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S^attgatt CoIIegt lilicaij 




" The Story of our Lives from Year to Year.^^ — shakbspkare. 



Jl SHeekls Jottntal. 





Fboh Febbuaby 20, 1886, to July 31, 1886. 
Including No. 899 to No. 922. 






X^a-Xi-^J^ j/i^,^^y^^ 









A SfSKKS Chask. a Serial 
Story by Mm Caahel Hoey, 
1, 25, 40, 73, 97, 121, 145, 109. 

194, 217, 241 

Abernethy. Dr. . . . . 471 

Abbokstord 249 

AcUm, Old HooMs of . 180 

AddiMii, Dr. 474 

AfrieanArcAdU. ... 150 
AtrtOL The Mountain KiU- 

Baajanv 161 

"Alabama'* and "The Ker- 

lage,** Fight between . . 466 
Alexia. A Serial 8tory by 
Heanor C. Price, 265, 289, 
818, SS7, S61 , 386, 409, 483. 457, 

481, 505, 529, 553 

Altoaa 469 

Amfflcan Life and Manners . 82 

Annandale 842 

Appartements k Loner. A Story. 80 

Archibald, Dooglaa ... 461 

Anutrong, Johnnie . . . 253 

Aanm'sSod .... 54 

Agoein The .... 538 

Arundel CaaUe .... 9 

ArtNeedleworlc. ... 125 

Ajeenti ot Mont Blanc 78 

Asia, Central, Travelling in 86 
Authors, Success of . .540 

Authors, The Old and Xetr . 256 

BAU0L,J0H2C . 

Bath Road, The . 

BatUe Abbey 

Baybam Abbey . 

fiedfont .... 


BesgsT's Opera . 

Beltane Jair 

Belzoni .... 

Berrymead Priory, Acton . 

Bishops ot London 

BodiamCsstle . 

Books Most Generally Bead 

Bokhara .... 

Border Tales. . . 199, 

Bramber Castle . 

Brentford .... 

Brent lUver, The 

Brides and their Old Homes 

Wght,Dr.. . . . 

Bright^s Disease . 

Brodie, Sir Benjamin 

Braes Castle. Tottenham . 

Brnos, Bobert . 

Busy Bee, The . 

. 461 
. 103 
. 10 
. 10 

. 488 
. 268 
. 417 
. 302 
. 130 
. 63 

. 258 
. 88 
. 10 
. 66 
. 60 

. 476 
. 474 
. 473 
. 159 
. 461 
. 488 

CADl]nJIRHlI.L. . 415 

Caerlaverock Castle . . .845 
Csnning, BUzabeth, Story of . 161 
CsBBon— Mons Meg at the Siege 

of ThrsTe Castle .464 

Cuions, The Duke of Cliandos 

•» 106 

Carlyle, Thomas, Marriage of . 343 
Central Asia, Trarelling in 86 

Chambers' Institute, The . . 114 
CMtean Roman .- .438 

Chelsea ..... 64 
CbeyneWalk .... 64 
Chikleric's Tomb, Opening of . 126 
Children's Holiday . . .418 
Chippendale Mania . .175 

Oironicles of English Counties. 
Sussex. PartiiL 6 

Middlesex . 63,102,158 

Clironicles of Scottish Counties. 

The 196, 248, 292, 340, 412, 460, 534 
Church Property destroyed at 

the Reformation ... 128 
Claudia. A Story. . 253, 279, 209 
Closebttm Castle ... 845 
CoMingham Priory ... 203 
Coldstream 199 

Copes and Altar Cloths, The 

Gold on 123 

Country Holiday Fund . 418 

Cowdray Mansion, Destruction 

of 9 

Cranford 103 

Cromwell. A Tradition About 

His Burial .104 

Crook Inn on the Tweed . . 416 

Daist. a Story . 491,516 

Dane* and Prussians, The War 

between 487 

Derwentwater House, Acton . 13i 

Devorgnie 461 

Divination Rod .... 56 
I doctors. Celebrated . .470 

Domestic Art . .175 

Douglas, The Hold of the . .464 
Drinking, A Gossip on . . 82 
Drumlaorig Castle . 345 

Dryburgh Abbey . . 248 

Duel with Broadswords . 29S 

Duelling, Ancient and Modem . 133 
Duel— Stieridan and Matthews 546 
Duke of St. Stefano ... 209 
Duke of the Saucepan, The . 208 

Dumfries 340 

Dunskein Inn, The Landlord of 203 

Edmonton 160 

Egypt, Belzoni in ... 302 
Elbe, The River . ... 469 
Embroidery . . . .126 
Enfield Chase . . .161 

Krbrezzq. The Miracle of . .226 
Ettrick Forest .... 292 

Fadino Flowers ... 222 
Family Ghosts .... 17 
Famous Doctors . . . 470 
Famous Duellists . .136 

Famous Plays 268, 326, 349, 511, 557 
Father Chrystal's Elixir . . 274 
Favourite Authors ... 258 
Fenton, Miss, The Actress . 272 
Fine Old Moslem Gentleman . 367 
Fire of London . . .822 

Flodden Field .... 199 
Flowers, Disappearance of . 223 

Forty Hall 162 

France. The Roads of . . 401 
French ChAteaux. The Old 420, 437 
French Novels, A Manufacture 438 
Fulham 63 


Gay, John, The Author 

Gbost Stoiy, A . 


Gipsy Fight, A . 

Glass, Modern Taste in 

Gledstones Family, The 

Gold Brocade 

Goldsmith's "She Stoops 

Gordons of Lochinvar 
Gossip on Drinking . 
Gretna Green 
Gunnersbury House . 

Haoknst 158 

Hadley Church . . . .162 
Hall, Dr. Marshall . .472 

Hamburg 469 

Hammersmith .... 66 
Hampton Court .... 67 
Harefteld Place . . . .105 
Harrow-on-the-Hilt ... 106 
Haunted House. A Story . 30 
Hawaiian Isles, Flowers of the 222 

Hawick 252 

Hayes 104 

Heiigohind . . . 466, 484, 509 
Hermitage Ca«tle . . .252 

. 268 
. 344 
. 17 
. 415 
. 176 
. 415 
. 126 


826, 319 

. 462 

. 82 

. 341 


Hereford and Norfolk, Dukes, 

combat between prevented . 135 
Henry III., Coflin of . . .126 
Highways and By-ways . 890 

Highgate 159 

Historic Duels .... 135 

Hoffmann 589 

Horn, James, The Poet . . 293 
HoUdsy Fund, The . . .418 
Honey Bees .491 

Home Sickness .... 11 
Honorius, Emperor, Funeral 

Robes of his Wife ... 126 
House Hunting .... 29 
House in Horseferry Road. A 

Story 12,36 

House in the Euston Road 

181, 204, 281 
House in Charlotte Street. . 561 
Hurry of life in America . 83 

Idlers, Recreations of . .871 
India, Treatment of Natives in. 867 
Ireland, Duelling in . . .186 
Iron Press of Louis the Sixteenth 846 

jRDBURaH 250 

Jenner, Doctor . . . .470 
Johnson's, Dr., Love of Tea 82 

Kelso Abbey .' . . . 249 

Kenmure Castle .... 485 

Khiva 89 

Kilimanjaro Mountain . 161 

ELing John's Tomb, Opening of . 127 
Kirkconnel • .342 

Kirkcudbright .... 462 

Kirkmaiden .... 537 

Knocks and Knockers . . 818 

Ladt- Grizel Baillie, Me- 
moirs OF ... 201, 248 

Laleham 67 

Lammermuir .... 208 
Lansdell, Dr., in Central Ada . 86 
Lauderdale . • . .208 

Lawn Tennis Tournament. A 

Story 822 

Legend of Selkirk ... 298 
Letter Writing .... 107 
Lewea Castle .... 10 
Leyden, John, The Poet . . 261 
UddUdalOi The Men of . . 268 
Life in America .... 82 
Linton Church .... 250 
Literary Survival ... 266 
London. The Diocese of . .63 
Louis the Sixteenth. Iron Press 846 
Lovat, Lord .... 413 
Lunar Fancies .... 109 
Lynton, Peebles . . . .417 

Maolahan's Leap . • .416 
Magician's Wand, The . . 64 
** MsiflDn Criminelle " 30 

Man in the Moon . . . 100 
Mantelpiece, The . . .176 
Maximilian, Emperor, Execu- 

tiouof . . . . . 485 
May field, Sussex ... 10 

Medhurst 8 

Melrose Abbey . . .249 

Merlin, The Grave of. . . 416 
Merry Devil of Edmonton, The 160 
Merse District, The ... 199 
Middlesex, Chronides of, 68, 102, 158 
Mhiing Disaster. A Story . 446 
Miracle of Erbreuo ... 226 
Modem Taste . . . .174 

MonsMeg 464 

Montrose, The Defeat of . .297 
Moon. Fancies about the . .109 
Morton, The Regent, Execution 

of 415 

Moses, the Rod of * . .54 








Moslem Gentleman. A Fine Old 367 
Mont Blanc Sixty Years Ago . 78 
Mountain, Kilimanjaro . . 161 
MnswellHill . . . .159 

Natives, Treatment by Euro- 
peans 367 

Ifeedlework, Artistic . . 125 
Keldpath Castle ... 418 
Newdegate, Serjeant. . • . 104 
New York. Life In ... 33 
Next of Kin. A Story . 874, 890 
Norfolk, The Dukes of . .10 
Nosey Blake and His Qolazy . 177 

Nostalgia 10 

Novels, A Mannfactoiy of . 488 

Ogres .444 

Old Acton . . , . . ISO 
On being on the Top of the Hill 165 

On Ghosts 17 

Otwur, the Poet. ... 6 
Our Friend the Snemy . • 59 

Passion Flower OF Talvere . 420 

PanlJones 462 

Peebles .... 412,417 
Peniel Haugh, Battle of . .851 

Pennecuik. Dr 415 

Perivale, The Village of . . 107 
Philipbaugh, Battle of . i 297 
Plants, The Extinction of . . 228 

Beggar's Opera ... 268 

She Stoops to Conquer 826, 849 

The Rivals and School for 

Scandal . . . 641, 657 

Pocock, Sir George ... 68 

Polwarth . . ' . . .200 

Pope's ViUa .... 102 

Prlee Fighting .... 177 

PugiUstic life .... 177 

Putney Bridge .... 64 

Beading, The Love OF . . 266 
Bed Comyn, The ... 461 
Bacreations of the Unemployed 871 
Beformation, Art Treasures De- 
stroyed at the . . . . 128 
Beads and Road-making • • 897 
Rod of Moses .... 64 
Rods of Magicians, &c. . . 56 
Romances, The Manufacture of 488 
Roman Roads ... i 899 

Roxburgh 248 

Royal School of Art Needlework 130 

Runaw ay Weddings ... 841 

SAoviLLBS. The Family of . 7 
Saucepan, The Duke of the .208 
Sandy Island . . . .486 
School for Scandal . . 541, 667 
Scottish Chronicles . 196,248,292, 





541, 557 
. 163 
. 844 
• 66 


340, 4ll, 460, 634 

Scotch Relics 

Scott, Sir Walter, Father of 

Scrivener, Benjamin, Story of 

Selkirk .... 

Sheridan . 

Shelley, The Poet 

Shepperton and Sunbury 

She Stoops to Conquer 

Siberia, Dr. Lansdell in 

Siberia, Prisoners in . 

Single Combats . 

Smugglers of Galloway 

Solway Moss 

Some Famous Plays : 
Begur's Opera . 
SheStoops to Conquer 326, 849 
The Rivals and School for 
Scandal . 

South Mims Church . 

Spedlins Tower, Ghost of . . 

Staines, llie Town of . • 

St. Abba 

St. Cuthbert's Tomb, Opening 
OX •••••• 

Si Ninian's Monastery . . 
Stories : 

Claudia . . 258,279,299 
Daisy . . . .494, 616 
Father Chrystal's Elixir . 274 
House in Horseferry Road, 12, 86 
House in Euston Road, 181, 

204 231 
House in Charlotte Street . ' 561 
Iron Press of Louis the Six* 

^enth . . . .846 
Lawn Tennis Tournament . 822 
Mining Disaster ... 446 
' • Maison Criminelle " . .81 
Next of Kin . 874, 890 

Our Friend the Enemy . 69 
Passion Flower of Talvere. 420 
Strawberry Hill . ... 102 
Street Making . . . .898 
Stem Chase. A Serial Story by 
Mrs. Cashel Hoey. 1, 26, 49, 
78, 97. 122. 145, 169, 194, 218, 241 
Studies of Over the Way : 

A House in Horseferry Road, 

A House in the Euston Road, 

181 204 231 
A House in Charlotte Street 561 
Superstitions : 

The Divining Rod . . 65 

The Man in the Moon, etc 110 

Sussex Chronicles ... 6 

Sussex, The Weald of • . 9 

Seyd Ahmed Khan ... 308 

Tal^isre, The Passion Flower 

of 420 

Taste, The Modem . . .175 

Theobalds 162 

The Rivals .... 641, 557 


Thomson the Poet, Birthplace 

of 248 

Thought-Reading . . .612 
Thrave Castle . . . 461, 464 
Tippling in Old Times . . 82 
Tombs, Gold and Wool Embroi- 
dery found in . . . . 127 
Top of the Hill, The ... 165 
Tottenham Cross . . . 159 
Traquair Castle .... 414 
Travelling Made Easy in Central 

Asia 86 

Turnpike Gates .... 401 
Tweed, The River .190,849 

Tweeddale, The Lords of • .113 
Twickenham .... 63 

UnsuooesbfuIi Men . • ^ 539 
Uxbridge ..... 104 

Vaccination , . . .471 
Vamb^, Professor, in Central 
Asia ...... S6 

Verona, The Duke of the Sauce- 
pan 209 

Verona,The Miracle of Erbrezzo S26 

Victims. A Serial Story by 

Theo Gift, 20, 42, 69, 91, U6, 

138, 168, 185, 211, 234, 259, 

282, 306, 331« 864, 878, 402, 

427. 451, 476, 498, 628, 647, 667 

Wager of Battle, The . . 138 

Wanton Brown, The Grey Mare 346 

West Drayton .... 104 

What It Must Come To . . 420 

Whiskey, Scotch Antiquity of . 202 

Whiteadder River ... 202 

Wigton Bay Martyrs. . . 634 

Wizards Wand, l-he ... 54 

Woodcocks at Heligoland . . 610 

Wood Pavement . . . 898 

Wood Green .... 169 

Wonderful Wands ... 63 

Wool Embroidery, Antique . 126 

Wormiston Hill, The Dragon of 250 
Writing of Letters . . ,107 

Yarrow, Legends of . . 295 

Almond Blossox . . .157 

At Eventide .... 86 

Doubt 86 

Dreaming ..... 661 

My Lady*8 Picture ... 278 

Moray and His Thirty . . 373 

Pot Pourri 420 

Rondel ..... 849 

Spring Song .... 204 

Thy Voice 494 

Treasure ..... 470 

Under the Chestnuts . . . 183 

When You Are Sad ... 12 



containing a STOEY by WALTER BESANT, 












2 trebnuay 20, 1886.] 


(OoDdiioted by 

iDtolligent girl, for whose behoof Miss 
Ellen Terry and Mr. Henry Irving are 
playing ; bat there is the capacity of pain 
m her expression, and the mark of it lies 
on her brow, though not deep enough to 
mar iU beauty. Her hair, which is very 
dark, and waved upon the temples, is 
plaited intoa larse smooth roll at tne back 
of the neck, and for that reason only, to 
say nothing of its luxuriance and ^loss, 
her head contrasts with the frizzed, fnnged 
noddles around her, looking like the head 
of a statue amid a wilderness of wax 

The man who is talking to Millicent 
Denzil, and making the most of his time, 
for the risine of the act-drop is very near, 
and the people are coming back to the stalls, 
is elderly, but well preserved, and he does 
not proclaim his position and calling in life 
by any special feature of dress such as 
younger men affect He can turn his head 
in bis collar, and move his body in his 
clothes ; hu hair is not cut like a convict's, 
bat to suit the shape of his head ; he wears 
neither an eyeglass, an orchid, or an 
unmeaning stare. His manner is that of 
a man accustomed to society ; and finally, 
there is nothing remarkable about him. 

Nevertheless, this ord inary-lookingperson 
had produced a singularly disturbing effect 
upon a young man who had sat more than 
contentedly m the stall next to Millicent 
DenziPs during the first act, and had not 
been aware that he was in the theatre until 
the usual movement took place on its 
termination. Then the ordinary-looking 
person, availing himself of a gap in the 
front row of stalls, had approached the 
young man, unperceived, and slightly 
touched his arm with an opera-glass. The 
younff man, who had been tal£ng eagerly 
to luss Densil, turned sharply, and met 
the slight smile of the other with a start 
and a chanse of countenance, whereat that 
smUe broadened. Miss Denzil had seen 
nothine of this ; she was looking at the very 
newest oeauty, who was *' receiving " in her 
box, and her interest in the spectacle being 
twofold — for the very newest beauty was 
gorgeously arrayed — the sentences first 
interchanged by the two men were unheard 
by her. 

" I am surprised to see you here, Court- 
land,** said the elder man; " I thought you 
were on duty at Hampstetd." 

" So I was to have been," answered the 
younger ; '* but I got a reprieve just after 
I left you. They were going out some- 
where unexpectedly.** 

" You don't know where, I suppose 1 ** 


<' Look up at Box Twelve, cauttoosly, 
and you'll see." 

"Are they there 1" 

"All four of them." At this moment 
Miss Denzil turned her head, and the elder 
man added, in a louder tone, " Courtland, 
{Mray introduce me." 

With anything but a eood grace the 
young man compued with £is request, pre- 
senting his friend to Miss Denzil as Mr. 

Mr. Wyndham beean at once to talk to 
her of the play ai^ me actors ; but he pre- 
sently turned upon his friend a look too 
significant to be ignored, and the young 
man, excusing himself to Miss Denzil, 
made his way out of the stalls. 

'* I fear I must get back to my place," 
said Mr. Wyndham, as the occupants of the 
front row began to drop in for the second 
act He had made the interval very agree- 
able to Mi£s Denzil, and she gave him a 
friendly smile when he moved away; but she 
did not want him to stay, and she hardly 
noticed that the place by her side remained 
vacant after the act-drop rose, for Portia 
was on the stage, and Millicent's whole 
soul was with her while she suffered the 
ordeal of the caskets. Many a glance — 
some coldly envious, some pleased and 
sympathetic — fell upon the girl with the 
dark, smooth hair and the mrey eyes, who 
sat absorbed in the play and wholly indif- 
ferent to her surroundings. 

In the meantime, Mr. Wyndham had 
found his young friend in the lobby, as he 
expected, and accosted him in uncere- 
monious fashion. 

** You will have to explain this, Court- 
land," he said, "as, of course, you know; 
but this is neither the time nor the place. 
Have they seen you t " 

" I don't know." 

" Then you had better find out without 
a moment's delav. The girl can't be left 
alone in the stalls. Though what^ in the 
name of folly, induced you to take her 
there I can't imagine. However, there, is 
no use in talking about that" 

"No, there isn't; and you need not 
trouble yourself to do it^" retorted the 
youn^ man, whose insolent tone impofsctly 
disguised fear and discomfiture. "What 
am I to do if they have seen me, and what 
am I to do if they haven't t " 

" SUy a moment, and TU think," said 
Mr. Wyndham, ignoring the young man's 
irritation with cool disdain. "I have it 


Chuies Diokeni.] 


[February 20, 1886.1 3 

If they've seen yon, say the lady is Mrs. 
DeDzUy the wife of a friend of yours ; if 
they haven't, say nothing at alL In either 
case you cannot join her agaia I will 
stand just inside the entrance to the stalls. 
In the first case, you can point me out as 
the lady's husband; in the second, you 
need not point me out at alL In either, 
I shall take your seat; give me your 
pass — here is mine — and I will look after 
the lad V. Til keep her back in the crowd 
going out, and you can join us at the doors 
after your parents, guardians, eta, have 

'' How will you explain it to her f " 

"Leave that to ma Only, as I shall 
want to know whether I am, or am not| 
an object of attention to your party, 
contrive to drop a programme if you 
fortunately find that you have not lleen 
seen. Mind you don't show in front of 
the box." 

The young man turned away with sullen 
anger, and Mr. Wyndham slipped quietly 
into the place he liad indicated and waited 
for the signal Let the nature of the ac- 
count which had to be settled with him by 
his friend be what it might, and his own 
cause of annoyance however tangible, Mr. 
Wyndham was not so much engrossed by 
these considerations but that he could 
follow out some train of thought that 
seemed to amuse him. 

"It is odd, aU things considered," he 
sud to himself, " that I have never chanced 
to come across one of them since that day ; 
yet I recognised them all instantly, and 
should have known each of them separately 
— except the child, of course — wlule I am 
not afndd of their recognising me. And 
yet Pm less changed than any of them. A 
good tailor and a balance at one's bankers 
are true magicians. And there's the silly 
woman that put their spells within my 
reach — talking to the youug fool who is so 
easily kept in hand. She really wears 
surprisingly well." 

From Box Twelve on the second tier a 
white paper dropped, and fluttered to the 
ground, falling into the orchestra. A girlish 
head bent over the edse of the box, watch- 
ing the descent of the lost programme, and 
Mr. Wyndham observed, by the aid of his 
glasses, that the girlish head was crowned 
with rich black hair, ornamented with a 
comb Eet in pearls. 

Mr. Wyndham slid into the vacant seat 
by MiBB Denzil's side, and whispered : 

^' Courtland begs y oa will excuse him 
for asking me to take his place until the 

end of this act. He has met his uncle 
and aunt, and cannot leave them imme- 

Miss Denzil merely nodded, without 
taking her eyes off the stage, and Mr. 
Wyndham felt that he had successfully 
made a bold stroka 

Miss Denzil evidently knew all about 
his friend's uncle and aunt, and was not 
in a position to be offended on the present 

Good ! Mr. Wyndham admitted to him- 
self that he was for the present puzzled, 
but did not propose to remain so beyond 
the earliest hour at which it should be con- 
venient to him to make his friend explain 
himseU on the morrow. Nor was it his 
intention to leave the explanation entirely 
to the candour of that gentleman; he 
meant to extract so much information from 
£Gss Denzil as would enable him to check 
his statements in case Courtlandshould again 
exhibit his innate foolishness by telling lies 
to a person who had on severid former 
occasions demonstrated to him the use- 
lessness of that method. For the present 
he i>ermitted Miss Denzil to enjoy the play 
undisturbed, and gave his own attention, 
but covertly, to the glimpses to be obtained 
of the occupants of Box Number Twelve 
from his place in the stalls.* These glimpses 
were precarious, his place was too far tp 
the right, but the dark-haired girl was 
seated next to the stage, and she leaned 
over and watched the play as closely as 
Miss Denzil herself, only turning her face 
now and then to the lady who sat beside 
her,^ in the shade of the drapery, or 
raising it towards someone who stood back 
in the box: to both she was evidently 
expressing pleasure. Mr. Wyndham was 
enabled to see her at intervals pretty 
distinctly. When the next interval be- 
tween the acts came, he devoted himself 
assiduously to Miss Denzil, and by im- 
plying in an unforced way his complete 
familiarity with Courtland, and assuming 
a quasi-paternal air towards herself, he 
acquired a good deal of information on 
wluch he rightly set considerable value. 
He was careful to give the conversation 
between himself and Miss Denzil all the 
false appearance of diversity that could be 
lent to it by roving glances, the turning of 
his opera-glass in various directions, and 
vivacious nods to nobody in particular ; for 
hn was sure that his friend, in |^o recesses 
of Box Number Twelve, was keeping a 
watch upon him. All this acting before 
the curtain was lost upon Miss Denzil, in 



4 [February 90, 1880.] 


[Condnotod hj 

whose good graces Mr. Wyndham made 
steady progress, while every artless sentence 
which she uttered did but confirm him 
in the false judgment he had ^^assed 
upon her at sight, and increase his im- 

Eresdon that she was " as cool a hand " as 
e had ever met with. " Uncommonly good- 
tempered," though, he admitted, as tne play 
came to a conclusion without his fnend 
hayine made his appearance, and Miss 
Denzu displayed no ill-humour or sense of 
slight, and then he added : " or uncom- 
monly well-trained." 

It was very easy to induce Miss Denzil 
to allow all the other occupants of the 
stalls to pass out before her. She was too 
much amused by the spectacle of the 
moving crowd to object, and it was not 
until some minutes had elapsed after the 
evacuation of Box Number Twelve, that 
Mr. Wyndham led her, still talking with 
animation of the play and the actors, 
towards the great staircase, which they 
found still crowded. Pausing for a moment 
at the topmost step, they saw Mr. Court- 
land re-entering from the street All was 
right; his "parents, guardians, etc.," 
h^ been safely deposited in their carriage, 
and Mr. Wyndham's turn of duty was 

At the foot of the stairs Mr. CourUand 
joined them, and, with a not very in- 
telligible explanation of his having been 
detamed until the end of the play, told 
Miss Denzil that her cab was waiting on 
the engaged rank not very far up the 
streets He proposed to take her to it to 
save time. 

"I found Mary standing by the pillar 
when I came out^"he added, '* and put her 
into the cab.^ 

He gave Miss Denzil his arm, and led 
her out of the theatra His manner was 
confused and even irritated, but she did 
not seem to be disturbed by this. He had 
hardly spoken to Mr. Wyndham, who 
followed them, and walked up the street 
with them, along the line of cabs, until 
they came to one out of which a respectable- 
looking woman was leaning. 

Into this vehicle Miss Denzil stepped ; 
the two gentlemen bade her good-night, 
and the cabman drove ofi* without having 
received any direction. 

There was a lamp-post close to them, 
and the two friends, who looked strangely 
like two enemies, moved quickly away 
from the light, but without speaking. The 
younger man lighted a cigar before they 
had reached the turn into the Strand, and 

found it somewhat difficult to manage. 
After they had walked a few yards 
Mr. Wyndham stopped and hailed a 

'* GTood-night, Gourtland," he said in a 
cold, dry tone; ''I shall expect you at eleven 
o'clock to-morrow." 

Mr. Wyndham and his friend were not the 
only persons among the crowded audience 
at the Lyceum Theatre that night for whom 
Box Twelve had attraction. Its occupants 
were not among the remarkable people in 
the house ; for only one of the four was 
young, and the whole party wore a ataid 
and reserved appearanca A white-haired 
gentleman, of an almost shadowy slimness 
of figure, and with bent shoulders ; a lady, 
a g(KKl deal younger than he, but quite 
elderly, white-haired also; and a second 
lady, with a face singularly intellectual and 
tranquil, but who had seen thirty-five 
years at least — these formed a group on 
which the roving glances of strangers 
surveying a crowd woald hardly rest for 
many moments. The fourth member of 
the party had attracted, early in the even- 
ing, the attention of a eentleman who was 
for some time the solitary occupant of a 
box on the other side of the house, and 
exactly opposite to Number Twelve. He 
had seen the play twice already; he 
had come to the theatre this evening at the 
urgent request of a friend, recently arrived 
from New York with his wife and daughter, 
and here was the second act begun without 
the Whartons having made their appearance. 
He m not mind it much, and he did not 
imsgine that anything had happened. Mrs. 
Wharton was generaSiy late for everything 
everywhere, he had observed, and if Miss 
Effie had taken it into her head to prefer 
doing something else that evening, her 
obedient parents would not think of 
opposing her. So he waited patiently, and 
looked about him, first at the people 
opposite, at the serene lady in grey satin 
and black lace, and at the young girl in 
white, whose delight with the play the three 
seniors were enjoying with single-hearted 
sympathy. The lady in srey was unmia- 
takeabl^ English, the girl in white had 
somethmg foreign in her look ; yet surely 
they must be mother and daughter: the 
girl's supreme importance to the lady could 
be seen at a glance. 

"She's like a child at a pantomime," 
said the amused observer to lumself ; " as 
children used to be in my time. They're 
calmly critical now, I suppose." 





CbailM DtokMu.) 


iFebrajirySO, 1886.] 5 

The girl's right arm rested on the front 
of the box ; the left was propped upon its 
dimpled elbow, and the raised hand slowly 
swayed a feather-tipped fan, with a pecu- 
liarly graceful roovemont, then furled it 
with the slightest turn of tho wrist, and 
subsided softly on the cushion. 

" Half - Spanish, for any amount of 
dollars ! " muttered the lookor-on opposita 
" No EngUshwoman ever did that What 
hair, too, and what a fine carriage of the 
head and bend of the neck ! A pretty 
little creature, and the mother so proud of 
her ! Well she may b& I wonder whether 
the Whartons mean to come to-night at 
all Ha! here's a visitor, and the sefio- 
rita's glad to see him; so is the mother. 
Now, what are his relations to the party t 
and what the deuce business is it of 

He turned his attention for a while to 
the stage, but again it wandered to Box 
Number Twelve, as the girl in white leaned 
forward and looked down into the ordiestra 
with a movement which reminded him of 
something, someone — he could not tell 
what — in the vague, perplexing way of 
which we have all had experience. What 
was it t Who was it t A very dim and 
distant suggestion, sturely — the faintest 
echo from thenar, far past ; but it annoyed 
him that he could not define it, could 
not catch its whisper with any distinct- 

Again the girl raised her head and looked 
up towards the dim figure of the young 
man in the background ; and, as she did 
so, her hand crept towards the fhrled fan, 
and spread it with the same indescribable 
movement Can he not catch the whisper 
of memory now t Can he not define the 
suggestion that was in those ^sturest 
No; he cannot He is impatient with 
his desultory mind for trying to do this ; 
he will not go on doing it The play's 
the thing, and he will mind the play. 
It is only that she has black hair, and wears 
a comb in it, as all Spanbh women do, or 
did when he used to see them — how 
many years i^o t They may be all different 
now, like the chOdrea Someone had 
told him that bonnets were now worn at 

There, Qhe lays the fan upon her mother's 
arm with a Imgering, deepening touch, 
while her face is set towards the stage, and 
she hardly breathes for listening ; and the 
observer is again, and more distmctly, con- 
scious of the stirring of an old association 
with the past But still he cannot seize 

it, and now, as he hates to be forced to 
think when he merely wants to be amused, 
he gets downright an^ry with himself, and 
unreasonably vexed with the girl, shuts up 
his glass, and resolves to go away at the 
end of tho second act Keally, it is pre- 
posterous that, because he sees a head 
crowned with dark hair, and a line of 
pearls amid its masses, he should be repeat- 
ing to himself : 

•*She took our daylight with her. 
The smiles that we love best, 
With morning blushes on her cheek, 
And pearls upon her breast." 

This was not in the play, and how had it 
come back to him ? When had he remem- 
bered the lines, or quoted, or been reminded 
of them, before t The young man was 
standing at the back of the girFs chair now, 
and she had sUghtly changed her poritiou 
as he bent down and said something to her. 

Are there no bonny dames at home, 

Or no true lovers here, 
That he should cross the seas to win 

The dearest of the dear ? 

" Gross the seas ! " It was coming now, 
like wind over wastes : the whisper grew 
distinct, the suggestion definite. It was 
of " Fair Ines" that the girl reminded him 
—of her who " had gone into the West ", 
with her English lover, so many years ago, 
and since then into oblivion. ** Fair Ines," 
as he had seen her in the theatre at 
Santiago, in her white dress, with her 
coronsi of dark hair crossed by a line of 
pearls, and a fhrled fan lying under her 
dimpled hand. As he had seen her just 
before the earthquake shock, she came to 
his mind's eye now, after twenty years, 
radiant, beautiful, beloved, triumphant, as 

The smile that blessed one lorer*s heart 
Had broken many more. 

The box-door was opened, and a gorgeous 
vision displayed itself to the hitherto soli- 
tary occupant— Mrs. Wharton, arraved in 
the newest confection devised for theatre- 
dress by the latest infallible authority, and 
escorted only by a mild old gentleman in a 
brown wig. 

"I'm dreadfully late,'' saidMrs. Wharton, 
"but I'm sure you don't mind, because I 
always am. So glad we eot here between 
the acts, so that we disturb nobody! 
Where's Fault Oh yes, I forgot Effie 
thought she'd like the opera best, so he 
had to take her there, and Mr. Dexter 
kindly came with me. I believe you have 

not met AUow me to Mr. Dexter 

— Mr. Rodney." 


nj| . jL i i. a— *» ^n *» *Mjjn i ' nx i 






6 (Febroary SO, 1886.] 


[Condncted by 




The central plain of Sossez, enclosed 
on either hand by the bold ridges of the 
Downs, resembles nothing so much as a 
great river-valley, and when from some 
neighbouring height yon look down upon 
the wide and vaned plain, the eye instmc- 
tively seeks for the broad, majestic stream 
that should wind with gracefol folds 
through the bright country. And if, per- 
haps, a deam of sunshme chases the 
shadows of the clouds ; as it glances upon 
some silvery pool or mere, the imagination 
seizes upon the missing link, and endows 
the scene with the vivid life of the great 
river that might be there. There seems a 
kind of perversity, indeed, in the course 
of such streams as wander through the 
plains, which, instead of following the 
natural contours of the country, break 
through the hills on either side, and find 
their way to the sea in insignificant inde- 

From Emsworth to Kent Ditch the 
length of this great woodland tract, the 
centre and pith of Sussex, stretches for 
some seventy-six miles — a country once 
abounding with almost impenetrable 
forests, among whose fastnesses there is 
no doubt that a considerable number of 
the earlier settlers in the land contrived 
io exist through successive layers of in- 
vadmg races. The iron works survived, 
as we have seen, to recent times, and 
we may perhaps trace a remnant of 
the ancient inhabitants of the forest in 
the wild and half-civilised people who 
long formed a distinct element in the 
population of the wilder part of the 

At 'the narrowest point of the great 
forest tract stands Midhurst, which is in 
some way the metropolis of this Sussex 
weald — originally the middle wood, indeed, 
rather than the middle city — a central 
station between the forests of Sussex 
and those of Hampshire, as well as on 
tiie old Roman way from Chichester to 

It is certainly singular that this mid- 
Sussex region should have been the birth- 
place of so many poets. 

The author of Venice Preserved was 
bom close by Midhurst, at Trotton, and 
was the son of Humphrey Otway, rector 
of the adjoining parish of Woolbeding. 
The poet descrilMS his early years, as the 

only son of affectionate, higb-minded 
parents, with some fervour : 

Alone I lived, their much-loved, fondled boy. 
They gave me generous education. High 
They strove to raise my mind. 

As a Westminster boy, and then as a 
student of Christ Church, Oxford, the 
education of young Obway must have 
strained the resources of a country parson 
of the seventeenth century, so ttutt we 
may perhaps conjecture some generous 
patron in the background, whose death 
cast a blight over the young man's pros- 
pects. Anyhow, he had to leave coU^e 
without taking a degree. 

The world was wide, but whither should I fi^ ? 

Otway's predilections urged him to seek 
hi3 fortune in London. 

To Britain's great metropolis I strayed. 
Where fortune's general game is played. 

And here he first sought popular applause 
as an actor, but made no success in this, 
although he seems to have made his way 
among the gay people of the Court 

I missed the brave and wise, and in their stead 

On every sort of vanity I fed — 

Gay coxcombs, cowards, knaves, isind {nrating 

Bullies of o'ergrown bulk and little souls. 

In the midst of folly and dissipation, 
alternating with squalid misery and want, 
Obway still found the inspira^on of his 
genius at work within him. He was con- 
scious of lofty aims in strai^ contrast with 
his loose surroundings. 

No beauty with my Muse's might compare. 
Lofty she seemed, and on her front sat a majestic 

Awful, yet kind ; severe, yet fair. 

This description of his muse, howevert 
will hardly be recognised by the student of 
his plays, although there are sometimes 
touches of the fire and dignity of the elder 
dramatists among the coarse licence of the 
hack playwright. But Otway pleased the 
town with Don Carlos, and secured a solid 
success with Venice Preserved. But now 
he had arrived at the critical point in the 
career of the literary artist His original 
inspiration had failed him, and the study 
and labour that should supply its place 
were impossible under the conditions of his 
life. . 

At this period we may conjecture that 
he returned for a while to his native 
country, among the rustics, who were 
ignorant of his fame, and to whom he 
was only old Parson Otway's lad, who had 
taken to more or less dineputable way& 
And so he wandered, neglected and alone. 





CharlM Dlckena.) 


among the hilU familiar to him in boy- 

To a high hill, where never yet stood tree, 
A wandering bard, whose muse was crazy grown, 
Cloyed with the nauseous follies of the buzzing 

From bis vantage-point, bad he not been 
preoccupied with his own miseries, the poet 
would no doubt have seen over the great 
stretdi of wooded plain the dwelling-place 
of a brother bard, of na greater calibre, but 
of much more happy destiny. 

The Sacvillee were a thoroughly Sussex 
&mily, originally of the smaller county 
gentry, one of whom, taking to the law, 
raised himself in the Augustan age of 
Elizabeth, to the council of the Queen and 
high office under the Crown. The lands 
of the Sacvilles lay mostly about East 
Orinstead ; noted for its beautiful church, 
whose tall and elegant spire dominates the 
surrounding plains; and when Elizabeth, 
witii grudging hand, raised her Lord 
Treasurer to the dignity of a baron, he 
took his title from the old manor-house 
among the woods, and became Lord Buck- 
hurst Under the first Stuart kin^ he was 
advanced at once to the dignity of Earl of 
Dorset. The son of Elizabeth's wary coun- 
cillor, a dignified and pious nobleman, left 
at his death large sums to the poor, and 
founded at East Grinstead a college or 
hospital for the poor which still exists to 
preserve his memory. With other times 
came other manners; and the present Earl 
— speaking of Obway's days — had been 
noted in his hot youth for his dissolute 

But with all his wildness there was a 
fund of generous humour about Sacville, 
with a true poetic verve which has raised 
him to the ranks of the minor poets, while 
his sea-song. To All Te Ladies Now on 
Land, will be remembered when many 
more pretentious works are forgotten. 
And, while his satire was sharp, his hand 
was generous, and even lavish to most of 
his brother bards : 

The best good man, with the worst natured muse. 

All this time the ancestors of a greater 
poet than either Otway or his possible 
patron were living in the thick of the 
forest country, small county gentry, ac- 
quiring somewhat in one prudent genera- 
tion, and dissipating somewhat in another 
less prudent^ but never rising or aspiring 
Iiigher than the rank of esquire, justice of 
the peace, or custos rotmorum. There 
might have been Shelleys who had gone 
as crusaders or palmers to the Holy Land, 

and so had acquired the coat -of- arms 
which bears, however, not scallop-shells, 
but others of a spiral character. But, 
perhaps, the lively imagination of the 
College of Heralds is responsible for the 
shells. Anyhow, the SheUeys of that day 
recked not much of blood, whether of 
Crusaders or of others of high degree, but 
went on marrying and giving in marriage, 
among the stumy respectable franklin 
families of Sussex Among others. Soger 
Bysshe, of Fen Place, had a daughter and 
heiress who married one of the Shelleys, 
who thus acquired Fen Place, and brought 
into the family a name which has since 
become illustrious. Timothy, the son of 
this marriage, seems to have departed 
from the stay-at-home traditions of the 
family, and we find him in America, where 
he married a wife, Joanna, rather vaguely 
described as daughter of — widow of — 
Plum, of New York. 

From this marriage sprang a son of 
by no means ordinary character. Bysshe 
Shelley, the grandfather of the poet, 
inherited the family faculty of pleasing 
womankind, and put it to a good account 
by marrying a pair of heiresses — the 
first of a sound Sussex family, with a 
good rent-roll and respectable, if common- 
place pedigree ; the second — of course after 
the death of the first — no other than Miss 
Perry, the heiress of the estates and tradi- 
tions of the illustrious Sidneys. And 
both these marriages were runaway love- 
matches — the first not being perhaps out 
of the Way in the heyday of youth and 
passion, but the second certainly a feat of 
high enterprise on the part of a widower 
with a young family. Sir Bysshe was thus 
the founder of two wealthy and aristo- 
cratic families; the line of baronets of 
which was the poet, although he did not 
live long enougn to succeed to the title, 
and Uie family of Sidney Shelley, of Pens- 

Percy Bysshe Shelley was bom at Field 
Place, on the outskirts of St Leonard's 
Forest, a fragment of Andred's weald that 
still retains much of its primitive wildnees 
and solitude. 

We have accounted in some way for 
Bysshe and Shelley, but why Percy, may 
be asked. We may claim, indeed, the Percys 
as a Sussex family, even the Percys of 
Northumberland, Hotspur, and the rest 
of his kin. For Petworth, close by, is the 
original home of the race. Long ago, 
Petworth was part of the possessions of 
the almost royal seat ot Arundel, and when 



8 [February 20, 1886.] 


(Oondnotod taf 

Queen Adeliza and her husband, Albini, 
had the casUe, they bestowed Petworth on 
a kinsman of the Qaeen, Joceline, of the 
princely house of Lorraina This Joceline 
married the heiress of the Percys and 
assumed their name, and his descendants 
were the bold feudal chieftains who so long 
held almost royal sway on the Borders. 
But they always retained Petworth among 
their possessions, and when the towering 
ambition of the Percys had been finally 
quenched in blood, Petworth became the 
favourite family-seat for which the feudal 
towers of Alnwick were deserted. The line 
which began with a Joceline ended with 
a Joceline, and Petworth coming, by 
marriage, into the possession of a former 
Duke of Somerset, was alienated from the 
northern estates. 

It was to some connection — actual or 
traditional — with these Percys of Petworth 
that the poet owed his first christian-name, 
But unfortunately for our present purpose, 
only a small and fragmentary portion of 
our poet's history is connected with Sussex. 
Field Place is still standing, with its gardens, 
where dwelt an ancient serpent^ one of 
young Percy's familiars, that was supposed 
to be descended from the famous dragon of 
St Leonard's Forest. And there still stands 
the parish church of Wamham, to whose 
vicarage used Percy daily to resort for 
instruction. The parson was a Welshman, 
one Mr. Edwards, who may have had some 
Celtic fervour in his veins to counteract 
the general bucolic dulness all about The 
^andfather. Sir Bysshe, lived at Horsham, 
in an eccentric kind of retirement, a sort 
of district ogre, of strange, unapproach- 
able habits. The ogre, who had once been 
such a squire of dames, lived on till he was 
eighty-five, and being close-fisted in his 
famfly relations, there was cheeseparing 
necessary with sober living at Field Place. 

Once launched on his college life, 
Percy came back no more to the parental 
nest One flying visit, indeed, he made 
when his father was safely out of the way. 
For Percy's daring independence of thought 
and action had j^ced him under the ban. 
Sussex was accustomed to looseness of 
morals combined with correct principles, 
and ready enough to condone it, but the 
example of one with pure life but theories 
accounted loose was not to be endured. 
And nothing more of a comforting nature 
is heard of Percy Bysshe Shelley till the 
news comes of his early death in the deep 
blue sea 

Far the less happy was the death of the 

earlier poet Otway, whom, by the way, we 
have left for an unconscionable time upon 
the lonely hill, where he took up his 
position at least two centuries ago. Back 
to town he went, to the haunts of wretched- 
ness and poverty. His faithless muse had 
for ever fiown. Destitution came upon 
him — actual starvation, and in his last 
haunt — a low tavern on Tower Hill — he was 
choked by too eagerly swallowinc a crust 
that the charity of some pitying f nend had 
procured him. 

To return, however, from this excursion 
among the Sussex poets to the more solid 
facts of county history. We find ourselves 
here at Midhurst, close to one of the most 
interesting ruined houses of the county — a 
noble mansion, the equal, almost, of a royal 
palace, left desolate by fire ; a desolation 
accentuated by the verdure and luxuriance 
of the surrounding scene. 

Cowdray passed from the De Bohuns to 
the Neville of the king-making race ; and 
through them it came to their descendant, 
one of the last of the Plantagenets, that 
unhappy Countess of Salisbury, whose 
death on the scaffold forms such a terrible 
picture in our memories of the reign of 
bluff King Harry. Cowdray, then falling 
to the Crown, was granted again, with 
other forfeited estates, to Uie heirs of a 
collateral branch of the Neville, the 
former owners. These heirs were all 
daughters, and were rare prizes for the 
courtiers of the day. The fourth 
daughter, Lucy, who had Cowdray for her 
share, married, first of all, a Sir Thomas 
Fitzwilliam, and secondly a noted lawyer, 
Sir Anthony Browne, from whom are 
supposed to be descended all the exten- 
sive family who spell their name with 

an "e". 

There was a son hj the first husband, 
Sir William Fitzwilham, who inherited 
Cowdray 'in due course, and spent the 
substance of the FitzwiUiams in building a 
magnificent house there — a great Tudor 
quadrangular mansion, with its chapel, its 
great staoles, its pleasure-gardens and fruit- 
gardens, its galleries, terraces, alcoves, and 
cascades of water, a second Kenilworth in 
the south countrea 

Fitzwilliam buUt, butBrowne inherited — 
a Browne, whose descendant was created 
Viscount Montagu ; and here lived a lone 
line of Montagus, who embellished and 
adorned the place, collecting about them a 
host of heirlooms and precious relics. 
Towards the end of the last century — in 
the year 1793, that is— the reigning 








Chute Diokeiii.1 CHBONIGLES OF ENGLISH COUNTIES. (Febraairio,u86.] 9 


Tiscoont was a yomig man who had but 
recently come of age, and who was now 
performing the grand tour with his friend, 
yonng Sedley Bordett. The young Viscount 
was about to ally himself with the financial 
aristocracy of the period, and was on his 
way home to be married. Wealth and 
good taste might be expected to open a new 
career to the ancient mansion, and its some- 
what faded splendour would surely be 
revived. But one night — ^the night of the 
24th September — the housekeeper was 
awoke by the glare of fire. The beams 
and wooawork of the ancient structure 
were alight both aloft and alow, and, 
for all the parish engine could do, and 
the rows of rustics, wiw buckets, who pre- 
sently came upon the scene, Cowdray was 
consumed to its bare walls. 

The young Viscount never knew the 
misfortune tmit had happened. News tra- 
velled slowly in those aays, and before the 
letter arrived announcing to his lordship 
the destruction of his ancestral mansion, 
with its priceless relics, he was himself 
drowned with his travelline companions in 
the falls of the Ehine, of which, with British 
rashness and obstinacy, they had persisted 
in essaying the passage in a tiny ddfL 

If we turn from the ereat plain of the 
Weald, with its central forest ridge — with 
its innumerable hamlets and churches — it 
will be remembered that the number and 
riches of the churches in the Weald excited 
the ire of the great enemy of mankind, 
who forthwith set to work to drown the 
country by cutting that great dyke, near 
Brighton, which still bears his name. In 
this the great enemy resembled the daring 
engineers of the early railway days, who 
would cut through a hill rather than go 
round its flank. For, in truth, there are 
many gaps in the great chalk escarpment 
which a skilful engineer, with the resources 
of his great exemplar, might easily turn to 
account. With a little alteration of the 
sea-level the waters would pour in and the 
Weald would once more become — what it 
hsA probably been in remote ages — a great 
lake, with wooded islands andronny slopes, 
the haunt of aquatic birds and monstrous 

Each of these gaps on the seaward 
side has its strong castle. To besin with, 
there is Arundel, as nobly placed as anv 
feudal fortress in the realm. The approach 
is admirable — the broad buttress of the 
downs rising sheer from the marshy plain, 
while, with a graceful curve, the river sweeps 
past a rich nook of prairie and pasture. 

and the clustering towers rise above a grove 
of noble trees. 

A haze of tradition hangs over the 
origin of this great fortress, as it was in 
the olden time — traditions of ^nts and 
necromancers, who vaguelvrecallits perhaps 
British origin. King Alfred held it once, 
and at the Conquest it fell to one of 
William's most trusted barons. Soger de 
Montgomery, who held its earldom with 
seventy-seven dependent manors. Robert 
de BeUesme, that evil-minded descendant 
of the great Boger, forfeited the castle by 
his rebeUion against King Henry the First, 
and King Henry ^ave it to his Queen, who, 
in turn, brought it to her second husband, 
Albinl Something traditional attaches 
to this really historical personage, for as 
such we must class the wonderful story 
of his tournament before the Queen 
of France, when, winning the prize from 
all other Imights, he won also the heart of 
tiie beautifal Queen. His loyalty to his 
own fair mistress, so the story goes, steeled 
his heart against the love-lorn Queen, who 
in the anger of despised beauty contrived 
that the victorious knight should be shut 
up in a grotto with a fierce, uncaged lion. 
Albini with naked hands met the ferocious 
beast, and tore its tongue from its throat 
Hence the lion without a tongue which the 
brave knight bore as a device upon shield 
and pennon ever after. 

But there is nothing apocryphal about 
the story of tiie Queen Adeliza and her 

fnest, Matilda, the Empress, when King 
tephen, swoopins down upon the castle, 
invested it with sJl his force. The Queen 
appealed to Stephen as a knight and gentle- 
man to let her guest go free and give her so 
much law. The King, touched on his 
weak point, consented, and presently the 
Empress was among her friends in the 
West, and setting the kingdom in a blaze. 
Considering the weak and intermittent 
way in which the great Norman families 
were continued, the great castle of Arundel 
has been in remarkably few different hands 
since Uie Conquest, The family of Albini 
lasted till the middle of the thirteenth 
century, and then an heiress carried the 

freat possessions of the earldom to the 
itzahms. For a short time the castle was 
in the hands of '^Butcher Mowbray", when 
the then Fitzalan suffered with the Duke 
of Gloucester for conspiracy against 
Richard the Second. But Bolingbroke 
reversed the attainder, and the Fitzalans, 
restored to their possessions, lasted well 
into tiie reign of Queen Elizabeth, when 




10 [Febrnai7 «>, IftSO.] 


[Oondiicted bj 

an heiress carried their lands and honours 
to the Howards. And to the Howards the 
castle still belongs. The castle itself 
was a good deal knocked about in the 
great civil wars, having been twice taken 
and once lost by the Parliamentary party, 
and it had been long abandoned as a 
habitation when, in 1791,theeleventh Duke 
of Norfolk undertook its restoration. And 
thus, like its rival, Alnwick Castle, in the 
north, it is rather a revival of an old 
castle than a veritable antiquity. 

The next fortified gap is Bramber, now 
a quiet little hamlet^ with a few fragments 
of old towers appearing on the green casUe- 
mound. Here was a noble castle in olden 
times, a castle built by the De Braose, 
which afterwards went by marriage to the 
Mowbrays. But when the Jockey of Nor- 
folk lost life and everything on Bosworth 
field, the castle fell into decay. The lands 
and rents belonging to it are all carefully 
preserved, no doubt, and go to some great 
lamQy ; but as a seat of feudal state it 
has ceased to exist But there is some- 
thing attractive in an old castle left all to 
itself, about which one can wander at will, 
and linger over, and bask in the sunshine 
under its old walls. 

There is no other break now in the 

K)at sea-wall of downs till we come to 
wes, with another strong castle already 
described, and beyond that we come to the 
coast-line protected by the Cinque Ports, 
where great barons and their castles had 
no place. 

But the most charming of all old castles 
is Bodiam, although it never had much im- 
portance as a fortified post Bising among 
low-lying fields and woods, it seems more 
like a castle of enchantment than an actual 
building of hewn stone; and as you ap- 
proach, the castle seems so perfect and 
untouched in its massive strength that you 
can almost fancy that the wwler is still 
looking outfrom the battlement — the porter 
still at the gate to lower the massive draw- 
bridge. And this in the quiet repose of 
a secluded country, with only the croaking 
of the frogs, or the plash of some great pike 
among the weedy margins of the moat, to 
break the stillness. The castle, still al- 
most perfect in all its details, was the work 
of a successful soldier in the French wars 
of King Edward the Third. Sir Edward 
Dalynruge, a knight of no great territorial 
possessions, had accompanied his father in 
the campaigns against the French, had 
fought at Greasy and at Poictiers, and then 
took service on his own account in a band 

of free lances under Sir Robert Knowles, 
and gained some wealth in ransoms and 
in plunder in Normandy, Brittany, and 
Picardy. And from the spoils of France 
Sir Edward built himself this castle, one 
of the latest examples of the feudal fortress. 
To the Dalynruges succeeded the Lenknors, 
and Sir Thomas Lenknor, attached to the 
Lancastrian cause, was attainted by Richard 
the Third for having raised men for Rich- 

The castle was seized by the King, pro- 
bably after ofiering some resistance, and it 
is said to have stood a siese durins the 
civil wars, although the handiwork of 
Cromwell's generals is hardly to be traced 
in its still perfect enceinte, and the walls 
bear no sign of having been battered by 
artillery. But the records of this really 
fascinating building are few and scanty, 
and leave a good deal to the imagination. 

Not far ofi* is Battle, with its abbey, 
and the marshy grounds, a scene of always 
vivid interest to those of English blood. 
The high altar of the abbey stood on the 
very ground where Harold pitched his 
standard, and where he fell beneath the 
Norman arrow. 

Another interesting spot is pleasant 
Mayfield, with remains of we ancient palace 
of the archbishops, with traditions, too, 
of famous St Dunstan, and relics of the 
hard-headed anchorite — his hammer, his 
anvil, and his sword. St Dunstem's Well, 
where the holy hermit slaked his thirsty 
still flows as freely as ever, and is carefully 
preserved and walled round. 

Just on the borders of Kent, and 
partly in either county, are the remains of 
Bay ham Abbey, endowed in the year 1200 
by Robert de Thumham for Pre-monstra- 
tensian canons. And we may gaze at a 
distance at the pretentious mansion which 
occupies the site of Eridge Castle, once a 
seat of Harold's, and later on a hunting- 
lodge of the old Nevills ; while^ Sheffield 
Place has more modem memories as the 
favourite retreat of Edmund Gibbon; 
and in Fletching Church we may find the 
tomb of tiie great historian, with many 
other fine monuments of the men of still 
more ancient days. 


One of the most prominent features in 
the literature of the present day is the 
number of words unpronounceable to the 
uninitiated, and hard to be " understanded 




CSiailes DIckeiiB.] 


[February 20, 1886. 1 1 

of the people ", scattered throughout its 
pages. ^ The other week, while reading a 
theological work by a popular author, I 
came upon so many words which I had 
never even seen before, that the dictionary 
was in constant requisition. 

When I first saw the word " nostalgia", 
I was younger by a good many years than I 
am now, and had no idea what it meant. 

I looked at it from every side, repeated 
it aloud, wondered — with a hazy remem- 
brance of having once learned "roots" — 
what its derivanon might be, read and re- 
read the context, hoping to have some light 
thrown on its meaning, and finally did 
what I should have done at first — ^went for 
my lexicon. That, however, was useless, 
as being an old-fashioned one it did not 
contain the word, so I hopelessly forbore 
any further enquiry, being surrounded by 
a family as ignorant and badly educated as 
myself, trusting to time or accident to 
edighten me. But by one of those freaks 
of nature — convenient freaks, sometimes — 
one no sooner comes in contact with a 
hitherto unknown word or place, than one 
is sure to encounter it again in a day or 
two — I found my new mend, nostaJgia, 
mentioned in a newspaper, with its ex- 
planation, *' home-sickness,'' considerately 
given in the same sentence. 

Nostalgia, home-sickness, " heim weh " — 
no matter what you call it — " a rose by any 
other name would smell as sweet'' — ^is an un- 
mistakeable fact, though philosophers may 
sneer, and callous-hearted persons laugh. 

It is a disease, as much as neuralgia or 
fever are diseases ; it baffles the cleverest 
doctors' skill, and admits of only one com- 
plete cure, and that is by removing its 

Sheer strength of will may keep it in 
abeyance, hard work may turn aside its 
course for a while ; but sometimes, at odd 
moments, in unexpected places, it asserts 
itself with an uncontrollable longing, a 
nckening thirst for home, which will 
neither be repressed nor appeased. 

A floating scent in the air — ascent laden 
with the memory of a bygone dav, a sun- 
set flush in the sky, an old melody borne 
on the breeze, have been known to bring 
on an access of this strange illness, almost 
unbearable in degree. Season has little or 
no efiect in suMuing its feverish excite- 
ment; friendship the closest, love the 
tenderest, cannot turn aside its current; 
music has no power to soothe its bitterness, 
nor the distractions of gaiety to rouse it 
from its melancholy* It is something out- 

side the sufferer's body, outside himself, his 
feelings, his reason ; it is a sickness of the 
soul, a longing to outstrip time and space, 
to leave the laggard body behind and fly 
to the native air, the loved associations and 
early friends of childhood. 

Lonely ranches in wild Mexican moun- 
tains have echoed to its sobbing cry; under 
the glare of a tropic sun, amid the brilliant 
colouring of tropical foliage, in scattered 
homesteads, in far Australian plains, men 
and women have pined and sickened— aye, 
and even died of tUs mjrsterious illness. 
It is strange that an ailment, which to all 
appearance is connected with the nerves, 
should not be more common among the 
weaker sex, but men suffer from it in a 
greater degree than women, and the more 
hardy tiie race the more they seem to suffer. 
Northern races experience its deadly 
symptoms more than the warmer-blooded 
southerner ; indeed, I have heard that the 
Esquimaux have such a deeply-rooted love 
of their cold and barren country entwined 
among the very fibres of their nature, that 
they can hardly exist for any length of 
time out of it, and dwindle away physically 
and mentally till they return. 

I remember once, in a far forei^ country, 
seeing a man who moped, lost his appetite, 
and looked generally wretched for days, 
but who, on l^ine questioned as to the cause 
of his melancholy, replied that he was in 
perfect health. Afterwards, when the fit, 
which was fortunately merely a temporary 
one, had worn itself out, he told me that it 
was a heart-longing for hpme which had 
suddenly taken possession of him ; that it 
seemed to him he could not again be happy 
tQl he heard ttie old tones and paced the 
old garden-walks — if only for a day or an 
hour, it would have contented him. He 
could again have assumed the harness of 
daHy toil, and spent the necessary years of 
exile in a foreign land, could he for one 
day have drunk at this refreshing well. 

It is not only in foreign countries and 
far-away scenes that this sickness is felt. 
I have known new-made happy brides 
suffer from it, and often I was not surprised. 
I do not think half enough is thought of 
the sacrifice entailed on many a young 
girl who quits a home full of brothers^ and 
sisters, and life, and gaiety, and marries a 
man who is absorbed in his business or 
profession from morning till night She is 
expected to be ''as happy as^ the day is 
long ", because the supposed mission of her 
life is fulfilled, she has got a settlement, 
I a husband, and a home. Bat what a change ! 



._ — ^ 





12 (Februwy 20, 1886.1 


(Oondiiotod bf 

She may be heart and soul in love with 
him, but^ in the daily seven or eight hours 
of enforced solitude, she is left to fill her 
time as best she may, and, in a newly- 
furnished house, without children to occupy 
her, there is not much in a domestic way 
to employ her hands or her mind. How 
her thoughts must go back to the home she 
has just left, filled with the merry laughter 
and jests of young lives, their amusements, 
occupations planned, consummated, and 
talked over in hours filled to the brim with 
a thousand and one different interests 1 If, 
in these tedious, long-drawn-out hours her 
eyes brim with tears, and her heart yearns 
sometimes for the old life of her girlhood, 
with something approaching to home- 
sickness, who can blame her t 

I knew a lonely young bride like this 
once; she had married the man of her 
choice and loved him to adoration, but 
she told me that in the first year of her 
marriage she was almost miserabla She 
had left a house full of bright, devoted 
sisters, where a stream of friends and 
cousins came and went all day, where talk 
and laughter made the week one long sun- 
beam ; and after the short honeymoon was 
over, she was transplanted to a lonely 
country village, in the suburbs of a large 
town, in which her husband spent the day 
at his office. She had scarcely any friends 
with whom to interchange a word, a church- 
yard bounded her garden, and the passing- 
bell, as it tolled dismally out, was tne onnr 
sound which broke the long, terrible still- 
ness ; and the contrast of the full, gay life, 
which had made her twenty summers so 
happy, with the miserable, lonely hours she 
spent now, used to come upon her with 
such force of home-sickness, that she lay 
helplessly cnring day after da;^, and when 
the young husband returned in the even- 
ing, expecting to find the liveliest and 
brightest of wives — and thinking, as most 
men in their convenient inconsideration do, 
that a woman must be perfectly happy in a 
home of her own — instead he found a limp 
and doleful creature, worn out from many 
tears, and ready to throw herself into hiis 
arms, and shed a few more from sheer 

It is not the gentlv nurtured or the 
weakly temperaments alone to whom this 
subtle disease comes. Strong men, of 
herculean frame, have been shaken by it ; 
peasants with little refinement, and seem- 
ingly less feeling, have trembled in its 
grasp ; adventurers, men whose lives have 
proved a failure, those black sbeep found 

under every clime, reckless, careless, 
hardened, have '* sickened of this vague 
disease", and longed, and agonised, and 
prayed for one glimpse of the old country 
to greet their dying eyes, one breath from 
some breezy upland, one waft from some 
flowing river, to cool their fevered brow. 
Some — aye many — headstones there are in 
every continent and colony in thb wide 
world with only rudely-carved initials to 
mark their identity; some little mounds 
without any headstones at all ; but if the 
green grass or stately palm growing over 
them could speak, they would tell sad 
tales of the pining awav of many a brave 
young life, and nobody knew but God and 
themselves that the breath which had 
blasted them was the deadly one of 


Whin you are sotL I ask no more 
The lavish rights 1 claimed before, 
When sunrise glittered on the seas. 
And dancing to the wooing breeze, 
The laughing ripples kissed the shore. 

The morning glow of love is o*er ; 
Oh, rosy dreams we dreamt of yore ! 
I do but ask the least of these, 
When you are sad. 

Let the f resli darling you adore. 
With joy's light footstep cross the floor ; 
But hear the last of all mv pleas. 
And shut for all but me the door, 
When you are sad. 



It may be remembered, perhaps, by 
some of my readers, that I once went to 
reside on the breezy heights of Islington, 
Dr. CJansius having told me that living on 
high ground was good for indigestion, and 
tiiat I found him to be as ignorant in the 
matter of hygiene as he was in meta- 
physics. Therefore, when I left mj 
lodgings in Crabbe Street, I determined to 
see whether I should do any good by acting 
diametrically opposite to the counsels of 
my would-be mentor, and I took rooms in 
a street very little above the level of the 
Thames at hi^h water — to wit, Horseferry 
Road, Westmmster. My new apartments 
had many advantages. They were very 
quiet, and very light when there was no 
liver-fog about, but their chief claim to 
approbation was that they were a long 
way from the Caledonian Road, the neigh- 
bourhood in which Dr. GlauMUS then had 
his dtvelliDg. 






Gbailes Dickens.] 

STUDIES OP OVER THE WAY. [February ao. I886.I 13 


Honef erry Boad without doubt possesses, 
as a thoroughfare, a certam individuality. 
It boasts of certain mock marine 
characteristics. The numbers of loafers, 
half bargee, halt dock -labourer, wearing 
real blue guernseys, and affecting the 
nautical waUr, that one sees about, and the 
smell of pitch that steals up the street 
when a baige is being caulked, suggest that 
a bit of the real port of London must have 
got adrift, and floated up on a high tide to 
Westminster. But there is, after all, a 
theatrical air about the mercantile enter- 
prise of the Horseferry Eoad, a sort of 
playing at being sailors. Those brown- 
sailed craft, almost sinking under the 
huge masses of hay and straw they 
carry, hail from the distant ports on the 
Medway or the Essex coast They have 
faced the olfactory terrors of Barking and 
Crossness, and threaded safely the perilous 
passage of Limehouse BeacL Those long, 
narrow barges, with a similar freight, come, 
peradventure, from the Midlands, bearing 
from some remote Warwickshire village 
provender for the mews of Majfair and 
Belgravia. How many locks have they 
descended, and to the voices of how many 
riverside sirens, ministering in cosy bar- 
parlours, have their bronze-featured captains 
tamed an unheeding earl But Horseferry 
Road, lying between stately Westminster 
and aesthetic Chelsea, seems a little ashamed 
of its commercial surroundings, and makes 
believe to have nothing to do with the hay 
and straw littered river-port At least, that 
was the mental attitude of my landlady 
when I went to look at the rooms I 
ultimately engaged. 

I was very comfortable in my new 
lodgings, and the Dictionary of Meta- 
physics made rapid progress; indeed, the 
pn^rees was, for a time, a litde too rapid, 
as 1 found absolutely nothing in the con- 
templation of my Over-the- Way to distract 
my attention from my work. The house 
opposite was, to speak figuratively, com- 
pletely dumb. There was a card in the 
ground-floor window to say that lodgings 
were to be had there. The milkman called 
once a day, as he did all down the street, 
and every morning the landlady, a little 
skinny woman in a rusty black dress, 
would issue forth and return in the space 
of half an hour, bearing her stock of pro- 
visions for the day. That was all. Had 
no fresh personalities intervened, I should 
have had nothing to write on the subject 
of Horseferry Boad. Nobody in hu 
flenses could build up a story on such 

materials. A whimsical dreamer, a man 
with an itch to invent a history about every 

Eerson who may cross his vision, might 
ave piled together a heap of rubbish under 
such circumstances ; but I am grateful to 
remember that I have never taken up my 
pen to write the adventures of my opposite 
neighbours without being first in posses- 
sion of abundant and well-authenticated 
data to work upon. 

But one morning, when I lifted my eyes 
from my writing, I saw that the card had 
disappeared from the window of the house 
over the way, and naturally I pricked up 
my ears at the prospect of finding some 
additional interest in the opposite dwell- 
ing which, up to this time, might quite as 
well have been a blank wall as a rateable 
tenement From that moment the progress 
of the Dictionary, of Metaphysics was 
sensibly retarded. Late in the evening a 
porter arrived with a truck, laden with 
what looked like seaman's chests, and by 
his side walked a thin, middle-aged man, 
presumably the owner of the same. The 
boxes were carried in, the middle-aged man 
followed, a ruddy glare of firelight shone 
from the hitherto dull and darksome 
windows of the first-floor-front, and I con- 
cluded that the time for observation had 
now really arrived. 

For a day or two the new tenant did not 
leave the house at all ; but I accounted for 
this by supposing that he was busy ar- 
ranging his possessions in his new abode. 
Then one evening, as the clock struck 
seven, he issued forth and walked brisklj 
down the street, towards the river. At 
nine precisely he returned, and henceforth 
these goings and comings were accurately 
repeated each evening. On the fifth day 
after he had arrived I noticed that he 
spent much of his time in looking out of 
the window doyn the street, as if he were 
expecting the arrival of someone from that 
direction. On the sixth his pale face and 
anxious eyes were visible almost all day, 
and on the morning of the seventh like- 
wise. Then, at twelve o'clock, a big, rough, 
sailor-looking man, dressed in a blue pilot- 
coat and gilt buttons, rang at the door-bell, 
and was shown in, and remained in the 
house for about half an hour. For the 
three days succeeding I scarcely saw my 
opposite neighbour at all, save when he 
sallied forth for his evening walk ; but on 
the fourth day his face now and then 
appeared ; on the fifth he was hardly ever 
out of sight; and the sixth, and up to noon 
on the seventh, were one perpetual vigiL 


1 i [Febnuiy 20, I88C.3 


[Conducted by 

Then the man in the blae coat again rang 
the bell, spent half an honr in the house, 
and took his departure. Hb visit had the 
same soothing effect as the week before, 
and this effect worked off in the same time 
and in the same manner. The old rest- 
lessness returned on the fourth day, and 
the whole business was gone through over 

This particular Over-the-Way was, in 
one sense, a new experience. I had never 
yet been called upon to watch and explain 
the actions of a man who moved with a 
regularity which would have put to shame 
the performances of many a watch of 
modem construction. What had, Mtherto, 
served to kindle my interest was the vague 
and comet-like appearances and disappear- 
ances of over the way neighbours, and I 
dare say my readers will be inclined to 
think that this mechanical gentleman, with 
no more originality than an automaton, 
must have seemed very tame to me after 
some of those whose histories I have 
already told. But after a week or two the 
very regularity of his goings and comings 
began to interest me profoundly, and even 
to exasperate me a little. A person who 
had intercourse with but one human being, 
and who was so powerfully affected by 
the advent of this solitary visitor, must 
necessarily have a story of some kind. But 
how was this story to be unravelled? I did 
not, at this period of which I am writing, 
know the full extent of Simpson's powers of 
investigation, and it seemeid to me that it 
would be a hopeless task to try to probe 
the secret life of a man who bad but one 
confidant in the world. I soon had an 
opportunity of putting my friend's skill to 
the test) for he looked in to see me one 
afternoon about a month after I had been 
provided with my new neighbour. I gave 
him a detailed account of uie drama which 
I saw performed week by week over 
the way, and though he led me to 
believe that he was fully confident of dis- 
entangling the mystery, I must say I was 
not equaUy sanguina However, in less 
than a week, he came back with the 
following history : 

I followed our friend opposite in one of 
his evening rambles, and tracked him to a 
snug, old-fashioned public-house, about half 
a mile distant He was evidently an 
habitu^, for the landlord saluted him from 
behind the bar, and he passed into a semi- 
private little room bemnd. I made my 
way into this also ; ^hougb I could see from 

the looks which were exchanged by the 
four or five occupants, that I was regarded 
as an interloper ; but I managed, after a 
little, to dispel the unfavourable impres- 
sion. Most of the gentlemen present were 
interested in the river trade; but, for 
reasons of my own, I turned the conver- 
sation as often as I could towards the eea 
and its perils and adventures, its fatal 
catastropnes and marvellous escapes, l^e 
gentleman from over the way grew intensely 
mterested, I could see, from his nervous 
action and restless eye, and more^ than 
once he asked me whetiier I had noticed — 
I was sitting before the open door— a man 
enter the bar dressed in a pilot-coat with 
bright buttons. One by one the company 
paid their reckoning and took their leave, 
till I was left alone with the gentleman. 
He became more talkative after we were 
left by ourselves, and I gathered easily from 
his diiscourse that he had spent a good part 
of his life on the salt water. At last he got 
up to go, and I did the same. I saw him 
leave the house, and scarcely had he passed 
the threshold before he was joined by the 
man who comes to see him once a week, a 
rough-looking sailor dressed in a blue pilot- 
coat with gilt buttons. 

I followed them at a judicious distance, 
and was surprised to find that when they 
reached Yauxhall Bridge the sailor seized 
the middle-aged man by the arm, and 
attempted to force him to cross the bridge, 
instead of allowing him to return homa I 
stopped for a moment, and watched the 
struggle ; but when he called out, as if in 
distress, I went forward to assist him. The 
sailor slouched off, and disappeared across 
the bridge when he found he had a third 
party to reckon with, and I bade our friend 
tell me where he lived, that I might see him 

He gave mo an address in White- 
chapel, and this attempt at concealment 
confirmed the theory Ihad already formed as 
to his story. He begged me not to trouble 
myself on his account ; he could find his 
way well enough ; he always walked back, 
and would never take me so far east at 
that time of night. I begged him 
to have no such scruples. 1 lived in 
Bethnal Green myself, and liked a long 
walk with pleasant companionship through 
the streets at night better than anything. 
He was a little staggered at this speech of 
mine ; but he saw apparently that I was 
not to be shaken off, so he started eastward 
towards his imaginary dwelling in White- 



CSuuies Dickeni.] 


(February 20, 1886.] 15 

I had no intention, however, of taking 
him far. I led the way past an old- 
fashioned coffee-house, a favourite haunt 
of mine, in the neighbourhood of Leicester 
Square, and I took nim in there, nominally 
to taste a particular brand of Scotch 
whisky, but really to listen to the expla- 
nation, which I could see he was anxious 
to give me, of the strange scene I had just 
witnessed. I felt pretty confident that by 
the time this explanation should be con- 
cluded I should be in possession of the 
man's life-secret I will leave you to 
iudge how far I succeeded when you have 
heard the story he told me as we sat over 
our whisky-and-water in a snug box of the 
ancient coffee-room. I will let him speak 
for himself in the first person : 

" My name is John Lethbridge, and the 
first act of my life which appears to me 
worthy of being recorded is my running 
away to sea at the age of eleven. My 
father was a well-to-do tradesman in a 
Yorkshire town, and destined me to succeed 
him in his business ; but in this he made 
the mbtake, so common with parents, of 
deciding how his son should pass his life 
without consulting the person most con- 
cerned in the matter, namely, mysell 
During my holidays I often went to stay 
with my grandmother, who lived at Gains- 
borough, and then I used to spend nearly 
all my time down by the quays and 
wharves, watching the round-stemed Duteh 
galliots come crawling up the Trent with 
their cargoes of seed for the mills of the 
towa Now and then, as a rare treat, old 
Sam, my grandmother's factotum, would 
make interest with one of the captains to 
let me go on board, and peer about in the 
cavernous hold and the tiny lockers, cabins, 
and companions. Ah me ! what strange 
things are n^emory and association! By 
the very mention of these early pranks of 
mine the wonderful compound odour which 

Cnetrated everywhere is recalled to me. 
spite of the perfume of this excellent 
Glenlivat, my nose seems conscious of the 
presence of cheese, and linseed, and tar, 
and bilge-water. But I must be getting on 
with my story. My natural inclination 
for a seMaring life, fostered by the perusal 
of stories of "adventure, began to grow 
into an overmastering passion by reason of 
these real and tangible experiences of 
actual ships and sailors. Not that I ever 
thought of embarkine in such a humdrum 
Hne as the transfer of linseed and cheeses, 
coal and dry goods, from one side of the 
North Sea to the other. My ambition 

was to be such a sailor as Captain 
Cook, or the Frenchman, La Perouse, 
cruising about amongst calm tropical seas, 
and collecting all sorts of wondenul birds, 
and weapons, and precious stones. A little 
later I studied the careers of Drake and 
Hawkins, and I sighed to thitik that the 
slave-trade was on its last legs, and that 
piracy, even when known as harassing 
the Spaniards in the Main, was hardly a 
calling which a high-spirited gentleman 
could adopt with safety or repute ; but I 
was taught by experience that at sea, as 
elsewhere, one has to begin at the beginning, 
so I ran away to Newcastle, and joined a 
collier trading between that port and 
London. A very short spell of this life 
satisfied me that I had not chosen the right 
branch of the profession. If ever any of your 
boys, sir — ^for I presume you are a family 
man — should show any inclination to 
follow my footsteps against your inclination, 
ship him on board a North Sea collier. If 
that does not cure him of his liking for 
the sea, he is a born sailor, and yon can 
let him go his own way. 

"This was my own case. The horrors 
of the collier only convinced me that I 
must make a new start. J shipped next in 
a vessel trading between the Baltic and 
King's Lynn, and then in a coasting Medi- 
terranean steamer. I was fairly comfort- 
able in this last berth ; but I felt I should 
never be satisfied till I had crossed the 
line and the Atlantic as well, so I took the 
first chance that offered, and sailed in a 
fine barque bound for Eio and the western 
coast of South America. I stuck to the 
Clio, for I knew that I was a bit of a 
favourite with the captain, and after my 
second voyage I got appointed to the post 
of boatswain's mate, and having mastered 
the first step on the ladder of promotion, I 
began to picture myself the commander 
of a vessel as fine as or finer than the Clio 

" In the Clio I visited nearly every port 
of the Indies, East and West alike, and 
one autumn the owners sent us out with a 
general cargo to Sydney, or Port Jackson 
as it was then called. On this particular 
voyage we had shipped more young hands 
than usual, so my duties were rather heavier 
than they had hitherto been, but by the 
time we had doubled the Cape I had got 
them all into some sort of shape with one 
exception, and this exception was a man 
about my own age, entered in the ship's 
books under the name of Samuel Rands. 

^' When he came on board, while we were 




16 [Februaiy 20, ISSe.l 


[Oondnoted by 

lying in the docks, I coald see with half an 
eye that he was no seaman — that he was 
playing the same game at thirty which I 
had begun before I was into my teens, 
and if it had not happened that hands were 
very short just at that time, I should have 
advified the captain to send him about 
his business. If I had done so, you would 
not now be listening to the tale of a ruined 
wretch such as I am. 

" Eands was a creature made of that stuff 
out of which nothing worthy the name of 
a man can ever be fashioned. He was weak in 
body, and sullen and lazy in disposition, 
so Uiat if he had been able to do his work 
the will would have been wanting. He and 
I were soon on the worst terms with each 
other, and his life could not have been a 
very pleasant one. I should not have been 
so hard with him if I had seen that he was 
trying to earn his salt He chose as his 
mate the most worthless of the crew next 
to himself, a big, hulking Irishman named 
Dennis Eyan, who likewise knew the rough 
side of my tongua They kept aloof from 
the other men all the voyage out, and when 
they came on board, before we set sail from 
Cape Town, they brought out with them a 
lot of purchases which seemed to be rather 
out of proportion to the wages of a man 
before the mast, and this circumstance, 
taken together with certain others which 
had already come to my notice, made me 
keep a sharper watch than ever over 
Mr. Samuel Rands. 

"I first made out that Rands was nothing 
else than a 'purser's name', and that he really 
was a certain Francis Horn. I watched 
him steal aft one day with something in 
his hand, and this something he flung over- 
board, or tried to do so, but it caught in 
the chain of a port-hole, and hung flutter- 
ing in the wind. He did not, however, see 
that he had failed in his purpose, and 
walked away, while I went below and 
possessed myself of the parcel It was 
an old shirt, tied up in a knot, and 
evidently containing some other objects. 
These turned out to be several bundles of 
letters and papers, many of the former 
being dated from a place in Australia, and 
written to Horn by his mother. Nearly 
every one of them besought him to leave 
England at once and return to Australia, 
and implored him on no account to go near 
the old man at Cork. The later ones spoke 
of illness and failing health, and the last in 
date was in a strange handwriting, telling 
the news that the mother was dead. 

" I pieced the story together as well as 

I could. Here was the reprobate son of 
parents probably reprobate also — for in 
those days a terribly large proportion of 
the dwellers in New South Wales were 
'involuntary emigrants ' — ^who had made his 
way to Eagland and wasted all his money 
in debauchery. There was a grandfather, 
or uncle, the old man at Cork, who might 
do something for the ne'er-do-well in his 
will if they could be kept apart ; but the 
mother apparently knew them both well 
enough to be sure that her son's chances 
would not be improved by a meeting. 
Then came the news of the mother's ill- 
ness; but this was powerless to call the 
prodigal to the place where his duty lay 
so long as he had a pound to spend. Then 
the las( news and the last sovereign ; and 
the beggared profligate, finding London a 
cold home for a man with an empty pocket, 
determined to work his way out to 
Australia in the first ship which would 
take him. Then the evil chance which led 
his footsteps on board the barque Clio. 

" After this discovery, I naturally felt a 
stronger interest than ever in the man 
whose secret I had, at least partially, 
fathomed, and I found it a little difficult 
to supply a motive for this resolve of his 
to seek again his birthplace ; but I feared 
that it would be found rather in his expec- 
tation of finding something to lay hsmds 
on, than in the pious wish to shed a 
tardy tear of repentant affection over his 
mother's tomb. I resolved to do him full 
justice, and wait till I could watch him 
and his behaviour on shore before con- 
demning him ; but fate gave me no chance 
of this. Before the grey, sullen rocks of • 
Cape Leeuwin, the first point of Australia 
we sighted, came in view, Francis Horn, 
with all his imperfections on his head, was 
rf sting, sewn up in a hammock, in the 
depths of the Southern Ocean. 

" Horn died of infiammation of the lungs, 
so there was no reason why the health 
authorities of Sydney should have refused 
us leave to land ; but smallpox was raging 
then at the Cape, and the harbour-master 
sent us into quarantine for a week when 
he learnt where we had last touched. 
The days seemed as if they would never 
pass, but, on the last one of our captivity, 
the boat which brought out our provisions 
brought likewise a packet of letters from 
the owners' agent for the crew of the Clio. 
"Even when a man knows that the 
chances are a thousand to one against 
there being anything in the mail-bag to 
concern him, there is a sort of magnetic 




Clualaf Dlokm.] 


IFebruary 20, 18£6.) 17 

aitractioii to draw near while the letters 
and newspapers are being distributed. I 
had completely cat the painter as far as 
my home-friends went, and for the last 
dozen years I had held no communication 
with any of my own family; bat still I 
Baontered up to the ring which had formed 
round the Captain as he made the distri- 
bution. More than half the letters, to 
judge from the looks and the remarks of 
the recipients, must have contained bad 
news, 60 I felt little envy of them. Wheh 
the Captain had finished his task, he held 
up a long blue envelope, and called out : 

" ' Which of you men will own the name 
of Francis Horn 1 ' 

'* There was a dead silence. Each man 
looked about with shifty gaze, which might 
have been taken to mean that everylmy 
was willing to affirm that he knew nothing 
of Francis Horn, but that he was by no 
means sure that his words would command 
belief. Once the impulse came strong upon 
me to tell all I knew; but my eyes fell at 
that moment on the face of Dennis Eyan ; 
and I determined to hold my peace a little 
to see whether he, too, knew anything of 
his late comrade's real name. He said 
nothing but stood with his face cast into 
its orduary form of malignant stupidity. 

'' * No one will own the name,' the Cap- 
tain went on. ' Lethbridge, come to my 
cabin ; I want to speak to you.' 

" Captain Carter and I were very good 
friends. He was an ezceUent sailor and a 

i'ust man, and I think he knew my value. 
! dare say this sounds a little vain to you. 
I had told him now and then stray bits of 
my past history ; and he, with his extensive 
acquaintance with sailors in general, was 
able to fill in accurately enough the parts 
which were wanting. 

*'* Lethbridge,' he said, as I closed the 
door of his cabin, ' why didn't you speak 
out like a man, and own the name of 
Francis Horn t ' 

"The Captain looked steadily at me 
with his steely-blue eyes, as he spoke these 
words. I was about to affirm that he was 
completely on the wrong track, and to 
ofier to bring my proofs that Francis Horn 
was the same as the man he had known 
under the name of Samuel Bands, when he 
cut me shortw 

" ' Pon't tell more lies than you are 
forced to, Lethbridga I know how loth a 
man in your position generally is to own 
his real name. Just listen to this letter, 
which I have received from a London 
lawyer, before you say any more.* 

" And then he read me the letter. It 
was written by the man of law, who had 
evidently been commissioned to find Francis 
Horn, to the Captain of the ship in which 
that worthy was supposed to have sailed. 
Francis Horn was wanted, it was clear, but 
there was nothing in the Captain's letter 
to tell the reason why. As the Ci^tain 
read over the description of the missing 
man, it struck me with surprise to mark 
how a written inventory might fit accurately 
either one of two persons bearing by no 
means any remarkable likeness to each 
other. Never till then had I remarked 
that the same tint of hair and complexion 
would describe both Horn and myself; 
that both of us had lost a front tooth ; that 
we both stooped in our gait, and carried 
the left shoulder rather higher than the 
right As soon as the Captain besan to 
read, the feeling of curiosity, whicn had 
possessed me when I had first fathomed 
Horn's secret, began to wax stronger. 
Many and many a time I had vowed that I 
would satisfy myself as to the past history 
of this man, who, worthless loafer as he 
was, had certainly exercised a strange 
influence over me ; and by the time the 
Captain had brought his letter to an end, 
my mind was made up. The clue I was in 
search of might lie within the four comers 
of the blue envelope which he was 
balancing in his fingers, and when there 
was sOence I neither spoke nor lifted my 

" * What do you say now, Lethbridge t ' 
said the Obtain. 

** ' Say, Captain ! ' I replied. ' Say that 
it is no use trying to keep anything dark 
when you have the watch.' 

*'And then he handed me the long 
envelope, and in ten minutes everybody in 
the ship knew that Francis Horn was a 
man who had run away to sea under the 
name of John Lethbridge. I, meantime, 
was mastering the contents of the letter 
of which I hm thus feloniously obtained 


We own frankly, at the outset of this 
paper, that we are at times inclined to 
think that the dear old lady who used to 
declare that, though she did not believe in 
ghosts, she was very much afraid of them, 
is not quite so much in the minority as 
sceptical folk would have us believe ; for 
we venture to state boldly that the most 
strong-miuded persoii among us cannot 


^^s^^Ksvtmam^i^sseaa Kf ^ lj i g gf^ 

Mi ' J- H i . 


y> » ■ 




18 tfebruMT 20, 1886.] 


(Ckmdiiotod bf 

have passed through life without once 
and again pausing to consider whether 
ghosts are quite as impossible as they 
would very much like to believe they 


And, be it understood, we are not now 
alluding to the mere vulgar phantom, 
livid with green, ghastly rays of light, clad 
in a long, white garment, and accompanied 
by the orthodox rattling of chains, whose 
existence is now almost entirely confined 
to the cheaper form of Christmas annuals ; 
but to the more refined spirits whose pre- 
sence is obvious indeed to all those wnose 
minds are endued with sentiment, and 
who are able to look beneath the surfaces 
of life and discover for themselves that 
there is more, both in heaven and earth, 
than is dreamt even of in their philosophy. 
To such a mind as this, the idea of a family- 
ghost would come naturally enough. The 
ghost may be of some far-off ancestor, 
whose portrait hangs in the great hall, and 
whose unwritten story is handed down 
from father to son, either as an example or 
as a deterrent— or the spirit of some nearer 
relation, a mother, or a little sister, may 
be elected to the position of family-ghost 
and may almost be considered in the 
light of a guardian angel 

How many little quarrels have not been 
stayed half-way by an appeal to some such 
a memory 1 Many hearts have been 
knit together by the intangible touch of 
spirit-hands ; and who shall say that they 
do not come to us, as we sit alone, and 
ponder over the time when they were yet 
with us, until we can almost believe we 
feel their soft, mist-like touch upon our 
shoulders, the while we seem to hear whis- 
pered to us ideas and thoughts too grand, 
too beautiful, too true, not to have been 
spoken by those who have journeyed 
farther than we have, and who know where 
we only believe 1 

There is no other way of accounting for 
the manner in which tender remembrances 
of our dead friends seem always present in 
our hearts. We may not Imow we are 
thinking of them ; but their memory never 
leaves us, and is with us, reminding us of 
the faint perfume that hangs about old 
letters, which is too slight to call a scent, 
but which is inseparable from them : just as 
the remembrance of our dead is inseparable 
from our lives ; just as their unknown pre- 
sence may be the cause of many a delight- 
ful idea, many a beautiful thought which 
comes to us, we know not whence, in a 
moment, as if some flash of lightning had 

suddenly illumined the path we have to 

Think one moment: has no such 
mysterious assistance been vouchsafed to 
you at some critical period of your lifet 
Have you not been conscious of some reason 
for drying your tears as you sat alone, 
perhaps at Ghristmastide, and gazed at the 
empty chairs where they were once wont to 

Has no peculiar influence ever inspired 
you to noble deeds, to good worn, or 
opened out to you the fairy-land of fancy ? 
If to these questions you are constrained 
to answer, yes; then believe you, too, 
have that best of all possessions — a family 

There is no reason why such a fancy 
should be nothing save a mere idea. No 
reason why, when we close the coffin-lid 
on the altered face of our nearest and 
dearest, we should believe that we shall 
meet no more ; hold no more communica- 
tion with them, until we, too, are chanced 
out of all knowledge, and we cometogewer 
again in the Paradise of God. ^ 

Better surely than credence in so entire 
a separation is a belief in a family ghost, 
who is ready and yearning to give us 
whispered counsel if we are on^ wise 
enough to recognise its presence. Better 
to believe that the clear sight and wide 
knowledge, that were of such inesti- 
mable vfdue to us when our friend was yet 
with us, are not lost to us entirely, but are 
still ours at quiet moments when we sit 
and think of those we have lost^ and can 
believe they come to us, if only to remind 
us of what they once were. 

This fanciful theory must, after all, 
remain a mere effort of the imagination, 
but there is yet another side to contem- 

That side, for example, presented by 
those who, having lost a darling child, do 
not shrink from a remembrance of the 
innocent little creature, but rather make a 
pious practice of talking of it, dius keeping 
its memory for ever green. 

Like a shrine, the tiny portrait is erected 
on the nursery-shelf, and the children 
always keep flowers before it, speaking of 
their brother or sister in heaven as if she 
or he were still one of them — much 
holier, better, too, than they are, and by 
whose supposed standard of right and 
wrong conduct is measured, and temper 

The idea that evil behaviour may pain 
their absent sister in her rest quickly 


Charlai Dickam.] 


[February 20, 188a] 19 

xorcises the demon, and keeps a whole- 

i6 check over hasty hands. 
is impossible for anyone who knows 
nursery to doabt that the children 
V aro not all the better, sweeter, and 

ader, because they unhesitatingly believe 

uat, though absent in the flesh, Uie spirit 

is yet with them, leading them gently on 

to that home which, after all, is such a Uttle 

way off 1 

Have not family quarrels among older 
people been occasionally ended, also, by a 
recollection that a dead parent may be 
troubled by conduct that would have 
pained her terribly when alive 1 If so, 
sorely she yet speaks to her children in a 
voice that is audible in their hearts, if 
nowhere else. 

If we once recognise the possibility of 
such communion with our dead, there 
i8 small limit to the train of thought 
that could be followed, for then we should 
remember other and evil ancestors of ours 
who stand ever by us, ready to prompt 
us to the committal of those very sins 
which marred their own lives. 

Yet, even if this be so, much good may 
still be gathered ; for a due contemplation 
of their careers, and the end thereof, may 
be of great service to us ; for, recognising 
what we inherit, and availing ourselves of 
their experience, we can use them as 
stepping-stones, climbing up from their 
vices to higher and better things. 

But ghosts are not always merely spirits 
of the departed, but exist around us in a 
thousand other forms, all more or less 
easily recognisable by tibe initiated. 

Who does not know people who are 
quite as intangible as any spirit, whose 
lives seem absolutely formless, and whose 
real personality we are never able to grasp, 
and of whom, after years of civilities and 
visiting, we know no more than we did the 
first day we metl We never find out 
what they think, what they like, or what 
they are. They are to us only as so many 
shadows cast upon a blind which we see 
when we pass in the street ; and nothing 
surprises us so much as to discover that 
sadi folk as these are ill, and suffer, and 
finally die, for they never seemed to us to 
be real enough to do anything save just 

Then there are rows upon rows of 
ghosts-houses built all around us every 
year, looking so exactly alike, furnished aU 
on the same plan, and all more or less 
draughty and wretched, and never becom- 
ing homes, because no one remains in them 

long enough to imbue them with any 

But perhaps the most trying of all the 
ghosts that exist around us are those books 
that are surely nothing but the merest, 
most flimsy of ghosts ; where we begin to 
read, and cannot comprehend ; where the 
sentences look plain enough, but are abso- 
lutely without meaning; and where the 
plot, or central idea, escapes us continually, 
and which we are forced to put aside, de- 
daring that, ghost-like inde^, tiiej have 
evaded us altogether, and that we are 
powerless either to grasp them or compre- 
hend them in the least. 

And yet there is another far more satis- 
factory asi>ect of the ghost-book, and one 
also tiiat is much better known, for who 
among us has not at some time been 
haunted by those who have never existed 
save in the fertile brains of our favourite 
authors 1 

Who has not parted with such spirits as 
these, as with an old and familiar friend, 
feeling, when closing the boards of some 
fascinating story, that we have bid adieu 
to a pleasant chapter in one's life, and 
seen the last of a delightful acquaintance, 
who never seems the less real because he or 
she has neither lived, nor walked, nor 
spoken human words from human lips 1 

Still yet another hint of ghost existence 
is curiously given us at times, by weird, 
fantastic nooks and comers of scenery 
on which we stumble occasionally in our 
walks, and which, somehow or other, we 
are never able to find again. For example, 
we may take a stroll one afternoon, not 
looking out particularly for landmarks, 
when suddenly we see what appears to be 
a corner of fairyland. Far off " the horns 
of elf -land faintiy blowing " can be heard ; 
delicate mosses and ferns deck the border 
of the babbling stream, or divers-coloured 
autumn leaves cover the ground ; and we 
gaze up to the light blue sky through a 
lace-like tracery of thin, stripped boughs. 
We drink it all in and go away, determined 
to come again ; but we can never do so. 
Something nas confused the road to it, or 
the trees may all have been cut down, the 
stream dried up, the state of the atmo- 
sphere may be changed — we know not 
we reason, and are only aware that^ try 
how we may, we can never find that 
lovely spot aeain; ghost-like, it either 
evades us tant{£singly, or has vanished into 
thin air. 

These ghosts are, after all, but pleasant 
and harmless ones, and as such are to be 




20 [February 20, 1886.] 


[Condacted hj 

welcomed among us, or else lightly thought 
over and smiled at. Still, there are others 
as real as any we have spoken of, which 
are dreadful possessions in truth. 

Ghosts, for example, of past follies, that 
will not be laid ; that are strong and 
rebellious, and that appear rattling their 
bones and filling the atmosphere with 
their charneMike odours when we had 
quite forgotten they existed. Ghosts of 
dead loves that smile in the eyes of living 
ones, and mock them by suggestions that 
such as they can never resJly die; and 
most of all, perhaps, ghosts of inherited 
passions and sins — which, conquered and 
laid to rest as regards ourselves, start into 
new life in our children, and jeer at us with 
their lips when we had hoped they were 
parted with for ever. 

Oh, rather than contemplate such as 
these, we would return simply to the first 
idea of the precious possession of a tender, 
loving family-ghost I Let xis all welcome 
such among us, believing in the sweet 
superstition, and looking forward to the 
time when we too shall join the spirit- 
world, and find out for ourselves that the 
idea of a ghost is not quite such a childish, 
foolish notion after all 

So will we not say, with Hamlet, ** Alas, 
poor ghost I" but rather: "Welcome among 
us, dear and sacred spirit-world — dear 
ghosts of friends, of happy times, of places, 
and holy memories — the while we relegate 
those ghosts entirely that are comprised in 
intangible people, and in past sins, to that 
border-land of spirits, where we fondly 
hope we ourselves wfll never be con- 
strained to stray." 


By TIIEO gut. 

Author qj " LH LoHmer," *'An Alibi and its Price," 

Etc., Etc. 


" There was another death today," said 
the Count, a stout, pompous-looking man 
on the wrong side of forty, with puffy, 
bilious-hued cheeks, a strong, clean-shaven, 
blue-black chin, and a large, loose-lipped 
mouth, hidden — beneficially for himself — 
under a well -waxed moustache; ''Jules 
B]in, a fisherman and goemon gatherer. 
Did you hear of it, St Laurent? The 
disease is certainly spreading." 

It was on the evening described in the 
fiisb chapter, and Vera, having finished 
serving the three whist-players with their 

cofl'ee, and having received a gruff " Mcrci, 
p'tite chatte " from her father, and a touch 
on the extreme tips of her fingers from the 
Count's lips in requital of the attention, 
had conveyed Leah's cup to her at the 
piano, where the two girls were sitting, 
when these words fell on tho older ono's 
cars, and, a little startled, sho lifted her 
head to listen. 

" Yes ; I heard it," said M. St. Laurent 
sourly. ** Those Blins are tenants of mine, 
worse luck. It was always difiicutt enough 
to get any rent from them, and now, I 
suppose, I shall get none, for P'tit Jean, 
our weed- picker, tells me the wife is down 
with the fever too, so I suppose she wUl go 

"Oh, Vera, do you think they are 
speaking of my M^re Blin, the lame woman 
with the pretty children 1 " Leah whispered 
eagerly to her fiiend, who, however, only 
looked up at her vaguely. Vera had not 
been attending to the conversation. The 
Count was busy marking at the moment 
When he had finished he said slowly : 

"It is most annoying, this epidemic 
breaking out just now, for, as Dr. Dupr^ 
says, when it does brave our sea-breezes at 
all it makes friends with them, it remains, 
and one cannot turn it out First one's 
rent-payers die, and there is no money 
coming in ; then arrives M. le Cur^ with, 
' My people are sick, and want nurses; pay 
for them. My people are djring, and want 
cojQ^s ; pay for them.' Enfin, you might 
almost equally die yourself as be ruined. 
Why not ? It is only one step from the 
village to the ch&teaux." 

Madame St Laurent nearly made a 
revoke, and Leah could see her thin face, 
looking pinched and anxious, in the little 
spot of yellow light formed by the two 
tall candles on the whist-table. She said 
hurriedly to her husband : 

" P'tit Jean sleeps with his parents in the 
village. He had better not do so in future ; " 
and monsieur grunted in assent It was 
very rarely, save with his "fidus Achates", 
the Count, that he vouchsafed more than 
a monosyllable in answer. 

Leah bent her head over Vera, who, as 
usual, was seated on a stool at her feet, 
and asked : 

" What epidemic are they talking of, 
Veral I had not heard anything of it 
before, had you ? " 

Vera shook her head. 

"Epidemiol No, not I," she said in 
the somewhat dreamy tone which, at times, 
irritated Leah's more energetic nature, her 


•'!' r.K vv.»j^i ifXs iw K'^J, 

^^ ' J.J^ '"w i ■ *■< < ■ 


■- * dJJ^U WfM- i' J 

v^ ' -- fr.uix^ ^' ji ' 


J 1*J 




[February 20, 1886.] 21 

soft hazel eyes gazing dreamily out throngh 
tiie open French-window to the terrace 
outside, across which a warm south breeze 
was blowing a handfol of loosened rose- 
petala from a bnsh hard by. 

Farther away, the golden-fmited boughs 
of the apple-trees in the orchard were 
toesing darkly affamst the soft deep blue 
of the evening sky, and from the yard at 
Ae rear of the house came now and then 
the low of wakeful kine or sharp bark of 
the watch-dog. 

" Tell me some more about your sister's 
little children/' she went on, as though fpl- 
lowins some train of thought "How I 
should like to see them ! I so often wish I 
had some child to kiss, and pet, and make 
fond of m& Are your nieces fond of 
you, Leah 1 Oh, don't go listening to that 
stupid talk over there, but teU me about 
them ! " 

But Leah was too much interested in the 
talk to attend to her. 

"What sickness is it that you are 
speaking of, madame 1 " she saidf, raising 
her voice so that it should reach the group 
at the card-tabla "Vera told me that 
there was a good deal of illness in the 
village at present^ and when we were out 
to-day we twice heard the church-bell 
tolling, as if for someone dead. Is it any- 
thing very bad 1 " 

Madame St Laurent looked up with the 
worried expression deeper on her face. She 
seemed almost annoyed at having been 
asked the question, and answered with 
even more than her usual hesitation : 

" Oh no, I think not ; only — only a sort 
of low typhoid fever. They— they often 
have it at Quimper and Pont I'Abb^ when 
the weather has been very hot after a wet 
June as we have had it this year ; and, I 
believe, there have been a few cases in die 
village here; but nothing — nothiug that 
need alarm you at all, or mske you shorten 
your visit to us." 

" Dame! but I hope not, indeed ! " cried 
the Count gallantly. " We could ill-afford 
to spare mademoiselle for a day of her 
remaining time, and if you are at all 
nervdtis down here at Les Cb4taigniers — 
which does, in fact, chance to be on the 
high road between the village and Pont 
TAbb^^ — ^you had all better come to Mailly. 
We stand higher there, you know, and, 
if St Laurent will excuse me, are better 
drained. I only wish my step-mother and 
her daughters were there to welcome you, 
bat they are such cowards that the mere 
whisper of fever, even as far off from us 

as Quimner, is enough to keep them from 
visiting Mailly for a whole summer. They 
go to Dinan instead, and if later on 
Mdlle. Vera could be persuaded to join 
them there for a while, I am sure my 
sisters, who are devoted to her *' 

But Madame St Laurent broke in 
nervously : 

" Oh, thank you — thank you ! but I 
think not Vera is so youog, such a 
child, that too much excitement is not 
good for her, and after that which she 
has already enjoyed in Miss Josephs's 
visit " 

" Only, my dear madame, if she is in 
the least nervous about this epidemic" 

" Oh, M le Comte, pray do not use such 
an ugly word ! I assure you, we thii^ it 
wiser not to talk about unpleasant things ; 
far less make ourselves nervous over them. 
Shall we go on with our game 1 I don't 
think fevers and things of that sort are 
interesting subjects of conversation before 
young ladies." 

And the subject was dropped accord- 
ingly, to the disappointment of one of the 
young ladies, at any rate, who found some- 
thing more unpleasant than sickness to her 
in the callousness towards those suffering 
from it with which it had been discussed ; 
and when a few moments later Madame 
St Laurent made her usual prim request for 
" a little music ", it was Vera's voic^ alone 
which rose obediently in the gay little 
French ditty : 

** Que tout le monde soit gai, cherie, 
Que tout le monde soit gai ; 
Car Bi tu m'aimes, 
Et si je t'aime, 
Ou peut faire ce qu*on plait, ch^rie, 
Ou peut faire ce qu'on plait." 

That night, however, as Leah was going 
to bed, there was a knock at the door,' and 
rather to her surprise Joanna entered. The 
Jewish girl had not undressed. .She had 
only taken down the thick, wavy masses 
of her hair, and having exchanged her 
evening dress for a loose cotton wrapper, 
was standing by the window gazing 
thoughtfully out into the blueness and 
stUlness, the soft semi-obscurity of the 
summer night Her room was in an upper 
storey, and looked down on the avenue of 
chestnuts with their distorted, wind-bent 
trunks and waving interlacement of boughs. 
Just now the moon, unseen itself, was 
shedding a rain of silver over the glossy, 
sharp-toothed leaves, and filling sJl the 
landscape and its enclosing atmosphere 
with a kind of pale, misty radiance. There 
was not much to see that was beautiful or 



22 [Februsty 20, 1886.] 


[C on d u cted by 

pictoresqae ; not muoh of anything indeed, 
for the long line of tree-tops intenered to 
shut out the undulating cornfields and 
meadows, and little, heavily-thatched 
cottages which lay beyond; but^ farther 
still, there rose up the long bald shoulcier 
of the hill, over which she and Vera had 
come that afternoon, lying white as snow 
in the moonlight, and peering over the 
summit^ blocked out solidly against the 
blue, star-filled sky, the square tower and 
open belfry of the parish church of St. 

Careless St Tryphine, she thought, too 
happy in heaven to look after her village 
by the sea, and keep fever and sickness 
from the hardworking fishermen and their 
black-eyed, snowy-coued wives I And more 
careless landowners and gentry, who could 
discuss the theme as one simply entailing 
so much annoyance or discomfort on them- 
selves, and drop it as soon as it became 
unpleasant or tedious. She had always 
disliked the Count. There was something 
distastefully cynical and arrogant in his 
manner, even when it affected the greatest 
deference — something at once cruel and 
sensual in his expression, more especially 
when his gaze rested on Vera, which filled 
her with absolute repulsion ; but this even- 
ing she thought he was even .worse than 
M. and Madame St. Laurent in the selfish 
indifi'erence, or the still more selfish irri- 
tation they had displayed towards the 
pathetic misery suggested by even those 
few words of details uttered with regard 
to the malady which seemed to be ravaging 
their poorer neighbours. For the Count, 
at least, was rich, and therefore able to do 
much in alleviating the sufferings of the 
hardworking, poverty-stricken people. He 
was the hereditary owner, not only of poor 
little rock -bound St. Tryphine-par-mer 
itself, but of the wide heatlis and desolate 
but gold-productive salt-marshes, amidst 
which his lordly chateau lay in a green and 
fertile oasis. His ancestors lay thickly 
under the dark grey stones paving the 
little churcL Many sturdy fishermen 
and lean, brown - cheeked labourers had 
fought and died around his grandfather, 
battling like tigers to the last for the 
Boyaliat cause in the days of Carrier and 
Fouquier Tinville ; while M. St. Laurent, 
though of old family, was comparatively a 
new comer in Finisterre — his father having 
purchased the little property of Les Cha- 
taigniers when he was quite a young mao, 
and settled himself down there, an men to 
the place and the people, and bent only on 

getting as much out of both, and doing as 
well for himself as possible. St Laurent^ 
senior, was a close-fisted, prudent, business- 
like man, who beginning with a good 
fortune, managed it to the best advantage, 
succeeded admirably in all his under- 
takings, and died, hated indeed by lus 
poor tenants and the surrounding 
peasantry, but well content with himself 
and leaving his son, as he imagined, 
to follow in his footsteps. The present 
M St Laurent, however, had not been so 
fortunate. Educated in a far more ex- 
travagant and effeminate manner than 
his father, he had early launched out into 
expenses far beyond his means, and, living 
as much in Paris as possible, had drawn so 
largely, even in his father's lifetime, on 
his future resources, that on the former's 
death he entered on his inheritance a 
heavily -embarrassed man, weighed down 
by debts which no future economies or 
additional grindings down of his servants 
and tenants could make up for. 

He had been strenuously advised by his 
lawyers to marry, farm his own estate, and 
economise, and when pleasures had begun 
to pall upon him he had adopted this 
advice ; but he had no talent for farming, 
and no affection for the country. His 
fields produced less than any others ; his 
cattle died ; his workpeople cheated him. 

Leah did not need to live three months 
at Les Ch4taigniers before finding out that 
money was by no means a plentiful thing 
there, and that, despite the family carriage, 
the formalities, and exclusiveness, tiie 
St Laurents were obliged to combine 
many small economies with mjofih. outward 
assumption, and but for help, which she 
shrewdly suspected they obtained from 
the Comte de Mailly, might have been in 
even worse casa 

As for these poor Blins, of whom Leah 
was thinking as she stood by the window, 
they lived in a miserable cottage belonging 
to M. St Laurent, and had first attracted 
the Jewish girl's notice by the Murillo-like 
beauty of one of the chudren, a velvety- 
eyed urchin with scarcely a rag to his back, 
who had begged of her '' un p'tit sous p'r 
acheter d'pain' as she and Vera were 
passing one day. The mother was hope- 
lessly lame, but managed to keep the 
hovel they lived in in decent order, and 
to earn a little money bv spinning ; and 
the husband, much older than herself, was, 
as the Count had said, a ''goemon" 
gatherer. Once, indeed, Leah and Vera 
had lingered to watch him and two or three 



Chnlflf I)l(Aeos.] 


[Febmary 20, 1886.] 23 

others of his trade from a sheltered nook 
m the cliffs as, one stormy morning in 
spring, they stood down among the 
blackened rocks on the beach below, the 
hu^e wares dashing high over the tops of 
their sei^boots, streaUng their brawny 
limbs with white foam, and well-nigh 
smothering them with spray, as they 
hurled far out into the deep the long 
lassoes armed with a trident-shaped hook 
at the end with which they were provided^ 
and which, entanglins itself among the 
masses of tawny, thick -meshed seaweed 
colouring the surf for fathoms out^ enabled 
them^ to dra^ it up on the shore, there to 
remain until it was dry enough to be carted 
away to the manufacturers. 

^er that Leah had often stopped to say 
a kindly word in passing toBlin's crippled 
wife as she sat at the door with her spin- 
ning, or to bestow a handful of bon-bons 
on the five merry, sunburnt toddlers who 
used to come rushing out with shouts of 
joy to greet her, and as she thought of 
ihem at present, and then of the little 
picture which had pleased her artistic eye 
that evening — the mournful little proces- 
sion, the women (some of them weeping 
visibly) in their flapping, white-winged 
caps, blue aprons, and short, dark-coloured 
skirts ; the men bare-headed and holding 
their great, broad-leafed felt hats in their 
hands; and the swinging censers of acolytes, 
with their thin trails of blue smoke float- 
ing behind them — her heart swelled with 
pity and almost remorse, and she wished 
that she could have followed, too, and 
shared in their ministrations to the dying 
mother, stretched out upon her hard Uttle 
bed beside her husband's corpse. 

" But at least I will go to-morrow,'' she 
said to herself. "There is nothing con- 
tagious in typhoid, and I must find out who 
is taking care of those poor little children. 
Yes; come in," as a Knock at the door 
interrupted her, and then the handle was 
turned, and Joanna entered, looking as 
amusingly like her mistress as she generally 
contrived to do, her long, lean figure clad 
in one of the latter's caat-off gowns, her 
straight red hair flattened down in similar 
bands to madame's over her ears, her very 
voice sounding (by dint of long companion- 
ship) with the same accent. 

"^eg pardon, miss, for disturbing you," 
she said in her abrupt way ; " but Mrs. 
Sinlorren and me " — this was Joanna's 
mode of alluding to her mistress, whom, ar 
Leah had often noticed, she never dignified 
by the latter name, or addressed by the 

orthodox "ma'am" after the manner of 
servants generally — "have been tidking 
about this fever, and she asked me to beg 
you particular not to go into any of the 
cottc^es, or get talking with the common 
folks here while it's about She don't want 
to risk its getting into this house." 

"Certainly not," said Leah; "but is 
there any fear of that 1 I have always 
heard that typhoid was not catching in that 
sense — that it comes from bad smells, bad 
water, or bad food, and isn't passed on 
from one person to another like typhus or 

" Very likely you're right, miss. I don't 
know nothink about that ; but you see this 
is typhus, not typhoid, and as far as I've 
seen, that passes on to anyone as comes 
nigh it." 

"Typhus! Are you sure, Joanna 1" 
Leah asked rather incredulously. "Your 
mistress told us quite distinctly downstairs 
that it was only typhoid, and seemed to 
think very little of it." 

" Did she 1 Ah, that was because Vera 
was there, I expect. And that reminds 
me I was to ask you also, miss, not to make 
much of it yourself to the chUd, or go talk- 
ing of it before her, for she's such a timid 
little thing, she'd as like as not go and fret 
herself sick with the mere dread of the 

"Is she as nervous as all that, Joanna 1 
I didn't know it." 

"She's not nervous, miss; she's just 
cowardly, and always was from a babe ; 
though, as I've just told Mrs. Sinlorren, I 
don't hold with cockering that sort of 
thing, which I think is just silliness." 

Aiiother peculiarity of Joanna's ! Though 
a most faithful and devoted servant, slaving 
untiringly in her mistress's service, and at 
her beck and caH for everything she 
needed — the only person, indeed, in whom 
MadameSt Laurentseemed really to confide, 
or to whom she spoke with anything like 
ease or freedom — the woman constantly 
manifested to her an air of resent- 
ment and offhand independence which 
struck Leah the more because madame, 
usually so formal and punctilious, never 
seemed to be aware of it. True, madame 's 
punctilios sometimes took Leah by surprise, 
and made her wonder if they belonged 
to some antiquated or foreign rules of 
etiquette ; but in all times and countries it 
has been the rule in families of any 
position for servants to treat their em- 
ployers with a certain amount of sub- 
servience; whereas Joanna thought nothing 




IFcbrnaTy 20. 1^6.J 


of contradicting her mistress flatly, or 
announcing her own contrary intentions 
when given an order to do anything which 
she did not approve of; and instead of 
reprimanding her for this im^rtinence, 
Madame St Laurent either ignored it 
altogether or apologised for it in her 
absence on the score of long service and 
fidelity, and took more trouble than before 
to propitiate and keep her in good humour. 

** Mrs. Sinlorren's what you call nervous/' 
the woman went on now, " ridicklously so, 
I think ; but not about illness, or things of 
that sort ; but if Vera sees anyone with a 
tooUiache she thinks they're going to die, 
and wants to run away at once. She takes 
after her grandmother, who, they say, did 
die of nothing in the world but fright, 
because her pet terrier snapped at her 
when she was teasine it I suppose 
cowardice do run in Uie blood like other 
things ; and Yera's supposed to take after 
her grandma in most ways." 

" Her grandmamma on the mother's side, 
I suppose, Joanna, as Jiliss Vera is so fair. 
She certainly doesn't resemble her father 
at all." 

"Ah, but it's her father's mother I'm 
speaking of, miss, and they say she was 
fair too— as fair as a lily, and her feet and 
hands so small, you'd only to look at 
'em to tell her breeding. She was a 
Rooshian countess," said Joanna with 
evident pride. 

Leah smiled. 

" Well, your young lady's hands are very 
pretty, too," she said pleasantly. 

"Yes; they're pretty enough, if they 
wasn't so dead white. I like a little life- 
blood in people myseli Now, her mother 
had as pretty a colour again as she when 
she was a young woman, and she could do 
somethink with her hi^ds. Vera's are just 
as helpless as a baby's; but I suppose 
that's uke her grandma, too, who never 
did no earthly thing, so I've heard, but 
twiddle her dog's ears and roll up 
cigarettes to smoke." 

"Well, Joanna, Miss Vera doesn't do 
that^ at any rate," said Leah, unable to 
resist a laugh at the idea of her demure 
little friend with a cigarette between her 

Joanna smiled grimly. 

" No ; nor I don't think her ma wad|l 
stand it if she wanted to. Not bat whsi 
Rooshan countesses do smoke for all tiw 
world like men, and no one thinks an j die 
worse of them. But, there, as I tell Mn. 
Sinlorren every day, if she'd only ka^ 
her mind to it, a decent EnglishwomaB 
is as good, any time, as the beat-baiB 
furriner, be she Rooshan or French." 

"That is right enougtu Stand ap tot 
your own country, even if you are away 
from it," said Leah good-naturedly, and 
then she added : "You have been with the 
family here a long time, I suppose, Joannal 
Did your mistress bring you over with her 
when she married, or did you enter her 
service afterwards 1 " 

It was an innocent enough question, 
asked with no particular interest; but 
Joanna drew herself up stiffly at once, and 
flushed as red as though some hidden 
ofience were contained in it 

" No, miss ; Mrs. Sinlorren didn't bring 
me here," she said haughtily. "She wrote — 
if you're curious about itF-and asked^ me 
for to come and live with her, and I did — 
of my own accord And now, miss, if you'll 
be kind enough to remember the message 
I brought yon, and keep clear of this nasty 
infectious disease, 111 bid you good-night. 
There ain't anything else you want, I 
suppose 1 " 

She went away without waiting for 
an answer, and Leah fairly burst out 

" What an odd creature !" she said to her- 
self. "And how amusingly like her mistress 
even in her absurd reserve. I once asked 
madame what part of England she came 
from, and she reddened in just tho same 
way, and said, 'Essex,' aa shortly as 
though I had been impertinent to her. 
They are the oddest household altogether, 
and, if madame were not such a great lady, 
I should almost say she might be her 

maid's " But another thought struck 

her, and she stopped short, her gaze 
travellbg towards the distant church- 
tower again. "I wonder if it is really 
typhus," she said "At any rate, I dare 
not risk going after those poor children 
with the doubt" 

The Right of Translating Articles from All thk Yeae Kound is reserved by ike Authors, 


Publithed at tbe Offlo«, £S, WeUlBston Street, Strand. Printed by CBA&UBi Dickiss 4 Bvahs, S4, Great New Stre£t. EC. 




Mr. Wtndham*s rooms were situated 
advantsgeoasly for his bosiness, that of 
money-lending, in a fashionable street off 
Pall MalL They consisted of a commodious 
first floor ; they were famished in a com- 
' fortable style, inclining to the solid, and 
not affected by the rag-andplatter fashion 
of recent years; they were eminently 
> decorous, and not dolL These rooms did 
not wear the sort of aspect that immediately 
reveals the character and pursuits of an 
occupant^ and in this respect they were 
Uke the outward semblance of their owner 
himseli There was nothing remarkable, 
certainly nothing mysterious, about Mr. 
Wyndham, and yet, for a man living in the 
busy world of London, and doing a satis- 
factory amount of business in a tolerably 
fair way — or, at all events, in a way that 
had not hitherto brought him into trouble— - 
singularly little was known about him. 
There was, in fact, only one person of his 
acquaintance who could have told any 
whom it miffht concern that the well- 
preserved, weU-dressed Mr. Wyndham had 
once called himself James Willeeden, had 
lived . by precarious employment in the 
lower walks of journalism, and had been 
on a certain occasion hardly distinguishable 
from a tramp. 

The earlier experiences of his life had, 
no doubti been hard ; he had learned in 
the school of self-earned poverty and pri- 
vation that which certain natures never can 
ordoleam — how tomakethemost of a really 
good chance when it offered — and he had 

life by a sedulous course of money-getting 
ever since one daring venture had supplied 
him with tools wherewith to practise what 
Captain Wragge calls "human agriculture ". 
Mr. Wyndham's methods were, however, 
simpler and more avowable than those of 
the proto-typical "agriculturist", probably 
because he possessed the immense advan- 
tage of having started with capital, in the 
first place; and, in the second, because 
caution was also among the well-learned 
lessons of his Ufa He was content with 
small things in the early days of his trans- 
formation from Mr. James Willesden, of 
nowhere in particular, to Mr. John Wynd- 
ham, of Plutus Place, Pall MalL 

It is probable that seldom in the history 
of moneyhas any sum been made to increase f 
and multiply more largely, than the five 
thousand pounds which Lilias Merivale had 
paid for the information sold to her by 
James Willesden, and for the possession of 
Hugh Bosslyn*s child. The man's plan had 
proved perfectly successfiil ; he had never 
been seen or heard of since he handed over 
the child and the papers by which his 
statement was proved, to Lilias, in the 
general waiting-room at the London Bridge 
Station. Until her remembrance of him 
grew dim with time, and the secure custom 
of her darling^s presence, she had suffered, 
as her characteristic sensitiveness rendered 
her capable of suffering, about things long 
past; from the horrid recollection that the 
woman whom Hugh had loved had been 
in this man's power — had been his 
wife; but of late he never crossed her 
mind at aU. She might have met him 
anywhere, any number of times, at a period 
much nearer to the James Willesden epoch 
of his existence than that at which her 
eyes reaUv did rest unconsciously upon him, . 
and not nave found a^ord_of association | 



26 (February 27, 1886.1 


[Oopdncted bf 

He was equally safe from recognition by 
Colonel Coortland, who, in addition to his 
naturally indolent and incorioos way, had 
taken it for granted that the man who had 
come to Lilias with so strange, yet true a 
story, and stipulated for secrecy until he 
should have had time to get away, was 
gone out of the country for good or ill 
with his price — its amount Lilias had not 
divulged — and was a person to be hence- 
forth dismissed from the memory of all 
concerned. Before Mr. Wyndham settled 
down to the doing of a satisfactory business 
in usury at his rooms in Plutus Place, he 
had turned over his capital more than once 
or twice, in ways with which this story is 
not concerned, and by the time he was 
installed in these comfortable quarters. 
Colonel Gourtland would hare been as little 
likely as Lilias to have recognised him. 
He had never resorted to any disguise ; he 
had trusted with well-placed confidence to 
the effect of time, the change of abode, 
and the influence of easy circumstances, 
good living, and good clothes. 

^ In one instance only had he been out in 
his reckoning. It chanced that^ at a time 
when things were going very well with 
Mr. Wyndham, although he had not yet 
attamed to Plutus Place, he found himself 
in need of legal advice, and was recom- 
mended to put himself into the hands of 
Messrs. VignoUes and Jackson, of Lmcoln's 
Inn Fields. Shortly afterwards, a young 
gentleman from the office of that highly 
respectable firm called, as tiie bearer of 
a confidential communication, upon Mr, 
Wyndham, and a- mutual recognition 
ensued. Julian Courtland could not be 
mistaken in the identity of the man with 
whom he had played cards at a public- 
house at Chouffhton — having secretly got 
out of his nucleus house at night— while the 
man's wife still lay unburied, and Mr. 
Wyndham was, for once in his life, startled, 
when he found himself confronted by an 
eye-witness to one of the discreditable 
incidents of his former career. 
^ The difficulty was formidable, but a 
timely recollection of the circumstances 
under which he had met Julian Courtland, 
and the indications of Uie young man's 
weakness of character which he recalled, 
came to his assistance — Mr. Wyndham's 
memory was of the pigeonhole order, 
and he could generaUy find anything 
he happened to want among its stores. 
He had no §reat difficulty in striking 
up a friendship with Julian, whose first 
unaffected, spontaneous impulse was to 

wonder at and admire the cleverness of the 
transmogrified individual before him, and 
to envy his good luck. It was natural to 
opine that Julian Courtland, if he did not 
actually want money, could "do with" more 
than he had, or had any legitimate way of 
acquiring, and a loan, airily proposed by 
Mr. Wyndham after some jocose suppoai- 
tion as to the young man's notions of 
" seeing Ufe", and with a well-acted pretence 
of having nothing on his own part to 
conceal, was accepted mth fatal f aoJity. 

From that hour, not only had Mr. 
Wyndhamnothingtofearfrom Julian Court- 
land, but he found his young friend very 
useful Under Mr. Wyndham's auspices, 
Julian saw life more variously and exten- 
sively than he had hitherto done, and 
if not very seriously at his own expense, 
that was because be brought a good deal 
of grist to a mill which ground '^exceeding 
smaU ". 

Julian Courtland moved in good society, 
and was a favourite, as his good looks, his 
good nature, his good manners, his remark- 
able and highly-OTltivated musical talents 
entitled him to be. There was, howev^, 
a seamy side to his life, and at their 
first meeting, when he was only a boy, he 
had turned that side out to the keen eyes 
of James Willesden, who had marked with 
a cold and cynical pleasure the tendencies 
of the nephew of Colonel Courtland, of the 
man who at least guessed what Willesden's 
treatment of his mfe had been. He after- 
wards dismissed Julian from his mindi widi 
the brief prediction, "He's safe to go to 
the bad, and not to be long about it," and 
bad never thought of him again (not even 
in the moment of his disconcerting dis- 
covery that his transaction with Lilias 
could not be kept from the knowledge of 
the CourUands) until he recognised him in 
the^ smart young gentleman just out of his 
articles, and about to become a partner in 
the firm of VignoUes and Jackson. Mr. 
Wjrndham found out before long that the 
ambition of Julian Coui^tland was not to 
be, but to seem, all that he was expected to 
be, by the Colonel, who possMsed Uie un- 
worldliness and simplicity of mind which 
distinguish many brave soldiers, and as 
Julian made a better decoy by preserving 
appearances, he did not deride or subvert 
that purpose. He merely maintained a hold 
on hia young friend by keeping a large 
debt (for which Julian had given him a 
tenfold equivalent by the introduction 
of eligible borrowers in temporary diffi- 
culties) hanging over his head, while he 




fliirttti T %^f ftf ,3 


[February i7, 1886.] 27 

secored ascendency of a different kind by 
his superior knowledge of the world — that 
is to say, the worst part of it — and his past 
mastership in vices in which Julian was 
by comparison a mere dabbler. 

Mr. Wyndham was so genuinely indif- 
ferent to the fate of ms dead wife's 
daughter, after he had speculated to so 
much profit in that apparently nnremune- 
rative burthen, that he did not allude to 
her in talking to Julian, nor did he ask 
him any questions about Miss Merivale, or 
the progress of events at The Quinces. 

T^e child was a growing-up girl, and 
Miss Merivale had not married. These 
two facts made the sum of his knowledge. 
He had not even cared to ask Julian 
whether mention was ever made in his 
hearing of the means by which the 
mystery of Hugh Roaslyn's fate had been 
dispelled at last Mr. Wyndham had no 
retrospective sentiment, even of the cjmical 
kind, and, except in so far as it behoved him 
to keep touch with matters which concerned 
Julian, so as to control any attempt to 
break his bonds, was quite incurious about 
him. So long as he was available for Mr. 
Wyndham's purposes, and obedient to his 
behests, Julian might be anything else he 
pleased, and, as that genial gentleman 
again expressed it in his thoughts, '' go to 
the devil his own way, provided he did 
not go there until he (Mr. Wyndham) had 
done with him." 

In the course of certain transactions 
between Mr. Wyndham and his young 
friend, involving the transfer of money 
from the pockets of the latter to those of 
the former — for there was between them an 
ever-pending question of the payment of 
instalments — the money-lender discovered 
that Miss Merivale had come to Julian's aid 
more than once. The effect of this dis- 
covery was to make him think once more 
about Miss Merivale, and descry a pos- 
sibility of again making his wife's daughter 
useful, without perpetrating any such 
breach of his covenant with Lilias as could 
be detected, or even suspected, by her. It 
was a notable notion which he cherished in 
silence un^ he had dexterously extracted 
from Julian all the information required 
to make him quite sure of its value and 
feasibility. He had, however, somewhat 
alarmed that young gentleman by his 
questions, which made him apprehensive 
that his secretly-dreaded master, grown 
reckless by impunity, might be contem- 
plating the experiment of making him 
introduce him at The Qubces. 

Subjected to a close examination respect- 
ing the relations of Miss Merivale with Miss 
Rosslyn, the amount of Miss Merivale's 
fortune, and what she intended to do with 
it; the appearance, manners, and proclivities 
of Miss Eosslyn, and his own position with 
both ladies ; Julian had answered with equal 
candour and surprise that he should be so 
closely interrogated on a subject never 
previously approached. Julian's replies 
satisfied Mr. Wvndham on all the points 
he had proposed to investigate^-on none 
more fully than the extreme improbability 
that Miss Merivale would ever marry ^she 
always seemed to Julian, he declared, like 
a widow with an only daughter), and he 
then dropped the subject. It was, how- 
ever, only to apply himself to the ripening 
of the pear. 

Julian Courtland had about this time a 
singular run of ill-luck, and by a succession 
of S>llies he had fastened Mr. Wyndham's 
yoke more securely than everupon his neck, 
and increased its weight In Mr. Wynd- 
ham's opinion the pear was now ripe — he 
proceeded to pluck it 

« You're a little late," said Mr. Wynd- 
ham, with a wave of his ci^rette towards 
a timepiece on the mantelshelf, when Julian 
Courtland presented himself according to 
the appointment made on the previous 

Julian looked at the dial with sullen 
carelessness, and said, as he dragged a 
chair into a position which would not leave 
his countenance fully exposed to Mr. 
Wyndham's scrutiny : 

" I dare say it does not matter. You 
don't seem very busy. The birds that 
hop upon your limed twigs are not early 

Mr. Wyndham smfled, and let the im- 
pertinence pass. It was not his purpose 
to quarrel with Julian yet 

"Well, well," he rejoined, "now that 
you are here we will not waste time." 

He rose, threw his cigarette into the 
fireplace, suddenly faced Julian from the 
vantage-ground of the hearthrug, and 
assuming the business-like tone which the 
young man hated — the tone with which he 
always went into the account between 
them — asked him point-blank what he 
meant by the affair of last night 

"What affair? I don't understand 
you 1 " 

" You understand me perfectly. But I 
will change the form of my question if 
vou like. What do vou mean bv brineiofir a 


28 [Febraary 27, 1886.] 



girl like that to a place where yoa may 
be seen and reported on by scores of 
people, and where yon actually did narrowly 
escape being seen by Miss Merivale and 
Miss Bosslyn 1" 

" A girl like that I " An angry glow 
suffused Julian's face. " What do you know 
about her 1 " 

'* Enough to convince me that you are 
not playing on the square, Courtland. 
MissDenzil is a respectable young woman, 
and she belieres that you mean to marry 
her. You need not get into a rage ; she 
did not rereal the secret; I merely put 
it to her as a fact of which I was aware — 
in the character of confidential elderly 
friend. Her imorance of the world is 
stupendous, and her confidence in you is 
infatuated. But we will come to the con- 
sideration of her by-and-by. What I 
want to know first is, why in the name of 
all that is foolish you did not admit tiiat 
you were in a difficulty of this kind, when 
we made our recent friendly arrange- 
ment 1 " 

Julian made no reply, but looked still 
more sullen. 

" I see," said Mr. Wyndham, after a 
pause, " you thought you could dodge it 
That's so like you — so perfectly useless, so 
purely silly. You can't dodge it, my good 
fellow, because dodging it means dod^g 
me, and if you don't know by this time 
what your chances of doing that are, you 
must be much duller than I take you for. 
The case between us does not require to 
be re-stated, and I'm not going into figures ; 
we did all that too lately. You know best 
whether it would or would not ruin your 
position in your brand-new profession, 
and finish you with Colonel Gourtland, who 
has found out a good deal about you 
already, if the papers which you ana I 
went over so lately were to be laid before 
him with a view to a settlement" 

*' There are two sides to the case," said 
Julian, whose neryousness contrasted 
strongly with Mr. Wyndham's composed 
mien and mildly-argumentative tone ; " and 
one of them is your look-out, you know. 
If you go to my unde about me, you shall 
go in your own name, and as an old 

*'So! Sits the wind in that quarter 1 
And suppose I did call upon the Colonel — 
with your ' dossier ' — in my own name, as 
you say, what then f Has he never seen a 
man who has risen from the ranks, do you 
suppose t And what is it to me whether 
he knows me or not 1 " 

" You know best ; I don't know at alL 
Only I always thought you must have some 
reason for keeping Willesden durk — all 
that about Miss Merivale and the child — 
or you would not have been so careful to 
do it" A dark scowl crossed the face 
of the listener; but Julian could only 
keep up his defiant recklessness by avoid- 
ing Mr. Wyndham's eye, and therefore did 
not observe the look. "I don't know a 
great deal about it myself, but I have heard 
my uncle say it was a rascally transaction, 
and that Willesden dared not have tried 
it on with a man ; so that I should tUnk 
you would not care to be identified with it 
—that's all." 

" You really are mistaken in that con- 
clusion, Courdand. I care little for the 
good or bad opinion of my neighbours, and 
no more for Colonel Courdand's than for 
any other man's. But what has all this to 
do with the fact that you are my debtor to 
a larffe extent in a number of transactions 
which, however the Colonel might r^aid 
my share in them, could only strike him 
in one light with respect to you 1 Does it 
alter the fact 1 Does it modify the situa- 
tion, which is, briefly, that I am resolved 
to have my money, and that you have got 
to pay it 1 Don't you think you had better 
drop this childishness, and stick to the 
point 1 " 

" What point 1 " 

" The pomt of your having undertaken to 
reward the ingenuous attachment of Miss 
Bosslyn by marrying her, and to pay your 
debt to me out of the handsome fortune 
which you will certainly get with her. The 
point of your being all the time secretly 
enesged to another girl, and running the 
risK of ruining your chances with Miss 
Bosslyn by l^iug seen about with her 
under circumstances which you cannot 
explain. Come, Courtland, you must get 
off the horns of the dilemma somehow. 
Do you, or do you not mean to carry out 
vour agreement 1 If you do not, I shall 
be glad to know when vou propose to pay 
me my money. With the ' now ' I have no 
further concern." 

Mr. Wyndham resumed Us seat^ and 
waited for Julian to speak. He waited in 
vain for a short time, and then Julian, 
stUl with his head bent and his eyes down- 
cast, said in the tone of one vanquished : 

"You need not be so hard on me; 

it*s all true that you say. You've got 

the upper hand, and you'll keep it I 

dare say I should do the same if I were 

I you." 




Chflitos DlekMii.] 


[February 27, 1886.] 29 

•* Of course you would." 

"Well then, 111 tell you about it I 
have Imown Misa DenzU for two years. 
Her father died long ago, her mother is 
just one year dead. I met her at a small 
evening-party, where she was playing for 
dancing, and found out that the mother 
was a music-mistress, and the girl also a 
teacher of music, but in a rery small way — 
second-rate schools, and that sort of thing. 
They lived in lodgings at Plmlico, and 
at first it was the music they treated 
me to that took me there. I got pupils for 
the mother, and I " 

« Fell in love with the daughter. I don't 
blame you for thai Go on." 

'' The mother was the nicest woman I 
ever knew, and the least worldly-minded. 
She had seen many evil days — indeed, but 
few, I fancy, that were not evil — but she 
was always cheerful and hopeful, and she 
thought all the world as good as she herself 

" Very pretty ;« but the daughter, if you 
please, llie young lady who might have 
spoiled our game fast night, if it had not 
been for me. 

"I am not going to talk to you about 
the daughter. I don't think you would 
understand me if I did ; it is not in your 
line. You drew your own conclusions 
quite correctly last night The mother 
died satisfied in the belief that her 
daughter would be my wife. She knew 
notiung about my family or my em- 
barrassments ; but when she was gone 
I told Miss Denzii a part of the truth." 

" Which part, I wonder," thought Mr. 
Wyndham. He said : " And she was 
reasonable, and satisfied to wait until the 
sky should clear 1 I understand. Of 
course she's all perfection and you are 
all devotion, though your ordinary mode 
of life is inconsistent with that notiOn, 
to say the least of it, and you were not 
too hard to persuade into our arrangement 
of the other day." 

Julian turned on him with an angry 

" Not too hard to persuade I Not too 
hard when you've got me in your grip, and 
can grind me to powder when you lik& 
I wish I had cut my throat before I ever 
stood in with you." 

" No, you don't, Courtland— not really, 
you know, because if you did there's no 
reason why you shouldn't cut your throat 
now. You wouldn't be troubled much by 
the fear of posthumous revelations, I 
fanev. Look here," he added, dropping 

his sneer, and turning savage with in- 
tent, " let us have done with this ! You 
have acted the part of a fool in deceiving 
me as you have done. I am sorry for l^is 
girl ; but she would have nothing to thank 
me for if I were to let you marry her, 
and repent in the sackclo^ and ashes of 
exposure and poverty. Besides, I have 
myself to think of, and not her. You will 
have to keep to your compact, Courtland, 
or take the consequencea I have a pretty 
clear idea of what they will be, but I have 
no doubt yours is a much more accurate 
one. I am not your only creditor in many 
kinds, and I have yet to see or hear of the 
man who has ever made a clean breast of 
aU his debts." 

*' She is the truest and best girl in the 
world," said Julian Courtland, "and it will 
km her." 

" Not a bit of it. Besides, you should 
have thought of that before you agreed to 
marry Miss Eosslyn ; the other dear 
charmer was just as true and as good then 
as she is now; but you were feeling the 
turn of the screw. Consider it turned 
now, if you please. And remember also," 
added Mr. Wyndham sternly, ''that you 
have no time to lose. I can't trust you, 
you know, an inch farther than I can see 
you, and, therefore, I mean to keep you to 
the letter of the bond." 


Nothing, at first sight, seems easier to 
anyone desirous of settling in London than 
the selection of an abode suitable to his 
means and tastes, the only apparent diffi- 
culty i)eiBg the necessity of deciding 
between the many eligible opportunities 
open to his choice. Are there not houses 
to let in every street, and accommodating 
agents, almost as numerous as the 
specialities over which they preside, with 
lists as long as Leporello's catalogue, and 
ready to supply at the shortest notice the 
wants of the perplexed applicant, who, 
amidst such an embarras de richesse, finds 
himself hopelessly at a loss which way to 
turn 1 These obliging intermediaries have 
at their disposal — at least, so they profess 
— exactly what you seek, whatever your 
requirements may be, and complacently 
enumerate the various items on their books, 
beginning with mansions in Bdgravia and 
bijou residences in Mayfair, and — ^if these 
temptations elicit no encouraging response, 
or, m other words, if the fish doesn't rise 

[February 27, 1886.] 


(CoDdneted by 

.t the flj — gradually subsiding into an 
loquent eologiam of the quiet reepecta- 
>ility of Wimpole Street, or the suburban 
ranquillity of a semidetached villa in West 

We will suppose that at lengthi armed 
^th half-a-dozen cards authorising you to 
nspect the different localities^ and in a 
rather bewildered state of mindy you start 
)n your expedition, and after tiie usual 
series of disappointments, discover some- 
thing which, as far as price and situation 
ure concerned, suits you sufficiently weU. 
N^aturally distrusting your own inexpe- 
rience in such matters, you decide on 
engaging a practical surveyor to test the 
solidity of the building by prodding the 
walls and minutely examining the state of 
the floorings ; and, on receiving a favour- 
able report, conclude that you have done 
all that is necessary, and finally close the 
bargain. The lease once signed, and your 
installation effected, the chuices are that, 
unless you are exceptionally fortunate, 
you will find that in your anxiety to settle 
down, you have unaccountably overlooked 
certain possible drawbacks, by no means 
conducive to your comfort as a householder. 
For instance, you cannot tell whether your 
chimneys smoke or not until you nave 
tried them ; nor is the question of drain- 
age likely to suggest itself to your mind 
untQ you are unpleasantly reminded of its 
importance as reeards the salubrity of 
the neighbourhood by a visit from the in- 
spector of nuisances, and the consequent 
necessity of disbursing more than you can 
conveniently afford in payment of the 
plumber's bill 

Minor evils which have hitherto escaped 
your notice gradually assume the shape of 
insupportable annoyances ; if the house 
inhabited by you is an old one, the lower 
part of the premises is probably overrun 
by micd, and swarms witn beetles. Should 
it, on the contrary, be of recent construc- 
tion, the thin purtition wall separating 
you from the adjoining tenement will 
ensure you the full enjoyment of whatever 
vocal or instrumental tortures the young 
ladies on either side may periodically in- 
flict upon you. It is, moreover, quite on 
the cards that the street selected for your 
residence may be the favourite resort of 
barrel-organists and kilted bagpipedroners 
— nay, you may even have unwittingly 
pitched your tent on the direct line of 
march hebdomadall)r patronised by the 
Salvationists, an unkindly freak of fortune 

for nervous temperaments, we forbear to 

There is a still more unpleasant con- 
tingency — happily of unfrequent occurrence 
— to which it is not impossible that the 
house-hunter may at one period or another 
be exposed ; and we cannot better illus- 
trate it than by the following reminiscence 
of what happened in Paris some five-and- 
twenty years ago : 

A middle-aged Ei^lishman and his wife 
— ^we will call them Nugent— had a liking 
for the gay city, and having no particular 
ties attaching them to their own countij, 
decided on looking out for a suitable abode 
in a central situation, where they might 
pass the remainder of their days as agree- 
ably as a moderate income witiiout encum- 
brance would enable them to do. The 
Empire was then at the height of its 
splendour, and as a natural consequence 
unfurnished apartments were scarce and 
dear ; so that for some time the couple in 
question failed to discover anything wittun 
their comparatively limited means. ^ At 
length, however, while pursuing their in- 
vestigations in the quarter of the city 
imm^iately behind the Madeleine, they 
came upon a freshly-painted house, at the 
door of which hung die desired announce- 
ment, '' Appartements k louer," and ascer- 
tained on enquiry that the pi^mises, 
having recently been "fraichement d^cor^s** 
from top to Ibiottom, were entirely unoccu- 
pied, and that any suite of rooms they 
might prefer were at their disposal 
" Besides,'' added the concierge, who acted 
as cicerone, " if monsieur and madame are 
not already provided with fumitiure, the 
second-floor would be just the thing for 
them, as it is quite ready for their recep- 
tion, and everything in it would be dis- 
posed of at a very reasonable rate." 

" We may as well see what it is Uke," 
said Mr. Nugent to his wife, as they as- 
cended a smartly-carpeted staircase pre- 
ceded by their guide ; '* if it suits us, and 
the price isn't too exorbitant^ it would save 
us a world of trouble." 

On reaching the second-floor landing, tiie 
concierge unlocked a door facing the stairs, 
and ushering the visitors through a small 
ante-chamber into an adjoining apartm^t, 
threw back the outside blinds, and dis- 
closed so brkht and elegantly furnished a 
room that l£rs. Nugent could not refrain 
from an exclamation of delight Every- 
thing was in the best possible taste ;. the 
curtains were of rich damask, and the 

on the effects of which, out of consideration | carpet, sober in hue, and evidently ihe 




CawlH DlckMii.] 


[Febroary 27, 1886.] 31 

product of a Persian loom, was delicioasly 
soft and yielding to the feet ; while "poufs", 
ottomans, and the nsnal appendages to a 
Parisian salon were scattered about in pro- 
fusion. The dining-room, bedrooms, and 
offices having been also inspected and 
approved, and the entire cost only amount- 
ing to two thousand francs, in addition to 
a yearly rent of fifteen hundred, Mr .Nugent, 
after a brief consultation with his wife, 
agreed to the proposed conditions, and 
signified his intention of taking possession 
early in the following week, congratulating 
himself on having maAe, what unquestion- 
ably appeared to be, an excellent bargain. 

"Very strange," he thought^ "that it 
should not have been snapped up before. 
The drawing-room furniture alone is worth 
double the mouey." 

In a few days, a cook and ''bonne" 
having been engaged, the pair were com- 
fortably installed in their new quarters, 
thinking themselves exceptionally lucky in 
having secured bo desirable a home. Before 
the week was out^ however, their satis- 
faction was considerably modified by the 
abrupt departure of their two servants 
without previous notice; both of them 
steadily declining to pass another night in 
the house, but giving no reason for their 
breach of contract beyond the simple state- 
ment that the place did not suit them. 
Fortunately, as it happened, the concierge 
and his wifs, whose sole occupation appeared 
to consist in perusing the Petit Journal, 
and looking out for lodgers who never 
came, volunteered their services in the 
interim for the moderate consideration of 
thirty francs a month ; and things went on 
pretty smoothly until a chance meeting 
with his old friend, Bainbridge, also a 
resident in Paris, but who had only just 
returned from a trip to the Pyrenees, 
at once demolished whatever visions of 
domestic enjoyment the unsuspecting 
Nugent had hitherto complacently in- 
dulged in. 

While strolling together along the boule- 
vard, his companion asked where he was 
staying, and on his mentioning the street 
and number of the house, stopped short, 
and stared at him with a bewildered air. 

" You don't mean to say you live there 1" 
he said. 

•* Certainly, why shouldn't 11" enquired 

" Why, don't you know — no, of course 
you Gan% as you were not in Paris at the 
time — ^that the house you speak of is the 
identical onewhere old Madame de Pr^bois 

was murdered by her man-servant last 
spring 1 " 

''Goodness gracbus!" exclaimed the 
horrified Nugent ; " and I have taken the 
second floor for three years, and bought the 
furniture into the bargain ! That accounts 
for my servants refusing to stay thera" 

"Shouldn't wonder," dryly remarked 
Bainbridge ; " servants are generally better 
informed than their mastera Why, man 
alive, your own bedroom must be pre- 
cisely the one occupied by the old lady 
herself; for I remember now, the papers^ 
mentioned her inhabiting the second floor. 
You must get out of it as soon as possible." 

" I wouldn't remain another night there 
for a thousand pounds," said Nugent. " It 
would half kill my wife if she knew it" 

" Then don't tell her until she is out of 
the place. Take rooms at an hotel, and 
have your thin^ packed and sent after 
you. As the furniture is yours, it had 
better be sold at the Bue Drouot for what 
it will fetch ; but you will be liable for the 

"I must put up with that," replied 
Nugent; and, taking a hasty leave of his 
friend, he lost no time in securing the 
necessary accommodation at Meurice's, and 
on his return home, after informing the 
concierge of his intention to leave the 
apartment that afternoon, angrily re- 
proached him for omitting to acquaint him 
with what had taken place thera 

"I thought monsieur knew all about 
it^" coolly answered that functionary. 
"Monsieur is English, and as it is a 
well-known fact ihsLt all the English are 
eccentric, I naturally supposed that he had 
a fancy for inhabiting a 'maison criminelle'. 
But," he added, "if monsieur wishes to 
get rid of the lease, a gentleman who 
enquired yesterday about it, and was much 
disappointed on hearing that it was already 
disposed of, would willingly take it off his 
hands, fundture and all." 

" What gentleman t " eagerly asked 
Nugent "Where did he come from 1 " 

" I hardly know, monsieur, for he speaks 
very little French. But he lefl his name 
and address, in case you might be inclined 
to treat with him." 

So saying he produced a card on 
which was inscribed "Silas B. Buffnm, 
Cincinnati, U.S."; and, written above in 
pencil, " H6tel Chatham". 

" Almost too good to be true," thought 
Nugent, overjoyed at this unexpected 
chance of relief. " If this gentleman really 
wishes to step into shoes," he said, "he 



32 (FabroarraT.lSSa.] 


[CkHidnctod bj 

can do so, and the sooner the better. Is 
madame upstairs 1 ^ 

" No, monsiear ; madame went ont an 
hour ago, and left word that she would be 
in the gallery of the Louyre untfl half-past 

" Come with me then, and help me to 
pack. And mind that the trunks are sent 
this evening to Meurice's in the Bue 

Two hours later Mr. Nugent hailed a 
passing ''milor", and joining his wife at 
the Louvre, communicated to her as con- 
siderately as he could the events of the 
morning, which, contrary to his anticipa- 
tion, appeared to afifect her infinitely less 
than the possible damage done to her 
wardrobe b^ inexperienced packers. 
Leaving her m her new quarters, he pro- 
ceeded at oncie to the H6tel Chatham, and, 
enquiring for Mr. Silas B. Buffum, soon 
found himself in the presence of a sallow 
and bflious-looking personage, who was 
smoking a cigar in the courtyard pre- 
paratory to the table d'h6te dinner. Both 
parties being equally anxious to come to 
an understanding, very few words sufficed 
to effect a satisfactory arrangement; and 
it was agreed that the transfer of the lease 
(the landlord's permission having been 
previously obtained) should be duly 
signed on the following day. When aU 
was finally settled, Nugent could not 
refrain from asking his successor what 
could be his reason for selecting so un- 
pleasantly notorious an abode. 

*' Waal," replied the citizen of Cincinnati, 
" when a man has a craving for emotion, 
he goes to the right shop for it Excite- 
ment, sir, is what I reouire, and I guess 
IVe hit on the trail The location, sir, 
I convene to occupy oughter produce 
emotion, and I estimate I'm about to 
realise the fact Tes, sir.'' 

What the result of tiie experiment may 
have been is not recorded ; the tenancy, 
however, of Mr. Silas K Buffum was not 
of long duration, a considerable portion of 
the street in question having shortly after 
been demolished by order of the muni- 
cipality; and among the houses doomed to 
destruction one of the first to disappear 
being the '' maiBon criminelle ". 



It is remarkable, as indicative of one 
of the chief characteristics of the North 
American people, as now constituted and 

being constituted, that strangers visiting 
their continent form very different opinions 
of the manners current in the States, 
according to their sex. Most lady- 
travellers, since Mrs. Trollope, return 
to England with more eulogies of the 
Americans in their hearts than they 
can find words to express. But, with rare 
exceptions, male - tourists condemn the 
Americans out of hand. "The manners 
of the Americans are the best I ever 
saw, ** says Harriet Martineau. " T like 
the Americans more and more; either 
they have improved wonderfully lately, or 
else the criticisms on them have been 
cruelly exaggerated," says Lady Wortley. 
And, as spoke these early travellers, so 
speak the later ones of their own sex; 
while Mr. Arnold, as representative of so 
many others of his sex, does not hesitate 
to imply that the social conduct of the 

EK>ple is, on the whole, execrable. Mr. 
enry James, America's cleverest living 
writer, seeking to explain the courtesy (as 
he understands it) of English life, traces it 
to the straggle for existence : it is rather 
the suavity of the beggar than real gentle- 
ness of heart But we will return him 
satire for satire in quoting Miss Martineau 
on the civilities of American life: "I 
imagine," she says, '<that the practice of 
forbearance requisite in a republic is 
answerable for this peculiarity [sweetness 
of temper]. In a republic no man can in 
theory overbear his neighbour, nor, as he 
values his own rights, can he do it much 
or long in practice." Whatever sweetness 
of temper the Americans may have shown 
towards Miss Martineau fifty years ago, 
we recommend no one to go to the States 
nowadays, whether as a tourist or an emi- 
grant, expecting to be received with kindly 
words and courtesies wherever he may be. 
Rather the oontraiT, indeed. From the 
moment of his landing; at the bottom of 
Canal Street he must be prepared for new 
conditions of Ufa He has left a country 
where, howsoever humbly he may estimate 
himself, he has had many inferiors, for a 
country where, out of question, everyone 
whom he meets or accosts is at least as good 
in worldly value as he is. All officials 
will let him know pretty quickly that their 
officialism does not make them into ser- 
vants, public or private. To secure even 
the curtest of answers from a police-officer, 
for instance, he must carefully modulate 
the tone of his enquiry. The guards on 
the different trains may condescend to 
fraternise with him, but he will soon see 





Cbatlei DtckanM.] 


[Febraary 27, 1880.] S3 

that ihey have little or nothing in com- 
mon with the tip-loving, cap-tonching, 
cordoToy-dad men of oar own railway- 
stations. And so on, np and down the 
scale, to the small nigger-boy, who will 
dean his boots for a nickel, and take the 
money with never a ''Thimk yon". Life 
in the States is a cold condition of barter. 
I do something for you ; you do something 
for ma One service balances and cancels 
the other; thanks on either hand are 
superer^atory, and a waste of precious 
time. The sooner a new arrival under- 
stands this code of conduct, the better for 
him, the fewer his humiliations. It is not 
so bad in the Southern States, where the 
people profess much unenvious goodwill 
for "Britishers", and profound hatred 
for their Northern brethren; but West 
and Far West it is rather worse than 

Again, brevity of speech is praiseworthy 
enough at times, tihoi^ it is chilling to be 
met with the most laconic of answers to all 
questions. The following dialogue, re- 
ralting from an interview of Miss Martineau 
with a settler in an unfortunate part of the 
eountiy, is still sufficiently typical "Whose 
land was this that you bought 1" '' M^gg's." 
" What's the soil 1 " « ^s." " W&t's 
the climate 1 " *' Foga" " What do you get 
to eat 1 " " Hoca" " What did you build 
your house of 1 " Loga'' " Have you any 
neighbours 1" "Froga" 

Msides absolute indifference, indvility, 
and an unpleasant brevity of speech, the 
stranger in the States must accustom him- 
self to not a little blasphemy. The average 
European is a little free in his use of the 
name of the Ddty, but there is nothbg so 
wholly abhorrent about (for example) the 
Frenchman's " Mon Dieu 1 " as the unction 
with which a rough American will pour 
forth indecency and blasphemy in conjunc- 

Alas for innocent Miss Strickland's com- 
fortable theory that since "blasphemy" 
is " neither a want nor a luxury ", it " pre- 
sents after all small temptation to human 
nature, howsoever personally disposed"! 
Miss Strickland lived all her days among re- 
fined people, and knew nothing — absolutely 
nothing— of the needs and capacities of an 
unrestrained democracy. And those people 
who r^ard the progeny of the slaves who 
were emandpated bsurdy a score of years aeo 
as the mildesti worst-used, and mostgenUe 
race under the sun, should dwell for a few 
months or years in the South, and then see 
how they would appear to them. If a 

wicked Northerner at his worst swears in 
the comparative degree, an excited nigger, 
though a church-goer, and the virtuous 
husband of but one wife, will swear freely 
in the superlative degree. Nor is it at all 
uncommon to hear the Deity's name used 
from the pulpit of the conventicle of the 
coloured people in a decidedly profane 
manner. Truly, as it has been said, 
« nothing fails in this extraordinary 
country, except the stranger's old-fashioned 
notions of political economy ". 

Everyone may be supposed to know that 
America is. the countiy, par excellence, 
which does justice to its women. The 
French are civil enough to their women, 
but the Americans chum, and with reason, 
to treat themasa superior dasa They maybe 
termed the aristocracy of the Statoa From 
the city shopman, with his respectfal notice, 
" Boys' and misses' hats," to the Preddent 
himself, everyone is imbued with the spirit 
of chivalry from sex to sex. The wonder 
is that American ladies are not more self- 
consequential than they are, which is 
savhiR not a littla But it must be acknow- 
ledged that there are in the States an 
ext^rdinary number of the sex who 
respond to Stuart Mill's test for a clever 
woman — in other words, who possess strong 
intuition and sensibility to the present, ana 
are quick of apprehension. 

Another duuractoristic of American life 
is the hurry of it. Alike in the heart of 
New York — in Broadway and on its ferry- 
boats, morning or evening, on its overhead 
railway — and in the yet grassy streets of 
Todayville, everyone is driven by a demon 
of impatience to live feverishly for the 
present and in the coming future. Best, 
there is none, except for the crippled ; and 
hurdly have the others time for a word of 
pity to these. And when a man dies, it is 
more than probable he will be gallopidd to 
the grave. The writer chanced to see the 
funeral of an opulent merchant at the beau- 
tifdl cemetory of Greenwood, overlooking 
the Bay of New York. Thirty coaches fol- 
lowed the body ; and the coaches, driven 
by men in whito hats, drawn by horses of 
ail colours, were filled with a number of 
gaily -dressed chattorers, some holding 
bouquets, and all in excellent good-humour. 
But it was a spirited spectacle to see the 
coaches, one after another, break into a 
brisk trot liter the hearse, when this had 
entered the cemetery precincta Later, a 
man in a blouse, with a spade over his 
shoulder, led the procesdon to the grave, 
and, the sumptuous vdvet-covered coffin 



34 [Febmary 27, 1886.] 


CCondvoied bf 

haying been encased in a common white 
box, this important and tax from miassam- 
ing functionaiy completed the ceremony 
of buriaL Then, with much glib conversa- 
tion, the mourners harried back to their 
coaches, and these hurried back into the 
city. Again, in foreign travelling, the 
American gives himself little rest and time 
for reflection; his experiences have ulti- 
mately to shake themselves into shape how 
they may. Similarly, at his meals, the 
average American eats like a mere animal : 
he sits down to his dinner of half-a-dozen 
messes and viands on separate plates, and 
neither speaks nor lifts his head until the 
plates are cleared ; and then, perdiance, 
he scampers for his train. No wonder 
quacks, with digestive cures, flourish in all 
the large American cities. And small 
wonder that in an analytical list of fatal 
casualties throughout the Union, we meet 
with such a heaSng as, " Choked by tough 
beef— so many". 

It is really appallisg to consider how 
the happiness of lives is wholly neutralised 
by this spirit of unrest which rules 
tyrannically in the States. "The laws 
of behaviour yield to the energy of the 
individual," says Emerson; and, of a 
truth, the maw of individual energy in 
his countrymen is lamentably capacioua 
The same writer says, fnrtiier: ''The 
men we see are whipped through the 
world ; they are harried, wrinkled, anxious; 
they all seem the hacks of some invisible 
riders. How seldom do we behold tran- 
quillity ! . . . There are no divine persons 
with us, and the multitude do not hasten 
to be divine." No ; but perhaps one may 
be pardoned for adding that they hasten 
to be everything else. Emerson, the 
philosophic and placid thinker, has many 
admirers among the Americans, but few 
followers. Even the pulpit not only 
catches the impelling spirit of the times, 
but makes the restless man yet less 
restful by such words as these (heard from 
Talmage at the Great Brooklyn Tabernacle) : 
"Religion accelerates business, sharpens 
men's wits, sweetens acerbity of disposi- 
tion, fillips the blood of phlegmatics, and 
throws more velocity into the wheels of 
hard work." One may almost be thankful 
that this onomatopcetic definition is not 
applicable on this side the Atlantia 

At times, however, this energy leads a 
man into difficulties he would surely have 
avoided by a little sober, judicious thought. 
" Democratic et liberty ne sont pas syno- 
nymes," said De Oousia A tombstone in a 

St Louis burying-ground, not long ago, 
bore these words : 

Rock of affes, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee. 

Drowned by PhiUnder Bailey and Mark B«gg8. 

One might suppose that in America the 
will of a dead man in so simple and 
unaggressive a matter as his epitaph would 
be uncontested. Not so, however. For 
Messrs. Bailey and Beggs sued the execu- 
tors of the defuDict, and got the really 
handsome award of eight hundred dollars 

Of the intolerable little precocities 
in the States called children one may say 
something, though little or nothing in 
praise of them. Wherever they are, they 
make their presence to be seen and heard, 
and it is but just that they should weary 
their fond parents rather more than they 
weary the rest of the world that touches 
them. Spoilt, of course, they are; and 
bitterly, no doubt, do they have to pay for 
their spoiling in such a rough school as 
that of American life in numhood. But 
none the less do they, when parents in their 
turn, bring up precocities, imd go through 
the same process, the effects of which they 
have spent bitter years in combating. The 
sister to Sir John Hawkins, one of John- 
son's biographers, in her Book of Anecdotes, 
gives an example of parental injudicious- 
ness and its consequence which we may 
quote as typical of infant life in Um 
States. "The sister of an important 
statesman of the last century," says Miss 
Hawkins, "heard a boy, humoured to 
excess, tease his mother for the remains of 
a favourite dish. Mamma at length re- 
plied : * Then do take it, and have done 
teasing me.' Hereupon, however, the boy 
flew into a passion, roaring out: 'What 
did you give it me for t I wanted to have 
snatched it' " Frequently in the dining- 
saloons of very respectable hotels the 
clamour of little peevish rogues of seven 
and eight is such as to make all other con- 
versation an effort or an impossibility; 
and the worst of it is that this 
kind of thing is condoned, not con- 
demned. '* Take that right away, 
now," cries the Northern boy, pointing 
to a basin of porridge. And the obse- 
quious darkey — obsequious to children 
more particularly, thanks to his traditions 
of servitude — says " Yes, sar,' deferentially, 
and lays quick hands on the steaming 
6tu£ " Here, I'll have it after all, I wia 
Bring it back, will you 1 " shouts the boy 
when the man is just disappearing through 



Obaitei DIekMia.] 


(February 27, 188flL J 35 

ihe door. No one of the fifty other 
gaests heed this little domestic drama of 
condactw Mamma and papa smile approval, 
and, with another humble '* Yes, sar," and 
a flash of his white teeth, the humbugged 
nigger replaces the porridge, and stands 
aside with clasped huids to see the young 
gentleman enjoy himself. 

Nor is this humourmg of children confined 
to the richer classes. When in Jacksonville, 
Florida, for a week, the writer used to dine 
and breakfast at a small restaurant adjoin- 
ing his own house. This restaurant was 
kept by a "yellow" man and his wife; 
" yellow," understand, being the sobriquet 
for a nigger once or twice removed towards 
the white race. These people had one child, 
a fat boy of four, not quite so sallow as his 
parentfli and the joy of their hearts. The 
mother, a pretty woman, like many other 
of the so-called "yellow" women, could 
not attend on her guest unaccompanied by 
her young treasure, and when tms wiUm 
little ras^ took it into his abnomudly 
large head to fancy anything on this or 
tha( plate, without scruple or apology he 
had to be satisfied at the writer^s expense. 
Moreover, when his mother was busy, and 
his father away, the boy was turned loose 
to amuse himself, and, as often as not, he 
would stand by the "saloon" door for 
minutes at a time, with his thumb in his 
mouth, staring in a way fit to haunt a 
memberof the rsychical Society for months; 
nor would he heed coaxings, counsel, or 
threats until, with a sudden whoop, he 
would turn his back and run down the 
passage screaming " Mammy ! " at the top 
of his vigorous voice. And "mammy" 
was as rational in most things as she was 

f>retty. She would not blame the child 
or whooping, but, by main force, would 
sometimes tug the young monster back 
into the writer's presence, and tell him he 
must get accustomed to the gentleman. 
The gentleman, you see, was to have no 
voice in the matter, so long as the child's 
well-being was assured. 

One more instance of the outward 
expression of the spirit of "bullyism" 
which is so peculiarly prevalent in the 
Northern States ; a grotesque example, but 
taken from the life. In one of the lesser 
streets of the old part of New York city, a 
barber's shop may be seen, bearing a 
terrible signboard. On thisboard is depicted 
a helpless customer imprisoned in a shaving- 
chair, and over him is a fiendish barber 
flourishing despotically a huge razor, while 
from his mouth proceeds a scroll, on which 

these words are written: "Don't have 
much to say, or 111 shave you without 
soap." The drift of this eccentric adver- 
tisement is not apparent Personally, one 
would rather be shaved elsewhere. But 
this signboard is a most happy epitome of 
Yankee character. 

As for the inward significance of this 
same spirit of " bullyiim ", we cannot do 
better than quote once more the man who, 
though a recluse, probably knew hia 
countrymen better than a stranger may 
pretend to know them. Says Emerson : 
"Every man is actually weak, and 
apparently strong. To himself he seems 
weak; to others, formidable. You are 
afraid of Grim, but Grim also is afraid of 
you. You are solicitous of the goodwill 
of the meanest person, uneasy at his ill- 
wilL But the sturdiest ofiender of your 
peace and of the neighbourhood, if you rip 
up his claims, is as thin and timid as any, 
and the peace of society is often kept, 
because, as children say, one is afraid, and 
the other dares not Far ofi; men swell, 
bidly, and threaten ; brinff them hand to 
hand, and they are a feeUe folk." There 
is truth here, but not, mavbe, the whole 
truth. One must go to the neart to discern 
the real root of the matter, it seems to ua 
The defiant independence, universal in the 
States, is due to an internal disease rather 
than to a mere malignant excrescence : it 
is vital, not superficial The determina- 
tion not to aclmowledge an indebtedness 
to anyone may indeed, on the surface, have 
something to recommend it to the social 
philosopher. But only on the surface, 
we think. For just as it is by courtesy 
and kindness, and little else besides 
courtesy and kindness, that life outside 
the home is sweetened, so it is a pro- 
di^ous mistake to suppose there is any- 
thing majestic or laudable in an existence 
of absolute and unbending independenca 
The efibrt of striving to live gregariously 
in a stete of severe spiritual isolation is 
hardening in the extreme. Gentleness of 
manners dies out as a matter of course. 
And gentleness of manners, though by no 
means an infallible index, may well be 
taken as indicative of kindness of heart 
For the times will not admit of the growth 
of a number of Lord Chesterfields. Kemove 
kindness of heart, or, rather, harden the 
heart so that it becomes impervious to all 
influences save those of self-interest, and 
the man is transformed, degraded into an 
animal An animal, possibly, of noble 
parts, of much mechanical genius, and with 






36 prebniti7 27. 188d.] 


[Ooodaetad bf 

a large aptitade for abflorbing such lenraal 
sweets as a high state of dyilisation and 
mach wealth of silver and gold may pot 
within his reach, but none the less an 
animal solely. It is by the heart that the 
animal part of as becomes transfigored into 
the human, the snperhoman, and even the 
divine, and by the heart alona ** The art 
of pleasing," says Johnson, *' like others, 
is cultivated in proportion to its usefulness, 
and will always flourish most where it is 
most rewarded ; for this reason we find it 
practised with great assiduity under abso- 
lute governmeuta" Johnson himself did 
not practise this art himself with much 
success, nor did he attempt to practise it ; 
for this reason, if for no other, he is an 
authority on it, both in its cause and 
effect If his dictum be accepted, we 
may affirm at once that the art of pleasing 
---courtesy or kindliness — ^will never be 
included in the curriculum of the life of 
ninety per cent of the Americans. 

We have abeady referred to Matthew 
Arnold, and his bold criticism of the people 
whom he visited and lectured a couple of 
years aga And we cannot end this paper 
better than with a single sentence from 
the lecture on Numbers delivered by him 
at Boston during his tour. It is the out- 
come of a great mind touching a great 
people, and none will question its truUL 

" I suppose," says Mr. Arnold, « that in 
a democratic community like this, with its 
industrialism and its sheer freedom and 
equality, the danger is in the absence of 
the discipline of obedience, the discipline 
of respect^ in the prevalence of a false 
acuteness, a false smartness, a false 

Exactly; Mr. Arnold discerns the un- 
worthy characteristics of our half-brethren, 
and^ impales them on the needle of his 
criticism unerringly. 


Whkbe is it leadiDg us, this sad procession 

Of veilM hours and weeks, all grim and grey? 
The stimmer dies in au tunings chill embraces, 

Then winter calls drear antumn-time away ; 
Till spring days come, all redolent with flowers^ 

Once more to mock us with their brief, bright 
And summer comes but once again to vanish, 

For all the seasons last so short a while. 

But whither do they take us in their passing ? 

Eyes wax but dim, hearts beat a slower tune; 
Hands fail to do the work that seems so pressing 

Tis winter time, e'er we have welcomed June. 
We cannot stay them, passing — ever passing — 

E'en though our lives wax shorter as thev go. 
Although we tremble at the ^thering shadows. 

That wait around, and hide what none may 

Oh^ life, sad life, I did not ask thy dower, 

1 did not take on me Uiy weary pain ; 
Thv pleasures never were by me demanded. 

And having lived, I would not live again. 
Still would I fain be e^ven wider knowledge. 

See clear and fair, not darkly through a gUes, 
Made daricer yet to sight dimmed oft oy crying, 

So dim I cannot see the way I pass I 

There is no sunshine here without a shadow. 

No smile that has not its swift following tear. 
No bUsB that is not paid for by a sorrow. 

That casts before its shade of mortal fear. 
Is there no land, oh, life, where we are happy, 

Safe in the knowledge that our blessings are ; 
That love is real ; life*8 best jo^ unending 

Beyond the horrors of some judgment bar ? 

None answer, for the shadows grim and dreary 

Are silent with the silence of the dead — 
The dead, that are so quiet, safe, untroubled. 

Not knowing aught, within their churchyard 
Oh, can it be that all our lives but lead us. 

To share the silence where past ages sleep ; 
That Life himself doth yield our only harvest. 

And what we sow, we here alone may reap? 




"I CLIMBKD up into one of the boftis to 
be secure against all interruption before I 
broke the seal of the letter. It was from 
the same lawyer in London who had 
written to Captain Carter as to Francis 
Horn's whereabouts, and it explained fully 
how it was that he was wanted. The 
executors of the will of a certain Mr. 
Cornelius Creed, of the city of Cork, 
butter-merchant, deceased, were anxious to 
find one Francis Horn, the only son of 
his only daughter, as under his will 
Francis Horn was entitled to the entire 
accumulations of a lon^ life spent in the 
collection and distribution of dairy pro- 
duce. The letter said nothing of the pro- 
bable amount of Mr. Creed's WMlth ; but 
I concluded it must be a considerable sum. 
The lawyer explained to Francis Horn 
that it would be well for him to repair to 
London with all speed to enter into the 
inheritance which fortune had given him. 

<*If you have ever clambered along the 
steep slope of a mountain, with a yawning 
chasm beneath you, you will remember 
how easy and secure it seems so long as 
you are going up hill with your eyes 
averted from the fearsome gulf below ; so 
long as you are preparing for yourself, 
every step you take, a more lengthy and 
perilous return. It is when you turn 
round and find your head spinning round 
with giddiness, and your heart sinking 
with every downward step, that you begin 




QmOm DiOuDM.] 

STUDIES OF OVER THE WAY. iFebnurj 27. ism.] 37 

to realise how easy it is to ^t into a dan- 
geroos position, and how difficult it is to 
regam safety. Ab I sat in the boat, gazing 
at the lovdy shores of Sydney Harbonr, 
thongh I had as yet taken only a step or 
two along the crooked and treacherous 
path of fraad, I felt that to stop short 
at once, and tell the whole truth of the 
matter to the Oaptain, would be a task I 
could hardly undertake. It was so much 
easier to go on, though every step might 
bear me nurther and farther away from 
that even and rather monotonous plain of 
rectitude, upon which I had hitherto been 
content to abide. The chasms of self- 
abasement and humiliation I dared not 
face, and a plausible voice whispered to 
me that perhaps there would be no need 
to turn round at alL Only keep on with 
my face in the direction I had taken, and 
I might very well find myself luided in a 
happy valley of ease and content Frauds 
Horn was dead and out of the way ; and 
here was John Lethbridge, just such another 
waif, on the high road to appropriate the 
personality wUch occupied so &vourable 
a position in the will of the late Mr. 
C(»nelius Creed. 

" Before I climbed down out of the boat, 
I had set myself a task which stamped me 
both as coward and desperada When I 
next met Captain Carter I shirked the 
duty of an honest man, and said no word 
to undeceive the Captain, who, honest as 
the day himself, believed me to be another 
of the same sort ; and I took upon myself 
instead the perilous task of personating 
the man whom I had helped to sew up in his 
hammock not a month aga The Captain 
offered to release me so as to allow me 
to take my passage back to England by 
the next steamer ; but, after thinking the 
matter over, I resolved to stick to the Clio. 
It was .a question which needed some 
debating; for, since the story of my sudden 
fortune had got wind, the ship was no 
longer so pleasant to me as she had been 
hitherto. It was my coward conscience, I 
suppose, which made me fancy that every 
man on board had some inkling of the real 
facts of the case, and looked upon me as a 
villain. Certain it was that I should have 
bade adieu to the CUo, and gone back to 
England as fast as steam could have taken 
me, had I not dreaded my first interview 
with that London solicitor much more than 
the suspicious and hostile carriage of my 
o?m messmates. 

''And BO I elected to stay on in my old 
berth. I kept aloof from the rest of the 

crew, and tried to force my mind to fashion 
all sorts of fairy pictures as to the employ- 
ment of Mr. Creed's wealth when his will 
should have been duly proved; but the 
serpent would always creep into my para- 
dise, and the death's-head would show its 
grinning jaws amid the roses of my feast- 
table. Everybody, firom Captain Carter 
downwards, ralliea me on my sour face, 
and said I looked more like a man goins 
to be tried for murder, than one who had 
just come into a fine fortune. Had they 
known how often I pictured myself as 
standing in the felon's dock, with the judge, 
and jnrv, and gaoler idl in order, they 
would have guessed the reason^ of my 
Woeful countenance. Only Dennis Ryan 
kept a respectful silence. He seemed to 
have become a more decent liver since 
Horn's death. He worked now with a 
will, seldom got drunk, even while we were 
lying at Sydney, and by the time we set 
sail for Engluid I began to think I had 
done him an injustice, and became on 
better terms with him than with anyone 
else on board, Uie Captain only excepted. 

"We started from Port Jackson light, and 
we called at the Swan Biver settlement to 
deliver some Government stores and to 
pick up, if possible, a few bales of wool 
as freight We had a splendid passage so 
far. A gentle south-east wind drove us 
along through the Australian Bight, and up 
the West Coast We landed our stores, 
and took on board what wool there was, and 
set sail on our homeward voyage. For 
three days the same fair weather lasted, but 
at the end of that time came indications of 
a change. The wind shifted to the south- 
west, and in twelve hours' time we were 
scudding close-hauled before such a gale as 
I had never yet experienced. For two 
days it blew in a way which made it quite 
clear to me how it was that Cape Leeuwin 
and its neighbourhood had got as bad a 
name in the Southern, as the Bay of Biscay 
in the Nordiem Seas. Then the wind 
moderated a little, and the heavy clouds 
lifted ; but it was a fearful sight that they 
revealed to us. There was tne lee shore 
not more than a mile and a half distant 
The sea was running tremendously high, 
and the wind was still blowing what would 
have passed for a strong gale in any less 
tempestuous latitude. During the previous 
night the mizen-topmast had gone over- 
board, and the rigging had got under the 
stem and clogged the rudder so that steer- 
ing in any case would have been an impos- 
sibilitv. Not that steering or anvthine 



38 CFebnury 27, 1886.1 


[Oondnoted Iqr 

else could have kept our doomed ship off 
that iron-boimd coast As if in derision, 
the smi broke oat through the scattering 
clouds, and shone with a cold, cruel glitter 
upon the spray-dashed rocks of an island 
lyinc: off ^he coast, upon which I thought, 
at first, we should be cast But the ship 
left it still to leeward, and drifted into a 
narrow channel between it and another 
towards her fate. 

** I went out to the bowsprit to wait for 
the end. Often during my seafaring life 
I had felt the danger, more or less immi- 
ment, of a speedy death, but never before 
had it had so few terrors for me as in this 
moment, when I knew that the chances 
were a thousand to one that I should never 
live to see another day. I think I was 
even a little thankful ^at Fate was about 
to cut for me the tangled skein which I had 
undertaken to unravel I could laugh now 
at any fears of the law's vengeance, and was 
content, in consideration, to let go my life 
and all the Monte Cristo dreams I had 
indulged in. The clouds lifted more and 
more, so that the coast was quite clear. 
Below were the cruel, ragged rocks, upon 
which the coursing waves spent their 
strength and flew up in columns of spray ; 
and at the top of the low cliff I could pliunly 
distinguish the forms of the separate trees 
which marked the edge of the bush-forest 
As the doomed vessel laboured on — now in 
the trough of the sea, with no land in sight, 
now lifted up again on the crest of a wave — 
I fell a-thinking how pleasant it would be 
to explore the recesses of that trackless 
wood. I even determined which way I 
would turn my steps. Far inland I could 
see a vast, flat-topped ridge, falling away at 
one end in a sheer precipice, sharp cut, as 
if Old Nick had been up to some of his 
pranks here as well as with the Bock of 
Cashel, and this was the object I plannc^d 
to investigate. I took no heed of the 
shrieks of some of the crew, who were by 
this time mad drunk, laughing and blas- 
pheming in a most horrible manner, but 
stood waiting for the end. 

" It came sooner than I had expected. As 
the waves parted just ahead, they showed 
me the sharp teeth of a sunken rock, and 
immediately I was all quivering with 
excitement to begin my struggle for Ufe 
with the waves, though a moment ago I 
was ready to meet death as a friend. Then 
came the awful crash. The ship seemed to 
break up like matchwood as the next wave 
dropped her right on the top of the rock. 
I was conscious of a violent blow on the 

back from a loose bit of spar as I fdt 
myself sucked down, and to this I chmg 
with all a drowning man's grim tenacity. 
In a moment the sea was covered with 
wreck, and the cargo was spread abroad 
with strange diversity. Wooden chests, 
bales of wool, and bundles of hides floated 
within arm's-length of me, but I had 
a firm grip upon my spar, which I kept till 
I was within fifty yards of the land, llien 
I cast myself adnf t, and had just enough 
strength left me to struggle dirough me 
surf to land. My memory yet retuns an 
image of the events which followed, though 
I was in a state of semi-unconsciousness 
from battling with the waves. I remember 
crawling up over the smooth, water-worn 
stones on the beach for a dozen yards or so, 
and then I sank down in a dead swoon by 
the side of a large rock, which I fancied 
vaguely must be beyond the rise of the 

<* I had not then, and never shall have, any 
notion how long I lay unconscious. When 
I opened my eyes, the sea, though still 
high, was greatly moderated, and the son 
was beating with fierce rays upon my httd. 
I was too dazed at first to form any idea 
of my situation ; but very soon the horrible 
reality stood plainly forth, that I had 
escaped death by drowning only to fall a 
victim to the torrible fato of slow starva- 
tion. The western coast of Australia was 
at that time comparatively unknown, and 
what little was Imown was contained in 
stories of its inhospitable deserts and its 
ferocious inhabitants. How far I was from 
the penal settlement on Swan River I had 
no idea, neither could I toll whether it lay 
north or south. I stumbled along inland 
for a hundred yards or so, to a bit of rising 
ground, to see whether there yet remained 
any vestige of the ship, but nothing could 
I see save the same monotonous race of 
wave after wave breaking upon the dark 
red rocks. As I strained my eyes towards 
the islands off the shore, I fancied I saw a 
black speck dancing on the surface of the 
sea — now visible, now hidden, but ever 
coming nearer. At last it grew so distinct 
I could doubt no longer, so 1 made my way 
down to the shore towards the spot where 
I judged it would come to land, and just 
as I got to the wator's-edge, a cask, no 
doubt from the ill-fated ship, was cast up 
at my feet 

" I broke in the head with a stone, and 
found, to my joy, that the cask contained 
biscuits, and that these were but little 
injured by the sea-water. I was by this 


CaitxiM Dlekeni.] 

STUDIES OF OVER THE WAY. [February 27, I886.) 39 

time nearly famiahing, so made a hearty 
meal, and as soon as my hanger was 
appeased, I sank down upon the stones, and 
in a moment was fast asleep. When I 
awoke it was yet dark ; the stars were yet 
brilliant in the sky ; bat over the forest to 
the eastward, the heaven was overspread 
with the flash of dawn. The day comes 
rapidly in those latitudes, and in a few 
minutes it was almost light I rose wearUy 
from my stony bed, and when I tamed my 
eyes seaward I saw, to my amazement, the 
figure of a man standing at the very margin 
of the land, but as he was looking out to 
sea I could not distinguish his face. I 
could only be sure that he niust be one of 
our ship's company who, like myself, had 
escaped death, and I shouted to him as 
load as I could to attract his attention, and 
moved forward to meet him. In a moment 
he turned, and I recognised the countenance 
of Dennis Ryan. 

"Ryan and myself, as I have already 
remarked, had been on much better terms 
since the news had been spread abroad of 
my strange elevation than we had been 
daring Horn's lifetime ; but now, no sooner 
did I catch sight of his face, than a sudden 
strange sense of terror came over me. Ryan 
was some ten years my junior, and im- 
mensely strong physically; but I felt no 
apprehension that he would take the oppor- 
tunity of taking vengeance upon me per- 
sonally for the many hard rubs I had given 
him on the voyage out As we walked 
towards each other I could not help asso- 
dating him once more with his ill-starred 
messmate ; and I found it difficult to per- 
suade myself that I could not distinguish 
something shadowy, in the likeness of 
Francis Horn, walking by Ryan's side as 
he approached ma 

*< < Lethbridge, you here)' he cried. 
* I thought I was the only one who got 
through the surf; but it's lacky for us 
both. If either of us had been alone there 
would have been no chance, but together 
we may fight our way down to Swan 

" ' Til sell my chance of life for a trifling 
sum,' I replied. ' How should we make 
our way along this rocky beach. If we 
had provisions it would be just the same, 
for we could not carry them, and who 
knows whether Swan River is north or 

" * I do,' he replied coolly ; • Swan River 
is about sixty miles southward. I climbed 
up to that peak last night, and made out 
Piunlv a forked island, which we saw on 

the starboard bow when we sailed. 'Tis 
about thirty miles off, I reckon, and Swan 
River should lie about thirty miles beyond 

" * But how are we to move thirty miles, 
or three either.' 

" ' You must have been asleep ever since 
you've been ashore,' he said with some- 
thing like a sneer. < Why, there is a boat 
lying on the beach beyond those boulders, 
harmy damaged at all ; and the shore is 
strewn with barrels and stores of all sorts. 
I've rolled a lot of them beyond high- water 
mark. Just come and lend me a hand with 
some of the others.' 

'* I followed Ryan for about a hundred 
yards along the beach till we came to a 
place where a rocky spit, running out from 
the land, formed a little harbour, and there, 
by the side of a huge boulder, was the 
boat Ryan had spoken of, and strewed all 
around were bundles and barrels of all 
sorts and sizes. 

*' ' Now you get as many of these things 
up as you can, whUe I put a patch on the 
boat,' said Ryan. 

" I could not help noticing, though our 
desperate condition might weU have driven 
all such thoughts away, how completely 
Ryan's bearing to me was altei;ed, and our 
positions reversed. He ordered me to go 
about my task with a tone of covert inso- 
lence, just as, a week ago, I should have 
told him to coil a rope or swab down the 
deck; and I, though I knew well enough 
that if I lost the lead now I should never 
regain it, fell into the subordinate place 
without a word, and began to roll up the 
casks which were lying low down amongst 
the rocks, towards the heap which Ryan had 
already collected. 

*' After about an hour of this work, during 
which time not a word was spoken by 
either one of us, Ryan called out : 

"'There, I think she's water-tight now; 
and you, Lethbridge, give over that work for 
a bit, and come and have something to eat. 
It won't do for you to fall ill, Lethbridge ; 
at any rate, jast at present.' 

*' I made a hearty meal of biscuit and 
water ; for, luckily, there ilras a little stream 
coming down from the land close to where 
we had been cast ashore, and we worked 
all the rest of the day, getting some sailing- 
tackle fitted to the boat, and examining the 
casks and cases with the view of provision- 
ing our craft for the voyage. We scarcely 
exchanged a dozen words. I was saved 
from shipwreck indeed ; but I was still in 
supreme danger of my life. In this over- 


40 IFebmat; S7, USA.] 


[Oond n c tod bf 

whelmiDg crisis, however, I was tormented 
with the dread of peril, remote, it is tme, 
bat little less fearfiil than death itself. 
With every moment that passed, the con- 
viction within me grew stronger that Bvan 
was the master of my secret^that he had 
known, all along, the identity of Samuel 
Bands and Francis Horn. Why, I asked 
myself, had I never thought of this before t 
Wliat was more likely than that he, the 
only friend of the dead man amone aU the 
ship's company, shonld have learnt Uie story 
of Horn's alias t I lay awake till it was 
almost dawn, tormented with the con- 
sciousness that I had only escaped death 
by drowning to meet a worse fato ; and, 
more than once, I resolved to get together 
as much biscuit as I could carry and plunge 
into the forest, and make a desperate effort 
to reach Swan Biver on foot If it were 
only sixty miles, as Byan had said, it would 
not be hopeless; but I fell into a heavy 
sleep, and when I awoke, Byan was busy 
over a fire he had kindled, toasting some 

" < I've been in luck's way, Lethbridee,' 
he said. 'There's a cask of bacon I've hit 
upon. As far as provisions go, we might 
make our way back to Port PMlip. I tmnk 
we'll sail to-morrow.' 

« < When you like ; it makes no difference 
to me.' 

** ' You don't seem in very good spirits 
this morning. Now, I'm as lively as a 
kitten. We'll be at Swan Biver in a 
couple of days, and when we get to 
England I'm going to have a real spell of 
fun; and so will you, I reckon, with all 
that money of your old uncle's. It's no 
use asking you to go shares, I suppose, but 
at least you'll stand treat handsomely.' 

"After these words I had no longer any 
doubt He had known all along that I 
was saUing back to England under false 
colours, and had, no doubt, formed his 
plans of swooping down upon me with 
threats of exposure unless I should pay 
him any price he might ask to keep his 
mouth dosed. Strong as my suspicions 
had been already, the certainty of my peril 
gave me a shock, and I could hwiiy 
answer him by reason of my confusion. 

"*For Heaven's sake, man,' I cried, 
' don't talk of money now 1 It's ton to one 
that we are eaton either by the blacks on 
shore or by the sharks at sea before another 
week is over.' 

«< Nonsense! You'll feel bettor when 
you are on board the liner that will take 
us to England. But we mustn't stand 

here talking. When you've done break- 
fast, just trace this brook up into the 
woods, and see if you can find a pool where 
we may fill our barrels.' 

"I gladly hailed the opportunity <^ 
getting out of the presence of the man 
whom I now hatod more intensely than 
ever, and followed the course of the stream 
through the rocks to a spot where the difis 
divide and made a narrow gorge, at the 
bottom of which the stream flowed, and 
formed in its course several basins firom 
which wator might easily be drawn. But I 
did not return until, having accomplished 
Uie object of my search, I clambered up the 
side of the gorge till I stood in the heart 
of the bush forest Once there I saw how 
vain was the hope I had nourished of 
venturing to traverse the wilderness on 
foot Into the dense undergrowth around 
me I could not have penetnted a dozen 
yards. I was a prisoner. Nature's bolts 
and bars were as secure as any ever devised 
by the locksmith's art. 

«I retomed to the shore, and found 
that Byan, during my absence, had eot the 
boat ahnost ready for sea. He had shipped 
the sailing - gear and ranged a dozen or 
more of selected casks under the seats. 
There was a space yet left for water, and 
of this we fetched enough to fill five more 
barrels from the pools I had discovered. I 
was so worn out by the hard toil I had 
undergone that I slept soundly in spito of 
my weight of torror, and was only aroused 
by the rough shake of Byan, who shouted 
to me at the same tune that it was 
morning, and that we must set sail I got 
up, half-dazed, and helped him to get Uie 
boat into deep water. As soon as this 
was done Byan sprang in and called to me 
to follow. I did so, and in five minutes the 
sail was bent, and we were speeding along 
before a light breeze towards the south. 

The weather continued all day as fine as 
one could wish, and by sunset the forked 
island, which Byan had espied from the 
top of the cliff, was only a few miles ahead. 
If his calculations should turn out to be 
correct, we should reach Swan Biver in a 
couple of days time at the latest Every 
hour that passed Byan grew more excited, 
and he onlered me about with an air of 
triumphant superiority. He took charge of 
the rations, and served me out my portion 
of bacon and biscuit, and a glass of rum, 
which he drew from a small cask, carefully 
stored in the storn beneath the bench upon 
which he sat He drank much more freelv 
himself, and soon fell fast asleep. So I took 



CliaxlM DldKoi.] 


[Febraar727,1886] 41 

ihe radder, and kept the boat up to the 
wind, which had now fallen almost to a 
calm. The next day we conld not have 
made more than four or five miles, as 
the sail hong idly flapping against the mast 

" ' Never mind, Lethbridge,' Byan said ; 
' we will get in sooner or later, though yon 
don't seem a bit anxions about it Now, 
if I was going home to finger a fine fortune, 
rd be tearing mad with impatience ; but, 
maybe, 111 get some pickings, after all.' 

" I had by this time resolved that, if fate 
suffered us to get back to the living world, 
I would bury myself at once in the mazes 
of some great city, and would let the world 
hear no more of Francis Horn. So I kept 
my temper andmy composure as best Icould. 
Towards evening the wind sprang up, and 
we ran along merrily. Byan took the 
rudder, and bade me lie down to sleep, and 
it was bright morning before I awoke. 
Then my companion, who had idready 
been at the rum-cask, took another heavy 
draught, and was soon sound asleep. 

" We were about three miles from land, 
and right in front of us lay an island. I 
shaped the boat's course to pass between 
this and the mainland, and was just going 
to eat some biscuit^ when a strong smell of 
rum greeted my nostrils, and, looking down, 
I saw that the bung of the cask, which 
Byan had put in carelessly, had come out, 
and all the spirit had escaped. I was 
greatly disappointed at this, for I had just 
promised myself a drink. However, there 
was another cask of the same kind in the 
bow ; I would broach it with a gimlet after 
I had made my meal. 

*'By this time we were well in the 
channel, and not more than a mQe from 
shore. Suddenly my eye fell upon a white 
speck on the top of a high point What 
could it be, and what was that straight 
leafless tree beside it? In a moment I 
knew we were saved, at any rate from the 
perils of the sea, for what I saw was the 
look-out station of the penal settlement 
The wind had veered a little, and was now 
in our teeth, so I had to tack to make any 
way along the narrow channel I deter- 
mined not to awaken my companion, who 
still slept heavily under the combined 
influence of rum and fatigue, but, at the 
same time, I felt the want of a little 
stimulant keenly. So I drove my dmlet 
into the head of the other cask, and held 
the cup to catch the stream of rum which 
I expected would follow, but to my surprise 
nothing came. I drew out the gimlet, and 
found it discoloured, and when I heeled 

the cask over, some black dust ran out over 
the bottom of the boat, and I saw at 
once that it was gunpowder. 

" I was bitterly disappointed, for the ner- 
vous strain had product in me a craving 
for drink such as I had never felt before, 
and I even tried to sop up some of the spirit 
which was still washmg to and fro in the 
bottom of the boat Suddenly I started 
up, to find myself assailed by a new temp- 
tation, more dire even than the one which 
had led me into my present strait This 
new one came upon me like a lightning- 
flash, bom of the sight of those black, 
shining grains which were still pouring out 
of the gimlet-hole in the cask wit& every 
motion of the boat, and it mastered me at 
once. My moral sense, I suppose, was 
dormant; anyhow, I determined in a 
moment to make a buoy for myself of the 
empty rum-cask, bring ihe boat closer in to 
land, fix a slow-match to the hole of the 
powder-barrel, and then, swimming and 
floating, to gain the shore, and leave 
Dennis Byan to his fate. 

" I quickly made my preparations. I 
twisted a match of some bits of tarred 
rope, fixed the bung firmly in the empty 
rum cask, and knotted a bit of rope round 
it to hold on by, and then ran the boat 
within half a mile of land, a distance I felt 
sure I could easily swim with the help of my 
barrel Then came the supreme moment 
of lighting the match. I had only about 
half-a-dozen, and you know how hard it is 
to coax a flame out of a lucifer in the 
gentlest wind. I struck one, and two, in 
vain, but the third burnt well, and soon 
kindled the bit of frayed-out tarred rope 
which I had prepared. This I applied to 
one end of the slow match, and bavins 
watched it bum up brightly, I jumped 
overboard and strack out for land. As an 
additional precaution I had tied the tiUer 
so that the boat would fall before the wind 
and take a north-westerly course out to sea 
as soon as she should be lefc to herself. 
Once in the water it was wonderful how 
soon we parted company. The boat went 
almost about, and ran through the water 
at a great rate. At one time I feared that 
she might not dear the island, and that 
Byan might be a second time shipwrecked. 
I swam steadily towards the point, resting 
whenever I was out of breath, and turning 
to watch the doomed craft Now she was 
abreast of the extreme point of the island ; 
in another five minutes she would be 
round it, and hidden from my sight, even 
should the match have not done its work. 

■« i J * ^ 


42 [Febroaiy 27, 1886.] 



Then came the white puff of smoke and 
the faint 'report, and when the air was 
clear again there was no longer a vestige 
of her to be seen. 

"There was a strong current running 
between the island and the mainland, and 
as this set in shore I was soon carried to 
land. I clambered up to the flag-sta£f, and 
my sadden apparition almost scared the 
man in charge out of his wits. . At first he 
took me for a runaway convicti but when I 
had related to him my story, with certain 
omissions, he gave me some food and 
directed me to the path which led down to 
the settlement I found my way without 
difficulty, as the trees were marked for 
guidance, and on reporting myself as a 
shipwrecked sailor I was kindly received 
by the authorities, and in about a fortnight 
I got a passage to England. 

" I had plenty of time to consider my line 
of action with regard to Mr. Creed's estate 
during the voyage homa Sometimes I 
felt inclined to tear the lawyer's letter into 
a thousand bits, and let the old man's 
money go where it might, but the seductive 
prospect of a lifetime. of ease and luxury, 
and the absence of all pressing danger, 
since that slow-match had done its work, 
urged me on. To cut my story short, I 
arrived safely in England, sought the 
lawyer's office, proved my claim, entered 
into possession of over twenty thousand 
pounds, and settled down to enjoy life in 
a pretty little cottage near Southampton. 
My old love of the sea never left me, and 
I spent most of my time cruising about in 
a roomy thirty-ton cutter. My story was 
well known, and I became somewhat a lion, 
and could have had society without stint ; 
but I saw nobody but a few quiet families, 
and now and then smoked my pipe in the 
parlour of a quay-side inn, where I fre- 
quentlymet some petty officers of the various 
mail-steamers which frequented the port, 
and talked over my own seafaring days. 

"One day I accepted the invitation of 
one of them to go on board his ship, which 
was about to saU, and have some luncL 
The steamer was to leave the dock in a 
few hours' time, and everything was 
already smart and ship-shape. My host 
led the way down to the cabin, and just 
as I turned to descend the companion I 
found myself face to face with Dennis Ryan. 
"Dennis Ryan and no other! There 
was no doubt about it. His eyes lighted 
up with an evil glitter as they fell upon 
xny face ; but he passed me with no sign 
of recognition. I was as one stunned. I 

hardly knew what I said or did ; but I 
managed somehow to frame a hiJtkig 
excuse to the officer, and left the ship at 
once. I watched her from my upper 
window, and only felt a very little wlief 
when I saw her steam away down the Water. 

''All that evening and throngh the 
night my brain was busy at work with 
a scheme for burying myself in some 
secluded comer, in some foreign land, if 
need be, far away from the possible path 
of Dennis Ryan, and with speculations as 
to how he could ever have escaped the 
fate I had so carefully prepared for him ; 
but these latter soon left me in the pre- 
sence of the overwhelming necessity for 
instant flight from Uiis sailor-haunted 
town. As I sat at breakfast the next 
morning, I told myself that I had been 
wrong to have ever ventured into it. I 
was just going upstairs to prepare for my 
departure, though the ship on t>oard which 
I had seen my deadly roe would not be 
back again for four months at least, when 
my servant came in and told me that a 
man outside wanted to speak to ma 

"It was Ryan. Fool that I was, never to 
have speculated on the probability of his 
deserting his ship at the last moment^ 
especially when such game was afoot on 
shore as myself ! He came to the point at 
once, and was brutal in his reference to the 
past, and exacting in his terms as to the 
future. He had doubtless some cause for 
railing at me; but he did not give due 
weight to the fact that self-preservation is 
the first law of nature. He demanded, as 
the price of lus silence, an annual payment 
which absorbed half my income, and since 
that time his exactions have become so 
severe that he leaves me a bare pittance. 
Once a week he comes to claim his hush- 
money, and lately he has even waylaid me 
on my way home from the tavern, for a 
supplementary grant You will be able to 
judge, after what you have seen this 
evening, that I shall have to decide, before 
long, whether I shall end my days in the 
workhouse or in prison." 

By THEO gift. 

Author q/ " Lil Larimer," " An Aim and its Prtoc," 

Etc., Etc 


It certainly was typhus, though how, 
why, and whence it had come, none could 
say. Typhus 1 It was not even the 



fTtfTVn TH^^^ ^Bi ff ,] 


[Febroftir 27, 1886.] 43 

season for thioffs of that sort — if, indeed, 
anything of we sort coidd have been 
expected at any season in the wind-swept 
and healthy district of St. Tryphine and its 
neighbourhood. As for Dr. Dapr^, he said 
distinctly that it was '* preposterous, 
unheard-ofy out of all reason," and was 
inclined to pooh-pooh altogether the first 
cases which came forward to claim his 
attention; and yet, preposterous, out of 
reason, or what not, here it was sure 
enough, beginning in some narrow alley 
in the neighbouring market-town; creeping 
thence to breathe upon the busy, chaffer- 
ing groups in the market itself; and carried 
from there to the outlying cottages, and 
even tiie little fishing hamlet, by those of 
thdr inhabitants who yisited the town 
with truck-loads of salt or potatoes, or big 
baskets, skilfully balanced on their heads, 
of fresh sardines, eggs, and butter; and 
returned home laden with groceries and 
hardware, or wool and cotton stuffs, for 
the benefit of those belonging to them. 

"FeyersI Bahl We are safe enoueh 
from infection, 'nous autres par ici,"* the 
people of St. Tryphine and Mailly used to 
say. ''Our sea-breezes, see you, would 
blow them away before they were even 

But if the sea-breezes were potent 
enough to prevent the birth of such evils 
withm their area, they were powerless to 
cope against them when brought from 
without by human agencies, and fostered; 
as, among a people so poor, primitive, and 
prolific, they were sure to be; by over- 
crowding, open drains, and insufficient 

As if, too, to add to these unwholesome 
elements, the weather, which had been hot 
and dry through the early part of July, 
chansed suddenly to wet — a sofb, soaking, 
wincUess rain, which fell day after day, 
blotting out all the bright colours on sea and 
land as with a pall of grey ; and rising from 
the ground a^ain in a hot, dank mist^ which 
seemed to hokl all things malodorous in its 
steamy grasp, instead of suffering them to 

The fever revelled in it. There were 
deaUis here, there, everywhere — nearly as 
manyi indeed, as cases among the neigh- 
bouring poor — till Leah almost grew to 
dread opening the window in her room, 
which looked seaward, lest she should 
hear the bells of St. Tryphine telling with 
sdemn toll tiiat some fresh soul had passed 
from its troubles here to the rest beyond 

At times, too, she looked out from it at 
mournful little pictures. Now, a rustic 
funeral, lumbering heavily along, its scanty 
train of mourners vaguely distinguishable 
through a slant of rain. Now, a little pro- 
cession, led by the village cur6, in surplice 
and stole, and chanting aloud a litany from 
the thumbed prayer-book in his hand; 
before him a cross-bearer, carrying a big 
gilt cross, which glittered and twinkled in 
every stray sun-ffleam; behind him a 
straigling line of men, women, and chil- 
dren, with bent heads and rosaries trick- 
ling through their brown, sunburnt fingers, 
trudging hopefully along the heavy, deep- 
rutted roads, to pray at the shnnes of 
St. Gildas or St. GuenoU for a cessation of 
the scourge which was devastating their 
peaceful countryside. 

Devastating indeed 1 M^re Blin was 
dead, and a brother of P'cit Jean's, and 
who could say how many more. The 
very wheat in the fields was lying prone 
against the wet earth, ripe and rotting, 
while the reapers had either fallen beneath 
Death's reaping-hook or were too dis- 
heartened and " demoralises " to wield the 
sickle themselvea And the more super- 
stitious of the peasants were unanimous in 
declaring that the spectre-horse of King 
Gradlon, a favourite Breton wraith, could 
nightly be heard galloping — '*trip, trep, 
trip, trep " — ^across the moor, as when he 
fled from the doomed city of Is centuries 
before Oaul or Norseman set their feet on 
the rocky shores of Bretagne. 

At Les Ch&taigniers, however, every- 
thing went on as usual with a quiet ignor- 
ing of the sorrow and sickness without, and 
a monotonous formality of routine which 
chafed Leah at times ahnost beyond bear- 
ing, and which was not even disturbed by 
the disappearance in one day of two of the 
under-servants-^one, a Parisian, having 
returned abruptly to her native city for 
fear of the infection ; the other, a village 
girl, because her sister having caught it 
already, she wanted to nurse her. The de- 
fections made no difference in the household 
regime, and were not even known to the 
girls till they were filled up Joanna had 
done the extra work meanwhile; and if 
Madame St. Laurent gave any reason for the 
appearance of new faces about the house, 
it had -nothing to do with the fever which, 
whether as typhus or typhoid, was a word 
prohibited to be spoken. Even the Count, 
autocrat as he generally seemed to be, was 
snubbed when he took upon himself to 
introduce the forbidden subject ; and when, 


44 [FcbnuiT 87, 1886.] 


[Condnoted bj 


disregarding the Bufi^ciently dgnificant 
check, he proceeded somewhat perti- 
naciously to descant on the delights of 
Dinan in the bathing-season as experienced 
just then by his step-mother and sisters ; 
and on how much these would be increased 
by the presence there of Madame Si 
iJanrent and her charming daoghter, 
madame qnietly sent Vera out of the room 
on some errand and answered : 

" I am much obb'ged to you, Counti but 
neither M. St. Laurent nor I are at all 
afraid of the fever, which is entirely among 
the poorer classes, and not likely to affect 
us ; and as my daughter is too young and 
Umid to go away from home without our 
protection, I do not wish her to be 
alarmed or excited by hearing of things 
which might make her nervous and un- 
happy here." 

The Count bowed low, but with an 
unmistakeable darkening of face, which 
was not lost on Leah, who sat working 
close by. 

<* Madame is a devoted mother, and all 
who admire must obey her," he said 
politely ; ** but is it not possible that the 
maternal love, which sees the infant it has 
nourished in the adorable woman who has 
succeeded to it, may blind her — I will not 
say to Mdlle. Yera's age— but to her 
powers and qualifications 1 Surely if she 
is able to support the excitement and 
enjoy the society of the charming and 
intellectual Mdlle. Josephs, she is not less 
fitted for that of 'ces deux fillettes', my 
young step-sisters, who are the friends and 
playmates of her infancy." 

Madame St Laurent coloured. Her 
little flash of anger was evaporating as 
usual in nervousness. 

" Oh, certainly not — of course not, M. le 
Comte I Vera has, of course, a great 
friendship for Eulalie and Alphonsine, and 
if it were not that you say that they 
would be afraid to come on a visit here 

just now 1 But too much pleasure at a 

time is not good for any young people, 
and Vera is undoubtedly very young for 
her age, and has been sufficiently excited 
this summer by the pleasure of Miss 
Josephs's visit; still, next year, if the 
Countess would like " 

" Next year we shall certainly hope to 
see more of Mdlle. Vera," said the Count 
with a half-laugh, which sounded almost 
threatening. " But even now, since madame 
has been so good as to allow the privileges 
of old friends to my sisters, I trust she will 
not think that I also am presuming too 

much on the same claim if, in my deep 
anxiety for her charming young daughter's 
health, I still venture to entroat Uiat if 
there be any risk to it " 

"Oh, but there is none — ^none at all. 
We were never any of us better or more 
cheerful," cried madame, whose tone was 
as little cheerful as the Count's had been 
entreating. "If it were not so, do you 
think Miss Josephs would remain with us, 
or that I should allow her to do so t You 
are forgetting Miss Josephs in your anxiety 
about-— about us — but we do not forget 
her. And if there was the least fear for 
anyone — ^if she had any fear for herself, we 
should send her away at onca Shouldn't 
we, Miss Josephs, my dear t " 

Leah was hardly allowed to answer for 
the protestations and apologies which the 
Count poured forth upon her. Madame 
had found a way to silence him on ibt 
subject of Dinan and Vera for the time 
being; but Leah was greatly puzzled by 
the tone of the interview — the air of almost 
insolent authority in the Count's manner, 
and the decided hostility and resistance 
showing through all madame's attempts 
at deprecation and civility. It contradicted 
certain girlish, half-formed theories of hers, 
that the St Laurents were intending to 
bestow their young daughter on this man, 
who, tiiough more than twice her age, was 
their only intimate friend, and the only 
unmarried man admitted to the house : and 
these were still further negatived by a 
little incident, most trifling in itself, which 
occurred a few days later. 

The rainy weather and the state of the 
roads had offered a good excuse for keeping 
the girls at home of late, or confining their 
wdlka to a brief turn along the hira road 
between Les Ch&taigniers and Mailly, 
where there were no cottages — ^nothing, 
indeedi but fir-trees and heath on either 
side, and nothing more dangerous in the 
way of carrying infection than a roush 
heath -pony or a flock of eeese; whue 
indoors they spent a good aeal of their 
time in what was called the workroom — a 
more cheerful and less formal apartment 
than the drawing-room, where Madame 
St. Laurent not infrequently spent her 
afternoons superintending the making and 
mendine operations of Joanna and a littie 
dressmi^er from Pont I'Abb^, who came 
over by the week to assist in them. 

The distence from any large town 
naturaUy compelled the family to have all 
their needlework done at home, but, at 
the same time, precluded the ladies from 

■■I ■■ I' U 


C9iail6B DidEUis.] 


[February 27, 1886.] 45 

haying any very familiar acquaintance 
with the fashions of the day; and it 
was, therefore, not surprising that the 
extremely modem style of Leah's gowns 
and bonnets caused her to be regarded 
as the "glass of fashion" by the rest 
of the party, and any opinions or sug- 
gestions of hers to be sought for and 
received with grateful eagemesa Perhaps 
the gratitude was increased by the fact 
that her clever fingers were always ready 
to give a practical exposition of what she 
meant; and even Madame St Laurent, 
though constitutionally timid as to novelties 
and inclined to regard anything unwonted 
in the shape of puffings or flouncings as 
tending to impropriety, was fain to relax 
into an indulgent smile when, on first 
finding herself in a gown made after the 
pattern of one of Leah's, Vera opened her 
eyes of almost childish wonder at the mirror 
which reflected her, and, turning suddenly 
to her mother, exclaimed inpulsively : 

" Oh, mamma, am I not pretty 1 Did 
you think I could look so pretty in any- 
thing r* 

It happened very naturally, however, 
that other people came to the same conclu- 
sion, and on the evening following the little 
passage-of-arms between madame and the 
County the latter took advantage of Yera's 
ministrations with the coffee-cups to pay 
her, not only the customary toll on her 
finger-tips, but an elaborate compliment on 
her truly charming appearance ; adding, as 
he turned to her father : 

" N'est ce pas vrai, mon ami, que made- 
moiselle s'est grandie tout d'un moment 1 
La voil^ femme aujourd'hui; et ma foi, 
femme tr^s jolie, je vous assure ! " 

St. Laurent glanced across the room at 
his daaghter from under his heavy eye- 

" Le crois tu 1 " he said shortly ; but 
then, after a moment^ as his gaze rested on 
the young sirl, who, in her new bravery 
and still mushing from the compliment 
paid her, was looking unusually charming 
and womanly. "Diable! mais^n effet 
tu as raison," he added, with a grim, but 
not ill-pleased laugh. 

It was just iben that Leah happened to 
glance at Madame St. Laurent. She, too, 
was looking at her daughter, or rather from 
the faces of the two men to hers, the ex- 
pression of her own furrowed by such a 
look of anxious, deprecating misery as 
startled her young visitor as much as it 
puszled her. She did not speak, and 
nothing more was said on the subject; but 

on the morrow and the day following, Vera 
made her appearance, not in the pretty new 
frock which had excited so much admira- 
tion, but in the dowdy, old-fashioned one 
she had worn previously ; and when asked 
as to the reason why, answered : 

" Oh, mamma came to me and said she 
did not quite like me in it as it was, and 
that I was not to put it on again till she 
had had something done to it. I was 
sorry, for I thought it perfect after all the 
trouble vou had taken with it" 

<' And you liked yourself in it too. Vera, 
didn't you)" said Leah. "Did your 
mamma say what was the matter 1 Perhaps 
I could " 

"No, she did not tell me. She only 
took it awav with her. Oh, II I never 
liked myself so much, dear Leah," said 
Vera, smiling. <' I hope Joanna will soon 
let me have it back." 

But Joanna did not The dress remained 
in madame's wardrobe, and Leah had too 
much pride and tact to make anv further 
enquiry about it, more especiidly as she 
discovered at the same time that her advice 
and assistance were no longer required in 
the workroom, so far, at any rate, as Vera 
was concerned. She wondered about it a 
little — wondered whether madame had so 
much foolish pride as to feel mortified and 
angry at a Molle. St Laurent being singled 
out forsudden admiration because attired in 
a dress modelled after that of a young lady 
who was (for the nonce, at any rate) only 
her companion and singing-mistress; or 
whether, being a youngish-looking woman 
herself, she could have the more foolish 
vanity of wishing to keep her young 
daughter in the background, for her own 
benefit where the middle-aged admirer was 
concerned. Yera's perfect submissiveness 
prevented the question from being solved 
on either count Where she never even 
attempted to demur or enquire, no one 
else could presume to do so, and her friend 
could only admire for the hundredth time 
the power, however acquired, by which 
this quiet, insignificant hostess of hers 
managed to maintain so complete a hold 
over her daughter's will that the latter 
never seemed to have even contemplated 
the possibility of having one of her own, 
and this without ever descending to anger 
or argument on one side, and coaxing on the 
other ; or so much as presc^iting any solid 
or definite reason for her likes and dislikes 
to the person -she expected to be swayed by 

Principle, motive, reason, had nothing 



m ' mBj t 




46 [Febniary 27, 1886.] 


[Condiictod bf 

to do with Vera St. Laurent She had 
been brought up to obey and to ask no 
questions. Possibly this was all her mother 
could teach her, but she had at least taught 
it thoroughly and with a jealous, persistent 
care, a constant checking of every inde- 
pendent thought and action within the 
narrowest limits of her own narrow train- 
ing, which had had (to outward appearance 
at any rate) its desired result At over 
nineteen years of age Vera was simply an 
echo and a shadow, following as her mother 
moved, repeating as her mother spoke, yet a 
shadow with a vast capacity for feeling and 
even passion which certainly never came 
to her from either father or mother, and 
of which she was hardly conscious herself 
until the advent of Leah into her life 
afforded her a partial outlet for it 

But (and this the acuter Jewish girl 
sometimes thought) if with that unsatisfied 
capacity the echo were ever to be brought 
into response with any other voice, any 
more powerful key-note — ^what then 1 

The answer was nearer than she thought, 
for just one week after the little dress 
episode just recorded, M. St Laurent 
himself was stricken down by the fever. 

He had been ailing for a couple of days ; 
but illness only having the effect of 
making him more morose and obstinate 
than usual, he had refused to let his 
anxious wife send for the doctor; and when 
the sick man was obliged to give in on this 
point, it was evident, from Dr. Dnpr^'s 
face as he left the sick-room, that the 
worthy physician thought the summons 
far frqm prematura Madame, who had 
followed him downstairs, needed not even 
to ask a question, but stood looking at him 
with hands wrung together in silent misery, 
as many another poor woman had wrung 
hers during the last few weeks, and the 
doctor answered the look at once. 

''Yes, my dear madame, there is — I 
afflict myself to say it — no doubt in the 
matter. Oar friend has managed in some 
way to catch the infection. We can only 
trust that it will not be a bad case ; bat 
what we have to do now is to deal with it as 
promptly as possible, and to avoid its 
spreading further." 

The Comte de MaiUy came over to Les 
Ch&taigniers the verv next morning. Leah 
thought it spoke well for his fidelity to his 
friends that he did not allow any fear of 
the fever, so lon^ frowned down and 
tabooed, to keep him from their side, but 
she was surprised to see the anxious distress 
on madame's face deepen when his name 

was announced, and the expression became 
still more marked when the invalid sent 
down word that he wanted to see the 
Count at once, and alone. 

''I suppose it is about legal matters. 
The Count is one of his executors, and 
perhaps it is as well to arrange things in 
case — ^in case he should be delinous later," 
she said, pressing her thin, dry finders 
tightly together, even her reserve broken 
down for once in the overmastering need 
for sympathy ; " but I do not see why I 
should not be there. I am his wife." 

Leah ventured to take the restless 
fingers in her warm clasp, and press ^em 

''Dear madame," she said in her 

Eleasantest voice, " that is why monsienr 
eeps you away ; it is to save you the pain 
of hearing him discuss events which may 
never come to pass, though it may be 
necessary to discuss them for yours and 
Vera's sake," 

"Ah, it is about Vera 1" cried Madame 
with a half sob, but checked herself the 
next moment, and added more quietly : 
"But you are a good, kind girL Thank 
you, my dear; and — and go to Vera. CM 
course, we shall have to lose you, at once, 
and she will like to have all she can of 
you. Indeed I don't know how long I 

shall be let " once again she broke 

off, her face working ; but the old habit of 
reticence prevailed, and she went on 
quickly : " but don't tell Vera anything. 
There is no call for her to be frightened. 
We have not told her yet what is the 
matter with her father, you know. She 
thinks it is only a feverish attack, and 
perhaps it may pass over. The doctor 
may say he is better in the morning." 

" But if he does not, and if he thinks 
there is fear of infection, ought not Vera 
to be sent away as much as I?" Leah 
asked. " Dear madame, I do so wish you 
would let her come home with me for a 
while. You know my mother suggested 
it when she first heard of there being cases 
of typhus in the neighbourhood, and 
wanted me to hurry my own return in con- 
sequence ; and though you would not hear 
of it then, surely now, when there is real 
danger for her in staying at home, and 
when you know how delighted we should 
all be to have her, and what care " 

" Oh, thank you, my dear — I am sure of 
that ; but it couldn't possibly be. I couldn't 
let her go. She is quite a home-bird, you 
know, and so shy she would feel lost away 
from us. Oh no. She will not go near 



QmiIm DlckBBi.1 


[Febrnary 27, 1886.] 47 

her papa's aide of the house, of coarse, 
bat the doctor coaldn't wish me to send 
her away. Hash! Are not those his 
wheels 1 I mast ga And pray, Miss 
Josephs, my dear, don't suggest such an idea 
to Vera. She would not like it, indeed, 
fond as she is of you." 

Leah was glad not to be required to say 
anything. Indeed, she would almost rather 
not have gone to Vera, so difficult was it 
for her, with her natural frankness, to prac- 
tise madame's system of silence and hush- 
ing up everythinff, which seemed to be the 
chief article in that lady's creed, and one 
to be carried out even at the price of 
deprivingherself of her grown-up daughter's 
sympathy and help in the hour when she 
had most need of both. On the present 
occasion, indeed, Miss Josephs found her 
friend^ in a rather more cheerful and 
talkative mood than usoal ; feverish, bilious 
attacks being not very infrequent occur- 
rences with her father, and having their 
mitigating side in removing his suny and 
mirth-quenchiog presence from the family 
board for a bri^ period. It was, perhaps, 
nataral that Vera should not have much real 
affection for a parent who never showed 
her the slightest outward sign of any, and 
should congratulate herself on the fact that 
he "never would have her near him when 
he was poorly ", in the hope that she and 
Leah would thereby get a long day to them- 
selves out of doors. Bat it was difficult for 
the latter, knowing the real state of the 
caso, the dangerous nature of the father's 
illness, and the preparations already being 
made for her own departure on the morrow, 
to respond to this innocent cheerfulness 
with any approach to her usual manner ; 
and she could have cried out with relief 
when the door opened at last, and the 
sadden appearance of Madame &U Laurent 
put a stop to the conversation, at the same 
moment that the roll of wheels along the 
drive showed that either the Count or 
doctor, if not both, had just departed. 

One glance at madame's face was suffi- 
cient to tell that their visit had had a 
terribly agitating effect on her, while the 
odour of vinegar and chloride-of-lime which 
was wafted before her showed that she had 
not dared to come to them without prior 

" I have something to tell'you — both of 
you," she said, sitting down at a distance 
from tiiem, with her eyes fixed on her own 
daughter, who simply regarded her with 
placid expectation. "Vera, my dear, Dr. 
DQDr6 savs vonr Dana's illness is of an — an 

infectious character " — even now she could 
not bring herself to say the real word — 
"and therefore he thinks it better for 
young people, who always take things 
easily, not to be in the house. You could 
be no use, of coarse, for Joanna and I can 
do everything your papa wants, and, with 
us occupied upstairs, it would in any case 
be very dull for you when Miss Josephs 
is gone, so, as she has been kind enough 
to urge that you should accompany her 
home " 

"Oh, mammal" cried Vera, half stretch- 
ing out her hand to her friend, but it fell 
at her side almost at the same moment, 
and whether the exclamation was one of 
paio or pleasure no one knew. 

Leah was looking at Madame St Laurent^ 
and that lady, after one quick glance at her 
daughter, and a half-repressed sigh, turned 
to the Jewish girl, and went on, not with- 
out evident embarrassment : 

" You are quite sure that your mamma 
does wish for her — that she will not be a 
— ^in any way a trouble, my dear 1 I could 
not possibly let her go if I were not certain 
of that, or if you had not pressed it so 
much ; for — for, as it happens, the 
Comtesse de Mailly is at Dinan at present, 
and particularly wants me to let Vera go 
to her. The Count brought the message, 
and as he is joining her himself to-morrow, 
he has offered to ttULe charge of Vera and 
her maid on the. journey. Indeed, he was 
inconsiderate enough to speak to M. St. 
Laurent about it, and get him to consent ; 
but though it is, of course, most kind of 
the Countess, and I couldn't have refused 
if — if there had been no prior engagement, 
still, as you had asked her first, and I knew 
my daughter would prefer being with 

you ." She made a little pause here; 

but Vera did not speak, only stood looking 
at her, with bewildered, almost stupid, eyes; 
and again she turned to Leah. " But^ 
perhaps — I had not thought of that; your 
mamma might be afraid of the fever 
now ? " 

"Oh no, madame; that she certainly 
wouldn't," said Leah quickly. "How 
could Vera brine it any more than 1 1 She 
has not been with her father at all since he 
began to be unwell ; and there is nothing 
we should like better than to have her ; 

unless she " and here it was her turn 

to stop and look at Vera. 

She had expected that the latter would 
have interrupted her before now with 
entreaties not to be sent away in this time 
of anxietvand trouble, but to be permitted 




[Fetamaiy tf. 

to stay and help her mother through it 
Knowing that nothing could have torn her 
from her own parents at snch a crisis, as 
also that it was only stem necessity which 
had compelled Madame St. Laurent to 
consent to the separation, Yera's sQence 
and immohility seemed to her equally 
puzzling and unnatural ; untQ another ex- 
planation of it occurred to her, and she 
went on rather hesitatingly : 

"Unless she would rather go to the 
De Maillys. They would be nearer to 
you, and they are much older friends, so it 
might be more agreeable to her, especially 
if monsieur gets better ; for Dinan would 
be very gay just now, and of course, as 
you know," colouring a little, but speaking 
quite frankly and pleasantly, " we are very 
homely people in comparison. We live 
very quietly always ; and the season will be 
quite over in London by the time we get 

" Mamma *^ Vera began again, this 

time in a tone of trembling appeal 

But Madame St. Laurent was already 
answering her friend: 

"My dear, that is just what I wish. 

The De Madllys are oh, of course 

they are very nice — most distinguished 
and condescending, and all that; but I 
would rather Vera didn't go to them just 
yet I would rather she were with homely, 

Juiet people — ^people of her own stand 
mean where she would not be troubled 
with much gaiety and that sort of thing, 
and — and made discontented with her own 
home and the ways here." 

" Mamma, I am not discontented," said 
Vera, going a little nearer to her. "I 
will do just as you tell ma I don't want 
to go away, if you woqld rather have ma 
I only want to do as you say. If I could 
be of use " 

"But have I not told you you can- 
not bel There is no choice about it 
Dr. Dnpr^ says you must go. Barbe is 
packing your trunk now, and I — I ought 


to be with your papa. I have 
here too long already," the mother 
rupted, her voice harsh enough fraoi 
very desperation of anxiety to m^e Taai' 
shnnk back. " Miss Josephs, my dear, JM^ 
will take care of her 1 Promise me 1 " JLbX 
she left the room without another ^ocd. 

They hardly saw her again, and not inr 
more than a few brief seconds— too Amt 
for conversation — at any tima 

Indeed, there was not leisure for miuAi' 
conversation of any sort Vera, ignorant ^ 
the very nature of the illness from whicbr 
her father was suffering, and rendered stV 
more incapable of appreciating its gra^ 
by the care with which she hi^ been 
from hearing of its ravages among 
poorer neighbours, was simply bewild< 
between the mixed pain and pleasure 
the double tidings so suddenly conve]f84b 
to her. How she had dreaded Leu^" 
going, and longed to accompany hflt^^ 
her passive sense of the hopelessnew 
of such longing had prevented any* 
one from guessing, while at the sama 
time intensifying her feeling of dumb 
misery at the approaching separation. And 
now, when she was suddenly informed^ 
without one word of warning or pre- 
paration, that her father was veiy iU 
of something infectious, and that she 
and Leah, instead of being parted, wmre 
to go away together at once — ^when Leah 
looked grave and anxious, and her mother 
ghastly and unlike herself — she felt like 
one stunned, and more glad to busy her* 
self in simply doing wmtt she was told i 
folding dresses and petticoats, and helpii^ 
with the packing generally j than in askinflr 
questions or talking. By-and-by Leah woudd 
tell her all about it^ but just now tiiere was 
too much for everyone to do, and too little 
time to do it in, for even Lesth to have 
leisure for much speech. 

Before dawn on the morrow they wem 
already on their road, but Vera scarcely^ 
realised it all even then 1 

fiibtttbed al the Offloe, 96, W«piiigton Stre^, SInod. Prlatfd by O^ABiiiS BfOKiirs A SVAHS, 94, Ore^ Kew Btrvek **' 


, la a ITodIs' Pornliie .. 

Onr rrtand tho Haemy 

Cbroaiolee at BogUsb Ooanti< 
Viotinuk OiupKrVL A Vi 

Ho. 903. 
ABMmOhiM. Ohipcer TI. Finding a 71 
ahranlnleii oC EngUoh OooDtlea.— 

OE Ihe WiiliDg ol LMIara 

Lanar Fane 
Violima. C. 

btVIU. Tli8LegeiiaorBt.Tryp'''Bo 

ABtcraChaM, Chapter V. Introdnosd by Mr. Doiter 71 

Mont Blanc Billy TeatB Ago „,„_,„_ 78 

A Gosaip on Drinking ......m... 

ABtemChaM. ChaptatTIL " And why, Dolores ? " 

Travelling Mitde Saty In CenMI Alia.. 

, W 1 Under Uie Oheatnnta. A Fa«m ,_ 
, a I DnellliiK, AnoientaiidModeni ., 

. CbaptarVir Naomi's Little ETsninK t I Vto^ms. ChapterlS. TeiBBoeeforBailiei... 


In oonaeqnenoe of Imitations of LEA & FEEEIK8' BAVOB, which are oaIonlate<3 

fas pablio, LEA & FBfiHQ'S beg to draw attention to the fact that each Bot 

of the Original and Oennine W0RCESTEB8HIBB BAUCB bears th^ Bignatnre, thui 



Wholeaale bf the Froprietcnv, Woroesteri OBOSSB and BLAOEWBLL, LondoD, i 
Biport Oilinon generallj. Betail by Dealerfl in SaaoeB thron^ont the World. 


Are aaallyi snielr, and with iMrfeot 
aafMy got rid of by nsiiiK Keating 'a 
WormTttblatB. if enspeotedi do' 

SuldlnTiKsit, i\d..ata!lChrmUUi trfri'h 
TH03. EEATZN0. OhemlBt, iMoOon. 

E P P S'S 




60 (Uarih 6, 18M.] 



than Fair Ines, and still showed the 
immaturity of early girlhood at the age 
when her mother's beauty had reached the 
perfection of its bloom. If Lilias looked 
in vain for a likeness to her father in 
Dolores, she was not more successful in 
tracing a moral and intellectual resemblance 
to Hugh. Dolores was keenly sensitive, 
indeed, but of an indolent turn of mind, 
and wholly without artistic tastes. Fair 
but not remarkable intelligence, a sweet 
temper, a trusting disposition, and a heart 
much too afifectionate for her future peace, 
were the chief characteristics of this girl, 
who was, indeed, dear as an only daughter, 
and a source of the purest happiness to 
Lilias Merivale. 

Warned by the experience of her own 
early years, it had been Lilias's great care 
to surround the child, who had come into 
her lonely life with so strong a plea for 
consideration, Mrith all the tenderness and 
solicitude of which her own nature held so 
large a store, but which had been only 
sparingly utilised until the closing years of 
her stepfather's life had drawn upon it, to 
her full compensation and content To gain 
the child's, and keep the girl's confidence ; 
to fill Dolores with the conviction that 
she was the one supreme and all-important 
object in her life ; to make her reliance 
upon indulgence, her confidence in Lilias's 
illimitable love as spontaneous as breathing 
— this was the ambition of Lilias, and 
she had achieved a success which seldom 
attends human efifort in any creditable 
direction. The line she had taken with 
Dolores did not meet with universal or 
unmixed approval; there were others 
besides the household at The Quinces who 
thought she " made too much fuss " about 
the girl Of this number Mrs. Courtland 
was one ; but she based her opinion upon 
more philosophical grounda 

" You are too careful to make all smooth 
for her in the little things of life and the 
small contrarieties of every day," Mrs. 
Courtland said to Lilias more than once ; 
"this would be well if you could ensure a 
continuance of it, and if you were to be by 
her side always. But she will have to take 
her share of the lot of humanity, to be 
dropped in her turn into the mill, and you 
will either be no longer there to see the 
grinding, or you will have to stand by with 
folded hands, helpless, and see her su£fer 
and be strong, or Euffer and be weak, as 
nature and training shall have fashioned 
her ; for this is what we all have to do in 
the case of those whom we love. Don't 

brine her up too exclusively in Paradise, 
my dear Lilias ; let her sometimes have a 
peep beyond the gates into the outside 
world, lest she be unable to bear the 
shock of reality when you are no longer 
there to break it to her, or sxe forced to 
look on while others put her through that 

Lilias knew these were the words of 
wisdom, but she had not courage to act 
upon them. To her seeing, Dolores had 
no faults that needed correction, no wishes 
that ought to be denied ; her sweet wilful- 
ness was just that which she might have 
exercised towards her real mother, and it 
was therefore delightful to Lilias ; lastly, 
if her father had been here, this would have 
been Hugh's way with her. And so Dolores 
was unconsciously, indeed blamelessly, 
self -occupied; for how was she to doubt her 
own supreme importance, or surmise that 
the small world in which she lived had 
interests other than her own, when all her 
experience from seven to seventeen went 
to convince her to the contrary, or, rather, 
to exclude all such ideas from her mind 1 

With the steadiness and constancy of 
her character, Lilias had adhered to her 
early interest in Julian Courtland, and, as 
he fdways showed her the best side of his 
nature, she was much attached to him. 
It was not altogether from policy and 
selfish motives that Julian exerted himself 
to maintain his position with Miss Merivala 
He really liked and respected her, and she 
possessed the faculty, given to the favoured 
few, of bringing out the best qualities of 
those with whom she associated. His ^ood 
looks, his pleasant ways, his high spirits, 
and his musical talents were charming 
to Lilias; that any grave faults marred 
this pleasing exterior she did not know. 
Colonel Courtland had always been careful 
to screen his nephew from the odium of 
the conduct which gave himself much pain, 
and kept him in constant anxiety. And 
Lilias was more in accord with him in 
regard to Julian than his wife was. Mrs. 
Courtland, in addition to a belief in 
hereditary characteristics and vices, which 
would in any case have made her suspicious 
of Julian, as the son of particularly worth- 
less parents, was quicker of perception, 
more difficult of persuasion than her 
husband, and she difiered, silently, from 
him on the merits of his nephew, and 
suffered not a little from the fear that a 
severe disappointment was in store for 

Julian had always been conscious that 



Ghulat DIolMDi.] 


[March 6, 1886.] 51 

Mr& Conrtland distrasted him, and he 
disliked her accordingly; bat his behaviour 
towards her, from the time at which he 
had acquired the cunning of his precocious 
manhood, had been faulUess. He regarded 
her as an enemy whom he could neither 
dislodge nor disarm, and whom it behoved 
him to keep in check by giving her no 
possible point of advanti^e against him. 
His tactics had hitherto been so successful 
that there was just one subject in all the 
range of things on which Colonel Court- 
land did not value his wife's judgment, and 
did not depend on her sympathy. That 
subject was Juliau. 

As for Miss Merivale, the utmost she 
believed to the discredit of the Colonel's 
nephew was tiiat he was rather extravagant 
That he was a gambler, and generally un- 
principled, she had not the remotest idea ; 
nor would the Colonel, if he had been 
obliged to tell the truth according to his 
knowledge, have admitted anything like so 

To Julian, therefore. Miss Merivale's 
house had been a second home, and 
if anything had been wanted to confirm 
the interest with which she had regarded 
the Colonel's nephew from his boyhood, it 
would have been supplied when Dolores 
came to her, and she found that it was for 
him that the child had fretted herself into 
illness after Willesden removed her from 
Lislee. To the pretty, foreign-looking 
little girl with the invaJid mother, Julian 
had been protector and playmate, after 
the patronisine fashion of a big boy. 
One of the pleasantest incidents of the 
ever-memorable time which delivered up 
Hugh's trust to her keeping, was the 
meeting between the child and the boy 
when, on Colonel Courtland's arrival at 
The Quinces with Julian, he recognised in 
Lilias's new-found treasure the Uttle girl 
whose fate had given rise to so much 

Julian was thenceforth doubly welcome, 
and as Miss Merivale had educated Hugh 
BoBslyn's daughter at home, he had fre- 
quent opportunities of being in the 
company of his former little companion, 
when he came to London to pursue his 
studies for his profession. The sequel of the 
simple story is soon told. Julian was never 
dislodged from his place in the heart of 
Dolores. She passed from childhood into 
girlhood, with him for her companion still; 
a little more distant, just a little feared, 
perhaps, but ever the hero of her imagina- 
tion! ^^ idol of her heart, invested with | 

the glory and the prandeur of manhood 
while she was yet in the humility of the 
schoolgirl period; a being of wondrous 
experiences, but kind and condescending 
to her as ever. 

About that time there came a break in 
the calm continuity of life at The Quinces. 
Lilias took her charge abroad for a year, 
and when they returned to England, and 
Julian met Dolores a^ain, the day of kind- 
ness and condescension on his part was 
over. He recognised this instantly, partly 
with a slight shock of regret, partly with 
amusement, and then took up his new 
position with tact and readiness. 

The schoolgirl had vanished as com- 
pletely as the prettv, foreign-looking child, 
and Julian found nimself regarding Miss 
Bosslyn from a new point of view, and 
wondering whether he snould have admired 
her if he had never seen her before, and if 
there were not so much in common in their 
respective lives. On the whole, he thought 
he should not have pronounced her 
" awfully pretty". She was as nice as ever, 
he had no doubt; he was uncommonly 
glad to see her again; and he mentally 
paid her and his recollections of her several 
compliments in the peculiarly objection- 
able slang of these latter days ; bu^ as for 
looks, she was not his " style ". 

Julian Courtland had &aveUed by this 
time a considerable way along the path of 
descent, and it would have been a hopeful 
sign — ^had there been anyone, except his 
evil genius, in the secrets of his vicious 
life, on the look-out for signs — that he was 
still capable of honest love for a good 
woman. For it was during the absence of 
Miss Merivale that Julian had engaged 
himself to Margaret Denzil, and she was 
in his mind when he decided that the 
dark-eved Dolores was not his " style ". 

A less vain and more high-minded 
man than Julian Courtland might have 
been acquitted of presumption in interpret- 
ing the shy but irrepressible emotion 
betrayed by Dolores on her meeting with 
Julian as an indication that he might 
change the relation between them from 
that of friends to that of lovers. The 
truth was that Dolores had loved Julian all 
her life ; she had carried his image in her 
heart, never supplanted, never obscured ; 
and by her bright, innocent face, by the 
tone of her voice, vibrating with a timid 
joy, her secret — which she did not herself 
interpret fully — was revealed to the wit- 
nesses of the meeting, Lilias Merivale and 
Colonel Courtland. 



52 [March 6, 1886.] 


CCondooted Iqr 

Neither of the two was remarkable for 
worldly wisdom, and when each reflected 
upon their common impression, it was 
withont a misgiving respecting Julian's 
sentiments. If there was a hidden hint on 
the part of Colonel Courtland's conscience, 
caused by his private conviction that his 
nephew was not worthy of such a girl as 
Dolores, he is not to be very severely 
blamed for ignoring it The Colonel was 
one of those illogicsJ persons who believe 
that the radical evil of a man's character 
may be uprooted by the influence of a good 
wife, and will lend themselves to the 
securing of lifelong misery to the unfor- 
tunate woman sacrificed to their theory, 
whenever they get a chance of reducing it to 
practice. Dolores was the loveliest and best 
girl in the world — all he could, desire as a 
wife for Julian. Everything would be all 
right when he should be under the lasting 
influence of that dear girl, and they would 
be as happy as possible. Providence was 
indeed shaping the ends of a very rough- 
hewn design ; the workmanship was too 
plain to be mistaken or ignored. This 
good, this excellent, this aU-desirable thing 
was to be, and would be. Like many 
quiet and easygoing men, Colonel Court- 
land was apt, when he did make a mental 
exertion, to jump to a conclusion, and his 
sweet temper rendered him sanguine in 
his views. 

Mrs. Courtland was not in town when 
Lilias and Dolores returned from their 
foreign tour, and the Colonel did not fully 
account to himself for his disinclination 
to impart his discovery and his hopes to 
his wife by letter. 

''Better wait until the young people 
have come to an understanding, and there 
can be no doubt about things," said the 
good and honest self-deceiver to himself, 
as he stood before the glass in his 
dressing-room, arranging his white tie 
with scrupulous care before going down to 
dinner ontheday after Lilias's arrival at The 
Quinces. Julian was to join the party at 
dinner, and the astute Colonel wondered 
whether Miss Merivale would find out any- 
thing in the course of the evening, and 
whether she would mention it to him if 
she did. Of how she would take the dis- 
covery he had no doubt. 

The Colonel joined Dolores in the 
drawing-room, and subsiding into his 
special chair in his most telescopic fashion 
— while she sat at his feet on a footstool, 
not at all like a grown-up young lady who 
had made the grand tour according to the 

very latest programme, and showed him a 
few of the innumerable photographs she 
had brought home — he slyly waited for 
further betrayals of the open secret, as self- 
congratulatory in his cunning as Tom Pinch. 

Lilias ; enjoying the quiet homeliness of 
her bright, spacious room, with its view of 
the velvet lawn and the great yew-trees, 
often longed-for amid the novelty and 
variety of foreign travel, and lingering 
there until Julian's arrival should oblige 
her to go to the drawing-room; was occupied 
with similar thoughts. To her, however, 
they came with more solemnity, and 
with a thrill of pain. A woman, however 
inexperienced, if she has a conscience asd 
a heart, never fails to realise that a girl's 
gift of her first love is an awful deed, one 
which sets a gulf between the past and the 
future of her life, with all the joys, affec- 
tions, habits, and pursuits of the former on 
one side of it, and on the other, "the 
hazard of the die". If it be cast for good, 
those who love the giver of that gift are 
indeed bound to rejoice, not only in a great 
positive gain, but in the escape from bound- 
less possibilities of loss ; if it be cast for 
iU, they are powerless to remedy or assuage 
the evil 

If Lilias Merivale had ever been in love, 
she would probably have found out eaiiier 
that the future happiness of the girl who 
was so dear to her was not in her keeping 
or governance; but she had no instinct to 
warn, no retrospect to guide her. There 
was no call in the attachment of Dolores 
to Julian for the self-repression that had 
characterised her own attachment to her 
so-called brother; but in every other 
quality the one reminded her of the other, 
and had seemed equiUy natural. Stronger 
love than hers for Hugh Bosslyn, Lilias 
humbly but rightly believed there could not 
be, but that it might have been different 
she had learned in the confidence — ^late, 
indeed, but at the last unreserved — reposed 
in her by her stepfather. She was of too 
sweet, too womanly a nature not to feel 
a deep and thankful gladness in the con- 
viction that she was all to him she had 
prayed, hoped, and striven to be, which she 
had derived from Dr. Bosslyn's avowal that 
she herself was the ideal wife he had 
desired for his son, and that he had believed 
her heart was Hugh's. But her calm, 
sorrowful answer, "So it was, papa, and 
yours," had set the matter at rest. 

The lightest stirring of a feeling that 
might grow into a passion, the least 
troubling of her quiet mind by a preference, 





Cbiilflf Bickena.] 


[Hftrch e, 1886.] 53 

had never befallen Lilias Merivale in the 
years before Hugh's trust came to her, and 
after that time DoIotos filled her heart and 
occupied her life. The comparison, " like 
a young widow with an only child/' was 
exactly applicable to her. 

Was it all over now 1 The most unselfish 
heart that ever beat would sink at that 
question, and Lilias's heart did sink when, 
in that little interval of quiet ensuing upon 
the bustle and business of her arrival at 
home, she put it to herselt Only to banish 
it, however, with the inevitable answer, 
and honestly to welcome the prospect of 
surer, higher happiness for Hugh's child. 

Julian was a Uttle late, and Lilias joined 
Dolores and Colonel Courtland in the 
drawing-room before he arrived. Dolores 
was stul sitting on the footstool at the 
Colonel's feet, and still busy with the 
advance-guard of her army of photographs; 
but her animation had flagged, and her 
eyes turned to the tell-tale timepiece on the 
mantelshelf with reproachful glances. 

"Julian is late," said Lilias, <<but it is 
always excusable to be late when a man, 
with any business at all to do, has to dine 
at Hampetead." 

A few minutes after the door-bell rang, 
and Dolores's dark eyes shone with a starry 
radiance which Hugh Bosslyn might have 

Three months had elapsed between the 
return of Miss Merivale to England, and 
Hr. Wyndham's interpellation of Julian 
Courtland at the Lyceum Theatre. Three 
happy months Dolores would have declared 
them to be, if she had ever thought of them 
as in any wise different from other portions 
of time except that she was at home 
again, and that she saw Julian frequently, 
instead of merely thinking of him always. 
Three happy months to Lmas, taking pride 
in the quickly-maturing beauty, in the 
ripening inteUigence, in the girlish graces 
of her beloved charge, and nothing doubt- 
ing of the sun of love that was fostering 
tiiem alL Three somewhat perplexing 
months to Colonel Courtland, who could 
not make out why the young people had 
not long ago come to an understanding, 
and who was, for his own part, a little 
uncomfortable and slightly ashamed, be- 
cause, for the first, but as he strenuously 
resolved, also for the last time in his life, 
he was keeping a secret from his wife. 

lliree montibs to Julian Cotirtland which 
he would have described in strongly objur- 
gatory language. Three months during 

which he was made to receive an instalment 
of the wages of sin, and to feel some of 
the weight of the yoke under which the 
transgressor staggers and stumbles down- 
hill An incautious word had suggested to 
the tormentor, to whom he had aelivered 
himself over, that there was business to be 
done in an unhoped-for direction, precious 
ore still to be extracted from a mine 
supposed to have been worked out, and 
Julian had to pay the penalty of his 
incautious word. The foot of the avenger 
was following him up. The one good 
thing he possessed was about to be 
taken from him. The one redeeming in- 
tention of his wilful, wasted, unprincipled 
life — the intention of makine a good girl 
who loved him, but had notning but love 
to give him, his wife — ^was about to be frus- 
trated. The most cruel of all the breaches 
of faith he had yet committed, because its 
victim was so guUtless, defenceless, and 
trusting, was about to be forced on him. 
He knew all this must be, that it was his 
only alternative. Buin must have come 
in any case, he believed, for Julian, though 
a sharp young scoundrel, was not so shaip 
as the older scoundrel who had him in his 
grip, and Julian did not know that he 
was toa valuable to Mr. Wyndham for him 
to ruin him after the proverbially short- 
sighted fashion of the slayer of the eoose 
that laid the golden eggs. He dallied, how- 
ever, pleadbg that it was quite too soon 
for him to propose to Dolores, and that he 
knew the old-fashioned people he had 
to deal with, while Mr. Wyndham did not 
know them. In those three months Julian 
had come very near to hating Dolores as 
fervently as he hated Mr. Wyndham ; but 
hehad been perfectlycharming, and nothing 
was wanting to the Fool's Paradise in whi(£ 
they were SH dwelling, except that formal 
declaration to which Julian now found 
himself pledged beyond redemption. 

Meanwhile, at the very hour in which 
Mr. Wyndham was giving Julian Courtland 
a practical lesson upon we value of discre- 
tion in the selection of one's friends, an 
incident, destined materially to affect his 
future interests, had occurred at The 


It is suffidently remarkable that the rod, 
besides being the emblem of authority, is 
also an instrument of the supernatural 
An indispensable instrument, one may say; 
for was ever a magician depicted in books, 


li . #ii i> w 





51 [Hanh 6, 1886.] 


Condooted by 

on canvas, or in the mind's eye, without a 
wand ? Does even the most amateurish of 
prestidigitateurs attempt to emulate the 
performances of the once-famous Wizard 
of the North, without the aid of the magic 
staff] The magician, necromancer, sooth- 
sayer, or conjuror, is as useless without his 
wand as a Newcastle pitman is without 
his "dawg". 

At first thoi^ht it mkht be supposed 
that the association of the rod or wand 
with necromancy were merely an indication 
of power or authority, in the same way as 
the sceptre is associated with kingship. 
But there is something more in it. Magic 
has been well caUed ''the shadow of 
religion," and the early religious idea 
found expression in symbols. These 
symbols, as we know, have in many cases 
retained a certain significance long after 
the ideas they were meant to convey have 
been lost, or abandoned, or modified. If 
we bear these things in mind, it is not 
difficult to discover a religious origin for 
the symbolic wand of necromancy. 

Mr. Moncure Conway, in his book on 
Demonology and Devil-lore, mentions a 
thing which seems peculiarly apposite to 
our subject. In the old town of Hanover 
there is a certain schoolhouse, in« which, 
above the teacher's chair, there was origi- 
nally a representation of a dove perched 
upon a rod — ^the rod in this case being 
meant to typify a branch. Below the dove 
and rod there was this inscription : " This 
shall lead you unto all Truth ", But the 
dove has long since disappeared, and there 
remains nowbut the rod and the inscription. 
It is natural that the children of the school 
should apply the admonition to the rod, 
ignorant that it was but the supporter of a 
symbol of the Holy Spirit Thus has the 

I)ious design of inculcating a Divine lesson 
eft only an emblem of mysterious terror. 
In some way, too, has the magic-wand lost 
its reli^ous significance and become but a 
dread implement of the occult 

Yet we might trace the origin of the 
magician's wand to the very same as that 
of the iron rod of the E^over school- 
house. We may find it in the olive-branch 
brought by the dove into the ark-— a 
message of Divine love and mercy — and, 
therefore, a connecting-link between human 
needs and desires, and superhuman power. 
To construe a mere symbol into a realised 
embodiment of the virtues symbolised, 
were surelv as easy in this case as in Uiat 
of the Eucharist 

But if this suggestion of the origin 

of the magician's wand be thought too 
hypotiietical, there will be less objection 
to our findhig it in Aaron's rod. Moses 
was commanded to take a rod from the 
chiefs of each of the twelve tribes, and 
to write upon each the name. The rods 
were then to be placed in the Tabernacle, 
and the owner of the one which blossomed 
was designated as the chosen one. The 
rod of the house of Levi bore the name of 
AMX)n, and this was the only one of the 
twelve which blossomed. Here once more 
was the rod used to connect human needs 
with Divine will ; but now a special virtue 
is made to appear in the rod itself. This 
virtue appeared again, when Pharaoh 
called all tiie sorcerers and magicians of 
Egypt to test their enchantments with 
Aaron's. All these magicians bore wands, 
or rods, and when they threw them on l^e 
ground tibey turned into serpents. Aaron's 
also turned into a serpent, and swallowed 
all the other& Now, here we find two 
things established. Firsts that even in 
these early days necromancy was a profes- 
sion, and the rod a necessary implement of 
the craft; and, second, that the rod was 
esteemed not merely an emblem of 
authority, or a mere ornament of office, 
but as a thing of superhuman power in 
itself, idthougn the power could only be 
evoked by the specially gifted. 

We find the beginning of the idea in 
the story of Moses's Bod, which turned 
into a serpent when he oast it on the 
ground at tiie Divine command. This was 
what led up to the trial of skill with the 
Egyptian magicians, and seems to have 
been the first suggestion in early history 
of the miraculous virtues of the rod. Then 
we must remember that it was by the 
stretching forth o( the rod of the prophet 
that all the waters of Egypt were made 
to turn into blood, and by which also the 
plagues of frogs and lice were wrought, 
and the hail was called down from heaven 
which destroyed the crops and fiocks of 
the Egyptians. In fact, all the miracles 
performed in the land of Egypt were made 
to appear more or less as ^e result of the 
application of the magic rod, just as to 
this da^ the clever conjuror appears to pro- 
duce his wonderful effects with his wand. 

It was by the stretching forth of the rod 
of Moses that the Bed Sea divided, and 
that the water sprang from the rock. 
The stafi* of Elisha and the spear of 
Joshua may also be cited in this cimnec- 
tion, and other examples in Holy Writ 
may occur to the reader. We mention 



^^ fa 

OhnlM DIokMif.] 


[March 6, 1886.] 55 

them in no spirit of irreverence, bat 
merely as evidence that the magic virtue 
of the rod was a fixed belief in the minds 
of the early writera 

We find belief in the vitalising power 
of the rod embalmed in many a carious 
medisBval legend. The budding rod, 
borrowed from the tradition of Aaron's, is, 
for instance, very frequent Thus in the 
story of St. Ghristophoros, as preserved in 
Yon Bulow's Christian Legends of Germany, 
we read of the godly man carrying the 
Child-Christ on his back through a raging 
torrent, and afterwards lying down on the 
banks of the stream, exhausted, to sleep. 
The staff which he had stuck in the 
ground, ere he lay down, had budded 
and blossomed before he awoke, and in 
the morning he found a great umbrageous 
tree bearing fruit, and givmg shelter to 
hundreds of gorgeous birds. There are 
many such legen<u in the traditions of all 
the Christian nations, and the collection and 
comparison of them would be an interest- 
ing and instructive task, but one too large 
for our present pu^ose. 

It is related by Holinshed, in connection 
with many wonderful visions which were 
seen in Scotland about A.D. 697, that once 
when the Bishop was conducting the ser- 
vice in the church of Camelon, with the 
crozier-staff in his hand, "it was kindled 
so with fire that by no means it could be 
queached till it was burnt even to ashes''. 
This was supposed to have been the handi- 
work of the devil, who has on other oc- 
casions used the staff or wand to em- 
phasise his intentions or spite. Thus, of 
the famous Dr. Fian it is narrated in 
the *' Newes from Scotland, declaring the 
damnable Life of Doctor Fian, a notable 
Sorcerer, who was burned at Edenborough 
in Januarie last 1591 ; which Doctor was 
Hegister to the Devill, that sundrie times 
Preached at North-Baricke Kirke to a 
numbw of notorious Witches," etc., — that 
he made the following, amon^ his other 
confessions : " That the devm had ap- 
peared unto him in the night before, ap- 
Keled all in blacke, with a white wand m 
hande, and that the devill demanded 
of him if he would continue his faithfull 
service according to his first oath and pro- 
mise made to that effect, whome (as hee 
then said) he utterly renounced to his face 
and said unto him in this manner. ' Avoide, 
avoide, Satan, for I have listened too much 
onto thee and by the same thou hast un- 
done me, in respect whereof I utterly for- 
sake thee.' To whom the devill answered, 

' That once, ere thou die, thou sbalt be 
mine,' and with that (as he sayech, the 
devill brake the white wand, and im- 
mediately vanished from sight." After 
which, the chronicle goes on to tell how 
the redoubtable doctor actually escaped 
from prison, and began to resume his 
Satanic practices 

This brings us to the most frequent use 
of the rod m superstitions — for the pur- 
poses of divination. We have a sugges- 
tion of the practice by Nebuchadnezzir, 
when he '* stood at the parting of the 
way, at the head of two ways, to use 
divinations, he made his arrows bright^" 
etc. He then threw up a bundle of 
arrows to see which way they would alight, 
and as they fell on the right hand he 
marched towards Jerusalem. Divination 
by the wand is also suggested in the shoot- 
ing of an arrow from a window by Elisha, 
and by the strokes upon the ground with 
an arrow, by which Joash foretold the 
number of his victories. 

Sir Thomas Browne speaks of a com- 
mon "practice among us to determine 
doubtful matters by the opening of a book 
and letting faU of a sti^." The '* staff" 
business is not quite so famiUar in present 
days, but the opening of a book for 
prophetic guidance is, perhaps, more com- 
mon than most people suppose. 

Sir Thomas Browne also speaks of a 
" strange kind of exploration and peculiar 
way of Khabdomancy" used in mineral dis- 
coveries. That is, " with a fork of hazel, 
commonly called Moses his rod, which, 
freely held forth, will stir and play if any 
mine be under it And though many 
there are," says the learned doctor, '' who 
have attempted to make it good, yet until 
better information, we are of opinion, with 
Agricola, that in itself it is a fruitless 
exploration, strongly scenting of pagan 
derivation and the virgula divina prover- 
bially magnified of old. The ground 
whereof were the magical rods in poets — 
that of Pallas, in Homer ; that of Mer- 
cury, that charmed Argus ; that of Circe, 
which transformed the followers of Ulysses. 
Too boldly usurping the name of Moses's 
rod, from which, notwithstanding, and that 
of Aaron, were probably occasioned the 
fables of all the rest For that of Moses 
must needs be famous unto the Egyptians, 
and that of Aaron unto many other 
nations, as being preserved in the Ark 
until the destruction of the Temple built 
by Solomon." 

We must confess that in our experience 




56 [March «, 18(6.] 


[Ckmdactod bf 

of the divining-rod, we have never met 
with it in real life under the name of 
<* Moses his rod," as old Sir Thomas did. 
We had, indeed, quite forgotten the learned 
physician's reference to the matter at all 
when we beean this article, but turning, 
on a sudden inspiration, to his volume, we 
found what seemed so much in accord with 
the theory witib which we started, that we 
forthwith extracted the whole passage, as 

It is curious, however, that Sir Thomas 
Browne, who was so fond of delving 
among ancient writers, makes no reference, 
so far as we remember, to a striking 
passage in Herodotus. That historian, 
speakmg of the Scythians, says: "They 
have amongst them a great number who 
practise the art of divination. For this 
purpose they use a number of willow-twigs 
in this manner : They brine large bundles 
of these together, and navlng untied 
them, dispose them one by one on the 
ground, each bundle at a distance from 
the rest This done, they pretend to 
foreteU the future, during which they take 
up the bundles separately and tie them 
again together." 

From this we see that while the divining- 
rod was a familiar instrument four hundred 
and fifty years before Christ, it was also 
then disbelieved in by some. Curious to 
think that what the old historian of 
Halicamassus was wise enough to ridicule 
four centuries and a half before the birth 
of Oluist^ there are yet people, nearly nine- 
teen centuries after His advent, simple 
enough to accept 1 

Herodotus goes on to tell that this mode 
of divination was hereditary among the 
Scythians, so how many centuries earlier 
it may have been practised, one can hardly 
guess. He says that the "enaries, or 
effeminate men, affirm that the art of 
divination was taught them by the goddess 
Venus", a statement which wHl carry some 
significance to those who are familiar with 
the theories so boldly advocated by the 
recent author of Bible Fcdk-lore. 

Now, the attempt to divine by means of 
rods, arrows, staffs, or twigs, is evidentiy a 
good deal older than Herodotus, and it is 
to be found among almost every race of 
people on the face of the earth. We say 
«iJmost", because Mr. Andrew Lang, in 
his book on Custom and Myth, instances 
this as one form of superstition which is 
not prevdent among savage races; or 
rattier, to use his exact words, *' is singular 
in its comparative lack of copious savage 

analogues". The qualification seems to 
be necessary because there are certainly 
some, if not " copious " instances among 
savage peoples, of the use of the divining- 
rod in one form or other. And Mr. 
Lang is hardly accurate in speaking, in the 
same book, of the *' resurrection " of this 
superstition in our own country. It has, 
in fact, never died, and there is scarcely a 
part of the country where a " diviner " has 
not tried his — or her, for it is often a 
woman — skill with " the twig ", from time 
to time. These attempts have seldom been 
known beyond the immediate locality and 
the limited circle of those interested in 
them, and it is only of late years, since 
folk-lore became more of a scientific and 
general study, that the incidents have been 
seized upon and recorded by the curious. 
We may take it that from the time t)f 
Moses until now, the "rod" has been 
almost continuously used by innumerable 
peoples in the effort to obtain supplies of 

In ancient times it was used, as we have 
seen, for a variety of other purposes ; but 
its surviving use in our generation is to in- 
dicate the bcality of hidden springs or of 
mineral deposits. There are cases on record, 
however — so recentiy as the last century — 
when the rod was used in the detection of 
criminals, and a modified application of it 
to a variety of indefinite purposes may even 
be traced to the planchette, which, at this 
very day, is seriously believed in by many 
persons who are ranked as "intelligent ". 

Now, of the use of the divining-rod in 
England, Mr. Thiselton-Dyer thus wrote 
seven years ago : " The virgula divinatoria, 
or divining-r^, is a forked branch in the 
form of ax, cut off a hazel-stick, by means 
of which people have pretended to discover 
mines, springs, etc., underground. It is much 
employed in our mining districts for the 
discovery of hidden treasure. In Cornwall, 
for instance, the miners place much confi- 
dence in its indications, and even educated, 
intelligent men oftentimes rely on its sup- 
posed virtuea Biyce, in his Mineralogu 
ComubiensiSy tells us that many mines 
have been discovered by the rod, and 
quotes several, but, after a long account of 
the method of cutting, tying, and using it, 
rejects it, because Cornwall is so plentifully 
stored with tin and copper lodes, that 
some accident every week discovers to us 
a fresh vein, and because a grain of metal 
attracts the rod as strongly as a pound, for 
which reason it has l^n found to dip 
equally to a poor as to a rich lode." But 






Clurlei DIckeni.] 


[March 6, 1886.] 57 

in Lancashire and Cumberland also, Mr. 
D/er goes on to Bay, *'ihe power of the 
diyining-road is much believed in, and also 
in other parts of England." The method 
of using it is thus described : '^ The small 
ends, being crooked, are to be held in the 
hands in a position flat or parallel to the 
horizon, and the upper part at an elevation 
having an angle to it of about seventy 
deKreea. The rod must be grasped stronely 
and steadily, and then the operator walks 
over the ground. When he crosses a lode, 
its bending is supposed to indicate the pre- 
sence thereol" Mr. Dyer's explanation of 
the result is simple : " The position of the 
hands in holding the rod is a constrained 
one — it is not easy to describe it ; but the 
result is that the hands, from weariness 
speedily induced in the muscles, grasp the 
end of the twig yet more rigidly, ana thus 
is produced the mysterious bending. The 
phenomena of the divining-rod and table- 
turning are of precisely the same character, 
and both are referable to an involontary 
muaculAr action resulting from fixedness of 
idea. These experiments with a divinmg- 
rod are always made in a dbtrict known to 
be metalliferous, and the chances are, there- 
fore, greatly in favour of its bending over 
or near a mineral lode." 

The theory of "involuntary muscular 
action " is a favourite explanation, and the 
sabject is one well worthy, as Mr. Lang 
indeed suggests, of the investigations of 
the Society for Psychical Besearch. But 
how does this theory square with the 
story of Linnmes, told by a writer in The 
GbnUemsm's Magazine in 1752 ? « When 
Linnaaus was upon his voyaee to Scania, 
hearing his secretary highly extol the 
virtues of his divining-rod, was willing to 
convince him of its insufficiency, and for 
that purpose concealed a purse of one 
hundred ducats under a ranunculus which 
grew up by itself in a meadow, and bid the 
secretary find it if he could. The wand 
discovered nothing, and Linnseus's mark 
was soon trampled down by the company 
who were present^ so that when Linnaeus 
went to finish the experiment by fetching 
the gold himself, he was utterly at a loss 
where to find it. The man with the wand 
assisted him and told him that it could not 
lie in the way they were going, but quite 
the contrary; so pursued the direction of 
the wand, and actually dug out the gold. 
Linnseus adds, that such another experi- 
ment would be sufficient to make a prose- 
lyte of him." 

The explanation of this case by the 

incredulous would, of course, be that the 
owner of the wand had made a private 
mark of his own, and thus knew better 
than Linnseus where the gold lay. This 
is probable, but we have no evidence in 
support of the explanatioa 

The divining-rod, however, is not used 
only in districts which are known to abound 
in metalliferous deposits, when minerala 
are being searched for, but has frequently 
been used by prospectors in new countries. 
Thus we recall that Captains Burton and 
Cameron in their book about the Qold 
Coast, tell how the rod was used by the 
early British explorers on the Gambia 
Biver. One Richard Jobson, in 1620, 
landed and searched various parts of the 
country, armed with mercur;^, nitric acid, 
large crucibles, and a divinine-rod. He 
washed the sand and examinea the rocks 
beyond the Falls of Barraconda, with 
small success for a long time. At last, 
however, he found what he declared to be 
" the mouth of the mine itself, and found 
gold in such abundance as surprised him 
with joy and admiration." But what part 
the divining-rod played in the discovery is 
not related, and for the rest " the mine " 
has disappeared as mysteriously as it 
was discovered. No one else has seen 
it, and all the gold that now comes from 
the Gambia Biver is a small quantity of 
dust washed from the mountain - ridges 
of the interior. It is curious, however, 
to find civilised Europeans carrying the 
divining-rod to one of the districts where, 
according to Mr. Andrew Lang, it has no 
analogue among the primitive savages. 

We have mentioned, on the authority of 
Mr. Thiselton-Dyer, some of the districts 
of England in which the divining-rod is 
still more or less used. But somethbg of 
its more extended use may be learned 
from Mr. Hilderic Friend. That writer 
informs us of a curious custom of the hop- 
pickers of Kent and Sussex for ascertain- 
ing where they shall stand to pick. One 
of them cuts as many slips of hazel as 
there are "bins" in the garden, and on 
these he cuts notches from one upwards. 
Each picker then draws a twig, and his 
standing is fixed by the number upon it 
This is certainly an interesting instance of 
the divination by twigs reduced to prac- 
tical ends. The same writer regards the 
familiar " old-wife " fortune-telling by tea- 
leaves as merely another variation of the 
old superstition. It certainly seems to 
have some analogy to some^ of the prac- 
tices to which we have briefly referred, 



58 [March 6, 1886.] 


(OoDdncled bf 

and one finds another analogy in the 
Ohinese custom of diyining bj straws. 

The divining-rod of England is desoribed 
by Mr. Friend mnch in the same way as 
does Mr. Dyer. Bat, according to Mr. 
Friend, hazel was not always, although it 
has for a long time been the favourite wood. 
Elder, at any rate, is strictly forbidden, as 
deemed incapable of exhibiting magical 
powers. In Wiltshire, and elsewhere, Mr. 
Friend knows of the magic rod having 
been used recently for detecting water. It 
must be cut at some particular time when 
the stars are favourable, and " in cutting 
it, one must face the east, so that the rod 
shall be one which catches the first rays of 
the momine sun, or, as some say, the 
eastern and western sun must shine 
through the fork of the rod, otherwise it 
will be good for nothing.'' 

The same superstition prevails in China 
with regard to rods cut from the magic 
peach-tree. In Prussia, Mr. Friend says, 
hazel-rods are cut in spring, and when 
harvest comes, they are placed in crosses 
over the grain to keep it ^ood for years, 
while in Bohemia the rod is used to cure 
fevera A twig of apple-tree is, in some 
parts, considered as good as a hazel rod, 
but it must be cut by the seventh son of a 
seventh son. Brand records that he has 
known ash-twigs used, and superstitiously 
regarded in some parts of England ; but 
the hazel is more generally supposed to be 
popular with the fairies, or whoever may 
be the mysterious spirits who guide the 
diviner's art Hence probably the name 
common in some parts, of Witch-Hazel, 
although philolo^ts will have it that the 
true derivation is Wych. In Germany, 
the witch-hazel is the zauber-streuch, or 
the magic tree, and it is probable that both 
witch and wych are from the Anglo- 
Saxon wic-en, to bend. It is curious, at 
any rate, that while in olden times a 
witch was called wicce, the mountain-ash, 
which, as we have seen, had supposed 
occult virtues, was formerly called wice. 
Whether this root has any connection with 
another name by which the magic wand 
is known — viz., the wishing-rod — may be 
doubted, but there is clearly a dose con- 
nection between the hazel-twig of super- 
stitious England and the niebelungen-rod 
of Germany, which gave to its possessor 
power over all the world. 

Of the employment of the divining-rod 
for the detection of criminals there are 
many cases on record, but the most 
famous in comparatively recent times is 

that of Jacques Aymar, of Lyons. The 
full details of the doings of this remarkable 
person are given by Mr. Baiing-Gonld in 
his Curious Myths of the Middle Agesj 
but the story as told there is too long for 
us to repeat It will do to serve our 
purposes to quote the following condensed 
version by another writer : " On July 5, 
1692, a vintner and his wife were found 
dead in the cellar of their shop at Lyons. 
They had been killed by blows from a 
hedging-knife, and their money had been 
stolen. The culprits could not be dis- 
covered, and a neighbour took upon him to 
bring to Lyons a peasant out of Dauphin^ 
named Jacques Aymar, a man noted for 
his skill with the divining-rod. The 
Lieutenant-Criminel and the Procureur du 
Boi took Aymar into the cellar, furnishing 
him with arod of the first wood that came 
to hand. According to the Procureur du 
Roi the rod did not move lill Aymar 
reached the very spot where the crime had 
baen committed. His pulse then beat, and 
the wand twisted rapidly. Guided by the 
wand, or by some internal sensation, 
Aymar now pursued the track of the 
assassins, entered the court of the Arch- 
bishop's palace, left the town bvthe bridee 
over the Rhone, and followed the right 
bank of the river. He reached a gardener's 
house, which he declared the men had 
entered, and some children confessed that 
three men — ^whom they described — had 
come into the house one Sunday morning. 
Aymar followed the track up the river, 

Eointed out all the places where the men 
ad landed, and, to n^e a long story short, 
stopped at last at the door of the prison of 
Beaucaire. He was admitted, looked at 
the prisoners, and picked out aa the 
murderer a little hunchback, who had just 
been brought in for a small theft The 
hunchback was taken to Lyons, and he was 
recognised on the way by the people at all 
the stages where he had stopped. At 
Lyons he was examined in the usual 
manner, and confessed that he had been an 
accompUce in the crime, and had guarded 
the door. Aymar pursued the other 
culprits to the coast, followed them by sea, 
landed where they had landed, and only 
desisted from his search when they crossed 
the frontier. As for the hunchback, he 
was broken on the wheel, being con- 
demned on his own confession." 

This is briefly the story of Jacques 
Aymar, which is authenticated by various 
e^e-witnesses, and of which many explana- 
tions have been tendered from time to 



OimIbi DlekMii.] 


[MaT0h6,1886L] 59 

time. Mr. Baring-Gh>ald eommits himBelf 
to no definite expression of opinion, bat 
says: '*I believe that the imagination is 
the principal motive force in those who use 
the divining-rod ; but, whether it is so 
solely, I am onable to decide. The powers 
of natnre are so mysterious and inscmtable, 
that we most be cantioas in limiting them, 
under abnormal conditions, to the ordinary 
laws of experience." As, however, Jacqnes 
Aymar failed ignominionsly under all the 
subsequent trials to which he was sub- 
jected, the most reasonable explanation of 
his success, with regard to the Lyons 
murder, is that he was by nature a clever 
detective, and that he was favoured by 
eireumstances after he once caught a clue. 

To return to the employment of the 
divining-rod in England, we find numerous 
instances of its application in searching 
for water, and these instances happen to 
be among the best authenticated of any on 
record. Not very long ago a writer in 
the Times boldly declared that he had 
himself seen the rod successfully used in 
seeking for water. He had even tried it 
himself, with the determination that the 
rod should not be allowed to twist " even 
if an ocean relied under his feet ". But, 
he confessed, that it did twist in spite of 
hfan, and that at the place was found a 
concealed spring ! Then it is recorded of 
Lady Milbanke, mother of Lord Byron's 
wife, that she had found a well by the violent 
twisting of the twig held in the orthodox 
way in her hand — turning so violently, 
indeed, as almost to break her finsers. Dr. 
Button was a witness of the affaur and has 
recorded his experience, which is quoted 
m a curious book called Jacob's Bod, pub- 
lished in London many years ago. This 
case, and others, were cited by a writer in 
the twenty-second volume of Uie Quarterly 
Beview, which writer is again cited both by 
Mr. Baring -Gould and by Mr. Andrew 
Lang. De Quincey, also, asserts that he 
has frequently seen the divining-rod suc- 
cessfully used in the quest of water, and 
delares that '* whatever science or scepti- 
cism may say, most of the tea-kettles in the 
vale of Wrington, North Somersetshire, 
are filled by Kabdomancy.'' Mr. Baring- 
Gojold also quotes the case of a friend of 
his own, who was personally acquainted 
with a Scotch lady who could detect 
hidden springs with the twig, which was 
inactive in the hands of others who tried it 
on the same spota 

We might cite other instances did 
space permit, but enough has been said to 

show how the magic rod, from the earliest 
periods, has been an instrument of super- 
natural attributes, and that even to this 
day in our own country it is still believed 
by some to have the special faculty of 
indicating the presence of minerals and 
water. With regard to minerals, we confess 
that we have come across no instances so 
well authenticated as those concerning 
the discovery of water. With regard to 
these last a considiarable amount of 
haziness still exists, and without ventur- 
ing to pronounce them all fictions, or 
productions of the imagination, it is possible 
to find an explanation in a theory of 
hydroscopy. It is held that there are some 
few persons who are hydroscopes by 
nature — ^that is to say, are endowed with 
peculiar sensations which tell them the 
moment they are near water, whether it 
be evident or hidden — ^a concealed water- 
course or a subterranean spring. If the 
existence of such a faculty, however ex- 
ceptional, be once established, we have at 
once an explanation of certain successes 
with the divining-rod. In the meanwhile, 
as hydroscopes seem shrouded in consider- 
able doubt, it is as well to preserve an 
"open mind" until science and the Psychical 
Besearch Society illumine the whole 


I so well remember that evening when 
the news came that war had been declared 
between France and Prussia. I was at 
Tropez, a sleepy little village some fifty 
miles from Paris, where for months I had 
been gradually sinking into that state of 
blissfm indifference to all events not imme- 
diately present and personal, which is the 
characteristic effect of country air and 
bucolic pursuits. Still, the news startled 
even me, it was so perfectly unexpected. 
The Cur^, the Maire, the Doctor, each in 
turn came to assure me that it was a mis- 
take. " No ; the Prussians might not have 
much sense, but they had just too much to 
be guilty of that folly. Besides, if it were 
true, we must, of course, have heard some 
rumour of it before," they declared. I did 
not see the force of that last argument, I 
confess, for I knew well that I had not 
looked into a newspaper for a month, and 
I rather suspect that my companions were 
very much in the same state. Still, of course, 
the idea of war having been declared with- 
out our knowing of it, struck us as mani- 
festly absurd ; and as we sat and chatted 



60 (MftTche, 1886.] 


(Ooodneted Iqr 

that C00I9 pleasant evening, we smiled at 
the credulity of those who oelieved such a 
wild, impossible report Now one daily 
Parisian paper came to Tropez^ and was 
punctiliously read and studied — that was 
the Sous-Pr^fet's. We were just discussing 
the propriety of paying a visit to this 
gentleman, for the purpose of discovering 
whether anything hiad hM[>pened that could 
throw light on the origm of this absurd 
rumour, when we saw the Sous-Pr^fet him- 
self opening the garden-gate. He was a 
person whom, for my part, I was prone to 
shun when possible, for the unique reason 
that he alone in the village seemed to 
keep up some intercourse witn the outside 
world — to my certain knowledge he had 
been at least twice to Paris in nine months 
— then, too, when he came to see me, he 
would insist upon telling me the news; 
thus, altogether, he was a disquieting 
element in our community. This evening, 
however, he was welcome, in spite of his 
grave, anxious appearance; but all our 
Uttle jokes died upon our lips as, like a 
bird of evil omen, he took his place among 

<( WeU, M. le Sous-Pr6fet, what do you 
think of this latest invention 1 "*asked the 
Maire, striving to speak in his usual jovial 

" What invention 1 " 

" Why, that we are going to fight the 

*' Going to fight 1" repeated the Sous- 
Pr^fet scornfully. *'Are fighting, you 
mean ; " and he drew out of his pocket the 
Steele for the day. 

Yes, there it stood, clear as day : fight- 
ing had alreadv begun. One and all we 
were seized with a sudden fit of patriotism ; 
for some days there was quite a large 
demand for newspapers, and when we met 
in the street we used actually to stop and 
— thing nnheardof — enquire if there was 
any news. Then a formal notification 
came to the Sous-Pr^fet that we — ^English- 
man though I am, it was always we — had 
gained a great victory over the Prussians ; 
and we rang the bells and organised quite 
a little round of gaiety to commemorate 
it. In a few days came the news of another 
victory, then of another, and after tiiat the 
whole afiair seemed slightly monotonous ; 
so we gave up reading the papers, soon 
forgot to buy them, and finally, having 
decided that we would not ring the bells 
any more until Berlin was taken, we dis- 
missed the war and everything connected 
with it from our minds, and settled down 

into our usual state of happy semi-somno- 

It was not but that the people of 
Tropez were perfectly loyal and well- 
disposed towaros their rulers, only the war 
appeared to be so far away, so utterly un- 
connected with all the things which con- 
cerned them personally, that no wonder 
they forgot all about it. Then, too, they 
were such a simple, peace-loving, easy- 
going people, how comd anyone expect 
them to feel any lively sympathy with 
blood-thirsty pursuits 1 The Sous-Pr6fet, 
it is true, strove from time to time to 
awake a ray of enthusiasm, but they only 
listened to his harangues with a wondering 
smile, and decided that the poor man's 
liver must be out of order for him to 
become thus excited about trifles. Qooi- 
natured, ease-loving M. le Maire was a fair 
type of the Tropeziens, and " Live and let 
live " was his only code of morals. Thm 
were no signs of poverty at Tropez, crime 
was almost unknown, and, more important 
than either, there were no quarrels, for the 
simple reason that there was no question 
of politics. No man — the Sous-Pr^et 
alone excepted — was a Bourbonist, a 
Bonapartist, or a BepubUcan. They were 
all just Tropeziens and nothing more. 

Some nine months before the war, winrn 
out mentally and physically, I had come 
amongst these people, and had found what 
I so sorely needed — ^rest and peace. At 
first they had seemed stolidly indifferent to 
my presence; but, by degrees, perha^ 
moveii with pity for my helplessness-^m 
those days I was a cripple — ^ttiey fell into 
the habit of turning into my little garden 
for a chat when they were passing. Some- 
times they were welcome, sometimes they 
were not, but I knew they meant it kindly 
and was not ungrateful. They furnished 
me, too, with a never-ceasing source of 
amusement; there was somewing so un- 
utterably sheeplike in their gentle nai^vet^. 
So completely did they upset all my pre- 
conceived notions of the French people, 
that sometimes, as I listened to their quaint, 
simple speeches, I used to amuse myself 
by imagining that centuries before some 
Northern tribe must have wandered down 
and settled there ; and, cut off l>y a hill on 
the one side and a river on the other, had 
never mingled with the people around 
The summer months passed swiftly by, but 
the news of the talung of Berlm never 
came to set our bells a-ringing ; still, we 
were not impatient, we had tdready for- 
gotten our anger against those Prussians 






CbarlM DiekenB.] 


[Uiicli «« 1S81) 61 

whose aadadoas folly had led them so far 
astray. Nay, in the lovely aatamn eyenings 
we Qsed to pity them, and hope that oar 
soldiers would remember to be mercifiil, as 
wellasbrava All this time not a wwd— 
not a thonght— of disaster. The Sons- 
Pr^f et seemed to become from day to day 
more careworn and anxtoosi bat no one 
connected that with the war. One day he 
exdted a storm of mild witticisms by sug- 
gesting that, as we were living in a time of 
war, we should raise a rifle-corps ; not, of 
eourse, to fight^ bat just as a little amuse- 

Oh, how the Tropeziens laughed 1 The 
Sous-Prdfet^ poor man, soon gave up the 
thought— the idea of a Tropecien fighting 
wss too absurd. 

Oar own little newspaper always spoke 
in a vague, ha^ way of glorious victories; 
and as for Parisian papers, it soon became 
strangely difficult to get hold of them. 
Oar stationer said that the agent forgot 
to send them; why, he did not know; 
and none of us very much cared. Thus 
the l<Mig sunny days of September passed, 
and when the first frosts began to tinge 
ihe bright foliage with purple and warm 
brown, not a suspicion had reached our 
h'ttle village that all was not well. 

At length, one lovely morning, I was 
louneing in the sunshine, watching the 
people whilst they arranged their autumn 
fruits upon the stalls in the little market- 
square. I was strolling about from one 
group to another, and chatting to each in 
turn, when a man, with a strange look of 
terror on his face, galloped up. Now the 
Tropeziens never gallop — a gentle trot is 
the utmost they ever venture on ; so we 
knew at once that the rider was a stranger. 
Moved as much by pity as by curiosity, 
for evidently some awful sorrow had come 
upon the man, the people left their stalls 
and gathered around htm. He seemed 
completely exhausted, and although he 
strove to speak, the only words we could 
understand were : " Les Prussiens ! '' This 
he almost shrieked, as he pointed wildly 
in the direction whence he had come. A 
murmur of pity went round, for the idea 
that some trouble had driven him mad was 
I^esent in all our minds. I think he must 
have known it, for he glared at us as if in 
angry despair, and asked for M. le Pr6fet. 
The Prefecture was close at hand, so we 
led him there at once, and lingered aboat 
in tiie garden, for madmen were things 
noheud of in Tropez. 
It could not have been more than five 

minutes afier the poor man had gone in, 
bef^ the door opened and the Sous- 
Pr^fet appeared. Had he gone mad tool 
White as death, with ohatteiing teeth, he 
stood there trying to address us; but he 
could not utt«r a wwd. Grief y»« "^ 
pUinly writtwi on his face, that a thrillof 
hear^ sympathy passed through the crowd, 

and we all prased eageriy around him, 
anxious to know the nature of the stranger s 


" Mes amis," the Sous-Pr6fet b^an in a 
low, husky voice — "mes amis," he re- 
peated, and then, covering his face with 
his hands, he burst into tears and sobbed 
aloud with un«mtrollaUe emotion. For 
one moment the little crowd stood spell- 
bound; then the Cur6 and the Maire, who 
had just arrived, pushed their way to the 
front, uid, without a word, led him into 
the house. 

We were none of us very quick at grasp- 
ing at the idea of danger; but as ten 
minates, a quarter of an hour, half an hour 
passed, and we still stood waiting in that 
garden, I think a presentiment of evil crept 
over most of ua No one spoke, no one 
moved, but there was a feeling that things 
were not as they should be, and a dogged 
determination to know the worst was 
written on most facea At length the Maire 
and the Oar6 came out on to the little iron 
balcony that ran around the Prefecture. The 
Cur6 was white and haggard, whilst even 
good-natured M. le Maire wore an air of 
gravity that was almost stem. 

" My friends," he began, •' a great mis- 
fortune has come upon us.^ We have been 
cruelly deceived. Those victories which 
we celebrated with ringing of bells were 
Prussian victories, not French ; and all the 
news that has been sent to us is false. We 
have been betrayed and beaten in every 
engagement. The Emperor is a prisoner. 
Paris is surrounded, and a detac&nent of 
Prussian troops is marching in this direc- 

He paused. Men, women, and children 
(by this time every inhabitant of the little 
town was listening) stood as if striving to 
realise the nature of this terror that was 
coming upon thent 

" M. le Sous-Pr6fet has known for some 
tune that things were going wrong, but he 
wa9 forbidden to tell us. He has asked 
for troops for our defence, but the authori- 
ties say we must defend ourselves." Otx^ 
long piteous wail arose from the crowd. 
«* We have no time for cryii^ In fo^xt 
hours the Prussians will be here, and ^^ 



62 [March 6, 1886.] 


[Ooodnctod b]r 

have not a soldier, not a cannoa Has any- 
one anything to suggest 1 " 

The question seemed almost a mockery. 

" WeU, then, I wUl tell you what M. le 
Cur^ and I have decided ; and I may as 
well tell you, at the same time, that M. le 
Sous-Pr^fet is far from agreeing with us. 
Now we cannot go out and fight the 
Prussians, so let us go out and welcome 
them. Yes ; I see you are surprised, but 
keep this clearly in your minds : the 
Prussians will come here in spite of all we 
may do, and surely it will be better for 
them to come as friends than as enemies. 
As I told you at first, a great misfortune 
has come upon us, and we must face it as 
best we can. After all, these Prussians 
are human beings like ourselves ; now, if 
you agree with me, we will go out and 
meet tnem, and tell them that we have no 

Eersonal ill-feeling towards them, and" — 
ere for a moment M. le Maire hesitated, 
and a gleam of amusement shot over his 
face, which, however, he heroically sup- 
pressed — "and in the olden times when 
people wished to gain the goodwill of 
others, they used to send them gifts. Now 
these Prussians will be hungi^ and thirsty 
after their long march— don't you think 
it would be more easy and pleasant to talk 
to them after they have eaten and drunk t 
In two hours' time we will start, and let 
anyone who wishes to aid in this work of 
reconciliation bring with him fruit, cakes, 
wine, or any of those things by which the 
heart of man is made glad?' 

Astonishment, wonder, terror, every feel- 
ing was now swallowed up in profound 
admiration for the wisdom of M. le Maire. 
One and all they ran to collect their peace- 
offering, and when, two hours later, the 
procession started, there was really a goodly 
show. At its head marched M. le Maire, 
in his best frock-coat, and by bis side 
MleCur^ ; after them came a motley crowd 
of men, women, children — nay, even babies 
were not lacking. Some were bearing 
trays covered with cakes, tarts, and rolls ; 
others, baskets of purple grapes ; one child 
had a few shining red apples, another a 
tiny bottle of wine. There were clothes- 
badrets full of fine white bread; wheel- 
barrows, neatly covered with white linen, 
and tastefully arranged with flowers, sweets, 
sticks of chocolate---in a word, the sort of 
array a grateful people might send out to 
welcome a victorious army that had 
delivered them ih)m some sore danger. And 
all this was going to the Prussians ! In 
all that crowd, not a creature but what 

was taking his offering, and, except the 
Cur^, not a creature who doubted as to tiie 
spirit in which hisoffering would be received, 
'nruly, blessed are the simple of heart 

Before evening I saw them return, lead- 
ing their conquerors in triumph. The 
Prussian officers and men seemed delighted 
with the novelty of their position, and if 
a shade of contempt mingled with the 
amusement of the former — what matter t 
The Tropeziens never knew it. As for the 
soldiers, they munched their cakes m 
unquestioning content, and though their 
hosts understood not a word of their 
ffrunted thanks, yet when a ^reat Uhlan 
ufted a wearied child on to his shoulder, 
or gave his arm to a tottering old woman, 
his action spoke plainer than worda 

During the month that followed there 
was little peace for me. To the Tropeziens 
Grerman was an unknown language, and 
unfortunately I knew it well, and paid the 
penalty of my knowledge by being at 
once instituted interpreter-general The 
German soldiers used to bring to me little 
complimentary sentences to be put into 
French, and later in the day their host, or 
hostess, would come to me for answers in 
German. Many were the intrignes I 
helped to build up, and dire was the con- 
fusion that resulted, whilst the blame or 
the praise that fell to my share was 

Still, all went on bright and smooth as a 
summer-day. The German officers were 
good-hearted fellows, and they mingled 
with our people as friends and brothers. 
They gave soir6es, to which, after very 
little persuasion, our demoiselles went 
and danced; their musicians played for 
us; tiiey lent their horses, and all the 
time overwhelmed us widi expressions of 

The only breach of etiquette I heard at 
was in the case of a man who bent down 
and kissed a pretty girl as she was coming 
with her bonne from school ; and for this, 
many and abject were the apologies that 
were made. 

The day the Prussians left us, I took 
refuge from the rain in a poor, broken- 
down cottage. Its owner, a decrepit old 
woman, kept wiping her eyes furtively as 
she talked to me, and by decrees I drew 
from her that she was weepmg for the 

"Ah, sir," she said in her strange 
patois, " you don't know how good they've 
been to me ! Two were billeted here, and 
when I knew it I almost died of fright, for 





camlQt DIcksDi.] 


what could I do with two great soldiers in 
the house 1 Bat the very first day they 
brought in a piece of beef, and although I 
could not understand a word of their 
grunts and growls, I knew they wanted it 
cooked. I cooked it, and put a bit of 
vegetable to it ; and when it was ready, 
sir, one of those great, fierce-looking men 
took it and cut it into three parte, and 
put one part on a plate, and set a chair 
before it, and then began talking to me so 
fierce-like — at least, it sounded fierce-like 
to me — ^I nearly died of fright again. 
Then, as I didn't understand him, he just 
took me, and led me to the chair, and put 
a knife and fork into my hand, and I 
knew then that he meant me to eat the 
meat. And all the time they were here, 
no matter what they had, they would never 
touch a bit of it unless I would take my 
part too. They used to call mo ' Mutter '." 
And the old woman sobbed again. 

From all the towns around came tales 
of violence, outrage, and bloodshed. In 
iVopez alone was peace and goodwill. 
Who can say that M. le Maire was not 
wise in his generation ? 



In dealing with Middlesex, the last on 
our list of English counties, the difficalty 
at once suggests itself as to whether 
London is to be included or excepted. To 
deal adequately with London would require 
greater space than is at our disposal, but 
to pass it over would leave but a meagre 
subject for the chronicler. The difficidty 
is one to be rather evaded than directly 
met, for, like King Charles's head in the 
memorial, London is sure to make its way 
into any essay upon the history of the 
county, which is, in fact, little more than a 
dependency of the great city within its 
bordera Even officially, London may be 
said to rule over the whole county, for, 
since an impecunious King sold the shrievalty 
of the county to the citizens of London, 
whenever there has been a case for hanging, 
drawing, or quartering in any part of the 
county, or of levy, or replevy, or any 
other unpleasant process to be inflicted 
on Her Majesty's lieges, it is the chosen 
officer of the citizens of London who does 

But long before county and city had 
assumed their present relations, the Bii§hop, 
who shared with the Portreeve the secular 

government of the City, held almost undis- 
puted sway over the country round about 
Whether there had ever ceased to be a 
Bishop in London since the first establish- 
ment of the Christian faith in Britain under 
the Roman sway, is a matter of some doubt. 
When he first comes into full historic light 
we find him a prelate high above the rest in 
power and influence, and little inferior in 
anything but ecclesiastical rank to the 
metropolitan of Canterbury. Eeminders 
of the former territorial importance of the 
Church in Middlesex may be found in the 
prebends of St Paul's, many of which take 
their titles from manors and lordships in the 
surrounding country beyond tiie city walls. 
So ancient are these prebendal endowments 
tiiat some of their estates, situated farther 
afield on the Essex coast, have disappeared 
under the waves in the course of ages, and 
have left only a memory behind. 

When we remember that the diocese of 
London is nothing else but the ancient 
kingdom of the East Saxons, and that this 
kingdom so-called, was, perhaps, in its 
turn, only tiie survival of the former Boman 
diocese, we may be led into speculations on 
the continuity of civic as well as ecclesiastical 
life hereabouts, which have hitherto no great 
authority to support them. But, anyhow, 
in Middlesex, the Bishop, whether by grants 
from pious Saxon chiere, or in virtue of his 
high office, was something like a prince, 
and long before the Conquest he held one 
of the pleasantest and most fertile of the 
meadow tracts about London. In Fulham, 
to quote from Domesday, the Bishop of 
London had forty hides, and the buildings 
that clustered there, the lowly roofs, beneath 
which was much good cheer, ^ opened 
their hospitable doors upon a fertile plain 
of meadows and orchards, interspersed with 
rich arable tracts, where the ploughman 
drove his team afield, secure under the 
sacred banner of the Church. And there 
is still ploughing going on at Fulham ; even 
in this very year of grace the present writer 
saw a ploughman — actually a ploughman, 
at work with his plough and team, while 
all about the carcases of unfinished houses 
and the rubbish of half-made roads enfold 
the patch of country. 

Even now, when all things are changing, 
you may look down from the arches of the 
District Railway upon something like 
a country village. The pleasant, wann- 
looking, red-bricked houses are there, with 
their roomy gardens, with arbours and 
pleasure-houses, where one might still eat 
a pippin in summer-time with much 



64 [March 6, 1886.] 


[Oondiicted by 

satUfdctioa Among them rises the grey old 
church tower, and beyond are the tall elms 
that screen the Bishop's palace. Pleasant, 
too, was the glimpse of rural quiet, even 
when red omnibuses and dusty hansoms 
were rolling by, a glimpse beneath the 
porte-cooh^re — the square archway, so to 
speak — of the old-fashioned house that 
stood athwart the Fulham end of Putney 
Bridge; a house that seemed a last re- 
minder of the old-fashioned bridges, with 
houses perched picturesquely over the tide, 
and on to which the traveller passed some- 
times under a prison-gate, with, perhaps', a 
grizzly head or two impaled upon its 
spikes; sometimes beneath the groined 
roof of a chapel, where some favourite 
saint invited the wayfarer's votive offering. 

But old Putney Bridse will soon be a 
thine of the past It had neither antiquity 
nor beauty to recommend it, but stUl it 
will be missed, and tiie more pretentious 
granite arches that succeed it will be long 
ere they acquire such a crust of old associa- 
tions# And just where crosses the primitive 
wooden bridge the river takes one of the 
most gracious aspects of its course. Above 
and below, for some miles, the banks are 
often uncomelv and even gruesome to con- 
template, but here, with woods, and lawns, 
and the noble sweep of the stream, we get 
a glimpse of what a grand river should be 
like. And that this should be such a 
pleasant comer we owe, no doubt^ to the 
old Ohurchmenwho made, their home here, 
and dug and planted for other men's 

There were swamps and marshes between 
Fulham and Chelsea, where there was 
hawking, no doubt, in the olden days, 
where the heron waded in the marshy 
streams, and where there was abundance 
of fowl, both great and small Indeed, it 
was as the home of the fowl that Fulham, 
they say, first took its name, although this 
may be doubted, being rather too vivid an 
imaginative flight for the sturdv Saxon. 
A brook that nses on Wormwood Scrubs, 
and finds its way, if it can, among a net- 
work of sewers to join the Thames opposite 
fiattersea, forms the boundary between old 
Fulham and Chelsea ; and what a brook it 
is when it reaches the river in the form 
of a sullen tidal creek, where barges lie up 
on the black mud — a fitting place f<Mr Mr. 
Qoilp to take up his abode. 

There is always something to show for 
Chelsea in the handsome rod4>ridc hos- 
pital for old soldiers ; the plan of which 
kbdly Nell Owyn was the first, it is said, 

to suggest to her royal lover. But is there 
anytUng left of the suburban village to 
which so many of the court and town 
resorted for fresh air 1 '< Pray, are no fine 
buns sold here in our town, was it not 
R-r-r-r-rare Chelsea Buns I " writes Swift to 
Stella, from his little room in Chelsea. 
^* Six shillings a week for one silly room, 
with confounded coarse sheets/' And in 
May, he records the haj almost fit to be 
mowed. And then he rows across with 
fine ladies and others to hear the nightin- 
gales at YauxhalL One night at eleven 
o'clock he is tempted by the ripples of the 
water, and went down in night-gown and 
slippers to swim in the river. 

There is just a morsel left of old Chelsea^ 
a fragment of High Street, with the stamp 
of individudity, and two rival bun-hooses 
to keep up the traditions of the warm and 
saffron-flavoured bun. Old Cheyne Walk 
still retains its gracious outline, with the 
elms under which Carlyle would sometimes 
smoke his pipe at nights ; and the comely 
brick church is always a landmark But 
of the great people who lived here in their 
grand houses, only a name here and tiiere 
of street or terrace recalls the memory. 
Lady Jane Cheyne sleeps in the church 
hu*d-by, who gave her name to the walk, 
where perhaps she might be met in dim 
brocade some starry night by one gifted 
with second-sight She was of the proud 
Cavendish blood, daughter of the Cavalier 
chief who fought Tom Fairfax in the north, 
and she married plain Charles Cheyne, 
who afterwards became Viscount New- 
haven. Cheyne's house had once been a 
royal jointure-house ; and here had lived 
Catherine Parr for a while with her hsmd- 
some Admiral, and with the Princess 
Elizabetii under her charge, too sprightly 
and frolicsome for the much - married 
Catherine. A few years later here lived 
the widowed Duchess of Northumberland, 
who had seen her eldest son mounting the 
steps of a throne onlj to mount still higher 
to the scaffold. And yet a mother of for- 
tunate sons and daughters — of the good 
Earl of Warwick, of Elizabeth's favourite, 
Leicester, and of the mother of Philip 
Sidney. Long before, the old manor- 
house had belonged, with the adjacent 
lands, to the reverend abbot of West- 
minster; for all about Middlesex, what 
St Paul had missed, St Peter had gained 
— a division of territory which perhaps 
gave rise to the wdl-known adage about 
robbing the one to pay the other. Last 
of all, in this strange, eventful history. 




ctefiitDiokeiii.] CHRONICLES OF ENGLISH COUNTIES [March e, use.] C5 

tppean Sir Hans Sloane, preserved to fame 
in Sloane Street and Hans Place, who came 
to Chelsea in his old age, witih his fine 
collections of cnrios and antiquities, which 
at his death went to form the nucleus 
of the British Museum. 

But here we are getting fairly into 
London and must retrace our steps. If 
we took the county according to its official 
diviuons, we should now take a complete 
drcoit of the City, for the Hundred of Ossul- 
statte is simply the belt of land surround- 
ing old London, and now comprises some 
of the busiest parts of the metropolis, 
its divisions consisting of Westminster, 
Kensington, Holbom, Finsbury, and the 
Tower. And being covered with houses, 
and ruled by countless local bodies, 
under numberless Acts of Parliament, the 
hundred has disappeared altogether from 
public view, and Uie sufferers from popular 
distorbances are puzzled enough how to 
enforce their legal claims against it But, 
apart from these considerations, the 
existence of this particular hundred and its 
boundaries are of some interest, as show- 
ing pretAy clearly that the divisions of the 
county, which, although popularly ascribed 
to Alfred tiie Great, are, no doubt, much 
earlier, were made with reference to 
London as a centre ; that the county, in 
fact, was made to fit the town, the reverse 
being generally the case in Teutonic in- 

It will be more convenient^ however, to 
take the chief highways which branch out 
from London as a centre, beginning with 
the great road to the West — ^the Bath 
road as it used to be called — which may 
be aaid to start from the White Horse 
Cellar in Piccadilly and to end by 

Famed Bolerium, cape of Btorms. 

It is only in comparatively recent days 
that the western road took its outlet 
throush Kensington and Hammersmith. 
Stukely says that the Roman road from 
Chichester crossed the Thames at Staines, 
where it was joined by otiier great roads, 
and passed tllrough Brentford to Tumham 
Green, and over Stamford Bridge, where 
Stamford Brook still waters a patch of 
half-open common, and so by the Acton 
road into Londoa And this was the route 
generally followed by travellers, till the 
age of coaches commenced and turnpikes 
were in the ascendant A fragment of 
the old road may be, perhaps, recognised 
in the Goldhawk Boad, which takes its 
name from the extinct manor of Cold- 
hawe, and not from the public-house sign 

of The Gilded Hawk — and which starts as 
if it meant to be an important thorough- 
fare, but dies away into nothingness just 
about that same Stamford Brook. It was 
a rough and broken way, we may imagine, 
about CromweU's time, when the Lord 
Protector, riding homewards from the 
west, narrowly escaped an ambush laid for 
him in the wuds of Shepherd's Bush. 

But to follow the more modem track 
We may leave Kensington, to its specialists, 
who discourse often pleasantiy enough 
about tiie old Court suburb, although in its 
courtly functions it does not seem to have 
arrived at any great antiquity. And 
we may leave Hammersmith, which local 
pronunciation would lead one to suppose 
had been Emma's Mead, but which was 
probably Hamon's Mead, with only a 
glance at its convents — now all new 
and furbished up, but in themselves the 
first monastic communities established in 
England since the Reformation. It is said, 
indeed, that a community of nuns has 
existed at Hammersmith uninterruptedly 
since Roman Catiiolic times; being un- 
endowed with landed property, it was 
overlooked or not thought worth dis- 
turbing at the dissolution of religious 
housea But the familiar picture which the 
name of Hammersmith recalls, the graceful 
suspension bridge with its brown towers 
and its steamboat-pier in the centre — this 
will no more be seen by mortal eyes 
— its chains are gone, its towers are 
falling fast, and what we may see in its 
place Heaven only knows. 

We must turn aside for a glimpse at 
Chiswick, with its church by the river- 
bank — a brand-new church, but with the 
old tower still standing — and surrounded 
by the old graveyard with its tombs of 
Hogarth and Loutherburg, and close by 
a comely old-fashioned Mali Great 
stretches of high brick wall conceal the 
Didce of Devonshire's villa, built upon the 
site of a house once occupied by Robert 
Carr, Earl of Somerset, whose intngue with 
the Countess of Essex, who subsequentiy 
became his wife, formed one of those 
unsavoury romances which delighted the 
public as much then as now. Here in 
sullen retirement and disgrace the unhappy 
woman ended her days in the now loathed 
companionship of the man for whom she 
had sacrificed everything. The Earl sur- 
vived his partner for many years, and was 
obliged to mortgage his house in order to 

Eay his daughter's marriisge-portion to her 
usband, Lord RusselL In the ducal villa 






::l I 


[Ooiidiictod Iv 


of modem times have often gathered the 
most distmeuished representatives of the 
yarioos worlds of arts, and politics, and here 
by a corioos coincidence died Fox and 
Oanningi visitors only at the house of a 
friend; to whom death came in his torn 
without ceremony. 

Almost as far as Tumham Oreen, which 
is the inland portion of Ghiswick parish, 
King Charles the First had reached on his 
victorious march from the west^ when 
everyone thought that he was destined to 
enter London in triumph and send all the 
Parliament folk to the Tower, and perhaps 
to the scaffold; when Milton, stout Puritan 
as he was, could only frame a sonnet to 
deprecate the fury of the stormers. 

Lift not thy spear against the muse's bower. 

But Lord Essex, with twenty-four 
thousand men, marched out this way, and 
encamped on Tumham Green, and the 
auspicious moment having been lost, 
Charles retreated slowly and reluctantly to 

Soon we reach Ounnersbury, originally 
Gunvldsbury, and perhaps the home of the 
Danish princess Gunyld, which, as Norden 
says in his Speculum, "is well scytuate for 
wood, ayre, and water". Gunnersbury 
House, now occupied by Baron Rothschild, 
is a fine old Jacobean mansion in origin, 
built by Webbe, a pupil of Inigo Jones, 
but a good deal altered and enlarged, with 
a chapel built for the use of the Princess 
Amelia, who at one time occupied the 
house. Gunnersbury Lane is still very 
much of a countoy lane, and the county 
round about is still a little countrified, 
whOe orchards and marhet-gardens dispute 
the ground with rows of houses, the 
skirmishing line of greater London. 

It is not easy to write enthusiastically of 
Brentford — 

tedious town, 
For dirty streets and white-legi^ed chickens known. 

Its long dull street, where every other 
house almost is a tavern, seems to the 
pedestrian as if it would never come to 
an end. A wayside town, it owed its 
straggling length to the wayfaring traffic 
of the eoachmg age, and there are still 
more carriers' curts passing through than 
you might think, to and from we Old 
Bailey, while on market-nights there is a 
long procession of waggons all night long 
towards Cpvent Garden — waggons which 
return next day loaded up with manure 
from the London stables. The river 
Brent, from which the place takes its name, 
has some historical interest in respect of 

its ford, which has often been hotly 
disputed for the defence of London against 
enemies coming from the west. To say 
nothing of battles with the Danes, too remote 
and uncertain to inspire much interest, 
there was a brisk engagement here between 
Royalists and Parliamentarians, when the 
latter were driven from the defences they 
had raised, and London, as we have just 
now related, seemed at tiie mercy of the 

The Brent River rises a good way t^ the 
north of London in the valley between 
Highgate and Finchley, where a cluster of 
houses named Brent Street gives us a clue 
to the name of the river. Some Britidi 
dwellings or Roman villas probably stood 
there, which our Saxon ancestors, with 
characteristic amenity, destroyed by fire, 
and named the place m commemoration of 
their exploit. Brent Street And thus the 
Celtic name of the stream being lost^ the 
newcomers called the stream, from the 
place it flowed from. Brent Brook or Brent 

Isleworth was probably Thistleworth — 
a grand feeding-ground for donkeys, which 
are still reared in the neighbourhood. And 
now we approach the quondam heath of 
Hounslow, once the terror of travellers 
for its highwaymen, but now nearly all 
enclosed. To the right lies Heston, a 
pleasant village enough, and Osterley Park 
with its solid, red-brick mansion. 

A somewhat dull and phlegmatic country 
lies before us, highly cultivated, but more 
fertile, perhaps, than fragrant — a country 
without meadows or wild-flowers; the 
smallest primrose-root would be ruthlessly 
extracted for the hawker's basket — where 
gangs of women, with the mud of the 
streets on their broken boots and patched 
gannents, are weeding or hoeing in long 

Bedfont is noteworthy if only for 
its curious yew-trees in the churchyard, 
neatly trimmed into the faint presentment 
of two fighting-cocks — birds in which, 
according to tradition, the parson of the 
parish once took a fond delight. But after 
Bedfont all is blank for miles — straight 
road, stumpy trees, stifif hedges, deep 
ditches, the only eminence a distant rail- 
way-bridge — till we reach Staines, a town 
which is accurately described in gazetteers 
as neat, but which has no other attraction, 
except its convenience as a boating-station 
on the river. 

Staines, anciently Stan, takes its name 
from the old boundary-stone of the City^s 


JQiudiotion on the river — a atone that, if 
ii stands in its original position, probably 
marks the site of the old Roman bridge 
over the river. The Roman name, indeed, 
of Staines, Pontes, would imply that there 
was more than one bridge. It may have 
been that tiie river then flowed in more 
Uum one channel, and was crossed by a 
series of bridges; bat anyhow here has 
always been an important crossing over 
the river. 

'S(> explore the peninsula cut oS by the 
h^way between Brentford and Staines, 
we may first take a cross-country road to 
Ashfoid, less known than its bustling 
south-eastern rival The first cause of 
Ashford, the ford over the little river — 
once the Esk, no doubt — ^varies the dulness 
of the way; a pretty scene, with a peaked 
hidge and a run of water beneath, with 
reeda and water-weeds, and sometimes a 
water-hen splashing about, and all with a 
backgroand of dark firs. Ashford itself 
comes next^ with villas and cottages about 
the little church, and bigger houses scat- 
tered about in die midst of lawns and 
gardens. Close by is a kind of wilderness, 
called Littleton, with gorse and thorn- 
bushes, and swarming with rabbits, while 
some fine old trees give a kind of dignity 
to the scene. Littleton looks interesting, 
and as if it had a history, but nobody 
seems to know anything about it 

Laleham, too, is a nice little village, 
on a pleasant and " fishy" looking bend of 
the river, where the banks are shaded with 
aah and willow, and rows of the inevitable 
elm. And here are old-fashioned red-brick 
houses with roomy gardens. Ponds and 
ducks abound, and ditches conduct the 
drainage of the district in a priuutive way 
towards the river. Then there is a 
rambling old church, very ancient and 
much patched, and an enviable parsonage 
all covered with syringa. Happy, too, 
is Laleham in that it has no history 
of a definite character, although tradition 
vpenikm of a certain river meadow that was 
gained for the parish by the pious care of 
its inhabitants in burying a drowned person 
f oond upon its banks. 

The pleasant little riverside towns of 
Shepperton and Sunbury have little to 
contribute to the genenu history of the 
county, but Hampton, with its splendid 
^reen and adjacent royal palace, seems to 
invite a little delay. Lons was Moulsey 
Hurst, close by, a kind of Campus 
Martins, where, in the old pugilistic days I 
of Cribbi and Spring, and the rest, many | 

a well-fought battle was decided within 
the roped enclosure. There, too, is the 
racecourse, once almost the only suburban 
racecourse of any note, and that note of 
rather a minor key; with little to tempt 
the turfite, but dear to tiie costermonger 
and sporting batcher and baker of the 
period. But what a wonderful change has 
come over the scene, with Kempton Park, 
and Sandown, and Croydon, with races all 
the year round, and thousands of pounds 
given away in prizes, and stiU more 
Uiousands won and lost over every race, 
while wealth and fashion crowd the stands 
and enclosures, and the gate-money pours 
in with ever-inoreasing stream ! Assuredly, 
whatever else maybe in decay, the turf 
has suffered no hard timea 

This, by the way, suggested by the 
aspect of MoiUsey Hurst ;^ut it is need- 
less to remark that the serious interest 
of Hampton is concentrated in its palace. 

The quaint-looking palace, a sort of 
Dutch Versailles on a small scale, retains 
one quadrangle, which bears the marks of 
its first founder, Cardinal Wolsey, and 
with its trim lawns and flower-beds, and 
geometric avenues, looks, on a bright 
summer's day, a really going concern, which 
it would be easy to people with the actors 
of other timea It is not altogether un- 
inhabited; soldiers mount guiurd at the 
gates; within the sunny garden-borders old 
ladies with their lap-dogs are wheeled 
about in Bath-chairs; nor are there wanting 
grace and beauty to brighten up the sombre 
old windowa It must oe a kind of splendid 
misery to be lodged in Hampton Court, 
the rooms often dark and low, the kitchen 
a long wav off from the dining-room — in 
the next block, perhaps ; and then there are 
the ghosts at night. Sometimes we may 
fancy anterooms, and presence-chambera 
and secret dosets, all illumined by a spectral 
kind of light, as gilded coaches dash nlentl^ 
up, and pages and equerries throng th^ 
staircases and entrancea i 

At Hampton you have a glimpse of the 
royalty of the past, the life en plein jour oi 
the Kin^ or Queen, when their rising and 
their gomg to bed were so many half -public 
performances of high interest and impoi 
tance, when the gentlemen and ladies 
the bedchamb^ actually performed tl 
duties of their office, and royalty shiver< 
in the cold, while noble dames disputed tl 
right to hand over the robe de nuit Thei 
is the royal four-poster, there the clock ' 
which the King regulated his slumberd 
With all this cumbrous etiquette ^^ 



63 (March 6, 1886.] 


{Ooodnctod tf 

majesty had fiometimea to rise early and 
start upon loDg journeys, Trith hard knocks, 
marching, and cannonading at the end of 
them. There were backstair plots, too, 
and mntterings, and, altogether, life at 
Hampton Court was not a l>ed of roses. 

But all this is lon^ ago. Hardly one of 
our present dynasty has nsed the place as a 
residence, and it is with William the Third 
and his Qaeen that the chief associations 
of the court are connected. But always 
we shall remember Wolsey there, the proud 
Cardinal who first saw the adyantages of 
the site, and who must have deeply 
regretted the sacrifice to prudence that he 
made in handing over the place t^ his royal 
master. Henry himself is a constant pre- 
sence there, now with his cruel frown, and 
now with his falsely jovial air. Here came 
his Queens, one after the other. It was a 
sort of ogre's castle for them, where they 
might in fancy see the bleaching bones of 
their predecessors. Queen Bess did not 
care for the place; the air was too stagnant 
for her. But the Stuarts loved it wefi, the 
merry monarch the least of all, perhaps. 

The pictures, too, that line the walls — 
the fine collection of portraits chiefly — 
require a lengthened study, and are of 
priceless interest to those who have become 
acquainted with the originals in the history 
of their own land. But, somehow, a hasty 
glance seems all that is possible at Hamp- 
ton Court You promise yourself to go 
again often, but you do not ga There 
seems a spell about the place, so that no 
cunningly-laid plans to reach it ever suc- 
ceed. It must be visited, if at all, 
"promiscuous like ", 

And now we come to Twickenham — le 
vieuz Twick of the bourgeois monarch 
who, as Duke of Orleans, lived here so 
long, and gave his title to Orleans House. 
The house, where lately the Orleans Club 
held its aristocratic revels, is not without 
its interest. Here once came Princess 
Anne for country air, with that one boy of 
hers who, among her flock of children, 
alone passed safely the perils of infancy. 
He would have been King of England had 
he lived, and changed the ftce of history, 
perhaps, thisyoun^ Duke of Gloucester, with 
his little boy regunenti instead of wooden 
soldiers, to march up and down the formal 
paths and round about the oabbaffe-beds. 

Two notable veterans shared the rest of 
the century between them in this same 

Jamie Johnstone, of Warriston, whose 
father had lost his head, with his patron, 

Arg^le, in the troubles of 1663, and who 
was now Secretary of State and Lord 
Register for Scotland, was one of them. 
Here he entertained Queen Caroline, Oeorge 
the Second's faithful consort, buildiDg an 
octagon room in honour of the occasiim. 
But the good man died in 1737, just about 
the time of the Porteous Riots ; so thai 
Jeanie Deans could not have seen him 
when she made her famous visit to London. 
He was ninety years of age when he died, 
and had lived under ten sovereigns, if one 
may count the two Cromwella He might 
have been taken in his nurse's arms to the 
execution of Charles the First, and lived 
to hob-a-nob with poor Queen Caroline — 
surely a life that must have been charged 
with strange memories. 

The ot^er veteran was a stout and florid 
English figure, a brave, old-fashioned 
Admiral, Sir George Pocock, who, after 
exchanging many hard knodcs with the 
French in the Indian Seas, had the good 
luck to capture the Havannah, and retired 
to Twickenham to enjoy his laurels and 
his prize-money. Kempenfelt — brave 
Kempenfelt, who went down, with twice 
five hundred men, in the Royal Geoi^e — 
was one of his captains, and another 
was Norfolk Jervis, who afterwards won 
a peerage at Camperdown. Pooock 
himself was a nephew of that unhappy 
Admiral Byng who was court-martialled 
and shot, ''pour enconrager les autres". A 
notable thing, too, is it that Sir (George 
had under his orders the gallant Thunder- 
bomb, and knew something about the 
unhappy Billie Taylor and his ladie faire. 
Pocock died when the French Revoluti<m 
was in full swing, and illustrious exiles 
were coming in shoals to our shores. 

One of the first to settle at Twickenham 
was Louis Philippe, a fugitive from Uie 
revolutionary army, in which he had held 
high command. Hmb two younger brotiiers, 
the Due de Montpensier and the Comte de 
Beaujolais, who joined him here on their 
release from prison, died in their sombre 
place of exile. But Louis Philippe lived 
here, at intervals, till he returned to France 
at the Royalist restoration. Hardly, how- 
ever, had he unpacked bis trunks, when he 
came flying back, contentedly enough, to 
le vieux Twick for the hundred days of 
Napoleon's last struggle. The house was a 
resort of the Orleans family till 1875, when 
the Due d'Aumale finally abandoned it to 
the clubbites, but when Louis Philippe re- 
turned for his last exile, in 1848, he took up 
his abode at Claremont, which was assigned 



^ »> ' . 




Gharioi DioksiiB.] 


[March 6, 1886.] 69 

to him by King Leopold of Belgium, who 
had a life-interest in the place in right of 
his late wife, the hapless Princess Charlotte. 
More congenial, perhaps, are the me- 
moric s of Pope, in his villa by the banks 
of silver Thames, and of Walpole at Straw- 
berry Hill, the house still eziBting, but the 
grounds all cut up into building sites ; 
memories that we must leave for another 


By THEO gift. 

Author <tf*'La Larimer," *'An Alibi and its Price," 

me., Etc. 


" Vera, don't forget that Naomi is going 
to have some friends this evening, and that 
you are to make yourself look pretty," said 
Leah, with something more than her usual 
briskness one afternoon. 

They were not at the Josephs's house in 
Kensingtoa Mr. Josephs had gone off 
with his wife to the meeting of the British 
Association in Dublin, and Naomi, whose 
husband had taken a villa at Weybridge 
for ihe summer, had invited all the younger 
members of the family — Vera included— 
to come down to her there for the weeks of 
their parents' absence. 

'' It will be a treat to get you to myself 
for even so short a time, Leah, after your 
bein^ away so long,'' the elder sister said 
coazingly ; ^ and as for your friend, I shall 
be delighted to have her. My babies have 
struck up a tremendous alliance with her ; 
and only yesterday Alix was saying to 
me, ' Do ask F'ench 'uDg lady to 'tay here, 
mummy. Her tells such nice fairly 'tories 
io L' Come all of you to-morrow." 

And they had done so without more 
ado; not being a family at all given to 
making difficulties, or standing on ceremony 
with one another, but being always pre- 
pared to give or take with equal readiness. 

To Vera, indeed, the overflowing hearti- 
ness and jollity, ihe keen banter and family 
jokes, the freedom from all constraint, and 
absolute confidence which reigned in both 
households, were a perpetual and never 
flagging wonder, the effect of which, how- 
ever, was to make her at first even more 
shv and retiring — with Leah as well as the 
others — than she had ever been before. 

"But you see it is all so new and 
different to me," she had said plaintively 
once when the latter expostulated with her. 
''Even you yourself, Leah. Not that you 

are less nice to me than you were. In- 
deed, I think that in some ways you seem 
nicer than ever, bat at St Tryphine your 
niceness all appeared to belong to me, to 
be for me, and no one else ; just as you 
were not like anyone else, but a beautif al 
fairy come down into my world to make 
it bright for me ; while here you belong 
to your parents, and brothers, and sisters, 
and a lot of other people, and they belong 
to you, and are all a little like yon, and 
you like them, and it is I who have come 
into your world — the fairyland world — 
only, instead of being a brightness, I am 
a dull little patch there as a mortal should 
be," and Vera laughed a trifle sadly. 

Leah laughed too, putting her arms 
round the girl as she did so. 

"Why, Vera, what a fanciful little 
flatterer you arel And such poetical 
fancies, too ! But, do you know, you are 
not really flattering me, after all, when 
you show me that you made me more at 
home with you in Brittany than we are 
doing with you hera Why should you 
call yourself a dull little patch ) You are 
not so to us, and you would not feel so 
yourself if you would be only less shy, and 
would talk and enjoy yourself, instead of 
hiding away in comers and peeping out 
with your great, solemn eyes like a white 
mouse in a cage of magpies. Mother said 
only the other day that she was afraid you 
were not happy here." 

"Oh, but I am; and I did not mean 
' dull ' in that sense," cried Vera eagerly. 
''That is just what I enjoy, looking at 
and listenijig to you all, and keeping 
quiet myseli It is just like a play to me 
with a lot of scenes, or a long gallery of 
pictures ; only they are all pleasant pictures 
and scenes, and I never get tired of them 
as I might of real ones. Please, please 
tell your mother so, dear Leah, or perhaps 
she will think I am ungratefcd, and will 
want to send me away." 

*' Here she is, so you had better tell her 
yourseli She is such a sceptical old 
woman she mightn't believe me," said Leah 
gaily; but, indeed, both she and the others 
soon found out that Yera's shyness and 
silence did not mean unhappiness, and that 
the only thing which really distressed her 
was to be forced out of it, and made to 
come into the foreground, and mingle with 
the talk and chi^ of the lively young 
people about her. 

Her great delight on the other hand was, 
as Naomi said, to get hold of that 
lady's three younger children, and pet and 




70 P<faroh6,1886.] 


(Condnctod by 


play with them by the hour together; a 
fancy of which those young Turks soon 
became aware, and which they turned to 
account by riding roughshod over her in 
every sense of ihe word, galloping to 
Banbury Cross on her foot, trapping her 
between four chairs as a bear, chasing her 
along the garden walks as a rabbit, riding 
triumphantly on her back with the thick, 
plaited tail of her hair clutched in their 
little hands to hold on by, or cuddled down 
in her lap to be sung to, with a luxurious 
pleasure which was more than reciprocated 
by the lonely little girl, who haid never 
lived in a house with little children in it 
before, and thought each of their words 
and ways more charming than the last. 

For their parents she had much less 
admiration. Naomi, it is true, was not 
unlike Leah in many ways; and was a 
very pretty, sensible young woman, over- 
flowing with good nature to everyone, and 
prepared to feel special kindness towards 
anyone who had the good taste to admire 
her children ; but she had not her sister's 
advantages either in the way of natural 
talent or education, and having had to deal 
with the rougher and more prosaic side of 
life in her early youth, had in these later 
days of prosperity taken more aidently to 
tiie creature-comforts of life than is per- 
haps consistent with a high degree of 
refinement or intellectual culture. And 
creature-comforts, combined with a healthy 
capacity for enjoying them to the utmost, 
have a tendency to make the female 
figure spread, to double the classic chin, and 
bring an undue floridness to the cheeks. 
Naomi did not like getting fat She had 
bad a particularly small waist in the days 
of her girlhood, and that portion of her she 
manag^ to retain of very medium size by 
dint of rigorous lacing ; but the result, as 
regards the line of beauty, was hardly per- 
haps as successful as might have been 
desired ; and her mother had remonstrated 
more than once on the process. 

*' Better let yourself go, dear," she said 
kindly. " It can't be hcNUthy to take your- 
self in so much ; and I'm sure it is that 
which sends the blood to your face." But 
Naomi was unpersuadable. 

<'My dearest mother, I should be a por- 
poise I How very brutal of you I And 
my waist is only just decent as it is. If I 
were to let it get a bit bigger, Lucas would 
be so disgusted with me he'd go off with 
some other young woman. Don't you 
think he would. Miss St. Laurent! I 
know he admires you." 

Vera thought Mrs. Lucas vulgar, and 
wondered she could be Leah's sister, or 
that Mrs. Josephs should seem equally fond 
and proud of both her daughters. She did 
not at all understand it when the tender- 
hearted mother would say, with tears in 
her eyes, after a visit from her eldest girl : 

" Ah, no one knows what Naomi is to 
me, who didn't see her in the days when 
she and I had to fight through our worst 
troubles together. That child ! I can see 
her now, a wee thing of seven, toasting her 
father's bread, or steggerin^ up and down 
the room with baby Leah in her arms so 
as to set me free to see to tiie other house 
duties. And when she was bigger, the 
times and times she's gone to scnool with 
only a bit of dry bread in her satchel that 
there might be more butter left for the 
little ones, or pretended not to care about 
milk in her coffee at breakfast I The 
Lord bless my girl I 'Tis a righteous re- 
ward that she uiould enjoy her life now.'' 

Neither did Vera return Mr. Lucas's 
admiration; though her indifference to 
men — a peculiarity which even Leah could 
not help remarking wonderingly — made her 
less keen to detect the special faults in hiuL 

After all they were not very heinous 
ones; for it certainly could not be put down 
as a fault, of malice on his part that Mr. 
Lucas only stood five foot nothing in his 
boots, and that the little legs terminating 
in the said boots were so thin and curved 
as to suggest his having been a weakly 
babe set down to toddle too early in life ; 
nor that his nose was unduly large, and his 
chin disproportionately small for the rest 
of his features; while ms conversation dealt 
so exclusively with sale and barter, with rise 
in this and fall in that, that Vera, who, like 
most girls, tiiought nothing so uninterest- 
ing as money matters^ quite sympathised* 
with Mr. Josephs when he used to say : 

"Naomi's good man is coming to teat 
Then bring me mine into my study, one of 
you. I've got a delicate experiment to 
make this evening, and if the word ' city ' 
once gets into my brain tiiere's no more 
hope for science in it" 

To do him justice, however, Mr. Lu(»8 
never wilfully obtruded his own special 
topic on his father-in-law, for whom, as for 
all his wife's family, he entertained the 
warmest respect and admiration. He 
was a City man, of course, and a City 
man, ''pur et simple," understandmg 
nothing so well as the making of money, 
succeeding venr well in the manufacture, 
I and enjoymg it hugely when mada But 



CliailM DIckeoA.] 


[March 6, 1886.] 71 

more even than money— or the making of 
it — did Mr. Lucas worship his wife and 
adore hiB children ; nor did the assidoity 
of his grabbings in the City show itself, as 
with many Christians, in stinginess at 
home and dose-fistedness generally. He 
was really an excellent young man, generous 
to his family, charitable to the poor — ^the 
Jewish poor, "bien entendu" — a regular 
attendant at the synagogue, keeping all the 
fasts and feasts of the law with the greatest 
regularity^ and being fax more orthodox 
senerally than the men of the Josephs 
uunily. Also, utterly prosaic and common- 
place as he might be, he had a weakness, 
or, rather, a passion, a romance of his very 
own, so delicious, all-absorbing, and con- 
solatory, tiiat^ even though '* slurtings had 
fallen again " and " blue winseys were a 
drug in the market", he could still find 
peace and joy during those months of the 
year when the seasons permitted him to 
devote part at any rate of his evenings to 
the enjoyment of it. I allude to that sport 
which an ill-natured person has somewhat 
flippantly described as " a hook at one end 
of a line and a fool at the other." 

It was for the indulgence of this pastime 
that Mr. Lucus had gone to the expense of 
the Weybridge villa ; though it is not to 
be denied that he got it cheaper than any- 
one else could have done, its owner beine 
in his debt and glad to economise abroad 
for a time ; and anyone who had seen him 
emerge from the station of an evening and 
hurry home, smug and City-like, in his 
tighUy-fitting f rock-coat, top hat^ and patent 
leather boots, to sally forth again a few 
minutes later, dad in a shabby and worn- 
out suit of checked flannel, a cap of the 
same material on his head, with ear-flaps 
tied down under his chin, a disreputable 
old fish-basket in one hand and a bundle 
(A rods, etc , in the other, would hardly have 
known }nm for the same person. This, 
however, was Mr. Lucas in his highest and 
happiest moments, just as the subsequent 
hours, which he passed, silent, motionless, 
and almost breathless, on a cane chair in a 
punt moored about half a mile down the 
liver, were those of the purest and most 
unalloyed enjoyment he ever experienced. 
So well this was understood, indeed, by 
the whole family, that his eldest boy and 
tiie two youDg Josephs looked on the 
privilege of a seat in the punt, and a 
miniatore rod of their own, as something 
akin to the *^ golden bar of heaven " ; while 
his wife, though delighting in nothing ^ 
mudi as the society of her neighbours on 

these summer afternoons, would have given 
up every engagement in the world rather 
than not be at home when her Albert came 
back from town, so as to see that his rods 
and other paraphernalia were ready in the 
hall, and give him a cup of tea and a kiss 
before he departed to his beloved punt, 
and she to some river picnic or afternoon 
tennis-party ; at which latter, though she 
did not play herself, she could sit in the 
shade chatting to other matron friends, and 
think how much more gracefully Leah 
played than the other girls, and how much 
prettier, sharper, and better behaved her 
children were than the children of any 
other lady present 

Vera did not play tennis. In the first 
place she did not know tiie game, and in the 
next she was too shy to learn it ; on hear- 
ing which, Mr. Lucas was cruel enough to 
propose that she should come in the punt 
with him and fish, and Naomi declared it 
was the greatest honour he^had shown any 
girl of her acquaintance. 

" He won't have me. He says I can't 
do without talking and friffhtenine the 
fish; and it's true— I really cant I snould 
scream if I wasn't allowed to say some- 
thing once in five minutes," she said 
cuiiudly ; and even Leah observed : 

" I hope you won't mind it, dear. You 
needn't go again if it's stupid ; but I do 
think Albert wants to be kind, and show 
you attention." 

Poor Vera had not courage to resist, 
and went like a martyr offering no further 
protest than a feeble : 

<< But I don't know how to fish 1 " 

" Oh, you will soon learn," said Mr. Lucas 
benevolently ; " it comes of itself to those 
who have a taste for it, and I am sure you 
have. I see you like being quiet, and this 
is quiet and exdtement, too — ^the perfection 
of both. See here ; take hold of your rod— 
so, and just play the line gently. We mustn't 
talk, you know — ^it woufi never do to dis- 
turb the fish — and, when you fed a bite, 

turn your wrist quickly, and Of course, 

though, if it is a very heavy fellow " 

But perhaps this recommendation was 
needless. Indeed, Mr. Lucas was not often 
called upon to struggle with a ''heavy 
fellow " himself, and v era certainly never 
felt a bite at alL She sat like a statue, the 
picture of meek dodlity, for three hours, 
never opening her lips or stirring ; and 
only revealed the depths of her misery to 
Leidi by ^e piteous enquiry, after tiheir 
return home : 

''Do you think I need ever go again, 







Leah ) Of coarse, I moat, if you say so ; 
but do you think I need 1 " 

Leah made haste to assure her to the 

" My dearest child, bow often must I 
tell you that you never need do anything 
you don't like here 1 All we want — now 
that your father is better — i% for you to 
enjoy yourself *and be happy." 


On the present occasion, Vera did not 
look as if the idea of an evening entertain- 
ment was enjoyment, for she faced round 
from where she was sitting, screwed up on 
the lower step of an iron staircase leading 
down from the drawing-room to the villa- 
garden, and said, rather apprehensively: 

" Do you mean a party, Leah 1 " 

<' Oh dear no ! But Naomi has found 
out that the Salomons are at Shepperton, 
and she asked them to row up this even- 
ing, and have supper and some music with 
us; and the Werthers, from next door, 
and two gentlemen, old friends of ours " — 
Leah's colour deepened suddenly in her 
cheeks — '* are coming toa" 

*' Friends I have met already 1" asked 
Vera, not noticing. 

"No; I don't think so — not one of 
them, at any rate. He (his name is Dr. 
Marstland^," Leah's colour was certainly 
wonderfully beautiful that afternoon, and 
she seemed to feel it herself, for she turned 
her face aside, so as to face the fresh 
breeze, " had left town before we returned 
from Brittany. He has taken a house- 
boat on the river for the summer holidays, 
and it was only by chance he found out 
we were here. His friend is a ^Ir. Burt — 
John Burti the water-colour artist Don't 
you remember our meeting his wife and 
her sister one day at the Exhibition, and 
her saying they were just off to Switzer- 
land 1 Well, they didn't go, because the 
sister was taken Ul with the measles, and 
he is staying with G^rge Marstiand on 
board the house-boat instead." 

" WeU, it will be like a party to me," 
said Vera; "and tiien there was that garden 

oneyestei^ay. I wonder Leah, do you 

think mamma would call it being too gay I" 

"Gay 1 My dear, of course not" 

" But you know what she said when you 
spoke of it not being the season now, and 
of how quiet you were." 

" Yes ; bu^ my dear Vera, that was only 
because of the danger your father was then 

in. You did not know of it, because Mdme, 
St Laurent did not wish to frighten you; but 
I dare say she felt that if you did know, 
you would not care to be going out much, 
or enjoying yourself. However, thi^ is 
all past now, for he is much better ; even 
the fear of a relapse over. Didn't your 
mother say so in her last letter ) " 

"Yes," said Vera. "WeU, Leah, you 
know befit, and if mamma only meant 

that " She paused a moment, add 

then added somewhat irrelevanUy : " I 
remember Mrs. Burt, a rather melanchdy- 
looking person, dressed in a funny way, 
something like the saints in stained-glacs 
windows. She asked me if I knew St 
Matthias's in West Brompton, and told me 
how beautiful the Whitsuntide decorations 
there had been ; so I supposed she was a 

" Oh yes ; the Borta are very decidedly 
Christian, and very High Church people — 
almost Boman Catholics. Indeed, when 
Mr. Burt is on the Continent (by tiie way, 
he is very fond of Brittany ; I must intro- 
duce him to you), I believe he goes to mass 
as refi^ularlv as any of the peasants." 

"Does be, reaUyl" said Vera, looking 
shocked ; then : " And Dr. Marstiand — ^u 
he a Chnstian, too 1 Somehow, the name 
doesn't sound Jewish." 

" Yes." Leah's tone had grown suddenly 
grave, almost sad ; but the next moment 
she smiled, and added : " I know what is 
in your mind, Vera, but vou are safe 
enough this time. Dr. Marstiand is as good 
a Chnstian and Protestant as your moUier. 
You may make friends with him safely, and 
you will He is a man everyone likea" 

" Do you like him, Leah 1 I have more 
faith in you than ' everybody'.*' 

"II" Leah hesitated an instant, but 
added almost immediately and with extra 
distinctness : " Yes, I like him exceedingly; 
but we have known him a long time, 
Naomi and L He used to attend father's 
chemistry class, and study botany privately 
with him as well, before he took hu degrea 
Father is very fond of him. Well, don't 
be late in dressing. Vera. I will go and 
cut some flowers lor your hair," and she 
ran off humming a tune as Ae went 

It was that of the littie French song she 
had taught Vera. ^ 

"Que tout le monde soit gai, ch^cj^!" 
and Vera thought that her voice had neyer 
sounded sweeter. 

The Bight ofTranslaHng ArHeksfivm All thb Yeab Round ii rtitrvtd hy ih$ AtOhon. 





Breakeast was always a pleasant meal 
at The Qainces. The sun shone into the 
bright, pretty dining-room, from whioh 
lihaSy with the dismal recollection of 
Harley Street before her, had carefoUy 
excladed the ponderous fomitore, the 
hideons carpet, and the melancholy hang- 
ings that used to be regarded as the 

\ correct attribute of an apartment in which 
people were to eat and drink. The 
windows looked out on the lawn, where a 
multitude of birds, daOy pensioners of 
The Quinces, were busily engaged in clear- 
ing off sereral little heaps of food which 
were put down for them regularly every 
morning. Order, very curious to note, 
attended this observance. Shortly after 
the baskets of food had been emptied, a 
flapping of wings would be heard, and 

}the rooks from two rookeries at a con- 
siderable distance, would arriva While 
these early birds were breakfasting, the 
smaller legions would muster, discreetly 
alighting on the erass at a respectful dis- 
tance, and twittenng in the trees, until the 
shining black company rose and flapped 
away nomewards again, with tit-bits in 
their beaks for domestic consumption, 
when they would set-to upon the scattered 
prcvender with delighted chirpings and 
ma«Aniga And then, how good it was to 
hear their shrill pipings, and occasionally 
a glorious burst of song from some 
hilarious feathered creature, with more 
leisure than its neighbours to give thanks 
for its breakfast Lilias loved to preside 
unheeded over her daily dole to the birds. 

On the morning after the play, the party I 
assembled at breakfast was even more 
cheerful than usual, for not only was there 
the usual pleasant discussion of plajis for 
the day, but Dolores had a real good oppor- 
tunity of expressing her feeungs about 
PortiaandShylock. (Lionel and Mra Court- 
land, and even Aunt Lilias herself, had all 
been so unaccountably and inconsiderately 
tired on the previous night, that there was 
no getting to say one half she wanted. 
If Julian could only have come home with 
theml He was quite as much pleased 
with the play as she had been, and they 
might have talked it over so delight- 

Nobody was tired this morning, however, 
and there was sunshine inside and out, for / 
Dolores had a pleasant day in prospect, I 
and Julian was coming to dinner. \ 

Colonel Courdand followed the multi- 
tude in the matter of reading his favourite 
newspaper at breakfast ; but there are « 
many ways of reading a newspaper — some , 
of them excessively aggravating to the 
beholder — and the Goloners was an 
amiable and inoffensive way. He was open 
to being diverted from the leading article, 
or even from the telegraphic news; he 
was even capable of spontaneous inatten- 
tion, and consciousness of the presence of 
other persons; he did not mind being 
asked whether *' there was anything in '' 
the paper, by a lady who couldn't be 
troubled to glance at the epitome of the 
history of the world for herself, and he 
never upset his teacup in the ardour of his 
interest in anything. On the present occa- 
sion he was about equally divided between 
the burning question of the day, which 
would be to-morrdw the white ashes of 
yesterday, and the animated discussion of 
tho play at the Lyceum Theatre. The 
ladies were all agreed on its merits ; but 



74 tHarch 13, 1886.] 


tOondiMted ty 

Dolores was naturally the most entha- 
elastic of the three. 

" And 80 you wonld not mind going to 
see the same play again this evening — eh, 
Dolores 1 " said Colonel Gonrtland, as he 
finally laid aside his newspaper. 

'* Indeed I should not/' answered Lilias ; 
"or to-morrow eyening, and on Thurs- 
day — no, not Thursday, because we are 
going to Mrs. Donne's dance; but on 
Friday — ^no, no; you need not shake your 
head.' I know it would take much more 
than a week to convince me that I had 
seen enough of Shylock and Portia." 

''Ah well,'' said the Colonel, as he poured 
out some cream for a remarkably hand- 
some and elegant eat, known as ''The 
Masher ", *' it's a fine thing to be young. It 
makes all the difference.'' 

'* I never enjoyed a play so much in my 
life ; did you. Aunt Luiaa f " 

''Not for a great many years, cer- 
tainly," said Lilias with a grave smile. 

'^Even though I had read it all, and 
knew that it comes right in the end, I 
was quite wild with anxiety while that 
beautiful Portia was in suspense. It must 
be a dreadfol thing to be kept in suspense. 
Aunt Lilias, I really almost persuaded 
myaelf that Bassanio might choose the 
wrong casket." 

"iniat is just what it was the actor's 
purpose to made you feel, my dear," said 
the Colonel "And I have no doubt, so 
pretty and artless a tribute would please 
even those ^eat artists." 

" Supposmg he had — ^if it was all real, I 
mean,' said Dolores, with a thoughtful 
look, "I wonder what would have hap- 
pened to Portia 9 " 

" Ah, now," said Mrs. CourUand, " you 
have struck out an original vein of Shake- 
spearean speculation. I don't think any- 
body has ever thought of that before. It 
would have been vervbad for Bassanio, 
but Portia would, no doubt, have made a 
much better match, i^ as you say, it was 
all real." 

" Oh, Mrs. Courtland, how can you say 
60 ! I am sure Portia would either have 
died on the spot^ or ^ven up everything 
and married Bassanio. And I'm sure 
Aunt Lilias thinks so, too 1 " 

" I would not ' put it past ' Aunt Lilias 
and somebody else also to think so," said 
Mrs. Courtland with a sly little smile, and 
a glance which included her husband in 
its kindly fun ; " but you forget that poor 
Bassanio could hardly afford to settle it 
in that way. No, Dolores ; I think, if it 

was real, Portia would have had to get 
over it." 

The subject was discussed for a few 
minutes longer, to the amusement of the 
Colonel, but unheeded by Lilias, to whom 
a servant had brought a note with an 
intimation that the bearer was to wait for 
an answer. 

"From Mr. Dexter," said Lilias, and 
then she perceived the word "Private" 
above the few lines which the note con- 
tained. She read those lines with a slight 
change of colour, and, excusing herself to 
Mrs. Courtland, left the room. 

Miss Merivale did not return to ti&e 
breakfast-table. Dolores went off to prepare 
for a ride in the Colonel's company ; and 
Mrs. Courtland betook herself to her own 
sitting-room, where she invariably remained 
invisible until the hour of luncheon. 

Dolores had run into her aunt's room in 
her riding-dress to say a gay good-bye, 
according to custom, and had flitted away 
without an idea that Lilias was disturbed 
about anything. Lilias watched the 
riders pacing soberly down the avenue 
with a parting salute of envious barks, 
from the little dogs left at home, to the 
fine greyhound, Dombey, who condescended 
to accommodate his speed to that of the 
inferior animal mounted by his beloved 
mistress, and then she seated herself at 
the window which commanded the avenue 
— to wait 

There was a shadow upon the &ce oi 
Lilias, so calm and untroubled of late. 
The long-laia ghost of the past had imn 
before her; the long-hushed echo of the 
old wailing had once more come to her ear; 
the long-healed wound was beginning to 
ache with a revival of the former pain. 
Her hands lay in her lap; a twisted 

taper was pressed between iJieir palms; 
er thoughts were back in the years that 
were gone, but — it might be — not done 
with even yet; and fear, always easOy 
aroused by the unexpected in those ydto 
have suffered much, had taken hold of her. 
"That man," she said to herself over 
and over again; "it must be that man! 
Mr. Dexter did not see him, and even if 
he had seen him, he would not recognise 
him after all these yeara What brings 
him here 9 ' The interests of Miss 
Rosslyn ! ' " She twisted the paper im- 
patiently between her fingers. " What 
has he to do with her ? Oh, my darling, 
is sorrow cominff to us ) Is any calami^ 
upon us) I look at our position from all 
sides, and I can see none on which it is 




Cbailii Dteka.] 


[March 13, 1886.] 75 

not guarded ; and yet my heart fails me, 
and something that I cannot resist tells me 
this interview will have some great mean- 
ing to me." 

She smoothed oat the twisted paper and 
read Mr. Dezter's written words once 

" I am requested by a gentleman, who 
was closely connected with certain 
inddents in the life of Mr. Hugh Bosslyn, 
to ask yon, in the interests of Miss 
Rosslyn, to give him an interview. He 
prefers to tell yon himself what his name 
is, and what are the circmnstances that 
have led him to address this request to 
me. I must, however, add that he has 
fully explained himself to me in my double 
capacity of your legal adviser and your old 
friend, and that I strongly advise you to 
see him at once, and alone. Immediately 
on my receipt of your favourable answer — 
for which the gentleman will wait at my 
office, where he now is — he will go to The 

" It must be Willesden," thought Lilias; 
"in good clothes he would have looked 
like a 'gentleman '." 

The time seemed long to Lilias, for all 
her dread of what it was to bring, and yet 
she started from her seat at the sound of 
wheels upon the avenua A hansom drew 
up at the porch, and a man alighted from 
it, so quicKly that she could not see what 
he was like. She heard the hall-door 
opened and closed, and then she waited 
untH her visitor was announced as ''a 
gentleman from Mr. Dexter's". She passed 
by a lon^ glass near the door of her room, 
and caught sight of a very pale face in it ; 
but rallying her courage she descended 
the stairs quickly, entered the drawing- 
room, and found herself in the presence of 
a distinguished-looking man of middle-age, 
who was an entire strusger to her. 

Lilias had so completely persuaded her- 
self that she was about to see James 
Willesden, that the surprise of meeting a 
person totally unknown to her instead, 
overthrew the self-command which she bad 
summoned up for a different emergency. 
She faltered and stood still, deadly paJe, 
and without an attempt to speak. 

"IkOss Merivale," said the stranger, 
hurriedly approaching her, " you are iU — 
brightened. I beg your pardon a thousand 
times, if I am the cause of this. Let me 
ezfdain in as few words as possible." He 
brought a chair for her, and she seated her- 
self, looking up at him dumbly. '* I could 
not have mought you would be so much 

upset after so many yeara I saw you at 
the Lyceum last night; I was in a box 
with Mr. Dexter, and I asked him about 
you. When he told me you were the step- 
daughter of the late Dr. Bosslyn, and that 
the young lady with you was his grand- 
child, I felt a great desire to make your 
acquaintance, and I ventured to ask him to 
introduce me to you.'' 

He paused in some embarrassment. 

" Yes," said Lilias faintly. 

" I fear I've horribly mismanaged a very 
simple thine," he continued; '* presently 
I will explam how I came to do it The 
fact is, I knew your brother very well, a 
^eat many years ago, in Cuba. My name 
IS Rodney." 

"Rodney! They told us you were 
dead ! " 

"So I have learned from Mr. Dexter, 
and that is another strong reason for my 
asking to be allowed to see you. It is 
very strange that such a statement should 
have been made under the circumstances 
of which Mr. Dexter has informed me, 
with wonderful deamess and recollection 
for so old a man, but still not so fully as I 
venture to hope you will relate them to 
ma There must have been some strong 
reason for the mystification which was 
practised, I understand, upon an agent of 
Dr. Rosslyn's ; for more uian one person 
at Santiago could have told the agent not 
only tiiat I was alive, but where I was, and 
what I was doing. Now, even after all 
this lapse of time, I mean to find out what 
that reason was." 

He had gone on with a sort of fluent 
coolness, for the purpose of allowing 
Lilias to recover her composure, wondering 
indeed that she should stand in need of 
such consideration, and thinking : " What 
a heart tlus woman must have, uius to feel 
about her brother who has been dead nearly 
twenty years!" But he now perceived 
that what he said was making no im- 
pression upon her. Lilias had not been 
able to follow him beyond the words : 
" I knew your brother very well, a great 
many years ago, in Cuba. My name is 

It had all come back — the misery, the 
suspense, and the horrid certainty. And 
now the thing she had so often longed 
for with the painful intensity of abso- 
lute hopelessness^ had come to pass; 
she was face to face with one who, if his 
memory of those long -past years would 
serve, could tell her many things which 
she still longed to know — for instance, all 



76 (March 13, 1888.) 


[Conducted by 

about the old home of Ines and her 
parents. That Mr. Rodney's memory 
would serve him in this respect was 
probable, for, were it otherwise, why 
should he have cared to see Hugh's sister, 
or been touched at the sight of Hugh's 

It was with all this her swift, confused 
thoughts were busy while Eodney was 
speaking, and she was not alive to the 
point that he was making of the lie cir- 
cumstantial which had been told about 
him to Mr. Walter Eitchie. 

When he perceived this, he adapted 
himself to the direction of her thoughts, and 
began to speak of the old, old days of the 
studio in the Calle de Santa Rosa, and the 
brief but ardent friendship that had sub- 
sisted between himself and Hugh Rosslyn. 

"After I heard, at New York, from 
Wharton, the captain of the ship in which 
they got oflF," continued Rodney — " he's in 
town now, and will be much interested in 
hearing of you — ^that everything had ^one 
right, and they had been married at King- 
ston, Jamaica, I wondered at intervals, for 
a long time, that I had no news of Rb^lyn 
and his wife. I fear I began to ir«^ute 
this to the ordinary negligencOi indifference, 
and selfishness of mankind." 

Lilias remarked that Mr. Rodney did 
not use the word '' ingratitude ", and she 
noted the delicacy of the omission. 

'* Our talks had been chiefly on art topics 
or respecting the place we were in ; he had 
always been reticent about his home, and 
his relations — with one exception — " 
Rodney pointed the compliment with a 
very expressive look — *' and although I did 
entertain an idea of writing to 'Dr. Rosslyn, 
London', to enquire what had become of 
his son, I was restrained from doing so by 
many feelings; now I suspect that the 
head and front of them was indolence. I 
had a long illness, followed by a spell of 
general ill-luck, and then I went to Mexico 
and many other parts of the earth, and 
if I did not altogether forget Rosslyn, his 
beautiful wife, the queer story of the 
elopement, and my occult share in it, 
I ceased to think of them. You would 
not care for the history of twenty years 
of the life of a special correspondent, 
Miss Merivale, even if I could relate 
it, and I need only say that five years 
elapsed before I again met Paul Wharton. 
I distinctly remember that we talked of 
the adventure at Santiago, and that Whar- 
ton also expressed surprise and disappoint- 
ment at hearing nothing of the young 

pair he had befriended. I don't think it 
occurred to either of us that Rosslyn might 
be dead ; we agreed that he was all rignt, 
in the lap of Britannic luxury and content, 
and from thenceforth 1 rarely thought of 
Rosslyn, except when I wrote the address 
of the studio which he and I had shared 
upon my few-and-far-between letters to 
Don Gualterio de Turras. 

" There is an English side to my famfly, 
and I had not seen it for several years. I 
had just made up my mind to come to 
England, when one of my uncles died, Bni 
left me a small property. I was bound to 
look after it, and it so happened that 
Wharton was also coming to Europe with 
his wife and daughter. We have been in 
London only three days, and last evening, 
at the Lyceum Theatre, I was struck, firstly 
by the foreign look of the young lady 
in the box opposite Mrs. Wharton's, and 
secondly by something in it that set my 
memory struggling over a vague reminis- 
cence. I was a long time making it out, 
but I found it at last^ and all about Rosslyn 
came back to my mind. You will readUy 
believe that I listened with great interest 
to Mr. Dexter's history of the sad fate 
of the young husband and the still more 
sad fate of the lovely girl whom we used 
to call 'Fair Ines'. I think I should, 
in any case, have ventured to introduce 
myself to you, on learning that the young 
lady whose face I seemed to know was 
Miss Rosslyn, but when I heard that 
the agent sent out to Santiago had been 
deceived with such statements as that 
Dona Ines was in a convent, and that I was 
dead, and that no communication between 
Miss Rosslyn and her mother's family 
existed, I felt the matter wanted looking 
into, notwithstanding the lapse of time." 

^<We do not even know whether any 
of them are living," said Lilias, who had 
now recovered her composura 

"Information ought to be procured," 
said Rodney, " in the pecuniary interests 
of Miss Rosslyn. Her mother was entitled 
to a considerable fortune on the death of 
Doiia Modesta de Rodas, Don Satumino's 
first wife, and this, of course, ought to be 
claimed on behalf of Miss Rosslyn. One 
of the most puzzling points in this curious 
history is why Mrs. Rosslyn, being aware 
of her right to this money, as I happen to 
know she was, allowed herself to be re- 
duced to such straits as Mr. Dexter told 
me of ; why she did not place the matter 
in the hands of some lawyer here — die 
could easily have got one to take it up ; 




ChAilM Dickena.] 


[March 18,18861] 77 

and why she did not make her way 
back to Cuba with her child, when her 
8coandrelIy second husband deserted her." 

" I cannot offer any explanation or even 
suggestion concerning her/' said Lilias, the 
tears rising in her eyes at the recollec- 
tion of the lonely, never-to-be-interpreted 
life of poor Hugh's " dream of loveUness". 

Then she briefly related the incidents con- 
nected with the convalescent cottage, and 
added that not a paper had been found 
belonging to Mrs. Wulesden which could 
throw any light upon her past, while those 
which had been sold to herself by James 
Willesden were formal documents relative 
to the marriage that had lasted for so brief 
a span. To fOl this Mr. Rodney listened 
wim curiously dose attention, and after- 
wards asked Lilias whether, now that she 
knew that Ines would only have to take 
legal proceedings to get her fortune, she 
(Lilias) could account for such a man as 
Willesden refraining from claiming that 
property 1 She professed herself quite 
unable to devise any reason that could 
have induced him to do so, but added : 

** Perhaps he did not know anything 
about the money ; it may be that Ines did 
not know she had any rights that could 
be enforced fromEngland j that she believed 
all to be lost, and never said anything 
at all to Willesd^ on the subject." 

This answer seemed to impress Rodney 
seriously. He repeated it to himself in 
the exact words of Lilias, adding : " This 
looks very bad — cruel and bad." 

" Have vou any interpretation in your 
own mind, Mr. Rodney 1" asked Lilias, 
fixing a sad, questioning gaze upon him. 
" Tou look as if you had." 

" I am groping after one, Miss Merivale, 
but it is far away and very dim. You 
must forgive me if I do not impart it to 
you until it is nearer and not so dim ; it 
seems almost absurd to myself who knew 
all the persons concerned, and to you it 
would seem simply unreasonable and silly. 
Tell me, however, if you can, whether tins 
man, Willesden, referred to his wife's 
former home, her family, or the subject of 
a fortune at all ) " 

Lilias smiled slightly. 

<^ I smile," she said, "at the idea that 
fhe poor man who brought me Dolores had 
any notion of a possible fortune anywhere, 
to be secured at no matter what risk ! He 
was little above a tramp, though there was 
something in his appearance that carried 
an assurance that he had seen better daya" 

"And he did not 8$iy anything of bis 

wife's knowledge of her claim to a share 
of her father's property 1 " 

" He did not allude to anything of the 
kind. I see your point, Mr. Rodney, though 
I do not discern your inference, and I feel 
more and more sure that Willesden knew 
nothing whatever of his wife's claims." 

"That would explain much," said 
Rodney. "His subsequent conduct, for 
instance, is made intelligible by it I 
learned from Mr. Dexter that there has 
been no attempt at black-mailing you 
since 1 " 

"None whatever ; I have never seen the 
man from that day, and do not know 
whether he is dead or alive." 

" I have come to the end of my ques- 
tions on this subject. Miss Merivale, and I 
am now ready to answer as many as you 
please to address to me." 

He smiled at Lilias, very much as if he 
already knew all her questions by heart, 
and as she was by this time quite at her 
ease with him, she took him at his word, 
with her usual simplicity, and was soon 
talkine to him of the past of her own life, 
^v^ the present of that of Dolores, as 
iliceiy as if she had known him in the 
dear days of old. The first painful thrill 
of agitation had passed away, and a sense 
of thankfulness and relief had come to her, 
which animated her voice, tinged her face 
with colour, and brightened her eyes. 

Apart from the personal interest in- 
volved, Rodney's conversation with her 
was a sweet pleasure to Lilias. She would 
have enjoyed it still more if she could 
have known how like the easy, wide- 
ranging, unpretentious, highly-cultivated 
talk of the distineuished-looking man of 
forty-five was to Uiat which had so fasci- 
nated Hugh Rosslyn nearly twenty years 
before. It was better talk, but its quali- 
ties were the same. 

It was arranged between Lilias and 
Rodney that we views of the latter 
respecting a communication to be sent to 
Cuba, based, this time, upon the know- 
ledge of Dolores's pecuniary claims, should 
be laid before Colonel Courtland, and 
Rodney accepted Lilias's invitation to 
remain for luncheon. 

When the Colonel andDolores came back 
from their ride, they were much surprised 
to see Lilias standing on the lawn with a 
strange gentleman by her dde. She made 
a sign; they stopped their horses, and 
Lilias and Rodney went up to them. A 
few words explained the situation, and 
Dolores, who had instantly recognised the 


■ ■* ■ f JJ^ ' mj* " ■ aU i JltlM.!.' 


M JKI Jl9Wi*"M^^'W««mM^i^V 





8 [March 18, 1880.] 


[Ooodncted by 

lisceming stranger, whose observation of 
lerself on the preceding evening had been 
evident to heri and — wluch was much more 
mportant — to Juliani leaned gracefdlly from 
ler saddle, and with a smile gave her hand 
}0 her father's friend. As he raised it 
to his lips, by an impulse of old Cuban 
custom, a vision of Fair Ines flashed across 
bim as his eyes had last rested on her when 
bhey gave her the assurance of his help, and 
her eyes told him she had descried his 
note in the folds of her fan. 

His impressions of the preceding evening 
were confirmed as, during the remainder of 
his visit, he continued to observe the girL 
Nevertheless, when Rodney said to himself, 
as he was walking briskly in the direction 
of the Swiss Cottage : " She has the 
sweetest face I ever saw, and her voice is 
deUghtful r' he was not thinking of the 
face or the voice of Dolores. 


Strolling not very long ago through 
the churchyard of Cranbrook, a quaint 
little town in the heart of the Weald of 
Kent, my eye fell upon an inscription to the 
following effect : " In memory of Edmund 
John Clarke, M.D., one of the few enter- 
prising travellers who have succeeded in 
ascending to the summit of Mont Blanc. He 
departed this life, March 24th, 1836, aged 
thirty-seven years." Here was food for 
reflection. In the days when classical 
epitaphs were common, mention of such a 
fact might have been expected, as it would 
afford an opportunity for elegantly-turned 
conceits in the modem style of Latin 
elegiacs — "attigit hie puras, purior ipse, 
nives'^ — ^but the inscription before us is 
plain and English. It is not yet fifty years 
old, and Chamonix will in a few months be 
celebrating the centenary of Balmat's 
ascent, yet when these lines were cut, a 
man who had climbed Mont Blanc was an 
*' enterprising traveller ", a lion in society, 
who would l^ pretty sure to write an ac- 
count of his experiences. What a contrast 
to the present day ! Then the journey often 
occupied the better part of a week, now it 
is frequently accomplished in a single day. 
Then a man took a dozen guides or so, if 
he could get them; now it is a common- 
place of ^pine complaint that the autho- 
rities insist that each traveller shall be 
accompanied by two. 

Dr. Clarke, of course, wrote an account 
of his adventures, and so did many others. 

Many of these narratives are now rare, most 
of them are interesting, and all are more 
or less amusing. The most ambitious and 
the best known is that of Auldjo (1827), a 
quarto volume embellished with audacious 
lithographs. These travellers (for as such 
people who ventured to Switzerland were 
then regarded) show a curious absence of 
personal pride in describing their exhaus- 
tion and their fear. On the contrary, they 
show some inclination to exaggerate them 
both, as tending to enhance the merit of 
their exploits. The modem mountaineer 
cannot bring himself to pain his sympa- 
thetic reader by a too ingenuous narration 
of how his knees tottered with weariness, 
and his heart wad consumed with personal 
terror; but no such considerations check 
the naive flow of the early narratives. 
Auldjo, for instance, tells us how his 
courage failed him, and his zeal for the 
ascent suddenly evaporated ; how he im- 
plored his guides to let him alone and to 
complete Uie ascent without him; how 
his progress up the snow slopes was mate- 
rially assisted by a notable invention, 
being neither more nor less than the tving 
of a long rope round his middle, and the 
hauling of lum up stage by sti^e. Long 
before he got back to Chamonix, he was 
unable to move fast enough to keep him- 
self warm, and, even when restored to 
warmth by the exertions and the coats ef 
his numerous guides, he was nothing but 
a helpless heap. In this emergency, alpen- 
stocks were passed under him on each side 
to form a sort of hand-barrow, and on these 
he was half carried, and half dragged, till 
at last the hero made his dignified entry 
into Chamonix exactly as we are accustomed 
to see borne along the effigy of Ouido 

But Auldjo, though he will always be 
regarded with reverence by the learned as 
the author of the " first quarto ", is one of 
the latest of the writers on this subject 
To De Saussure belongs the place of honour 
among them, and it is thoroughly well de- 
served ; not merely because he was a ^eat 
man and the first — ^not beinpan inhabitant 
of Chamonix — ^who reached the sumnut^ 
but because it was entirely due to the in- 
fluence of his gold and his enthusiasm 
that the explorations were carried on 
which led to ultimate success. It would 
have been cruel if any stranger had slipped 
in and made the ascent before him. Yet 
this was within an ace of happening. An 
English man of science had quietly resolved 
to ascend, and, ignorant of De Saussure's 




C3iazle8 DickenL] 

MONT BLANO SIXTY YEAES AGO. [March is. isse.] 79 

saccees, arrived at Ghamonuc so soon after 
the event, that M. Bourrit was still there. 
Poor M. Bourrit ! A hundred years aeo 
his works were regarded as containing the 
cream of Alpine adventure, and now we 
doubt if they find two readers in a year. 
In five years he made five determined 
efforts to reach the summit — one being in- 
spired by De Saussure's success, and under- 
taken immediately after his return. It 
failed, like the rest ; but this did not deter 
Colonel Beaufoy, whose narrative is just 
what we might expect from a soldier and 
a man of science — manly, precise, and 
free from all taint of ezaggeration. We 
seem to see the practical officer in the 
manner in which he levied supplies and led 
forth — somewhat as we are wont to picture 
Hannibal crossing the Alps — ^his expedition 
organised under strict military discipline. 

He was by no means the weak tourist, 
bowing to the sway of an imperious head- 
guide, but a man evidently resolved to be 
captain in his own ship. However, the 
man of theoiy peeps out when he describes 
ike garb which he adopted to protect him- 
self against " the reverberation of the 
snow " — a costume which we should think 
more suitable for wear on the plains of 
Bengal than amid the icy nooks of the 
Grands Mulets — " a white-flannel jacket, 
without any shirt underneath, and white- 
linen trousers without drawers." Contrast 
this with the equipment recommended by 
Captain SherwiU : '' Two pair of stockings, 
two pair of thick shoes, two pair of 
gaiters, two pair of cloth pantaloons, a 
flannel waistcoat, a great-coat, a neckcloth, 
and a large flannel night-cap." 

As the party ascended, they seem to have 
risen superior to terrestrial vices; for, like 
De Saussure, they felt '' a strong aversion 
to the taste of spirituous liquors" — an 
aversion which, we fear, the depravity of 
modem mountaineers has enabled them to 
overcome. " At last, but with a sort of 
apathy which scarcely admitted the sense 
of joy,*, we reached the summit," and the 
Colonel had the satisfaction of determining 
the latitude of the mountain-top, which 
had not previously been ascertained. 

In the year which followed the Battle of 
Waterloo, an attack, now half forgotten, 
was made by a very remarkable man. In 
the early ascents nearly every nation, 
except ttie French, tooK part — Swiss, 
Savoyards, English, Germans, Dutch, Rus- 
sians, Poles, and even Americans; but 
M. le Comte de Lusi may be said to have 
represented nearly all of them in his own 

person. At Ghamonix he was thought to 
be a Russian ; he was thoroughly master 
of French, and wrote his account in that 
language ; he was an officer in the Eang of 
Prussia's Guard and a Knight of the Iron 
Cross; he had English relations; and that 
he was at home in Austria is shown by his 
publishing bis book in Vienna, In short, 
he was half a native of every country in 
Europe. Two of his English relatives, who 
actually saw him at Geneva just after his 
ascent, are still alive and hearty, and there 
are still a few people in England who 
remember him weU. He was by no means 
a big man ; but his close and symmetrical 
buila concealed an altogether exceptional 
strength of limb, which enabled him to 
perform astonishing feats. Lying at ftdl 
length on the floor he could lift clean into 
the air a heavy man standing on the palm 
of his hand. In the use of his fists he was 
wont to exhibit British skill and British 
promptitude, and this led him into many 
a brush with people whose opinions differed 
from his. With French postboys this was 
especially frequent American teamsters 
are said to consider themselves unrivalled 
in ** exhorting the impenitent mule" ; but 
they would cheerfully admit that a French 
driver swearing at a refractonr horse dis- 
plays a powerful vocabulary and resourceful 
un^nation. At that period, however, their 
ne plus ultra of venomous objurgation was 
concentrated into the simple words : ''Ah, 
sacr6 Prussien ! " At the first sound of 
the last word Lusi would come bounding 
out of his carriage into the mud or the 
snow, as the case might be, and, rushing at 
the astounded postboys, roar out: "A 
genoux, k genoux ! Je suis Prussien moi ! 
Demandez pardon k genoux ! " And lucky 
it was for them if they made instant sub- 
mission. Satisfaction obtained, he would 
return to his carriage, there to remain until 
a change of postboys necessitated a renewal 
of his patriotic exertions. 

He tells the story of his ascent with re- 
markable clearness and modesty ; but facts 
which he casually mentions make it clear 
that he displayed an amount of heroic 
endurance, which in anyone whose bodily 
fortitude was less surely known would be 
scarcely credible. In those days, to get to 
Chamonix itself was no easy matter. A 
careful writer of that date explains how 
the journey from Geneva may be performed 
in three days, two of which, he warns us, 
cannot but be long and highly laborious. 
The Goxmt, however, left Geneva on the 
13th September, 1816, at ten a.m., and 




80 [March IS, 1886.] 


[Condiicted bj 

travelling continuously, reached Chamonix 
about half-past five the nextmorning. With- 
out resting, he at once set to work to procure 
guides and have provisions prepaid, and 
in little over four hours from the time of 
his arrival at Chamonix. after a day and a 
night of severe travel, he started with 
eight guides. They took but two hours 
in crossing the Glacier des Boissons, but 
found a huge crevasse cutting them off 
from the Grands Mulets, where it is usual 
to sleep, and were forced to pass the night 
in a hole scraped in the snow. Here an 
unlooked-for annoyance awaited the Count 
'' Quant k I'eau de vie elle me d^gouta 
enti^rement, ainsi que ma pipe, k laquelle 
je suis cependant tr^-accoutum6." When 
a man has been on his legs for six-and- 
thirty hours, and his pipe refuses to comfort 
him, the outlook is cheerless indeed. Next 
day they did very well till noon, when 
the wind, which had gradually increased, 
became fearfully violent, and repeatedly 
buried them to the waist in snowdrifts; 
four of the guides lost blood at nose and 
mouth. After a short rest at the Demiers 
Bochers the snowdrifts had so much in- 
creased that the leader was at once engulfed 
neck-deep, and advance from that side was 
plainly impossible. Lusi, nothing daunted, 
resolved to turn the flank of the calotte, 
and though this involved a considerable 
descent, he succeeded by half-past two in 
reaching the same level on the opposite 
side. Here he found comparatively easy 
going on a gentle slope, and in half an hour 
reached a tiny plateau. Then the guides 
coming up, represented to him the late- 
ness of the hour and the frightful state of 
the weather, owing to which, they said, the 
remaining two hundred and fifty feet could 
not be accomplished in less tiian three- 
quarters of an hour. The Count, though 
anxious to advance, bad the courage to 
desist Having come to this determination, 
his heart brimmed over with piety and 
patriotism ; his first thought, he says, was 
to fall on his knees and thank God for lus 
preservation up to that point, his second 
was to "porter un triple Houra k mon 

grand Roi Fr6d6ric Guillaume le Juste, le 
ib^rateur de TAllemagne. J'avais con- 
serve,'' he continues, " pour cette occasion 
une bouteille de vin du Bhin, car un vin 
d'etranger ne m'aurait pas paru propre.'' 
Turning to depart he noted that the colour 
of the sky overhead made his coat — which 
was, of course, of Prussian-blue — seem 
light in comparison. By seven p.m. they 
reached their snow-pit, and passed another 

wretched night, the result of which might 
have been foreseen. 

The unfortunate Count had both feet 
severely frozen, and only reached Chamonix 
next day with the utmost difficulty and 
pain. He was received with the warmest 
enthusiasm, and the ladies, with whom he 
everywhere enjoyed unbounded popularity, 
honoured him with a crown which — 
perhaps, he says, in order to render it 
more accurately typical of his exploit — was 
remarkably thorny. Here he had the 
satisfaction of going to bed for the first 
time in four days, and next morning 
received the coveted certificate, which set 
forth that he had reached a point guaran- 
teed less than fifty toises (three hundred 
feet) from the summit^ and that nothing 
but the lateness of the hour had prevented 
him from doing more, tmd it went on to 
declare — surely at his own suggestion — 
that "nul Fran9ais n'est parvenu k cette 
hauteur". Let us hope that it consoled 
him during the next fortnight^ for his frost- 
bitten feet kept the poor fellow twelve 
days in bed at Geneva, with the threat of 
amputation hanging constantly over hun. 
But he himself gratefully says: ''La 
soci6t6 de mes neveux les jeunes MM. 
Bumand et de quelques autres Anglais qui 
s'y trouvaient me firent passer agitable- 
ment ces jours d'ailleurs si p^nibles." Both 
these gentlemen are now still in full health 
and vigour, and enjoy, what must surely be 
an almost unique pleasure — the satisfaction 
of seeins their social gifts recorded in a 
book which has been printed seventy 

The Americans were early in the field. 
In 1819 the top was reached bv Dr. 
Jeremiah Van Bensselaer, of New York, and 
Mr. William Howard, of Baltimore ; and 
the former gives a brief but clear account 
It would be interesting to learn whether 
this gentleman — whose name, by the way, 
is not spelled alike in any two accounts, or 
right in any one — was an ancestor of the 
American climber of that name, who, in 
1884, made, h^ a very few days, such a 
dean sweep of all the most difficult peaks 
round Chamonix. In this account there 
is no attempt at enhancing the exploit by 
descriptions of harrowing nurewells between 
the guides and their wives. The only 
difficulty was to select from the large 
number who were anxious to go with them. ' 
They carried poles nine feet long ; in other 
respects everything went much as usual, 
even to the regulation butterfly of goigeous 
hues who chose the saine day for his ascent. 












Ghaii0s Dlckana.] 

MONT BLANC SIXTY YEARS AGO. [March 13. isse.] 81 

Mr. Frederick Glissold describes a narrow 
escape which he had daring his ascent in 
1822^ and Mr. H. H. Jackson deserves 
notice as the first who boldly disclaimed 
all scientific motives for making the 
attempt "From a love of hardy enter- 
prise, natural to, and, I trust, excusable in 
a young man, I had determined to ascend 
Mont Blanc — chiefly, perhaps, because the 
attempt was one of acknowledged danger 
and difficulty, and the succeeding in it 
would be rewarded with that pleasing 
recollection which always attends saccess- 
fol boldness." This was in 1823. Four 
years later, Sir Charles Fellows, the Lycian 
traveller, and Mr. Hawes, brother of Sir 
Benjamin Hawes, made an ascent which 
was somewhat baldly narrated by the last- 
named. They reached the top without 
incident, except the sight of the usual 
butterflv flying over the summit, where 
they *< drai]^ success to our friends of the 
Thames Tunnel". 

Captain Markham Sherwill's account, 
tiioogh much inferior to his companion's, 
has the merit of clearness. To us, perhaps, 
^ geo^phical information may seem 
rather inadequate. Yet those who know 
how imposing the Canigou can look, or 
have enjoyed the marvellous view from its 
summit, may well forgive him for believing 
it to be " the highest of the Pyrenees " ; 
and we can scarce wonder at his statement 
that " from Cliamonix to the top (of Mont 
Blanc) and back is near one hundred 
miles", at a time when the high and 
mighty critic in the Edinburgh Review 
could describe that mountain as ''the 
highest in the old world". The indifle- 
rence of the guides was matter of constant 
wonder to the early climbers. " We could 
not help remarking, as we continued to 
ascend the difficult and narrow path, how 
cheerful the guides appeared; they were 
all in eager conversation on trivial sub- 
jects." For his own part, though he showed 
throughout most indomitable pluck, he was 
so deeply impressed with the magnitude of 
his ondertaking that, on reaching the Pierre 
de I'Echelle, he heaves a sigh of relief, and 
informs us that they '* felt great security 
from the avalanches". He might almost 
as well have " felt great security " from 
hansom- cabs. His description, as a whole, 
is manly and to the point, and evidently 
aimed at nothing more. 

Dr. Clark's is a much more elaborate 
affur, and, if too grandiloquent here and 
there, is, with the possible exception of 
Anldjo's, the fullest and most graphic of 

all. Urged partly by mere curiosity, 
partly by scientific zeal, and partly, again, 
by a desire to pioneer the way for the ladies 
who had crossed the Col du 66ant three 
years before, and were said to be then 
about to attack Mont Blanc, he was 
preparing for his ascent when Captain 
Sherwill, a complete stranger, arrived at 
Chamonix, and agreed to join him in the 
attempt To both of them this arrange- 
ment proved a source of unalloyed satis- 
faction, and — as is not always the case 
with the ''capital fellows" one picks up 
at a Swiss hotel^-on further trial, each 
found in the other a staunch comrade and 
a delightful companion. They took seven 
guides, and Dr. Clarke tells us that of the 
forty enrolled guides, a good half refused 
to accompany them at anv price. There 
is some capital description m the narrative, 
which we have not space to quote; but 
one *' purple passage" is much too delicious 
to be abridged. Proud of his native land 
as the pacificator of the Continent, he 
acted upon a brilliant idea, and proceeded 
" to place the symbol of peace at the mast- 
head of Europe, and deposit a little 
memorial of the pre-eminence of England 
where it may be likely to remain for 
centuries tmmolested. For this purpose 
we had gathered on the shores of the 
Mediterranean small branches of olive, 
and, lest a plant reared on a land of 
slavery and oppression should be of un- 
happy augury, we had replenished our 
wreath with twigs of olive from the free 
and happy soil of Geneva. These we had 
enclosed in a cylinder of glass, with the 
name of our King and of his deservedly 
popular Minister, subjoining the names of 
some of the remarkable persons of the 
age, whether high in honour as enlightened 
politicians, revered as sincere and eloquent 
theologians, admired as elegant poets, use- 
ful as laborious physicians, or adorning the 
walks of private life by the mingled charm 
of urbanity, gentleness, accomplishments, 
and beauty. Having reached the loftiest 
uncovered pinnacle of Mont Blanc towards 
England, the land of our hopes, wo selected 
a little spot sheltered from the storm by 
incumbent masses of granite, and there 
buried in the snow an humble record, but 
sincera Hermetically sealed down by an 
icy plug, covered with" a winter's snow, 
and perhaps gradually incorporated into 
the substance of a solia cube of ice, it may 
possibly remain unaltered for many cen- 
turies, like the insects preserved in amber, 
and so bear witness to distant generations 




82 [March 18, 1886.] 


[Oopd nc todby 

when other proud memorialB have crumbled 
into dost! During this little operation 
honest Jolien, who did not wholly partake 
of the enthusiasm of the thing, occasionally 
exclaimed : ' D6p6chez-you8, monsieur ' ! " 
The learned doctor thought l^t he had 
erected a monument more enduring than 
brass ; but — alas for human hopes of per- 
manence ! — two years later the " cylinaer" 
was found exposed and half full of water, the 
twigs of olive rotten, and the humble record 
utterly illegible. What names did he select 
to represent " urbanity, gentleness, accom- 
plishments, and beauty "1 Was the " very 
fair young lady " who crossed the Col du 
G6ant onel Did he allow the gallant 
captain any vote, or did he leave this sec- 
tion entirely to him, while he was himself 
adjusting the claims of the *' sincere theo- 
logians " and the <* laborious physicians " t 
It is vain to speculate ; " 'tis sixty years 
since''. We only know that, less than 
twelve years later, when most of those 
whose virtues he was anxious to record 
were still in the fullest enjoyment of life, 
he himself was called away, and laid in 
that quiet grave beside which we so lately 


Probably there is no natural feeling 
more imperative in its demands thim that 
of thirst Man can suffer heat or cold, pain 
or sickness, with more or less equanimity; 
but thirst is more insupportable than even 
hunger, and if not assuaged ends in mad- 
ness and death. With most men, the 
amount of drink necessair to satisfy the 
craving of thirst depends undoubtedly 
upon hahit. Thus, the desert Arab, who 
must of necessity go for long periods 
without drinking, accustoms himself to 
abstinence, and will drink only at stated 
intervals, even when not compelled by cir- 
cumstances to abstain. He wiU often refuse 
offered drink by the simple reply, " I drank 
yesterday". With this we may contrast the 
habit, far too common in our large cities, 
of taking during the day a large number of 
" nips " of brandy and whisky, or glasses 
of wine and beer, quite independent of 
thirst, which, although not entailing so 
much shame as drunkenness, causes quite 
as much injury to the mental and physical 

The habit of excessive drinking after 
dinner is now obsolete ; yet at all festive 
gatherings there are many who would be 

happier for bearing in mind Sir WiUiam 
Temple's maxim : ** The first glass for 
mysdf, the second for my friends, the third 
for mine enemies" Undoubtedly many 
men become drinkers to excess because 
they suffer from such an inordinate thirst 
as amounts really to disease. A well-known 
instance may be cited in the case of the 
celebrated Greek scholar, Porson, who, as 
Home Tooke informs us, would drink ink 
rather than nothing at all ; and is known 
to have swallowed an embrocation intended 
for a sick friend. When dining out, he 
would frequently return to the dining- 
room after dinner, and drain the glasses of 
what had been left in them. At a friend's 
house, he once drank off a bottle of what 
he pronounced to be the " best ^ he had 
ever tasted," but which was in reality 

Dr. Johnson was another celebrated 
victim of thirst, but happily for him, his 
favourite drink was tea. As he said himiselfy 
he was a hardened and shameless tea- 
drinker, whose kettle had scarcely time to 
cool; who with tea amused the evening, 
with tea solaced the midnight, and witn 
tea welcomed the morning. Mrs. Thrale 
sometimes sat up, pouring out tea for him 
till four o'clock in the morning. The 
doctor's teapot was recently in existence, 
and is said to have been capable of con- 
taining half a gallon. Johnson's friend, 
Kit Smart, the poet, was another thirsty 
soul, whose excessive potations, however, 
eventually ended in madness. Dr. Bumey 
was told by Johnson that the poet had 
"as much exercise as he need to have, for 
he digs in the garden. Indeed, before his 
confinement, he used, for exercise, to walk 
to the ale-house ; but he was carried back 

Whatever may be advanced by the 
apostles of teetotalism as to water being 
the natural drink of man, we never find 
any nation, whether savage or civilised, 
where it is the customary drink when any- 
thing stronger or more stimulating can be 
obtained. Nearly all nations, even the 
most savage, appear to have discovered the 
art of making " drinks ", generally appre- 
ciated in proportion to their intoxicating 
qualitiea Goldsmith, in his Citizen of 
the World, mentions a tribe of Tartars 
who made a strongly intoxicating drink 
from a kind of fungus, and this account 
has been confirmed by several travellers. 
Most readers will be able to call to 
mind many instances of natives of 
various countries contriving to make 





OMElei DIAmii.] 


IMarch 13, 1886.] 83 

intoxicatiDg drinks from the most innocent 

Our own country seems to have been in 
no way backward in this particolar, for, 
from Uie earliest times, drink seems to 
have held a foremost place in the afiections 
of the Briton with his mead, the Saxon 
with his ale, the Norman with his wine, 
and the Englishman with all these and 
more. The Danes and Saxons were notable 
topers, and prided themselves on the 
quantity of strong liquors they were able 
to take. Fighting and drinking were their 
greatest pleasures, and were, indeed, the 
chief delights of their promised Walhalla. 
A frequent cause of quarrels among the 
drunkards of old was the indignation roused 
in the breast of one thirsty soul by the 
selfish and gluttonous action of some fellow- 
toper in drinking more heartily, when it 
came to his turn to hold the flagon, than a 
just comparison of numbers and quantity 
entitled him to do. Where several were 
drinking from the same vessel this question 
of " drinking fair " was an important ona 
Dunstan is said to have caused King Edgar 
to ordain that all drinkinff-vessels in taverns 
should have pegs fastened inside at regular 
diirtiances, so that each should drink his 
fair share and no more. From this intro- 
duction of pegged tankards we have, doubt- 
lessy the proverb ''a peg too low". The pegs 
were afterwards replaced by hoops fixed at 
regular intervals round the pot. Shakespeare 
makes Jack Cade promise his followers : 
''There shall be in England seven half- 
penny loaves sold for a penny ; the three- 
hooped pots shall have ten hoops ; and I 
will make it felony to drink small beer." 

The quaint ceremonies attendant on the 
passing round of the '' loving-cup " at our 
City iMinquets, are a relic of the old drinking 
halnts of our ancestora In the days when 
sword and dagger were ready at each man's 
hand, and little regard was had as to how 
or where a man avenged himself upon his 
enemy, anyone drinking in a numerous 
assemblage of armed men, inflamed with 
strong liquors, was in a peculiarly dan- 
gerous position. Both hands being engaged 
with the large cup which was passed round 
the company, his arms both held up, and 
his eyes upon the liquor, his side and 
breast were necessarily left exposed ; and 
it was no uncommon thing among the 
Northmen to stab a foe while drinking. 
It was therefore customary for the guesto 
at each side of him to stand up and pledge 
themselves for his safety. Hence we have 
the term " drinking-pledges''. It was the 

custom at Queen's College, Oxford, in old 
times, that the scholars who waited on 
their fellows while drinking, should place 
their thumbs on the table. The same 
custom prevailed in Germany, whilst the 
superior drank to the health of his inferior. 
The object, of course, in each custom, was 
the safety of the drii^er from Outrage. 

All through our history we find the love 
of drinking prevalent among the people. 
There have been probably i^ore songs and 
poems written in praise of drink than upon 
any other subject. The confession of faith 
of the confirmed toper may be said to be 
contained in that famous old song from 
Gammer Gurton's Needle, which begins : 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomacke is not good ; 
But sure I thinke that I can drinko 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde ; 
I stuff my skyn so full within, 

Of jolly good ale and olde. 

Perhaps the Stuart period was about the 
most drunken in our history. Drinking 
had then become almost an art, and all 
manner of devices were practised both to 
increase the obligation to drink, and to 
add to the capacity of the toper. To give 
themselves a relish for their drink, they 
were in the habit of taking thirst-provokers 
known as "drawers-on", *• gloves'*, or "shoe- 
horns". "You must Iwve," says Tom 
Nash, *'some shoe-horn to pull on your 
wine, as a rasher on the coals or a red- 
herring." Other " gloves " were salt-cakes, 
anchovies, pickled • herrings. Massinger 
gives a list <^ *' pullers-on " in his lines : 

'Tia not Botaigo, 
Fried frogs, potatoes marrowed, cavear, 
Carpus tongues, the pith of an English chine of 

Nor our Italian delicate oil'd mushrooms, 
And yet a " drawer-on " too. 

Another writer says : " 'Tia now come to 
pass that he is no gentleman, a very milk- 
sop, a down of no bringing up, that will 
not drmk ; fit for no company ; he is your 
only gallant that plays it off finest ; no 
disparagement now to stagger in the streets, 
reel, rave, etc., but much to his fame and 
renown; 'tis a credit to have a strong 
brain, and carry his liquor well ; the sole 
contention who can drink most and fox his 
fellow the soonest. They have gymnasia 
biborum, schools, and rendezvous, these 
centaurs and lapithse, toss pots and bowls 
as so many balls; invent new tricks, 
as sausages, anchovies, tobacco, caviare, 
picUed oysters, herrings, fumadoes, etc., 
innumerable salt meats to increase their 






8 1 [March IS, 1886.] 


Conducted by 

appetite, and study how to hart themselves 
by takbg antidotes to carry their drink 
the better." Most of the Saxon drinking- 
caps were made without foot or stand, so 
that they must be emptied before they 
could be set down again on the table. But 
these seventeenth-century topers required 
that a man, after drinking, should turn up 
his cup and make a pearl with what was 
left on his nail, ''which if it shed^ and 
cannot make it stand on by reason there 
is too much, he must drink a^ain for his 
penance." This was drinking " super- 
nagulum", or, as Fletcher phrases it, '' ad 
unguem". Another proof of having 
tossed off his cup like a man, was for the 
drinker to turn it bottom upwurds, and, 
in ostentation of his dexteri^, give it a 
fillip to make it cry " ting". After all these 
tipplings a man was held to be sober who 
coiUd " put his finger into the flame of the 
candle without pkying hit I — miss I". 
At this time, too, was devised the custom 
of drinking a full cup to a healdi, and 
requiring the health of everyone in the 
company to be drunk in turn, and when 
all were done beginning again, which 
made it a certainty that the whole 
party should become intoxicated. No 
wonder that in 1628 William Prynne 
published *a tract *' proving the drinking 
and pledging of healthy to be sinful and 
utterly umawf ul unto Christians ". 

Shakespeare, as might be expected, is 
full of allusions to the drinking habits of 
his day. His Christopher Sly is a capital, 
though brief, sketch of the drunken boor 
of the time. The merry roisterers at The 
Boar's Head, and Sir Toby Belch and 
Aguecheek, present other types to us. 
Shakespeare himself does not appear to 
have been given to excess in drink; but 
his compeer, "rare Ben Jonson," seems to 
have had the habit of hard drinking so 
prevalent at the time. To his " humours " 
at The Mermaid, and his convivialities at 
The Apollo, he was doubtless indebted for 
" his mountain belly and his rocky face ". 
One sometimes wonders if Shakespeare 
could have had him in his mind when he 
painted Falstaff and Bardolph. The follow- 
ing incident, which is fairly well authenti- 
catedy would seem to give some probability 
to thi& It is said that Jonsou was recom- 
mended by Camden to Sir Walter Raleigh 
as a tutor for his son. Young Raleigh 
seems to have had a desire to shift the 
yoke from his shoulders, and with this end 
in view he took advantage of Jonson's 
taste for liquor to render him helpless. He 

then had him placed in a buck-basket, and 
carried by two men to Sir Walter, with the 
message that " their young master had sent 
home his tutor". 

We get a vivid idea of the habits of the 
highest in the land from a letter of Sir Ralph 
Harrington's concerning the sports and re- 
joicings consequent on tiie visit of the King 
of Denmark to James the Firsts in 1606. 
He says : " We had wine in such plenty 
as would have astonished each sober 
beholder." He goes on to say: *'The 
ladies abandon their sobriety, and seem 
to roll about in intoxication." Sir John 
describes a masque which was attempted 
to be given representing the visit of the 
Queen of Sheba to King Solomoa The 
lady who played the Queen, whilst cany- 
ing presents to His Majesty of Denmark, 
tripped up, and the presents, such as 
"wine, cream, beverage, jellies, cakes, 
spices, and other good matters, were be- 
stowed upon his garments. His Majesty, 
nothing disconcerted by this mishap, in- 
sisted on dancing with the Queen of 
Sheba, but he fell down and humbled 
himself before her," and so was carried (^ 
to bed. Hope, Faith, and Charity then 
came forward. Hope tried to speak, but 
was too full of wine, and Fidth and Charity 
soon staggered in her company to the lower 
end of the halL Peace made her entrance, 
but being held back in her attempts to 
reach the King, she laid about her lustily 
with her olive-branch, much to the detn- 
ment of many pates around her. 

If such scenes were possible in the 
presence of the throne, one may imagine 
what orgies were practised in the low 
taverns. So the game went merrily oa 
James's reign was essentially a peaceful 
one; money was plentiful, and the bumpers 
were tossed off gaily. A sterner time set 
in during Charles's rule ; the middle-classes 
were feeling their strength, and beginning 
those agitations and combinations which 
were to broaden and strengthen our 
liberties. Cromwell came into power, and 
the drunkards, if they drank no less, had 
to keep quieter, and to make no boast of 
their prowess. The Cavaliers had to con- 
tent their spite by putting a crumb of bread 
into their glass and saying before they 
drank, " G<>d send this crumb well down". 

Bat the Puritan bands were strained too 
tightly, the people tired of long faces and 
long sermons, and the whirligig of time 
brought in Charles the Second and hia 
court of idlers and drunkards. Pepys tells 
us how, on the night of the coronation, he 



Charlat Diekaoi.] 


(Mftrch 13, 1886.] 85 

and hiB friends were stopped in the streets 
and compelled to kneel down in front of 
the bonfires and drink the King's health. 
The public peace was so often broken by 
such ultra-loyal drunkards that a royal 
proclamation was issued against "a sort of 
men who spend their time in taverns, 
tippling-houses, and debauches ; giving no 
othor evidence of their affection to us, but 
in drinking our health ". 

Pepys was a clever, industrious man, 
budnesa-like and sedate, and exceedingly 
anxious as to what people might think of 
him. A ludicrous passage occurs in his 
diary, where he says : '< Took a turn with 
my old acquaintance Mr. Pecheli, whose 
red nose makes me ashamed to be seen 
/ with him« though otherwise a good-natured 
^ man." Tet it shows the loose manners of 
the time when Pepys, who did not like to 
be seen in the streets in company with a red 
nose — ^Pepys, the staid and dignified Clerk 
of the Acts, afterwards Secretary to the 
Admiralty and Member of Parliament for 
Harwich— could indulge in what the topers 
of the present day would call " a spree ". 
There had been a ^preat victory over the 
Dutch, and the rejoicings were general 
Pepys, of course, being so intimately con- 
nected with the navy, felt bound to take 
part Accordingly we find that, on August 
I4th, 1666, after dinner, he took his wife 
and Mercer to the *' beare-garden '\ and 
" saw some good sport of the bull's tossing 
of the dog ; one into the very boxes". They 
supped at home and were " very merry ". 
At nine o'clock they arrived at Mrs. 
Mercer's, where abundance of fireworks 
had been provided, "and there mighty 
merry — my Lady Pen and Pegg going 
thither with us, and Nan Wright— tifi 
about twelve at night, flinging our fireworks, 
and burning one another and the people 
over the way ". They then went indoors 
and were again " mighty merry, smothering 
one another with candle-grease and soot, 
till most of us were like devils ". They 
then broke up, and were invited to Pepys's 
house, " and there I made them drink, and 
upstaks we went and then fell into 
dancing ". Three of the men, Pepys being 
one, dressed themselves up like women; 
Mercer put on " a suit of Tom's ", like a 
boy, and danced a jig, and Nan Wright, 
Pegg Pen, and "my wife" put on peri- 
wigs. " Thus we spent till three or four 
in the morning, mighty merry, and then 
parted and to bad." One is not surprised 
to find the first entry in his diary the next 
day is " mighty sleepy ". 

And thus the ball was kept rolling merrily 
through the reigns of the second Charles 
and his wrong-headed successor, through 
that of the silent William, and of the 
Marlborongh-ruled wife of " Pas Possible", 
and so on through the Georges down to 
our own time. One can imagine the same 
actors coining up generation after genera- 
tion, some little change in the costume, 
some few changes in the words, some 
alterations in the toasts. We find the 
Stuart adherents at one time drinking to 
the heal^ " of the little gentleman in the 
velvet coat", alluding to the mole over 
whose earthwork William's horse stumbled; 
at anotiier time holding their glasses over 
a bowl of water as they pledged " the King" 
(over the water) ; but always the same 
round of hard drinking and deep potations. 
We can discern the nrst rift in the cloud 
when the coffee-house began to be the 
resort of the politician, the poet, and the 
man of leisure, and when " the new drink 
called Thee " began to be fashionable. 

The scenes that Hogarth painted will 
show us what the drinking habits of his day 
were, especially those striking pictures of 
Gin Lane and Beer Street. The duty on 
spirits being little or nothing, the people 
were able to indulge to a disgraceful 
extent ; and perhaps no Act of those days 
was more beneficial /to [the lower classes 
than that which put an end to this facility. 
The Gentleman's Magazine for May, 1736, 
records that on May 28th *^ a proposal was 
put in the House of Commons for laying 
such a duty on distilled spirituous liquors 
as might prevent the ill consequences to 
the poorer sort of drinking them to excess ". 
The writer further adds : " We have 
observed some signs where such liquors 
are retailed with the following inscriptions: 
' Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for two- 
pence, clean straw for nothing'." 

The growth of a spirit of vitality in 
the Church and the amelioration of the 
condition of the people, together with the 
spread of education, combined to work a 
change, gradual but sure, in the habits of 
the nation. 

With the bucks and dandies of the reign 
of George the Fourth expired the gross 
habits of intemperance amongst the 
fashionable classes, and "drunk as a lord" 
no longer truthfully expressed the super- 
lative of intoxication. Now that the 
respectable mechanic considers it dis- 
reputable to be seen intoxicated in the 
streets, we are able to look forward to the 
time when Morrie^ England shall mean 


86 (Maich 18, 1886.] 


(Oondiicted by 

sober and happy England. But let all 
good men and true determine that it shall 
never mean intolerant, fanatical, and 
hypocritical England. 


Crimson, and gold^ and russet, 

Against the blazing sky, 
The trees stood up in the sunset 

As the wind went wandering l^. 

Crimson, and gold, and russet ; 

And a drifting haze of rain 
Caught up the western ^lory. 

And gave it back again. 

Just so, when life is sinking. 

To the twilight time of tears, 
Worn with the fret and fever. 

The turmoil of the years, 

Light from the land we're nearing. 

Falls on the path we tread, 
Like the smile we see throu^^ weeping. 

On the faces of our dead. 


Central Asia is very different now from 
what it was even a generation ago. The 
fear of Russia has made life safer and tra- 
velling far lees dangerous. One is not quite 
as much at one's ease on the Steppes as one 
is on the moor of Bannoch; me Tekke 
Turcomans are still down on the unpro- 
tected wayfarer who seems to have some- 
thing worth stealing. Khans and Emirs 
are shy of letting unaccredited strangers 
into the towns where they still maintam a 
shadowy authority. But how great the 
change since Conolly and Stoddart paid 
with their lives the penalty of their rash 
visit to Bokhara, or even since Yamh^ry, 
dressed like a holy man in flea-hitten rags, 
was trembling at every stage of his jour- 
ney, lest some sharp Mussulman should 
find out that he was a sham. By-and-by, 
complete peace and security will come to 
the whole land between the Caspian and 
China — a peace like that pax Bomana 
which, in St Paul's day, enabled him and 
his fellow Apostles to travel without pass- 
port from one end of the civilised world to 
the other. This peace does not necessarily 
mean prosperity. Eoman rule is said to 
have crushed out national life ; and very 
probably in a few generations the Rirghese, 
and Turcomans, and Dungans, and others 
will have been Eussianised, their native 
industries killed out, their energies — which 
too ofton ran in the direction of killing or 
enslaving their neighbours and those who 
rashly adventured among them — cramped 
into the mould of Moscow or Astrakan. But, 
though travelling in theSteppe isnot yet free 

and open to everybody, it is all as easy as 
a Cook's tourist-trip to one who has the 
goodwill of the Russian authorities. Now, 
Dr. LwQsdell won this goodwill by telling 
what he had seen in the Siberian prisons. 
Those prisons have a very bad name. 
We have been led to believe that the 
exiles are sent off wholesale, with very 
little investigation, and that the stories are 
quite true of people sent off by mistake, 
who were coolly told : " Yes ; you're not 
the culprit He's another of the same 
name ; but vou must go, for it would never 
do to confess that the Grovemment has 
been in tiie wrong. Gro, and behave well ; 
and then, after a year or so, you may 
petition to be sent home." That sort of 
thing — sufficiently aggravating in itoelf, 
and accentuated with a good mixture of 
lesser annoyances as marchine hundreds 
of miles in irons, bein^ packed Uke herrings 
in filthy barracks, bemg flogged if you are 
recalcitrant, set to mine-work if you con- 
tinue stubborn, freezing to death in the 
forest if you run away, is what most of 
us believe to be the system. " Oh no," 
said Dr. Lansdell; '* you're quite mis- 
token. Life in Siberia isn't half-bad; 
most of those who write about it never 
were there at alL The prison rooms are 
not mouldy with rank fungus ; the smells 
are not abominable — certainly not worse 
than the smells in thousands of peasants' 
hute; the prisoners are not at the 
mercy of brutal turnkeys. Altogether, 
what ' Stepniak ' and the Nihillsto describe 
is evolved out of their own inner 
consciousness. The people who write 
are often not escaped prisoners at all, bat 
refugees who are workmg in Switzerland, 
and whose trade it is to say all they can 
against the Russian Government" lliatis 
the substance of Dr. Lansdell's Through 
Siberia. "Oh, do finish it," said his 
friends, when he read them his notes; " all 
the talk has hitherto been on the other 
side. The lions ought in common fairness 
to have a painter as well as the men ; and, 
as you've seen things for yourself, your 
testimony cannot be gainsaid." So Dr. 
Lansdell told the world that the devil of 
Russian officialism is not so black as he has 
been painted, and that the hell of Russian 
prisons is at worst a mild kind of purgatory. 
He did not convince the British public; 
John Bull is very hard to move when he's 
made up his mind ; and most of us were of 
the late Dean Close's opinion : " Yes, my 
dear doctor," said the Dean ; " of course 
you tell us all you saw ; but I, who am no 


caurlet Dickens.] 


(March 13, 1886.] 87 

anti-Rass, am quite sare those canning 
RoBsiAns knew what they were about when 
they tmdeirtook to show you all oyer their 
prisons. Do you suppose they would let 
you into their chamber of horrors 1 They 
saw that, if they could make bdieve to 
show you everything, they would get what 
they wanted — a whitewashing in The 

But though his countrymen refused 
to be undeceived, the Russians were duly 
grateful to the man who spoke up for 
Ihem. Thenceforth Dr. LansdeU was as 
sure of a good reception from any Russian 
governor as if he had been a Grand Duke 
himsell All doors were open to him; 
if there were any skeleton cupboards they 
were walled up, and the space covered with 
ikons (sacred pictures) and religious prints. 
Had he not published a book, of which a 
Russian prison-inspector wrote: "What 
you say is so perfectly correct that your 
book may be taken as a standard even 
by Russian authorities 1 " And so, when 
his desire to visit the nomadic Rirghese 
became irresistible, and he had got 
the needful funds from the Bible and 
Religious Tract Societies, he found every- 
body, from Count Tolstoi to the Cossack 
post-masters, eager to speed him on his 
way. He went^ and saw, and wrote 
another book, which he dedicates, Iby 
permission, to ''the Autocrat of all the 
Rossias", in words that remind us of 
orator Tertullus in the Act& But though 
we may smile at the quaintness of "I 
count myself happy, august Ruler of an 
Empire '', etc, we have no desire to laugh 
at Dr. LansdelFs earnestness. He had 
distributed in Russia more than one 
hundred thousand tracts, and had put 
some part of the Bible in every room of 
every prison and hospital, not onl^ in 
Siberia, but in several parts of Russia in 
Europe ; and now he tells the Czar how he 
has been doing the same in the new 
provinces of. Central Asia, even giving 
Bibles to Mollahs and other Mahommedans. 

Thus much to show what a very different 
reception Dr. LansdeU and Professor 
Yamb^ry might expect Not long ago we 
saw how the latter, a wretchedly poor 
Hungarian boy, ran away from his 
stepfather's tailoring, and imitated that 
Athenian of old who worked ad} night as 
a gardener's water-carrier that he might 
earn enough to attend by day the lectures 
of the philosophers. At last Yamb6ry 
became a first-rate Oriental linguist, and got 
a small grant from the Hungarian Academy 

towards a journey eastward, in which he was 
commissioned to learn the earliest forms of 
that Turkish which is closely connected with 
the Magyar language. What a joumev it 
was! Travellmg in Central Asia nad 
never been very safe; but^ threatened as 
they had begun to be by England on one 
side and Russia on the otiiet, now stealthily 
creeping up, now moving by leaps and 
bounds, no wonder the Tartar princes were 
maddened at the sight of a white man« 

Very excusably they would say of him, 
<' To spy out the nakedness of the land is 
he come,'' and so, when he got in, he 
found it hard to get out Even Dr. Wolff, 
backed up with a firman from the Sultan, 
and dressed, too, in full clerical costume, 
only escaped from Bokhara by the skin of 
his teeth. They did not strip him as the 
Beloochees did afterwards. (Who that has 
read his Travels does not remember the racy 
account of how '' I, Wolff, naked as I was 
born, and thankful to have escaped these 
marauders, presented myself before Runjeet 
Singh "?^ But they tried to poison him, 
and made every excuse for keeping him in 
what was virtually a prison, though it was 
called a guest-house. Yamb^ry shammed 
to be a had jt (pilgrim) from Stamboul going 
to add to his sanctity by visiting the 
tombs of the saints at Samarkand and there- 
about& Hadji like, he was dressed in rags, 
foul with vermin ; not a note did he dare 
make; he even turned away from much 
which to a stranger must have been most 
interesting, but which it did not become a 
hadji to seem too inquisitive about Always 
he was haxmted by the fear of discovery ; 
an unguarded word, a wrong movement 
in salutation or prayer-saying, a breach of 
etiquette, must have brought discovery and 
certain death. He had his life in his hand; 
and a weary weight he found it after the 
noveltv had worn off. The sharp Persians 
found him out again and again ; luckily the 
hatred of the rersians, who are SMahs, 
for the Turcomans, who are Sunnis^ and 
kidnappers, prevented them from saying a 
word; but, dense as the Turcomans are, 
Vamb^ry was several times within a hair's- 
breadth of detection. 

And now to the very city where, fifty 
years ago, Burnes had been obliged to dis- 
mount and walk, while his Mahommedan 
escort rode. Dr. Lansdell drove up in his 
tarantass, exchanging it at the medisBval- 
looking gate, with its loopholes and sentries 
as old-fashioned as the walls, for a grand 
horse, on which he was taken along the 
Rhigistan, a private road of the Emir, for 




88 (March 13, 1886.] 


(Ooodnsltd faf 

presaming to ride along which Stoddart, in 
1838, was kept for two months in a prison 
twenty feet below the earth's surface. The 
finest house in the city was given up to this 
friend of the all-powerful Russians; and one 
day, when he insisted on being taken into 
the big mosque just before service began, 
and his conductors wanted to keep him out 
of sight because he was an *' infidel'', he 
deliberately chose a place where he could 
see and be seen. " Oh, but thejril look at 
you, and so lose the benefit of their prayers," 
was the plea, to which he retorted : " Then 
tell them not to look." So Dr. Lansdell 
watched the service, and found the wor- 
shippers far too absorbed in their work to 
stare round at him. He even waited till 
prayers were over, and examined what he 
thought might be a Nestorianfont, earning 
thereoy a good many black looks, and 
feeling, he says, a little nervous lest some 
zealot should rush upon the inquisitive 
unbeliever. Another time, the humorous 
doctor insisted on galloping round the city 
walls, and actually compassed in one ride 
seven out of its eleven gates, fioishing the 
remaining gates another morning. When 
he found the Kushi-beggi (lord of begs — Le., 
Emir's chief minister) looking annoyed at 
his taking notes, he boldly said : *' I'm an 
author ; my book has been accepted by the 
great white Czar. I mean to write a book 
on Bokhara, so you must take care to show 
me everything.'' They did not like to show 
him the prison, so he told them : " If you 
come to London we'll show you all our 
prisona Here's my card. Send your 
son, and see if- I'm not as good as 
my word. Besides, please to remember 
I'm General Ghernalefifs visitor," showing 
a letter from that officer, <*and I should be 
sorry to teU him I had not been shown all 
I wanted to see." He was always saying 
unpleasant things to tihie Kushi-beggi, wnom 
he summed up as an old fox ; whilst his 
son was the greatest nincompoop in the 
khanate. One day, at dinner, he asked : 
'* Do you remember two Englishmen who 
were put to death here about forty years 
agol'^ "He appeared not to like the 
subject," is Dr. Lansdell's naive remark ; 
"and I proceeded to administer another 
potion, asking him if he remembered how 
Dr. Schuyler bought a slave, and adding 
how glad I was that slavery was done away 
with now." Prisoners sUll have a hard 
time of it Our doctor saw a pair of them 
outside the prison, chained by the neck, 
and howling piteously for alms. A kind- 
hearted Uz^k traderhad comeintoBokhara 

on purpose to spend a few pounds in giving 
bread to those in prisoa Of course he did 
not hand his money to the officials, or the 
prisoners would not have been a penny the 
better. He got leave to personally dis- 
tribute his gift, and used daily to drop a 
score of rations into the underground cells, 
as one might feed the bears in the Zoo if 
they had not a pole to climb up. " What 
a brute this Emir must be ! " Softly, my 
friend. Bead your John Howard, and see 
how things were in England a century 
back. If you, in those days, had been 
" green " enough to hand five guineas to 
any British gaoler, how much good do you 
thmk your gift would have done the 
prisoners t The Emir is less in fault for 
these things than Bossia; for she is as 
omnipoteut in Bokhara as we are in 
the Deccan, and her own prisons are 
models of humane treatment, as she has 
taken care that the world (through Dr. 
Lansdell) shall know. 

Sanitary matters are as bad in Bokhara 
as they used to be in England ; but the 
people are far less to blame than our 
fathers were, for England is by nature 
blessed far more than Bokhara in regard 
to matters of health Some London water 
is even now — well, let us say, trying to 
the constitution — alfter it has been stored 
for a month or so in a filthy water-butt 
But no length of storage wUl, in our 
happy climate, breed the "rishta", that 
horrible worm found also in parts of West 
Africa, and taken, long ago, over to the 
New World. Old Jenkinson, who, in 1558, 
being in the Russian service, sailed over 
the Caspian, and made his way to Bokhara, 
says : "The water is very bad, breeding in 
the legs worms an ell long. If these break 
in being pulled out, the patient dies. For 
all this inconvenience, they are forbidden 
to drink any liquor but water and mare's 
milk; and they who break this law are 
whipt through the market — ^yea, if only a 
man's breath smells of spirits he shall have 
a good drubbing." It is not quite so bad 
as Jenkinson said; but, if the "rishta" 
does break, all the little worms inside it 
spread through the body, and the sufierer 
gets full of mcers, which take months to 
heal The native barbers use a needle and 
their thumb to squeeze it out The Bussian 
doctors wind it out on a reel, so much a 
day, till the whole is extracted. It varies 
from three to seven feet in length ! How 
does it get in ) Why, the little pools are 
full of a very small grey crustacean (the 
'' Cyclops"), whose colour makes him 

^ — 

= P 



Chailet Dlckem.] 


(March 18, 1886 ] 89 

almoat invisible Men swallow these, and 
they are pretty sure to be infested with 
'^rishta" germs, which, finding in the 
homan stomach a good place for their 
development, develope accordingly, and 
work their way to the skin. I wonder if 
Dr. Lansdell gave the Bokhariots a hint 
about boiling their water, not once only, 
bat (as Professor Tyndal recommends) 
twice at least, so as to kill the germs which 
have escaped the first boiling. They 
wonld have listened to a man whom their 
Emir had welcomed with a guard of honour 
in magnificent array, headed by a Colonel 
all in clothof-gold, and who, infidel though 
he was, was allowed to ride right into 
the courtyard of the palace, while his 
Mussulman attendants had to dismount at 
the gates. Then the presents — a dozen 
sugar-loaves and as many boxes of candy, 
and trays of sweetmeats; and the after- 
dinner hte — a dance of long-haired boys 
who here answer to the Indian nautch girls, 
and a play by the same performers, in 
which one made himself very comical as 
the " heavy father " in a wool wig and ditto 

Between Kitab and Bokhara the doctor's 
tent was set up in the courtyard of a 
mocque which, a few years ago, he would 
hardly have been allowed to look at. When 
he came to interview the Emir, the troops 
were turned out as a guard of honour — a 
nondescript set, many of them in cast-off 
English regimentals ; and in " the presence '* 
he was allowed to walk by himself, whereas 
ordinary mortals are supported under each 
arm, lest the Emir's overpowering majesty 
should make them sink to the ground. 
There were two chairs; in one sat the 
Emir, resplendent in gold brocade, in the 
other the man whom the Czar delighted to 
honour, in a cassock which he had worn at 
a St. James's Drawing Room, a gold- 
embroidered Servian vest, a D.D.'s scarlet 
hood, a Masonic Grand Provincial Chap- 
lain's collar, with all its jewels, and a 
college-cap on his head. The hood and 
collar he graciously bestowed on the Emir, 
for whom, being a moUah — learned priest 
— the former seemed anappropriatepresent 
This is remarkable in idl these Central 
Asian kinglets — their reverence for book- 
learning; books are as indispensable in 
the presence-chamber as the pipe itself; 
wherever Khan or Dmir goes, his books go 
with him. In return Dr. Lansdell got a 
whole wardrobe of khalats — robes of 
honour; two horses — sorry screws— ^with 
splendid saddle-cloths, and bridles set with 

turquoises. One of the doctor's presents 
was returned with thanks — his Through 
Siberia, with Copious Illustrations, and the 
Author's Portrait. "I don't want it," 
said the Emir. *'0h, but the Czar was 
graciously pleased to accept a copy, and so 
was Count Tolstoi" *'You see, I have 
not visited any of the places," pleaded the 
Emir, who, while gladly accepting a Persian 
Bible and Arabic New Testament, firmly 
declined the doctor's book. He could not 
accept an illustrated work, for in all 
Bokhara 'there isn't the ghost of a picture ; 
some lately brought firom China by a 
foreign merchant were broken to bits, and 
their price paid by the Emir, and it is 
not so very long since the possessor of a 
picture was solemnly put to death. The 
Mussulman belief is that those who 
paint living creatures will have to give 
life to them at the day of judgment Yet, 
though they had to treat him civilly, as a 
friend of Bussia, they didn't like their 
enforced guest The Kushi-beggi tried to 
show him as little as possible; his search 
for old manuscripts and curios was made 
fruitless; and his entertainer tried hard 
to make his " splendid hospitality " a gilded 
captivity, failing only because the buoyant 
doctor refused to be sat upon. 

At Khiva, which has seen more of 
Bussia, the doctor had no Kushi-beggi to be 
at once cicerone and spy. He wandered 
as he liked amongthe twenty-two colleges — 
medresses — in a cell of oneof which Yamb^ry 
fixed his quarters among the other '' kalen- 
dars ". He puzzled the Khan — whose body- 
guard he thought dowdy and poverty- 
stricken — by telUng him the sun never sets 
on our empire, at which his majesty could 
not refrain from saying : " That cannot be 
true." He went through the famous peach 
and melon gardens, and brought home a 
lot of melon-seed, some of which grew too 
rank, but some — that at Chevening — pro- 
duced fruit as good as the Khivan — ie., 
the best in the world. 

Dr. Lansdell says the photographs flatter 
the mosques and medresses, <' mere's always 
an unfinished look about them". Earth- 
quakes are common and a crack soon loosens 
theenamelled bricks. He wasonly too ready, 
by the way, to take advantage of this loose- 
ness; and no zeal of art can justify his 
setting a pack of boys to hunt for tiles 
among the debris, and getting a mollah to 
fetch a ladder and pick him out a loose one 
from the wall Tartar undergraduates, 
by the wayi keep a great many terms; 
the cells are bare enough, but idle fellows 









90 [Mareh IS, 1886.] 


[Coodncted bj 

like the lazy, half-begging life, and stay as 
long as thirty years, learning the Koran 
and comments by heart (without under- 
standing a word of Arabic), as some Oxford 
men have tried to learn Euclid. 

What most scandalised our doctor's 
escort at Bokhara was his attention to the 
Jews. In " Bokhara the noble", the Jews 
were, till the other day, as badly treated 
as in mediseval England, without the com- 
pensation of making now and then a good 
penny out of their persecutors. Anybody 
might knock them about with impunity ; 
and a good many availed themselves of 
the privilege. But now, when a Russian 
grandee comes he often brings a Jew 
interpreter, and the Bokhariots have to 
treat the <' Israelite dog " as respectfully 
as if he were a Eussian. Dr. liansdell 
would go into the Jews' quarter, and 
would not allow the people who swarmed 
out to see him to be kept at bay with the 
staves of his attendants. 

But such a traveller could do pretty much 
as he liked ; when he was going across the 
desert on horseback, he sealed up in the 
governor's house the hood and curtain of 
the tarantass which he was entrusting to 
a native Arab driver, thereby so impress- 
ing the man that had the carriage been full 
of precious stones they would have been 
safe. Once a party of robbers did ride up 
to some of his baggage and began firing 
guns. '' If you want these goods, you had 
better come and take them," said the 
drivers, '' only, remember, they beloujg to 
the Russians 1 " Whereupon the highway- 
men stole off. In Khokand, the Tartar 
"manufacturing centre", stUl famous for its 
brass ewers, chain armour (see our doctor's 
portrait, in suit of Khokand maU), massive 
silver bracelets, velvet, and cloisonne 
jewellery (of which he brought back 
samples such as had never before been 
seen in London), the police, as he came in, 
all rose, some bowed, and some dismounted. 
At Samarkand he saw the mausoleum of 
Timur, a six-foot slab of jade to which 
the world has no fellow, a pillar at the head 
with the usual banner and horse-tail. 
Timur was buried, by his own wish, beside 
his tutor — respect for learning again — 
under the dome which he had reared over 
that tutor's grave. The floor of the build- 
ing is of hexagons of jasper, the wainscot 
of transparent gypsum, the doors inlaid 
with ivory. It was here the doctor got 
his enamelled bricks, and actuaHy bought 
the three-lipped lamp which used to be 
kept always lighted on the shrine. 

Of course he saw a great deal more 
than Yamb^ry, and he saw it at his leisure 
— could notice butterflies (our big blue, 
found only with us at Bolt Head, is 
common on the Steppes), and Steppe 
flowers (fancy square miles of meadow 
sweet and blue anemone and not a soul 
to enjoy them !), and geological changes. 
Yamb^ry could not be geological, even when 
his caravan once took to a salt Steppe 
to avoid marauders. Dr. Lansdell notes 
the wonder of travelling along the cliff- 
bounded bed of a river, and he is all 
agog for the changes in the course of the 
Oxus, about which Bawlinson and Mur- 
chison had such a dispute. If only the 
Russians could get rid of the choking pand, 
and turn the Oxus into the Caspian, they 
would have a water-way almost to the fron- 
tiers of India. Above all, he was able to 
be cheerful, to give out English tea — " you 
would soon grow as fat as a camel, drinking 
such famous stuff as that," said a guest 
who drank it; to sing God Save the 
Queen at a Kirghese dinner-party, and 
Twickenham Ferry at a Bokhaxiot enter- 
tainment; to look on at the dervidies 
without being obliged to take a part in the 
performance ; to leam about the climate 
— how it is steadily growing worse, the 
dryness of the air constantly turning fresh 
land into steppe, young trees being unajile 
in the three growing months to get to Snj 
size, and the nomads cutting down the old 
ones ; to find that Russian imports are 
killing out the native industries (we did 
the same in India), while, nevertheless, 
Russian trade is so clumsily managed, that 
they are afraid of our goods being imported 
into Russia itself by way ^f Central Asia I 

In one thing Yamb^ry had the advMitage : 
he could talk almost any language. Dr. 
Lansdell, despite several visits, apparently 
knows no Russian ; and when, in Hi, he 
talked to the Sibo military colonists 
brought in by the Chinese to fill up the 
gap left by their exterminating conquest; 
the transmission from Sibo to Chinese, 
and thence through Russian to English, 
must have been perplexing. Naturally 
he was well supplied with statistics ; learnt, 
for instance, that among Kirghese cliildren, 
deaths from scalding and burning are 
exceptionally frequent — ^they roll into the 
fire, or get scalded with the camp-kettla 
But Tartar statistics must be doubtful, when 
a man, having used up his hands and feet in 
counting, has to borrow those of the man 
standing next him to ^ on with the reckon- 
ing. Besides, the Russians must have 




Chiiifli Blokens.] 


[March IS, 1886.] 91 

hambogged him now and then; they 
actoally told him that in West Siberia 
the yearly consumption of alcohol is only 
jast over five pints a head, whereas in the 
British Isles it is twenty-six ! 

Sach a book, by sach an enterprising 
man, was sure to be fall of interest. 
There is not too mach about tract and 
Bible giving, though we are told that 
Bibles were given everywhere, even to 
moUahs and fanatic Kirghese, and that at 
evenr post-house, just under the portraits 
of the Bussian royal family, our doctor 
fiutened up a picture of the Prodigal Son, 
whilst the post-masters piously excudmed : 
<< The Lord must have sent you ! " 

On the whole, Central Asia is hardly a 
country for tourists; though, as far as 
safety goes, they need not fear if they 
get a toavelling permit from the Bussian 


By THEO gift. 

Author nfLtt Larimer/* "An Alibi and it9 Priee," 

£tc, Etc 


Yera's question as to Dr. Marstland's 
religious proclivities had not been, as her 
friend intimated, without a point of per- 
sonal applicatioa In the hurry and con- 
fusion of the g^l's sudden departure from 
Brittany, and the all-absorbing grief and 
anxiety attending the necessity for it, all 
Madame St Laurent's fussy nervousness 
and prudential timidities with regard to 
her daughter had perforce been laid aside. 
The one idea of removing her from the 
risk of infection without submitting her to 
the influence of the De Mailly faimlv had 
been powerful enough for the time being 
to overwhelm every other; and at the 
mcnnent of parting even these maternal 
anxieties were subordinated to those of 
the wife grudgins even that second from 
her husband's bedside. 

It was only later, when his illness began 
for tiie first time to take a favourable turn, 
and the doctor to whisper a hope that any 
inmiediate danger might be considered as 
over, that his devoted nurse could even 
spare time or thought to do more than 
glfunce over her daughter's letters for the 
assurance that she was weU and happy, and 
to wonder — with some inward qualms — as 
to what her husband would say to her in- 
dependent action when he should be well 
enough to hear of it 

That her child had been warmly wel- 

comed, and was receiving every kindly care 
and attention from the hospitable Jewish 
family to whom she had been committed, 
the mother knew well enough from the 
tone, even more than the woms of Yera's 
somewhat meagre epistles (it is seldom 
that a girl who has never left home, or had 
rirl-Mends, is a good correspondent), and 
Madame St Laurent's own communications 
had been more meagre still; generally 
consisting of a daily bulletin as to her 
husband's condition, often of two lines only, 
and always carefully fumigated before being 

It Was only when this condition im- 
proved, so as to leave room for other 
thoughts, that, as I have said, the wife had 
leisure, for the first time, to question the 
wisdom of her own conduct, and dread 
lest any unforeseen result, subversive of 
her lord and master's well-known wishes, 
should eventuate from it; and when a 
letter arrived from Yera, mentioning, 
among other matters, a visit from '' a 
young Mr. Rosenberg, a very funny young 
man, with long haur and a grey velvet coat, 
who talked in a way she couldn't under- 
stand, and asked hex if she had ever ' sat 
for a Madonna'," Madame St Laurent 
replied by quite a long epistle, beginning 
pleasantly enough, inaeed, with the im- 
provement in her invalid's condition, but 
going on to express a hope that Yera's 
good spirits, in consequence, would not 
lead her to giddiness or folly (poor Yera! 
she had never known the feeUng of being 
giddy in her life 1), and giving her a most 
stringent caution against dropping into 
anytiiing like flirtation, or even fnendly 
intimacy, with Mr. Bosenberg, or other 
youths of his sort 

'* I know," she wrote, '' from what Leah 
has said here, that her parents do allow 
some young men friends--Jew8, as I gather 
— to visit at the house ; but that, as you 
know, is not the way with us, and though 
I have not objected to your making this 
visit to Leah Josephs and her family 
(indeed, I think you are less likely to be 
led astrav among a people whom even you 
know beforehand to be hopelessly benighted 
and set apart from the Lord's housenold, 
than among fashionable, so-called Chris- 
tians, whom you might be inclined to believe 
in, and perhaps vex papa and me equally 
by imitation), you must remember that he 
would not approve for a moment of your 
letting yourself become intimate with any 
of the young men, or encouraging them in 
paying you silly compliments or attentions. 



92 [Much 18, 1888.1 


[Oonduflted I7 

I am quite sure, in fact, that he would 
send for yon home at once if he imagined 
there was the least fear of such a thing ; so 
I do hope yon will be prudent and careful, 
and draw back the minute anyone is the 
least particular, so to say, in his manner to 

" There, I can't say more," the mother 
thought to herself. " I don't believe he 
could have put it more strongly himself ; " 
and, indeed, Yera's answer, when it came, 
seemed equally comprehending and satis- 

"Dear Mamma,— There are very few 
visitors of any sort at the Josephs's just 
now. Leah says town is empty, and every- 
one gone away, but it is cheerful enough for 
me. You are quite right about the people 
who come to this house being mostly Jews, 
acd I am so glad you say I need not like 
the young men, or be friendly with them, 
for I don t care about them at all ; only till 
you wrote I thoueht I was wrong not to try 
to do so, and to be less shy with them. I 
do like Mr. Josephs, for, though he is so 
learned that I am a little afraid of him too, 
he is very kind and fatherly, and so gentle 
everyone loves him. Perhaps, however, 
you didn't mean to include him, for he 
never pays compliments to anyone but dear 
Mrs. Josephs, and she likes them. Fancy, 
every Friday evening, he has a beautiful 
candlestick, with seven candles in it, lit up 
in her honour, which they call ' the bride's 
candlestick' — ^I suppose it was given her 
when she was a bride — and, after dinner, 
he makes her sit in the best armchair, and 
kisses her hands, and says all those pretty 
verses out of Proverbs, about a good wife, 
to her, and the children say, 'Happy 
Sabbath, good mother, to you,' and Kiss 
her too. Tne young men are quite different, 
however. I don't like them a bit ; they 
are mostly so small, and have such big 
noses, and don't look either like French- 
men or Englishmen. Besides, I can't 
understand their conversation, which is 
chiefly about music and what Leah calls 
aBsthetic subjects, so that when they call I 
am quite glad to escape or get into a comer 
with the fittle boys. Tell papa, please, he 
need certainly not send for me home on 
their account ; and, oh 1 if he and you do 
go to the Count's cb&teau in the Landes, 
for change, when he is better, do let me 
stay here tQl you return. The Josephs all 
beg that I will" 

This was written before the visit to 
Naomi's, and if, in excuse for her increased 
shyness with the male sex, Yera felt com- 

pelled to betray the counsels she had 
received on the subject, Madame Si Laurent 
had no right to blame anyone but hersdf 
and her system of education, which, by 
keeping a girl of twenty in as strict leading- 
strings as a little chOd, had trained her 
indeed to the docility of one, while depriving 
her of all the natural tact and judgment of 
a woman. 

Fortunately Leah had enough of both, 
and of generosity in the bargain, not to 
betray the contempt and indignation which 
this proof of how Christians looked on 
'* her people " kindled within her; still less 
to resent it on her quest's innocent head. 
Her cheek flushed a little, and her lip curled 
— ^that was all, and Yera only gathered that 
there might be something offensive in 
her confidence by the gently spoken 
caution: "Don't tell dear mother what 
your mamma has written toyoa It — it 
might hurt her." 

It was evening now, and Yera was 
chancing her dress in obedience to her 
friend's orders to *< make herself pretty for 
Naomi's evening". Rather, I should say, 
she was looking at her limited stock of 
*' best dresses " as they lay on the bed, and 
wondering which she should put on, and 
why Leah did not come in as usual to assist 
her in her choice. There was the black 
silk, and the striped brown and purple, and 
the green muslin. There was also a white 
book- muslin, but that was for very best — 
nothing under a dance, at least, and Leah 
had distinctly said this was not e^lB& to be 
a party. Why didn't Leah come in and 
decide for her, tell her what to wear, and 
how to wear it^ and so save her the trouble 
of thinking at all about the matter t 

" I only care about looking nice to please 
her, and she understands how to make me 
do so much better than I do," Yera thought 
plaintively. "Now, would she say the 
brown f I suppose she is still busy pre- 
paring for Naomi's people. How much 
trouble she seems to give herself about 
them 1 " 

Indeed, it was a fact that Leah had been 
wonderfully busy the whole afternoon, 
flying about hither and thither, arranging 
antimacassars in dainty shapes, and dis- 
arranging them the next moment to try a 
dantier ; removing unorthodox litter, such 
as children's toys, and Mr. Lucas's d^- 
rettes — the Lucases were not a tidy family 
— from the drawing-room, and filling every 
available bowl and vase with fresh flowers, 
which she kept running in and out of the 
garden to procure, while ^aomi leant back 


V ?■ 

■ ^ ' . ' l " ."^ ^'-. ■ ■ ' ^, 


CbarlM Oiokeiii.] 


[March 13, 1886.] 93 

in a rocking-chair, easily clad in a cool 
cambric <' peignoir ", her fat baby at her 
feet and a novel in her lap, the picture of 
good-tempered laziness and comfort She 
laughed openly at her sister's energy, and 
whispered something jesting to her in 
passing which sent the blood into Leah's 
brown cheeks ; but the latter did not relax 
In her self-imposed duties all the same, and 
Vera noticed that her lips wore a happy 
smile the whole time, and that ever and 
anon little bursts of song came rippling 
to them and went floating out upon the 
summer air. Now, when dressing-time 
came, and she had not put in her customary 
appearance at Vera's toOet, the younger 
girl, still puzzling over her gowns, began 
to puzzle over something else too — ^t 
laughing whisper, namely, of Naomi's: " Is 
the object of all this bustle worthy of it t " 

Was there any special object for iti 
Vera wondered. Any one among the 
expected guests, the thought of whose 
coming was pleasant enough to make Leah 
look so bright herself, so eager that every- 
thing else ^ould look so t And who could 
it be ) It was only then that there flashed 
upon her the look and tone, unnoticed at 
the time, with which her friend had spoken 
of the friend she had met in the street, 
Dr. Marstland ; and in an instant Naomi's 
joke seemed to acquire a sudden point, and 
Leah's unwonted forgetfnlness of her a 
hidden sting, none the less painful because 
she blushed at herself in hot shame for 
feeline it She had no friend in the world, 
save Leah ; no one whom she loved so well 
or confided in so utterly ; and yet it seemed 
possible that Leah could have friends dear 
enough to cause her to be forgotten, though 
their existence, even, had never been 
whispered to her till to-day. For the first 
time since she left Brittany, poor little 
Vera half wished herself back there. At 
least, she had never known what jealousy 
meant at home. 

She began to dress all the more quickly, 
however. It was one of her forms of shy- 
ness that, when company was expected, 
she always liked to be downstairs and 
safely ensconced in a quiet comer of the 
drawing-room before any of the guests 
arrived — a manoeuvre by which she escaped 
the ordeal of a formal entrance and intro- 
duction into a roomful of strangers; and 
now, being left to herself, it did not take 
her many minutes to discard the black silk 
as too hot and the brown as too ordinary, 
to endue herself with the green muslin, 
which, having been stiffly starched and 

badly packed, presented a condition of 
stiffness and crumples neither suggestive of 
grace nor comfort ; and having twisted her 
hair up on the top of her head — a fashion 
peculiarly unbecoming to her, but which 
she innocently thought gave her a more 
'^ company " appearance — to glide down to 
the drawing-room and seclude herself in the 
friendly embrasure of a window before the 
first ring at the bell had sent Naomi rust- 
ling, fluttering, and flushed into the apart- 
ment to receive her guests. 

Even then Leah, usually beforehand in 
punctuality with her sister, did not make 
her appearance, and it was not tfll some 
minutes later that Vera suddenly caught 
sight of her at the other end of the room, 
talking to a young lady guest ; but looking 
so more than usually bright and handsome, 
that the little French girl could only gsze 
at her in a sort of admiring rapture, while 
even little Benjy Lucas, whose indulgent 
mother allowed him to sit up much later 
than was good for him, exclaimed : 

"Oh— h — hi isn't Aunty Leah loverly 
to-night 1 " 

Yet Miss Josephs was really by no means 
so regularly beautiful as the Salomon 
girls — intensely dark brunettes, whose 
black eyes and hair were set off by the 
daintiest of summer costumes in white 
cambric and lace; her cheeks and eyes 
being only so much brighter than usual as 
to suggest to those who knew her best 
some inward cause for excitement ; while 
her gown was a very old and well-worn 
one of black satin, originally belonging to 
her mother, and made more simply Uian 
many of her dresses, but with an open, 
square-cut bodice and short sleeves, rufiled 
round with fine black lace, which relieved 
the warm, creamy whiteness of the neck 
and arms, and a scarf of the same material, 
knotted loosely round the hips. All of 
colour or richness in the costume was 
concentrated in a great cluster of roses 
fastened against one side of the bosom — 
roses of every hue, from palest yellow to 
deepest crimson, nestling in their own 
bronzed leaves, and glowing out from that 
shelter with a luxuriance and vividness 
which would have made even a plain girl 

The person who wore those roses needed 
no other adornment ; nay, even the half- 
blown bud, hiding itself like a flake of 
ruby velvet among the coils of her dark, 
wavy hair, seemed like an impertinence in 
attempting to distract the eye from the 
queenly gorgeousness of its sisters. 




94 [Hareb 13, 1886.] 


[Oonductod bf 

She had not forgotten her friend, how- 
ever, over her own more sncceesful toilet, 
for, even while Vera was still regarding 
her with wistful admiration, the dark eyes 
met hers in recognition, and the next 
moment Leah was at her side, whispering 
reproachfully : 

" Vera, you bad girl ! Did you hurry 
downstairs lest I should prevent your 
screwing up your hair that way! And 
why didn't you put on your flowers! 
Naomi kept me in the nursery with Aliz, 
who is croupish, till later than I thought, 
and when I went to your room you had 
flown, and there were all the pretty flowers 
I cut for you — white roses, and your 
favourite clematis, and the only bit of 
gardenia in the conservatory — wasting 
their sweetness in the glass just as I left 
them 1 " 

*<0h, Leah, I am so sorry! I didn't 

see " Vera began, but the sentence 

was not finished, for at the same moment 
the door opened to admit some fresh 
guests, and Leah went forward to assist 
her sister in receiving them. 

They were three gentlemen — one, young 
Rosenberg, and the other two strangers, 
tall men both, and one, at any rate, 
singularly handsome, slight, graceful, and 
scarcely middle-aged, with a thoughtful, 
rather melancholy face, fair hair parted in 
the middle, and a long fair beard, pointed 
on the chesi 

Vera felt an instinctive certainty that 
this was Dr. Marstland, more especially as, 
after a brief greeting to the other, Leah 
remained talking with him at the farther 
end of the room, where he seemed only 
too well content to detain her, while Mr. 
Burt — if the second stranger were he — 
crossed the apartment at once, and entered 
into lively conversation with Naomi and her 
husband, both of whom welcomed him with 
even more than their wonted effusiveness. 

Certainly he was not like the wife with 
whom Vera had already made acquain- 
tance. Indeed, remembering that lady's 
rigid and almost "stained-glass" solemnity, 
she could not help feeling that the Burts' 
marriage must have been one of those 
founded on the law of contrarieties; for 
the very sound of the gentleman's voice, 
pleasant in tone, perhaps, but loud enough 
to overpower most of those in its vicinity, 
and of his laugh, ringing and explosive as 
a schoolboy's, were enough to banish the 
idea of solemnity from his presence, and 
make shy Vera tremble in spilit lest so 
noisy a person should be introduced to her, 

and so bring general attention on her timid 
head. In truth there was something 
vigorous and demonstrative enough about 
his whole personality to make many nervous 
souls flutter on their perches. Ajb tall 
really as his Mend, he looked less than his 
height^ owing to the great width of his 
shoulders, and substantial, not to say some- 
what thick-set frame. His head, too, though 
not actually large, had the appearance of 
being so from being covered with a thick 
mass of curly hair of an unusually vivid 
shade of chestnut-brown, which was made 
the more noticeable by the much darker 
shade of the moustache and short pointed 
beard which covered his moutL His eyes 
were brown, too, large, well-opened, and 
almost too brilliant, wiUi a habit of fixing 
themselves so intensely on the face of the 
person he was speaking to as to be some- 
what trying to the nervous feminine organi- 
sations afore-mentioned; while hb firesh and 
ruddy face, sunburnt hands, and uncon- 
ventional attire (for he made his appearance 
in a rough serge and coloured slurt) spoke 
to plenty of outdoor life in wind and sun, 
if not to a somewhat contemptuous di^ 
regard for the exactions of evening-dress. 

'* But the truth is, I haven't got so much 
as a white tie, let alone a swallow-tail on 
board the boat," he was saying to Naomi, 
though at a distance just too far removed 
from Vera for her to catch the words. 
" When I determined to allow myself this 
outing, I made up my mind to do it 
.Bohemian fashion or not at alL I don't see 
any Am in carrying London shackles into 
country air, so I left evening toggery, 
and all other handcufls and ankle-gyves, 
locked up in my wardrobe at home. I 
thought you'd make me welcome without 

"If Oh, I'd make you welcome in a 
dressing-gown, and so would Albert," said 
Naomi warmly. "Leah had told me yon 
were camping out in a house-boat ; but I 
thought it was somewhere above Oxford, 
and never expected to meet you down 

" We only came down yesterday. My 
chum there wanted to be within half an 
hour's reach of town for a day or two on 
account of some business matters, so we 
upped anchor and came. How well year 
sister is looking ! " 

" Isn't she t Never better, I say, though 
she didn't enjoy her Brittany visit very 
much, after all. Indeed it was an awful sell 
in some ways, for Oh, here she is 1 " 

"I hear the word Brittany," said Leah, 





Chtflflf Dkkeni.] 


[March 18, 1886.] 95 

coming up, her black draperies and glow- 
ing roses, with those bright eyes over 
them, making her, indeed, so sti&ing and 
gracious a figure that Mr. Burt might be 
excused for allowing his keen, intent gaze 
to rest on her in most open and cordial 
admiration. ** Is Naomi ofifering to intro- 
duce you to my friend from there, Miss 
St Laurent t " 

"No ; where is she V* and " No; we were 
admiring you," came from man and woman 
simultaneously ; the former's speech being 
tiie last quoted, and bringing a bright 
blush into Leah's cheek. She turned it 
off, however, with a frank, pleasant smQe 
and answered (Vera could guess what she 
was saying by the turn of her head): 

"Then come now and let me do it 
There she is in that window, and she is so 

" That girl t " he turned a quick glance 
in the direction indicated, and flNS^ ^^^ 
felt what was being spoken. ''The young 
woman with red h^ strained off her face 
like a Dutch doU, and an impossibly hideous 
dress covered with green cabbages t No, 
please don't ; I would much rather talk to 

" Oh, but I want you to know her. She 
has made herself look ugly to-night ; but 
her hair is lovely really, and so is her 
character. I doubt if you have ever met a 
sweeter or more innocent girl ; and, as to 
her dress — you are not Mr. Rosenberg to 
' die Hke a rose in achromatic pain ' 
because of a false tone of colour. She has 
lived out of the world and never learnt the 
art of dressing — ^that is aU." 

"A true woman never needs to learn it. 
It comes to her by nature. Do you mean 
to pretend anyone taught you how to put 
those roses together! No, I'm not going 
to talk to your friend. Her sweetness may 
be saccharine, and her innocence only equal 
to a 'bashful young potato, or a quite 
too-too French-bean'; but they must be 
wasted on less deserving mortals for the 
present I haven't seen you for three 
months, and I want a chat" 

" Then you must wait for it, or do it 
solo "—but Leah did not speak chillingly — 
" for I have just promised to sing." 

"Very well, that will be better than 
nothing. I wUl come and listen to you, 
and we will have our chat afterwards." 

And they went off together, his shaggy 

curls and massive shoulders towering over 

nearly everyone else present, and making 

Leah look slim and fairy-like in comparison. 

Vera sat still in her comer. Her heart 

need not have fluttered so quickly after alL 
She had got her wish. The loud-voiced 
Mr. Burt was not going to be introduced 
to her; but she knew as well as if each 
word had reached her, that the introduction 
had been offered and declined ; and, humble 
as she was^ it would have been unnatural 
if a little twinge of mortification had not 
mingled with the relief. 

"Of course he liked better to go and 
listen to Leah," she thought "Anyone 
would; but it would have been more — 
more polite if he had just let her introduce 
him to me first Besides, I daresay she 
would much rather have had that hand- 
some Dr. Marstland to turn over for her." 

Miss St Laurent little thought that her 
opinion of "that handsome Dr. Marst- 
land " was to go down in similar fashion 
before many minutea 

Some of Leah's Brittany sketches were 
lying on a table near Vera's window ; and 
while the singing was going on. Dr. Marst- 
land drew near and began to turn them 
over. He did not say anything, and Vera 
was disappointed not to see the melancholy 
beauty of his face lighted by any very keen 
expression of admiration ; but her wrath 
began to rise when little Rosenberg, who 
had already told Leah in the frankest way 
that he was very sorry, but they would he 
no use to him, " much too mannered and 
conventional Suffolk Streety (if she 
wouldn't mind his saying so), sadly Suffolk 
Streety," drew near ako. 

"Another example that one must not 
look for music and painting in one soul 
more than now and again in a cycle," he 
observed as he came behind the doctor. 

" Yes," said the latter. 

" She can sing, you know." 

"Ye— es." 

" Don't you think so f It's a very good 
quality of voice." 

" For that quality of song — yes." 

"But she oughtn't to paint I'm very 
sorry. Indeed it is my fault, for I en- 
couraged, her at the beginning. I thought 
it was in her ; that there were germs — ^very 
crude, you know ; but still germs of the 
divine cult. And she is such a dear 
creature. I admire her intensely, don't 
you know. Those very things were done 
for me." 


Dr. Marstland went on turning over the 
sketches with no more expression in his 
face or finger-tips than befora He might 
have been simply toying with them in a 
fit of abstraction. 





[March 13, 1886.] 

** Yes, I said to her, ' Go into the heart 
of Natare — Nature as she sits on the sea- 
coast of Finisterre, and just daub down 
what yon see there ; not what yon think 
you see, or fancy you can paint Yon 
can't paint, bat I think you could daub. 
Daub only as you see and feel;' and she 
promised me she would. It was very 
precious of her, you know. She was gone 
three months, and — these are the results?" 

He whisked three or four of them 
towards the doctor with a smile that was 
almost tearful 

" Humph 1 " said the latter, and put them 

'< Yes, you can guess what I felt Smart, 
neatly - coloured sketches, smacking of 
science and art schools and cheap drawing- 
copies. I wish she had burnt them." 

" Yes," said the doctor slowly ; ** school- 
girlish — ^very. Not so very bad for a school- 
girl, though. Unluckily she isn't one." 

'' Who isn't — Miss Josephs!" put in a 
sudden, deep-toned voice, startling Vera, 
who in the extremity of her indignation 
against these insolent traducers of her 
idol's genius had risen to her feet, heedless 
that the impetuous movement had entangled 
her hair in the curtain-folds, and ruffled it 
in quite tragic fashion. 

** No ; more of a mistress than a school- 
girl, isn't she, both in music and painting t 
What are these 1 Her Brittany sketches 1 
By Jove ! they're clever. Just look at the 
lines of that fisher-girl's figure. Makes 
you feel a bit jealous, don't it, Rosenberg 1 
You're awfully shaky in your anatomy, 
you know, old fellow. The fact is, you 
ought to have studied in the life-schools 
more. It's easy enough to daub in land- 
scapes by your untutored genius^ like the 
old boss here ; but when you come to the 
figure you want science ^" 

The speaker was going on, but stopped 
rather abruptly; not because of any interrup- 
tion from the discomfited Mr. Rosenberg — 
his friend had only smiled tolerantly — but 
because of a face which seemed to have 
sprung out of the shadows behind to 
greet him — a girl's face, pure and soft, 
framed in a tangle of fluffy hair, and with 
a pair of marvellously appealing eyes, 
filled one moment with burning anger 
and contempt for the two adverse 
critics, but only to be turned on him 
the next with an expression of the 

sweetest gratitude and approval, so lovely 
in its unconscious fervour as to touch him 
with a species of wordless caress. He did 
not know to whom it belonged. He did 
not even associate it with ** the Dutch doll 
girl in the impossibly hideous dress". He 
only saw the face itself relieved for one 
moment against a dark curtain in the jm) 
between the two men's shoulders. The 
next, a movement of one of them hid it^ 
and when he looked again it was gone, 
and its owner to be seen nowhera Indeed, 
that sudden pause, and the answering 
flash in his keen eyes, had startled Vera 
back into more than her normal timidity. 
She became conscious that she had oome 
forward, had attracted attention from the 
very person who had refused to be intro- 
duced to her so short a time ago ; and in 
an access of terrified shyness and confusion 
she slipped out through the ofen window 
and made her escape mto the garden, thus 
missing Rosenberg's answer: 

''Ah, Marstland, my dear fellow, you're 
a surgeon and a Philistine, don't you 
knowl not an artist. You look on a 
woman with the scalpel in your mind's 
eye; not as I do, as the expression of a 
soul — a harmonious fortuity of colour and 
form. Miss Josephs would not thank you 
for your praise." 

It was in this way that Vera escaped 
learning the mistake she had made — 
namely, that the tawny-headed stranger 
wiih the big voice and broad shoulders 
was not Burt, the artist, whose ecclesias- 
tical appearance was far more consonant 
with his wife's, but Dr. Marstland himsell 
And therefore, when the girls retired to 
bed for the night, it was in perfect good 
faith that she told her friend : 

" I'm very sorry, Leah ; but, no, I don't 
like your handsome doctor — though he is 
handsome— at ail; and I don't think I 
ever should. No, don't ask me why, for I 
couldn't tell you; and please don't be 
offended with me. His friend Mr. Bart is 
nice, if you like. I didn't think so at 
first; and he is rather a frightening sort of 
man too ; but I do like him, all the same." 

*' And yet you would not let me intro- 
duce him to you once when I asked yon," 
said Leah in astonishment. 

"No; because I can't tell you 

because why, either," Vera ansivered, 

The Right of Translating^ Artkiesjrom All the Year Round is reserved hy the Authon. 

'ublbhcd «t the Offlce, 3«, Wellington Street, Strand. Printed by Charles Dick»8 4 Fvaps, M, 0re»t New Sireet, B.C 





" A ROMANCE in real life, indeed/' said 
Captain Wharton, when Rodney came to 
Uie end of the story of his visit to Miss 
Herivale. " I suppose so snccessfol a poll 
npon a man's recollections of twenty years 
before has seldom been mada It is odd, 
too, that I have a perfectly distinct re- 
membrance of the young pair, and of all 
the drcomstances. To be sore it was the 
only elopement I ever had a hand in, and 
a remarkable case in itsell And to think 
of it having ended so sadly 1 " 

The friends were sitting at one of the in- 
' mmierable tables in a vast dining-room of 
the Langham Hotel There was a pleasant 
solitnde^ffonnd them; only a few stragglers 
remained at the farther end of the room. 
Captain Wharton was enjoying himself 
thoronghly in Bodney's society. His wife 
and their beautifol daughter, a brilliant, 
firefly sort of girl, whose word was law 
to her proud and obedient parents, had 
informed him that they did not want him 
to escort them that evening. His pleasure 
m Effie's enjoyment of the delights of 
London, and in the admiration which her 
rare and novel loveliness everywhere 
excited, never flagged ; yet CaptainWharton 
was obliged to remind hiioself now and 
then that he was not so young as he had 

Twenty years had changed both Bodney 
and Wharton ; the first into a middle-aged, 
the second into an elderly man, but they 
had treated the two gently. Rodney's 
npright figure, frank countenance, quick, 
penetrating glance, and slow, humorous 

smile, were all untouched by time ; the 
thinning of his hair, and the deepening of the 
lines in his face, were the only marks of the 
handiwork of the destroyer. Captahi Paul 
Wharton was now a white-hairod gentle- 
man, with whom it was more than ever 
di^cult to associate the idea of a life 
passed in the toil and danger of seafaring. 
Alertness of movement unusual at his age, 
and a readiness of resource, characteristic of 
men whose business is in the deep waters, 
were all that told of Paul Wharton's former 
experience. At home— his beautiful, re- 
fined home at Boston — he was a quiet 
dweller among his late-acquired treasure 
of books; abroad, he was well content 
that his claims to notice and distinction 
should rest upon the fact that he 
was the husband of the charming Mrs. 
Wharton, and the father of the brilliant 
and lovely Effia 

"I remember it all, as if it only hap- 
pened last week," said Gaptain Wharton : 
''the girl's terrible nervousness, and 
Rosslyn's unconsciousness that tiiere was 
any stronger reason for it than their 
elopement I can see her face now, as I 
said good-bye to her, and assured her it 
was impossible that any information about 
them could reach Jamaica from Cuba until 
they should be safe in England. I can 
recall the words I said : ' Supposing you 
were recognised here, the steamer by which 
you will sail for England will have left 
Kingston before there is any means of 
getting from Jamaica to CuIml It won't 
matter then how soon the truth is known.' 
She was aware that you had told me 
all, and she let me see her fear of her 
cousin plainly. I tried to rally her out of 
it, but in vain ; it was half-superstitious, 
and of course that is always hopeless 
especially in the case of a Spanish woman.*' 

" Her fear waswell-founded, as I fdt wit}^ 







98 [March 20,1886.] 



sincere conyiction at the time, or I shotild 
not have mixed yon np with the matter/' 
said Rodney. " I confesfZ have never been 
able utterly to discard belief in the Evil 
Eye, and, if ever it existed, Norberto de 
Rodas possessed that baleful influence. 
Look at this very instance. The girl was 
rescued, the villain was defeated, her lover 
was saved, the marriage was accomplished, 
but Norberto triumphed in the end ; his 
curse was fulfilled ; his successful rival 
perished within a few hours of home, after 
a few days of happiness, and the girl's after 
fate does not bear thinking of." 

" True ; but you don't want the Evil 
Eye to account for all that — 'the plain devil ' 
suffice& Her cousin's . wickedness drove 
the poor girl to the fatal step she took ; 
but KoBslyn's death must have been pure 
accident, and, after all, it is from that the 
ulterior consequences have come. There 
is one point in the narrative, however, 
which seems obecara It is the motion 
which led the poor girl to aK . n 
from communicating with her hu^^;<^>u h, 
family when she reached Enghn .. ven 
supposing that her knowlp;>i'^ w^3 of the 
slightest, she knew thftl j-os :yn was a 
man of means, an artist. iLexefore known 
to a certain extent, «. t i).j,t his father was 
living. I remember il^ telling me that he 
had said his father and sister would 
welcome her ; then why did she not apply 
tothemt Granting that she wasever so help- 
less, she would at all events have consulted 
a minister of her own religion, and there 
would have been little difficulty in discover- 
ing Dr. Rosslyn. Did not the full force of 
thu strike you, when Miss Merivale related 
the story to you t Apart from the results 
to herseU, it is incomprehensible that the 
poor girl should have left her husband's 
f atiier and slater ignorant of his fate. How 
terrible have been the consequences 1 What 
years of suspense and misery she inflicted 
upon them !" 

<<I have thought of all these points," 
said Rodney, "and discussed them witli 
Miss Merivde ; but she threw no more light 
upon them than Mr. Dexter had dona 
She remembered with perfect distinctness 
what Willesden had told her — indeed, 
her olear-mindedness and recollection are 
remarkable. She put it strongly to him 
that Mrs. RosbIju's not having applied to 
Dr. Rosslyn in the first instance was inex- 
plicable, and that his not having done so, 
afterwards, when he could have recom- 
mended hiimseU by revealing the existence 
of the child, was, if possible, more inex- 

plicable still. He freely admitted this ; and 
when she observed that it was the weak 
point in his story, he admitted that also, 
but coolly added that he relied upon the 
strong points." 

"There cannot be any fraud in the 
matter, I suppose ? " 

" Not so far as the facts concerning the 
poor girl are concerned. Of course, Miss 
Merivale was put to ransom by Willesden, 
who was an undoubted scoundrel — his own 
account of himself makes that abrndartW 
evident. Mr. Dexter does not ku > - r. 
amount of money the fellow ^ot from her, 
and with me she naturally -.'ivl not touch 
upon the subject" 

"I suppose thic pa.-^ of the story will 
never be dearrd ny. After all, considering 
the lapse of lue, it is very strange that so 
much . ^^\«iJ Iiave come to light; and not 
the V .. . curious link in the chain of cir- 
r-^; •-! jnces is the seeming accident of Mr. 
. . .Iter's being at hand at the moment 
when Miss Rosslyn had attracted your 
attention, to tell you all about her. 
Another illustration of the world's being 
a very small place." 

" It was an odd sensation," said Rodney 
irrelevantly, " to find myself talking with 
people who had for so long believed me to 
be dead. Miss Merivale showed me the 
report sent to Dr. Rosslyn by the agent who 
went out to Cuba. 6y-the-bye, we shall 
meet the very man at dinner at The 
Quinces, on Thursday, most likely ; and 
Colonel Courtland also told me about a letter 
written by this gentleman to him, in which 
the brief announcement, 'Mr. Rodney is 
dead,' was mada Ton will not be sur- 
prised that no incident in the whole case 
impressed me more strongly than this; and 
if you don't mind my being more than a 
little tedious, I will try to show you why I 
regard it as a more important feature tlum 
at first sight it seems to ba" 

" I'm profoundly interested," replied 
Captain Wharton, '' and all abroad as to 
how such a mistake was mada" 

" It was no mistake. Bear in mind the 

Srson who told Dr. Rosslyn's agent that 
r. Rodney was dead. That person was 
Don Norberto de Rodas. Beur in mind 
the persons with whom the agent was 
in communication — the English Vice* 
Consul, Don Gualterio's servant, Juan, 
and Don Pepito Yinent None of the 
three knew anything about me, and Don 
Gualterio, to whom I had written idFter 
I reached New York, was not in the 
island. The lie fulfilled Don Norberto's 





[Maroh20,1886.) 99 

purpose. It convinced the agent that his 
task was fruitless and most be abandoned, 
and, snpposing Don Pepito afterwards 
rememberod anything at all about it, it 
was easy for Don Norberto to say that he 
hid been mistaken." 

"That is plain enough; but I don't 
see the man's motive." 

" Don't yon t It is as clear as day to 
me, and it fits in exactly with a notion 
of mine respectbg him, which I well 
remember to have imparted to poor Bossl]^^ 
— the notion that there was vast poten- 
tiality of undeveloped wickedness in Nor- 
berto de Bodas. In deceiving Dr. Bosslyn's 
agent, and inducing him to give up hb 
mission as a bad job, Don Norberto had 
two objects to gain — ^the preservation of 
the family secret concerning Fair Ines," 
it was strange how easily he dropped back 
into the familiar words after all those 

Effs, " and most effectual revenge upon 
rival — ^whom he hated, depend upon it^ 
dead or living, as only such a man canhate 
—and also upon the unfortunate girl who 
had, at all events, and at the very worst 
that could befall her, escaped from him. 
He accomplished both those objects, the 
first, manifestly, because the asent left 
Santiago without any suspicion that Ines 
was not in the convent, or that I was still 
in the land of the living ; the second, pre- 
sumptively, because the mission of the 
agent had disclosed to him that evil of some 
and had befallen his cousin and her 
husband, and that whether Hugh Ro8sl3rn 
ware living or dead — the latter being fax 
the more probable — Ines was without the 
aid sjid protection of his family. These 
two pleasant subjects of contemplation 
were provided for Norberto de Bodas 
by the agent's abortive mission. As I 
remember him, twenty years ago, he must 
have revelled in them." 

" What a fiend you depict in a phrase 1 " 

"He was a fiend in malignity of spirit, 
and an adept in most of the merely human 
vices as well I wonder whether he has 
yet gone to his own place, or whether he 
is now a prosperous, pious, and popular 
personage in Santiago de Cuba." 

"There were more fiends than one in 
the business. What wretches the ffirl's 
fadier and step-mother proved themselves, 
too. After seven years' ignorance of her 
fate, to learn that it had iNden so terrible, 
9a&. to disown her child I Why, Rodney, 
ift a disglrace to human nature ! " 

*• It ia indeed ; and even when I have 
srid wl^t I am goiog to say, the case is 

black enou^ against Don Satumino de 
Rodas and his wife. But I have the 
strongest conviction — ^it came to me while 
I was talking with Miss Merivale — that 
the whole thmg was the doing of Don 

'' Impossible, Rodney. Her own parents 
must have told the falsehood about the 
girl's being in the convent ; no influence 
could have prevented tiliem from ta^ng 
measures to ascertain her fiite, and if any 
had been resorted to they must have suc- 
ceeded easily. Fou, yourself, were within 
reach of enquiry from Cuba. No — ^no; 
the cruel resolution to abandon her was 
taken jiirhen the lie that was devised to 
save the &mily crodit, according to their 
notions, was told; and it was ruthlessly 
carried out in that vile letter, which was 
written in answer to the communication 
addressed to them when tiie child was 

** That letter was written by Norberto de 
Rodas, and it forms one of the strongest 
grounds of my conviction. Thero is not a 
scrap of evidence that Don Satumino or 
Dofia Mercedes had anything to do with it, 
or that they ever saw the letter to which it 
was an answer. There is not a scrap of 
evidence that they ever heurd of the agent's 
visit to Santiago. Whv should tiiey t Not 
a breath of rumour had ever connected the 
names of Hugh Rosslyn and Ines de Rodas. 
If it suited the purpose of Don Norberto to 
conceal the ciroumstance from them, he had 
only to keep his own counsel; it was 
nobody's business to roveal it I knew 
those people well Don Satumino was a 
weak person ; he adored his wife, and did 
not particularly caro about his daughter ; 
but he was not inhuman, and — though he 
would no doubt have assented to the first 
falsehood, for the sake of the family pride, 
credit, and honour — I am perfectly sure tiiat 
he would not have been induced by any 
influence to consent to ignorance of the fate 
of Ines. I took the measuro of Dona 
Mercedes, too, with tolerable accuracy in 
those old days, and although I knew her 
to be cold-hearted, hard-hearted, profoundly 
self-interested, and that she disliked her 
step-daughter, I could not believe her 
capable of such cruelty as this." 

"Then how is their conduct to be in- 
terproted 1 " 

"As I believe, by iniputing it, as it 
appears, to Don Norberto de Rodaa 
Allowing that they consented to the lie 
about the convent; granting even that 
Dofia Meroedes suggested it, they would 



100 [Harob 20, 1886.] 



only have regarded it as a temporary 
expedient for suppressing scandal, and we 
might then conclude that the task of 
making secret enquiry would have fallen 
to Don Norberto. Let us suppose, for the 
sake of working out my theory, and aJso to 
rid those people of odium of which I cannot 
believe them deserving, that he did to 
them in the case of Ines what he did to 

Dr. Eosslyn in the case of myself " 

*' Told them she was dead, do you 

" Told them she was dead, knowing that 
they would accept his word for it ; and then 
left her to the utter abandonment which he 
must have hoped for and foreseen bom the 
nature of the agent's mission." 

"It is a strong web of conjectural 
villainy that you have woven, Kodney. 
Tou bring out the ' potentiality ' you spoke 
of a little while ago on a grand scale ; but 
there is a great dral in your theory of this 
man's conduct that is consistent witfi all you 
knew of him when you came to me on board 
the old Manhattan. The scoundrel who had 
scared the poor girl to such desperation 
at that stage of the business, would un- 
doubtedly be capable of carrying out the 
scheme you have guessed at The only 
thing against it is the presumption of great 
folly on the part of the people he was 
deceiving, and the extraordmary improba- 
bility of the girl's not having commumcated 
directly with her father, when she fell into 
the distress which ultimately threw her into 
Willesden's hands." 

" Unless I could make you understand 
the state of things in the De Rodas family, 
as I remember it^" said Bodney, " I could 
not meet your first objection convincmely ; 
so I must leave it, merely saying that it.does 
not present so much difficulty to me, and 
that the reason is not because I am 
enamoured of my own reading of a riddle. 
Tour second objection I can more readily 
dispose of. Although WiUesden could 
not give Miss Merivale any information 
on the pointy there is no reason why we 
should conclude that Fair Lies did not 
appeal directly to her father ; but nothing 
would be easier than for Norberto de Bodas 
to suppress the communication. He 
would only have had to watch for such 
a thing, and he would naturally have been 
expecting it from the time when the agent's 
mission apprised him that calamity of some 
kind had overtaken Lies, and that Bosslyn's 
&mily knew nothing about her. He had 
free access to Don Satumino's papers ; his 
part in the business gave him tlutt ; he had 

only to be on the alert when the mail from 
Ei^land was delivered, and, if he secured 
and concealed one letter from Ines, he might 
feel pretty confident tiiat he need not fear 
the coming of a second." 

''You think, then, she would not try 
agam t 

'' Tes ; I feel sure her timidity and her 
despair would prevent her from making any 
further attempt" 

Captain Wharton looked doubtful, and 
shook his head. The weak point in the 
cleverly - constructed and plausible case 
made by Bodney for Don Satumino and 
I Dona Mercedes de Bodas made itself 
evident to him, where the weak point in 
Willesden's statement to Lilias Merivale 
had made itself evident to her. In neither 
the case nor the statement was the influence 
upon Ines of her child's interest sufficiently 
recognised. Lilias had argued that no 
consideration such as Willesden named 
would have withheld Ines from making 
her position known to her lost husband's 
father when it became a question of letting 
her child want Again, nothing in the 
case as put forward by Bodney, Captain 
Wharton felt, accounted for Ines's making 
no second application to her father when 
it had become a question of letting her 
child want Far as Bodney still was from 
divining the whole truth, he had worked 
out a great deal of it in his ingenious 
brain ; but Wharton had detected a flaw in 
the web, because, whatever he might be 
doing or talking of, his own daughter was 
never out of ms mind, and as te listened 
to the story of Ines his fancy linked it 
with that of Effia Thus, the note of 
sympathy, which is the truest enlighten- 
ment, was struck. 

" The villain must have been lucky in his 
villainy and have secur^ all she wrote," 
said Captain Wharton, <<for it is totally 
impossible that she made no farther effort 
But, even so, I still find it difficult to 
account for her being driven to the deap«ir 
which induced her to marry so soon. Ilie 
alternative can have been nothing short (rf 
starvation, and that, they say, no one can 
face. No woman can face it for her child, 

" Extreme helplessness and ignorance of 
everything English had probably as much 
share in forcing her to that resource as 
actual x>enury," said Bodney. '* A deserted 
child in a wilderness is the only image 
of the desolation of Fair Lies tbiat I can 
conjure up. Bom and reared amid wealth, 
luxury, and indulgence, and with all tiie 



Ul ^.. i . i 







C&ailM OioktDi.] 


prarch 20,18861] 101 

helpleBsnees of a Creole lady — ah, it does 
Dol do to think of, even as a thing past 
and gone so many years ago ! " 

Captain Wharton was silent. In his 
nund's eye was a vision of Hagh and Ines 
18 he had seen them, standing side by side in 
the moonlight on the deck of his good 
ship, the rirl's starry eyes uplifted to Uieir 
kindred i^ies, the young man's bent on 
hers with a lofty look of love, reverence, 
and protection, while the silver sea lay 
glittering in a boundless plain around 
wem — the silver sea, so soon to be the 
grave of that true lover. Twenty years 
aeo ! — and here was he, Paul Wharton, an 
elderly man, prosperous and happy, to 
whom that same sea had ever been pro- 
pitious and beneficent, with as keen a pang 
of pity at his heart for the bridegroom 
and tiie bride as though their fate had 
befallen them yesterday. 

"You're right, Wharton — ^you're quite 
right," said Rodney, after a meditative 
pause. *'Even if I have worked it out 
r%htly, there's a missing link, and I don't 
lee how it is ever to be supplied." 

" Nor L Have you any idea of the 
present state of things in the Bodas 
family! I gathered from what you said 
that yon don't know anything about the 
viUainons nephew, who is now probably a 
local magnata" 

" I know nothing, because I have never 
enquired. But my old friend, Don Oual- 
terio, is still alive, well, and erratic At 
least, he was all this at the beginning of the 
year, when I came upon himin the Yosemite, 
tranquilly sketching £1 Capitan. I had 
not heard of him for a long time previously. 
He wanted me to go back to Cuba when 
he shoold be going ; but my face was set 
for Europe just ab^ut that tima I shall 
write to him, after I have seen Miss 
Merivale and Colonel Courtland again, for 
all the preliminary information that will be 

'* You are sure of your facts about Do£ia 
biea's Inheritance from her mother t " 

"Perfectly sure." 

" Do you know, Bodney, the money part 
of this matter is the strongest argument, 
to my mind, for the correctoess of your 
notion that the villain suppressed, not only 
the poor girl's own letters, but also the 
eommtinication made on behalf of Miss 
Merivale when Willesden gave up the child. 
Ton see, the money which Dona Ines 
inherited from her mother did not belong 
to Don Saturnine at all, and you have 
spoken of him as an honourable person." 

" Certamly." 

"Well, then, he might have refused to 
take back his daughter, or to have any- 
thing to do with her, either from pride, 
anger, revenge, or all those bad motives 
combined; but he would not have been 
likely to rob her of her just inheritance, 
and, when he had been informed of herdeath, 
to go on robbing her child, just because 
the lady who had taken charge of her was 
not aware that the child h^ any rights. 
Don't you agree with me that the two 
actions belong to di£ferent kinds of base- 
ness and turpitude, and that a man might 
do the one thing who could never be 
induced, by any security of impunity, to 
do the other 1" 

" Of course I do," said Eodney, with a 
keen look of satisfaction ; " and I see how 
strongly your observation supports my 
theory. That's the second time you've 
hit where IVe missed, Wharton. If I 
know anything at all of men, Don 
Saturnine de Bodas would be absolutely 
incapable of a dishonest action, although 
he might be persuaded into an unfeeling 
and revengeful one. The question is 
settled for me : every communication was 
suppressed; the existence of his grand- 
child is unknown to the old man, if he be 
still living." 

" I think that is the only way out of it," 
said Captain Wharton quietly; "and I 
should say the next scene of this drama — 
with so long an interval between the acts — 
will be of a lively and exciting nature. 
Of course, Miss Merivale has not as yet 
considered the steps to be taken in con- 
sequence of what you have told her." 

" No ; I fancy not A first consultation 
with you, and then a general council under 
the advice of Mr. Dexter, is as far as she 
has got." 

"It's getting late," said Captain Wharton, 
looking at his watch. " My wife and Effie 
will be back from their concert presently. 
Shall we go upstairs 1 It will be pleasant 
news for them that Miss Merivale and 
Miss Bosslyn are coming to call on them 
to-morrow. Mrs. Wharton was very much 
struck with both ladies at the play." 

Bodney occupied rooms of more modest 
dimensions, and a good deal nearer the 
roof of the Langham, than the spacious 
suite of apartments to which Mrs. Wharton 
and Iffie had already, by some mysterious 
art, given an air of home. It was past 
midnight when he sat himself down at 
the window of his sitting-room for a final 
smoke, and fell to thinkm^ again over the 



102 CHareh 20, 188611 



occurrences of the day, and the long con- 
versation of the evening. The resnlt of his 
reflections was the forming of a resolu- 

'<No agent this time/' he said to him- 
self. '< I am an idle man for the first time 
in my life, and I will see the matter 
througL It is no good waiting to exchange 
letters with Don Goalterio ; there must be 
somebody lefb among them who can be 
brought to an accountw She shall not have 
anotherspell of suspense in her life if I can 
prevent it. I will start as soon as I have 
seen about this confounded place of mine 
at Southampton." 



Pope's villa and Walpole's Gothic 
building of Strawberry Hill have given a 
flavour to Twickenham that it has pre> 
served through all the disillusionments of 
its modem growth. The name conjures up 
in the imagination the placid river, the 
graceful swans, the green sward, the artful 
artificial plantation. 

In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes 
Of hanging mountains and of sbping greens. 

What are the gay parterre, the cheauered shade, 
The morning bower, the evening colonnade ? 

What are all these, the poet would say, 
without the fair creatures who once 
adorned them — ^without the especial fair 
one who, for the moment^ received the 
poet's adoration, an elegant and ethereal 
passion tiiat might rest like a flower upon 
the purest bosom. Not that one would 
like to think in that connection of the 
hard and unsympathetic Lady Mary Mon- 
tague, but of that softer and more pleasing 
train of nymphs, who are pictured by Gky 
as welcoming their hero back from the 
visionary land of Homer and the plains of 

I see two lovely sisters, hand-in-hand. 
The fair-haired Martha and Teresa brown, 

Madge Bellenden, the fairest of the land, 
And smiling Mary, soft and fair as down. 

And though it would have been a delight 
to have visited Pope's 'garden, laid out by 
his own hands and arranged in dainty 
devices : 

I plant, root up ; I build, and then confound. 
Turn round to square, and square again to round; 

or to have pictured his friends from the 
great world at work with the little poet, 
I hammering;, nailin^c, and tying up, Boling- 

broke, perhaps, his head running rxpoa 
Jacobite plots, or Peterborough, just home 
from the war in Spain ; 

And he whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines, 
Now forms my quincunx and now ranks my vines. 

Pope had won this villa of his owing to 
the wonderful success of his translation of 
the first books of the Iliad having put 
money in his purse, which he thus 
judiciously invested. And he eame there 
in Mardi, 1715-16, bringing his father and 
mother, and his household gods, like any 
Trojan hero, from the sktrts of Windsor 
Forest to the pleasant and sunny nook 
which tiie poet styles alternately ''a 
paltry hermitage " and " my Tusculum." 

Pope had a&eady been some years at 
Twickenham when his friend, Lord Boling- 
broke, who had made hb peace with the 
ruling powers, came back to England, and 
settlM in the same county, at Dawley, 
within an easy drive of Pope's villa. 

Still retired and secluded is the little 
village of Harlington, where Dawley House, 
or some part of it^ is yet standing. This 
had been the seat, at one time, ot the 
Bonnets, one of whom had been made a 
peer in Charles the Second's time, and was 
the well-known Lord Arlington, one of the 
A's of tiie GabaL That he should have so 
unconcernedly dropped the H frY)m the 
name of his native village, from which he 
took the title, makes one think that people 
were not so particular about their h's in 
those days, and that even exalted personages 
did not trouble themselves about an aspirate 
or two. However, Lord Bolinffbroke bought 
the place, and gave out that he had buned 
himself in the pursuits of a rural life, while 
he was still near enough to London to be 
ready for that summons to action which 
never cama And here Pope visited him 
often enough, and describes nim, in a letter 
to Swift^ as reading the Dean's epistle lying 
between two haycocks. 

Once, in returning from Dawley in 
Lord Bolin^broke's coach-and-four, rope 
had an accident which is, in a Uteraiy 
way, historic. At Whitton, a mOe or two 
from Twickenham, a little river crosses the 
road, or rather the road should cross Uie 
river by a small brick bridge. But tiiis 
ni^t die bridge was broken down, and 
the alternative ford was choked by a balk 
of timber, and my lord's fine coach was 
upset into the middle of the stream, and 
the poor poet soused in the water. The 
great Voltaire was visiting Lord Boling- 
broke at the time, and wrote a graceful 
I letter of congratulation — on the eeei^, 

not on the daoking — to his brother 


It 18 like witnessing the feasts of the 
gods, to read of the meeting of the great 
men of the rising eentory, all among the 
dms and meadows of the green Thames 
VsUey. When Qsj and Swifb met at 
Pope's villa, in 1726, one had jost finished 
Oomyer, and the other was beginning to 
hatch out The Beggar's OpenL And thea 
the happy frolics of these days, when dress 
was sUff bnt manners were easy 1 Pope 
and Swift one day found their way to 
Marble Hall, close by Twickenham, where 
dwelt pretty Mj& Howard, who was often 
glad to escape there from her bordensome 
a^rice at Conrt — ^that Mrs. Howard who^ 
in later years, as Lady Suffolk, appears in 
the Heart of Midlothian as the object of 
Jeanie Deans's nnconscioos satire. Bat the 
mistress was away, and Pope and the Dean 
made themselves at home in the house, 
and dined there, served by laughing maids. 

But evanescent is the charm of life— that 
subtle aroma of the wine which vanishes 
before die bottle is nearly drained. On 
hu next visit to Twickenham the Dean 
found nothing to his mind. Hewasdeafand 
giddy; the tattle worried him; there was too 
much company; and he found the dullest 
London lodging more endurable tlum the 
once-loved Twickenham. 

But Pope had been sleeping some years 
in his quiet grave when Walpole came to 
Twickenham. He found the name of 
Strawberry Hill in one of the old deeds of 
the property when he bought it^ and pleased 
with the simple name, he rescued it from 
obUvion. To see Strawberry Hill in lilac 
time was the great attraction; and even 
now there are few pleasanter sights than 
the suburban gardens of TwickenhiEuai, with 
the shrubs in their freshest verdure, and 
masses of luxuriant bloom which throw the 
poor, old-fashioned lifaics into the shade^ — 
a si^t that almost reconciles one to the 
harui Hues of new houses. 

The dainty Horace himself was generally 
to be found in a flowered silk coat of a 
lavender hue, moving about among 
curios and treasures, from the tribune to 
the gallery , from the gallery to the Holbein 
chamber or the Beauderk closet. Or in 
the GU>thic library, with serious fa^ he 
would read over the proofs that ELirgate, 
his printer, had just brought him from his 
cwn Stewberry Hill press. Or we may 
lad him in his garden, with his little, fat 
hm-dogs puffing and yapping at his heels. 
Always, too, he is builaing and adding to 

the queer composite' edifice for which he 
has quite an ill-reflated affection. Now 
a pinnade is added, or a turret crend- 
lated into warlike guise, or a Gothic window 
is filled with painted glass. Who would 
think to see in the dilettante the harbinger 
of the cominff romantic revival in litera- 
ture, or the (^thic revival in architecture, 
of wluch the beginning and end are almost 
within Uving memory t 

We have followed Pope in his frequent 
journeys to his friend Boliogbroke at 
Dawley, and the same route w^ bring us 
into a hitherto unexplored country, where 
the level floor of the Thames Valley is 
exchanged for gently rising hills, intersected 
by brooks which, of no great volume in 
themselves, have made such deep beds in 
the stiff, tenacious day as to be formidable 
obstades enou^ to the cross-country rider 
or pedestrian. One of these brooks, formerly 
haunted by the solitude-loving crane, has 
taken its name from that bird, and 
given it in turn to the seduded viUage of 

Oranford on the Crane is quiet and 
seduded enough to this day, perhaps even 
more seduded than when from its position 
on the high Bath road the coaches and 
carriages of the wealthy rolled by on the 
way to the festive court of Beau Nash. 
Formerly part of the extensive possessions 
of the Eniffhts of St. John, the manor of 
Oranford f ml at the time of the dissolution 
of religious houses to the house of 
Berkdey, whose descendants still occupy 
the Lodge. And to this connection Oranfcra 
owes two of its more or less distinguished 
rectors. Thomas Fuller, the authcnr of the 
Worthies, was chaplain to George, Earl of 
Berkdey, when he was presented by his 

C' on to the living of Oranford. Wortiiy 
ter Fuller di^l in his lodgings in 
Oovent Garden, and his body was 
reverentiy attended to its tomb in Oran- 
ford church by two hundred or more of the 
clergy of London and the neighbourhood. 
Fulkr's successor was the eccentric 
Dr. WOkins, who had been warden of 
Wadham, Oxford, under the Oommon- 
wealth. His wife was a sister of tiie 
Protector's, and he^might thus have been 
thought quite out of way of promotion 
under the new regime, but he made friends 
with the Bestoration, and was made Bishop 
of Ohester. It was Dr. Wilkins who first 
in a literary form projected a voyage to 
the moon, and sketched out the possibility 
of a flying man — an idea carried out with a 
good deal offeree in the Adventuresof Peter 


104 [March 20» 1880.1 



Wilkuds, SO called, perhaps, in acknowledg- 
ment of the soggestion. Bnt the difficnlties 
on the way to the moon have been more 
completely explored since the doctor wrote, 
who imagined that birds took their flight 
there, and that swarms of gnats and flies 
descended from the same placa 

By West Drayton, where the Coin makes 
its way in many devioos channels towards 
the Thames, stood not long ago an old 
brick mansion called Barron^ — a moated 
grange with pensive shaded walks. Tradi- 
tion has it that here the Lord Protector 
had a private dwelling — a retreat unknown 
to any bat his closest friends, and not 
perhaps to more than one of those — and 
it is said tiiat on Cromwell's death his 
body was secretly bronght to Bnrronghs ; 
and thos, while pompous obsequies were 
celebrated over some nameless corpse in 
Westminster Abbey, in this retired spot 
beneath the pavement of the hall the 
veritable relics of the great Protector were 
interred. There are many curious tradi- 
tions about the burial of Oliver Cromwell, 
but this is one of the most curious of them 

Some way nearer London lies Hayes, a 
colony of brickmakers and bargees, with 
an old rectory-house upon the site of the 
former manor-house, which belonged in old 
times to the Archbishop. Thus, in the 
da3rs of the Red King, when he and his 
witan were at Windsor, and Anselm, the 
Archbishop, was keeping the feast of 
Whitsuntiae at Mortluce, the King sent a 
message bidding him go to Hayes, and 
there remain, so that he might be nearer 
the King. It was only a question of 
squeezing money out of the Archbishop, 
and nothing particular came of the inci- 
dent; but some parts of the old church 
may have seen the Archbishop at his devo- 
tions, and the Bishops of the realm about 
him in a swann. Be<^et, too, was here 
often enouffh, as well as at Harrow, where 
he had idso a residence. Hillingdon 
Eectory, too, was another episcopal resi- 
dence, having been given to the Bishop of 
Worcester that he might have a lodging 
there on his way between his diocese and 
London. ^ 

We might now visit XTxbridge, the proa- 
pect of which, with its smoky industries, 
is not tempting on a hasty view, but 
whose name has a familiar ring to the 
student of the history of the great Civil 
War. The treaty at XTxbridge was the 
last serious effort to end the dispute 
between Crown and Parliament in a peace- 

ful manner, and although, perhaps, neither 
party was quite sincere in the matter, yet 
the Commissioners met with all due pomp 
and ceremony. The meetings of the Com- 
missioners were held in a roomy mansion, 
then belonging to a Mr. Carr, which 
subsequently became The Crown Inn. The 
Cavaliers, it is reported, gay and debonair, 
marched about the town, freely conversing 
with the townsmen, and carried themselves 
as if the place belonged to them, while 
the others, in sad-coloured raiment, were 
rarely seen out of doors, and then always 
two or three tc^ther, avoiding private 
conversation with anybody. The Cavaliers 
had their headquarters at The Crown, 
while the Puritans bestowed themselves at 
The Gborge — houses that then faced each 
other in me market-place. 

A few miles to the north of XTxlmdge 
lies Harefield, dose to river and canal, 
where time out of mind there has been an 
important seat| the site of which may be 
tniiced near the ancient chnrch. An old 
priory of the Kniffhts of St John— a 
branch of the Clerxenwell preceptory — 
once stood near the long strageling village. 
For long centuries the Ne^egates have 
been connected with HarefieM; among 
whom was the noted Serjeant Newdegate, 
who refused to serve as judge under the 
Protector, till Oliver roueh^ told him 
that if the red robes would not serve, he 
would place his red coats in the judgment- 
seat — an anecdote which may be true in 
the main, although surely English soldiers 
were not known as redcoats till a mudi 
later date. The Protector did not make 
much out of his new judge, who, on the 
trial of Colonel Halsey and otiiers at 
York, ^ave the dictum that while the law 
made it treason to levy war against the 
King, he knew of none to make it treason 
to levy war against the Protector. For 
this OUver reduced him to the ranks of his 
profession, but he was restored under 
Charles the Second, with the rank of a 
baronet — a title which became extinct with 
Sir Roger, the last of that branch of the 
family, and the founder of the Oxf<»d 
"Newdegate" Prize. 

In Elizabeth's time Harefield Place was 
occupied by her Lord-Keeper, Egerton, 
whom she visited twice at this place, where 
the Queen's Walk may still be pointed out. 
Egerton's widow, who bore the title of her 
former husband, the Earl of Derby, lived 
on at Harefield to a good old age. To her 
it was that Milton in his youth — he living 
close by at HortoUi in Bucking] 




GhailM DIdnni.] 


presented his Qrst attempt in the cnirent 
taste for maaqnes and musical diyeraiona. 
Onij a fragment of the Arcades have come 
down to us. "Part of an entertainment pre- 
sented to the Countess Dowager of Derby, 
at Hirefield, by some noble persons of her 
family, who appear on the scene in pastoral 
habit, moying towards the seat of state 
with this song : ' Look, Nymphs and 
Shepherds, Look ! '" 

The noble persons in question were, no 
doubt, her ladyship's grandchildren, the 
SODS and daughter of Lord Bridgwater, 
and the same who were the performers in 
the more important work of Oomus in the 
Mowing year, 1634, at Ludlow Castla 

The Countess died in 1637, and her 
tomb is still to be seen in the ancient 
church of Harefield, among the monuments 
of Newdegates and Andersons. 

At The Bed Lion at Hillingdon, on the 
h%h-road west of the church, Cluurles the 
Furst put up for the night or for part of it. 
"The King was much perplexed," relates 
hii companion, Dr. Hudson, "what to 
resolre upon — ^whether for London or the 
north." Had he thrown himself upon the 
generosity of his enemies the result might 
have been far happier. But here he took the 
fatal resolution of trusting himself to the 
Scotch, and at two of t£e clock took a 
guide towards Bamet 

It would not bean easy way to find, even 
in this nineteenth century, without taking 
the way through Harrow, which was then 
probably barred by the vedettes of the 
Parliamentary forces. Even now there is 
a bare and thinly-populated line of wolds 
between Uxbridge and Bamet, with streams 
flowing deep in the heavy clay bottoms, 
and only footpaths and bridle - tracks 
nmning in the required direction. On 
the left might be seen lights in cottage- 
windows in Ickenham village, while Swake- 
ley^ Hall, a then new ludian mansion 
rising white and ghostlike among the trees, 
was the home of an uncompromising 
enemy, Sir William Harrington, destined 
afterwards to sit in judgment upon the 
King and sign the warrant for his execu- 
tion. Farther on the woods of Buislip 
hung darkly on the horizon, with the 
wmdmill on the crest of the hilL Then 
the fugitives would pass between Pinner 
and Harrow, the latter with its scattered 
lights upon the hill, hardly known for its 
SOKX)! beyond the immediate neighbour- 
hood. The old moated manor-house of 
Headstone would be full in the track, 
OBoe a country-seat of the Archbishops, and 

said to have been at times ^the residence of 
Wdsey. And then Stanmore would be 
passed and Edgware reached, from which 
a well-frequented way timmeh a more 
sheltered country would bring the travellers 
without further difficulty to Bamet 

To retrace our steps in the bright day- 
light of this present era, somethmg may 
be said on the way about Edgware, familiar 
in name to Londoners as the object-point 
of the Edgware Boad. The road itself, 
from its starting-point at the Marble Arch, 
is comparatively a new one, but it soon 
falls into the track of the old Boman 
Watling Street — a track, however, which 
had be^ discontinued for many centuries, 
as the wild and lonely woodland country 
through which it pasised abounded with 
outlaws and bushiangers, and was alto- 
gether a region to be sedulously avoided by 

FoUoinng the highway for some two 
miles beyond Edgware we come to Brockley 
Hill, where the site of the Boman station 
of SulloniacsB is still to be made out ; the 
intermediate stage for soldiers on the march 
to Yerulam, now St. Albans. Tradition, 
wonderfully retentive in such matters, 
points to the nekhbourhood of the Boman 
foundations as l£e hiding-place of untold 

No heart can think nor tongue can tell 

What lies between Brockley Hill and Fennywell. 

A distich which puts the treasure- 
seeker well on the track, for Fennywell is 
little more than half a mile from Brockley 
Hill, lying about half that distance to the 
right of the highway, near the village of 
Elstree, but on this side of the county 

The Boman station belongs to Stan- 
more parish, whose name records that 
hereabouts was the meer-stone or boundary 
mark of the borders of county or Saxon 
petty kingdom; a stone that was placed 
in the heait of the wild forest, where stags, 
boars, bucks, and wild bulls abounded up 
to the beginning of the thirteenth century, 
when the district was disa£forested. One 
little patch of this great forest of Middle- 
sex is still left in Oaen Wood and other 
parcels of woodland, the remains of the 
great lordship of the Bishops of London. 

We have hitherto spoken of Stanmore 
the great, but Little Stanmore must not be 
forgotten, within whose boundaries stood 
one of the greatest of the grand houses of 
the eighteenth century. James Brydges, 
Duke of Chandos, was Paymaster of the 
Forces during Marlborough's campaigns, 

\p i 


106 [Much 90, 1888.] 



and acquired an enonnoiu fortune in that 
soggeatiye employment The ostentation 
of Uie man developed itself in the way of 
building. He began two grand and 
enonnous mansionsy one in Cavendish 
Square, which was nerer finishedi the 
other at Oanons, in Stanmore, which cost 
a quarter of a miUion before it was com- 

The enormous house, with its artificial 
grounds, appears in Pope's satire as Timon's 

Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, 
And half the platform jnat reflects the other. 

The Duke was accustomed to dine in 
public like any monardi, while the dishes 
were changed to the flourishes of trumpeta 
He went to his derotions attended by a 
military guard of honour, and his chapel, 
with its florid decorations, is recalled by 

On painted ceilings yon devontl^ stare, 
Where sprawl the saints of Yerno or Lagnerre. 

The poet is less happy when he alludes 
to the musical services : 

Light qnirks of mnsio broken and uneven, 
Make the souls dance upon a jig to Heaven. 

For whatever his other absurdities, the 
Duke seems to have been gifted with 
excellent musical taste, and Handel himself 
often acted as '* capelmeister " in t^e ducal 
chapeL A musical festival would some- 
times be held — a Handel festival, with 
Handel himself as conductor — which drew 
the critics, and amateurs, and the great 
world, from London to this then gay and 
attractive comer of Middlesex 

Apart from his ostentation, the Duke 
seems to have been an amiable and even 
generous man, and his former kindness to 
Pope makes the satire of the latter appear 
somewhat mean. The poet, like a boy 
who throws a stone and runs away, denied 
that he had intended Timon for the Duke, 
but nobody believed him. Pope was more 
happy in his prophecy : 

Another age shall see the golden ear 
Imbrown the slope, and nod in the parterre, 
Deep harvest bury all his pride has planned, 
And laughing Ceres reassume the land. 

The bursting of the South Sea 
Bubble crippled Timon's fortune, but 
he continued to Uve at Canons, 
with diminished splendour, till his death. 
The Duke's heir, finding the place too 
enormous for his means, after vainly 
trying to dispose of it, pulled it down. A 
cabinet-maker bought the site — the cabinet- 
maker of the periM, for Walpole speaks of 
Hallet as the representative of ms craft 

A smaller house was built of a portion of 
the materials of the ducal palace, which re- 
tains the name of Canons. The elaborate 
woodwork and carvings of the mansion 
famished the cabinet-makers with abun- 
dance of materials, and Wardour Street and 
Soho were enriched wit^ the spoils of 
Canons, as during the present centuiy 
with the treasures of the tvrin ducal palace 
of Stowe. An equestrian statue of King 
Gteorge was removed frt>m Canons to 
Leicester Square, where its hapless fate of 
slow, ignommious decay excited the derinon 
or compassion of a succeeding century. 

Jn tnis neighbourhood is Kinggbu]^, a 
royd seat in &kzon times, with its anient 
church, about which are traces of Boman 
foundations, and Kingsbury Hvde relieving 
the dtdl straight course of the Edgwan 
Road, where Goldsmith retired to write his 
Animated Nature, lodging in a farmhouse 
just by the sixth milestone from London. 

Of Harrow and its school it is not 
necessary to say much. The school has 
its own historians, and the school has 
swallowed up the town. The founder of 
the school, John Lyon, was a wealthy 
yeoman who had no more extended view 
than that of founding a soUd, useful school 
for the sons of his friends and neighbours, 
preference to be given to the km (tf the 
founder, to natives of Harrow, '* and sudi as 
are most mete for towardnesse, poverty, or 
painfulness," while the amusements of die 
hojB were to be limited to driving a top, 
tossing a hand-ball, running, and shooting. 
The shooting is of course archery, and the 
use of tiie bow was kept up at Harrow till 
Uie middle of the last century by a yearly 
match in public on the 4th August, aftei^. 
wards replaced by a public speech-day. 
Under the headship of Dr. Thackeray, the 
school for the first time took its place 
among the chief public schools of the 

Hanow-on-the-Hill ends with a bold 
eminence, the ridge of hills which, in- 
tersected by the valley of the Brent, is 
continued to the heights to the north of 
London. When Canute was King in London 
and defended the capital against the West 
Saxon King, it was along this ridge, 
probabljr, that the Danish King marched to 
meet his assailants. And there is some 
likelihood Uiatby Horsington Hill, overlook- 
ing the valley of the Brent^ the great battle 
of Assandum was fought which decided the 
fate of the Saxon monarchy. The site of 
the battle is generally placed among the 
Essex flats, from the statement in the 



OF THE WSITINO OF LETTEBS. [Mtfch9o.i88o.] 107 

Ghromde that oombatB were fought on the 
liver Crouch, but tihen we have Crondi 
End near the aouroe of one of the feeders 
of the river Brent, which auggeata wheUier 
the Crouch may not have been an 
altematiTe name of that stream. 

Hotsington Hill looks down on the 
secluded village of Perivale, which is 
properly Oreenford Parva, and Parva Yale 
has probably been corrupted into the 
present name ; and a little higher up the 
stream, where onoe it flowed in a double 
dianael, is Twyford, where the quiet, un- 
sc^^histicated countey makes its nearest 
iqpproach to the smoke and smotiier of 
Lcoidon town* 


What a magic there is in the advent of 
the postman I Our heart leaps at the two 
sharp raps And the lifting of the lid of the 
letter-box. Like Charles Lamb's poor rela- 
tion, **he is known by his knock". But 
the magic is not always that of the kind 
fieory ; the post can bring both good and 
evil ; and often when we are cheered by the 
sight of a well-loved hand, and the littiie 
creature of good temper bom in our souls 
is helped and blessed by letters from old 
friends, from brother or sister, or, maybe, 
from a dearer source, there comes at tiie 
end of the packet the ugly witch of a long, 
blue, plaguey business-lBtter, and blights 
our innocent festival 

But it is not of the receiving of 
letters so much as of the writing of 
them that we wouM now speak. It is 
a wide field on which our feet are for 
a few momenta straying. Now that we 
are blest with an Education Act, letter- 
writing is what everyone is thought able to 
do, and if speech, wmch all the philosophers 
will have it marks o£f the man from tiie 
brute, were taken away, what of thatf 
Would not humanity still be sufficiently 
distingushed by the faculty of inditing 
^istlea 1 There are, it is true, disadvan- 
tages in this method of communication. It 
is m(»e trouble and less pleasure to set 
down in black and white the words that 
we like to hear flowing smoothly from our 
own ready tongue, and besides (and this 
is graver), we miss all that the look 
of the eyes and the tone of the voice 
can give us. Many a sad misunderstand- 
ing has arisen because a letter has been 
vid with the reader's expression, and not 
widi the writer's. Yet, to balance these 
drawbacks, letter -writing has its own 

conveniences. We are cooler when we sit 
down to a pad of blotting-paper tiian when 
we talk face to face; and what a sense of 
being master of the situation is ours I If 
we wish to be complimentary, how com- 
fortably we can round off our happy 
thoughts, and cheat the hard fate which too 
often brinj^ our flue sayings to our minds 
only to give us regret that our oppor- 
tunity is gone for ever. If we are con- 
ducting a controversy, we can collect with- 
out let or hindrance our ^lustrations and 
our instances, till the argument flows on in 
an uninterrupted stream, which must needs, 
we think, carry away our opponent in its 
waters. If our letter is one of wrath, there 
is no one to contradict us. We can be 
severely dignified or frankly angry, and 
all the time ride triumphajit over the 
offender. I knew a family which clearly 
understood the value of letter-writing. In 
the times of tension in domestic politics 
they always resorted to epistolary instead 
of oral communieationa The tender subject 
was never alluded to in the converse of the 
garishday, but at night, as befittedso solemn 
a matter, one party to the negotiations 
would softly open his window, and letting 
down a packet by a string, would dangle it 
against a lower lattice. When it was 
opened, the packet entered and was read, 
and presentiy an answer rose through the 
air. Except in d^ree, there was no 
difference between the frmctions of that 
slight cord, and those of all the Boyal and 
Imperial messengers in Europe. 

Letters have played important narts, 
and stand high in the hierarchy of litera- 
ture. From the days of Cicero they have 
been preserved, commented on, and edited 
— nay, how much of the Sacred Text itself 
is made up of Episties I There is some- 
thing of especial charm about old collections 
of letters. They show us their authors in 
veritable flesh and blood. Their writer is 
not hidden in his periods. Tully, no doubt, 
thought more of his Offices, but it is the 
Epistols, in which he told his joys and 
sorrows '*ad Familiares", which showus him 
and Boma He has had plenty of followers 
in the field. To leap over more than 
seventeen centuries, let us just recall the 
worldly old Earl of Chesterfield, whose 
letters to his son are known to all, and 
whose correspondence fills four fat volnmea 
His letters are bright and sometimes witty, 
if spiced not infrequentiy with profanity, 
and often after some most ambiguous sen- 
timent the old reprobate ends with a 
fervent "Ood bless you". His style 



108 [Hait^ 20, 1886.] 




reminds us of Cicero, and where the Roman 
quotes Greek, the JBnglishman interlards 
his sentences with FrencL It is not many 
of PS who write sach letters nowadays 
We are too much in a hurry; for the fatal 
genius of the nineteenth century who 
drives us forward ever faster on our way, 
has robbed us of our time for corre- 
spondence. Our letters, like our manners, 
lukve lost their stateliness. I myself have 
seen a letter from a very great man 
scrawled hurriedly on a scrap of paper. 

Ah, what a change is here, my countrymen, 

from the solemn and leisurely writing of a 
bygone age I 

Two kmds of epistolising have now quite 
changed their fashion, and seem about to 
share the extinction of the Dodo. First, 
are those nameless letters of that Junian 
kind which caused great commotion, first in 
the world political, and later in the world 
literary. Plain-speaking, to great men of 
that sort, and under that form, is not often 
indulged in now. The tone is altered, 
and when such letters are printed they are 
satirical and not invective. The second 
change is in the manner of the epistle 
dedicatory, that once was wont, with many 
flourishes, and printed bowings and scrap- 
ings, to be prefixed to every work. It 
must have pleased the wealthy patron to 
find at so cheap a cost a ** most humble, 
obliged, and obedient servant" in an 
author worth twenty of the man he had to 
flatter. We have changed all that — and 
rightly — ^yet there is an old-fashioned smack 
about those epistles dedicatory, which 
sometimes contrasts pleasantly with the 
follies now to be found on the page next 
the title, where the author inscribes his 
book, ''To my great- grandmother," or 
" To everybody in general and nobody in 

This rambling essay will best be brought 
to its end by a simple story, called to 
my recollection by my subject, of an old 
man whom I knew when I was a boy. 

When young, Benjamin Scrivener had 
been taken into the service of a large London 
firm. He had worked his way stcMuiily, 
and, though he never rose to eminence or 
wealth, he presently came to occupy a post 
of some trust in his office. There he had 
his own comer, where day after day he used 
to arrive at half-past nine, nor was he ever 
late but once, when he had stayed to carry 
home a child that had been hurt by a 
passing carriage in the street. It was 
part of his duty to write a number of 

letters every morning, and herein was at 
once the business and the joy of his life, 
for Benjamin wrote a fair and deridy 
hand, and took his pride in his sinqple and 
little-varied periods. 

At length, when he was well turned of 
sixty-five, and the hair which still clnstered 
almost as thickly on his head as when he 
was a boy, was now a reverend silver, he 
was allowed to retire, and to take with 
him by way of pension the salary — not a 
very large one — ^which he had always been 
accustomed to receive. The old man 
determined to go from London, and, with 
his sister AUce, some ten years younger 
than hims^, who kept his little bachdor 
household, he came and pitched his tent in 
the village where I was bom, and at that 
time liv^ The cottage which the simple 
pair took for their dwelling was not in 
itself beautUuL It was one of those 
regular, small, red-brick houses, the archi- 
tecture of which seems modelled on the 
square habitations of dolls ; but over the 
porch, which looked tc the southern sun, 
blossomed, in June, a great wealth of 
yellow roses, and on each side of the 
garden was a goodly border, where ttU 
white lilies flowered, and stocks and 
sweet-williams and Canterbury bells grew 
together in loving and prosperous eon- 
fusion. Beyond the road ran a little brodc, 
and there were fine elms in the field at the 
side, so that Benjamin Scrivener found a 
pleasant resting-place for his kind old 

For the first month all went smoothly, 
and Benjamin with his sister passed his 
days happily enough, but at the end of 
that time a restiessness came over him. 
Something — ^he knew not what — seemed 
demanded of him, and he was troubled and 
anxious, till finally his vague idea took 
to itself definite shape, and one morning at 
nine o'clock, the hour at which he had 
been used to leave his London lodgings for 
his office, he started up, brushed his hat, 
and said that the holiday was over, and he 
must go back, for he had many letters to 
write. It was in vain that his sister told 
him that working days were over. He 
insisted that he must retum, or he would 
lose his post. Alice quieted him for that 
day by promising to go back with him on 
the morrow, and meanwhile prepared for 
him a desk and stool in a room not 
ordinarily used. On the following day, 
when the craze came back, she took him to 
this room to try if he would be satisfied. 
'a merciful success attended her little 



Chitlet IMdMna. 


(March so, 1888.] 109 

aehema Old Benjamin mounted the stool, 
and taking hia pen began to write letters 
in his accustomed manner, with his 
dgnatore in due form at the end, " Tour 
obedient servant, Benjamin Scrivener, for 
Mercer Brothera" 

He went on the whole of the morning, 
till his mind was relieved and tiie daily 
task seemed over, and from that day he 
was contented to pass his time in the same 
manner. His letters were sometimes read, 
and found to contain mingled together old 
recollections of his office correspondence, 
meaningless, but composed with proper 
precision. His madness never affected himin 
any other way, and, except for this strange 
morning habi^ he was to the world, what 
he was tome, a simple and a kindly old man. 

For five years his happy life continued, 
when one summer day he was, as usual in 
the morning, in his "office", with his 
sister sitting near him. He had just 
finished his letters. They were neatly 
addressed and folded up, and his pen was 
wiped and put away. Benjamin looked 
out of the window upon the sunny land- 
scape, and said : " AJice, I am tired, my 
dear — ^very tired. I must leave o£f working 
soon. I cannot write as once I did." He 
pdnted, with a sigh of regret, to the in- 
scription on one of his envelopes, where 
the handwriting was more trembling than 
of old. Then he looked again on the quiet 
scene he had loved — his garden, the brook, 
and the pastures beyond, and remained 
still sitting at his desk, his white head 
supported on his hand. But he spoke no 
mate, Alice rose hastily, and went to 
him, and found that Benjamin Scrivener 
had taken a holiday at last Peace to thy 
ariies, gentle soul I No letters need to 
be written in the land where now thou 
dwellest, but thou hast found brighter 
flowers and a sunnier landscape there I 


Certainly since, and probably long 
before. Job *' beheld the moon walking in 
brightness", all the peoples of the earth 
have surrounded thatluminary with legends, 
with traditions, with myths, and with 
superstitions of various kinds. In our time, 
and in our country, the sentiment with 
which the orb of night is regarded is a soft 
and pleasing one, for 

That orhhd maiden with white fire ladon 
Whom mortals call the moon, 

is supposed to look with approval upon 

happy lovers, and with sympathy upon 
tiiose who are encountering the proverbial 
rough places in the course of true love. 
Why the moon should be partial to lovers 
one might easily explain on very prosaic 
grounds — ^perhaps not unlike that of the 
Irishman who called the sun a coward 
because he goes away as soon as it begins 
to grow dark, whereas the blessed moon 
stays with us most of the night 1 

Except Lucian and M. Jules Verne, 
we do not remember anyone who professes 
to have been actually up to the mooa 
Lucian had by far the most eventful expe- 
rience, for he met Endymion, who enter- 
tained him royally, and did all the honours 
of tiie planet to which he had beeii wafted 
from earth in his sleep. The people of 
Moonland, Lucian assures us, nve upon 
flying frogs, only they do not eat them ; 
they cook the frogs on a fire and swallow 
the smoke. For drink, he says, they 
pound air in a mortar, and thus obtain a 
liquid very like dew. They have vines, 
but the grapes yield not wine, but water, 
being, in fact, hailstones, such as descend 
upon the earth when the wind shakes the 
vines in the moon. Then the mocmfolk 
have a singular habit of taking out their 
eyes when they do not wish to see things 
— a habit which has its disadvantages, for 
sometimes they mislay their eyes and have 
to borrow from their neighbours. The rich, 
however, provide against such accidents by 
always keeping a good stock of eyes on 

Lucian also discovered the reason of the 
red clouds which we on earth often see at 
sunset They are dyed by the immense 
quantity of blood which is shed in the 
battles between the moonfolk and the sun- 
folk, who are at constant feud. 

The reasons why the gentier sex are so 
fond of the moon is satirically said to be 
because there is a man in it I But who and 
what is he 1 An old writer — John Lilly — 
says: ''There liveth none under the sunne 
that knows what to make of the man in the 
moone." And yet many have tried. 

One old ballad, for instance, says : 

The man in the moon drinks claret, 

But he is a dull Jack-a-Dandy, 
Would he know a shee|)'8-head from a carrot, 

He should learn to drink cyder and brandy 

— ^which may be interesting, but is cer- 
tainly inconsequentiaL It is curious, 
too, that while the moon is feminine in 
English, French, Latin, and Oreek, it is 
masculine in Gtoman and cognate tongues. 
Now, if there is a man in the moon, a^ if 




110 [lfu€bS0,U8a] 


DOOfllflOOvttt vflF 

it be the case, as is asserted by antiqaa* 
lians, that the " man in the moon" is one 
of the most ancient as well as one of the 
most popular superstitions of the world, 
the masculine is surely the right gender 
after alL Those who look to Sanscrit 
for the solution of all mythological as 
well as philological problems will confirm 
this, for m Sanscrit the moon is masculin& 
Dr. Jamieson, of Scottish Dictionary fame, 
gets out of the difficulty by saying tiiat the 
moon was regarded as masculine in relation 
to the earth, whose husband he was ; but 
feminine in relation to the sun, whose wife 
she wasi 

With the Greeks the moon was a female, 
Diana, who caught up her lover Endymion ; 
and Endymion was thus, probably, the 
first "man in the moon". The Jews, 
again, have a tradition that Jacob is in the 
moon ; and we have the nursery story 
that the person in the moon is a man who 
was ocmdemned for gathering sticks on 
Sunday. This myth comes to us from Ger- 
many — at all events, Mr. Proctor traces it 
there with much circumstantiality. Mr. 
6aring-Gk>uld, however, finds in some 
parts of Germany a tradition that both a 
man and a woman are in the moon — the 
man, because he strewed brambles and 
thorns on the church-path to hinder people 
Arom attending Sunday mass; and the 
woman, because she made butter on Sun- 
day. This man carries two bundles of 
thorns, and the woman her butter-tab, for 
ever. In Swabia they say there is a man- 
nikin in the moon, who stole wood ; and 
in Frisia, they say, it is a man who stole 
cabbages. The Scandinavian legend is that 
the moon and sun are brother and sister — 
the moon here being the mala The story 
goes that Mani took up two children 
from earth, named Bil and Hiuki, as they 
were carrying a pitcher of water from the 
well Brygir, and in tiiis myth Mr. Baring- 
Gk>uld discovers the origin of the nursei^- 
rhyme of Jack and Gull <' These chil- 
dren," he says, '' are the moon-spots, and 
the fall of Jack and the subsequent fall of 
Gill simply represent the vanishing of one 
moon-spot after another as the moon wanes. " 

In Britain there are references in the 
ancient monkish writings to a man in the 
moon ; and in the Becord Office there is 
an impression of a seal of the fourteenth 
century, bearing the device of a man with 
a bundle of thorns carried up to the moon. 
The legend i^taohed is, "To Waltere 
docebo cur spinas phebo gero" {**! will 
teach thee, Widter, why I carry thorns to 

the moon'\ which Mr. Hudson Tayloi^ 
who describes the seal, thinks to be sn 
enigmatical way of saying tiiat honesty is 
the best policy — the thorns having evi- 
dently been stolen. 

Chaucer has more than one reference to 
the man in the moon, and so have most ci 
the older poets. Shakespeare not only 
refers frequently to "a" man, but in the 
Midsummer Night's Dream, Peter Quince 
distinctly stipulates that the man who is 
to play "the moon ".shall cany *'a bush 
of tiiorns ". 

The man in the moon, according toDante, 
is Gain, carrying a bundle oi woms, and 
yet in that planet he found loca^ 
only those mild sinners who had partly 
neglected their vows. A French l^and, 
on the other hand, identifies " the man " 
with Judas Iscariot Per contra, in India, 
the Buddhist legend places a hue in the 
moon, carried Uiere by Indra for kindly 
service rendered to hun on earth. May 
not this hare of the Indian mythology be 
the moon-dog of some ol our own legends! 
Peter Quince, we knofr, recommended that 
the moon should have a dog as well as a 
bundle of sticks, and the association of the 
quadruped in Uie story is very common. 
The North American Indians believe that 
the moon is inhabited by a man and a dcg. 
The Maoris believe in the man, but not in 
the dog, which is not surprising when we 
remember the limited fauna oi the anti- 
podes. The Maori legend runs something 
like thi& A man called Bona went out one 
night to fetch water from a well, bnt^ fall- 
ing, sprained his ankle so as to be unaUe 
to return home. AU at once, the moon, 
which had arisen, b^an to approach him ; 
in terror he clung to a tree, which gave 
way, and both tree and Bona fell on die 
moon, where they remain even unto thii 
day. Here we have clearly a variation of 
the " bundle of sticks '' legend, but there 
is an absence of apparent cause and effect 
in the Maori legend which is unsatisfactory. 

More precise is the Bushman legend 
quoted by Dr. Bleek. According to this, 
the moon is a man who incurs the wrath of 
the sun, and is consequently pierced by the 
knife (the rays) of the latter, until there 
is only a little piece of him left Then he 
cries for mercy for his children's sake, and 
is allowed to grow again until once more 
he ofiends his sunship ; the whole process 
being repeated montUy. 

Dr. Bink relates a curious tradition of 
the Eskimo, which we can hardly quote 
here, but the gist of it is that a man, who 




[lCarohao,U8&] 111 

dodred to make his abter his wif e, wm 
transformed into the moon, while the 
woman became the son. Something like 
the same legend has been traced as far 
aotth as Panama. Another notable thing 
about Eskimo traditions is that the moon 
is associated with fertility in woman. This 
lapentitioa is both yeiy ancient and very 
widespread, and, indeed, seems to have 
been the root of the moon-worship of the 
oriental nations and of the mysterious rites 
of the Egjnptians referred to by Herodotus. 
Lnna is identified by some mythologists 
with Soma of the Inoian mythology — Isi, 
the emblem of reproduction. 

In China, according to Dr. Dennys, the 
man in the moon is called Yue-lao, and is 
belieyed to hold in his hands tiie powers of 
{Hredestining marriages. He is supposed to 
tie together the future husband and wife 
with an invisible silken cord which never 
parts while life lasts. Miss Gbrdon- 
Comming, in her recent account (4 wander- 
mgs in China, relates that^ in the neldi- 
boorhood of Foo-Chow, she witnessed a 
oeat festival being held in honour of the 
rail moon, which was mainlv attended by 
women. There was a Temple-play, or sing- 
songs going on all day and most of the 
night, and each woman carried a stool so 
that she might sit out the whole per- 
formance. This reminds us of what Mr. 
Biley states in The Book of Days, as rdated 
by John Audrey in the seventeenth cen- 
tory : <* In Scotland, especially among the 
Highlanders, the women make a courtesy 
to the new moon, and our English women 
in this country lutve a touch St this, some 
of them sitting astride on a gate or sUle 
the first evening the new moon appears, 
and smnff, < A fine moon 1 Godbleraherr 
The Uke i observed in Herefordshire." 

As illustrative dE this superstition may be 
instanced a curious practice in this country 
in olden times, of divination by the moon. 
It is quoted by Mr. Thiselton-Dy er from an 
old chajhbook : "When yon go to bed (at 
the period of harvest moon) place under 
your pillow a pntyer-book open at the part 
of the matrimonial service which says, ' witfi 
this ring I thee wed'; place on it a key, a 
ring, a flower, and a sprig of willow, a small 
heart^^e, a crusti and the following cards: 
a ten of dubs, nine of hearts, ace of spades, 
and ace of diamonda Wrap all these in a 
thin handkerchief, and, on getting into bed, 
cover your hands, and say : 

*' Lima, every woman's friend, 
To me thy goodness condescend ; 
Ijet me this night in visions see 
ISmMems of my destiny.'* 

It is certainly hard to imagine pleasant 
dreams as the result of such a very uncom- 
fortably-stuffed pillow. 

In this same connection may be named 
other items of folk-lore related by Mr. 
Dyer. For instance, in Devonshire it is 
believed that on seeing the first new 
moon of the year, if you take off one 
stocking and run across a field, you will 
find b^ween two of your toes a hair 
which will be the colour of the lover you 
are to have. In Berkdiire the proceeding 
is more simple, for you merely look at the 
new moon, and say : 

New moon, new moon, I hail thee I 
By all the virtue in thy body, 
Grant this night that I may see 
He who my true love idiall be. 

The result is guaranteed to be as satis- 
b/tUnj as it is in Ireland, where the people 
are said to point to the new moon with a 
knife, and say : 

New moon, true morrow, be tme now to me. 
That I, to-morrow, my true love may see. 

In Yorkshire, again, the practice was to 
catch the refiection of the new moon in a 
looking-glass, the number of reflections 
signifymg the number of years which will 
elapse bwore marriaga All these super- 
stitions are suggestive of that which 
l^lor calls " one of the most instructive 
astrological doctrines" — ^namely that of 
the '' sympathy of growing and declining 
nature with the waxing and waning moon". 
Tylor says that a classical precept was to 
•et eggs under the hen at new moon, and 
that a Lithuanian precept was to wean 
boys on a waxing and girls on a waning 
moon — to make the boys strong and the 
girls delicate. On the same grounds, he 
says, Orkneymen object to marry except 
with a growing moon, and Mr. Dyer says 
that in Comwul, when a child is bom in 
the interval between an old and a new 
moon, it is believed that he will never live 
to manhood. 

Dr. Turner relates several traditions 
of the moon which are current in Samoa. 
There is one of a visit paid to the 
planet by two young men — Pnnifanga, 
who went up by a tree, and TafaUii, 
who went up on a column of smoke« 
There is another of the woman, Sina, 
who was busy one evening cutting 
mulberry-bark for doth with her child 
beside her. It was a time of famine, and 
the rising moon reminded hex of a great 
bread-fruit — ^jnst as in our country it has 
reminded some people of a green cheese. 
Looking up she said : '< Why cannot you 
come down and let my child have a bit of 




112 (Huoh 10, isa«.] 


(Ooodiiotod bj 

yon I " The moon was so indignant at 
being taken for an article of food, that ahe 
came down forthwith and took np woman, 
child, and wood. There they are to this 
day, for in the fall moon the Samoans still 
see the features of Sina, the face of the 
child, and the board and mallet 

Mr. Andrew Lang finds in an Australian 
legend of the moon something oddly like 
Grimm's tale of "The Wolf and the Kids", 
which, again, he likens to the old Greek 
myth of Oronos. The Australian legend 
is that birds were the original gods, and 
that the eagle especially was a great 
creative power, llie moon was a mis- 
chievous being, who walked about the 
earth doing all the evil he could. One day 
he swallowed the eagl& The eagle's wives 
coming up, the moon asked where he could 
findawelL They pointed out one, and while 
he was drinking, they struck him with a 
stone tomahawk which made him disgorge 
the eagle. This • legend is otherwise sug- 
gestive from the circumstances that amone 
the Greeks the eagle was the special bird 
of Zeus, and it was the eagle which carried 
off Ganymede. 

There is another Australian fable that 
the moon was a man, and the sun a woman 
of doubtful reputation, who appears at 
dawn in a coat of red kangaroo-skin 
belonging to one of her lovera In Mexico, 
also, die moon is a man, across whose face 
an angry immortal once threw a rabbit ; 
hence the marks on the surface of the 
planet I These same marks are accounted 
for in the Eskimo legend to which we have 
referred, as the impressions of the woman's 
sooty fingers on the face of her pursuer. By 
some mythologists the moon is thought to 
be Medea, but it is more common to in- 
terpret Medea as the daughter of the sun — 
ie., the dawn. 

It is certainly not a little curious to find 
the moon-lore, as the star-lore, having so 
many points of resemblance among such 
widely-separated and different peoples as 
the Greeks, the Egyptians, the Australians, 
the Eskimos, the Bushmen of South Africa, 
the North American Indians, and the New 
Zealand Maoris. The comparative mytho- 
logists would argue from this resemblance 
a common origin of the myth, and a dis- 
tribution or communication from one race 
to the other. The folk-lore mythologists, 
according to Mr. Andrew Limg, would 
infer nothing of the sort They say there 
is nothing remarkable in all savage races 
imputing human motives and sex to the 
heavenly bodies, for, in fact, to this day 

there are savages, as in the South Padfie, 
who suppose even stones to be male and 
female and to propagate their species. On 
this method of interpretation the hypo- 
thesis is not that the Australians, Induuu, 
eta, eta, received their myths from, say, 
the Greeiks, either by community of stock 
or by contact and borrowing, but because 
the ancestors of the Greeks passed through 
the same intdlectual condition as the 
primitive races we now know. And thus 
it is that in listening to the beautiful 
legends of tiie Greeks, we are but, as Baoon 
says, hearing the harsh ideas of eariier 
peoples "blown softly through the flutes 
of tiie Grecians". 

Now, beside the personality of the 
moon, and the peculiar influence he or ahe 
is supposed to exercise on mortals, there 
has survived a world-old superstition that 
the moon has direct influence on the 
weather. Apropos of this association, we 
remember a pretty Uttie Hindoo leg^id 
which is current in Southern India, and 
which has been translated by Miss Frere, 
daughter of ^ Bartie Frera This is 
the story as told her by her Lingaet ayah : 

'' One day the Sun, the Moon, and the 
Wind went out to dine with their uncle 
and aunt^ the Thunder and Lightning. 
Their mother (one of the most distant stan 
you see far up in the sky) waited alone for 
her children's return. Now both the Sun 
and the Wind were greedy and selfish. 
They enjoyed the great feast that had been 
prepared for them, without a thought of 
saving any of it to take home to their 
mother ; but the gentie Moon did not forget 
her. Of every dwity dish that was brought 
round, she placed a small portion under one 
of her beautiful long finger-nails, that the 
Star might also have a smffe in the treat. • 
On their return, their mother, who had 
kept watch for them all night long with 
her bright little eye, said : ' Well, chldren, 
what have you brought home for me!' 
Then the Sun (who was eldest) said : ' I 
have brought nothing home for yoa I 
went out to enjoy myself with my friends, 
not to fetch a dinner for my mother I' And 
the Wind said : ' Neither have I brought 
anything home for you, mother. You could 
hardly expect me to bring a collection of 
good tilings for you, when I merely went 
out for my own pleasure.' But the Moon 
said, ' Mother, fetch a plate ; see what I 
have brought you,' and shaking her hands 
she showerod aown such a choice dinner as 
never was seen before. Then the Star 
turned to the Sun^ uid spoke thus: 




[Kttoh so, 1881] lis 

* Becanae you went out to amuse yourself 
viUi your friends, and feasted and enjoyed 
yourself without any thought of your 
mother at home, you shall be cursed. 
Henceforth your rays shall ever be hot and 
scorching, and shfJl bum all that they 
touch. All men shall hate you, and cover 
their heads when you appear,' and this is 
why the sun is so hot to this day. Then 
she turned to the Wind and said : ' You 
sbo, who forgot your mother in the midst 
of your selfiui pleasures, hear your doom. 
Tou shall always blow in the hot, dry 
weather, and shall parch and shriyel all 
living things, and men shall detest and 
SToid you from this very time,' and this is 
why the wind in the hot weather is still so 
disagreeable. But to the Moon she said : 
'Daughter, because you remembered your 
mother, and kept for her a share in your 
own enjoymenti from henceforth you shall 
be ever cool, and calm, and bright. No 
noxious glare shall accompany your pure 
lays, and men shall always call you blessed,' 
and that is why the moon's light is so 
soft^ and cool, and beautiful even to this 

It is remarkable, neyertheless, that among 
western peoples at any rate, the moon has 
Usually been associated with the "un- 
canny." It is an old belief, for instance, 
that the moon u the abode of bad spirits ; 
snd in the old story of the Tampire, 
it is notable that the creature, as a last 
request^ begged that he might be buried 
where no sunlight but only moonlight 
might fall on his grave. Witches were 
supposed to be able to control the moon, 
ss witness the remark of Prospero in The 
Tempest : 

His mother was a witoh, and one so strong, 
That could control the moon. 

The Bev. Timothy Harley, who has 
ecdlected much moon-lore, suggests that if 
the broom on wluch witches rode to the 
moon be a type of the wind, " We may 
guess how the fancy grew up, that the airy 
creation could control those atmospheric 
yapours on which the light and humidity 
of die night were supposed to depend." 

But the " glamour ' of the moon is not 
a mere poetic invention or a lover's fancy. 
Mx: Moncure Oonway reminds us that 
I* gl4m ", in its nominative form '* gUmir ", 
is a poetical name for the moon, to be 
found in the Plrose Edda. It is given in 
the Glossary as one of the old names for 
the moon. Mr. Oonway also says that 
there is a curious old Sanscrit word, " glau," 
or " gl^y ", which is explained inaU the old 

lexicons as meamng the moon. Hence 
"the ghost or ffohUn, 01am (of the old 
le^d of Grettii^, seems evidently to have 
ansen from a personification of the delusive 
and treacherous effects of moonlight on 
the benighted traveller." 

Similar delusive effects are found re- 
ferred to in old Hindu writings, as, for 
instance, in the following passages from 
Bhdsa, a poet of the seventh centory : 

"The cat laps the moonbeams in the 
bowl of water, thinking them to be milk ; 
the elephant thinks tbit the moonbeams 
threadea through the intervals of the trees 
are the fibres of the lotus-stalk. The 
woman snatches at the moonbeams as they 
lie on the bed, taking them for her mudin 
garment Oh, how the moon, intoxicated 
with radiance, bewilders all the world I " 


"The bewildered herdsmen place the 
puis under the cows, thinking that the 
milk is flowing ; the maidens fuso put the 
blue lotus-blossom in their ears, tninkinff 
that it is the white; the mountaineer^ 
wife snatches up the jujube-fruit, avaricious 
for pearls. Whose mind is not led astray 
by the thickly-clustering moonbeams f " 

Such was the " glamour " of Glam (the 
moon) in ancient eyes, and still it works 
on lovers' hearta The &scination haa 
been felt and expressed by nearly all the 
poets, and by none better, perhaps, dian 
by Sir Philip Sidney : 

With what sad steps, O moon I thou climb*st the 

How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

What, may it be, that even in heavenly place 
That bus^ archer his sharp arrow tries ? 

Sure if that lonp: with love-aoquainted eyes 
Can Judge of love, thou feePst a lover's case. 

I read it in thy looks— thy languished grace 
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 

The number of human beings who have, 
articulately or inarticulately, cried with 
Endymion, " What is there in thee, moon, 
that thou should'st move my heart so 
potently ?" is not to be measured in ordi- 
nary figures. 

To return, however, to the bad side of 
Luna's character. We read that in Assyria 
deadly influences were ascribed io the 
moon. In Vedic mydiology there is a 
story, whidi Mr. Moncure Ccmway tells in 
DemonoliMnr and DevH-Uwe, of a quarrel 
between Brahma and Vishnu as to which 
was the first bom. Siva interferes, and 
saya he is the first bom, but will recognise 
as his superior whoever is able to see 
the crown at his head or die sole of his 
feet. Vishnu thereupon transforms himself 
I into a boar, pierces underground, and thus 




H.I "i^iP 






L14 [HjKrdi Se, 1880.3 



1668 the f 66f; of Siya, who salutes him on 
iiis return as the first-bom of the gods. 
Now, De Gubematis regards this fable as 
" making the boar emblem of the hidden 
oaoon *\ and Mr. Conway thinks there is 
no doubt that the boar at an early period 
became emblematic of the wild forces of 
Nature. "From being hunted by King 
Odin on earth it passed to be his favourite 
food in Valhalla, and a prominent figure 
in his spectral hunt" But it is with the 
moon, not with Odin, that we are at present 
ooncemed, and we note two curious items 
mentioned by Conway. In Sicilian legend, 
he says, "Zafarana, by throwing three 
hog's bristles on embers, renews her hus- 
band's youth"; and in Esthonian legend, 
a prince, by eating pork, acquires the 
faculty of understandmg the language of 
birds. All this opens up a very suggestive 
field of enquiry. Thus, Plutarch says that 
the reason why the Jews would not eat 
swine's flesh was because Adonis was slain 
by a boar, and Bacchus and Adonis, he 
says, were the same divinities. Now, if 
we turn to Herodotus, we find that careful 
narrator saying: '*The only deities to 
whom the Egyptians offer swine are 
Bacchus and Luna ; to these they sacrifice 
swine when the moon is full, after which 
they eat the flesh," which at other times 
they disdain. The meaning of these sacri- 
fices is understood by those interested, and 
we do not propose to go further into the 
matter. All we wish to do is to point out 
the curious involvements, among so many 
nations, of the moon and the boar. 

May we not even trace a connection with 
the superstition current in Suffolk, accord- 
iuff to "C. W. J." in The Book of Daysl 
" C. W. J. " says that in his part of the 
world it is considered unlucky to kill a pig 
when the moon is on the wane, and, if it 
is done, the pork will waste in boiling. 
** I have known," he says, ^ the shrinking 
of bacon in the pot attributed to the fact 
of the pig having been killed in theknoon's 
decrease j and I nave also known the death 
of poor piggy delayed or hastened so as to 
happen dtwbg its inereasa" Truly the 
old superstitions die hard I 

The moon's supposed influence on the 
weather is a matter of general knowledge. 
The writer last quoted mentions it as a 
very prevalent belief that the general con- 
dition of the atmosphere throughout the 
world during any lunation depends on 
whether the moon changed before or after 
midnight Another superstition is that if 
the new moon happens on a Saturday, the 

weather will be bad during the month. 
On the other hand, in St^olk, the old 
moon in the arms of the new (me is 
accounted a sign of fine weather, contrary 
to the belief in Scotland, where, it may be 
remembered, in the ballad of Sir PatriA 
Spens, it is taken as a presage of storm 
and disaster. Shakespeare has many allu- 
sions to the moon's influence on the 
weather, as "The moon, the governess <rf 
floods, pale in her anger, washes the air"; 
«The moon, one thinks, looks with a 
watery eye ; and when she weeps, weeps 
every little flower "; " Upon the comer of 
the moon there hangs a vaporous drop 
profound," and so fortL Then we have 
the old proverb : " So many days old the 
moon is on Michaelmas Day, so many floods 
after." Other beliefs are mentioned by 
Mr. Harley — such as, that if Christmas 
comes during a waning moon, we shall 
have a good year, and tne converse ; that 
new moon on Monday is a certain sign 
of good weather; that a misly mocm 
indicates heavy rain; that the horns of 
the moon, turned upward, predict a good, 
and, turned downward, a bad, season; thai 
a large star near the moon is a certain 
prognostication of storm. In &ct, the 
superstitions in this connection are legion, 
and are not confined to any country. 
They are as common in China, where the 
moon is still worshipped, as they are in 
England, where, in some places, old men 
still touch their hats and maidens still bob 
a curtsey in sight of the new moon. We 
have thus the relics of moon-worship about 
us still, as well as a strong popular belief 
in the moon as an active pnysical agent 
Whether the actual influence of the moon 
on the tides lies at the basis of the belief 
in its influence on the weather, we know 
not, but it is probable, and at any rate it is 
curious that the Persians held that the 
moon was the cause of an abundant supply 
of water and rain, while in the Japanese 
fairy-tale the moon was made to rule over 
the blue waste of the sea with its multi- 
tudinous salt waters. The hortiealtoral 
superstitions about sowing and planting 
according to the age of l£e moon, Is no 
doubt a product of the fusion of the 
meteorological superstition and that of the 
old-world belief in Luna being the godden 
of reproduction. 

Any who have stUl doubts on the 
meteorological question, cannot do better 
dian refer to a letter of Professor NIdiol't 
— late Professor of Astronomy in the 
University of Olasgow — ^wUch is quoted in 




PUreh 90, 1881] 115 

The Book of Dijil He anerto positively, 
as ihe result of sdentifie obserradoiiy that 
no relation .whatever exists between the 
moon and the weather. 

Bat does any exist between the moon 
and the brain 1 '* Whom the gods would 
destroy they first make mad, and the 
moon was supposed to be the instrument — 
nay, ^ still is, as the very word " lunacy " 
implies. The old astrologers used to say 
thi^ she governed the brain, stomach, 
bowels, and leffc eye of the male, and the 
right ^e of the femal& Some such in- 
fluences were evidently believed in by the 
JewB,aswitness the onehundred and twenty- 
first Psalm: "The sun shall not smite 
thee by day, nor the moon by nJ^i" It 
may be remarked that Dr. Forbes Winslow 
ia not very decided in dismusing the 
theory of the influence of the moon on the 
insane. He says it is purely speculative, 
but he does not controvert it The subject 
is, however, too large to enter upon now. 
Whether or not it hd true that " when the 
moon's in the full then wit's in the wane "; 
it certainly is not true, as appears to be 
believed in Sussex, that the new May 
moon has power to cure scrofulous com- 

Before leaving our subject it is well to 
mention a remarkable coincidence to which 
Mr. Harley draws attention. In Ohma, 
where moon-worship largely prevails, durihff 
the festival of Tue-Plng, which is held 
annually.duringthe eighth month, incense is 
burned in the templM, cakes are made like 
the moon, and at fcdl moon the people 
^»read out oblations and make prostrations 
to the planet These cakes are moon-cakes 
and veritable ofierings to the Queen of 
Heaven, who represents the female principle 
in Chinese theology. **I{ we turn now to 
Jeremiah vii, 18, and read there, 'The 
women knead dough to make cakes to the 
Queen of Heaven, and to pour out drink- 
offerings unto other'gods,' and remember 
that, according to Bashi, these cakes of the 
Hebrews had the image of the god or 
goddess stamped upon them, we are in 
yiew of a fiict of much interest" The 
interest becomes greater when we learn 
that in parts of Lancashire there exists 
a precisely sioiilar custom of making cakes 
in honour of the Queen of Heaven. From 
these facts, the discovery of two buns, each 
nsriwd with a cross, in Herculaneum, and 
other evidences, we are driven to the 
oonchiaion that the "hot-cross buns" of 
OhriKMn Eo^and are in leaUty but a relk 
of nooorwoxahiD 1 


bt theo gift, 

AuUior (tf**ia Larimer/' **An AWd and iU Price," 



It was between ten and eleven on the 
following morning that George Marstland, 
having rowed himself to shore from his 
houseboat, sprang lightly up the little 
wooden steps leading to the water from 
the Lucases' lawn, and was proceeding 
in the direction of the house, when a 
murmur of youthful voices from behind 
some shrubs in the neighbouriiood caused 
him to turn his steps in wat directi<m, on the 
chance of finding there some of the family 
he had come to visit 

The sight that met his eyes was a pretty 
enough one to detain him. 

Under tiie drooping boughs of a tulip- 
tree, whose broad leaves cast a pleasant, 
dappled shade over the velvety, sun-kissed 
grass, was gathered a little group consist- 
ing of three very young cmldren and a 
girl, youthful and fair enough to have 
attracted the attention of any man not 
unduly soured or satiated by the sex. It 
was tiie same girl — ^he recognised that at 
once — ^whom he had seen in that one 
moment of illumination on the previous 
evening, and had somehow thought of 
more tiian once since, with a sensation of 
mingled pleasure, amusement, and curiosity. 
But she looked far more charming now, 
dad in a simple morning-gown of bluish 
cambric, its limp, clinging folds gathered 
tightly under her, and making apparent 
the extreme smallness and delicacy of her 
slender, giriish figure, as she sat curled up 
on the warm grass, one sturdy, black-eyed 
child of two nestled in her arms, its dark 
head resting on her bosom, and its plump, 
rosy arms clasped round her neck ; another 
fairylike girl of four frisking about behind 
her, busy in unplaitinff the thick tress of 
ruddy hair which fell from the back of her 
small head, and letting the light, glittering 
strands flow over her shotdders like a 
mermaid's veil ; while the third, a stout boy 
of six or seven, lay stretched at ftdl 
length on the grass at her feet, his chin 
supported on his folded arms, and his face 
turned upwards in vehement remonstrance 
at the interruptions caused by his sister's 
operati<ms to the story that was being told 

«A]ix does tease so," he said impatiently. 


116 [March 20, 1888.] 



" Why do you let her, Vera 1 It's very 
rude. Alix, Til tell mamma if you go on." 

" Oh no, don't, Bengy," said Vera's soft 
voice. "It isn't rude if I let her, yon 
know, and I did. I eaid ehe might." 

"'Cause I doesn't tease you, does I, 
Vera 1 " put in little Alix eagerly. " I does 
it welly gently." 

" Oh no, ducky, you don't tease. Now, 
Ben, I'm sroing on. So St Tryphine " 

*' Bat, Vera, I want to know something, 
only Alix would bother. What do you 
call her < saint ' for 1 What is a saint t " 

" Oh, the Brittany people called her so 
because she was so good. Very, very good 
people are called saints when they die." 

" Then my papa wfll be called St. 
Lucas," said Ben triumphantly, nor knew 
why the syringa and laurel bushes behind 
him shook as with a sudden gust of wind, 
" for he's awful good. He's the goodest 
man anywhere, except mndpapa Grand- 
papa's so good he don% eren need to go 
to synagogue. Mamma says so." 

" Go on with 'tory. Vera," said Alix. 
<' Us doesn't want Ben to talk." 

*<rm not talking," said Ben; ''I'm 
asking questions. Aunt Leah says I may 
ask questions when I don't un'erstand, and 
I wants to un'erstand one thing more. Why 
did St. Tryphine, if she was so good, marry 
a wicked old Bluebeard of a King who had 
killed four wives already % " 

''She didn't know that he had killed 
them. All that anyone knew was that he 
had had four wives, and each of them died 
as soon as she was going to have a baby, 
and perhaps they remembered what Uie 
old magician bad said, that 'Gomorre should 
reign all over the land, and meet his death 
by his firstborn's hand'. Besides, King 
Comorre was such a powerful monarch, 
and so fierce, that they, Tryphine's fatiier 
and mother, were afraid he might ravage 
their eountoy, kill the people, and bum 
the houses if they didn t give him their 

** Well, I wouldn't have been gived, and 
I think the^ was a very bad father and 
mother to give poor Tryphine away to such 
a wicked man. Don't you tiiink, Vera, she 
was a silly to let them I " 

"I — don't know," said Vera gravely; 
" I suppose people must do as they are 
told — ^by their parents. Anyhow, Trsrphine 
did, and for a little time she was very 
happy, for King Comorre loved her very 
mud), and gave her all manner of beautiful 
things — jewels and rich Presses, and " 

** And toys, an' cakes, an' sweeties — lots 

of sweeties 1 " put in little Alix, lotting the 
loosened hair fall through her hands, and 
beginning to caper about in hex eagerness. 
''Yes, lots of sweeties," said Vera, 
smiling; "and so everybody was very 
good and content for a time ; and as the 
song about it says," and the girl's voice 
dropped into a sofb, crooning melody : 

" Partout Breta3rne on n*y vois 
Si belle reyne, si galant roy. 

Sifflez, sifflez, mea oiseaux ! " 

"What does that mean)" asked Ben, 
staring. " Don't tell it in gibberish." 

Vera held up her pretty finger. 

"Hush, Ben ! Biertie's going to sleq». 
It means — oh, it means what I said just 
now, that everything went well till the 
time came when Tryphine was going to 
have a baby too " 

"But what did she have one fori I 
don't think babies are a bit nice, I don't 
She was a silly." 

"Perhaps she couldn't help it," said 
Vera naively. "Anyhow, when King 
Comorre heaxd of it he was very angry, 
and determined to kill her too, so he 
locked her up in a tower, and told her to 
prepare to di&" 

" That was like Bluebeard," interrupted 
the irrepressible one ; " only Tryphine had 
no sister Ann&" 

" No ; but she had a ring which a good 
old monk, named Gildas, at her &t£eff's 
court, had given her when she married, 
telling her if she was ever in trouUe to 
send it to him, and he would help her. 
So now, when she was looked up, she took 
the ring from her finger, and calline her 
pet dove, put it on his beak, and told him 
to fly as fast as ever he could to — — oh, 
Aiix — Ab'x I don't pull poor Vera's hair so, 
you hurt her. Why, what's the matter) " 

"Alix fwightened," sobbed the Utde 
maid, making a sudden dive under the Bok 
meshes ol ludr she had unbraided, and 
dinging with both hands round her friend's 
throat for protection. " Alix see a Ug 
man behin' ze bush zere. Fink him's Hbe 
baddy king oomin' to kill us alL" 

" The man isn't going to do anything of 
the sort ; isn't baddy at all, Alix, exc^t 
for Ustening to a story not meant kx 
him," said Marstland, coming forwurd and 
adding, " Please forgive me, and don't let 
me disturb you," to Vera, who had started 
up, crimson wiUi confusion, and was trying 
to assume a more decorous position. 

It was an entirely fruitless efibr^ how- 
ever, with Alix on her back, and the sleep- 
ing Bertie in her arms, and she was obliged 




GhailM Dtokm.] 


[March 20. 1886.] 117 

to sabaide on to the grass again, the 
prettiest little statue of embarrassment 
possible, her ordinarily pale cheeks rosy 
with blushes, and her loosened hair hang- 
ing round her like a warm'KX)loured silken 
doud. Ben stood up and took a good 
stare at the stranger, both hands planted 
defiantly in the pockets of his serge knicker- 

''I know who you are," he obserred. 
*'Tou're a man what goes to see grand- 
papa. IVe seen yon in his house, and you 
gired me some cocoanut-rock out of your 
pocket Have you got some more tiiere 

" No, I haven't I shouldn't wonder if 
joa fqund something else, however, nearly 
as good," said Marstland, seating himself 
on a cane garden-chair. '' Gome and see ; 
and you, too, little Aliz," holdmg out his 
hand to the girl, and stooping low enough 
to bring his bright eyes and broad, pleasant 
smfle on to a level with the tiny face peep- 
ing apprehensively at him from behind the 
cnrtain with which it had provided itself. 
'*rm not King Comorre, I assure yoa 
Whv, what a smy idea ! He was killed off 
dead ever so long ago, and good St Gildas 
pnthim in his pipe and smoked hioL" 

"What! Did he really— truthfully 1 
How do you know 1 " cried Benjy in great 
excitement^ and swinging himself on to 
the visitor's knee. 

" Well, I don't know about the pipe part 
—not exactly, at least ; but I know that he 
was killed after he had killed Tryphine and 
cat off her head; though, as St Oildas — 
he was a saint, too, by the way — stuck it 
on again for her, that didn't so much 
matter as if I had cut off yours." 

" But is it all true 1 Is it, Veral " per- 
sisted Ben seriously. " And how does he 
know it 1 Have you told him the story 

Vera blushed and shook her head, a form 
of negative easier than speech just then. 
She was not surprised at "Mr, Bart" 
knowing the quaint old legend, however. 
Had not Leah told her that he often went 
to Brittany to paint pictures and attend 
the Koman Catholic churches 1 

''No, she didn't tell me," said Marstland, 
laoghing. " I^ found it all out for myself. 
Dicbi't you think I was clever enough for 
diatt Why, Fm as clever as ever I can be. 
Fve found out something else already; 
and that is that you are fond of stories, 
hot you're fonder still of sweets, and Alix 
there is fond of them too ; only she is a 
Hide afraid of me still, which is f ooUsh, 

for if she doesn't come quickly, youll have 
eaten them all up without her." 

This was too much for Aliz, who, won 
by something pleasant in the big, deep 
voice and merry eyes, had already emerged 
from her covert, and was advancing on tip- 
toe, one step at a time and very slowly, 
with her hands held behind her back, and 
her small face expressive of a channing 
combination of coquetry and bashfulness, 
until Marstland's warning and the sight of 
a white paper parcel which Benjy was 
already extracting from his pocket over- 
came all scruples, and she made a bound 
forward, and was straightway captured 
and lifted on to the other knee beside 
her brother. Even Bertie lifted his ruddy 
face from its pQlow and said piteously: 
" Me 'weetiee too I " but catching sight as 
he did so of the shaggy head and beiBurded 
physiognomy of the ogre who had seem- 
ingly got possession of his relations, his 
entreaty died away in a small howl of 
terror, and he buried his face again in 
Vera's neck and clung to her tighter than 

" A striking example that in the human 
animal even greed is sometimes subservient 
to terror," said Murstland. ''Will your 
more trusted hand kindly make these over 
to him. Miss St. Laurent 1 And may I 
hope you have forgiven me, first for mamng 
one of your audience without permission, 
and then for robbing you of the remainder 1 
The latter sin was at any rate unpremedi- 
tated. I had meant to remain * en cachet ' 
till the end of St Tryphine's adventures. 
They were too interesting (especiaUy with 
the Lucas annotations) for human nature 
not to listen to." 

*'But you knew them already," said 
Vera reproachfolly. 

She did think it was very bad of him to 
have listened, though she had not courage 
to say so more dnrectly; and, after all, 
married men with (perhaps) chfldren of 
their own, may, perhaps, take liberties 
denied to less fbrtcmate bachelors. 

" Quite by chance. I came upon it one 
day in an old book of Celtic saints and 
legends. And, by the way, I ought to 
apologise also to you for addressing you by 
your name, unintroduced " ["Whose fault 
was it you were not introduced t " thought 
Vera, and coloured hotiy at herselfl ; " but, 
you see, I had heard Miss Josephs s friend 
from Brittany was staying here, and though 
you don't know me " 

"I — I do know who you are," Vera 
faltered, feeling it 'would not be honest to 



■ ^ ' ■ f 




118 [HarohSO,lfi86.] 



accept the imputation of ignoranca ''I 
have met Mn. JBurt in London," she added 

" Have you 1 '^ with a momentary lifting 
of the eyebrowa " Then yon have met the 
most portentously sBsthetic and religious 
person the world has yet produced. I hope 
you found it out." 

Vera blushed still deeper. She supposed 
he meant to praise his wife ; but the tone 
and manner of doing so were whimsical, to 
say the least ; and how was she to agree 
or disagree, considering her very s^ght 
acquaintanceship with me lady) 

"I — I," she stammered, and then 
stopped short in confusion. Marstland 
came to her relief, the comers of his mouth 

'*Ah, I see you agree with me too 
completely for words. Unfortunately, 
however, the lady has not as high an 
opinion of me as I of her; and since you say 
jrou heard of me from her, I fear it was not 
m a way to prejudice you in my favour." 

*'0h, please don't say that, though you 
are joking, of course," cried Vera, rather 
shocked. ''Indeed, she — I don't think she 
mentioned you at all, except, by the way, 
to tell Leah that you had not been work- 
ing since the Academy opened, but that 
iron talked of doing a great deal in Switzer- 

" In Switzerland ! What the— what on 
earth should I do in Switzerland 1 The 
woman must have been dreaminff I There 
was a suggestion that I should join them 
there, but I refused to go, and that would 
have been as a holiday. And as to not 
working during the summer, I should like 
to know what Mrs. Burt knowa about that. 
I know she keeps old Jack's nose to the 
grindstone pretty severely, but as he is her 
husband '' 

'' And — and are you not^ then t " asked 
Vera, as pale now as she had been rosy. 
What blunders had she not been making ) 

" Not what 1 Mrs. Burt's husband, too ! 
Certainly not, thank goodness ! Though 
of course it is known even in Finisterre 
that we buy our wives in ' Smiffield ' over 
here, we ore, as yet, only allowed to buy 
one at a time ; and the only lawful possessor 
of Mr& Burt is the happy individual who 
is at present enjoying the sweets of 
bachelorhood on board a houseboat as my 
guest, and came here with me yesterday 
evening. Didn't you know him ) The 
fellow with a fair beard " 

" Oh yes, I saw, but I thought — I don't 
know how — it was very sifly of me," 

stammered poor Vera — <' that you were he 
—and he " 

"George Marstland, surgeon, now at 
your service I understand, and also I 
now understand your righteous indignation 
at the impertinence of any man, not being 
an artist, presuming to pass depreciatciy 
criticisms on Miss Josephs's pretty li^e 
sketches. You were indignant, you know, 
Miss St. Laurent I caught sight of yoor 
face, and shook in my shoes as I rushed to 
the rescue. Indeed, I didn't know which 
to shake most for, Burt or poor little 

Vera could not help amiling a little. 
Perhaps there was something infectious in 
the finmk geniality of her companion, or 
perhaps it was the remembrance of Leah's 
encomiums on him, " Everyone likes Dr. 
Marstland," for she even found courage to 

'<I didn't think it was to their rescue yon 
came ! And I was dad you did. I oodd 
not bear to hear them sneering in that 
mean, unjust way when everyone most 
know how beautifully she drawa" 

" One person, at any rate, knows some- 
thing more to ike purpose — namely, that 
Leah Josephs is happy in a very entha- 
siastic and warm-hearted friend." 

Vera shrank back a little. Madame 
St Laurent had a peculiar distaste for en- 
thusiasm, and had always checked it in her. 

"Nobody could help loving Leah who 
knew her," she said apologetically. " Ton 
must feel that, for you— 4he told me so— 
you are a friend of hers, too." 

"A very old one. I've known the 
Josephs family o£f and on for the last eight 
years, and have liked them more every 
succeeding one. I was a pupil of tiie 
old man's once, you know." 

" Yes ; so she said." 

" And a very troublesome one, working 
like a tiger three-fourths of the term, and 
then going in for a fit of idleness and good- 
for-nothingism just as the exams, wore 
drawing near. I remember Leah rowing 
me about it once. I had been plucked 
once already, and was going on in the same 
sort of way, thinking the less of it becaose 
old Josephs let me ofif so mildly, and only 
looked a little graver and more careworn 
than usual; but as I was going away one 
afternoon I stumbled on Leah, and didn't 
she give it me ! ' You'll be plucked a^on,' 
she said, * and you mayn't care, but I do, 
for every time you fail you injure my 
father more than if you put your hand in 
his pocket and robbed him. You make 




[Mttoh90,1888.] 119 

joar parents and ezaminen think that ho 
does not teaeh well, and he does, and yon 
know it, and are dever enoogh to learn if 
yoa cared to do so ; bat yon don't Yon 
are cruelly selfish.' By G^rge ! she didn't 
need to say that to me twice. I worked 
night and day for the rest of term." 

"And 1" 

" Passed) Oh yes ; and rather high in 
botany and chemistry, Josephs's sabjeots. 
He was deUghted with me, dear old boy ! 
But it was ail Leah's doing." 

" It was very brave of her," said Vera ; 
*'lmt I shoold think Leah would always be 
baya I couldn't have dared " 

"To row a lazy medical student t " said 
Marstland, lau^hmg, as his gase rested on 
the slender, childish figure ajod soft young 
&ce. " No, I doubt if you could ever row 
mybody. Do you think it would be 
possible for yon to frighten a very, very 
little mouse — if you triM hard, that is." 

Yen's cheeks answered for her ; but not 
as if she resented his banter, for she even 
piocked u^ spirit to say, after a second : 

"Tousaid I looked very fierce last night." 

''So you did ; though I was telling a fib 
vhen I also said I shook. I only wanted 
to shake hands with ^ou. I knew we 
ikooU be friends from that moment, for I 
like Leah Josephs quite as much as yon 
do. Now, wasn't I right 1 " 

Vera hesitated a moment from timidity, 
kt her answer, when it came, was simple 
enongh to disconcert anyone flirtingly 

"I hope sa I should like to be friends 
with anybody that Leah cares about, she 
kas bem so good to me, and she is the 
(oly Mend I have." 

"The only friend you have 1 " repeated 
Msrsdand incredulously. " You must have 
led a very secluded life, Miss St. Laurent" 

'*Tes, very," she answered quietly. 
"Thatis why, perhaps, this seems to me so 
del%htful that I almost dread going home 
ifcsioi, though I feel it is wick^ to do so, 
vhsu I only left on account of my father's 
iUaeas, and he is not well again yet." 

*' Bat you are out of anxiety about him, 
lhaf9; so that, unless he needs you at 
home, there is nothing to prevent your 
paying your friends here a long visit." 

"* Oh, papa does not need me. He never 
vants anyone but mamma when he is ill," 
•aid Vera rather wistfully; "and the 
Josq^hses have very kindly persuaded her 
toecmsent to my staying on with them while 
he and she ^ away for change of air to 
itay with a friend in the South of France. 

They started last Friday, so but, please, 
do you think the children ought to eat so 
many sweets 1 Aliz is looking quite pale." 

<' The little glutton ! " cried Marstland, 
tossing the nearly empty bag into a neigh- 
bouring bush, and swinging the child on to 
his shoulder to console her. "Aliz, if 
you've made yourself ill, your mother will 
never forgive me, and I'll never forgive 
you. Gome, and let us find her. We've 
teased Miss St. Laurent long enough." 

Yet he was not aware that it was fully 
half an hour since he landed in a great 
hurry to see his two friends, and make 
them promise to let him row them out that 
evening. The pretty idyll of that legend 
under the tulip-tree had detained him 
longer and more pleasantly than he im- 
agined; and so infectious were his own 
ease and geniality that even Vmra, after 
the first affony of shyness was over, forgot 
not only ner offence against him of the 
previous evening, but, what man^ girls 
would have been still more conscious of, 
the dishevelled state ol her locks, and the 
fact that this very dishevelment ntade her 
a great deal prettier and more fascinating 
in the eyes of a man like G^rge Marstland, 
than the smartest arrangement of fringes 
and plaits could have don& 

Leah, on the othw hand, was keenly 
recognisant of both these eureumstanceSi 
From her bedroom-window she had chanced 
to see the doctor's landing, and her first 
thought had been to go down at once and 
welcome him. It was only when she saw 
him pause behind the shrubs to listen (as 
she guessed) to the stories with which Vera 
was regaling the children, that she delayed 
her appearance so as not to spoil sport; but 
when he came forward and sat down among 
the little group, making one of them, and 
seeming to forget all about the other in- 
mates of the house in sporting with the 
children and drawing Vera out of her 
shyness — ^more especiidly when she saw the 
latter yielding to his frsmk " bonhommie", 
checking hex first impulse to run away, and 
finally smiling and talking to him as she 
could hardly ever be prevailed on to do 
to anyman — ^the brightezpectancy of Leah's 
face sobered a little, and there was a curious 
half-puzzled look on it as she stepped slowly 
back from the window. 

" Vera said she did not like him at all — 
that she could never like him; and she 
would not tell me why," she thought. 
"Had l^e said something unfortunate, 
given her some unintentional offence, and 
is he ezplaininfiT it now and apolosisine 1 





[Mardi 20, ISaej 

If BO, she has certainly fcnrgiven hinii for 
she is talking to him as friendlily as if he 
were papa, and he — he seems to have quite 
forffotten his last night's objection to her. 
Weil, that's natural enongh, for no one 
could call her a Dutch doU at this minute, 
and I — I am very glad. I wanted them to 
be Mends." 

But something rose in her throat at that 
moment that was not wholly gladness, and 
the consciousness of it brought the blood 
suddenly into her cheek and made her 
strike her hands together with an impatient 
gesture as she exclaimed aloud : 

** I do hope I am not little enough to be 
jealous because I haven't had the pleasure 
of making them so myself; or because I 
was more eager for a talk with him than 
he seems to be for one with me." 

One special trait in Leah Josephs's 
character — an uncommon one among 
women — was an unflinching habit of 
honesty with herself. Many women are 
truthful to the letter with their neighbours, 
but few — fewer among good and con- 
scientious women even than others — are 
equally so with themselves. Some, indeed, 
¥^1 actuaUy shrink from such inward 
frankness as from something sinful, 
indelicate; will even (I have £iown ex- 
amples of the fact) pray aeainst it, strive 
against it, and ma^e a reugious duty of 
tying the very thickest of Mndages over 
their mentd vision, so as to shut out, if 
possible, the very practicability of such 
intrusive and unseemly introepectiveness. 

Leah, however, had from childhood 
been incapable of seeing any force in such 
artificial blindness, or any greater indelicacy 
in being true to her own heart than to 
those about her. She knew very well that 
her feeling for Greorge Marstland was no 
mere liking, but a very steady affection, 
begun in ^e days when they were still 
boy and girl, and strengthened by lapse of 
years and pleasure of renewed intimacy 
after long absences, until at present be was 
like no other man to her, nor could she 
indeed think of any other in the same 
category with him. There was little more 
than a year's difference in age between 
them, and from the time when he had been 
her father's favourite pupil, and had 
boarded for some months before his final 
examination for the M.B. in their house, 
she had known that in a thousand ways 

their thoughts and sympathies were akh ; 
and perhaps few things had given her 
keener pleasure than the news received in 
a letter from himself during her stay ia 
Brittany, that after spending the winter 
and spring in Edinbuigh, working in die 
principal hospital there, he had decided om 
purchasing a share in a London practice^ 
and estabushing himself in the neighboQ^ 
hood of his old tutor. 

Yet even the keenness of this pleasnrs 
and the knowledge that it was enhaooed 
by his tacit assumption of her interest 'b^ 
his movements, brought a twinge of paitf 
with it lest that interest might be suc^ as 
it would be her duty to check befOTe & 
became too absorbing. 

She did not think it would be sa She 
believed that his feelings for her were as 
true and warm as hers for him ; but just 
what the depth of that warmth was, or 
whether it passed the bounds of dni^ 
friendship and affection, she could not 
honestly tell, and did not wish to enqairsi 
True, it would have been impossible for her 
even to imagine herself any other man's 
wife; yet that she should ever be hjs 
seemed, if she allowed hersdf to think of 
it, almost equally* so, if only for the fact 
that she was a Jewess and he a Chriatian ; 
and, though Dr. Marstland was not mote 
dogmaticiuly religious than the genCTali^ 
of young men " de son si^de " and Leak 
herself belonged, like her father, to the lar 
and modernised Beformed branch of ber 
creed, she knew that her mother was, on 
the other hand, too faithful a daughter of 
the orthodox church, and too strict m 
follower of the Talmud, to look wHk 
pleasure on the union of one of lier 
children with an unbeliever. 

A man might indeed love her well 
enough to embrace Judaism for her sake ; 
or, at any rate, to make such concessions 
to it as would enable her to many hfan 
without any falling off from her present 
rooted and heartfelt loyalty to the tesdi* 
tions of her race ; but that George Marslland 
would be this man she dared not astume, 
and was resolute with herself not to enqnite. 
It had been enough hitherto to know tbat 
he was her dearest friend, and she is. AH 
else she could afford to leave. 

The question came to her now for ;)the 
first time — could ahe afford it as eaoly 
as she had thought I 

IIP * 

The Bight of Translating ArticUifnm All THft Yeab Round u reserved by the Autkon. 


FabUthed tt the Offloa, 26, W^UioftQii St;^, Stnuid. Prioted by Oharlvs Dioubhs A FTAH0. ^. 0i««| K«w 8|rMi, B.C 



122 [Maroh ,1886.] 



been agreed between Lilias, Bodney, and 
Colonel Coordand Uiat, until some infor- 
mation had been obtained from Cuba, 
nothing was to be said to Dolores on the 
subject of her mother's family and her own 

The two girls parted, well pleased to 
know that they were to meet on the next 
day, and Captain Wharton and Bodney, 
finding that Miss Merivale and Dolores 
were going on to the Boyal Academy, 
arranged to join them there. 

" It was a long time before I could bear 
to see pictures," said Lilias to Bodney as 
he was takins her to her carriage ; " but 
now I like to look at them." She said this 
simply, as if it were quite natural that he 
should understand what she felt " I often 
wonder whether Hugh would have been a 
great artist had he fived. I believed him 
to be a ^eat artist then, and I am very 
glad I did. It is better to overrate those 
we love while they are with us. Don't you 
thin^ so 1 " 

*' Better for ourselves, perhaps,'' he 
answered slowly. 

'' And certainly for them. If they are 
not to escape whipping, we may leave 
it to the outer, world to whip them ; it will 
do it with a will But we can't make them 
too happy, seeing how little we can do, and 
for how shoTt a time." 

''A gentie doctrine. Miss Merivale, 
though it has a root of bitterness," said 
Bodney, perceiving that her thoughts had 
passed from Hugh to Hugh's daughter, and 
wondering whetiier she was in amdety or 
iarouble about Dolores. 

It was difficult to believe that there 
could be any cause, judging by the youth- 
iul beauty and content of the girl's face 
and mien as she bowed and smiled, touched 
her ponies with the whip, and drove ofif, 
tiie very picture of happiness, irradiated 
with the light of hope and expectation 
which is to the human countenance what 
sunshine is to a landscape. 

But Lilias was anxious and troubled 
likbout Dolores, and now that the tumult of 
feeling, into which Bodney's coming had 
thrown her, had subsided-^uickly, too, by 
the aid of his quiet friendliness and sym- 
pathy — she returned to the source of her 
trouble. This was Julian. It was im- 
possible for her to avoid the conviction 
that there was something wrong with him, 
and that meant danger to the peace 
of Dolores. Was the time coming when 
Mrs. Courtiand's words of warning would 
prove to be words of wisdom — ^when she 

(Lilias) would have to stand aside and 
witness the grinding of the inexorable 
mill) Something was wrong. If she 
could have thought it was only a trouble 
of the kind with which she was tolerably 
familiar-— one to be assuaged by recoune 
to her cheque-book — she would not have 
minded so much, for Lilias, although her 
administration of her own money matto 
was ord^ly and exact, never did rightly 
estimate the moral meaning of Janan's 
*' extravagance". But she was sure that 
the something wrong was not of this kind. 
It would not be at all like him to span 
his unde or herself the knowledge of it ia 
that caae. Was it anything that mi^ 
mar their hopes for Dolores ! 

Twice recentiy Julian had assigned 
excuses for not coming to The Qoineea, 
which Lilias had acddentally discovered to 
be falsa Although lilias did not know 
that a man in love will violate binding 
obligations, incur serious risks with aa- 
tounding heedlessness, neglect his evn 
affairs, and those of other people for 
which he is accountable, with total 
unscrupulousness, go where he ia not 
welcome, stay when he is wished away, 
make himself an intolerable nuisance, and 
be imperturbably aware that he is so 
regarded, rather than lose a chance of 
meeting the object of his passion; still her 
woman s wit told her that these excosei 
were a bad sign. 

It was not Julian himself, but Colonel 
Courtland, who had proposed the visit to 
the Boyal Academy, and he had promised 
to dine at The Quinces on the next day 
without any of the alacrity for which laliai 
(as a spectator) would have looked in a 
lover. To be sure, she knew nothing abont 
lovers except in poetry and romance, and 
the ideal which sh^ had formed in her girl- 
hood was perhaps an absurd one. Never- 
theless, she was uneasy. That Dolores 
should be perfectiy and always happy; tiiat 
she should have her heart's desire, and 
never, never discover or dream tha^ her 
heart might have desired anything lofder 
or better ; that the destiny of Hugh and 
Ines shoidd be reversed in that of their 
child; was the single aspiration, the con- 
centrated longing of this woman's sooL 
If absolute unselfishness could have secured 
the fulfilment of that desire, as it purified 
and hallowed it, the future of Dolores 
ought to have been very sure. 

There had been one experience in the 
life of Lili&a to which she looked back 
when her trouble about Julian was im- 




[March 27. 1886.] 123 

poxtonite. She and Hugh had been brought 
t(^ther yery much in the same way as 
Dolores and Julian, and when she grew 
into womanhood her stepfather had per- 
sosded himself that she loved Hugh, bat 
be was entirely mistaken. Was she now 
makii^ a similar mistake about Julian) 
Thus did the instinct of a pure womanly 
nature shrink from the false without 
certainty of its falsehood, and strive 
towards the true unwitting of its truth. 

Her own words to Rodney had set 
liiias thinking acain on this line, and 
die gave only mitigated attention to the 
nmarks of Dolores upon the Whartons. 
Dolores had never seen so pretty a girl as 
Miss Wharton. Had Aunt Liiias! Yes; 
Annt Liliaa had, but she thought Miss 
Whsrton very pretty and very charming. 
Dolores was sure Julian would be delight^ 
with her, especiaUy as she was so fond of 
mosic. Of course she played beautifully ; 
she had promised that they should hear 
her to-morrow evening, and that would be 
inch a treat for Julian. Dolores hoped 
liGss Wharton would be quite up to the 
mirk, though, as Julian was very hard to 
please about women's playing. Finally, 
Dolores said : 

" I used to be 80 sorry, Aunt Liiias, that 
yon allowed me to give up music just 
because it was too much trouble, but I am 
glad now." 

"Are you, my deart" said Liiias, 
lottamg herself. " Why ? " 

" Because my playing would never have 
been fit for Julian to listen to, and it is 
much better that I can't play at all" 

" But you might have given pleasure to 
less fastidious ears, Dolores. After aU, 
Julian is not the only person in the world, 
ud " 

"There he is! There he is I Just 
going up the steps. He sees us 1 Is that 
gentleman with him 1 No ; he has walked 
(m. How delightful 1 We shall not have 
to wait for him under the clock." 

She pulled up the ponies at the entrance 
to the Royal Academy, and flashed a 
radiant smile at Julian Courtland as he 
helped Miss Merivale to alight. Liiias had 
to give ati order to the servant, and did 
not hear Dolores say : *' Oh, Julian, how 
good of you to be so punctual ! " Nor 
did she hear him answer in a tone which 
would have put all her doubts to flight : 

"Was I not coming to meet you 1 " 

•Tolian had been sumnK}ned that morning 
to a conference with his evil genius. He 

found Mr. Wy ndham in a surly and despotic 
mood. One of those ugly accidents which 
occasionally happen to persons in his line 
of business had occurred to him. He was 
not flree from the weakness conmion to 
clever men ; he never could believe that the 
other party to any bargain of his making 
might be more clever than be, and he had 
just sustained a serious loss by his chronic 
incredulity. This was the second within a 
week, and Mr. Wyndham, although Julian 
had had only two da^s' grace, felt it necessary 
to remind him again Uiat he expected the 
fulfilment of his promise at very short date, 
under penalties. 

There was not much novelty in the 
matter of their interview ; the manner of 
it was, on Mr. Wyndham's part, a little 
more coolly implacable, and on Julian's 
more conciliating. The young man was, 
in fact, quite beaten, tired out, and in 

"I am going up there to dine to- 
morrow," he said, "and I will see how 
things look" 

" What do you mean by that ? If you 
haven't been dealing in empty boasts — an 
unsafe transaction with me — things have 
looked like the girl being ready to say 'Yes' 
ever since she's been grown up. Come here 
on Friday and tell me she has said ' Yes ', 
and let us have no more nonsense about 

Julian laughed insolently. 

" I don't think that would quite do," he 
said, "even according to your unconven- 
tional notions. There's a dinner-party; 
some brand-new people from Boston, 
and a man named Rodney, who knew 
Mr. Bosslyn out in Cuba, and was an old 
friend of your wife, I believe — but I'm not 
clear on that point." 

" Rodney — Rodney ! " said Wyndham ; 
"I don't remember the name. I don't 
think I ever heard of the man. What is he ? 
Is he English or American 1 " 

'* How the deuce should I know I I'll 
tell you to-morrow." 

Julian observed, with the secret pleasure 
that any annoyance to his evil genius was 
calculated to produce, that Mr. Wyndham 
was disturbed by this seemingly harmless 
communication. He tapped the table with 
his fingers, and repeated "Rodney, Rodney," 
under his breath, without heeding Julian's 

"There's something in the note about 
* Aunt Liiias being so glad to see someone 
who knew all about my mother \ and that 
sort of thing," continued Julian, recovering 


124 [Hanib 27, 1888.] 


[CoDducted hj 

his memory when he saw a chance of 
making it unpleasant to Wyndham. '* And 
now I mast be going. I lutve to meet Miss 
Merivale and Miss Kosslyn at the Boyal 
Academy at three o'clock. 

He rose with an unsuccessful air of inde- 
pendence, and took up his hat 

"Wait a bit," said Wyndham; "Tve 
something more to say. I don't like these 
new people and old friends coming about 
the place. You've had it all your own 
way up to the present, and you're either 
right about the girl's being ready to say 
*yes', or you're wrong. But you may not 
go on having it all your own way ; other 

Sople may have their views on Miss 
erivale and her money, or Miss Bosslyn 
and hers. And if you should happen to be 
wrong about the young lady, the sooner 
we both know it the better. I feel pretty 
sure you're right, but I don't mean to put 
off niaking quite sura" 

" And ^ I am wrong, what is to become 
of me ? " asked Julian in a tone of despair. 

He seemed to have sunk below every- 
thing except the motive of self-preservatioui 
under the influence of this man. 

'* I have not the slightest idea," replied 
Mr. Wyndham with gay unconcern. " I 
have taken a fancy," he continued, "to 
have another look at the young lady who 
must settle that question for you ; I saw 
her only imperfectly from tne Lyceum 
stalls. So I shall go and have a look at 
the pictures, too." 

" And run the risk of Miss Merivale's 
recognising you 1 " 

"I'm not afraid that Miss Merivale 
will recognise me, and if she did, I'm not 
afraid of Miss Merivale," returned Mr. 
Wyndham airUy. 

Miss Merivale did her picture-seeing con- 
scientiously, working through her cata- 
logue herself, and lor the most part in 
silence. She took very little notice of 
Julian and Dolores, and none at idl of any 
of the other people about her. Mr. 
Wyndham, also a conscientious picture-seer 
and catalogue-consulter, had an undisturbed 
opportunity of observing her, sometimes 
standing close beside her, sometimes 
taking a seat and contemplatiLg the group 
of threa Lilias was not likely to find 
much favour in the sight of Mr. Wyndham. 
The woman who had allowed heiself to be 
put to ransom by him, to the amount of five 
thousand pounds, for a purely sentimental 
reason, and without the least attempt to 
beat him down in his demands, was to be 

regarded from the intellectual point of 
view with contempt; while the grave 
and lofty refinement of Miss Merivale'i 
aspect, the peculiar charm of a woman of 
highly cultivated mind, who is at the same 
time not a woman of the world, were 
things outside his ken and foreign to hii 

"A regular dowdy old maid," was hii 
summing up of Lilias ; but Dolores foiuid 
favour in his sight "Where are the 
fellow's eyes," he said to himself, as he 
critically examined the face, figure,* and 
dress of the unconscious girl ; " where's hii 
taste, where's his common-sense 1 The 
other's not to be named in the same day 
with little Dolly. Why, she's better- 
looking than ever her mother can have 
been, I should say ; very like her, but not 
altogether like her either. What a smile, 
and what a laugh ! That's some witticism 
of his, I suppose, that diverts her, little 
fool ! She's a great deal too good for him, 
and if the money could be got at in anj 

other way, I wouldn't who's this, I 

wonder ? " 

Rodney had joined Miss Merivale and 
her companions. Mr. Wyndham, consnlt- 
ing his catalogue with great assiduity, 
drew near enough to hear his name, as 
Lilias introduced Julian to him. 

"Wharton, unfortunately, could not 
come," said Kodney. " His daughter " 

Here a stream of people making for the 
nearest door came between Mr. Wyndham 
and the speaker, and he did not catch the 
rest of the sentence, but he caught Dolores's 
merry look at Rodney, and he heard her 
silvery laugh. 

Then the group of four divided into two 
and two, and went on into the adjoining 

Mr. Wyndham closed his catalogue, re- 
sumed his seat, and pursued his oogitatiom, 
which recurred every now and then to 
Dolores, in such a strain as : 

" Who could have thought she'd ever he 
so pretty I The sullen little obstinate 
brat who cried all day at that wretched 
place in Praed Street after that lout of a 
boy I Well, well ; I should not wonder if 
she and I were very good friends some 

With this latter reflection — ^boding no 
good to Julian Courtland — Mr. Wyndham 
rose and sauntered round a couple of 
galleries, not unwilling to have another 
look at Dolores. He was, however, rather 
disconcerted, when turning away from a 
picture which he had stopped to examine, 







[Haroh 27, 1886b] 125 

he pereeived Dolores hard by, and looking 
at him fixedljin the puzzled bat searching 
way which just precedes recognition. He 
bent down to inspect a superb landscape, 
hong close to the floor, and, of coarse, 
nnintolligible; then after a moment or two 
glided tbroagh the crowd, and gained the 
safe and lonely haven of the architectaral 

"JaUan," said Dolores, ''I have just 
seen a man — he was here a moment ago, 
and he wears an eyeglass — that reminded 

me of someone " She hesitated — 

sbo had never heard Willesden's name 
spoken in Lilias Merivale's house — '' Of my 
poor mother's husband." 

" Have you ? " said Julian carelessly. 
"I diould not have thought you remem- 
bered him well enough to trace a likeness 
in anybody to him. Here's the Tadema 
you wanted to see. Just look a: the 
white marble 1" 

Mr. Wyndham avoided notice skilfully, 
bat he took so much interest in these 
particular visitors to the Boyal Academv 
that he remained as long as they did, 
keeping steady watch upon them all the 
time, and especially upon Lilias and 
Bodney. He followed them down the 
staircase at a discreet distance; then, while 
the ladies waited in the hall, and Rodney 
went to call up Miss Merivale's carriage, 
he placed himself by the side of Julian, 
who was claiming his cane from the proper 
castodian, and said in a tone as peremptory 
as it was low : 

" Do it to-day. That man means mis- 

^Do you think I might volunteer to go 
home with you!" whispered Julian to 
Dolores, just as Bodney returned, and the 
eania{!e stopped the way. 

" Of course ^ou may. Aunt Lilias, here 
it Julian wantmg to come home with us." 

The girl's voice vibrated with her 
umocent gladness. Lilias nodded to Julian 
in smiling assent. 

" Poor Mr. Bodney 1 " said Dolores, as the 
grey ponies trotted away down Piccadilly, 
**I think he would have liked to come 

That was a delightful drive in the close 
of a beautiful summer afternoon. Julian 
was in high spirits — such hich spirits, 
indeed, that Lilias asked herseU whether 
she could be mistaken — ^whether her mis- 
givings and her conviction that somethbg 
was wrong with him were groundless. His 
manner to Dolores had somethine in it 

which Lilias could not fail to observe, and 
which Dolores felt with trembling inten- 
sity — with a deep-seated happiness too 
ereat for words. She said little. Julian 
did two-thirds of the talking. Some- 
times she affected to be quite engrossed 
with the ponies, but all the time sue was 
radiant with content After her first 
pleased and wondering perception of the 
change in Julian, Lilias took little notice 
of her companions. She was not tired, she 
assured them, and she had enjoyed the 
day thoroughly ; but she liked to think 
over the pictures in silenca 

When Julian had gone back to town 
that night, and Lilias was in her own room, 
sitting, as her custom was in the summer, 
at the open window, with no light but that 
of the stars, there came a gentle tap at the 
door, and Dolores entered the room, carry- 
ing a little lamp. 

'< What is it, dear 1 " asked Lilias, who 
had said good-night as usual to Dolores. 

The gin set down the lamp, crossed the 
room, kneeled down by the side of Lilias, 
and clasped her arms round her waist. 

« Well, mv darlmg, what is it t " 

'' Aunt Lilias," said Dolores slowly, and 
with a strange solemnity, '* I have always 
been happy. I have never had a trouble 
or a sorrow, that I can remember, since I 
came to you; but to-night I am the 
happiest person in all the world 1 " 

" And why, Dolores % " 

" Because Julian loves me, and has asked . 
me to be his wife." 


Needlework began to be practised 
very early on this our earth, and from the 
first it was, according to the workers' 
lights, what we call artistic. Even the 
cave-woman had her bone needles where- 
with she stitched together mantles of 
skins, as the Esquimaux do now, and on 
these skin garments they embroidered 
figures, even as their husbands engraved 
mammoths and reindeer on bits of bone 
and ivory. Look at a Hungarian shep- 
herd's overcoat He wears the wool inside, 
and on the outside are traced all kinds of 
quaint, interlacing spirals— quainter than 
what one sees on the collar of the fast<lisap- 
pearing British smock-frock. Boadicea's fur- 
cloak had the same kind of ornament ; so 
had the state robes of Bed Indian diiefa 
In EfiTvnt. aman. where one finds examples 


126 [March 27, 1886.1 




of almost every kind of work, this leathern 
stitching was in high repnte. At the 
Botilac museunii wh^ the late Mariette 
Bey managed to get together a fair number 
of antiquitiesi one of the most interesting 
things is Qaeen Isi-em-Kebs's foneral tent 
This is a patchwork of thousands of squares 
of gazelle-skin, coloured red and green, 
and stitched with a cord of twisted pink 
leather sewn on with pink thread. The 
flat top is worked with vultures, gazelles, 
lotuses, and rosettes, forming an luerogly- 
phical epitaph. 

But Uie " textiles " in Egypt are much 
older than Solomon's time. The earliest 
known pyramids, those at Saooarah, have 
yielded their quota ; and these, wonderfol 
to say, are strangely like the mummy- 
wrappings in Peru. You can see samples 
of both in the British Museum, and you 
can read about the latter in Beiss's Necro- 
polis of Ancon. Whence this startling 
likeness, seen also in certain Egj/ptian 
idols of the baser sort, the counterparts of 
idiich may be picked up amid Mexican 
ruins, or among the non-Aryans of Central 
India % Shall we, with Mr. Hyde Clarke, 
dream of a time when there was a "Kine 
of the West", whose dominion included afi 
western Europe, and northern Africa, and 
also central America, and the islands of the 
Caribbean Sea, and who belonged to that 
Iberian or Basque race of which even in 
our isles we have some remnants 9 Who 
can tell ) It may be that man, whether 
red, black, white, or yellow, behaves in 
much the same way under the same 
circumstances. The old Greeks, whose 
sepulchres Dr. Schliemann delights to 
open, covered the faceB of their mighty 
dead with masks of beaten gold, and the 
Ashantees do the same ; yet no one 
supposes any sort of kinship between 
Agi^emnon and King Coffee. 

Whatever may be the explanation, the 
fact is certain — old Peru had her em- 
broidered mummy - wrappings like old 
Egjrpt ; and if we begin to tolk of trans- 
mission, why should not both have come 
from China 1 It seems pretty certain that 
embroidery, and perhaps other arte, went 
from Babylon to Bgjft; the earliest 
Egyptians prized &ose ''Babylonish gar- 
ments" the possession of one of wmch 
cost the Jewish Achan so dear. And 
embroidery is of all arts the most trans- 
missible. It can be folded in the tent- 
hanginffs, and taken a thousand miles on 
camel -back without getting any hurL 
Hence, along with jewels, it made up the 

chief wealth of nomads. From Mongol 
travelling-wains to Arab tents ih& art wu 
spread, and Arabs then, as now, went 
down into Egypt; whilst, in tiie oUisr 
direction, it is more than probaUe Uist 
prehistoric China had sent out voyagen 
across the Pacific. 

Whether, however, we claim one common 
origin for embroidery, or deem that ii 
arose in many places independently, it was 
certainly carried to great perf ect&m amcmg 
the earliest peoples of Asia. When Siseia's 
mother, in the Book of Judges, looks oat 
of the window, anticipating hex son's 
triumphant return, she can find nothing 
grander for his share of the booty than **% 
prey of divers colours of needlewoik on 
both sides ", In David's day, the Ejog*! 
daughter of Egypt is brought to David's 
son *' in raiment of needlework", described 
immediately before as " of wrought gold ". 
A dangerous *' vehicle" that, for the nse 
of it luLS caused the destruction of count- 
less square miles of embroidery on which a 
countless amount of time and labour had 
beenlavished. Think of the thirty-sixponndi 
of gold got by meltbg down, in 1540, the 
funeral-robes of the Emperor Honoriaa's 
wife, who was buried A.D. 400 1 So, whoi 
Childeric's tomb at Toumai was opened in 
1653, his robe of plaited gdd strips was 
melted. How it hxei wiUi the gold 
brocade which in 1871 was found wrapped 
round Henry the Third's coffin I cannot 
telL We are more art-loving now than 
they were two hundred years ago, but the 
"beaten work" of gold and silver so 
freely used in the Middle Ages to adorn 
dresses and hangings must have been even 
a greater temptation than the gold and 
silver thread which English needlewonien, 
beyond all others, had the art of '* laying 
in" between their stitches. Very little of it 
has escaped the mditing-pot, except where 
religion has interfered, as in the case of the 
English vestments wUch were sent abroad 
at the Reformation, and some of whichhave, 
since our Church Art revival, been ccping 
back, while others, like the Westminster 
Abbey hangmgs at Valencia-are perma- 
nently lost to us. 

For a diflferent reason, wool is as littk 
lasting as the precious metals ; yet some 
of it has escaped the moth, and of the 
Egyptian wool embroidery in the British 
Museum the colours are as bright as when 
the work was done ; you can identify the 
flowers with those still blooming in the 
fields by the Nile. Some of the fines! 
I pieces of wool-woi^ have been found in 



[Mmfa 27. UW.] 127 

Crimean tombs. These (now in the St 
Petenborg Moseom) are dated about 300 
Ra In some of these thededgnt are painted 
on the material ; in a few they seem woyen 
in, tapestry -fashion; in most they are 
plainly needlework, makine ns think of the 
gomoos *^ peplns " of PaBas Athene, em- 
broidered every year by the Athenian 
maidens of highest rank, with that subject 
of which Greek art was never tired, the 
war of the gods and giants. In one of 
these tombs, Uiat t)f *' the seven brothers *\ 
at Eertch, a piece of silk has been found, 
not embroidered, but painted in transparent 
colours. From this tomb, also, was taken 
a bit of linen, which may be earlier than 
the flaz-thread found in the Swiss lake- 
dwellings, but probably is many centuries 
hter. These Swiss lake-people were what 
is called " Neolithic '' — Le., they had well- 
shaped stone tools, but had not learnt the 
USB of metals ; yet the loom-combs found 
among their remains show that they knew 
all about spinning and weaving. Their 
wool-work, if they wrought any, mis wholly 
perished. In Western Europe, the earliest 
wt>ollen fabrics belong to the bronze age ; 
and of these some, among them the^^arment 
fonnd in a Yorkshire barrow, at Bylston, 
are (says Dr. Rock) not woven, but 

From sculptures and mosaics we can form 
a better idea of embroidery as it was than 
from the poor,'decaying fragments taken out 
of tombs. This is notably the case with the 
Babjlonian embroideries. None of them 
Tsmam, but the wonderful richness of 
them is shown in the bas-reliefs. Look at 
AMQrbanipal fighting lions ; get a bright 
daj, for he stands in the British Museum 
in nkther a dark place ; you see his corslet 
and helmet and horse- trappings ^solid 
niaiaes of gold wire drawn through and 
throosh, and tiien hammered up till they 
looked IQce jeweller's work. So in the 
Ravenna mosaic the Empress Theodora and 
her ladies are dressed — some in Indian 
shawl stuffis, some in embroidery after the 
style of Athene's peplua. It is the same with 
cor own tombs: the recumbent figure is clad 
jost as the living man used to be. Nay, 
King John at Worcester was buried in a 
rich red silk with ^old - embroidered 
bordering, just like his painted efSgy. 
ISiiB was proved when they opened his 
temb in 1797. Much older and much 
I lieher was the beautiful embroidery taken 
in 1827 from St Guthbert's tomb. In 
Dt Baine's St. Outhbert it is described 
as "of woven eold with spaces left 

L n 

vacant for needlework. The figures on 
rainbow - coloured cbuds give it the 
effect of a ninth-century illumination." 
Aelfled, Queen of Edward the Elder, had 
this stole and maniple embroidered for 
Frithestan; Bishop of Winchester. His 
name and hers are on the end of the stole. 
When King, and Queen, and Bishop were 
all dead, Athelstan, making a *' progress" 
northwaxd, visited St. Guthbert's shrine at 
Ghester-le-Street, and gave Uiese along with 
other precious vestments. It is a good thing 
they were buried, or they might have shared 
the fate of the Saint's banner of crimson vel- 
vet, delicately wrought with flowers in green 
and gold, and '* most artificially worked and 
fringed with little silver bells in the fidnge, 
which, having in the centre the oorporax 
used by the Saint in celebrating mass, used 
to be carried into battle. But Dame Whit- 
tbghame, the dean's wife (about 1730), 
did most injorionsly destroy the same in 
her fire." Another instance of embroidery 
reproduced in stone is the Black Prince's 
surcoat. The velvet still hanging over the 
tomb shows the very same stitches and 
ornaments which are reproduced in the 
recumbent effigy. 

I spoke of embroidery as a special art 
for dwellers in tents. Long after the 
nomad stage was past it was used to 
ornament tents; indeed some of its 
greatest triumphs were wrought for 
tent-decoration. Antar's tent, under whose 
embroidered shade five thousand horsemen 
could find room to skirmish, belongs to 
romance. But Alexander's tent, erected 
at his namesake city^ and the still grander 
one, with fifty solden pillars and a roof of 
woven gold, and curtains embroidered with 
figures in gold and colours, which he had 
made for bus wedding-feast, are hisUmcaL 
So is the yet richer tent erected at Alex- 
andria by Ptolemy Philadelphus. Of this 
the pillars represented alternately golden 
palm-trees and golden vines, of which the 
grapes were amethysts, while the hangings 
that divided it into rooms were em- 
broidered with portraits of Kings and 
heroes. Sir John Chardin says : ** The 
Khan of Persia caused a tent to be made 
resplendent with embroideries. It cost two 
millions. They called it the house of 
gold." Nadir Shah's tent^-about 1700— 
in which was placed the famous peacock- 
throne, was of scarlet cloth lined with 
violet satin embroidered with gold and 
precious stones. Then there was that 

Salace on the Tigris, built for Galiph 
loctader, which Abtdfisda describes as 


128 [Much 87, 1880.] 



adorned with thirty-eight thootand pieces 
of tapestry, of which twelve thousand were 
of silk worked in gold; and then again were 
the hangings of Chosroes's palace, represent- 
ing all the flowers of spring, and wrought in 
gold and jewels and coloured silks. The 
impassive Gibbon goes into raptures as he 
describes them; and Chosroes entreated 
Uie Caliph Omar, his conqueror, to keep 
them uninjured; the destruction of such 
a glorious work would grieve him as much 
as his own downfall But it was then 
early days with Mahometanism (a.d. 651); 
Oaliphs had not yet grown loxorious; 
and Omar cut these grand tapestries into 
little bits to make praying-carpets for his 

War is alwajrs the enemy of culture. 
A few years ago the markets of Western 
Europe were flooded with Turkish em- 
broideries, heirlooms stolen from the 
dying, or sold for a piece of bread, amid 
the accumulated horrors of that war which 
was aggravated by the cry of " Bulgarian 
atrocities". And peace, too, has had its 
waste. At a very grand funeral the pyre was 
often hung with tapestries and embroideries 
which were burned along with the body. 
O^er his friend Hephsastion, Alexander 
raised a wooden palace two hundred and 
fifty feet high. Each of its many storeys 
was hung with embroidered CDrcains; and, 
aloft, in huge hollow figures of sirens, 
were singers who chanted the funeral-dirge. 
All was burnt ; let us hope that the singers 
had good notice and were able to escape. 

Of course embroidery has always been 
a favoured servant of relieion. The Jewish 
tabernacle had its veib enriched with 
needlework; the veil which Herod hung 
before his '^beautiful gate" was Babylonian 
work representing the signs of the Zodiac — 
the earth, and sun, and all the planets. 
The same was the case with heathen 
temples. The Bible tells how, at Jeru- 
salem, "women wove hangings for the 
grove " (the graven image). 

Greek temples, solid though they were, 
were often burnt, thanks te their em- 
broidered hangings. The Roman style, 
with its round arches and great wall-spaces, 
specially lent itself to this sort of decoration; 
with the pointed arches and bigger windows 
of the Gothic, it gradually gave place to 
stained glas& But, if hangings were less 
used in the later medisBvid churches, em- 
broidery in other ways got more and more 
in vogue. Bead the catalogue, made by 
Edwara the Sixth's commissioners, of 
the ornaments even in the smallest parish 

churches. Such a wealth of copes and 
altar-cloths; and these not church pro- 
perty, but most of tliem belonging to 
guilds (of which almost every pansh had 
two or three), and used on their festivals, 
as the insignia of the Oddfellows are 
nowadays. People then gave liberally to 
their church and got something in retora 
Fancy what a grand fcmction must have 
been at Lincoln, where the commissioners 
found six hundred embroidered vestments! 
England was specially rich in Uiis kind 
of work Matthew Paris tells us that 
when Innocent the Third saw some of our 
splendid vestments, he cried: "Surely 
England is a well inexhaustible ; and where 
there is such abundance, firom thence much 
may be drawn out." At the Beformation 
all this was destroyed or dispersed. A few 
have come back, notably the Stonyhurst 
cope, which was Henry the Seventh's, and 
is embroidered with Tudor roses — a po(Hr, 
mean thing compared with our thirteenth 
century cope at St John Lateran, and 
Thomas k Becket's vestments, sold aw&y to 
the cathedral of Sens ; and the Syon cope, 
carried, when Elizabeth became Qaeen, by 
the nuns of Sion House, through Flanders 
and France, till they and it found a reetLog- 
place in Lisboa Some sixty years ago it 
came back to England, and is now in SmUk 

A few palls — that of Dunstable, the 
Vintners, and the Fishmongers, and mmtb 
in the little Norwich churches — have 
always remained to us ; but most of our 
treasures were lost in that ignobly selfiidi 
scuffle for wealth which marked oar 
change of religion. Other nations managed 
better. The North Germans became much 
more thoroughly Protestant than we did ; 
but they did not destroy or make away 
with their works of art They confiscated 
the endowments, but respected the art- 
treasures. Our reforming gentry (for the 
Beformation with us was munly a political 
movement for enriching the higher classes) 
kept the endowments-family livings ware 
too good to be given up for conscience-sake 
— and ^ve the painted glass to be ham- 
mered m pieces; and the statues to be 
broken down ; and the broidery of copes, 
and stoles, and altar-cloths to be sold or 
pulled to pieces for the sake of the gold 
thread ; and the illuminated missak to be 
cut in pieces to fledge arrows with. We 
were well punished for such vandalism, and 
that soon. Of old, needlework had been 
the glory of the land, a tradition since 
Anglo-Saxon days, if not since the time of 


GbAriat DIckeoa.] 


[March 27, 1886.] 129 


Empress Helena, a Welsh princess, wife 
of Emperor Constans, whose embroidery 
Maratori, in the seventeenth century, 
described as still preserved at YercelU. 
Back, in his Litureische G^wander, says 
it is still there; if so, it is nearly one 
thousand five hundred yean old. 

It was a pity the art should die out 
The series of workers had been so long kept 
apuubrokea In Domesday, we read of 
Alvive the muden getting from Gknlric, 
Sheriff of Buckingham, for her life half a 
hide of land "U she might teach his 
dsaghters to make orphreys " — auro- 
phrygia, the gold embroidery on church 

Iq Mrs. Lawrence's Woman in England 
there is a great deal about our English 
work. It even survived the Wars of 
the Roses; and, lA the ups and downs 
of that sad time, noble ladies, reduced 
to penury, were glad to earn a living 
by their needla The religious houses 
had always been famous for needlework; 
eyen the monks occasionally plied the 
needle. Gifibrd, writing to Cromwell of 
Uie suppression of a monastery at Wools- 
thorpe, Lincolnshire, says : '* There is not 
one religious person there but what can 
and doth ase either embrotheryng, wry ting 
bookes with a fayre hand, making garments, 
karyynge," etc. With the change in religion 
the embroiderer, like the illuminator, was 
Btarved out. It is astonishing how soon 
the art died out Queen Catherine had 
been a notable needlewoman, solacing her 
loneliness by practising the art she had 
learnt from her mother, ** who always made 
her husband's shirts ". Mary, Spanish in sdl 
her tastes, spent her weary vigils for Philip, 
who never came, in working '^ Spanish 
stitch, black and gold". There is a good 
deal of EUzabeth's handicraft still extant; 
bat the taste in her day was getting 
depraved. Elizabethan needlework is 
perfect in workmanship, but wholly want- 
ing in naturalness and beauty. In the next 
reign even the workmanship deteriorated. 
Nothing shows more clearly how the good 
old English traditions had died out than 
the Mompesson businesa We used to be 
famous for our gold thread, it was so 
mnch purer than the Spanish or Itsdian ; 
but when Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, got 
the monopoly and employed the Frenchmen 
Mompesson and Michael to get his thread 
made, it was soon so scandalously debased 
as to corrode the workmen's hands, and 
wren the flesh of the wearera The Villiers- 
Mompesson patent emnowered the monono* 

lists to punish anyone whom they found 
making a better or cheaper article; for 
they made the public pay exorbitantly for 
this scandalous stuff. 

Thus it was that, in James's day, needle- 
work degenerated into simple crewd, a style 
popular since the old Assyrian timea ^d 
here, where we might have been hdped 
by hmts and patterns from India, we were 
cut off by that foolish legislation which 
even then was beginning to destroy the 
Indian manufactures, in the supposed 
interest of the British workman. The 
East India Company was founded in 
Elizabeth's reign; and, though at first 
other Indian manufactures were admitted, 
the Broiderers — whom Elizabeth had just 
formed into a Company — ^had sufficient 
influence to keep out Indian embroidery 
from the very first. 

Coarseness of execution went hand-in- 
hand with poverty of design in the Jacobean 
and Caroline needlework James and Anne 
of Denmark figure as Solomon and the 
Queen of Sheba, with Windsor Castle in 
the background. Such clumsy allegorical 
work lets us down by a rapid descent to 
the heavy " German Louis Quatorze work " 
of the Georges. Early in the eighteenth 
century it was found that, despite pro- 
hibition, Indian patterns were coming in, 
and were being copied in tambour-work. 
A new statute, therefore, forbidding the 
importation from India of any wrought 
material, was passed by the influence of 
the Broiderers, and our chance of assimi- 
lating Indian taste was lost for a century 
and a half. English worsted-work spent 
itself in firuitless efforts to imitate oil- 
paintings. Our mothers remember Miss 
Linwood's needle-pictures, which were so 
long on show in Leicester Square. These 
are not legitimate embroidery ; they are 
attempts, some very clever, but mostly 
abortive, to do something which the 
material forbids. Those who could not 
work like Miss Linwood or Mrs. Pawsey 
could make life a burden with hideous 
Berlin-work; which, by a strange irony of 
fate, our missionaries' wives are teaching to 
little Hindoo girls, and thereby stamping 
out their own immemorial and really 
beautiful designa 

Well, to sum up, needlework is real art, 
and its triumphs are connected with all the 
grandest events of man's history. The 
moral is, that those who practise such an 
art should be able to live by it. Irish 
girls workine their eyes out at lace which 
brinss wealdi to the recrrater. to them 


130 [March 27, 1880.1 



only a starvation pittance ; English girls 
embroidering children's coats at such fabu- 
lously small prices the dozen that one 
thinks The Spng of the Shirt was written 
in vain — these uiings ought not to be. The 
workers in such an old and honourable 
craft ought to be able to live by it ; and, 
while one is glad to hear of the prosperity 
of " the Royal School of Art Needlework'', 
one also hopes that Mrs. Heckford and 
those who, like her, are doing something 
for the East London needlewomen, will 
have their share of success. 


Of the great highways that lead from 
London with a definite purpose towards 
the provinces, hardly any one takes such 
an unpretending start as the Uxbridge 
Road. There is nothing, indeed, so very 
imposing about Uxbridge that the way 
thereto should attract particular attention, 
but it must be remembered that the high- 
way does not come to an abrupt ending at 
Uxbridge, as one might perhaps infer from 
its designation, but continues on to Oxford, 
to Worcester, and the western midlands 
generally. The road, indeed, properly 
begins with Oxford Street, which has pre- 
served its more dignified title, but seems 
to forget its destination altogether among 
the fashionable and wealthy denizens of 
Bayswater, and then, after an intermediate 
existence as Notting Hill High Street, 
awakes to a life with a definite purpose 
by Shepherd's Bush, and announces itself 
with humble aspirations as the road to 
Uxbridge. OriginaUy, perhaps, the road 
was a cattle-track, used by drovers from 
Wales and the marshes, with its Ox-ford 
and its Ox-bridge on the way, a miry track, 
we may be sure, looking at the stiff clay on 
either hand, and scenting the smell of 
brickfields on the breeze. Indeed, on 
wintry days there is a suspicion of mud 
about the Uxbridge Road even now ; and 
with the bare bmlding fields and brick- 
fields on either hand, with here a row of 
houses, and there a forlorn hedgerow that 
has preserved of its once rural surround- 
ings only a deep and muddy ditch, with 
troughs trickling muddy water into muddier 
day-pits, and a general slabby and clayey 
feeling everywhere — with all this, accom- 
panied as often happens by a genial 
suburban fog, there is no great prospect 
offered of a pleasant ramble. 

But then there is a tramway that bridges 

over this strip of debateable land, which 
halts half-way between town and country, 
and the tramcar stops at the foot of Acton 
Hill, where the road assumes a pleasant, 
rural aspect. Not long ago the great 
feature of the road, as it wound up the 
hill, was a noble old brick wall — solid, 
massive, with long buttresses, oontaimng 
bricks enough to build a modem street, 
and toned down with age to a rich and 
mellow hue, with patches of moss and 
lichen here and there, and rough, luxuriant 
growths of wild creepers and dimbers 
topping its crumbling coping. Every- 
thing spoke of rigid quiet and seclusion 
behind this great brick barrier, of the 
uninterrupted quiet and seclusion of a 
couple of centuries at least You might 
catch a glimpse from a distant hill of the 
tops of high trees, and perhaps of a gable 
or chimney-shaft, but in every other way 
within its walled enclosure the house was 
as far removed from all the stir and life 
outside as if it stood in the depths of some 
forest wild. 

And then, one day, not long ago, a virit 
to the spot revealed a sudden transfomu- 
tion. The great wall had been levelled 
almost to its foundations, and the zealoosly 
secluded grounds were open to the public 

Eze— deep grass, tall elms, tangled shmb- 
ries, the massive limbs of oaks, over- 
grown lawns and negle<^d parterres, 
while here and there, as if still shrink- 
ing from observation, peered a turret, 
gable, or chimney-shaft of the old house. 
Big notice-boards announded the sale of 
the site for building-lots, while the old iron 
gates which had long almost rusted on 
their hioges were now thrown wide open. 

The old house is known as Benymead 
Priory, but how it got the name it is diffi- 
cult to say. No record has come down to 
us of any religious house having been 
founded on the site. And yet local tradi- 
tion will have it that once upon a time 
there were monks at Berrymead. A che- 
quered history would the old house have 
to show if its annals could be completely 
written. But no one has as yet dived 
very deeply into the antiquities of Acton, 
and we can only catch a glimpse of the 
life-history of the place at one point or 
another, and never very clearly. 

It is likely enough that, from its secluded 
position and proximity to London, the 
place may have been used as a seminary 
or other institution for priests of the old 
faith between the Reformation and the 
reign of Charles the Second; but at the 



OuiiM DIekoiii.] 


[March 27, 1886.1 131 

latter period the hoase was the residence 
of l^raiiam Saville, Murqnis of HaUfaz. 
The Marquis died at the house in the 
beginning of the eighteenth century. It 
seems an appropriate place to die at, 
with a touch of sombre melancholy about 
the spot that no gflding can brighten — 
and there is plenty of gilding — and no sun- 
shine altogether dispel, although the sun 
shioea brightly enough at times. 

Some time after this we find the house 
inhabited by the first Duke of Kingston, 
whenKingG^rgethe Second was a frequent 
YiBitor, and, aft^ that, the Dt^e of New- 
castlo—not of the old Cavendish, but of the 
later Clinton stock— occupied the place, 
having for the companion of his solitude — 
BO says the tradition of the place — no other 
than the Nancy Dawson of ballad fame. 
The Duke made a good many alterations, 
it ia said, and built out the music-room and 
die billiard-room ; but the final conversion 
of the place into a bastard kind of Oothic, 
is due to one Colonel Clutton, who was a sub- 
sequent owner. Then local tradition is at 
work again, and connects Lord Byron with 
the place ; but here tradition is probably 
wrong, and has confou&ded the poet witib 
a later peer. But if the genius loci is to 
be believed. Sir Edward Lytton, as he then 
was, occupied the house for some time, 
and in the dining-room occurred the final 
quarrel with Bosina, Lady Lytton, which 
led to a lifelong separation. Alas ! they 
both had the sensitive organisation of 
literary artists; both were hungry for 
appreciation; and how could the one 
appreciate the other? And then a wife 
with a keen insight into character, and 
a fine sarcastic touch, such as Lady 
Lytton's novels reveal — ^how could a man 
80 vulnerable be expected to get on with 
her ladyship ? 

The house itself seems sympathetic 
with the Lytton legend — recalling the 
days when great nobles had their houses in 
Clerkenwell, or in Hackney, or in localities 
as little fashionable at the present day; a 
touch of the old baronialfeeling — one luurdly 
knows whether real or sham — a little bit of 
mystery in passages that lead to nothing 
^panels that give a hollow sound, wind- 
ing stairs that begin at my Lord's chamber 
and come out nobody knows where, old 
vaulted cellars that may have been prison- 
cells, with a possible monk bricked up 
behind the port wine bin; and then a 
moaic-room that Polly Peachum may have 
sang in, and still the melancholy, sombre 
shadow over alL 

And then for a little Bohemian glitter 
commend us to the episode of Lola Monteci, 
for whom the old house was made to glow 
with a kind of Oriental splendour in gfld- 
ing and plate-glass. A strange career 
for that dauntless Scotch lassie, with the 
hot blood of her Creole mother dancing 
too fiercely in her veins! A wfld story 
indeed it is — how she captivated old 
King Ludwig, and ruled Bavaria, and 
had her foot upon Grand Duchesses 
and Serene Highnesses, but was finally 
vanquished by irtudents and sans culottes 
in a revolution in which Lola would 
have gladly taken the lead, if she had 
been permitted. Then she came to 
England with the ^clat of her exploits 
upon her, drove in Hyde Park, and 
captivated a young Ouardsmaa Lola 
was n6t wanting in a kind of magnanimity. 
She made her lulmirer take three months 
to consider the matter ; then she married 
him, and they went to live at Berrymead. 
Lola was then thirty years old, in the full 
power of her undoubted fascinations — not 
beautiful exactly, but with wonderful eyes 
and magnificent hair. But hw domestic 
happiness was of short duration, for certain 
unfriendly relations of her husband had 
discovered that she had another husband 
alive, a certain Captain James, whom she 
had married at sixteen, and might well 
have hoped to be finally rid of. But, 
threatened with a prosecution for bigamy, 
Lola and her de facto husband took refuge 
in Spain, where she gave birth, it is said, 
to two fine children. But her temper 
was of the stormiest, ar-^ finally she 
wearied out her husband's patience. He 
left her, and took proceedings to annul his 
marriage as bigamous. And then Berry- 
mead was once more inhabited, but not for 
long, for its owner soon fell into a kind of 
consumption, and died. As for Lola, after 
a strange, adventurous career in California 
and South America, she died in poverty and 
misery in New York, about five-and-twenty 
years ago. 

Most strange are the popular legends 
about the old house. One might be in- 
credulous of the existence of such legends 
in a London suburb, but Acton has some- 
how retained a good deal of local indi- 
viduality. It might not be prudent, 
perhaps, to dwell upon ghosts, but there 
can be no harm in saying that tradition 
has it there is a large treasure buried 
somewhere in the grounds. For the 
rest, there is a fine o^-tree, at least four 
hundred years old, with a sturdy limb at a 



132 [March 27, 1886.] 



eonvement height from the grouAd, which 
did duty for a gallows in the days of the 
wicked old monks — adopting the popdar 
view of their charaoter — although if there 
eyer were monks about the place, they 
were doubtless a very harmless, inoffensive 
kind of people. 

Among tiie curious vicissitudes of the 
place it may be mentioned, by the way, 
that for some years in the present century 
it was occupied as a nunnery ; and there 
was a pool at the bottom of the garden, 
with swans and fountains, now nearly all 
fiUed up with builders' rubbish. And, 
indeed, the all-devouring builder is already 
close upon the skirts of the pleasure- 
grounds. A huge board-school looks down 
upon a once secluded lawn; a public hall has 
be^ reared just beyond the fish-pond ; tiie 
house itself has been secured for a club ; 
and rows of villas will before long spring 
up all round. 

As we pass through the iron gate, and 
reach the highway once sum, we may 
notice farther up on the opposite ride, in 
the recess of another very high and solid 
brick-wall, an ancient conduit, almost the 
last surviving example of a public benefit 
once so frequent This is Thomey's Ck>n- 
duit, endowed in 1612 with a rent-charge 
of twenty shillings per annum; but ^ 
water is now conc^mned as unwholesome, 
and the pipe is under lock and key, and 
where the twenty shillings go nobody 

But we have not yet exhausted the 
associations of Acton. At the top of the 
hill, just before entering the High Street, 
we turn along Horn Lane, and there, haii- 
wav down, we come upon more high brick- 
walls, thong) not so masdve or so ancient 
as the fallen wall of Berrymead, and peer- 
ing over this wall id a solid, substantial, 
square, red-brick manrion, known as Der- 
wentwater House, once the town residence 
of the Batcliffes, and of that unfortunate 
member of the family, James, Earl of Der- 
wentwater, who was beheaded for his share 
in tbe luckless Jacobite rising of 1715. 
Here, it is said, the body of the unhappy 
Earl rested for a night alter the execution, 
and the great gates were thrown open for 
the last time as the hearse, with its six 
black horses, drove away on the long, dismal 
journey to the north. And here, again, 
local tradition has been busy. There is a 
grass-plot in the garden, adorned with an 
obelisk of stone, and beneath this is buried, 
so says the popular voice, the decapitated 
EarL But here tradition can be shown to 

be clearly in the wrong. The remsiiu of 
the Earl lay for many years in the deserted 
chapel of Dilston Hall, and have, within 
late years, been removed to Sussex, to Um 
private burying-place of the family who 
now represent the Batcliffes. But ii is jait 
posrible there may be some ground for itie 
tradition, i^r aU. There was a brother 
Charles who, after the death of his nephew, 
the titular earl, assumed the title of Eiri 
of Derwentwater, and he, who hid been 
condemned to death in 1715, but had 
managed to escape, was captured, in 1745, 
on hu way to join the Toung Pretender, 
and was condemned and executed on the 
former attainder. It is just possible thit 
he may have found a grave within the 
walls of the fiunily domain. 

Opposite the walls of Derwentwiter 
House is another old-fashioned house, with 
the air of a country manor about it, now 
known as The College, which looks si it 
it had a history, with its ivy-covered walls 
and low, irregular roof ; and alongside thii 
is a kind of grassy hollow, known m The 
Steyne, about which congregate the cr^ttgtb 
oftbelaundry-peopla Acton has taken rank 
as a laundry town, tod, on Saturdays, the 
roads about are thronged with light c«rU 
carrying home to customers their weekiy 
tale of dean linen, while, on Monday?, thero 
is the same procession of vehicles loadrd 
with soiled raiment Tuesdays are devoted 
to washing and wringing. On \\ednes- 
days and Thursdays innumerable clothes- 
lines are hung out, and the air is whitened 
with fluttering garments. Then there 
is Friday for ironing and mangling, and 
then the whole round begins again as 

The High Street of Acton is pleaswt 
enough — a quaint, county-town kind of 
hi^h-street, with its raised causeway on 
one side, a sort of parade or promenade, 
flanked by the country shops, the saddler, 
the confectioner, the shoemaker, and the 
rest, while here and there an old-fashioned 
bow-window projects over the scene, foil of 
blooming flowers, and festoor ed with neat 
white curtains. There is a feeling that 
here is really a public walk, like, at a long 
interval, the Pantiles of Tunbridge Wells; 
you can almost hear the rustle of the 
garments, the silks, and brocades, and 
paduasoys of other days; you feel the 
ceremonious politeness of the t^ee-cornered 
hats, the profound curtseys of the hoops and 
f arthingale& And thus you feel a ham%n 
interest in the fact that Acton reaUy was a 
watering-place at one time, with its welb 




GteieiiNcken«.i DUELLING, ANCIENT AND JMODERN. [March 27, isse.] 133 

apon the commoDi ita pamp-houfle, and ita 
Jiumblj Eooins, where people danced, and 
flirted, and felt that here wai a giddy maze 
of pleaBore and delight These things are 
all gone now ; the wells, indeed, may be 
mnning still in somebody's back-garden, 
bat even the memory of the AMembly 
Rooms is lost, although there is a modem 
hall which answers we same porpose, and 
whero people, no doubt^ manage to find 
the same interest as in former days. 

And here we take ano Aer torn which 
bnns^s ns to the railway-station of the 
period, with a train for the Mansion Honse, 
or, periiqw, for New Cross, jost doe, and, 
rattling oyer the familiar route, the memo- 
•*e8 of Old Acton grow fainter and more 


'Wi stood beneath the chestnuts beside the river- 

S-o stUl Uie BwallowB swooped and poised, and from 

the 5treainlet drank; 
Ihe nm beyond the purple moors, was setting in 

the west. 
With the clouds like vassals ronnd him, in gold and 

crimson drest. 
Too laid the words that made life full of hope and 

joy to me. 
And it omr feet Ure shone and gleamed, on rushing 

to the sea. 

I stood beneath the chestnuts, beside the river- 

And bom the robin's vesper-song, as if it hurt me, 

Tlir son beyond the purple moors was setting in 

the west; 
I thoQght, so set my happiness, with all that life 

loves best. 
And nc one whispered " Be of cheer," no hand held 

help to me, 
And at my feet Ure shone and gleamed, on rushing 

ti> the sea. 

Ah, still beneath the chestnuts, beside the river 

Will other glad young lovers, the golden evening 

thank . 
The son beyond the purple moors sink glorious to 

his rest, 
And hear the pleading promise made, the trusting 

love confessed ; 
And other maidens meet the fate, that wrecked my 

life and me, 
while all the while Ure shines and gleams, and 

rosh* ( to the sea. 


A'hsn we read in the newspapers — as 
we may haye done lately — that two gentle- 
min m high life have met in hostile encoan- 
^ with no more deadly weapons than their 
S>U, we can hardly fail to recall that in a 
M very remote past snch a fracas wonld 
fMnritaUy have been followed hj a meet- 
ing of a more serious character — wat a duel 

with pistols or swords wonld certainly 
have followed the undecided boxing-match. 
Happily in our days quarrels, which in 
times past were left to the arbitrament of 
combat, are now adjusted in less heroic or 
romantic fashion. On a prosaic judge, and 
twelye commonplace and matter-of-fact 
jurymen, as a rule, deyolyes the duty 
of awarding " satisiaotion " to the party 

it cannot be denied that, eyen in the 
days when it was in yogue, the custom of 
duelling was more honoured in the breach 
than in the obsenrance. At best it was but 
the pursuit of yengeance under difficul- 
ties — with the supentdded drawba<^ that 
the yictor might possibly be hanged. Eyen 
as a means of exacting yengeance for 
injury inflicted, it can hmly be said to be 
quite e£fectiya For instance, let us sup- 
pose that it is still in &shion, and that I 
haye been insulted and consider myself 
injtured by an adyersary. I demand satis- 
faction — that^ii to say, I inyite him to 
meet me on equal terms, armed witb the 
same weapons. If I succeed in killing, 
or nearly kflling hioi, I shall haye obtainea 
satisfaction at the subsequent risk of being 
indicted for murder or manslanj^ter, and 
no doubt afterwards grieye greaUy for his 
fate ; but if I get killea, or badly wounded, 
where does my satisfaction come in 1 

Li what we modems are pleased to 
regard as the barbarous ages, duelling had 
a more intelligible raison d'etre ; it was a 
particularly rough, though not yery ready 
way, of inyoking poetical justice on wrong- 
doers and designers of eyiL By the judicial 
combat^ or " wager of battie ", as is well 
known, an accuMd person was permitted 
to challenge his accuser to single combat, 
and did yictery declare for him, his inno- 
cence was held to haye been incontestably 
established. This test, howeyer, can 
hajrdly beconaidered as condusiye, since the 
physically weaker party must of necessity 
haye been unfkirly handicapped. Proyi- 
dence is said by an eminent modern 
authori^ to be alwajrs on the side of big 
battiJions, and by a parity of reasoning 
may also be supposed to fayour the party 
witii the more formidable ph^que, so that 
the ordeal of combat as deciding the guilt 
or innocence of an accused person can 
hardly be considered conyin(^[ig in its 

Moreoyer, those olden -time duellists 
took exceeding pains to protect their 
persons. They were f earftdly and wonder- 
ndly apparelled, begirt with impenetrable 



134 [March 27, 1880.] 



steel, 80 that the armonrer shared with 
the proverbial Providence responsibility 
for the issue. 

The precautions against facile blood- 
letting, and the pomp and circumstance 
attending the mediaeval duel, are strikingly 
set forth in contemporary records of the 
preparations for a historic combat — which, 
however, did not come off^-between the 
Duke of Hereford and the Duke of Norfolk, 
in September, 1398. The former was said 
to have basely betrayed a private conversa- 
tion, in which he alleged that the latter had 
drofqped several expressions of a treason- 
able nature. The accusation was denied, 
and according to the usage of the times 
the Duke of Norfolk demanded the privi- 
lege of acquitting himself by single combat. 
Each of the Dukes, according to the laws of 
chivalry, flung down his glove, which were 
both taken before the Kmg and sealed, in 
order to prevent any future denial of the 

The King appointed Ooventryasthe place 
of combat, and caused a splendid theatre 
to be erected on Gosford Q-reen, wherein 
the fight was to come o& Froissart main- 
tuns that neither of the rival Dukes would 
trust native artificers to supply their 
annour. One imported four annourers from 
Lombardy, and the other, certain equally 
cunning cniftsmen from (Germany. When 
the bdLligerents were armed for the en- 
counter, it is said they looked very 
imposing, but, seeing that they wore 
heavy and brightly pdished steel armour, 
that was, moreover, ''elegahtly inlaid" 
with gold and silver, however striking 
they were in appearance, they must have 
felt in person particularly uncomfort- 
able — boxed-up like this in envelopes of 
heavy metal, they could hardly have been 
at ease, particularly as the weather is 
said to have been very hot. Besides, they 
both relied on the intrinsic strength of 
their armour apart from supernatural 
influences, for they were required to clear 
themsdves, on oath, from having any com- 
merce wi^ incantations, oe of rendering 
thdr armour or their bodies invulnerable 
by any charm — agencies that were had 
recourse to on similar occasions by less 
illustrious people^ 

"The Duke of Hereford," says that 
veracious chronicler Hollinshed, "armed 
him in his tent, that was setup neeretothe 
lists, and the Duke of Norfolk put on his 
armour between the gate and the barrier 
of the town, in a beautiful house, having a 
fair perdois of wood towards die gate, ^t 

none midbit see what was imm within hk 
house. The Duke of Aumarle, tibat daie 
being high Constable of England, and the 
Duke of Surrie, Marshal, placed themselves 
betwixt them, well armed and appointed, 
and when tiiey saw their time, they first 
entered into the lists with a great company 
of men apparalled in silke sandals, em- 
broidered with silver, both richlie and 
curiouslie, everie man having a tipped staff 
to keep the field in order. About the hour 
of prime came to the barriers of the lists 
the Duke of Hereford, mounted on a white 
courser, baided with green and blew velvet, 
embroidered sumptuously with swans and 
antdopes <^ goldsmith's worke, armed at 
all points." 

All being ready, the first to appear was 
" Henrie of Lancaster, Duke of Hereford," 
who said in a loud voice: "I am oome 
hitheir to do mine indevor against Thomas 
Mowbraie, Duke of Norfolk, as a traitor, 
untrue to Ood, the King, his realme, and 
me." And then '' incontinentlie he aware 
upon the holie evangelists that his qoarrel 
was true and just, and upon that pomt he 
required to enter the lists. Then he put 
up his sword, which before he held naked 
in his hand, and pulling down his 
visor made a crosse on ms horae, and 
widi speare in hand entered the liata^ and 
then descended from his horse, set liim 
down in a chi^ir of |;reen velvet, and theie 
reposed himself, abiding the coming of his 
adversarie." Soon aftw there entered Kin| 
Bichaid, ** with great triumph, accompanjed 
by all the peeres of the realme,'' and, 
moreover, attended by above two thousand 
men in armour, " least some frai or tomnlt 
might arise amongst his nobles, by quarrel- 
ling or partaking/' When Itie King had 
taken his seat, a herald cried : ** Behold 
here, Henrie of Lancaster, Duke of Here- 
ford, appeUantj which is entered into the 
lists roiall to do his devoir against Thomas 
Mowbraie, Duke of Norfolk, defendant, 
upon pain to be found false and recant" 

Then came the Duke of Norfolk on horse- 
back, <*his horse being baxded with cpmaon 
velvet, embroidered richly with lions of 
silver and mulberie trees, and when he 
made his oath before the Constable and 
Marshal that his quarrel was just and true," 
he too alighted, and sat down on his chair, 
that was of crimson velvet The hendd 
then gave the word to begin. The com- 
batants mounted, and all was ready for the 
dread encounter, when — ^very provolringlj 
for the reader— the King commanded Uiem 
to resume their seats, where they remained 


cMiiDidMii.] DUELLING, ANOESNT AND MODERN. [M«ch27.i886.j 135 

for two long hours while his majesty was 
in eonsoltmon with his advisers. The 
apshot of the whole portentous affair was 
that the combat did not take plaoe, and 
the King decreed the banishment of both 
the intending combatants. 

The same pomp of preparation and 
arrangement are noted in the accounts of 
other famous single encounters of this 
period. One of the most remarkable was 
the duel fought a century and a hidf later, 
in the park of St Germain en Laye, between 
Francis de Vivonne, Lord of Ohateigneraye^ 
lod Guy de Ohabot, Lord of Jamac, in the 
presence of King Henry the Second and 
his court The former being dangerously 
wounded in the thigh was diaibled, and his 
fife, according to the rules of the combat, 
became forfeited to the victor, who 
generously waived his right, and desired 
the King to accept at his hands the Ufe of 
the foe he had vanquished, to which request 
hifl majesty was graciously pleased to 
assent Chateigneraye, however, took his 
defeat so much to heart that he died three 
days afterwards. He was confident of 
Tictory ; so much so, that he had prepared 
a magnificent entertainment for his friends 
on the day of the combat As the event 
proved, however, he set too much store 
on his own dexterity, and strangely under- 
▼iloed the skill of his adversary. So strft- 
in^y was this made manifest, tiiat the 
coop De Jamac thenceforward became a 
hmuehold word — used to denote an un- 
expected manoeuvre reserved by an enemy. 
The King greatly regretted the loss of 
Chateigneraye, to whom he was much 
attacked, and he prohibited future en- 
ooonters of that kind under severe penalties. 

Nearly a century later another King of 
France took still more vigorous action 
agamst duelling; he caused two nobles 
who had fought, despite his prohibition, to 
be pat to death. In 1626, the Count de 
Bontteviile^ father of the famous Marshal 
de Luxembourg, killed the Oount of 
Thor^ny in a private duel, and soon after- 
wards, having taken part as principal in 
another encounter in which bis second 
Uled the second of his adversary, fled to 
^WeiB, f earine arrest Thither he was 
poraaed hf the Slarquis de Beuvron, who 
nad vowed to revenge the death of his 
tnead Thorigny. By the intervention of 
the Archduchess, however, a temporary 
laeondliation was effected between the 
^ gentlemen. The truce of seeming 
frimship did not last long; Beuvron 
aoon recanted his altered resolve, and 

wrote insulting letters to De Boutteville, 
who had retired to Nancy, re-chaUendng 
him to the combat in Paris. Des Chap- 
pelles, a notorious duellist, who had 
espoused Beuvron's quarrel, also wrote to 
bun with the view of compelling him to 

*' You make a great deal of noise, sir,'' 
he said, '' giving out everywhere that you 
intend to fight, but this I will never believe 
until I see you in action." 

De Boutteville, though not anxious for 
the encounter, could not resist such incite- 
ments. He repaired to Paris, and sent word 
to Beuvron that he was ready to give 
him satisfaetioa When the preliminary 
arrangements for the meeting were made, it 
was found that the duel had resolved itself 
into a combat of three on each side. After 
each had been examined by a gentleman to 
see that they had no private armour the fray 
began. In addition to the two principals, 
Boutteville and Beuvron, their friends 
Des Chappellas and La Berthe, Bussy 
d'Amboise and Buquet, took part^ in the 
encounter, which had a curious termination, 
that is thus described: *' Boutteville and 
Beuvron rushing forward and seizing one 
another by the collar, threw their swords 
on the ground, and held their poignards 
elevated without striking. At length 
Boutteville proposed to put an end to the 
combat, ana they reciprocally begged their 
lives from one another. Bussy d^Amboise, 
however, was not so fortunate ; Des 
Chappelles gave him a mortal wound in 
the breast; and La Berthe was also dan- 

grouely wounded by the friend of 

This afifray was witnessed by thousands 
of spectators, and greatly angered King 
Louis the Thirteenth, who at once ordered 
the arrest of the surviving combatants. 
All, however, escaped except Boutteville 
and Des Ohappelles, who were imprisoned 
in the BastiUe, afterwards brought to 
trial, and, in spite of the intercession of 
influentiid friends, both beheaded on 
the 12th of June, 1627. They died quite 
resigned to their fate, each having pre- 
viously petitioned that the other might be 

" I must beg two things of you," said 
Des Chappelles to his judges. " The first is 
that justice may be satisfied in my person; 
and the second that you should show 
mercy to my friend ;" and De Boutteville 
spoke to the same effect^ pleading not that 
his own life, but that of Des Chapelles 
might be spared. 



136 (Uucb 27, I88S.] 



In the latter part of the last, and be- 
ginning of the present, century it was, how- 
ever, that duelling most genendly prevailed 
in most Continental countries, as well as in 
Great Britain and Ireland. In France, at 
the close of the last century, according to 
au eminent authority, ** there was scarcely 
a man worth looking on who had not killed 
his man," and in Great Britain about the 
same time a gentleman's education was held 
to be hardly perfect until he had *• smelt 
powder". Ledslators, lawyers, judges 
even, and members of other learned pro- 
fessions, gentry and estated persons of 
every degree, were so jealous of their 
honour, and of the preservation of the 
'' tone" of high sodety, that they engaged 
in deadly conflict on the smallest provoca- 
tion. One indeed is puzzled to recall the 
names of more than a few of the many 
eminent persons of the period who are 
recorded as having fought duels; from 
''the minister down to the clerk of the 
crown", allpublic and prominent men were 
duellists — indeed, to doubt the morality or 
deny the necessity of the duel in these 
" brave days of old ", would have been 
thought excessively " bad form." That it 
was illegal rather added to its attractiveness, 
and increased the zest with which it was 
had recourse to as the occasion seemed to 
require. Moreover, but few offenders were 
ever brought to justice, and most of them 
escaped punishment. 

But the Emerald Isle has been pre- 
eminently the land where duelh'ng 
tiourashed in the immediate past. Most of 
the English readers of Lever's and Lover's 
earlier Irish novels, no doubt, consider 
that the many duels arising from trivial 
causes on which the plots of most of them 
hinge, are either gross exaggerations of 
possible occurrences, or pure inventions of 
the lively fancy of their authors; bub, 
if anything, they are but faint reflections 
of actual facts. Daelling, without doubt, 
was universal in Ireland at the commence- 
ment of this century. No gentleman 
was held to be qualified for admission to 
polite society until he had encountered, if 
not killed, his man. No barrister could go 
circuit until he made a reputation in tms 
way, and scarcely an assize passed over 
without a number of duels. Sir Jonah 
Barrington gives a list of famous lawyers 
who hi^ been often " out" with antagonists, 
and of judges who are said to have fought 
their way to the Bench; and his state- 
ments obtain ample verification in the 
works of contemporary historians. 

In our own days it is difficult to realise 
that staid and dignified administrators of 
law, high-placed legislators of " credit and 
renowir', not to speak of distinguished 
membws of other learned professions, or of 
the nobility and gentry, engaged in en- 
counters condemned alike of God and man; 
yet that is precisely what happened in 
Ireland, and, less extensively perhaps, in 
England and Scotland at the time men- 

Amongst the most famous of the dodlists 
spoken of by writers of and concerning 
this period, was '* Bully " Eean, chairman 
of quarter sessions for the county of 
Dublin, who was so good-natured that he 
never sentenced a malefactor without 
'* blubbering on the bench", yet he foo^it 
more duels thui any of his oontemporaiies. 
His most remarkable encounter was one 
that he had with the Master of the Bolli» 
at Donnybrook, in the presence of an im- 
mense crowd; it was, however, bloodleai; 
the " bully " f eeerved his fire, and when hn 
antagonist had discharged his pistol with- 
out effect, threw down his weapon, invitinf 
the judge to '* shake hands, or go to tiie 

It was no unusual thing, according to 
the same writers, for two opposing coonad 
to fall out in court in discussing a l^gal 
point, retire to a neighbouring field (o 
settle it with pistols, and, if no blood was 
shed, as was generally the case, return to I 
court to resume their business. Sir Jonah 
Barrineton gives many illustrations of ihia 
oomicsl conten^t for the law held by its 
paid advocates, of one of which '^BuUy" 
Egan, already referred to, was the hero. 
That worthy person and a barrister named 
Keller had a tough law argument at the 
Waterford Assizes which became warm and 
personal, and both simultaneously retired 
from court Everyone concerned knew 
perfectly well what was up, and calmly 
awaited the result. The two gentlemen 
both crossed the Suir to a field on the 
opposite bank, which happened to be in 
the county of Kilkenny, and, therefore, 
out of the jurisdiction of the presiding 
judge, where they exchanged shots with- 
out any harm being aona Having thus 
adjusted their differences satisfactorily, they 
returned to court to find the bench, bar, 
jury, and spectators patiently waiting to 
learn which of them had been killed. 

Can anyone outside Bedlam now oonceive 
such a scene possible? Or does it now 
seem credible that occupants of the highest 
positions on the judicial bench should nave 




hid part as principals in distinoUy illegal 
praeticds % Clearly not ; but yet it is on 
record that Attomey-G^eneral Fitzgibbon, 
who lbs afterwards LordChanoellor of 
Irelsndi fonght with Corran, who was 
gabieqaently Master of the EoUs, with 
"enormous pistols twelve inches long"; 
thit "Councillor " Scott, who became Lord 
Chief Justice of the King's Bench and 
Earl of Clonmel, met Lord Tyrawly, the 
£arl of Lluiduff, and many others in hostile 
enooonter with swords and pistols; that 
Btfon Metge, of the Exchequer, was '< out " 
vith his own brother-in-law,and with other 
people as well ; that Judge Patterson, of 
the Common Pleas, foueht three county 
gentlemen, and woundea them all; and 
thit Lord Norbury, Chief Justice of the 
Common Pleas, had encounters with 
"fighting" Fitzgerald, and many others. 
So tremendous was the reputation of this 
judge as a ''fire-eater" that he was trusted 
by ministers of his party to fri^ten trouble- 
some members of die opposition, and so 
rapid was his promotion in consequence 
that it was said he "diot up into prefer- 

Equally illustrious people are mentioned 
18 bmng indulged in this vicious and 
crimmal propensity. The Hon. Q. Ogle, 
a privy councillor, fought a duel with one 
Buney Coyle, a distiller of whiskey. The 
eombatants are said to have been very deter- 
mined, but ineffectiye, in their efforts to kill 
eieh other ; tiiey discharged four brace of 
piitobwidiout result SirHatdingeOifford, 
Chief Inspector of Ceylon, J^ a meeting 
with Hanrey Bagenal, who was known 
lobeeqaently as a rebel leader, by whom 
he was wounded. The eminent Grattan, 
kader of die Irish House of Commons, was 
Abo a duellist of note. He fought with 
and wounded the Hon. Isaac Corry, 
Chanoellorof tiie Exchequer, for an alleged 
inralt spoken during a debate on the 
Union. The Provost of Trinity College — 
thatfoontain-hMd of all the peaceful arts 
—was ** out '' with a Master in Chancery, 
whom he wounded, and his son, amenable 
to the parental example, had a hostile 
meeting with Lord Mountmorris. 

Cnr^dsly enough,'^ duelling was more 
gnunlly practised during the continuance 
of the r^ormed Irish Parliament — from 
1782 to 1800. As many as three hundred 
dnela are said to have been fought by 
ptomment personages within that period. 
l^soOingclubs were established, to which 
m man could obtain admittance who could 
Bot ihow that he had exchanged a shot 

or thrust with some antagomst And it 
sometimes happened, as may be readfly 
imagined, that the valour of the most con- 
fident challenger oozed out at his finger- 
ends before tine firm front of the party 

An occurrence that happenedinFebruary, 
1783, is a case in point. A Member of 
Parliament, wearing the uniform of the 
Koscommon Volunteers, was assailed in a 
public room hj a person with whom he 
was engaged m litigation, and for that 
reason he did not notice his assaQant 
His forbearance was misinterpreted by a 
young subaltern in the army who was 
present Indignant at the supposed pol- 
troonery of a gentlenuui wearing a military 
uniform, this impulsive youth snatched off 
the hat worn by the volunteer officer, tore 
the cockade from it, and trampled it 
under foot As a matter of course, a 
challenge was the result, but the originator 
of the dispute soon learned imt his 
antagonist bore the reputation of a daring 
and skilled duellist, and he lost 'no time in 
tendering an apology. But such a settle- 
ment of the quunrel would only be accepted 
on condition that atonement should be 
made for the inralt in the same place where 
it was given, and under like circumstances. 
Accormncly the over-bumptious party was 
compelled to humbly beseech the pardon 
of the gentleman he had insulted in public, 
replace by another the cockade he had 
torn from his hat, and declare his con- 
viction that his antagonist was well worthy 
of wearing it 

At this time, too, there were in Dublin 
men — ^who were supposed to be gentlemen 
— ^who seemed to have no other aim in life 
than to annoy and provoke their fellow- 
men into armed conflict. They were, in 
fact, reckless rowdies, whose exploits would 
nowadavs earn for them, if not the reward 
of the nalteri at least ensure them a long 
spell of degrading imprisonment *' 'Fight- 
ing" Fitzgerald was one of them. He 
maide it a practice to stand in the middle 
of a narrow crossing in a dirty street^ so 
that every passenger should either step 
into tiie mud or jostle him in passing, in 
which case the offending party was promptly 
challenged to fight Another was Pat 
Power, of Donagle. He was a furious fire- 
eater, but an amusing character withal. 
He was rough of exterior, had small regard 
to his dress or personal appearance, and 
was possessed, besides, of a most mellifluous 
brogua These peculiarities, while travel- 
UnK in Enehmd, made him the object of 


138 [Karch 27, 1888.) 


some practical jokes, which, however, rather 
recoiled on those designing them. For 
instance, on one occasion when seated in a 
tavern, a gronp of <' backs " of the period 
honoured him with tiieu* regards They 
sent t'he waiter to him with a gold watch 
belonging to one of them, with tiie request 
that he would tell the time by it Power 
calmly took possession of the watch, 
sent his servant to fetch his pistols, and, 
with one under each arm, i^proached his 
would-be tormentors, and pohtely requested 
to be introduced to tiie owner of the watch. 
The request was received in silence. He 
then put the watch in his pocket, declaring 
that he would keep it safe till called for, at 
the same time stating Ids name and where 
he was to be found, should the owner 
desire its return. It was not daimed. On 
another occasion, under similar circum- 
stances, a waiter was sent to him with a 
plate of potatoes, which he ate with 
apparent relish. Then ascertaining from 
the attendant to whom he was indebted 
for the repast, he caused his servant to 
bring in two covered dishes, one of which 
was placed before the gentiemanin question, 
and the other on the table at which he 
sat The covers were removed, and under 
each a loaded pistol was seen. Power, 
taking up his weapon, cocked it, and 
invited his volunteer entertainer to do 
likewise, assuring that gentleman that^ if 
he killed him, he was perfectly ready to 
give satisfaction to the friend who sat 
beside him. Needless to say, the practical 
joker declined the invitation. Another 
ferocious ruffian was Mr. Bryan Maguire. 
He had been in the army, and his favourite 
pastime was shoving peaceful people o£f 
the footways, and insulting passers-by from 
the windows of his dwelling-house, in the 
hope of inciting some of them to challenge 
him to fight He was, however, rather 
farcical in his ferocity, seeing that he always 
kept his pistols witldn reach for use on 
every possible occasion. When he wanted 
to summon a servant, '* to keep his hand 
in,'' he did so by firing at the bell-handle. 

During all this time the laws asainst 
duelling were in effect a dead letter. 
Indeed, it would have been foolish to have 
put them in force, for judges, jurors, and 
advocates were all duellists, who were not 
ashamed to own the impeachment 

The custom, however, from the early 
part of the present century began gradually 
to fall into desuetude, and may be now 
said to be altogetiier extinct We still 
hear sometimes <rf a challenge having been 

sent from one gentieman to another, but 
the expected fight does not fellow. For 
emmple, the O'Donoghue, an Irish Member 
of Parliament, a few years ago felt lo 
bitterly aggrieved at being refemd to by 
the i^esent Sir Robert Peel as a " mMwilnB 
traitor "-*a singularly inappropriate de- 
scription, seeing that the "manniln'Ti'* 
mentioned stands some six feet odd in Ik 
boots — ^that he sent a challenge to the 
honourable baronet, who had the good seiue 
to bring the matter under the notice of (be 
Speaker of the House, and the O'Donoghna 
was not only baulked of the '' satisfaction* 
he sought, but had to apologise as we&J 
A similar result still later attended tbi 
attempt of Mr. O'Kelly, an Irish member, 
to provoke Mr. M'Coan, another Irak 
member, to fight a duel — the profesied 
'* fire-eater " had to eat his worda^ sod 
withdraw his challenge, which it is not 
uncharitable to believe would not hare 
been sent had there been the remcteit 
possibility that it would be acoepted. 

Society certainly is no worse for the ex- 
tinction of duelliBg, more e^iectaUy as wA 
it has departed the unrestrained lioeme 
of coarse speech and freedom of mannen 
which, as a rule, occasioned the qosads 
that were held to be only satisfackmly 
adjusted by conflicts with deadly weapooa 


Author oJ*'La Linimer,'' '* An AUbi aikd its Priet,' 



If Messrs. Marstland and Burt had enlj 
had thdr house-boat brought doim tlM 
river for" a day or two to suit the laktsi'i 
convenience, the fact of finding mnttal 
friends settied at Weybridge decided 
them very soon on prolonging their staj 
near that pretty vQIaffe for an indefinite 
period ; and certainly they wece fv 
too great an acquisition to the sooi^ 
at T^OM Villa for the inmates of thst 
pleasant abode not to do thdr utmoet to 
retain them. Indeed, as Naomi said, they 
could not even be considered as an esdbra 
tax on her powers of chi^ronage, seeisg 
that Bnrt^ being married and medi»M 
was almost as good aa a woman, while as 
for dear old George Marstland, he wu 
such an old friend and good, steady fellow, 
that he mkht be trusted with tiie girls 
anywhere like a brother. 

Perhf^s it was for this reason thst^ 



Ptueh 27, 1888.] 139 

thoughMr. and Mrs. Joiephs had returned 
from DaUin and reclaimed their younger 
boji, Leah and Vera yielded to the 
hospitable entreaties of the Lneaies, and 
agreed to remain at the riyenide villa 
a Httfe longer. 

**nnl688 yon would rather go home, 
deer," Leah had said to her friend. '* It 
shall be jost as yon like, for yon know I 
can stay with Naomi whenever I please ; 
80 if 7<m would prder to be back in London 
vifeh the &ther and mother and me ** 

** Only the children would not be there," 
|Bt in Vera. " I do like your home aiHl 

K father and mother very much, Leah, 
r even than this, and — and Mr. Lucas" 
~^ was too polite to add Naomi), " but I 
can't bear the idea of leaving those dear 
Me ehQdren ; and you wouldn't like to 
io either, would you, just as your nice 
bind, Dr. Mantland, has come t" 

A yntry sli^t flush came into Leah's 
dnek Vera's phrase, "your friend", 
thoogh scarcely conventional, gave her a 
earious feeling of pleasure keen enough to 
pie?«nt her correcting it^ and she only 
nil laug^ungly : 

"Tou do think him * nice ' now, then, 

*<0h yes; he is 00 bright and amusing, 
Aoagh I think his voice and eyes are very 
itirtUng all the same, and I can't help 
Mhig that if he were ever to be annry he 
voaU be very terrible. Lideed, I can't 
imagine anyone daring to make him so, 
ean you ! " 

"Very easily," said Leah with some 
amoaemeni " Why, Vera, I've made him 
dnadfoUy angry lots of times, and I didn't 
&)d kun very terrible even then." 

"Ah, that is because you are as bright 
md defer as he is ; and, besides, he could 
not be really angry with you. It would 
only be play-anger, like when he gro^s 
at AUx, and she screams, but clings to him 
iU the tighter." 

Leah riioek her head — not ill-pleased, 

"Wait till you witness our next battle, 
nd see tf yea call it play then. But I am 
glad that my prediction was a true one, 
aod that you don't dislike him as you pre- 
tended you were going to do." 

"I didn't pretmid. You know it was 
only that stupid mistake of mine made me 
My 80; and as I have forgiven him for not 
wanting to be introduced to me, I think 
70a mipit forgive me that." 

"I l»ve never admitted that he didn't 
wiat it|* said Leah; <'and if he did, it 

was only because you would put on that 
horrible dress, and I am sure he has suffi- 
ciently repented himself of it since." 

For Dr. Marstland had lost no time in 
making a full and frank recantation to 
Leah of his low opinion of her friend.' 

'* You were quite right," he said. '' She 
is a sweet littie thing — ^the prettiest mix- 
ture of confidingness, timidity, and little 
prim ways that I ever saw ; and those soft 
grey eyes, which seem always appealing to 
you not to take her in, or be cross to her, 
are very bewitching. I w<mder if they ever 
looked cross themselves." 

** I never saw Aem do so," said Leah, 
** and I hope no one would take her in. It 
would be only too easy to do so, considering 
how guileless she is." 

** Guileless ! Alix is a hardened coquette, 
and new-boni lambsnot in it beside her. She 
might have dropped out of some other 
plimet, or been shut up in a convent all her 
life, for idl the knowledge die has of the 
world in general ; and as to an oj^inion of 
her own on any of the topics which even 
young ladies are ^ven to discussing, if her 
mind was the whitest sheet of p^>er ever 
made it couldn't be more unsoored by one." 

'' You have studied her, J see," said 
Leah, smiling gravely ; '' but do you mean 
that last renuurk for a compliment? I 
shouldn't take it as one." 

Marstiand flushed rather hotiy. 

''Undoubtedly I do. I spoke of her 
mind as being IQke a sheet of white paper, 
not a ba^ c? pulp ! You can write any- 
thing you like on paper, the wisest things 
and the most beautiful, and it will retain 
theuL You can't write anything on pulp ; 
and, though, of course, this is a very won- 
derfol age for march of intellect and cul- 
ture, and all that sort of thing, I must 
own that, if I had anvthing to do with a 
girl personally, I should Kke her to have 
some comer of her mind not so entirely filled 
up with her own opinions and prejudices 
tibiat I could not have the pleasure of plant- 
ing there some of mina" 

"Frank, at any rote, and truly like a 
man !" saidLeah, laughing; ^^though hardly, 
perhaps, the man who used so oftim to come 
bothering Naomi and me to advise him, 
and make up his mind for him, in old 
dajTS." Then, as Marstland was going to 
make some ea^r protest : " No, don't pay 
me any compliments; I was not fishing for 
them, unless indeed " 

" Unless what 1 " 

** I was only eoing to say, unless you 
would take my advice now." 


rt ••« 


140 [lItfdiS7,lB86.] 



'' Now, or any tima I have never had 
a better adviser, and never wish for ona 
What is it 1" 

'' Not to write anything on this sheet of 
white paper we are speaJdng of that its 
parents and owners would not approve of. 
Vera is so happy here, it woold be hard if 
she were never let come to stay with as 

The young man looked at her in some 

"'Is thy servant a dog, that thou 
should'st ask him this thing)'" he said. 
"Or what are these parents and owners 
like for such an idea to be possible % " 

" Not like yon or me,** answered Leah, 
and then blushed a scorching blush at the 
innocent luxtaposition of the pronouns. 
Fortunately Marsdand did not notice it. 
" Nor, I should think, like the generality 
of Breton gentry. They are very lofty 
gentlefolk, of coursa Lideed, though not 
particularly well off — rather the reverse, 
mdeed — and though the father is a surly, 
lowering sort of man, who potters about 
his farm all day, dressed in the shabbiest 
of clothes, I know that he comes of a very 

!;ood old family, expects the slightest word 
rom his lips to be received with the abject 
submission of the laws of the Medes and 
Persians, and would rather perish than 
allow his wife or daughter to associate 
with the wealthy bourgeois of Quimper 
or Pont TAbb^. Lideed, they lead the 
most utterly isolated Ufa" 

« But the mother— she is English, isn't 

" Yes ; but she is more a mystery to me 
than her husband, though not an interest- 
ing one; devoted to her daughter, but 
not demonstrative even to her, and 
curiously narrow-minded, timid, and un- 
communicative towards the rest of the 
world — ^the most timid woman I ever 
saw, and more exclusive even than M. 
St Laurent. Vera was not allowed half 
as much vulgar liberty as a young Duchess 
or a Princess of the blood royal^ and has 
been so entirely occupied all her life in 
learning the commandmenti 'Thou shaJt 
not do this or that,' that I don't think she 
has even begun to learn what she may da 
Of course I don't pretend to know much 
about the ways and haUts of the English 
upper-upper-ten," said I^eah, with so mmk 
and sweet a smile that it would have made 
any protest an imp^rtinenca "And perhaps 
my oeing of a different race altogether 
would make me more unfit to. pronounce 
I on them. They must always be different 

from me; but my feeling at Les Ch4taigaien 
always was that I was living in a gUsi 
house among glass peopla One was afraid 
to move or speak, lest one should bmk 

"And such excessive brittleness does 
not suggest solidity, I see," said Marsdand 
slowly. "However, the names of the 
upper ten are well enough known. Who 
was madame before her marriage t " 

" I don't know. She never once sUoded 
to her own family." 

"But hasn't Miss St Laurent any 
relations in England t " 

"She thinks not You will hsidlj 
believe it, but she does not even know her 
own mother's maiden-nama She told ms 
she asked her the question once whoi she 
was a little girl, but was rebuked lo 
severely for vulgar inquisitiveneH, she 
never even thought of repeating it I mpsfc 
say I couldn't see the sin mys^, though I 
didn't tell her so, for Yera's simplicity hu 
provided her with a very ha^^y creei 
Whatever her elders say is right xt oever 
occurs to her to question it" 

MarsUand gavehis mouth a oomicaltvdit 

" It seems to me your mystery is emy 
enough to read, especially by the ligb i 
certam very funny UtUe ways and ex- 
pressions which, I may tell yon — who^ M 
me remind your modesty, belong to ths 
oldest and most aristocratically exclosive 
commonwealth in the worldr-4iav6 ocei> 
sionally startled me in a young lady who 
was supposed to hail from we ' /ieflle 
noblesse'. * Upper - upper - ten p :ople,' 
my dear Leah, don't sit on the exlireme 
edge of their chairs, or use the name of the 
person they are speaking to at every 
second word, or talk of 'ungented cou- 
duct', of someone being ' quite the lady', ot 
an objection to ^ peruse anything that ii 
not quite nice'. If Miss St Laurent has 
never known any other society than her 
mother's, depend on it, monsieur made a 
fooUsh marriage some years ago, and 
robbed his mother of her lady's-maid. 
Some of the French 'grands dames' affiBd 
English maids as ours do i^rench ones ; and 
had madame been a peasant girl she wooid 
have had too much of nature's digi% to 
be ashamed of her antecedents, especially 
before her own daughter. Anyhoff^; the 
latter is charminfi^ enough in spite of her; 
And now, to turn to something else, mipdi 
Leah, neither yon nor Naomi dare to Ming 
a crumb of anytiiing with you to-monov. 
If you can't trust yoonelvea to the rcflomraeB 

of male hospitality for a picnic you ought 



CBfarch27,1880.] 141 

to do 80, especially as I am ready to vow 
tnd dedare that the batcher who supplies 
the meat shall have had his certificate, 
BJgned by the Chief Rabbi himself, if 
required, and that the pastry shall have no 
lird in it The Talmud doesn't say any- 
thing about chocolate-creams and other 
sweets, does it t " 

^Dr. Marstland, you are too bad alto- 
gether,^ said Leah. But she could not help 
imiliDg at him at the same time, and 
H&ntbnd knew she was not offended. 

The subject in question was a picnic 
fhich he and Burt were getting up on 
Wd their house-boat for the morrow. 
Ihe Lucases, with Leah and Vera, were to 
ie there, and one or two other Mends, and 
thej were to have luncheon on board the 
boat first, followed by a row up the river 
ia those who liked it, and fishing for those 
vho didn't; to wind up with tea, music, 
lod cigars — ^a "smoking concert", as Marst- 
lasd put it, till the moon was high enough 
to light the party home. 

lie programme sounded well, and, what 
VIS, perhaps, more wonderful, it went off 
itill better. For one thing the day was 
perfect, not too hot — despite all that the 
poets and romancers say, it seldom is too 
sot CD the Tliames in late August ; while 
s slight shower or two, which fell in the 
ttoming, had just sufficed to make the 
brilliant sunshine afterwards more enjoy- 
•hle, freshen the somewhat fading verdure 
of the banks, and lend an exquisite blue- 
aen to the distance, and crispness to the 
Bghis and shadows, which would have 
Bide the most commonplace scenery 

The house-boat, too, presented a very 
iDTiting appearanca It was a large one, 
isd by no means uncomfortably fundshed, 
Uustiand having a private fortune of his 
own &nd a very good idea of using it. 
What with pots and baskets of flowers, 
which he had scoured the country to pro- 
care, and which, suspended from every point 
of Qkd roof-eaves, reflected their glowing 
ccJonrs in the water below; what with 
iftowy muslin-curtains looped back by red 
ribands to the tiny windows, and long 
American and low basket-chairs scattered 
about the snowy upper deck ; what with 
|Hr. Burt's series of Tharoesside Sketches 
di^layed for the art-lovers, baskets of fruit 
i tod sweetmeats for the young ladies, un- 
fisuted cigars for the gentlemen, and iced 
dttet^mp, illustrated papers and magazines 
kt everybody, the aspect of this floating 
b(MBe eitcited such general admiration that 

Miss James, an enthusiastic young lady in 
aesthetic attire, who, with her father and 
brother, formed Burt's contingent to the 
party, declared she should like nothing 
better than to live in it for ever and ever. 
Marstland promptly responded by entreat- 
ing her to become its mistress from that 
moment; and Vera stared at them both 
with great, wide-opened eyes, wondering 
if this was really a proposal, and, if so, 
how he could have the heart to make it in 
Leah's very presence, and she to listen with 
such smiling unconcern. She decided that 
poor Dolly James was a very bold young 
lady, and shuddered to think what mamma 
would have said of her had she been there. 

But though Vera herself said less, per- 
haps, in the way of admiration and pleasure 
than any of the rest of the party, it may 
be doubted if she did not feel more of 
both than all the rest of them put together. 
To her, after the almost conventual seclu- 
sion, the narrowness and repression of 
anything like youthful gaiety or freedom 
in her past life ; after the bleak, wind- 
swept moors, the grey rocks and boisterous 
seas of Finisterre; all this gaiety and 
brightness, this smiling river flowing 
between its low green shores, and dotted 
with innumerable gaily-painted craft, bonny 
girl-faces and white-flannelled youths, this 
banter and repartee, freedom and friendli- 
ness on ever^ side, seemed more like some 
dream of fairyland than anything real or 
tangible. Indeed she almost dreaded to 
speak or move lest she should wake suddenly 
from it, and find herself back under the 
ff^Jt ^arled apple-trees in the orchard, 
or gazmg out from the high window of 
her bare little room over the long, flat 
colza-fields which stretched away to the grey 
''dunes " and dark sea-line of St Tryphine. 

Some girls might have disturbed them- 
selves by wonderings whether it was not 
wrong to shrink so terribly from the 
idea of going back to their own home and 
the parents in whom thefr life had hitherto 
centred ; but Vera was not of an intro- 
spective nature, and had been as little 
trained to mental examination as to home 
tenderness. The mere prospect of that 
old dull life, the solitary walks, the aimless 
monotony of reading and practising, the 
uninteresting conversations between her 
mother and Joanna on nothing more ex- 
citing than domestic worries and economies 
— wort^e than all, the dreary evenings %vith 
those three grave, middle aged faces bent 
over the whist or b^zique table, chilled and 
depressed her, and as she stood alone at 


■ ■■ < 



142 [March 27, 1886.] 



the bow-end of the boat, to which she had 
wandered through the door leading out 
at that end of the cabin, her heart sank so 
low that something like tears glittered in 
her eyes and dimmed the beauty of the 
scene before her. They might have fallen 
in another moment but for an interruption. 

" Miss St Laurent," said George Marst- 
land's hearty voice at her shoulder, *' what 
is the matter ? Have you quarrelled with 
the world, or has the world quarrelled with 
you, that you are standing here all alone 
and forlorn ? " 

Tea was over, and the rest of the party, 
to whom the arrival from town of Albert 
Lucas had just imparted a little fresh 
excitement, were enjoying themselves in 
pleasantly lazy fashion at me other end of 
the boat Captain James, a retired old 
naval officer, Lucas himself with his little 
Aliz on his knee, and Naomi leaning com- 
fortably back in a long chair, made a group 
by themselves on the upper deck; wmle in 
the cabin Dolly James, perched on the table 
with her lap full of Burt's sketches, listened 
with enthusiastic interest to the explana- 
tions of them, which he was imparting to 
her with perhaps more low-toned fervour 
than Mrs. Burt would have altogether ap- 
proved of, had she been there. Beyond the 
cabin, on the little open space at the stem, 
sat Leah Josephs, making a pretty picture 
as seen through the doorway, with her 
dark hair, delicate features, and pale pink 
boating-costume all lit up by the last rays 
of the setting sun, and her slender hands 
busy with some sheets of loose music, from 
which young James, reclining at her feet 
with his violin across his knees, was 
entreating her to select something to sing. 
Little BenjY stood near her, fishing 
solemnly still, and shouting to his friend 
the doctor to come and help with his line ; 
and Leah herself had appealed to the same 
gentleman a moment before to assist in the 
selection of her song; but Marstland had not 
quite answered to the expectation of either. 

*' One moment, Benjy, lad. Sing 1 Oh, 
slag whatever you like best yourseU, Leah. 
You're sure to do it better than anyone 
else could," he had said heartily enough. 

But he did not stay, oxdy oast an 
enquiring glance round, and passed through 
to the other end of the boat, whither he 
fancied he had seen a little figure retreat a 
few moments before. , 

As host, it was of course his duty to see 
that no one was neglected, the greatest 
stranger least of all ; but in truth Vera's 
soft eyes and liquid voice had awakened 

an interest in him to which Leah's sketch of 
her home and up-bringing had added a touch 
of compassionate tenderness ; and now, as 
she looked up at him with the timid flash 
and start which almost made him wish she 
were younger, that he might stoop down 
as he would to Alix, and reassure herwi^ 
a kiss, he saw that her eyes were moist 
Yet she answered him smiUng : 

'' I am not forlorn. I was only thinking." 
" What about ? It is very rude to think 
at picnics, you know." 

" Is it really % " But his laugh answered 
her, and she went on : ** I only came here to 
look at the sunset-colour on tihe water; and 
then I wondered what sort of an evenbg 
it was at St Tryphine, and got thinloDg 
of home." 

<' And wishing yourself back there and 
away from all of us f That is too bad of 
you. Miss St Laurent, when we all want 
so much to make you happy here. I shall 
tell LeaL" 

** Oh no ; please don't ! Indeed, I im 
not wishing that ; " but, though she bladied 
crimson, she could not own how different 
her thoughts had been, and, to prevent hii 
asking her, added hurriedly : " I had been 
wishing a few minutes back that I had 
been able to get some of those feath^ 
reeds we passea on our way up the river. 
Leah was wanting some the other daj, 
and I saw quite a number on the little islet 
just beyond that bend of the river there." 
"Did youf Why not get them now, then!" 
"Now 1 But I could notr— could It" 
"Why noti Nothing easier. Herek 
the dingy," pointing to the little boat which 
was rocking on the water at her feet, " and 
here am I ready to pull you to your island 
in a dozen strokes and cut as many roshei 
as you please. (Jet in." But Vera pro- 
tested very honestly and with ciimson 
cheeks against such a notion. She had 
not thought of it for a moment. She 
would not dream of letting him take 
so much trouble ; and it was only when he 
assured her it would be a pleasure, not & 
trouble, adding jestingly, "Besides, you 
forget ; it is not for you, but for Leah," 
that she yielded, and said quite simply : 

" Ah, so it will be, and you will like that 
But I must ask leave first" 
"Leave? Nonsense! Why should you T 
" Oh, but I must, please. I never do 
anything unless I am told I may ;" and with 
a mild find of persistence which amused 
by its contrast to her usual ductility she 
passed t^ou^h the cab^, and going 
to Leah's side, asked; "Leah, might 



[March 27, 1886.] l43 

I get some roahes with Dr. Manilaiid ? 
He says he will cut some for me. May hel " 

Leidi looked up at her, colouring in a 
way Vera did not at all understand. She 
nndentood, of course — ^knew that it was 
the very simplicity of long tutelage which 
merely led Vera to transfer the maternal 
anthority which usually guided her to the 
friend to whom her mother had entrusted 
her ; bat she also knew and realised keenly 
that no one else present would believe in 
sQch a spirit of childish docility in one 
grown-up girl to another; and that the 
request must seem to bear some special 
^plication to her own feelings or rights 
oyer the person alluded to. For once she 
ipoke ahnost ahiurply : 

"May you, Vera I Why, of course. 
Why do you ask me ) ^en't we all 
imiiBing ourselves as we please 1 Mr. 
James, this is the song I meant Now, will 
yoQ try over the air first, and then I'll begin." 

Vera went away satbfied. She had " got 
leave", and next moment had stepped into 
the tiny boat in which Marstland was 
standing up waiting to put her in the seat 
and give her the tUler-ropes. That done, 
he took the sculls, and pulled out into the 

For the first two or three minutes neither 
of them spoke. It was getting late. The 
hundred and one craft that had dotted the 
river earlier in the day, the big steam- 
lamiches puffing clouds of smoke and raising 
great waves on its glassy surface, the swift 
four-oars, and deftly-paddled canoes, were 
gone now; and the sun had set behind 
I light bsAik of vapour, leaving sky and 
itrmi su&used with a delicate rosy glow. 
A few silvery clouds floated softly across 
this haze of rose above, while the dip, dip 
of the oars, or the splash and spring of a 
moorhen sent showers of silver from the 
rosy bath below. It was all an enchanted 
^mm of rose and silver — silver and rose. 
Even &» stately swans sailed by under the 
shadow of the woods with rose-flushed 
plamage and beaks tipped with argent; 
even the bending willow-trees took a 
roseate tinge, and tossed their thin grey 
leavesysilver-lined, against the blushing sky. 
There was no other boat — no other human 
being in sight. They seemed, in their 
white clothes, like two silvery figures 
gliding through a mist of crimson glory, 
uidVera's heart so swelled with delight 
that it was some minutes before she could 
even breathe out: 

" Oh, how lovely it is ! Too lovely to 

be real." 

Marstland had been looking at her 
more than the scene, wondering he had 
never thought her lovely before ; wonder- 
ing if she had ever looked as much 
so as at that moment ; her delicate 
figure in its simple gown of white serge, 
her pure child-face with its exquisite oval 
of cheek and chin, its softly-parted lips 
and tender eyes, her slender, helpless 
hands, and the little knitted b^r^t (Leah's 
gift) made of white wool and pressed down 
over those soft, ruddy locks. Something 
rose in his throat — something foolish and 
impetuous ; but he choked it down, and 
only answered coolly : 

"You like it 1" 

'* Oh, it is like floating through Para- 
dise. One would like to go on for ever.'' 

*' Then let us go a little farther at pre- 
sent. It is prettier beyond the islet here, 
and we can get the rushes coming back." 

Vera assented eagerly, but then be- 
thouffht hersell 

"If you will not be tired 1 " 

<<Tired ! 1 1 What can you think of 
my muscles) I am as strong as Eling 
Comorre himself." 

Vera laughed a little. 

" I do not know about his strength ; but 
you are not as bad — ^I am sure of that." 

" How can you tell f " 

The ffirrs colour rose. 

" I^ don't think you would be Leah's 
friend if you were, or that Benjy and Alix 
would be so fond of you." 

" If Alix and Benjy's fondness is a test 
of virtue, how good you must be ! " he said, 
laughing, but pleased. *' Well, I hope I 
am not as bad as ELing Comorre. I haven't 
murdered five wives yet The worst of me 
is, as my people would tell you, that I have 
been too selfish hitherto to earn one." 

Vera's face said she did not comprehend, 
so he went on : 

" Tou see, the fact is, I'm rather handi- 
capped in life. I belong to the profession 
I prefer to any other, and I have money 
enough of my own not to need to make 
more by it Ergo, as yet I haven't made 
more. I have revelled in sick-rooms, cer- 
tainly ; but they were of the really sick 
poor, wanting food to fill their stomachs 
as much as medicine to heal their pains — 
not of sham invalids in luxurious cham- 
bers; and I have triumphed in two or 
three successful operations, but on 
wretched crossing-sweepers, run over by 
some passing dray, or penniless maids-of- 
all-work, maimed before they were women 
by incessant over-work; not on fashionable 






patients with large fees and abstnise, 
pleasare-indnced diseases. That's all very 
well for a bachelor, and my own income 
has kept me very comfortably, and helped 
me to keep a good many of these poor 
wretches without more ; but, as my sister, 
Lady Hessey, said when she persuaded 
me to go in for a share in this West End 
practice I've just bought, it wouldn't keep 
a wife as well, and a wife wouldn't stand it 
if it would."- 

"Leah would, I am sure," said Vera 
quickly. *' She is fond of poor people, too. 
She was always going into the peasants' 
houses at St. Tryphine, and talking to and 
helping them. I did not Mamma does 
not think it quite nice for me, but I 
often wished I might when I saw her. The 
people looked out for Leah, and smiled 
when they saw her. They used to say 
Dr. Dupr6 neglected them for the rich 
people. I am certain she would think your 
way much the nobler, and she would help 
you beautifully." 

It was a long speedi for Vera, and 

Grhaps fortunately so, for it gave Marst- 
id time to recover from the start and 
stare of undisguised amazement with which 
he received her first words. He said rather 
abruptly : 

** Leah and her family have ofcen helped 
me. They. are all excellent friends to the 
poor — their own poor especially. But why 

should you single her out as if " he 

stopped short, and laughed with some em- 
barrassment. Vera looked more embarrassed 

" Was I wrong t I beg your pardon," 
she stammered humbly ; " but I forgot — I 
mean when you were talking of a wife I — I 
fancied you were naturally tmnkingof Leah." 
It was Marstland's turn to colour. 
"Why 'naturally'!" he said sharply. 
" You did not think we were in love with 
one another, did you t Surely no one has 

said " 

" Oh no, no ! " cried Vera in great 
distress ; " no one — nobody. It was only 
that I thought — I took it for granted 

you indeed, I am very sorry, but I 

did not think you could help it." 

" Help what ) Falling in love with 
Leah ? Well, perhaps I couldn't, if such a 
thought had ever entered my mind. As 
it IS, it is fortunate for me that it didn't, 
for I am sure it would never have entered 
hers, and I like Leah Josephs too well, I 
respect her too heartily, to risk losing her 

friendship by posturing before her as a 
rejected suitor. Surely, Miss St Laurent, 
you are not cruel enough to wish to see me 
in that humiliating role t " 

" Oh no," Vera began, but stepped short, 
blushing vehemently. 

How could she tell this chestnut-haiied, 
strong-limbed man, with the bright, keen 
eyes and dominant voice, that no idea of any* 
onerejecting him had occurred t^hermindt 
Even to her simplicity this would htis 
been, in her mother's and Joanna^ 
phraseology (which reveie.ed the und 
acceptation of the phrase) "rather par- 
ticular", not to say unseemly. 

"I am afraid I have been very silly ani 
— and rude, too," she said falterindy ; ^M 

somehow I fancied I do love Leah la! I 

" That you fancied no one woitii 
her friend could . hdp loving her tool 
Well, Miss St Laurent, I thsjik you ' 
the compliment, for I know it is one ~ 
you ; and you are right. As a friend, as' 
sister, if you Uke, I love and honour 
Josephs as well as yon do. That we bm] 
never even thought of one another in 
other way is natural enough, too, if 
come to think of it For one thing, she 
a Jewess and I a Christian." 

" Yes ; but oh, surely would that] 

mattert" Vera stammered, b^inning tof< 
pitiful over both as martyrs to their religkm. 
" I am inclined to think that if (M 
loved a woman and was loved by har 
your sense of the word, nothing wodl! 
* matter'; but in the opposite caseldii 
believe in race-differences as making a ' 
to the idea of marriage. I hope 
and Leah's husband when she mar 
will be my friends to the end of our joi 
lives ; but I am nearly as certain that 
husband will be a Hebrew as that my 
— if I ever get one — will be a Ghnatiaa 
She is immensely loyal to her people, ft 
is one of the finest traits in her." 

"Only" — ^Vera spoke wistfuUy, ahno* 
sadly ; the idea of Leah wasted on aB; 
Albert Lucas or a young Bosenberg see 
terrible to her — "I cannot imagine hov' 
any man who knows her could Tike e 
the very nicest Christian girl better." 

" Cannot you 1" said Marstland, snuliitt' 
He bent down over his oars so as to loot! 
into her face, the sweet, pale young face 0\ 
unconscious of its own tender chaim, 40 
spiritual-looking in the fading roa^-ligb^ 
the silvery shadows of the evening. **So«fr 
how — just now — I think I cau I " 

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A DINNER-PARTY had taken place at 
'Dkb .Qoinces under particolarly aaspicioos 
riroiUBstanoes to the mmds of all con- 
eonediwith the exception of Julian Couirt- 
Itnd. The pleasant excitement of a 
dedaiation and an engagement is irresis- 
tiUe to all womanly women, and although 
the engagement of Julian and Dolores 
was deprived by the long-standing inti- 
macy of the two households of many ol 
the osoal features of similar occurrences, it 
flattered everybody in an agreeable manner. 
£r«o Mr& Courtland, when she. saw how 
wofound was the satisfaction which the 
ViolaQel and Lilias derived from the event, 
to^ a more cheerful view of it than she 
woold have expected herself to take. 

Hrs. Gonrtland liked Dolores very much, 
but she did not adore her, and although she 
did not like Julian, and entertained a vague 
diitrnst of him, this was chiefly because he 
fell so much more short of the Colonel's 
czpeefcations than the Colonel would 
icknowledge, and she could ill bear any- 
thing that troubled her husband. 

"He is the best of men," she would say 
to herself ; "and in some things the 
unseat ; but he makes the practical mistake 
of beUeving everybody else to be as good as 
^umael^ and one can't ward off disappoint- 
insnt from that sort of disposition." 

She would have chosen differently for 
Poloresrif she might have had the order- 
u^ o{ her fate ; but when she was told 
Wait had happened, sjhe was able, without 
^i^(Buier sacrificing sincerity, to congra- 
i^^ those concerned, and she summed 




up the matter in a sensible way, by reflect- ll 
ing upon the exceeding good fortune of If 
Jiuian, an^d the probab^ty that he would i 
prove aware of it . Dolores would have her 
trials, no doubt, and the dream of Lilias 
that unsullied happiness was to be the 
privilege of thia one amone the daughters 
of men, would be dispelled ; nevertheless, 
the youne people would start in life 
with such hrge advantages, that the chances 
were greatly in their favour. 

Whatever Mrs. Courtland suspected 
Julian of, it was not insincerity about 
Dolorea There is love and love: he 
wa9 not a man to feel the sublime and 
^^Ifforgetting sort, but that he cared for 
It^e lovely girl in whose heart he had held 
Ibhe first place from her childhood, as much 
as it was in him to care for anyone, \\ 
she believed. Mrs. Courtland discerned j| 
bhat Julian's spirits were forced, and ^ 
that he had occasional fits of absence of 
mind, even while Effie Wharton was in- 
dulging him with the music that his soul 
loved; but she' ascribed both of these varia- ' j 
tions from the mood becoming to a happy f 
lover in the first flush of his triumph, to I 
some scrape, and also to Julian's knowledge ' | 
that in the general clearing-up of affairs 
which his marriage with a young lady of 
fortune must bring about, the proverbial 
bad quarter of an hour would have to be 

The satisfaction of L9ias and Colonel ( 
Courtland was perfect and unmixed. It ll 
had been agreed between them that the 1 
news of the engagement was to be im- j 
parted to Kodney and Captain Wharton, 
because it would necessarily influence the 
nature of the communication which would 
have to be made to the persons to whom 
Kodney proposed to apply for information 
respecting the De Bodas family. It had 
also been agreed that nothing should be 



>v^ .•■ 




146 [April 8, 1886.] 


[OoDdiicted l)f 

said to either Julian or Dolores concemins 
the facts of which Rodney had apprised 
Lilias, until a farther constdtation between 
the eiders had taken place. 

Daring the evening, Julian observed 
Rodney closely but covertly. He was 
puzzled by Mr. Wyndham's words — " That 
man means mischief" — although he had 
acted upon the peremptory command which 
accompanied them. He had deliberately 
abstained from communicating with Wynd- 
ham; he wanted time to think; he 
was now hopelessly committed. His evil 
genius had had his way, but there 
was something to be done which must 
be well considered, and he would let 
Wyndham wait for intelligence. He had 
even a petty pleasure in this little bit of 
futile free-will. His thoughts had, however, 
helped him to no conclusion up to the hour 
at which he had to start for The Quinces ; 
the thing that had to be done was none 
the less imperative and difficult 

Never had Julian been paid alarger instal- 
ment of the wages of sin than on the day 
which succeeded his lyingdeclaration of love 
to Dolores ; the day wluch saw him in full 
assurance of fortune, and freedom from the 
yoke of his evil genius; the day which 
passed as the hours of the earthly paradise 
of old to the innocent, deluded girl who 
was watching and waiting for him, in 
wonderment at her own happiness. He 
arrived at The Quinces a little earlier than 
Eodney and the Whartons, had a few 
minutes alone with Dolores, and afterwards 
received the gravely affectionate greeting 
of Lilias, and the heartfelt congratulations 
of Colonel Courtland with a perfectly good 
graca Mrs. Courtland did not make her 
appearance in the drawing-room until the 
whole party was assembled, and it was 
only by a smile and an expressive glance 
towards Dolores that she signified her 
sentiments. Julian was very glad of this ; 
it was easy work for him to pretend, and, 
in ordinary circumstances, he rather liked 
it, but he never did it so well when Mrs. 
Courtland was present 

Nothing occurred to enlighten Julian 
as to Mr. Wyndham's meaning respecting 
Rodney. The young man saw in the 
middle-aged one a pleasant, cultivated 
person, who had dropped, on the strength 
of a sentimental reminiscence of very old 
date, into the position of an old friend 
while he was yet a positively new acquain- 
tance, and he admired the savoir vivre 
which enabled Rodney to do this, while he 
wondered that he should care to do it 

The Whartons interested him moreptiian 
Rodney. The girl was so pretty and 
so bright, and she played so well 1 EfEe 
was not Julian's '* style " either, but her 
playing was, although his attention did 
wander from it^ and the touch of foreign- 
ness about her pleased him. At interras 
he threw off the oppressive thought of what 
he should have to do on the morrow, and 
tiien he was bright and fascinating. 

Mr. Wyndham was so well pleased with 
Julian's report of the state of affaira, that 
he graciously overlooked the delay in 
communicating it to him. He was civil 
to the young man, who told his story in a 
sullen and grudging manner. The thing 
was done, the end was accomplished, and 
for reasons of his own it suited Mr. Wynd- 
ham to adopt a different line from that by 
which he had driven Julian to obedience. 

"Nothing could be better, my dear 
fellow — nothing could be better," said Mr. 
Wyndham ; ''quite a blaze of triumph, in 
fact And now the great point is to get 
the business over as quickly as possible. 
Delay is proverbially dangerous, and in 
this case it would be particularly foolish" 

" You don't want me to marry the girl 
next week, do you? " asked Julian wiw a 
short aggressive laugL 

"No, no ; not next week. There will be 
the matter of settlements, and, by the way, 
you and I had better have a preliminary 
look into it, so that when it comes on 
for discussion you may know exactly what 
you mean to have dona Everytlung of 
the sort takes time, but you must press 
for as speedy a marriage as possibla" 

"Why? If the thing's secure, Dolores 
won't tilirow me over, depend upon it 
Poor child ! " 

Julian's tone, though affectedly light, 
had a suggestion of remorse in it wmch 
Mr. Wyndham did not like. He coold 
understand and deal with the young man's 
hesitation and reluctance on his own 
account, but that he should shrink from 
the position on account of Dolores, or be 
troubled by a thought of wrong to her, vas 
a troublesome development of misplaced 
sentiment, and needed to be checked. 

" Poor child ! Why, she's absurdly in 
love with you, and I don't suppose yoa 
mean to iUuse her. To go back to your 
question — Why? The answer is simple: 
1 want my money, Courtland, as soon as 
you can let me have it" 

He said this in the easiest way, bat it 
made more impression on Julian in his 




[Aprfl 8, 1886.] 147 

present mood than a threat would have 

'* And I want you to have it/' said the 
young man with sudden bitterness; "I 
irant to be done with it alL I wish I 
could marry the girl to-morrow, and pay 
yoa down on the naiL Bat what's the 
good of driving me ? It is for them to 
fiz the time, not for me. I don't suppose 
they Ve ever thought about it yet" 

''Then the idea must be suggested. 
^W^hat about these American people 1 Are 
they going to be in London for long 9 " 

^* Only for the season. I heard Miss 
^Vharton talking to Dolores about some 
place in Scotland they are going to in 

" Have the girls taken to each othert " 
" Very much." 

*' Then there's your opportunity. Appeal 
to aentiment^ and you will have Miss 
Mesivale on your side of any question." 
Mr. Wyndham smiled as though permitting 
himaelf to be amused by some divertmg 
remembrance. "And what a charming 
sentiment to appeal to I Old friends of 
your betroAed's much lamented father, 
accepted in that touching character as 
new friends of your betrothed's devoted 
guardian, and anxious to be present on the 
auspicious occasion. Eh % Don't you see % 
Bridesmaid, and all that sort of thing ! 
1 Vfhj^^'B what pious people would call quite 
providentisJ. Tou have only to be properly 
preasing, to drop a hint to the two girls, and 
the whole business may be comfortably got 
oTer by the end of July." 

^' What do you mean by the whole 
business 1 You surely don't suppose I 
shall be able to lay my hands upon the 
money from the start ) " 

** I suppose that you will be in a position 

to enable me to lay my hands upon it, which 

IB my look-out I don't at all doubt that 

you will get hold of a good deal of ready 

money down. Indeed, the more I look 

into this matter, the more I like the look 

of it. Having got the chance in the way 

of my business, I have been making some 

^iquiries, and I find that Miss Merivale has 

always lived below her income, and made 

very safe investments. She will be a rich 

woman, even after she has handed over 

Dr. Bosslyn's tenderly-nursed savings to 

your not quite so fosteriug care." 

*<My uncle will propose strict settle- 
ments, I am sure, even if Miss Merivale 
did not^ or was not advised to do so. I 
know his ideas about things of that kind. 
There's no good in your thinking I shall 


get the money to do as I like with it If 
it was only Mrs. Oourdand, she'd bar the 
way to that ; but the Colonel would not 
allow it either." 

"I don't object^" said Mr. Wyndham 
with judicial gravity, " to your wife's money 
being settled on herself, and put out of your 
reach in the sense of making away witlx it 
That will not interfere with your discharge 
of my claim, and it will be a very good 
thing for you both. The handling of the 
income is a different matter. Although 
nothing that law or lawyers can do 
can keep a woman's money from her 
husband if he is determined to have it, 
it is better to make things pleasant from 
the start I don't want you to have to 
bully your wife out of cheques to meet 
cerUin obligations — supposing you don't 
get a lump sum, which is supposing the 
worst — ^if she should happen not to be of 
the coaxable kind, and that no one can 
ever tell about any woman until she has 
been tried with the possession of money." 

" I should not bully her if you did want 
me to do it," said Julian, with a glance of 
sullen hatred at the blandly explanatory 

*' Oh yes, you would^ Courtland, I assure 
you. We need not, however, discuss that 
contingency. If you cannot avail yourself 
of the sentimental tendencies of iShs 
Merivale, and the boundless confidence of 
your betoothed to get such settlements as 
will suit us both, I can only say you are a 
greater fool than I took you for." {** As if 
anyone could take me for a greater fool 
than I have been ! " was Julian Courtland's 
mental comment on these airy words, for 
remorse was stirring feebly in his soul) 
''As a matter of fact," continued Mr. 
Wyndham, " the whole thing is in Miss 
Bosslyn's hands, her grandfather having 
merely provided for the possibility of his 
son's, or a child of his son's, turning up 
within ten years of his own death, and 
appointing no guardian or trustee in the 
latter case, but simply taking it for granted 
that Miss Merivale would hand over the 
money. As it is impossible, for obvious 
reasons, to act on the real position of 
affairs, and you have to accept the guardian- 
ship fiction, you must jast do the best you 
can for yourself, without offending anyoim 
concerned, especially Miss Merivale. Aud, 
talking of her, your star is no longer in 
the ascendant there, if my eyes are to be 

" What do you mean 1 She was never 
kinder to me." 




148 [April 3, 188S.1 



<* Probably not To whom do you suppose 
Miss Merivale will leave her property 9 " 

** To Miss Bosslyn ; bat Miss Merivale is 
not forty. And, besides, we need not talk 
of her money. We have got nothing to 
do with her, at least, and lucky for her." 

He spoke with impatient disgust, which 
seemed to amuse Mr. Wyndham, who had 
pleasant recollections of having had a 
good deal to do with Miss Merivale's 
money, and a good deal of her money to 
do it with. 

** Ah, to Miss Bosslyn ! I should have 
taken your word for that before my inspec- 
tion of the party at the Boyal Academy ; 
but I am by no means sure of it now. I 
told you the man who was with her meant 
mischief, and he does. Why, she was 
listening to him as though he were an 
oracle, and he was talking to her as though 
that were the one thing worth doing in the 

" Mr. Eodney 1 " exclaimed Julian, with 
incredulous surprise ; " he's five-and-forty, 
at the very least" 

'' What has that to do with it t " 

''But one has never thought of any- 
thing of the kind in reference to Miss 
^f erivale " 

" And what has that to do with it ? Of 
course I may be wrong; speculating on 
subjects of the sort is not in my Tine ; 
but in one thing I'm sure I'm right The 
man has gained an influence over her 
already, and anyone who wants to manage 
Miss Merivale in future, at least so long as 
he is about, will have to reckon witii Mr. 

Confounded by the assurance with which 
Wyndham spoke, and impressed with the 
idea that he was generally right, Julian 
rapidly reviewed the occurrences of yester- 
day, in search of anything which might 
confirm this surprising theory. 

He had, indeed, puzzled over the mean- 
ing of Wyndham's warning, but had not 
fone near such a solution of it as thia 
[e was disposed only to ridicule it now ; 
but he did not venture to do so openly, and 
he was conscious, too, that he had felt from 
the first a vague dislike of Eodney. 

« I'm sure I don't care whether you are 
right or wrong," he said, after a pause. 
**i{ Miss Merivale's fool enough to part 
with her independence at her time of life, 
I suppose she must do it." 

'* Just the time of life to give a fortune- 
hunter his best chance," observed Mr. 
Wyndham, with as much scorn of the 
interested motives of a fortune-hunter as 


though the transaction in which he snd 
Julian were engaged had been of the purest 

'*I don't know much about Mr.Bodnej, 
but he's no fortune-hunter ; or at least he 
is not a poor man scheming to many a 
rich woman. They were talking yesterday 
about some property he has in England 
— some place he has not yet seen, that was 
left him by somebody." 

'' The sooner he goes to see it the better 
for you," said Mr. Wyndham, sticking to 
his point with a characteristic pertinadtj 
much loathed by Julian, whom it idways 
overbore and put down. 

Julian made no reply. Little more was 
said between them, and they parted with- 
out having alluded to one subject which 
each knew to be in ihe mind of the other. 

Mr. Wyndham was satisfied with the 
position of affairs. Julian had committed 
himself beyond recall, and whether he had 
arranged matters with Miss Denzil pr^ 
viously, or had to face the arranging of 
them now was of no consequence. He did 
not think she was at all likely to make a | 
row or a scandal ; he could even intennpt 
his complacent sneers at the general eiois- 
purposes of those so-called " affairs of the 
heart" wluoh of all the weaknesses of 
humanity he despised the most, with a 
passing regret that Miss Denzil should 
be ''so good a sort", seeing that she had to 
go to the walL 

Julian made a pretence of doing some 
business that morning at Messrs. Yi^oUes 
and Jackson's, actually remaining m his 
room until business hours were over. Bat 
he was not thinking of turning over a new 
leaf — an intention with which his on- 
wonted diligence caused him to be credited 
by the least experienced of the clerks— he 
was debating with himself how he was to 
meet or not meet Margaret Denzil ; what 
he was to tell or not tell her ; how he was 
to silence his conscience, or bear its re- 
proaches ; how he was to do without her 
love in his life, knowing that in its stead 
he had earned her contempt 

It was one of the most significant 
symptoms of Julian's moral downfall that 
he was not sensitive to disdam. He 
knew that where he was best known he 
was despised; he had latterly become 
aware that his footing in society was inse- 
cure, but he did not suffer from the know- 
ledge. So long as he was not thoronghlj 
found out, where detection might mean his 
being renounced and left to helphis^ 
by the unpleasant means of real w(»rk, he 

CbMlM Diokena.] 


[Aprfl 3,1886.] 149 

did not much mind. All fear of this was 
at an end now; he would have it in his 
power to make his position whatever he 
chose; but the one for whose sake he 
sometimes felt he should like to be — and 
not only to seem — ^what she took him for, 
irould hold him in utter disdain for ever 
the very type of mean, unmanly false- 
The more he thought of this the 
more he hated the man who had '* brought 
him to it", and the more he tried to relieve 
his pain a little by dwelling on the pros- 
pect of washing his hands of him by pay- 
ment in full, and by rehearsing the form 
of 'vrords in which he would renounce 
acquaintance with Mr. Wyndham from 

Several times during that day, and in 
the course of some profitable transactions — 
for his luck had turned again — Mx. Wynd- 
ham's thoughts were, occupied with Julian 
Conrtland; but they took a different 
direction. He greatly liked the looks of 
Dolores, and, though by no means a lady's- 
man, he intended to be the house-friend of 
the future household. 

It came to after office-hours, and Julian 
had not made up his mind how the thing 
that had to be done was to be done. He 
had not seen Margaret since the night at 
the play, nor had he written to her ; she 
must be already surprised and anxious, 
and this was just as well. Something 
might occur to make the thine that had to 
he done easier to do; she migbt get anny; 
he might pretend to quarrel with her, 
and, having parted with her thus, leave 
her to find out the fidl measure of his base- 
ness by the announcement of his marriage. 
In these turnings of his tormented thoughts 
the mere simple tdling of the truth to 
Margaret, and throwing himself upon her 
mercy, had not faUed to present itself to 
him, but he dismissed it hastily. He could 
not tell her the truth, he could not ac- 
knowledge the means by which he had got 
into Wyndham's power ; and besides, if he 
could do this, and she were to forrive 
him his own past and her misery, how 
would she regard the treachery to Dolores, 
which was, perhaps, the worst deed 
of his life t He did homage to the 
woman whom he was deserting by his 
quick, instinctive conviction that she would 
look upon the woman for whom he had 
deserted her as the more cruelly wronged 
of the twa No ; he had not yet devised 
a way of doing t^ thing that had to be 
done, but he could not do it by the way 
of the truth. 


Evening came, and found him in the 
same perplexity, with added iiritation 
and impatience. He raged and chafed 
nndet his own unusual and importunate 
thoughts; the touch of remorse was 
horribly disagreeable; that he should be 
forced to look at anything in his conduct 
or his fate with a view to its effect on 
other people, was as odious as it was novel. 
The irksomeness was almost worse than 
the pang of the loss of Margaret, because 
it was new; the other he had been reckon- 
ing with for some time. He Would do 
nothing until after to-morrow; he must 
keep his head cool and his nerves steady, 
for he was expected at The Quinces, and 
he would go there bent on getting tiie 
business settled and the marriage hurried 
on with all a lover's alacrity. 

Julian dined at his club, and afterwards 
went to a dance at a house in Harley 
Street — ^it was the same house at which 
the ball took place on the night of the 
great thunderstorm and of Hagh Rosslyn's 
death — ^and there he met Miss Merivale and 

The girl was radiant with loveliness and 
happines& It had always been delightful 
to dance with Julian ; it was a new kind of 
delight to dance with him now. 

llie summer sky was flooded with rosy 
light when he put Dolores into the carriage 
and bade her ''Good-morning", with a 
smUe as gay as her own. 

Dolores was on the lawn, attended by 
the dogs, when Julian arrived at The 
Quinces, and she intercepted him on his 
way to the house with a pretty little 
manifestation of petulant discontent, which 
would have been irresistibly flattering and 
delightful if Julian had been in love with 
her. She was very simply dressed in 
white ; her hair was piled high upon her 
head, and her mother's pearl-set comb 
adorned it She looked very lovely, and 
formerly Julian would have told her so, 
but his dark mind was actually full of 
resentment against the innocent victim of 
his treachery. He could not even admire 
her now; he hoped he should not hate 
her in the time to come. 

" Oh, Julian,'' she said, blushing beau- 
tifully, " I came out to meet you because 
you are going to be taken up about busi- 
ness, and they don't want me there ; so I 
thought I might just see you first. Dinner 
is put off for an hour, and altogether it's a 

** Business ! " said Julian, having kissed 



150 (April 8k lfi86.] 



her hand with much graoOi and a discreet 
recollection of the drawing-room windows. 
^' What basiness can I be wanted for 1 " 

He mentally added '<bo soon", and 
wondered whether Fate was giving his 
affairs a push forward for him. 

Now this was precisely what fate was 

''I don't know. Fm not to be told imtil 
it is all settled. Indeed, I have hardly 
seen any of them. They seem very solemn 
over it" 

" Any of whom 1 " asked Julian, startled 
by her words. Basiness, in which he was 
concerned, and over which people were 
looking solemn, had an ominous sound. 

"Aunt Lilias, and the Colonel, and 
Mr. Bodney, and that Mr. Bitohie who 
dined here on Thursday." 

''I did not know uiey were expected 

" They weren't They came out together 
in a hansom two hours ago, and they've 
all been talking ever since. Tou had 
better go in, JaUan, or they will say it is 
my fault" 

He went in, and was made acquainted 
with the facts that Bodney had imparted 
to Miss Merivale, and also with an im- 
portant occurrence which had just been 
revealed to her and to (Colonel Ck)urtland 
through the instrumentality of Mr. Walter 

When Julian Courtland left The Quinces 
that night, he carried with him a good 
deal of additional material for thought; 
but yet it did not crowd out or smother 
that question of the thing that had to be 
done on the morrow, and of how to do 
it He was so tired that he soon fell 
asleep, in spite of his perplexity, and his 
last waking thought was not of this — it 
was that he would have at least one solid 
triumph over Mr. Wyndham. 

" When I am out of his hands for good," 
said Julian to himself, ''and when I am 
spending the money that he might have 
had to spend if his wife hadn't been so un- 
accountable a fool, I shall let him know 
that his stepdaughter was doubly an heiress; 
but not a word of it till then." 

Julian slept tiU late next morning, and 
was hardly awake before the remembrance 
of the thing that had to be done came back 
to him. He took up his letters. One of 
them was from Margaret, and when, after 
a slight hesitation, he read it^ he knew that 
fate had indeed been working for him. 
The thing was done ! And fi&te had used 
the delicate hands of Effie Wharton to do it 

" When these lines reach you," wrote 
Margaret Denzil, ''I shall have left 
London. I have heard what I suppose you 
would before long have told me jGwxeiL 
I was engaged by Miss Wharton to play 
duets withher, and I went to the 
Hotel yesterday for the second time. Miss 
Wharton told me, describing her first 
English dinner-party, of your engagement 
to Miss Bosslyn, and the happiness whidi 
it has caused to several good people who 
love and trust yoa The narrative left 
nothing to be explainedi or I should have 
asked you for an explanation in the name 
of my dead mother, who also loved and 
trusted you. The first time I went to the 
Langham Hotel I saw Miss Bosslyn, but I 
did not know that it was she. She u veiy 
beautiful, and she too loves and trusts yon 
Be more merciful to her than yoa have 
been to me. I am going to a finend in a 
foreign country, who told me to come to 
her u life shoidd ever be too hard for me 
where my work was, and she would find 
work for me in a strange place." 

" I wish," muttered Julian, as he looked 
at the reflection of his haggard face in tiie 
glass ; ''I wish I had the courage to cat my 
throat 1 " 


For centuries traditions have been cur- 
rent as to the existence of a mysterions 
mountain in the centre of Eastern Eqoa- 
torial Africa. Sometimes these traditions 
have been associated with wonderful tales 
of fabulous mineral wealth, at others only 
with fierce and unc<mquerable savages. 
Yet the mountain itself is, as it has alwaiys 
been, within comparatively easy reach, for 
it is within one hundred and eighty miles 
of the coast opposite Zanzibar. JJ-poa that 
coast the Portuguese were settled four 
centuries ago, and although it is throogh 
them that we received the stories, not one 
of them seems ever to have attempted to 
reach the mountain. 

Just below the third parallel south of 
the equator, and, as we have said, within 
one hundred and eighty miles of the coast, 
rises high above the surrounding coontiy 
the immense mountain mass which is called 
Kilimanjaro — the name, according to 
Mr. H. H. Johnston, being taken £:om 
« kilima", mountain, and " njaro ", a demon 
supposed to cause cold. By this name, how- 
ever, it is only known to the peojde of the 
coast, while it la unrecognised in theinterior. 
Thus ''remote, inaccessible^ silent, and 






caurloi DtckeiuL] 


[Aprils, 1888.1 151 

lone," it was addressed by Bayard Taylor, 
bat " inaccessible " it is no longer, for we 
are about to tell of a recent journey to it 

The monntain, coUectiyely called EJli- 
maojaro, consists of two grand peaks — 
the one, called Edbo, rising to an elevation 
of eighteen thousand eight hundred and 
eighty feet ; the other, Kimawenzi, rising 
to sixteen thousand two hundred and fifty 
feet Both peaks have their summits above 
the region of eternal snow, and both are 
the craters of extinct volcanoes. 

It must have been known by repute to 
the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, for 
in that century Enciso, a Spanish pilot, 
speaks of it in his book of travels as 
" Mount Olympus". But the first European 
to actually discover it was the G-ennan 
missionftry Rebmann, and that was not 
untfl 1848. Rebmann was followed by 
another Grerman named Sjrapf, and again 
in 1861 by the Baron Von der Decken. 
Ten years later the first Englishman to 
reach Kilimanjaro was the Rev. Charles 
New, a Methodist missionary, who as- 
cended fourteen thousand five hundred 
feet up ihe sides of Eibo, and reached the 
snow. New was robbed by a chief of one 
of the tribes of the Chaga people who in- 
habit the soutiiem slopes, and died on his 
way back to the coast After this the 
YBil over Kilimanjaro dropped, not to be 
ndsed again until Mr. Joseph Thomson, 
in 1883, passed round the mountain on his 
way to Masai-Luid. But Mr. Thomson, 
although giving a most entrancing account 
of the country and of the awful beauty of 
the snow-peaks, did not spend much time 
there, and only ascended to an altitude of 
nine thousand feet. 

The name, we should mention, is 
variously spelt Kilima-Njaro and Kili- 
manjaro, and is pronounced Killymanjahro. 
It means, according to Mr. Joseph Thomson, 
" The Mountain of Greatness," but as we 
have said according to Mr. H. H. Johnston, 
"The Mountain of the Demon of Cold." 
Either signification seems appropriate. 

In 1884, a joint committee of the British 
Association and the Royal Society was 
appointed to form an exploring expedition, 
for the purpose of which a fund of one 
thousand pounds was formed. Mr. H. H. 
Johnston, who had previously explored 
the Congo, and who is an accomplished 
naturalist, was appointed leader, and he 
left for Zanzibar in March of the same 
year, proceeding thence to Mombasa, mi 
Aen, after the delays and vexations which 
seem inevitable in the formation of an 

African expedition, finally started for the 
interior witii a train of one hundred and 
twenty porters. He himself was the sole 
European member of the expedition, and 
combined in his own person the offices of 
leader, botanist, historian, trader, and 
taxidermist After six months' residence 
among the Chaga people he returned, and 
having seen more of the mountain and its 
surroundings than any preceding traveller, 
his narrative may be taiken as offering the 
most authoritative information about it 

The great attraction to naturalists of 
this mountain, and the main reason for the 
expedition, rests in the fact of such a snow- 
clad mass lying in the equatorial zone, and 
exhibiting such an extrordinary range of 
climates on its slopea Perpetual snow 
under the equator is only elsewhere to be 
found in Central and South America, and 
isolated mountains of great height often, 
like oceanic islands^ serve as shelter and 
last resting-place for peculiar types and 
forms of fauna and flora. Many curious 
features were, therefore, expected to be 
found on Kilimanjaro, and it was Mr. 
Johnston's mission to examine, to record, 
to collect specimens of animal and vegetable 
life, and to acquire as much information 
of a scientific character as might be possible 
within six months, that being the term 
which it was calculated thefimd would cover. 

The result of his observations, we may 
say in brief — for it is not our purpose to 
go into scientific details — ^has been to reveal 
a state of Nature almost equally divided in 
its affinities between Abyssinia and Cape 
Colony. Which is the progressive form, 
however, is an interesting problem yet to 
be solved. But even to the non-scientific 
there is something altogether wonderful in 
the aspect of the Kilimanjaro region. "The 
summits," says Mr. Johnston, "clothed 
with virgin snow, the upper regions bear- 
ing the humble plants of temperate climes 
— the heather, the hound's-tongues, the 
forget-me-nots, the buttercups, clematises, 
anemones, violets, and geraniums; the 
bracken, polypodies, and male-fern, that are 
always associated with the flora of our 
chilly lands ; and then, descending through 
rich forests of tree-ferns, draeoenas, and 
moss-living mimosas, to the vegetable 
wealth of the equatorial zone, to the wild 
bananas, the palms, the orchids, the india- 
rubber creepers, the aloes, and the baobabs, 
that are among the better known of the 
myriad forms of vegetation clothing the 
lower spurs and ramparts." 

As to the fauna, Mr. Johnston found 



152 [April 3, VS9S.J 



monkeys much more abondant than on the 
West Coast, and among them an entirely 
new variety with white heavily - plumed 
tails. Bats were seldom seen; lions and 
leopards are abundant and bold, also the 
jackal, wild -dog, and hyena, civets and 
genets, but no kind of weasel or badger. The 
elephant inhabits Kilimanjaro to a great 
height, Mr. Johnston observing a herd at 
an altitude of thirteen thousand feet 
At the base, the rhinoceros is abundant ; 
in Lake Jip6, the hippopotamus ; on the 
plains, vast herds of zebra, buffalo, giraffe, 
and many varieties of tiie antelope. Harte- 
beests are literally in myriads, and theostrich 
also abounds. Sueh are the general features 
of animal and vegetable life ; but there are 
many details of great interest and vast 
scientific importance which it is impossible 
to refer to here. 

To reach this varied and remarkable 
region, the traveller has to undertake some- 
thing like a fortnight's march through a 
tract of country of Uttle interest, and for 
the most part devoid of water. The 
weary traveller, however, may be cheered 
by an occasional peep of the mountain 
giant^ who seldom reveals all his grand 
bulk at once. Seen, as Mr. Johnston first 
saw it, " weird, in the early flush of dawn, 
with its snowy crater faintly pink against 
a sky of deep blue-grej, wherein the pale 
and faded moon was sinking," Eolimanjaro 
is awful in his grandeur and beauty. 

Then from the sun-scorched wilderness 
the traveller suddenly reaches a region 
within the benign influence of the moun- 
tain — ^the area of perpetual moisture and 
luxuriant vegetation. Within this district 
is situated that Arcadian spot — ^Taveita — 
of which Mr. Thomson has given some 
description, and which at Mr. Johnston's 
hands now reveals fresh attractions. Says 
Mr. Johnston : ** The Biver Lumi, which 
flows through Taveita, and creates all its 
luxuriant forest, is uninhabited by noxious 
creatures, such as crocodiles or leeches, and 
only harbours harmless fish| which are 
good to eat, or great, timid varanus lizards, 
who never interfere with one's bathing. 
Its water is exquisitely cool, clear, and 
sweet, and comes from the snows of 
Kilimanjaro. Here and there amid the 
lofty aisles of the Taveitan forest are little 
clearings, pretty homesteads of yellow 
beehive-huts, neat plots of cultivated 
ground, groves of emerald-green bananas, 
which are the habitations of the happy 
Arcadians who have made this tropical 
paradise their home." 

The toils of the journey are passed when 
this beautiful spot is readied, but not^ per- 
haps, all the dangers. Even in an Arcadian 
forest man may meet with foes, and cer- 
tainly in Centnd Africa. Thus, in what is 
described as a perfect paradise of a camp- 
ing-ground, occurred the following incident: 

" Soon after we had retired to rest^ when 
the men had begun to snore round their 
fires, wrapped up in dusky-white cloths 
like so many mummies, and when the 
leader of the caravan was curling himself 
snugly between the blankets, the most ter- 
rific roar you ever heard startled us all'into 
sudden wakefulness. Though the lion that 
uttered it was probably forty or fifty yards 
distant, the sound of Ms thunderous bellow 
seemed to come from our very midst. I 
sat up in bed and looked uneasily around 
me ; but nobody complained of being eaten, 
so I lay down again, and even began to 
think this very interesting and very Africaii, 
full of local colour, and so on. But now, on 
our right and left, on either side of the 
river, a chorus of loud roaring began. The 
night was as yet pitchy dark, for the moon 
would not rise till the early morning. We 
could see nothing beyond the blaze of oar 
cordon of fires. However, feeUng that it 
was despicably tame to lie still in bed and 
go to sleep while my porters shivered with 
fear, I arose, took my gun, and fired into 
the bushes where the roaring was loudest. 
This, the men informed me, was the un- 
wisest thing I could do. Of course, I killed 
nothing, and the noise of the firearm, 
instead of awing the lions into sflence, 
only seemed to exasperate them. I cer- 
tainly never heard anything like the noise 
they made. My men averred that we were 
surrounded by ten beasts — I suppose they 
distinguished ten different roarings. Cer- 
tainly, the next morning, when we ex- 
amined the precincts of our camp, the 
many footprints, of different sizes, which 
were marked in the soft v^etable soil of 
the surrounding woodland and in the red soil 
of the river-ba^, indicated unquestionably 
that a whole troop of lions had been in our 
immediate vicinity during the night I 
noticed a curious fact connected with the 
unseen approach of these beasts. Whenever 
a lion was nearing our camp, and before he 
attested his vicinity by a roar, we were, 
when we had learned to read the warning, 
made aware of the fact by the sudden ner- 
vous twittering of the small birds in the 
branches above. It was a tremulous 
diapason of fear, most singularly impres- 
sive. On several subsequent occasions the 


J ,^WW " .n 



(April 8, 1886.] 153 

approach of large wild beasts has been sig- 
nified to me in the same manner." 

Taveita is on the border of the Chaga 
country, which is practically the inhabited 
belt of Kilimanjaro. • It is thus within no 
^eat distance of the little kingdom of 
Moshi, where Thomson had resided, and 
w^here the missionary New was robbed. 
Moahi is ruled over by a chief called 
Mandara, who, in some respects, is above 
the average of African kings, bat who has 
the greed peculiar to all of them. Mr. 
Johnston was well received by Mandara, 
and, after the usual presents, he succeeded 
in obtaining an allotment of land on the 
banks of a rivulet some distance up the 
moontain. Here a miniature village was 
built for the accommodation of his followers. 
Grardens were planted with the seeds of 
Earopean vegetables, eta, brought with the 
expedition, and soon there was an abun- 
dant cropof everything. Milk, horses, sheep, 
and bullocks were obtained from Mandara's 
people in exchange for beads, and a happy 
time followed, during which collections 
of animals and plants were diligently made. 
Bat Mandara being at constant feud 
with all the neighbouring chiefs, Mr. 
Johnston was unaUe to ascend the moun- 
tain while living under his protection, for 
between Moshi and the summit are other 
warlike tribes, all of whom live in carefully 
entrenched kingdoms. To prosecute his 
design, therefore, Mr. Johnston had to 
leave Mandara, and make friends with a 
rival chief, who provided him with guidea 
Then, for a second time, the attempt was 
made to reach the summit 

It was only partially successful, for the 
Zanzibari followers were unable to sustain 
the fatigue and cold of the upper regions, 
so that our traveller was left alone for the 
final effort. He attained an altitude of 
sixteen thousand three hundred and fifteen 
feet — ^Le., within nearly two thousand feet 
of the summit of Elibo — but then being 
caught in a mist^ and after being nearly 
lost in a snowdrift, he had to give up the 
attempt to reach the awful, isolated crater. 
He resided, however, for some time at an 
altitude of ten thousand feet, in order to carry 
on his observations and collect specimens. 

Then he descended, and proceeded by 
a new route to Taveita, passing through 
a delightful country, averaging between 
eight ^ousand and nine thousand feet above 
the sea, with an almost cool temperature, 
singularly English m look, with open, 
grassy spaces, and apparentiy made by 
Nature for a European settiement 

Within the region traversed there is 
necessarily a wide range of temperature, 
and an infinite variety of climates. In the 
low salt plains, extending between Taveita 
and the coast, you may be parched and 
scorched by the hot desert winds. In the 
forests of Taveita you have the unvarying 
moist warmth of the tropical lowlands, 
where the utmost range of the thermometer 
in the twenty-four hours wQl be ten or 
twelve degrees. But midway up the 
mountain Uiere are lovely regions, mild, 
equable, and moist, resembling the climate 
of a Devonshire summer. Li these parts 
the intense verdure and the luxuriance of 
fern-life " testify to the constant showers 
of gentle rain". In two days' climb in 
Kilimanjaro you may escape from a tropical 
atmosphere and surroundings to a lifeless 
wilderness of ice, rocks, and snow. 

Snow is never absent from either of the 
twin peaks— Kibo and Kimawenzi, but on 
Kibo it varies almost daily in extent 
After a rainy night on the lowlands, for 
instance, the snow may be seen down to a 
levd of fourteen thousand feet, and a day 
later will have withdrawn a thousand feet 
or so higher. The least snow is observable 
in July and August^ and the most in 
Octobcv. There is aliBO a great deal in 
February and March, but the natives say 
this is the best time to ascend the moim- 
tain, because the mists then are not so 
frequent, and tiie cold is not so intense. 
It is this abundance of snow which causes 
the numerous rivers and streams, which 
render the southern slopes so fertile. No 
streams flow down the northern slopes. 

Semembering what we have just said 
about the snow, it is remarkable that 
vegetation extends up to fifteen thousand 
feet. At between seven thousand and 
eight thousand feet tree-ferns abound, and 
from eight thousand feet to the snow-line 
giant senecios, gorgeous gladioli, many- 
coloured irises, and other flowers are found 
at a great altitude, and even between ten 
thousand and fourteen thousand feet some 
brilliant specimens were gathered. After 
thirteen thousand feet ferns cease, and the 
vegetation becomes more stunted, but at 
fourteen thousand feet heaths and ever- 
lasting flowers were found, which give 
place within the next thousand feet to 
lichens of several kinds. Bees and wasps 
were observed at thirteen thousand feet, 
and birds seven hundred feet higher, while 
the traces of buffaloes were found up to 
fourteen thousand feet 

As to scenery, there is infinite variety. 



154 [April S, 1886.] 



That of the Ghaga country is described 
as channiiigly soft and pretty, like Devon- 
shire hills and coombes in general aspect. 
At six thousand feet are grassy downs 
of short, springy turf scattered over with 
clumps of splendid forest, while brilliant 
wild flowers abound. Looking out from 
his first settlement in Mandara's country, 
Mr. Johnston says that the beauties of the 
scenery never palled, never grew monoto- 
nous. The varied atmospheric changes 
produce kaleidoscopic effects in the land- 
scape. Now Kibo is veiled in mist, and 
anon only his summit is seen gleaming out 
above the clouds in rosy effulgence. At 
noontide the vapours vanish and the velvet 
forest is glowing in gold-green and dusky 
purple shadows, with the precipices and 
jutting rocks of Kibo as an effective back- 
ground, and so on, with constant change 
of afternoon and evening glories, whue 
far below the eye rests on the sunlit plains, 
with the lines of forest, the winding 
streams, and the stretches of open pasture- 
land spreading away in the distance. 

About Lake Jlp^, in the neighbouring 
Par6 hills, the scenery too seems enchant- 
ingly lovely, wooded crags, rich valleys, 
emerald - green banana -groves, ripplmg 
streams, and splendid waterfalls. Here is 
situated the village of Gk>zija, which, with 
its clear, swift river, its splendid groves, 
and its luxuriant plantations, seems a 
second Taveita. 

Again, on the descent, after scrambling 
through a dense, dark forest on the eastern 
flank, our traveller was ravished with the 
beauty of the scenery and the magnifi- 
cence of the view from a height of eight 
thousand five hundred feet. " The distant 
valley, with its sinuous lines of green 
forest, the mountain mass of Ngweno, with 
hills and hillocks in all directions, the 
nearer forests, the natural lawns sloping 
downwards towards the cultivated zone; 
and, lastly, the awful, jagged, snow streaked 
and spotted Kimawenzi rising to the north 
— all were irradiated with a tender, smiling 
light, the very shadows of which were 
attenuated and softened." 

The region generally seems a sportsman's 
paradise, for nowhere else in Africa is big 
game found in such abundance. The 
plains are covered with compact herds of 
antelopes, moving in squadrons, -with, 
straggling companies of zebras and giraffes, 
and flocks of ostriches. Bhinoceroses are 
so numerous that their horns are a great 
article of trade, and those who have read 
Mr. Thomson's book will remember the 

extraordinary number he shot witiioat 
going out of his way. But^ contrary to 
Mr. Thomson's experience, Mr. Johiuton 
found the neighbourhood of KiUmanjaro 
to abound in elephants, and the water to 
abound in hippopotami 

All these things are attractive not only 
to the sportsman but also to the trader, for 
they mean ivoiy, and skins, and feathers. 
As to vegetable products, there is an 
immense growth of fine timber ; gums are 
produced in some parts ; india-rubber can 
be produced from at least one creeper; coffee 
grows wild and would succeed admirably if 
planted in many districts where it is not 
native ; orchilla-weed is found in incredible 
quantities ; and the natives cultivate the 
banana, the sweet potato, the sugar- 
cane, Indian com, millet, and several 
varieties of peas and beans. Add to all 
this that vast herds of cattle are kept both 
by the mountain and the agricultural 
tribes (Mr. Johnston used to purchase a 
bullock for about the equivalent of ten 
shilling8),that goats andsheep are abundant, 
and that fowhi are kept by most of the 
tribes, and it will be seen that not only is 
there abundance of flesh-meat, milk, cheese, 
and eggs to be obtained, but that hides 
and wool are possible articles of trade aba 
As to the fertility of the soil, it may he 
mentioned that Mr. Johnston's plantation 
at Mandara yielded him potatoes, onions, 
carrots, peas, tomatoes, cucumbers, melons, 
etc., within about three months after 

These are some of the features of the 
natural wealth of the country, and besides, 
Mr. Johnston says that iron-ore is foond 
in some abundance, and copper also, while 
nitrate of soda covers vast plains to the 
south, west, and north of Kilimanjara 
The special wealth of the country, however, 
consists in its vegetable resources, and in 
its adaptability to cultivation of almost 
any kind. Gonsidering all this, and the 
advantages of climate, Mr. Johnstone is of 
opinion that this region between the 
coast and the Victoria Nyanza lake is more 
worth possessing and opening up than 
many other pa^rts of Africa which are 
being run after. He is convinced that here 
lies a new field for commerca 

On the other hand, we find Mr. Joseph 
Thomson in recent lectures declaring tlukt 
the commercial potentiality of East Central 
Africa is practically nil I Where travellers 
differ so much, how shall others agree 1 
Perhaps the best way would be for a 
number of merchant adventurers to com- 


cbniM Dfateia.] ON BEING ON THE TOP OF THE HHiL. [April 8,18M.i 155 

bine and send out an exploring expedition 
on pnrelj commercial lines. There seems 
no reason why oar great commercial 
people should leave exploration entirely to 
ge(^raphers, natoraliste, and missionaries. 



ONthetopofthehill! What thoughts 
are not suggested to ns by the mere words! 

In a moment we resJise the sense of 
ezfaanstion ; the while we feel a glow of 
saceess, when we think that at last we have 
climbed tiie long ascent, and stand breath- 
less and triumphant, gazing over the land- 
scape that unfolds itself before us, and that 
is a thousand times more beautifd than we 
had ever believed it to be. Lingering 
t&ere for a little, we look round us, 
and wonder how we ever reached our 
present elevated position, even while vi^ 
leaUse that we have to begin to descend 
before our day's journey is over ; and we 
allow our eyes to stray first from this 
object and then to that, until the lengthen- 
ing shadows, or a sudden chill in the atmo- 
sphere, reminds us tiiiat night is comhiff, 
and causes us to begin our downward task. 

And although we have hiffh authority 

for regarding Kfe as a ^< wale ^, we cannot 
oonelves resist comparing ourselves gene- 
lally with anjrone who has for the moment 
climbed a material hiU. 

Once aUow youth to be parted with, once 
leeognise that there are other folks around 
ps, grown up, whose birth we remember as 
if it were yesterday, and we may be quite 
sure we are either on our own especial 
lammit, or are passing along downhill 

It is not often that people can realise 
that they have reached the highest altitude 
they are ever permitted to attain, until they 
are passing away from it^ for there is inva- 
nMy something in the human tempera- 
ment that causes it to look forward, and 
that cannot understand tiiat the zenith 
has be^ reached — aye, and been passed 
by— while they were i^ill straining their 
utmost to obtain the unattainable. 

Still, there are some who do comprehend 
their position, and can either gaze from it, 
content to know they have done well, and 
80 can rest for a while, or else stretch out 
a hdping hand to those still behind 
them; though it is not often that they 
find this taken by the young folk, who 
are all so sure they know so much better 
than anyone else did, and are quite positive 
that they will never fall into any of the 

traps and pitfalls into wluch they often 
enough stumble at the very moment in 
which they are carefully explaining to ns 
that no pitfall that was ever made can take 
them in. 

Naturally, some of life's pilgrims attain 
but a low eminence, after aU. 

Either their ambitions are circumscribed, 
or their circumstances are such that they 
only wander along, scarcely conscious of 
climbing at all, untfl, their utmost being 
done, they sadly and unconsciously turn 
their backs on progress, "worsening" 
imperceptibly as they saunter towards the 
end of dl thmgs, their &ces turned towards 
that mysterious fog and mist that, more 
effectual guardians of death's portal than 
anything more tangiUe couldever be, drift 
ceaselessly between us and the gates of 
another world. 

Then there are undoubtedly other fblk 
who reach the summit without any exertion 
on their own partMa^ all — ^who borrow the 
wings of the immoHals, and so find them- 
selves suddenly in the rarefied atmosphere 
of the hilltop, with no Ions life of labour to 
act as ballast, and enable them to keep their 

Sometimes the fine ur acts <ndy as an 
intoxicant, and causes the climber to lose 
his balance entirely, making him fall 
suddenly and swifUy into outer darkness, 
amid a taunting chorus, from those he 
passed so suddemy, of '* I told you so 1" 

But this is not always the case. To the 
true genius whose feet are winged, and 
whose eyes are fixed on the stars, are some- 
times vouchsafed a head that knows not 
giddiness, and a mind so simple, so child- 
like, that he never realises his own great- 
ness, the while he wonders greatly why 
the world is so pleased with him. 

Indeed, he feels inclined to gratefully 
thank those who discovered the excellence 
in his work, of which, indeed, he was 
hopeful, but for which he dreaded far more 
than he expected. 

To such a one as this the top of the hill 
is as a very Paradise. 

He drinks in the bright, fresh air that 
blows to him straight from the elysian 
fields ; he looks over the earth, which in- 
variably shows her best side to the suc- 
cessful man, and pronounces it to be very 
good : and though, at times, he may be a 
Uttle lonely because so few of his own age 
are there with Mm, he so dreads disap- 
pointing his good friends the public, that 
he works better than ever, because there is 
no one there to draw him away bom his 



156 [Apiil3,188(k] 



duty to those, who look to him for so 

Imaginatioii and fancy stand beside him ; 
he is too high for jealousy to reach or for 
spite to wound ; and, fortunate to the last, 
Fate often enough calls him away suddenly 
before he turns his back on the sun, and 
has to begin that descent which has always 
to be faced, and which, either as old age, 
or failing powers, or lessened income, can 
never be anything sare a bitter and tiding 

There are others who imagine that once 
the hill-top is reached, they may behave 
there precisely as they themselves like 

They forget how far a figure is seen 
against the sky-line, and take advantage of 
their exalted position to cast convention- 
alities — ^ave, and even decencies, to the 
winds, believing themselves to be too tall, 
too ^and, for the earthworms behind them 
to criticise, much less condemn. 

The fact that a man or a woman pos- 
sesses genius should not surely exempt 
them from the ordinary rules of life ; nay, 
rather should this ensure a greater care — a 
more circumspect walk, remembmng that a 
city set upon a hill cannot be hid, and re- 
collecting that evil done by those in high 
places is seen of all, and often enoush is 
copied by those who excuse it in uiem- 
sefves because it cannot be so very bad if 
So-and-so is guilty of the fault 

Such folk as these appear anxious to 
demonstrate that genius and lunacy are, 
indeed, closely allied ; and one is tempted 
to wishfor them a spesdy exit from a world 
that can never look on at anything; outi6 
without some of its members longmg and 
striving to emulate it 

Can a great statesman recollect where 
he stands— the influence he has thrown 
aside, when law and justice tap him on the 
shoulder and pillory him in his private 
capacity before the world, thus causing 
him to give the open lie to his public 
and oft^uoted sentiments 1 Gan yonder 
preacher realise his widespread influence 
at all when he gives forth marvellous ser- 
mons on a Sunday, that the whole world of 
fashion flocks to hear, the while his osten- 
tation, his expenditure, his fine horses and 
carriages are flaunted in the faces of the 
poor, who are unwelcomed in his church, 
and who know their parish priest barely by 
name, and who would no more seek him in 
trouble than they would go to tiie nearest 
Duke or Marquis for spiritual advice 1 

Still, ^part from these more prominent 

examples, it is well to remember that all of 
us, even the very meanest among us, is 
higher at times than someone else, and 
that few exist whose example or whose 
actions do not form either a guide or i 
warning to some poorer neighbour. 

Sometimes we realise this with i 
shudder, as we hear that words we haye 
forsotten ourselves, either written or 
spoken, have influenced someone im- 
mensely with whom we may be personally 

Or we may be brought face to face with 
the fact that extravagant living, or silly 
and bad management in our own hoosei 
may have been copied by a neighbour, aiid 
what in our own case resulted only in 
temporary embarrassment has brought him 
to ruin ; and we learn, too late, that care- 
fulness on our part would have helped 
him to bear privations that only became 
unendurable when we appeared to be aUe 
to have everything, and rather more than 
we required. 

Of course we should all be strong 
enough to stand firm ; but few of us m; 
and to those few we all look, recognising 
their position, and being bitterfy dis- 
appointed if they do not come up to oar 

For there are some who are actually 
and forcibly put on the top of a hill, 
without eitiher desiring or deserving to be 

The lover places his lady at a very hifh 
altitude, and revenges it on the wife if ^e 
does not keep a situation in which he 
himself put her. 

The child elects his parents to a height 
even surpassing that of the adored one. 
And who can express the agony that chfld 
endures when either mother or father fails 
him, and show themselves as they are, and 
not as the child believed them to be t 

The pain is none the less real, the bos- 
band's disgust none the less hard to bear, 
because tiie pinnacle was never desired by 
the person who was placed there, and 
who, we doubt not, is extremely glad (o 
get down tiierefrom and stand once more 
on a safer and lower level 

Of the few people who can really 
realise and enjov a well-earned eminence, 
surely a dramatic author is most to be 
eilvied ! 

He sees his public, drinks in his success, 
and, though he knows to-morrow's papers 
may make him growl, he recollects that 
Smith, whose heaa he punched at school, will 
only be too glad to return the blow in the 





ON BEING ON THE TOP OF THE HHiL. tApriis,i888.i 157 

eolamns of the Snarler, whose critic he is, 
and that Jones's wife, of whom he was 
fooUah enough to saj that he remembered 
her grown-up when he was a boy, is on 
the Monday Mauler; and so laughs at the 
arrows that cease to be barbed when he 
knows the hand that forged tiiem and the 
petty, jealous motives that winged them on 
their way. 

Of course we all of us must realise that 
period of middle-age that sometimes is the 
only appreciable height we can reach ; when 
we turn to grasp the hand, if only for a 
farewell, timt gave us once so much 
aaeistance, and find we only clasp a shadow; 
when we look back and see our path is 
marked by tombstones; and when we 
diaeoyer that eager-eyed youth has parted 
company with us, and diat instead of 
laag^ter and song, sorrow and fatigue have 
taken up their stand by our side. 

And even if we only know our position, 
all may be still well with us. No grave 
can hide the kindly manly heart that once 
beat so strongly near our own ; no touch 
obscure the love of nature, the knowledge 
of bird and beast, that taught us so much ; 
and though we know he sleeps beneath 
the yew in that Dorset churchyard, beneath 
the shadow of the church where he taught 
so well and so manfully, we, from our 
eminence, look up, and kno^ he is no 
more dead than is that friend of ours in 
Australia, of whom we have had no token 
for twenty years or more, and yet exists, 
we know, because others have seen and 
spoken unto her. 

Others have seen and spoken with 
thoie of whom we hear no more, save 
from memory ; and as we rest for a while 
on onr summit, content to gaze even upon 
the tombstones that have marked our way, 
we aeem nearer now than we ever were to 
thoee who passed from our lives when we 
were in the thick of the fray in the valley, 
and had scarcely time to say good-bye to, 
because the future was then so much 
more to us than the present. 

The present and the past become very 
real on die top of the hilL 

life is gentle, is slow. It has done us 
so much harm, dealt us so many blows, 
we feel its worst is over. It has taught us 
so many lessons, we cannot have any more 
U) learn ; and for the few years we remafb 
then, we can look back or simply rest 
bsppSy, contentedly, because our clunbing 
days are over at least, and the worst of the 
work is done. 

Ddightlul as is the eminence oceupied 

by genius, or taken possession by talent, it 
is too dangerous, too lonely to be really 
happy ; the way up to any summit must 
mean exertion and toil Therefore, surely, 
the best height of all is that cakn, beautiful 
table-land of middle-age, where we rest a 
while, contemplating £e long Une of pic- 
tures time has painted for us, numbering 
those nobler, stronger natures who have 
won their rest, and only lookbg forward 
for our chilcbren, or towards that marvellous 
land of shadows where they walk who 
were once with us here, and who seem very 
near indeed to us once more as we linger 
for a while silently, thankfully, on the top 
of our own particular hill. 


At last I draw the veil aiide, 
Come, darling, full of wifely pride, 

And see my finished work ; 
Lift up those cloudless eyes of thine, 
Deep wells of happiness divine. 

Wherein no shadows lurk. 

Look at the canvas. Dear, like thee. 
My pictured maid in fair to see, 

Like thine, her eyes are blue ; 
Like thine, the clusters of her hair 
Wave golden on a forehead fair; 

She looks, as thou art, true. 

Like thee, she wears a robe of white, 
Like thine, her smile, as sunshine bright, 

Doth all her face illume. 
Thy perfect parallel, she stands 
Loose-holding in her slender hands 

A branch of almond-bloom. 

Ah, wife I that tinted almond-flower ! 
Dost thou remember that dark hour 

Of anguish, long ago, 
When I, with all the world at strife. 
Heart-sick of labour, tired of life. 

Was vanquished by my woe ? 

Dost thou remember how I spake 
Rash words of Crod, and tried to break 

The spirit from the clay ? 
How now ? Thy tears fall down like rain ; 
Thou wast the braver of the twain, 

Dear heart, on that dark day. 

The cold spring twilight filled the room, 
I saw thee standing in the gloom, 

Thy girlish cheek grown white ; 
The tears of pity in thine e^ep. 
Without a murmur of surprise. 

Or tremor of affrignt. 

And in thine hand an almond-spray ; 
God gave thee words of hope to say 

To me in my dark hour ; 
I know not now what words they were, 
I know I blessed thee, standing there. 

Holding the almond-flower. 

And when the storm was overpast, 
And I could meet thine e^es at lost, 

Thy gentle hand laid down 
As gage of hope, the almond spray. 
So ou life's dreadest, dreariest day 

I won love's golden crown. 

And now the budding year doth bring 
New hopes, like almond flowers in Rpring, 

That deck the branches bare ; 
Foretelling summer days to come. 
The blossom -time of heart and home, 

A perfect life and fair. 


158 [April 8, use.] 



But lo ! the piotore — it is thine. 
Love, let it be a sacred sign 

Of all thou art to me : 
Far more than wife, far more than love, 
And only Grod in heaven above 

Can pay my debt to thee ! 



It was a strange and not altogether 
happy destiny wiuch drew London out 
towiurds the west An admirable site for 
the development of a great ci^ital lay 
ready at hand. The fields that gradually 
sloped upwards to the northern heights 
afforded an excellent site for public bmld- 
ings, for theatres, temples, and the palaces 
of the great nobility, as well as for the 
settlement of a large population. Till 
the end of the seventeenth century such 
a development seemed possible. When 
curlew and snipe fed among the marshes 
about the site of Grosvenor Square, the 
mansions of the nobility clustered thickly 
around the pleasant suburbs of Highbury 
and Islington, and the wealth and d^nity 
of the ci^ took its airings in the verdure 
and shade of ClerkenweU Green. But the 
town has followed the Court, and its centre 
of gravity lies now nearer the swampy 
flats of Pimlico and Belgravia, than the 
healthy suburbs to the north. 

Chief in the chaplet of villages once 
surrounding London, but now enclosed 
within its compass, is Hackney, with its 
savour of quaint Puritan traditions, its 
red-tiled roofs, and solid, substantial 
dwellings. And there are few finer sitesthan 
where the hill rises with a bold sweep, 
crowned with the villas and gardens of 
Stoke Newington and wealthy Clapton, 
looking down upon the green valley of the 
Lea — ^uttle but the corpse of a river now 
— empested and smelling vilely, but 
beautiful at times in its winding course 
with the light of the sky reflected from its 
placid reache& It is not to be wondeired 
at that Hackney was a favourite residence 
with the ancient nobility, that Templars 
and Knights of St. John built their pre- 
ceptories thereabouts, while the two ancient 
manors of the Lord's hold and the King's 
hold seemed to show that royalty too may 
have had a favoured seat in the same 
favoured parish. Crowded, too, is the 
church and churchyard with ornate monu- 
ments. Nevils and Percys mingle their 
dust with great City dignitaries, and ancient 
meeting-houses have their own records of 
departed worthies. 

We may picture worthy Pepyi al 
Hackney Church among the crowd of 
periwigs and powdered heads and T<]a% 
silks. " A knight and his lady very ctvu 
to me when tiiey came," writes P^ys; 
** being Sir George Yiner and his lady, in 
rich jewels, but most in beauty; timoA 
the finest woman that ever I saw." WUk 
he niuvely confesses : ** That whidi I went 
chiefly to see was the young ladies of tiie 
schools, whereof there b great store, vary 
prettyj and also the organ." 

The complete history of Hackney by 
yet to be written, for which there ii ample 
store of materials in Hackney itself— i 
whole library of local deeds, books, m^n, 
and other documents being now gathered 
together at Hackney Town HaU, the gift 
of the Sector of South Hackney ; and oat 
of these riches we may expect a fiill harv^ 
of memoirs by local historians. 

From Hackney to Islington we pass 
through a wilderness of houses. Merry 
Islington is chiefly noticeable here as the 
begimiing of one of tiie great hi^wayi 
losing out of London. From the Aojpd 
we may start on an imaginary tour by 
coach, in the direction of that green and 
pleasant country which must lie somewhere 
beyond the noisy streets of the ^riiirling 

In dajrs* when travelling was a more 
leisurely affair than now — even before the 
age when speedy^ well-hovsed coaches had 
superseded the crawling waggon and the 
creeping stage-coach, a traveller on his first 
entry into Highgate was tiie subject of a 
mock ceremony of initiation, which recalls 
the frolics of seamen, not yet quite ob8(dete, 
on crossing the Une. There ia a Babelaisian 
flavour about the oath taken by those who 
were sworn at Highgate, but the ceremony 
was interesting from its antiquity, and may 
have once represented the necessary affilia- 
tion to some guild of carriers, or to some 
transit company of the remote past In 
the days when the highway over Highgate 
Hill was a mere track through the forest, an 
anchorite, it is said, established his her- 
mitage close by, and for long afterwards 
tiie cell was never without an occupant 
One of these hermits, of a more induatrioos 
temper than the generality of the brother- 
hood, is said to have devoted all the time 
h% could spare from his devotions, to build- 
ing a causeway to Islington, filling up tiie 
muddy pools with stones, and bridging oyer 
the Slough of Despond with faggots and 
trunks of trees. If people are sceptical as 
to the industry of the hermit, thiey may 




place more faith in the vigour of the Bishop 
of the period, who presently erected a toll- 
bar upon the lull, and enacted toU from aU 
who crossed his domain — an exaction that 
was only removed at the general dearance 
of toU-gatee about the metropolis. The hill 
was a terribly steep one for all kinds of 
vehicles, and early in the present century, 
when coach travelling had arrived almost 
at perfection, it was proposed to make a 
tonnel through the hill under Homsey 
Lane, and thus spare the cattle and save 
the time of the eighty or so of fast coaches 
that daily passed that way. The tunnel in 
its progress caved in, and a cutting was 
necessarily substituted, across which was 
thrown the famous Archway, whose giddy 
height has proved as tempting to suicides 
as that of the Monument, till ths latter was 
finally caged in. 

In the valley beyond, where rises Mus- 
well Hill, crowned by the now desolate 
courts of the Alexandra Palace, is the 
source of a little stream called the Mosell, 
interesting for its name, which may recall 
its more famous sister — the sparkling 
tributary of the Bhine. But it is probable 
that the original name of the stream was 
the Mose or Mouse, whence Muswell, as 
the head-spring of the little rivulet In 
the pleasant meads about Muswell, where 
now racecourses and tennis-grounds, 
formerly established a dairy-farm of 
the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, whose 
head-quarters at Clerkenwell were within 
the compass of a short and pleasant ride. 
To our Lady of Muswell the good knights 
dedicated a little chapel, and the well itself 
had a reputation as a healing spring, and 
was the object of a yearly pilgrimage from 
the country round about. 

Close by, Wood Green preserves the 
memory of Tottenham Wood, once famous 
in adage and old saw. ''You shall as 
easily move Tottenham Wood," it was said 
of old, but the task has proved within the 
ability of modem timea And now villas, 
and terraces, and eligible buflding-sites 
have replaced the merry green wood ; and 
the Weil of St Dunstan, that once in its 
deep forest seclusion was regarded with 
something like superstitious awe, is no 
longer to be found. Another mystic saying 
may be quoted : 

When Tottenham Wood is all on fire, 
Then Tottenham street is nought hut mire — 

a distich that suggests the after -glow 
ot a stormy sunset, and the woods that 
teem to be enveloped in fiery vapour, with 
the wet and streaming highways, that are 

touched m turn with ruddy reflections from 
the skies. 

Miry enough was the way by Tottenham 
High Cross when the weather gave the 
least excuse for mire. This was the 
chief highway to Cambridge and the fen 
country, and was often impassable on 
account of floods. According to some of 
the old chroniclers, Alfred the Great 
drained Tottenham Marsh, in order to dry 
up the Danes in tl^eir stronghold at Ware, 
which inland place, as we are accustomed 
to regard it, the Danes had contrived to 
reach in their swift galleys. But the 
drainage of the marsh was not of a very 
perfect character, and scholars travelling to 
Cambridge, or traders on their way to 
Stourbridge Fair, might find it necessary to 
take a guide at Tottenham Cross to conduct 
them through the labyrintii of waters. 

But although Tottenham village is little 
but a traveller's settlement, which has 
sprung up about the crossways, yet the 
manor of Tottenham is of high and ancient 
importance. Of old time me manor be- 
longed to Widtheof, the son of old Siward, 
the conqueror of Macbeth, and through 
Widtheofs daughter, Maud, it fell to 
David, King of Scotland, Maud's second 
husband, and so for a time shared the 
vicissitudes of the crown of Scotland. The 
question of disputed succession which 
agitated Scotland, and brought about a 
series of destructive wars between north 
and south, afiected also the succession to 
the honours of Tottenham. But here 
the question was settied in a peaceable 
manner by sharing the spoil among the 
chief claixnants. Eobert de Brus, &ther 
of the future King of Scotland, got one 
share, and built a castle on his demesne, 
of wUch the name survives in a modem 
house upon the site. John de Baliol was 
awarded another; a third was allotted to 
Henry de Hastings. Bruce's manor pre- 
served its name to the last, but Baliol's 
became known as Dawbenys, from^ a 
later owner; both these manors having 
been seized by the crown during the 
Scotch wars. The Hastings third received 
the more modem name of Pembrokes. 
Although the manor was once more united 
in the last centtuy in the person of a 
London Alderman, yet its history has left 
its traces in local nomenclature. Other 
suburban settiements may own as sponsors 
distinguished builders and contractors, 
local squires, or speculators in building lots, 
but Tottenham may claim a derivation for 
its local names from Kings and Princes, 


160 (April 8, 1886.) 



proud feudal nobles, and other mighty men 
of old times. 

Another memorial of history in its 
humbler aspects is preserved in certain 
almshouses at Tottenham, which were 
founded by Balthazar Sanches, a Spaniard, 
said to be the earliest confectioner in Eng- 
land — the first, at least, to practise the art 
and mystery of comfit-making as a distinct 
trade. Skilful, too, were the publicans of 
Tottenham in compounding spiced and 
luscious drinks for the citizens, who often 
made parties to drain a cup of sack in mine 
host's garden in the summer time — such as 
Walton and his friend, Piscator, who, in some 
editions of the Complete Angler, are seen 
enjoying convivial converse in the arbour 
of the garden of The Swan at Tottenham. 

Edmonton, too, has its claims upon the 
memory, if only for the famous journey 

Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 
AU in a chaise and pair. 

But John Gilpin was not the first to 
discover the gaiety of Edmonton. The 
place has an ancient reputation for fun and 
frolic even from the days of 

The frank and merry London 'prentices 
That come for cream and lusty country cheer. 

No play was more popular in its day 
than that called The Merry Devil of 
Edmonton ; we have the testimony of Ben 
Jonson to diat effect And it must be said 
that the play has great merits, with touches 
in it that are worthy of Shakespeiure, and 
with the light of true comedy shining 
through the rude medieval humour. Ana 
yet it is strictly a local play, the scene the 
country about Edmonton, and as such may 
claim a little notice here. 

The merry individual with the ill- 
sounding name is brought before us in a 
short induction : 

'Tis Peter Fabel, a renowned scholar, 
Whofte fame hath still been hitherto forgot 
By all the writers of this latter age. 

Peter is an astrologer and magician, 
an English Dr. Faustus, a Cambridge 
scholar, too, and professor, who has nightly 
Ciommuned with the starry firmament from 
the towers of Peterhouse. Like Faust, 
our Dr. Fabel has committed himself too 
deeply with t^e Evil One in his thirst for 
knowledge, and the latter claims his bond, 
but is threatened or cajoled into giving 
another seven years. 

The action of the piece begins at the sign 
of The Greorge, in Waltham, where a 
Imight has just alighted with his train : his 
wife, and his son, and his daughter being 
amone them. Here a meeting has been 

arranged to settle the preliminariei of 
marriage between the daughter, Millicent, 
and young Mountchesney, the son and 
heir of a neighbouring knight The yoimg 
people are warmly attached to each other, 
but the girl's father repents of his bsrj^ 
as he hears that old Mountchesney'ssfiiiis 
are embarrassed, and he has in his mind a 
better match for Millicent^ in the son of a 
wealthy friend. Hence he resolves at ^ 
last moment to cry off from the bargain 
with Mountcbssney, under the pretext of 
having vowed his daughter to a religiom 
life. So Millicent is snatched from her 
lover's arms and taken to the nunneij 
of Oheshunt 

Here the magician of Edmonton comei 
to the aid of the parted lover& Foryoong 
Mountchesney is a favoured pupil, and en 
his friend and disciple should lose his 
promised bride, the doctor declares, with 
some recollection, perhaps, of Alfred and 
the Danes : 

111 first hang Envil in such rings of mist, 
As ever rose from any dampish ten ; 
I'll make the brined sea to rise at Ware» 
And drown the marshes unto Stratford Bridge, 
111 drive the deer from Waltham in then: waUcs. 

The matter, however, is arranged with«j 
out any such catastrophe. By hu art Ui( 
mi^cian assumes the person of the Abbe 
of WsJtham Abbey, and forthwith receiye 
into the brotherhood young Mountchesnef. 
By old custom, a confessor from Waltb 
is sent to shrive all newly-admitted novic 
in the neighbouring nunnery, and, by th< 
order of the mock Abbot, ike newl] 
admitted brother is deputed for the offic 
Thus the lovers meet, the enamooi 
Mountchesney and the love-lorn damsel, 
promised bride : 

But since she now became a nun, 
Galled Millicent of Edmonton. 

Impassioned vows are exchanged in the 
shadow of the monkish cowl, and all 
arrangements are made for an immediate 
elopement. The keeper of Enfield Chase 
is a good friend of the young knight, and 
has consented to receive the fugitives in 
his secluded lodge in the middle of the 
forest. When night comes the lovers are 
away together, and presently are wandering 
in the wilds like the lovers in A Midsummer 
Night's Dream. 

Here the humourous element appears, m 
a party of jolly poachers, who are scouring 
the forest in search of a fat buck. Here 
are mine host of The George, who " serves 
the good Duke of Norfolk , a jovial parish 
priestj Sir John, whoa© oiicliwofdA 


Gbnlfli DIekeoi.] 


<<Grft88 and hay, we are all mortal Let 
ns lire until we die, and be merry, and 
diere an end." And with these Smog, 
the honest smith of Edmonton, and aU find 
themaelyeB astray in the forest, and tihis 
while the friendly keeper is abroad after 
tiie poachers, and the old knight and his 
confederates are pursuing the runaway 
noyice Mid her lover. All these meet, and 
play at cross-purposes in a way that affords 
a good deal of fun for the groundlings; and 
ererythiog winds up happily, with Sir 
John to marry the pair and the fat buck 
^m the forest to furnish the marriage- 

Altogether the play gives a favour- 
able notion of the taste of the unlettered 
multitude in their dramatic diversions, 
with faithful friendship, true love, and jolly 
lawlessness furnishing the motive of the 
play, and with tenderness and wit in the 
dialogue, and plenty of fun and movement 
in the action. But we lose sight of the 
doctor's entanglement with the Evil One in 
the denouement Still, the doctor himself 
does not seem to take his doom very 
lerioQsly, and we may hope that the merry 
magician somehow contrived to elude his 
hai^;ain, and that his ashes now rest 
•peacefully in Edmonton Churchyard, where 
ues a kindred spirit, in humour and 
fteneral friendliness — the geniial essayist; 
Charles Lamb. 

At Enfield, again, we have memories of 
Charles Lamb, who lived in the neighbour- 
hood for many years, and whose favourite 
walks were in the wild and rural scenes 
about the ancient chase. 

A wild and lovely country was this in 
olden time, haunted by witches and war- 
locb, by Egyptians and conjuring folk, as 
well as the occasional resort of robbers and 
highwaymen, who found a refuge here 
when their more frequented haunts became 
nnsafe. Here Dick Tnrpin and his friend, 
Tom King, are. said to have contrived a 
secret lurtdng-place. Once noted for its 
oak-trees, whose hearts of oak furnished 
forth the navies of the Commonwealth, the 
forestwasalmost cleared and partly enclosed 
daring the civil wars. But at the Besto- 
ratioQ it was once more afforested, and 
Ktocked with deer. From this time the 
fBsident population, comprising many who 
had been evicted from their enclosures, 
devoted themselves mainly to poaching and 
deer-itealing, and associated bands of law- 
less men, the most noted of whom were the 
Waltham Blacks, often set the authorities 
at defiance. To end this state of things. 

as well as for the profit of those concerned 
in the operation, the Chase was disafforested 
by Act of Parliament in 1779. 

Some five - and - twenty years before, 
Enfield Wash was the scene of an 
adventure which for long set the town 
by the ears. Elizabeth Canning was 
only a servant-maid in the house of some 
obscure citizen, and when she disappeared 
from her place, and was no more seen for 
a while, the circumstance seems to have 
excited little attention. But, a month 
later, Elizabeth reappeared, pale and 
emaciated, and told a wonderful story of 
how she had been waylaid in Moorfields, 
seized, and carried off to a place which, by 
her description, was identified as a cotte^e 
near Enfield Wash. An old woman, we 
tenant of the cottage, and a gipsy-woman 
who resorted there, were identified by 
Elizabeth, and arrested as being concerned 
in her detention. They were tried at the 
next assizes, convicted on Elizabeth's evi- 
dence, and sentenced to death. The gtrFs 
story had created an immense amount of 
popular enthusiasm and excitement, but 
many cooler heads looked upon her story 
with suspicion, and eventcudly the two 
women were respited, and Elizabeth Can- 
ning was put upon her trial for perjury. 
The evidence was conclusive that neither 
of the women she accused could have been 
concerned in the matter, and thus, in spite 
of the tide of popular /eeling, which ran 
strongly in the girl's favour, a verdict of 
Guilty was returned, and Elizabeth was 
sentenced to transportation. All this time 
there was such a fire of pamphlets, broad- 
sheets, and brochures about the case, that 
the literature of the subject is as bulky as 
if it had been an affair of national impor- 
tance. And idthough Elizabeth was trans- 
ported, yet it was m quite a triumphant 
manner, accompanied by the blessings and 
good wishes of her adherent?, and by some- 
thing more substantial in the way of a 
large sum of money that was collected for 
her; and, thus endowed, it is said that 
Elizabeth, soon after landing on the shores 
of America, was wooed and won by a 
planter of Maryland or Virginia, and 
perhaps helped to found one of the 
celebrated first families of those ancient 

But Enfield has other memories more 
savoury — Saleigh's cottage, Uvedale's 
school, the elder Disraeli's house, Charles 
Lamb's house by the wayside, to say 
nothing of its ancient royal state, when 
Kings and Queens held tl^eir court at 





162 CAprU 3, 1886.] 



Enfield, and its roads and lanes were 
blocked by trains of horsemen, or the 
lambering gilded coaches of the^period, 
while state processions and royal pro- 
gresses were matters of everyday occur- 
rence. Enfield has something to show in 
the way of a royal palace in the town 
itself; but, in aU probability, the cluef 
residence of royalty was at El^ge Hall — 
an old hoose now pnlled down^ the site of 
which may still be traced within the 
grounds of Forty HalL 

The earlier manor-house of Enfield is 
said to have been placed among some 
ancient earthworks which bear the name — 
itself suggestive of high antiquity as mostly 
applied to British or Eoman works— of 
Camlet Moat The site is described in 
The Fortunes of Nigel, and within it is a 
deep well, at the bottom of which, accord- 
ing to popular tradition, is an iron chest 
full of treasure. Another tradition tells, 
with what might strike a novelist as a 
wasteful expenditure of useful incident, 
how the last owner, or perhaps chief 
keeper of the Chase, being attainted of 
treason, and pursued for his life, hid him- 
self in a hollow tree, and toppled over into 
the well — and there an end. 

Another and better authenticated tragedy 
is that of the Witch of Edmonton as dra- 
matised by Ford and Dekker in the 
seventeenth century, what is actually 
founded on the tnie story of a poor old 
woman, a denizen of Enfield Chase, who was 
executed for witchcraft in the year 1622. 

Although Enfield ceased to be a royal 
residence after Queen Elizabeth's time, yet 
the frequent presence of the court of 
James the First, at his favourite hunting- 
seat of Theobalds, kept up the assoeiations 
of the place with royalty. Popular tra- 
dition describes King James as frequently 
unbending, and mixing incognito with the 
humble people about. The sign of The King 
and the l^ker celebrates one of these 
occasions, which is also the subject of a 
famous old ballad. The King, alter hob- 
nobbing with the tinker, and winning his 
heart by his good fellowship, draws from 
him the admission that the great wish of 
his heart is to have a good look at the 
King. The disguised monarch, who, with- 
out the trappings of royalty, looks as much 
like a brother tinker as anything else, offers 
to gratify his companion, and bids him 
mount behind him on his horse : 

Then up got the tinkler, and likewise his sack, 
His budgiBt of leather and tools at his back, 
They rode till they came to the merry green wood, 
His nobles came round him, and bareheaded stood. 

"But where is the Kingt" asks ih« 
tinker. To which the King replies tiiat, ai 
they are the only two who remain coTered, 
it must be either one or t'other, yfhm- 
upon the poor tinker rolls off the steed ia 
abject devotion, expecting to be led iwij 
to instant execution ; but the King Udi 
him rise, Imights him on the spot, and 
assigns him a revenue of three hnndreda 
year, which is just as a King should do^ 
from a minstrel's point of view. 

Since those happy days the gipsies and 
tinkers of Enfield have not had mock 
chance of foregathering with ro3ralt7. Bal 
there have been many settlers of ruik aii4 
influence who, in one way or another, hi4 
obtained slices of the old forest 
various lodges which still remain to 
the extent of the Chase have been 
by various distinguished personages. 
Earl of Chatham had the SouA Lodge, 
Lord Loughborough the East Lodge ; wj 
at an earher period Lord William Howt 
the Belted Will of Border legends, had 
house at Mount Pleasant, in Enfield C 
White Webbe House was a rendezvons 
the conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot 
The Earl of Lincoln had a seat at Ponder^i 
End ; the Cecils had a small establishment 
at I^mmes ; and there were many oUur 
pleasant seats in the neighbourhood. One 
Hugh Foriee gave his name to Forty EaU 
and to Forty Hill, which sometimes figures 
as Fourtree HilL Then there was Smf 
Hall, once the seat of President Bradsbaw, 
the chief regicide, and at that time a greit 
resort of the chiefs of the Parliamentazy 
party. But none of the distiogoi^ 
people who ever lived here have left anj 
distinct traces in the locality, and persons 
unknown or obscure have given their names 
to the flourishing settlements of Pottet^s 
Bar and Ponder^s End. 

Enfield and Edmonton were once noted 
for their fairs, which were resorted to bj 
the London citizens, and once gay and busy 
enough, but which have mosUy been pat 
down now as public nuisances. James the 
First, enclosing some of the parish common 
land on Enfield Chase to add to his hnnliiig' 
ground at Theobalds, granted in ezehmge 
the right to hold two fairs, called the 
Beggar's Bush Fairs — a bad bargain for ^e 
parish it would seem^ for the land is still 
there, but the fairs have been abolished. 

Beyond these regions lies Hadley or 
Monken Hadley, having once belonged to 
the priory of Saflron Walden — a pretty 
rural place, whose ancient churchyard is 
rich with tiie dust of nameless wairion, 



[April 3, 1686.] 163 

who fought at Bamet Field close by. On 
the square solid tower b reared an ancient 
beacon-cresset, which maj have been 
lighted when the Armada was in sight, 
and which was last fired in honour of the 
Prince of Wales's marriage. 

And now there is omy South Mims to 
visit and ita ancient church, with interest- 
ing Norman features, in a pleasant, diver- 
dned landscape, with seats and mansions 
scattered here and there, but with no 
strikbg features in its local annals. 

And now we may retrace our steps 
towards London, of which we may perhaps 
catch a glimpse from some of these northern 
hei^ta All round lie her rising settle- 
nents, evidences of the marvellous growth 
of the mother dty, while winding here and 
tiieie, crossing and interlacing, twine the 
isrpent-like wreaths of steam from the 
passing trains ; and the continuous murmur 
of thour progress suggests how widely 
stretch the arms of the great city which 
lies there shrouded in the mystery of her 
garment of smoke and vapour. 

By THBO gift. 

A^Ukornf ** La Lorimer," **An AlHd and its Price," 

Etc, Eto, 



On the house - boat the prolonged 
absence of Marstland and Vera was 
beginning to attract notice not altogether 
&Toarabk. DoUy James made a little 
joke about it, and by-and-by Naomi came 
fiusing up to Leah, and observed in an 
undertone of decided petulance that she 
tbooght it was very odd of Miss St Laurent 
to have walked off with George Marstland 
in this way. 

" It is getting late^ you know, Leah, and 
we onght to be going home. Aliz will be 
ma to catch cold sleeping on Albert's biee 
like that." 

"Take my shawl to cover her," said 
I«sh quickly. " It isn't really late, dear. 
Besides, this sunset time is the pleasantest 
psrt of the day on the water, and Vera 
sad I won't be here to enjoy much more 
of it." 

"You might be, if you would only stay 
with ns till our term was up," said Naomi 
ho^tably ; '' but seriously, Leah " — in a 
vbi^er— *' I was surprised when Burt said 
tbst George and AGss St Laurent had 
Uun tilien^elvea off together directly after 

tea, and had not been seen sinca It 
isn't civil of George to leave all the host's 
duties to his friend ; and as to the girl, I 
tiiought you said her parents were such 
tremendous sticklers on the score of 

Leah looked annoyed. 

" So they are ; but surely there is no 
impropriety in going with George Marst- 
land to get a few rushes 1 I would have 
done it in a minute." 

" You % You are old friends ; and Miss 
Vera has known him about a week. I 
never believe in these seemingly ultra-shy 
girls. There 1 it's striking seven now." 

<< Never mind if it is. Don't make a 
fuss, Naomi dear, when we are all so com- 
fortable," said Leah, distressed lest anyone 
should hear, and trying to coax her sister 
into the seat from which she herself had 
risen; but fortunately at that moment 
there was a splash in the water and creak 
of oars quite near them, and out of the 
purpling twilight two white figures rose 
suddenly into sight as, grasping the rail of 
the house-boat with one hand so as to draw 
the dingy idongside, Marstland held out 
the other to help Vera to her feet. 

** Did you thmk we were lost 1 " he said 
in his loud, cheerful tonea '* It was Miss 
St. Laurent's fault more than mine, how- 
ever. I promised to cut her a few rushes, 
and she would be hardly content with less 
than a ton, and a lapful of Water-lilies 
into the bargain. I thought the boat 
would have gone under with the weight of 
them more man once." 

'^ We thought it had gone under long 
ago," said Naomi sharply, but checked 
herself as much out of natural kindness as 
in deference to Leah's look of appeal, as 
she stepped forward, holding out both 
hands to help her friend on to the deck: 

*' So long as you've got the rushes, it's 
all right," she said pleasantly. '' I thought 
you would find it ta^e you some time. Vera; 
they are so stiff to cut. I hope some of them 
are for me." 

" Why, they are all for you, Leah," said 
Vera, smiling up at her from where she 
stood, a picturesque little figure in the soft, 
violet haze, with the drooping lily-buds in 
her hands, and the sheaf of rushes at her feet 
'' You said you wanted a quantity, and that 
was why Dr. Marstland took me to get them 
for you. Are they not feathery ones, too 1 
I thought you would be pleased;" and she 
looked so bright and unconscious of having 
done anything unconventional that even 
Naomi had not the heart to look grave, 


164 prU3,lfi86.] 



thongh annoyed more than she would have 
cared to avow, both by the girrs conduct, 
and by Leah's instant and cordial accept- 
ance of the rashes which had served as a 
pretext for it 

As it was really getting late by now, 
however, and Ab'x had woke up and began 
to whimper, the adieax were harried, and 
the party broke up : Bart accompanjring 
the Jameses to Weybridge, and Marstland 
lending an oar in the Lucas boat He 
was in high spirits all the way, teasing 
poor Benjy about his empty fish-baske^ 
rallying Leah with quite brotherly sauci- 
ness on young James s admiration for her, 
and telling one good anecdote after another 
till little Mr. Lucas was kept in a perpetual 
giggle of laughter, and Naomi's round face 
was nothing but a coruscation of dimples. 
Bat when they had landed, and he had 
carried Aliz up to the house, and given 
her into the arms of the parlour-maid, he 
declined to come into supper, and saying 
they had had quite enough of him, bid 
them good-night rather hurriedly, and 
strode off whistling. They could hear the 
air, " My love she's but a lassie yet," quiver- 
ing out of the summer darkness for some 
nunutes after the dip and splash of the 
sculls told that he had started on the return 

" Well, you people seem to have had a 
very good time. Those fellows fed us 
capitally, didn't they t " said Mr. Lucas 
cheerfully. ** And how did you enjoy it, 
Miss St Laurent ? " 

<< Eojoy it 1 Oh, I think it was the 
pleasantest day I ever spent anjrwhere," 
said Vera, waMng up from a reverie wiUi 
a sudden shine in her eyes which more than 
endorsed the words ; but even pleasure did 
not make her more conversationid than 
usual, and Leah noticed that she rather 
shrank from than sought their customary 
bedroom confabulation afiber retiring for 
the night, and that her eyes had a curious, 
pitying expression in them as they kissed 
each other before saying good-night 

She had noticed before, wondering 
whether anyone else did, that though Vera 
wastheonly one Marstland did not jest with 
or talk to on the way home, he always broke 
off in anything he was saying if she spoke, 
and, encumbered as he was with Alix, 
managed that it should be his hand which 
helped her to shore, and hers which he 
held in a second good-bye after he had 
already said farewell to the whole party 

Silly to take count of such trifles; 

strangely silly for a sensible girl like 
Leah, and still more so to suffer tham to 
weigh on her spirit so heavily that, even 
though tired enough by the long day's 
outing to be glad when the moment for 
retiring came, she felt no desire for bed, 
but having undressed and extingoiahedho 
candle, sat down by the window, and gaaog 
out on the faintly-silvered ripples of tb 
broad river gliding blackly between iti 
shadowing trees, gave herself up to reflec- 
tions grave enou^ to provoke more thm 
one heavy siffL 

It was well, perhaps, that the shadovi 
under those trees were so black, or ahe 
might have seen a boat lying there witiii 
solitary man seated in it, his arms restaog 
on the suspended sculls, and his gase fize{ 
not on the wing of the house where her 
room was situated, but on a lighted 
window in the main body of it, behind 
whose drawn white curtains Vera wasem 
then preparing for rest after her nsod 
methodical fauiion, but with the lu^ 
look which had floated about her lips lU 
the evening still resting on them. 

Suddenly a thought occurred to the 
young French girl Marstland had laked 
her, as they returned to the house-boit 
under the light of the first stars of even- 
ing twinkling through the twilight bine, if 
she was fond of astronomy, and hid 
observed that Orion had shone out pir- 
ticularly brightly the last night or two 
after the moon was down. 

" That wouldn't be till eleven, however," 
he said; '* and I don't know if you could 
see it fh>m your room. It is only visiUe 
from the river-side of the house." 

"Oh, but my room is on that side," 
Vera answered. '' It is just over the bresk- 
fast-room. I must look out to-night" And 
Marstland had said '<Do", and chained the 
subject Only in taking her hand to saj 
'* Good-bye ", he had haJbf whispered : 

'* Tou won't forget Orion 1 " and though 
she had not answered, indeed she had had 
no time to do so, the sound of eleven 
striking from the hall-dock below stain 
brought it to her remembrance now, and, 
dropping the comb and brush with which 
she was just manipulating her long treaees, 
she stepped to the window, drew aside the 
curtain, and looked out 

Marstland was right The moon had 
disappeared, and the stars were •hiniog 
brightly indeed, the sword and belt of Orion 
glittering like a double triplet of jewels 
above the tufted willows on the farther 
shore of the river, and being reflected in 




[April 3, 1886.] 165 

broken glimmera on the rippled enrface 
beneath. Bat their very bnghtnesa came 
upon her like a painfol shock by recalling 
to her nights in her lonely girlhood when 
she had watched them drearily from her 
chamber window at Lea Gb^taigniers ; and 
involuntarily she shivered, the smile on her 
lip faded, and after one long, wistful gaze, 
she dropped the curtain again and turned 
iwij without even a downward glance at 
the river where, shrouded by the darkness, 
the lonely boatm&n, in his little skiff, sat 
still and motionless as if carved out of 
ibony. He had not wanted her to see 
lim. He had chosen his position, indeed, 
with the opposite intent; but as the slender, 
dark figore, with its loosened veil of hair, 
stepped back from the window, and the 
eortains fell together again over the space 
it had occupied, a long murmuring sigh 
broke from his lips — a sigh which formed 
itself into the words : " She did remember. 
Heaven bless her ! " and, letting the blades 
of the sculls drop into the water, he bent 
once more over them, and with a couple of 
long strokes, was in the middle of the stream 
and oat of sight 

Not before Leah had spied him, however. 
The flash of the blade as it struck the water 
had caught her eye almost simultaneously 
vith the sudden darkening of a bright patch 
of yellow light which, for the last two 
aunates, had been reflected from Vera's 
vindow on to the lawn below ; and, though 
it was too dark for her to distinguish more 
than the outlines of the oarsman, and there 
iras nothing extraordinary in anyone being 
ontbe river at eleven o'clock on an August 
night, the knowledge that he had been 
there stationary and unseen by her came 
npon her mind with a sort of shock, and in 
eonjanction with her previous train of 
thoaght, and the disappearance of that 
light from her friend's window, forced a 
radden suspicion into it 

"Could it have been he)" and <<Have 
they come to assignations already ? " was 
the double thought it contained, the last 
an mtensely bitter one ; but the next 
moment her face flushed hotly with genuine 
aelf^K>ntempt, and she stepped back from 
the window, pulling down the blind with a 
jerk, as she muttered : 

" How despicable I am growing 1 As if 
die might not have said the same of me 1 
Was I not standing there too) And 
iQI^KMe it was he, what right have I to 
complaint" She was too honest with 
herself even then to try to deceive her 
▼anity with the thought that it was her 

window he was contemplating. She knew 
too certainly that it was not 

And she was risht Marstland had 
fallen in love, and being of an impetuous 
and energetic temperament, had done so 
with aU the energy and impetuosity which 
might have been expected of hint He 
had seen Vera St. Laurent six or eight 
times perhaps within the last ten days; 
and at first sight had pronounced her ugly 
and uninteresting ; yet he felt and believed 
now that there was no single moment in 
all that time that she had not been the 
most charming of all women in his eyes ; 
and was prepared to prove the same by any 
act of chivalry and devotion, however 
romantic or imprudent, which came into his 
head. To him, indeed, it would not have 
mattered a jot had the whole world seen 
him playing the love-sick swain under his 
lady's window. Why should it? If a 
woman were fit to be worshipped at 
all, he would have said, it were fitter and 
more manly to worship her openly than in 
secret ; and in his then state of mind Vera, 
with her soft voice and limpid eyes, her 
naive ignorances, childlike docility, and 
tender, serious enthusiasms, was a creature 
as worthy of worship as any " Madonna 
Laura " or " blessed damozel " in the golden 
days of mediasvalism. 

Nor was he like the sBsthetes of to^ay, 
satisfied with worshipping his goddess. He 
wanted to possess her; to become "guide, 
phOosopher, and friend," husband and lover 
in one, to appropriate for his very own this 
tender maiden before some ot^er hand, 
less reverent perhaps, should rub the 
bloom off that spotless innocence: some 
'other soul, less loving, dim those unclouded 
eyes with the shaSow of this world's 
wisdom. He had been in love before, 
more than once perhaps. There are few 
men of six-and-twenty who have not ; but 
these had been brief, ephemeral passions, 
fancies and flirtations, light of life, and 
lightly laughed over when extinguished; 
not to be compared even with his far 
more deeply rooted affection and respect 
for Leah Josephs. This was the first time 
that he had ever seriously thought of 
marriage, but now he desired nothing 
so ardently, and if he could have gained 
Vera's consent would have been overjoyed 
to rush off the following morning and 
have his banns put up in the parish church 
at Weybridge. True, he had not known 
her long ; but he knew that she was pure, 
and gentle, and sweet-natured ; her devo- 
tion to Leah and the little ones proved 


166 [April 8, 1886.] 


that she could love, while Leah's regard 
for her was — ^from a woman like Leah — a 
testimony in itself as to her other merits. 

His own parents were dead, and the only 
relation nearly interested in him was a 
sister, very happily married herself, and 
most anxious to see him so, while of 
Vera's parents he had only heard enough 
to feel that he need not stand in much 
fear of them. They might be everything 
that was disagreeable; but "disagreeable 
people-in Jaw " (as Max O'Bell hath it) do 
not so much matter when they are on one 
side of the Channel and you and your 
wife on the other; and it certainly did 
net occur to him that the small "seigneur'' 
of an impoverished property in Brittany, 
and with an English nobody for his wife, 
was at all likely to refuse his daughter to 
an English gentleman of unblemished 
character, excellent famUy connections, a 
good profession, and a fair private income. 

The real question was, would the 
daughter consent f And this was the 
only one which he kept turning and weigh- 
ing in his head. Of course ne was not 
worthy of herl What true man ever 
thinks himself worthy of the woman he 
loves ) But might not her sweetness over- 
look that, and take him as he was, in spite 
of his unworthiness f 

Of one thing he felt convinced, that as 
yet she was fancy free ; her whole bearing 
and conversation proclaimed that, even u 
Leah would not have been sure to know 
had the reverse been the case; and then 
he thought — he almost knew — she liked 
him ; and liking, with very young girls, is 
often only one step from love — so small a 
step, indeed, that frequently the mere 
revelation that they are beloved is sufficient 
to lift them over it " La jeunesse aime 
I'amant"; and it was with a sudden, 
daring desire to prove the extent of this 
liking and of his influence over her that he 
had proposed that little test of the star- 

Vera had not known it was a test — had 
scarcely thought of him at all in it ; but^ 
as he sat in the darkness watching her 
shrouded window, he said to himself : 

"If she doesn't look out I shall know 
I am nothing to her as yet ; that she does 
not care enough for me or my words to pay 
a mom^t's heed to them." 

And when the curtains were drawn back, 
and she stood there, framed in the yellow 
light, it seemed to him as if she had 
come in answer to the yet unspoken 
prayer of his heart; and he blessed 

and thanked her for it, and went home 
rejoicing and feeling as though a great step 
had been gained and the battle half won 

He called at the villa the very next 
afternoon. Naomi was out ; but L^ h^ 
pened to be in the garden, cutting flewen 
for the drawing-room, and came forward st 
once to greet him with all her wonted cor- 
diality : continuing her occupation sftn- 
wards while she talked to him of ike part 
day's enjoyment& 

For once, however, Marstiand did not 
seem to respond to or even appreciate her 
expressions of pleasura Poor Leah I 
Heaven alone mew how little pleanui 
there had been in the day to h^. He 
answered, of course, but in so absent a 
manner, tiiat she saw he was not attending 
to what was said, and as he kept ^andng 
round as if in search of someone else, she 
said quite frankly to him: 

" Vera is in the morning-room, workiif 
at Naomi's sewing-machina Wouldn't yoa 
like to go in) Iwillfollowyoainaminata 
Indeed, I have got nearly enough flowen 
as it IS. 

Marstland's handsome face coloured lib 
a girl'a He had not expected so directan 
answer to his wandering gaze ; and it wai 
not without a good deal of embarrassment 
that he managed to say laughingly : 

<' Working at a machine ! A^U, that ii 
the last thing I could have pictured Vm 
St Laurent doing. Those soft, white fingen 
of hers seem too helpless for any form of 
work, but if you have got enough flowen 
let us go in and contemplate the anonudf 
by all means. There is a decided east 
wind to-day, and I don't think you ought 
to be standing out in it." 

" You are too careful of me ! " said Leah, 
and then reproached herself for the dryness 
which she could not help detecting in her 
own accent. It was very hard to keep it 
back, however — ^very hard to stand still 
and see her best and dearest friend drifting 
away from her into the possession of some- 
one else, just at the moment, too, when she 
had begun to realise with a shock of 
absolute anguish how dear he really was 
to her. But she had to see it, all the 
same, for they were no sooner in the hoose 
than he was at Vera's side asking anxiously 
how she was after yesterday's exertions, if 
she was sure, quite sure, that she had not 
caught cold from his keeping her so long 
upon the water in that litllB dingy, so<] 
going on to tease her about her laborioas 
occupation, declaring that he knew she 
could not do it, and volunteering to assist 


camifli DfflksDi.] 


[Apia 8, 1886.] 167 

her with it Naomi found them so when 
she came in, with both their heads .bent 
over the machine, and Vera laughing as 
happily as a child, while Leah sat at some 
distance sewing frilling on to a frock for 
Aliz, and with a worn expression on her 
face which caused her sister to welcome 
the young doctor far less effusively than 
osoa], and to decline his proi>osition of 
tating them for a row with a decisioni which 
notevenTera's look of timid disappointment 
coold soften. 

Bat the look more than repaid Marstland 
for the refusal It was another proof that 
she cared, and when he pleaded for the 
following day instead, heab came to his 
assistance, and cut short the objections her 
lister was beginning, by saying that she 
ind Vera would go in any case, and take 
Benjy and his fishing-rod to make the 
number even. Vera thsmked her for it after- 
wards with frank gratitude, more difficult 
to bear than Naomi's shrug of disapproval 

" I am so glad we are going, because he 
hsd.promised to teach me to row, and I do 
so want to leam. He says he taught you, 
ind that I could do it quite easily; but I 
doabt that. He doesn't know, I expect, 
how stopid I am." 

** Well, it would be rather wonderful if 
he knew much about you in any way, con- 
adering theshortnessof your acquaintance," 
aid Leah rather sharply; but the next 
ttoment she repented, and added in her 
deasantest voice : "There is no reason, 
however, that he shouldn't learn, or you 
other. You will find him a very ^kkI 
teacher, dear." 

Perhaps Vera was a bad learner. Marst- 
land was right in calline her fingers help- 
less ones, and her decided clumsiness at 
the oar justified the careful and protracted 
ksson which he found it necessary to 
bestow on her. It took all Leah's pride 
ind patience, more than all her generosity, 
to jnrevent her from wearying of bein^ 
leatedat the helm while Maxstland wasted 
bapp]^ fljiciments in trying to teach that soft 
wnst £6w" i4 bend the oar to its right 
htent, and those pretty fingers to clasp or 
vnelasp their presape at the proper 
inoment To nim it was an hour in 
Paradise, a delicious luxury to touch that 

C)cious little hand, a passionate joy to 
k mto those wistful eyes, with their 
b«M)cent appeal, " Is that right 1 " a proud 
^^ph to see the soft cheek pinking with 
tender roses at his words of praise or 
wcouragement Probably it was sweet to 
^era too, for she showed no inclination to 

shorten the lesson, and, even after they 
had landed, suffered him to delay her on 
the bank, listening to final inskuctions, 
and making plans for future lessons, until 
Naomi had to send down one of the chil- 
dren to hurry her in to dinner, and even 
Leah wondered if this was the same girl 
who had been wont to start from shadows 
the most figmentary, and entertain qualms 
and scruples as to tiie propriety of walkmg 
through the village unattended, or saying 
a few kind words to a servant in passing, 
at Les Oh4taigniers. 

Neither of the sisters, however, were 
prepared to see their mest make her 
appearance at t^e break&st-table on the 
following morning, hatted and smiling, with 
a pretty glow on her cheeks and two little 
blisters on her hands, which she held up 
to them as she announced that she had 
just been out for an early practice with 
Dr. Marstland, and had rowed ^' quite a 
great bit without catching a crab or doing 
anything stupid." 

This was too much for Naomi, and, 
despite all Leah's entreating looks, she 
took the girl upstairs after breakfast and 
gave her a good lecture, which had the 
effect of maun^ Vera cry bitterly, and of 
puzzling her quite as much as it distressed 

" How should she know that there was 
anything particular in going with Dr. 
Marstland f Leah had said that she might 
do BO when she asked her leave the first 
time, and had also said there was no reason 
he should not teach her to row, and she was 
sure Leah wouldn't let her do anything 
that was not quite nioe. As for her mamma, 
she had never said a word about boating, 
or the doctor either. Mamma had only 
warned her against getting intimate with 
the Jeiidsh young men, and she had been 
careful to obey her. She always was." 

*' Oh, bother obedience I " said Naomi 
bluntly. " Surely, my dear, you're woman 
enough to have instincts of your own, and 
you must know that to take yourself off 
alone to flirt with young men isn't the 
thing for a girl, unless she wants to be 
talk^ about" 

" I never flirt 1 " said Vera indignantly. 
"Of course I know that would be most 
unseemly, but I never did, and I only went 
alone because Leah looked tired last night, 
and nurse wouldn't let Ben or Alix go 
before breakfast Besides, Dr. Marstland 
asked me to come, so he couldn't have 
thought it was wrong, and he must know. 
Leah savs he is a verv eood man. and tha^. 



(Atiril 8. 18811 

everyone likes and trusts him ; she said he 
was a man to be trusted, and she wanted 
us to be friends. Mamma put me in Leah's 

It was evidently hopeless. Vera was 
perfectly sincere, but she also did not like, 
or look up to Naomi, and the result was 
this timid, tearful obstinacy which irritated 
the latter and made her agree the more 
readily to Leah's proposal that the two 
girls should return to liondon, and the 
more efficacious direction of Mr. and Mrs. 

It was impossible, however, to achieve 
this without Marstland being acquainted 
with the fact and its cause. V era's reddened 
eyelids and nervous, altered manner when 
they next met would alone have betrayed 
that something was wrong, and he imme- 
diately devoted all his enegies to securing a 
t^te-^-t^te with her, and finding out what 
the ** something " was. 

The result may be easily guessed ; for as 
soon as he was gone Vera went in search 
of Leah, and flinging her arms round her 
neck sobbed out : 

*' Oh, Leah, Leah, what do you think f 
He loves me, and he wants to marry me, 
and not let me go back to France any 
more. Oh, dear Leah, aren't you glad 1 
Do say you are, for now you know we 
shall always be near one another ; and, 
besides, he is coming up to London by the 
next train after us ; and he wants you to 
be our friend, and tell your father and 
mother before he arrives." 

Leah's face was very pale, but she had felt 
what was coming, and spoke quite calmly : 

" My dear chOd, it is your father and 
mother that have got to be consulted, and 
I think mine will only say he should have 
done.that before speaking to you. Suppose 
they should not consent ? " 

" Oh — ^but, Leah, they will," said Vera 
confidently. "No one could help liking 
him, and he says he does not even want a 
' dot ' with me ; and, besides, he could not 
ask them till he knew if — ^if I cared, too. 
He was afraid — oh, Leah, fancy him 
afraid 1 — afraid of vexing me 1 " 

"And do you care for him, dear!" 
Leah asked with her arm round her friend's 
waist ; but it was well the latter could not 
see her face as she answered, hiding her 
own the while and begging anew for 
Leah's friendship and help, they "were 
both so fond of her". The Jewish girl's 
reply was full and clear as it could be: 

" I am your friend now — his and yoon 
too. I always shall be so, and I wfil Up 
you both at any time, and all I can." 

There was no denying that Mr. and Mm 
Josephs looked grave over the news, ud 
thought) as Leah predicted, that theyoong 
people had been too hasty ; but they were 
kindly, easy-going people who had alwiji 
allowed full freedom of choice to their own 
children, and had besides too warm a& 
esteem and liking for young Marsthmd not 
to look hopefully on his chances. So, whoi 
they found that both he and Vera hid 
written to the St Laurents even Mote 
leaving Weybridge, they merely insisftej 
that there should be no whisper of la 
engagement or lovers' privileges till the 
answer came, and did not carry their 
severity so far as to forbid the house to 
the young man in the interim. 

And Marstland fully availed himielf of 
his implied liberty. Those four days that 
followed were very happy and peaceful onei 
to the two young lovers; days of snspeue^ 
indeed, but of suspense brightened bj 
hope and anticipation, sweetened by nmtoil 
sympathy, and nlled full of the novd^ani 
deUciousness of first love. 

They were sitting together on the ato 
noon of the fourth day. Vera had begns 
to get nervous as the time for a letter (o 
amve drew nigh, and Marstland was sealal 
beside her on the broad window-seat ol 
the pretty, old-fashioned drawing-roooi, 
stroking one of her little hands as he tried 
to console and encourage her, while Leak) 
with her back turned to them, was diS* 
gently practising on the grand piano, 
when the door opened and the maid 
announced : 

"A person, please, m'm, to see AGtf 

" A person to see me 1 " repeated Vera 
in amaze ; but the next moment her bee 
changed and she started up with a lot i 
agitated cry at the sight of a thin, red- 
haired, plain-featured woman in black, 
who had entered the room behind the 
servant " Joanna ! " she exclaimed faistlj. 

•* Yes, Vera, it's me," said the woman 
grimly, not coming nearer or looking a( 
anyone else in the room. " I've be^n sent 
to fetch you home, as your mother coold|i'fe 
be spared to come herself; and, ifjaapleuot 
I'll help you to put up your thing" 1^ 
once. The mail-traii^ leaves at nine thii 

The Right of Translating Article$from All THE Ybab Round is reserved hy the Authm^ 

ibUshed ftt fhe OfllM, 2e, WeDliigtoD Street. SInaid. Prtated by Chabuh DKnoms A Rt4I9, M, Qrmt V^^ Mrwt, B.C. 




If Henry Bodney, at the date of his 
meetmg with the daughter of Fair Ines, 
had s^ted himaelf apon Prince Hassan's 
carpet, and had been forthwith deposited 
in Santiago de Gaba, to refresh his 
memory after twenty years, he would 
have foond less change in Don Norberto 
de Bodas than in any other individual 
of his former acquaintance there. Don 
Norberto at twenty-five had looked ten 
years older, but at forty-five he seemed 
to be standing still in life. His hair was 
still densely black, and he was as lean and 
light of movement as of old, with the 
same furtive restlessness in his black eyes. 

In his moral nature there was as little 
alteration. His life was as vicious, and his 
heart was as evil, as in the days when his 
cousin had crossed his path to her own 
min; his ambition and his covetousness 
were also unsatisfied now as then. 

Don Satumino de Bodas had died three 
years after the making of that will, 
concerning which Norberto had fore- 
boded evil, and his prevision had been 
tealiBed. The distrust, gradually growing 
into dislike, with which Don Satumino 
had come to regard his nephew, would 
probably have been more plainly mani- 
fested tf he had lived longer and seen 
more of Norberto. But» for a year before 
his death, Don Satumino resided at La 
Yalladoncella, not coming to his house in 
Santiago at all, and he had no fault to find 
with his nephew in his business capacity. 
" The relf^ns between Norberto and 
Dona Mercedes had been considerably 



strained from the time when he had ex- ii 
pressed his annoyance at her failure to |j 
ascertain the provisions of Don Satumino's ^ 
will, with so much candour and so little 
caution. Her pride, not to be subdued 
by her complicity with his wickedness, then , 
received a wound which she never forgave. 

He had to wait three years, and then 
to learn that his forebodings had fallen 
short of the trutL His uncle had done 
less for him than he had calculated 
as the very least he could do, in com- 
mon decency — an elastic term when we 
apply it to other people's duty — and he 
had made mention of his lost daughter. 

That Dona Mercedes was really ignorant | 
of either of these injuries, which he ranked ) 
as equal, so unslaked was his hatred by time \f! 
and death, Norberto refused to believe. 
He was convinced that the mention of 
Ines by her father was in reality prompted 
by Dona Mercedes, and that she had 
played him false, as he called it, from some 
superstitious motive. He had observed 
symptoms of this kind of weakness in her | 
more than once, especially when anything 
occurred to make her uneasy about Ramon. 
Don Satumino's reference to his daughter 
was to the efiect that he had never been ' 
folly satisfied of her death, and, in the 
event of her return to her former home, or 
making appeal to Dona Mercedes or her< . 
brother, he charged them to receive her, or 
to repty to her, treating her in all respects 
as thoueh she had not forfeited her place 
or her daims. The portion to which she 
was entitled by inheritance from her mother, 
and which had remained in his hands, 
would, of course, be hers. He added that 
these injunctions were also to hold good in 
the case of any child or children of his 
daughter, whose identity should be duly 
Ten years had elapsed since the flight of 


VOL. zzzmx. 





170 [April 10, 1880.] 


CCondnoM bf 

InoB de Eodas when those {orgiving wordi 
saw the light, and thiM since her death. 
Norberto had the pioob of that event m 
his possession ; but he kept his knowledge 
to himself as closely as ever, and merely 
observed to Don Jos^ de SJQva that the 
injunctions were not of a practical nature ; 
that Don Satumino's entertaining the idea 
of his daughter's possible reappearance 
mi^ht be made to bear the interpretation 
of insanity, were it anybody's interest so to 
stigmatise it ; and that there would be a 
fine chance for the rogues who make a 
profession of personation, in the loose and 
sentimental testamentary dispositions of 
his uncle. He might have seen that Doua 
Mercedes was painfully impressed, but 
his fixed idea of her falseness to hun in 
the matter on which he was morally 
insane, blinded him. 

To Don Norberto his undo bequeathed 
a sum equivalent to the half of that which 
would have been the dowry of Lies, had 
she become the wife of her cousin. And 
then came the crowning proof of Don 
Satumino's confidence in Do&a Mercedes. 
Convinced that he could best assure the 
future welfare and happiness of his son by 
placing them unreservedly in the charge of 
the boy's mother, he bequeathed to her the 
whole remainder of his property, to be at 
her absolute disposition. 

Norberto's rage at finding himself 
treated by his uncle so much worse than he 
had feared, was at once intensified and con- 
trolled as to its outward manifestations by 
this final blow, this last revelation of the 
"uxorious imbecility" of Don Satumino, 
True Dona Mercedes had been, to a certain 
extent, Norberto's accomplice in the past ; 
but not in a way that gave him any hold 
over her, to compare with the enormous ad- 
vantage she possessed in wealth, power, and 
independence. All things, save one, had 
prospered with the house of De £odas,.for 
many years past, and the handsome, re- 
served, stately widow of its late head was 
a very rich woman. She was a clever 
woman also, one whom it would be difficult 
for him, whom she had every reason to 
regard with mistrust, to deceive; and 
there was nothing to bind her to pro- 
long his association with her afiairs, k it 
were not her good pleasure to do so. With 
his usual tact he accepted the situation, 
abandoning any notions of d<nnineering 
which he had entertained while his uncle's 
will was yet a secret, and foiling into his 
place of trusted subordinate with readi- 
ness that imposed on Doua Mercedes. 

She had seen but little of Norberto for 
a long time, and in addition to her smcare 
grief for her generous and devoted hus- 
band, there was a trouble in her life, which 
dwarfed other things and put them at a 
distance. The Dona Mercedes who set at 
ease the dark mind of the man who had 
garnered up out of all the past osAj a 
store of hatred for the living and the 
dead who had befriended him, treating 
their interests as one, and his manage- 
ment of afiiairs as a matter of course, was 
more altered in mind than in person from 
the Dona Mercedes who had hated her 
husband's daughter, and had sanctioned the 
suppression of the desolate young widow's 
appeal to her father. 

Of the manner of the rejection of QuX 
appeal. Dona Mercedes was innocent; of 
the ferocious threat which had driven Ines 
into the power of Willesden, through her 
desperate fear for her cMd, and the 
urgent necessity for hiding herself and the 
infant under another name and a changed 
condition, she was as ignorant as of the 
results which it produced. The girl had 
defied and deceived her ; let her eSoffer for 
it I She had disgraced her family for tiie 
sake of a stranger. That he was dead was 
a fitting punislunent for her, but no pallia- 
tion of her offence to them Let the family 
of the stranger see to her now 1 If they 
did not take proper care of her, Ines would 
make her moan again, no doubt ; and then 
Dona Mercedes might think about her 
case. Until then, her father's weakness, 
already much to blame, should not be prac- 
tised on. 

Thus had Dona Mercedes made herself 
the accomplice of Norberto, and, as time 
went on and the silence was unbroken, she 
had readQy accepted his view that Ines 
was dead. What other explanation was to 
be offered t 

When Don Norberto's apprehensicHis as 
to his own future position were allayed by 
the prompt tact of Dona Meroedes, he 
had leisure of mind to exnlt in the 
secret knowledge which he possessed, and 
which, he soon be^an to suspect, would 
have been very precious to her. He would 
have been glad had that knowledge been 
of a different kind; he was forced to 
conclude that the child who had found a 
home with Hugh Bosslyn's sister was well 
cared for, and he would have liked to think 
of her as an outcast and a beggar ; still, it 
was pleasant to watch the workings of 
Dona Mercedes's mind, now that she would 
give anything to be able to cany out her 



[April 10, 1886.1 171 

husband's wishes, and to feel that he 
ooold quiet them if he would. 

After the death of Don Satomino, the 
Ug hoose in Santiago remained practically 
shut api a few rooms being retained by 
Don Boberto for business purposes and 
his own use; but Dona Mercedes and 
her son residing at La Valladonoella. 
In the third year of her widowhood 
Dona Mercedes took her son to Spain, 
and they were absent for several months. 
Before that time, however, odd things 
had been said about the boy, and the 
extraordinary seclusion in which his 
motiier waa bringing him up. It was only 
yagae talk, but Dona Mercedes was a 
ponon of importance while Don Satur- 
nino was not forgotten, and people did 
wonder why Bamon was so little heard of, 
and never seen in the city. Occasionally 
there was a revival of curiosity about the 
girl, the child of Don Satumino's first wife, 
who had gone into a convent in a queer 
sort of way. Attempts were occasionally 
made by ladies of the more dauntless sort 
to extract information about Dofia Mercedes 
and her son from Don Norberto ; but he 
was politely impenetrable. Doiia Mercedes, 
whom numbers of the actually existing 
society had known as one of the leaders of 
it, was said to be so plunged in devotion 
that there was little to choose between her 
honse and the doister. She heard none 
of the fitful speculations upon herself and 
hv son ; she kept the even tenour of her 
way, with the idol of her heart, and tiie 
sm which had '' found her out'', for all her 

Year had followed year in a monotonous 
eonae. Norberto de Bodas was, as Captain 
Wharton had guessed him to be, a local 
magnate. His capacity as a man of business 
waa rated very high, but otherwise he was of 
evil repute, and as unpopular as in the 
long-ago time when Bodney and Hugh 
BoBslyn " talked of the wolf, and they saw 
his ears ", He was no favourite even with 
those who shared his vices, and profited by 
them, and he was still the favourite aversion 
of Don Pepito Vinent 

Dena Mercedes was a white-haired lady, 
in whose face might be read the constant 
schooling of sorrow. It was still pride that 
looked out of those strange blue eyes, but a 
softened pride, and the lines which patience 
bad graven about the mouth tempered its 

Her son at twenty-five years old re- 
sembles his mother, having the same 
I dear, hish-bred look, the same stranee 

blue eyes. But Bamon is still a child, and 
he will always be a chOd. This is the 
explanation of Dona Mercedes's secluded 
life — ^this is the constant sorrow that has 
softened the pride in her eyes, and trained 
her in the school of patience. 

There had been nothing wrong with the 
boy until a year before lus father's death, 
when he had a very bad fever, from which 
his body recovered completely, his mind 
not at alL Don Saturnine died without 
having learned the truth ; he fancied his 
son's condition was only a protracted con- 
valescence, and was latterly too lethargic 
to think about it Upon his mother the 
knowledge had come with unerring and 
unsparing certainty, and afterwards, with 
the hearing of the paragraph in Don Satur- 
nine's will relating to Lies, had come the 
recollection of what she herself had done, 
and the conviction that judgment was upon 

Norberto had discerned correctly enough 
the strain of what he called superstition in 
DofLa Mercedes. It was, in truth, the 
striving of conscience and an early- 
implanted, but unfruitful faith, in a soul to 
which piety was unknown. When this 
strife was first kindled, the boy was but 
fifteen ; the dreadful change, the arrest, or 
rather the retrogression of intelligence was 
of recent occurrence ; there surely was — 
there must be hope. Might there also be 
some sort of possible propitiation 9 Was 
there a place of repentuice for her ? Then 
it was that she betrayed the direction of 
her thoughts to Norberto, to his unmeasur- 
able contempt, and that he steadily with- 
held from her the fact of the existence of 
Ines's child. 

Ten years 1 The silence of death main- 
tained for ten years! That could only 
mean deatL She must bear in mind 
that at the time the fullest enquiry 
was made, without result, to satisfy 
Don Satumino; it was impossible that 
anything could come of a renewed enquiry 
now. How were they to set about it f Thus 
did Norberto meet her timidly-hinted 
wishes and her unconsciously-revealed 
remorse. Then, too, he had referred to 
his own part in the catastrophe with a 
half-careless regret, treating it lightly as a 
young man's exaggeration of a fair-enough 
feding, but conveying in wordp, tone, and 
manner, that for him the whole thing was 
dead and gone to the very verge of that 
dead-and-gonenesB which becomes boredom 
beyond bearing. 
Time passed for the bov who had become 

172 [April 10, 188a] 



a man, but remained a child ; his mother 
lived for him only, while Don Norberto 
ruled over the affairs of the house of De 
Rodas, and the name of Ines was never 
uttered by either of the two who had 
driven her to her doom. 

There was little change in the course of 
Dona Mercedes's life for several years, and 
the changing world around her interested 
and occupied her not at all. But, in the 
same year that^ in England, witnessed the 
events just narrated, the "thing which 
she had feared " befell her — Don Ramon de 
Rodas died. Her grief was beyond telling; 
and not the least part of it was the know- 
ledge that there were people who said it 
was a happy release, a great blessing, and 
all the other things that people do say 
about afiiictions outside their personal ex- 
perience, and which they regard from their 
comfortable standpoint of no-feeling. 

Don Norberto behaved very well on this 
occasion, which promoted him to the 
position of an heir-presumptive. He had 
probably never approached so nearly to 
contentment as when, after the funeral of 
Dona Mercedes's sen, he betook himself to 
a contemplation of his own position and 
prospects. The former was very good, and, 
above all, it was safe; the latter were 
brilliant There did not exist anybody, 
so far as Dona Mercedes knew, who could 
be, upon any reasonable grounds whatever, 
interposed betweenhimsw and theultimate 
possession of the whole of his late uncle's 
wealtL That he was only a few years 
younger than Dona Mercedes was a consi- 
deration which did not trouble him, or 
disturb his calculations. 

Don Ramon had died at Santiago, and 
his mother remained at her town house, 
but in complete seclusion. Don Norberto 
naturally indulged in some conjectures 
respecting what she would be likely to do 
with the remainder of her life. Its sole 
occupation for so many years had been 
her son, that Don Norberto was at a 
loss to imagine in what direction she would 
seek employment for her time. She had 
renounced society, and society had for- 
gotten her. For a short time he had 
thought it likely she might have gone back 
to Spain, after Don Satnmino's death, to 
reside among her own people, leaving 
him master of the position at Santiago, and 
he had ardently desired that solution. The 
affliction that both overshadowed and filled 
her life was, however, even then too plidn 
to be mistaken, and it deprived her of all 

care for anything outside itself. She had 
no wish to see her native country again. 
None of her kin whom she had ever 
known were living now. There was no 
competing interest to ' trouble Don Nor- 
berto's security. He was aware that 
in one sense he was nothing to Dona 
Mercedes, but in another — the only sense 
he cared about — ^he was all she had. 

While he was reflecting upon these 
things in a mood as nearly pleasant as 
he was capable of, a happy idea occurred 
to Don Norberta Supposing Dona Mer- 
cedes were to take to religion I Propitious 
fate could only do him one better torn tiiaa 
th i^T 

He welcomed the notion with warmth ; 
indeed he caressed it so fondly as to 
lose the sense of its incompatibility with 
all previous indications of character in 
Dona Mercedes, and to arrive, after a 
short time, at regarding it as the likeliest 
thing in the world. 

The solitary respect in which the life of 
Dona Mercedes de Rodas now resembled 
that of twenty golden years ago, was her 
invariable attendance at early mass at 
the cathedral Every morning she might 
be seen, wearing deep mourning attire, and 
with her silver-white hair, covered by 
a long, black veil, kneeling in the 
chapel of San Ignacio, on the same spot 
where fair Ines had knelt at her side, in 
the beauty of her bright girlhood. She was 
usually the first to take her place in the 
chapel, and the last to leave it Was the 
happy thought of Don Norberto near the 
mark) Was fate going to do him that 
supremely good turn — ^wasDona Mercedes 
taking to religion — taking to it, that is, 
in the serious way which would lead to her 
retiring to a convent t 

It was not surprising that DonN<Nrberto 
should regard these questions in a cheer- 
fully affirmative lights when on a certain 
day, having asked to see Dona Mercedes 
on business, he was told she had gone to 
the Convent of Las Anonciades. 

No disturbing idea was suggested to 
him by this. It was with light-hearted 
expectation of the happiest remits from 
the visit that he went to his inter- 
view with Dona Mercedes in the 

He found her in the inner coridor — 
that which overlooked the patio, where the 
fountain played as of old, and the flower- 
ing-plants made a central spot of colour. 
A few Ughts were twinkling in the ofiioes, 
but the balcony was Hesl 

Chtflii Dlcktm.] 


[April 10, 188&] 173 

Dona Mercedes was seated in the shade, 
and her face was not distinctly to be seen, 
bat there was nothing calculated to disturb 
the serenity of Don Norberto in her 
manner of receiving him, and listening to 
his business communication. Her de- 
meanour was now habitually grave, and 
her ydce was always low. When he had 
said what he had come to say, and the 
matter was disposed of her composure was 
Blightly shaken as shd asked him to remain 
with her, in order that she mf^ht speak 
to him on a matter of grave import to 
them both. In the dim light he shot an 
eager glance at her, and his hopes rose high. 

Dona Mercedes lifted her black fan, and 
shaded her face. Why did that movement 
send Norberto's memory travelling twenty 
yean back, and show him Ines in the 
day of her scorn and his defeat t So 
vividly did the image of the girl, as she 
had defied him, rise up before him, that 
the years seemed as nothing, and the old 
hatred and revenge, fulfilled yet baffled, 
swelled his heart anew. 

" I have reopened a sealed book to^iay," 
said Dona Mercedes, "and read strange 
things in it. Do you know where I have 

''At the Convent of Las Anonciades, I 

"For the first time for many years. 
I will tell you, Norberto, what made me go 
there. It was remorse." 

** Remorse 1 '' 

"Yes. Since my son was taken from 
me I have been learning that my sin had 
found me out, and with the knowledge 
came despair, because I could see no place 
for repentance; because no reparation, 
however late, was possible; and I must 
bear the curse, together with the punish- 
ment, to the end." 

"What do you mean) What folly is 

"You know well what I mean, Nor- 
berto; and I am not speaking foolishly." 

She let her fan fall to the ground, and 
faced him now, with her huids tightly 
clasped, and her features set in resolute 

" I will not reproach you— do not fear 
that My own share in the wrong that 
was done to my husband's child is too 
great, too heinous, to give me the right 
to reproach you, even knowing what I 
now know." 
" What do you know 1 " 
For all the hardihood of his tone there 

was fear in it. 

" That Ines had a child, that she appealed 
to her father in the name of her child, and 
that you suppressed the appeal Do not 
deny this, Norberto ; but, for Heaven's sake, 
tell me the truth. Now, after all these 
years, tell me what you really did know ; 
let tUs awful thing be cleared up between 

He gripped the sides of his chair, and 
ground his teeth as though he were striving 
to suppress the manifestation of bodily pain. 
The same kind of convulsion that had seized 
him when Do£La Mercedes told him that Ines 
had fled passed over him now, and although 
she could hardly see^ his face, she divined 
the passion that distorted it 

" Who told you ! " 

«The English nun. Sister Santa 
Gertrudis, who was Ines's friend, has long 
been at the head of the community, and 
when I asked to see the reverend mother 
I recognised her. It is not necessary for 
me to repeat to you the reminiscences, the 
questions, and the answers, which led to her 
discovery that I had never known of the 
existence of the child. I did not try to 
excuse myself for the part which I had 
taken in the separation of Ines from her 
father, and the venerable nun, who had 
never fprgotten her, did not hesitate to 
condemn me as I deserved. But when 
she asked what had become of the child, 
she saw that I was innocent and ignorant 
of wrong in respect to her — for Ines's 
child was a girl — and she knew that the 
guilt of her abandonment must lie at the 
door of the person who acted for us in 
everything. I need not repeat her words ; 
they sank deeply into my heart I entreat 
you to tell me the truth. We may both 
find peace and pardon yet in undoing what 
has been done." 

Her voice failed her here, and tears rolled 
down her pale and wrinkled cheeks. 

Don Norberto neither spoke nor moved. 

" I entreat you," she repeated, ** to tell 
me all the truth. I will not blame you for 
anything which you did or lefc undone. 
What right should I have to blame you ? 
We were accomplices, and you went beyond 
me—that is the only way to look at it now. 
I cannot undo my sin, and the punishment 
of it can never be remitted in this world ; 
but there is something that may be 
done, if you will but tell me all, and help 

"Now, if I were but sure how much or 
how little the old woman in the convent 
knows," thought Don Norberto, " I might 
beat them both vet." But he said onlv: 


174 (AplfllO.UM.] 


(Oondncted I7 

"YoQ could have had the troth at any time 
by asking for it. It was yonr policy from 
the first to say nothing, to ask nothing, to 
know nothing. I followed your lead. 
Ton hated the false wretch who brought 
disgrace npon oar name as much as I did, 
though not with such good reason, and it 
was your line to know as little as possible 
about what had become of her, while it was 
mine to know as much." 

*' I grant all that," she said feebly, '' but 
it is vain to speak of it Every feeling of 
mine, except the one wish to make what 
atonement may be merdfidly permitted to 
me, lies buried with my son." 

<' You do not doubt, I presume, that the 
woman is dead f " 

*' Oh no, I do not doubt that. But the 

« I cannot tell you whether she is living 
or dead, because I do not know. If you 
were wise you would abstain from 
enquiring. I don't profess to understand 
your present frame of mind, or how you 
account for its extraordinary contradiction 
of your consenting sQence for all these 
years. Nor shall I waste breath in the 
attempt to justify my own conduct It 
suited your purpose in the past ; it suits 
your purpose no longer. So be it. You 
shall hear all that I can tell you." 

** And you think she is living, and safe 
with her father's sister 9 " 

<' I see no reason to doubt it, and the 
fact is easy to be ascertained." 

''She has not suffered as her mother 
suffered 9 " 

'' Not at alL I fancy she has been well 
cared for." 

'*! will write by the next mail," said 
Doua Mercedes, " and send my letter 
through the a^ent whose address you have. 
Notwithstandmg all time's changes, there 
will be someone responsible for its reach- 
ing the right hands. I thank vou, Nor- 
b^rto. This has been a painful mterview, 
but I have well deserved all that it has 
made me suffer. Let us bury the past 

Lights had been brought b, and he could 
see her face, as she rose and stood for 
a few moments, with a forlorn, lost look in 
her faded eyes. Then she bade him good- 
night, and left him, confounded no less by 
what had occurred, than by the quietness 
with which this scene of startling import 
had passed. His own concentrated rage 
was beyond relief by words. At first it 
was all the blind wrath of defeat and dis- 

appointment, but that phase was soon 
succeeded by another. 

On the following day, Dofia Mercedes de 
Sodas addressed to Miss Merivde, under 
cover to Mr. Walter Ritchie, a communi- 
cation whose first effect was to cause 
Rodney to abandon his intenticm of going 
out to Cuba. 


The Greorgian period was the dark age 
of taste in England. Art of all kinds was 
then at its lowest ebb. As nearly as 
might be England had ''reeled into the 
beast" Manners, music, painting, architee- 
ture, dress, furniture, were all unlovely. The 
mind of a generation that had tolerated ha- 
bitual drunkenness at home, and tot 
amusement watched prize-fights and cock- 
fights, expressed itself outwardly in the 
most cumbersome and unmeaning style of 
dress, architecture, and furniture that the 
world has yet seen. 

About the beginning of the present gme- 
ration, that is to say about thhty or forty 
years ago, a change became evident People 
began to have a dim idea that the taste of 
their fathers was not all it might have been, 
lliey began to rebel against sudi things as 
the decoration of carpets and chairs with 
flowers ; they felt there was something un- 
pleasant in trampling over or sitting on 
blossoms ; but it was rather a feeling that 
something was wrong than a knowledge of 
what was right The parents had eaten 
sour grapes, and the children's teeth being 
consequently on edge, their first efforts 
were not liappy. They invented mauve 
and magenta for their persons, and ribbon- 
gardening for their pleasure grounds, and 
honestly admired them alL In those early 
days of revival we were almost more 
barbarous in our tastes than our fathers 
and grandfathers had beea By d^;ree8, 
however, taste improved, and, when the 
present generation b^an to grow up and 
setde itsdf, it was able to some extent 
to avoid the barbarous if it did not quite 
know what was right The " advanced " 
people struck out a line for themselves in 
the right direction; but, unfortunately, 
those who wished to be considered as be- 
longing to the new school followed them 
blindly and caricatured their .ideas. The 
new tasto said our mothers' rooms had 
been too bright and garish; and, before 
long, rooms were nearly black. It said 
that china was a beautiful manufacture 
that ought not to be hidden away in cup- 

Cbiikf BickaBi.] 


[April 10, 1886.] 175 

boards; and immediately every drawing- 
room in London broke out into an irrup- 
tion of ehina. It was hong on walls, and 
even on doors, in ev^ possible and im- 
possible place, till a lady's drawing room 
looked as if it had been arranged for pistol 
practice. Half the world went mad aboat 
china. Enormous prices were given for it, 
mi you might hear peqple disputing 
whether a more than orainarily ugly and 
ill-made figure was "Old Chelsea,'' and 
worth several guineas, or " Fair ware," ie., 
the common pottery sold at country fairs, 
and not worth twopenca About its 
artistic value, its power of gratifying the 
eye, there was no question whatever. It 
was represented by a minus quantity ; but 
Aat did not entor into the question. 

Then came the Chippendale mania. If 
you would be considered as a person of 
taste, you must worship Chippendale furni- 
ture. No room was tolerable unless it was 
famished with Chippendale. The ugliest 
piece of furniture that could be said to be 
Chippendale was more admired than the 
most beautiful and graceful thing in any 
other Btyle, If it was not Chippendale it 
had no merit, though its lines might be 

This craze was subsequently modified, 
and the appliances of a house must be 
" old." Age was the only qualification. A 
gentleman was heard buying, in a shop in 
town, soma old chairs the leather of which 
was torn. It was explained to him that 
the rents could easily bia mended ; but he 
atterly refused to have them touched. 
Their appearance of age was their value in 
his eyes, and ttus appearance was enhanced 
by their torn and ragged condition. The 
thi^ and make, the mellow colour, and 
other characteristics of age were nothing to 
him ; the mere fact of age was everything. 

A gardener knows that when he buds his 
roses he must carefully suit his briars to 
the roses he is going to graft on them, for 
if the briar is too strong for the graft, it 
will overpower it and throw out branches 
from its own plebeian stom instead of 
nourishing its gentler-bom nursling. In 
tUs gentleman's case, the briar was evi- 
dentiy too strong for the artistic ideas 
he had attempted to graft upon it 

As a rule, people take what is estab- 
lished without question, without it occur- 
ring to them that there is anything wrong 
WI& it They have no innato sense of 
fitness to be o£fended; all thev want to 
know is whether it is in accordance with 
the prevaOine fashion ; but, as soon as the 

unknown authority that settles these mat- 
ters decides that an alteration is to be 
made, the new thing is right and the old 

It is to be hoped, therefore, that our 
domestic art authorities will soon turn 
their attention to some of our daily sur- 
roundings which sadly want reform. 

What can be more hideous than that flat 
slab, stuck in the wall without visible sup- 
port, which does duty as a mantol-piece in 
most houses ) It is impossible to look at 
it without an uneasy feeling that it ought 
to tumble down; a feeling which we ac- 
centuate by putting on me shelf heavy 
ornaments uke docka and bronzes. Almost 
the only suggestion modem taste has made 
on the subject, is to disguise the shelf by 
putting on it a trumpery nondescript thing 
made up of little shelves and pieces of 
looking-|;lass, and patohes of velvet stuck 
about with bite of china and other mean- 
ingless ornament The eye demands that 
whatever has to bear a weight shall have 
an adequate support The old solid mantel- 
pieces, with only such shelf as could be 
made in the thickness of the material, 
were good. They could evidently bear all 
the weight that was put upon them, and 
gave opportunity for carving and other 
graceful ornamentation that made a plea- 
sant resting-place for the eye. Even our 
modem shelves could be made unobjec- 
tionable by the support of brackete, wluch 
themselves give scope for graceful design. 

Glass is another thing that wante the 
reforming energy of an arastic genius. The 
glass itself, the material, is exquisite now. 
it is made as clear as a diamond and as 
thin as a bubble. There never was any- 
thing of the kind so beautiful before as far 
as we have any evidence; and now and 
then the manufacturers get hold of a sood 
shape. The things of every day use, how- 
ever, wine glasses for instence, are, as a 
rule, utterly bad Among the things to 
which the modem revived taste objected was 
our fathers' glass, and, in rebeUion against 
their heavy shapes, Uie artistic eenius of 
the day invented ''straw-stemmed glasses. 
From the manufacturer's point of view, no 
doubt straw-stemmed glasses are good, 
llieir use must give considerable impetus 
to trade; but it is the only merit they 
hava It is difficult to conceive anything 
more inartistic than one of our big modem 
glasses full of wine, supported on a stem 
that die least shake will break, and with 
nothing to protect the bowl from being 
pierced by ite thin pedestal Had the 

176 FApril 10, 1886.1 



designer studied the formation of a rose, 
he would have seen how to avoid that 
radical mistake. The tall, narrow glasses 
our fathers used for champagne, were at all 
events graceful, even if they were a Utile 
difficult to drink out of; but our glass 
saucers stuck on spikes have nothing to 
recommend them. 

In our plate too we have improved very 
little. Plate, like wine, improves with 
keeping. Use rounds off too obtrusive 
angles, and gives a softness of outline which 
cannot be produced with tools. If the 
lines are true, and the material solid, use 
only softens down and mellows the outline. 

In our plate of the present day the 
workmanship is excellent. The mechani- 
cal finish, the surfaces, and so on, leave 
nothing to be desired, but of imagination 
it shows little trace. The public for whom 
the silversmith caters do not want imagi- 
nation. They want the money they mean 
to expend on the purchase spread over as 
large a surface as possible ; and so the 
silversmith rolls out his metal into a very 
thin sheet, and moulds it into shape with a 
machine. If ornament is wanted it is 
stuck on. Such work as this must needs 
be painful to artistic eyes, but it gives you 
bigger and cheaper things. 

Now and then you see silversmiths with 
artistic instinct rebelling against this de- 
basement of their handicraft, and turning 
out very beautiful work ; but they do it 
more for their own satisfaction than from 
any hope of profit from it. Modem eyes 
are satisfied with the Houses of Parlia- 
ment, and find no music in the roof of 
Westminster Abbey. 

Silver work finds its lowest depth how- 
ever in that dreadful thing, a piece of 
presentation plate. Who does not know 
it 1 An unsupported vine standing erects 
and bearing on its topmost leaves and 
tendrils a group of cut-glass dishes. Those 
whose memories go far enough back re- 
member that those dishes bore chutney, and 
olives, and anchovies, and such like things, 
during dinner, and, when the cloth was re- 
moved, were replaced by other dishes con- 
taining fruit. The vine tendrils were 
equally appropriate in each case. 

Another development was a collection of 
silver dolls. If the recipient were a mer- 
chant the dolls carried bales on their backs 
or led draught animals. If be were a 
soldier or a sailor he had little silver repre- 
sentations of his own men. We have so 
far improved now that we do not always 
trust our own invention. When we have 

to make such a presentation we prefer to 
copy models that have received the ap- 
proval of many venerations, but we have not 
yet arrived at me creation stage. 

It is hazardous to criticise women's 
dress. Fashion has nothing to do with 
fitness, and women's dress is governed by 
fashion alone. Men groan over the terron 
of trains, and will continue to groan, nntfl 
trains give place again to the still greater 
absurdity of crinoUnes. There is a bar- 
baric splendour in a great lady sweeping 
through palatial rooms, with her tram 
flowing in graceful curves behind her ; bnt 
the sight of Mrs; Jones gathering up her 
long skirts, and forcing them into die small 
space allowed to her in a crowded suburban 
drawing-room, is painful to those whose 
sense of humour is not of that robust kind 
that rejoices in the ludicrous. Chancer 
declaimed against trains, and our great- 
grandsons wUl no doubt continue to do the 
like. A few years ago some women made 
a feeble attempt to popularise a prettier 
style of dress, but the female aesthete took 
the idea and burlesqued it to death. The 
vagaries of female fashion are among the 
things that men have to bear as they best 
can. We can at least be thankful tJiat we 
have not as yet returned to the crinolme 

About jewellery one need not be so T^ 
ticent, seeing that most of it is at all 
events bought by men, and about modem 
jewellery there is not much good to be said. 
The jeweller's taste seldom seems to go 
beyond dumping precious stones into 
lumps of gold, like plums in a pudding. 
They are so pleased with the idea tha^ 
they repeat it in lockets, in rings, in ear- 
rings, in bracelets — even in clocks and 
table ornaments. It is the rarest thing to 
see any grace of form or originality of idea 
in their work. The ancient Egyptians 
were fond of making gold ornaments in 
the shape of serpents and reptilea Many 
of them are found in the Pyramids, and 
you can see at a glance what kind of 
serpent the smallest ring made in that 
shape is intended to represent The finish 
is not as good as you will see in Bond- 
street, but then you cannot identify the 
species of a Bond-street serpent Silver- 
smiths, and goldsmiths, and jewellers wiU, 
however, tell you if you ask them about 
it that thev are obliged to make what 
will sell. People like to have what other 
people are buying, and they will not have 
anything to which they are not accustomed 
I until it has received Uie sanction of some 

Charies Dickoni.) 


(April 10, 1886.] 177 

aathorityin which they believe. The average 
people require guidance in their taste, as 
well as in their religion and their politics. 

In painting and mnsic we have less cause 
to grumble. If few great pictures are 
produced now, at least there is plenty of 
good work, and Nature is reproduced with 
a tenderness and insight seldom before 
attained to ; while no one need listen to 
bad music when a Saturday Popular Con- 
cert can be heard for a shilling. 

In the matter of domestic architecture 
also we have made some advance. We 
have rebelled against the square-box archi- 
tecture of our fathers, and though we build 
aix-roomed '* Queen Anne'' houses with 
balconies into which a cat can scarcely 
squeeze itself atleastwehavemany buildings 
that are pleasant to the eya The genius 
of the age runs rather into the line of me- 
chanical than of artistic invention, but 
after all in many things a revived taste 
chooses good models for imitation and gives 
some hope of coming creative genius. 


Nosey Blake's Galaxy, like political, 
literary, artistic, dramatic, and most other 
galaxies, is a galaxy of talent. At least it 
eLums to be so, and that boldly and *' in 
print. ** Their special line of talent is the 
pugilistic. Nosey Blake, the landlord — or 
u he is usually styled in the window-bills 
announcing benefits at his house, *'^ine 
Host" — of The Bull and Butcher, is a 
" professor of the manly art of self-defence," 
ind his galaxy consists of those whom he 
employs as "practical exponents of the 
noble science." As there is no college for 
granting — or even selling — pugilistic de- 
grees, it may be assumed that Nosey's title 
of professor is self-conferred. But he is 
iiot without legitimate claim to so style 
himselfl In his day and way he was 
nombered with the mighty men of valour. 
He belonged to the old school of fighting 
men, andfiourished in the latter part of the 
*' palmy " era of the fistic ring. His name 
figures in the pugilistic roll of fame, " Fis- 
tmna," and the record of his performances 
in the roped arena are chronicled in the 
pages of " BelL" When " mellered " with 
dimk — and he often is so mellered — he is 
more than willing to fight his battles o'er 
again ; to toe tl^ scratch, and show how 
** nulls" were won in the brave days of 
old. '* To witness if he Ues," the cuttings 
bom " Bell's life," neatly scrap-booked in 

chronological order, are ''to be seen at the 
bar." The same scrap-book likewise fur- 
nishes proof that Nosey has even been cele- 
brated in versa On one of its leaves is to 
be seen pasted a copy of the Broadsheet, 
in which a ballad-monger of the Gatnaoh 
press has sung of the battle between Nosey 
Blake and Bill Bursess, alias Fishy, alias 
Live Eels. The baUad opens by calling 
upon "all sportsmen bold, and lovers of 
fistic fame," to give ear while the poet re- 
lates how 

"Two heroes bold 
Fought for the wreath of victory and a hundred 
-pounds in gold " 

It then goes on to give the details of the 
battle in very slangy phraseology, and 
strangely varied and halting versification. 
It describes how the heroes 

" Did gaily toe the mark, as if it were a lark one 

mifjht suppose, 
And went to work ding dong, and neither was far 

As they landed straight and strong— on the nose." 


•* First blood went to Nosey, and first knock down 
to BiU ; " 

And how 

*' Bill did stop, and Nosey prop, and both did get 

As the battle progressed, Nosey, we are 
informed, " took the lead," whereupon — 

"At six to four and three to two the bets went 

freely round 
That Nosey bold would win the fight before he left 

the ground." 

As a matter of fact he did win, and the 
reader of the ballad is called upon to 

"Drink success to Nosey bold all in a flowing 

Who gained the wreath of victory and the hundred 

pounds in gold." 

But the poet, while he lauds the victor, 
does not go upon the principle of woe to 
the vanquished, for he further calls upon 
his hearers to 

" Drink a glass to Bill also, who did his best to win. 
For his backers were well satisfied although they 
lost their tin." 

In addition to these printed memorials, 
there are likewise ^' to be seen at the bar," 
the silk handkerchiefs, technically known 
as the ** colours," which bound the manly 
waist of Nosey in his various enoounteiB in 
the •* roped arena," together with the fight- 
ing-boots and pants worn by him in his 
great battles with Sledge-hammer Wilkin- 
son — the battle in which he got his scar of 
honour in the shape of a broken nose, and 




178 [April 10, lfi8«.) 



in which, though he suffered defeat, be was 
held to have covered himself with glory, 
by reason of the ''gameness" whidi he 

^* You would hardly believe, to look at 
me now, I used to fight at eleven stone," 
Kosey will sometimes regretfully remark, 
and it certainly would require an effort of 
imagination to picture the Nosey of to-day 
as an athlete. At the present time he is 
over fifty years of age, and has waxed 
exceeding fat and scant of breath. He is 
Falstaffian as to figure, Bardolphian as to 
countenance — so much so indeed as to have 
been made a subject for scornful jests in 
those respects. On one occasion for ex- 
ample, while disguised in liquor, he fell 
into a cellar and became wedged there. A 
rescue party of the galaxy was sent for to 
free him, but upon arriving at the scene of 
action they professed to be unable to extri- 
cate him by hand power. Going to a 
neighbouring workshop they borrowed a 
set of shear-legs with block and tackle, and 
obtained the assistance of a gang of 
labourers. Eetuming thus provided, they 
slung the chains around the fallen man, 
and then hoisting away with a will brought 
him up as though he had been a pocket of 
hops. * Then for some minutes they kept him 
struggling and spluttering in mid air to the 
intense delight of a jeering and howling 
mob, who, having <*got the office," had 
assembled to witness the sport provided 
for them. Another time one of the galaxy, 
in the course of a quarrel with his chief, 
earned quite a reputation as a wit, by sar- 
castically suggesting that Nosey should 
'* put himself in the hands of a vet, and get 
cured of the rinderpest" — a saying that 
was considered a happy and delicate hit at 
the inflammatory and be-pimpled condition 
of Nosey's featiures. But if familiarity has 
introduced a spice of contempt into the 
regard in which Nosey is held by near 
neighbours and immediate associates, he 
may still on the whole be described as a 
highly respected personage. 

Many there are who are proud to know 
him or be noticed by him, and those of a 
class much higher in the social scale than 
his neighbours or the members of his 
galaxy. Locally, the trade of The Bull 
and Butcher is but a pot-house trade, but 
the' house does not depend to any con- 
siderable extent upon local custom. It is 
a sporting house — the police authorities and 
sterner critics generally are unkind enough 
to describe it as a low sporting house — ^but 
however that may be it is as a sporting 

house that it thrives. In its capacity of 
sporting " crib " it is " used " by numben 
of young *' swells "> and would-be swoUb, 
mostly young fellows who fondly imague 
that they are seeing life and graduatmg as 
men of the world. It is a well-known 
resort of the boxing fraternity, and u 
patronised by a variety of other spotting 
characters — by self-styled bookmaker!, 
who are probably not wronged by b^g 
suspected of belonging to the welBhi]i2 
brigade; dog breeders, and trainers and 
fanciers of the type generally credited with 
combining a little judicious dog-stealing 
with their ostensible calling ; the smaller 
fry of rowing and running men, and their 
backers, managers, and "owners." It u 
chiefly, however, in relation* to pugilism 
that the house is a "draw," and in that 
connection Nosey Blake is distincUy king 
of the cartla Compared with the mem- 
bers of his galaxy — the best of whom he is 
wont to assert would have been a mere 
" chopping-block " to him in his best day 
— he is as a triton amongst minnows. They 
are only glove men, are unchronicled and 
unknown, while, as ahready intimated, 
Nosey figures on the bead-roll of (pugilistic) 
glory, and has been made famous by the 
pens of Uie sporting chroniclers of old. 
To the young sweUis who frequent the 
house thegallant and song-celebrated Nosey 
is an object of hero worship. They regard 
him as the representative of days in which 
there were giants, as one 

" Meet for a time when force was fame." 

To shake hands with him; to be seen in 
his company ; to be of the audience, fit but 
few, to whom he recounts the incidents of 
his more notable fights; they esteem privi- 
leges. They delight to honour their hero, 
and the hero, it must be confessed, delights 
to be honoured — in the fashion of honour- 
ing that prevails at The Bull and Butcher; 
the fashion namely of '* standing " drinks. 
It is a leading artide of Nosey's tnde 
creed that a landlord, being above all 
others bound to consider <' the good of the 
house," should never refuse an invitation 
to drink at a customer's expense. Li 
this respect he certainly acts up to his 
creed. He never does refuse an invitation 
to drink, and he has probably imbibed ai 
much bad and fabricated champagne as 
any man breathing. For keeping '*the 
good of the house" strictly in view, he 
invariably names champagne as his tipple 
when adced to drink. This custom of 
"mine host" sometimes leads to an amu- 


GharlM i)lekeiii.] 


[April 10, 1S88.] 179 

BiQg bit of comedy in real life. Occasionally 
some *' maaher ''-dressed youth trading on 
his appearance and with ''more brass in 
his face than in his pockets,'' will, while on 
a first visit to The Boll and Batcher, ask 
its redoubtable landlord "what he will 
take)" The question is put with a money- 
no-object air, but the thoughts of the 
pinchbeck masher are of two of whiskey 
cold, or of three of rum hot, or at the out- 
side '<a glass of sherry win&" When 
therefore Nosey, in the tone of one con- 
ferring a favour, replies, ''I don't mind 
if I crack a bottle of sham with you," the 
rash imitator of what he believes to be 
" swell form " looks unutterable things. If 
by the sacrifice of his all in the way of 
pocket-money he can, in the phraseology of 
Nosey himself, who has a grim sense of 
the humour of the situation, ''muster up 
the pieces, he outs with 'em," tryine, 
thoush generally unsuccessfully, to smile 
and look indifferent. As a rule, however, 
this type of young man of the day cannot 
''muster up the pieces." Under the cir- 
cumstances here in view he is wise enough 
to know that it would not do to "put 
side on"; to talk of people trying to 
" have " him, or anything of that und. 
Having put his foot into it by trying to do 
the grand, there is nothing for it but to 
slink off, which he does, amid the jeers of 
other customers and the objurgations of 
the galaxy. The latter worthies consider 
that they have a personal and material 
interest in the matter. Save on rare and 
festive occasions they do not expect to 
have champagne, but " swells as is swells" 
are in the habit of " standing " them more 
plebeian drinks. In their opinion the man 
who, dressed as a '"owling swell," is 
capable of making himself parlour com- 
pany at The Bull and Butcher, while lack- 
ing pieces or the will to spend them in 
stimding treat, is one " whom it were base 
flattery to call a villain." 

Nosey Blake, seated in his own parlour, 
"faced by a knot of young swells of the 
right — that is the money-spending, cham- 
pagne^itanding — sort, is a study. With 
the portraits of a line of champions, from 
Tom Cribb to Tom Sayers, looking down 
upon him, with cigar in mouth, his glass in 
hand, his bottle at his elbow, the scrap- 
book, the fighting costume and colours on 
exhibition, a group of admirers hanging 
on his words, and the brighter stars of the 
galaxy flitting about — Nosey, set in these 
surroundings, is quite a picture. So much 
and so litendlv so that, on the occasion of 

the annual benefit of the proprietor of the 
local music hall, the great attraction of the 
evening is the realistic scene, " The Parlour 
of the Bull and Butcher," with the great 
Nosey himself preddinff. 

As between fTosey Blake and his galaxy 
it is a case of Eclipse first, the rest no- 
where. But with the great gun out of com- 
parison the galaxy are persons of considera- 
tion — in their way. They are held by 
others besides themselves to be a very 
complete team, ranging as they do from 
Bantam Johnson, who barely scales seven 
stone, to Nosey's Big 'un, who stands 
she feet two in his stockings, and has to 
train hard to get down to thirteen stone 
ten. It comprises several men in each of 
the three divisions of light, middle, and 
heavy weights, and incmdes left-handed 
and other special, not to say phenomenal, 
performers. As it is esteemed both honour- 
able and profitable to belong to Nosey's 
team, mine host of The Bull and Butcher 
has his pick of the profession, and being a 
good judge of talent, his galaxy are reidly 
expert boxers, are quite entitled to their 
description of " practical exponents of tiie 
art of self-defence." They can generally 
"give a bit of a start and a beating " to 
the beet of the amateurs who come to 
practise with them — ^if it is their cue to do 
so. If they can depend upon the good 
sense and good temper of amateurs who 
specially stipulate that they are to do all 
t^ey know against them, they show their 
form, and a good display of boxing will 
ensue. But as a rule their aim is not to 
box up to their own form, but to suit 
themselves to the form of their patrons. 
The swells, they reason, do not come theve 
to be knocked about; they come because 
they fancy themselves, and their liberality 
is likely to be proportioned to the degree 
with which they are impressed with the 
belief that they have held their own, or 
even had a shade of the beat of it, with 
a professionaL. The object of the pro- 
fessional is therefore to box down to ttiat 
shade. Ocoasionally, however, if tlM self- 
satisfied amateur waxes very " bounoaable, ' 
or happens to "land a stinger," tibe pro- 
fessional throws prudence to the winds, 
and goes for his man, who suddenly finds 
himself reduced from the give-and-take 
level to the position of being "receiver- 
general" It is in the bouts between them- 
selves, that the members of the galaxy 
really become practical exponents of the 
noble science. To the ooBnoisseon fre- 
auentinff The Bull and Batcher, the ffreat 



180 [AprillO,US«.] 



boxing treat is a *' set-to " between two of 
the star *' glovers," with the great Nosey 
judging and calling the points. 

Apart from their professional position, 
the galaxy are a very mixed and very 
rough lot They are a powerful set of 
fellows, bat their greatest admirers could 
not speak of them as handsome. Low 
foreheads, beetUng eyebrows, small and 
sunken eyes, snub noses, and heavy jowls 
are the typical characteristics of their 
features. They are bullet-headed, and 
look markedly so by reason of the fact that 
they always keep their hair closely cropped. 
That is *' the thing " professionaUy, and in 
their case it has the advantage that if they 
have been "in trouble" — a thing that 
frequently happens with one or other of 
them — the " state of the poll " on their 
return from exile does not attract atten- 
tion, does not of itself suggest that they 
have been "doing tima" The galaxy 
a£fect what is considered to be a sporting 
style of dress — tight-fitting trousers, cut 
away and much bepocketed coats, 
highly coloured sUk handkerchiefs tightly 
''wisped" round the throat, and close- 
fitting caps, which, in conjunction with 
their closely cropped hair, "show off" 
their abnormally large ears to what most 
people would regard as a great disad- 
vantage. Only one of the galaxy — 
Chumpy Ellis — it may be remarked, can 
boast of the distinction of the trade-mark 
— a broken nose. And even he is a fraud 
in that connection. He leads outsiders to 
infer that it is an honourable scar received 
in battle, and the belief that such is the 
case brings him many a drink for which 
otherwise he would not come in. As a 
matter of fact, it is a scar at which his 
acquaintances jest They know that it is 
anything but a scar to be proud of ; that 
the wound was received in brawl, not 
battle, that, in fact, it was inflicted by the 
hand of a woman — wielding a quart pot — 
whom he was " slogging " in the course of 
a public-house row. 

Some few of the galaxy who, in addition 
to being in more general request among 
the patrons of The Bull and Butcher, have 
got " private lesson " engagements, manaee 
to knock out a living as boxers. The bulk 
of them have to turn their hands to other 
things also to " make a do of it" They 
will undertake the r6Ie of " Big Dog " to 
young swells who are seeing life ; or they 
will procure the vermin for gentlemen 
given to the noble sport of ratting ; or act 
as agents between dog dealers and dog 

buyers. If they can hook on to athletic 
associations as odd-job men, they will do to 
for what they can pick up, preferring money 
of course, but taking liquors or castoff 
clothing if nothing better is to be had. On 
the strength of their acquaintance with 
sundry " waterside characters " they some- 
times do a little trade in spirits, tobacco, 
and cigars, which, with all the mystery 
and mannerisms of the turnpike-sailor type 
of bold smuggler, they allege to be con- 
traband. If the allegation is true, the 
excise authorities are in these cases avenged, 
for the goods are of such a quality that 
they invariably make the consumers ilL hi 
this connection it may be mentioned that 
minor members of the galaxy occasionally 
earn a shilling or two, and their "bacea," 
by colouring pipes for young swells, who, 
as smokers, are more ambitioned than 

In the summer season some of Nose/s 
team attend certain races and fairs as lead- 
ing performers in a boxing booth company, 
while in the winter they frequently obtam 
engagements to keep order at pubUc meet- 
ings. At least that is how those who em- 
ploy them on such occasions put it Less 
euphemistic, the galaxy themselves speak 
of such engagements as chucking-out jobs. 
It is darkly whispered that there are diose 
among the galaxy who for a consideration 
will undeitake to ''bash" any victim 
pointed out to them by their employer for 
the time being. Lastly, one or two weaker 
brethren among Nosey 's satellites have been 
known, when very hard pressed, to take a 
day's honest labouring. Such a proceed- 
ing upon their part, it need scaroely be 
said, is regarded by the general body of 
the Talent as being highly derogatory, and 
the sort of proceeding tnat, if persevered 
in, would righteously involve loss of 

While the rank and file of Nosey Blake's 
galaxy are willing to turn their hands to a 
variety of such things as those indicated 
above, the police are unkind enough to be 
disposed to rank them with the no-visible- 
means-of-support class, and the authorities 
probably have good grounds for such a 
classification. As already hinted, members 
of the galaxy occasionally become subjected 
to prison discipline, and the offences which 
lead to their periods of enforced retirement, 
though frequently, are not always assanlts. 
It is the interest of these men to pose as a 
sort of modem gladiators, and sundry 
gilded and other youths, being in their 
green and salad days, and young in jadg- 



Chslei Dlekani.] 


[April 10, 1888.1 181 

ment, are ^iren to— in more senses than 
one— treating them as gladiators. The 
prosaic tmth is, that they are little else than 
sheer ruffians. Their strength and science 
only makes them brntal, and their brutality 
is imtempered by any gleam of chivalroos 
feeliDg. They are in a certain sense a 
cnriesity of civilisation. A few years a^o 
their type seemed to have reached a yani£- 
ing point, while such a house as The Bull 
and Batcher, and such a landlord as Nosey 
Blake, would have been chiefly interesting 
as illustrating a phase of life which had 
apparently passed away never to return. 
Bat 80 much could scarcely be said in the 
present day. Within the last year or two 
there has been a distinct, if not an obtru- 
siye, revival of pugilism. Many more 
"little mills" than uiose of which some 
leoord finds its way into the papers are 
brought off, and men of the Nosey Blake's 
galaxy type are flattering themselves that 
there is a good time coming for them. 
Smce this revival movement set in the 
first rankers of the galaxy have been " on 
the job ** in the old-fashioned prize-fighting 

Among a certain set it is quite under- 
stood that whenever any syndicate of swells 
or "sports" like to subscribe a purse of 
twenty, ten, or even five sovereigns, Nosey 
and his "aides-de-cong" will find the men to 
fight for the money. Often enough these 
fights are '' arranged " in a double sense. 
That is to say, after they have been 
arranged by the backers, the principals 
come to a private arrangement, under which 
they agree to divide the stakes and settle 
^0 is to win, and that they shall not 
knock each other about to any greater ex- 
tent than is absolutely necessary to malke a 
good show. But many of these affairs are 
genuine, and in proportion to their genuine- 
ness is their brutahty. That there will be 
a M-blown re-establishment of the prize- 
ring, as a public institution, need not be 
fetted. Nevertheless, the revivalistic move- 
ment in that direction is bad as far as it 
goes, and ought to be crushed. To talk of 
prize-fighting as an incentive to, or illustra- 
tion of, pluck or endurance is nonsense, is 
the innocent talk of greenhorns, or the 
interested talk of those who trade upon 
them. Boxing is no doubt a capital exer- 
cise, and " the manly art of self-<iefence " a 
thing to be desired ; but it is the interest 
alike of the^ art and the artists that they 
should be dissociated from forms of ruffian- 
ism, which they cannot touch without being 



Mt tenancy of the rooms I engaged in 
the above-named thoroughfare was a very 
short one ; but, short as it was, it was not 
unfruitful, and in one respect it was pecu- 
liar. Never before or after did I succeed 
in unravelling the thread of the over-the- 
way mystery without the aid of Simpson ; 
but the story of the young man who lived 
opposite to me in the Euston Boad I mas- 
tered by myself alone, and I am rather 
proud of it on that account 

On the very first morning after I had 
taken possession, I espied the pale face of 
my opposite neighbour at the window. 
He was a very handsome young man, but 
one could hardly think of his good looks 
for the terrible seal of melancholy which 
fate or misfortune had stamped upon his 
countenance. He sat stiU, starine into 
vacancy, till a quarter to eleven, and then 
he disappeared. At eleven the front door 
opened and he came out, leanine upon the 
arm of some one who looked Uke a con- 
fidential servant, and the two walked away 
westward. At one o'clock they returned, 
and then till the dusk fell I could see the 
young man's face at the window, except in 
certain short intervals which I concluded 
were taken up with meals. 

Day after day this was the unvarying 
routine. At the end of a week I began to 

fet restless, and, as Simpson did not appear, 
determined to do a little investigation on 
my own account. One fine day I foUowed 
my neighbours in their morning walk, and 
found tiiat they repaired to the ornamental 
water in the Regent's Park; and spent an 
hour or so in feeding the ducks. I passed 
and repassed them several times, but found 
no opportunity of enterine into conversa- 
tion with theuL The elderly man broke 
up the biscuit and threw it to the water 
fowl, but his companion took no heed of 
it. The handsome young man sat gazing 
as sadly and as vacanUy at the duc^ 
and the children here, as I had seen him 
before surveying the cabs and omnibuses 
in the Euston ICoad. 

For four days I deserted the study of 
metaphysics at eleven a.m., and did my 
bit of amateur spying, and all with no 
result I was indeed beginning to feel 
that I was certainly not a bom detective, 
and to long more ardentiy than ever for 
the return of Simpson, when on the fifth 



182 [April 10, 1886.] 




fate was kind to me, and gave me the 
opportunity of getting a word in private 
with the sad-faced, haj^some yoong man. 
It fell oat as follows. 

The two were sitting in their accustomed 
place by the ornamental water, and I was 
located on a bench a few yards in the rear. 
The ducks and geese were enjoying the 
bits of biscuit, and a lot of children down 
by the brink were seemingly as much 
pleased at the sight of the feast, as if they 
themselves were demolishing cakes and 
strawberry creams. All at once one of 
the little ones, a curly-haired darling about 
five years old, staggered down the slope, 
and before she could recover herself fell 
into the water. Even the young man gave 
a start of excitement, and his companion 
sprang up at once and dashed into the 
water after the child, who by struggling 
had by this time been carried several yards 
from the land. No sooner, however, did 
the young man find himself alone than he 
started up from the bench and took to his 
heels as ^ the police were after him. The 
police — represented by the vigilant officer 
on duty, who was engaged in peeling an 
orange — took no heed of him ; but I did. 
By the time he was clear of the Park I was 
within ten yards of him. I kept this dis- 
tance between us till I saw him turn into 
a coffee-house, and then I followed him 
strdghtway, and in a minute's time was 
sitting in the same box with him face to 

As soon as he saw me he gave a terrified 
start, showing that my face was not strange 
to him. " Sii," he said, '< for severid days 
I have noticed you in the Park, and, at- 
tracted by your benevolent countenance, I 
have more than once determined to lay 
before you my wretched state. If you 
have now a few minutes to spare, I will 
beg of you to give me a hearing ; and, if I 
do not convince you that I am the most ill- 
used man iix Londoui your looks strangely 
belie you." 

''I can assure you, sir," I replied, ''that 
I shall listen to your story with great plea- 
sure. If too, have remarked you and your 
companion in your daily waJk, and have 
learned to take an interest in you; and 
here allow me to congratulate you on the 

e^ssession of so brave a man as your friend, 
ow splendidly he rushed to the rescue of 
that drowning child ! I fear though that, 
during the wmter months, rheumatism will 
remind him of the noble deed." 

The young man smiled bitterly as he 

" Friend, ha ! you little know what you 
are saying. Friend t He is my bitterest foe! 
That man keeps me a stranger to aH 
that makes life worth having. I sin,8o 
my friends declare, a harmless lunatic, and 
the man from whom I have just escaped u 
my keeper. Ever since a strange adTen- 
ture which befel me some years ago, I haye 
been under his charge — a strange state of 
things in free England. My story is this: 
About a year ago I was wiUi my brother, 
staying at a quiet watering-place on the 
south coast. During my last year al 
Oxford I had Jceenly taken up the study of 
biology, and I was at the period above 
named engaged in getting together some 
materials for a brochure to aisprove the 
pretensions which certain persons, calling 
themselves mesmerists or electro-biolog^ 
were then putting forward and raising no 
small excitement thereanent My broth« 
was an enthusiastic naturalist, and wooli 
spend the whole day hunting for foasib m 
the cliffs, or sea-weed on the beach ; bat m 
the evening he would, now and then— in a 
spirit of banter, I fancy — ^take up the pod- 
tion of a believer in the semi-supematonl 
rubbish I was labouring to discredit Bnt 
we were none the worse friends on this 
account. There could never have been a 
more perfect example of brotherly relations 
than that which existed between us till that 
ill-starred day, when my brother^ in common 
with die rest of the world, arrived at the 
conclusion that I was not fit to manage my 
own aSaira. But I must tell you it was not 
brotherly affection, nor the search of 
literary quiet which attracted me to 

L . I was engaged to be married, and 

Kate Lawson, my fiancee, was living then 
with her uncle, Mr. Sinclair, and it was on 
account of a certain matter connected with 
Mr. Sinclair that tJie first doud of estrange- 
ment between my brother and myself arose. 
When I first introduced my brother to the 
family at the Abbey he was almost as 
much taken with the uncle as I had been 
with the niece ; but by degrees a coohiesa 
grew up between them, and my brother, 
who was not a good dissembler, soon let it 
be seen that Mr. Sinclair was no favourite 
of his. ' He's a queer fellow, Bob,' he said 
to me one evening, as we sat smoking, 
' and the sooner you take Kate away out 
of his influence me better it will be for 
both of you.' 

" ' But what do you mean, Jack, by such 
a vague expression as that ! Ton surely 
don't intend to bring any charge againat 
Sinclair's morid chanicter. There is no 




[April 10, 1886.] 183 

one in the place so much esteemed and 

*" I say nothing abont his morals, either 
pro or ooa I say that his inflaence is 
unwholesome and nncanny. If I did not 
fear to pat yon in a towering rage, I should 
8sy that he really possesses a sort of mes- 
meric power — a power to which you your- 
self, with all your scepticism, would fall an 
easy victim.' 

«<0h come, this is a little too strong!' I 
Slid, firing up. 

*' * There, I said how it would be,' Jack 
went on with provoking coolness, ' but all 
the same Imaintain that he has an influence 
over you. Whenever you happen to meet 
him, I notice that you are restless and 
imstrang for hours afterwards. I have 
noticed too, over and over again, that you 
cannot keep your eyes ofi" his face.' 

" I was too anery to answer — all the more 
angry because I was forced to admit to 
mysdf that there was a grain of truth in 
what Jack had just said. 

"Sinclair certainly was a mostfascinatug 
man. Nobody could deny that His well- 
formed intellectual features with his plea- 
sant, half-sarcastic smile ; his entertaining 
manners, as far removed from affectation 
as £rom vulgarity; his figure modelled after 
manly symmetry, and as yet unbent vrith 
years; all combined to form one of the most 
charming companions that a man or woman 
conld wish for. When he chose to give 
his social qualities free play, few could be 
more attractiya Yet I often detected, in 
the midst of genial pauses, a commanding 
not to say obtrusive expression in his eyes, 
which seemed to daim obedience ; and at 
SQch momenta I could not gaze upon those 
keen my orbs without thinking, with a 
sort (» shudder, that their quick intelli- 
genoe and fire, unseen yet felt, were but the 
s^ffeasions of a mind capable of c<mceiving 
h(ray and executing unscrupulously. In his 
presence I neyer felt perf ecdy at ease. An 
thnost irresistible desire came upon me to 
gase into his face and seek to fathom the 
iDAaning of his look — to pierce to the 
centre of that pupil, as it gathered to a 
fluhing point or expanded with sudden 
'•diating gleama And yet the effort was 
puBfol, as painful as it was involuntary. It 
^ one of those tendencies not yet ex- 
plained by science, and on that account 
quoted by the vulgar as a glimpse of the 
<*9onistaral ; but I was not going to make 
myself uneasy about a certain peculiar ex- 
pression in Hr. Sinclair's eyes. I cut the 
conversation short ; but it was vividly pre- 

sent in my memory as the next day I walked 
up a winding path, formed out of the face of 
the cliff, that led from the shore towards an 
undulating and well-wooded slope which 
formed one of the chief beauties of the 
little watering-place. It was enclosed, but 
the fences were so badly kept that it was 
almost public property, and was briefly 
termed the Park. Kate's uncle lived in a 
quaint old house at the further end, the 
former character of which survived in its 
name — the Abbey. One of its great charms 
consisted in its nearness to the Park. Mr. 
Sinclair had, unquestioned, cut a doorway 
through the high brick wall of his garden 
and used the Park as if it were his own. 

" Aslmusedover my cigar, I heard some 
one approaching along the gravel, but 
hidden from my sight by a projecting 
mound. A second uter, Sinclair himsw 
appeared, strolling on vrith his eyes fixed 
upon the ground as if in deep meditation. To 
walk on seemed strangely opposed to my 
inclination, yet it would have been rude to 
turn back. A dread such as I had never 
before experienced took possession of me, 
but yet, summoning up fdl my resolution, 
I advanced to meet him. When I was 
within ten paces of him he raised his eyes 
and drew them slowly along my body from 
foot to head. I could feel a strange sen- 
sation, somewhat as if a snake were crawl- 
ing upward over me, as his gaze rested 
upon me ; but when his eyes met mine, a 
shocklikeelectricity thrilled throughme, and 
I tottered to the side of tiie patL For an 
instant I seemed to lose all consciousness. 
Then I heard a quick, sharp exclamation, 
and in a moment more I was seated on the 
bank at the other side of the path, with a 
grasp like a vice on my arm. Sinclair had 
saved me from being precipitated over the 
cliff, where the fall would have been dan- 
gerous, if not fatal 

" < €Ux)d heavens I Ferrers,' he exclaimed, 
' what has come over you t ' 

"I staggered to my feet and, with mut- 
tered thanks for his timely aid, moved 
towards my lodgings, still supported by 
his arm. To his eager inquiries, I returned 
but confused answers, and never shall I 
forget my feeling of relief when I sank 
exhausted on the sofa of my sitting-room, 
and heard the door close behind him as he 
left the house. I was in no state to wonder 
at his sudden departure. The one idea 
present to my mind was that I had escaped 
a great danger, the nature of which I could 
not define. The very vagueness of my 
thoughts added to my apprehensions. It 



1S4 (Alira 10, 1886.] 



by this time nearly nine o'clock, and 
80^ leaving a message for my brother, in 
case he should call, I retired mechanically 
to bed. 

" Bat when sleep was wanted it refused 
to coma Hour after hoar I rolled from side 
to side, hearing the town clock strike with 
tedioas r^alarity, till, anable any longer 
to endare sach toilsome rest, I sprang up 
and obtained a light The night was warm, 
so, hastily slipping on my clothes,'! threw 
ap the window, and to while away the 
time lit a cigar. Soon, this too became 
monotonous, so, jerking the end into the 
street, I proceeded to explore a small book- 
case at the farther end of the room. I 
found my worthy landlady had left it un- 
locked. The collection was eyidently not 
her own — ^possibly some student's library 
left in her charge. My eyes ranged over 
one shelf after another, but I was difficult 
to pleasa Some of the books were 
familiar, some had unpromising titles, none 
were exactly to my taste. At last I came 
upon one with no title on the back, and 
out of the merest curiosity, I took it down 
and opened it At the first two lines I 
read, I started ; then, sinking into a chair, 
I composed myself, and read oa I shall 
not easUy fcn^et that paragraph. Coming 
so soon after my experience of the pre- 
vious day^ tallying so exactly, as it 
appeared, with my case, a mere assertion 
struck my excited fancy with all the force 
of truth, and bred in me spontaneous con- 
viction. It ran as follows : 

" ' It is a well known fact that some men, 
by their mere presence, obtain a wonderful 
ascendency over others. The old belief in 
the Evil Eye may possibly have some 
foundation in natural lawa To what 
degree this influence may be acquired has 
not as yet been investigated by competent 
authorities, though numerous instances are 
said to be on record in which it has 
extended to every action, whether of the 
body or the mind.' 

"Was this the influence that Sinclair 
possessed over mel I answered instinc- 
tively. It was. Had my brain been less 
excited, I should no doubt have reflected 
more both as to the ground of the state- 
ment I had just read, and its application to 
myself. But rushing with or without 
reason to my conclusion, a huge dumb 
terror began to swell within me, and to 
paralyse all power of will. Trembling, I 
threw myself upon my bed once more, and 
tried to drown consciousness in sleep. But 
in feverish and transient dreams, I thought 

myself deep down in slimy seas, sucked 
towards some half-descried, untluokible 
horror, entwined in a thousand fibioni 
coils; or sitting spell-bound before two 
monstrous eyes, behind which was a vigoe 
hideous shape, the fear of which chiUed 
even fear to numbness — till with eretj 
effort of my nature I broke the spell, vA 

" With the dark shadow of my dream still 
resting on my senses, the first resotva I 
made was never to see Sinclair again. Bat 
then there arose a vision of Kate's swe^ 
face and soft brown eyes, and auburn hsir, 
and the thought of her roused all my 
dormant enerRies and determined me to 
meet him, and by the force of a resohte 
will, to free myself from his control Befon 
long, pride came to my aid, and I stt for 
an hour putting my will against his, asdt 
in imagination, winning the victory. I 
little thought then what was before me. 

" By degrees my mind grew calmer, and, 
as the morning was breaking, I betook 
myself to bed again, and slept profoundly. 

''When I awoke the sun was shiniog 
brightly in at my window. The biidi 
chirped merrOy overhead, and far sw&j 
into the distance staretched the bright ex- 
panse of sea. It was impossible to be 
gloomy amid such universal joy. The 
events of the day before, the strange co- 
incidence of the night, seemed like a datk 
dream that had passed away for ever, lod 
I went down to breakfast with as lights 
heart as if nothing had occurred to distmb 
my equanimity. At twelve my brother 
celled. He had heard that I had been 
indisposed the previous evening, and 
questioned me rather closely as to the 
cause, but seeing that my answers wen 
evasive, and that his solicitude was some- 
what troublesome, he changed the subject 
I was to drive Kate out in the afternoon 
to a curious old ruin about ten miles away, 
and after that to dine at the Abbey. Hj 
brother had spoken the day before of boo- 
ness which would occupy him the whole 
day, and I was therefore surprised when he 
proposed to accompany me on the way, 
and stated that he intended to est ft 
mouthful of lunch with us at the Abbey 
before we started. 

'* ' Take your macintosh,' he said, flingii^ 
it over my shoulder — an ugly, white, con- 
spicuous thing, but useful enough io a 
shower. *It's big enough to hold you 
both,' he said, laughingly surveying its 
ample folda ' And you must take care of 
little Kate, you know.' 



ChiriM JMb w Ii] 


[April 10, ISSflL] 185 

" On oor road to the Abbey my thoughts 
once more rererted to ShicUir. In the 
fall blaze of a sommer'e day, and with my 
pndJeal brother by my side, I fdt per- 
feedy sceptical as to any influence Sinclair 
possessed over me, and I was on the point 
of teUiog my brother, as a joke, all my 
foncies of the preyious night But I re- 
membered his admonitions, and felt too 
proad to own that they were not entirely 
illtimed. What would I not now give to 
hsTe told him all my mind 1 

<* We entered the Abbey garden firom the 
Park Kate ran across the lawn to meet 
08, and cleared away the last shadow of 
onpleasant thought from my mind. She 
was yiyadty itself, and even my sober 
brother was forced to smile at her playful 
ttlHes. Sinclair did not appear at lunch, 
but he sent a message excusing himself on 
the ground of a slight indisposition. He 
hoped to be able to see me at dinner. I 
could not help noticing that my brother 
seemed annoyed at Sindair's absence. 

"Lunch oyer, Kate tripped upstairs to 
prepare for the drive. My brother looked 
steadily at me for a moment, and then, as 
the carnage I had ordered drove up, de- 
parted without a word. 

"Ishallneverforget that afternoon. The 
wurm sun overhead, the. gentle breeze, the 
qniet country lanes with their solenm 
yistas of trees, the ramble over tiie quaint 
dd rain, the drive homeward in the still 
golden sunset, and above all, Kate in a 
thoosand moods, capricious, playful, tender, 
traatfol, and loveable in aU ; but I must 
sot continue thus, or I shall very justly 
merit all my brother's accusations. Yet, 
oh! the happiness of that halcyon day, 
snd the black storm gathering from the 
night 1 

"Daring the whole of the afternoon, not 
a thought of Sinclair had presented itseH 
When, after our return, I entered the 
fibrary, I found him pacing up and 
down before the fireplace, with clenched 
&ti and knitted brows. He started as 
he caaght sight of me, smoothed his 
features rapidly, and accosted me with 
tmosoal friendlmesa He once more apo- 
kgiied for his absence at lunch, and ex- 
pressed a hope that I was none the worse 
for my walk the previous evening. The con- 
trait between his expression as I entered, 
and his present tranquillity, which I felt 
■ore WIS only assumed, was by no means 
pleasant, and yet, such was the fascination 
e( hia address, when he chose to make 
^^nmif aioreeable. that idl sense of aimov- 

ance vanished as soon as it made itself felt 
Still, I determined to be guarded. I 
thanked him for the assistance he had 
so promptly rendered me the day before, 
saying that I suddenly felt bunt, and 
stumbled, but that I was now in my usual 
robust health. I then alluded, with cour- 
teous regret, to his indisposition in the 
morning, and we were soon, apparently, on 
the best terms in the world. 


By THEO gift. 

Autkor nf'*La Lorimer," ** An AUH and Ui Price," 

me,, Etc. 


Dr. Marstland had not been exactly 
correct in his deductions when he suggested 
that in the days of his youth M. St 
Laurent had run away with a lady's maid ; 
but he had gone rather near Uie mark. 
Madame St. Laurent, it is true, was never 
a lady's maid ; she only came from the class 
(a highly respectable one) from which 
upper servants are generally taken; her 
grandfather being a carpenter in the little 
town of Leytonstone in Essex, and her 
father a baker and confectioner of the same 
place who, firom being tiie boy to take out 
the bread, had worked himself up by 
prudence and steadiness to the post of 
foreman, and had then married his em- 
ployer's widow, succeeded to the business, 
put in a new plate-glass front, and become 
a leading member of the strictest Dissenting 
chapel in the place, before the birth of his 
only child, a daughter whom he named 
Joan, after his own mother. 

This worthy baker had a brother, how- 
ever, who, having succeeded to the car- 
penter's bench, married while still a mere 
lad, had three boys whom he buried one 
after another, and finally lost his wife 
within six months of the birth of a 
daughter, also called Joan, whom he 
speedily provided with a stepmother, a 
lady of uncertain temper, who presented 
him with any number of unruly boys, beat 
his daughter, and made him so miserable 
that he was glad to seek consolation from 
her in drink. The upshot of this was 
that, coming home one night from the 
public house in a state of helpless intoxi- 
cation, he dropped a paraffin lamp among 
the shavings in the shop, and set the whole 
place on fire. 

ShoD. house, tools and furniture were all 

186 [April 10, 1886.] 



burnt to the ground. Only the inmates 
were saved ; and as poor James Higgs had 
not a penny in the savings' bank and very 
few friends (his brother hot excepted) even 
to sympathise with him, he was obliged 
to begin life again as a journeyman car- 
penter and let his wife ts^ke in washing ; 
while little Joan, who till then had at- 
tended a respectable day-school with her 
cousin (now called Jane for greater gen- 
tility) was forced to bring her education 
to an end, and return home to assist in the 

Some people thought John Higgs might 
have come forward to assist his relatives, 
and indeed he did go so far as to take his 
eldest nephew into the shop ; but as the 
lad was dismissed a fortnight later for 
idleness and disobedience, and as Mrs. 
James immediately called on Mrs. John 
and gave her " a piece of her mind," the 
baker retaliated by bidding his brother 
keep ** that woman and her brood " £rom 
ever crossing his doorstep again. After 
this the relations between the two fiunilies 
became so strained that nearly all com- 
munication between them ceased, and 
would have done so altogether but for the 
lame and intermittent friendship still kept 
up between the girl cousins. 

They had been aJmost like sisters^ those 
two little pale, red-haired, freckle-cheeked 
girls ; but after Joan, unable to bear her 
stepmother's nidging, had at thirteen 
found a *' little place *^ for herself as nurse- 
maid to the butcher's baby, while Jane, 

red eleven, was still learning "To 
Lave and To Be and the Rule of Three," 
wearing neatly-braided black aprons and 
frilled pantalettes, the intimacy natu- 
rally decreased; and though they still 
continued to write to one another even 
after Miss Jane Higgs had been promoted 
to a still more gentcNdl " seminary for young 
ladies," the correspondence soon died out, 
owing to that young lady's natural shame 
at the mirth evoked in her chief friends, 
(the Baptist minister's daughter, and the 
principal draper's " young ladies,") by the 
sight of one of poor Joan's grubby and 
ill-written letters addressed to *' Miss higs 
At miss Smith's Simmary," and commenc- 
ing, " my oan Deerest Kuzzin." 

For even then Jane Higgs had started 
on Uie path which eventua^y carried her 
so far ; and had shown herself not only a 
clever, plodding, cold-natured girl, but 
possessed of an amount of quiet ambition 
and narrow-minded tenacity of purpose 
not common among young people of either 

sex. Her parents had originally intended 
to apprentice her, when her education vu 
over, to some good milliner or dressmsksr, 
so that in the event of anything happeniDg 
to them, or her not marrying, she might 
be able to set up for herself in a nq«^ 
table and paying business. But no sooner 
did Jane fibad out that the minkitei'i 
daughter was being educated for a goTs- 
ness, as also that governesses — gented 
governesses that is — might employ, baft 
could not be intimate wiui milliners, thaa 
she decided on discarding the lattor pro- 
fession and going in for me former. Why 
not ) If Selina Smith could learn w^ 
enough to teach others, why should sot 
she with the same advantages I And with 
this end in view she plodded on at her 
books so persistently, as not only to indsoe 
her parents to give in to her views, but to 
obtain an offer from her schoolmistress <m 
her sixteenth birthday of becoming a 
pupil teacher in that good lady's semi- 
nary, and so obtaining all future instnu^ 
tion, including even such extraa as Frendi, 
music, and deportment — dancing Ur. 
Higgs' religious views would not Slow-- 
without further expense to the bakei^s 

The plan worked well with one ezcep- 
tioa Plodding and drilling not only msde 
Jane familiar before long with Murray and 
Mangnall, Walkinghame and Miss C^noi^ 
but taught her to use such refinements d 
speech as the words " chest " instead of 
<< stomach," « limbs " instead of << legs," and 
'^intoxicated " instead of " drunk "; to cast 
down her eyes in walking, sit on the edge 
of her chair in company, and spread oat bar 
little finger when drinking. By the time 
she was seventeen>and-a-luJf she had not 
only learnt to blush unaffectedly at ho 
father's mode of substituting a knife for his 
fork, and her mother's misplacement of 
aspirates, but could write a French esaaj 
grammatically, and play through a set (» 
quadrilles without a wrong note. The 
exception consisted of something which not 
even plodding seemed able to remedj. 
She could indeed write that French essay 
correctly, but when she came to read it no 
human being could have guessed in what 
langua^ it was written. It was not onlf 
that "French of Paris was to her un- 
known," but she failed to imitate even the 
<* French of Stratford-atte-Bow," spoken by 
her instructress, and this was the mofe 
distressing as Miss Smithers herself told hot 
that without French nowadays a girl ooold 
never hope to earn her living as a governess. 

Cbiriei DleksDi.] 


[April 10, 1886.1 187 

Fortunately that lady could suggest a 
wty oat of the difficulty. A cousin of hers 
who had married a French dancing-master, 
and in conjunction with him kept a "pen- 
sion pour les jeunes demoiselles Anglaises 
et Fmn9ai8es " in an unfashionable part of 
Paris, was in want of an English teacher, 
and Miss Smithers offered Jane the post. 

The difficulty, however, was to get her 
parents to consent to her taking it She 
was their only child, and, in addition to the 
insnlar dislike for "iurrin things" generally, 
inherent in the small British tndesman, 
Mr. Higgs held a rooted belief that French- 
men in particular were all frog-eating, 
blaspheming card - sharpers ; whue Mrs. 
Higgs shuddered over them as a race of 
idolaters given over bodily to the devil, 
and felt sure that they would welcome 
Jane and her Bible with a summary "auto 
da f^," if they did not prefer the slower 
process of bricking up both in the wall of 
a convent 

Nevertheless, the daughter got her way, 
as indeed she had done in most things. It 
was not that her opinion of the French 
nation differed in any degree from that of 
her parents. What they oelleved she had 
heen brought up to believe also, and, if she 
had progressed beyond their use of the 
aspirates, she had not done so beyond their 
prejudices. But with her the one thing 
jQst then to be considered was the improve- 
ment of her pronunciation, and, conse- 
quently, of her position, pecunianr and 
otherwise, as a teacher; and to this end 
ihe had even entered into communications 
with Madame Le Brun before applying to 
her parents for their consent 

That they did give it, after a fashion, at 
least) was a comfort to her in later years 
when she was a mother herself. But it was 
^en with sore hearts, and the hearts 
would have been sorer still had they known, 
what in truth came to pass, that they 
wonld never see her again. 

She was still at Madame Le Bran's two 
years later, and she had never had a long 
enough holiday to make it worth while to 
go home, when she first met M St Laurent 
At that time she was not unlike Vera, with 
lees, perhaps, of the latter's sweetness of 
expression and softness of outline; but 
ttUer, more alert in her movements, with 
a touch of fresh English red in her cheeks, 
and a few of those small, light-brown 
ireddes, which Frenchmen always find so 
ehaiming in relief to an otherwise fair skin. 
She coTud speak French now, but with a 
Und of broken stiffness and slowness, which, 

coming from the pink lips of a very young 
woman, hadanadditionid charm for M. St 

However it was, he fell in love with her, 
and to no one's surprise more than his own. 
He was then thirty-two, jaded and blas^ 
already by a life of seU-indulgence ; and 
his object in visiting the pension was to 
see after the welfare of one of the scholars, 
towards whom an intimate friend of his 
held certain parental obligations, which for 
reasons of a domestic nature it was not 
advisable for the latter to perform in his 
own persoa The demoiselle in question 
being some twelve years old and big for 
her age, Madame Le Brun did not consider 
it proper for her to receive the visits of her 
guardian, or be taken out by him, except 
under the chaperonage of a governess, and. 
Miss Higgs being chosen for the purpose, 
St Laurent found himself able to combine 
his benevolent surveillance of the youthful 
" pensionnaire ** with a very warm and 
rapidly marching flirtation with her prim 
little governess, more easily tlian might 
have been expected. 

Not that Jane flirted. She would not 
have been guilty of such a thing for her 
life. M. St Laurent described her to a 
friend as being " d'une farouche virginity," 
''d'une pudicit6 non plus mena9ante que 
suggestive " ; but in truth there was to a 
man of his sort something inviting even in 
the menaces of a modesty whidi, being 
always on the defensive, suggested a know- 
ledge of the dangers from which it was 
protecting itself. 

And suggested it truly ! Extreme pra- 
dence is indeed seldom compatible with 

Eerfect innocence, a fact proved every day 
y the follies and rashness into which 
young girls, brought up in that absolute 
ignorance of certain evils possible among 
the ranks of the upper ten, are so fre- 
quently betrayed by Uieir very innocence 
and unconsciousness of danger. But to 
the children of the working classes this 
ignorance is not possible, and when our 
learned judges speak, as some have done, 
of the sin of offending it, they speak of an 
absurdity. Jane was as familiar from her 
infancy with such homely incidents as men 
getting drank, or girls " going wrong/' as 
young ladies in aristocratic schoolrooms 
are with the lesser errors of greediness and 
telling fibs. These former things were the 
common accidents of the class to which she 
rightfully belonged. She had only raised 
herself to that far less honest intermediary 
one which thinks it " nice " to affect the 



188 [April 10, 1886.] 



ignorance it does not possesB ; and which 
in private giggles and whispers, or parses 
np its moaSi and listens, to the discussions 
of social dangers, which it is none the less 
on the alert to avoid, because in public it 
makes believe to be unaware of their exist- 
ence. Jane never giggled. Her early 
chapel training led her to be of those who 
only purse the mouth and listen ; but she 
was always on the alert, and she made 
believe so skilfully, that, instead of taking 
her in. Monsieur was taken in himself. He 
believed her to be "une vraie ingenue," 
all the more because, while always keeping 
him at a distance, she never avoided or 
even appeared to dislike his society. She 
accepted his presents with modest thanks, 
but never suffered him even to snatch a 
kiss in requital ; and thus, while thinking 
to compromise her, perhaps even secure her 
dismissal, and drive her to seek consolation 
in his arms, M. St. Laurent found some- 
how that he had compromised himself. In- 
deed, thanks to the prudent wariness of the 
maiden who, however flattered by her con- 
quest of so great a eentleman, and won by 
his compliments and fascinations, not only 
managed to lose her heart without once 
losing her head ; but even to secure Madame 
Le Brun's co-operation in her matrimonial 
efforts, the man about town woke one 
morning to find himself committed to a 
marriage of which assuredly he had never 
dreamt through the whole course of his 

He submitted, and was married. Jane 
had won the day. She, the baker's little 
daughter, was Madame SL Laurent, the 
wife of a gentleman of family and fortune, 
with fine friends and connections, with 
carriage and horses, an estate in the 
country, and a box at the opera ; and yet 
it may be said that, with the day of her 
marriage, Jane's troubles in life really 
began. In the first place, though a 
foolish and vulgar shame for her true posi- 
tion had led her, while her husband was 
still only her lover, to represent her 
parents as having merely <* come down in 
the world for a tune," and being " reduced 
by pecuniary losses to keeping a superior 
place of business," the petty deceit bad not 
been any good to her. M. St. Laurent 
made it a " sine qua non " of marriage 
that she should drop all intercourse, save 
by letter, with her relations in England ; 
aye, even with her father and mother, the 
good old people, who had worked so hard 
to raise themselves and her, who had been 
so fond and proud of her, and whose only 

child she was. And Jane had consented; 
consented, but with a lingering pain whidi 
rankled uneasily in her rel^^ious snd 
natural feelinga 

Nor was this alL Once married, and in 
the first flush of gratified passion, St 
Laurent was disposed to justify the step 
he had taken by showering presents and 
attentions on his young wife, taking her 
everywhere, and introducing her to his 
friends ; and had the latter been only of 
his own sex and nation, the test might not 
have been such a dangerous one ; since to 
these Jane was simply *^ une jeune mees 
Anglaise/' and her awkwardness, stiffness, 
and want of conversation, due to the mis- 
fortune of a barbarous nationality. Unfor- 
tunately, however, there were her hus- 
band's women friends to be considered, 
and still more unfortunately it happened, 
that among these were the wife of the 
English Ambassador then accredited to 
Paris, and two or three other English snd 
American ladies of good position belong- 
ing to the same circle, and these, finding 
that '^that shocking rou6 St. Laurent" 
had actually married an English girl, were 
the more anxious to make her acquaint- 
ance. They made it ; and — alas for poor 
Jane's aspirations ! — ^from that day she 
learnt the bitterness of the Dead Sea froit 
of empty ambition. 

A fashionable bride, the wife of a man 
of property and position, who could not 
walk across a room with ease, lounge with 

Srace, or take a gentleman's arm with 
ignity ; who came from nowhere, seemed 
to have no family connections, and knew 
nobody ; who was visibly distressed as to 
the question of "knife or no knife" with 
regard to fish, and hopelessly puzzled as to 
the use of a variety of wine glasses; who 
had never heard an opera, and thought the 
ballet ** improper"; who owned to ac- 
quaintance with ''Bow Bells" and the 
" Christian World," but not with Carlyle 
or Goethe ; who said " Sir " in speaking to 
gentlemen, and "my lady" at every 
second word to the Ambassadress ; such a 
young woman had not only never been in 
society herself, but had never belonged to, 
or come in contact with persons in society 
either. She might have been a nursemaid, 
or a national school teacher (not a milliner 
or a lady's-maid, the ladies agreed, as in 
that case she would have had some idea of 
dressing herself) ; and as for St Laurent, 
he had been gi^lty of a grave impertbence 
in introducing such a person into their 
exalted circle, and representing her as a 



April 10, 1886.] 189 

jooDg lady, the daaghter of well-bom 
parents in reduced circomstances. 

In effect Madame St. Laurent was 
dropped almost as soon as she was taken 
up, and Monsieur was made to learn the 
reason why; not only through the sym- 

Sthetic confidences of certain of his 
ends, but by the chilling manner and 
restricted smiles of the great ladies them- 
selves. Of course he was disgusted, 
farioosly so, but, alas 1 more with his wife 
than with the fastidious friends who had 
weighed and found her wanting. In 
troUi his brief passion, swiftly satiated and 
sot kept alive by any charms of wit, con- 
Teisation, or even sympathetic companion- 
ibleness on the part of his young wife, was 
akeady dyin^ out He felt tlmt he had 
made, or, as ne put it, had been trapped 
into malong, a hopeless mesalliance, and for 
the fature took the easy course of ignoring 
it, leaving the bride whom society rejected 
at home, and going abroad '* en ear^on " 
himself, after the manner of old times, 
finding also consolations after the same 
manner for the pruderies, the timidity, 
andprinmess which,«however provocative 
in a mistress, were unendurable in a wife. 
At first Madame was rather glad of the 
ehunge. She had made her plunge into 
soeiety, and had been at once chilled and 
sppalled by it She had climbed to the 
top of the social tree, and felt about as 
comfortable there as a fish at the same 
irboreal altituda The fine ladies she 
thmight to ape so successfully, the genteel 
lodel^ in which she considered herself 
formed to move, had disappointed and 
floated her. Though she could not under- 
hand one part in ten of their conver- 
sation, she understood that they had 
lomehow iis^omed her real po8iti9n, and 
looked down on her as of erst she had 
looked down on her tipsy Uncle James 
sod poor Joan. Though she was too 
doll to even detect the particular points 
in which she failed to pass muster, or 
to correct them, she was not too dull to 
detect that she was snubbed, and to feel 
irate thereat. For, indeed, if her ideas 
<ni the subject of dress (fall dress espe- 
cially) moved the fine ladies' mirth, theirs 
^odnd her unafiectedly. If her vulgar 
little pruderies, affectations, and narrowness 
disgoated them, their breadth of ideas and 
^^udeas coolness, their freedom and ease, 
pii2zled and appalled her. It positively 
^eemed to her like a going back to the 
jovial anarchism of the lowest class of all, 
^ she would not. if she could, have 

imitated it Indeed, it was fur easier to 
her to admire and model herself on the 
ceremonious courtesy and formal con- 
descension shown her by the old French 
familie«i ; the venerable Gomte de Mailly 
and his young wife in particular — persons 
of the "ancien regime," whose life-long inti- 
macy with her husband gave them an 
influence over him which they would 
willingly have used for the benefit of his 
wife as well as himself. 

It was the de MaiUys, indeed, who had 
so often joined his lawyers in advising him 
to marry, and who were the only persons 
besides those functionaries who knew of 
the almost hopeless state of embarrass- 
ment into which St Laurent had allowed 
his monetary affairs to drift ; and it was 
therefore in the purest spirit of kindness 
that, when they saw that the marriage had 
so far failed that he was already driftbg 
back into his old habits, the Countess 
decided on calling on the young wife, 
opening her eyes to the true state of the 
case, and urging her to use all her fascina- 
tions and influence with her husband to 
induce him to eive up Parisian life alto- 
gether, and settle himself on his estate in 
Brittany, where, with economy and mutual 
affection, the couple might yet lead a life 
of homely dignity and domestic affection. 

Unfortunately poor Jane had neither 
the breadth nor generosity of spirit neces- 
sary for taking the kindly-meant counsel 
weU. She hsd not been in ignorance of 
her husband's character when she married 
him; but then to girls of her kind it 
seemed a natoral and accepted thins that 
gentlemen should be ''a little gay, and 
addicted to ruining girls who were ''silly " 
enough to let them. They steadied down 
after marriage of course; and when she 
saw, or suspected, that in St Laurent's 
case this ** steadying down " had not taken 
place, it was more consonant with her own 
character to affect ignorance of the wrong 
done to her, and swallow her mortification 
in private, than to either shrink in horror 
from the sinner or try, from the depths of 
her own love and purity, to win him back 
to virtue. That the de Maillys should be 
aware of her humiliation was therefore a 
reason for Jane to dislike them with all 
the rankling intensity of a petty nature, 
and to take a small pleasure in repulsing 
their overtures of friendship ; but in truth 
the loneliness of her position was almost 
unendurable, and her remorseful yearnings 
for the home and parents she had so lightly 
abandoned so added to it that she entreated 


190 [April 10, 1886.] 



her husband to be allowed to leave him, if 
only for a visit of a few weeks to her 
father and mother. 

St. Laurent refused, and the de Maillys 
encouraged him in doing so. It seemed to 
them indeed a peculiarly ill-judged request; 
not only because they had just succeeded 
in inducing him to give up his Paris resi- 
dence and prepare to return to the home 
in Brittany he had so long neglected, but 
because Jane herself, being near her con- 
finement, it appeared of all things desirable 
that the son and heir hoped for should be 
bom under his father's roofbree. And the 
poor woman submitted in silence. There 
was nothing else indeed for her to do, but 
perhaps distress of mind contributed to the 
fact that the son, when he did arrive, was 
bom dead, and before she had fully re- 
covered her strength again she received 
news of the decease of both her parents 
from small-pox within a fortnight of one 

All vestiges of girlhood died within Jane 
St Laurent from that day. Even the pink 
colour went out of her ch^^^, and the 
youthful lightness from ^^? step, and, 
though she sdd litre ^^ her sorrow — 
always reticent, since ^ ^iiarriage she had 
become more so than^ver — ^the signs of 
inward suffering were too apparent in her 
not to rouse all her husband's pity and 
tenderness ; and, when she humbly begged 
him to allow her to engage the person who 
had nursed her parents uirough their last 
illness for her own personal attendant, he 
gave the required permission with positive 
cordiality. She did not say that the per- 
son was her own cousin Joan, who had 
left her place as general servant to perform 
the absent daughter's duties to her uncle 
and aunt Madame St Laurent had too 
much fedse shame still with regard to her 
connections, and too little trast in her 
husband, to dare to be frank with him 
even then; but she wrote plainly and 
urgently to Joan, concealing none of her 
woes and troubles, and entreating her to 
accept a home for life with a good salary 
and the position of housekeeper and con- 
fidential maid at Les Chd,tai^iers, on the 
one condition of not betraying the rela- 
tionship between them. 

And Joan consented ; not without some 
contempt felt and expressed for her cousin's 
shufflings and cowardice, but with a shrewd 
practical perception of the advantages con- 
tained in the proposal for herself and those 
of her family who needed her help, and 
with only this condition in return. She 

would stand by Jane to the death, and 
work for her as willingly as for anybody, 
but call her own flesh and blood "ma'am," 
or "missis," she wouldn't, not to save her 
life, and nothing would make her. 

With this proviso, therefore, Joan— 
afterwards called Joanna, for greater 
grandeur— came, and with her coming 
Madame St Laurent felt as if she had 
taken a great step in retrieval of her past 
shortcomings towards her family, and be- 
gan to reap a speedy reward in the com- 
panionship and sympathy of her homely 
kinswoman They had plenty to do and 
think of now, both of them, for M. St 
Laurent's affairs were in a far worse state 
than he had in any way supposed, and it 
was only by most careful management and 
economy, aided by loans from tiie Comte 
de Mailly, that they were able to retain 
the property at all, and make both ends 
meet for some time. Fortunately for 
Madame these economies did not affect 
her, as they might have done a person nsed 
from childhood to the comforts and loza- 
ries of life; and, still more fortunately, 
she developed, with the need of them, a 
perfect genius for household saving and 
good management, which filled her husband 
and even Joanna with surprise and admi- 
ration, and caused the former to regard her 
for the first time with something lili» posi- 
tive respect That a whole establishment 
should be kept up in decency and moderate 
comfort, and a margin afforded for his own 
" menus plaisirs '' duxinp the year with less 
expense than it cost him to maintain his 
bachelor apartments for a month, was a 
marvel to him — the one consolation for 
what he bitterly regarded as the enieltyof 
his exile from the only place where life 
was worth living — and if it was oUained 
at the cost of a niggardly parsimony both 
abroad and at home, grinding down of 
wages and ilUberality to the poor, that 
mattered little to hiuL His long absenee 
from iBrittany had made him more Puisian 
than Breton in his sympathies, and it only 
roused a keen feeling of dislike against hu 
wife among the cbep-feeUng, impuUTe 
Bretons, already prejudiced against ner by 
the fact of her alien nationality, and by 
whispers emanating firom the kitchens at 
Mailly as to her plebeian origin. 
And then Vera came I 
M. St Laurent had always been indul- 
gent to his wife in one respecc, he had not 
interfered with her religious viewa In the 
beginning, indeed, he had taken it as a 
matter of course that she should go to 




[April 10, 1886.] 191 

Mass; but that was when he was still 
»* furiously " in love with her ; and when 
she broke from her nsual snbmissiYeness to 
plead with more passion and fire than he 
had ever before seen in her, that she wonld 
rather be slain then and there than "bow 
her knee in the temples of Baal," he gave 
np the point 

To obtain tiie same liberty for a daughter, 
however, was a different thing, especially 
when the reckless pleasure-seeker of those 
days was transformed into the sulky and 
discontented country gentleman. But 
Madame made her petition juat when her 
own health was so impaired ,Jy nursing 
him through a long and severe illness, that 
I the doctors warned him that only the 
I greatest care and consideration could avert 
j the risk of a similar disappointment to 
that which had before overtaken them. 
St Laurent made haste to pacify his wife, 
therefore, by granting her petition. It 
was only a hypothetical one after all, and 
he certably hoped that no girl might ar- 
rive to call for its fulfilments ; but, when a 
few weeks later, the girl did make her ap- 
pearance, it must be said to his credit that 
I he showed no dispouition to go back from 
his word, or to prevent Madame from send- 
ing Joanna for the Protestant chaplain at 
Qoimper and having the babe baptized be- 
fore it was a month old. 

He nicknamed it "La petite Huguenote," 
and cared very little for it from the first ; 
hut to his wife this was of small moment. 
What she wanted was her daughter for her 
very own; a daughter who should be 
always with her, never forsake her, never 
look down on her or imagihath^t it was 
I possible for others to do so, but who should 
! iiaye no other guide than her mother's voice, 
j no higher motive than her mother's will ; 
I and who withal should be in every par- 
i ticolar << quite the lady;" not, perhaps, 
after the pattern of *' those Paris women " 
of whom Madame still retained an uneasy 
and resentful recollection; but after that 
npon which she had desired to model her- 
self in early days, — ^her own very superior 
and superfine teacher, Miss Smithers for 
example, and a certain Mrs. Jones, the 
wealtiiy widow of an ex-alderman and the 
leading lady in the gloomy little Dissent- 
^g congr^tion to which Jane had be- 
longed. This was her double aim, to 
achieve which, and to achieve it so per- 
fectly that her husband should have no 
excuse for taking her daughter fromher, and 
Bending her to some fashionable and godless 
, boarding-schooLwhileyeraontheotherhand 

should so grow up in dependence on her 
mother as to have no wish or ambition to 
leave her side, formed the one untiring 
endeavour, the one gnawing anxiety of her 
life. It was for this end that she so scru- 
pulously attended to Yera's education, and 
modelledjton the pattern of herown,so that 
no strange or unsafe ideas might find their 
way to the girl's mind ; for this end that 
Vera was never allowed to soil her gen- 
tility by speaking to the under-servants or 
peasantry in the neighbourhood, lest, in so 
aoing, she should seem to betray an affinity 
with the working classes which might re- 
flect on her mother ; and withheld as far as 
possible from intimacy with girls in a su- 

Eerior station for fear they, on the other 
and, should inspire her with any thing like 
discontent or dissatisfaction with her own 
home regime: for this end even that, when 
some supplementary teaching in music, etc., 
were found absolutely necessary, Leah was 
chosen in preference to sevend ladies ad- 
vertising themselves as of high degree and 
aristocratic refinement, for the very reason 
of her suppG|[?^d mediocrity and amenable- 
ness to Madikio "^s patronage. 

Poor motheUl&^Sucjh ceaseless striving, 
such constant aLwii^^ Tor so poor an aim, 
so pitiful and narrJ** a summing up of a 
life unspeakablv pitiful too in the very 
shallowness ana vulgaritv of its highest 
aspirations and bitterest aisappointments ; 
its entire absence of anytlung like one 
noble thought, one pure or lofty principle, 
one spark of that human passion or re- 
ligious enthusiasm which can kincQe equally 
in peer and peasant, and elevates both alike I 
And, after all, she could not even keep 
the one object of all this watchfulness and 
jealousy for ever. Nay, she was not even 
to keep her as long as many mothers do. 
Vera was only fourteen when M. St. 
Laurent came to his wife with a communi- 
cation which sounded to her like the death- 
knell of her brief happiness. At that 
time the girl was tall for her age and 
looked almost as full grown as she did at 
twenty, though with the contrasting charm 
of almost infantile softness of feature and 
delicacy of complexion; and it was this 
contrast which struck the present Gomte 
de Mailly, as, visiting at Les Gb^taigniers 
after an absence from Brittany of nearly 
two years, he came upon the maiden sing- 
ing softly to herself, as she swung to and 
fro on the pendent bough of an old apple 
tree ; and the picture was so charming a 
one that he crossed the grass to speak to 
her. Vera answered simply and shyly 



[April 10. ]£81] 

enough ; but with that indefioable sweet- 
ness of eye and languor of lip which she 
had inherited from her grandmother ; and 
though the Count's Gallic sense of pro- 
priety did not permit him to detain her 
five minutes, he went straight from her to 
Stu Laurent's study, and Uien and there 
made the proposal to him which it so over- 
came Madame to hear. She could hardly 
gasp her answer : 

"Marry her ! My Vera I That baby ! 
Oh, it isn't possible." 

Her husband cut her short roughly, and 
with that look in his eyes whidi always 
cowed her, 

"Pas possible) Et pourquoi done! 
Tiens, ma femme, art thou then still so 
' bourgeoise ' as to be unable to appreciate 
the pleasure of seeing thy daughter a 
Countess ; or is it that thy mediocre train- 
ing has unfitted her for the position of a 
lady of rank 1 Dame I but in that case it 
will be advisable to send her at once to 
the Convent of the Sacr^ Coeur, in Paris, 
to acquire a little polish and become like 
other demoiselles of position." 

And before that threat Madame suc- 
cumbed almost without resistance. In 
effect too was it not a erand thing for a 
woman of her mental calibre that her child, 
the baker's little granddaughter, should 
become the wife of a nobleman, the mis- 
tress of a magnificent chateau within a 
mileof hermother'sroof, and where shecould 
still live almost under the shelter of her 
mother's wing 1 In truth there were con- 
solations in the picture ; and when Joanna 
spoke of the Count's age, which was 
identical with that of Madame herself, and 
called it selling the child, the poor lady 
blushed nervously, and said : 

'* Ah, no, it's that which will make it 
safer for her. They — gentlemen I mean — 
get so much steadier when they are middle- 
aged. You see, yourself. Monsieur has done 
so ; and after all it is in his hands. He 
might have proposed something worse, 
some one who would have taken her quite 
away ; while now — who knows what may 
happen before she is grown up ! " 

For Madame had made one stipulation, 
that the marriage should not take place till 
Vera was twenty-one. " English girls are 

children till then, and she is spedallj 
childish," the mother urged, and rather to 
her surprise, the Count himself acceM 
with less difficulty than her husband. 

truth he was in no hurry to marry 

settle down. He liked bachelorhood 
and had amusements of his own whUt. 
fully satisfied him for the time bet^, 
What he desired was the pleasure of koov* 
ing that a soft^ fair, innocent creature vn 
growing up for him till the hour whenb: 
should tire of his present life and oIua' 
her ; and for this he was not only ready to 
do without '< dot," but to release M. ^ 
Laurent from the heavy debts which hi 
had already incurred towards the de Ma% 
estate, and make, him fresh loans for the 
improvement of his own. Further, he 
suggested a stipulation which coincided n 
exactly with Madame's wishes that she 
could almost have embraced him for ii 
Vera was not to know of his propofiak till 
the day when he was permitted to raiet 
them ; and in the meantime she wm to 
continue to live in the country with her 
parents, and not be introduced to sodeij 
and the admiration of other men. 

The bargain was made and condaded; 
but during the last year Madame St 
Laurent had begun to feel it a hard ona 
It seemed to her that the Count was not 
only master of the situation, but of her 
husband and her child. Everything iSl 
to be referred to him in a way mor 
to any woman* Even the improvement m 
her accomplishments which led to Leah^ 
visit was his suggestion ; and of late, as he 
grew older ana Vera more womanly, he 
had manifested such an evident desire to 
curtail the time of his probation that 
Madame, dreading to lose her one treason 
a day before it was necessary, jumped erea 
at the excuse afforded by her husband's 
illness for sending the girl out of his sigU 
for a time. But she had never expected 
such a result from her action, as had 
actually come to pass. She thought 
indeed that she had guiurded most carefollf 
against even the risk of it*^ and her dis- 
may at the news contained in Yera's letter. 
was as ^reat, as the wrath and excitement 
roused m both her husband and the CowU 
by that of Dr. Marstland. 

The Bight of TranskUmg Articleijrom All the Yeab Rouin) is reserved hy ike Autkon, 


Published tt the Office, 26, WeUington Strael, Strtnd. Printed by Cbaklv Diokirs A Stabs. Si, Greet New Street, t^ 



194 [April 17p 1888.] 



She believed Norberto's statement bo far 
as it went; bnt she auBpected him — as it 
happened, wrongftdly — of the suppression 
of a personal commnnioation from Ines. 
She did not believe that the sole sonrce of 
his information was the commnnioation 
made on behalf of Miss Merivale by Mr. 
Ritchie. Her instinct told her that Ines 
would have made another effort for her 
child's sake, when death was drawing near 
to her; and she believed that Norberto 
had destroyed a letter written under those 
circumstances. She knew, however, that 
she would have to abide by what he had 
told her ; for if he had indeed done this 
thing he would never acknowledge it 

The meht was sultry, and Dona Mer- 
cedes comd not sleep. Hour after hour 
she slowly paced the floor of the large, 
cool, moonlit room, and communed with her 
own strangely softened heart in the utter 
solitude made around her by time's changes. 

What if she had loved Ines, and faithfully 
tried to replace the mother whom she had 
lostt Not for the first time was Dofia 
Mercedes confronted by this question ; but 
hitherto she had angrily put it from her. 
Now she hearkened to it, with all its pain 
and reproach, and with a great retrospec- 
tive pity for Don Saturnino. 

There are times in our moral life when 
hours do the work of years. This was 
such a time in the life of Dona Mercedes. 
The dawn broke in upon her sleepless 
vigil, and found her with remorse changed 
into repentance, and all her mind set on 
making reparation to the daughter of Ines, 
if happily she were living, for Uie injury 
done to one who had been so long beyond 
the reach of reparation. 

Don Norberto was to bring to her the 
letter which had been written by Mr. 
Ritohie, thirteen years previously, to- 
gether with a copy of his own. He had 
stated, falsely, Uiat the appeal of Ines 
to her father, written at Southampton, 
had been destroyed, and he had, of course, 
made no mention of the threats to which 
he had resorted in his reply ; so that Dona 
Mercedes was, like Lilias Merivale and 
Henry Rodney, without a clue to the 
mystery of the second marriage. Had she 
but known of those threats ; had she been 
aware that the man whose nature she 
held, with reason, to be so implacable, had 
vowed a vendetta against Ines' child ; she 
would probably have devised some other 
means of making the reparation upon which 
she was bent than that which came readily 
to her hand. 

Norberto also had thought a good deal 
over the {HMUtion, although he had nol 
sacrificed an hour's deep to it; andwhsuhi 
came to Dona Merceoes on the foIlowiDg 
day, bringbg the promised documents, he 
was prepared for any course into whidi lui 
contemptible superstition might drive Im, 
Several courses were open to hisr, and he wu 
h\A little concerned as to which of then 
she might adopt The fabric of his tna- 
quillityhad been rudelyshaken; the psaska 
of a past time had been re-awakened ; kt 
his profound and cultivated dissimolatioo 
was ready for use in the emergency. 

He showed Dona Mercedes at once tint 
he meant to take the whole thing for 
granted, and to treat it in a bnsiness-13n 

''That is the correspondence," heaiid, 
handing her two papers, ^ and it sums op 
my knowledge on the subject You inll 
see that no material wrong to the child 
was done by my concealment of this com- 
munication — at the time for your good, ai 
I think you will not dispute." 

'' I shall not dispute anything, Norbetta 
I Uame you in nothing; you acted for 
the best Myself I am bee to Uame, and 
I look to you to ad vise me, and to help me to 
make atonement" 

"That is a matter of course," he 
answered, with a well-assumed air of reM 
« When you have told me what it is yoa 
wish to do, I will give the best of mj 
ability to the doing of it, even though it 
must be at the cost of admitting a serioni 
mistake on my own part" 

This unusual tone surprised Dona Mer- 
cedes. She was, however, too much is- 
lieved by it to listen to her suspicions. 

"Thank you, Norberto," she said. "I 
will tell you all that is in my mind." 

She glanced over the copy of his letter to 
Mr. Walter Ritchie, and observed how 
skilfully, by his stetement that he wrote 
on behalf of Don Saturnino de Rodas, be 
had covered his responsibility ; but she laid 
down the paper without allowing him to 
see that she nad perceived this. 

" When we have ascertained where the 
daughter of Ines is — ^for our purposes we 
take it for granted that she is living— and 
in what position, I should like to propose 
that she should come out to reside with 
me for as long a period as her EDgliib 
relations would permit, in order thai ihe 
may become acquainted with her mother's 
country, and with what may be her own 
future home, if she likes to make it sa'' 

" Do you bear in mind that she wiU be 





(April 17, 18B8.I 195 

qoita Engliah in her edneation and ideas, 
aad that yon Iiave never fallen into the 
waj of Ulang the English t " 

"I don'4 forget that; bnt I do not 
hesitate, nerertheless. If yon have no 
greater objection to make, we may pass 
over this ona" 

"Very well," said Norberto, in cheerful 
Msoit; ** then the ground is cleared. You 
will write the invitation to my uncle's un- 
known granddaughter, and I shall encloie 
tt in my explanation to this Sefior Ritchie 
or his representatives; then we shall see 
what will happen. I can only say that I 
hope everything may turn out according 
to your wishes." 

'*If she comes to me," said Dofia 
Mercedes nervously, and with an in- 
voluntarily wistful look at Norberto, '*I 
hope I may be able to make her happy." 

Don Norberto repressed the sardonic 
safle of retrospective meaning that hovered 
about his thin lips, and answered gravely : 

''To will, with you, has alirays been to 

On the following day, that of the dis- 
patch of the mail to England, Don Nor- 
berto brought the draft of his letter to Dona 
Mercedes. She approved of it and gave him 
her own letter, which was in French and 
addressed to Miss Merivale, to read. 

Hits letter was feelingly and most 
eourteousiy oomposed, and Don Norberto 
lead it widi as much wonder as anger; 
bat he expressed his approval in terms as 
weU- chosen as its own. It would have 
taken a keen observer indeed to discern 
in his even phrases the deadly wrath of 
a man beaten in his dearest hopes, and 
defeated in his steadiest and worst pur- 
pose, for the second time — after a lapse of 
years sufficient in any ordinary case to 
tnbdue the strongest of passions, and to 
effiice the keenest of memories. 

From that day forth Dona Mercedes 
began to resume her former interest in 
her surroundings; she was rehearsing 
for the time when the daughter of Ines 
would be with her; she was filling her 
life with purposes in order that phan- 
toms might find no place there. She 
placed the girl's figure in the large, bare, 
vacant rooms. She disposed their scanty 
foniture in imagination for Ines's child 
as she had never done for Ines herself; 
ihe even pictured to herself a return to 
the world and its ways, for the sake of 
the girl to whom this foreign home would 
be so new, aui might be made so pleasant 
She did not f orset her met nor did she 

imagine that the vacant places in her 
heart could ever be filled, but the bitter- 
neu was assuaged. She had asked Misa 
Merivale to send her a photograph of 
Miss Rosslyn, and she began to be im- 
patient for the answer to her letter long 
before it could arriva Would the girl be 
like Ines ? Dona Mercedes hoped at first 
she might not prove so, but as the agita- 
tion of her discovery wore off by degrees, 
she blamed herself for this, as a shrinking 
from a just part of her penance ; and she 
had the covering removed from the 
portrait of Ines's mother, which might have 
been that of Ines herself, and would sit 
before it for hours, busy with her embroidery 
and her thoughts. 

When in due time Don Norberto de 
Bodas received BCr. Walter Ritchie's answer 
to his communication, it occasioned him a 
good deal of thought One immediate result 
of the perusal of his reflections was his 
searching for some papers relating to a laige 
transaction with a certain Spamsh house 
of business, and taking them with him 
when he went to see Dona Mercedes. 

''The maU is in," he said, "and the 
letters we have been expecting have arrived. 
Here is one for you." 

She took it eagerly, but her eyes did not 
leave his face. 

"The Sefior Ritchie tells me strange 
news, and in a brief way. The girl is 
hving, is still with her fauier's sister, but 
is to be married very shortly, with the 
approbation of all her firienoU, including 
that man who, as you may remember, 
brought the other to your house, and whom 
I always suspected of having a share in 
what happened." 

"In the flight of Ines?" 

Don Norbc^ nodded. He never uttered 
her name or Hugh's. 

" Yes — Rodney. You remember him t " 

" Perfectly." 

"I had heard that he was dead, and I 
repeated the statement to the asent Thu 
Senor Rodney has appeared m London 
among these friends of the other English- 
man, and was intending to come to Ouba 
and tell us all the news that we have learned 
without his troubling himself so much, when 
our letters arrived and spared him the 
voyage. You had better read Miss Meri- 
vale's letter ; I am referred to it for further 

Dofia Mercedes, with her fear of him 
revived by the tone of his voice, which 
revealed Uiat he was struggling witfi some 
f eeling too strong for him for the moment. 


196 [April 17, 1886.] 



obeyed him. Miss Merivale wrote in 
French, most graciously, and with an ex- 
pression as frank as it was dignified, of her 
gratificaticm at the nature of Do£La Mer- 
cedes' communication, and then she entered 
into the particulars of Dolores' position at 
the moment The marriage was to take 
place in six weeks from the date of Miss 
Merivale's letter, and not only was a 
photograph of Dolores enclosed, as re- 
quested, but one of Julian Courtland was 
also sent. The feelings with which Dolores 
had heard of the recognition of her by the 
sunriyors of her mother's family were 
gracefully conveyed, and due acknowledg- 
ment was made of the generous intentions 
towards her, intimated by Dona Mercedes 
in addition to her statement of the sum to 
which Dolores was entitled in right of her 
mother. Then came a passage that quelled 
the tumult of disappointment and regret 
with which Dona Mercedes had read all 
the foregoing portion, with its announce- 
ment of the subversion of her plans, and 
the defeat of her hopes. What might not 
Dolores have been to her ) She was to be 
nothing to her now. There was to be no 
chance for her, no new spring of hope and 
consolation for her, nothing but the poor, 
bare reparation of money ! But Miss 
Merivale went on to propose that the visit 
which Dolia Mercedes had invited Dolores 
to make to her should still take place, the 
bride and bridegroom extending their tour 
to the <* Pearl of the Antilles." 

Dona Mercedes read the letter aloud, 
.and Norberto de Bodas Ibtened to its con- 
tents and her comments without a word. 

" Dolores 1 " she said. ** A name Ines 
liked, as I remember ; but I wonder she 
did not give the child her mother's name, 
Modesta. And this is sha A lovely 
creature ; very like Ines, and without the 
least look of her father, whom I remember 
perfectly. See." 

Dona Mercedes held out the photograph 
to Norberto, but he put it aside, and said 
roughly : 

'*! am no judge of likenesses." 

She looked up at him ; his face wore a 
fierce look which she had not seen theie 
for yeara 

''Can it be possible," she thought, '*that 
jealousy and resentment are living in him 
still t " 

She replaced the two cards in the en- 
velope, taking no notice of his rude 
speech, and simply asked him what he 
bought of Miss Merivale's letter. 

Don Norberto thoaght well of it on the 

whola He could have wished for the 
sake of Dona Mercedes that the girl bd 
come out to her free, so that she might 
have remained in Cuba had she wished to 
do so; but, as this could not be, Hin 
Merivale'sproposal was the next best thing. 
He supposed there would not be anyliksh- 
hood of this Senor Courtland — another 
barbarous English name — ^wishing to settle 
atSantiago. MissMerivale had said nothing 
of his profession, and it might be that he 
could do so. Don Norberto said this es 
carelessly that he threw Dona Mereedet 
otf her guard, and she answered : 

" If they are both what we like, theie 
could be no such good way of building sp 
the old house again." 

"Precisely my meaning," said he, with 
an approving nod. Then they talked over 
the letters, and the mode in which a qoiek 
reply might be sent, so as to reach Doiorei 
before her wedding, and Don Norberto 
had completely removed the impresuoi 
which his momentary failure in aelf-oontrol 
had produced, before he asked the pei- 
mission of Dofia Mercedes to turn asde 
for a while to the discussion of a preseinc 
matter of businesa He then prodaeed 
the papers he had brought with him, tnd 
having explained the matter to which they 
referred with his customary luddi^, eioe- 
tually recalled the wandering attention d 
Dona Mercedes by informing her that he 
considered it absolutely necessary for hiB 
to go to Spain in order to secure eetim 
jeopardised interesta He had been arriving 
at this conclusion for some time past, but 
had not liked to trouble her on the subject 
until after her mind had been set at rest 
by the arrival of letters from England, and 
now he felt no time must be lost He 
regretted the necessity, but was quite 
satisfied that it existed. 

Don Norberto'sexplanation was plansiU^ 
and Dofia Mercedes had nothii^ to do 
except agree to his proposal 

*' Of course I also regret the neceasitj 
very mudi," she said, *' especially as joa 
will be away when Dolores and her 
husband arrive, if you start immediatelj, 
and they make their visit here shortly sftw 
their marriaga This will be a most un- 
fortunate occurrenca" 

Don Norberto smiled in the most frank 
and amiable way as he replied : 

« There is no help for my being away 
when they arrive, but as I do not entertain 
any doubt of your persuading them to 
remain as long as you wish to detain them, 
that will not matter so very much after aU. 






[April 17, 1888.1 197 

I shall make no delay, but will start for 
home the veiy hoar my biuinesa is done." 

Don Norberto's preparations were made 
ezpeditioosly, and he took his departure 
by the next outgoing mail At his last 
conference witli Dona MercedeSi she 
consulted him upon the subject of the 
dowry of Dolores, .as to what sum 
she ought to add to the original inheri- 
tance of Ines, and the most convenient 
manner of arranging the affair. Never 
had she found Don Norberto so agree- 
able, so ready, so liberal-minded; for 
he was usually much averse to witnessing 
the expenditure even of other people's 
money. The interesting nature of the 
strange eiroumstances seemed, however, to 
have completely transformed him; his 
yicariouB stinginess and his habitual ten- 
dency to underralue all claims which had 
to be recognised in money, forsook him for 
the nonce. He entered into the matter in 
the most liberal spirit, only proposing to 
Dona Mercedes that she should wait until 
she had had an opportunity of forming a 
sexious estimate of the character of the 
young Englishman with the barbarous 
mune, before she handed over money to 
his keeping. He reminded her that her 
offer had been made to Dolores only, and 
could not have been taken into considera- 
tion with regard to the marriage. In a 
word he said : '' Give lavishlv, but do not 
be in a hurry about it," and uie recognised 
the soundness of his counsel 

Thusit happened thatwhen DonNorberto 
came to take leave of Dona Mercedes, he 
found her in a very pleasant frame of mind 
respecting him, and they parted with a 
diq»lay of greater conuality than had 
existed between them from the time of 
Don Satcunino's death. 

Great was the delight and the excite- 
ment of Dolores, when she was made ac- 
qusinted with the new events in her own 
history. The story was told to her by 
Liliasi imder the instruction of Bodney, in 
such a way as to convey the smallest 
possible amount of condemnation of her 
mother's relatives, and she was too young 
and too little versed in the ways of the 
worid to suspect that anything was kept 
back from her, or to put questions respect- 
ing the far past eitfier to ner informants or 
to herself. The prospect of distant travel 
with Julian, with such a goal in view as 
her mother^s old home and the welcome of 
her mother's people, was enchantincr to 

her imagination and her feelings, and she 
was never tired of discussing it with her 
great friend and ally, Henry Kodney. For 
that much-travelled gentleman Dolores en- 
tertained ardent admiration. He knew 
everything, and he had forgotten nothing. 
How vivid were the pictures which he 
drew for her of her mother's country, its 
physical features, its people and their 
manners and customs ! His memory was 
so vivid and minute that he could describe 
the house in which her mother had lived 
as thouffh he had seen it quite recently, 
and he had endless anecdotes to tell her 
of his brief companionship with Hugh 
Bosslyn. That he had known the father 
whom she had never seen, and of whom, 
strange to say, her mother had never 
spoken to her — she was certain of that, 
and persisted in the assertion — was 
Bodney's great charm for Dolores. There 
was a portrait of Huch by no means 
remarkable as a work of art, which 
he had painted for Ulias in very early 
days, and Dolores had been most anxious 
to know whether his friend thought it so 
good a likeness as Aunt Lilias did. The 
portrait was very like Hugh Rosslyn, and 
gave one of his best looks. Then Dolores 
wanted Bodney's opinion as to whether 
she resembled her father at all, and was so 
much disappointed when he represented 
to her that it was impossible she could do 
so, bring tiie living miage of her mother, 
that he reconsidered his judgpent and 
thought he detected a likeness in the ex- 

Eression. Dolores reported diis to Lilias 
1 triumph, and Lilias, who justified Mr. 
Wyndhsm's foreboding of her amenability 
to Bodney's influence, was very soon able 
to recognise the "look" which had never 
struck her previously. 

It was arranged that the young couple 
were to sail for the West Indies in the last 
week of their honeymoon, and great was 
the effect of this decision upon the im- 
portant matter of Dolorers wedding- 
clothes. Bodney knew all about what she 
ought to take, and what she must leave at 
home, and was, in fact, simply invaluable. 
In truth he was deeply interested in the girl, 
sincerely fond of ner, and involuntuuy, 
unreasonably, instinctively, sorry for her. 
He was careful to check himself upon the 
latter point, for he did not know any fact 
to the disadvantage to Julian Oourdand, 
and he could not £ive said anything posi- 
tive except that he had not taken to Julian, 
and Julian had not taken to him. 
It was stranse, but true, that if there 


198 (April 17, 1886.] 


was a drawback which Dolores wonld hare 
admitted, to the happiness of the weeks 
which preceded her marriage, it existed in 
Julian himsell She wondered why it was 
that she did not feel so much at her ease 
with him as before she was blest with the 
knowledge that he loved her with lover's 
love, and why she sometimes failed to 
please him now, even in those very things 
which had formerly pleased him most 
Bat when she ventured to put these timid 
girlish doubts before him, he would always 
turn tiiem off by protesting that he was 
out of humour with the fuss, the prepara- 
tions^ the delay, the people about them, 
and that when they two should have left 
all this worry belund, he should be per- 
fectly happy. Now Dolores, a simple, 
happy, healdiy-minded ^1, liked all the 
thiz^ which he included in the opprobrious 
term ** worry," and was sometimes not quite 
sorty when " business " detained Julian in 
London. She dwelt with delight upon his 
assurances that all he wanted was her un- 
interrupted society, and she devoured and 
treasured his little notes of excuse, which 
he turned veiy prettily. 

Money matters were arranged satis- 
factorily for Julian, or rather for Mr. 
Wyndham, although as that astute person 
had foreseeui Mr. Bodney was consulted. 
Julian might confidently look forward to 
paying Mr. Wyndham off, and getting 
finally rid of him, as soon after the marriage 
as he could with propriety devote himself 
to affairs of so prosaic a kind. An arrange- 
ment was made between the two that they 
were to meet at Paris, where Julian and 
Dolores were to pass a few da^ on their 
way back to England, other business taking 
Mr. Wyndham thither at the same time. 

Julian regarded the OTOspect of the trip 
to Cuba with favour. He wanted to get 
right away. He told himself constantly 
tlutt he should be all right when he was 
in a new scene and among totally new 
people; that a man can always forget 
thinffs if he chooses, and that he (Julian) 
did dioose. Also, that he meant to behave 
well to Dolores, whom he really liked 
until he had to think of her as his wife, 
instead of Margaret whom he reallv loved ; 
and that she was such a fool and so ab- 
surdly in love with him that she would 
never know the difference between the 
sham and the true, and bein^ a thoroughly 
good giri, would not be too tiresome when 
she got over her romance. After all, it 
was worth anything to be free, and then, 
he could not have helped it. To that point 

all his attempts at consoling himself came 
back. He had, however, one source of pure, 
unalloyed pleasure ; it was Mr. Wyndnam's 
ignorance of the Cuba affedr. Had this msn 
known that Dolores was doubly an heiress, 
he might have put the screw on Julian 
much more tightly ; as it was, he would be 
paid, dismissed, and done with, and hu 
victim would be speeding towards a seoond 
fortune, with no lien upon it, not one 
shilling of which should ever find its way 
into Mr. Wyndham's pocket. And tbe 
beauty of the thing was tiiat the money he 
should never touch, never hear of, wis 
money that he might have enjoyed, that 
had actually been Us wife's by right. Tbe 
malicious pleasure with which Jufian con- 
templated this instance of the irony of &te, 
constantly reminding himself of it when he 
was with its unconscious subject was, m 
fact, the chief alleviation of tnis period of 
his existenca 

Mr. Wyndham was, indeed, unawarB of 
the Cuban incident; so far Julian was weD 
entitled to the enjoyment of his joke ; bat 
he was fully cognisant of his friend's inten- 
tion of getting rid of him Altogether by tlie 
approaching money settlement between 
theuL Now, Mr. Wyndham greatly liked 
the looks of Miss Bosslyn, a^ whenever 
he saw that Julian's intention was parti- 
cularly present to Julian's mind, he wonld 
repeat to himself : 

'' She and I will be very good friends 
some day." 

So time went on, and the wedding-daj 
of Julian Courtland and Dolores Bosilyn 



When we cross the Borders to Soothnd, 
it will be preferably by the Lady kirk ford, 
within sight of 

Norham*B cMtled steep 
And Tweed'a fair river broad and deep . 
And Cheviot's mountains lone ; 

for here we are at once among the most 
stirring reminiscences of the old B(»der 
region. By this ford, what armies have 
crossed in olden time, what tiains of 
knights and men-at-arms, what bands of 
rude Border prickers, and of yet wilder 
warriors from the Highlands 1 all eager ^ 
share in the spoil of me English land. At 
Holiwell Haugh, dose by, the EngUsh KiDg 
met the Scottish nobility at a fsjootiB con- 
ference, which was to settle the daimB of 
Bruce and Baliol to the crown — the bd- 

g^uliIlg of a serieB of mutual wrongs and 
iojories that estranged the two kinMomB, 
which had hitherto had but little iU-blood 
between them. 

There was always peril in crossing the 
broad bed of the Tweed, a river sudden in 
its floods and capricious in its moods. 
James the Fourth was nearly drowned 
one day in crossing, and vowed in his peril 
a chapel to Our Lady' should he escape. 
TIm chapel was duly built, and gave its 
name to the ford ; but no power could stay 
the doomed King from that last fatal 
crossiDg, when he led his chiyahy 

Of grallant Gordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Highlandman, 
And many a ragged Border clan, 

to the fatal field of Flodden. 

Once over the Tweed and we are in 
the county of Berwick, and in the fertile 
district of the Merse. When Marmion 
took the same journey 

The Merse f orayers were abroad. 

Bat there is no danger of that kind now, as 
the Merse is one df the richest and best 
settled districts of Scotland. *'Marche 
and Tevidale are the best mixt and most 
plentiful shires for grass and com, for 
fleshes and bread, in all our lands.'' It 
was thus of old, ev6n when Border feuds 
and raids sometimes spread desolation 
around ; but now, after centuries of peace 
and prosperity, the district has become 
known as the garden of Scotland — a garden 
hedged about with bleak mountain ranges, 
but everywhere green and luxuriant with 
hedgerows and stately trees ; with charm- 
bg cottages half hidden in the foliage; 
with sdid fikrm-honses that rise almost to 
the dignity of mansions, surrounded by* 
hMidsome farm-buildings and well-fillea 

Beyond is the moorland region of Lam- 
mermuir, with here and there a rough 
Border peel or tower crumbling to decay 
among the heather : a district of wide sheep 
farms, whose sturdy, hospitable farmers 
ai6 built of a mould more grand and liberal 
than elsewhere. 

la following the Scottish side of the 
Tweed upwards, Ooldstream is the chief 
town we c(mie to, a thriving place once, as 
anoh resorted to as Gretna Green by run- 
away couples eager to be married. There 
was no bladcsmith, indeed, at Coldstream 
who set himself up as competent to forge 
the bonds of wedlock, but the innkeepers 
luidertook tike business, and did a thriving 
tilde in consequence, till an alteration in 

the English marriage laws put an end 
to the traffic over the Boiders. Oold- 
stream has also afamiliar sound to English 
ears dating from tiie time when (General 
Monk lay here in 1659-60, waiting events 
and raiong that regiment of his, here- 
after to be known as the Ooldstream 

Half-a>doEett miles above Ooldstream the 
Tweed becomes entirely a Scottish river, 
and the Border line turns abruptly south- 
ward, marked by tfhe gently swelling 
ranges of the Ohevkyt Hills. 

The county town of Berwickshire is 
Greenlaw, a place in nowise remarkable, 
but the place of most importance is Dunse, 
as testified by the old saying '^Donse 
dinn a'." But whatever fame may attach 
to Dunse as the birthplace of the famous 
medieval schdar, Dunus Scotus, belongs 
more properly to the old town which was 
pulled down a good while ago, and 
whose site is now within the grounds of 
tiie modem castle of Dunse. The chief 
feature of the place is the green, round- 
topped hill of Dunse, or Dunse-Iaw, the 
view from which is well described in one of 
the best of Wilson's <* Border Tales.'' ^'Te 
have the whole Merse lying beneath your 
feet like a beautifully laid out and glorious 
garden, the garden o' some mighty con- 
queror diat mi converted a province into 
a pleasure ground, and walled it round wi' 
mountains. There ye behold the Black- 
adder wimpUng along, the Whiteadder 
curling round below you, and as far as ye 
can see, now glittering in a haugh or buried 
amongst wooded braes. Before ye are the 
Oheviots, wi' a broad country, the very 
sister of the Merse lying below them, and 
the Tweed shining out here and there like 
a laka To the right ye behold Roxburffh- 
shire in the diomess o' distance, wf the 
smoke of towns, villages, and hamlets 
rising in mid-air. On each elbow ye have 
the purple Lammermuir, whexe a hundred 
hirsels graze, and to the east die mighty 
ocean and the ships wi' white sails spread 
to the sun," or as the Border poet sings, 
the author of the *' Day Estival " : 

The herds beneath some leafy tree 

Amid the flowers they lie, 
The stable ships upon- the sea 

Tends up their sails to dry. 

With all its tranquil beauty the scene 
has often been filled with the smoke clouds 
of war, and the passage of marching 
legions, as well as fierce end random broils 
of Bonier waifare. An incident of this 
latter class was the slaughter of the gaUant 




200 [April 17, 1880.] 



and accomplished French nobleman, de la 
Bastie, known among the Borders as Tillie- 
batie, who had been appointed by the 
Begent Albany, in the years of confosion 
and disorderwhich followed the fatal field of 
Flodden, Warden of the Eastern Marches. 
The office of Warden was claimed as a right 
by the powerful family of the Lords Home ; 
but the chief of the house had recently 
been ezecnted by order of the Eegent, and 
the Homes resolTod at once to assert their 
right, and aTcnge the death of their kins- 
man at the cost of the intrnding French- 

Some Border fray abont the old tower of 
Langton — no longer in existence, bat a 
noted place of arms in the Border wars — 
broneht the active and zealous young 
Warden upon the scene to regulate matters. 
The whole matter was arranged, it is 
thought^ as a snare for the Warden's de- 
struction, and no sooner did he appear at 
the head of a small following, than be was 
surrounded by swarms of Borderers. TilUe- 
batie rode for his life, hoping to reach 
Dunbar, the nearest point of safety, but, 
becoming entangled in a swamp still called 
Batie's &g, he was surrounded by pursuers 
and killed, when David, the fierce laird of 
Wedderbum, cut off his head, and hang- 
ing it by its long silken locks to his saddle- 
bow, rode home in barbarous triumph. 

A century later, and the whole condition 
of thingjs had undergone a complete changa 
The union of the crowns of England and 
Scctland had abolished the raison d'etre of 
Border warfara The wild Border chieftains 
had become prosperous and wealthy land- 
lords. The rude prickers of a former 
cbiy, full of wild superstitions, and who had 
dung to the old faith when elsewhere all' 
the dtars had been overthrown, were suc- 
ceeded by a race of staunch Presbyterians, 
ready no longer to lay down their lives for 
Doufflas or Cordon, for Home or Graham, 
bid» for Holy Writ and the solemn League 
and Covenant 

Scotch and English were once more 
arrayed against each other when Alexander 
Lesley encamped on the hill of Dunse with 
twenty-two thousand foot and five hundred 
horse, while he watched the movements of 
his royal master, who was posted on the 
Engl&h side of the Tweed. The hill was 
garnished at the top with mounted cannon, 
the soldiers lay encamped around in wooden 
huts thatdied with straw, while the officers, 
among whom wwe many of the chief nobles 
of Scotland, were accommodated with more 
•paeious canvas booths. Ministers, too, 

were there in numbers, to keep alive 
embers of hostility ; and psalms and hjnna 
in rugged harmony were heard around die 
hill of Dunsa The bold front shown by 
the Scotch made the King reooil from bu 

!)roject of re-establishing Episcopacy hj 
brce of arms. 

Of some fame, too, in the annals of the 
Merse is Polwarth, with its fiunous greeB^ 
where once stood the old thorn rouid 
which all newly-married couples must danee 
three times, and which the lads and Iscsei 
danced about ad libitum. 

At Polwarth on the green. 
If yonll meet me on the mora 

Where lanes do convene 
To dance around the thorn. 

Tradition ascribes the origin of the dsnoe 
around the thorn to the romance of the 
Sinclair ^Is, heiresses of Polwarth, who 
loved their neighbour lads the Homes oi 
Wedderbum. A cruel uncle intervened, 
and shut up the girls in a tower in the 
Lothians, but they contrived to let their 
lovers know of their pliffht, and the Homes, 
raising the men of the Merse, stormed the 
tower, and brought away their brides in 
triumph, when the nuptials were c e l ebr ated 
in a wild danee round the thorn. This 
recital shows that even at the uncertsin 
date of tiie story the dance round the thorn 
was considered an essential and valid part 
of the marriage celebration. 

Whether the dancers brought the moa- 
cians,orvice versa, it will be difficult to settle, 
but it is certain that Polwarth was noted 
for its fiddlers — ^the last minstrels of the 
district, whose descendants in foieign 
climes may still perhaps half knowing 
repeat the old lut of Polwarth on the 
Green. Now the fiddlers are all gone, sod 
with the arts the industries have dedined. 
Where are the coopers of Fogo t And there 
are other places noted for sonterswheie 
now perhaps but a solitary cobbler plies 
his inde. For, alas ! the Borders have 
been cleared much as the Highlands have 
been. Tou may meet with traces of the 
expatriated race, in patches of cultivated 
ground now thrown into sheq^ walks, in the 
crumbling walls of ruined cottages, sod 
hearthstones that have long been ookL 

There is a black well at Polwarth hom 
which the stranger should not incantioasly 
drink — for, says the Doom, if one drinks 
one nevet leaves the plaoe. There u 
a similar superstition, it will be nmim- 
bered, about an old well at Wintheleea; 
and it is curious to meet with the saae 
tradition in places where there is no oos- 



oh>ri« nek... CHBONICLES OF SCOTTISH COUNTIES. (Apiau.UBii 201 


naeimg link in the way of migration or 
settlement to account for it 

Pdwarth is noted, too, as the ancient 
seat of the Hames, Barons of Polwartb, of 
whom a younger son, Alexander, was a poet 
of no mean order, if we may jndge from 
his ''DayEsltyal,'' already quoted. Of the 
same ftmily was Patrick Hume, Earl of 
Marchmont, who, in danger of lodng his 
head from his oonnecticm with the Coto- 
nanters, lay hidden for soTcral weeks 
among the bones of his ancestors in the 
vault under Polwarth ChurcL His 
daughter, of whom the memoirs of Lady 
Grisel Baillie give a graphic account, was 
accustomed to visit hmi at niffht with sup- 
plies, braving all the supersUtious terrors 
of the place, the tomb-lights uid corpse- 
candles, to carry her fisher his nightly 
meal in his gruesome abode. The chief 
danger of discovery arose from a vigilant 
house dog at the manse, which barked at 
the disturber of the graveyard quietude 
with a persistence tmtt threatened dis- 
covery. But^ by raising the scare of mad 
dogs in the neighbouriiood and by sacri- 
ficing a lap dog of their own, the ladies of 
the famiiy induced the unsuspecting 
minister to destroy the faithful guardian 
of his premises. 

"As the gloomy habitation my grand- 
father was in," writes Lady Grixel in a 
passage familiar to the young people who 
are now getting old, in the pages of Miss 
EdgewcHTth, " was not to be endured but 
from necessity, they were contrivinff other 
places of safetv for him, parti<»ilarly one, 
under ft bed which drew out in a ground 
flo(Mr, in a room of which my mother kept 
the key. She and the same man worl»d 
in the night, making a hole in the earth 
after lifting up the boards, which they did 
by scratching it up with their hands, not 
to make any noise, till she left not a nail 
upon her fingers; she helping the man to 
carry the earth, as they dug it, in a sheet 
on his back, out at the window into the 
garden. He then made a box at his own 
house large enough for her &ther to lie 
in with bed and bed-dothes, and bored 
holes in the boards for air. When all this 
was finished, for it was long about^ she 
thought hersdf the happiest creature alive." 
Before leaving the Merse there is to be 
noted the beacon on the hill by Hume 
Castle which gave the fake alarm of French 
iovaeion described in Scott's "Antiquary." 
It was on the last days of January, 1803, 
that the watchman by Hume Castle caught 
Ltaieht of the slow a( the beacon ob the 

coast^ as he thought, and set light to 
own fire. Tevlotdale, Tweeddale, and 
Liddesdale were aroused, the men armed 
themselves and set out for the mustering 
places, marching in with the pipes blowing 
before them — 

My name is litUe Jook Elliot 
And wha daur meddle wi' me ? 

The women cheered and urged them on 
their way, while one old dame, in the Spartan 
spirit of Old Scotia, greeted an armed 
band that passed her cottage with tiie 
words, " Come back victorious or come not 
back at a^" whild a leu martial note is 
echoed in theutteranceof the parish domi- 
nie, ''But if the chid Buonaparte should 
come owre to Britain, surely he inll never 
be guilty o' the cruelty and f oUy o' 
onything to the parish schoolmasters.'' 

Close by is the ancient seat of the 
Grordon dan, theorigind gowks o' Gk>rdoB, 
celebrated in the musicd rhjthm of the 
old baUad— 

Huntley Wood— the wa*s down 
Baisanaean and Barrantown. 
Heckapeth wi'the golden hair, 
Gordon gowks for ever mair. 

Something may here be said of the 
Border clans, whether Gordons, Grahams, 
Scotts, Armstrongs, or others, who have 
littie in common with the Highland Septs, 
united by a common ancestry and by a 
complete and complicated system of inheri- 
tance and tenure. The Border chm was 
a much more dmple affair, and is rather an 
associaticm for mutud defence and for 
common cause in ndd or foray. Originally 
the population of the Borders differed 
little from that of the rest of Northumbria 
soutix of the Tweed. On the western March 
there may be some admixture of Cdtic 
blood from the r^ons of Cumbria and 
Strathdyde, while the pure Scottish de- 
ment can have been but smdl, dthough 
powerful; and eventually leavening the 
whole lump. But, till the Norman conquest 
of Englana introduced a more rigid distinc- 
tion l^tween the two nations, there was 
no trace of any nationd animodty between 
the two countries, with no need for any 
spedd organisation beyond tho ordinary 
townships and hundreds. And thus the 
Border dans seem to have come into ex- 
istence from the pressure of circumstances, 
a federation of fighting men for the pro- 
tection of their own flocks and herds, and 
the acquidtion of those belonging to other 
people, and leagued in alliance against the 
£nglish power on one side and on the other 
Sftainst him whom the Borderers contemp- 


20S tApifl 17, 1S8«.1 



tnoosly called the King of Fife and Loihian. 
Any bold fighting man who wonld swear 
fealty to the Chief was welcome to join the 
clan and assome iti distinctive somame, 
while an equitable distribution of the 
plunder acquired by the tribe stocked the 
pasture lands of Chief and clansmea 

The rude towers of the Border chiefs 
are nowhere more plentiful than along the 
course of the Whiteadder river, where 
probably the Border^s only adopted and 
renewed the fortidices and entrenchments 
of an earlier race. All tradition points to 
this district as the final refuge, and Hbe 
scene of the eventual exterminaticm of the 

As to the very origin of the Picts we 
have little to guide us ; but tradition points 
to there having come from the north a 
strange uncanny race with perhaps Mon- 
golian features in their dark and swarUiy 
complexions, driven like the Finns and 
Lapps from the favoured parts of Scandi- 
navia, by incursions and settlements of the 
fair-haired Teutonic tribes. Like the Lapps 
they were accounted great magicians, and 
they have survived in popular mythology as 
Pixie, Elf, Brownie, or BiUyblind. Each 
Border tower is haunted by its familiar 
Bedcap, a name which perhaps suggests 
the character of the Pictish head-dresa 

It is no unlikely site this for the last 
stand of a defeated race. To the north 
there are steep ravines which a handful of 
men might defend against an army, and 
which at a later date were actually closed 
afl;ainst Cromwell and his army, before the 
victory of Dunbar, by a small detachment 
of Covenanters. To the east are precipi- 
tous defiles, and the broad Tweed cuts ofi 
access from the south. When the outer 
defences of the land were carried or 
turned, the last stand of the Picts was 
made, so tradition pays, on Cockbum-law, 
between Cranshaw Castle and DunSe. And 
here the remnants of an ancient race fought 
their last fight and were slaughtered — all 
but two, as old tradition says, an old man 
and his son, who were saved, as it seems, for 
a purpose. 

To the Picts belonged the secret of a 
wondrous drink, a delicious and wholesome 
liquor, distilled from heather-bells. The 
manner of making it, says an old writer, 
has perished with the Picts, as they never 
showed the craft of making it except to 
their own blood. Now to turn the heather- 
bells to ^d advantage must have seemed 
a grand mvention to a Scot, seeing that so 
noUe a harvest was growing all around. 

And rich the soil had purple heath been grain. 

or, according to an older riiyme, anent the 
possessions of the bold Bucdeuch, 

Had heather belli been oom o' the beit 
Bucdeuch had had a noble grist. 

And thus to utilise a natural prodaet 
seemed to the conquerors of the Picts a 
consummation worth a little pains. So 
the old man and the young one were 
brought before the King ot the Scots, who 
ofifered them botfi their lives if they woald 
reveal the secret " Kill the otiber oae 
first," said the father, pointing to his sob, 
<<and then I will tell you." The youth 
was quickly despatdied. '* Now kill me/' 
said the old man ; " my son might have 
yielded to your threats and promisea I 
nevw shall Quick! Despatch T' The 
King condemned the old man to live os. 
And live he did, far beyond the ordinsty 
span of human life, far on into later tbiea. 
Then the old Pict, blind and bedriddea, 
heard some youth of the period boastiogof 
his athletic feats. '* Give me your wrist," 
said the old man, '*that I may judge if 
your strength is equal to that of the men 
of old." PriKlentiy the bystanders handed 
the old man a thick bar of iron, which be 
twisted and bent, and then thrust away, 
saying, '' You are not feeble, but you can- 
not be compared with the men of andeat 

It has been whispered, indeed, that the 
secret of the wonderful drink of the Pieto 
was not altogether lost, and its survival 
may be thus accounted for. The Plcti, 
when they first landed in Scotland, eoa- 
sisted of men only, their womankind thej 
had beeti obliged to abandon to their eon- 
querors. In this hard case they i^Ued te 
the Britons as well as to the Scots to 
provide them with wives, but ndther nee 
would ally themselves with the hated intra- 
ders. The Gk^ls, however, w«re not so 
particular, and bestowed their daughlen 
on the strangers — the ill-favoured ones 
for choice, like muckle-mouthed Meg for 
instance. In this way the secret lesked 
out among the relatives of the Picts' wives, 
and thus the race became possessed of the 
art of making that ambrosial drink, called 
U8(]^uebangh, or, in modem langosge, 
whiskey. And it is a curious fiict, when 
you come to think of it, that among no 
other races tiian the Gkiels of Ireland or of 
the Scotch Highlands is this liquor msde 
in perfection. 

The Borderers, and the Scotch ni 
general, did not take to whiskey till a 




iM<taii.] CHRONICLES OF SCOTTISH COUNTIES. lAprn 17. iseci 203 

period oomparatively modem. Indeed, 
from an early date, London porter, or 
London beer at all events, seems to have 
been a &yonrite beverage, as in the "Day 
Estival ** we have the labourers in the heat 
of the day refreshing themselves in this 

Some plucks the honey plumba and pear 

The cherry and the peach, 
Some likes the reamond London beer 

Their body to refresh. 

Wa may now pass on to Lammermnir, 
whose hills and ravines formed the defence 
of the fertQe Merse, hills which break off 
in a roj^ed coast-line, the chief promon- 
tory of which is St. Abb's Head. The 
HMd itself consists of two high monnts 
eat off from the mainland by a natural 
dyke. On the western hekht stands the 
Inoken tower of Fast Castte, gloomy and 
almost awftil in its loneliness and desola- 
ti<m. The most seaward of the two is the 
Kirkhill, where once stood the old chorch, 
the earliest of all the churches of Scotland, 
tbnost on the verge of the precipice, where 
innumerable seaf owl scream, and the surges 
thunder below against the rocky buttrMs. 
A tiny strip of beach affords a perilous 
landing-place, and one day the anchorites 
in the lonely church above saw a boat 
approaching, driven by wind and waves, 
but steered by a strong and skilful hand 
towards the beach. As well as the steers- 
man the figure of a woman could be 
discerned, and the venerable fathers, hasten- 
iog downwards by the perilous path, were 
just in time to receive the Doat as it 
grounded. But there was only one passen- 
ger now on board, a young and beautiful 
Princess, firom Northumbria, who had been 
I cast adr^ in the boat to perish. Clearly 
the boat had been steered to its haven by 
tngelic hands, and the young Princess, 
forthwith taldng the veil, founded the 
Priory of Coldingham, near at hand, and 
was afterwards canonized as Saint Abba. 

The Priory of Coldingham, the mother 
of all tiie monasteries of Scotland, has left 
only a few foundations to preserve its 
memory : but the aspect is delightful, and 
tiie village which occupies the site is the 
plea»ntest all idong the coast Colding- 
ham Moor was once noted for its £unous 
football play, where, once a year, there was 
a great match between married and single. 
Tl» goal to be kicked by the former was 
any part of the sea-shore, while the single 
men had to drive the ball into ahole inthe 

I groimd, or later, bcoieath the lintel of a 

II Dani4oor. Under these uneoual condi- 

tions the married men, it is said, nearly 
always gained the victory. 

The road that winds over the hills of 
Lammermnir was once greatiy frequented 
by the farmers of the Merse, who rode to 
market at Haddington, each carrying his 
sack of com. The chief stopping; place 
on tins lonely road was Dunskem Inn, 
about which a gruesome tale is told. The 
hmdlord, once upon a time, was a desperate 
and determined villain, and, if a guest was 
driven to seek shelter with him for a night, 
that guest was never more seen alive. Even 
those who only called at the house to bait 
and refresh, he would pursue at a distance 
till they arrived at a lonely and desolate 
spot among the peat bogs, when he would 
shoot downhis victim ; and soon tiie yield- 
ing bog concealed all traces of the deea. So 
daring and yet so cautious was the man 
that, although long suspected, none had 
ventured to bring him to justice, till a 
Marquis of Tweeddale himself essayed the 
adventure. Disguising himself as a travel- 
ling merchant, he stopped to drink at the 
inn, and then rode on alone. Preaentiy 
he heard the muffled sound of hoofs behind 
him, when a man masked and armed rode 
swiftly forward. But the Marquis was 
prepared, and, with a pistol-shot brought 
the vUlain to the ground. He lived long 
enough, it is said, to confess his crimes, and 
his body soon^ swung high on a gibbet, as a 
warning to evil-doers. 

There now remains only Lauderdale to 
visit — ^the vale of the Biver Lauder. And 
a few ndles above the junction with the 
Tweed is Earkton, with Cowden-knowes 
dose by, the Parnassus of Scotland, a hill 
of no preat height, overiiangine the vil- 
lage, witii irregmar ridges whidh are the 

More pleasant far to me the broom 

So fair on Cowden-knowes, 
For sore so sweet so soft a bloom 

Elsewhere there never grows. 

Somewhere close at hand grew the 
Eildon tree, where Thomas the Bhymer 
met the Fairy Queen, and, snatching a kiss 
from that sweet face, was presently 
carried off to serve his mistress in fairy- 
land for seven years. Thomas is, perhaps, 
better known as prophet than poet, and 
hisdark sayings even yet are not aU fulfilled, 
while Thomas himself b said at intervals to 
revisit these glimpses of the moors : 

BCvsterions Rymer, doomed by fate's decree 
StiU to revisit Eildon's lonely tree, 
VHiere oft the swain at dawn of Hallow Day 
Hears thy blaok barb with fierce impatience neigh. 

I But except for Earlston and the Bhymer 



204 [April 17, 1886.] 



there is nothiog yery taMog in the Yale of 
Lander or in the memoirs of its cmel Duke } 
the last and wont letter in the Cabal; 
whose memory is stiU execrated among the 
descendants of the Oovenanters. 


SwEKT ! let me see thine eyes, and place thine hand, 
' Thy fair small hand, in mine : nay, thou ean'st 

I love thee so ! None other in the land 
Oan lore as I. 
NaT, do not sigh. 
, opring walks the earth and whispen thee, " Thon 

Be one with me — and join my happy band ! " 

Sweet ! kiss me on the lips I each d&y that's bom 

Brings us new beauties. Spring-tide has begun, 
Yon hedg^ was black and bi^e but yetter-mom, 
Until the sun 
Its Drize had won ! 

And with a kiss, the sweet buds that did scorn 
' His vows, were bought — 'twas thus the deed 
was done. 

Sweet ! lay thee in mine arms— dose to my heart. 

The life-blood rises, pulses but for thee. 
See, as the sun shines lorth how shades depart, 
Away they flee ; 
They may not be, 
Where love and sprins-tide act their joyous part, 

Where thou and I shall wander presently. 

Fkir flower-buds that all this winter-tide 

Have lain asleep, are blooming in von bed ; 
Whisp'ring and nodding, as there side by side, 
They meet once more : 
For once before 
Tfa«7 loved and kissed, till autumn's leaves were 
And when they slept, the world was bleak and 

Nay! an thou hast not loved; FU teach thee, 

sweet ! 
^ What were thy life, should love ne'er be the 

Twere spring without its flowers. Life is fleet. 
Loveme^ mine own, 
E*er spring be flown ; 
Tis true that clouds will hide these dappled 

That we must part, need not forbid we meet? 

Sweet— let me see thine heart ! Sfning-tide is there ! 

The flower of love was bom there yesterday. 
What though nor I nor thou canst truly swear 
That there for ay« 
'Twill live alway. 
'Tis now the spring — *tis now thouVt fresh and fair ; 

So let us love — e'er spring-tide dies away I 



"Dinner passed very pleasantly, and 
under the inflaence of Kite's charmine 
presence, and Sinclair's flow of hnmonr, I 
gradually forgot my caution. When Kate 
left us over our wine, with an injunction 
not to let her remain too long alone in the 
drawing-room, every atom of reserve to- 
wards my host had vanished. We con- 
versed for a few minutes on general topics, 

and then threw ourselves into easy-chain 
Sinclair handed me a cigar, and for ths 
first time that evening I thought he was 
gazing at me very attentively. 1 dismissed 
the action at once, however, blaming my- 
self for my foolish suspicions. But before 
long a pleasant drowsmess began to steal 
over ma The puffs of smoke took f antastie 
shapes before my eyes, and every now and 
then changed oMOur in strange, but not 
unpleasing transitions. I felt as if m a 
quiet dream from which I did not wish to 
awake. Then a deadly torpor spread 
through my limbs, and a heavy weight 
dragged down my eyelids. A mmute 
more, and a dull dark wall seemed to shnt 
out every recollection of the pasti and for 
a considerable time my memory is a Uank. 
A succession of ereat physical exertions 
followed, of whidi, however, I was bat 
vaguely conscious. One object, neverthe- 
less, I aftcurwards called to mind — a huge, 
gnarled oak, around which a pale green 
light seemed to hover ; and then complete 
oblivion took possession of my senses. 

" AnoUier bright summer's mom, tone- 
fid with the song of birds, the rustling of 
the breeze, and the murmuring of the 
ocean. I was in bed in my own room, bat 
how I got there, I knew not One by one, 
the events of the previous evening unfolded 
themselves, but only to excite greater 
astonishment A vague, horrible dread 
began to stefd upon my breast Again the 
words which had so startled me bef<»e 
began to ring upon my ear ; again I thought 
of those instances in which one man had 
been known to command every thought 
and action of another. I looked at the 
tower clock in the distance. It was nearly 
noon. Springing up I dressed hurriedly, 
and went downstairs. I found that my 
brother had called to see me half-an-hoor 
before, looked in at my door, and seeing 
me asleep had gone away again, leaviog a 
message that he would return later on in 
the day. I asked the slatternly serrant 
what time it was when I returned, sayinx, 
and with truth, that my watch had stopped, 
and that I had no idea of the houi^ 
although I knew I had been very lata 
She replied that she had sat up for me till 
two o'clock, and expressed a good-natured 
wish that I was better, for, she said, when 
Mr. Sinclair took me upstairs, I looked 
pale and ilL I replied shortly, and com- 
manded my features with an c^ort till she 
left the room. But then a wild, unreason- 
ing fear unmanned ma I trembled in 
every limb, and my breath came and went 






[April 17, 1888.] 205 

in quick, hard gasps. What did it all 
portend t I remembered nothing, or next 
to Boyimg ; I had appeared ill, and Sin- 
cUr had bronght me home. The first 
ddinite thon^t that presented itself was 
to question Smelair, and so^ dadung on my 
hat^ I rushed bom the house. The air 
refreshed me and cooled my hrain, and by 
the time I had got half way to the Abbey 
I was calm enough to reflect that it would 
be wiser to think tirioe befine speaking to 
Smdair. Half-an-honr could not make 
much difference, and so soon as I got 
inside the Park, I turned down a shiMly 
aranue leading away from the Abbey, 
and strolled along, tryins to arrange my 
scattered thoughts. A snarp turn in the 
road Inroaght me suddenly beneath a vast 
oak. Gaatbg my eyes up, I saw before me 
the very tree I remembcnred in mv torpor. 
There, rising before me, was the same 
huge trunk, with one side blasted by light- 
ning, and above, the great boughs knotted 
and contOTted, as if in endless throes of 
anffuish. Every detail came out deuly now, 
and I knew, knew with a convulsive spasm 
of dread, that I had been there the night 
before. And a horrible foreboding filled 
me, as I asked myself the question. Why f 
"As I stood there, filled with terror, and 
vainly trying to realise my position, I 
became conscious that something unumial 
was occurring beyond the stragghng hedge 
which formed on that side the boundary 
of the Park. Walking towards the nearest 
gaps, I descried about two hundred yards 
fatther on an excited group of people 
standing round an ol^ect in the field. I 
harried up, and pushed my way through 
the dirosg. The sight that met my eyes 
chilled my very heart's blood. A man was 
Ijing on his face, with the handle of a 
knife protruding from his back. A rustic, 
bolder than the resti raised his head, and 
the face was fearfully battered, lii an 
instant, a fearful thought flashed across 
me. My violent exertions the ntght before, 
the gnarled oak, the dead man, all pre- 
sented a chain of evidence that seemed 
incontestable. The very idea was madness. 
My limbs trembled beneath me, my eye- 
sight fafled, and I should have fainted on 
the spot, had not I felt a strong hand upon 
my arm, holding me up, and leading me 
from the throng. The tooch served to 
recall me to mywlf, and by a violent effort 
I suppressed aU outward indications of the 
horrible dread within. Turning my head, 
I saw it was my brother who had come so 
opportnnelv to mv aid. 

** ' Bobert,' he said kindly, ^ you mustn't 
try yourself by so fearftd a spectacle. Some 
poor wretch has, I fear, been foully mur- 
dered. Let us leave the matter in the 
hands of justice.' 

** We walked slowly home. I have but 
faint recollections of the rest of that dav. 
It seemed like a terrible dream, and I could 
hardly persuade myself of its reality. I did 
not dare to question my brother, did not 
dare to speak of the day before, lest some 
fresh link should be added to the awftil 
evidence, lest I should be branded as a 
murderer. All through the night the horrid 
knife was present to my eyes. The ghastly 
head haunted me like a phantom, and not 
till the l]|;ht of dawn Inoke through my 
window did I fall into a troubled sleep. 

" As I was coming down to breakfast late 
the foUowing day, Uiere was a violent ring 
at the door. A minute more, and Kate 
rushed, pale and agitated, into my arms, 
and hant into a flora of tears. For a short 
time she was unable to speak, and I was 
about to ring the bell and summon assist- 
ance, when she convulsively grasped my 
arm, and implored me in trembling accents 
to let no one enter till I had heard her 
story. At first she was almost incoherent^ 
but grew calmer as she proceeded. She told 
me that after dinner, two days before, I 
had entered tiie drawing-room in a strangely 
absent state, and had gone away as if in a 
dream. Sinclair accompanied me, saying 
that he would see me home. That night 
she was unable to sleep. After the tower 
clock had struck two, she distinctly heard 
the front door opened by a latch-key, and 
a footstep in the hall she recognised as her 
unde'a He went quietly to his room and 
closed the door. The lateness of the hour 
astonished her, but she thought little more 
of it at the tima At this point of her 
narrative she took a newspaper from her 
pocket, and begged me, in a faltering voice, 
to read a paragraph she pointed ta It 
related to the murder, and was to the effect 
that^ on the night when it was committed, 
a tall, well-built man, in a white macintosh 
doak, was seen by several people lurking 
under a large oak-tree near the spot My 
own white macintosh was lying in a comer 
of the room, where I must have left it that 
evening, and towards it we both involun- 
tarily turned our eyes. 

'* I saw plafaily enough that the shudder 
which ran through my frame did not escape 
Kate's notice. She tried to smile and to 
say some cheerful words, but this attempt, 
as weU as her simulated attitude of uncon- 

206 [AprU 17| 18861] 


c«rD| ended in dismal fAilare. The horror 
we neither of us dared to name apoka from 
onr eyes. We wera both of as contcioos 
of its hateful pesence: bat tome, aslsaw 
it, it was ten tunes more mystic and texrible 
than it was to tiie brave and loving girr 
who would have given her best blood to 
shield my head from the swoop of its 
hateftal wings. Kate saw that suspicion 
would probably attach to me with regard 
to the murdw. I saw this likewise; but I 
saw besides something far worse — tiie ful- 
filment of the dread which had been lately 
haunting me, the dread that there was an- 
other wHl which had equal share with my 
own in shaping my actions. It would have 
been terrible enough, supposing this will to 
have been unifoindy benevolent How 
fi^htfol was the revelatimi, now almost a 
certainty, that it was sinister, cruel, and 
unscrupulous! I could bear Kate's agonised 
looks no longer, and rushing from the room 
I went, as if drawn by some strange fasci- 
nation, out into the Park. I could see the 
towering branches of the Uasted oak, but 
I dared not approach it. I sat down (m a 
broken stone oench in a secluded comer. 
I remioned for more than an hour, with my 
mind intensely bent on the solution of the 
olystery — the strange confused struggle of 
my vision, half mental, half physic^, des- 
perate as if I had been in the grip of dsath; 
the oak-tree suflfused in the mysterious 
green Ught exactly like the toee near 
which the murdered man had been found ; 
the white macintosh, that damning link in 
the chain of evidence. Beyond these three 
fieicts I found it hard to travel I tried to 
start over and over again on a fresh train 
of thought; but my mind always reverted 
to them as so many proofs that Sinclair's 
infiuence over me was real and terrible, 
and to the