here  and  there,  were  the  only 
show  of  colour  in  her  pale  and  pasty  &ce. 

This  lady,  althongh  English,  was  the 
wife  of  the  Jack  Chinaman  whom  we  hod 
come  to  visit,  and  who  was  really  the  Jack 
Chinaman  described  as  not  endowed  with 
"  the  true  secret  of  mixing,"  by  the  opium- 
smoking  hag  who  kept  the  den  described  in 
"  Edwin  Drood."  The  conrt  where  we  were 
standing  might  veiry  well  have  been  the 
original,  in  ^t,  of  the  "miserable  court " 
where  Mr.  Jasper,  on  awakinf  from  his 
narcotic  trance,  mistook  the  spike  upon  the 
bedpost  for  his  cathedral  spire. 

viewed  from  the  outside,  there  was 
nothing  in  the  aspect  of  the  house  from 
which  the  lady  was  emerging  to  indicate 
connection  wiUi  the  Celestial  Empire,  or  in 
any  way  to  bint  to  us  that  a  native  of  tliat 
empire  was  resident  therein.  It  looked  as 
small,  and  mean,  and  shabby  as  any  of  its 
neighbours ;  having  a  room  on  the  groond- 
floor,  and  one  on  the  floor  abova  The 
lady  acting  as  our  pilot,  we  ascended  to 
this  latter  by  the  help  of  a  small  staircase 
leading,  with  no  passage,  direct  from  the 
front  door.  At  a  glimce  I  guessed  the 
room  to  measnre  ten  feet,  say,  by  twelve, 
and  barely  more  than  seven  in  height 
There  was  a  sickly  smell  about  it,  even 
now  when  nearly  empty ;  but  when  a  score 
or  so  of  smokers  had  slept  there  for  some 
honrs,  the  wonder  seemed  to  be  that  they 
were  not  all  choked. 

By  the  door  was  a  small  fireplace,  and 
in  front  a  smaU,  bent  fender,  bat  no  poker 
and  no  tongs.  Perhaps  the  fire-irons  were 
removed,  like  the  knife  of  the  Lascar  who 
slept  by  Mr.  Jasper;  being  looked  upon  as 
weapons  of  possible  offence.  There  was  a 
small  window  just  opposite  the  fireplace, 
serving  as  much  for  ventilation — throu^ 
a  cracked  and  dirty  pane  or  two — as  it 
could  do  for  light  The  ceiling  had  been 
yellow-washed,  apparently,  not  long  since, 
and  splashes  of  the  colour  were  scattered 
on  the  valta,  which  had  once  been  painted 
blue,  as  a  contrasting  tint.  The  room  was 
further  beautified  by  a  clothes-line  sb«tched 
across  it,  which  seemed  handy  for  a  strang- 
ling if  any  dreamer,  on  awaking  from  hu 
vision,  felt  that  way  inclined. 

The  floor  of  the  chamber  was  carpetless 
but  clean,  all  traces  of  the  night's  work 
having  been  removed.  By  way  of  fumi- 
tore  there  were  a  couple  of  wooden  chain 
and  a  brace  of  wooden  bedsteads,  placed 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


(April  12.1684.1     493 


lengtliwaf s  from  the  vindov,  with  a  yard 
of  BpKce  between  them.  Each  had  a  lame 
leg  Thich  was  snpported  by  a  brickbat; 
and  each  had  a  low  headboard,  and  like- 
wise a  low  footboard,  but  no  poat  with  any 
Bpike.  On  each  bedstead  lay  a  mattrees, 
radier  hard  and  thin,  bnt  no  boleter  or 
pillow,  and  in  lien  of  sheets  oi  coonter- 
pane,  each  was  covered  with  some  matting, 
eiUier  Indian  or  Chinese. 

On  the  bed  next  to  the  door  reclined 
the  master  of  this  mansion  of  opium- 
b^otten  bliss.  He  wore  an  English  suit 
of  dothee,  at  least  it  might  hare  been  a 
suit,  if  Uie  rough  grey  vest  had  only 
matched  the  coat  and  tronaen,  which  were 
made  of  smooth  blaclc  doth.  They  all 
three  looked  too  lai^  for  him,  as  thoiu[h 
picked  up  second-hand,  or  presented  by 
some  djentfl  who  found  themselves  too 
poor  to  pay  for  a  good  smoke.  He  had  a 
doth  cap  on  his  head,  but  had  sacrificed 
his  pigtail,  and  in  lien  of  it  was  growing  a 
sparse  and  Btrt^Iing  little  beard,  or  rather 
tuft,  on  his  lean  chin.  His  eyes  were  small, 
and  Bimken,  and  shaped  in  Chinese  fashion, 
and  his  cheeks  were  sallow,  thin,  and 
hollow,  aa  thongb  from  constant  exercise- 
of  pnffing  at  a  pipe. 

His  wife,  having  introduced  as,  left  to 
do  aome  shopping;  I  might  have  thoRght 
some  gin-shopping,  if  on  ber  departure  my 
guide  had  not  informed  me  that  sncb  was 
not  her  practice,  since  she  had  signed  the 
pledge.  So,  for  half  an  hoar  or  so,  we  had 
Jack  Chinaman  to  talk  to,  and  to  listen  to 
moreover,  and  none  to  overhear.  The 
-dreaminga  of  an  opium-taker,  as  given  by 
De  Qoincey,  are  interesting,  no  doubt ;  but 
I  fancy  that  Jack  Chinaman  could  toll  a 
tale  or  two  about  the  dreamers  of  such 
dreams,  which  would  afford  some  startiing 
reading,  if  only  he  could  somehow  be 
brought  truly  to  confess. 

He  spoke  in  a  soft  voice,  but  not  very 
distinctly,  and  with  somewhat  of  a  drawl ; 
and  though  he  used  no  pigeon-English,  it 
was  frequently  not  easy  to  make  out  what 
he  meant.  He  said  his  name  was  Ah  See, 
at  least  such  was  the  sound  of  it,  be  I 
pencilled  it  in  £nglisb,  not  knowing  haw 
correctly  to  spell  it  in  Chinese.  But  though 
Ah  See  was  his  name,  he  was  commonly 
called  Johnson,  and  indeed  had  grown  so 
famous  that  the  court  wherein  he  lived 
was  known  as  Johnson's  Court. 

"I  sirty-two,"  he  answered  to  a  question 
of  his  age.  "  I  come  London  forty-five 
ye-ar.  Come  aa  cook  abo-ward  ship  that 
time.     Go  home  some  ye-ar  after.     Live 


he-ar  twenty-nine  ye-ar.  In  this  ho-ouse. 
Yes,  Mr.  Die-kens  come  see  me  one 
ni-ight.  No,  I  not  know  him  at  a-alL 
Sergeant  tell  me — that  Mr.  Cha-arlea  Dic- 
kens. Sergeant  apoli-ice,ye-es.  I  pre-etty 
well  off  tnen.  Plenty  ship  in  do-ocks. 
Ha-ave  taken  aome  time  five  pound,  some- 
time ten  pound  in  a  we-ek.  Sa-ave  it,  0 
yes.  Put  by  plenty  money  then.  Wi-ife 
li-ind  where  I  ke-ep  it  Messed  it  all 
awa-ay  in  dri-ink,  Wt-ife  pretty  ba-ad 
then.  Gave  her  good  aba-awl  came  from 
for-eign.  Was  soon  put  awaray.  Ye-es, 
that's  it,  paw-awned  fyr  drink," 

Here  an  interlude  occurred,  wherein 
there  was  much  indistinct  complaint,  chiefly 
of  the  "wi-ife,"  and  her  misdeeds  and 
drunkenness,  which  bad  been  his  min, 
until  she  had  reformed.  Now  that  the 
pledge  was  taken,  she  contrived  somehow 
to  keep  it;  and  bo  domestic  troubles  were 
on  the  decrease.  Bat  he  was  sadly  de- 
pressed by  the  badness  of  the  times. 

"  Nothing  came  in  last  two  ye-ar,"  com- 
plained he  moumfiilly.  "Thi-iok  I  have 
to  go,  so-oon.  Can't  stop  he-ar  much. 
Things  very  had  hear  now.  Had  plenty 
lodgings  once.  All  over  the  co-ourt  Now 
only  this  one  ro-om  for  seboke." 

This  queer  word  puzzled  me  a  while ;  but 
hearing  it  repeated,  I  soon  learned  by  the 
context  that  it  was  simply  meant  for 
"smoka"  A  couple  of  opium-pipes  lay 
beside  him  on  the  bed ;  bite  of  bamboo 
two  feet  long  they  were ;  one  end  being 
plugged  up  with  a  little  piece  of  ivory,  and 
the  other,  with  no  mouthpiece,  being 
smoothed  to  touch  the  lipa  Near  the 
plugged  end  was  the  bowl  of  coarse  and 
dumsy  earthenware,  coloured  green,  and 
having  a  small  hollow,  wherein  was  placed 
a  little  bit  of  opium,  about  as  big  as  a  lai^e 
pea.  The  pipe  appeared  to  need  much 
puffing  at  to  keep  the  drug  alight,  and 
much  careinl  cleaning  out  of  pitchy-looking 
ashes  before  it  was  refilled.  And  the  pea 
had  to  be  moulded  and  melted  into  shape 
upon  the  point  of  a  long  needle,  in  the 
flame  of  a  small  lamp,  before  it  reached  the 
proper  state  for  patting  in  the  pipe.  When, 
after  all  the  care  and  labour  of  preparing 
it  and  keeping  it  alight,  it  seemed  merely 
to  afford  some  half-a-score  of  whiffs. 

n  the  half-hoar  that  we  spent  with 
him,Mr.AhSee — alias  Johnson — prepared, 
and  fiUed,  and  smoked  no  fewer  than  four 
pipes.  And  in  the  intervals  between  them, 
he  rolled  and  smoked  three  strongish  cut- 
tobacco  cigarettes.  On  my  asking  at  what 
age   he    b^an  the  baleful  practice,  "  I 


494    [April  II,  ISM.1 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


seboke  now  forty-two  ye-u,"  he  replied, 
without  an  iostuit's  hesitation,  as  thongli 
bis  memory  were  prompt  "B^ui  at 
Beven-tee-een.  Was  Te-17  ba-ad  then. 
Brought  ap  plentr^  bloo-ood.  Doctor  said 
I  mnat  seboke.  So  I  try  aeboke.  Bloo-ood 
stop  and  I  get  welL  So  I  seboke  ever 
si-inca  Hundred  pipe  a  da^ay  sometime. 
Ne-rer  make  ma  elee-eep  now.  Some 
ta-ake  p'raps  four,  p'raps  fi-ive.  Then  they 
slee-eep  sound  enough.  They  get  sha-aky 
too.  O  yea,  plenty  sha-aka  My  ha-and 
not  aha-i^y — see." 

No,  sure  enongSl  It  was  lean,  and 
even  skinny,  but,  the  while  he  held  it  forth, 
it  showed  no  shiver  of  a  shake.  And 
though  his  age  was  over  sixty,  he  had 
faard^  a  grey  bair,  and  seemed  hale  and 
hearty,  and  fit  enough  for  work,  excepting 
that  bis  right  arm  was  rendered  nearly 
useleBo,  having,  he  alleged,  been  broken  in 
his  sleep.  He  had  som^ow  doubled  it 
beneath  him,  and  oracled  the  bone  close 
to  the  elbow,  while  dreatniog,  perhaps, 
that  he  was  wreetling  with  a  demon, 
engendered  by  the  drug  which  is  so 
devUish  in  its  work. 

Yet,  if  there  were  a  qnestion  which  of 
this  worthy  couple,  Mr.  Johnson  and  his 
wife,  had  moat  suffered  by  indulgence — 
the  one  taking  to  the  drug,  and  the  other 
to  the  drink — the  lady's  pallid  face  and 
well-nigh  palsied  fingers  would  show  that 
greater  harm  and  d^dlier  had  been  done 
by  the  drink. 

We  foond  a  tidy  little  room  downstairs, 
when  we  had  left  the  den  where  so  many 
dreams  of  clondlaud  had  passed  away  in 
smoke.  It  was  clear  that  Mr.  Ah  See 
could  attend  to  creature  comforts  when 
not  engaged  in  business.  When  we  walked 
into  bis  parlour,  it  looked  clean,  and  even 
pretty — m  compi^ison,  at  least,  with  the 
dreaming-room  above.  Somehow  my 
thoughts  wandered  to  the  parlour  of  the 
spider,  and  its  neat  and  trim  appearance, 
which,  alas  I  had  proved  so  fatally  attractive 
to  the  poor,  weak-minded,  and  deluded  fly. 

The  two'angels  who  slept  in  this  cleanly 
little  chamber  had  placed  their  bed  close 
to  the  casement,  which  was  curtained  with 
white  mnfilin,  and  showed  no  sign  of  being 
cracked.  The  bed  was  fairly  broad,  view- 
ing the  smallnesa  of  the  room,  and  boasted 
of  a  bluish  counterpane  and  a  whitish  pair 
of  sheets.  There  were  some  pictures  on 
the  walls,  of  modem  Engliah  manufacture, 
but  there  was  no  specimen,  either  ancient 
or  modem,  of  any  Chinese  artist;  not 
even  so  much  as  a  real  china  teapot  or  a 


willow-pattem  plate.  The  largest  of  the 
pictures  was  a  highly-coloured  portnut  of 
Little  Bed  lUdiug-hood,  whereof  the  sub- 
ject certainly  was  not  to  be  miat^en, 
though  I  doubted  if  Jack  Chinaman  were 
familiar  with  the  tale.  There  was  a  mirror 
by  the  mantelpiece,  the  frame  covered  up 
with  paper,  cut  in  parti-colour«d  strips — 
less,  perhaps,  for  art's  sake  than  U>  keep  it 
from  the  flies.  There  likewise  was  a  clock, 
whicfa,  unlike  most  Eastern  clocks,  seemed 
capable  of  going,  for  it  actnally  ticked. 
There  was  wso  a  round  table,  sufficiently 
expanaive  for  a  social  feative  purpose,  and 
strong  enough  to  bear  a  joint  of  Christinas 
beef.  There  was  nothing  on  it  now,  how- 
ever, but  a  stuffed  canary,  which  the 
Chinaman  affirmed  to  have  lived  with  him 
"more  than  fifteen  ye-ar,"  together  with 
some  crockery,  some  for  use  and  some  for 
ornament,  bat  all  of  it  of  English,  and  not 
Oriental  make. 

Altogether,  it  seemed  likely  that,  despite 
of  his  complaints  abont  the  badness  of  the 
times,  Mr.  Ah  See — alias  Johnson — some- 
how still  contrived  to  do  a  goodish  bit  of 
bnaineas  in  his  opium-smoking  den;  albeit 
he  declu'ed  that  a  shilling's-worth  of  his 
"  eeboke-ing  "  mixture  was  sufficient  for  the 
filling  of  four-and-twenty  pipes.  He  claimed 
to  have  turned  Chrietian,  as  a  solace  to 
his  sool  in  hia  declining  years,  and  possibly 
as  penance  for  the  foUy  and  the  vices  of 
his  manhood  and  his  youth.  "  I  great 
rogae  once.  I  very  much  bad  then.  I 
quite  fdter  now ; "  and  he  pointed,  as  he 
spoke,  to  a  coaple  of  framed  texts  which 
he  had  placed  upon  the  wall,  as  if  to  prove 
the  fact  of  his  conversion  and  bis  faitL 

How  far  in  his  heart  he  may  be  now  len 
heathen  than  he  was,  it  might  be  difQcult 
to  gauge,  though  easier  to  guess.  Bat  the 
truth  ia  pretty  certain  that  some  ugly 
tales  are  extant,  of  sailors  lured,  uid 
dragged,  and  robbed,  and  found  at  last 
halMead,  having  first  of  all,  as  a  prelude 
to  this  sequel,  simply  been  half-drank. 
Mr.  Ah  See  has,  of  course,  no  recollection 
of  these  atones,  which  probably  have  sprang 
from  the  invention  of  an  enemy,  and  might 
be  told  to  the  marines,  or  by  the  wags  of 
Tiger  Bay.  But  it  is  possible  that  Mr. 
Ah  See  may  find  it  worth  his  while  to  close 
his  tempting  little  den,  if  he  lays  claim  to 
be  a  Christian,  real  and  aincere ;  and  if  he 
woald  fain  win  sympathy,  not  to  apeak  of 
some  Btray  shillings,  or  even  sovereigns,  it 
may  be,  which  for  so  interesting  a  convert 
might  by  certain  weak-kneed  people  be 
moat  piously  subscribed. 


durits  Dtakaiu.1 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


(April  12,1684,1      495 


Afl  a  contrast  to  this  gentleman  and  fais 
Inmry  of  living — at  any  rate  so  far  aa  hia 
cigaisttes  onlimited,  and  scores  of  opiam- 
pipes  a  day — I  will  try  to  give  an  inkling, 
or  it  may  be  a  psn-aod-inkling,  of  a  viatt 
which  I  paid  in  my  second  day  of  travel,  ' 
the  horns  of  a  poor  widow ;  whom  the  c< 
verted  Chinaman  might  copy  with  some 
profit,  in  so  far  as  ancomplaining 


By  the  side  of  a  thronged  thoroughfare, 
just  opposite  a  church,  which,  uai  I  is 
seldom  crowded,  we  discovered  a  small 
shed  built  on  a  little  scrap  of  groand, 
which  roally  seemed  too  small  to  be 
acconnted  aa  a  "Place."  The  shed  at  a 
rough  gnen  was  a  dozen  feet  in  length, 
and  varied  in  its  width  from  throe  feet 
six  inches  at  one  end  to  eight  feet  at  the 
other.  One  of  its  long  walls  was  of  brick- 
work, and  the  other  was  of  planks,  and 
these  in  many  places  were  as  inch  or  so 
apart  The  corners  of  the  Place  abutting 
tm  ^e  tfkoronghfare,  were  occupied  con- 
spicaonsly  on  the  one  side  by  a  coffee- 
palace,  which  had  retired  from  competition ; 
and  OQ  the  o^er  by  a  gin-palace,  which 
certainly  appeared  to  do  a^  thriviog  trade. 
Seen  by  the  roadside,  near  to  a  village  or  a 
&rm,  the  shed  might  have  been  deemed  to 
be  a  stable  or  a  cow-hoose.  Here,  in  this 
groat  city  and  bright  centro  of  civilisation, 
It  was  humanly  inhabited  and  dwelt  in  as 
a  home. 

Opening  the  door,  without  the  prolade 
of  a  knock,  we  wero  welcomed  very  warmly 
by  a  pleasant  little  woman,  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  business-like  id  manner,  and 
extremely  brisk  in  speech  She  was  very 
poorly  clothed — ind&ed,  her  dress  looked 
well-nigh  threadbare ;  but  in  clothing  and 
in  person  she  was  sompoloasly  clean.  The 
honse,  or  shed,  or  room,  was  as  cleanly  as 
hereelf,  and  seemed  really  almost  comfort- 
able— althoDgh  the  ceiling  was  patched  up, 
and  one  window  would  not  shut,  and  the 
plaster  was  in  places  peeling  from  the  walla, 
and  the  shrunk  door  let  the  draught  in,  and 
the  floor  near  to  the  comers  showed  many 
a  little  hole,  and  there  was  a  rather  laige 
hole  in  the  roof. 

"Yes,  it  do  want  doing  up  a  bit,"  ob- 
served the  woman  with  a  smile,  as  I  noted 
^eae  defects.  "But  there,  we're  happy 
enough  in  it,"  she  added  with  another; 
"  though  it  might  be  a  bit  higher ; "  this, 
after  a  moment,  was  spoken  in  apology,  for 
at  the  point  where  I  was  standing,  my  bare 
head  touched  the  ceiling.  "  But  there,  it's 
nothing  when  you're  used  to  it,"  she  pro- 


ceeded to  remaric ;  and  perceiving  very 
possibly  that  she  had  found  a  willing 
listener,  she  continued  with  small  ceasing 
in  her  fluent  flow  of  speech.  "Yes,  it's 
low,  there's  no  denyin';  but  it's  all  the 
warmer.  And  one  don't  want  no  ladders 
when  one  wants  to  clean  the  ceiling,  which 
I  papered  it  myself  I  did,  true  as  you  stand 
there,  I  did,  an'  went  an'  bought  the  paper, 
an'  made  the  paste  myself.  And  me  an' 
my  son  helpin  me,  we  both  of  us  set  to 
one  day,  an'  somehow  or  another  we 
mended  of  the  roof,  we  did.  'Oause  it  used 
to  leak  most  terrible,  speshly  when  so  be  it 
blowed  a  bittish  'eavy.  I  dunuo  how  we 
done  it  hardly,  but  the  wet  don't  benter 
now  not  much,  leastways  excep'  it's  snow- 
ing, an'  thero's  nothin'  can't  keep  snow  out 
when  it  come  to  melt,  there  ain't  An'  it 
henters  through  the  walls,  too,  though 
per'aps  you'd  hardly  think  it." 

Here  she  paused  for  breath  a  moment, 
and  I  assured  her  that  my  thinking  powers 
wore  equal  to  the  feat.  For,  close  to  where 
I  stood,  then  was  a  crack  between  the 
boards  of  fully  half  an  inch  in  breadth ; 
while  by  the  window  was  another,  through 
which  I  was  able  to  thrust  my  closed 
umbrella,  which  is  not  so  slim  in  figure  as 
the  present  fashion  goes. 

Half  of  the  shed  contained  a  big  four- 
poater  bedstead,  with  the  unusual  additiOD 
of  a  mattress,  sheets,  and  counterpane,  and 
not  the  common  substitute  of  some  straw 
staffed  in  a  sack.  The  floor  was  further 
covered  by  an  ancient  chest  of  drawers,  of 
loose  and  rickety  ^ipearance,  as  though 
they  had  been  rather  dissolute  in  youuL 
Clearly  they  had  fallen  into  evil  company, 
for  of  their  handles  some  were  missing,  and 
I  could  see  no  pair  that  matched,  lliere 
were  sm^l  strips  of  muslin  pinned  as 
curbuDS  to  the  window,  which  if  opened, 
aa  was  plain  from  the  absence  of  a  sash-line, 
it  was  difficult  to  shut  In  the  way  of  useful 
furniture,  I  saw  three  chairs  with  broken 
backs;  and  two  tables,  which  had  likewise 
been  severely  wounded,  and  ware  propped 
against  the  wall.  It  seemed  as  though 
they  had  retired  from  active  service,  and 
were  pensioned  off  for  life.  For  fear  it 
might  be  moved,  and  come  thereby  to 
sudden  grief,  one  of  the  tables  had 
^parently  been  used  as  a  museum  or 
asylum  for  old  ornaments  that  had  fallen 
to  decay.  A  lot  of  cracked  or  broken 
shells,  and  several  ugly  knick-knacks,  were 
carefully  arranged  on  it ;  together  with  a 
tea-caddy  which  had  seen  better  days,  and 
a  starling  that  had  apparently  moulted  just 


496      [April  12, 18M,1 


ALL  THE  TEAR  BOUND. 


(Coodnotod  bi 


ere  it  was  Staffed.  A  row  of  brightly  polished 
tins  made  for  common  kitchen  use,  were 
hanging  by  the  fireplace,  and  formed  a 
useml  contrast  to  the  treuorea  on  the  table, 
which  seemed  hardly  worth  the  dusting 
that  their  mistress  most  hare  given  them 
to  make  them  look  so  clean.  Bnt  doubtless 
these  poor  relics  were  precious  to  their 
owner,  and  possibly  sagseative  of  some 
family  remembrance,  or  they  woald  not 
have  been  kept  and  tended  with  sach  cara 

The  polish  of  the  tins  deserved  the  highest 
pruse.  They  really  seemed  to  brighten 
tite  wretched,  windy  shed,  and  give  it  quite 
a  homely  and  habitable  look.  No  wonder 
their  poor  mistress  took  some  pride  in  their 
appearance,  for  she  modestly  avowed  that 
she  had  cleaned  them  all  herself. 

"  We're  poor  enough,"  she  added,  "  but 
I  can't  abear  no  dirt,  I  can't  Aiid  no 
more  can't  my  son  neither,  though  it's  a 
bit  more  in  hia  line  like,  seein'  as  ^e  lives 
by  it  He's  a  shoeblack,  he  is ;  an'  if 
boots  didn't  get  dirty,  why  they'd  never 
want  DO  cleanin',  and  that  'nd  be  a  baddish 
job  for  him,  and  'nnderds  sech  as  he — them 
ae  has  to  get  their  livin'  by  the  brush. 
Yea,  they're  mices  'oles  they  are,  an'  ratses 
'oles  as  well  toa  We've  plen^  of  'em  here 
we  have.  Don't  want  to  go  an'  pay  a 
shillin'  for  to  see  'em  at  theSoho  Logii^a. 
Don't  see  'em  much  by  day,  we  don  t,  but 
they  cornea  out  pretty  bold  when  it's  a  bit 
darhisb.  'Pon  my  wonl  they  does,  an' there, 
you  'udly  would  believe  it,  but  at  night 
they  squeal  an'  squeak  so,  it's  for  all  the 
world  like  being  at  a  con-sort.  That's 
why  we  keeps  that  little  dog  there.  If  it 
wom't  for  him  a  barkin*,  tiiefd  reglar  eat 
us  up  a'most,  when  we're  a  sleepin' ! 
Speshly  my  poor  son,  'cause  he've  tus  bed 
upon  the  floor  there — yes,  sir,  'tjs  me 
sleeps  in  the  bed,  both  me  an'  the  young 
person  as  is  a  lodgin'  here,  you  know," 

This  young  person  was  out  working,  and 
bore  a  fair  repute  for  industry  and  tidiness. 

"  She  wouldn't  be  a  living  here  else," 
said  the  woman  somewhat  sternly.  "  I 
can't  abide  no  dirt,  an'  I  can't  abide  no 
hidleness,  an'  where  you  finds  the  one,  you 
mostly  finds  the  bother.  But  she's  a  good 
girl  is  Mariar,  an'  she  works  'ard  to  beam 
a  livin'.  Nor  she  don't  fling  it  away 
neither  in  finery  an'  fal-lala  Ajid  my  boy, 
too,  he's  a  good  'nn,  and  he  works  'ard  too 
for  his  livin'.  A  rare  good  son  is  Tom, 
thongh  he's  baddish  in  the  'ead  a'  times. 
Tries  all'ys  to  ack  right,  he  do,  though  a 
bit  wrong  in  hia  mind,  poor  chap.  I  were 
laid  up  wi'  the  fever,  an   I  weaned  him  on 


cold  water,  'cause  tnnes  were  baddish, 
then,  an'  we  couldnt  Imy  no  milk  for  him. 
Uebbe  that's  wbaf  ■  made  him  weak  like. 
But  I  dunno  at  it's  'armed  'im.  Half  a 
hidiot,  some  calls  him,  bnt  he's  more  nor 
half  a  good  'an.  He's  a  Teetottler,  is  mj 
Tom,  an'  never  done  no  'arm  to  nobody. 
An'  he  works  'ard  fur  his  livis'  an'  helps  his 
mother  too,  an'  never  takes  no  drink,  an' 

foes  to  gospel  reg'lar,  an'  all  the  neigh- 
oura  likes  him  an  respects  him  too,  they 
does ;  from  a  child  to  a  qneen's  son  they're 
all'ys  glad  to  see  him,  an'  'tain't  a  many 
boys  with  more  brains  than  my  Tom,  as 
can  say  as  much  as  that,  you  know." 

It  was  little  wonder  that  the  poor  widow 
grew  voluble  when  having  for  her  subject 
the  virtues  of  her  son,  who,  she  said, 
pursued  his  calling  in  the  streeU  hard-by, 
and  would  be  twenty-five  when  his  next 
birthday  cama  Her  mention  of  a  queen's 
son  was  of  course  a  figure  of  speech,  and 
intended  to  convey  a  notion  of  high  excel- 
lence. But  if  any  royal  scion  were  placed 
beside  her  Tom,  the  one  who  wonld  attain 
the  higher  favour  in  her  eyes  certainly 
would  be  the  boy  of  lower  birth. 

Being  qnestioued  as  to  otiier  members 
of  her  family,  she  owned  that  ahe  had  had 
six  children,  but  now  five  of  them  were 
dead,  having  been  outlived  by  the  weak- 
ling, her  first-born,  of  whose  goodnats  the 
poor  mother  appeared  so  justly  proud. 
Doll-witted  as  he  was,  the  clear  light  of 
Christ's  teaching  had  peered  into  his  mind. 

"  He  eeems  to  understan'  it  much  better 
nor  I  do,"  she  explained,  a  little  smiling,  as 
thongh  at  her  own  ignorance,  and  the 
wisdom  of  her  son.  "  And  he  ack  up  to 
it  a  deal  more,"  ahe  continued  to  remark. 
"  There  ain't  a  better  GhristiaD  in  all  Eng- 
land, that  there  ain't  Not  among  the 
poor,  nor  yet  among  the  rich,  there  ain't 
any  man  uive  as  try  to  do  his  duty  better'n 
my  poor  boy.  But  he'yo  reglar  got  re- 
ligion in  him,  that's  where  it  is,  you  know. 
Seems  a'most  to  have  been  bom  in  'im, 
for  he've  never  lamed  hia  letters.  Ah,  it's 
a  rare  thing  is  religion,  'speshly  with  the 
poor  it  is." 

This  she  said  without  a  smile,  although 
there  was  a  shade  of  irony,  perhaps,  in  the 
assertion — taken  literally,  at  leas^  and 
according  to  the  common  meaning  of  the 
words.  Commenting  on  a  text  that  hong 
beside  the  bed,  she  added:  '"As  one 
whom  his  mother  comforteth.'  Ah,  that's 
often  brought  me  comfort  like,  when  Vvo 
been  cryin'  about  my  children.  I  conldn't 
comfort  of  'em.nmcb,  poQr.BQqls,  while 


THE  ETHICS  OF  TOBACCO. 


[AprU  12, 18U.)      497 


tiiey  wu  a  living.    Bat  I  moko  no  doubt 
they're  all  in  comfort  now  they're  dead." 

She  answered  heartily,  "Ck>d  bleas 
yott  1 "  vheo  we  swd  good-bye  to  hw,  and 
she  even  canght  my  hand  and  kiued  it,  I 
confess  to  my  sarpriae.  I  had  given  her 
no  alms,  nor  was  known  to  her  in  any 
way,  nor  bad  I  promised  any  help  in  the 
dark  days  tiiat  might  come  to  this  poor 
dweller  in  a  shed.  Perhaps  her  mother's 
heart  was  touobed  by  the  thought  of  ber 
Icet  children;  and  possibly  uie  felt  in 
need  of  some  new  outlet  for  her  tenderaesa 
and  love. 


THE  ETHICS  OF  TOBACCO. 

Mr.  Richard  Jgfferibs,  in  one  of  those 
delightful  books  of  bia  whicb  bring  the 
aighu,  and  sounds,  and  Bmells  of  coaotry 
life  to  one's  very  fireside,  chronicles  a 
notable  thine-  He  says  that  the  formers 
abont  the  downs  where  he  so  loves  to 
ramble,  have  taken  to  smokine  cigars.  At 
aaction  sates  and  other  gauerings  of  a 
festive  character,  sherry  and  cigars  are 
sow  produced  in  place  of  the  old-fashioned 
"  chnrchwarden  "  and  October  ale.  Sucb 
an  innovation  is  clearly  one  of  the  signs  of 
tbe  times,  in  which  the  tendency  la  to 
amalgamate  classes:'  When  peers'  sons 
become  wine-merchants  and  stockbrokers ; 
when  scions  of  titled  families  serve  in 
merchant-steamers;  when  workiog-coiliera 
become  Members  of  Parliament;  and  when, 
generally,  caste  diatiactioas  are  one  by  one 
disappearing  in  this  country  as  surely  as 
we  are  told  they  will  do  in  India — things 
which  at  one  time  would  have  been  deemed 
incongruous,  nncoutb,  and  absurd,  become 
now  perfectly  rational  and  proper. 

In  the  abstract,  of  coarse,  there  is  not  and 
never  was  any  reason  why  one  man  should 
not  smoke  a  cigar  as  well  as  another,  if  he 
prefers  it  and  can  afford  it.  In  practice, 
however,  tbe  aristocratic  cigar  not  only 
ranked  several  degrees  higher  in  the  social 
scale  than  the  lowly  pipe,  but  even  its 
uses  were  unknown  to  Mansie  Wauch  and 
the  douce  baillies  of  DalkeitL  Yet  even  if 
the  difficolties  of  these  worthy  plebs  with 
tbe  ducal  Begalias  be  regarded  as  a  plea- 
sant exaggeration,  there  was  aforetime  a 
certain  invisible  line  drawn  through 
society.  Tbe  man  below  that'  line  who 
indulged  in  a  cigar  was  pretty  sure  to  be 
sneered  at  as  a  "snob."  The  man  above 
that  line  who  demeaned  himself,  save  in 
secret,  with  the  humble  pipe  ran  ib»  awful 


risk  of  being  dubbed  by  his  fellows  a  "  cad." 
It  mattered  not  that  tbe  word  cigar  is 
rathera  wide  one — wide  enough  to  et^race 
tbe  eigbteenpsnny  Begalia  of  the  gilded 
youth  and  the  twopenny  smoke  with  which 
Arry  makes  Bank  Holidays  hideous. 
Tobacco— or  any  tbingresembling  it — roUed 
into  a  thin  cylindrical  form  was,  once  upon  a 
time,  genteel;  tobacco  cut  and  burned  in  an 
open  vessel  was  low.  Bat  we  have  changed 
olLthats  My  lord  may  soothe  himself  with  a 
common  cutty,  while  bis  man  basks  behind 
a  mendacious  Havannah — both  without  im- 
propriety. The  dainty  cigarette  alone  has 
not  as  yet  found  favour  among  tbe  lower 
orders. 

It  is  not  to  be  lost  sight  of  that  this 
claas-diBtinction  with  regard  to  tobacco  was 
a  British  peculiarity.  In  SpEun  tbe  cigarette 
is  the  common  property  of  graudee  and 
muleteer;  in  Germany  the  cigar  roles 
from  Kaiser  to  cobbler ;  in  Eastern  coun- 
tries cigf^ette  and  chibouk  are  both 
universaL 

In  considering  the  ethics  of  tbe  subject, 
then,  we  perceive  first  of  all  that  tobacco 
is  a  great  leveller.  As  many  an  angry 
quarral  has  been  averted  by  the  offer  of  a 
timely  pinch  of  snuff,  so  many  a  friendship 
has  found  its  beginning  in  tbe  exchange  of 
cigar-cases,  the  supplying  of  the  "  fill  'of  a 
pipe,  or  the  proffer  of  a  light  Do  not  let 
ua  smile  at  the  suggestion  as  a  "trifle" 
Human  life  is  often  called  a  sum  of  trifles, 
bat  it  is  BO  short  that  we  should  hesitate  to 
sneer  at  anything  as  a  trifle,  which  can 
produce  one  moment's  joy  or  one  moment's 
care. 

That  smoking  has  become  much  more 
universal  daring  the  lost  twenty  years  or 
so  admits  ol  no  question.  The  tobacco 
duUes  show  it,  and  we  have  the  evidence 
of  our  own  senses  if  oar  memories  can 
cany  us  far  enough  back.  It  is  not  so 
very  long  ago  that  smoking-carriages 
attached  to  railway-trains  were  the  excep- 
tion and  not  the  rula  Now,  the  anti- 
tobacconists  lament  this  on  physiological 
as  well  as  on  moral  grounds.  We  do  not 
propose  to  consider  the  physiological 
aspects,  for  where  doctors  differ  we  will 
not  presume  to  diagnose.  The  present 
writer  has  been  a  moderate  smoker  for 
twenty  years,  and  conscientiously  believes 
that  he  has  been  the  better  and  Ute  happier 
for  the  moderate  indulgence,  hut  we  have 
no  desire  to  argue  from  tbe  particular  to 
the  general  in  tnis  matter. 

The  ethics  of  the  tobacco  question,  how- 
ever, form  a  fair  subject  for  exammation. 


498      [April  12,  I8S4.I 


Ali  THE  YEAK  EOtJND. 


It  IB  nrged  by  the  anti-tobacconitta  that 
the  practice  of  BmokiDg  U  a  selfish  one— 
that  it  engeodara  indLffeTCnce  to  the  com- 
fort and  the  feelings  of  others,  and  that  it 
has  had  a  direct  inflaence  in  deteriorating 
the  manners  of  our  generation.  They  also 
urge  that  it  encourages  drinking,  bnt 
therein  we  think  they  "do  protest  too 
much."  Some  of  the  voret  and  most 
hopeless  drunkards  we  have  known,  were 
non-smokers,  and  per  contra,  some  of  the 
heaviest  smokerG  were  teetotaleis.  There 
is  no  necessary  connection  between  the 
two  practices ;  at  the  same  time  the  man 
who  IB  intemperate  by  nature  will  err  to 
excess  in  smoking  as  well  aa  in  everything 
else.  Anti-tobacconists  very  often  commit 
the  aame  mutake  as  teetotaler*,  that, 
namely,  of  falling  from  excess  of  zeal  into 
intemperance  of  advocacy. 

There  can  be  no  doabt,  for  instance, 
that  King  James  went  a  great  deal  too  i ar 
in  his  "  Connterblaste,"  and  so  also  did 
Sir  Grey  Palmer,  who,  in  1621,  declared 
in  the  House  of  Commons  "  That  if  tobacco 
be  not  banished  it  will  overthrow  one 
hundred  thousand  men  in  England;  bat 
it  is  DOW  so  commoD  that  I  have  seen 
ploughmen  take  it  as  they  are  at  plongh." 
And  yet  plonghsten  have  gone  on  taking 
it  for  two  hnndred  and  sixty  years,  while 
the  country  has  gone  on  adding  to  its 
population  and  its  wealth.  There  must 
have  been  many  more  than  ploughmen, 
however,  who  in  Sir  Grey  Palmer's  days 
patroniaed  the  weed,  for  an  order  appears 
on  the  joumalB  of  the  "  Honse  "  itself  in 
the  same  century,  that  "N'o  member  do 
presume  to  smoke  tobacco  in  the  gallery, 
or  at  the  table  of  the  Honse,  sitting 
at  committees,"  which  were  very  proper 
regulations.  It  was  avidently  abont  the 
same  time  that  the  nse  of  tobacco  was  for- 
bidden to  achoolmaaters,  as  related  by  Dr. 
Robert  Chambers  in  the  Book  of  Daya  Yet 
the  popularity  which  it  had  even  then 
attained  to  is  evident  from  the  boldness 
with  which  the  students  of  Christ  Church, 
Oxford,  sang  its  praises  even  before  the 
face  of  King  James  himself.  They  appeared 
in  the  cnrions  drama  by  Barton  Holiday, 
called  Technogsmia ;  or,  the  Marri^e  of  the 
Arts,  in  which,  to  the  disgost  of  the  royal 
anti-tobacconist,  occurred  a  song  to  tobacco, 
beginning : 

Talracco's  a  mugicUn, 

And  in  A  pi^  detighteth, 

It  degcenda  in  a  clow 

Through  the  orRBQs  of  tbs  now 

WiCb  a  ralish  that  iDTit«th  ; 
and  BO  on  through  half-a-dozen  verses. 


It  is  not  withont  significance,  in  ooa- 
sidering  the  ethics  of  tobacco,  that  to  the 
use  of  it  in  England  we  are  indebted  to 
aome  of  the  bravest  gentlemen  and  most 
intrepid  adventurers  which  the  country 
has  ever  prodnced.  In  "  the  golden  age  " 
of  Elizabeth,  valour  and  genue  manners 
went  hand  in  hand,  and  the  great  queen 
herself,  it  is  said,  looked  on  smUingly  while 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  blew  the  gentle  weed. 
The  story  goes,  that  she  made  a  wager  with 
him  that  he  could  not  weigh  the  smoke  he 
emitted  from  his  pipe.  Baleigh  thereupon 
weighed  a  pipeful  of  pure  Virginia,  smoked 
it  calmly  out,  then  weighed  the  ashes,  and 
deducting  tlie  one  weight  from  the  other, 
showed  the  product  aa  the  weight  of  his 
smoke.  The  qneen  thereupon  paid  the 
wager,  witii  the  witty  remark :  "  Many 
labourers  in  the  fire  have  I  heard  of,  who 
tnmed  their  gold  into  smoke,  but  Raleigh 
is  the  first  who  has  turned  smoke  into 
gold."  The  first  may  be,  bnt  sssnredly 
not  the  last,  as  the  descendants  of  the 
wealthy  Glasgow  tobacco-merchants,  and  as 
the  extensive  manufacturers  of  our  own 
day  can  show  if  they  choose. 

When  Charles  Lamb  railed  at  the 
"  sooty  retainer  of  the  vine,"  and  "  brother 
of  Bacchus,"  he  endorsed,  apparency,  t^e 
censure  of  those  who  contend  tliat  smoking 
encourages  drinking.  But  i^;ain,  gentle 
though  inconstant  Etia  repented  A  his 
harshness,  and  atoned  by  a  torrent  of 
endearments.  Let  ns  distinguish,  however, 
between  use  and  abuse,  and  do  not  let  us 
too  hastily  condemn  as  a  curse  that  which 
to  BO  lai^e  a  proportion  of  our  fellow- 
creatures  is  a  blessing. 

And  that  unquestionably  must  be  re- 
garded as  a  blessingwhich  helps  to  roundoff 
manyoftbesharpoomersoflife.  Themaral 
influence  of  the  weed  is  great  in  its  sooth- 
ing effects.  It  helps  to  dispel  evil  humouis 
and  it  fosters  gentle  fancies.  "There 
is  a  certain  subetastial  kind  of  satisfaction 
in  smokine,  if  kept  in  moderation,"  sud 
Professor  Huxley  to  the  British  Associstion, 
"  and  I  must  say  this  for  tobacco  :  that  it 
is  a  sweetener  and  equaliser  of  the  temper. 
It  is  true,"  he  added,  "  that  nothing  is 
worse  than  excoBsive  smoking,  bnt  any 
one  conld  destroy  himself  with  the  excessive 
use,  say  of  tea,  or  of  any  other  article  of 
diet"  Johnston,  in  his  Chemistiy  <^ 
Common  Life,  says,  that  among  smokers  he 
has  fancied  that  some  "have  discovered  a 
way  of  liberating  the  mind  from  the 
trammels  of  the  hoiy,  and  of  thus  giving 
it  a  Ireer  range  and  more   andisturbed 


Cturlel  Dlckeu.)  GEE 

liberty  of  action."  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is 
certata  that  many  of  oar  wiseBt  ttunlcera 
and  beat  writera  have  been  and  are 
amokers. 

We  remember,  a  nomber  of  yena  ago, 
UUng  in  with  a  qneer  parody  on  one  of 
Swlnbame's  songs,  which  began  in  this 
way: 

It  love  wore  dhudeen  olden. 

And  I  wars  Kke  ths  weed, 

Oh,  we  would  liva  together, 

And  luve  the  jolly  weather. 

And  bwk  in  eunabine  golden. 

R»r6  palfl  of  cboiceat  breed. 

If  love  were  dhudeen  olden. 

And  I  were  like  ths  weed. 

This  offera  to  ns  another  view,  viz.,  the 
noitlDg  inflnence  (tf  tobacoo.  There  is  a 
brotherhood  among  smokers,  wliich  has 
developed  a  school  of  courtesy  and  kindli- 
ness of  its  own,  and  which,  like  freemasonry, 
is  superior  to  the  accidental  barriers  of 
class.  So  far  from  deteriorating  our 
manners,  then,  we  hold  that  tobacco  has 
had  a  moUifying  and  reGninE  effect.  The 
boor  who  ehokes  you  with  a  blast  from  his 
vile  dhadeen  as  he  passes  you  in  the  street, 
is  no  more  a  type  of  die  smoker  than  the 
boisterous  roughs  of  a  London,  or  a  Man- 
chester, or  a  Glasgow  crowd  are  types 
of  Engliehmea  Studied  posturing  and 
genuflecting  were  the  evidences  of  good. 
maaners  in  the  days  of  the  Begency,  but 
in  BO  far  as  manners  connote  morals,  we 


imagine  there  can  be  no  comparison  between 
that  age  and  our  own.  A  gentleman  of 
oar  day,  we  take  it,  is  on  the  whole  a 
more  exalted  creature,  with  his  dgar  or 
pipe,  than  was  the  gentleman  of  the  last 
century  wiUi  bis  dangled  cane  and  snuff- 
b«. 

Salvation  Yeo  was  extravagant  in  his 
laudation  when  he  declared  that, "  When  all 
things  were  made,  none  was  made  better 
than  tobacco,  to  be  a  lone  man's  companion, 
a  bschelor's  friend,  a  hungry  man  s  food, 
a  sad  man's  cordial,  a  wakeful  man'a  sleep, 
and  a  chilly  man's  fire.  There's  no  herb 
like  it  under  the  canopy  of  heaven."  We 
deprecate  extravagance  of  praise,  however,  as 
we  protest  against  intemperance  in  condem- 
nation. But  there  is  a  sumoient  substratum 
of  tmth  in  Salvation  Yeo's  claims  to  de- 
monstrate that  the  ethical  as  well  as 
the  material  influences  of  tobacoo  are 
great 

Certainly,  for  one  thing,  more  ut»a- 
ture  has  been  cultivated  with  the  aid 
of  the  weed  than  with  the  "  little 
oatmeal "  affected  by  the  early  Edinburgh 
K«  viewers. 


GERALD. 

BV  ELEANOR  0.  PSIOE. 

CHAPTER  III.      CUT  SHORT. 

Theo  of  course  knew  a  great  many  of 
the  wedding  guests,  and  had  plenty  to  do 
in  helping  Mrs,  Fnser  to  entertain  tfaeuL 
She  always  liked  old  people,  and  she  was 
deep  in  talk  with  an  old  lady  about  her 
dogs,  having  apparently  forgotten  that 
there  was  anybody  besides  this  old  lady  in 
the  world,  and  not  at  all  knowing  that  most 
people  had  gone  in  to  breakfast,  when  she 
became  aware  that  somebody  was  standing 
behind  her,  and  looked  np  hnrriedly  once 
more  into  the  face  of  Mr.  Fuia. 

"  Oh,  are  they  gone  I "  she  said,  getting 
up,  "I  think — mil  yon  take  Mra  Camp- 
bell, please  t " 

"  No,  dear  Miss  Meynell,  certainly  not," 
said  Mrs.  Campbell  with  an  approving 
smile.  "Nothing  so  unorthodox.  Here 
is  my  old  friend  Colonel  Fox  ooming  to 
take  care  of  me." 

Theo  was  satisfied,  and  gave  herself  np 
to  Mr.  Fane  without  further  difficulty. 

"I  really  forgot,"  she  said,  as  they  went 
into  the  dining-room.  "  Doga  are  such  a 
nice  subject,  and  Mra  Campbell  has  seven 
in  the  house.  I  don't  know,  though, 
whether  it  is  good  to  scatter  one's  affections 
in  that  way." 

"  Do  you  centre  yours  in  one  dog ! " 
said  Mr.  Fane. 

"  Yes.  One  dog  and  one  horse.  I  have 
never  been  allowed  to  faave  any  mote." 

"But  then  it  is  so  horrid  if  tlie  one 
dies,"  he  said. 

"  It  puts  them  more  on  the  footing  of 
human  friends,  and  that  is  good,"  said  Ilieo. 
"  Why  shouldn't  we  grieve  for  them !  they 

five  us  pleasure  enough;  more,  I  tJiink,  than 
uman  hiends  do—dear  faithM  things." 

"  No ;  human  friends  are  the  bea^  joat 
because  they  change,  and  disappoint  one," 
said  Mr.  Fane.  "  Aiid,  after  tii,  they  may 
live  as  long  aa  we  do  ourselves ;  the  dc^ 
and  horses  can't,  so  they  are  a  owtain  grief 
— and  if  you  have  only  one  of  each " 

"  What  do  you  mean  i "  said  Theo,  look- 
ing at  him  eamestly. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  did  not  dare  to  give 
her  more  than  a  glance  back. 

"What  do  I  meant"  be  repeated  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  You  seem  to  think  that  one's  friends 
ought  to  change,  and  disappoint  one.  I 
don't  understand." 

"  Nor  do  L     Only  they  always  do,  ao  it 


500      [4prms,I8«.J 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


is  as  veil  to  be  lurdened  Dogs  ipoil  ooe 
with  their  fcuthfalneea.  I  auppoae  that 
mar  have  been  what  I  meant,  he  said, 
looking  down  and  smilimF.  He  waa  b;  no 
means  BO  QQcoDBciooB  as  Theo,  and  had  at 
that  moment  caught  a  curiona,  amased  look 
from  the  bride,  whose  interest  in  herself 
and  her  hosband  was  not  so  exclusive 
as  to  prevent  her  {rom  watching  her 
cousin. 

Gerald  Fane  waa  qoite  quick  enongh  to 
see  and  feel  the  whole  state  of  Uie  case. 
Since  he  had  taken  Theo  away  &om  JAn. 
Campbell,  ha  had  begun  to  be  happy ;  till 
then  bis  whole  time  had  been  spent  in 
regretting  that  he  had  come.  Why  could 
Dot  John  Goodall  have  found  one  of  his 
own  friends  1  Gerald  had  had  no  idea 
that  the  excellent  fellow  was  not  manying 
in  bis  own  line  of  life,  and  he  had  come 
for  fun,  for  adventnre,  for  a  new  expe- 
rience amonff  a  new  set  of  peopl&  Cir- 
cumstances had  made  the  poor  wretch  as 
prond  as  Lucifer,  and,  of  course,  he  had 
not  been  half  an  hour  in  Linwood  before 
he  found  himself  in  a  false  position,  and 
waa  inwardly  swearing  at  his  own  foolish- 
ness. As  the  peof^  came  into  the  church 
he  saw  that  they  were  people  of  his  own 
sort,  and  not  of  Goodall'a ;  bat,  of  course, 
they  conid  only  regard  him  as  belonging 
to  GoodaU.  Bat  then  Theo  came  and  stood 
there,  and  no  one  else,  not  even  himself, 
could  be  thought  of  afterwarde.  Now  he  was 
sitting  close  to  her,  and  it  was  their  duty 
to  talii  to  each  other.  He  could  only  talk 
nonaense,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  she 
would,  not  be  satisfied.  He  did  not  want 
to  talk  at  alt,  only  to  look  at  her,  but  that 
could  not  be,  and  perhapa  it  was  only  a 
long  absence  from  civilised  society  which 


fut  such  a  daring  thoi^ht  into  his  head. 
t  was  a  good  thing  after  all  that  she  took 
him  qoite  aerionuy,  and  went  on  with 
the  argnment 

"  Are  friends  so  bad  as  thati  It  is  a  sad 
way  of  looking  at  it,"  she  said,  "  When  I 
aaid  that  dogs  gave  one  more  pleasure,  I 
think  I  meant  that  one's  d(^  realty  belongs 
to  one,  in  a  way  that  no  human  friend  caa 
But  it  is  very  sad  to  say  that  one's  friends 
always  change,  and  disappoint  one.  Some- 
times they  do — now  and  then." 

"About  those  thinga  we  all  speak  from 
our  own  experience,"  said  Mr.  Fane.  "I 
have  no  donbt  yoar  friends  are  faithful  to 
you." 

"  I  am  fortonate,  then,"  said  Theo,  half 
tohOTselC 

She  waa  ailent  for  a  moment,  and  then 


taming  away  from  him,  began  to  talk  to 
somebody  on  the  other  dde  of  her. 

There  were  do  speeches,  and  Helen  very 
soon  went  away  to  change  her  dress.  Theo 
followed  her,  and  the  bride  found  an  oppor- 
tunity to  say,  with  a  mischievous  laugh : 

"Well,  Theo,  how  do  you  like  the 
manager  t " 

"  Who  is  the  maoager  I "  said  Theo. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Fane.  I  told  you  he  was 
manager  of  a  oolliery." 

"  I  forgot     Are  Uiey  all  like  that  1 " 

"  I  don't  snj^tose  they  are  all  ao  good- 
looking,"  said  Helen,  much  amused. 

"  la  he  good-looking  t  He  talks  nicely 
about  dogs.  I  must  aak  him  presently 
whether  he  likes  horses.  Pwhaps  in  some 
ways  they  are  better  than  dogs.' 

"  Well,  my  dear,  don't  talk  to  me  abont 
them  now.  I  am  not  a  yoong  man,  aod  I 
don't  want  to  be  amused.  I  never  in  my 
life  saw  you  look  so  handsome  as  yoa  did 
in  church,  Theo." 

"Did  II  I'm  very  sorry.  I  did  not 
mean  to  talk  about  dc^s,  but  what  I  meant 
was,  are  all  the  mauagen  gentlemen  t " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear ;  aak  Mr.  Fane 
himself,"  said  Helen,  laughing.  "  Now 
here's  mamma,  so  we  can't  say  any  more, 
and  yon  are  no  good  to-day,  Theo.  I  never 
saw  you  so  dreamy." 

Gerald  Fane,  meanwhile,  was  standing 
about  downataira,  keeping  apart  from  other 
people,  and  wondering  how  much  more  be 
ahould  see  of  Miss  Fraser's  beautif ol  brides- 
maid. There  was  to  be  a  dance  that 
evening,  and  he  had  been  asked  to  stay 
the  night  He  wondered  how  many  times 
she  would  dance  with  him.  As  he  stood 
with  his  eyea  on  the  ground,  glanced  at 
cnriooaly  by  different  people,  bat  taking 
no  notice  of  them  in  return,  he  was  resolving 
that  to-day  and  to-night,  for  once,  he  would 
be  happy.  He  woold  forget  all  the  horrors 
and  troables  of  which  life  was  so  full,  snd 
would  think  it  was  six  years  ago,  before  he 
knewthe  meaning  of  hari  workand  anxiety. 
She  of  course  knew  nothing  of  his  poeition. 
Why  should  shel  Perhapa  they  would 
never  meet  again ;  it  would  be  best  not, 
as  far  aa  he  was  concerned,  but  that 
thought  interfered  horribly  with  present 
enjoyment  Then  Gerald,  who  was  not 
without  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  smiled  at 
himself  for  a  hopeless  fool,  and  t^u^t 
how  all  these  people  woidd  laugb,  sod 
laugh  with  reason,  if  they  knew  that  a 
stray  pauper  like  himself  had  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  Miss  MeyneUr. 

Then  the  ladies  came  downataira,  anS 


C&AilM  Dickoia.]  GER 

tbe  carriage  drove  np,  and  there  was  a 
great  coafoaion.  Jolm  Goodall  caiae  np 
to  yomig  Fane,  wished  him  good-bye,  and 
thanked  him  in  a  J0II7  sort  of  manner, 
nearly  wringing  his  hand  o£  "  We  ahall 
meet  again  in  the  Midlands,"  said  John 
cordially.  Gerald  Fane  forgot  to  be 
grateful  and  wished  that  the  Midlands 
were  in  the  middle  of  Africa. 

As  for  Theo,  she  took  no  noUce  vhat- 
erer  of  the  best  man,  standing  rather  dis- 
mally in  the  background,  but  fulfilled  all 
her  own  duties  of  saying  good-bye,  and 
fljnging  rice,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  ene^y 
and  dreaminess,  and  then,  when  they  had 
drirao  off  and  all  was  over,  suddenly 
tamed  round  to  her  cousin,  Captain  North, 
and  went  away  with  him  into  the  library. 
The  room  was  large,  and  dark,  and  sdU,  with 
small  red  flames  oaQcing  in  Uie  grate.  A 
sense  of  peace  and  rest  came  over  Theo ; 
the  quietness  was  so  pleasant  to  her  that 
ahe  forgot  at  first  to  ask  Hugh  what  he 
wanted.  She  leaned  back  in  a  large  arm- 
chair, and  smoothed  with  both  hands  the 
creamy  satin  and  lace  of  her  gown. 

"Do  you  like  this  dress  1"  she  said. 
"  Am  I  to  wear  it  all  day  i  What  is  the 
matter,  Hugh  1 " 

Captain  North  was  not  looking  at  her  or 
hei  gown.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
hearthrug  at  his  feet ;  he  was  frowning  a 
little,  and  stroking  his  thick  moustache. 

"Well,  Tiieo,"  he  said, " everyone  else 
is  ID  snch  a  fuss  that  I  tboaght  I  had 
better  tell  you  myself.  Did  you  see— just 
before  breakfast — they  brought  me  a  tele- 
gram J" 

"  Hugh  I "  She  started  fmin  her  chair 
and  came  towards  him,  turning  as  white 
as  her  gown. 

She  terrified  Captain  North,  who  thought 
he  was  breaking  bad  news  most  consider- 
ately. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
look  like  that,  Theo.  It's  only  that  I  don't 
like  askiog  you  to  come  away  to-day.  In 
fact,  I  doirt  think  I  ought  It  will  spoU  the 
party,  but  I  couldn't  somehow  go  myself 
without  telling  you." 

"0Qcle  Henry  is  worse  t"  said  Theo, 
seeing  by  his  calmness  ^lat  her  first  fear 
waa  not  true.     "May  I  see  the  tel^ram  1" 

It  waa  crumpled  up  in  her  cousin's  hand. 
He  oniolded  it,  and  read  tbe  few  words : 

"  Colonel  North  worse.  Better  come  by 
next  train." 

"  From  Dr.  Page,"  he  aaid.  "Well,  you 
see,  Theo,  I  shall  have  to  start  in  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour-^md  of  course  one 


LLD.  [ApiU  II,  1884.]      601 

doesn't  know — and  I  really  think  you  had 
better  stay  quietly  here  till  you  hear  firom 
me.  I  rather  wish  now  that  we  had  not 
both  left  him,  but  that's  no  use.  You  wUl 
do  as  I  ask  you )  You  and  Combe  couldn't 
possibly  be  ready  in  three-quarters  of  an 
hour." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  I  wish  I  hadn't  left  him," 
cried  Theo  in  bitter  grief.  "I  never 
would,  for  any  one  but  Helea  Yon  don't 
think  I  could  stay  here,  and  dance,  and 
make  a  fool  of  myself  all  the  evening, 
while  he  will  be  wanting  me  and  asking 
for  me  t  You  know  he  will  Three-quarters 
of  an  hour !  I  could  be  ready  in  one,  and 
I  shall  be  thankfiil  to  get  away  from  this 
wedding.      I    think    weddings    are    the 

most  dreadful,  miserable  inventions " 

Very  well,"  said  Captain  North  gravely. 


"  But  if  you  arc  really  going,  ^ve  Combe 
as  much  time  as  you  can.  I  will  tell  Mrs. 
Fraser." 


So  the  poor  best  man,,  lingering  In  the 
hall,  only  caught  one  glimpse  of  his  lady, 
as  she  came  out  of  the  library  and  went 
away  upstairs  without  even  a  look  in  his 
direction.  Presently  one  of  the  numerous 
Fraser  cousins  came  and  talked  to  him, 
and  carried  him  off  into  the  garden,  and 
involved  him  in  a  game  of  tennis.  Later 
in  the  day  he  heard  quite  casually  that  Miss 
Meynell  was  gone.  People  were  giving 
plenty  of  reasons  and  particulars,  but  these 
were  nothing  to  him.  She  was  gonej 
everything  was  a  vain  show ;  and  tiirough 
the  long  tiresome  evening,  though  he 
danced  and  talked  like  everyone  else,  he 
could  only  wiah  over  and  over  again  that 
be  bad  never  come  to  Linwood. 

CHAPTER  IV.      LADT   BEDCLIFF. 

Lady  Kbdcliff  vaa  a  very  fierce  little 
old  woman  indeed.  She  wore  a  black  cap, 
and  believed  in  nothing.  She  had  had  a 
few  friends,  who  remamed  faithful  to  her 
till  she  was  over  sixty ;  but  after  that  they 
dropped  oS  one  by  one,  being  quite  unable 
to  bear  with  the  increasing  sharpness  of 
her  tongue-  Her  remarks  were  eometimee 
BO  violently  personal  as  to  madden  tbe 
meekest  of  them,  and  these  are  not 
the  days  of  meekness.  In  these  days  the 
youngest  and  smallest  people  have  their 
rights,  and  the  oldest  and  most  important 
grandmothers  must  respect  tfaem,  unless 
they  wish  to  be  met  with  open  rebellion. 

The  only  person  to  whom  Lady  Kedcliff 
behaved  decently  waa  her  granddaughter, 
'Theo  Meynell,  and  this  was  not  because  of 
any  of  her  nice  qoalities,  but  because  she 


502     [April  IS 


ALL  THE  YEAK  EOtTND. 


had  whftt  Lady  Redcliff  called  with  wtia- 
factioD,  "  the  Mejnell  temper."  All 
sorts  of  legendary  old  MeyaeUa  looked 
flashing  out  from  Theo'a  eyea  sometimea, 
when  ahe  waa  angry  and  acorofnl;  and 
these  moments  were  the  grandmother's 
delight,  though  the  anger  waa  often  against 
herself.  She  enjoyed  telling  Theo,  when- 
ever she  was  angry,  ahout  an  old  Lord 
Bedcliff  who  killed  hia  French  cook  became 
a  game-pie  was  bnmt,  and  abov*  all  thiaga 
he  loved  game-pie. 

"  He  ought  to  have  been  hanged,"  aaid 
Thea 

"  Oh  dear  no ;  people  were  not  auch 
fools  then,"  said  Lady  Bedcliff.  "  He  got 
a  better  cook,  and  lived  to  eat  thousands 
more  pies." 

When  Theo  ahowed  the  atrength  of  her 
will  in  aome  decided  way.  Lady  Redcliff 
might  remark : 

"  There  was  a  woman  in  onr  family  once 
who  wanted  to  marry  a  man,  bat  he  pre- 
ferred somebody  else  who  had  more  money. 
I  believe  he  liked  Theodosia  best,  however 
— she  waa  a  nameaake  of  yoora,  yon  per- 
ceive— ^bnt  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it; 
he  was  going  to  mairry  the  other  one. 
Well,  very  early  on  the  wedding  morning, 
Theodoaia  poisoned  the  woman,  or  chloro- 
formed her,  or  something;  dressed  her- 
self in  white  and  went  to  church,  and 
married  the  man  in  spite  of  everybody. 
Nobody  ever  stops  the  Meynella  from 
having  their  own  way.  Nobody  wanted 
that  girl  to  marry  your  father — certainly 
I  didn't — bat  he  ehose  that  ahe  should, 
I  never  can.  imagine  why.  A  milksop, 
Calviniatic  aet  of  people " 

"  Huah,  grtmdmamma  1 "  said  Thea 

"Why  am  I  to  hushl"  Bwd  the  old 
woman  sharply. 

"  Because  if  yon  talk  about  my  mother's 
family  yon  will  drive  me  out  of  tbe  house." 

"  Yon  can  go  if  you  like,"  sud  Lady 
Redcliff;  bnt  she  took  up  a  newspaper, 
and  aaid  no  more  just  then.  Presently, 
after  glancing  once  or  twice  at  Theo  over 
the  top  of  it,  she  mattered  half  to  herself : 
"There's  not  much  North  blood  in  you, 
anyway.  That  atupid  Bedcliff  and  his 
brothers  and  sisters  are  not  Meynells  at 
all  j  they're  Hardwick  all  through,  and 
that's  skim  milk  turned  sour." 

It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  August; 
hot  and  veary  everywhere,  hottest  and 
weariest  in  Lady  Bedclifi's  stuffy  back 
drawing-room,  where  she  liked  to  ait  all 
day  with  doors  and  windows  closed.  The 
look-out  over  roota  and  a  few  dusty  trees 


had  not  much  cheerfulness  in  it.  Lady 
Bedcliff,  pinched  and  yellow,  was  wrapped 
in  a  large  blad  ahawL  With  her  long  noae, 
and  trembling,  bony  liogera,  she  looked 
like  the  horrid  old  spider  who  had  caaght 
a  poor  young  fly — Theo — in  her  web.  Theo 
herself  waa  all  in  black,  too,  and  looked 
pale  and  languid  ;  she  wanted  fresh  air  for 
mind  and  body,  and  the  book  she  waa 
trying  to  read  did  not  interest  her  much,  for 
her  eyea  often  wandered  up,  past  the  heavy 
shadow  of  curtains,  to  those  dingy  tree- 
tops  that  hardly  stirred,  and  the  faint  far- 
away blue  of  sky  behind  them. 

"Yon  have  plenty  of  faults  witiiont 
being  a  humbug,"  said  Lady  Bedcliff. 
"  What's  the  nae  of  pretending  to  be  good, 
and  to  read  aermona,  when  yon  are  lagii^ 
against  me  in  your  heart  all  the  time  t " 

"  I  am  doing  neither  one  thing  nor  the 
other,"  said  "Dieo  quietly.  "  It  is  that 
book  on  Sonth  Africa." 

"  Are  you  going  to  Sonth  Africa  to  get 
away  from  me  t  Never  mind,  I  ahall  die 
soon,  and  then  you  can  go  where  yon  Hke." 

"  I  am  not  obligr  d  to  slay  with  you  now," 
said  Theo. 

"Thank  yon;  that  is  a  very  pretty, 
grateful  speech  indeed.  And  of  coarse  I 
am  obliged  to  have  yon,  if  yon  chooae  to 
stay.  Yonr  uncle,  who  announced  so  finely 
that  be  was  going  to  take  yonr  faUier's 
place,  and  so  forth,  and  who  kept  yon 
away  from  me  for  yeara  because  he  did 
not  think  me  pious  enough  to  speak  to 
such  a  treasure,  having  chosen  to  die  and 
leave  yon  dependent  on  anyone  who  likes 
to  take  Qp  the  great  responsibility — it  baa 
become  my  duty,  it  seems,  to  sacri6ce  all 
my  peace  and  comfort  to  yon !  Bat  of 
coarse  yon  are  not  obliged  to  stay  with 
me  a  day  longer  than  yon  like.  Good 
gracions !  said  Lady  Bedcliff,  throwing 
the  newspaper  into  a  comer,  "  You  are  a 
little  too,  cool.  Miss  Theo — yoa  really  are." 

"I  did  not  mean  it  in  that  way,"  aaid 
Theo,  now  as  red  as  she  had  been  pale 
before, 

"  Don't  make  ezoosea,  I  hate  them.  I 
am  neither  deaf  nor  blind,  nor  an  idiot, 
and  I  nndentood  you  perfectly  welL  I 
think  your  precious  uncle  brought  you  up 
abominably,  and  did  his  beat  to  spoil 
everything  that  was  fine  in  yonr  character. 
And  what  he  meant  by  muing  all  those 
profeesionB,  and  leaving  yoa  nothing  after 
all,  is  certainly  a  tremendona  pnnsle;  I 
should  like  to  know  how  you  explain  it  to 
yourself." 

Theo  go  t  up,  and  walked  towards  the  doOT. 


Clurla  Dlekrai.]  GBR 

"  Stop  a  miBate,"  uid  her  gruidmother. 
"  Before  you  lose  your  temper  completely, 
let  me  give  yon  one  piece  of  adrice.  Fol- 
low your  coasin's  example,  and  marry  a 
snob.  Any  snob  yon  like ;  I'll  give  you 
my  bleasing  and  my  diamond  necklace. 
Bat  listen ;  if  yon  marry  Hugh  North,  I'll 
give  you  nothing — notlung," 

"Grandmamma,  what  makes  yon  bo 
dreadfnl  this  afternoon  1 "  said  tlie  girl 
almost  imploringly. 

Then,  with  a  certain  noble  aweetness,  she 
vent  np  to  the  poor  angry  old  woman,  and 
laid  her  band  on  her  sboolder. 

"  Don't  touob  me,"  said  Lady  Eedcliff, 
snatching  herself  away.  "I  hate  the 
Norths,  and  you  know  it.  '  If  George  bad 
married  anyone  else,  he  might  have  been 
alive  now.  What  business  had  she  to  die, 
and  leave  him  to  go  hia  own  way  1 " 

"  Hash  1  you  fot^et ;  you  are  talking  of 
my  mother,"  sud  Thea 

"I  don't  forget  You  never  let  me 
forget  anything  dis^reeable." 

"  Look  here,  grandmamma ;  you  don't 
really  want  to  hurt  me,  I  know,  but  yon 
do  hurt  me  when  you  talk  like  that  of  my 
Norths,  and  especially  of  Uncle  Henry, 
whom  I  loved  with  aU  my  heart." 

"  Why  shonldn't  you  be  hurt  aa  well  as 
other  people  I  I  have-  been  hurt  often 
enough,  and  by  people  who  pretended  to 
love  me,"  sud  her  grandmother.  "  Don't 
be  a  fbol  I  Why  didn't  your  dear  ancle 
leave  yon  anything  t " 

"  I  never  thought  or  expected  that  he 
would,"  said  Theo. 

"  Everyone  ebe  did,  then," 

"No,  grandmamma;  not  people  who 
knew  about  his  affairs." 

"  Rubbish  I  he  had  plenty  of  money 
to  do  what  he  liked  with.  He  had  a  great 
deal  more  than  his  sisters,  and  they  were 
not  badly  off,  but  they  married  men  who 
spent  their  money,  and  Henry  North  was 
a  miser.  That  Fraser  man  muddled  away 
every  penny  of  bis  first  wife's  money,  and 
your  father  spent  it  rationally,"  said  Lady 
Redcliff  with  an  odd  grimace.  "  But  thai  s 
nothing  to  the  point  What  I  say  is,  don't 
delude  yourself  with  the  idea  that  your 
uncle  was  a  poor  man.  He  lived  quietly 
enough,  to  be  sure,  down  there  in  that 
hole,  but  all  Uie  Norths  are  misers — ^y  our 
Norths,  aa  yoa  call  them.  I  don't  think 
it  is  a  property  to  be  proud  of." 

"  There  are  a  few  things  yoa  don't 
know,  grandmamma,"  said  Tbeo  earnestly. 

"Are  there,  really  1"  said  Lady  Red- 
cliff,  who  was  talking  herself  into  a  better 


\U>.  [Apdi  IS,  ISM.]    503 

humour.  "Well,  I  never  pretended  to  be 
as  knowing  as  you." 

"  Uncle  Henry  may  have  bad  plenty  of 
money  to  begin  with ;  I  believe  he  had," 
said  Theo.  "But  there  was  &  man  be 
liked  very  much,  a  good  deal  younger 
than  hinuelf,  and  of  conrse  his  jnnior  in 
the  service;  bat  be  was  in  his  regiment 
for  some  time,  and  they  were  friends  to 
quite  an  unusual  extent,  yoa  know.  This 
man  left  the  army,  and  went  in  for  some 
speculations.  He  persuaded  Uncle  Henry 
to  put  a  great  deal  of  money  into  tlii;ii>, 
and  then  he  turned  oat  dl  wrong,  i-u  . 
swindled  everybody  who  had  trusted  li  m. 
Uncle  Henry  lost  much  more  than  an3\.)>u 
else,  but  it  was  owing  to  hint  that  the  man 
was  let  off  easily,  because  he  used  to  like 
him  BO  much,  and  did  not  believe  it  was 
quite  all  his  fault  So  it  was  hushed  up, 
and  Hugh  believes  the  man  is  alive  still, 
but  be  does  not  know  what  has  become  of 
him." 

"  Swindling  comfortably  oD  somewhere, 
no  doubt,"  said  Lady  Bedcliff.  "  It  would 
have  been  more  philanthropic  to  punish 
him." 

"  So  Hugh  thinks.  He  does  not  agree 
with  his  father  about  that,  but  it  happened 
long  ago,  when  he  was  young,  so  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it  He  hates  the  man," 
said  Theo,  in  aoit,  thoughtful  tones.  "I 
never  saw  him  look  so  angry  as  when  he 
told  me  about  him  the  other  day.  He 
hates  to  l^nk  of  Uncle  Henry  bqing  taken 
in,  and  it  is  a  horrid  story,  certainly." 

"  Quite  thrilling,  but  I  wouldn't  tell  it 
much,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Lady  Redcliff. 
"  This  wicked  world  laughs  at  people  who 
are  neither  clever,  wise,  nor  hard,  yon 
know.  There,  don't  flash ;  your  little 
tempers  tire  ms.  Where  does  your  cousin 
get  his  money  from,  then!  I  know  be 
has  a  good  deal  of  his  own." 

"  His  mother  had  a  fortune,  and  it  was 
settled  upon  him,"  answered  Thea 

"  His  mother's  relations  must  have  been 
canny  people,"  said  Lady  Redcliff  "  Sidnts 
like  Henry  North  generally  manage  to 
have  no  settlements  at  all." 

"  I  suppose  you  hate  the  Norths  because 
they  are  good,    said  Theo, 

She  had  walked  away  to  the  window, 
and  was  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the 
curtains,  looking  up  at  the  sky. 

"And  is  that  the  reason  why  you  love 
them,  yon  little  Pharisee  1"  sneered  La^ly 
Redcliff 

Something  in  the  look  of  her  eyes,  fixed 
on  the  tall,  beantifol  liguro  of   the  girl 


604 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


st&nding  there,  aeemed  cQiiooBly  to  belie 
her  way  of  talking,  and  Tlieo,  perhaps, 
knew  ber  grandmother  well  enough  to 
feel  this,  though  ahe  did  not  look  towards 
her  in  return. 

"At  anv  rate,"  die  said,  "I  euppoae  I 
lore  them  because  they  have  been  bo  good 
to  me." 

"  Well,  that's  true,  and  they  had  nothing 
to  gain  by  it,"  laid  Lady  K«dcli£  "  But 
Hugh's  goodness  now  may  not  be  qtdte  so 
disinteioated.  When  did  he  tell  you  this 
history  of  the  losses  1  Since  bit  father's 
death  i " 

"  Yes ;  a  few  weeks  ^;o,  when  ha  came 
here  the  first  time." 

"  And  why  did  he  tell  it  yoa  at  all  1 " 

"I  think  I  have  an  idea,"  aaid  Theo 
dreamily. 

"  Out  with  it,  tiien.  I  want  to  finish  this 
stupid  talk  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  think  he  thought  I  might  fann — 
that  I  might,  perhaps,  be  disappointed  at 
Uncle  Henry's  leaving  me  nothing — and 
so  he  wished  me  to  understand  about  the 
affairs,  don't  you  see  t " 

"  He  said  nothing  about  making  it  up  to 
yoa  in  the  future  1 " 

"  No,  grandmanuna.  How  coold  he  1 
What  do  you  mean  }  Of  course  he  did  not 
allude  to  my  being  disappointed  at  alL" 

"  In  fact,  he  was  gentlemanlike  and 
considerate,  as  the  Norths  always  are.  I 
suppose  he  knows  all  about  your  affairs ! " 

"Yes,"  said  Theo. 

"  Your  poor  little  three  hundred  a  year, 
which  yon  will  find  a  sad  pinch  now  that 
Uncle  Henry  has  deserted  you.  You  will 
have  to  depend  on  yourself,  you  know.  I 
can't  have  you  always  living  here,  though 
I  don't  mind  you  for  a  visit  now  and  then. 
We  have  had  enough  of  each  other  already, 
that's  the  truth  ;  we  shall  quarrel  mortally 
if  you  stay  much  longer.  Where  will  you 
go  when  you  leave  me  1 " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Theo. 

She  had  probably  heard  this  before,  for 
it  did  not  Beem  to  make  much  impression 
on  her,  as  she  stood  gazing  out  of  the 
window.  After  a  minute  Lady  Bedcliff 
said  abruptly : 

"Hugh  North  will  ask  yon  to  marry 
him." 

"He  won't;  you  are  quite  mistaken," 
said  Theo,  turning  round  with  an  air  of 
magnificent  disdain. 

"  He  wilL  Don't  you  know  that  I  am  a 
witch  1    I  know   the   futore.     I  con  tell 


your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady ;  give  me 
that  white  hand  of  yours." 

Theo  put  her  bands  behind  her  and 
stood  motionless. 

"He  shall  be  a  dark  man,"  the  old 
woman  went  on  in  a  sort  of  beggar's  whin& 
"  No  fur  man  is  fit  for  the  mes  of  yon, 
my  darling;"  Then  suddenly  changing 
into  her  natural  tone,  she  said :  "  He  will, 
Theo.  What  shall  you  say  to  him  if  he 
doesl" 

"  No,  of  coarse,"  said  Thea  "  But  he 
wouldn't  be  so  foolish.  Oh,  it  is  too  horrid 
to  talk  like  this  I  I  am  going  out  for  a 
walk." 

"  Go,  then.  I  am  glad  eno^h  to  get 
rid  of  you,"  said  Lai^  BedcliK  "Take 
Combe ;  yoa  are  not  to  go  by  yonrseH" 

Theo  rushed  upstairs  to  Combe,  and 
hurried  her  and  herself  out  of  the  houae  in 
an  angry,  excited  way.  Combe  was  not 
surpriwd ;  her  mistress  generally  came  out 
of  the  drawing-room  in  these  moods,  after 
a  long  talk  wiUi  Lady  BedcliC 

Out  of  doors  a  little  coolness  was  be- 
ginning to  breathe  in  the  air ;  so  Theo 
thought,  at  any  rate,  in  the  first  minutes 
of  her  escape  from  that  oppressive  bons& 
Then  a  flush  of  heat  came  over  her,  for  she 
and  Combe  had  hardly  crossed  the  square 
when  Captain  NorUi  met  ttiem.  He  was 
cool,  and  kind,  and  oalm  as  usual  Theo 
oould  have  laughed  as  she  thought  of  her 
grandmother's  words,  and  yet  hated  the 
Bttle  oonftision  that  was  inseparable  from 
the  memory  of  them ;  but  her  feelings 
were  quite  hidden  from  Captun  North. 

"  Now  yon  may  go  to  i^nrch,  Combe,' 
he  said,  in   bis   old   matterof-fact  way. 


I'm  come 
lata    tac 


and  leave  Miss  Theo  to  me. 
to  take  care  of  her." 

"  Thank  yon,   sir.      It's  t< 
church,"  said  Combe. 

"  Well,   go  and  see   your 
something." 

"  Go  for  a  walk,  Combe ;  don't  ko  back 
into  that  horrid,  stufiy  house,"  said  Theo; 
and  then,  with  a  feeling  of  relief  and 
peace,  all  disagreeables  forgotten,  she 
walked  cheerfully  away  wiUi  Hugh. 


How  PubliaUiig,  plica  Sd., 

THE    EXTRA    SPRING    NUMBER 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


TALES   BY   POPULAR   AUTHORS. 
■t  lU  £«ilwmr  BooluMU,  aod  b;  all  Bootoai 


The  Bight  of  Tratulating  Artiektfiwn  Au.  the  Yeab  Roinn)  is  raervtd  6y  lAe  Autkan. 


i^SlQ^-OE-  0irtv.ir?ES-j[;^pK-Y5W;iD  -^f^ 


CONDUCT  tDBY' 


I 


SATDEDAT,  APRIL  19,  1884. 


^ 


;  Price  TwoPENca 


A   DRAWN  GAME. 


CHAPTER  XXX.      "  PICTUEE  IT — THINK  OF 

IT,   DISSOHTTE  MAM  !  " 

The  policem&n'a  gall&ntry  wu  to  aome 
extent  inspired  by  the  BnBptdon,  or  certainty 
nther,  that  It  vas  a  case  of  attempted 
Bnicide,  which,  getting  into  the  police- 
conrt  and  the  nenspapera,  vonld  cover  him 
with  gloiy.  From  a  distance,  and  from  the 
oppodte  side  of  the  mill-race,  he  had  seen 
the  two  sitting  together ;  had  then  seen 
Archie  leave  her,  aeeniiiigly  stnnned  by 
his  desertion ;  and  finally  had  seen 
Aoastisia  rise  aoddenly  and  fling  herself, 
as  it  seemed,  headlong  into  the  carrent. 
Be  had  not  the  least  doubt,  therefore,  that 
it  vas  the  aid,  old  storv  of  a  love-lorn 
maiden  seeking  to  end  her  sorrow  with 
herself.  Not  being  himself  sentimental, 
he  had  no  sympathy  with  sach  mawkish- 
nesf,  and  was,  therefore,  aggrieved  and 
gmff  in  his  manner. 

"  What  did  yon  do  that  for  t "  he  asked 
her  qaeroloosly,  as  he  wiang  the  wet  from 
his  tunic.  "  I  say,  what  did  you  do  it  for  t " 
he  repeated  more  p^tokntty,  shaking  the 
fatunned  Anastaaia  by  the  ehoolder. 

He  spoke  as  peevishly  aa  thongh  ahe  had 
pushed  him  for  spc.t  into  a  puddle.  Bat 
Anastasio,  half-drowned  and  wholly  dazed 
as  yet,  said  nothing. 

"Do  yon  know  that  it's  six  weeks!" 
bending  aside  to  catch  the  horror  of  her 
expression  at  this  annonncement.  It  was 
all  very  well  to  face  death,  but  to  face  a 
police-m^;iatrate  1  She  couldn't  have  con- 
sidered tUs.     "  Six  weeks ! "  he  repeated. 

"  Six  weeks  t  What's  six  weeks )  " 
asked  Anaatasia,  bewildered,  though  she 
had  now  come  to  herself. 


"An  attempt  to  commit  suicid&  It's 
aix  weeks  for  an  attempt." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  uirew  myself  in 

"  I  don't  suppose  notbin',  miea — I  seed 
ye." 

"  Yon  saw  me  t    Yon  saw  me  stretchii 
out  to  reach  a  branch  and  I  over-reache3 
myself " 

"  Bat  not  the  law,  mlas ;  not  the  law. 
You'll  not  over-reach  the  law,"  interrupted 
the  constable  with  a  quickness  which  sur- 
priaed  and  delighted  himself. 

"Yon  want  money,  and  I'm  wiUing  to 
pay  you  for  saving  my  life,"  said  Anaatasia 
hanghtily  and  indignantly,  thinking  she 
had  got  the  key  to  the  constable's  offensive 
charge  and  manner.  But  she  had  not  got 
it  at  alL 

He  was  perfectly  convinced  that  it  was 
a  case  of  attempted  euicide,  and  asanred 
that  such  a  bribe  as  she  could  offer  him' 
would  be  poor  compensation  for  the  praise 
and  promotion  his  rescne  and  aireet  of  her 
would  secure  him.  But  he  was  naturally 
deh'ghted  by  this  profier  of  a  bribe,  which, 
when  related  in  fourt,  would  at  once  con- 
firm his  charge  and  enhance  his  glory. 

"  I  want  notbin'  for  doing  my  duty, 
misa ;  and  I'll  take  nothin'  for  not  doing 
it,"  an  epigrammatic  way  of  putting  his 
disintereated  and  incorrnptihle  devotion  to 
duty,  which  told  strikingly  afterwards  in 
coarti 

For  the  case  came  into  the  Ryecote  police- 
court,  not  without  Anaatasia's  secret  con- 
currence.    On  second  tbongbta  it  occurred 
her  that  nothing  would  advance  her 

igna  upon  Archie  better  than  thia 
belief  in  her  attempt  at  suidda  Either 
Archie  would  be  won  back  to  her  by  this 
proof  of  her  desperate  devotion  to  him ; 
or  a  British  jury  would  be  moved  to  award 
in  a  breach  of  promise  case  very  substan- 
tial damages  indeed  on  such  moving  and 


506    (April  i»,  18SI.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  EOUND. 


UD&nswerable  evideDce  of  wonnded  affec- 
tions. Therefore,  Anaetasia  offered  only 
enough  resistance  and  defeace  to  the 
charge  to  convince  the  court  that  she  ma 
anxious  to  shield,  not  herself,  but  her  base 
deserter. 

At  first  she  cluug  feebly  to  the  account 
the  bad  eiven  the  constable ;  then  she  said 
only,  and  again  and  again,  that  she  was 
very  unhappy;  while  at  the  constable's 
evidoDce  as  to  seeing  a  young  man  walk 
away  from  her  just  bdore,  she  bid  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  ber  whole  frame  shook 
with  coDTulsire  sohc.  But  the  name  of  this 
young  man  nothing  could  tear  from  ber. 

It  was  j  Qst  the  part  wluch  Anastasia,  with 
faer  plaintive,  appealing,  deprecating  eyes, 
could  play  to  absolute  perfecti<Hi. 

She  played  it  with  sacb  effect  that  the 
whole  court  was  moved  to  tears,  and  it 
would  hare  gone  hard  with  that  young 
man  if  he  had  been  known  and  at  banil. 
However,  as  we  have  said,  Anastasia  nobly 
withheld  his  name.  To  reveal  it  would  be 
to  mar  the  effect  of  this  practical  appeal  to 
Archie's  feelings — her  first  card. 

The  case  was  reported  not  only  in  the 
local  papers,  bnt  at  less  length  in  the 
London  jonrnalB ;  oneofwhiohmadeitthe 
text  of  a  short  leader,  contrasting  the 
Satanic  baseness  of  our  sex  with  the 
heavenly  nobleness  of  women.  And  as 
this  paper  had  either  thelar^t  circolation 
in  the  world,  or  a  wider  circulation  than 
any  other  journal — we  forget  which — Miss 
Bompaa's  sublime  devotion  became  exten- 
sively known.  Mrs.  Tuck  read  of  it,  and 
Dick  and  Ida.  Fortunately,  Mrs.  Tuck  and 
Dick  had  no  idea  of  Ida's  interest  in  the 
story. 

"Miss  Bompas  of  Heatherley  I"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Tuck.  "  We  didn't  know  we  had  a 
heroine  so  near  us."  For  Heatherley  lay 
between  Byecote  and  Kingsford.  "I 
shooldn't  at  all  wonder  if  it  was  that  young 
Cutbbert  of  Hazelhurat,"  she  added 
meditatively.  "He  deserves  horsewhipping, 
whoever  he  is,  for  his  heartlesaness  in  iJlow- 
ing  the  poor  girl  to  stand  alone  in  the  dock." 

"  On  the  foce  of  it,  it  was  only  a  lover's 
quarrel,  and  the  girl's  choosing  to  drown 
herself  doesn't  prove  tito  man  in  the  wrong 
— rather  -the  other  way,  I  should  say," 
drawled  Dick. 

"  Why  didn't  he  come  forward  then  and 
set  himself  right  t "  asked  his  aunt 

"  What !  At  the  girl's  expense  t  You 
wouldn't  give  him  a  laah  less  of  the 
horsewhip  for  that" 

"  Nonsense,  Dick.     A  man  who  could 


drive  a  girl  to  suicide  is  not  likely  to  have 
much  regard  for  her  feelings." 

"  Drive  her  to  suicide  I  That^  just  the 
question.  Did  he  drive  her  to  suicide  T 
I  believe  it  was  all  a  bit  of  temper.  A  girl 
who  could  attempt  suicide  because  of  a 
lovers'  quarrel  is  certain  to  have  the  temper 
that  makes  quarrels.  The  fellows  take  it 
for  granted  that  she  was  a  meek  martyr, 
because  she  attempted  to  drown  herself, 
which  is  just  the  thing  which  makes  me 
suspect  she  was  a  fury.' 

Mrs.  Tuck  was  silenced  because  she 
couldn't  explain  that  she  believed  the  case 
to  be  one — not  of  a  lovers'  quarrel — bnt  of 
heartless  betrayal 

MeanwhUe  Ida  had  listened  in  utter 
wretchedness  to  the  discnssion.  As  it  was 
impossible  there  could  be  two  women  with 
so  singular  a  name  as  "  Anastasia  Bompas  " 
in  the  world,  she  had  no  doubt  that  this 
was  the  girl  with  whom  Archie  had  got 
entangled  at  Cambridge.  Bat  was  t£is 
man,  whom  every  paper  abused  for  his  bise 
betrayal  and  abandonment  of  her,  Archie  1 
She  wouldn't,  she  couldn't,  believe  it  Yet 
it  was  possible.  She  had  that  morning  got 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  John  in  which  she  said 
that  Archie  had  left  home,  but  she  did  not 
know  either  whttfaer  he  had  gone  or 
when  he  would  return.  Why  should  his 
going  and  coming  be  kept  a  secret  even 
horn  his  mother ! 

Again,  was  it  conceivable  that  this  girl 
should  have  got  entangled  with  another 
suitor  at  the  very  time  when  she  was 
attempting,  through  her  mother,  a  recon- 
ciliation with  Aivhie  t  And  what  was 
Archie's  description,  or  suggestion,  of  the 
character  of  the  girl  to  his  mother  t 
That  she  was  heartless  and  mercenary. 
Conld  a  heartless  and  mercenary  girl  love 
so  passionately  as  to  attempt  suicide  in 
despair  of  the  return  of  her  attachment  t 
And  if  she  was  the  very  reverse  of  design- 
ing, what  become  of  Archie's  account  «f 
his  entanglement  by  her) 

Ida,  racked  and  tormented  by  these 
doubts,  passed  a  day  of  extreme  wretched- 
ness in  her  room  under  the  pretext  of  a 
headacha  Here  she  wrote  letter  after 
letter  to  Mrs.  John,  tearing  up  each  in 
turn  as  unwortJiy  at  once  of  herself,  of  Mis. 
John,  and  of  Archia  Finally  she  wrote 
only  a  short  note  to  ask  if  the  person 
mentioned  in  the  accompanying  newsp^ter 
could  be  the  same  Miss  Bompas  whom 
Archie  knew  at  Cambridge. 

But  she  had  not  to  wait  for  Mrs.  John's 
answer  to  have  her  doubt  resolved 


A  DEA.WN  GAME. 


507 


Among  Dick's  dans  was  a  gentleman 
of  oncertain  age,  whom  Mrs,  Tuck  held  in 
high  legaid  as  Sir  Arthnr  Denzil,  a  baronet 
of  one  of  the  oldest  families,  and  of  one  of 
^le  hu^est  properties  in  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland.  80  at  least  had  he  been  intro- 
daoed  to  her  bj  Dick,  whose  authority  for 
credentials  (so  irresistible  to  his  annt)  was 
nothing  less  than  Sir  Arthur's  own  state- 
ments. Whether  Dick  himself  accepted 
them  as  confidently  as  he  had  impajrted 
them  to  his  annt,  is  doubtful.  All  he 
really  knew  about  Sir  Arthur  was,  that  he 
had  met  and  lost  money  to  him  at  two  or 
three  raca-meetingB.  When  Sir  Arthur 
tamed  up  at  Kiugsford  to  dun  him  there- 
for, Dick  dealt  wi^  him  as  young  Honey- 
wood  dealt  with  his  dnn,  little  Flanagan — 
introduced  him   to  his  aunt  as   an  old 

Mrs.  Tack  was  charmed  wi&  Sir  Artjinr. 
Had  she  not  known  him  to  be  a  mau  of 
family  and  property,  she  woold  have  thought 
him  free  and  flippant  to  vulgarity.  As  it 
was,  she  could  not  sufficiently  praise  the 
grace  and  ease  of  hia  manner,  and  the 
generosity  of  his  deep  interest  in  their 


For  the  interest  shown  by  Sir  -Arthnr 
in  their  ecmcems  was  extraordinary. 
Having  heard  casually  that  Mr.  Tuck  had 
made  no  settlement  of  his  affairs,  he  was 
most  ui^nt  upon  that  gentleman  in  season 
and  out  of  season  to  connder  the  uncer- 
tainty of  life  in  general,  and  of  his  own 
life  m  particular.  Mrs.  Tuck  welcomed 
Sir  Arthur's  alliance  as  likely  at  least  to 
persuade  her  husband  to  settle  the  pro- 
mised ten  thousand  pounds  at  once  upon 
IdiL  Mr.  Tuck,  however,  had,  i&  his 
nervous  state,  the  feeling  about  this  ten 
thonsand  pounds  ezprewed  in  the  old 
man's  proverb,  "No  stripping  before  bed- 
time," no  resigning  money  or  power  into 
any  hands  but  those  of  deatL  And  he 
had  also,  of  course,  the  converse  feeling  that, 
if  he  began  to  strip,  it  must  be  bedtime. 
Therefore,  Mrs.  Tack's  ding-dong  dunning 
of  him  at  bed  and  board  for  this  big  sum 
sounded  to  him  like  the  tolling  of  a  passing- 
bell,  and  when  she  was  reinforced  by  Sir 
Arthnr,  who  not  only  ni^ed  him  to  strip, 
but  told  him  with  engaging  frankness  that 
it  was  bedtimej  he  nearly  gave  in  alto- 
gether,' He  was  ^e  a  sick  sheep,  who 
might  hAve  stm^led  on  a  good  deal  lon^ar 
but  fbt'tlie  sight  of  tiie  vultoiee  wheelmg 
abov^  it  in  ever  narrowing  and  lowering 
cttcIeB.  '  In'-a,  word,  it' was  due  to  some 
extent  to  Sir  Arthur's  irenerous  interest  in 


his  afTairs  that  Mr.  Tuck  was  now  really 
OS  ill  as  he  used  to  fancy  himself. 

And  now  it  was  reserved  for  Sir  Arthur 
to  give  him  the  final  blow. 

"Kss  the  old  fellow  another  nephew 
named  Guard  —  Archie  Guard  —  Bra- 
baEonl"  he  asked  Dick,  as  they  were 
knocking  about  the  balls  in  the  billiard- 
room. 

"Another    nephew t      He's    his    only 
nephew." 
"  What  ]    The  heir-presumptive  1 " 
"  Yes." 

"  Phew  I "  whistled  Sir  Arthur,  stopping . 
in  the  very  act  to  make  a  stroke,  and 
straightening  himself  to  look  amazed  at 
Dick. 

"  What  about  him  1 "  asked  Dick,  not 
eagerly  at  all,  but  with  his  usual  Isjiguid 
indifference, 

"  I  knew  bis  father." 
"  Tbat's  bad.  But,  after  all,  yonr  being 
his  friend  could  hardlymake  Mr. Tuck  think 
worse  of  his  worthy  brother-in-law  than  he 
does  already."  Sir  Arthur  scowled,  but  it 
wasn't  his  cue  to  resent  Dick's  jeet-and- 
eamest  sarcasms. 

"  I  don't  know  that^    At  least,  I  think 
I  could  tell  htm  something  that  would   j 
blacken  him  a  shade  or  two  deeper." 

"  If  you  could  tell  him  sometliing  that 
would  blot  his  son  out  once  for  all,  it 
would  be  more  to  the  purpoea" 

"  I  can  do  that,  too.  He's  a  chip  of  the 
old  block,  and  no  mistake." 

Then  Sir  Arthor  became  lost  in  medita- 
tion. Whila  he  chalked  his  cue  mechani-  ■ 
cally,  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  billiard- 
table,  and  his  thoughts  went  wandering  far 
back  to  old  days  and  scenes. 

Aye,  he's  a  chip  of  the  old  block,"  he 
repeated,  rousing  himself,  and  recalling  his 
thoughts  to  the  present. 

Dick,  who  wouldn't  for  the  world  betray 
any  deep  interest,  and  who,  in  truth, 
hu^ly  felt  any,  remained  provokingly 
silent.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that,  as 
own  and  Sir  Arthur's  interests  were 
identical  in  this  matter,  he  need  neither 
buy  valuable  information  from  his 
confederate.  Besides,  Dick,  all  his  life, 
hated  to  raise  his  hand  or  open  his  mouth 
unnecesaarOy.  Therefore,  Sir  Arthor  was 
forced  at  last  ,to  give  his  information 
unsolinted. 

You  know  that  girl  they're  mining  all 

this  bother  about — the  girl  who  tried  to 

drown  herself ) " 

Miss  Bompas  i " 

Yesi     Well,  he's  the  man." 


508      (April  10,  USL] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


"  The  fellowwho  drove  hw  to  in  How 
do  yon  know  I " 

"  Her  mother,  who's  never  sober,  let  it 
out  last  night  in  the  EUerdkle  Arias.  I 
heard  her  mywii.  She  said  his  name  vaa 
Archie  Guard ;  that  fae  was  Squire  TacVs 
nephew  and  heir,  and  that,  therefore,  he 
conld  pay,  and  must  pay,  handsomely  for 
bis  treatment  of  her  daughter." 

This  was  great  news  for  Dick,  impas' 
sively  though  he  received  it.  It  most 
destroy  Guard's  last  chance  at  once  of  Ida 
and  of  The  Keep. 

After  looking  at  it  from  all  points,  he 
said  significantly : 

"  It's  a  bad  hnsioess.  I  only  hope  it 
won't  get  into  tiie  papers,  as  a  scandal  of 
that  kind  would  kill  Mr.  Tuck." 

"  Not  before  he  made  his  will  It 
would  drive  turn  to  make  his  will  at  once — 
ehl" 

"  I  suppose  it  would,  if  anything  woold," 
said  Dick,  with  an  assumption  of  indiffe- 
rence which  didn't  impose  upon  Sir 
Arthur. 

"It's  safe  to  get  into  the  papers  with 
that  old  sponge  dropping  it  about  in  all 
the  pubs  in  the  placa" 

"  Did  she  say  he  had  deserted  the  girl  I " 

"Yes — 'promised  her  marriage,' which 
is  their  way  of  putting  it     He's  lus  father's 

Again  Sir  Arthur  lapsed  into  meditation 
upon  the  past,  from  which  he  roused  himself 
to  ask  Dick  about  Archie's  father.  Dick, 
of  course,  knew  and  cared  nothing  about 
■him,  though  he  wonld  not  be  sorry  to  hear 
of  anything  to  his  disadrantsse.  There- 
fore, he  listened  with  a  growing  interest 
to  all  Sir  Arthur  had  to  tell  bun  to  his 
discredit. 

At  the  close  of  a  long  conversation  upon 
this  subject,  Sir  Arthur  harried  away  on 
argent  business  which  would  probably 
involve  absence  from  Kingsford  for  a 
couple  of  daya  Sdll,  he  found  time,  before 
his  departure,  to  act  upon  Dick's  signifi- 
cant bint  to  communicate  to  the  papers 
the  came  of  Miss  Bompaa's  betrayer. 

For,  next  morning,  Mr.  Tuck  read  this 
paragraph,  beaded,  "As  We  Suspected," 
in  tbe"Byecote  Sights  of  Man,  a  fiery 
Red  print : 

"The  dastardly  betrayer  of  the  wretched 
girl  who  was  saved  from  suicide — hardly 
mercifully  —  by  our  gallant  townsman, 
Police-constable  Skinner,  tarns  oat  to  be, 
as  we  suspected,  one  of  the  Upper  Ten. 
We  must  be  on  our  guard  against  giving 
names,  but  we  may  say  he  is  the  nephew 


and  heir  of  a  squire  and  county  magistrate 
residing  not  a  hundred  mUes  from  Rings- 
ford.  As  this  gentleman  is  in  precarious 
health,  the  probability  is  that  before  very' 
long  his  exemplary  nephew  will  succeed  to 
his  position  in  the  county  and  to  his  seat 
on  the  Bench.  These  he  jrour  governors, 
oh,  Israel !     Is  it  not  monstrous ) " 

Mr.  Tuck  did  not,  of  coarse,  take  ia  the 
"  Ryecote  Rights  of  Man,"  but  a  copy  had 
been  considerately  forwarded  to  him  with 
this  paragraph  marked  appropriately  with 
red  ink.  Its  effect  upon  him  may  be 
imagined.  He  bad  a  nervous  dread  and 
detestation  of  publicity  of  any  kind,  bnt 
publicity  of 'this  kind!  His  isSrmity 
advertised  I  his  speedy  death  discounted  t 
His  will    made   for   htm,  and  made   in 

favour    of    this  —  this The    paper 

dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  lay  back 
in  his  invalid-chair,  white,  speechless,  and 
trembling. 

"  What  is  it  T  what  ia  it,  James  t " 
gasped  Mrs.  Tack,  as  she  hurried,  terrified, 
to  his  side. 

He  oould  only  point  to'  the  paper.  But 
it  was  not  till  she  had  got  him  back  to  bed, 
having  given  him  some  brandy,  and  brought 
him  to  somewhat,  that  she  read  the  para- 
mph.  '  Here  was  an  nnhappy  business  I 
Yet  it  was  one  of  those  troubles  that  are 
sent  plainly  for  our  good.  It  would  dis- 
enchant Ida  of  Archie,  and  drive  Mr.  Tuck 
to  make  his  wilL 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH 
COUNTIES. 
SHBOPSHmE.  PABT  til. 
Leavinq  Bridgenorth  by  the  Shrews- 
bury road,  some  three  miles  along  the  way 
stands  a  retired  village,  whose  name,  Hor- 
ville,  connected  with  Morbridge,  a  little 
farther  on,  reminds  us  that  we  are  passing 
that  piece  of  waste  ground  called  the  Moors, 
in  the  county  of  Salop,  for  which  the  sheriffs 
of  London  and  Middlesex  do  suit  and  ser- 
vice to  this  day  in  Her  Majesty's  Court  of 
Exchequer.  But  even  if  the  sheriffs  had  not 
appeared  to  the  Bummons,  hltle  barm 
would  liave  been  done,  for  the  Cit^  of 
London,  if  it  ever  had  any  valuable  rights 
in  the  county  of  Salop,  has  lon^  since  lost 
them  by  disuse.  The  City  shenfis,  it  may 
be  remarked,  were  not  the  original  pa- 
formers  in  ttus  pantomime.  Tba  lorduiip 
of  the  Moor  once  belonged  to  the  Knights 
Hospitallers  of  Jerusalem,  and  probftbly, 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  City  of  liondon 


CHRONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIES.     [Apru  m,  usi]    809 


when  the  Eogluh  branch  of  the  order  was 
disaolved. 

Alter  paasing  the  Moor  the  road  leada 
to  the  foot  of  a  long  range  of  hilU,  the 
backbono.  of  the  sUre,  and,  like  the  more 
familiar  hills  of  Ghiltent,  once  a  favoorite 
resort  of  outlaws  aud  robbers.  Wenlocb 
Edge  is  a  noted  fe»tiiTe  of  the  South  Shrop- 
shire laodscape,  bat  comes  to  a  sudden  and 
by  Much  W^ilock,  where  a  hollow  way, 
once  the  terror  >£  travellers,  overhnng  as  it 
was  by  thickets  and  haunted  by  robbers, 
leads  the  traveller  towards  Shrewsbury, 
One  of  our  earliest  tourists,  eazlieat,  at 
least,  in  the  way  of  taking  notes  wi^  a 
view  to  publication — Welsh  Gerald,  Arch- 
deacon of  St  David's,  and  a  noted  church- 
man and  litterateur  about  the  court  of 
Henry  Plantagenet — records  a  visit  here  on 
hie  return  trwa  a  tour  in  Wales,  his  oom- 
panioQ  being  no  less  a  person  than  Baldwin, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  "It  was  in 
that  very  year,  a,d.  1188,  whenSaladin, 
Prince  of  the  i^ypti^is  and  Damascenes, 
by  a  signal  victory  got  possession  of  the 
kingdom  of  Jerusalem,"  and  the  archbishop 
aod  his  attendants  had  been  preaohing  the 
etosade  among  the  Welsh  chieftains  and 
their  wild  followers. 

The  road  over  the  Edge  into  Wenlook  is 
described  by  Geraldr  as  Mala  Platea  or  HI 
Street,  bdne  a  hollow  way  bordered  by 
thickets,  and  haunted  by  robbers.  The 
entire  length  of  way  indeed  from  here  to 
"  Molua  Paseus,"  or  Malpas,  in  Cheshire, had 
as  evil  reputation  for  travellers  from  its 
nearness  to  the  Welsh  border;  and  the 
towers  of  Wenlock  were  a  ploasant  sight 
from  the  wooded  gorge  to  tiiose  who  fared 
southwards,  announcing  that  the  worst 
dangers  of  the  road  were  passed.  The 
Priory  of  Wenlock,  the  che^fhl  sound  of 
whose  bells  guided  the  benighted  traveller 
on  his  way,  although  never  a  very  large 
religions  community,  was  yet  of  a  good 
deal  of  importance  and  influence,  and  the 
rains  of  the  conventual  buildings  are  of 
sufSdent  extent  to  give  an  interest  to  the 
history  attached  to  them.  The  Priory  was 
originally  founded  by  a  Mercian  prinoesa, 
one  Milburga,  danghter  of  Meremld,  and 
it  may  be  noted  that  her  sister  Mildred 
also  attained  saintly  rank,  and  many 
ancient  churches  are  undv  their  patron- 
age. A  pleasant  tradition  was  long 
current  in  Corvedale  of  how  Milburga  in 
her  youth  was  beloved  by  a  young  and 
noble  pagan ;  but  Milbui^a  would  not  wed 
with  a  heathen,  and  to  avoid  his  solicita- 
tions retired  with  other  bolv  women  to 


Wenlock,  where  they  built  a  chapel  and 
convent,  over  which  Milburga  was  chosen 
Prioress.  Some  years  after,  Uie  business  of 
the  order  required  her  to  visit  a  sister 
settlement  of  nuns  at  Godstow.  The  way 
was  long  and  dangerons,  and  the  other 
nnna  earnestly  dissuaded  her  from  attempt- 
ing it  But  the  prioress,  confident  in  divine 
assistance,  set  forth  on  her  way,  riding,  it  is 
said,  a  milk-white  mulct  The  nun  followed 
no  doubt  the  old  Boman  road  that  ran 
along  Corvedale,  a  lonely  secluded  valley 
shut  in  between  die  long  escarpment  of 
Wenlock  Edge,  and  the  mystic  heights 
of  the  CleehiUs,  bordered  by  forests  and 
wild  chases.  In  this  lonely  spot  soma 
Saxon  noble  had  cleared  a  stnp  of  plough- 
land;  and  now  it  was  seed-time,  and  ^e 
thane  himself  was  on  the  land  watching 
his  serfs  as  they  scattered  the  seed,  and 
dragged  their  rude  bush-harrows  over  the 
soil.  The  nun's  heart  sank  within  her,  for 
in  the  thane  she  recognised  her  old  lover, 
who  advanced  to  bar  ner  passage.  Ifothing 
to  him  were  the  emblems  of  her  sacred 
calling,  neither  to  him  nor  the  rude 
heathens  who  thronged  about  their  chief 
ready  to  do  his  bidding.  The  woman  he 
loved  was  his  now,  by  right  of  capture ; 
he  would  marry  her  alter  the  manner  of 
his  ancestors,  and  carry  her  off  to  his  hall 
in  the  woods.  The  nun  could  only  appeal 
to  Heaven  for  help,  as  she  parleyed  with 
her  rough  lover.  Let  him  respect  her 
honour  and  her  vows,  and  surely  Heaven 
would  reward  him  with  bountiful  increase 
from  the  seed  he  was  now  sowing. 

She  pointBd  to  the  turroT'd  fiald, 

Iio  I  evDn  as  the  Bpoke 
Prom  the  dry  leed  up  BpranE  green  blade 

Aod  stalk  and  full  ear  broks. 

The  chief  and  his  men  drew  back,  over- 
powered with  awe  at  the  miracle  whii± 
had  been  wrought,  and  the  holy  maid  rode 
on  her  way  unharmed. 

The  reputation  of  Stunt  Milburga  seems 
to  have  spread  even  beyond  the  English 
border,  and  the  Welsh  called  Wenlock 
Llonmeilan,  which  is  their  softened  version 
of  Church  Milbnry.  But  the  sanctity  of  its 
founder  did  not  preserve  Uia  Prioiy  from 
desolation,  no  miracle  intervened  to  save 
the  convent  from  the  fierce  Danes,  and  it 
was  not  till  after  a  century  or  more  of 
abandonment  that  a  new  religious  foun- 
dation was  established  on  the  old  site  by 
Earl  Leofirio  and  his  wife,  Godiva  of 
legendatT  fame.  The  new  foundation  was 
for  secular  canons,  a  favourite  establish- 
ment of  the  Saxons,  who  took  to  seclusion 


510      [April  IS,  138t.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


and  celibw^  rather  unkindly.'  After  the 
Conquest;  these  canons  were  displaced  by 
Roger  of  Montgomery,  the  great  feudal 
lord  of  the  district,  to  make  room  for  a 
new  set  of  monks  from  Clnny. 

An  iaterea  ting  consequence  of  the  founda- 
tion of  the  Priory,  and  the  reputation  of  the 
Cluniac  order,  is  to  be  traced  in  the  adoption 
byFitzalan.Stewardof  Scotland, the  founder 
of  the  Stuart  line,  whose  desoendanta  be- 
came eventnally  kings  of  Scotland  and  Eng- 
land, of  the  Cluniac  rule  in  his  newly-estab- 
lished monastery  at  Paisley  in  Scotland. 
The  Steward  of  Scotland  originally  granted 
to  Wenlock  Priory,  in  consideration  of  ita 
services  to  Paisley,  certain  rights  and  dnes 
in  Renfrewshire ;  but  these  the  monks  ex- 
changed for  the  lordship  of  Menwode,  or 
Manhood,  in  Sussex,  and  the  district  com- 
prised the  three-cornered  peninsula,  with 
its  one  point  at  Selsea  Bill  and  the  other  at 
Hayling  Island,  which  remained  attached 
to  Wenlock  Priory  till  the  Reformation. 
Wenlock  also  had  a  dependent  Priory,  or 
cell,  at  St.  Helens,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
and  as  one  of  the  chief  of  the  tlurty 
religions  honses  of  the  order,  seems  to  have 
spread  its  influence  far  and  near. 

Prom  Wenlock  it  would  be  a  pleasant 
pilgrimage  to  follow  the  little  river  Corva 
from  its  source  down  secluded  Corvedale, 
in  the  footsteps  of  St  Mtlburga.  The  dale 
is  out  of  the  way  to  anywhere,  with  no 
great  mansions  or  populous  settlements 
within  its  limits,  bnt  with  fine  old  churches, 
testifying  to  the  ancient  prosperity  of  the 
valley,  and  here  and  there  stand  thte 
mounds  of  ancient  castles,  and  rings  and 
entrenchments  that  were  there  before  the 
castles ;  a  strange  wild  background  are  the 
great,  bareClee  Hills,  which  excite  curiosity, 
mixed  with  a  certain  amount  of  repug- 
nanca  They  seem  to  belong  to  an  older 
world  than  ours,  a  world  ^oae  records 
and  chronicles  are  lost.  Had  people  ever 
reached  the  summit  of  the  Glee  Hills,  and 
what  did  they  see  there  t  Strange  weird 
creatures  flitting  about,  flying  lizards  and 
saurians — relics ofaprimseval world)  There 
is  a  feeling,  too,  that  great  events  must 
have' happened  here,  things  strange  and 
terrible,  in  the  dim  ages  past  And  yet 
tradition  has  preserved  no  traces  of  such 
things,  as  far  as  we  can  learn,  nothing 
but  the  footsteps  of  Sb  Milburga,  or  the 
hoof-marks  of  her  snow-white  mule. 

About  these  Clee  Hills  was  a  royal  forest 
once,  where  we  find  the  king's  foresters 
levying  "Doverelt,"  as  they  wdl  it,  on  the 

tenants,  little  Uiinking  how  this  was  the 


Welsh  Dovraet^  or  lodging-money,  that 
the  laws  of  Howel  the  Qood  allot  to  the 
prince  on  his  journey.  And  half-way 
through  our  dale  lies  Castle  Holgate,  that 
cartiea  the  mind  to  the  pleasant  Korman 
coast  where  the  Sienr  of  Holgate  looked 
down  from  his  house  on  the  cliflfs  upon  the 
wide  plain  of  Dives,  where  William  the 
Conqueror  mustered  his  invading  army. 
For  the  Sienr  of  Holgate  was  a  great  man 
under  his  chief,  Roger  of  Montgomery,  and 
built  a  castle  here  to  dominate  Corvedale ; 
and  so  the  village,  which  before  then  was 
called  Stanton,  from  old  Roman  walls  stand- 
ing there  no  doubt,  took  the  name  of  ite  lord. 
The  Mauduite  h^  the  barony  after  that, 
but  sold  it  to  Richard  Plantagenet,  '*  Ring 
of  Almagne,"  and  he  assigned  the  castle  to 
the  Knights  Templars,  and  then,  in  some 
way,  it  got  into  the  hands  of  the  Howards, 
who,  perhaps,  hold  it  stilL 

Aiid  then,  right  over  the  hills  and  far 
away,  on  the  other  side  of  Tittentone 
Clee,  lies  Cleobury  Mortimer,  once  the 
chief  seat  of  the  powerful  historic  family 
of  Mortimers,  a  proud  race,  owing  some  <u 
their  qualities,  perhara,  good  ana  bad,  to 
their  descent  nrom  Llewellyn  the  Great 
Through  these  Mortimers,  our  line  of  kings 
mar  claim  to  represent  the  ancient  princes 
of  Wales ;  a  claim  indeed  asaodated  with 
the  awkward  incident  of  R(^r,  the  para- 
mour of  the  She-wolf  of  France,  hanged  at 
Tyburn. 

But  few  people  come  through  Corvedale 
now,  for  the  railway  carries  them  on  the 
other  side  of  Wenlock  Edge  to  a  sort  of 
spider's-web  of  junctions  at  Craven  Arms, 
called  after  a  noted  coaching  and  hunting 
inn  of  ancient  -ftme.  The  most  charm- 
ing railway  journey  in  England  is  said  to 
be  that  between  Shrewsbury  and  Craven 
Arms,  and  thence  to  Lndlow,  with  every 
variety  on  the  way  of  wood,  and  hill,  and 
river  scenery. 

Half-way  between  Shrewsbury  and 
Ludlow  lies  Church  Stretton,  in  a  romantie 
wooded  gorge,  with  the  wild  Long  Mynd 
risingbehind  it,  in  steep,  precipitous  heights, 
about  which  gather  sudden  tempests  and 
storms,  with  fogs  and  Bnow-wreathsthathave 
been  fatal  to  many  wayfarers. 

Over  beyond  the  Mynd,  in  the  very 
lap  of  the  Welsh  hills,  lies  Clan,  a  secluded 
little  borough,  that  must  be  interesting  to 
any  student  of  municipal  institutions,  with 
its  constitution  of  a  bailiff  and  thirty  bn^ 
gesses.  Here  are  old  customs,  Welsh 
and  English,  strangely  mixed  up  and  in- 
termingted.     Old   endowments,    too,    are 


MMckoni.] 


CHRONICLES  OP  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa     [Apru  w.  lesii    511 


here,  and  a  hoapital,  rich  &nd  dignified  in 
its  qatunt  Jacobean  qaadrangle. 

Following  th«  pleasant  river  Teme  for  a 
vhOe,  we  come  to  the  cheerfnl  village  of 
Bromfietd  with  its  quaint  old  chorch,  close 
by  which  are  some  remains  of  a  small 
Priory  pleasantly  placed  in  the  fork  of  the 
river  jiut  above  the  jnnctiou  of  the  Oney. 
The  place  ia  thus  described  by  Leland  : 
"  The  honse  stood  betwixt  Oney  and  Temde, 
Temde  mnneth  nearest  to  the  honse  itaeli 
It  standeth  on  the  left  ripe  of  it.  Oney 
mnneth  by  the  bank  side  of  the  orchard, 
by  the  honse  touching  it  with  his  right 
npe,  and  a  libtle  beneath  the  house  is  the 
confluence  of  Oney  and  Temde."  Alto- 
gether a  warm,  snnny  corner,  with  its 
orchard  eloping  to  the  river,  and  good 
fishing  from  the  bank,  a  place  that  would 
reconcile  anybody  to  a  religions  life. 

And  here  again  we  may  notice  the 
strange  names  of  the  rivers  hereabouts, 
names  that  we  cannot  safely  attribute 
either  to  Welsh  or  Saxoa  Temde  indeed 
may  pass  for  Celtic,  having  the  same  root 
as  Thame  or  Thames ;  but  who  can  make 
anything  of  Oney^  And  Corve  is  another 
puzzle,  while  the  Rea,  that  joins  the 
Severn  lower  down,  is  strangely  unfamiliar. 
Bea  and  Severn  indeed  remind  us  of  Bhine 
and  Seine,  and  we  have  already  allnd&i  to 
Maas  and  Mensa 

"The  scene  changes,  presenting  Lndlow 
town,  and  the  President's  Castle ;  then 
come  in  country  dancers,  eta"  Snch 
|je  the  atage  directions  in  Milton's 
Masque  of  Comns.  And  no  scene 
is  more  full  of  interest,  romance,  and  sen- 
timent than  the  first  view  of  Lndlow  town 
and  towers  from  an  adjoining  height  The 
pleasant  scenery  of  South  Shropshire  here 
concentrates  in  a  grand  sweep  of  billy 
country,  the  hills  assuming  the  dignity  of 
monntaina,  without  their  bareness,  bat 
fertile  to  the  top,  marked  out  with  hedge- 
rows and  copses.  Among  these  hilla,  above 
the  quick  and  jubilant  river,  rises  a  fine 
detached  bluff,  and  from  its  precipitous 
brow  the  massive  towers  of  the  castle  show 
their  hoary  tints  E^ainst  the  green 
mountain  side,  while  from  the  lower  part 
of  the  slope,  the  church,  with  its  noble 
tower  and  fur  proportions,  seems  to  rise  in 
triumph  against  its  ruined  and  dismantled 
rival.  Between  the  two  cluster  the  roofs 
of  the  pleasant  town,  and  verdant  meadows 
encompass  the  whole,  where  fat  Hereforda 
graze  in  the  sunshine  among  the  subtle 
scent  of  spring  flowers  ana  new-mown 
hay. 


Lndlow  has  not  outlived  its  history 
nor  outgrown  it  Time  has  passed  by  it 
gently,  and  in  its  varied  life,  that  b^ns 
one  hardly  knows  where  in  fabuJoua 
antiqnity,  it  has  known  no  great  catas- 
trophe to  destroy  the  outward  evidences  of 
its  civic  life ;  nor  has  it  even  much  ont- 
grown  or  much  shrunk  from  its  ancient 
umits.  Old  Ludlow  was  known  ere  the 
Saxons  came  into  the  land  as  Dinan,  a 
name  which  conveys  a  sense  of  the  fort  on 
the  hill  and  ^e  river  fiowing  below ;  just 
as  other  Webb  in  their  new  home  in 
Brittany  called  their  little  rook  fortress  on 
the  Ranee  by  the  same  name.  And  this 
original  Welsh  name  is  still  preserved  in 
the  local  name  of  Denham,  an  Anglicised 
form.  Even  in  those  remote  days  the  place 
is  supposed  to  have  been  famous  for  its 
manufacture  of  woollen  cloth,  and,  when  iha 
fort  on  the  bill  was  abandoned  by  the 
Welsh  prince  who  maintained  it,  it  is 
likely  enongb  that  the  cloth-weavers  still 
remained.  Anyhow,  it  is  pretty  evident 
that  the  town  retained  its  industry  under 
the  Saxon  kings  when  there  were  coinera 
at  work  at  a  local  mint,  and  when  people 
made  enough  money  to  enable  them  to 
travel  &r  upon  holy  pilgrimage. 

But  from  this  period  the  town  no  longer 
took  its  name  from  the  dismantled  fort, 
but  from  the  Hloew,  or  Low,  the  mound 
which  rose  over  agunat  the  castle  hill,  and 
which,  nnder  the  Saxons,  became  the  meet- 
ing-place of  the  folkmote.  At  these 
meetings,  which  were  attended  by  all  the 
freemen  of  the  district,  armed  with  sword 
and  spear,  with  their  targets  of.  rough 
bull's  hide  slung  round  their  necks,  all  the 
businesa  of  the  district  was  transacted. 
When  a  man  inherited  or  acquired  land, 
he  appeared  at  the  folkmote  on  the  proper 
law  day,  and  openly  maintained  his  right. 
If  there  were  any  gainsayer,  the  rival 
claims  were  discussed  and  decided,  and 
the  court  was  ready  to  carry  out  its  judg- 
ment with  sword  apd  spear. 

It  is.  curious  to  find  that  long  after 
these  folkmotes  bad  lost  their  original 
power,  when  lawyers  and  acribea  had  par- 
celled out  the  land  into  parchment-heM 
divisions,  the  old  fame  of  the  Low,  or 
Mount  of  Lude,  still  was  remembered.  A 
church  had  been  built  upon  the  site,  and 
in  digging  away  the  old  tnmulus,  the 
workers  came  npon  traces  of  interments, 
which  were  probably  pre-historio,  but 
which  the  ehurcb-bnilders  declared  to  be 
the  relics  of  three  Irish  saints,  who  had  been 
martyredbythobeathenintheseparts.  And 


512      |AprUie,18H.1 


ALL  THE  TEAB  ItOT7IID. 


so  the  bones  «f  these  perhaps  skvage  chiefs 
vere  placed  in  richly  carved  shrines,  and 
people  fonnd  great  efficacy  in  the  ielic& 
Bat  anyhow,  after  the  mound  had  been 
levelled,  and  the  church  hnilt  npon  its  site, 
a  aort  of  virtue  attached  to  the  place,  and 
we  read  of  Love  days,  when  meetines  were 
held  in  the  church  itself,  when  people  met 
and  arranged  for  the  transfer  of  their  lands 
or  holdings  without  the  intervention  of 
lawyers,  and  this  lasted  to  the  end  of  the 
thirteenth  century. 

Thus,  as  far  as  Low  is  concerned,  the 
etymology  of  Ludlow  is  pretty  clear,  hut 
in  the  Lude  there  is  a  difficulty.  Probably 
the  word  is  neither  Saxon  nor  Celtic,  but 
like  some  foesU  bone  discovered  in  the 
drift,  reveals  the  existence  of  other  races 
of  beings,  of  whose  existenoe  this  is  the  only 
record. 

Among  other  Saxon  institutions  at  old 
Ludlow,  we  find  a  certain  guild  of  pilgrims, 
established  to  afford  mntnal  assistance  in 
such  pious  enterprises,  and  that  the  pilgrims 
of  Ludlow  had  made  themselves  known  in 
the  world,  we  may  infer  from  an  account 
of  two  palmers  of  Ludlow  in  the  story  of 
Edward  the  Gonfessor'B  rinr. 

It  was  at  the  solemn  dedicatioo  of  the 
new  Abbey  on  Thomey  I^and,  afterwards 
to  be  known  as  Westminster,  that,  at 
the  concludon  of  the  ceremony,  when  the 
pomp  and  splendour  of  the  scene  had 
faded  away,  a  poor  unknown  wanderer 
accosted  the  king,  and  with  gentle  boldness 
demanded  alma  in  the  name  of  St.  John 
the  beloved.  The  king  had  no  money  on 
his  person,  and  his  almoner  was  not  within 
call,  and  so  he  slipped  &om  his  finger  a 
valuable  ring,  and  naoded  it  to  the  mendi- 
cant, who  straightway  departed.  Some 
short  time  after  this  two  EogUah  palmers, 
returning  from  the  Holy  Sepulcnre, wandered 
lost  and  benighted  in  the  Syrian  desert. 
Suddenly  an  old  man,  benign  and  venerable, 
appeared  before  the  pilgrims,  and  led  them 
to  a  duster  of  habitations,  where  they 
were  hospitably  entertained  for  the  night. 
In  the  morning  thai  ^de  was  again  at 
hand  to  set  them  on  their  way.  At  the 
moment  of  parting  the  old  man's  figure 
became  suddenly  radiant,  as  he  addressed 
the  palmers,  and  entrusted  them  with  a 
sacred  mission.  They  were  to  seek  out  King 
Edward  and  dehver  to  him  a  ring,  which 
the  sunt  placed  in  their  hands.  This  ring 
was  to  be  a  token  to  the  king  that  the  limit 
of  hisearthly  pilgrimage  was  at  hand.  Within 
six  months  after  he  received  the  ring  King 
Edward  waa  to  pass  from  this  world  to  join 


the  Bunts  above.  The  palmere,  awestruck 
and  trembling,  proceeded  on  their  way. 
conscious  that  tJiey  had  spoken  with  some 
heavenly  visitant  Their  journey  to  Eng- 
land was  wonderfully  rapid  and  proeperon^ 
and   ere    long  they  reached    tiie    king's 

Eresence^  and  placed  in  hii  hands  the  rins 
e  had  given  to  the  poor  wanderer.  Then  all 
were  convinced  that  it  was  indeed  St  John 
himself  who  had  appeared  both  to  king 
and  palmers,  and  tJie  two  latter  returned 
to  their  homes  at  Ludlow,  to  hear  presently 
how  the  summons  of  the  saint  had  been 
obeyed,  and  the  Confessor  had  departed 
to  the  heavenly  kingdom. 

But  the  palmers  of  Ludlow  could  have 
had  no  notion  how  deeply  the  Confessor's 
death  would  affect  the  destinies  of  their 
native  town.  Soon  after  the  Conquest, 
the  keen  Norman  glance  discovered  the 
strategical  value  of  the  old  Welsh  fort 
above  the  river,  and  presently  a  strong 
castle  rose  npon  the  spot  Bt^er  da 
Mont^mery  was  the  great  man  of  the 
district,  but  it  seems  that  not  he,  but  one 
of  the  De  Lacys  was  the  castle  builder. 
Throngh  Uie  De  Lacys  the  castle  came 
to  the  Mortimers,  and  finally  to  the 
heirs  of  the  Mortimers,  the  celebrated 
House  of  York.  All  this  time  the  borough 
continued  to  exist,  and  the  cloth-making 
went  on  prosperously.  Men  made  fortunes 
in  the  business,  and  bonght  up  the  estates  of 
the  improvident  Norman  families,  and  the 
De  Ludlows,  who  had  been  weavers  in  one 
generation,  betame  great  barons  in  course 
of  tima  In  the  fourteenth  century  Ludlow 
was  taxed  at  a  higher  rate  thanSbrewafoury, 
and  fourfold  higher  than  Bridgenortfa,  but 
at  that  time  its  prosperity  was  evidently 
declining.  The  citiEene  complained  bitterly 
of  the  weight  of  taxation  and  of  the  doings 
of  the  king,  who  had  seised  their  wool  at 
home  and  abroad,  wherever  he  found  it,  to 
pay  for  his  French  wars.  The  town  itself 
had  been  surrounded  by  ramparts  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  and  when  Hie  wars  of  the 
Boses  began  it  became  a  stronghold  of  the 
Yorkists.  Thus  the  town  waa  taken  and 
plundered  by  the  Lancastrians,  the  castle, 
it  would  seem,  still  holding  out;  but  on 
the  triumph  of  King  Edwain  the  Fourth 
the  place  fonnd  a  certain  compensation  in 
the  royal  favour,  and  in  the  castle  the 
young  princes  were  brought  up.  There  is 
still  a  (Camber  in  the  old  ruins  which 
bears  the  name  of  the  Princes'  Chamber. 
Thus,  when  King  Edward  dieil  in  London,' 
there  was,  according  to  Shakespeare,  some- 
thing like  a  race  between    the    queen's 


Cbariea  Mckeni.] 


CHRONICLES  OF  ENGLISH  COUNTIEa     iAprii»,i8M.i    513 


brothers    and    the    f&tefol    Bichard    of 
Gloacaeter  which  ahoold  gain  the  advostagA 
conferrsd  hy  posseosion  af  the  iufant  king 
and  hia  brother. 
"TovsTtU  Ludlow,  then,  fur  we'll  not  stay  behind," 

criee  Glonceeter  to  his  then  faithfiil 
BnckiDgham.  The  journey  ended  fatally 
tor  tbeSivera  faction — for  KtverB,Gtey,  and 
Vanghan — who  were  seized  on  the  way, 
and  hturied  off  to  execution  at  Pontef  ract 
It  most  hare  been  a  aad  jonmey  for  the 
young  princea  with  their  stem  uncle — the 
ahadow  of  tits  dark  Tower  brooding  over 
them — from  LUdlow,  with  aa  little  pomp 
and  retinae  as  might  be. 

When  Henry  the  Seventh,  Btrong  in 
Welsh  attachment,  was  lecnrely  seated  on 
the  throne,  he  resolyed  to  put  the  govern- 
ment of  Wales  and  its  borders  on  a  new 
footing  Hitherto  the  country  had  been 
held  raUier  than  Kovemed  by  the  English, 
the  garrisons  of  ti^e  strong  caatlea  exerting 
a  lawless  tyranny  over  their  immediate 
neighbours,  while  in  every  fertile  valley, 
where  the  maUed  horsemon  of  Uie 
Englidi  barons  coold  ride,  castles  of  stone 
had  been  erected,  and  the  English  manorial 
system  had  been  introdnced.  But  among 
the  hills  the  Welsh  tribesmen  still  held 
their  lands  by  the  innate  right  of  freemen, 
^though  their  hereditary  chiefs  were  doing 
their  best  to  convert  their  tribal  snperiority 
into  the  hard  cash  of  annual  rent?.  With 
all  this,  life  was  insecnre,  and  the  laws 
practically  le^  to  administer  themselves. 
The  local  judges  were  often  threatened  by 
the  relatives  of  those  they  condemned,  and 
sometimes  fell  victims  to  their  wild  ven- 
geance, and  feuds  and  quarrels  between 
village  and  village  were  often  obstinate 
and  cmeL  The  final  resort  was  to  the 
courts  of  the  Lords  Marchers,  whose  rude 
and  partial  judgments  recalled  to  the 
Welsh  bitter  memories  of  conquest  and 
subjection. 

To  flatter  the  national  pride  Henry 
established  at  Ludlow  a  kind  of  viceregid 
court,  which  was  intended  to  manage  the 
afliJairs  of  Wales  itself  and  the  foor  border 
counties.  The  king  had  named  his  ddest 
boy  Ariihur,  in  a^nowledgment  of  his 
Welsh  lineage ;  not  that  the  name  is  popular 
among  the  Welsh,  who,  it  is  said,  knew 
nothing  about  Arthur,  and  his  table  round, 
tUl  they  became  acquainted  with  mediteval 
romance  and  tradition  from  the  Continent. 
Owen  would  have  had  a  much  more 
familiar  ring  about  it,  but  then  the  English 
people  might  not  have  relished  a  King 


Owen.  Anyhow,  the  boy-prince  Arthur 
was  sent  to  Ludlow,  and  Arthur's  court 
was  for  a  while  established  among  the  hills. 
And  hither  came  Katharine,  the  Spanish 
princess,  to  be  married  to  young  Arthur. 

After  the  untimely  death  of  Prince 
Arthur,  the  viceregal  coni:t  was  still  kept 
up,  under  the  guardianship  of  Lords 
President ;  and  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the 
Eighth  a  sweeping  change  was  made, 
abolishing  local  jurisdictions  in  Wales,  and 
bringing  the  country  under  the  influence 
of  EagOsh  laws  and  of  judges  appointed 
by  the  king,  Thns  the  post  of  Lord 
President  became  one  of  some  dignity  and 
importance.  Sir  Henfy  Sidney,  the  father 
of  the  more  celebrated  Philip,  wasone  of  the 
most  noted  of  these  preaidente ;  and  when 
he  held  his  mimie  court  at  Lndlow,  bis  son 
went  to  and  fro  between  there  and  Shrews- 
bury grammar-school,  where  he  was  being 
educated. 

Under  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  or,  at  all 
eTents,vat  some  time  in  Elizabeth's  reign, 
the  castle  was  much  altered  and  enlarged 
to  suit  the  requirements  of  domestic  life. 
Windows  were  pierced  in  the  enter  walls, 
and  light  and  warmth  let  into  the  gloomy 
old  feudal  fortress ;  the  hall  of  the  castle 
was  altered  and  enlarged,  and  became  the 
scene  of  pageants  and  festivals,  where  the 
reigning  Lord  President  entertained  the 
ne^bbonring  chiefs  and  men  of  dignity. 

Hither  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the 
-First  came  John  Egerton,  Earl  of  Bridge- 
water, 

A  noble  peer  of  mickle  tnut  and  power, 
who,  leaving  the  then  gay  and  splendid 
court  of  Whitehall,  where  pageants,  music, 
and  masques  were  all  the  rage,  sought  in 
bis  mimic  court  to  introduce  some  of  the 
lively  spirit  of  the  age.  The  Earra'coun- 
cilior  in  this  and  his  master  of  the  revels 
was  Henry  Lawes,  "  one  of  His  Majesty's 
private  Moaiok,"  and  the  iHend  of  young 
John  Milton  : 

Horry,  whoee  tuneful  and  wall-measured  eong 

First  tAn^ht  our  EnglUh  inutdc  how  to  B|hui 

Words  with  jiut  note  nnd  ftocent. 

To  produce  something  new  and  original  at 
the  inauguration  of  his  patron  was  the 
ambition  of  Henry  Lawes,  and  he  applied 
to  Milton  to  write  the  words  of  a  masque, 
which  he,  Lawes,  should  set  to  music 
The  Masque  of  Comus  was  the  result, 
which  with  Miltonic  dignity  recites  its  flrst 
cause  in  the  appointment  of  the  mickle 
peer 

With  tempered  Bwa  to  gi 
Anoldmidbauithtjiit*-—   


1  Bwa  to  gujdi 


514     [Ai*liie,i8B«.] 


ALL  THE  YEAfi  BOUND. 


We  may  irell  believe  that  the  central 
motive  of  the  piece  was  fambhed  hj  an 
actual  incident.  Local  tradition  points  to 
the  neighbooring  forest  as  the  scene,  where 
the  Earl's  two  young  sods  and  theii  fair 
young  sister.  Lady  Aiica  Egerton,  were 
lost  and  benighted  on  their  way 

To  attead  their  father's  itste 
And  BOB'HatruHted  Bceptro.  .  .  . 
And  these  young  people  were  the  first 
performers  of  Comus — Milton's  first  and 
last  essay  to  tune  his  muse  to  coortly 
measures.  From  this  time,  indeed,  Milton 
turned  his  mind  to  the  great  contro- 
versies now  pending,  and  the  Earl  of 
Bridgewater  lired  to  record  his  opinion  of 
tiis  once  conrt  poet — that  he  was  a  pestilent 
fellow,  worthy  of  being  banged  on  tbe 
gallows'- tree. 

fiut  the  original  "  Lady  "  in  Comns,  the 
sweet  Alice  Egertou,  had  more  to  do  with 
Ludlow.  Years  after  the  adrentnie  in  Um 
woods,  and  the  performance  of  the  masque. 
Lady  Alice  manied  an  elderly  peer.  Lord 
Garbery,  and  after  the  Bestoration  he  was 
made  Lord  President,  and  his  wife  came  to 
rote  the  viceregal  court  at  Ludlow  Caatla 
And  here,  under  her  sway,  Samuel  Butler, 
the  author  of  Hudibras,  whose  chambw 
over  a  gateway  is  pointed  out  by  tradition, 
held  some  small  official  post  in  his  patron's 
household.  But  for  long  before  Lady 
Alice's  marriage,  she  had  lived  with  her 
father — and  a  good  deal  at  his  town 
mansion  in  the  Barbican — and  she  must 
have  known  the  "  ingenious  Mr.  Milton  " 
very  well  by  sight,  thougli,  probably,  they 
never  exchanged  a  word  together.  But  no 
doubt  she  bad  Comus  in  dot  library,  the 
original  anonymous  edition,  published  at 
the  sign  of  Uie  Three  Pigeons  in  Paul's 
Churchyard,  which  yon  may  now  hunt  for 
in  the  Maseum  catalogae  from  Milton  to 
Comua,  and  from  Comus  to  Ludlow,  to 
find  it  at  last  reposing  in  the  large  room  as 
a  show  volume,  with  its  title-page,  "  A 
Maske  presented  at  Ludlow  Castle  on 
Michaelmasse  night,  before  the  .  .  .  Lord 
Praesident  of  Wwes."  A  touch  of  Milton's 
tatinity  here.  An  ordinary  man  would 
have  written  "  president." 

Ludlow  and  its  castle  went  on  in  vice- 
regal form,  with  its  provincial  court  and 
provincial  courtiers,  its  hangers-on,  and 
faded  old  pensioners,  the  form  surviving, 
but  the  life  all  gone  out  of  it,  till  the 
beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when 
the  Presidentship  was  abolished.  But  long 
after  there  remained  rags  and  tatters  of  the 
old  state  and  dignity — faded  old  hangings,' 


broken  furniture — and  the  habitable  parte 
of  the  castle  but  slowly  going  to  decay ;  the 
grand  old  keep  of  Norman  build  still  rising 
proudly  above  the  ruins  of  tlimaier  modem 
buildings.  And  thus  there  is  a  continnity 
about  the  life  of  Ludlow  Castle  that  gives  it 
especial  interest,  as  it  seems  to  connect  ui, 
with  but  few  missing  links,  with  the  first 
beginnings  of  our  national  life.  And  with 
this  we  take  our  leave  of  Salop,  and  crooa  the 
border  to  Herefordshire. 


If  I  could  inw  u  swiftly  as  a  thought 
The  leagues  that  lis  between  us  two  lo-night ; 
And  come  beaide  you  in  the  lamp's  clear  ugtit, 

A^  weary  with  the  work  the  hours  have  brought, 

You  restboeide  the  heuth  ;  if  I  could  stand 
And  lean  on  the  broad  elbow  of  your  chair, 
And  pawniy  gagerethruughthe  clustering  hair. 

And  take  into  my  own  the  tired  hand. 

And  whisper  very  uoftly  in  your  ear. 
Some  phrase  to  ub,  and  to  us  only  known  ; 
And  take  my  place  as  if  it  weremy  own 

For  ever— woifld  you  bid  me  welcome,  dear  ! 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 

PART   VIIL 

"  WuAT  I  want  is,  FacU  I "  cried  the 
worthy  and  enlightened  Mr.  Gradgrtad,  in 
Hard  Times. 

I  hope  that  I  can  claim  no  close  resem- 
blance to  that  gentleman  ;  but  I  own  it 
was  a  want  precisely  similar  to  his,  which 
led  me  first  to  start  upon  my  Eastern  tiavela 
I  wished  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  some 
of  the  homes  of  the  poor  workers,  who  an 
living  there  remote  from  the  fine  folk  of 
the  West.  I  wanted  to  inspect  the  actual 
condition  of  these  mnoh-talked-of  abodes, 
and  see  if  they  were  overcrowded,  or 
falling  to  decay ;  and  if  any  of  the  dwellers 
were  naif  stified  or  half  starved.  I  wished 
to  gain  some  knowledge  of  the  ways  and 
means  of  living  of  these  poor  working- 
people;  and  to  hear  from  their  own  lips 
what  complaints  they  had  to  make  about 
their  labour  and  their  life. 

If  the  reader  chance  to  share  my  appetite 
for  facts,  he  may  thoroughly  rely  on  the 
reality  of  those  which  I  have  introduced. 
Devourers  of  light  literature  may  find  diet 
of  thi^  sort  too  substantial  for  their  taste ; 
and  I  have  tried  therefore  to  mix  a  little 
fancy  with  my  facts,  by  way  of  flavouring 
the  dish.  But  my  fancies  have  been  based 
on  solid  fact;  as  a  good  deal  of  light 
cookery  is  founded  upon  fiesh. .  Some  of 
the  facts  I  have  had  to  handle  wen 
unpalatably  dry ;  and  some  not  whoUy 
savoury ;  and  some,  perhaps,  a  trifle  coarse. 


Huilw  McluBi.] 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


[April  19, 1884.1      SI') 


Indeed,  there  ammed  but  little  hope  of 
their  being  at  all  relished,  miless  they 
Goold  be  Berred  vith  just  an  appetising 
sprinkle — I  dare  not  say,  of  Attic  ult,  but 
I  may,  perhaps,  describe  it  aa  some  literary 
sa^ice. 

The  scenes  I  hare  tried  to  picture  have 
beon  really  faithful  drawings,  done  in 
(.on  and  ink,  and  enlai^ed  from  the 
rough  sketches  I  had  pencilled  on  the 
spot  I  have  not  wished  to  paint  things 
blacker  than  they  looked,  nor  have  I 
clapped  on  lots  of  colour  to  heighten  the 
effect 

Bat  the  reader  miut  remember,  white  he 
joins  me  in  my  toavels,  that  the  dwellings 
I  describe  are  not  the  dens  where  thieves 
live,  or  the  haunts  of  wretched  vice. 
Slums  they  may  be,  some  of  them,  and 
fool,  and  ill-bmlt,  and  Ul-cleansed,  and 
crowded  overmueh  for  either  decency  or 
health,  and  going  rapidly  to  ruin  for  mere 
want  of  dne  repair.  Still,  they  are  the 
so-called  decent  dwellings  of  the  bard- 
worked  honest  poor,  who  have  ths'  bap- 
pineas  to  live  in  this  free  and  happy  land. 

A  Boyal  Commbsion  is  now  sittinK  on 
the  subject,  and  collecting  evidence  from 
witnesses,  presumably  most  competent  to 
give  it,  and  to  aid  with  their  experience 
towards  amendment  of  the  evils  which  nn- 
doubtedly  exist  Whether  or  not  these 
Boble  people  may  really  lend  a  helping 
band  in  better  honaisg  of  King  Mob,  ia 
more  than  can  be  prophesied.  Let  ds  hope 
that  they  may  at  any  rate  assist  in  the  not 
distant  dethronement  of  King  Job,  who 
has  far  too  long  reigned  paramount  in 
many  a  vestry  parliament,  and  swayed 
his  balefnl  sceptre  over  many  a  Poor  Law 
Board. 

Having  thus  relieved  my  nuod,  I  may 
proceed  with  a  light  step  upon  my  last 
travels  in  the  East 

The  son  was  brightly  shining  when  I 
met  my  guide  at  noon ;  and  in  the  gardens 
of  the  WestI  left  the  lilacs  laige  in  bud,  and 
the  pear-treea  near  to  bloom.  The  elms 
and  chestnuts  here  and  there  were  actually 
green ;  and  in  their  boughs  the  birds  were 
twittering.  Here  in  the  East,  however, 
such  spring's  delights  as  these  were  not  to 
he  discerned.  Hardly  a  tree  was  visible  ; 
and  scarce  even  a  sparrow,  while  basking 
in  the  Bnnshine,  was  blithe  enough  to  chirp. 
Indeed,  the  sunshine  seemed  to  deepen 
the  sba!dow8  of  the  scenery,  to  search  oat 
tta  defects,  and  to  show  them  up  in 
prominence  with  a  ahamlng,  scorching 
licffat 


The  ways  by  which  we  went  throiv;h  the 
wilds  of  brick  and  mortar  were  similar  to 
those  which  we  had  previously  traversed. 
There  was  little  to  relieve  their  dreary,  dull 
monotony.  All  the  streets  were  straight 
and  nuTow ;  some  indeed  ao  narrow 
that  two  carta  could  hardly  pass.  All 
were  thronged  with  ragged  children, 
making  believe  to  play,  and  having  rarely 
anything  to  play  with,  except  perhaps  a 
sickly  baby,  or  a  broken  hoop.  All  were 
bounded  on  each  side  by  a  dingy,  low- 
roofed  row  of  dirty  yellow  houaea,  with 
not  one  single  inch  of  ornament,  and  con- 
apicnoualy  mean  in  their  cheap  and  ugly 
make.  There  were  few  shops  to  be  seen, 
and  these  made  no-  outward  show;  and 
even  the  small  beer  shops,  which  seemed 
to  be  abundant,  had  few  loungers  at  Uieir 
doors. 

The  children  seemed  to  have  the  streets 
all  to  themselves,  for  scarce  a  man  was  to 
be  met,  and  only  here  and  there  a  woman, 
either  carrying  a  baby,  or  else  hurrying 
along  as  though  hastening  to  her  work. 
Here  and  there  a  cat  was  crouching  in  a 
doorway,  or  creeping  along  furtively  in 
quest  of  some  stray  food.  Now  and  then 
a  cock  gave  a  melancholy  crow,  and  was 
answered  in  the  diatance  by  a  stJU  more 
dismal  rival  The  shrill  wmstle  of  a  rail- 
way reaonnded  now  and  then ;  but  that  ia 
not  the  kind  of  whistle  which  betokens  a 
light  heart 

While  on  our  way  tiirongh  this  sad 
wilderness  we  had  some  chat  with-  one  of 
the  few  mm  whom  we  met  Hewas 
standing  in  his  doorway,  which  his -large 
figure  wellruigh  filled,  and  he  returned 
with  interest  the  greeting  of  my  gnide,  in 
whom  he  seemed  to  recognise  a  friend  in 
case  of  ni^nt  need.  A  group  of  tiny, 
ragged,  dirty  little  children  were  gathered 
near  the  gutter,  and  were  performing  a 
small  war-dance  round  two  babies  who 
seemed  twins,  and  who  were  sitting  bolt 
npright,  and  with  eyea  wide  open,  in  a 
broken-down  perambulator  wherein  they 
were  close  packed.  "  They're  as  numerous 
as  flies,"  the  num  solemnly  remarked  ;  nod 
indeed  the  simile  was  not  an  ill-chosen 
one ;  for  the  cloeter  of  small  creatures 
seemed  perpetually  in  motion,  and  making 
an  incessant  disturbance  for  no  adequate 
result  I  counted  five  -  and  -  twenty  in 
a  space  of  six  yards  square,  and  there 
were  other  groups  and  scattered  units 
in  the  passive,  for  It  was  not  quite  a 
street 

This  man  said  that  he  bad  been  livine 


616      [April  IV,  ISSLl 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


"  there  or  thereaboats  for  nigh  on  thirty 
year,"  and  h«d  rarelf  foond  life  harder 
than  he  was  doing  now.  Yea,  he 
worked  down  at  Uie  docks,  he  did,  and 
he'd  most  tiVyt  had  been  vorkin'  there 
since  he  came  'ome  from  fiurin  parta 
But  three  days  oat  o'  fire  there  weren't 
no  work  as  he  could  get,  and  they  didnt 
seem  to  keer  about  keepia'  their  old  'anda 
neither.  And  fresh  oomert  they  flocked  in' 
so,  why  yoti  was  forced  a'most  to  fight  for 
every  bit  of  a  job  you  got 

As  he  appeared  an  old  inhabitant, 
I  enquired  whether  he  noticed  any  im- 
provement in  the  neighbourhood  in  the 
time  during  which  he  had  been  living 
in  it 

"W^,  yes,'.'  he  answered  navely,  after 
much  inwud  meditation.  "Taint  so  bad 
DOW  aa  it  wera  Leastwayi,  the  outside  of 
it  This  'ere  place  weren't  safe  to  henter 
scarcely ;  leastways,  arter  nightfall,  when 
as  I  fiut  came  to  live  'eie.  An'  nobody 
dustn't  go  much,  not  even  by  daylight, 
mind  yoa,  down  there  by  the  Bbod 
■Olea" 

The  ^ood  Holes  t  A  rare  name  this, 
methonght,  for  a  doath-scene  in  a  melo- 
drama. Aitd  the  de^  voiee  of  the  man 
seemed  to  make  it  aoond  more  murderous. 
Still,  we  paosed  in  safety  through  the 
outlet  from  the  passage  where 


left  him,  and  by  way  of  pleasant 
contrast^  so  &r  at  least  aa  -the  name 
went,  we  soon  entered  a  Place  which  bore 
the  title  of  Victoria,  though  there  was 
little    in  its    aspect    to   denote  a  royal 


There  was  a  big  dustbin  ou  the  right 
hand  of  the  place,  put  by  way  of  tuunl 
ornament  .  to  decorate  the  entrance. 
Although  not  above  half  full  (it  being  early 
in  the  week,  that  fine  Monday  afternoon), 
the  dost-beap  signified  its  presence  quite  as 
plainly  to  the  nose,  aa  by  Uie  eyes  it  was 
perceptible.  That  the  dwellers  in  the 
court  wen  not  very  exact  marksmen  in 
the  shooting  of  their  rubbish,  and  cared 
little  for  its  presence,  was  patent  from 
the  way  in  which  a  peck  or  two  of 
it  lay  scattered  on  the  pavement,  and 
added  to  the  perfume  of  the  ornamental 
reservoir. 

The  ^laoe  contained  ten  houses,  five  on 
ei^er  side,  and  each  of  one  small  storey. 
Every  house  contained  four  rooms,  and 
every  room  was  probably  the  home  of  a 
whole  family.  With  an  average  of  less 
than  four  to  each  abode — or  apartment  if 
yoa  please — the  number  of  dwellers  in  the 


court,  which  waseometwentyyardsinleDgtb, 
would  exceed  one  hundred  and  fifty.  How 
often  the  dust-bin,  that  was  common  to 
them  all,  was  cleaned  ont  in  the  week, 
appeared  a  point  widch  should  be  seen  tc^ 
eapectally  in  summer,  by  the  sanitary 
inspector. 

The  home  which  we  there  entered  wa» 
the  smallest  I  hod  seen,  nod,  except  perhaps 
the  dustman's,  it  was  oertunly  the  dirtiest 
Roughly  guessed,  its  measurement  was 
about  eight  feet  by  six,  and  not  more  than 
seven  in  height,  and  there  was  hardly  a 
clean  squaw  mch  in  either  floor,  or  walls, 
or  ouling.  "Some  walls  won't  take  no 
paint,"  explained  the  mistress  of  the 
mansion,  a  plain,  unwaahed  yonng  woman, 
very  slovenly  in  dnes,  and  wearing  one  aye 
dosed,  deany  not  by  nature.  Tba  walls 
had  once  been  partly  blue,  bat  now  were 
chiefly  black  and  brown  with  the  dirt  that 
had  encrusted  them.  They  were,  how- 
ever,  mnch  concealed  by  a  coUeotion  of 
cheap  printa,  some  coloured  and  some  plain, 
and,  viewed  as  works  of  art,  entirely  with- 
out valne.  In  their  subject,  soma  w«re 
sacred  and  many  more  were  secular,  and 
of  these  latter,  some  were  spwliiig  and 
otitera  sentimental.  I  counted  seventeen 
of  these  exquisite  productions.  "Die  one 
which  occupied  the  place  of  honour  on  the 
walk  displayed  a  rather  long  and  lacka- 
daisical yonng  lady  reclining  on  a  sofa  in 
a  sadly  languid  posture  while  a  bevy 
of  small  persons,  with  their  hur  neatly 
curled,  but  with  rery  scanty  clothing,  were 
floating  in  a  sort  ot  rainbow  oveAead. 
This  delightful  scene  was  Ubeiled  "The 
Believer's  Visum,"  and,  its  gilded  frame 
indnded,  could  hardly  have  been  pnrchaaed 
for  lees  than  eighteenpenc& 

Hie  works  of  art  excepted,  there  was 
little  in  the  room  of  either  ornament  or 
use,  buring  an  old  bedstead  with  a  heap  (^ 
huddled  sacking,  whereon  was  a  lean 
kitten  of  rather  a  sad  look.  She  seemed 
ashamed  of  being  seen  in  a  plaos  of  such 
untidiness,  and  was  pursuing  under  diffi- 
culties the  labour  of  a  wash.  Some  che^ 
and  dirty  crockery  was  scattered  on  a  ahelf, 
and  prominent  on  the  mantdpieee  was  a 
gronp  whose  date  of  birth  it  was  easy  to 
determine  at  a  leash  of  decades  since.  It 
showed  the  Queen  in  a  red  robe,  with  a 
gilt  crown  on  her  head,  and  a  scarlet  pair 
of  cheeks.  She  was  standing  quite  enct, 
between  a  dapper  little  Frenchman  and  a 
lesser  fei-capped  Turk.  Aa  a  sign  of  her 
supremacy,  she  overtopped  her  brave 
alhes  by  more  than  half  a  head  in  otatore. 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  EAST. 


(AprtllB.lSM.)      617 


this  being  in  thsir  laeuuremsnt  aa  mncb 
M  half  aoincL 

"Me  an'  my  'uebin  an'  the  child  the 
three  of  as  we  sleeps  in  this  'ere  little 
room,"  cried  the  jonngwoman  in  a  breath, 
and  then  added  in  another :  "  But  we've  a 
littler  room  be'ind  you  bnow  which  we 
Irea  it  all  hiDclnded  in  the  three-an'-siz  a 
week." 

Proceeding  to  thie  smaller  room,  we 
foand  her  statement  of  its  size  to  be 
literally  true.  It  hardly  could  hare 
measured  more  than  five  feet,  aay,  by  six. 
Two  panes  of  glan  were  broken  in  the 
window,  bat  stul  the  tiny  chamber  had  a 
close  and  stuffy  smelL  A  limp  and  dirty 
pillow,  and  a  little  pSe  of  sacking,  lay 
crammed  into  a  comer;  and,  except  a 
broken  chair,  there  was  no  other  fiimitare 
to  hide  the  filthy  floor. 

"Mother  an'  (he  little  giti  sleeps  here," 
oontinoed  she,  and  introoiiced  us  to  the 
lady,  who  looked  vastly  like  her  danghter, 
in  so  far  aa  both  their  faces  sadly 
needed  soap.  Mother  was  employed  in 
sewing  a  lai^e  sack.  It  messared  five  feet 
long,  and  was  meant  to  hold  foor  boahels, 
BO  the  worker  said.  She  had  to  sew  both 
sides,  and  to  hem  all  roond  the  top.  The 
pay  was  sixpence  for  thirteen  of  them,  and 
she  conld  do  "  two  tnms,"  that  was  twice 
thirteen,  a  day.  Yes,  it  were  stifBsb  work, 
she  owned,  and  it  hurt  yonr  hands  a  bit, 
leastways  till  they  got  'ardened  likst  But 
she  was  glad  enongh  to  get  it,  for  work 
was  preooos  slack. 

Mother  further  stated  that  her  age 
wsB  "  fifty-two,  come  Angnst,"  and  that 
her  daughter,  with  the  closed  eye,  was  the 
only  one  alive  out  of  her  seven  children, 
and  that  the  little  girl  who  slept  with  her 
was  not  one  of  her  family,  nor  in  any  way 
related  to  her.  "Mother  keeps  'er  'cos 
she's  a  Norphun,"  ezpluned  the  daughter 
simply;  as  though, that  were  a  sufficient 
reason  for  the  boosing  of  the  little  stranger, 
who,  she  said,  was  then  at  school 

While  this  dialc^e  proceeded,  another 
dir^-faced  young  woman,  with  her  hair  un- 
kempt and  tangled,  entei«d  the  email  room, 
and  hertongaesoon  began  to  wag  as  r^idly 
as  the  daughter's, who  seldom  lethermother 
have  a  chwce  of  saying  mndi.  The  new 
comer  broaght  a  big  sheet,  which  she  had 
b^un  to  sew.  As  the  work  demanded 
special  attention  to  the  stitches,  no  less 
than  twopence  would  be  earned  when  it 
was  done.  No,  it  wasn't  a  qmck  way 
to  make  a  fortune,  she  confessed ;  hot 
it  was    better   than    makine    hammocks. 


Besides  sewing  fiity  holes,  yon  had  to 
stitch  two  doable  seams ;  and  half-a-score 
of  hammocks  only  brought  yoo  four  and 
threepence,  and  yon  had  to  woi^  hard  to 
do  a  score  a  week.  Still,  this  was  not  so 
bad  as  making  labels  for  the  post-bags ;  for 
yon  got  half-a-crown  a  hundred,  and  it 
took  yon  all  your  time  to  do  a  hundred  in 
a  week.  The  matchbox  trade,  however,  was 
by  general  consent  esteemed  the  worst  of 
ail,  and  my  yonng  friend  Little  Mother  was 
considered  very  lacky  to  get  as  much  aa 
tiireepence  for  filling  fifty  boxes,  that  being 
more  than  doable  the  current  market 
prica 

Close  outside  the  broken  window,  in  a 
desolate  back  yard,  there  stood  a  little 
barefooted  hoj  of  foor  or  five,  wearing,  to 
mark  his  nationality — it  was  St.  Patrick's 
Day — a  green  bow  at  his  breast  He  had 
bine  eyes  and  brown  hair,  a  ragged  pair 
of  trousers,  and  a  pinkish  pidr  of  cheeks. 
Their  roses  had  been  washed,  jost  washed, 
in  a  shower,  or  in  some  soap&nd-water, 
which,  if  leas  poetical,  perhaps  had  cleaned 
them  even  better,  and  made  him  a  marked 
contrast  to  Hho  ladies  of  the  court*  Aa  a 
reason  for  his  standing  there,  they  ex- 
plained that  he  was  "playing,"  though 
oertainly  the  fact  was  not  apparent  from 
his  attitude,  and  he  had  nodiing  to  play 
with,  and  nobody  to  play  with  him. 

Beckoned  to  approach,  he  entered  very 
promptly,  with  a  smile  on  bis  clean  face, 
and  being  presented  with  a  penny,  and 
astced  whZt  be  would  do  with  it,  he  replied 
very  promptly,  "  Give  it  to  mother,"  and 
departed  so  to  do. 

Mother  appeari^  shortly  after,  I  en- 
quired if  Master  ^mothy  had  performed 
bis  promise,  and  she  replied, "  Yes,  shore, " 
and  said  be  was  a  good  boy,  and  never 
broke  his  word.  She  was  cleanly  in  her 
dress,  and  grave  in  her  demeanour;  and 
indeed  her  gravity  was  not  without  good 
cause.  Her  husband  had  died  suddenly 
when  Tim  was  a  year  old,  and  she  was  left 
with  seven  children  to  bring  up.  "  Shure, 
they're  mostly  livin'  out  now,  and  a  doin' 
for  theirselves,  they  are ;  and  beside  me- 
self  and  Tim  here,  there's  but  three  of 
'em  to  ^pe  npon  the  flare  wid  as  upstairs 
now." 

"  Do  yon  ever  see  a  clergyman,  or  a 
district  visitor  1 "  I  enquired  of  the  four 
women,  who  now  were  gathered  round  me, 
and  who,  though  living  in  one  boose,  were 


JIS      [April  1^  UM.] 


ALL  THE  TEAR  ROUND. 


inhabiUnts,  in  fact,  of  thr«e  diBtinct  abodes. 
I  had  more  than  once  pat  the  qaestion  in 
my  travels,  and  had  been  invariably 
answered  in  the  n^ative ;  whereat  I  had 
not  greatly  wondered,  being  mindful  of  the 
miles  and  miles  of  misery  around  me, 
and  the  amazing  multitude  of  dwellings 
to  be  visited,  and  the  ntter  incapacity  of 
the  Church  as  now  existent  to  oope  with 
such  yast  work.  However,  here  at  last 
the  qnery  elidted  awent — at  leaat  from 
two  of  the  quartette. 

"  My  der^jmiaa  oomea  to  visit  me,"  said 
the  wife  with  the  closed  eye ;  and  she 
spoke  a  little  proudly,  and  emphasised  the 
pronoun  aa  though  she  kept  a  special 
parson  solely  for  her  private  use.  "  And 
he's  a  priest,"  she  added  smartly,  as  if  to 
heighten  her  importance  in  having  the 
exdiistve  advantage  of  his  visits.  Bat  her 
mother,  with  a  pinch  of  snofT,  appeared  to 
sniff  at  such  presumption,  and  cried : ' '  Sure, 
he'Ucometoanyouaofns  J  butwhyshoold 
we  be  troublin'  him,  exoeptin'  when  we're 
dead  t "  Whereto  the  sheetmaker,  by  a 
nod,  appeared  to  signify  assent,  and  the 
grave  widow  said,  "That's  true  enough," 
and  seemed  to  look  more  grave. 

At  the  close  of  this  conversation  we  left 
these  poor  women  with  a  mormor  of 
apology  for  taking  up  their  time,  which, 
however,  they  protested  we  had  not  done 
in  the  least  The  street  through  which  we 
went,  on  onr  departure  from  the  court, 
looked  sadly  fool  by  sunlight,  though  my 
guide  said  that  at  night  it  was  real^  like 
a  fair.  There  were  still  a  few  signs  visible 
of  its  nocturnal  aspect  Locomotive  shops 
were  ranged  along  the  pavement,  and  the 
hoarse  cnes  of  their  keepers  to  attract  a 
passing  customer  resounded  in  the  air. 
Many  houses  in  the  neighbourhood  hod 
lately  been  pulled  down  as  being  too  bad 
to  be  lived  in,  and  there  were  many  others 
which  might  fitly  share  their  fate. 

Five  minutes  of  fast  walking — as  fast,  at 
least,  as  we  could  go  without  trampling  on 
the  children,  whoanywhero  and  everywhere 
sat,  or  sprawled,  or  scrambled,  or  scampered 
in  our  way — another  couple  of  furlongs, 
say,  brought  oa  well  within  sight  of  some 
shipping,  and  we  soon  found  ourselves  at 
the  end'  of  a  canaL  As  I  was  travelliDg 
in  the  East,  I  might  have  mistaken  it  for 
the  Canal  of  Suez,  let  UB  say,  had  not  my 
guide  informed  me  it  w^is  named  after  the 
Begent  of  imperishable  fame,  ^ear  to 
this,  and  near  the  river,  which  lay  hidden 
from  our  view  by  some  acres  of  tall  brick- 
work and  some  loreeta  of  tall  masts  (bricki 


and  masts  both  helping  to  make  up  what 
so  often  in  my  travels  had  been  mentioned 
as  the  Docks),  here  suddenly  I  found  myself 
in  a  somewhat  famous  thoroughfare,  which 
by  dwellers  in  the  East  is  known  simply  aa 
"  The  'Ighway,"  but  to  which  ika  name  of 
KatclifT  is  added  as  a  prefix  by  strangers 
in  the  West 

Sailors  abounded  here :  some  yellow- 
faoed,  Bome  black,  and  many  brown  and 
snnbumt  Of  coarse,  where  Jack  Tars 
do  abonnd,  their  Jills  are  sore  to  con- 
gr^ate,  and  so  the  crowded  pavementa 
were  full  of  fair  pedestriana,  having 
nothing  on  their  heads,  and  doahtleaa 
not  much  in  them,  except  vanity  or 
vioioosneas.  Seen  by  daylight  these  fair 
sirens  appeared  gifted  with  few  charms 
that  could  render  them  alluring.  Nor 
seemed  there  much  attraction  in  the  cavea 
to  which  at  night&U  they  commonly  resort 
These  were  shabby-lookuig  haunts,  though 
bearing  signs  of  festive  ia^)ort,  such  as 
The  JoUy  Tar,  or  The  Jovial  Sea 
Captain.  Jack's  alive  till  midnight  in 
^ese  vicious  dnnk-and-dancing  shops,  and 
if  he  filled  his  pockets  ere  he  started  on 
the  spree,  he  will  empty  them  long  ere 
l^e  cruise  ashore  is  ended. 

Not  far  from  the  Highway,  and  too  close 
to  escape  from  its  contaminating  influence, 
we  discovered  a  small  court,  which,  by 
way  of  dismal  augury,  bore  the  dreary 
name  of  Chancery.  We  further  were  in- 
formed that  it  lay  near  to  Angel  Gardena, 
a  name  which  totj  likely  hadl>een  dkoaeu 
for  a  oontrast  Here  in  a  low  room  of  lees 
than  twelve  feet  square,  whereof  the  stair- 
case formed  apart,  we  found  three  women, 
a  red  baby,  and  a  little  sleeping  girl  Hie 
floor  was  bare  and  dirty,  and  the  ceUing 
nearly  black.  Both  sadly  needed  mending, 
as  did  likewise  the  window  and  the  walls. 
The  eldest  woman  said  the  weekly  rent 
waa  now  four  shillings  for  the  house,  which 
only  held  two  rooms,' and  looked  scarce 
strongly  built  enough  to  hold  bo  mnch  as 
that 

She  was  a  widow  with  eight  children, 
of  whom  the  sleeping  girl  was  on&  The 
younger  moUier  with  the  baby,  who  wu 
just  a  fortnight  old,  had  given  birth  to 
three,  and  the  still  younger  woman,  who 
was  stitching  at  a  sack,  looked  likely 
before  long  to  increase  the  yearly  rising 
population  of  the  court 

Near  this  diity  Court  of  Chancery,  I 
made  my  first  appearance  in  a  common 
lodging-house.  Really,  by  comparison,  it 
looked  qaite  a  cleanly,  oomfortable  plaice. 


aurlM  nckena.] 


TRAVELS  m  THE  EAST. 


(ApcU  le,  usi-1    619 


"  ErerythiDg  aa  heart  could  wish  for  u 
r^uds  cteaDlineBS,  it  ia  here,"  exclaimed, 
with  a  proad  emphasis,  the  grey-beaided 
old  guaniian,  who  smacked  somewhat  of 
the  sea,  and  the  strict  discipline  of  ships. 
He  informed  Os  that  permission  to  slumber 
in  his  paradise  was  granted  apoD  payment 
of  &arpeace  for  a  night.  There  were 
about  fiit;  beds  within  liis  care ;  not  very 
long  nor  large  they  were,  but  "quite  as 
big  as  you  could  hope  to  get  for  fourpence," 
he  remarked.  Each  had  a  brown  coverlet, 
and  looked  neat  and  tidy,  and  clearly  the 
bare  floor  bad  been  most  scmpoloualy 
scrubbed.  "  Yon  see,  it's  a  compulsory 
ftffair,"  he  observed  with  a  smile,  and  a 
sharp  staccato  nod,  which  was  as  expres- 
aire  aa  a  wink.  "  Police  inspectnsei  as, 
you  know.  Drops  in  of  a  sudden,  andare 
down  on  ns  like  a  shot      So  if  we're  a 


He  smilea  rather  grimly  as  he  makes  his 
little  joke,  and  smiles  with  still  more 
grimness  when  I  qaeati<Hi  him  concerning 
the  habits  of  the  gentlemen  who  come  to 
his  hotel  "Ah,  they're  a queeriali  sort o' 
costomers.  Qaeer  characters  they  are,  some 
of  them.  Leastways,  them  as  drop  in 
casual  like.  'Cause  we've  a  many  aa  come 
reg'lor,  an'  keep  to  their  own  beds.  No, 
they  don't  bring  not  much  loggaga  They've 
just  got  the  clothes  they're  wearing,  and  if 
Uiey've  extry  in  a  handle,  they  pops  'em 
down  hunder  the  bolster.  Nor  they  don't 
hand  me  over  many  wal&bles  to  keep  for 
'em.  If  BO  ha  they've  got  a  gold  watch, 
or  a  set  o'  di'mond  studs,  as  they're  per- 
.  tickler  prond  o'  wearing,  perhaps  afore  they 
come  they  asks  their  Honcle  to  take  keer 
of  'em." 

Briefly,  with  few  details,  I  moat  sum- 
marise my  final  six  hours'  journey  in  the 
East.  I  saw  a  score  of  families  in  this 
short  space  of  time,  and  heard  everywhere 
the  same  complaining :  of  high  rent  for 
wretched  house-room,  and  of  low  wages 
for  hard  work.  Here  I  found  a  widow, 
who  contrived  with  an  old  mangle  to  earn 
a  scanty  living  for  herself  and  her  two 
children ;  one,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  having 
been  bom  blmd.  'There  Icame  across  a 
labourer  who  had  spent  a  fruitless  morning 
in  waiting  at  the  docks.  "  I  was  there  at 
balf-past  fire,"  he  said,  "  but  there  was  no 
job  to  be  had.  I  hadn't  nought  for  break- 
fast but  just  a  little  bite  o'  bread ;  an'  if  it 
warn't  for  a  bit  o'  baccy  aa  I  got  from  an 
old  friend,  I  should  ha'  fell  down  in  a 
faint"     His  face  was  oalo.  but  cleanlv 


shaved ;  and  his  boots  were  nicely  blacked. 
His  wife,  too,  was  as  neat  as  her  poor 
means  would  suffer.  They  had  four  boys 
to  clothe,  and  two  of  them  to  feed,  and  all 
four   slept  with   them  in   one  tiny  little 

Near  them  we  found  a  costennoneer, 
who,  unlike  most  of  his  trade,  had  a 
clean,  rosy  pair  of  cheeks.  He  had  been 
selling  mackerel  since  daylight,  so  he  said, 
and  had  been  doing  "pretty  middling,"  he 
candidly  confessed.  He  was  sitting  at  his 
tea,  having  a  score  bUII  to  be  sold  ere  he 
ended  hia  day's  work.  His  wife  had  blessed 
him  with  ten  children,  of  whom  the  first 
bom  was  a  soldier,  on  service  now  in 
India,  and  the  last  bom  was  a  baby,  who 
was  taking  some  refreshment  from  the 
maternal  breast.  Seven  of  them  slept, 
together  with  their  parents,  in  a  couple  of 
small  rooms,  one  hudly  seven  feet  square. 
The  sleepers  in  the  back  room  had  their 
beds,  that  is,  their  old  sacks,  laid  upon 
empty  fish-boces,  as  the  ground  was  rather 

Then  we  visited  a  widow,  neat  and 
cleanly  like  her  child,  who  "  never  saw  his 
father,"  she  pityingly  remarked.  Her  four 
children  all  slept  with  her  in  one  little  bed, 
which  was  as  tidy  aa  the  room  which  made 
their  little  home,  and  measured  barely  nine 
feet  long  by  not  quite  seven  in  breadth. 
"  I  haven't  had  a  bit  of  dinner,  nor  tea 
neither,  these  two  days,"  she  replied  to  a 
question;  uid  added  simply,  "It  feels 
grievous  to  have  the  children,  and  not 
know  how  to  feed  them ; "  this  being  said, 
not  in  a  begging  way,  but  as  stating  a  sad 
fact 

We  likewise  spent  tea  minutes  with  the 
wife  of  a  dock  labourer,  who  "  drank  dread- 
ful "  once,  and  then  was  "  all'ys  rowing  " 
her ;  but  who,  thanks  to  my  guide's  good 
mission-work,  had  happily  reformed.  She 
had  had  ten  children,  whereof  the  first 
had  died  of  "  cholery,"  and  only  four  were 
now  alive.  The  two  big  lads  slept  in 
the  small  bed,  "  and  the  little  'uns  in 
t'other  'un  with  me  and  my  good  man." 
He  had  hardly  had  a  full  day's  work  for 
the  last  fortnight.  SomeUmea  he'd  get  a 
job  "as  would  last  him  night  and  day," 
and  then  he  would  perforce  "  go  two  days 
idle,  and  p'r^s  more.  And  that  takes 
the  beauty  off  of  it,"  she  figuratively 
remarked. 

Also  we  went  into  a  cellar,  which,  some 
while  since,  was  famous ;  a  poor  woman 
who  had  lived  there,  having  died  of  sheer 
starvation,    after    brinsinK    into    life    a 


530      (April  IS,  1384.) 


AJJL  THE  YBAE  EOmO). 


muerable  babe.  The  place  wm  ten  feet 
sqnare,  and  exactly  six  feet  in  height  It 
contained  a  biggish  bed,  wherein  slept 
father  and  mother,  while  Jane  and  Charley 
somehow  lay  crouwiie  at  the  foot  In  a 
Bmall  bed  by  the  window  slept  a  big  lad  of 
fifteen ;  while  the  eldebt  girl,  who  owned 
that  she  was  "going  on  for  twenty," 
slumbered  somehow  in  a  comer,  with  a 
child  of  "  not  qoite  three,"  and  a  sister 
"  turned  sixteen. 

In  the  back  yard,  which  seemed  common 
to  the  row  of  meagre  tenements  wherein 
this  cellar  had  a  place,  I  obeerred  two  little 
figures  who  recalled  to  me  the  pair  of 
wretched,  abject  children  who  were  intro- 
duced by  the  Ghost  of  Gbriatmaa  PrMent 
to  Mr.  SiCTooge  by  the  names  of  "  IgDoraoee" 
and  "  Want"  Sttmted  and  half  starved,- 
oncared  for  and  unkempt ;  with  one  scanty 
bit  of  sackcloth  to  serve  in  lien  of  clothing ; 
with  pale  though  filthy  &C6S,  and  bare  Iws 
reddened  with  rough  usage,  and  well-nigh 
black  with  dirt ;  they  stared  at  me  half 
savagely,  and  then  scampered  to  some 
hiding-place  like  two  small,  scared,  wild 
beasts.  Poor  wretched  littie  creatures ! 
Who  could  be  their  keeper  1  They  were 
the  saddest  specimens  of  civilised  existenoe 
I  had  met  with  in  the  East ;  and  as  I  went 
upon  my  way — for  I  could  find  no  entrance 
to  the  hole  where  they  were  hid — I  reflected 
that  the  School  Board  would  find  fit  work 
to  do  with  pupils  like  to  these. '  Moreover, 
I  reflected  that  if  living  human  creatures 
were  constrained  to  stay  in  styes,  it  scarce 
needed  Circe's  art  to  turn  them  into  brutes. 

Last  of  all  we  visited  a  weakly,  hollow- 
eyed,  poor  woman,  who  sat  shivering  by 
a  fire,  with  a  lean  baby  in  her  lap.  She 
had  six  other  children,  one  of  whom  was 
dumb,  and  was  sitting  oppoBite.  Ebeu- 
matic-fever  had  prostrated  her  for  several 
months,  she  said;  and,  but  for  my  guide's 
help,  she  thought  she  most  have  died. 
Her  husband,  a  dock  labourer,  had  been 
near  dying  too.  "  It  was  the  wet  clothes, 
and  waiting  in  the  damp,  as  floored  him,'' 
she  opined.  Well,  yes,  she  would  own  that 
he  had  once  been  given  to  drink  a  bit; 
but  "he's  reg'Iar  cured  of  that,"  she  said 
with  a  wan  smile,  and  a  flutter  of  her  ftunt 
voice.  He  had  long  since  signed  the  pledge, 
and  had  never  once  relaiwed  into  hie  old 
vice,  thanks  mainly  to  my  guide  and  the 
-folk  who  worked  wiu  bim.  "  He's 


a  different  man  now,"  the  poor  woman 

continued,  "  and  I'm  thankful,  that  I 

to  them  as  made  him  give  up  drink." 

And  now  I  bid  farewell  to  the  poor 


people  of  the  East,  among  whom  I  have 
recently  been  travelling  a  little,  and  with 
whom  I  have  certainly  been  talking  not  a 
little,  when  I  fbond  them  so  inclined.  If 
any  word  of  mine  may  serve  to  help  them 
in  their  ways,  or  in  tbtai  work,  or  in  their 
want,  my  travel  and  my  travail  will  not 
have  been  in  vain.  Of  my  guide  I  will  say 
simply,  that  hie  presence  was  welcomed 
wherever  we  walked,  and  that  I  thoroughly 
believe  be  is  diung  nnch  good  work. 


BLACK  LABOUR  IN  QUEENSLAND. 

QUEKNSUIND  is  a  vast  province  of 
Australia,  ooeapyisg  the  entire  noitii- 
eastem  ana  of  that  great  ialand-continenl 
A  large  proportion  of  its  territory  lies 
within  the  tropics,  and  <m  the  easton  ooa^ 
face  of  the  tropleal  section  eztensire  sugar- 
plantations  are  cultivated.  It  is  excluaivdy 
in  the  tillage  of  these — in  the  words  of  an 
Act  of  Parliament,  in  "  toopical  or  semi- 
tropical  agricaltore"  only — that  coloured 
labour  is  utilised.  The  work  is  too  arduous 
for  the  white  man,  in  the  moist,  relaxing 
beat  of  the  low  coast  country.  'The  alter- 
natives are  to  refrain  from  sugar-growing 
altogether,  or  to  employ  in  that  culture 
labour  other  tiian  European. 

Cingalese  and  Chinamen  have  been  tried. 
The  former  are  worthless,  the  latter  are  too 
costly,  and,  besides,  are  no  better  liked  in 
Queensland  than  on  the  Paoifio  slope.  It 
is  from  the  Polynesian  Islands,  which  stod 
the  South  Pacific  Ocean,  that  the  Qneens- 
Und  phuters  almost  exclusively  derive  their 
sum>ly  of  labour. 

The  natives  of  these  Islands  live  In  a 
state  of  savagery.  At  home,  labour  seems 
foreign  to  their  nature ;  brought  to  Queens- 
land, it  is  found  that  they  become  with 
singular  facility  industrious  and  willing 
workers,  with  a  great  aptitude  for  a  certain 
restricted  amount  of  civilisation.  Th^ 
very  quickly  pick  up  a  smattering  of 
English,  and  it  is  astonishing  how  soon 
they  learn  the  rudimeuts  of  a  trade.  They 
are  as  imitative  as  Chinamen. 

The  Queensland  planters  send  schooners 
to  coast  about  among  the  isUnds  and  reerait 
labour.  It  must  be  said  tiiat  occasionally 
chaises  of  kidnapping  are  brought  against 
skippers  of  "  lab^  schooners."  When  In 
Queensland  last  year  I  investigated  this 
Idduapping  question  with  great  aasidni^, 
preptfed  to  believe  that  abuses  were  per- 
pelted.  I  had  not  gone  far  into  the 
enquiry  when  I  became  convinced  that  it 


Tonld  be  a  real  beneSt  to  the  Polyneeian 
ialanders  vere  Uiey  kidnapped  en  mame, 
and  carried  off  to  QaeansUnd,  there  to  be 
educated  oat  of  the  aavageiy  which  now 
d^rades  them,  and  be  indoetriaat«d  into 
habite  of  indostry  tiiat  shoold  modify  the 
tenor  of  their  lives  when  restored  to  their 
tatuid  homes.  Aa  it  is,  this  process  is 
slowly  going  on  through  the  inBbmmeDtality 
of  "  recruits,"  who  go  home  after  a  term  of 
aeorice  in  Qaeensland.  These  are  the  chief 
agentB  in  procuring  for  the  planters  fresh 
anpplies  of  recroits.  Often  they  come  back 
tiiemselves  for  a  second  and  eveo  a  third 
term,  and  they  bring  with  them  a  sqaad 
of  friends  and  relatives,  who  have  been 
iuflaenced  by  their  good  report 

No  donbt  the  skipper  of  a  labonr- 
schooner  takes  steps  to  gain  the  favonr  of 
an  island  commniiiby,  with  intent  to  pro- 
care  recruits.  The  recrai^g-boat  has  its 
lookers  fall  of  tobacco,  beads,  and  axes  ag 
preaenta  to  chiefs,  and  as  contribations 
towards  the  establishment  of  friendly  re- 
lations. A  "  boy  " — all  the  male  recroits 
are  called  "  boys  " — may  be  willing  to  take 
sarrioe,  but  his  family  may  be  loth  to  let 
him  ga  Is  there  any  great  crime  in  the 
removal  of  their  reluctance  by  the  distri- 
bution of  a  few  presents  1 

The  Queeoslaud  Government  has  seda- 
lously  striven  to  prevent  the  possibility  of 
abuses  in  the  work  of  recruiting.  No 
labour  -  schooner  can  start  on  a  voyage 
without  a  licence,  given  only  after  official 
inspection  of  the  most  searching  character, 
and  on  its  master  having  entered  into  a 
bond  for  two  thousand  five  hundred  dollars 
tiiat  he  will  refrain  from  kidnapping  and 
other  malpractices,  and  obey  the  Act  of 
Fariiament  to  the  letter.  As  a  check  on 
him,  and  farther  to  guard  against  abuses, 
tJie  Government  puts  on  lioard  every 
schooner  an  official  aa  theur  repre- 
seotativa.  His  boat  acGompuues  the  re- 
emiting-boat  on  every  expedition  it  makes 
to  the  shore,  so  that  he  ma^  be  in  a 
position  to  watch  that  no  recruit  is  carried 
off  against  his  will.  When  each  recruit 
comes  on  bowd,  before  his  engagement  ia 
ratiEed,  the  Government  agent  has  to 
explain  to  him  cat^orioally  tae  conditions 
and  advantages  of  the  service  he  proposes 
to  enter ;  and  if  these  do  not  satisfy  him, 
it  is  the  doty  of  that  official  to  see  that  be 
is  allowed  to  go  on  shore  again.  Once  the 
engagement  made,  the  compact  entered 
into,  tiie  reomit  is  of  course  no  longer  free 
to  rescind  the  bargain,  as  seems  but 
reasonable. 


Into  all  the  details  of  the  safeguards 
against  kidnapping  with  which  the  Queens- 
land Government  has  fenced  around  this 
recruiting  service,  it  it;ould  be  tediouB  to 
enter.  Sofice  it  to  say  that  with  tiie 
cross-guarda  of  Government  agents  on 
board  every  ship,  dothed  with  ue  fullest 
powers ;  of  an  immigration-agent  at  every 
port,  charged  to  investigate  every  whisper 
of  accusation ;  with  a  leaven  in  every  ship- 
load of  boys  who  have  already  served  an 
engazement  in  Qaeensland,  can  speak 
English,  and  are  quite  fearlessly  outspoken ; 
it  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  abuses  can  be 
perpetrated,  and  yet  more  so  bow,  if  per- 
petrated, they  could  escape  detection  and 
puiiishment.  Two  schooners  with  cargoes 
of  recruits  arrived  at  Maryborough  during 
my  stay  in  that  Qaeensland  town,  and  I 
boarded  both.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
speak  too  highly  of  the  condition  which 
t^ose  vesseb  presented.  White  emigrants 
might  well  envy  the  accommodation 
afforded.  W^  cared  for  in  all  respects, 
the  passengers — I  know  not  how  else  to 
call  ihem — were  aa  cheerful  a  set  of  fellows 
as  one  coald  wish  to  see.  If  there  was  a 
kidnapped  man  among  them,  all  I  can  say 
u,  that  in  Polynesian  Islands  dissimulation 
must  have  become  a  fine  art, 

I  fancy  the  Polyneeian  is  naturally  a 
cheerful,  bright  sort  of  fellow.  If  he  be 
not  so  at  home,  he  soon  takes  on  this  com- 
plexion when  he  comes  to  Queensland. 
When  you  look  at  htm,  he  grins  respon- 
sively ;  when  you  speak  to  him,  he  smiles 
all  over  his  head.  He  is  a  likeable  fellow, 
and  has  on  instinctive  politeness  and  cor- 
diality. He  will  ran  of  his  own  accord  to 
open  a  gate  for  you,  or  tohotd'ahors&  He 
seems  a  willing  workman,  and  be  does  his 
■woA  at  once  with  a  light  heart  and  a 
manifest  interest  in  it.  His  employers 
unanimously  accord  him  a  good  name.  He 
gives  little  trouble,  they  tMtify ;  he  needs 
no  assiduous  watehing  to  keep  him  from 
idling,  nor  stimulation  to  keep  him  lively 
in  his  task.  He  is  ao  independent  fellow 
in  his  way — he  is  a  man,  and  will  have  his 
righte  as  a  man ;  bnt  let  him  have  them, 
and  treat  him  frankly  and  f  urly,  and  there 
is  nothing  about  him  of  what  the  Ameri- 
cans expressively  call"  cussedness."  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  the  feudal  spirit  in  him. 
He  becomes  attached  to  his  master,  if  the 
latter  ia  a  good,  considerate  master  with  a 
kind  word  for  his  henchman  and  a  regard 
for  his  welfare.  After  he  has  gone  back 
to  hia  island  from  aa  engagement,  he  very 
ofton  returns  to  a  second  on  tba   some 


532    [April  i»,  ISM.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


plantation ;  and  whenfriendfl  meet  on  the 
qniet,  idle  Sandaye,  I  waa  aunred  their 
gossip  is  mostljr  as  to  the  relative  advan- 
tage of  their  reapeetive  phuitations,  and 
that  great  is  the  vanntiug  of  the  felloiri 
hailingfrom  those  which  have  an  eetablished 
repute  for  ezceptionsJlj  good  treatment. 
But  it  is  not  easy  to  see  how  anjwhere 
there  can  be  bad  treatment  The  Kanaka 
— that  is  the  generic  name  for  the  Poly- 
nesian islander — knows  hii  rights  to  a  tittle, 
and  everyday  experience  showi  that  he  ia 
not  the  man  to  have  any  reluctance  in 
complaining  to  the  local  official  "pro- 
tector," if  ne  considers  himself  wronged. 
Putting  every  other  check  against  ill- 
treatment  on  one  side,  the  argument  of  aelf - 
interest  must  be  paramount  with  the  em~ 
ployer  against  doing  despite  to  his  Kanaka. 
The  Kanaka  has  cost  the  employer  over 
twenty  pounds  to  bring  him  from  his  ialand 
to  the  plantation,  and  hia  term  of  engage- 
ment is  only  for  three  years ;  if  he  is  ill 
he  coats  the  planter  in  hospital  charges  and 
medical  attendance  ;  and  his  wages,  which 
are  at  the  rate  of  six  pounds  a  year,  paid 
half  yearly,  ran  on  just  the  some  as  if  ho 
were  in  good  health  and  doing  his  day's 
work.  He  is  too  costly  a  commodity  to  be 
trashed  away  by  any  ill-usage  or  neglect 
But,  as  slave-owning  experience  proved  in 
the  United  States,  there  are  men  so  ooa- 
stituted  as  to  be  capable  of  this  kind  of 
false  economy,  if  left  to  their  own  devices ; 
and  so  the  law  of  Queensland  intervenes 
with  the  most  detailed  and  stringent 
enactments  for  the  Kanaka's  wel&re,  and 
locates  an  independent  and  strenuous  local 
functionary  in  each  sogar-diatrict  to  take 
care  that  those  enactments  are  complied 
with  to  the  letter.  The  Kanaka  in  Queens- 
land fares  infinitely  better  than  the  farm- 
labourer  in  England.  These  are  his  daily 
rations :  one  pound  and  a  half  of  bread 
or  flour,  one  pound  of  beef  or  mutton,  five 
ounces  of  sugar,  half  an  ounce  of  tea,  three 
pounds  of  potatoes.  Per  week :  one  ounce 
and  a  half  of  tobacco,  two  ounces  of  salt, 
four  ounces  of  soap.  Compare  this  plm- 
teousnesa  with  the  oatmeal  diet  of  the 
Scottish  peasant,  Pot's  toujours  potatoes, 
honest  OOea's  scrap  of  rusty  bacon  or  hnnk 
of  cheese  I  Contrast  it  with  the  stem  sim- 
plicity of  the  British  soldier's  ration :  three- 
quartere  of  a  pound  of  meat  (with  bone), 
and  one  pound  of  bread  I  I  have  seen  the 
day  when  I  would  have  been  thankful 
to  have  bad  a  Queensland  Kanaka  as  a 
chum,  for  the  sake  of  his  aurplns  rationa 
after  he  had  eaten  and  was  filled.     Our 


Polynesian  friend,  accustomed  at  home  to 
dress  strictly  in  the  fashion  set  by  oui  first 
parents  before  the  fall,  finds  himself  the 
possessor  of  an  adequate  wardrobe  defined 
by  Uw,  and  supplied  and  maintained  by 
the  planter.  He  is  comfortably  housed 
and  supplied  with  bedding ;  his  rations  an 
cooked  for  him;  he  has  what  firewood  he 
needs ;  when  he  is  sick  he  is  a^it  into 
hospital,  and  a  doctor,  whom  the  planter 
pays,  attends  him.  Should  he  die,  his 
master  has  to  pay  his  .wages  up  till  the 
day  of  his  death  into  the  hands  of  the 
Government  official 

It  is  that  funolionary's  boeiiteBa — he 
is  called  "protector,"  or  "inspector,"  in- 
differently— to  use  every  effiirt,  by  keeping 
his  ears  open  for  reports,  by  listening  t» 
complointe  from  the  plantation  hands,  and 
bv  frequent  personal  visits  amtwg  the 
plantations  in  his  district,  to  put  in  force, 
to  its  minutest  details,  an  Act  which  seems 
to  leave  no  loophole  for  abuse.  He  is 
authorised  to  employ  a  lawyer  to  prose- 
cute for  offences  against  Kanakas,  and  to 
defend  Kanakas  in  cases  where  there 
is  a  doubt  of  their  being  in  the  wrong. 
He  can  brin^  to  bear  a  great  leverage 
of  inDuence  in  regard  to  oases  which  he 
may  not  consider  strong  enongh  to  bake 
into  court  For  example,  during  the 
twelve  months  the  Maryborough  protector 
had  been  in  office,  he  hod  procured  the 
discharge  of  three  overseers  who  he  had 
convinced  himself  were  guilty  of  petty 
tyranny.  This  the  boys  revolt  against 
with  the  ntmoet  keenness.  They  are 
willing  enongh,  but  they  will  not  be  driveiL 
A  hasty  blow  struck  by  on  ovosoer  brings 
an  immediate  complaint  to  the  protector. 
One  can  readily  discern  the  tone  and  spirit 
of  good-humoured  independence  among  the 
Kanakas  They  have  the  port  of  manhood. 
They  look  you  square  in  the  faoe,  but  with 
no  suggestion  of  impertinence.  They  have 
the  air  of  men  who,  like  the  Jock  Elliot  of 
the  Border  ballad,  will  "  tak'  danto  free 
naebody,"  and  they  don't,  except  occa- 
sionally from  one  another.  During  non- 
working  hours  they  are  free  to  do  aa  they 
list,  to  go  where  they  please.  They  have  the 
Saturday  half-holiday,  when  they  delight 
to  atroll  into  town,  Sunday  is  their  day 
for  fulfilling  social  duties,  doing  a  little 
sporting  aa  they  travel.  The  PotyDeeisn 
gentleman  starts  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  of 
his  own  island  in  some  neighbouring  plan- 
tation, with  bow  and  arrow  in  hand,  and 
enlivens  the  road  by  letting  fly,  wiUi  no 
particular  effect,  at  such  birds  as  he  can 


Chtrin  Dloknu.)  IrrlK 

stslk  up  to.  The  coantry  roads  and  hxah- 
trackfl  are  alive  all  Saoday  with  knots  of 
cheery  heathens  having  a  good  time  after 
their  own  fashion.  The  law  averts  from 
them  the  curse  of  alcohol  The  publican 
detected  in  Belling  Iic|nor  to  a  Kanaka 
forfeits  bis  licence  for  life,  and  the  tavern 
in  which  the  offence  ie  committed  is  snm- 
marily  and  permanently  cut  off  from  the 
list  of  pnblic-hoiises.  The  protector  en- 
ooarages  the  islanders  in  putting  their 
wages  by  in  the  Bavings-bank,  and  will 
show  you  a  cnpboardfnl  of  their  pass-books. 
When  his  engagement  ezpires,  the  coat  of 
the  Kanaka's  voyage  home  is  defrayed  by 
his  master  under  Government  surveillance. 
On  the  whole  I  do  not  believe  that  any 
servants  can  be  better  cared  for  by  their 
masten,  and  more  sedulously  and  strin- 
gently protected  and  fostered  by  legisla- 
tion and  ita  enforcement,  than  are  the 
Polynesian  ialanden  at  work  on  the  sagar- 
plantations  of  Queensland. 


GBKALD. 

BV  ELEANOK  a  PKICB. 

CEAPTSR  V.      HUGH. 

As  Tbeo  walked  away  with  her  cousin, 
the  shadow  of  her  grandmother'B  presence, 
the  echo  of  her  mi^hievous  words,  became 
Winter  every  momenL  It  had  been  a  piece 
of  unkindnesB,  of  malice,  mixed  with 
jealousy,  that  attempt  to  destroy  her  peace 
with  Hugh ;  but  fortunately  it  bad  failed, 
and  now  Theo  did  not  even  resent  it  much. 
It  was  only  grandmamma  1  Poor  grand- 
mamma could  not  be  good-natured  if  ahe 
tried,  and  must  always  say  what  came  into 
her  head,  no  matter  how  unhappy  it  made 
other  people. 

Theo  was  never  angry  with  her  long 
without  beginning  to  be  sorry  for  her. 
After  all,  she  could  not  do  much  harm ; 
and  one  need  only  be  in  Hugh's  company 
for  five  minutes  to  realise  what  utter 
DODsraise  she  bad  been  talking,  and  to  be 
aahamed  of  having  minded  it  or  thought 
about  it  at  all. 

Theo  was  always  happy  with  Hugh.  He 
was  never  shocked  at  her  flights,  and 
seldom  amused  at  them;  but  he  often 
expressed  a  little  disapproval,  and  never 
any  admiration ;  in  fact,  he  was  brotherly, 
in  an  unusually  polite  fashion.  He  was  a 
strength,  a  protection,  a  background  of 
quiet  family  affection — everything,  in 
BDort,  that  Uncle  Henry's  son  ought  to 
have  been.     Theo  had  never  troubled  her- 


[April  IB,  usii    623 

self  to  analyse  his  fondness  for  her,  or  hers 
for  him ;  it  was  like  the  air  she  breathed ; 
she  had  grown  up  in  it,  her  mind  resting 
on  his  in  a  ftuth  that  asked  no  questions, 
and  expected  no  enthusiasms.  There  was 
only  one  drawback — that  this  dear  old 
Hugh  was  not  really  her  brother;  with 
that  one  step  nearer,  Theo  would  not  have 
known  the  meaning  of  loneliness. 

As  it  was,  since  her  uncle's  death  and 
Helen's  marriage,  she  had  been  horribly 
lonely,  and  had  spent  a  good  many  boors 
thinking  sadly  of  the  future.  Her  grand- 
mother's house  could  never  feel  like  home, 
and  yet  what  other  home  was  possible  ? 

She  bad  not  seen  much  of  Hugh  that 
summer,  for  he  had  been  very  busy,  and 
Lady  Bedcliff's  reception  of  him  in  lus  one 
or  two  visits  had  not  encouraged  him  to 
come  again.  She  had  wanted  very  much 
to  talk  things  over  with  Hugh,  and  had 
said  80  in  a  letter  two  or  three  days  before 
this  Sunday;  but  now,  absurd  as  Lady 
Bedcliff's  remarks  and  prophecies  had  been, 
she  felt  a  faint,  foolish  disinclination  to  talk 
about  her  own  plana.  Besides,  it  was 
pleasanter  and  easier  to  stroll  happily 
along  in  the  sunshine,  and  think  about 
nothmg,  and  talk  to  dear  Wool,  her  cotUe, 
when  they  had  fetched  him  from  the  Mews, 
where  he    sadly   lived    apart    ft'om   his 


By  the  time  she  and  Wool  bad  told 
each  other  all  their  feelings,  they  had 
reached  Kensington  Gardens,  and  he  then 
ran  off  with  a  long  swinging  stride  to 
amuse  himself.  Captain  North,  who  bad 
only  entered  into  this  conversation  by 
refusing  to  see  that  Wool's  coat  was  dull, 
and  that  he  was  evidently  pining  away, 
now  b^an  to  talk  on  his  own  account. 

He  lud  plans,  it  seemed,  and  quite  clear 
and  definite  ones.  He  was  going  to  Scotland 
very  soon,  to  shoot  with  a  friend  of  his,  and 
hoped  to  be  away  about  six  weeks,  coming 
back  early  in  October.  He  talked  of  Harry 
Campbell  and  his  shooting  in  an  animated 
way,  and  Theo  listened  with  pleasure,  for 
Hugh  had  been  in  very  low  spirits  ever 
since  hia  father's  death. 

They  sat  down  under  a  tree  in  a  quiet 
corner,  and  talked  for  a  long  tima  Wool, 
when  he  was  tired,  came  and  lay  down  at 
Theo's  feet  The  rustling  vrind,  the  warm, 
soft  sun,  the  touch  of  autumn  sadness 
already  in  the  air,  all  was  pleasant  and 
peaceful ;  it  made  Theo  feel  good,  and  her 
manner  was  charming.  Captain  North, 
sitting  beside  her  there,  ought  to  have  been  a 
very  happy  man ;  his  was  the  privilege  of 


534      Ufdll9,1881.] 


ALL  THE  TEAB  BOUND. 


baving  her  &11  to  himaelf,  of  nying  any- 
thing  he  pleaaed,  bat  he  only  Utted  about 
plans  for  rnnniug  away  from  her. 

Yet  ereii  u  he  sat  there,  he  was  thinking 
that  perhaps  some  day  Theo  wotdd  belong 
to  him  entirely,  and  no  doubt  be  would  be 
a  very  fortunate  fellow.  He  certainly  had 
DO  intendou  of  marrying  auyone  elee,  and 
he  believed  that  her  fanoy,  too,  was  per- 
fectly free.  He  would  not  say  anything 
now,  from  an  odd  mixture  of  confidence 
and  diffidence. 

IF  Theo  had  only  known  it,  that  last 
time  he  came  to  the  square,  and  was 
snubbed  by  Lady  Redcliff,  and  bad  to 
retreat  rather  crestfallen,  though  he  had 
found  time  enough  alone  with  Theo  to  tell 
her  that  story  of  hie  father's  losses — that 
day,  as  he  walked  away  from  the  house, 
he  had  made  up  bis  mind  to  rescue  Theo 
from  her  grandmother,  by  asking  her  to 
marry  him  as  soon  as  she  would ;  but  the 
day  after  he  had  a  cheerf al  little  note  from 
Theo,  and  thea  he  thought  that  Lady 
Kedcliff  could  notbepositiTelyTinkind  to  her, 
and  that  this  tremendous  step  might  as  well 
be  put  off  a  little.  Circumstances  were  not 
likely  to  change ;  in  these  days  Theo  never 
saw  anybody,  and  there  coold  be  no 
possible  doubt  of  his  own  constancy  to  her. 
Besides,  it  would  be  very  inconvenient  to 
him  to  marry  that  autumn ;  his  affairs 
were  not  settled,  and  he  had  always  iu- 
ttinded  to  leave  the  army  when  he  married, 
and  this  was  a  step  which  just  now  he 
would  be  very  sorry  to  take.  Perhaps 
Theo  might  not  have  objected  to  a  long 
engagement ;  but  the  plain  truth  and  the 
concltiBion  of  the  whole  thing  was,  though 
the  hero  would  hardly  have  confesaed  it  to 
himself,  that  he  did  not  dare  to  ask  her.  If 
she  refused  him,  it  would  be  such  a  horrid 
bosineas ;  their  happy  oonfidenoe  and  fiiend- 
sbip  at  an  end  for  ever. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  not,"  thongbt  the 
captain,  in  a  miserably  wavering  state  of 
mind,  which  would  have  aetoniihed  all  his 
friends;  "and  yet  there  is  nobody  like 
Theo,  and  we  must  settle  it  some  day." 

But  he  made  up  his  mind  that,  at  any 
rate,  there  could  be  no  barm  in  waiting; 
and  in  the  meanwhile,  happily  for  him,  he 
oould  meet  Theo,  and  walk  with  her,  and 
dt  beside  her,  without  the  slightest  quicken- 
ing of  his  pulse. 

"And  now  tell  me,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  I "  be  said  presently. 

"I  don't  know.  Yon  have  made  me 
envious.  I  wish  I  was  going  to  shoot  in 
Scotland,"  said  Theo. 


"  Yes ;  I  wish  you  were  coming  with  me, 
but  unfortunately  there's  no  libs.  Camp- 
bdL  What  can  we  do  for  you,  though, 
Theo  1  You  are  not  looking  well,  I  don't 
think  London  agrees  with  jron.  Would 
Lady  Bedcliff  let  you  go  away  anywherel" 

"  I  suppose  BO ;  she  doesn't  want  me 
always,"  said  Theo  a  little  sadly. 

Captain  North  looked  very  grav&  He 
was  much  interested  in  balancing  a  twig 
on  his  stick ;  but  he  was  thinVitig  what  a 
dreadful  misfortone  his  father's  death  bad 
been  for  Theo.  When  Colonel  Nordi 
was  alive  Theo  had  had  no  trooblea,  no 
anxieties,  she  had  never'  been  expected  to 
decide  or  arrange  anything  for  hersell  Her 
uncle  had  accustomed  her  to  demand  entirely 
on  him,  and  his  son  thought  this  waa  quit« 
right ;  it  seemed  to  him  perfectly  correct 
tut  a  woman  should  have  nothing  to  do 
with  managing  her  own  affairs.  Hugh 
North  Uked  women,  and  was  hked  by 
them ;  bat  he  had  a  very  low  opinion  of 
their  capacity,  although  thisdid  not  intofere 
with  a  good  deal  of  old-fashioned  chivalry 
in  bis  thoughts  of  them. 

"  You  certainly  ought  not  to  etay  in 
London,"  he  said  presently.  "  Isn't  tJiere 
anyone  by  the  sea  anywhere,  or  in  Wales, 
or  in  Scotland,  after  aU  1  There  are  the 
Tom  Fraaers.  That  would  be  a  good  plan, 
because  we  coold  travel  down  together." 

"  My  dear  Hugh,  there  may  oe  lots  of 
people  all  over  uie  kingdom,  but  none  of 
them  have  asked  me,  and  I  am  not  going 
to  ask  myself.  You  don't  want  me  to  do 
that,  I  suppose  I " 

"No,"  siud  Captain  North.  Then  he 
added  siter  a  minute's  sQenee:  "How  would 
yoQ  like  to  go  to  Helen  t " 

"  She  has  not  asked  me." 

"  I  thought  you  told  me,  some  time  ago, 
that  she  wanted  you  to  go  there  in  the 
autumn  t " 

"  That  was  before  she  was  married,"  sud 
Theo  with'  a  slight  sigh.  "  She  does  not 
often  write  to  me  now. ' 

"Do  you  write  to  her  1  Is  it  posoble 
that  you  were  a  little  too  Boomful  about 
her  marriage  1 " 

"  Indeea  I  was  not  scornful  at  all,"  said 
Theo  quickly.  "I  wish  you  would  not 
think  me  so  horrid,  Hugh.  Nell  and  I 
were  the  best  of  friends,  and  I  said  nothing 
that  could  hurt  ber  feelingfi.  I  liked  Mr. 
Goodall ;  he  seemed  very  good-tenq>ered. 
You  said  yourself  that  he  was  not  bad,  and 
you  thought  about  him  just  the  same  as  I 
did." 

<'  Could  you  stay  in  his  house ! '' 


Theo  looked  a  little  sad. 

"It would  be  Nell's  house  too,"she  aiud, 
u  if  reaaoniitg  with  henelf,  and  then  she 
smiled  and  looked  full  at  Hugh.  "  I  think 
it  miglit  be  amusing,"  she  said,  "and  she 
would  let  me  be  alone  and  do  anytiiing  I 
liked,  and  I  should  learn  a  great  deal 
about  potters  and  machinery.  And  don't 
you  think  tiiat  I  might  take  Aster  down,  as' 
well  as  Wool  1  It  would  do  them  both  so 
much  good.  Ton  won't  want  A^ter  while 
yon  are  in  Scotland  1 " 

"  No.  There  would  have  to  be  nc^tia- 
tiona.  Fellows  like  Gloodall  are  nob  always 
accommodaUng.  They  have  their  own 
groove,  and  if  anything  knocks  them  out 
of  that,  yon  know,  they  can't  always 
manage  tbemselves.  Sendee,  Helen  doesn't 
ride,  and  there  might  be  a  difficulty  abont 
Bome  one  to  go  out  with  yon." 

"  I  could  go  out  alone." 

"  No,  my  dear,  certainly  noL  For  one 
thing,  a  country  like  that  ia  sure  to  be  fnll 
of  rough  characters.  But  anyhow  I  don't 
approve  of  it" 

"But  yon  ahonld  consider,  Hugh,  that 
it  is  necessary  for  a  person  l^e  me  to  be 
independent.  One  is  not  so  very  young  at 
twenty-three,  and  I'm  sure  I  feel  old 
enougo  to  go  all  over  the  world  bv  myself, 
only  I  should  not  like  it  And  there's 
always  Comba  What  a  pity  Oombe  can't 
ridel" 

"  A  great  pity.  But  don't  begin  to  be 
independent  just  yet,  to  oblige  me." 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  begun,"  said  Theo. 

"  Well,  but  seriously,  I  don't  see  why 
yon  should  not  write  to  Nell,  and  propose 
a  visit  Aster  and  Wool  might  come  in  as 
an  afterthought" 

Theo  was  doubtfoL 

"  I  must  consult  grandmammiL  I  think  I 
will  wait  a  few  days,  at  any  rate,  she  said. 

Presently  they  got  up  and  strolled  a 
little  farther,  and  then  she  thought  it  was 
time  to  go  back  to  her  grandmother,  so 
they  turned  their  steps  that  way,  walking 
veiy  slowly.  Only  too  soon,  however, 
they  reached  the  square,  and  Lady  Ked- 
cli^B  door,  and  then  a  shadow  came  over 
Theo's  thee  ^ain,  and  it  was  with  a  very 
sad  smile  that  she  wished  her  cousin  good- 
bye. 

".  Shall  I  see  yon  again  before  you  go  t " 
she  said.  "  I  won't  ask  yon  to  come  in  now, 
because — perhaps  you  would  rather  not" 

"I'll  do  anything  you  like — whatever 
you  think  best,"  said  Hugh,  with  a  sort  of 
eagerness  that  was  checked  Almost  before 
it  was  visible. 


LLD.  [April  19,  ISM.)      625 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  not,"  said 
Theo. 

He  kept  her  hand  in  his  for  a  tow 
moments  while  he  said : 

"  I  am  afraid  this  is  good-bye,  do  yon 
know.  I  am  going  on  Thursday,  and  I 
shall  be  very  busy  till  then.  But,  Theo, 
you  must  not  stay  here — you  are  un- 
happy." 

He  said  the  last  words  veiy  low,  with 
an  earnest,  lingering  gaze  into  her  face. 

"  I  wish  I  was  not  obliged  to  leave  you 
here,"  he  muttered,  as  she  did  not  answer 
at  once. 

"  One  can't  always  expect  to  be  happy," 
said  Theo.  "You  are  not  happy — we 
ought  not  to  be,  either  of  ns.  It  is  such  a 
very  great  change.  I'm  gUd  yon  are  going 
to  Scotland,  and  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
see  yon  when  you  come  back  again ;  you 
will  most  likely  find  me  here." 

"  We  most  write  to  each  other." 

"  Oh,  of  course." 

"  And'yoa  won't  write  to  Helen  I " 

"  I  am  not  sure.  I  shall  wait  a  little. 
Mr.  Goodall  muht  say  I  was  a  bore." 

"Helen,  perhaps,  has  taught  him  that 
word,  but  he  does  not  know  it  by  nature," 
said  Gaptun  North.     "  Well,  good-bye." 

He  turned  and  walked  away,  and  Theo 
went  into  the  house.  They  were  both 
sad  at  parting.  She  missed  his  friendly 
sympathy,  and  he  was  haunted  by  her 
Idleness  and  thinness,  and  by  the  tired 
look  abont  her  beautiful  dark  eyes. 

That  evening  he  took  some  writing- 
paper,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  with  a  pen 
m  his  hand.  I  believe  he  was  going  to 
write  to  Theo,  and  in  quite  a  new  strain ; 
but  prudence  or  some  other  unattractive 
virtue  once  more  conquered,  and  instead  of 
writing  to  Theo  he  wrote  to  his  cousin,  Mrs. 
John  Goodall,  a  letter  chiefly  abont  Theo, 
her  looks,  and  hsr  present  position  with 
Lady  Sedcliff. 

CHAPTER  VI.  JOHN. 
Another  week  of  hot,  monotonous 
August  passed  away,  and  Theo  was  stitl 
staying  with  her  grandmother.  She  was 
not  actually  discontented ;  her  nature  was 
too  fine  for  small  discontents ;  but  yet  she 
was  not  at  all  happy.  She  missed  her 
uncle  and  all  his  old  Mends ;  she  missed 
Hugh,  and  Aster,  and  freedom,  and  fresh 
air.  She  could  take  long  walks  now  with 
Combe,  and  have  Wool  to  run  by  her  side ; 
but  she  wanted  a  wide  horizon  and  an 
active  life  full  of  interest,  snch  as  she  used 
to  live  in  the  old  davs.    Her  mental  and  I 


CApiii  la,  ISM.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


[Oondiwtvdbr 


bodUy  health  were  both  being  spoilt  b7  the 
hKrd  strain  of  this  London  life  without 
gaiety  or  excitement.  The  only  chuiges 
oE  every  day  were  those  in  Lady  KedcM's 
temper.  IE  she  waa  aot  angry,  and  stinging, 
&nd  maliciona,  sbe  was  ^ent  and  diamu. 
Theo  did  not  know  which  of  these  humours 
was  most  trying;  but  she  hardly  ever 
complained  of  her  grandmother,  even  to 
herself,  and  they  had  a  strange  tiding  for 
each  other,  even  when  they  quarrelled 
most  violently.  Yet  it  was  a  aad  train- 
ing for  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  young 
woman,  and  Tfaeo'a  face  showed  more  and 
more  of  the  weariness  that  Captain 
North  had  sadly  noticed  there. 

One  afternoon,  the  deadness,  the  melan- 
choly of  this  life  seemed  more  intense  and 
painful  than  ever.  The  room  was  hotter 
and  more  stuffy.  Lady  Bedcliff  had  been 
very  cross  all  day,  and  was  now  nodding 
half  asleep  over  her  newspaper.  Theo  sat 
dreaming  with  some  fancy-work  in  her 
bands,  at  which  she  stitched  unconsciously, 
and  her  lips  moved  sometimes,  for  she  was 
repeating  toherBBlFthewordaofatong  about 
fairy-land, which  Uncle  Henry  used  to  make 
her  sing  to  him  nearly  every  evening : 

And  you  ihall  touch  with  yooT  fingM-tipB 

The  ivary  gate  Bad  golden. 
Ah  yea )  but  when  and  where  1  Had  Uncle 
Henry  only  reached  it  now,  when  be  had 
gone  away^to  the  shadow,  and  could  not  be 
called  back  again,  andconlduotcomeaudtell 
her  all  that  he  knew  she  wanted  to  knowl 
Th^  had  often  talked  about  these  tUngs, 
for  he  was  a  good  man,  and  Theo  from  a 
child  had  found  religion  very  intereatjng. 
The  silence  after hisdeathhadhadasad  effect 
upon  her ;  shecoold  now  feel  sure  of  nothing, 
and  though  she  hated  her  grandmothers 
talk  of  these  things,  there  were  dread- 
fnl  possibilities  of  traiik  in  it  Theo  found 
it  best  not  to  think  and  puzzle  herself  too 
much,  but  very  often  to  remember  and  say 
to  herself  the  words  that  Uncle  Henry 
used  to  like  best.  That  song  of  the  fairies 
— Theo  thought  that  their  country  was 
very  familiar  to  him ;  she  faaraed  that  she 
herself  had  looked  sometimea  wiUi  him 
through  "  the  ivory  gate  and  golden,"  for, 
certainly,  though  be  had  nad  many 
troubles,  be  was  the  happiest  man  she  had 
ever  known.  Ah,  but  how  far  away  that 
bright  gate  seemed  now,  that  enti[&nce 
into  beauty  and  nobleness,  and  a  high  and 
generous  life.  A  cloud  bad  come  down 
and  hidden  it ;  Lady  RedcUfTs  dark  walls 
shut  out  such  visions  moat  effectually. 
Happiness,  too ;  the  joy  of  life  and  youth ; 


it  was  too  soon  for  these  glorious  things  to 
"  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day,'  and 
that  fairy  gate,  to  Theo's  fancy,  h^  been 
the  way  into  them  all.  Was  it  never  to 
open  again  1 

She  was  dieturbed  in  her  thooghta  by  the 
butler,  who  opened  the  door  gently,  with 
an  alarmed  glance  at  his  mistress,  and 
asked  her  if  ahe  would  see  Mr.  Good&lL 

Before  Theo  had  collected  her  wits  to 
answer,  Lady  Eeddiff  was  wide  awake, 

"Mr.  Goodall  I  Where  is  hot  What 
does  he  want  1 " 

She  was  not  a  person  who  had  old 
servants ;  they  could  not  be  faithful  to  her, 
any  more  thui  her  fiienda,  partly  becaoae 
ahe  never  trusted  them )  and  this  little  man, 
who  had  been  in  the  house  a  month,  could 
not  yet  apeak  to  her  without  tramblmg. 

"  Mr.  Ooodall  asked  for  Miss  Meynell, 
my  lady." 

"  I  Imow  that  Say  she  is  not  at  home. 
I  can't  have  that  man  coming  hers,  Theo. 
What  m^es  him  take  such  a  liberty  T " 

"  He  has  come  to  see  me,  grandmamma," 
said  Tlieo,  rising  "Show  Mr.  Goodall 
into  the  library,  Jaokaon." 

The  butler  hesitated  a  moment  in  real 
alarm ;  but  as  Lady  Redcllff  did  not  con- 
tradict this  order,  he  supposed  be  was  to 
obey  it,  and  went  away. 

"  This  is  a  sort  of  odious  impertinence 
Oat  1  will  not  endure,"  eaid  Lady  Raddifi. 
"  My  house  to  be  the  rendezvous  of  all  the 
snobs  that  your  couains  choose  to  connect 
themselves  with  I  Do  you  hear,  Theo  t  I 
won't  have  it  I " 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean," 
said  Theo  coldly. 

"Yon  are  so  changeable  that  I  really 
can't  understand  yon,"  said  Lady  Redcliff 
"  You  told  me  yourself  that  the  man  was 
a  snob,  or  how  do  I  know  it  t  And  now, 
becaoae  yon  are  bored  with  me,  you  are 
ready  to  fly  into  his  arms.  Yon  will  be 
staying  at  his  bouse  next,  I  suppose." 

"  Alter  all,  he  is  Helen's'  husband,"  said 
Theo, 

"  Does  that  make  any  difference )  Does 
a  woman  ruse  her  husband,  pray  I " 

"I  can't  aigue  now.     I  moat  go  and  see 

"  Well,  go.  I  dont  want  to  keep  you 
from  your  charming  new  relation," 

Theo  went  elomy  downstairs.  When 
she  came  into  the  libnry,  where  Mr: 
Ooodall  was  waiting  for  Iter,  she  looked 
cold,  and  stately,  and  sleepy,  and  absent  to 
the  last  degree.  He,  having  arrived  full 
of  good-nature   and  Mendly.  fseling,  felV 


ChmiM  Diclieiia.1  G£B 

himself  anddeuty  checked  in  hia  flov  of 
kindness.  Theo  cert&inly  looked  and 
spoke  as  if  she  did  not  want  him,  and  at 
UBt  tA»  good  fellow  was  inclined  to  be 
»ugrj;  but  then  he  was  shocked  at  her 
alterod  lookt  aioce  the  wedding,  and 
remembered  all  that  Helen  had  said  about 
her  dreamy  ways,  and  sensibly  and  gene- 
rously determined  to  make  allowances  for 
her. 

"  I  happened  to  be  in  London  for  a  day," 
be  said,  after  answering  her  qoeaUons  ahont 
Eelen,  "  and  my  wife  thoOKht  I  might  take 
the  opportunity  of  calling. ' 

"It  was  very  good  of  yon,"  said  Theo, 

She  was  not  sore  that  she  liked  the  way 
in  w;hich  those  quick,  dark  eyes  of  his  were 
scrutdnising  her.  They  seemed,  somehow, 
to  contradict  the  rest  of  his  appearance, 
which  was  stout,  and  solid,  and  opaque. 
There  was  an  odd  kind  of  smile  on  his 
faca  Theo  thonght  she  liked  him  leas 
than  on  the  veddmg-day,  and  that  it  was 
a  little  stupid  of  Helen  to  send  him  to  see 
her. 

"But  she  is  quite  contented  with  him,  I 
suppose  i "  she  reflected.  "  Dear  me,  how 
very,  very  funny ! " 

"How  is  Lady  Eedcliff!"  said  Mr. 
GoodaU.  "  I  did  not  ask  for  her,  because 
I  understood  that  she  does  not  care  to  see 
people  muck" 

"She  is  pretty  well,  thank  you.  She 
seldom  sees  anybody." 

"  It  is  better  to  have  a  talk  with  you 
alone,"  he  said,  taking  a  note  out  of  his 
pocket-book,  "beoanse  you  can  tell  me 
what  you  think  of  this  plan  of  ours." 

"  What  plan  1 "  said  Thep  Ti^dy,  as  he 
gave  her  the  note,  which  was  directed  to 
her  in  Helen's  writing, 

"If  you  will  kindly  read  that,  it  will 
save  explanation." 

"My  DKAEBST  Theo, — I  am  sure  you 
mast  be  tired  of  London  by  this  time,  and 
I  know  it  never  agrees  with  you.  I  suppose 
ywi  have  not  forgotten  that  you  promised 
ta  come  to  me  in  iha  autumn,  and 
September  begins  directly,  and  I  want  yon 
now  for  a  really  good  long  visit.  This 
ndghbourhood  is  nothing  much,  but  you 
and  I  will  have  lots  to  talk  about,  and  you 
will  feel  quite  independent  of  the  people 
here,  just  as  I  do.  I  want  yon  to  bring 
Aster  and  Wool,  and  to  feel  as  if  you  were 
at  home,  and  to  stay  till  something  obliges 
you  to  go  away.  This  is  all  from  John  as 
well  as  myself,  and  his  special  part  is  that 
he  will  take  this  letter  to  you  himself,  and 
persuade  you  to  come  down  with  him  on 


\.LD.  [April  19.  iBsti     527 

Wednesday.  Dear  old  Theo,  don't  dis- 
appoint me.  I  want  yoa  so  very  much. 
— Your  loving  Helen." 

Theo's  face  softened  wonderfully  as  she 
read  this  letter,  and  she  looked  np  at  John 
Goodall  with  a  smile,  which  made  him 
smile  cheeriully  in  retnm. 

"  Weil,  it's  EettJed,  isn't  it  t "  he  sdd  in 
a  loud,  hearty  voice.  "  We  shall  meet  at 
Euston  at  two  o'clock  to-morrow.  And 
now  about  your  horse  and  your  dog,  can  I 
do  anything  T  Yon  haven't  got  them  here, 
I  suppose  1  Where  are  they  coming  from  t " 

"  Thank  you ;  they  are  both  in  

Street,"  said  Theo.  "My  cousin.  Captain 
North,  had  Aster  at  Honnslow  till  the 
other  day,  bat  I  had  him  ap  here  after  he 
went  to  ScoUand,  because  I  thought  I 
might  have  a  ride  now  and  then.  Thank 
you  so  much ;  bat  do  you  really  like  them 
to  come  down  with  me  1 " 

"Of  course,"  sjud  John.  "We  want  to 
cheer  yoa  up  and  make  you  strong,  if  you 
will  let  us,  and,  excuse  me,  but  X  wink  we 
are  setting  about  it  none  too  soon." 

These  personal  remarks  sounded  odd, 
coming  mim  a  perfect  stranger,  and  Theo 
took  no  notice  of  them  ;  but  she  reminded 
herself  hastUy,  "He  is  my  cousin,  he  is 
Nell's  husband,"  and  went  on  talking  about 
Aster  and  Wool,  and  the  arrangementa  for 
their  jourAey  into  the  middle  of  England. 

"And  yoa  are  coming  down  with  me 
to-morrow  1 "  said  Mr.  Goodall  in  his  strong 
tones.     "  That's  right" 

At  this  moment  Lady  Bedcliff  appeared 
at  the  door,  which  was  standing  a  little 
open..  Theo  did  not  seem  starUed,  but  a 
faint  shade  of  colour  came  into  her  pale 
face.  She  gave  a  momentary  glance  at 
John,  who  appeared  quite  calm  and  unawed 
by  the  little  old  lady's  appearance,  and 
introduced  him  in  her  sweetest,  politest 
manner  to  her  grandmother. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Lady  Redcliff  I "  said 
John,  stretching  out  his  large  hand.  "I 
hope  you  won't  be  angry  with  me  for  run- 
ning away  with  your  granddaughter.  We 
think  it's  tjme  she  hm  some  country  air, 
you  know." 

He  was  not  even  frightened  by  Lady 
BedcliS'a  cold,  astonished  look,  or  the 
slight  touch  of  her  thin,  icy  little  fingers. 
She  turned  from  him  to  Theo,  her  eye- 
brows mounting  up  in  an  arch  of  questions. 
Then  she  laughed 

"  Is  Mr.  Goodall  tired  of  hia  wife 
already,  Theo,  and  does  he  want  to  run 
away  with  yoa)  You  look  very  hwpy 
about  it     Well,  I  am  not  at  all  particiuar. 


»28 


ALL  THE  YEiK  EOUND. 


Ui.  Goodall ;  bat  yon  do  shock  me,  I  mmt 
:oDfeae.  I  alvajs  osderstood  you  were 
inch  an  excellent  penon.  I  tuve  heftrd  bo 
much  of  you  from  Theo — haven't  I,  Theo ) 
And  what  have  you  done  with  yonr  wife  I " 

"I  left  her  yesterday  in  Staffordshire, 
md  I  am  going  back  to  her  to-morrow,  and 
irith  yom;  leave  I  want  to  take  Mias 
Meynell  wtUi  me  for  a  long  vieit,"  said 
John,  grave  and  unabashed. 

"  Ob,  that's  all  very  correct  and  onin- 
terestiug;  I  can't  give  you  my  nrmpathy 
any  further ;  you  are  just  as  good  as  tbey 
led  me  to  think,"  said  Lady  KedcUff.  "I 
am  sorry  for  yon,  though,  and  I  will  give 
foa  a  utble  advice.  Don't  say  too  much 
about  a  long  visit.  Theo  will  be  tired  of 
yon  in  a  week ;  she  has  a  vast^  capacity 
tor  being  bored  than  anyone  I  ersr  knew, 
except  myself.  She  is  descended  from  me, 
you  see,  and  inherits  my  Ticea." 

John  did  not  answer.  He  looked  at 
Theo,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Helen's 
letter.  Then  he  made  Lady  Beddiff  a 
little  bow. 

"  You  are  quite  light  not  to  be  compli- 
mentary," said  aha  "  Z  have  no  virtues, 
and  I  don't  care  for  the  credit  of  them. 
Theo  inherits  my  vices.  When  are  you 
going  to  take  her  away )    To-night  1 " 

i/u.  Goodall  did  not  exacUy  make  any 
answer.  He  looked  again  at  Theo ;  it  was 
plain  that  her  grandmother's  account  of 
her  had  frightened  him  a  tittle,  fie  turned 
quite  away  from  Lady  Beddiff,  bending 
himself  towards  Theo,  and  said  very 
gravely  and  distinctly : 

"  Yon  like  to  come  1 " 

"My  dear  Mr.  Gktodall,  she 
chanted,"  said  Lady  Eedcliff.  "  She  is 
bored  to  death  with  me ;  you  can  see  that 
in  her  face ;  and  she  is  only  afraid  to  speak 
or  look  now  because  she  feels  too  happy. 
I  was  only  talking  about  the  future  just 
now — and,  after  aU,  yont  wife  mnat  be  a 
charming  creature,  and  will  be  able  to 
amuse  her  for  a  week  or  two,  I  dare  say. 
Are  there  plw^  of  yonng  men  in  your 
neighbourhood — agreeable  men,  like  your- 
self) " 

At  tiiia  moment  Theo  flashed  a  glance 
at  hor  grandmother,  by  which  John  was 
really  startled ;  and  perhaps  he  began  to 
wish  that  Helen  had  never  sent  him  on 
this  errand  of  kindness  and  hospitality. 
It  seemed  as  if  there  were  some  family 
likeness  between  these  ladies,  after  alL 
But  then  Theo's  pale,  beautifol  face  was 


tamed  to  him  again,  asd  her  eyes,  which 
IukI  just  been  so  angry,  were  fall  of  sad 
sweetness  as  she  said  : 

It  is  very  kind  of  you  and  Helen  to 
want  me  to  come,  I  like  to  come  ex- 
tremely, and  I  will  be  sure  to  meet  yon  at 
the  station  to-morrow.  Two  o'clock,  did 
you  say  t " 

"  Two  o'clock — ^yes,"  sud  John ;  and 
then  he  thought  that  he  might  go,  and 
stood  up,  looking  down  with  stutdy  cooi- 
nen  into  Lady  Beddifi's  small,  pinched, 
malieiondy-imiliog  face.  "No,"  he  said, 
"  my  country  is  not  very  ^y,  though 
there  are  plenty  of  people  m  it  We  have 
life,  but  not  society,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Well,  life  is  a  very  good  thing.  E.em 
in  London   we   have  death,"  said   Lady 


John  hastily  wished  them  good-bye,  and 
wenb  He  squeesed  Theos  band,  and 
looked  straight  into  her  eyeo,  saying : 
"  To-morrow."  As  he  walked  down  tAe 
street,  he  said  to  himself:  "Poor  gbl, 
poor  girl  I  What  an  awful,  horrible  old 
woman  1 " 

"  A  very  fine  specimen  of  a  potter,"  said 
Lady  Bedctiff,  tiding  Theo's  arm  to  go 
upstairs. "  How  fat  he  is,  and  how  brilliantly 
agreeable  1  Beally,  my  dear,  I  envy  you  a 
few  weeks  with  him." 

"  He  is  very  nice,  grandmamma,  and 
there  was  no  reason  for  yon  to  be  so*  dread- 
ful to  him.  He  is  a  good,  kind  fellow, 
and  I  know  I  shall  like  him  very  much." 

"  He  is  more  amusing  than  Hugh  North, 
because  he  shows  his  outnged  feelings-y-a 
child  of  nature,  in  fact,"  said  Lady  B«adi£ 
"  Bat  I  thought  I  was  charming  to  him.  I 
certainly  felt  very  much  pleased  with  him 
for  taking  you  away,  and  I  said  nothing 
but  the  truth  about  you.  Yoa  are  tiie 
most  dreamy,  the  moat  lackadaisical,  die 
most  easily  bored  person,  with  Urn  most 
ungovemed  temper,  that  I  ever  knew  in 
my  life.  Except  myself,  as  I  said.  I  wss 
just  like  you  when  I  was  yoting." 

"  Were  you,  grandmammat  '  sud  Theo, 
startled. 

"Ask  any  of  the  people  who  used  to 
know  me,"  said  Lady  Bedoliff  triam{dianQy. 


Ifow  PublUhlug,  prlM  ad., 

THE    EXTRA    SPRING    NUMBER 
ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND, 


The  Bi^  of  Trantiating  Article*  frotn  ALL  the  VkAE  Roobd  it  reterved  6y  M«  Autkort. 


COJiOitQTEDBY 

cmazs  mems 


No.804.NEwSBRiEaB         SATURDAY,  APEJL  26,  188J. 


A   DRAWN   GAME. 


CHAPTER  XXX!.      THE  WILL. 

Mb.  Tuck  bad  been  taken  ill  in  his  bed- 
room, wbicb  he  seldom  left  now,  and  seldom 
«Uowed  Mn.  Tack  to  leava  Hotrever,  abe 
took  adTantage  of  a  moment  when  he  was 
composed  and  aeemed  aaleep,  to  steal  out 
of  tlie  room  with  the  newspaper. 

She  foundlda  alone  in  the  breakfast-room. 

'*  Has  the  man  gone  for  the  doctor,  dear  t " 

"  Yes ;  he  vent  at  once.  la  he  verr  iU, 
Mra.Tackr' 

"  Very — I  don't  think  he  can  get  over  it 
Ida  dear,  it  was  some  scandal  ahont  your 
ootuiiL" 

"About — about  Archie!"  gasped  Ida, 
growing  white  as  death. 

•'  Y^  dear ;  I  thooght  I'd  better  tell 
yon  myself,  as  yon  were  snre  to  hear  of  it 
soon  from  some  one." 

Ida  Hank  into  a  chair  uid  looked  np 
wild  and  scared,  vith  a  piteooa  appeal  for 
mercy  in  her  faoe.  Mrs.  Tack,  thOneti  Bba 
read  her  love  for  Archie  in  the  loot,  was 
00  mored  by  its  nuaery  that  she  impnlaively 
began  to  discredit  the  report,  which  the  lutd 
meant  to  quote  as  indiepatable. 

"My  dear  child,  it's  only  a  report  in 
that  UMnunable  poachers'  paper,  and  it's 
as  likely  as  not  to  be  a  pnre  inventioa. 
It's  perfectly  disgraceful  that  these  news- 
papers shoiUd  be  allowed  to  scatter  such 
scandals  about  They  might  as  well  fling 
dynamite  into  a  house." 

"Is  that  the  paper t"  asked  Ida  in  a 
Toioe  that  trembled  and  faltered. 

"  Yes,  dear ;  I  was  going  to  put  it  into  the 
I  fir&  It'snotfikreadingforyouoranyone." 
■  "  Was  it  about  tiiat— that  case  you  were 
taking  of  yesterday,  Mrs.  Tuck  I " 


"Why,  yon  had  heard  the  report 
already  I"  cried  Mrs.  Tuck  in  amazement. 

"  No ;  I  hadn't  beard  it.  Please  send 
the  paper  to  Mrs.  Pybos,  and  I  shall  write 
and  explain." 

"  It's  not  a  paper  to  send  to  any  decent 
house,"  said  Mrs.  Tuck  doubtfully. 

For,  suppose  the  report  really  were  un- 
true, and  could  be  proved  untrue  to  Mr. 
Tuck's  satisfaction,  and  before  he  had  made 
his  Willi 

Please  send  it,"  repeated  Ida  entreat- 
inglyj  "they  ought  to  know  of  it  to 
contradict  it." 

But  there  was  little  hope  of  contradic- 
tion in  her  tona 

"  Well,  my  dear.  111  send  it,  if  yon  wish, 
and  if  you'll  write  to  explain." 

"I'll  write — I'll  write  at  once,"  rising, 
toth  a  longing  to  be  alone. 

Mrs.  Tuck,  underitanding  this,  said  as 
she  stooped  to  kiss  her  : 

"Do,  dear;  you  can  say  that  though 
it's  a  scoiriloufi  little  paper,  which  lives  on 
lies,  it  would  be  as  well  to  contradict  the 
report  at  once,  as  it  may  get  into  respect- 
able papers,  and  as  it  has  so  shocked  and 
distreBsed  Mr.  Tuck  that  he  is  dangerously 
ill." 

After  Ida  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Tnck  stood 
with  knitted  brows  wondering  how  Ida 
came  to  guess  that  the  report  referred  to 
the  Bcuiaal  of  which  hers^  and  Dick  had 
talked  together  yesterday  morning. 

"She  must  have  heard  something  about 
it  when  she  was  staying  there ;  and,  if  so, 
it's  true,"  she  concluded  complacently. 
Then,  to  justify  her  complacency,  she 
added  :  "  And,  if  true,  it's  best  she  should 
know  it,  and  be  cured  of  her  foolish  fancy 
for  so  worthless  a  scamp." 

At  this  point  of  her  meditations  she  was 
summoned  hastily  to  attend  Mr.  Tuck,  who 
had  just  missed  her  from  his  bedsida 

mr' ma. '^'^  ssivrtr     m,-  ■■   -^u    fU 


530     Uprti  M.  IB 


ALL  THE  YEAB  ROUND. 


"  Why  did  TOQ  leare  me  t  "  he  asked  in 
a  tone  of  chiidish  qaernlDiuneaB. 

"  I  weut  to  mute  eure  tiie  mac  had 
gone  at  once  for  the  doctor,  dear." 

"You — you  think  me  very  ill  I"  he 
aaked  with  frightened  eyes  fixed  eagerly 
on  her  face ;  for,  generally  apeaking,  Mia. 
Tuck  made  Ught  of  his  attacks.  But  tutw. 
she  not  only  tbon^t  him  rery  ill,  bit 
thou^t  It  well  thatne  should  think  so. 

"  Now,  James  dear,  you  mustn't  worry 
you  know  it's  Ute  worst  thing  for  yoa" 

"Do  I  look  very  ill)  Fetch  me  the 
^Jasa."  This  was  a  constant  request  of  his 
m  his  iUnesees,  real  or  imagined,  and  she 
knew  he  wouldn't  be  pacified  till  she  had 
brooght  the  ^aas  to  uaa,  "THum'a  that 
liTidlookl"  in  a  terrified  voice,  alluding  to 
a  symptom  once  mentioned  by  his  doctor. 

"  There,  dear,  lie  down.  You're  flashed 
and  excited  by  that  report" 

He  took  another  longlookathis&ce  before 
he  would  allow  her  to  replace  the  glasB,  and 
then  lay  back  with  a  groan  upon  we  pillow. 

"And  the  papHe  are  mlated.  Don't 
they  look  to  you  dilated  1 " 

"It's  the  darkened  room,  that's  alL" 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  he  spread  that 
report  that  I  was  going  to  die  1 

"What" 

"  The  doctor." 

"  The  doctor  I  Of  coone  not.  It  was 
probably  that  young  Guard,  who  wanted, 
as  your  heir,  to  borrow  money  for  his 
debaucheries.  He  would  get  it  on  easier 
terms  if  it  was  thought  he  was  coming 
into  the  property  at  once." 

"Coming  in  for  the  property!"  raising 
himself  suddenly,  in  the  strength  of  his 
excitement,  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  then 
sinking  feebly  back  npon  the  pillow.    ' 

"  Well,  bnt,  Jamea,  he  Is  coming  in  for 
It;  and,  of  couiae,  he  knows  it,  and  everyone 
knows  it  If  yon  died  to-morrow  he  could 
turn  us  out,  and  would,  too,  at  once." 
■  "You  think  Fm  dying  1"  ttiming  a 
sharp,  eager,  haggard  look  upon  her. 

"  I  dont  thins  you're  dying,  dear ;  bat 
you're  In  a  very  weak  and  nervous  state, 
and  need  to  hare  your  mind  quite  free 
Irom  excitement  and  anxiety.  I  believe 
you  would  be  better  if  your  iffaiis  were 
settled.  You  wouldn't  then  be  worried  by 
the  fear  of  this  dissolute  nephew  of  yours 
squandering  away  the  property." 

ttie.  Tuck,  who  knew  her  husband  by 
heart,  plidnly  thought  he  would  be'  moved 
to  make  his  will  much  more  by  his  dl^nst 
and  dread  of  lus  nephew  than  by  his  love 
for  herself  or  Ida.  1 


At  the  moment,  however,  lb.  Tuck  had 
no  room  In  his  mind  for  either  motive.  It 
was  plain  that  his  wife,  who  usually  made 
light  of  his  attaoks,  now  thonght  him  very 
ill  indeed,  and  his  anxiety  as  to  who  was 
to  succeed  him  was  nothtne  to  his  anxie^ 
about  his  being  so  soon  to  be  succeeded. 

Whan,  in  the  French  apolt^ue,  the  oook 
oonsnhs  the  ponltiy  abont  the  kind  of 
sauce  they  would  prmr  to  be  toten  with, 
his  counsellors  cackle  unanimously  that 
they  don't  want  to  be  eaten  at  all — which 
is  declared  to  be  beside  the  question. 
Similarly,  it  was  too  much  to  ei^Mct 
Mr.  Tack  to  be  Interested  about  how  he  Waa 
to  be  devoured,  when  the  mere  fact  of  his 
bong  abo«t  to  be  devoured  at  all  ms  of 
such  absorbing  importance  to  him. 

Disregarding,  therefore,  Mrs.  Tack's 
hinte  to  settle  ols  affsiiB  (which  in  truthhe 
had  hardly  heard),  he  said : 

"  I  think  I  had  better  have  advice  from 
London.     What  do  you  think  1 " 

"  We  can  ask  Dr.  Kirk  if  he  thinks  it 
necessary,"  she  answered,  a  little  out  of 
patience. 

"  I  don't  IJiink  EIrk  quite  understands 
my  casa" 

"  I  eoold  telegraph  for  Dr.  Bainsfimi 
from  Ryecote,  u  Dr.  Kirik  eonsenta  to 
meet  bun.' 

"  What's  KfrVa  consent  to  do  with  it ! " 

"  It's  the  etiqaette  of  the  professioQ,  dear. 
But  111  telwraph  at  once,  if  you  l^e,  as 
I  know  Dr.  Kirk  won't  be  offended." 

I  think  I  ought  to  get  other  advice  1 " 
interrogatively  and  irreeolntely,  not  nih 
mindfnT  of  the  expense. 

Well,  dear,  I  can  telegraph;"  then,  as 
she  reached  the  door,  she  turned  to  add,  as  an 
sf ter-thought :  "  I  may  as  well  telegia^ 
at  the  same  time  for  Mr.  Meade,  James." 

Mr.  Meade  was  liis  solictor. 

"  Meade  1    What  fort" 

"  We  must  have  the  report  tibat  you've 
adopted  tills  young  Guard  ocmtradioted 
before  it  gete  into  the  London  piqMn.  It 
will  get  £to  them,  if  we  don't,  for  th^  all 
gpt  hold  of  that  wretdted  girl's  story.* 

"But " 

"  Now,  James,  I  redly  cannot  have  yoa 
upset  ag^In  to-morrow,  as  yon  ware  tUs 
morning.  Another  shock  of  that  land 
might  M  fatal  You  can  tell  Mr.  Meade 
how  you  mean  to  diqtose  of  your  property, 
and  he  can  then  give  aa  authoritative  oon- 
tradiotioti  to  that  di^racefnl  repeal'  No, 
no,"  as  Mr.  Tack  was  again  about  to 
^eak;  "no,  na  You  may  not  oare  about 
appearing  in  evny  newE^kprn  In  EngUnd 


A  DRAWN  QAMK 


(Apfll  W,  U84.       631 


SB  diegracefnUy  connected  with  this  tbomin- 
able  scandal;  bat  I  do,  and  I  mean  to 
stop  it  in  the  only  way  in  whioh  it  can  be 
stopped  effectually." 

Of  coone  no  one  knew  better  than  Mrs. 
Tack  that  in  all  England  yoa  coold  hardly 
find  a  nun  more  mwUdly  BenutiTe  to  public 
criticiBni  than  her  husband. 

He  was  dienced  by  the  horrible  picture 
•he  conjored  np  before  him.  But,  even  if 
ha  hadn't  been  ulenced,  he  must  perforce 
have  been  silent,  once  Mrs.  Tack  had 
discreetly  bnrried  from  the  room. 

Before  she  could  send  the  telegrams,  Dr. 
Kirk  appeared.  After  answeriiu;  the  nsoal 
greetings  and  enqniries  abont  the  patient, 
Mra  Tuck  said  pleasantly  ; 

"  He's  BO  nervooa,  doctor,  that  I  know 
yonll  not  be  offended  by  his  wish  to  have 
other  advice.  Some  doctors  seem  to  regard 
their  patients  as  preasrves,  where  no  one 
has  a  right  to  kill  bat  themselves.  But 
yon  can  well  afford  to  be  generous,  for  yoa 
know  Dor  confidence  in  you.  It's  not  shaken 
in  the  least,  I  assure  yoa;  bathe's  so  nervoaa 
from  a  shock  he  had  this  morning  that  he's 
not  quite  himself.  Yoa  saw  the  atoiy  about 
that  sirl  who  tried  to  commit  suicide ) " 

"  Miss  Bompos  1 " 

"  Yes.  Well,  a  paragraph  appeared  in 
that  vile  Sadical  Ryecote  paper  this  morn- 
ing saying  that  Mr,  Tail's  nephew  and 
adopted  heir  was  her  betrayer.  Yon  can 
fancy  the  effect  it  hod  upon  him.  It  has, 
of  course,  made  him  most  anxious  to  settle 
his  afTairs  at  once,  and  I  was  joat  going  to 
telegraph  for  Mr.  Meade  to  take  instruc- 
tions about  his  wiU.  I  was  at  first  afraid 
that  the  excitement  might  npeet  him,  bat 
on  the  whole  I  thonght  ne  would  be  better 
if  he  had  this  anxieW  off  his  mind  once  for 
•IL     Don't  yon  think  so  t " 

"Certiunly,Mrs.  Tuck — moat  ceortainly.  I 
hare  always  thought  so,  and  always  said  so, 
yoa  will  remember."  Which  he  had,  times 
without  number — at  Mrs.  Tuck's  suggestion. 

"And  diere's  another  thing,  doctor. 
After  his  affairs  are  settled,  Mr.  Meade  can 
traly  and  authoritatively  contradict  the 
report  before  it  goes  farther.  If  it  once  got 
into  the  London  papers  it  wonld  kill  him." 

"So  it  might — so  it  might,  indeed,' 
murmured  iha  doctor,  noddmg  sagely,  a 
though  there  were  a  good  deal  in  that. 

"Then,  doctor,  you  will  reassure  him 
^t  the  excitement  of  giving  instructions 
abont  his  will  can't  be  aa  bu  for  him  as 
all  this  worry  and  anxiety,  and  the  fear  to 
open  a  newspaper  lest  he  shoold  find  him- 
self fribbeted  in  it.'' 


Ill  do  what  I  can,  Mrs.  Tuck— whal 
I  can.     And  about  this  other  advice  I  " 

"  He  might  have  it,  aa  a  matter  of  form,  ij 
it  made  his  mind  easier,  don't  you  think  t ' 
"  It's  as  you  think,  Mrs.  Tack." 
As  I  think  I      I    think   he  cooldn'i 

Cibly  be  in  better  hand&  But  if  ht 
a  fancy  for  a  second  doctor,  it's  best  tc 
homour  huu,  isn't  it  t  A  bread-pill  maj 
work  wonders  if  it's  gilded  and  expensive 
and  taken  with  futh. 

And  who's  the  bread-pill  in  this  case 
Mrs.  Tuck  ! "  he  asked,  laoghing  uneasilj 
between  the  fear  that  it  migat  be  a  Kings 
ford  rival  and  the  hope  that  it  might  be  i 
London  celebrity. 

"  It's  for  you  to  prescribe  it,  doctor.  1 
think  I  have  he^  you  say  that  Dr 
Rainsford,  of  Ryecote,  was  a  clever  man  t ' 

"  He  stands  first  among  our  local  prac 
titioners." 

Mrs.  Tack,  however,  disr^arding  the  hin 
to  hare  in  London  advice,  replied  promptly 

"  Then  perhaps  you  woold  be  kinc 
enough  to  arrange  for  a  consoltation  witl 
him,  doctor  1 " 

Dr.  Kirk,  having  thus  got  plun,  thougl 
implicit  instructions — made  up  in  "  thi 
gQded  pill "  manner — went  upstairs  to  thi 
Atient  to  carrr  tiiem  oat  Not  having 
lowever,  Mrs.  'Tuck's  art  of  putting  things 
he  contrived  to  produce  the  reverse  effec 
of  that  intended  by  bis  prompter. 

After  examining  and  croes-exaDunin) 
the  patient  in  the  predae  way  and  word 
used  a  hundred  times  before,  he  put  oi 
an  ur  of  ominous  eolemnity,  and  informot 
Mr.  Tuck  that  he  must  have  had  somi 
shook  that  morning — bad  news,  perhaps ! 

Mr.  Tuck,  astonished  by  his  sagacity 
admitted  that  he  had  been  so  shocked,  ant 
ex^ained  how. 

Then  the  doctor  informed  him,  with  thi 
delicacy  of  a  judge  assaming  the  blaci 
cap,  that  such  another  shock  would  b 
&tal,  and  that  he  must  avoid  agitation  o 
aU  lands  at  all  risks.  He  then  proceedei 
to  explain  that  he  meant  by  "  such  anothe 
shock"  a  repetition  of  the  scandalou 
report  in  other  papers,  which  might  b 
prevented  by  an  authoritative  announce 
ment  that  he  had  settled  his  affairs  ver 
differently  from  the  "Ryecote  Righte  o 
Man  "  version  of  his  will. 

Not  one  word  of  this  clumsy  ei^ilana 
tion  did  Mr.  Tuck  heed,  or  even  heu.  H 
was  absorbed  by  the  horror  of  th 
announcement  that  the  slightest  agitatioi 
in  his  present  state  would  be  fatal  H 
lav  still,  fearful  oven  of  moving,  lookim 


632      (Aprfl!fl,18M.) 


ALL  THE  YEAE  ROUND. 


np  into  the  doctor's  face  with  the  be- 
wildered expression  of  one  who  only  b&lf 
realises  the  horrors  be  hears, 

"  Do  you  mean  it's  my  only  chaoce- 
absolute  quiet  t "  be  gasped  at  length. 

"  Freedom  from  agitation,  my  dear  sir- 
freedom  from  agitation."        ^ 

"  Bat  it  is  a  chance ;  I  may  get  better  if 
I'm  not  worried  1 " 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt  What  yon  want, 
my  deal  sir,  is  not  medicine,  bat  freedom 
from  anxiet^  and  excitement" 

After  pondering  a  little  upon  tbis,  Mr, 
Tack  made  a  most  unexpected  application 
of  the  advica. 

"  Doctor,  might  I  ask  you  to  see  Mrs. 
Tuck  at  once,  and  prevent  her  telegraphing 
for  Mr.  Meade!'' 

"  Bat,  my  dear  sir " 

"  Pray  see  her  at  once,  or  she  will  have 
sent  the  telegram,"  he  cried  excitedly. 

"  I  think,  Mr,  Tuck — I  think,  my  dear 

Here  Mr.  Tuck  in  his  excitement  rused 
himself  ou  his  elbow  to  reach  the  bell-rope. 

"  There,  there,  let  me  assist  yoo,  my  dear 
tir.  So,"  for  Mr.  Tuck  would  have  &lleD 
Feebly  back  but  for  the  doctor's  support 

"  Will  yon " 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  sir,  I'm  going ;  pray 
lon't  excite  yourself." 

And  the  unfortunate  doctor  had  to 
^am  to  announce  to  Mrs.  Tack,   as  the 
result  of  his  mission,  that  he  had  ^oroughly 
irightened  her  husband,  not  into,  but  out  of 
ill  thought  of  making  his  wilL 

"  He  desires  me  to  ask  you  not  to  tele- 
graph for  Mr.  Meade." 

"  Not  to  telegraph  for  him  !  BatI  have. 
Didn't  yon  explain  to  him,  doctor,  that  it's  the 
miy  way  to  stop  this  abominable  report  t " 

"  I  tried,  my  dear  madam,  but  he  mis- 
inderstood  me  a  little,  and  thought  I  had 
brbidden  any  kind  of  agitation." 

"  I  think,  then,  you  had  better  explain 
rourself  a  little  more  clearly,  doctor,  and 
irepare  him  for  Mr.  Meade's  visit,"  said 
^n.  Tuck  with  evident  annoyance. 

"  I'll  try,  madam,  I'll  try ;  but  I  am 
afraid -" 

"I  really  can't  imagine  how  you've  con- 
rived  to  upset  him  so,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
ruck  with  growing  petulance.  "  Before 
'OU  saw  him  he  quite  agreed  with  me  that 
dr.  Moade  should  be  sent  for  at  once." 

"It  was  a  mere  misunderstanding,  Mrs. 
[hick,  I  assure  you." 

"  Then  pray  set  it  right,"  snappishly. 

Thus  the  unhappy  doctor  had  to  return  on 
he  forlorn  hope  of  persuadmg  Mr.  Tuck  tluit 


to  make  his  will  at  once  would  have  a  seda- 
tive effect  upon  his  nervous  horror  of  death.- 

"  Mrs.  Tuck  had  already  telegraphed  for 
Mr.  Meade,  my  dear  sir,  by  my  advice,"  ha 
blurted  out  nervously ;  adding,  in  answer 
to  Mr.  Tuck's  look  of  bewilderment :  "  I 
thought  if  your  aSairs  were  settled " 

"  I'm  dying  i "  clutching  feebly  at  the 
doctor's  sleeve, 

"  I  hope  not — I  think  not,  my  dear  ur.  I 
am  sure  you  would  soon  be  bettw  if  your 
will  were  made,  and  all  anxiety  aboot  a  pro- 
vision for  Mrs.  Tuck  were  off  yoor  mind." 

"It's  not  on  my  mind  at  all,"  he 
answered  fretfblly,  a  shrewd  suspicion 
occurring  to  him  that  his  wife  had  insU- 
gated  the  doctor  to  worry  him  into  making 
nis  wilL 

His  will  once  made,  it  would  be  bar 
interest  that  he  should  die ;  whereas,  if  he 
gave  her  distinctly  to  understand  that  the 
making  of  bis  wUl  was  contingent  on  his 
recovery,  she  and  the  doctor  would  do  all 
Uiey  could  to  keep  him  alive.  Tet  nothing 
cotud  have  exceeded  the  unwearying,  on- 
murmuring,  unremittit^  attention  of  Mrs. 
Tuck  to  him  np  to  this. 

"  And  there  is  that  report^"  feebly  per- 
sisted the  baffled  doctor,  "  that  report 
about  your  nephew  being  yoor  adopted 
heir.  If  your  will  were  made  it  could  be 
contradicted  by  Mr.  Meade." 

This  feeble  plea  left  no  doubt  at  all  in 
Mr.  Tuck's  mind  that  the  doctor  had  got 
tnstmetions  from  Mrs.  Tuck,  not  only  as  to 
terrifying  him,  bat  as  to  the  very  mode  of 
terrimng  him,  into  making  his  wiU. 

"Why  shouldn't  Meade  contradict  it 
without  my  being  worried  in  this  way  t  " 
he  cried  with  extreme  irritability.  "  You 
say  the  least  agitation  may  be  fotal,  and 
yet  yon  want  to  worry  me  with  lawyers 
and  business." 

A  shock,  my  dear  sir ;  I  only  sud  a 

sudden  shock  like " 

As  I'm  so  ill  I  think  I  should  have 
other  advice,  if  you  don't  object" 

Certainly,  Mr.  Tuck,  if  you  wish  it," 
replied  the  doctor  stiffly.  "  Mrs.  Tuck 
suggested  a  consultation  with  Dr.  Runa- 
fopj,  of  Ryecote," 

"I  should  like  advice  from  London," 
said  Mr.  Tuck  with  unusual  decision  in  fats 
voice.  He  preferred  a  doctor  of  faia  own 
choosing  to  one  suggested  by  Mrs.  Tuck, 
who  would  probablybe  coached  up  by  her 

Dr.  Kirk  evidently  had  been. 

"  lliat  would  be  much  the  best,  my  dear 
sir,"  said  the  doctor  eageriy  with  restored 
good  humour.     "  There's  Dr.  Darcy,  he's 


ChBlH  nckecL] 


A  DRAWN  GAME. 


[April  te,  IBM.]    53^ 


a  spedaliBt  in  nervoos  diaordere ;  I  sbonld 
decidedly  recommend  him." 

Mr.  Tack,  haring  thought  over  this  for 
a  little,  aaked,  with  a  relapie  Into  his 
feableneBa  and  irreaolation : 

"What  vonld  his  fee  profiably  be, 
doctor  t " 

"  I  ehonld  uy ,  certainly  not  more  than  a 
hundred  guineas  at  the  oataide,  my  dear  air," 

Mr.  Tnck  almost  groaned. 

"If  I'm  not  better  to-morrotr,  I  will 
think  about  it,"  he  said  plaintively. 

The  doctor,  leaving  him  toon  ^ter,  had 
to  report  his  faUure  to  Mrs.  Tack,  who, 
being  better  prepared  for  it  now,  had  the 
sense  and  self-command  to  conceal  her 
irritation.  She  didn't  express  it  even  to 
Mr.  Tuck  wlum  she  rejoined  him. 

"Fre  telegraphed  for  a  nurse,  James, 
«8  Martha  ijs  quite  worn  out,"  she  said; 
but  made  no  allusioQ  to  her  telegraph- 
ing for  Mr,  Meade.  Nor  did  Mr.  Tuck 
Fearfitl  of  the  least  discomposure,  ha  was 
not  likely  to  meet  a  quarrel  halfway. 

Mr.  Meade,'  who  was  away  when  the 
telegram  reached  his  ofSce,  did  not  turn  up 
at  The  Keep  until  late  in  the  evening,  which, 
as  Mrs.  Tuck  informed  him,  was  unforta- 
nate,  since  her  poor  dear  husband  was  hardly 
now  in  a  state  to  attend  to  busiaeas. 

However,  she  could  tell  Mr.  Meade  his 
wishes  as  to  the  disposal  of  his  property, 
which  Mr.  Meade  might  pat  into  dae  le^l 
form,  leaving  Mr.  Tack  the  mere  tronble  of 
hearing  the  will  read  over  and  of  signins 
it  Then  Mrs;  Tack  dictated  a  will  which 
left  everything  to  Ida,  with  the  exception 
of  a  really  moderate  provision  for  herself. 

While  Mr.  Meade  was  draughting  this, 
Mra  Tack  returned  to  prepare  her  poor 
dear  husband  to  sign  it 

"Mr.  Meade  has  come,  James." 

"  I  shall  not  see  him.  I've  not  sent  for 
him.  Yon  want  to  worry  me  to  death, 
but  my  death  won't  benefit  yon,"  he  cried 
in  an  outburst  of  unexpected  anger,  which 
had  been  brewing  all  day. 

"  Tour  death  woold  benefit  me,  since  I 
would,  I  believe,  come  in  for  a  third  of 
your  property;  but  I  don't  want  more  than 
that,  or  as  motJi  as  that.  I  want  yon  to  make 
some  provision  for  Ida,  that  is  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Tuck,  with  a  cutting  kind  of  coolness 
which  cowed  and  somewhat  abashed  him. 

"  I'm  not  fit  to  attend  to  business  ;  you 
knowveryweUI'mnpL  The  doctor  said  the 
least  agitation  or  exertion  might  be  fatal" 

"  Yoa've  only  to  hear  the  will  read  and 
sign  it,  if  you  approve  of  it  I've  told  Mr. 
Meads  wlut  your  wishes  were,  as  you've 


expressed  them  again  and  again  to  me ; 
and  he  has  vrritten  them  oat,  and  will  read 
them  over  to  you,  and  yon  need  do 
nothing  bat  sign  it" 

"  Let  him  leave  it  I  sha'n't  see  him  ; 
I  won't  see  him.  I  shall  sign  it  when  I 
get  better.  I  promise  yon,  if  I  get  better, 
to  sign  it,"  to  give  her  distinctly  to  nn- 
derstand  that  her  interests  were  rather  on 
the  side  of  his  life  than  of  his  death — a 
piece  of  crafty  diplomacy  which  had  been 
much  in  his  mind  all  day. 

"But  if  yon  don't  get  better,  Ida  will  be 
left  without  a  penny,and  that  nephew,  as  the 
paper  truly  said "  Here  she  was  inter- 
rupted bya  knock  at  the  door.   "Comein." 

"  The  nurse,  please,  ma'am,"  said  the 
servant,  ushering  in  Mrs.  Bompaa. 

Mrs.  Bompas,  having  been  not  un- 
naturally token  for  the  expected  nurse, 
was  at  once  shown  up,  according  to  Mrs. 
Tuck'i  direction,  to  the  room 

You're  the  nurse  I "  said  Mrs.  Tnek 
donbtfully,  as  Mrs,  Bompas  looked  rather 
of  the  damp  species  than  of  the-new  school 
of  nurses.  Mrs.  Bompas,  who  was  in  a 
highly  sensitive  stage  of  intoxication,  was 
BO  grievously  affronted,  that  her  manner 
changed  in  a  moment  from  deprecating 
serviBty  to  a^ressive  insolence. 

"I  beg  yonr  pardon,  ma'am,  I'm  no 
more  a  nurse  than  yourself,  nor  as  much — 
nor  as  much  now  1 "  facing  Mrs.  Tuck  with 
arms  defiantly  akimba  "  I'm  the  mother 
of  that  poor  girl  who  was  driven  to  drown 
herself  by  your  nephew " 

"  Oh,  you're  the  mother  of  that  creatnre,". 
intermptal  Mrs.  Tuck,  with  a  scorching 
scorn  in  her  voice,  Wfaerenpon  Mrs. 
Bompas,  raising  her  voice  to  a  shtul  scream, 
and  advancing  so  threateningly  to  the  side 
of  the  bed,  that  Mr.  Tnck,  in  his  nervons- 
ness,  really  expected  to  be  shot  or  stabbed, 
ponred  out  a  flood  of  drunken  abase, 
intermingled  with  threats. 

Mrs.  '&ck  rang  the  bell  frantically,  and 
■ant  tor  the  footman  to  have  her  dragged 
ont  of  the  room  and  ont  of  the  house.  Mrs. 
Bompas,  hearing  the  order,  grew  more  and 
more  violent,  shook  her  fist  alternately  in 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tuck's  faces,  defied  any  one 
to  lay  a  finger  upon  her,  and  when  the 
footman  appeared,  made  such  a  vicious  and 
sturdy  roostance,  that  another  footman  had 
to  be  sent  for  before  she  could  be  draped 
out  of  the  room. 

The  shock  of  this  disgastfngand  alamung 
scene  stanped  Mr.  Tuck.  He  lay  quite 
still,  and  seemingly  insensible,  with  eye! 
half  closed,   for  some    hoars   after.     He 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


[OMiAutodby 


seemed  to  drink  mechuuc&llf  tiie  tffaodjT 
fon»d  betireoD  his  lips,  and  to  be  imcoii- 
Bciooa  of  evQiythiug  said  or  done  to  him 
At  last  he  woke  np  snddenly,  ukd  asked 
in  B  clear,  strong  voice,  very  unlike  his 
usual  quaTSring  Kud  queraloos  tons : 

"  Is  aho  gone^that  voman  t " 

"Yes,  dear,  long  ago.  You're  better  nowl" 

"  She  said  he  was  going  to  marry  her 
daughter  t " 

"Yes,  dear.  I  shouldn't  worry  about 
bit',  Jamea" 

"  le  Meade  gone  t " 

"Of  course,  dear.  I  couldn't  think  ot 
troubling  70U  with  boainess  after  suoh  a 
scene. 

"  If  he's  written  that  will  out,  I'll  aigo  it 
— ril  sign  it  now,"  eagerly.  "  I'm  not  goins 
to  die.  It's  not  that.  But  I'll  sign  A  I 
should  feel  better  it  it  was  signed. 

"  Very  well,  dear.  I  ehiul  have  Dick 
and  the  butler  called  l^)  to  witness  it,  and 
meantime  Til  read  it  over  to  you." 

Having  given  orders  for  the  two  wit- 
neases  to  be  called  up,  Mrs.  Tack  read  out 
the  will,  which  he  seemed  to  listen  to  with 
intelligent  attention.  However,  he  made 
no  remark  npon  it,  but  was  childishly 
impatient  for  the  witnessea,  one  of  whom, 
Dick,  was  onctHucionably  slow  in  appear- 
ing. In  fact,  he  fell  asleep  after  the  first 
summons,  and  had  to  be  called  again. 

At  last  he  appeared,  looking  much 
aggrieved. 

"  I  want  you  to  witness  my  will" 

"Very  happy,  I'm  anre,"  murmured 
,Dick  aleapUy. 

"  Let  me  help  you  to  sit  up,  dear,"  aald 
Mrs.  Tnok,  about  to  put  her  arm  around  him. 

"No,  thank  you,  he  said  fretfully,  "I 
can  sit  np  quite  well  by  myaelf,"  so  pio- 
teating  agunat  what  the  wiU  suggested — 
that  he  was  dying.  By  a  violent  effort  he 
got  into  a  sitting  posture,  but  before  Mrs. 
Tuck  could  support  him  with  her  arm,  he 
fell  back  with  a  gasp — dead. 


AEMINIUS  VAMB£rY. 

The  nomad  insUnct  is  strong  in  human 
nature,  and  ought  naturally  to  be  strongest 
amongst  those  Magyars  who,  not  many 
eenturies  ago,  were  a  nation  of  nomads. 
The  marvel,  Uierefore,  la  not  that  Arminius 
Vamb^iv  should  have  been  an  enthusiast 
in  waadering,  hut  that,  beginning  life  as 
he  did,  he  should  have  been  able  to  wander 
to  snob  good  purpose.  For  he  had  abso- 
lutely no  advantages  to  start  with. 


Nobody  could  have  been  more  heavily 
handicapped  for  life's  race.  Hia  tuaHf  wae 
vei7  poor ;  and  hia  father  dying  whoi  be 
was  a  babe,  bis  mother  married  again, 
hoping  the  stc^tber  might  be  helpfhl  in 
hnnging-  up  bar  first  hauband's  orphans. 
She  waa  diaappointed ;  and  the  elder 
children  were  torned  adrift  as  soon  as  they 
were  able  to  do  anything.  Arminiua,  being 
lame,  waa  kept  at  home  till  he  waa  twelve, 
and  so  got  some  achooling,  his  wondaiM 
memory  and  hia  love  of  languages  astonidi- 
ing  his  masters.  He  used  even  to  learn  by 
heart  long  pieces  of  Latin,  of  which  language 
he  aa  yet  knew  nothing ;  but  all  hia  achool 
aptitude  did  not  save  him  from  beinf  ^>- 
prenticed  to  a  ladies'  dressmaker,  a  light 
business  suitable  to  a  lame  lad. 

This,  however,  was  too  mach  for  him. 

When  I  had  got  ao  far,"  he  saya, "  as  to  be 

able  to  stitch  two  bits  of  mouin  together, 

a  feeling  overcame  noe  that  Dame  Fortone 

had  something  better  in  store  for  mei" 

He  ran  away,  and  got  the  village  inn- 
keeper to  take  him  as  boot-cleaner,  sapei^ 
numerary  waiter,  and  tutor  to  his  <Hily  aon. 
This  could  not  have  been  very  pleasant 
work ;  especially  when,  boylike,  be  got 
zealous  about  Ms  pupil's  advancement,  tuid 
the  lad,  older  and  stronger  than  bis  teaohei, 

fave  him  a  good  ^-^'■•^■fipg  He  held  on, 
owever,  till  he  had  saved  the  vaat  sum  of 
eight  flotina,  and  then  he  put  himself  to  tiw 
gymoaaium  of  St.  Qwm,  near  Preesbu^. 
His  life  there  wae  hud  enough.  1& 
tight  florins  he  apent  in  books,  andlived  on 
the  chari^  of  seven  families,  iriio  each  gave 
him  once  a  week  a  dinner,  and  also  a  big 
slice  of  bread  fat  breakftat  and  another  for 
lunch.  For  clothes  he  had  the  caatoff  sutts 
of  the  richer  boys ;  but,  instead  ot  snabUi^ 
or  neglecting  him,  his  pntf eaaon  took  aztia 
pains  with  one  who  had  passed  second  in 
the  head  form  In  Latin,  and  who  sooo 
began  to  talk  lAtin  with  fioertOT.  Before 
long  he  ieamt  all  tiiat  waa  to  be  learned 
at  St.  Gleorge'a,  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen 
moved  to  Preesbu^  and  entued  himself  at 
the  high  school  This  was  a  tash  step.  There 
were  no  kind  faauUea  there  who,  knowing 
all  about  him,  were  willing  to  give  him 
meals.  He  had,  like  some  of  the  tnditional 
Qreek  philosophen,  to  work  half-time  as 
a  servant  that  he  might  go  to  school  the 
other  halt  Then  he  triwl  pupils — "the 
she-cooka,  dumbermaids,  and  other  in- 
dividuals thirsting  for  knowledge."  One 
can  well  believe  that  "ev«y  stone  of  the 
pavement  of  tiiat  beautiful  town  by  the 
blue  Danube,  could  it  bat  speak,  mi^t 


ABMINIUS  VAMB]6eY. 


[April  SSilSH.)      fi3I 


tell  Botae  tale  of  misery  that  I  endiued 
there.  Bnt  youth,"  he  Bays  with  that 
cheeifaliMBa  which  ia  ttie  key  to  all  his 
mocesa,  "ii  able  to  bear  asythitig  and 
erorytluiig."  All  this  time  he  was  oom- 
bimng  hard  work,  sueh  as  would  have  made 
moat  Jacks  rery  doll'  boys  indeed,  with 
abondance  of  play.  His  fare  was  bread 
and  water;  yet  he  grew  np  etnrdy, 
gefdd&g  quite  the  better  of  his  lameness, 
and  was  "  the  life  and  soul  of  all  fan  and 
mischief  in  the  schoolroom,  and  ont  of  ik" 
When  the  holidays  began,  off  he  went, 
wiUiout  a  kreutzer  in  his  pocket,  on  a 
ramble  to  Vienna,  or  Fragae,  or  some  other 
notable  place.  When  he  came  np  mtb. 
A  vaKon  or  carriage  be  wonld  begin  a 
good-nnmonred  talk,  and  so  make  sore  of 
a  lift.  At  night  he  always  made  for  the 
parsonage  of  uie  nearest  village,  uid  began 
to  talk  Latin  to  the  priest  This  ensued 
faim  bed  and  board  and  a  trifle  to  carry 
him  on  his  road,  and, "  by  a  few  neatly- 
tomed  oompliments  to  the  hooaekeepers,  I 
generally  saeceeded  in  having  my  bag 
filled  with  pvvisioiis  for  the  next  day. 
On  this  he  moraUsea  in  his  pecnliar 
EngLiBh,  qnaint  from  the  very  pains  wlui^ 
he  takes  with  it :  "  Truly  pcuiteness  and 
a  cheerAil  disposition  are  preciona  coins 
cnrrenb  in  every  oonntry ;  they  stand  at  a 
high  premium  with  young  and  old,  with 
men  and  women ;  and  he  who  has  ^em  at 
his  disposal  may  very  well  call  himself 
rich,  though  hia  porae  be  empty." 
-  -BeflideB  what  he  learnt  at  school  he  was, 
all  this  time,  teaching  himself.  When  he 
b^an  a  new  langnage  he  was  never 
satiafied  till  be  conld  learn  a  hundred 
words  a  day.  At  sixteen  he  knew  Qreek 
and  Latin,  French,  German,  and  Slav, 
besides  his  native  Magyar;  and  then  he 
at  once  fell  upon  tbe  o^er  branches  of  the 
Aryan  family — the  Snglish,  Danish,  and 
other  Gcermanic  tongues;  the  Baseian, 
Servian,  and  the  rest  of  the  Slavonic 
languages.  '*  It  was  all  vanity,"  he  says. 
"  I  had  no  idea  of  ever  making  use  of  all 
this  knoiriedge,"  He  had  meant  to  be  a 
doctor  or  village  lawyer ;  bnt  he  f  oond  he 
could  master  a  language  ao  easily  and  get 
BO  praised  for  his  [voficiency,  that  he  went 
qoite  out  of  the  groova  By^and-by 
people  got  tired  of  his  aponttngs  of  poetiy 
of  all  nations,  geeticolating  at  the  same 
time  in  the  most  emphatic  manner.  It 
was  whispered  that  he  waa  off  bis  bead, 
and  bis  enthnsiasm  cost  him  lus  place  as 
teacher.  NotJiing  daonted,  he  at  once 
took  np  Turkish,  which  is  as  much  akin  to 


M^ar  as,  say,  Dutch  to  Danish.  H( 
could  not  afford  a  dictionary,  and  ao  had  h 
Uundra  on  through  a  little  aelectioa-bool 
with  literal  trandations  in  Gtennan.  Sc 
slender  waa  his  stock  of  words  that  ht 
sometimes  found  out  he  1^  been  wrong  al 
through  after  be  had  patiently  worknf 
through  a  big  volume. 

At  last,  however,  be  was  able,  being  thes 
in  hia  twentieth  year,  to  read  and  under 
stand  a  abort  Turkish  poem ;  and  then  be 
would  tarry  no  longer,  but,  getting  help — he 
does  not  tell  us  how — from  Baron  Joseph 
Eotvos,  he  started  for  Galacz  with  little 
more  than  a  knapsack  bursting  with  booke. 

A  man  who  can  talk  a  dozen  langnages 
must  always  be  a  somebody  amid  the 
polyglot  crowd  that  £lla  the  deck  of  a 
Lower  Danube  steamer;  and  when  the 
dinner-bell  rang,  one  of  his  admiraiB  was 
pretty  sure  to  get  hold  of  tiie  youthful 
prodigy  and  bring  him  a  ticket  Failing 
this,  ArminiuB  wonld  hang  about  tho 
kitchen  recitdng  Tasso  or  Petrarch — the 
cooks  are  almost  all  Italians— and  thereby 
winning  a  good  plate  of  macaroni,  followed 
by  a  ance  of  meat.  The  "Mille  grazie, 
aignore^"  with  which  this  was  received 
meant,  he  tells  ns  with  perfect  uuvet^ : 
"May  I  come  again  in  the  evening  1" 
"  Come  whenevw  you  like,"  wonld  be  the 
laughing  reply,  and  so  he  lived  well,  at  no 
cost  to  himself,  all  through  the  voyage^ 

After  Galacz  he  devoted  himself  chiefly 
to  Turks,  talking  it^ieneveo'  be  had  the 
chance,  and  watching  with  breathless  at- 
tention their  demeanour  at  prayers,  even 
to  the  motion  of  their  lips  as  they  ^ped 
the  to  th<»n  onintelligible  Arabic  words. 
The  Turks  received  him  very  graciously — 
he  always  has  a  good  word  for  this  much 
abused  people.  They  had  a  notion  that  the 
Magyars  were  ripe  for  conversion  en  masse 
to  Islam,  and  they  fanded  that  this  very  in- 
telligent youth  might  be  the  first  fruits.  He 
had  the  beat  of  it  during  a  storm;  for, 
while  hia  Ottoman  friends  filled  the  brief 
intervals  of  their  sea-sickness  with  appeals 
to  Allah,  he  looked  at  it  cdl  through  a  halo 
of  poetry,  thonght  of  Camoena,  and  Byron, 
and  Tegner's  Fnthjof,  and  talks  of  the  ship 
"  dancing  up  and  down  the  mountain-like 
waves  like  a  nimble  gazelle." 

But,  despite  a  carpet  which  a  Turk  had 
given  him,  he  got  chilled  to  the  bone  with 
the  cold  rain,  and  could  not  walk  about, 
owing  to  the  heap  of  ropee,  arms,  ba^age, 
and  prostrate  forms.  Aft  it  waa  all  clear, 
with  only  one  passenger  parading  in  soli- 
tary grandeur.  "How  to  get  hold  of  him!" 


53lj     (Apt  »,ia«.] 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


[CdBdoatadby 


Anninias  looked,  and,  gueasme  at  hia 
nationality,  began  repealing  the  Henriade. 
The  bait  took;  itwaa  so  "bizaire"  to  bear 
Voltaire's  lines  coming  from  among  a  heap 
of  Turks,  The  firBt-class  passenger  edged 
nearer,  and  soon  began  talking.  He  vaa 
a  Belgian  secretary  of  legation,  apd  the 
young  Hnngarian  found  his  friendship  very 
uaeftd  by-and-by. 

At  Snt  life  was  rather  hsrd  in  the 
Turkish  coital.  Hia  Hnngarian  hat  at- 
tracted an  exiled  compatriot,  who  shared 
with  him  his  one  room.  "  I  cooldn't  sleep," 
says  Vamb^ry,  "  and  all  of  a  sudden  I 
heca.me  aware  that  now  one,  and  again  the 
other  of  my  boots  were  moving  about  by 
themselves."  "  Do  sleep  1 "  groaned  hu 
friend  in  reply  to  his  r^^eatea  qnestion^ 
"  U'b  nothing  bat  rats  playing."  Before 
long  be  got' rather  better  quarters  at  the 
Magyar  (antes')  club.  They  lent  him  the 
tricolonr  for  a  coverlet,  the  secretary 
saying :  "  Friend,  this  flag  has  fired  the 
hearts  of  many ;  wrap  yot^self  ap  in  it ; 
dream  of  glorious  b&tUe-fields;  maybe  it 
will  keep  you  worm  too."  But  aman  must 
eat  as  well  as  sleep,  and  happily  Arminioa 
hod  many  strings  to  his  linguistic  bow. 

He  soon  found  a  German  who  wanted 
to  team  Danish,  and  began  reading  An- 
dersen with  him.  Then  a  rich  young 
Turk  came  to  learn  French,  or  rather  to 
play  at  leaming  it,  and  next  our  Hnngarian 
was  installed  in  the  family  of  Hnsiein 
Daim  Fasha,  as  teacher  of  his  son,  Hassan 
Bey.  It  was  the  very  thing  he  wanted. 
"  Oriental  quiet  and  Turkish  comfort,  the 
dignified  and  patriarchal  air  of  the  whole 
house,"  were  in  striking  contrast  with  hia 
beggarly  quarters  at  Pera,  and  there  was  a 
worthy  old  Anatolian  VekUkhardj  (major- 
domo)  who  taught  the  novice  how  to  sit, 
yawD,  sneeze,  and  carry  his  head  and 
hands  with  propriety.  A  Bagdad  molloh, 
too,  Ahmed  fifiendi,  "  a  man  of  rare  gifts, 
vast  readings  ascetic  life,  and  boundless 
fanaticism,"  took  him  in  hand,  thinking 
that,  as  his  pasha  colled  him  Reshid  (the 
bravely  discreet),  he  must  be  very  near  con- 
version. By  him  he  was  taught  Persian, 
and  gradually  shaped  into  a  thorough 
Asiatic.  Ahmed  had  been  all  through  the 
Crimean  war  as  a  Ghazi  (warrior  zealot), 
fighting  baie-headed  and  baro-footed, 
aTways  to  the  front,  never  laying  down 
Bwoid  and  lance,  save  when,  five  times  a 
day,  he  said  his  prayers. 

No  wonder  such  intercourse  strengUiened 
Vamb6r;'s  boyish  longing  to  see  the  Far 
East ;  and  no  wonder  he>  liked  the  Turks, 


for  in  what  other  European  capital,  in  the 
year  of  grace  1660,  would  an  unknown, 
poverty-stricken  stranger  "  have  won  his 
way,  solely  by  dint  of  his  eagerness  to 
learn,  and  his  willingness  to  teach,  to  Um 
moat  distingmshed  circles  t " 

"  In  the  West  there  are  plenty  of  pro- 
tectors and  patrons,  bat  the  easy  affabmtj 
of  Turks  in  high  poution,  the  utter 
absence  of  all  piide  or  overbearing  anper- 
dliousneas,  are  here  wholly  wanting." 
Yoor  Turk,  whatever  be  his  faults  (and 
tiiey  ore  many),  is  a  practical  believer  in 
that  equality  before  God  of  which  we 
talk  ao  maclL  He  likes  wealth,  because  it 
brings  pleasures ;  but  the  want  of  it  never 
makes  him  think  the  lees  of  a  mui  who 
has  really  something  in  him. 

But  learning  how  to  behave  as  a  Turk, 
and  how  to  t^uk  as  a  Persian,  did  not  fill 
up  all  hia  time.  He  kept  translating  and 
■ending  to  the  Hunganaa  Academy  por- 
tions of  those  voluminous  histories  which 
tiie  Sultans,  who  always  took  a  chronicler 
about  with  them,  have  left  behind.  He 
became  philological,  too,  and  soi^ht,  by 
studying  Eastern  Turkish,  to  get  at  the 
mother-tongue  of  the  Turanian  Magyar; 
and  with  such  success  that  the  gratefisl 
Hungarian  Academy  made  him  a  corre- 
sponding member,  and  offered  him  a  thoa- 
sand  florins  (papw;  only  six  hundred  in 
silver)  to  help  him  on  his  joamey  to 
Central  Asia.  They  also  gave  has  a  grand 
Latin  letter  of  recommendation  to  all 
sultans,  khans,  and  beya,  which  he  pru- 
dently left  behind  in  StMubonl,  and  after 
■pending  six  months  and  nearly  half  his 
six  hundred  florins  in  visiting  shrines, 
interviewing  Bokharist  t»lgrima,  and  othw- 
wise  fitting  himself  to  support  the  cha- 
racter of  a  hadji  (holy  pilgrim),  who, 
havug  done  Meooa  and  the  holy  places  of 
the  West,  was  now  uixionB  to  visit  those  in 
the  Far  East,  he  started,  his  Turkish  friends 
doing  all  they  could  to  dissuade  him,  back- 
ing up  their  picture  of  the  duigwa  of  the 
way  with  the  prayer,  "Allah  akillar"  (Ood 
lend  him  reason).  Of  course,  he  did  not 
confide  his  whole  plan  to  them.  They  got 
him  firmans  for  his  route  through  Torkirii 
territory,  and  private  recommendations  to 
the  Turkish  embassy  at  Teheran ;  and  that 
far,  at  any  rate,  he  was  to  trav^  in  state 
as  Keshid  ES'endL  His  EfTendiship  stood 
him  in  good  stead,  enabling  him  to  nighten 
off  the  Kurds  who  were  hungering  to  spoil 
his  Armeuian  fellow-travellers.  Mach  as 
he  likes  the  Turks,  he  never  blinks  Uie 
fact  that  their  provincuJ  government  is 


ARMINIUS  VAMBEEY. 


(Ai>usa,ias4.)    537 


horriblck  .  In  an  Armeman  Tillage  he 
asked :  "  Why  don't  yon  get  he]p  from  the 
GoTfli^or  of  Erzeiontn  t ''  "  Because  he's 
at  l^e  head  of  the  robbers.  Qod  alone, 
and  his  representative  on  eaith,  the  Biusiau 
Tzar,.canhelp  na."  And  suoh  a  Knsaopbobe 
as  Vamb^ry  would  not  have  added,  "The 
poor  people  were  certainly  right  in  this," 
had  be  been  able  anyhow  to- persuade  him- 
self that  tbey  vere  wrong. 

Persia,  with  its  bazaars  foil  of  all  the 
Tatied  throng  of  Eastern  life ;  ite  people, 
80  polished  on  the  sorfac^  yet  so  savage 
below;  its  rains;  its  mystery-playi,  at 
which  the  spectators  change  in  a  moment 
from  loud  laughter  to  weeping  and  beating 
their  breasts;  delighted  lum  inunensely. 
He  saw  IspaJian,  now  sadly  decayed,  the 
hoge  meidan,  where  Shah  Abbaa  used  to 
review  his  troops,  empty,  yet  the  popn- 
bUion  cultured,  "the  shoemakers,  taUora, 
and  little  shopkeepers  knowing  by  heart 
huadreds  of  verses  of  their  bast  poets." 
What  a  strange  thing  for  one  who  had 
narrowly  esGap«d  being  a  mau-mOliner  at 
Freasbui^  to  be  going  about  capping  lines 
of  Saadi  and  Hafiz  with  tradesmen  at 
Ispahan  and  Shiraz  I  At  this  latter  place  he 
h^f  threw  off  the  Tark,  finding  a  Swedish 
physician,  whom  be  at  first  myatified  by 
coming  to  him  as  a  mollah  sent  for  his 
conTereion.  "I  know  what  that  means, 
good  mollah,"  said  the  Swede,  offering  him 
a  few  piastres ;  and  on  their  being  mdig- 
nantly  refused,  he  added :  "Well,  I  can't 
afii:»d  any  mote.  Yon  are  harder  to  satisfy 
than  most  of  your  sort"  This  led  to  an 
explanation,  and  to  a  close  three  months' 
fiiendship,  daring  which  Shiniz  suffered 
severely  ^m  an  earthquake,  and  its  wine- 
bibbing,  excitable  mob,  thinking  Heaven 
was  angry  with  them  for  letting  infidek 
live  in  their  midst,  came  very  near  tearing 
down  the  Swede's  bouse  and  killing  its 
inmatea  It  is  notable,  by  the  way,  that, 
just  as  an  Eogliahman  in  one  part  of 
Germany  is  often  taken  for  a  German  of 
another  part,  but  never  sncceeda  in 
escaping  detection  in  the  most  rural  part 
of  Northern  France,  so,  while  Vamb6ry 
easily  passed  himself  off  as  a  Turk  among 
Turcomaos  and  Tartars,  the  sharp-sighted 
Persian  villagers  were  idways  finding  him 
out.  They  never  betrayed  him,  though, 
"for,  such  is  their  Shi-ite  hatred  of  the 
Sunnite  Central  Asians  that  nothing 
pleases  them  more  than  to  see  tbem 
imposed  upoa"  No  wonder  they  hate  the 
Sunnite  faith,  for  not  only  do  its  Turco- 
man  vrofessors  barrtr  their  villanes   and  I 


carry  them  into  slavery,  bat  also  they 
desf^y  tiie  grand  remains  at  Persepoli; 
and  elsewhere — for  which  the  modem 
Persian,  though  he  attributes  them  all  to 
Solomon  and  Djemshid,  has  great  reve- 
rence The  Turcoman,  on  the  contrary, 
often  breaks  down  a  grand  column  foi 
the  sake  of  the  few  ounces  of  lead  with 
which  tJie  stones  are  bonded  together. 

After  a  very  pleasant  time  at  the 
Teheran  embassy,  our  traveller  started  in 
good  earnest  as  a  hadjL  He  bad  taken 
caie  to  make  friends  with  all  the  Tartar 
pilgrims  who  passed  throogb  the  city,  and 
90  deeply  impressed  were  tbey  with  his 
kind  attentions — doubly  kind  to  men  who 
were  ill  looked  on  by  the  Shi-ite  natives — 
that  a  rumour  soon  got  about  of  his  being 
a  veritable  dervish  in  disguise.  Hence  be 
was  wannly  welcomed  by  a  band  of  specially 
holy  {and  unsavoury)  Tartar  dervishes 
on  their  way  back  nom  Mecca,  and  the 
hardest  trial  that  befell  him  all  through  was 
to  submit  to  l^e  embraces  of  these  filthy, 
vermin-eaten  stunts. 

The  country  between  Teheran  and  Khiva 
is  in  great  part  desert — not  all  the  dull 
sort  of  desert  we  think  of,  for  those 
primeval  seas  had  their  rocky  borders, 
which  rise  like  a  succession  of  Cheddar 
cliffs  out  of  the  sand,  and  make  part  of  the 
way  very  romantic.  Saints  though  tbey 
were,  our  party  had  more  than  their  share 
of  desert,  owing  to  the  need  of  giving  a 
wide  berth  to  the  Tekke  Turcomans — of 
whom  the  Bussians  have  since  given  a 
good  account — these  people  being  sucb  des- 
peradoes that  the  proverb  says:  "They 
would  sell  the  Prophet  himself  if  they  got 
hold  of  him." 

Wherever  they  went,  the  saints  were  in 
high  repute,  the  blessed  dust  of  Mecca  and 
Medinah  being  supposed  to  cling  to  them, 
and  to  do  those  who  touched  them  almost 
as  much  good  as  if  they  had  made  the 
pilgrimage  themselves.  They  were  never 
in  want  of  such  food  as  the  nomads  had  to 
give.  Good  store  of  everything  filled  their 
scrip,  just  as  it  did  that  of  the  barefooted 
friar  in  the  old  song.  One  khan  at 
Gomuthtepe  had,  alone  and  on  foot,  cap- 
tured three  Persians,  and  driven  them 
eight  miles  into  slavery.  They' were  sold 
while  the  holy  men  were  there,  and  a  tithe 
of  the  price  was  religiously  handed  to  them. 
These  Turcomans  are  not  Mongols. 
One  might  take  them  for  Norsemen,  "  with 
their  manly  forms,  short  riding-coats,  blue 
eyes,  defiant  looks,  and  fair  hair  falling  in 
curls  on  theifshquiderft". 


ALL  THE  YEAB  BOUND. 


It  wu  ttnxioas  work,  in  the  most 
dangerous  parts,  traveUuig  "  in  the  pitchy 
dar£neBB,"  the  camele  being  tied  aoee  uid 
tail  to  preYent  any  breaking  away.  By 
day  they  rested,  partly  because  of  l£e  heat 
(it  was  May),  partly  beeanse  by  day  there 
was  more  fear  of  being  attacked.  In  one 
place  they  came  npon  Bone  rains,  which 
the  Torcomans  believe  to  be  those  of  the 
Kaabs,  which  a  lame  blue  devU  (ancestor 
of  the  Ooklen  tribe)  kept  pulling  down  as 
fast  as  it  was  boilt.  Wherefore  Allah 
moved  it  to  Mecca.  And  ever  since  there 
has  been  bitter  war  between  the  GkrUens 
and  the  rest  of  the  Torcomaos.  Once 
or  twice  they  were  terribly  off  for 
water,  and  once,  indeed,  woold  hare 
perished  had  not  the  kerranbashi  (caravan- 
leader)  come  upon  a  cache  which  he 
had  stored  away  on  a  previous  jonmey. 
Another  time  they  were  half  the  night  in 
a  salt  quaking  bog,  not  daring  to  more  for 
fear  of  getting  swallowed  up.  This  was  un- 
pleasant, for  the  pongent  soda  smell  made 
their  heads  diuy.  Before  they  got  to 
Khiva  the  sand  was  so  hot  that  eren  the 
most  hardened  had  to  fasten  leather  round 
their  feet  AKosaian  army  wliich  crossed 
the  same  place  ten  years  later  found  the 
thennometer  rise  to  one  hundred  and  fifty 
degrees  Fahrenheit  in  the  sun.  Khira, 
with  its  gardens,  and  cnpolas,  and  towers, 
looked  beautiful  after  ttie  weary  desert; 
but  it  was  disquieting  to  hear  that  the 
kb&n  was  sharper  than  ever  upon  strangers 
— had  quite  lately,  with  no  fear  of  EngUnd 
before  his  eyes,  made  a  slave  of  &  Mahome- 
dan  prince  from  India,  who  had  come  there 
on  his  trarels.  Arminius,  however,  was 
not  to  be  daunted.  He  went  in  with  the 
rest,  singing  telkins  (hymns)  as  lustily  as 
if  they  had  been  a  party  of  Salvationists, 
the  people  pressing  round  to  kiss  their  tat- 
tered rags,  offering  them  bread  and  dried 
fruit,  and  greeting  them  with  "Aman 
Bssen  gheldmglm '  ("  Happily  arrived "). 
With  his  knack  of  making  friends  svsry- 
where,  our  trarellei  west  straight  to  one 
Shukrallah  Bey,  who  had  been  ten  years 
embassador  at  Stamboul,  and,  when  asked : 
"  What,  in  Allah's  name,  can  have  made  you 
leare  Slambonl,  that  earthly  Paradise,  to 
come  to  these  wilds  1 "  he  fearlessly  replied, 
"I'madervish  oftheNakiahbend  order,and 
ray  pir "  (spiritual  chief)  "  sent  me  to 
the  Bokhara  shrines.  A  murid  "  (novice) 
"  is  bound,  you  know,  to  obey  his  phr'a 
commands."  He  was  not  found  out, 
though  he  had  twice  audience  of  tlie  khan, 
whom  he  blessed   in  true  pilgrim  style. 


coupling  his  blessing  with  "thanks  to 
AUah  Uiat  the  sight  of  hu  majesty's 
blessed  beauty  more  than  made  np  ror  all 
the  dangers  of  the  jonmey."  Ss  majesty's 
appearance  was  not  prepossessing.  "  Every 
feature  betrayed  uie  debancned,  -dnll- 
minded,  inhuman  tyrant ;  eyes  snnken, 
lips  pallid-white,  voice  diaky."  And  when 
we  read  of  &e'  sacks  of  heads,  the  hringers 
of  which  received  robes  of  honour,  and 
the  eye -gouging  and  other  fearful  tortures 
on  the  old  men  of  tiiree  hundred  Tureo- 
nuQ  prisoners  (the  younger  were  sold  as 
slares),  enacted  before  Vamb^'s  ijts,  we 
cannot  feel  altt^l^er  sorry  that  tiie 
Rnssians  hare  got  bold  of  Khiva, 

From  Khiva  to  Bokham  there  was  more 
desert,  hut  with  a  Kalenter  Khane  (inn  for 
derriBhes,  who  an  the  same  as  onr  Arabian 
Nights'  friends,  the  Calenders)  every  now 
ana  then,  and  Tartar  villages  here  and 
there,  in  one  of  which  a  fair  was  being 
held  on  horseback,  a  mounted  milk-seller 
managingtopour  a  drink  down  her  mounted 
customer'a  throat  A  Kirghiz  woman, 
whom  they  asked  how  she  liked  this 
wandering  life,  said : "  We  must  move  abont, 
as  sun,  stars,  and  everything  are  doing — 
only  the  dead  and  idle  mouiJu "  (^^^^) 
"like  you  can  stay  iu  one  place." 

At  Bokhara  they  had  lodging  in  a 
spacious  tree-shaded  convent,  in  plan  much 
liEe  a  college  at  Oxford  or  Uambridge, 
and,  as  the  Emir  has  no  more  power  over 
the  convent  than  the  mayor  of  Oxford  has 
over  the  colleges,  Yamb^iy  felt  eaSe.  He 
was  struck  with  the  beauty  and  wealth  of 
the  bazaar,  and  the  concourse  of  all  kinds 
of  men  who  thronged  it  During  his  whole 
stay  in  this  dervish-ridden  ci^  he  was  - 
persecuted  by  spies,  whom,  however,  he 
set  at  defiance,  always  taking  the  chief  seat 
as  a  dervish  should,  and  gaining  great 
respect  among  the  people  by  his  fine  rosaiy 
and  big  turban.  Worse  than  the  spies  were 
the  rishte  fFilaria  medinensis),  a  thread- 
like worm  that  forms  nnder  the  skin,  and 
has  to  be  pulled  out  to  ttie  length  crften  of 
several  yards,  and  woe  betide  yon  if  it 
breaks  in  the  process.  I  remember  read- 
ing of  something  of  the  sort  in  South 
America,  but  not  so  bad  as  the  lishta 

One  grand  difference  between  Khiva  and 
Bokhara  was,  that  at  the  former  everybody 
was  lavish  of  gifts.  The  khan  want«d  to 
give  Vamb^ry  twenty  gold  pieces,  but  he 
repUed :  "  A  dervish  must  not  be  cumbered 
with  worldly  wealth."  He  then  begged  to 
offer  an  ass  for  the  journey,  "That  I  will 
accept,"  said  the  Hungarian  ;  "  but  let  it 


AKMINIUS  VAMBfeBY. 


AirD  M,  UM.]      639 


be  a  white  one,  so  that  I  may  fitly  visit  the 
holy  plaoei.''  At  Bokhara  everybody  was 
glad  to  fiaten  to  their  hymnB  and  prayere, 
but  so  one  gave  them  a  single  ooin.  Hence, 
after  a  little  more  than  a  forbiight,  they 
poshed  on  to  Samamnd,  no  longer  through 
tiie  desert,  bat  Uiroo^  fields  and  past 
populous  viUageB.  Here  there  are  over  one 
hundred  ehrineii  to  be  visited,  among  them 
the  moaqne  of  Timnr,  with  the-great  green 
stone  on  which  was  his  tiirone.  Indeed, 
Samarcand,  possibly  the  oldest  city  in  the 
world,  ia  fm  of  gnnd  buildings,  mostly 
deeayioK  1:>nt  sotne  of  them  quite  new,  for 
it  is  atlU  a  great  centre  of  holiness — a 
place  where  merit  may  be  won  b^  btiilding 
a  mosqoe  or  a  college  for  derrishes,  or  by 
restoring  a  tomb.  The  Emir,  who  lives 
half  his  time  at  Bokhara,  half  at  Samar- 
cand, was  a  pleanng  contrast  to  bim  of 
Ehiva,  very  pleasant  to  look  on,  bnt  very 
soroicioos.  Vamb^ry  had  a  bad  quarter  of 
a&hoardaringhlsandience;  bnthedexter- 
oaal;^  disarmM  snspicton,  and  managed  to 
get,  instead  of  the  death-wairant  wUch  hs 
naied,  a  tobe  of  state  and  a  som  of  money. 
And  now  there  were  two  conrsee  open  to 
him.  He  coold  either  return  by  Tar- 
kand,  Thibet,  and  Cashmere,  even  taking 
Komnl  and  Pektn  on  the  way,  or  he 
could  get  quickly  back  to  Teheran  by  way  of 
Herat.  I  cannot  understand  how,  being  so 
far  on  the  road,  he  should  have  tamed  hia 
back  on  all  the  wonders  of  China,  Prob- 
ably he  feared,  what  his  feDow  dervishes 
feared  for  him — want  of  means ;  among  the 
heathen  Chinee  he  could  not  hope  for  any- 
thing to  fill  bis  pilgrim's  scrip.  It  was 
hard  work  saying  good-bye  to  his  fellow 
dervishes;  his  heart,  he  tells  ns,  nearly 
broke  at  having  to  practise  donbleH^ealine 
on  men  who,  m  perils  of  all  kinds,  had 
proved  themaelTes  real  friends.  They 
banded  him  to  a  party  who  were  going  by 
way  of  Herat  to  Mecca,  and,  "  aU  crying 
like  very  children,"  he  set  oat,  being  joined 
on  the  march  by  a  whole  caravan  of 
Peraian  alavea,  returning  home  after  being 
ransomed  by  their  frienda 

The  sad  atoriea  of  these  people — a  father 
giving  his  all  to  buy  hia  son,  and  then  father 
and  son  being  fidlefl  on  by  another  horde 
when  they  were  almost  at  their  village ;  a 
son  coming  to  buy  his  mother,  who  was 
priced  at  twenty  gold  pieces,  and  finding 
the  sum  saddenly  rused  to  forty,  becaase 
the  captors  found  the  ransomer  was  a  son 
and  speculated  on  his  filial  affection — 
are  enough  to  make  ns  thankful  that 
Kussia  is  Dattinfr  a  stOD  to  these  horrors. 


Saddest  of  all  was  the  man  who  hod  lost 
wife,  aiater,  and  six  children.  Wearily, 
for  over  a  year,  he  aought  them  through 
Khiva  and  Bokhara ;  and  when  he  found 
&(ax  whereabouts,  wife,  sister,  and  two 
youngest  children  had  died  of  hardship; 
and  of  the  foar  anrviving  children,  ttie 
two  elder  had  blossomed  into  beaotiflU 
girls,  and  were  therefore  far  above.his  means 
to  buy  back,  and  be  had  to  be  content  with 
only  two  of  his  family,  And  yet  there  is 
a  deal  of  kindness  in  these  Turcomans. 
One  night,  after  having  been  for  hours 
reading  alond  their  own  heroic  ballads  to  a 
group  of  these  wfld  children  of  tiie  desert, 
Yamb^ry  fell  asleep,  and  was  awakened  by 
a  scorpion-bite  on  his  toe.  He  screamed 
out,  and  the  Torccnnan  lying  next  him 
at  once  bandaged  his  foot  till  he  nearly  cut 
into  the  flesh,  and  b^an  sacking  the 
wound  as  if  he  would  sack  off  the  joint 
When  he  was  tired  another  took  his  place, 
and  another,  and  this  probably  saved  his 
life,  though  he  was  bo  maddened  with  the 
pain — scorpions  are  worst  in  the  dog-days — 
that  they  had  to  tie  him  to  a  tree  to  keep 
him  from  dashing  his  head  against  the 
ground.  Money  now  began  to  run  very 
short,  onr  dervish  had  tamed  most  of  his 
into  needles,  knives,  glass  beads,  etc,  to  be 
^[changed  with  the  Uzbeks  for  bread  and 
melons.  These  wares  filled  half  his  bag, 
the  other  half  being  full  td  predoas  manu'- 
scripts,  picked  up  in  Bokhara.  What  told 
most  on  his  purse  were  the  heavy  passenger- 
tolls,  especially  that  which  ttie  Afighan 
customs  collectors  made  them  pay.  Herat 
was  a  city  in  rains,  having  just  oeen  sacked 
by  Dost  Mahomed.  Here  he  was  all  bat 
discovered  by  Yakab  Khan,  then  a  lad  of 
sixteen,  to  whom  he  presented  himself — 
pushing  the  fat  vizier  aside  and  sitting, 
dervish  fashion,  close  to  &e  prince— in  order 
to  get  a  little  jonmey-money.  His  joamey 
thence  to  Persia  was  the  hardest  stage  of 
all  It  was  bitter  frost,  his  clothing  was 
of  the  scantiest,  and  to  his  appeals  for  a 
horse-rug,  the  hard-hearted  Aff^ians  of  the 
caravan  which  he  had  joined  would  say — 
like  La  Fontaine's  ant  to  the  poor  grass- 
hopper— "  Dance,  hadji,  and  ttiou  wilt  get 
warm."  At  Meshed  he  got  back  to  civilisa- 
tion, and  met  with  an  English  fnend.  Here 
he  found  that  nobody  would  believe  him  to 
be  a  Stambool  man,  they  were  all  certain 
he  was  a  Bokbariot,  so  perfect  had  his 
Central  Asian  speech  become  by  co&tinaal 
practice.  Back  in  Teheran  be  had  some 
omosing  experience  of  the  universal  (^cial 
ranacitv.     The  Shah  cave  him  the  Order  of 


640     iAtrttu,is»*.i 


ALL  THE  TEAS  BOUND. 


the  Lion,  a  poor  sHre  r  plate,  which  he  wu 
allowed  to  beep,  but  the  coetJ;  ahawl  which 
accompanied  it  the  minister  seiEed  aa  hia 
perqaiBite.  Presents  of  game,  thot  by 
the  lojai  hand,  need  to  be  m^de  to  the 
corps  diplomatique,  the  bearer  alwayi 
expecting  a  good  reward.  These  became 
so  nnmeroos  that  the  ambaaaadots  decided 
not  to  receive  any  but  what  were  cratified 
by  the  mioiater  of  foreign  afiaira.  Fat  a 
time  this  abated  the  umoyance,  bat  soon 
it  began  again.  It  was  then  found  that  the 
minister  issued  false  certificates  on  condir 
tion  of  sharing  the  profits,  and  the  Shah 
was  h^hly  amnaea  at  thia  mode  of 
talcing  in  the  fortigoers. 

At  last  Vomb^ry  got  back  to  Europe, 
and  came  straight  to  London,  as  being  ibe 
best  place  for  publishing  his  books,  and 
the  chief  centre  of  geographical  activity. 
Here  he  was  made  a  lion,  but  he  did  not 
like  it  half  so  well  as  being  the  honoured 
friend  of  pashas,  and  hadjis,  and  ghaiis  in 
Stambool.  He  went  back  to  Hungary 
aa  fast  a6  he  could,  and  getting  a  professor- 
ship at  the  Pesth  University,  with  a  modest 
salary  of  one  hundred  pounda  a  year,  gave 
up  his  wanderinga  and  became  a  great 
authority  in  politics  and  in  languages.  His 
political  books  are  a  little  out  of  date,  the 
march  of  events,  the  advance  of  Russia) 
have  fulfilled  bis  prophecies^  but  Mr.  Fisher 
Unwin  has  done  good  service  in  publishing 
his  travels.  The  atory  is  a  moat  remark- 
able one,  not  the  least  wonder  about  it 
being  the  perfect  command  of  English 
which  the  polyglot  writer  shows. 


MANNERa 

It  is  a  common  enough  remark  of  elderly 
persons  that  the  manners  of  our  generation 
have  sadly  deteriorated.  The  same  remark 
has  doubtleaa  been  equally  common  in 
former  generations,  since  it  is  the  habit 
of  the  aged  to  live  in  the  past,  and  it  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  hnman  mind  to  re- 
member beat  that  which  is  moet  agreeable. 
The  contrast  and  the  moral,  therefore,  which 
are  preluded  with  the  mournful  "  When  I 
was  young,"  must  always  be  received  with 
a  certain  amount  of  reaerve,  although 
alwaya  with  a  proper  amount  of  respect 
We  shall  judge  better  from  written  records 
than  from  oral  testimony,  if  we  wish  to 
compare  the  manners  of  the  past  with 
those  of  the  present. 

The  comparison,  we  fear,  ia  not  always 
made  on  a  fair  baau.     It  is  made  between 


the  average  man  or  .woman  of  to-day  aad 
the  anper-average  fine  lady  or  gentleman 
of  the  last  century.  "The  persons  of 
quality"  and  the  "people  of  faahion" 
when  out  grandmothers  were  young  and 
eay  seem  to  have  been  an  eminently  arti- 
ficul,  and,  we  say  it  in  fear  and  trembling, 
an  inordinately  vaia  aet.  In  the  abstract, 
and  from  an  ethical  point  of  view,  rufiSes, 
hi^h  stocks,  and  velvet  doublets  were 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  cuffs, 
"  masher "  collars,  and  tight  -  buttoned 
trock-coata.  Now,  if,  aa  Pondi's  little  boy 
said,  "  it  is  not  t^e  coat  which  makea  the 
man,  it's  the  hat,"  is  there  much  to  choow 
between  a  three-cornered  beaver  on  the 
top  of  a  veil  -  powdered  periwig,  and  a 
curly-brimmed  glossy  silk  conq>re8BiDg  a 
closely-cropped  cranium  t  And  as  for  tbv 
fair  sex,  well,  of  woman  die  poet  has  said: 


and  the  fashion  of  the  robes  matters  very 
little  so  that  it  be  the  faahion.  Woman  in 
furbelows  and  patches  was  neither  more 
nor  less  loveable  and  sweet,  obatlnato  and 
intractable,  than  she  is  in  crinolette  and 
prodigious  hatk  But  ii  we  estimate  the 
manhood  of  the  time  of  the  Regency  by 
the  beaux  who  spent  three-fourths  of  the 
day  in  dressixig,  and  the  rest  in  strubtiDg 
about  "  The  Mall,"  or  "  The  Baths,* 
ogling,  and  mincing,  and  smirking  and 
snuffing,  we  shall  make  as  great  a  mistake 
aa  if  we  were  to  ^uge  the  intelleetoal 
qualities  of  young  Englaad  by  ibo  con- 
ventional "maaher"  wko  frequents  the 
stalls  of  some  of  the  London  Uieatres. 

It  is  pracUcally  impossible  to  compare 
our  manners  with  those  of  the  last  centory. 
Oar  classes  are  now  so  met^ed  and  mixed 
that  we  cannot  find  a  common  baais  for 
comparison,  and  further,  the  word  "  man- 
ners "  has  to  us  a  difi'erent  significatioD 
from  what  it  had  in  our  grandfs^er's  day. 

So  far  as  one  can  judge  by  the  pictures 
left  to  us  of  the  society  of  the  time,  a 
person  of  "  fine  mannera  "  was  one  profuse 
in  pretty  speeches  in  the  company  of  his 
equals,  stiffly  elegant  and  elaborate  in  tiie 
movements  of  hu  body,  aad  inclined  to 
coarseness  in  the  operations  of  his  mind. 
Away  from  their  fine  friends,  and  in  their 
adventures  "down  town,"  Tom  and  Jerry, 
we  fear,  were  not  more  considerate  of  tLe 
feelings  and  the  comfort  of  others  than 
much-maligned  'Arry  of  our  day.  We  do 
not  forget  the  Sir  Charles  Graadison  typa 
He  was  doubtless  a  moat  worthy  and 
respect-inspiring  gentleman,  but  he  mast 


h&ve  been  exceieirely  tiresome  to  live  witL 
Here  we  have  the  two  extremes.  The 
one  who  put  on  hia  "  fine  maoDers  "  along 
with  hia  beat  peruke  and  hia  lace  rofflea 
for  fine  eompany ;  the  other,  who  never 
pat  them  off,  and  who,  so  to  apeak,  went 
to  bed  in  Tail  nnifonn. 

If  we  hav«  correctly  ^iprehended  the 
"fine  mannera"  of  the  put,  we  do  not 
r^ret  that  tiiey  are  paat  Muuera  sbonld 
connote  morah,  and  the  morale  of  onr 
time,  we  are  aatiafied,  are  superior  to  those  of 
the  time  of  t^e  Firat  Qentlemao  of  Europe. 

Good  Buumers,  some  people  aay,  constat 
in  nniversal  and  unvarying  politeness.  But 
then,  what  is  politeness)  The  Due  de 
Momy  said  that  "  a  polite  man  ia  one  who 
listena'  with  interest  to  things  he  knows  all 
about  when  they  are  told  by  a  pereon  who 
knows  notMng  about  them."  The  defini- 
tion is  clever,  bnt  unsatisfactory.  That 
shortsiglited  professor  was  a  pohte  man, 
who  took  off  tus  hat  with  profuse  apologies 
when  he  ran  agsinst  the  cow.  Bat  we 
begin  to  doubt  his  "manners"  when  we 
find  that  he  was  only  polite  because  be  took 
the  obatructioniat  for  a  lady.  In  fact,  the 
Buperficial  character  of  mere  "  politeness  " 
must  hare  been  paiofoUy  evident  to  the  pro- 
fessor himself  when  on  a  second  coUiaiouwith, 
aa  he  auppoaed,  the  same  animal,  he  emitted 
opprobrions  language  to  wh«t  further  re- 
search discovered  to  be,  thia  time,  a  lady. 

But  politeness,  you  say,  doee  not  consist 
in  merely  doffing  the  hat  1  What  I  Then 
how  about  France,  popularly  esteemed  the 
most  polite  nation  of  modem  times!  A 
Frenchmaa  will  remove  his  hat  on  passing 
any  lady  io  the  street,  but  he  will  not 
instinctively  yield  her  the  footpath,  nor  is 
he  considerate  of  the  comfort  and  the  feelings 
of  others  before  his  own.  The  Qermans 
are  even  greater  hat-doffers  than  the 
French,  and  the  amount  of  wear  and  tear 
which  tiie  head-covering  of  an  average 
German  experiences  &om  day  to  day  is 
something  alarming.  But  a  German  does 
not  always  think  it  noceuary  to  remove 
his  pipe  or  cigar  when  passing  a  lady,  and, 
in  his  own  country  at  any  rate,  he  holds 
himself  at  liberty  to  smoke  anywhere  and 
in  any  company.  The  Americans  are  sup- 
posed to  show  more  deference  to  the  fair 
sex  than  do  any  Europeans.  Yet  when  we 
see  an  American  monopolising  the  fire- 
place in  the  smoking-room  with  hia  legs,  and 
expectorating  wiUi  aBepnblican  Indepen- 
dence, we  find  cause  to  wonder  whether 
the  afbresiud  deference  is  evoked  from  his 
own  gentleness  of  heart,  or  ia  extracted  by 


TER&  I*pri!M,-18S*.]      641 

the  superior  "grit"  of  his  countrywomen. 
Let  us  not  forget,  however,  that  it  was  an 
American  President  who  nude  one  of  the 
politest  speechee  on  record  To  a  man  who, 
after  reading  a  long  and  dull  manuscript, 
asked  for  the  President's  opinion  of  it,  his 
reply  waa :  "Well,  for  people  that  like  that 
sort  of  thing,  I  think  it  is  just  about  the 
sort  of  thing  theywould  Ilka"  The  exquisite 
delicacy  and  tact  of  the  reply  indicated  much 
more  than  mere  commonplace  politeness. 

There  are,  in  fact,  two  kinds  of  polite- 
ness. There  is  the  politeness  which  is 
symbolised  by  the  elaborate  hat-flourishing, 
and  which  is  often  erroneously  supposed  to 
indicate  "good  manners;"  and  there  is  the 
genuine  politeness  which  can  only  pro- 
ceed from  good  morals.  Lord  Chatham 
said  that  "politeness  is  a  perpetaal  atten- 
tion to  the  tittle  wants  of  those  wo  are 
with;  by  which  we  either  prevent  or 
remove  them."  In  other  words,  as  be  put 
it,  it  is  "benevolence  in  trifies."  But  we 
would  go  ev»i  farther  than  this.  We 
would  say  that  the  "  btmevolence  "  must  be 
80  concealed  that  the  object  of  the  atten- 
tions shall  appear  the  benefactor.  It 
is  not  the  fashion  nowadays  to  read 
Goldsmith,  and  perhapa  the  ahrewd  obser- 
vations of  that  learned  "citisen  of  the 
world,"  Lien  Obi  Altaogi,  are  not  so 
familiar  as  they  should  be^  But  that 
eminent  Chinese  very  faap[tiy  defined  the 
difference  between  superficial  and  genuine 
politeness.  Walking  one  day  between  a 
Frenchman  and  an  Englishman,  he  is 
caught  in  the  rain.  The  Frenchman  presses 
on  him  an  overcoat  with  a  gush  of  fine 
speeches,  and  the  assurance  uiat  he,  the 
Frenchman,  would  delight  in  getting  wet 
through  in  his  honour.  The  Englishman, 
on  the  other  hand,  offered  his  coat  with 
the  aaanronce  that  be  neither  wanted  nor 
needed  it,  and  that  the  stranger  would  be 
rendering  him  a  service  to  relieve  "tum  of  it. 
This,  we  think,  aptly  illustrates  our  con- 
tention. Both  were  equally  desirous  of 
being  benevolent  in  small  things,  but  while 
the  one  wanted  his  benevolence  advertised, 
the  other  wonted  his  hidden. 

Now  we  fancy  it  was  this  superficial, 
ostentatious  pohtenesa  which  constituted 
"  fine  manners  "  in  the  ideas  of  our  grand- 
fathers. When  SwiA  said  that  "Good 
manners  is  ita  art  of  making  those  people 
easy  with  whom  we  converse,"  he  was 
but  saying  what  tbe  Due  de  Morny  said 
better.  But  that  is  not  enough.  Lord 
Chesterfield,  the  former  ideal  mentor  in 
such  matters,  aaid  that  "  the  manner  of  a 


S42      (April  SO,  U8t.] 


ALL  THE  YEAE  BOUND. 


vnlgar  mm  has  trevdom  without  eaoe,  and 
the  nunner  of  a  gentlemaD  ease  withoat 
freedom,"  which  ia  epimmmatio  bat  in- 
aocorate.  The  Cheiterfieldian  maxiiiia  wan 
artificial,  bat  really  good  manners  most  be 
natoral,  and,  therefore,  both  eaay  and  tne. 
"  Manners  are  the  ihadows  of  virtaea," 
said  Sydney  Bmith;  and,  "That  makea the 
good  or  bad  of  manners  which  helps  or 
binders  fellowships  "  aaid  Emerson. 

It  Is  needless  to  add  that  we  do  not 
alwavs  find  the  beet  mxnners  among 
people  of  fashion.  Bat  even  Mis.  Fonaonbj 
de  Tomkyne  of  to-dav  is  snperior — take 
her  all  in  all — to  the  Lady  Sneerwell 
or  Mrs.  Daahaway  of  last  cmtnry.  Oar 
" mashers"  are  not,  perhaps,  so  graceful  in 
their  movemente  as  the  beanx  of  the 
Baths,  and  the  young  Dade  who  bantically 
clntcbes  his  hat  to  examine  the  inside  aa 
be  passes  his  lady  fiiends,  may  not  be  ao 
fflsthedo  an  object  as  Bean  Bmmmell  artis- 
tically flourisung  his  besTer.  ^t  what 
of  that  1  Both  are  extreme  types.  Place 
a  City  clerk  of  to-day  alonende  a  Ci^ 
clerk  of  the  Bean's  time,  and  then  tell  ns  if 
onr  national  muinere  have  deteriorated. 
Poor  'Any  is  held  op  to  ridioale,  mnch  of 
which  is  undeserved,  but  he  is  a  more  agree- 
able object  to  meet  than  was  the  'prentioft- 
bf^  of  old.  Aj>d  even  'Arry  is  gradually 
dissppearing,  and  will  ere  long  be  found 
only  in  the  imagination  of  the  caricatorist. 

In  oar  middle-elaas  youth  of  both  sexes 
there  is  freqoently  a  self-possession  of 
demeaooor  and  a  refined  attitude  of  thought 
and  speech  which  tend  to  laise  the 
mannen  of  onr  time  and  nation  above  the 
level  of  the  past  It  is  a  complaint  we 
often  hear  that  we  have  no  youths  now- 
adays. Boys  spring  at  once  into  men,  and 
even  into  old  men.  This  complaint  is,  of 
course,  imi^jnary,  but  it  proceeds  from 
the  subdued  tone  which' the  critical  habits 
of  thought  induced  by  oat  modem  system 
of  education,  and  of  art-cultwe,  have 
stimulated.  Masberdom  may  exist  some- 
where, but  if  so  it  lies,  like  Bohemia,  "  in 
longitude  rather  oncertain,  and  in  latitude 
certainly  vagne."  Probably,  both  Masber- 
dom and  BtMiemia  have  their  moat  aabstan- 
tial  existence  in  the  pages  of  satirical 
joumiUii.  The  foppishness  which  finds 
satisfaction  in  the  extremities  of  foshion, 
and  the  foppishness  which  delights  in  dis- 
carding all  conventioDalities,  are  not  so 
very  different  in  nature.  They  existed,  how- 
ever, in  all  times  and  all  societies,  and  are 
not  peculiarly  characteristic  of  onr  own. 
The  dandified  freqaenters  of  West  End  bats 


are  no  more  representative  of  the  gentle- 
hood of  England,  than  the  haunters  cd  the 
Fleet  Street  taverns  are  of  its  intellect 
We  bear  «  good  deal  of  the  former  frtnn 
die  latter,  bat  we  do  not  need  to  look  long  at 
dther  in  an  attempt  to  measore  the  pro- 
gress of  good  manners  in  the  naUon. 

In  oooolositm,  we  have  no  faith  In  the 
species  of  "good  mannert"  —  so-called — 
inculcated  in  tiie  dancing  -  school,  by 
toacbora  ot  dqtortment,  and  by  hooks  of 
etiquette.  The  most  they  can  do  ia  at  best 
bat  to  lay  on  a  veneer,  which  easily  cracks, 
and  which,  however  showy,  is  of  little 
worth.  There  is  now  a  paesire  rebellion 
againat  that  syHt4>nLof  Tpneering,  which  is 
in  itself  a  hopeful  sign  of  the  times.  The 
higher  tone  of  the  national  mind  finds  ex- 
pression in  a  literature  more  liberal  aad 
more  pore  than  in  any  previons  generation. 
It  seeks  articulation  in  what  is  called  the 
"nathetic  crsi»,"  but  which  is  really  a 
yearning  after  a  higher  ataodard  of  art  and 
of  taate.  It  looks  for  representation  in  an 
elevated  and  purified  drama.  Its  note  may 
not  yet  have  penetrated  to  the  lower  strata 
of  society,  but  its  vibration  will  be  mote 
and  more  felt  there.  The  Gospel  of  Cultnreis 
not  a  perfect  goepel,lbut  it  is  cotainly  drang 
much  to  nolUfy  on  national  numneta. 


GERALD. 

BY  U&UIOR  C.  PUCK. 

CHAPTER  V1L     A  LOST  CHILD. 

Theo  and  her  maid  arrived  at  the  station 
ratiier  before  two  o'doek  tiie  next  day. 
Combe  was  not  in  a  good  temper ;  she  du 
not  half  approve  of  this  virit  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  OoodaU.  Theo,  after  a  cold,  painful 
parting  with  het  grandmotho',  was  in  a 
melan«]oly  dream.  She  knew  that  Lady 
Bedcliff  hated  letting  ho-  go,  and  would 
miss  her  extremely ;  yet  no  one  else  could 
have  known  this,  tot  all  Iddy  Bodeltff*B 
remarics  that  mondng  bad  been  fall  of  sneer- 
ing contempt  for  Theo  herself,  and  for  the 
people  she  was  going  ta 

As  Mr.  Qoodall  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
Theo  walked  across  the  great  hall  of  the 
station,  turned  into  the  waiting-room,  uid 
sat  down  there,  looking  abeenily  atnight 
before  her.  Combe  was  outdde,  watching 
over  the  Ii^gage  and  wuting  for  Wool, 
who  was  to  be  brought  from  the  mews 
to  go  down  by  the  same  train  with  them. 

There  sat  Theo  in  the  laige,   gloomy 

ODL  Her  black  dotiies  were  not  beoont- 
ingtoher;  theyiBMUlMr  JMt  HiBdaA 


CtaHM  Dlokena.)  Q£B 

ill,  bat  she  conld  not  hdp  being  verj 
handBome,  thoosh  that  oold,  atill,  soorofol 
flwe  lai^t  bani^  have  been  called  attrac- 
tive, ^uioagh  faet  eyes  fell  sometimea  on 
a  yooi^  girl,  vho  was  the  only  other 
person  in  the  room,  she  did  not  leallf  see 
or  notice  her  at  all 

This  ^1,  onl^e  herself,  was  very  leat- 
leas.  She  wandered  round  and  roond  the 
room,  stopping  aometimes  to  read  the 
adverdsements,  or  to  look  at  herself  in 
the  glass ;  sometimies  she  went  out  on  the 
platform,  and  walked  a  few  yards  away, 
and  looked  ap  and  down,  and  came  bock 
agaio }  then  she  went  oat  of  the  other  door 
into  the  booldng-offioe,  and  looked  into  tiie 
hall  for  a  minute,  and  then  came  back  into 
the  waiting-room  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
At  laat  she  stopped  near  Theo,  glancing  at 
her  rather  wiatfully,  and  their  eyes  met. 
After  a  moment's  gaze  Theo  began  to  see 
her,  and  perceived  what  a.  pretty  child  she 
was.  She  was  hardly  more  than  sixteen ; 
a  fair,  bright-looking  girl,  with  a  tinge  of 
red  in  her  early  hair  which  made  it  aD  the 
prettier,  a  lorely  pink  and  white  skin, 
small  features,  and  innocent  blue  eyes 
whieh  looked  as  if  they  could  either  smite 
or  cry  very  eaaUy.  Just  now  f^ey  were 
nearer  orymg.  She  did  not  look  clever, 
bat  certainly  she  was  not  atnpid,  for  that 
short  loc^  into  the  cold,  quiet  face  of  the 
stranger,  sitting  there  so  dreamy  and  still, 
so  much  older,  and  in  every  way  such  a 
contrast  to  herself,  broa^ht  her  at  once 
several  yards  nearer,  and  with  a  rather 
tearAil  smile  she  said  quickly  : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  am  in  such  trouble  I" 

"  Have  yon  missed  yoor  tram,  or  lost 
somebody}"  said  Theo  kindly. 

The  child's  sweet  voice  drove  all  her  own 
dismal  thoughts  away, 

"  I  have  missed  I  dont  know  how  many 
trains.  I  have  been  waiting  here  stoce 
ten  this  morning,  and  now  I  don't  know 
what  to  do." 

"  Are  you  quite  alone  1 " 

"I  have  been  alone  all  these  horns. 
Perhaps  I  may  tell  yoa  all  about  it  1 " 

■■  Do,"  said  Theo. 

"  I  have  been  at  aohool  at  Kansington. 
My  eldest  brother  sent  me  there ;  I  have 
ouy  two  brothers  in  ^e  world.  I  had  to 
stay  till  now  because  there  was  nowhere 
for  me  to  go,  but  now  they  have  settled  for 
me  to  live  with  my  youngest  brother  in  the 
coontry.  The  eldest  was  going  to  take  me 
down  to-day,  and  he  said  I  was  to  be  here 
at  ten,  sa  of  coarse  I  was.  But  be  said  he 
was  verv  basv.  and  he  miErht  not  be  able 


iLD.  iAi>ute,iest.]    S43 

to  catch  that  trua ;  and  if  BO  I  most  wait 
for  him,  and  we  wonld  go  by  the  next 
There  have  been  three  or  four  since  then, 
and  he  doesn't  come,  and  I  really  don't 
know  what  to  do.  Do  yoa  think  I  ought 
to  stay  here  all  day  i " 

"  Pethaps  it  would  be  beat  for  yon  to  go 
back  to  the  sohool,"  said  Theo. 

"  Bat  he  might  come  after  all,  and  then 
he  would  be  angiy.  And  Mn.  Keene,  our 
principal,  is  gomg  abroad  to-morrow,  and 
she  can't  have  me  on  her  hands  any  longer. 
What  shall  I  dot" 

There  was  something  touching,  though 
a  little  puzzling  and  provoking,  in  the  ^I's 
way  of  standiog  there  and  looking  at  Theo 
for  help.  She  expected  it  so  certainly, 
that  Theo  felt  as  if  she  must  have  it,  and 
began  to  think  what  ahe  oonld  do.  Leave 
Combe  here,  perhaps,  to  take  care  of  this 
child,  uid  to  come  down  by  a  later  train. 
Would  that  be  very  inconvenient  to  every- 
body) Gombewoold  not  be  pleased,  bntafter 
all,  her  business  was  to  do  as  she  was  told. 

"  Combe  forgets  that  a  little  too  much 
sometimes,"  thought  her  misteess.  "I 
believe  it  would  be  the  best  plan," 

"  It  is  not  a  very  long  journey,  I  think, 
bat  I  have  never  travelled  by  myself  at 
all,"  the  girl  said,  as  Theo  was  silent,  "  It 
is  a  very  ugly  part  of  the  country  where 
my  brother  lives,  near  Mainley." 

"  How  far  from  Mainley  t "  said  Theo, 
looking  up  with  a  sudden  smile. 

"Three  miles,   I  think.     What  fun  it 

would  be "    And  she  checked  herself 

suddenly,  blushing,  but  Theo  was  looking 
at  her  very  kindly, 

"That  makes  it  quite  easy,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  going  by  this  train  to  Mainley,  with 
a — a  cousin  of  mine.  Of  course  you  can 
go  wit^  OS,  if  you  like,  and  there  will  be 
no  difficulty  in  setting  to  your  brother, 
when  you  are  ouly  three  miles  from  him. 
Perhaps  he  will  meet  you." 

"  How  kind  you  are  I  Thankyou.  Bat 
I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  What  will 
Clarence  say  if  he  does  come  here,  and 
doesn't  find  ma  ? " 

"  We  will  leave  a  message  for  him. 
There  was  a  nice  porter  with  my  things ;  he 
looked  as  if  he  would  remember  a  message," 
saidTheo.  "ShaUweRoandBpeaktohiml" 

She  got  up,  and  the  girl  followed  her 
ont  of  the  waiting-room.  They  went  on 
together  into  the  hoU,  where  Combe,  with 
frequent  glances  at  the  clock,  was  standing 
by  a  pile  of  lagga^ ,-  the  porter  was  just 
labelling  it  for  Mainley. 

Wool  had  not  arrived. .  nor  Mr.  GtoodalL 


541      [April «,  1881.1 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


"  If  yoa  plewe,  mias,  irhat  ihall  we  do 
if  Mr.  Goodall  ia  late  for  th«  train  1 "  atid 
Combe,  atepping  [orward  anzioiuly.  "^e 
dog  isn't  oome,  «itbeT." 

"Im'thel"  BaidTheo.  "  Will  you  label 
thia  young  lady's  luggage  for  Mainley, 
pleasel"  aha  aaid  to  tbe  porter.  "  Where  is 
itl "  turning  to  her  companion, 

"  Oh,  the  man  a&id  be  moat  put  it  in  the 
cloak-room." 

"For  thia  train,  miial  I'll  aee  to  it 
directly,"  aud  the  porter, 

"  And  if  a  gentleman  oomea  after  the 
truu  ia  gone,  and  askafoi  thia  young  lady, 
will  you  tell  him  Uiat  she  ia  quite  aafe,  uid 
haa  gone  on  to  Mainley  1" 

Here  Theo  waa  checked  in  her  romuttic 
career,  mach  to  Combe's  relief,  by  the 
rimaltaneons  arrival  of  tiro  men,  irho 
came  in  at  different  doora,  and  walked 
atraight  up  to  the  group  in  the  middle  of 
the  halL  One  was  Mr.  Goodalt,  with  a 
porter  leading  Wool,  who  atrnggled  to 
reach  his  miatreea.  The  other  waa  a  tall, 
lazy,  gentlemanlike,  middle-aged  man,  with 
a  not  very  agreeable  expreaaion,  Theo, 
looking  at  him,  was  faintly  reminded  of 
somebody  ahe  had  aeen.  She  noticed  him 
with  aome  interest,  for  her  young  com- 
panion turned  quickly  to  meet  him,  rather 
frightened  and  confused. 

"  I  thought  yon  were  never  coming,"  ahe 
b^an. 

"  Here  ws  are  now,  and  there  is  no 
time  to  lose,"  said  her  brother. 

He  was  not  joat  then  looking  at  her,  but 
at  Mr,  OoodaU,  and  tbe  two  men  lifted 
their  hats  to  each  other.  Both  looked 
atiff,  and  John  GoodairH  face  was  rery 
Btern.  Hia  eyes  darted  from  the  man  to 
the  girl,  and  then  to  Theo;  these  two 
bowed  and  emiled  to  each  other  as  the  tall 
man  harried  his  aister  away. 

Then  followed  a  few  momenta  of  bustle 
and  confusion,  for  they  were  nearly  late 
for  the  train.  John  Ooodall  was  in  a  great 
fuss,  and  Theo  thought  him  a  taresome 
fellow-traveller,  and  wondered  how  Helen's 
pladd  ways  would  fit  in  with  this  sort  of 
thing.  After  all,  they  were  in  the  carriage 
a  minute  or  two  before  the  tnun  started, 
and  Theo  aaw  her  friend  paas  along  the 
platform.  There  ware  now  two  men  with 
her;  the  second  was  a  rough,  valgar-lookiDg 
man,  with  a  red,  cloee-SMven  face  and  a 
bumptious  air. 

John  Qoodall  gave  a  eort  of  angry  grant, 
and  threw  himself  back  in  tbe  comer. 

"  Do  you  know  those  people  1 "  sud 
Theo  as  the  train  began  to  move. 


"Yea.  How  can  they  interest  yoat" 
said  John  crossly. 

Theo  looked  at  him  and  atailed  a  little. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  hia  f  aoe,  aa  if  to 
brush  away  some  cobwebs,  and  went  on, 
still  in  a  grumpy  manner  : 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  hurried  you  just  now. 
I  was  kept  by  a  staipid  mistake,  and  I 
have  been  bothered  this  morning  by  some 
bosinefls  going  wrong.  Had  you  been 
waiting  long  1 

"  Not  much  more  than  ten  minntes,  I 
think,"  aaid  Theo. 

"  I  b^  your  pardon.  What  did  you  ask 
me  about  those  people  1  Were  you  talking 
to  that  girl  when  I  came  in  just  now  1 " 

"  Yea.     I  asked  yon  if  yon  knew  them." 

"  I  don't  know  much  good  of  them,  and  I 
wonder  how  yon  picked  up  the  acquaint- 
ance.   Helen  wouldn't  approve,  yon  know." 

"  But  I  don't  suppose  Helen  knows  the 
girl  Tell  me  abont  them,  and  ^eu  I 
will  tell  yon  why  I  waa  talking  to  her." 

"  As  tothe  girl,  Iknownothing  about  her." 

"  Except  wat  she  is  wonderfully  pretty," 

"Well,  I  don't  even  know  uiat  I 
never  saw  her  before,  and  I  didn't  look 
at  her  jost  now.  I  suppose  she  is  Litton's 
sister,  poor  thii^ !  and  in  that  case  die 
a  valuable  brother.  I  have  beard  a 
few  thinga  about  him — nothine  that  you 
can  actually  take  hold  of,  you  Know,  but 
it  is  warning  enongh  for  ns  busineu  men 
when  all  a  man'a  hiatory  U  not  qoite 
straight  and  above-board.  He  doeant 
often  show  himself  down  at  Mainley ;  nor 
does  tiiat  fellow  who  was  with  him  jnst  now, 
and  who  certainly  bears  a  letter  of  recom- 
mendation in  his  noe.  Didn't  you  think  sot" 

"You  are  very  satirical,"  said  Theo 
dreamily. 

Well,  no  wonder.  And  I'm  eurioui 
toa  I  want  to  know  how  you  made 
acquaintance  with  Miss  Fane ;  it  is  not  a 
secret,  I  anpposa" 

Fane ;  la  that  her  name  1 " 
If  it  was  Litton'a  aister,  her  name  ia 
Fane.     The  mother  married  twice." 

But  how  very  odd,"  said  Theo,  looking 
him  fall  in  tbe  face  and  smiling,  "  Is  aba 
related  to  that  Mr.  Fane  who  came  to  your 
wedding  t " 

"  Oh,  you  haven't  forgotten  that  fellow  1 " 
said  Jolm  Ooodall  a  liule  uncomfortably. 

"Ofcoursenot.  I  thought  be  was  a  friend 
of  yonra.  This  is  very  puzzling  altogether. ' 

"  Well,  I  can  explun  it  The  company 
only  took  these  Deerhnrst  mines  last 
winter,  and  young  Fane  came  aa'manager. 
Eimytbing  seamed  fair  and  right  enough 


then,  and  I  took  cather  a  fancy  to  him ; 
he  was  a  better  Boit  o?  fellow  than  we 
often  get  down  there.  He  had  been  rathei 
□nder  the  weather,  I  think,  before  he  came  j 
ha  left  the  armj  becaose  he  couldn't  pay 
iia  debts,  and  I  sappoae  Litton  did  the 
best  be  conld  fot  him  by  giving  him  this 
post  of  manager.  He  told  me  once  that 
Litton  had  done  everything  in  the  world 
for  him  and  his  sister — put  her  to  school 
and  so  forth.  Well,  Litton  may  have  been 
generous,  but  I  rather  saspect  it  was  with 
other  people's  money.  It  is  only  within 
the  last  few  weeks,  you  nnderstand,  that 
I  have  begun  to  have  donbts  aboat  him. 
And  now!  have  nothing  to  say  against 
Fane,  only  if  a  fellow  can  work  with  men 
like  UttoQ  and  Warren,  and  keep  his 
hands  clean,  he  ie  a  miracle,  which  we 
don't  expect  in  these  days.  It  was  a  mis- 
take, my  bringing  Fane  to  the  wedding.  I 
acknowledge  that  But  I  was  in  a  difficulty, 
as  Helen  perhaps  told  yoa" 

"I remember," said Theo.  "Buthedidno 
harm,  and  I  think  he  was  very  agreeable." 

"As  to  that,  ha  is  rather  ornamental," 
said  Mr.  Goodall  "But  it  looked  inti- 
mate ;  it  was  taking  him  up,  you  see,  to 
an  extent  that  I  hare  regretted  since." 

"  I  can't  see  that  yoa  have  anything  to 
regret,"  said  Theo,  with  a  clear  memory 
of  Mr.  Fane's  great  superiority  to  the 
brid^TOom. 

"  That's  natural ;  be  is  a  smart  fellow  in 
his  way,  but  we  boainess  men  have'  to  look 
at  things  from  our  own  point  of  view. 
And  now  you  were  going  to  tell  me  how 
you  made  acq^naintance  with  Mias  Fane." 

Theo  told  him,  and  her  worthy  cousin 
listened  with  a  good-natured,  rather  patro- 
nising smile,  but  said  nothing  to  ofTend'her. 

"  Well,"  he  remarked,  "  she  will  have  a 
dull  life  of  i^  poor  ml  The^  have  got 
rather  a  nice  little  old  house,  with  a  good 
■  view  over  trees  and  meadows,  right  away 
from  the  smoka  The  company  bonght  it, 
and  I  have  been  sorry  ever  since  that  I 
did  not  bny  it  myself,  for  tt  is  one  of  the 
best  sites  in  the  neighbourhood.  I  rather 
wish  I  had  gone  in  for  the  mine  and  the 
whole  thing,  but  I  had  other  things  in  my 
head  last  winter." 

"  Helen  will  go  and  see  Miss  Fane,  won't 
BheV 

"I  can't  say,"  said  Mr,  Goodall  dryly. 
"We  are  some  distance  o&,and  Helendoesn't 
much  care  for  visiting,  as  yon  know." 

"Bat  you  know  the  brother;  and  the 

f'rl  is  BO  pretty,  and  has  such  nice  manners. 
am  quite  sure  Helen  would  like  her." 


LLD,  (AprU  ZS,  1884-1      645 

"We  shall  see.  There  is  no  hurry 
about  it.  I  have  not  seen  much  of  young 
Fane  lately,  aaA  I  don't  care  to  mix  myseS 
np  with  them  just  now." 

"  But  Helen  is  not  you." 
■  Mr.  GoodaU  smiled. 

"  You  don't  think  so ! " 

"Besides,"  said  Theo,  "women  have 
nothiDK  to  do  with  bn^esa.  You  can 
qaarrel  as  much  as  you  like  with  the 
brothers,  but  that  need  not  hinder  Helen 
from  being  kind  to  the  poor,  lonely,  harm- 
less little  sister." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  her,  I  assure  yon,  but 
I  don't  believe  Helen  wonld  agree  with 
yoa  in  all  thaL  Marriage  changes  people's 
ideas.  When  yoa  are  married,  you  will 
find  that  your  husband's  quarrels  are  apt 
to  become  your  own." 

This  personal  tonch  pat  an  end  at  once 
to  Theo's  argument.  She  showed  no 
annoyance,  but  she  turned  her  face  away 
to  the  window,  and  silently  lefiected  on 
the  moral  of  all  this  talk,  that  there  could 
be  no  real  sympathy  between  people  of 
different  kinds,  such  as  heraeu  and  iSi. 
GoodalL  He  did  not  seem  sorry  to  take 
np  his  newspaper,  over  which  he  glanced 
now  and  then,  with  a  shade  of  vexation, 
at  the  fair,  proud  profile  of  his  wife's 
favourite  cousin.  He  was  very  glad  that 
Helen  was  not  such  an  impracticable 
person;  and  yet,  though  she  provoked 
him,  he  could  not  help  liking  Theo. 

The  train  rushed  on  for  several  boors 
past  woods,  and  meadows,  and  cornfields, 
a  landscape  which  would  have  been  uniu- 
teresting  if  it  had  not  glowed  with  gold,  and 
green,  and  blue,  in  the  riches  of  summer ; 
here  and  there  a  reddening  tree,  a  soft  hang- 
ing mist,  a  cleared  harvest-field,  bringing  a 
touch  of  autumn  to  sober  all  the  joy. 

At  last  the  horizon  began  to  be  stained 
with  long  trails  of  smoke,  which  Theo 
thought  were  clouds,  till  she  saw  the 
chimneys  from  which  they  were  slowly 
creeping  forth ;  and  then  presently  the 
train  stopped  at  a  rather  grimy-looking 
station,  with  honest,  ugly  faces  on  the  plat- 
form, apd  they  were  at  their  journey's  end. 
As  John  Goodall  took  her  to  the  carriage, 
Theo  looked  round  and  saw  her  girl  friend 
again.  She  was  walking  witJi  Mr.  Warren, 
the  disagreeable-faced  man  who  had  joined 
them  at  Euston.  He  had  just  taken  a  book 
out  of  her  hand,  and  was  langhing.  She 
looked  fiushed  and  miserable,  but,  catching 
Theo's  eyes,  she  harried  suddenly  on,  and 
Theo  held  out  her  hand  to  her.  Mr. 
Goodall  glanced  at  her  curiously,  bat  not 


546    iKpiax.iBH.] 


ALL  THE  YEAB  EOtTND. 


[Conducted  Iv 


anldndljr.  Theo  henelf  waa  Btnmgely 
touched  bf  the  child's  imhappy  face,aii  d 
the  way  in  which  she  flew  to  her. 

"  Are  you  very  tired  t "  she  said  in  her 
aweeteat  manner.  "  Yoa  have  had  a  long 
day.  Qood-bye  !  Bat  I  know  where  yoa 
lire,  and  I  shall  eome  and  see  voa" 

"  Will  you,  really  I  Oh,  tnank  yoa — 
thank  yon  I " 

Mr.  Ooodall  said  nothing  till  he  and 
Theo  were  driTmg  off  in  his  great  carriage 
together.     Then  be  remarked  : 

"  So  you  chose  to  commit  yonrBell" 

"  Yea,  I  did,  I  alwayi  do  what  I  choose,'* 
aaid  Theo,  so  gently,  and  with  such  a  smQe, 
that  he  could  not  even  feel  angry  with  her. 

CHAPTER  Tin.     GERALD  FANE'S  HOUBE. 

The  drawing-roon  window  at  Deerhordt 
Cottage  looked  oat  into  a  balcony  full  of 
flowers,  over  a  green  terrace  with  large 
baahes  of  fuchaia  and  old-fashioned  rosea, 
and  carnations,  and  aalviaa,  and  aaters,  and 
geraniums,  crowded  together  and  growing 
rather  wildly.  At  the  north  end  of  this 
terrace  there  waa  a  yew,  and  a  high  wall 
covered  with  ivy  ana  virginia-creeper ;  at 
the  south  end  a  great  old  wych-elm 
stretched  its  brown  arms  and  hung  its 
tresaea  of  feathery  leaves  over  the  terrace 
and  a  lawn  on  the  other  dde,  which  aloped 
up  Eouthward,  bordered  with  box  and 
rhododendrons,  to  the  drive  and  the  gate 
into  the  village. 

Below  the  terrace,  to  the  west,  there 
waa  an  orchard  with  old  grey  apple-tareea, 
eome  of  them  now  covered  ^th  fmit 
The  groand  fell  away  steeply  into  the 
hollow,  where  was  a  pond  nearly  hidden 
by  trees,  then  risinir  again  to  a  grass-field, 
and  a  corn-field  foD  ol  standing  sheavea, 
then  falling  to  fiat  meadowa  and  a  river, 
with  tall  rows  of  poplars  against  the  akj. 
Farther  away  there  were  woods,  and  dis- 
tant fields,  and  hillfl,  but  except  on  the 
northern  horizon,  where  there  were  signs 
of  a  town  behind  the  tree-tops,  half-hidden 
by  the  shoulder  of  the  ridge  on  which 
Deerhurst  stood,  no  amoke  waa  to  be  seen, 
or  any  sign  that  all  this  was  in  a  country 
of  mines  and  manufactures  Certainly 
there  was  a  distant  puffing  and  snorting  of 
engines  to  be  heard  that  evening,  and  per- 
haps it  interfered  a  Uttle  with  the  peace  of 
the  solemn  landscape,  the  sun  gone  down  in 
stormy  glory,  on  which  Ada  Fane  looked 
out  as  abe  sat  with  her  brother  at  the  win- 
dow ;  bnt  she  was  almost  too  young  to  feel 
the  sentiment  of  the  hour  or  its  disturbance. 

He  was  sitting  in  a  lai^e  armchair,  and 


she  was  opposite  him  on  the  low  window- 
seat.  The  last  aonset  lights  had  caught 
her  crop  of  auburn  curls,  so  that  his  eyes 
lingered  on  the  lovely  piece  of  colour ;  bat 
he  made  no  remark  upon  it ;  he  was  quite 
tkken  up  with  listening  to  her  adventures. 

"And  you  didn't  find  oat  what  her 
name  was  t " 

No,  Gerald.     How  oonld  1 1    But  we 
shall  know  when  she  comes  to  Bee  me." 
Her  brother  laughed. 

"  She  won't  come ;  don't  flatter  your- 
self," he  said.  "She  could  only  come 
with  Mrs.  Ooodall,  and  Ooodall  won't  let 
them.  He  means  to  cut  ma  Why,  I 
don't  know,  but  I  snppose  we  are  not  smart 
enough  for  him  now  he  is  married.  He 
has  never  asked  me  to  the  house  ones, 
though  he  dragged  me  to  the  wedding.  I 
wish 7  had  not  gone." 

"Why,   when    you    came   to  see  me, 
directly  afterwards,  I   thought  yon  hid 
liked  it,"  said  Ada. 
Did  yott ! " 

Don  t  be  cross,  Qeiald,  or  I  sha'n't  like 
living  with  yoa  Don't  you  think  it  was 
selfisn  of  old  Clarence  to  keep  me  waiting 
all  those  hours  beeaose  be  wanted  that 
horrid  Mr,  Warren  to  come  down  with  na  1 " 

"  Poor  little  tidng  1  Don't  talk  so  loud ; 
the  window  down  t£ere  is  open,  and  ^ey 
might  hear  you." 

"  Oh  no,  I  hear  their  old  voices  droning 
away;  they  are  thinking  of  wine  and 
tobacco,  and  not  of  ue  at  alL  But  I 
should  rather  like  Mr,  Warm  to  know 
that  I  think  him  horrid,  because  I  da" 

"  You  are  not  fond  of  smoking  t " 

"  I  don't  mind  your  cigarettes,  dear." 

"  Well,  as  yon  are  going  to  live  with  nw^ 
and-aa  I  am  many  yean  older  tiian  you ' 

"  Not  more  than  eight,  Gerald. 

"  Listen.  Yoa  will  have,  of  coarse,  to 
do  everrthing  I  tell  f  on." 

"  ShaU  I  really  T " 

"Yea;  Imeanit,  And  to  begin  with,  you 
must  be  civU  to  the  people  tnat  Clarawe 
brings  here.  They  may  be  the  biggest  b<»es 
poeaible,  but  yoa  have  got  to  behave  well 
to  them,  and  especially  to  Mr.  Warren." 

"  I  can't,  Oer^d.  I  hate  him,  and  I  shaD 
not  speak  to  him  again  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  That  is  a  babyish  way  of  talking.  You 
will  have  to  go  back  to  school,  if  yon  can't 
behave  like  a  grown-up  person.  Look 
here,  I  don't  Eke  Warren  either,  and  I* 
don't  snppose  Clarence  does;    but   din't 

S>u  see,  Uie  company  depends  upon  hi^ 
e  has  KOt  all  the  money.     The  house  ami 
the  whde  thing  belongs  to  him,  really  and 


ChirlM  Dtokaoa.] 


lAtftHW  18SL]      547 


literally; 


least,  if  he  withdrew,  we 
eooldn  t  go  oq  for  &  moath,  and  bo  be  miut 
be  kept  in  a  good  temper.  If  I  am  thrown 
ont  of  this  work,  I  shall  bare  to  go  to  the 
colonies,  tnd  then  I  don't  know  what 
would  become  of  70a.  Now  yoa  see  it  ia 
onr  interest  to  be  a-nl  to  Mr.  Wutbd." 

Ada  ughsd. 

"To  oblige  yon,"  she  said.  "Bnt  I 
hope  he  won't  come  here  much.  At  any 
rate,  Tm  glad  yon  don't  like  him." 

"  I  sbonld  be  happy  to  ktck  him  ont  of 
the  bonse,"  said  her  brother. 

Ada  sat  looking  up  at  bun,  as  be  stared 
ont  of  Uie  window,  with  the  enthusiastic 
doTotion  of  sixteen.  She  liked  Clarence, 
and  was  gratefiil  to  him ;  he  had  always 
been  kind  to  her ;  bnt  Gerald  was  her  only 
own  brother,  the  hero  of  all  her  hopee  and 
fancies,  to  her  mind  the  handsomest  man 
and  the  finest  gentleman  in  England. 
Theax  mother  had  spoilt  him  to  the  Yeiy 
ntmost  of  her  power,  and  since  her  deaui 
he  had  not  wanted  worshippers,  though  he 
had  indeed  been  lonely  enongh  since 
fronble  came,  and  this  distaste^  work. 
He  disliked  it  more  than  ever  now.  For 
ib.e  last  two  or  three  years  he  had  been  in 
the  north  of  England,  plodding  away  in  a 
colliery  office  where  bis  brother  had  pnt 
him ;  Bolitaiyi  of  oonrse,  among  his  oom- 
panions,  who  yet  liked  and  respected 
him.  For  there  really  was  something  fine 
abont  Gerald,  inferior  as  be  was  to  what 

^Dor  Mrs.  Fane  and  Ada  thought  him.  He 
ad  breeding,  character,  ambition ;  he  dis- 
dained to  ^ine  among  the  associates  to 
whom  fate  had  condenmed  him ;  but  bis 
false  position  filled  him  with  that  sensitive 
pride  which  had  made  him  so  bitterly 
regret  gomg  to  John  Goodall's  wedding. 
Poor  fellow  t  he  had  certainly  made  a 
mess  of  his  life  so  far.  Two  years  in  the 
army  bad  been  enough  to  ran  through  the 
few  thousand  pounds  that  his  mother  had 
left  him ;  he  had  been  even  more  careless 
and  thoughtless  than  most  boys  of  his 
age.  But  all  that  seemed  long  ago  now ; 
at  four-and-twenty,  Gerald  was  bet '     * 


to  feel  himself  a  dismal,  respectable  olt 
man ;  a  race-horse  obliged  to  plod  in  a  cart 
for  the  rest  of  hia  broken-down  days,  and 
yet  conscious  that  all  the  strength  and  swift- 
ness were  hidden  somewhere  in  ^i*"  still. 

"  How  do  yon  like  the  honse  1 "  said 
Gerald  presently.  "Do  yon  think  it  is 
aUright)   Havelgoteverythingproper  1" 

"  I  ttiink  it  is  all  lovely.  Did  yon  get 
this  nice  fumitare  1 " 

"  WeU.  it  had  to  be  furnished.  Clarence 


said  it  was  to  he  comfortable,  so  I  got 
everything  I  thought  necessary.  I  am 
rather  proud  of  the  armchairs;  have  you 
tried  them  yetl  That  bookcase  is  a 
success,  I  think,  and  the  piano  is  a  good 
one.     Bnt  it  all  wants  a  lady,  of  coarse." 

"  It  has  got  one  now,"  said  Ada. 

She  jumped  up  and  walked  round  the 
room,  in  which  the  most  testhedc  taste 
conld  hardly  have  wished  anything  altered. 
Its  inspiration  might  perhaps  have  been 
found  between  the  quiet  boards  of  Mr. 
Morris's  Hopes  and  Fears  for  Art,  which 
was  lying  on  a  small  table ;  yet  there  was 
more  of  comfort  than  be  and  his  school 
would  quite  have  approved  of ;  and  Mrs. 
Fane,  who  had  had  great  tronbles,  looked 
down  sadly  from  the  wall  on  her  two 
darling  children, 

"Oak,  china,  books,  nice  greens  and 
blues,"  said  Ada  as  she  wandered  round. 
"  Oh  yes,  it's  all  very  satisfying,  but  there 
is  one  thing  we  want,  Gerald. 

"  What  t " 

"  Flowers  and  things  to  hold  them.  I'm 
sure  my  lady  U  fond  ot  flowers,  and  I  know 
she  will  come,  whatever  yon  may  say." 

Gerald  laughed. 

"There  are  plenty  outside,"  he  sud, 
and  then  he  got  up  from  hia  chair  and 
began  following  her  lazily  round. 

Standing  at  the  bookcase,  be  took  out  a 
book  and  turned  over  the  leaves,  while  she 
opened  the  ptano  and  ran  her  fingers  up  and 
down. 

"  Take  care,"  he  said ;  "  perhi^  you  will 
bring  Mr.  Warren  upstairs." 

Ada  shut  the  piano  with  an  exelamatjon. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  and  I  should  not 
live  like  civilised  people,  Ada,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  These  men  won't  bo  down  bete 
very  often ;  the  affairs  are  a  good  deal  lefV 
to  me,  and  as  it  is  our  house,Ithinkit  had 
better  he  a  regular  honse,  yon  know.  You 
can  look  after  the  housekeeping ;  the  cook 
is  a  good  sort  of  woman,  and  if  you  are  in 
any  trouble  you  can  come  to  ma 

"  Oh  no,  I  shall  never  come  to  yon," 
said  Ada.  "Don't  be  scTconceited;  really 
yon  are  priggish.  It  will  be  deligbonl  fun, 
and  I  shall  order  all  kinds  of  nice  things. 
By-the-bye,  do  you  have  five  o'clock  tea  1 " 

"Never.  That's  a  feast  unknown.  I 
don't  often  come  in  till  after  ax.  You  will 
want  it,  of  course,  so  mind  you  order  it 
to-morrow  momina^" 

"Perhaps  I  shs^  have  the  pleasure  of 
pouring  it  out  for  Miss  — — ,  Mr.  Goodall's 
cousin.     I  do  wish  I  knew  her  name." 

"  What  did  yon  say  she  was  like !    Tell 


548 


ALL  THE  YEAR  BOUND. 


Uptfl  M.  U84.I 


me  agaio,"  said  Gerald,  bia  face  still  bent 
over  his  book. 

"  She  ia  like  a  Bympbonf  of  BeethoTen'g 
which  I  learned  the  other  day.  And  yon 
are  like  my  Hnngarian  March,  Gerald  t  I 
Tonder  that  never  atmck  me  before." 

"  Can't  yoQ  answer  a  plain  qnestion  I 

"  Don't  be  cross.  Her  hur  and  eyes  are 
dark,  but  her  eyes  are  much  more  than  dark, 
they  are  bo  soft  and  Bmilin^,  it  makes  one 
bappy  to  look  at  them.  Her  complexion 
is  pale,  her  lips  are  red ;  I  think  her  month 
is  a  lorely  shape.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever 
saw  a  beantiful  person,  they  are  so  very 
rare,  bnt  if  I  did,  she  is  one;  There  is  a 
sort  ot  cot  look  about  het  nose " 

"  Ob,  by  Jove  1 "  exclaimed  Gerald  witb 
a  and  den  laugh. 

"  What  IB  the  matter  t " 

"Nothing;  only  yonr  dABcripiioD.  It  is 
very  good,  after  aU.     Gooa" 

Ada  heutated,  half  offended,  bnt  ebs 
went  on. 

"  When  I  first  saw  her,  I  felt  afraid  to 
speak  to  her,  she  looked  so  cold,  and  grave, 
and  gnni,  bat  presently  she  began  to  look 
at  me,  quite  absent^  at  first,  till  her  eyes 
woke  op,  and  then  I  saw  she  was  a  perfect 
darling. 

"Was  there  a  dog  anywhere  about t" 
said  Gerald  aiter  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Goodall  brongbt  a  collie,  and 
he  pulled  to  go  to  her,  and  she  went  and 
patted  him.  Then  Clarence  came  and  took 
me  away." 

"  I  Imow  who  ahe  is — Misa  Meynell, 
Mra  Goodall'a  consin.  I  aaw  her  at  the 
wedding,"  said  Gerald,  quietly  patting 
back  his  book,  and  walking  to  the  window. 

Ada  was  full  of  exclamations. 

"Did  you  speak  to  her  at  the  wedding! 
Will  she  remember  you  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  spoke  to  her.  I  took  her  in  to 
breakfast,  and  we  had  a  little  talk  aboat 
dogs.  I  aaw  no  more  of  her,  for  she  went 
away  in  the  aftemooo.  No,  I  don't  suppose 
she  will  remember  me." 

"  And  didn't  jou  admire  her  tremen- 
dously t    How  very  f miny  men  are  t " 

"  She  ia  very  handsome,"  said  Gerald. 

"  Don't  you  call  her  beautiful  1 " 

He  atood  at  the  window  witb  hia  hands 
in  hiapocketa,  and  looked  ont  at  tJie  sky. 

"  We  shall  bare  a  wet  day  to-morrow." 

Just  then  a  tramping  of  feet  on  the 
atairs,  and  a  fnmbling  with  the  handle  of 
the  door,  annoonced  Mr.  Warren,  who 
came  in  rather  noiaUy. 

"Well,  Fane,  you  are  very  qoiet  up 


here.  How  does  Miaa  Fane  like  her  new 
home — eh  1  She'll  soOn  make  it  pretty,  I 
bet  you.  How  did  you  oome  to  do  np  this 
room  in  eai^  a  gloomy  atyle  1  Thia  young 
lady  ought  to  be  snrrounded  with  roses 
and  lilies  and  forget-meuote." 

"  She  prefers  high  art  and  snnflowers," 
aaid  Gerald,  taming  from  the  window. 

"Then  certainly  ahe  ongbt  to  have 
everything  ahe  does  prefer.  I  have  left 
your  brother  downstairs  over  the  accooDta, 
Be  is  too  devoted  to  business,  in  my 
opinion.  Now  I  think  your  head  ia  none 
the  less  clear  if  you  give  it  a  UtUe  rest:, 
spare  time  and  thoughts  to  make  yourself 
agreeable,  and  so  I  told  him.  I  sud  that 
with  a  charming  lady  in  the  house,  hii 
dry  old  books  shouldn't  keep  me  any 
longer,  and  I  advised  him  to  follow  me  up 
without  delay.  Bat  he's  an  awful  per- 
severing fellow,  that  brotiier  of  yoara.  And 
too  clever — too  clever  by  half,  Mr.  Fana" 

"  He  tikes  hia  work,"  aaid  Gerald. 

He  had  atrolled  back  along  the  room,  so 
aa  to  stand  between  Ada  and  Mr.  Warren, 
who  had  arranged  himself  comfortably  in 
the  largest  armuiair.  Gerald  did  not  know 
when  he  had  thonght  the  man  ao  repnluve 

"  Are  you  a  musician,  Miss  Fane  T "  aaid 
Mr.  Warren  in  hia  thick,  nnpleasant  tonea 

"  Would  you  mind  playing  something  1 ' 
aud  Gerald,  turning  to  bia  sister. 

She  looked  up  imploringly  into  his  face, 
flushed  and  diatressed ;  all  her  h^py 
spirit  and  fan  were  gone.  Her  lips  moved, 
and  ahe  aaid :  "  Must  It" 

"  Do,  please,"  s^  Gerald  in  the  same 
undertone. 

He  stood  by  her  at  tbepiano,  while  she 
placed  the  wild,  romantJc  Hungarian  March 
which  she  aaid  reminded  her  of  him.  Mr. 
Warren  at  first  kept  time  and  iq>ptaiided 
loudly,  but  in  the  middle  of  her  next  piece 
she  and  Gerald  were  both  startled  ny  a 
sudden  snore.  She  looked  up  laughingly  at 
her  brother,  who  was  frowning  ferociously. 

When  the  music  was  over,  as  Mr.  Warren 
slept  comfortably  on,  the  two  young  people 
went  qnietly  out  tc^etber,  and  Ada  nad  her 
first  walk  about  the  old  garden  in  the  two 
light  But  her  que^on  about  Miai 
Meynell  was  not  answered  that  evening. 


Hair  PnUldiliw,  price  M., 

THE    BXTEA    SPRING    NUMBER 
ALL  THE  YEAK  BOUND, 


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