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BELFORD'S 


MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


A  MAGAZINE  OF 


Citeratttte  mi  ^xl 


VOLUME  III. 


TORONTO  : 

BELFORD  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

60  YOKK  STREET, 
187a 


\ 


eOMTENTS 


A  WiU  Night  In  PwllaiiMiit 4  OaUtfy-man 746 

AOhortly  Wwnliv ....  JS.  C.  a 2» 

AFewHounin  Bohemia i..-...r......-..i».  /ea  .,..' 906 

AuDt  Cindy's  Diimer SarakWinter  «1T 

BerthaKlem , W.  J.  Florfiet 704 

Curious  Couple  W.M.B, 68 

ColoQel*B MeniU*t Cup /. ..;..,....  Mr$.  J,  C, 247 

CroaPurpoMS Margaret  Andrews 660 

Down  the  Rhine— Olustrated,  I.,  II ,.;...  Brin JHd.  688 

DimdriNoveto MarHn  J.  Gr^fin 460 

IMvIdon  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons J.  L.  Stewart 680 

FntcmentsoftheWsrof  1812 Dr.  Wm.Cannif 78,206,  675 

Gentleman  Dick ^ PangUm 886 

Glimpses  of  Oonstsntinople— lUustnted Sheila  Hate 405 

God*B  Tenement  Houses  BUhu  Burritt 701 

OeofgeHlot J.L.SUwaH  676 

Hov  Five  LitUe  Midgets  spent  Christmas  Eve George  Stewart^  jr 288 

How  Ham  was  Cured  : Jennie  WoodviUe 460 

Locke's  influence  on  Civilization  Dr.C.B.HaU 403 

Lsdy  Arthur  BUdon's  Dybig  Letter K  L.  Hurdoeh 715 

Man  Here  and  Hereafter Wm.  J.  Rattray 767 

My  Orandfather's  Ghost  Story  W.  1.  D SOT 

My  Daughter's  Admirers B.  B.  Dembry 468 

NoTsIa  B.C.  Beatty 685 

Olden  Thnes  in  the  Ancient  Capital J.  M.  Le  Maine 627 

On  Uie  Via  8sn  Basilio Barl  Marble 680 

Policy  of  Um  English  and  American  Governments  towards 

the  Indians J,  Ge<>rge  ttodgine 831 

Paris  by  Oasligbt   L.  H.  Hubbard 660 

Rozy— Chaps.  IV.  to  — Hlustrated itep.  iftf. -B'^teston,  19, 220,  277,  602,  683 

Sdentian S.  B.  Datoton  80 

Summer  Day  at  Vichy A.B.L 77 

Solomon,  Isaacs— Illastrated B.  L.  Fargeon 120 

Some  Frem^  Novels  of  the  18th  Century C.  P.  MtUvaney   838 

Shskspeare's  *«  Henry  VL" L.  C.  AUiton.M.B. 296 

The  Priest's  Son Ivan  Tiurgef\f  08 

The  BSver  in  the  Desert  J.  G.  Bourinot 800 

The  Hireling  Sdioolmsster Bev.  John  May,  M.  A 876 

Turkish  Administration  of  Justioe  Anon 394 

TbeSpeetre  Guide  of  Mount  Vesuvius Giovanni 478 

The  Elements  and  Growth  of  Talent BlihuBurritt 624 

The  History  and  Mission  of  Architecture   BlihuBurritt 666 

Up yie Thames— niustrsted  B.C.Bruce 1 

Wordsworth,  A  Criticism ProJ.  Lyall 612 

Poetry. 

Paob.  Paoi. 

AOfcep,  CharUt  Sangattr  820  The  Hennit's  Bride,  ifrtAurlratieelot 846 

A  Poem 806  TheNeapoliUn8,ToMosart,Aso.y.jray,ir.ii.876 

Dies  Ira  [Ttaicdationl  5.  J.  Wateon 712  The  Latest  Chinese  Outrsge,  Bret  ffarte  ...  881 

EpMohury,  Paul /^ord 88  Tlie  Viking's  Warning,  tfu  iter  Duoor 569^ 


W  CONTENTS. 

Piei.  Pagb. 

Keramoe,  H.  W.  LanafeUmD 103       ThnVeil,  Oe^rge  Murray 673 

Love  the  Little  Cav&Uer,  CharUt  SangtUr.  564       Time,  I idbeOa  Sindair  687 

The  Oraodroother,  George  Murray 678       The  St.  Lawrence,  ConttanHne 219 

The  Two  Canaries,  &  il.  C. 67       The  North,  CkarUeSangHer 266 

The  Photograph,  Fred.  Traven 92       The  First  Christmas,  S.  J.  Wataon 285 

Editorial. 

CuKRBKT  LnouTCKB.  -Boston  Monday  Lectures,  Biology— Egypt  as  it  is,  108  f  Oreen  Psstures  and 
PiccadiUy— The  Captain's  Cabin— A  Christmas  Stoxy,  S06 ;  Current  Coin— Series  ot  Selections 
from  AUe  Thinkers,  627 ;  A  History  of  England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century —Rome  in  Canada— 
Eveninflfs  in  the  Library— Boston  Monday  Lectures^-Gtemal  Hope,  687. 

Musical.  -267, 120,  896,  629. 

Music- "Canada,"  278;  "What  Flower  is  Thl8,'*126;  "A  Tear  Ago,**  408  ;  "Trust  Me,  Darting 
Again,*'  695. 


THENEWYORK 

PUBLIC  LIBRARY 


BELFORD'S 
MONTHLY  MAGAZI 


DECEMBER,  1877. 
UP    THE    THAMES. 

CONCLUDING   PAPER. 


whtdsob  castle,  fbom  etuh. 
Let  oar  demonstration  to-day  be  on  the  monarchical  citadel  of  England, 
the  core  and  nncleus  of  her  kingly  asBociations,  her  architectural  eikon 
basUm,  Windsor.  To  reach  the  famous  castle  it  will  uot  do  to  lounge 
along  the  river.  We  must  cut  loose-  from  the  suburbs  of  the  suburbs, 
and  unnch  into  a  more  extended  flight.  Our  desliaation  is  nearly  an 
hoar  diatant  by  rail ;  and  though  it  does  not  take  us  altogether  out  of 
sight  of  the  city,  it  leads  us  among  real  farms  and  genuine  villages,  tilled 
and  inhabited  as  they  hare  been  since  the  Plantagenets,  instead  of  mar- 
ket^eardens  and  villas. 

We  go  to  Paddington  and  try  the  Great  Western,  the  parent  of  the 
broad  guages  with  no  very  numerous  family.  That  six-fout  infant  is 
not  up  to  the  horizontal  stature  of  ita  seven  foot  progenitor,  but  has  still 
sixteen  inchee  too  many  to  fare  well  in  the  contest  with  its  little,  active, 
and  above  all  numerous,  foea  of  the  t'our-feeteight  and-a-half-inch  "  per- 


2  UP  THE  THi3IES. 

Sonthall,  a  statioD  or  two  bej'oiid,  suggests  sport  of  a  less  lethal  char- 
acter, being  an  ancient  meeting-place  for  the  queen's  stag-hounds.  John 
Leach  may  have  collected  here  some  of  hie  studies  of  Cockney  eques- 
triaoism.  The  sportsman  ho  dear  to  his  pencil  furnished  him  wealth  of 
opportunities  on  their  annual  concourse  at  the  cart's  tail.  The  unload- 
ing of  the  animal,  his  gathering  himself  up  for  a  leisurely  canter  across 
country,  the  various  styles  and  degrees  of  horsemanship  among  his  lum- 
bering followers,  and  the  buainess-like  replacing  of  the  quarry  in  his 


vehicle,  to  be  hauled  away  for  another  day's  sport,  served  as  the  most 
complete  travesty  imaginable  of  the  chase.  It  has  the  compensation  of 
placing  a  number  of  worthy  men  in  the  saddle  at  least  once  in  the  year 
and  compelling  them  to  do  some  rough  riding,  The  English  have  always 
made  it  their  boast  that  they  are  more  at  home  on  horseback  than  any 
other  European  nation,  and  they  claim  to  have  derived  much  military 
advantage  from  it.  Lever's  novels  would  lose  many  of  their  best  situ- 
ations but  for  this  national  accomplishment  and  the  astounding  develop- 
ment it  reaches  iiyhie  hands. 

To  the  left  lies  the  fine  park  of  Ost- 

erley,  once    the  seat  of  the  greatest  of 

London's  merchant  princes,  Sir  Thomas 

Gresbam.   An  improvement  proposed  by 

Queen  Bess,  on  a  visit  to  Gresbam  in 

1578,  does  not  speak  highly  for  her  tast« 

in  d«8ign.  She   remarked  that    in   her 

opinion  the  court  in  front  of  the  house 

,  would  look  better  split  up   by  a  wall, 

•  Her  host  dutifully  acceded  to  the  idea. 

!  and  surprised  Her  Majesty  next  morning 

:  by  pointing  out  the  wall  which  he  had 

I  erected  during  the  night,  sending  to  Lon- 
don for  masons  and  material  for  the  pur- 
pose. The  conceit  was  a  more  ponder- 
ous one  than  that  of  Raleigh's  cloak— 
lULTON'H  PEAB  TBEE  bricks  aud  mortoT  versus  velvet. 

A  grrater  than  Gresbam  succeeded,  after  tiie  death  of  his  widow,  to 


} 


UP  THE  THAMES.  3 

the  occupancy  of  Osterley — Chief-justice  Coke.  His  compliment  to 
Elizabeth  on  the  occasion  of  a  similar  visit  to  the  same  house  took  the 
more  available  and  acceptable  shape  of  ten  or  twelve  hundred  pounds 
sterling  in  jewellery.  She  had  more  than  a  woman's  weakness  for  finery, 
and  Coke  operated  upon  it  very  successfully.  His  gems  outlasted  Gres- 
ham's  wall,  which  has  long  since  disappeared  with  the  court  it  disfigured. 
In  place  ot  both  stands  a  goodly  Ionic  portico,  through  which  one  may 
pass  to  a  staircase  that  bears  a  representation  by  Rubens  of  Ihe  apotheo- 
sis of  Mr.  Motley's  hero,  William  the  Silent  The  gallery  offers  a  col- 
lection of  other  old  pictures.  Should  we,  however,  take  time  for  even 
a  short  stop  in  this  vicinity,  it  would  probably  be  for  the  credit  of  say- 
ing that  we  walked  over  Hounslow  Heath  intact  in  purse  and  person. 
The  gentlemen  of  the  road  live  only  in  the  classic  pages  of  Ainsworth, 
Reynolds  and,  if  we  may  include  Sam  Weller  in  such  worshipful  company, 
that  bard  of  "  the  bold  Turpiw."  Another  class  of  highwaymen  had 
long  before  them  been  also  attracted  by  the  fine  manoeuvring  facilities 
of  the  heath,  beginning  with  the  army  of  the  Caesars  and  ending  with 
that  of  James  II.  Jonathan  V7ilde  and  his  merry  men  were  saints  to 
Kirke  and  his  lambs. 

Hurrying  on,  we  skirt  one  of  Pope's  outlyiug  manors,  in  his  time  the 
seat  of  his  friend  Bathurst  and  the  haunt  of  Addison,  Prior,  Congreve 
and  Gay,  and  leave  southward,  toward  the  Thames,  Horton,  the  cradle 
of  Milton.  A  marble  in  its  ivy-grown  church  is  inscribed  to  the  memory 
of  his  mother,  06.  1637.  At  Horton  were  composed,  or  inspired,  Lycidas, 
L'AU^gro,  II  Peiiaeroso^  Cmwaa  and  others  of  his  nominally  minor  but 
really  sweetest  and  most  enjoyable  poems.  In  this  retirement  the  Muse 
paid  him  his  earliest  visits,  before  he  had  thrown  himself  away  on  poli- 
tics or  Canaanitish  mythology.  Peeping  in  upon  his  handsome  young 
face  in  its  goldcD  setting  of  blonde  curls, 

Through  the  sweetbrier  or  the  vine, 
Oi  the  twisted  eglantine. 

she  wooed  him  to  better  work  than  reporting  the  debates  of  the  arch- 
angels or  calling  the  roll  of  Tophet.  Had  he  confined  himself  to  this 
tenderer  field,  the  world  would  have  been  the  gainer.  He  might  not 
have  "  made  the  world  Miltonic  mean  sublime,"  but  we  can  spare  a  little 
of  the  sublime  to  get  9onxe  more  of  the  beautiful. 

To  reach  Milton,  however,  we  have  run  off  the  track  badly.  His 
Eden  is  no  station  on  the  Great  Western.  We  shall  balance  this  south- 
ward divergence  with  a  corresponding  one  to  the  north  from  Slough, 
the  last  station  ere  reaching  Windsor.  We  may  give  a  go-by  for  the 
moment  to  the  halls  of  Kings,  do  homage  to  him  who  treated  them 
similarly,  and  point,  in  preference,  to  where 

in  mainr  a  moulderins:  heap, 
The  mde  foretathers  of  the  namlet  sleep. 

They  show  Gray's  tomb  in  Stoke  Pogis  church,  and  his  house.  West 
End  Cottage,  half  a  mile  distant.  The  ingredients  of  his  -^%y— -ac- 
tually the  greatest,  but  in  his  judgment  among  the  least,  of  his  few 
works — exist  all  around.  "  The  rugged  elm,"  "  the  ivy-mantled  tower," 
and  "  the  yew  tree's  shade,"  the  most  specific  among  the  simple  "  pro- 
perties ''  of  his  little  spectacle,  are  common  to  so  many  places  that  there 
are  several  competitors  for  the  honour  of  having  furnished  them.  The 
cocks,  ploughmen,  herds  and  owls  cannot,  of  course,  at  this  late  day  be 


i  UP  THE  THAMES. 

identified.  Gray  could  not  have  done  it  himself.  He  drew  from  gene- 
ral memory,  in  hia  closet,  and  not  bit  by  bit  on  hia  thumb-aaU  from 
chance-met  objects  as  he  went  along.  Had  his  conception  and  render- 
ing of  the  theme  been  due  to  the  direct  impression  upon  his  mind  of 
its  several  aspects  and  constituents,  he  would  have  more  thoroughly  ap- 
preciated his  work.  He  could  not  understand  its  popularity,  any  more 
than  Campbell  could  that  of  ¥e  Mariners  of  England,  which  he  pro- 
nounced "  d — d  drum-and-trumpet  verses."  Gray  used  to  say,  "  with 
a  good  deal  of  acrimony,"  that  the  SUgy  "  owed  its  popularity  entirely 
to  the  subject,  and  the  public  would  have  received  it  as  well  had  it  been 
written  entirely  in  proae."  Had  it  been  written  in  prose  or  in  the  inven- 
tory style  of  poetry,  it  would  have  been 
forgotten  lon^  ago,  like  so  much  else  of 
that  kind.  Not  far  hence  is  Beaconsfield, 
which  gave  a  home  to  Burke  and  a  title 
first  to  the  wife  of  Disraeli,  and  then  to 
himaelf. 

Extending  our  divergence  farther  west 
toward  "Cliefden's  proud  alcove,  the  bower 
of  wanton  Shrewsbury  and  love,  we  find 
ourselvea  in  a  luxuriant  rolling  country, 
rural  and  slumberous.  Cookham  parish, 
which  we  should  traverse,  claims  quite 
loudly  American  kinship  on  the  strength 
of  its  including  an  estate  once  the  pro- 

Grty  of  Henry  Washington,  who  is  al-  oeat. 

jed,  without  sufficient  ground,  to  have  been  a  relative  of  the  generaL 
But  we  are  within  the  purlieus  of  Windsor,  The  round  tower  has 
been  looking  down  upon  us  these  many  miles,  and  we  cannot  but  yield 
to  its  magnetism. 


Eton,  on  the  north  bank,  opposite  Windsor,  and  really  a  continuous 
town  with  that  which  nestles  close  to  the  castle  walls,  is  on  our  way 
from  Slough.  The  red-brick  buildings  of  the  school,  forming  a  line  foil 
to  the  lighter-oolonred  and  more  elegantly  designed  chapel,  are  on  our 


UP  THE  THAMES.  6 

left,  the  principal  froat  lookiog  over  a  garden  toward  the  river  and 
Windsor   Home  Park  beyond.    We  become 
aware  of  a  populace  of  boys,  the  file-cloeers  of 
England's  nineteenth  century  worthies,  and  her 
coming  veterans  of  the  twentieth.     We  may 
contemplatively  view  them  in  that  light,  but  it 
has  little  place  in  their  reflections.  Their  ruddy 
.  faces  and  somewhat  cumbrous  forms    belong 
to    the  animal  period  of  life   that  links  to- 
gether boyhood,  colthood  and  calfhood.     Edu- 
cation of  the  physique,  consisting  chiefy  in  the 
I  indulgence  and  employment  of  it  in  the  mere 
-  demonstration  of  its  superabundant  vitality,  is 
a  large  part  of    the    curriculum  at  English 
BchooU.     The  playground  and  the  study-room 
lOKB  OF  BUHKs.  form    no    unequal  alliance. Rigid,  as  in  aome 

respects,  the  discipline  Proper  of  the  school  may  be,  it  does  not  com- 
pare with  the  severity  of  that  maintained  by  the  older  boys  over  the 
yoDDger  ones.  The  code  of  the  lesser,  and  almost  independent,  republic 
of  the  dormitory  and  the  green  is  as  clear  in  its  terms  as  that  of  the 
unlimited  monarchy  of  the  school-room,  and  more  potent  in  shaping  the 
character.  The  lads  train  themselveB  for  the  battle  of  the  world,  with 
some  help  from  the  masters.  It  is  a  sound  system  on  the  the  whole,  if 
baaed,  to  appearance,  rather  too  much  on  the  principle  of  the  weaker  to 
the  wall.  The  tendency  of  the  weaker  inevitably  is  to  the  wall ;  and  if 
he  is  to  contend  against  it  efl'ectively,  it  will  be  by  finding  out  his  weak- 
ness and  being  made  to  feel  it  at  the  earlieat  possible  moment. 

Not  on  land  only,  bat  ou  the  river,  wbereinto  it  so  gradually  blends, 
does  lash  young  England  dissipate.  Cricket  and  football  order  into 
violent  action  both  pairs  of  extremities,  while  the  upper  pair  and  the 
organs  of  the  thorax  labour  profitably  at  the  oar.  The  Thames,  in  its 
three  bends  &om  Seuly  Uall,  the  Benny  Havens  of  Eton,  down  to 
Datohet  Mead,  where  Falstaff  overflowed  the  buck-basket,  belongs  to 
the  boys.  In  this  space  it  is  split  into  an  archipelago  of  aits.  In  and 
out  of  the  gleaming  paths  and  avenues  uf  silvery  water  that  wind  be- 
tween them  glide  the  little  boats.  The  young  Britons  take  to  the  ele- 
ment like  yonng  ducks.  Many  a  "  tall  ammiral "  has  commenced  his 
"  march  over  the  monntain  wave  '  among  these  water-lilies  and  hedges 
of  oaier. 

Shall  we  leave  the  boys  at  play,  and,  renewing  our  youth,  go  ourselves 
to  school  1  Entering  the  great  gate  of  the  western  of  the  iwo  quad- 
rangles, we  are  welcomed  by  a  bronze  statue  of  the  founder  of  the  in- 
stitation,  Henry  VI.  He  endowed  it  in  1440.  The  firat  organization 
CMnprised  "  a  provost,  four  clerks,  ten  prieata,  aix  choristers,  twenty- 
five  poor  grammar-echolars,  and  twenty-five  poor  infirm  men  to  pray  for 
the  king."  the  prayers  of  these  invalids  were  sorely  needed  by  the 
unhappy  acion  of  Lancaster,  but  did  him  little  good  in  a  temporal  senae. 
The  provost  is  always  rector  of  the  parish.  Laymen  are  non-eligible. 
Thns  it  happens  that  the  list  does  not  include  two  names  which  would 
have  illuminated  it  more  than  thoae  of  any  of  the  incumbenta — Boyle 
the  philosopher,  "  father  of  chemistry,  and  brother  of  the  earl  of  Cork," 
and  Waller  the  poet.     The  modem  establishment  consists  of  a  provost. 


6  DP  THE  THAMES. 

vice-ptovoBt,  aix  fellows,  a  master,  under-maater,  assistants,  seventy 
foundation  scholars,  aei-en  lay  clerks  and  ten  choristers,  with  a  cortege 
of  "  inferior  officers  and  servants  " — a  tolerably  full  staff.  The  pav- 
atudents,  as  they  would  be  termed  in  this  country,  numbering  usiuilJy 
five  to  six  hundr«d,  do  not  live  in  the  college  precincts,  but  at  boarding- 
houses  in  the  town,  whence  their  designation  of  oppidans,  the  seventy 
gowns-men  only  having  dormitories  in  the  college.  The  roll  of  the 
alumni  contains  such  names  as  the  first  earl  of  Chatham,  Harley,  earl 
of  Oxford,  Bolingbroke,  Fox,  Gray,  Canning,  Wellington  and  Hi^lam. 
That  is  enough  to  say  for  Eton.  The  beauties  of  the  clApel,  the  trea- 
sures of  the  library,  and  the  other  shows  of  the  place  become  trivial  by 
the  side  of  the  record. 

Over  the  "  fifteen-arch  "  bridge,  which  has  but  three  or  four  arches, 
we  pass  to  the  town  of  Windsor,  which  crouches,  on  the  river-side,  close 
up  to  the  embattled  walls  of  the  castle— so  closely  that  the  very  irre- 
gular pile  of  buildings  included  in  the  latter  cannot  at  first  glance  be 
well  distinguished  from  the  town.     High  over  all  swells  the  round  tower 


to  a  height  above  the  water  of  two  hundred  and  twenty  feet— no  exces- 
sive altitude,  if  we  deduct  the  eminence  on  which  it  stands,  yet  enough, 
in  this  level  country,  to  give  it  a  prospect  of  a  score  or  two  of  miles  in 
all  directions.  The  Conqueror  fell  in  love  with  the  situation  at  first 
sight,  and  gave  a  stolen  monastery  in  exchange  for  it.  The  home  so  won 
has  provided  a  shelter — at  times  very  imperfect,  indeed — to  British 
sovereigns  for  eight  centuries.  From  the  modest  erection  of  William  it 
has  been  steadily  growing — with  the  growth  of  the  empire,  we  were 
near  saying,  but  ita  chief  enlargements  occurred  before  the  empire  en- 
tered upon  the  expansion  of  the  past  threi;  centuries.  It  is  more  closely 
associated  with  Edward  III.  than  with  any  other  of  the  ancient  line. 
He  was  born  at  Windsor,  and  almost  entirely  rebuilt  it,  William  of 
Wykeham  being  superintending  architect,  with  "  a  fee  of  one  shilling  a 
day  whilst  at  Windsor,  and  two  shillings  when  he  went  elsewhere  on 
the  duties  of  his  office,"  three  shillings  a  week  being  the  pay  of  his 
clerk.     It  becomes  at  once  obvious  that  the  margin  for  "  rings"  wa& 


UP  THE  THAMES. 


but  alender  ia  those  days.  The  labour  queatioo  gave  not  the  least 
trouble.  The  law  of  supply  and  demand  was  not  consulted.  "Three 
hundred  and  sixty  workmen  were  impressed,  to  be  employed  on  the 
building  at  the  king's  wi^es  ;  some  of  whom  having  clandestiuety  left 
Windsor  and  engaged  in  other  employments  to  greater  advantage,  writs 
were  issued  prohibiting  all  persons  from  employing  them  on  pain  of  for- 
feiting all  their  goods  and  chattels."  In  presence  of  so  simple  and  ef- 
fective a  definition  of  the  rights  of  the  workingman,  strikes  sink  into 
nothinguess.  And  Magna  Charta  had  been  signeii  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  before  J  That  document,  however,  in  honour  of  which  the  free 
aud  enlighteued  Briton  of  to-day  is  wont  to  elevate  bis  hat  and  his  voice, 
was  only  in  the  name  and  on  behalf  of  the  barons.  Tbe  English  peo- 
ple derived  under  it  neither  name,  place  nor  right.  True,  the  growth 
of  English  liberty  was  indirectly  fostered  by  aught  that  checked  the 
power  of  the  monarch,  and  the  nobles  builded  more  wisely  than  they 
kuew  or  intended  when  they  brought  Lackland  to  book,  or  to  parchment, 
at  Buunymede,  not  far  down  the  river  and  close  to  the  edge  of  the 
royal  park.  The  memorable  plane  is  still  a  meadow,  kept  ever  green  and 
inviolate  of  tbe  plough.  A  pleasant  row  it  is  for  tbe  Eton  youngsters 
to  this  spot.  On  Magmi  Charta  island,  opposite,  they  may  take  their 
rest  and  their  lunch,  and  refresh  their  minds  as  well  wiih  tl)e  memories 
of  the  place.  The  task  of  reform  is  by  no  means  complete.  There  is 
room  aud  call  for  further  concessions  in  favour  of  the  masses.  These 
embryo  stateatnen  have  work  blocked  out  for  them  in  the  future,  and 
this  is  a  good  place  for  them  to  adjust  to  it  the  focus  of  their  bright 
youug  optdcs. 

The  Thames  fiows  from  tbe  castle  and  the  school  under  two  hand- 
some erections  named  tbe  Victoria  and  Albert  bridges ;  and  when, 
turning  our  backs  upon  Staines,  just  below  Runnymede  with  its  bound- 
ary-stone marking  the  limit  of  the  jurisdiction  of  plebeian  London's 
fierce  democracy,  and  inscribed  "  God  preserve  the  city  of  London, 
1280,"  we  strike  west  into  the  Great  Park,  we  soon  come  plump  on 


UP  THE  THAMES. 


George  III.  a  great  deal  larger  than  life.  The  "  best  farmer  that  e'er 
bruehed  dev  from  lawn  "  is  clad  in  antique  costume  with  toga  and  bus- 
kins. Bestriding  a  stout  horse,  without  stirrups  and  with  no  bridle  to 
speak  of,  the  old  gentleman  looks  calmly  into  the  distance  while  his 
steed  is  in  the  act  of  stepping  over  a  perpendicular  precipice.  This  pre- 
poeterouB  effort  of  the  glyptic  art  has  the  one  merit  of  serving  as  a 
finger-board.  The  old  king  points  us  to  his  palace,  three  miles  off, 
at  the  end  of  the  famous  Long  Walk.  He  did  not  himself  care  to  live 
at  the  castle,  but  liked  to  m^e  his  home  at  an  obscure  lodge  in  the 
park,  the  same  from  which,  on  his  first  attack  of  insanity,  he  set  out  in 
charge  of  two  of  lus  household  on  that  melancholy  ride  to  the  retreat 
tif  Kew,  moie  convenient  in  those  days  for  medical  attendance  from 
London,  and  to  which  he  returned  a  few  months  later  restored  for  the 
time.  Shortly  after  his  recovery  he  undertook  to  throw  up  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  lodge,  but  found  it  nailed  down.  He  aaked  the  cause, 
and  was  told,  with  inconsiderate  bluntness,  that  it  had  been  done  during 
his  illness  to  prevent  his  doing  himself  an  injury.  The  perfect  calmness 
and  silence  with  which  he  received  this  explanation  was  a  sufficient  evi- 
dence of  his  recoveiy. 

Bidding  the  old  man  a  final  farewell,  ne  accept  the  direction  of  his 
brazen  hand  and  take  up  the  line  of  march,  wherein  ail  travelling  Am- 
ericahas  preceded  us,  to  the  point  wherefrom  we  glanced  off  so  suddenly 
in  obedience  to  the  summons  of  Magna  Chorta.  On  either  hand,  as  we 
thread  the  Long  Walk,  open  glades  that  serve  as  so  many  emerald-paved 
courts  to  the  monarchs  of  the  grove,  some  of  them  oldei'  than  the  whole 
Norman  dynasty,  with  Saxon  summers  recorded  in  their  hearts.  One  of 
them,  thirty-eight  feet  round,  is  called  after  the  Conqueror.  Among 
these  we  shall  not  find  the  most  noted  of  Windsor  trees.  It  was  in  the 
Home  Park,  on  the  farther  or  northern  side  of  the  castle,  that  the 
fairies  were  used  to  perform  their 

duice  of  ciutom  round  about  the  oak 

Of  Heme  the  hunter. 


UP  THE  THAMES.  9 

Whether  the  genuine  oak  was  cut  down  at  the  close  of  the  last  century, 
or  was  preserved,  carefully  fenced  in  and  labeled,  in  an  utterly  leafless 
and  shattered  state,  to  our  generation,  is  a  moot  point.  Certain  it  ts 
that  the  most  ardent  Shakesperean  must  abandon  the  hope  of  securing 
for  a  bookmark  to  his  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  one  of  tlic  leaves  that 
rustled,  while  "  Windsor  bell  struck  twelve,"  over  the  head  of  fat  Jack. 
He  has  the  HatisfactioD,  however,  of  looking  up  at  the  identical  bell 
tower  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  may  make  tryst  with  his  imagina- 
tion to  await  its  midnight  chime.  Then  ho  may  cross  the  graceful  iron 
bridge — modem  enough,  unhappily — to  Datchet,  and  ascertain  by  actual 
experiment  whether  ^e  temperature  of  the  Thames  has  changed  since 
thii  damping  ioto  it  of  Falstaff,  "  hissing  hot." 


Back  at  the  castle,  we  must  "  do  "  it  after  the  set  fashion.  Kemiuders 
meet  ns  at  the  threshold  that  it  is  in  form  a  real  place  of  defence,  contem- 
plative of  wars  and  rumours  of  wars,  and  not  a  mere  dwelling  by  any 
means  in  orkinal  design.  A  roadway,  crooked  and  raked  by  frowning 
embrasures,  leads  up  from  the  peaceful  town  to  the  particularly  inhospit- 
able-looking  twin  towers  of  Henry  VIII. 's  gateway,  in  their  turn  com- 
manded by  the  round  tower  on  the  right,  in  full  panoply  of  artificial 
scarp  and  ditch.  Sentinels  in  the  scarlet  livery  that  has  flamed  on  so 
many  battlefields  of  all  the  islands  and  continents  assist  in  proving  that 
things  did  not  always  go  so  easy  with  majesty  as  they  do  now.  But 
two  centuries  and  more  have  elapsed  since  there  happened  any  justifica- 
tion for  this  frown  of  stone,  steel  and  feathers  ;  Eupert's  futile  de- 
monstration on  it  in  1642  having  been  Windsor's  last  taste  of  war, 
its  sternest  ofliice  after  that  having  been  the  safe-keeping  of  Charles 
the  I., who  here  spent  his  sorrowful  and  last  Christmas.'     Once  in 


UP  THE  THAMES. 


Bide  the  gate, 
V  i  s  i  o  n  B  of 
peace  recnr. 
The  eye  first 
fal)s  on  the 
most  heauti- 
ful  of  all  the 
asBembled 
structures, 
St,  Geoi^'s 
Chapel.  It, 
with  the  i-oy- 
al  tomb 
house,  the 
deanery  and 
Winchester 
tower,    occu- 

NOBHAN   OATE  AND  BOl'ND  TOWER,   fflNDSOE.  pieS    the    left 

or  north  side  of  the  lower  or  western  ward.  In  the  rear  of  the  chapel 
of  St,  George  are  quartered  in  cozy  cloisters  the  canons  of  the  college 
of  that  ilk^not  great  guna  in  any  sense,  but  old  ecclesiastical  artillery 
spiked  after  a  more  or  less  noisy  youth  and  laid  up  in  varnished  black 
for  the  rest  of  their  days.  Watch  and  ward  over  these  modem  equip- 
ments is  kept  by  Julius  Cmsar's  tower,  as  ono  of  the  most  ancient  erec- 
tions is  of  course  called.  Stilt  farther  to  our  left  as  we  enter  are  the 
quarters  of  sundry  other  antiquated  warriors,  the  Military  Knights  of 
Windsor,  These  are  a  few  favoured  veterans,  mostly  decayed  officers 
of  the  army  and  navy,  wbo  owe  this  shelter  to  royal  favour  and  an  en- 
dowment. The  Ivy  tower,  west  of  the  entrance,  is  followed  in  east- 
ward succession  by  those  of  the  gateway,  Salisbury,  Garter  and  Bell 
towers. 

The  fine  exterior  of  St  George's  is  moi'e  than  matched  by  the  carving 
and  blazonry  of  the  interior.  The  groined  roof  bears  the  devices  of 
half  a  dozen  early  kings,  beginning  with  Edward  the  Confessor.  Along 
the  choir  stretch  the  stalls  of  the  sovereign  and  knights-companions  of 
the  order  of  the  Garter,  each  hung  wit£  banner,  mantle,  sword  and 
helmet.  Better  than  these  is  the  hammered  steel  tomb  of  Edward  IV., 
by  Quentin  Matsys,  the  Flemish  blacksmith.  In  the  vaults  beneath  rest 
the  victims  of  Edward,  Henry  VI.,  Henry  VIII.,  Jane  Seymour  and 
Charles  the  I.  The  account  of  the  appearance  of  Charles'  remains 
when  his  tomb  was  examined  in  1813,  by  Sir  Henry  Halford,  accom- 
panied by  several  of  the  royal  family,  is  worth  quoting.  "  The  com- 
plexion of  the  face  was  dark  and  discoloured.  The  forehead  and  tem- 
ples had  lost  little  or  notliing  of  their  muscular  substance.  The  cartih 
age  of  the  nose  was  gone ;  but  the  left  eye,  in  the  moment  of  first 
exposure,  was  open  and  full,  though  it  vanished  almost  immediately, 
and  the  pointed  beard  so  characteristic  of  the  reign  of  king  Charles  was 
perfect.  The  shape  of  the  face  was  a  long  oval ;  many  of  the  teeth  re- 
mained ;  and  the  left  ear,  in  consequence  of  the  interposition  of  some 
B  matter  between  it  and  the  cere-cloth,  was  found  entire.     The 


UP  THE  THAMES.  11 

""  hair  was  thick  at  the  back 

pan    of  the  head,  and    in 
appearance  nearly  black.     A 
portion  of  it,  which  has  since 
been  cleaned  and  dried,  is  of 
a  beautiful  dark-brown  col- 
our.   That  of  the  beard  was 
a  reddish-browD.      On    the 
back  part  of  the  head  it  was 
not  more  than  an  inch  in 
^  length,  and    bad    probably 
''  been  cut  so    short  for    the 
^  convenience  of   the    execu- 
A  tiouer,  or    perhaps  by  the 
-  piety  of  friends  after  death, 
in  order  to  furnish  memorials 
of  the  unhappy  king.     On 
holding  up  the  head  to  de- 
termine the  place  of  separa- 
tion   from    the    body,    the 
muscles  of  the  neck  had  evi- 
dently contracted  themselves 
""""■  ""*  considerably,  and  the  fourth 

cervical  vertebra  was  found  to  be  cut  through  its  substance  trans- 
versely, leaving  the  face  of  the  divided  portions  perfectly  smooth  and 
even — an  appearance  which  could  have  been  produced  only  by  a  heavy 
blow  inflicted  with  a  very  sharp  instmment,  and  which  furnished 
the  last  proof  wanting  to  identify  Charles  I." 

A  highly-edif]riiig  spectacle  this  must  have  been  to  the  pnnce 
r^^ent  and  his  brother  Cumberland.  The  certainties  of  the  past 
and  the  possibilities  of  the  future  were  calculated  to  be  highly  sug- 
gestive. A  French  sovereign  had  but  a  few  years  before  shared 
the  fate  of  Charles,  and  a  cloud  of  other  kings  were  drifting  about 
Europe  with  no  very  flattering  prospect  of  coming  soon  to  anchor. 
Napoleon  was  showing  bis  banded  foes  a  good  double  front  in  Ger- 
many and  Spain.  His  dethronement  and  the  restoration  of  the 
Bourbons  were  not  as  yet  contemplated.  The  Spanish  succession  was 
wluttled  down  to  a  girl — that  is,  by  Salic  law,  to  uothing  at  all.  The 
Hanoverian  was  in  a  similar  condition,  or  worse,  none  of  the  old  sons 
of  the  crazy  old  king  having  any  legitimate  children.  Tbe  prince 
regent  himself  was  highly  unpopular  with  the  mass  of  his  people ;  and 
the  classes  that  formed  his  principal  support  were  more  so,  by  reason 
of  the  arrogance  and  exactions  of  the  landed  interest,  the  high  price  of 
grain  and  other  heavy  financial  burdens  consequent  on  the  war,  the  ar- 
bitrary prosecutions  and  imprieonment  of  leaders  of  the  people,  and  the 
irreguluities  of  bis  private  life. 

But  these  sinister  omens  proved  illusory.  Leigh  Hunt,  Wraxall  and 
the  rest  made  but  ineflectual  martyrs  ;  the  Bourbons  struggled  back 
into  France  and  Spain,  with  such  results  as  we  see;  George  IV.  wea- 
thered, by  no  merit  of  his  own,  a  fresh  series  of  storms  at  home ;  the 
clonds  that  lowered  upon  his  house  were  made  glorious  summer  by  the 
advent  of  a  fat  little  lady  in   1819— the  fet  old  lady  of  1875 ;  and  we 


•■i  UP  THE  THAMES. 

Step  from  the  tomb  of  CharlcB  in  St.  GeorEe's  Chapel  to  that  where 
George  and  William  slumber  undiaturbed  in  the  tomb-house,  elaborately 
decorated  by  Wolsey.  Wolsey's  fixturea  were  sold  by  the  thrifty  pat- 
riots  of  CromweU's  Parliament,  and  bought  in  by  the  republican  gover- 
nor of  the  castle  as  "  old  braes."  George  was  able,  too,  to  add  another 
story  to  the  stature  of  the  round  toweror  keep  tliat  marks  the  middle 
ward  of  the  castle  and  looks  down,  on  the  rare  occasion  of  a  sufficiently 
clear  atmosphere,  on  prosperous  and  no  longer  disloyai  London.  This 
same  keep  naa  quite  a  list  of  royal  prisoners  ;  John  of  France  and 
David  II.  and  Jamee  I.  of  Scotland  enjoyed  a  prolonged  view  of  its 
interior ;  so  did  the  young  earl  of  Snrry,  a  brother-poet,  a  century  re 
moved,  of  James. 

Leaving  behind  us  the  atmosphere  of  shackles  and  dungeons,  we 
emerge,  through  the  upper  ward  and  the  additions  of  Queen  Beas,  upon 
the  ample  terrace,  where  nothing  bounds  us  but  the  horizon.  Together, 
the  north,  east  and  south  terraces  measure  some  two  thousand  feet. 


The  first  looks  upon  Eton,  the  lesser  park  of  some  five  hundred  acres 
which  fills  a  bend  of  the  Thames  and  the  country  beyond  for  many 
miles.  The  eastern  platform,  lying  betweeo  the  queen's  private  apart- 
ments and  an  exquisite  private  gi^en,  is  not  uways  free  to  visitors. 
The  south  terrace  presente  to  the  eye  the  Great  Park  of  thirty-«ight 
hundred  acres,  extending  six  miles,  with  a  width  of  from  half  a  mile  to 
two  miles.  The  equestrian  statue  at  the  end  of  the  Long  Walk  is  a 
conspicuous  object.  I'he  prevailing  mass  of  rolling  woods  is  broken  by 
scattered  buildings,  glades  and  avenues,  which  take  from  it  monotony 
and  give  it  life.  Near  the  south  end  is  an  artificial  pond  called  Virginia 
Water,  edged  with  causeless  arches  and  ruins  that  never  were  anything 
but  ruins,  Chinese  temples  and  idle  toys  of  various  other  kinds,  terres- 
trial and  aquatic.  The  ancient  trees,  beeches  and  elms,  of  enormous 
size,  and  often  projected  individually,  are  worth  studying  near  or  from 
a  distance.  The  elevation  is  not  so  great  as  to  bring  out  tow-lying  ob- 
jects much  removed.  We  see  the  summits  of  hills,  each  having  its  name, 
as  St  Leonard's,  Cooper's," Highstan ding,  etc.,  and  glimpsesof  the  river 
and  of  some  country-seats.  St.  Anne's  Hill  was  the  home  of  Fox ;  at 
St.  Leonard's  dwelt  the  father  of  his  rival  and  rival  of  his  father,  and 


UP  THE   THAMES.  13 

• 

>t  Binfield,  Pope,  of  whom  it  is  so  hard  to  conceive  as  having  ever  been 
foiing.  "  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came,"  natural  descriptions, 
ethical  reflectious,  vers  de  socieU  and  all,  for  around  him  here  there  was 
food  for  them  all.  To  descend  from  Pope  ia  point  of  both  time  and 
romance,  the  view  includes  the  scenes  of  Prince  Albert's  agricultural 
experiments.  Quite  successful  many  of  them  were.  He  was  a  thor* 
oughly  practical  man — a  circumstance  which  carried  him  by  several  routes 
wroes  ploughed  fields  and  through  well-built  streets,  straight  to  the' 
hearts  of  the  English  people.  His  memorjr  ia  more  warmly  cherished, 
and  impressed  upon  the  stranger  by  more  monuments,  than  that  of  any 
other  of  the  German  train.  He  possessed,  through  the  alliance  of 
Leopold  and  Stockmar  and  the  devotion  of  Victoria,  kingly  power  with- 
out the  name  and  the  responsibility,  and  with  that  he  became  content. 
He  used  it  cautiously  and  well  when  he  employed  it  at  all.  His  posi- 
tion was  a  tr}ring  ooe,  but  he  steered  well  through  its  difficulties,  and 
died  as  generally  trusted  as  he  was  at  first  universally  watched.  The 
love-match  of  1840  was  every  way  a  success. 

Another  figure,  more  rugged  and  less  majestic,  but  not  less  respectable, 
will  be  associated  with  Queen  Victoria  in  the  memories,  If  not  the  his- 
tory proper,  of  her  reign.  This  is  John  Brown,  the  canny  and  impassivfe 
Scot,  content,  like  the  BohanB,toboneitherprince  nor  king,  and,  prouder 


titaa  they,  satisfied  honestly  to  discharge  the  office  of  a  flunkey  without 
the  very  smallest  trace,  of  the  flunkey  spirit.  He  too  had  lived  down 
envy  and  all  nncharitableness.  Contemptuous  and  serene  amid  the  hoot- 
ings  of  the  mob  and  the  squibs  of  the  newspapers,  he  carries,  as  he  has 
done  for  years.  Her  Majesty's  shawl  and  capacious  India-rubbers,  attends 
her  tramps  through  the  Highlands  and  the  Home  Park,  engineers  her 
special  trains  and  looks  after  her  personal  comfort  even  to  the  extent 
of  ordering  her  to  wear  "  mair  claes  "  in  a  Scotch  mist.  The  queen 
has  embalmed  him  in  her  books,  and  he  will  rank  among  the  heroes  of 
royal  anthors  as  his  namesake  and  countryman  the  Cameronian,  by 
favour  of  very  similar  moral  qualities,  does  with  those  of  more  de- 
mocratic proclivities. 


14  UP  THE  THAMES. 

We  cannot  apply  literally  to  the 
view  from  Windsor  Thackeray's  lines 
on  "  the  castle  towers  of  Bareacres  "  : 

I  stood  upon  the  donjon  keep  and  viaved  the 

country  o'er ; 
I  WW  the  landa  uf  Buracres  for  fifty  miloi  or 

We  scan  what  was  once  embraced  in 
Windsor  Forest,  where  the  Norman 
laid  hia  broad  palm  on  a  apace  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  mUes  round,  and, 
like  the  lion  in  the  fable  of  the  hunt- 
ing party,  informed  his  subjects  that 
that  was  his  share.  The  domain 
dwindled,  as  did  other  royal  appurten- 
ances. Yet  in  1807  the  circuit  was 
as  much  as  seventy-seven  miles.  Id 
1789  it  embraced  sixty  thousand 
acres.  The  process  of  contraction  has 
since  been  accelerated,  and  but  little 
remains  outside  of  the  Great  and 
Little  Parks.  Several  villages  of 
EABL  OF  91-BBBT.  ijttle   uotc   Stand  upon  it.     Of  these 

Wokingham  has  the  distinction  of  an  ancient  hostelry  yclept  the  Rose ; 
and  the  celebrity  of  the  Rose  is  a  beautiful  daughter  of  the  landlord  of 
a  century  and  a  half  ago.  This  lady  missed  her  proper  fame  by  the 
blunder  of  a  merry  party  of  poets  who  one  evening  encircled  the  ma- 
hogany of  her  papa.  It  was  as  "  fast "  a  festivity  as  such  names  as  Gay 
and  Swiil  could  make  it.  Their  combined  efforts  resulted  in  the  bur- 
lesque of  Molly  Mog.  These  two  and  some  others  contributed  each  a 
verse  in  honour  of  the  fair  waiter.  But  they  mistook  her  name,  and 
the  crown  fell  upon  the  less  charming  brow  of  her  sister,  whose  cogno- 
men was  depraved  from  Mary  into  Molly.  Wiclif's  Oak  is  pointed  ont 
as  a  comer  of  the  old  forest,  a  long  way  east  of  the  park.  Under  its 
atill  spreading  branches  that  forerunner  of  Luther  is  said  to  have 
preached. 

In  the  vast  assemblage  of  the  arboreal  commonwealth  that  carpets  the 
landscape  the  centuries  are  represented  one  with  another.  It  is  a  leafy 
parliament  that  has  never  been  dissolved  or  prorogued.  One  hoary  mem- 
ber is  coeval  with  the  Confessor.  Another  sheltered  William  Rufus, 
tired  from  the  chase.  Under  another  gathered  recruits  bound  with  Coeur 
de  Lion  for  the  Holy  Land.  Agaiust  the  bole  of  this  was  set  np  a  prac- 
ticing butt  for  the  clothyard  shafts  that  won  Agincourt,  and  beneath  that 
bivouacked  the  pickets  of  Cromwell.  As  we  look  down  upon  their  top- 
most leaves  there  floats,  high  above  our  own  level,  "darkly  painted  on 
the  crimson  sky,"  a  member,  not  so  old,  of  another  commonwealth  quite 
as  ancient  that  has  flourished  among  their  branches  from  time  immemo- 
rial. There  flaps  the  solitary  heron  to  the  evening  tryst  of  his  tribe. 
Where  is  the  hawk  1  Will  be  not  rise  from  some  fair  wrist  among  the 
gay  troop  we  see  cantering  across  yonder  glade  1  Only  the  addition  of 
that  little  gray  speck  circling  into  the  blue  is  needed  to  round  off  our 


UP  THE  THAMES.  15 

illusion.  But  it  comes  not.  In  place  of  it  comes  a  spirt  of  steam  from 
the  r&ilvay  viaduct,  and  the  whistle  of  an  engine.  Froiasart  is  fire 
hundred  years  dead  again,  and  we  turn  to  Bradahaw. 

Yet  we  have  a  "  view  of  an  interior  "  to  couteraplate  before  facing 
the  lower  Thamea.     And  first,  as  the  day  is  fading,  we  seek  the  dimmest 


part.  We  dive  into  the  ciypt  of  the  bell-tower,  or  the  curfew-tower, 
that  used  to  send  farand  wide  to  many  a  Saxon  cottage  the  hateful  warn- 
ing that  told  of  servitade.  How  old  the  base  of  this  tower  is  nobody 
seems  to  know,  nor  how  far  back  it  hae  served  as  a  prison.  The  oldest 
initials  of  state  prisoners  inscribed  on  its  cells  date  to  1600.  The  walls 
are  twelve  feet  thick,  and  must  have  begotten  a  pleasant  feeling  of  per- 
fect security  in  the  breasts  of  the  involuntary  inhabitants.  They  did 
not  know  of  a  device  contrived  for  the  secarity  of  their  jailora,  which 
has  but  recently  been  discovered,  This  is  a  subterranean  and  subaque- 
ous passage,  alleged  to  lead  under  the  river  to  Burnham  Abbey,  three 
miles  off.  The  visitor  will  not  bo  disposed  to  verify  this  statement  or 
to  stay  long  in  the  comparatively  airy  crypt.  Damp  as  the  British  cli- 
mate may  be  above  ground,  it  is  more  so  below.  We  emerge  to  the  fine 
range  of  state  apartments  above,  and  submit  to  the  rule  of  guide  and 
guide-book. 

St,  George's  Hall,  the  Waterloo  gallery,  the  .council-chamber  and  the 
Vandyck  room  are  the  most  attractive,  all  of  them  for  the  historical  por- 
traits they  contain,  and  the  first,  besides,  for  its  merit  as  au  example  of 
a  gothic  interior  and  its  associations  with  the  order  of  the  Garter,  the 
knights  of  which  society  are  installed  in  it.  The  specialty  of  the  Water- 
loo room  is  the  series  of  portraits  of  the  leaders,  civil  and  military. 


UP  THE  THAMES. 


English  and  continental,  of  the  last  and  successful  league  agunst  Na- 
poleon. Tbey  are  nearly  all  by  Lawrence,  and  of  course  admirable  in 
their  delineation  of  character.  In  that  essential  of  a  good  portrait  none 
of  the  English  school  have  excelled  Lawrence.  We  may  rely  upon  the 
truth  to  nature  of  each  of  the  heads  before  us ;  for  air  and  expression 
accord  with  what  history  tells  us  of  the  individuals,  its  verdict  eked  out 
and  assisted  by  instructive  minutiae  of  lineament  and  meaning  detected, 
in  the  "  off  guard  "  of  private  intercourse,  by  the  eye  of  a  great  painter 
and  lifelong  student  of  physiognomy.  We  glance  &om  the  rugged  Blucher 
to  the  wily  Mettemich,  and  from  the  philosophic  Humboldt  to  the  semi- 
savage  Platoff.  The  dandies  Geoi^  IV.  and  Alexander  are  here,  but 
Brummel  is  left  out.  The  gem  of  the  collection  ia  Pius  VII.,  Lawrence's 
masterpiece,  widely  familiar  by  engravings.  Raphael's  Julius  XL  seems 
to  have  been  in  the  artist's  mind,  but  that  work  is  not  improved  on,  un- 
less in  so  far  as  the  critical  eye  of  our  day  may  delight  in  the  more  intri- 
cate tricks  of  chiaroscuro  and  eifect  to  which  Lawrence  has  recourse. 
"  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  "  will  interest  the  votaries  of  L'hilde  Harold. 
Could  he  have  looked  forward  to  1870,  he  would  perhaps  have  chosen  a 
different  side  at  Waterloo,  as  his  father  might  at  Jena,  and  elected  to 
figure  in  oils  at  Versailles  rather  than  at  Windsor,     incomparably  more 


UP  THE  THAHES.  17 

destructive  to  the  email  Oerman  princes  have  been  the  Hohenzollenu 
than  the  Bonapartes. 

We  foi^t  ibeee   nineteenth-centiir]'  people  id  the  councilH^hamber 
wherein  reign  Guido,  Rembrandt,  Claade,  and  even  Da  Vinci.     If  Leo 


nardo  really  executed  all  the  canvases  ascribed  to  him  in  English  collec- 
tions, the  common  impressions  of  his  habits  of  painting  but  little,  and 
not  often  finishing  that,  do  him  great  injustice.  Martin  Luther  is  here, 
by  Holbein,  and  tne  Countess  of  Desmond,  the  merry  old  lady 


18  UP  THE  THAMES. 

Who  lived  to  tbs  age  of  twice  threeecore  and  ten, 

And  died  of  a  fall  from  a  cherry  tree  then, 
is  embalmed  in  the  bloom  of  oce  hundred  and  twenty  and  the  gloom 
of  Rembrandt.    The  two  dozen  pictures  in  thie  room  form  nearly  as  odd 
an  aeeociation  as  any  Uke  number  of  portraits  could  do.     Guercino's 


Sibyl  figures  with  a  cottage  interior  by  Teniera,  and  Lely's  Prince  Ru- 
pert looks  down  with  lordly  scorn  on  Jonah  pitched  into  the  sea  by  the 
combined  efi'orts  of  the  two  Pouesins.  The  link  between  Berghem's 
cows  and  Del  Sarto's  Holy  Family  was  daubtlefls  supplied  to  the  minds 
of  the  hanging  committee  by  recollections  of  the  manger.  The  Amer- 
'  ican  painter.  West,  is  assigned  the  vestibule.  Five  of  his  "  ten-acre  " 
pictures  illustrate  the  wars  of  Edward  III.  and  the  Black  Prince.  The 
king's  doaet  and  the  queen's  closet  are  filled  mostly  by  the  Flemings. 
Vandyck's  room  finally  finishes  the  list.  It  has,  besldea  a  portrait  of 
himseilf  and  several  more  of  the  first  Charles  and  his  family  in  every 
pose,  some  such  <nieer,  or  worse  than  queer,  commoners  as  Tom  Kitigrew 
and  Sir  Eenelm  Digby  and  Venetia  his  hopeful  spouse,  so  dear  to  novel- 
ists of  a  certain  school. 

Tast  sums  have  been  expended  on  the  renovation  and  improvement 
of  the  castle  during  the  past  half  century.  With  Queen  Victoria  it  has 
been  more  popular  as  a  reeidence  tban  with  any  of  her  predecessorB 
since  the  fourteenth  century.  What,  however,  with  its  greater  practi- 
cal proximity  to  London,  due  to  railways,  and  what  with  the  queen's 
liking  for  solitude  since  the  death  of  her  consort^  the  more  secluded 
homes  of  Osborne  and  Balmoral  have  measurably  superseded  it  in  her 
affections. 

We  are  far  from  being  at  the  end  of  the  upper  Thames.  Oxford, 
were  there  no  other  namable  place,  is  beyoud  us.  But  we  have  explored 
the  denser  portion— the  nucleus  of  the  nebula  of  historic  stars  that 
stretches  into  the  western  sky  as  seen  from  the  metropolis.  We  lay 
aside  our  little  loi^ette.  It  has  shown  us  as  much  as  we  can  map  in 
these  pages,  and  that  we  have  endeavoured  to  do  with  at  least  the  merit 
of  accuracy.  E.  C.  B. 


19 


ROXY. 

BY  EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ELECTIONEERING. 

"  Mark,"  said  the  major,  in  a  tone  of  paternal  authority,  and  after  long 
and  deliberate  chewing  of  his  quid  of  tobacco,  *'  ef  it  hadn't  been  for 
me,  explaining  and  mollifying  things  and  the  like,  you  would  have  set 
all  Rocky  Fork  ag'inst  you.  Why,  Jim  McGk^wan  was  bilin'  mad.  You 
mns'n't  look  at  purty  faces  and  the  like  too  long,  ef  you  mean  to  be  a 
member  this  winter.  A  man  like  you  owes  somethin'  to  himself  and — 
and  his  country  and  the  like,  now,  you  know.     Hey  1 " 

Mark  was  in  no  mood  now  to  receive  this  remonstrance.  In  the  cool 
gray  dawning  of  the  morning,  when  the  excitement  of  the  night  had 
passed  ofif,  there  came  to  him  a  sense  of  having  played  the  fool.  A  man 
never  bears  to  be  told  that  he  has  made  a  fool  of  himself,  when  he 
knows  it  beforehand. 

'^  Major  Lathers,"  retorted  Mark,  stiffly,  '*  I  didn't  bring  you  along  for 
a  guardian.  I'll  have  you  know  that  I  can  take  care  of  myself  in  this 
canvass.  If  I  choose  to  enjoy  myself  for  a  few  hours  dancing  with  a 
pretty  girl,  what  harm  is  it ) " 

"  If  you  was  to  be  beat,  and  the  like,  now,  you  know,  by  about  six 
votes,  you'd  find  out  that  folks  as  dances  has  to  pay  the  blackest  kind 
of  nigger-fiddlers  sometimes  with  compound  interest  and  damages  and 
costs,  and  sich  like,  all  added  in  and  multiplied.  Don't  let's  you  and 
me  git  into  no  squabble,  nur  nothin,'  like  Gain  and  Abel  did  in  Para- 
dise. I  don't  want  to  be  no  gardeen,  nur  the  like,  to  no  such  rapid- 
goin'  youth  as  you.  Bisk's  too  big,  you  know.  You've  got  book-leamin', 
and  you  can  speechify,  now,  you  know,  but  fer  whackin'  about  the 
bushes  and  the  likes,  ole  Tom  Lathers  is  hard  to  get  ahead  of.  You 
shoot  sharp  at  long  range  and  off-hand.  I  clap  my  hands  every  time 
you  shoot  But  I  pick  up  the  votes  and  salt  'em  down  fer  winter  use 
and  the  like.  Now,  I  think  we  better  keep  pards  till  election's  over, 
anyhow.  £f  you  want  to  quarrel  afterward,  w'y  go  in,  that's  all,  and 
I'm  on  hand.  I  done  what  I  could  to  keep  Bocky  Fork  from  gittin'  on 
a  freshet  last  night,  and  if  you  go  back  on  me  now,  it'll  be  ungratefid, 
and  well  both  be  beat  all  to  thunder  and  the  like." 


20  BOXY. 

With  these  words  the  breach  was  healed  for  the  time,  but  Mark  was 
sulky  all  that  day. 

A  few  days  after  the  dance  at  Bocky  Fork,  Mark  had  an  opportunity 
to  retrieve  his  fortunes  by  making  one  of  his  taking  speeches  at  the  Re- 
publican meeting-house  only  a  few  miles  away  from  Kirtley's,  but  in  a 
neighbourhood  much  more  friendly  to  the  Whig  candidate.  This  Re- 
publican meeting-house  had  been  built  as  a  union  church,  in  which  all 
denominations  were  to  worship  by  turns.  But,  in  1840,  sectarian  spirit 
ran  too  high  for  the  lion  and  the  lamb  to  lie  down  together.  The  Epis- 
copal Methodists  had  quarreled  with  the  Radicals,  or  Methodist  Protes- 
tants, about  the  use  of  the  church  on  the  second  and  fourth  Sundays  in 
the  month,  while  the  HardsheUs,  or  Anti-means  Baptists  had  attempted 
to  drive  the  Regular  Baptists  out  of  the  morning  hour,  and  the  Two-seed 
Baptists  and  the  Free-wills,  had  complicated  the  matter,  and  the  New 
Lights  and  the  Adventists  and  the  Disciples  were  bound  also  to  assist 
in  the  fight.  The  result  was  that  the  benches  had  been  carried  off  first 
by  one  party,  then  by  another,  and  there  had  been  locks  and  padlocks 
innumerable  broken  from  the  door.  So  that  the  visionary  experiment 
of  a  Republican  meeting-house  in  a  country  where  popular  education 
was  in  its  infancy  and  sectarian  strife  at  its  worst,  had  only  resulted  in 
teaching  these  militant  Christians  the  arts  of  burglary  and  sacrilege. 
The  Whigs  and  Democrats,  however,  managed  to  use  the  much-damaged 
church  for  political  meetings  without  coming  to  blows  over  it  On  this 
occasion  Bonamy  was  to  have  a  discussion  with  his  opponent,  the  Demo- 
cratic candidate  for  representative,  one  Henry  Hardin.  But,  as  Hardin 
had  no  gift  for  speech-making,  while  Mark  had,  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  the  issue. 

The  Democrats  for  the  most  part  came  out  in  surly  anticipation  of 
defeat,  but  old  Enoch  Jackson,  the  wire-puller  for  the  party  in  that  part 
of  the  country,  shook  his  head  significantly  and  gave  the  ''  boys  "  to  un- 
derstand that  **  he  knew  somethin'  or  'nother  that  would  make  the 
Whigs  squirm.''  And  it  was  passed  round  from  one  to  another  that 
*'  old  Nuck  had  somethin'  in  his  head."  So  the  Democrats  marched  into 
the  meeting  with  an  unternfied  air. 

Mark  Bonamy  felt  very  sure  of  success.  He  was  to  make  the  last 
speech,  and  Major  Lathers  assured  his  Whig  friends  that  when  Hardin 
was  through  with  his  speech,  young  Bonamy  would  chaw  him  all  up  and 
the  Hke,  now,*  you  know.  Hardin  had,  however,  been  carefully  "  coached" 
for  the  occasion  and  he  made  a  fair  argument  of  the  heavier  sort^  against 
the  National  Bank,  against  internal  improvements  by  the  general  gov- 
ernment, and  especidly  in  favour  of  free  trade,  spicing  his  remarks, 
which  were  delivered  in  a  loud,  monotonous  tone,  with  many  appeals  to 
the  popular  prejudice  against  the  Federalists,  of  whom,  it  was  claimed, 


BOXY.  21 

the  Whigs  were  lineal  descendants.  At  proper  intervals  in  the  speech, 
which  was  of  nniform  heaviness,  Enoch  Tackson  would  bring  his  heavy, 
well-oiled  boot  down  upon  the  floor,  whereupon  his  trained  partisans 
fcdlowed  his  lead  with  energetic  applause,  which  gave  the  exhausted 
orator  time  to  breathe  and  to  take  a  sip  of  water,  while  it  also  served 
to  give  an  appearance  of  vivacity  to  the  speech.  But  Bonamy  felt  him- 
self able  to  brush  away  the  effect  of  Hardin's  speech  with  a  dozen  telling 
hits  delivered  in  his  magnetic  manner.  / 

As  soon,  therefore,  as  Hardin  had  ceased,  Mark  rose  and  began  in  his 
most  conciliatory  and  vote-winning  fashion : 

*^  Fellow-citizens  of  Brown  Township :  I  want  to  say  in  the  beginning 
that  it  is  with  no  animosity  to  Democrats  that  I  rise  to  address  you.  I 
hurrahed  for  the  hero  of  New  Orleans  ^en  I  was  a  boy.  Here  are  the 
men  who  voted  for  my  £ather.  I  have  no  unfriendly  feeling  toward 
them,  I  assure  you." 

"  You're  a  turn-coat,"  cried  one  of  the  young  men.  But  this  was 
what  Bonamy  wanted.    Contradiction  was  Mb  foil. 

^'  I  am  a  turn-coat,  am  I ) "  he  cried  in  a  burst  of  indignation.  *'  I 
will  show  you  whether  I  am  a  turn-coat  or  not  Where  did  I  learn  the 
principle  of  protection  1  From  General  Jackson  himself,  as  I  will  pro- 
ceed to  show." 

But  at  this  point  everybody's  attention  was  drawn  to  a  storm  of  oaths 
coming  from  two  voices  without  the  door. 

**  You  lie,  you scoundrel     I'll  lick  you  within  an  inch  of 

your  life  if  you  say  another  word." 

The  voice  was  Jim  McGk>wan's,  and  Major  Lathers,  knowing  at  once 
that  mischief  was  intended,  closed  the  door  just  as  the  other  voice  cried  : 

"  You  dassent  tech  me  with  your  little  finger,  you  cussed  coward  you." 

*'  Fellow-citizens,"  resumed  Mark,  *'  I  have  been  called  a  turn-coat, 
now  I ^" 

"  Le'  go  of  me,"  Jim  McGowan  was  heard  to  say.  **  I  kin  kill  Sam 
Peters  the  best  day  he  ever  saw.    Le'  go  of  me,  I  say." 

"  Le'  go  of  him,"  cried  Peters.     "  I'll  spile  his  pro-file  fer  him." 

\^thin  there  was  confusion.  Only  Enoch  Jackson  appeared  entirely 
quiet  and  reaUy  anxious  to  hear  what  Bonamy  had  to  say.  The  rest 
would  rather  have  seen  a  fight  than  to  have  heard  the  best  speaker  in 
the  world. 

'<  I  have  been  called  a  turn-coat,"  resumed  Mark,  **  and  I  want 
to " 

But  here  the  cries  out-of-doors  indicated  that  the  two  had  broken 
loose  from  their  friends  and  were  about  to  have  a  '^  stand-up  fight."  This 
was  too  much  for  the  audience.  It  was  of  no  use  for  Mark  to  say 
"Fellow-citizens."      The  fellow-citizens  were  already  forming  a  ring 


% 


22  ROXT. 

around  Sam  Peters  and  Jim  McGrowan,  who,  on  their  parts,  had  torn  off 
their  shirts  and  stood  stripped  for  the  fight,  which  for  some  reason  they 
delayed,  in  spite  of  their  vehement  protestations  of  eagerness  for  it. 
Bonamy  was  left  with  no  auditors  but  Major  Lathers,  Enoch  Jackson, 
who  looked  at  him  innocently,  and  his  opponent,  who  sat  decorously 
waiting  for  him  to  proceed. 

When  Mark  desisted  from  speaking,  Enoch  Jackson's  triumph  was 
complete,  but  he  set  out  to  walk  home  with  the  gravity  of  a  statesman. 
Mark,  however,  did  not  give  up  the  battle  easily.  He  called  in  Whig 
justice  into  the  church,  swore  out  a  writ  against  Peters  and  McGowan, 
and  helped  to  arrest  them  with  his  own  hands.  This  prompt  action  saved 
him  from  the  ignominy  of  entire  defeat,  but  it  was  too  late  to  save  the 
day.  By  the  time  the  participants  in  this  sham  battle  had  paid  their 
fines,  the  day  had  so  far  waned  that  it  was  impossible  to  rally  the 
audience  to  listen  to  any  further  speaking. 

Lathers  did  not  say  anything  to  Mark  as  they  rode  away.  Bonamy 
was  in  continual  expectation  of  a  reprimand  for  his  folly  in  running  after 
''  purty  girls  and  the  like."  But  Lathers  knew  that  Mark  needed  no 
further  rebuke. 

From  that  time  until  the  day  of  election  Bonamy  gave  his  whole 
heart  to  the  canvass,  and  his  taking  speeches  and  ine^uating  manners 
enabled  him  in  some  degree  to  retrieve  the  error  he  had  committed.  It 
was  only  on  the  very  last  day  of  that  exciting  campaign  that  he  ven- 
tured to  turn  aside  on  his  way  home  and  ask  for  a  drink  of  water  at  old 
Gid  Kirtley's  fence,  loitering  half  an  hour  without  dismounting,  while 
Nancy  Rirtley,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  made  Mark  forget  her 
foolish  talk  by  shifting  from  one  attitude  to  another  so  as  to  display 
face  and  figure  to  the  best  advantage.  Only  the  necessity  for  reaching 
Luzerne  that  evening  in  time  for  '*  the  grand  rally  "  with  which  the 
canvass  closed,  could  have  persuaded  the  dazzled  young  man  to  cut  short 
the  interview.  This  he  found  hard  of  accomplishment,  the  bewitching 
siren  using  all  her  endeavour  to  detain  him.  It  was  only  by  sacrificing 
a  watch-seal  of  no  great  value  upon  which  he  saw  her  covetous  eyes 
fastened,  that  he  succeeded  in  disentangling  himself.  He  swore  at  him- 
self half  the  way  to  Luzerne  for  his  "  devilish  imprudence  "  in  giving 
her  the  trinket.  But  a  hopeful  temperament  brought  him  peace  after 
a  while,  and  he  made  a  most  effective  appeal  to  the  Whigs  at  Luzerne 
to  "  rally  "  round  the  hero  of  Tippecanoe. 


# 


ROXY.  23 

CHAPTER  V. 

ELECTION  DAY. 

Yon  have  often  wondered,  no  doubt,  why  men  should  make  a  business 
of  politics.  There  is,  of  course,  the  love  of  publicity  and  power ;  but, 
with  the  smaller  politicians,  this  hardly  accounts  for  the  eagerness  with 
which  they  give  themselves  to  a  business  so  full  of  toil,  rudeness,  and 
anxiety.  I  doubt  not  the  love  of  combat  and  the  love  of  hazard  lie  at 
the  root  of  this  fascination.  This  playing  the  desperate  stake  of  a  man's 
destiny  against  another  man's  equal  risk,  must  be  very  exciting  to  him 
who  has  the  impulse  and  the  courage  of  a  gamester. 

The  grand  rally  of  each  party  had  been  held  in  the  village  of  Luzerne, 
and  other  rallies  not  so  grand  had  been  rallied  at  all  the  other  places  in 
the  country.  It  was  at  last  the  morning  of  the  election  day.  Politi- 
cians awoke  from  troubled  slumbers  with  a  start.  I  fancy  election  day 
must  be  hard  on  the  candidate :  there  is  so  little  for  him  to  do.  The 
whippers-in  are  busy  enough,  each  at  his  place,  but  the  candidate  can 
only  wait  till  night-falL  And  all  the  while  he  is  conscious  that  men  are 
observing  him,  ready  to  note  the  slightest  symptom  of  uneasiness.  With 
all  this,  under  the  balk>t  system,  he  must  remain  in  entire  ignorance  of 
the  state  of  the  poll  until  the  election  is  concluded. 

On  that  first  Monday  in  the  August  of  1840,  the  town  was  thronged 
with  people  by  seven  o'clock.  The  did  politicians  voted  silently  early  in 
the  morning.  Then  came  the  noisy  crowd  who  could  not  vote  without 
swearing  and  quarrelling.  There  were  shouts  for  '*  Little  Van,"  and  cries 
of ''  Hurrah  for  Tippecanoe,"  for,  though  the  presidential  election  came 
months  later,  the  state  elections  would  go  far  toward  deciding  the  con- 
test by  the  weight  of  their  example. 

At  midday,  when  the  crowd  was  greatest,  old  Bob  Harwell,  a  soldier 
of  the  Revolution,  who  had  managed  to  live  to  an  advanced  age,  by  dint 
of  persistent  drunkenness  and  general  worthlessness,  was  drawn  to  the 
polls  in  a  carriage  amid  deafening  cheers  for  the  veteran,  from  the  Whigs. 
The  old  man  appreciated  the  dramatic  position.  Presenting  his  ballot 
with  a  trembling  hand,  he  lifted  his  hat  and  swung  it  feebly  round  his 
head. 

"  Boys,"  he  cried,  in  a  quavering,  mock-heroic  voice,  ^'  I  fit  under  Gin- 
eral  Washi'ton,  an'  I  voted  fer  him,  an'  now  I've  voted  fer  Gineral 
Harrison,"  (the  old  man  believed  that  he  had),  ''  and  if  the  hero  of  Tip- 
pecanoe ia  elected,  I  want  to  die  straight  out  and  be  the  fust  one  to  go  to 
heaven  and  tell  Washi'ton  that  Gineral  Harrison's  elected  I     Hurrah  i  *' 

"  You'll  be  a  mighty  long  while  a-gittin'  thar,  you  old  sinner,"  cried 
one  of  the  Democrats. 


24  BOXY. 

The  old  Swiss  settlers  and  their  descendants  voted  the  Democratic 
ticket,  probably  from  a  liking  to  the  name  of  the  party.  It  is  certain 
that  they  knew  as  little  as  their  American  fellow-citizens  about  the  ques- 
tions of  finance  which  divided  the  two  parties.  After  the  Sevolution 
relic  had  departed,  there  came  an  old  Frenchman— one  Pierre  Larousse' 
— who  was  commonly  classed  with  the  Swiss  on  account  of  his  language, 
but  who  voted  with  the  Whigs. 

"  Wat  for  you  vote  the  Wig  tigget,  eh  1 "  cried  out  David  Croissant, 
one  of  the  older  Swiss.  ^'  You  are  a  turn-goat,  to  come  to  Ameriky  an^ 
not  pe  a  damograt.    Sac-drfapier  I    Enirailles  de  jmdes  /  " 

"  Sac-r-r-ri  diaUe  / "  burst  out  Larousse.  "  You  *dinks  I  is  dum- 
goat.  I  dinks  you  lies  one  varee  leetle  pit.  By  gare !  I  nayvare  pe  a 
damograt.  I  see  'nough  of  damograts.  Saor-r-ri  /  I  leef  in  Paree. 
Kobespierre  vas  a  damograt.  I  hafe  to  veel  of  my  head  avairy  morning 
to  see  eef  it  vas  nod  shop  off.  I  no  likes  your  damograts.  Doo  much 
plud.  I  likes  my  head  zave  and  zound,  eh  ?  By  gare  1  Qad  sacri  im- 
becile/'* 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  the  Swiss  Democrat  and  the  French 
Whig  were  restrained  from  following  their  stout  French  oaths  with 
stouter  blows. 

With  such  undignified  accompaniments  and  interludes  did  the  Ameri- 
can citizen  of  that  day  perform  the  freeman's  '^  kingliest  act ''  of  voting. 
The  champion  fighter  of  the  western  end  of  the  county  cheerfully 
accepted  "  a  dare  "  from  the  champion  fighter  from  the  eastern  end  of 
the  county,  and  the  two  went  outside  of  the  corporation  line,  and  in  the 
shade  of  the  beautiful  poplars  on  the  river*bank  pummeled  each  other  in 
a  friendly  way  until  the  challenger,  finding  that  his  antagonist  had  en- 
tirely stopped  respiration,  was  forced  to  ^*  hollow  calf-rope,"  that  is,  to 
signify  by  gestures  that  he  was  beaten. 

Night  came,  and  with  it  more  drinking,  noise,  and  fighting,  filling  up 
the  time  till  the  returns  should  come  in.  After  nine  o'block,  horsemen 
came  galloping  in,  first  by  one  road  and  then  by  another,  bringing  news 
from  country  precincts.  On  the  arrival  of  the  messenger,  there  was 
always  a  rush  of  the  waiting  idlers  to  that  part  of  the  public  square  be- 
tween the  court-house  door  and  the  town-pump.  Here  the  tidings  were 
delivered  by  the  messengers  and  each  party  cheered  in  turn  as  the  news 
showed  that  the  victory  wavered  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other. 
The  Democrats  became  excited  when  they  found  that  the  county,  which 
always  had  been  a  ^'stronghold,"  might  possibly  be  carried  by  the 
Whigs.  It  was  to  them  the  first  swash  of  the  great  opposition  wave 
that  swept  the  followers  of  Jackson  from  their  twelve  years'  hold  on  the 
government. 

In  the  first  returns,  Bonamy  ran  a  few  votes  ahead  of  his  ticket,  and 


BOXY.  25 

his  friends  were  sure  of  his  election.  But  to  Mark  there  was  a  fearful 
waiting  for  the  punishment  of  his  sins.  His  flirtation  with  Nancy  Kirt* 
ley  did  not  seem  half  so  amusing  to  him  now  that  in  a  close  election  he 
b^an  to  see  that  Bocky  Fork  might  put  back  the  fulfilment  of  his  ambi- 
^  tion  for  years.     Paying  the  fiddler  is  a  great  stimulus  to  the  pricks  of 

conscience. 

When  the  returns  from  the  Bocky  Fork  precincts  were  read,  Marie 
was  astonished  to  hear' that  where  nearly  every  vote  was  Democratic, 
his  friend,  Major  Lathers,  had  received  twenty-five  votes.  His  own  vote 
in  the  same  poll  was  precisely  one.  This  must  have  been  cast  by  old 
Gid  Kirtley.  Every  other  man  in  the  Fork  was  his  enemy.  When  the 
adjacent  voting-places  in  Brown  Township  came  to  be  heard  from  through 
the  mud-bespattered  messengers  who  had  ridden  their  raw-boned  steeds 
out  of  breath  for  the  good  of  their  country,  Mark  caught  a  little  glimpse 
of  the  adroit  hand  of  Lathers.  He  had  lost  twenty-four  Whig  votes  ta 
ofiet  the  twenty-five  Democratic  votes  which  Lathers  received.  There 
had  then  been  a  system  of  "  trading  oS.**  This  is  what  Lathers  had 
been  doing,  while  he,  like  a  fool,  had  been  dancing  attendance  on  **  that 
confounded  Nancy  Kirtley,"  as  he  now  called  her  in  his  remorseful 
Ip  soliloquies. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  two  remote  townships — York  and  Posey — ^jwere  yet 
to  be  heard  from.  The  whole  case  was  to  be  decided  by  them.  It  was 
still  uncertain  whether  the  Whigs  or  the  Democrats  had  carried  the 
county ;  but  there  was  little  hope  that  the  two  towns,  usually  Democratic,, 
would  give  Whig  majority  enough  to  elect  Bonamy.  Meantime,  the 
crowd  were  discussing  the  returns  from  Tanner  Township.  What  made 
Bonamy  fall  so  fax  behind  1  When  the  story  of  the  dance  began  to  be 
circulated,  there  was  much  derision  of  Mark's  weakness  and  much 
chuckling  over  the  shrewdness  by  which  Major  Lathers  had  made  it 
8^rve  his  turn.  But  Lathers  was  quite  unwilling  to  confess  that  he  had 
betrayed  his  friend.  When  asked  about  his  increased  vote,  he  declared 
that^'the  dog-law  and  the  likes  done  the  business." 

As  the  time  wore  on  toward  eleven,  the  impatient  crowd  moved  to  the 
upper  part  of  the  town,  where  they  would  intercept  the  messenger  from 
York  and  Posey.    Here,  under  the  locusts  in  front  of  a  little  red  build- 
ing used  as  a  hatter's  shop,  they  stood  awaiting  the  vote  that  was  to  de- 
^  cide  the  awful  quest^n  of  the  choice  of  six  or  eight  petty  officers — a 

question  which  seemed  to  the  excited  partisans  one  of  supreme  moment. 

All  at  once  the  horse's  feet  were  heard  splashing  through  mud  and 
water.  Everybody  watches  eagerly  to  see  whether  it  be  a  Whi^  or  a 
Democrat  who  rides,  for,  as  is  the  messenger,  so  is  his  message. 

"  Hurray  for  York  and  Posey  ! " 

Mark,  who  is  in  the  crowd,  notes  that  it  is  the  voice  of  Dan  Hoover^ 


26  ROXY. 

the  Whig  ringleader  in  York.  The  voters  surround  him  and  demand  the 
returns,  for  the  Democrats  still  hope  that  Bonamy  is  beaten.  But  they 
<iaxi  get  but  one  reply  from  the  messenger,  who  swings  his  hat  and  rises 
in  his  saddle  to  cry : 

"  Hurray  for  York  and  Posey  I " 

"  Well,  what  about  York  and  Posey,  Hoover  1  We  want  to  know," 
cries  Mark,  who  can  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  But  Hoover  is  crazed 
with  whiskey  and  can  give  no  intelligible  account  of  the  election  in  York 
and  Posey.  He  responds  to  every  question  by  rising  in  his  stirrups, 
swinging  his  hat  and  bellowing  out : 

"  Hurray  for  York  and  Posey,  I  say  ! " 

After  half  an  hour  of  fiitUe  endeavour  to  extract  anything  more  defi- 
nite from  him,  Mark  hit  upon  an  expedient. 

''  I  say,  Dan,  come  over  to  Dixon's  and  get  a  drink,  you're  getting 
hoarse." 

This  appeal  touched  the  patriotic  man.  Mark  got  the  spell  of  itera- 
tion broken  and  persuaded  Hoover  to  give  him  a  memorandum  which 
Jie  carried  in  his  pocket,  and  which  read  : 

**  York  gives  19  majority  for  the  Whig  ticket, 
Poeey  gives  7  majority  for  the  same, 
Bomuny  a  little  ahead  of  the  ticket." 

This  indicated  Mark's  election.  But  he  did  not  sleep  soundly  until 
two  days  later,  when  the  careful  official  count  gave  him  a  majority  of 
thirteen. 

With  this  favourable  result  his  remorse  for  having  cheated  poor  Jim 
McGrowan  out  of  his  sweetheart  became  sensibly  less,  though  he  laid 
away  some  maxims  of  caution  for  himself,  as  that  he  must  not  run  such 
risks  again.  He  was  not  bad,  this  Mark  Bonamy.  He  was  only  one  of 
those  men  whose  character  was  not  hardened.  He  was  like  a  shifting 
sand-bank  that  lay  open  on  all  sides  to  the  water ;  every  rise  and  fiedl  or 
change  of  direction  in  the  current  of  influence  went  over  him.  There 
are  men  not  bad  who  may  come  to  do  very  bad  things  from  mere  im* 
pressibility.  He  was  not  good,  but  should  he  chance  to  be  seized  by 
some  power  strong  enough  to  master  him,  he  might  come  to  be  good. 
Circumstances,  provided  they  are  sufficiently  severe,  may  even  harden 
such  negatives  into  fixed  character,  either  good  or  bad,  after  a  while. 
But  in  Mark's  present  condition,  full  of  exuberant  physical  life  and  pas- 
sion, with  quick  perceptions,  a  lively  imagination,  ambitious  vanity,  a 
winning  address  and  plenty  of  bonhommie,  it  was  a  sort  of  pitch  and  toss 
between  devil  and  guardian  angel  for  possession. 

Set  it  down  to  his  credit  that  he  had  kept  sober  on  this  election  night. 
His  victory  indeed  was  not  yet  sure  enough  to  justify  a  rejoicing  which 


/ 


"hdbbat  for  v 


28  ROXY. 

might  prove  to  be  premature.  Drunkenness,  moreover,  was  not  an  in- 
herent tendency  with  Bonamy.  If  he  now  and  then  drank  too  much, 
it  was  not  from  hereditary  hunger  for  stimulant,  much  less  from  a  glut- 
tonous love  of  the  pleasures  of  gust.  The  quickened  sense  of  his  impru- 
dence in  the  matter  of  the  dance  at  Bocky  Fork  had  a  restraining  effect 
upon  him  on  election  day.  At  any  rate,  he  walked  home  at  midnight 
with  no  other  elation  than  that  of  having  carried  the  election  ;  and  even 
this  joy  was  moderated  by  a  fear  that  the  official  count  might  yet  over- 
throw his  victory.  It  was  while  walking  in  this  mood  of  half-exulta- 
tion that  Bonamy  overtook  Koxy  Adams  and  her  friend  Twonnet,  just 
in  the  shadow  of  the  silent  steam>mill. 

**  Good-evening,  or  good-morning,  I  declare  I  don't  know  which  to 
say,''  he  laughed  as  he  came  upon  them.  "  You  haven't  been  waiting 
for  election  returns,  have  you  f " 

"  Have  you  heard,  Mark  1  are  you  elected? "  inquired  Roxy,  with  an 
eagerness  that  flattered  Bonamy. 

"  Yes,  I  am  elected,  but  barely,"  he  replied.  "  But  what  on  earth  are 
you  girls  taking  a  walk  at  midnight  for )  I'll  bet  Roxy's  been  sitting 
up  somewhere." 

'*  Yes,"  said  the  mischievous  Twonnet,  whose  volatile  spirits  could 
not  be  damped  by  any  circumstances,  "  of  course  we've  been  sitting  up, 
since  we  haven't  gone  to  bed.  It  doesn't  take  a  member  of  the  legisla- 
ture to  tell  that.  Honorable  Mr.  Bonamy." 

This  sort  of  banter  from  his  old  school-mate  was  very  agreeable. 
Maik  liked  to  have  his  new  dignity  aired  even  in  jest,  and  in  a  western 
village  where  a  native  is  never  quite  able  to  shed  his  Christian  name, 
such  freedoms  are  always  enjoyed. 

"  But  where  have  you  been  1 "  asked  Mark,  as  he  walked  along  with 
them.  . 

*'  Up  at  Haz  Kirtley's.  His  baby  died  about  an  hour  ago,"  said  Boxy' 
"  and  I  sent  for  Twonnet  to  tell  them  how  to  make  a  shroud.  She  un- 
derstands such  things,  you  know." 

"  That's  just  what  I  am  good  for,"  put  in  Twonnet,  "  I  never  thought 
of  that  before.  I  knew  that  nothing  was  made  in  vain.  There  ought 
to  be  one  woman  in  a  town  that  knows  how  to  make  shrouds  for  dead 
people.  That's  me.  But  Roxy — I'll  tell  you  what  she's  good  for,"  con- 
tinued the  enthusiastic  Swiss  girl  with  great  vivacity ;  *'  she  keeps  peo- 
ple out  of  shrouds.  I  might  put  up  a  sign,  Mark,  and  let  it  read  : 
'  Antoinette  Lefaure,  Shroud-maker.'    How  does  that  sound ) " 

''Strangers  never  would  believe  that  you  were  the  person  meant," 
said  Mark.  "  One  sight  of  your  face  would  make  them  think  you  had 
never  seen  a  corpse.  Besides,  you  couldn't  keep  from  laughing  at  a 
funeral,  Twonnet,  you  know  you  couldn't." 


ROXY.  29 

*'  I  know  it,"  she  said,  and  her  clear  laugh  burst  forth  at  the  thought 
''I  giggle  to-night  right  over  that  poor  dead  baby,  and  1  could  'a' 
whipped  myself  for  it,  too.  You  see,  Haz  Kirtley's  sister  was  there. 
Haz  is  ignorant  enough,  but  his  sister — oh  my  i  "  and  Twonnet  paused 
to  laugh  again. 

"  Oh,  don't  Twonnet, — don't  laugh  so,"  said  Eoxy.  •*  I  declare  I 
can't  get  over  that  poor  child's  sufferings  and  its  mother's  scream  when 
she  saw  it  was  dead.  I  used  to  think  low  people  of  that  sort  hadn't  any 
feeling,  but  they  have.  That  sister  of  Haz's  is  an  ignorant  girl,  and  I 
don't  like  her  much,  but  she  is  beautiful." 

"  She's  the  prettiest  creature  I  ever  saw,"  said  Twonnet  **  But  when 
she  looked  at  me  so  solemnly  out  of  her  large,  bright  eyes,  and  told  me 
that  she  knew  the  baby  must  die,.  *  bekase  the  screech-owl  hollered  and 
the  dog  kep'  up  sich  a  yowlin'  the  livelong  night,'  I  thought  rd  die." 

Mark  could  make  but  little  reply  to  this.  He  had  not  thought  of  any 
kinship  between  Haz  Kirtley  the  drajrman,  and  Nancy  Kirtley  a  dozen 
miles  away  on  Rocky  Fork.  Had  Nancy  come  to  town  to-day  to  be  his 
Nemesis  ?  He  heartily  wished  he  had  never  seen  her.  Without  sus- 
pecting the  true  state  of  the  case,  Twonnet  was  seized  with  an  uncon- 
trollable impulse  to  tease. 

"  By  the  way,  Mark,"  she  began  again,  "  while  I  was  cutting  out  the 
shroud,  Nancy  Kirtley  told  me  in  confidence  that  she  knew  you  well. 
She  spoke  of  you  as  though  you  were  a  very  particular  friend,  indeed." 

"A  candidate  has  to  be  everybody's  very  particular  friend,"  said 
Mark,  in  a  tone  of  annoyance,  thinking  of  the  seal  he  had  given  away 
the  day  before. 

"She  said  you  couldn't  trot  a  reel  very  well,  though,"  persisted 
Twonnet  ''  She  claims  to  have  danced  with  you  all  night,  and  she 
ought  to  know." 

*'  Pshaw !  "  said  Mark.  «  What  a  yam  ! " 

The  evident  vexation  of  Bonamy  delighted  Twonnet 

"  Poor  old  Mr.  White  !  "  interrupted  Roxy,  who  wished  to  make  a 
diversion  in  Mark's  favour.  **  There's  his  candle  burning  yet  They  say 
he  hasn't  been  able  to  sleep  without  it  for  twenty  years.  It  must  be  an 
awful  thing  to  have  such  a  conscience." 

Something  in  Mark's  mood  made  him  feel  in  an  unreasonable  way 
that  this  allusion  to  Mr.  White's  conscience  was  a  thrust  at  himself. 
White  was  an  old  man  who  had  shot  and  killed  a  man  in  a  street  affray, 
many  years  before,  when  the  territory  of  Indiana  was  yet  new  and  law- 
less, but  the  old  man  from  th^t  day  had  never  closed  his  eyes  to  sleep 
without  a  light  in  his  room. 

They  had  now  reached  the  little  gate  in  the  paling  fence  in  front  of 
Twonnet  Lefaure's  home,  and  Mark  was  glad  to  bid  the  vivacious  tease 


30  ROXY. 

good -night,  and  to  walk  on  with  Eoxy,  whose  house  lay  a  little  further 
away  in  the  direction  of  his  own  home.  Now  that  Twonnet  was  out  of 
sight  his  complacency  had  returned ;  but  he  was  quite  in  the  mood  to- 
night to  wish  to  live  better,  and  he  confided  to  Eoxy  his  purpose  to 
"  turn  over  a  new  leaf,"  the  more  readily  since  he  knew  that  she  would 
cordially  approve  it,  and  approval  was  what  he  craved  now  more  than 
anything  else. 

Besides,  Eoxy  was  the  saint  of  the  town.  In  a  village  nobody  has  to 
wait  long  to  find  a  "mission."  He  who  can  do  anjrthing  well  is 
straightway  recognised,  and  his  vocations  are  numerous.  The  woman 
who  has  a  genius  for  dress  is  forthwith  called  in  consultation  at  all  those 
critical  life-and-death  moments  when  dresses  are  to  be  made  for  a  wed- 
ding, an  infare,  or  a  funeral  And  the  other  woman  whose  touch  is  ten- 
der, magnetic  and  life-giving,  is  asked  to  ''  set  up ''  with  the  sick  in  all 
critical  cases.  Such  a  one  was  Eoxy  Adams.  The  gift  of  helpfulness 
was  bom  in  her ;  and  to  possess  the  gift  of  helpfulness  is  to  be  mort- 
gaged to  all  who  need. 

That  night  Eoxy  climbed  the  steep  stairs  to  her  room,  and  went  to 
bed  without  writing  in  her  diary.  When  one's  heart  is  full,  one  is  not 
apt  to  drop  a  plummet  line  into  it ;  and  now  Eoxy  was  happy  in  the  re- 
action which  helpfulness  brings — ^for  an  angel  can  never  make  other 
people  as  happy  as  the  angel  is.  And  she  was  pleased  that  Mark  had 
carried  the  election,  and  pleased  to  think  that  perhaps  she  had 
"  dropped  a  word  in  season  "  that  might  do  him  good. 

And  while  the  innocent-hearted  girl  was  praying  for  him,  Mark  was 
inwardly  cursing  the  day  he  had  met  Nancy  Kirtley,  and  resolving  to 
cut  her  acquaintance,  by  degrees. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

A  GENRE  PIECE. 

WHrrxAKER  was  one  of  those  people  who  take  offence  gradually. 
Adams's  rude  remarks  about  preachers  had  rankled  in  him.  The  first 
day  after  he  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  offensive.  In  two  or  three 
days  he  concluded  that  he  would  not  visit  the  keen-witted  but  aggres- 
sive shoemaker  again  until  some  apology  should  be  made.  By  the  time 
the  election  was  over  he  doubted  whether  he  ought  to  greet  Mr.  Adams 
on  the  street  if  he  should  chance  to  meet  him.  At  least  he  would  let 
his  crusty  friend  make  the  first  advance. 

Now  Adams  was  penitent  for  his  rudeness  even  while  he  was  being 
rude  ;  it  was  an  involuntary  ferocity.     He  had  regretted  the  words  be- 


ROXY.  31 

fore  he  uttered  them.    He  knew  that  he  ought  to  apologize^  but  he  must 
do  even  that  by  contraries.    Meeting  the  minister  one  afternoon,  right 
at  the  town  pump,  he  stationed  himself  so  as  to  block  Whittaker's  path,, 
bowed,  smiled  grimly,  and  then  came  out  with : 
^  '*  Mr.  Whittaker,  you  and  I  had  some  sharp  words  in  our  discussions^ 

aboQt  good  old  Henry  YUI.,  the  last  time  you  were  at  my  house.  You 
haven't  been  there  since,  and  you  haven't  been  in  the  shop,  either.  It 
occurs  to  me  that  may  be  you  said  something  on  that  occasion  for  which 
you  would  like  to  apologize.    If  so,  you  now  have  an  opportunity." 

This  was  said  vrith  such  droll,  mock-earnestness,  that  Whittaker  could 
not  but  laugh. 

''  Of  course  I  will  apologize,  Mr.  Adams/'  he  said,  not  without  em- 
phasis on  the  pronoun. 

"  And  I,"  said  the  other,  lifting  himself  up  as  if  to  represent  the 
height  of  his  own  magnanimity, — ''and  I  will  freely  forgive  yon. 
Come  and  see  me  to-night.  I  haven't  had  a  human  soul  to  quarrel  with 
since  you  were  there  before,  except  Boxy,  and  she  won't  quarrel  back 
worth  a  cent.  Now  the  old  score's  wiped  out  and  we've  settled  Blue- 
beard and  his  wives,  come  /round  to-night  and  abuse  me  about  some- 
"  thing  else." 

"  I'U  come  this  very  evening,^  said  Whittaker. 

"  Now  1 " 

"  No ;  this  evening." 

"  Oh  !  you're  a  confirmed  Yankee,"  said  Adams.  "  Why,  it's  even- 
ing now.  After  supper'  we  call  it  night.  Oome,  lef  s  reconcile  the  con- 
fusion of  tongues.  Oome  to  supper.  I  suppose  you  call  it  tea.  Come, 
well  teach  you  English  if  you  live  in  these  wild  heathen  parts  long. 
Now  I've  made  up,  I  am  aching  to  quarrel,  I  tell  you." 

Mr.  Whittaker  made  some  feeble  resistance.  But  the  village  society 
was  so  insipid  that  he  found  in  himself  a  yearning  for  the  stimulant 
conversation  of  the  paradoxical  Adams.  It  was  a  relief  to  talk  with 
somebody  who  did  not  give  an  ex  officio  deference  to  a  minister's  opinion. 
Perhaps  there  was  an  unconscious  inclination  to  see  Boxy  again,  but 
this  did  not  come  into  the  category  of  admitted  reasons  for  eating  sup- 
per with  the  shoe-maker. 

When  Boxy  saw  Mr.  Whittaker  coming  home  with  her  father,  >he 
'  put  hat  upon  the  reluctant  Bobo  and  sent  him  home.     Theu  she  began 

to  ''  fly  around,"  as  the  western  phrase  is,  to  get  a  supper  **  fit  for  a 
preacher."  If  Mr.  Whittaker  had  been  observant  of  trifles  hejUiight 
have  foretold  the  character  of  the  supper,  for  the  *'  company  supper," 
among  the  better  families  in  a  western  town  did  not  vary  much.  There 
was  commonly  fried  chicken  in  a  rich  gravy  made  with  cream  :  there 
was  strong  coffee  with  plenty  of  loaf-sugar  and  cream ;  there  might  be 


32  ROXY. 

"  preserves"  of  apple,  or  peach,  or  quince,  of  a  tempting  transparency, 
and  smothered  with  cream  ;  and  then  there  were  generally  hot  biscuits 
of  snowy  whiteness,  or  some  of  those  wonderful  ^*  corn  batter-cakes," 
which  dwellers  north  of  the  great  com  belt  have  never  tasted.  West- 
em  housekeepers  are  all  Marthas.  They  feel  obliged  to  ''  put  them- 
selves about,"  as  the  Scotch  say,  when  they  have  company.  And  so 
Roxy  got  out  the  old  china  tea-pot  and  sugar-bowl  which  had  come  down 
from  her  grandmother,  divers  parts  of  handles,  lids  and  spouts  having 
suffered  those  accidents  which  china  is  heir  to,  and  been  judiciously 
mended  with  cement.  There  were  yet  three  tea-cups  and  two  saucers 
of  the  old  set  left.  The  cups  had  dainty  handles  and  were  striped  and 
flowered  with  gilt  She  served  the  two  saucers  to  her  guest  and  her 
father,  while  she  was  forced  to  use  a  china  cup  with  a  saucer  which  did 
not  match.  I  may  add  in  digression  that  table  manners  were  not  the 
same  then  and  there  as  now  and  here.  Then  one  must  not  drink  from 
the  cup,  but  only  from  the  saucer,  into  which  the  coffee  was  poured  to 
cooL  Such  loose  food  as  could  not  be  eaten  with  an  old-fashioned  steel 
fork  with  two  tines  was  gracefully  and  daintily  shoveled  into  the  mouth 
with  the  knife,  but  it  was  de  riguevr  that  the  knife  should  be  presented 
with  the  back  towards  the  lips.  The  little  sauce-dishes  even  yet  work 
their  way  slowly  into  use  upon  that  latitude.  In  Philadelphia  itself,  I 
find  some  people  to-day  putting  everything  upon  one  plate.  But  when 
**  preserves  "  were  eaten  with  cream,  as  here,  at  Roxy's  table,  they  were 
taken  from  a  saucer. 

Supper  over,  the  minister  and  the  shoe-maker  fell  into  a  dispute  of 
course,  and  as  Whittaker  persisted  in  exasperating  Adams  by  his  polite- 
ness, and  especially  by  his  down-east  interrogative  of  "  what  say )  " 
when  he  did  not  comprehend  the  drift  of  his  companion's  remark,  the 
mdeness  of  the  shoe-maker  might  have  grown  as  pronounced  as  it  had 
been  before,  if  a  kindly  chance  had  not  made  a  break  in  the  talk.  Old 
Tom  Roberts — or,  as  the  people  would  pronounce  it,  "  Robberds  "-^ 
had  brought  a  load  of  unpressed  hay  to  town,  and  having  stood  all  day 
upon  the  street  without  finding  a  purchaser,  had  resolved  in  sheer  des- 
pair to  make  a  virtue  of  a  necessity,  and  get  rid  of  his  hay  by  paying 
a  long  standing  debt  for  a  pair  of  boots.  The  opportunity  to  collect 
6uch  a  debt  was  not  to  be  missed,  and  Adams  found  it  necessary  to  forego 
the  company  of  his  guest  while  he  should  stow  away  the  hay  in  the 
mow,  as  Roberts  pitched  it  off  the  waggon. 

But  Roxy,  to  make  amends  for  her  father's  absence,  hurried  through 
with  her  work,  and  when  she  had  cleared  away  the  "  supper  things,"  sat 
down  in  the  sitting-room.  There  was  an  old-fashioned  fire-place  stuffed 
full  of  great  green  asparagus  bushes  now,  to  hide  its  black  walls.  Above 
was  the  mantel-piece,  over  which  hung  a  common  print  of  ''  Washing- 


ROXY.  897 

ion  croesing  the  Delaware."  In  one  corner  stood  the  tall  clock,  whose 
load,  steady,  sixty  beats  to  the  minute  was  typical  of  the  way  in  which 
time  passed  in  those  unprogressive  days.  There  is  a  characteristic  pert- 
ness  and  unsteadiness  about  the  ticking  of  clocks  nowadays — sharp-set, 
^         jerky  things,  with  brass  inside. 

Boxy  lit  a  candle  and  set  it  upon  the  round  centre-table  of  cherry- 
wood  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  which  was  covered  with 
bright  new  rag-carpet ;  and  then,  while  Whittaker  sat  in  the  red,  gilt- 
striped,  rocking  arm-chair,  she  sat  upon  a  straight-back,  splint-bottom 
rocker,  swaying  herself  to  and  fro  as  she  knitted  and  talked.  A  male- 
diction on  the  evil  genius  who  invented  knitting-machines !  There  never 
was  any  accompaniment  to  talk  like  the  click  of  knitting-needles.  Tlie 
employment  of  the  fingers  gives  relief  from  all  nervousnes,  gives  ex- 
cuse for  all  silence,  gives  occasion  for  droopings  of  the  eyes,  while  it  doea 
not  in  fact  preoccupy  the  mind  at  aU.  And  then,  I  will  forever  main- 
tain with  sweet  Charles  Lamb,  that  there  is  no  light  like  candle-light ; 
it  gives  the  mixed  light  and  shadow  so  much  prized  by  the  old  painters. 
Indeed,  Roxy  looked  like  a  figure  out  of  an  ancient  picture,  as  she  sat 
there  with  the  high  lights  brought  out  by  the  soft  illumination  of  the 

[*  candle,  and  with  h6r  background  of  visible  obscurity.     Hers  was  not 

what  you  would  call  a  handsome  face,  in  the  physical  sense.  There  was 
no  sensuous  beauty  of  red  lips  and  softly  rounded  cheeks.  But  it  was 
indeed  a  very  extraordinary  face,  full  of  passionate  ideality,  and  wiih, 
high  enthusiasms  shining  through  it  I  have  seen  an  emblematic  fiice 
in  an  illuminated  title  to  the  Gk>spel  of  Matthew  that  was  full  of  a  quiet, 
heavenly  joy,  as  though  there  were  good  tidings  within,  ever  waiting  to 
be  told.  This  pure  gladness  there  was  in  Boxy  as  she  looked  up  now 
and  then  from  her  knitting.  It  was  such  a  face  as  a  master  would  have 
loved  to  paint,  and  would  have  worshiped  after  he  had  painted  it. 
So  it  seemed  to  Whittaker,  as  he  sat  on  one  side  of  the  table  trying  to 
guess  which  it  was  of  all  the  saints  he  had  seen  in  old  prints  that  she 
was  like.  His  eye  took  in  the  mantel-piece  and  the  old  clock  in  Hie 
corner,  almost  lost  in  the  shadow,  and,  though  he  was  not  an  artist,  the 
sentiment  of  the  picture  moved  him  deeply. 

Like  most  men  who  have  lived  bookish  lives,  Whittaker  thought  it 
needful  to  adapt  his  speech  to  the  feminine  understanding.     He  began 

i  talking  to  Boxy  of  her  father,  her  garden,  her  chickens,  her  friends  ; 

but  to  all  of  his  remarks  or  inquiries  upon  these  subjects  Boxy  answered 

half  absently.    The  minister  was  puzzled  by  this,  and  while  he  debated 

what  course  was  best,  the  conversation  flagged  and  an  awkward  silence 

ensued,   which  was  presently  broken  by  Boxy  asking  him  what  he 

Uiought  of  the  experiences  of  President  Edwards's  wife. 

Mr.  Whittaker  started  a  little.     What  did  a  village  girl,  and  a  Me- 
3 


898  ROXY. 

thodist  at  that,  know  of  the  experience  of  Jonathan  Edwards's  wife  f 
This  then  was  the  ground  on  which  she  was  to  meet  him — not  chicken, 
or  gardens,  or  girls,  or  beaus  I  From  the  experiences  of  Mrs.  Edwards 
Boxy  passed  to  the  saints  in  the  Methodist  calendar — to  Mrs.  Fletcher, 
the  lady  preacher,  to  Mrs.  Hester  Ann  Rogers,  who  accepted  banishment 
to  her  mother's  kitchen  as  a  penalty  for  her  piety,  and  thence  to  Lady 
Huntington,  who  was  better  known  to  Whittaker.  The  minister  listened 
with  wonder  as  her  face  glowed  with  sympathetic  enthusiasm,  and  thought 
he  detected  the  latent  ambition  to  be  such  a  saint  as  these.  He  was  a 
New  Englander,  and  the  training  of  a  quieter  school  of  religion  had  its 
place  with  him,  but  all  the  more  did  he^wonder  at  finding  in  the  heart 
of  this  imaginative  girl  an  altar  on  which  was  burning  so  bright  a  flame 
of  mystical  devotion.  He  noticed  then  that  in  that  face  illuminated 
from  within,  there  was  something  about  the  set  of  the  lip  that  indicated 
a  great  endurance  of  purpose.  This  mysticism  might  come  to  be  more 
than  a  sentiment. 

Mr.  Adams  came  back  again  after  a  while  and  started  a  discussion  on 
the  merits  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  in  which  Mr.  Whittaker  ought  to 
have  been  much  interested.  But  somehow  he  did  not  now  care  any- 
thing about  the  justice  or  injustice  of  the  execution  of  the  Due  d'Enghien, 
and  all  the  rasping  paradoxes  which  the  contradictory  shoemaker  could 
put  forth  failed  to  arouse  in  him  any  spirit  of  contradiction.  For  Boxy 
had  by  this  time  put  down  her  knitting  and  was  passing  in  and  out  of 
the  room  attending  to  her  household  duties,  and  the  preacher  had  come 
to  feel  that  somehow  the  red-and-yellow  striped  rag-carpet,  and  the  old 
clock  and  the  splint-bottom  chairs,  were  made  lovely  by  her  presence. 
He  watched  her  as  she  came  in  and  went  out,  and  wondered  as  he  had 
often  wondered  before  at  that  look  of  gladness  in  her  face.  He  heard 
Mr.  Adams  say  something  about  Bonaparte's  being  the  one  man  in 
modern  times  who  understood  that  the  people  needed  to  be  governed. 
But  what  did  he  care  for  Bonaparte,  or  for  modem  times  1  Here  was 
a  saint — a  very  flesh  and  blood  saint  A  plague  on  all  Bonapartes  and 
garrulous  shoemakers ! 

And  80  the  conversation  lagged.  The  preacher  was  dull.  He  feU  to 
agreeing  in  an  imbecile  fashion  with  everything  Adams  said.  The  latter, 
in  sheer  despair,  vehemently  asserted  that  Napoleon  did  right  to  divorce 
Josephine,  to  which  Mr.  Whittaker  agreed,  not  awaking  from  his  absent 
mood  until  he  saw  the  look  of  surprise  in  Boxy's  face.  Then  he 
stammered  : 

**  Oh,  I  didn't  know  ;  what  was  I  saying  1  What  was  your  remark  ? 
I'm  afraid  I  did  not  understand  it  I  thought  you  said  Bonaparte  did 
rij^ht  to  marry  Josephine.'* 

"  No ;  to  divorce  her,"  said  Adams.     "  You  are  not  well  to-night  1 " 


ROXY.  899 

"  No,  not  very,  —pretty  well  though  for  me ;  but  excuse  me,  I  didn't 
mean  to  agree  with  you  about  divorce.  I  think  Bonaparte  showed  him- 
self an  atrocious  scoundrel  in  that  whole  affair." 

"  Oh,  you  do,  do  you )  *'  cried  the  other,  pleased  that  he  had  at  last 
started  the  game  from  cover.  But  when  he  ended  a  new  eulogy  upon 
Bonaparte  and  divorce,  and  widted  for  another  reply,  Mr.  Whittaker 
was  engaged  in  comparing  a  silhouette  portrait  of  Roxy^s  mother  which 
hong  near  the  clock,  with  the  profile  of  Koxy,  who  stood  at  the  window 
looking  under  the  half-raised  curtain  at  the  crescent  moon  bravely  sail- 
ing its  little  boat  through  a  blue  sea  beset  with  great,  white,  cloud-bergs 
against  which  it  seemed  ever  about  to  go  to  wreck.  When  Mr.  Adams 
found  that  his  companion  was  not  in  the  least  interested  in  that ''  splen- 
did prodigy  "  which  had  '^  towered  among  us  wrapped  in  the  solitude 
of  bis  own  originality,"  he  gave  up  in  despair  and  waited  in  the  vain 
hope  that  the  other  would  start  something  which  might  offer  a  better 
chance  for  contradiction.  The  minister,  feeling  embarrassed  by  his  own 
inattentiveness,  soon  excused  himself  and  bade  Roxy  and  her  father 
good-night.  Once  out  of  the  house  he  strolled  absently  through  the 
common,  then  back  into  the  town,  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  to 
his  home  in  the  house  of  Twonnet  Lefaure's  father. 

The  Swiss  in  that  day  held  rigidly  to  Presbyterianism — that  is  to  say 
the  few  who  were  religious  at  all,  attended  the  Presbyterian  churclu 
While  they  held  it  to  be  a  deep  and  eternal  disgrace  for  a  Swiss  to  be 
anything  but  a  Presbyterian,  most  of  them,  like  Twounet's  father,  did 
not  much  like  a  Presbyterianism  which  forbade  them  to  hunt  and  fish 
on  Sunday  or  to  drink  good  wine.  It  was  not  so  in  the  old  country, 
they  declared. 

But  Twonnet's  mother  was  a  Presbyterian  truly  devout,  and  the 
minister  had  sought  board  in  a  Swiss  family  that  he  might  improve  his 
French  pronunciation.  Mrs.  Lofaure  let  him  in  on  this  evening  with  a 
cordial  "  Bon  sair,**  and  a  volley  of  inquiries  beginning  with  "  Fourquoi,** 
and  relating  to  his  reasons  for  not  telling  them  that  he  was  going  out  to 
tea.  But  when  she  saw  by  the  minister's  puzzled  look  that  he  only  half 
understood  her  rapidly  spoken  French,  she  broke  into  a  good-natured 
laugh  and  began  to  talk  in  English  with  real  Swiss  volubility  and  viva- 
city. Whittaker  answered  as  best  he  could  in  his  absent  frame  of  mind, 
and  soon  managed  to  evade  the  hail-storm  of  the  good  woman's  loqua- 
city by  bidding  the  family  good-night  and  ascending  to  his  room.  He 
essayed,  like  a  faithful  and  regular  man  that  he  was,  to  read  a  chapter 
in  the  Bible  before  going  to  bed,  but  he  sat  near  the  west  window  and 
kept  looking  off  the  book,  at  the  moon  now  swimmingjlow  through  the 
cloud-breakers  near  the  western  horizon.  And  he  wondered  what  Roxy 
could  have  been  thinking  of  when  she  was  looking  at  the  sky.     He  gave 


900  Boxi?. 

np  the  book  presently  and  knit  his  brow.  It  waa  not  love  but  finance 
that  engaged  his  thoughts.  How  might  an  honourable  man  marry 
while  his  salary  consisted  chiefly  of  a  pittance  of  two  hundred  dollars  a 
year  which  the  Home  Missionary  Society  allowed  him  as  a  stipend  for 
founding  a  feeble  Presbyterian  church  in  a  village  abeady  blessed  with 
a  ^ptist  church  and  a  Methodist — ^and  that  when  the  young  man  owed 
a  debt  of  five  hundred  dollars  incurred  in  getting  his  education,  toward 
the  liquidation  of  which  he  could  manage  now  to  put  by  just  twenty-five 
dollars  a  year  ?  This  question  puzzled  him  and  rendered  him  abstracted 
while  he  was  at  his  prayers ;  it  kept  him  awake  until  long,  long  after 
the  moon'lB  shallop  had  made  safe  harbour  behind  the  hiDs. 

Boxy  was  not  kept  awake  :  she  only  delayed  long  enough  to  read  her 
Bible  and  pray  and  to  enter  in  her  diary  : 

"  Had  a  very  refreshing  conversation  this  evening  with  Mr.  Whittaker 
about  the  remarkable  experiences  of  Mrs.  Edwards,  and  the  holy  fives 
of  Lady  Huntington,  Mrs.  Eogers  and  Mrs.  Fletcher.  Oh,  that  the 
Lord  would  prepare  me  to  do  and  suffer  for  Him  in  the  same  spirit ! " 

The  outer  form  of  this  entry  was  borrowed  no  doubt  from  the  bio- 
graphies she  read.     But  the  spirit  was  Roxy's  own. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

TWONNBT. 

Mr.  WHriTAKER  carefully  abstained  from  going  often  to  Mr.  Adams'* 
after  the  evening  of  his  conversation  with  Koxy.  For  at  the  breakfast 
table  next  morning  Twonnet  had  turned  the  conversation  to  her  friend* 
She  spoke  seriously, — as  seriously  as  she  could, — but  there  was  mischief 
lurking  in  the  twinkle  of  her  black  eyes  as  she  praised  Roxy  and  watched 
Mr.  Whittaker's  face,  which  was  paler  than  usual  this  morning.  Her 
S\^'iss  tongue  must  go  about  something,  and  nothing  excited  her  enthu^ 
siasm  more  than  the  virtues  of  Roxy  Adams. 

"  She's  perfection,"  said  Twonnet  with  moderation.  "  She's  just  per- 
fection, Mr.  Whittaker,  and  nothing  less." 

"  She  seems  a  very  nice  girl  indeed,"  said  the  minister  guardedly ;, 
but  his  reserve  only  amused  Twonnet  all  the  more,  for  now  she  laughed 
that  clear,  ringing  laugh  that  is  characteristic  of  Swiss  girls ;  while  every 
brown  curl  on  her  head  shook. 

"  Qu^aS'iu  ?  "  said  her  father,  reproachfully. 

**  Oh,  let  her  laugh,  Mr.  Lefaure,"  said  Whittaker ;  "Twonnet's  fun 
is  always  good-nature*  1  ;  but  to  save  my  life  I  couldn't  tell  what  she  is* 
laughing  at" 


"  Because  joa  said  that  Boxy  was  a  very  nice  person,  Mr.  Whittaker. 
You  could  almost  say  that  of  me  now,  and  I  am  nobody  along  side  of 
Rozy ;  nobody  but  a " 

"  A  gigp^ler,"  said  the  mother  with  a  quiet  chuckle,  the  wrinkles  about 
the  comers  of  her  eyes  showing  plainly  that  she  had  been  what  Twonnet 
was  then.    For  a  hearty  chuckle  is  the  old  age  of  a  giggle. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Whittaker,"  said  Twonnet,  sipping  her  coffee 
and  looking  at  the  minister  under  her  eyebrows,  *^  Roxy  is  the  kind  of 
a  person  that  people  put  in  books.  She  is  a  Protestant  saint ;  Saint 
Eoxy^  how  would  that  sound  t ''  This  last  was  half  soliloquy.  *'  Roxy 
is  the  kind  of  person  that  would  feel  obliged  to  anybody  who  would 
give  her  a  chance  to  be  a  martyr." 

'*  Toinette,"  said  the  father,  shaking  his  head,  *^  i(U84oi  !  "  He  was  an- 
noyed now  because  the  younger  children,  seeing  that  Twonnet  meant 
mischief,  began  to  laugh. 

'Tm  not  saying  any  harm,"  replied  the  daring  girl,  with  roguish 
solemnity.  '*  I  only  said  that  Koxy  would  like  to  be  a  mart3rr,  and  you 
think  I  mean  that  she  would  even  marry  a  minister.     I  didn't  say  that." 

The  children  tittered.  Whittaker*s  pale  face  reddened  a  little,  and 
he  laughed  heartily ;  but  this  time  the  father  frowned  and  stamped  his 
foot  in  emphasis  of  his  sharp  ''  Tais  toi,  Toinette^  je  te  disf** 

Twonnet  knew  by  many  experiments  the  precise  limit  of  safe  dis- 
obedience to  her  father.  There  was  an  implied  threat  in  his  ^^Jetedis/* 
and  she  now  reddened  and  grew  silent  with  a  look  of  injured  innocence. 

If  Twonnet  had  had  a  lurking  purpose  to  promote  the  acquamtanoe 
between  Whittaker  and  Koxy  Adams,  she  had  defeated  herself  by  her 
suggestion,  for  Whittaker  hardly  went  near  the  old  hewed-log  house 
again  in  months.  His  foible  was  his  honour,  and  one  in  lus  situation 
<x>uld  not  think  of  marriage;  and,  as  he  reasoned,  ought  not  to  make 
talk  which  might  injure  Roxy's  interests  if  not  his  own.  Twonnet  was 
disappointed,  and  with  her  disi^poititment  there  was  a  lugubrious  feel- 
ing that  she  had  made  a  mistake.  She  said  no  more  about  Roxy,  but 
she  continued  to  tease  the  minister  gently  about  other  things,  just  be- 
<sause  it  was  her  nature  to  tease.  Once  Whittaker  had  tried  to  talk 
with  her,  as  became  his  calling,  about  religion  ;  but  she  could  not  help 
giving  him  droll  replies  which  made  his  gravity  unsteady,  and  brought 
the  interview  to  a  premature  close. 

(To  be  continued.) 


902 


EPISTOLARY. 

Faib  maid  with  lustrous  eyes, 

Believe  me,  '^ 

I  would  not  take  thee  by  surprise, 

Or  grieve  thee  : 

But  love  is  blind,  and  common  sense 

Is  oft  dethroned  by  love's  pretence— 

Though  passion  bids  my  reason  hence, 

111  not  deceive  thee. 

I  would  not  lose  thy  love,  dear  maid, 

No,  never  1 

For  at  thy  feet  my  vows  were  paid — 

What  pleasure ! 

Ecstatic  as  its  memories  are, 

Thy  image  present,  but  afar ; 

Thou  art  to  me  a  distant  star — 

A  far-off  treasure. 

Bedeck'd  with  silks  and  shimmering  pearls^ 

Sweet  vision  ! 

Thy  brow  adomed[with  glossy  curls. 

Beyond  suspicion ; 

Thy  voice  like  music  fills  my  soul ; 

Bids  me  strive  on  to  win  the  goal ; 

But  reason  must  not  lose  control : 

Most  dread  admission. 

So  stem  resolve  bids  me  proceed 

Unshaken, 

And  cany  out  the  ruthless  deed 

I've  undertaken. 

Thy  radiant  form  still  dear  to  me- 

Alas !  it  cannot,  cannot  be ; 

In  justice  I  will  leave  thee  free. 

Yet  not  forsaken* 

No  ;  I  can  never  call  thee  wife. 

Immense  is 

The  picture  I  had  formed  of  life. 

My  senses 

Now  bid  farewell  to  all  those  scenes  \ 

To  all  the  brightness  of  my  dreams ; 

Possession  is  beyond  my  means — 

Endless  expenses! 

MoNTBEAL.  Paul  Foed. 


903 


SCIENTISM.* 

Although  the  word  we  have  placed  at  the  head  of  this  paper  is  not  to 
be  found  in  that  repertory  of  neologisms,  Webster's  Dictionary,  it  is 
one  nevertheless  much  needed  concisely  to  denote  a  phase  of  thought 
which  has  seized  upon  the  current  literature  of  the  day  and  h  imposing 
its  one-sided  truths  upon  the  world  as  a  complete  system  of  philosophy. 
Precisely  as  the  sacerdotalist  would  compel  all  belief  and  duty  to  bow 
before  his  supernatural  authority,  so  the  professor  would  narrow  the 
whole  field  of  truth  by  ignoring  or  repudiating  every  belief  and  duty 
which  is  not  commensurate  with  his  methods.  Naturally,  there  is  bitter 
war  between  these  two  classes  of  thinkers,  and  the  scientist,  having 
found  a  suitable  pulpit  in  the  Fortnightly  Review^  deals  out  his  monthly 
modicum  of  denunciation  and  sneers  at  the  religious  faith  of  others 
with  the  arrogance  of  a  mediaeval  prelate ;  and,  in  truth,  considering 
how  short  a  time  it  is  since  the  scientists  have  got  control  of  the  lead- 
ing channels  of  thought,  it  is  amazing  how  quickly  they  have  attained 
to  the  fullest  measure  of  dogmatism  ever  reached  by  their  antagonists 
during  the  many  centuries  of  their  domination.  Apt  scholars,  as  many 
of  them  are,  in  dogmatism,  they  have  imitated  also  the  unnecessary  of- 
fensiveness  of  by-gone  ages,  and  whether  it  be  Mr.  Morley,  spelling  God 
with  a  little  "  g,"  or  Professor  Clifford,  imputing  **  immorality  "  to 
everybody  not  belonging  to  his  school,  one  can  hardly  take  up  a  number 
of  the  FortnighUy  without  being  struck  with  some  instance  of  this  literary 
brutality,  shoifing  how  little  the  apostle,  even  of  the  new  evangel  of 
^  sweetness  and  light,"  has  been  able  to  charm  the  native  fierceness  of 
the  scientific  Philistine.  When  the  "Great  Being" — the  "Goddess 
Humanity  "  of  Comte,  or  "  Man  "  of  Professor  Clifford — (all  with  capi- 
tal letters)  is  duly  installed,  and  society  is  reorganised  on  the  most  ad- 
vanced principles  of  Sociology,  we  fear  that  the  "  hierarchy  of  science  " 
will  be  found  as  intolerant  of  heresy  as  their  sacerdotal  prototypes.  Pos- 
sibly the  rough  method  of  stake  and  faggot  conversi6n  may  be  changed 
for  some  more  elegant  method  of  shocking  the  nerves,  electricity  or  gal- 
vanism, perhaps,  but  any  poor  Christian,  still  benighted  in  nineteenth 
century  beliefs,  will  likely  be  shaken  out  of  his  unprogressive  and  un- 
scientific notions  in  some  as  effective  way.  As  Comte  puts  it,  the  Reli- 
gion of  Humanity  will  then  "  assume  the  function  exercised  by  mono- 
theism before  its  decay,"  and  we  can  readily  conceive  that  any  one  who 


Paper  read  before  the  Athenseuoi  Club  of  Montreal,  November,  1877. 


904  SCIENTISM. 

presumes  to  block  the  advancing  organization  of  humanity  will,  in  the 
hands  of  such  apt  scholars,  soon  be  brought  to  reason,  or  as  they  said  in 
mediaeval  times  "to  a  knowledge  of  the  truth." 

Foremost  among  these  embryo  scientific  inquisitors  is  Professor  Clif- 
ford, Professor  of  Mathematics  and  Vice-Dean  of  University  CoU^je, 
who,  in  the  July  number  of  the  Fortnighili/,  propounds  under  the  head- 
ing of  "  Ethics  of  Religion,"  the  maxim  "  Sacerdos  semper^  ubique,  et  omni- 
bris  inimicm  "  that  the  priest  is  always  and  everywhere  the  enemy  of 
mankind.  Now  if  he  meant  only  to  throw  stones  at  the  Pope,  the  Rock, 
and  the  Record,  with  other  religious  publications,  would  join  in  with  ex- 
hilaration. But  he  does  not  He  includes  among  these  enemies  ^f  man- 
kind ''  the  more  familiar  clergymen  or  ministers  of  Protestant  denomin- 
ations," and  thus  the  matter  becomes  more  serious.  We  do  not  complain 
of  the  "  priests  of  the  Obi  rites  "  being  included  in  the  same  sentence^ 
because  such  persons  as  the  Professor  are  never  very  nice  in  their  dis- 
tinctions, and  pride  themselves  much  upon  what  they  are  pleased  to  call 
their  "  love  of  truth,"  besides  it  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  the  sublime  im- 
pertinence of  ti.e  article  or  to  detract  from  its  perfection  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  observation  of  Poirat,*  that  *^  from  the  same  source  mathema- 
ticians are  also  infested  with  an  overweening  presumption,  or  incurable 
arrogance ;  for  believing  themselves  in  possession  of  demonstrative 
certainty  in  regard  to  the  objects  of  their  peculiar  science,  they  per- 
suade themselves  that,  in  like  manner,  they  possess  a  knowledge  of 
many  things  beyond  its  sphere.  Then  co-ordinating  these  with  the 
former,  as  if  demonstrated  by  equal  evidence,  they  spurn  every  objec- 
tion to  every  opinion,  with  the  contempt  or  indignation  they  would 
feel  at  an  endeavour  to  persuade  them  that  two  plus  two  are  not  four, 
or  that  the  angles  of  a  triangle  are  not  equal  to  two  right  angles." 

While  the  manner,  throughout,  of  the  "  Ethics  of  Religion"  recalls  some 
of  the  most  repulsive  features  of  sixteenth  century  wrangling,  we  are 
bound  to  admit  that,  so  far  as  the  doctrine  of  the  paramount  authority  of 
conscience  is  concerned,  the  matter  meets  with  our  sincere  assent.  But 
surely  so  violent  a  revelation  from  the  lofty  regions  of  mathematical  sci- 
ence was  not  necessary  to  inculcate  a  doctrine  so  trite,  a  doctrine  which  has 
for  centuries  been  the  stronghold  of  the  Protestant  revolt  against  Rome, 
— ^nay  more,  a  doctrine  which  is  maintained  by  Father  Newman,t  and 
by  thousands  of  thoughtful  men  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church  of  Rome 

*  This  passage  from  Poiret  de  ErudiUone  SoUda  is  taken  from  Sir  William  Hamilton's 
<UBCUBsion  on  Philosophy  and  Literature  (Essay  on  the  Study  of  Mathematics)  p.  296. 
He  cites  many  passages  from  Descartes,  Leibnitz  and  other  most  eminent  mathemati- 
dans,  to  show  the  utter  incapacity  for  reasoning  upon  moral  or  probable  truths  which 
is  induced  by  the  exclusive  pursuit  of  mathematical  and  physical  sdenoes. 

t  Newnum— Reply  to  Gladstone,  p.  65.  Eng.  edition. 


SCIENTISM.  905 

itcelf.  What  really  causes  the  Professor  to  fume  is,  that  his  couscienoe 
IB  not  the  measure  of  everybody  else*s  conscience.  Beligious  people  per- 
sist in  believing  things  which  he  does  not  approve  of,  and  hence  religious 
people  are  ''immoral."  This  is  the  mathematical  method.  He  knows 
that  what  is  true  of  one  circle  is  true  of  all  circles,  and  assumes  that 
what  is  true  of  the  only  conscience  he  knows — to  wit,  his  own — is  true 
of  all  other  consciences.  Why  should  it  be  more  immoral  for  Dr.  New- 
man conscientiously  to  believe  a  doctrine,  than  for  Professor  Clifford  con- 
scientiously to  disbelieve  it  I  Why,  but  because  the  Professor  thinks 
himself  the  only  sincere  person  in  the  world,  excepting,  perhaps,  the 
other  Fortnighily  Reviewers,  and  the  three  or  four  clergymen  whom  he 
favours  with  special  mention.  ''Keligion,''  says  he,  ''must  be  founded 
upon  evidence."  Here  is  a  truism  of  the  copy-book  style  of  sententiousness. 
All  the  vast  mass  of  a|>ologetic  literature,  from  Bishop  Butler  down,  bear 
witness  to  that  universally  admitted  truth.  The  question  is,  upon  what 
sort  of  evidence  f  Clearly  upon  moral  evidence ;  and  this  is  not  suscep- 
tible of  perfect  demonstration.  The  same  rule  holds  good  in  Law.  There 
are  many  who  still  persist  in  believing  that  Arthur  Orton  is  Roger  Tich- 
bome.  They  are  incredulous  as  to  the  mass  of  testimony  which  has 
convinced  the  enormous  majority  of  Englishmen,  and,  rather  than  be- 
lieve it,  they  are  willing  to  suppose  the  judges  and  jurymen  to  be  im- 
becile or  perjured,  and  that  Law  is  a  system  of  quackery  and  delusion. 
The  conduct  of  life  would  be  indeed  easy  if,  like  geometry,  it  was  a 
mere  mechanical  development  of  results  included  in  axioms  taken  for 
granted  at  the  start  The  practical  problems  of  life  are  infinitely  diver- 
sified by  ever-changing  conditions,  and  therefore  we  must  say  with  Pro- 
fessor Clifford,  "  Bring  your  doctrines,  your  priesthoods,  your  precepts, 
yea  even  the  inner  devotion  of  your  soul,  before  the  tribunal  of  con- 
science." She  is,  as  Bishop  Butler*  shows,  the  guide  assigned  to  us  by  the 
Author  of  our  nature.  Not,  however,  "  the  supreme  judge  of  gods  and 
men,"  but  the  instrument  by  which  we  may  discover  Him,  and  the  me- 
thod by  which  His  laws — the  laws  of  our  being — are  discerned.  Our 
special  complaint,  therefore,  is  that  the  essayist  has  assumed  that  no 
religious  person  ever  does  this.  He  is  a  firm  believer  in  the  total  intel- 
lectual and  moral  depravity  of  everybody  but  himself  We  are  not 
disposed  to  defend  the  confessional,  which  seems  to  us  to  be  the  surren- 
der of  the  most  precious  birthright  of  a  man,  but  surely  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  renounce  Christianity  to  get  rid  of  the  confessional. 

It  is  not  so  easy,  however,  fully  to  concur  in  the  maxim  that  "  the 
rigbtness  or  wrongness  of  belief  in  a  doctrine  depends  only  upon  the 
nature  of  the  evidence  for  it,  and  not  upon  what  the  doctrine  is."  It  is 
clear  that  in  mathematical  reasoning,  where  the  conclusion  is  in  the  data, 

*  Sennoos  on  Human  Nature. 


906  8CIENTISM. 

that  any  error  in  development  must  be  fatal ;  bnt  in  ethics,  where  the 
evidence  is  probable  only,  ODe  conscience  may  be  content  with  a  less- 
degree  of  probability  than  another,  and  so  the  conclusion  may  be  sound, 
although  to  another  the  reasons  for  it  may  seem  insufficient.  This  is 
often  seen  in  practical  life,  and  especially  in  the  domain  of  law.  It 
results  firom  the  fact  that  independent  of  man's  faculties  there  exist^s  a 
right  and  a  wrong  which  is  perceived  by  the  conscience,  and  which  keenly 
sensitive  moral  natures  will  grasp  so  swiftly  that  it  seems  to  be  by  intu- 
ition. This  is  the  evident  meaning  of  the  saying  which  has  drawn  forth  a 
most  characteristic  flourish  of  opprobrious  adjectives  :  '<  blessed  are  they 
who  have  not  seen  and  yet  have  believed."  In  other  words,  blessed  are 
they  whose  moral  faculties  are  so  quick  that  the  teaching  of  Christ  is  at 
once  perceived  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  inner  and  higher  law  of  our 
nature,  without  waiting  for  miracles  or  other  physical  demonstrations. 
The  conscience  recognising  this  harmony  exclaims  at  once,  '^  never 
man  spake  as  this  man  !" 

The  folly  of  confounding  these  two  classes  of  proof  will  plainly  be 
seen  when  reference  is  made  to  natural  science.  If  a  fact  in  biology  or 
geology  is  discovered,  the  scientist  calls  upon  all  for  assent,  and  claims 
that  moral  or  theological  belief  shall  be  adjusted  to  the  new  fact.  Blessed, 
would  he  say  then,  are  those  who  receive  physical  reasoning  for  physical 
facts  without  importing  into  the  matter  their  supposed  moral  bearings. 
But  when  Professor  ClifTord  asserts  that  there  is  no  Grod— no  soul — no 
future  life— and  gives  as  a  reason  that  he  can  see  no  evidence  for  them, 
the  moral  consciousness  of  the  overwhelming  majority  of  mankind  will 
only  smile  at  so  absurd  a  claim  to  personal  infallibility. 

It  is,  however,  assumed  too  readily  that,  in  scientific  matters,  we  be- 
lieve only  upon  demonstration,  whereas  in  fact  men  receive  the  chief 
part  of  their  knowledge  upon  authority  alone.  There  are  very  few  wha 
have  gone  over  the  proofs  of  the  heliocentric  theory  in  astronomy,  and 
the  reasoning  upon  which  it  is  based  is  beyond  the  powers  of  many,  but 
yet  it  is  believed  contrary  to  the  evidence  of  our  senses,  solely  upon  the 
authority  of  a  few.  Not  one  thousandth  part  of  our  daily  working  be- 
liefs are  actually  verified.  We  are  always  ready  to  give  faith  to  the 
chemist^  biologist  or  geologist,  working  out  results  in  their  special 
spheres.  Professor  Clifford  himself  is  incessantly  using  such  phrases  aa 
"  Huxley  has  shown,"  "  Tyndall  has  said,"  "  Darwin  has  taught, "^ 
'*  Haeckel  has  demonstrated."  He  is  willing  enough  to  accept  authority 
and  to  lend  faith  to  those  distinguished  specialists,  not  only  in  their 
demonstrations,  but  in  their  metaphysical  theories  upon  these  demon- 
strations. When  anything,  however,  taking  the  shape  of  religious  fact 
or  theory  is  propounded,  the  fanaticism  of  scepticism  breaks  out  in  such 
maxims  as  **  the  priest  is  at  all  times  and  everywhere  the  enemy  of  man- 


SCIENTISM. 


9or 


kind.''  Priests  certainly  have  done  their  share  of  mischief  in  the  world, 
but  such  sweeping  generalizations  are  more  worthy  of  a  school-boy's 
exercise  than  of  a  philosopher's  essay.  In  political  stump  oratory  there 
is  always  an  abundance  of  similar  maxims,  such  as  "  kings  are  the 
enemies  of  the  human  race,"  or  "  the  devil  was  the  first  republican,"  or 
"  oligarchies  are  the  most  hateful  of  all  forms  of  government."  No  prac- 
tical politician  or  political  philosopher  gives  the  least  heed  to  such  cheap 
wisdom.  Political  science  would  be  as  simple  as  mathematics  if  it  could 
be  rolled  up  that  way  into  little  axiomatic  pills.  We  repeat — we  do  not 
wish  to  extenuate  in  the  least  the  evils  which  have  been  wrought  in  the 
name  of  religion,  and  contrary  to  the  principles  laid  down  by  its  great 
Teacher  ;  but  still,  in  the  matter  of  belief,  we  fail  to  see  why  it  is  im- 
moral for  Dr  Newman  to  believe  in  transubstantiation,  and  moral  for 
Dr.  Tyndall  to  believe  in  intermolecular  ether.  Both  beliefs  are  beyond 
the  evidence  of  the  senses,  and  are  based  upon  purely  metaphysical 
theories  concerning  the  ultimate  constitution  of  matter,  of  which  matter, 
indeed,  the  very  existence  is  unprovable. 

We  wonder  that  Professor  Clifford  did  not  call  his  paper  "  a  Short 
Method  with  Christianity,"  instead  of  the  "  Ethics  of  Religion."  It 
might  almost  be  called  a  "  New  Method,"  for  it  is  novel  in  its  succinct- 
ness. He  defines  the  scope  of  his  strictures  thus  : — "  Unfortunately," 
(the  air  of  divine  pity  is  charming)  *'  we  do  not  mean  your  religion  alone, 
but  all  manner  of  heresies  and  heathenisms  along  with  it ;  the  religions 
of  the  Thug,  of  the  Jesuit,  of  the  South-Sea  cannibal,  of  Confucius,  of 
the  poor  Indian  with  his  untutored  mind,  of  the  Peculiar  People,  of 
the  Mormons,  and  of  the  old  cat-worshipping  Egyptians."  Now  here 
is  logic — all  these  are  religions.  They  are  profoundly  immoral  and  based 
on  no  evidence.  Christianity  is  a  religion  and  therefore  Christianity  is 
also  fiUse  and  immoral.  It  is  a  simple  instance  of  reasoning  from  the 
properties  of  a  circle  to  the  properties  of  all  curvilhiear  figures.  Then 
follow  some  mythological  stories  concerning  Zeus  and  Uephaistos,  which 
are  assumed  to  have  some  analogies  in  the  Christian  system  ;  then  the 
extreme  *'  evangelical "  views  of  original  sin — vicarious  atonement  and 
eternal  punishment  are  stated  in  their  crudest  form.  Christianity  is 
consequently  convicted  of  immorality  and  the  case  is  complete. 

Let  us,  however,  before  turning  Cliffordist,  apply  the  "  Novum  Or- 
ganon'*  to  Medical  Science.  We  would  say — unfortunately  we  do  not 
mean  your  Medical  Science  only,  but  also  the  Medical  Science  of  the 
Hottentots ;  of  the  Pelasgians;  of  the  Kamschatkans ;  of  the  Assyrians  f 
of  the  Jebusites  ;  of  the  Esquimaux  ;  of  the  Hivites  ;  of  the  Perrizites  ; 
of  the  Greeks ;  of  the  Patagonians.  All  these  peoples  dispensed  as  me* 
dicines  various  absurd,  and  even  filthy  and  dangerous,  substances.  They 
chmshed  most   preposterous  notions  concerning  Anatomy  and  Phy- 


908  SCIENTISM. 

«iology,  therefore  all  yowr  Physicians  are  quacks  and  your  Medical  Science 
is  an  imposture.  It  would  be  of  no  avail  to  say  that  all  these  venerable 
systems  had  been  improved  upon  in  modem  times,  for  we  would  reply 
— even  now,  you  have  Herb-doctors  and  Blue-glass  doctors  ;  Mesmeric 
doctors  and  Sun-bath  doctors ;  Water-doctors,  and  Clairvoyants  who  see 
with  the  backs  of  their  heads ,  Homoeopathic  doctors  and  Allopathic  doc- 
tors. Therefore  close  your  hospitals  for  there  is  no  science  of  medicine, 
and  all  who  believe  in  any  of  the  priests  of  .^Ssculapius  are  idiots.  Then 
would  come  the  grand  maxim,  "  Medicus  semper,  ubique,  et  omnibus 
inimicus." 

After  dismissing  St.  John's  Gospel  as  the  work  of  some  man  devoid 
of  intellectual  honesty,  and  pronouncing,  eftpasmniy  a  confident  opinion 
on  a  very  difficult  question  of  Biblical  criticism,  after  patronising  (with 
due  reserve)  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  the  essajrist  passes  on  to  Seneca, 
Spinoza,  Buddha  and  Plato,  and  quotes  largely  from  the  ''  Republic"  in 
rebuke  of  the  immorality  of  those  doctrines  of  current  Christianity  which 
we  have  previously  mentioned. 

The  device  of  quoting  select  passages  of  heathen  writers,  and  especially 
of  Plato,  in  disparagement  of  Christian  morality,  is  an  exceedingly  un- 
fair, though  very  common  method  of  argument  For,  if  the  average 
English  reader  were  to  have  placed  before  him  the  whole  system  of  Greek 
practical  morals,  as  shown  even  in  the  works  of  Plato,  he  would  have  a 
very  unpleasant  revelation  of  matters  only  dimly  hinted  at  in  the  whole 
range  of  his  native  literature.  In  the  same  translation  of  the  '*  Republic  " 
referred  to,  at  p.  1 70,  the  practice  of  infanticide  is  recommended  for  the 
ideal  state,  among  many  other  precepts  of  more  than  questionable  mo- 
rality, for  the  regulation  of  the  relations  between  the  sexes.  Moreover 
we  do  not  get  rid  of  the  doctrine  of  eternal  punishment  by  adopting 
Plato  for  our  teacher.  In  the  very  same  volume,  at  p.  363,  this  doctrine 
is  taught  to  the  fullest  extent,  and  the  Roman  doctrine  of  purgatory  as 
well.  There  are  the  flames,  and  the  evil  spirits,  and  the  horrible  tortures 
which  Dante  has  described  in  his  '*  Inferno,"  and  the  purifying  fire 
and  the  souls  who  have  hopelessly  sinned,  whom  no  fire  can  purify.  Is 
it  fair  to  quote  Plato  as  high  moral  authority,  and  almost  in  the  same 
page  to  sneer  at  Father  Faber  and  at  Oxenham,  for  holding  in  common 
with  Plato  the  very  doctrine  which  excites  such  indignation  t  Why  did 
not  the  Professor  read  the  book  through  before  throwing  it  at  the  heads 
of  his  antagonists  f  And,  if  he  did  read  it  through,  why  suppress  all 
allusion  to  so  curious  a  coincidence  of  belief)  The  ancient  writers, 
and  especially  Plato,  never  charged  upon  the  priests  the  extravagances 
of  heathen  mythology,  but  always  ascribed  the  blame  to  the  poets. 
Surely  then  if  Plato  be  our  guide,  we  ought  to  have  another  copy  book 
heading  ''  Poeta,  semper,  ubique,  et  omnibus  Inimicus." 


SCIINTISM.  909 

Nor  is  ihe  a8«ert;k>n  ^*  that  if  we  go  to  a  man  and  propose  to  test  his 
rel^ion  by  the  canons  of  common  sense  morality  he  will  be  most  likely 
offended  "  a  whit  more  tenable  than  most  of  the  other  propositions  of 
thtts  remarkable  paper.  The  constant  stream  of  apologetic  literature 
testifies  to  ihe  very  reverse.  The  confident  appeal  of  Abraham  "  shall 
not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right  *'  has  ever  been,  and  is  now,  the 
dcomnant  chord  in  the  message  of  Christianity.  The  teachings  of  Jesus 
and  Paul  are  incessantly  appealii^  to  the  natural  laws  of  conscience  and 
morality,  and  if,  from  time  to  time,  men  and  systems,  invoking  these 
names,  have  inculcated  anything  contrary  to  their  teaching,  the  error  is 
with  the  false  followers,  and  not  with  the  founders  of  the  faith.  More- 
over if,  as  Professor  Clifford — quoting  Lord  Amberley— asserts,  the 
"  blame  rests  more  with  the  laity  than  with  the  priesthood"  If  "  the 
laity  have  forced  the  priesthood  to  produce  magic  and  mysteries  "  why 
not  put  the  blame  upon  the  right  shoulders  and  write  at  the  head  of  our 
oopy-books  the  **  layman  is  always  and  everywhere  the  corrupter  of 
tru^."  Clearly  there  is  an  abiding  tendency  in  mankind  to  alloy  the 
pon^t  teaching  of  the  great  masters  of  religious  thought,  but  we  cannot 
in  such  matters  allot  the  precise  share  of  blame  as  we  can  discriminate 
betw^een  a  square  and  a  circle.  It  is  indeed  likely  that  if  we  go  to  a 
man  and  abuse  his  religion  in  the  style  of  the  ForinighUy,  he  will  reply, 
with  scant  courtesy,  who  are  you  who  cUdm  a  monopoly  of  common 
sense  morality  f  and  what  moral  teaching  is  there  in  triangles  that  you 
should  set  up  to  guide  my  conscience  ?  The  answer  would  be  well  de 
served  for  is  it  not  a  fact  that  Wallace,  who  divides  with  Darwin  the 
highest  honours  of  Natural  Science,  is  yet  a  firm  believer  in  the  extrava- 
gances of  spiritualism )  Great  as  he  is  in  the  domain  of  his  own  science 
we  would  hesitate  to  follow  him  as  a  guide  in  the  province  of  religious 
belief. 

It  is  doubtless  true  that  the  Buddha  did  not  believe  in  a  personal  Grod 
and  that  his  moral  teachings  are  nevertheless  of  the  highest  order,  but 
the  hopelessness  and  despair  of  Buddhist  views  of  life  are  in  gloomy 
contrast  to  the  bright  and  practical  confidence  of  Christian  teaching. 
From  Buddhism  it  is,  mainly,  whence  those  ascetic  doctrines  and  monas- 
tic practices  are  derived  which  overshadow  some  portions  of  the  Christian 
Church.  Our  scientific  friends  would  find  poor  consolation  in  the 
grotesque  extravagances  of  eastern  cosmogony.  They  would  not  get  rid 
of  hell  for  that  is  a  lurid  feature  of  eastern  belief,  and  they  would  find 
in  the  doctrine  of  Karma  or  merit,  something  very  analagous  to  the 
dogma  of  original  sin  in  its  sternest  form.  Gladly  as  we  would  pay 
homage  to  the  beauty  of  Sakya  Mum's  moral  precepts,  we  are  compelled 
to  recognise  that  the  blank  atheism  of  his  religious  philosophy  brought 
forth  its  natural  fruit  in  the  unprogressive  supeistition  which  has  for 


fgiQ  SCIENTISM. 

Ages  paralyzed  some  of  the  most  populous  countries  of  Asia,  for,  in  un- 
dermining  all  belief  in  the  value  and  nobleness  of  life,  he  poisoned  the 
very  sources  of  human  advancement.  Not  that  he  was  the  inventor  of 
this  doctrine  for  it  existed  before  him.  He  adopted  it  into  his  system, 
and,  as  he  at  the  same  time  rejected  even  the  vaguely  Theistic  or 
Pantheistic  Brahma,  the  Aryan  mind  could  not  from  its  very  constitution 
permanently  accept  such  a  philosophy.  Thence  foUowed  the  revolution 
of  Brahminic  Sacerdotalism  which  drove  Buddhism  from  the  soil  of  India 
out  among  the  Turanian  nations,  and  fixed  immovably  the  yoke  of  the 
Brahmins  upon  the  necks  of  the  most  intelligent  people  of  the  East. 

Very  little  also  can  there  be  of  sympathy  between  the  gentle  and 
profound  phUosopher  of  Amsterdam  and  the  rhetorical  turbulencies  of 
FoHnigUly  reviewers.  He  was  in  truth,  as  Professor  Clifford— quoting 
from  Novalis— says,  a  God-intoxicated  man,  but  the  stupendous  differ- 
ence  between  them  is  that  he  was  not  a  self-intoxicated  man.  Born  a 
Jew  and  profoundly  versed  in  all  the  lore  of  the  Rabbins,  he  saw  in 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  the  supreme  wisdom  of  the  aU-pervading  Deity  mani- 
fested  to  men  as  it  had  never  been  manifested  before.  In  the  very  first 
chapter  of  his  "  Tractatus  Theologico-Politicus"  he  says,  "I  do,  therefore, 
maintain  that,  besides  Christ,  no  man  ever  received  any  revelation  from 
God  "  and  "  Christ  communed  with  Gk)d  mentally  or  mind  to  mind." 
Affain  in  Letter  No.  21  to  Oldenburg  he  says,  "  I  tell  you  that  it  is  not 
n^sary  to  your  salvation  that  you  should  believe  in  Christ  according 
to  the' flesh,  but  of  that  eternal  Son  of  God  that  is  the  eternal  wisdom 
of  God  which  is  manifested  in  all  things,  but  mostly  in  the  human  mind 
and  most  of  all  {omnium  numme)  in  Jesus  Christ  a  very  different  con- 
ception must  be  formed— /on^e  aUter  serUiendum.  For  no  one  without 
this  is  able  to  attain  to  a  state  of  blessedness,  since  it  alone  teaches  what 
is  true  and  what  is  false,  what  is  good  and  what  is  eviL  And  since,  as 
I  have  said,  this  wisdom  was  chiefly  manifested  in  Christ  Jesus  so  his 
disciples  prUched  it  in  so  far  as  it  was  revealed  to  them  by  him."  We 
do  not  pretend  that  Spinoza's  philosophy  would  be  accepted  by  orthodox 
Christianity  either  Protestant  or  Roman,  nor  should  it  be,  but  our  care 
now  is  only  to  show  that  it  is  in  utter  antagonism  to  the  scientism  of  the 
present  time,  and  we  may  add  also,  that  his  manner  of  advocatipg  his 
belief  was  as  superior  as  the  matter  of  it  was  the  more  profound. 

While  Spinoza,  to  whom  the  hidden  treasures  of  Jewish  learning  were 
ooen  and  familiar,  could  thus  recognise  in  Jesus  the  fullest  and  most 
glorious  manifestation  of  the  Unseen  God,  Prof.  Clifford  grudges  even 
the  sliKbtest  homage,  and  seeks  to  ascribe  to  Rabbi  HiUel  the  merit  of 
the  sublime  teaching  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  resting  his  claims 
upon  the  Pirk6  Aboth,  on  the  treatises  of  the  Talmud,  from  which  an 
extract  with  very  Uttle  relevancy  is  given.     Emmanuel  Deutseh,  a  Jew, 


SCIENTISM.  911 

who  knew  the  Talmud,  not  at  second  hand,  but  by  the  devotion  of  a 
:stadiou8  life,  could  appreciate  the  work  of  Jesus  better.  "  It  is  the 
glory  of  Christianity,"  said  he  "  to  have  carried  these  golden  germs  hid- 
den in  the  schools  and  among  the  silent  community  of  the  learned  into 
the  market  of  humanity — to  carry  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  of  which  the 
Talmud  is  full,  to  the  herd  even — to  the  leper."  The  origins  of  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount  have  been  traced  out  from  a  Jewish  standpoint  by 
Bodriguez,  the  Secretary  of  the  Scientific  and  Literary  Society  of  Israe- 
lites at  Paris,  lliese  men  have  had  to  go  much  further  than  Hillel  and 
the  Pirk^  Aboth  to  find  what  our  essayist  calls  '^  the  same  thing  as  the 
teaching  of  Jesus."  They  have  been  compelled  to  put  under  contribu- 
tion the  whole  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  the  whole  body  of  the  tradi- 
tionary teaching  of  all  the  other  treatises  of  the  Talmud.  As  has  been 
well  said  by  Reginald  Stuart  Poole,  these  ethics  arose*  '*  firom  the  patri- 
archal religion^  from  the  moral  law,  from  the  teaching  of  prophets  and 
schools  of  prophets,  from  the  great  sorrows  of  Israel,  all  contemplated, 
and  most  of  all  the  Scripture  itself,  in  an  age  of  intense  devout  study, 
after  the  nation  had  been  influenced  by  the  culture  of  every  other  great 
nation  of  the  old  world.  True  to  their  origin,  their  root  always,  their 
flower  often,  is  in  the  Old  Testament." 

The  reluctant  tribute  of  Prof  Clifford  to  the  office  and  work  of  the 
Jewish  race  explains  the  value  which  Christians  place  upon  Hebrew 
sacred  literature,  as  well  as  the  Christian  doctrine  of  the  continuity  of 
DiTine  revelation,  but  it  is  the  characteristic  of  the  teaching  of  Jesus 
that  he  could  leave  behind  him  all  the  traditionary  rubbish  which  ob- 
scured the  beauty  of  these  gems  of  ethical  truth.  The  schools  of 
Hillel  and  Shammai  could  wearily  debate  as  to  whether  or  not  an  egg 
laid  upon  a  Sabbath  or  feast  day  should  be  eaten.  The  refinements  of 
medisBval  scholasticism  were  conciseness  itself  compared  with  the  intol- 
erable trivialities  of  tradition.  By  these  the  key  of  knowledge  was 
taken  away,  and  the  stem  denunciation  of  Jesus  in  the  23rd  chapter  of 
Matthew  and  11th  of  Luke,  are  recorded  against  the  men  who  were 
leading  the  Jewish  conscience  to  spend  its  energy  in  tithing  mint  and 
cummin  to  the  neglect  of  judgment,  mercy,  and  faith,  the  weightier 
matters  of  the  law.  This  is  the  immeasurable  distance  between  the 
teaching  of  Jesus  ^ind  that  of  the  Rabbins.  Each  must  be  taken  as  a 
nrhole,  and  it  will  not  avail  to  pick  out  here  and|]there  a  sentence  from 
the  interminable  prolixities  of  the  Talmud,  and  place  them  against  the 
concise  and  comprehensive  teaching  of  the  Gk>spel^  'There  is  a  whole 
treatise  in  the  Talmud  upon  the  washing  of  hands,  but  Jesus  taught  in 
one  sentence  that  men  are  defiled  by  evil  thoughts  and  speech  more  than 


•OarUemporarp  Bemew,  January,  1868 ;  art  "  The  Talmud"  p.  115. 


912  SCIENTISM. 

by  eating  food  which  was  ceremonially  unclean.  It  might  also  be  urged 
that  the  Talmud  was  not  reduced  to  writing  for  more  than  200  years 
after  St.  Matthew's  OospeL  We  are  not  careful  however  to  press  the 
inquiry  as  to  whether  or  not  the  Talmud  was  influenced  by  the  Gospels. 
We  can  well  believe  that  the  teaching  of  Hillel  was  nearer  than  that  of  all 
the  other  doctors  to  the  teaching  of  Christ  We  are  told  in  the  Gospels 
that  from  early  youth  Jesus  was  learned  in  all  the  literature  and  tradi- 
tion of  His  people.  He  announced  Himself  as  coming  to  fulfil  the  Law 
and  the  Prophets,  and,  gathering  up  all  the  light  which  had  lightened 
mankind  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  He  embodied  it  in  a  few 
great  principles,  promulgated  it  authoritatively  to  all  mankind  and  tes- 
tified to  it  by  His  death.  The  Jewish  nation  alone,  at  that  time,  had 
retained  the  knowledge  of  the  One  Living  Personal  God,  and  Jesus  was 
the  sum  and  flower  of  that  race.  Its  work  was  done — ^it  flowered  and 
its  national  existence  perished,  but  the  precious  seeds  of  the  doctrines  it 
had  preserved  were  scattered  throughout  the  world.  Many  are  the 
crimes  of  men  calling  themselves  Christians  against  the  chosen  race,  but 
the  Israelites  of  the  new  school  can  yet  bear  that  testimony  to  Jesus 
which  some  who  are  bom  Christians  desire  to  refuse.  This  perverse 
twist  of  scientism  breaks  out  again  in  the  off-hand  manner  in  which  St. 
John's  Gospel  is  dismissed  as  ^*  late  and  legendary. "  Nothing,  erne  would 
suppose,  was  more  dearly  demonstrated,  for  it  is  assumed  almost  as  if 
axiomatic.  Now,  granting  to  its  opponents  the  utmost  time  they  claim, 
this  Gospel  must  have  been  written  in  the  early  part  of  the  second  cen- 
tury not  many  years  after  St.  John's  death.  While  it  is  rejected  as 
"  late  and  legendary,"  Professor  Clifford  has  no  hesitation  in  quoting  the 
Pirk^  Aboth  as  containing  the  veritable  teachings  of  Hillel,  although 
Hillel  died  when  Jesus  was  only  ten  years  old,  and  the  Talmud  was  not 
reduced  to  writing  before  the  close  of  the  fourth  century.  There  should 
be  some  little  consistency  even  in  the  scepticism  of  scientism. 

As  we  have  already  intimated,  it  is  no  part  of  our  task  to  defend  the 
Roman  Church,  or  in  fact  any  of  the  other  particular  Churches  into 
which  Christendom  is  divided.  The  Roman  Church  has  defenders  much 
more  able  to  speak  on  her  behalf  than  we,  who  are  outside  her  pale. 
But  in  the  interests  of  History  we  would  protest  against  the  sweeping 
charges  brought  against  her  in  this  essay.  The  passage  we  chiefly  com- 
plain of  is  so  singularly  and  exceptionally  unjust,  even  for  the  Fortnightly, 
that  we  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  it : 

'*  Now  although  I  have  many  times  asked  for  it,  from  those  who  said 
that  somewhere  and  at  some  time  mankind  had  derived  benefits  from  a 
priesthood  laying  claim  to  a  magical  character  and  powers,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  get  any  evidence  for  this  statement.  Nobody  will  give  me 
a  date,  and  a  latitude  and  a  longitude,  that  I  may  examine  into  the 


SOIENTISM.  913 

maUer.  *  In  the  middle  ages  the  priests  and  the  monks  were  the  sole 
depositories  of  learning.'  Quite  so ;  a  man  bums  your  house  to  the 
ground,  builds  a  wretched  hovel  on  the  ruins,  and  then  takes  c^it  for 
whatever  shelter  there  is  about  the  place.  In  the  middle  ages  nearly  all 
learned  men  were  obliged  to  become  priests  and  monks.  *  Then  again, 
the  bishops  have  sometimes  acted  as  tribunes  of  the  people  to  protect 
them  against  the  tyranny  of  kings.'  No  doubt,  when  Pope  and  Ces^r 
fall  out,  honest  men  may  come  by  their  own.  If  two  men  rob  you  in  a 
dark  lane  and  then  quarrel  over  the  plunder,  so  that  you  get  a  chance 
to  escape  with  your  life,  you  will  of  course  be  grateful  to  each  of  them 
for  having  prevented  the  other  from  killing  you,  but  you  would  be  much 
more  grateful  to  a  policeman  who  locked  them  both  up.  Two  powers 
have  sought  to  enslave  the  people  and  have  quarrelled  with  each  other ; 
but  a  condition  of  still  greater  happiness  and  security  would  be  the  non- 
existence of  both.  I  can  find  no  evidence  that  seriously  militates 
against  the  rule  that  the  priest  is  in  all  places  and  at  all  times  the 
enemy  of  all  men." 

There  is  in  this  passage  such  a  marvellous  economy  of  historic  truth 
combined  with  hardihood  of  assertion,  that  the  mind  almost  sinks  in 
ilespair.  Where  Professor  Clifford  sees  ^no  evidence,  those  who  have 
been  trained  to  historic  research  see  it  as  clear  as  day-light.  For  six 
centuries  it  is  evident  to  all  but  the  colour-blind  upon  the  surface  of 
European  history.  Sir  £dward  Greasy  (^^  Rise  and  Progress  of  the  Eng- 
lish Constitution,"  chap.  3)  says  : 

"  The  Church,  moreover  (within  the  pale  of  which  St  Augustine  and 
his  coadjutors  brought  the  English  nation),  had  her  councils,  her  sy- 
nods, and  the  full  organization  of  a  highly  complex,  but  energetic  and 
popular  ecclesiastical  polity.  She  recruited  her  ranks  from  men  of  every 
race  and  every  class  of  society.  She  taught  the  unity  of  all  mankind, 
and  practically  broke  down  the  barriers  of  caste  and  pedigree  by  offer- 
ing to  all  her  temporal  advantages  as  well  as  her  spiritual  blessings. 
She  sheltered  the  remnants  of  literature  and  science,  and  ever  strove  to 
make  the  power  of  the  intellect  predominate  over  brute  force  and  mere 
animal  courage." 

Sir  Edward  Greasy  refers  to  Guizot :  ("  Histoire  de  la  Civilization  en 
Europe,")  who,  although  a  strong  Protestant,  gives  to  the  Church  of 
Rome  great  honour  as  being  the  instrument  of  civilization.  Hallam,  in 
his  "  History  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  persistently  holds  the  same  opinion. 
He  says  ( VoL  2,  Notes  to  Chapter  8) :  "  The  mediaeval  clergy,  as  I  ob- 
served in  the  text,  were  anything  rather  than  upholders  of  despotic 
power."  And  again,  in  chapter  9 :  "  We  owe  the  agricultural  restora- 
tion of  great  part  of  Europe  to  the  monks.  Many  of  the  grants  to 
monasteries  which  strike  us  as  enormous  were  of  districts  absolutely 
4 


914  SCIBNTISM. 

wasted,  which  would  probably  have  been  reclaimed  by  no  other  means.'' 
In  his  notes  to  chapter  9,  he  shows  the  discrimination  of  an  impartial 
historiito.     He  says : 

"  For  this  ignorance  she  (the  Chnrch)  was  not,  generally  speaking,  to 
be  blamed.  It  was  no  crime  of  the  clergy  that  the  Hnns  burned  their 
churches,  or  the '  Normans  pillaged  their  monasteries.  It  was  not  by 
their  means  that  the  Saracens  shut  up  the  supply  of  papyrus,  and  that 
sheep  skins  bore  a  great  price.  Europe  was  altogether  decayed  in  intel- 
lectual character,  partly  in  consequence  of  the  barbarian  incursions, 
partly  of  other  sinister  influences  acting  long  before.  We  certainly  owe 
to  the  Church  every  spark  of  learning  which  then  glimmered,  and  which 
she  preserved  through  that  darkness  to  rekindle  the  light  of  a  happier 
age. 

Passages  to  a  similar  effect  could  be  cited  without  number,  but  of  all 
living  authorities.  Professor  Stubbs  is,  beyond  question,  the  first  on  such 
a  subject  At  page  632  of  vol.  1  of  his  "  Constitutional  History  of  Eng- 
land," we  find  the  following  : 

*'  The  action  of  the  clergy  in  the  great  struggles  of  the  period  has  been 
already  noted,  in  its  proper  proportion  to  the  general  detail.  They,  by 
the  vindication  of  their  own  liberties,  shewed  the  nation  that  other 
liberties  might  be  vindicated  as  well,  and  that  there  are  bounds  to  the 
power  and  violence  of  princes.  They  had  fought  the  battle  of  the  peo- 
ple in  fighting  their  own.  From  them  too,  as  subjects,  and  not  merely 
as  churchmen,  the  first  movements  towards  national  action  had  come. 
They  had  bound  up  the  wounds  of  the  perishing  State  at  the  accession 
of  Henry  II. ;  they  had  furnished  the  first,  if  not  the  only,  champions 
of  freedom  in  the  Boyal  Councils,  where  St.  Thomas,  St.  Hugh,  and 
Archbishop  Geoffrey  had  the  courage  to  speak  when  the  barons  were 
silent." 

lliere  are  several  pages  of  the  same  tenor  which  space  will  not  permit 
us  to  quote.  In  his  ^^  Select  Charters,"  the  same  learned  authority 
shows  us  that  it  was*  ^*  through  the  church  that  the  nation  first  learned 
to  realize  its  unity ;  "  that  t  **  no  division  of  the  clergy  ever  sided  with 
the  feudal  party ;"  that  %  "the  clergy  only  were  any  real  check  upon 
the  royal  power  for  more  than  a  century.  They  only  resist  arbitrary 
taxation,  and,  whether  struggling  for  the  national  good  or,  as  in  some 
instances,  for  their  class  privileges,  maintain  the  recollection  and  the 
idea  of  freedom."  He  speaks  §  of  the  Church,  under  Archbishop  Lang- 
ton,  resuming  its  "  ordinary  attitude  as  the  supporter  of  freedom,"  and 
tells  us  II  that  the  conversion  of  the  people  to  Christianity  "  introduced 
a  new  bond  of  union,  the  influences  of  a  higher  dvilization,  and  a 

*P.10.  tPage32.  tP*go95.  §Page26a  ilPage7. 


sciENnsM.  915 

greater  realuation  of  the  place  of  the  English  in  the  commonwealth  of 
nations." 

But  the  sentence  itself  contains  its  own  refutation.     Why  were 
learned  men  obliged  to  become  priests  and  monks,  but  because  of  the 
oppressive  violence  of  the  civil  power — of  the  utter  confusion  of  the 
hordes  of  blood-loving  barbarians  who  extinguished  the  light  of  the  an- 
cient learning )    In  the  Church  alone  could  the  quiet  scholar  find  pro- 
tection.    From  her  came  the  missionanes  who  carried  civilization  and 
order  and  the  civil  law  to  the  wild  tribes  of  the  North,  and  subdued  the 
swarming  Norman  pirates  who  swept  the  coasts  of  Europe  in  their  blood* 
diirsty  expeditions,  scarcely  inferior  in  cruelty  to  the  scalping  parties 
which  were  the  terror  of  our  own  western  borders.  In  the  Church  alone 
the  very  traditions  of  liberty  were  kept  alive.     The  serf  who  jvore  die 
collar  that  bound  him  to  the  soil,  upon  entering  the  ranks  of  the  clergy, 
became  the  equal  of  a  king ;  and  so  the  grand  gospel  of  Christ,  ^e 
equality  of  all  men  before  God,  was  every  day  exemplified.     As  Am- 
brose brought  Theodosius  to  his  knees  for  his  crime  against  tiie  people 
of  Thessalonica,  so  the  churchman  in  those  dark  days  of  violence  often 
stood  between  the  trembling  serf  and  his  brutal  master,  and  threatened 
the  warrior  who  regarded  not  the  groans  of  men  or  the  tears  of  women, 
with  the  vengeance  of  an  unseen  Gk>d  who  loved  justice  and  hated  ini- 
quity»    When  kings  and  nobles  boasted  that  they  could  not  write,  Al- 
coin  of  York  established  schools,  and  under  the  shadow  of  every  rising 
cathedral  grew  the  bishop's  school.    Every  churchman  who  rose  to  emi- 
nence was  learned  both  in  the  civil  and  canon  law.     Until  i^e  time  of 
Edward  III.  the  Chancellor  was  always  an  ecclesiasUc,  and  hence  arose 
the  system  of  equity,  modifying,  with  maxims  borrowed  from  Soman 
sources,  the  Draconic  severities  of  the  common  law.  It  matters  not  that 
in  after  times  the  Church  arrayed  herself  against  free  thought  She  had 
a  great  wOTk  to  do,  and  she  did  it  during  six  centuries,  for  in  her  bosom 
was  the  only  shelter  of  the  desolate  and  the  oppressed.    What  becomes 
then  of  the  "  Semper  ubique  et  omnibus"  of  the  Reviewer  ?    and  who 
is  likely  to  turn  away  from  the  masters  of  historic  knowledge  to  listen 
to  one  who  perfectly  illustrates  the  sentence  of  Warburton  ?  *  ''  the  uUi- 
ma  ratio  maihemaUcorum  is  become  almost  as  great  a  libel  upon  common 
sense  as  other  sovereign  decisions*    I  might  a^^peal  for  the  truth  of  this 
to  those  wonderful  conclusions  which  g^meters,  when  condescending  to 
write  on  history,  ethics,  or  tiieology,  have  made  of  their  premises.  But 
the  thing  is  notorious ;  and  it  is  no  secret  that  the  oldest  mathemati- 
cian in  England  is  the  worst  reasoner  in  it." 

Quite  as  unhappy  are  the  Professor's  allusions  to  tiie  Mahometan  reli- 
gion.    The  following  passage  is  simply  astounding  : 

*  Quoted  by  Sir  Wm.  Hamilton  **  On  the  study  of  Mathemfttios." 


,9 16  SCIENTISM. 

''  To  the  early  Mohammedans  the  mosque  was  the  one  public  building 
in  every  place  where  public  business  could  be  transacted ;  and  so  it  was 
the  place  of  primary  education^  which  they  held  to  be  a  matter  of  su- 
preme importance.  By-and-bye,  as  the  clergy  grew  up,  the  mosque  was 
gradually  usurped  by  them,  and.primary  education  fell  into  their  hands. 
Then  ensued  a  '  revival  of  religion/— religion  became  a  fanaticism ; 
books  were  burnt  and  universities  were  closed ;  the  empire  rotted  away 
in  East  and  West  until  it  was  conquered  by  Turkish  savages  in  Asia  and 
by  Christian  savages  in  Spain.'' 

Here  is  a  paragraph  which  for  utter  confusion  of  historic  dates  and 
perversion  of  flEusts,  is  probably  unequalled  in  serious  writing.  We 
read  of  an  empire  destroyed  by  Turks  and  Spaniards.  The  Ottoman 
Turks  did  not  appear  on  the  field  of  history,  until  A.D.  1250,  and  the 
Moors  were  not  expelled  from  Spain  until  A.D.  1609.  But  from  the 
eighth  century  the  Mohammedfin  power  had  been  divided  by  civil  wars 
into  three  grand  Caliphates,  the  Ommiad  caliphate  at  Cordova,  the  Ab- 
basid  at  Bagdad,  and  the  Fatimite  at  Cairo,  and  these  were  subdivided 
in  many  smaller  kingdoms,  until  there  were  as  many  in  Islam  as  in 
Christendom.  Then  as  to  education,  the  *  "  Chain  of  the  Ulema  *'  was 
instituted  by  the  Turks  under  Mahomet  II.,  in  the  15th  century,  but  by 
theory  this  institution  had  long  before  caused  the  fall  of  the  supposed 
Mohammedan  empire.  We  know  that  every  Caliph  was  as  represen- 
tative of  the  Prophet,  the  supreme  spiritual  head  of  the  faithful,  but  we 
know  not  where  to  find  the  Mohammedan  clergy.  Sir  Edward  Creasy 
tells  us  in  his  history  of  the  Ottoman  Turks  : 

''  It  is  to  be  carefully  remembered  that  the  Ulema  is  not  an  ecclesias- 
tical body,  except  so  far  as  law  in  Mohammedan  countries  is  based  on  the 
Koran.  The  actual  ministers  of  public  worship,  such  as  the  Imans,  who 
pronounce  the  public  prayers,  the  Scheiks  or  preachers,  and  others  form 
a  very  subordinate  part  of  the  Ulema.  There  is  no  country  in  which  the 
clergy  properly  so  called,  have  less  authority  than  in  Turkey,  or  where 
the  legal  profession  has  more.  It  ought  to  be  recorded  to  the  honour  of 
the  Ottoman,  that  more  respect  is  shown  among  them  than  in  any 
Christian  nation  to  the  schoolmaster." 

We  learn  also  from  Mr.  Bosworth  Smith,  in  his  lecture  before  the 
Royal  Institution,  that  Mohammedanism  "  as  instituted  by  Mohammed 
had  no  priest  and  no  sacrifice.  In  other  words,  no  caste  of  sacrificing 
priests  were  ever  to  be  allowed  to  come  between  the  human  soul  and  GU>d.'' 
And  he  tells  us  again  on  the  authority  of  Palgrave,  that  at  the  present 
time  '4n  orthodox  Mohammedanism  there  is  no  priestly  caste,  and  there- 
fore no  fictions  of  apostolic  succession,  inherent  sanctity,  indissoluble 
vows,  or  powers  of  absolution.'' 

*  Creasy — History  of  the  Ottoman  Turks,  chap.  6. 


SCIENTISM.  917 

There  is  no  vestige  of  a  priesthood  in  the  Koran.  There  was  none 
in  the  period  of  the  Saracen  Caliphs.  The  fanatical  dervishes  cannot  be 
called  priests,  for  they  never  had  any  recognised  functions,  and  were  and 
are  simply  independent  ascetics,  most  of  them  of  doubtful  orthodoxy, 
for  they  flourished  most  amongst  the  Shiahs,  in  Persia.  The  Caliphs 
were  the  chief  Imans,  but  so  far  was  the  office  from  being  restricted 
to  a  class^  that  the  great  Caliph  Almamon  once  went  to  the  mosque  at 
Bagdad  and  found  prayers  already  commenced  and  a  private  person 
acting  as  Iman.  The  Iman  was  then,  as  now,  only  a  precentor,  and  the 
Caliph's  'Voice  had  to  follow,  instead  of  leading,  prayers.  Palgrave  tells 
as  that  there  is  no  hierarchy  nowt  in  Islam.  The  Iman,  according  to 
him  (p.  91),  acts  as  fugleman,  and  is  distinguished  by  no  special  dress, 
caste,  or  character.  The  Rhateeb  or  preacher,  he  says  (p.  91),  is  also  a 
functionary  at  will,  without  any  professional  oostuma  The  Sheykh 
even,  is  not  (p.  92)  a  permanent  functionary  with  inherent  powers  or 
special  dress.  And  further,  to  make  this  absolutely  certain,  Palgrave 
tells  us  (p.  126),  that  when  residing  in  Arabia,  disguised  as  a  Mussul- 
man, he  himself  several  times  officiated  as  Iman  in  Mosques,  and  that 
too  in  Nejed,  the  very  focus  of  the  Wahabee  fanatical  revival  The 
"  growing  up  of  the  clerg3r"  is  a  process  purely  subjective,  and  has  been 
deduced  in  mathematical  fashion  from  anti-clerical  data  existing  in 
Professor  Clifford's  brain.  The  fact  is,  that  in  Islam  the  church  and 
state  are  identical,  and  the  Koran  is  at  once  the  Bible  and  the  Civil 
Code,  which  any  Moslem  may  preach  or  teach,  or,  if  appointed  as  Cadi 
or  MoUah  or  Mufti,  may  administer  as  judge  or  lawyer. 

Then  again,  we  learn  from  our  text  that  there  was  a  revival  of  religion 
which  preceded  the  fall  of  this  mythical  empire.  We  fear  that  this  is 
another  instance  of  deductive  history.  The  only  **  revival  of  religion  " 
is  the  Wahabee  movement,  which  originated  at  the  beginning  of  this 
century  and  is  now  infusing  new  vigour  into  Islam  and  troubling  our 
Indian  Empire.  The  power  of  the  Caliphs  of  Bagdad  decayed  through 
luxury  and  indolence.  There  was  no  revival  of  religion  from  within. 
The  ^*  Turkish  savages'*  had  a  revival,  for  they  became  zealous  Moslems 
upon  their  conversion,  and,  on  attaining  power,  they  replaced  the  culti- 
vated and  relaxed  religion  of  the  Caliphs  by  a  vigorous  fanaticism  from 
without. 

The  imaginative  wealth  of  this  pregnant  sentence  is  not  yet  exhausted 
The  reader  is  led  to  suppose  that  the  Arabs  burst  upon  the  world  as  a 
learned  and  tolerant  people,  who  afterwards  had  a  revival  of  religion 
and  became  fanatical  Dr.  Draper  says  on  the  contrary, J  *'  in  a  i'ew  cen- 

*  D*Herbelot— Bibliotheque  Orientale  ;  quoting  from  an  Arabi&n  Hietory. 

f  EssasTB  on  Eaetem  QueetionB,  p.  81. 

t  InteUectnal  Development  of  Europe,  Vol  I.  p.  384. 


918  SCIENTISM. 

turies  the  fanatics  of  Mohammed  had  altogether  changed  their  appear- 
ance. Letters  and  Science  in  all  their  various  departments  were  culti' 
vated ;"  and  again,  *^  when  the  Arabs  conquered  Egypt,  their  conduct 
was  that  of  bigoted  fanatics."  The  theme  of  his  whole  work  is  to  show 
the  brilliancy  of  Moorish  and  Arabian  civilization  in  their  later  develop- 
ments. We  quote  Dr.  Draper  only,  but  the  universal  testimony  of 
history  is  the  same. 

Finlay*  sums  up  the  whole  matter  in  a  few  sentences,  he  says  :  "  Of 
all  the  native  population  of  the  countries  subdued,  the  Arabs  of  Syria 
alone  appear  to  have  immediately  adopted  the  new  religion  of  their  oo- 
national  race,  but  the  great  mass  of  the  Christians  in  Syria,  Mesopotamia, 
Egypt,  Gyrenaica  and  Africa  clung  firmly  to  their  fiuth,  and  the  decline 
of  Christianity  in  all  these  countries  is  to  be  attributed  rather  to  the  ex- 
termination than  to  the  conversion  of  the  Christian  inhabitants.  The 
decrease  in  the  number  of  the  Christians  was  invariably  attended  by  a 
decrease  in  the  numbers  of  the  inhabitants,  and  arose  evidently  from  the 
oppressive  treatment  which  they  suffered  under  the  Mahometan  rulers  of 
these  countries — a  system  of  tyranny  which  was  at  last  carried  so  far 
as  to  reduce  whole  provinces  to  unpeopled  deserts,  ready  to  receive  an 
Arab  population." 

The  whole  of  Professor  Clifford's  excursus  upon  Mahometanism  is 
much  like  an  attempt  to  deduce  Magna  Charta  from  the  repeal  of  the 
Com  laws.  That  would  not  be  a  greater  anachronism  that  it  is  to 
place  the  burning  of  books  at  the  close  of  the  Saracen  dominion,  seeing 
that  the  burning  of  the  great  Alexandrian  library  was  ordered  by  the 
Caliph  Omar,  A.D.  640.  Moreover  the  citation  of  the  Mahommedan 
religion  is  peculiarly  unfortunate,  for  it  is  the  only  great  religion  with- 
out a  priesthood  in  the  sense  in  which  he  uses  the  word,  and  therefore 
should  be  according  to  his  theory,  the  most  moral,  progressive  and 
tolerant 

In  every  way  we  look  at  the  question,  this  wholesale  indictment 
against  the  priesthood  breaks  down.  Nothing  can  be  stronger  than 
Professor  Clifford's  admiration  of  Jewish  patriotism  and  Jewish  moral- 
ity, but  where  was  there  ever  a  theocracy  more  complete  than  the  Jewish 
polity  after  the  exile,  or  a  priesthood  more  pronounced )  Were  not  the 
heroic  Maccabees  a  priestly  family )  And  they  were  the  very  incarna- 
tion of  patriotisuL  The  lesson  of  history  is,  that  whenever  there  has 
been  a  national  church,  the  priests  of  that  nation  have  always  been  a 
centre  of  resistance  to  foreign  influence,  and  so  the  Romans  did  not 
complete  the  subjugation  of  Britain  until  they  had  exterminated  the 
Druids.    How  tiien  can  the  priesthood,  as  a  class,  be  charged  with  want 

*  Greece  tinder  the  Boihadb,  voL  1  p.  462. 


sciENnsM.  919 

of  patriotism  f  Even  were  we  to  gtant— which  we  do  not — that  the 
Pope  in  his  quarrels  with  the  state  has  always  been  in  the  wrong,  the 
thesis  would  not  be  proved.  The  position  of  the  Roman  Pontiff  is 
unique  in  history  as  being  the  head  of  a  church  extending  over  many 
nationaUties.  Mr.  Gladstone  and  his  antagonists  have  exhausted  that 
question,  and  to  argue  from  it  back  to  the  flood,  is  to  generalise  from  a 
particular  instance. 

Nor  can  we  admit  the  truth  of  the  proposition  that  it  is  more  noble 
to  do  right  for  the  sake  of  *^  Ourself '*  (which  is  the  same  as  the  figura- 
tive abstraction  "  Humanity,"  of  Ck)mte,)  than  for  the  sake  of  God,  who, 
to  the  Christian,  is  the  one  overweUing  fountain  of  justice  and  love  in 
the  universe.  For  the  commands  of  God  are  to  him  the  moral  laws 
necessarily  inhering  in  the  creation  of  which  this  world  forms  part,  and 
in  which  the  human  race  is  a  fleeting  phenomenon.  He  believes  that  in 
obeying  he  is  working  for  the  beet  interests  of  the  human  race,  but  that 
is  not  the  cmue  of  his  obedience.  If  the  Christian  then  succeeds  in  sub- 
duing his  will  to  the  will  of  a  Being  whom  he  knows  as  the  Infinite 
Bighteous  and  Loving  One,  it  is  a  far  loftier  unselfishness  than  to  do  right 
simply  because  it  is  thought  to  be  beneficial  to  the  human  race.  The 
aim  is  the  more  lofty  inasmuch  as  the  idea  of  rightness  is  projected  into 
the  infinite.  But  if,  as  we  are  again  informed,  morality  is  another  name 
for  utility,  and  virtue  is  its  own  reward  in  the  inward  satisfaction  it 
affords,  we  are  basing  our  virtue  on  a  still  lower  motive.  The  state- 
ment is,  moreover,  untrue,  for  it  is  notorious  to  all  that  virtue  is  not  its 
own  reward,  and  St.  Paul  summed  up  human  experience  in  the  one  short 
sentence  that  '*  if  in  this  life  only  we  have  hope  we  are  of  all  men  the 
most  miserable."  The  loftiest  motive  is  that  which  supported  Abraham 
in  his  lonely  journey,  speaking  to  him  in  a  vision,  ''  Fear  not,  Abraham, 
I  am  thy  exceeding  great  reward."  This  lifts  a  weak  mortal  into  the 
position  of  a  worker  with  the  infinite  righteous  Being,  but,  as  Pro& 
Clifford  may  not  recognise  such  authorities,  we  may  quote  the  **  Perk^ 
Aboth  "  and  say,  **  Be  not  as  servants  who  serve  their  master  for  wages, 
but  be  rather  as  slaves  who  serve  their  master  without  any  hope  of  re- 
ward." Once  believe  that  the  Master  is  infinitely  wise  and  good,  and 
obedience  becomes  the  loftiest  unselfishness. 

In  the  discussion  carried  on  in  the  *'  Nineteenth  Century,"  under  the 
name  of  "A Modem  Symposium,"  Pro£  Clifford  admits  that  'Hhe 
theistic  conception  is  a  reasonable  hypothesis  and  an  explanation  of  the 
&ctB,"  and  again  ''  that  it  is  a  comfort  and  a  solace  to  all  who  hold  it" 
If  this  be  so,  is  not  the  induction  as  to  its  objective  truth  as  reasonable 
as  the  thousands  of  inductions  made  by  science  in  the  domain  of  geology 
or  biology  f  It  is  not  mathematically  demonstrated,  because  the  science 
of  mathematics  is  deductive  and  cannot  possibly  arrive  at  any  truth  not 


920  SCIENTISM. 

contained  in  the  original  data»  but  demonstrated  to  as  high  a  degree  of 
probability  as  any  other  of  the  practical  beliefs  which,  in  ordinary  life, 
we  are  content  to  live  and  work  under )  It  is  eminently  unreasonable 
then  to  make  such  sweeping  accusations  against  those  who  have  always 
been  the  main  supporters  of  this  hypothesis  which  is  confessed  to  be 
reasonable  and  consoling,  and,  if  any  scientist  persists  that  he  can  see  no 
evidence  for  such  a  hypothesis,  he  should  reserve  his  wrath  for  his  own 
deficient  perceptive  power&  If  a  man  be  colour-blind  and  can  see  no 
evidence  that  black  and  red  are  distinct  colours,  it  is  no  proof  of  his 
superiority  to  his  fellow  creatures,  but  rather  of  the  reverse.  The  belief 
in  an  unseen  Power,  outside  of  ourselves,  working  for  righteousness, 
with  whom,  and  for  whom,  it  is  our  glory  and  privilege  to  work,  and 
who  aids  us  in  times  of  doubt  and  depression,  is  indeed  a  source  of  com- 
fort and  strength.  If  any  self-sufficient  person  is  unable  to  perceive  the 
ground  of  such  belief,  it  is  no  more  an  evidence  of  his  intellectual  super- 
iority than  the  very  common  inability  to  apprehend  the  fifth  proposition 
in  £Kc]id  is  a  sign  of  cleverness  in  a  school-boy.  . 

This  is  the  distinguishing  mark  between  science  and  scientism  ;  the 
absence  of  the  humility  which  accompanies  knowledge.  Whence  does 
Prof.  Cli£ford  derive  that  lofty  view  of  moral  truth  by  which  he  sits  in 
judgment  upon  so  many  systems,  but  from  the  very  Christianity  he 
affects  to  despise  ?  While  groping  in  the  Talmud  for  those  scattered 
passages  which  glow  with  Divine  light  amidst  the  superincumbent  mass 
of  trivialities,  he  turns  with  aversion  from  the  Grospels.  He  derogates 
from  the  teaching  of  Christ  that  he  may  exalt  Hillel,  Confucius,  Maho- 
met, Buddha,  any  one,  in  short,  so  he  be  not  a  Christian.  He  sings  the 
praises  of  unselfishness,  and  has  no  word  of  thanks  for  Him  who  bore 
witness  to  it  by  His  life  and  exemplified  it  in  His  death.  Not  content 
with  this  he  waxes  indignant  against  all  who  do  not  consent  to  his  para- 
doxes, and  while  accusing  the  whole  Christian  priesthood  of  **  playing 
with  falsehood,"  cooks  up  the  facts  of  history  to  suit  his  own  precon- 
ceived notions  of  what  they  ought  to  be.  In  perusing  the  **  Ethics  of 
Beligion ''  we  are  irresistibly  reminded  of  the  answer  made  by  the  chief 
Priest  at  Kandy  to  a  Christian  prelate,  who  asked  him,  "  Do  you  wor- 
ship the  gods  ?  "     "  No,"  replied  the  complacent  Buddhist,  "  the  gods 

worship  me." 

S.  K  Dawson. 


921 


THE   TWO  CANARIES. 

A  TABLB.      BT  8.  A.  a 

As  fngraut  essences  from  summer  flowers 

Steal,  on  aerial  pinions,  to  the  sense, 

So,  on  the  rapid  wings  of  rumour,  sped 

A  word  that  set  the  aviary  on  flame. 

**  To-morrow  comes  the  prince,"  it  said,  '^  to  choose 

*^  A  bird  of  gifts  will  grace  the  royal  bower." 

O  then  began  a  fluttering  and  a  fume, 

A  judging  each  of  all ;  pert  airs  and  speech 

Flew  round  like  moulted  feathers  ;  little  heads 

Were  tossed  in  lofty  pride,  or  in  disdain 

Were  turned  aside,  for  each  bird  deemed  his  own 

The  merits  that  would  win.    One  only  sang 

To-day  his  daUy  song,  nor  joined  the  crowd 

In  envious  exultation.    To  him  spoke 

Another  of  his  kind  :  ''  Vain  one,  refrain 

^'  That  everlasting  song,  fit  for  a  cage 

**  Behind  some  cottier^s  lattice,  where  thy  gray 

**  And  thickset  form  may  shun  the  public  eye. 

*^  A  word  of  warning  too  :  hide  from  the  prince,*' 

**  Bear  brother,"  cried  the  gray,  **  be  not  annoyed  ;. 

"  Who  sees  your  elegance  of  form  and  depth 

**  Of  perfect  colour,  ne'er  will  notice  me. " 

The  morrow  came  the  prince.    Each  bird  essayed 

To  please  the  royal  taste  ;  and  many  a  meed 

Of  praise  was  won  and  given  ;  this  for  his  hue, 

That  for  his  elegance,  another  for 

His  fascinating  grace  ;  yet  something  lacke<l, 

'Twas  evident ;  and  many  an  anxious  glance 

Betrayed  the  latent  fear. 

**  Yon  little  bird, 
**  In  quiet  gray  and  green,  shrinks  from  my  gaze. 
^*  He  should  a  singer  be,"  exclaimed  the  prince, 
As  with  a  critical  and  searching  eye 
He  scanned  the  small  competitors  for  choice. 
Obedient  to  his  governor,  the  bird 
Poured  forth  his  song,  forgetful  of  the  crowd 
Of  vain  and  envious  round  him,  in  whose  eyes 
He  stood  contemptible.     The  prince,  entranced, 
Exclaimed  at  length  :  '*  Nor  hue,  nor  elegance, 
'*  Nor  fascination,  can  outvie  the  gift  of  genius  ; 
'*  My  choice  is  made."     And  to  the  great  offence 
Of  one  bright  bird  at  least,  the  humble  gray 
Became  the  royal  treasure. 


922 


CURIOUS  COUPLES. 

I. 

There  are  few  things  a  cleigyman  enjoys  more  than  a  wedding ;  and 
not  merely  because  it  is  a  variation  upon  severe  study,  to  say  nothing  of 
visiting  the  poor  and  the  sick,  consoling  the  dying,  burying  the  dead. 
Surely  it  is  a  pleasure  to  aid  in  making  people  happier  than  they  ever 
were  before  in  their  lives.  I  am  certain  that  such  was  the  case  at  least 
with  a  favourite  parishioner  of  mine,  whom  I  will  call  Harriet.  She  was 
the  only  daughter  of  a  small  planter  in  the  South,  had  been  well  edu- 
<»ited,  was  as  well  read  as  young  women  usually  are,  and  possessed  a 
certain  sort  of  willowy  loveliness.  Her  parents  had  no  other  child,  and 
she  had  loved  them  as  if  loving — for  that  was  her  nature — was  her  sole 
business  in  life.  A  singularly  devoted  daughter  Harriet  was — until,  at 
least,  she  knew  a  man  whom  I  will  name  Harris  Clark  I  do  not  think 
I  ever  married  a  woman  who  seemed  to  give  herself  quite  so  completely 
away  to  the  man  of  her  choice.  She  had  been  a  devoted  Christian,  yet 
she  seemed  to  me  to  turn  from  her  Maker,  as  well  as  from  her  parents 
and  friends,  in  the  uttemess  of  her  devotion  for  her  husband.  A 
heathen  does  not  rise,  in  some  lands,  to  the  worship  of  a  clay  idol,  but 
is  enraptured  with  any  bone  or  stick  as  a  fetish.  That  was  the  puzzle 
in  the  case  of  this  otherwise  sensible  and  lovely  girl,  that  she  should 
have  given  herself  as  she  did — body,  mind,  heart,  soul — to  such  a  very 
ordinary  man  as  Harris  Clark  He  was  a  sallow,  loose-jointed,  good- 
natured  good-for-nothing,  without  force  in  any  direction  that  any  one 
knew  of,  not  having  even  an  energetic  vice.  Although  you  met  him  a 
dozen  times  a  week,  you  could  not  help  forgetting  in  the  intervals  his 
very  existence.  Since  he  was  nothing  in  or  to  himself,  Harriet  seemed 
to  think  it  to  be  her  privilege  to  be  that  much  the  more  to  him  :  she 
was  as  earnest  in  her  affection  as  is  the  air  in  its  effort  to  get  into  the 
vacuum  of  an  exhausted  receiver.  If  the  man  ever  said  or  did  or  was 
imything  to  attract  so  great  affection  in  the  first  place,  or  to  repay  it 
afterward,  nobody  ever  knew  of  it  He  had  silently  absorbed  this  good 
girl  into  himself — and  her  property  too,  for  he  had  none  of  his  own — as 
a  sandbank  absorbs  a  rivulet  which  flows  singing  and  sparkling  upon  it, 
and  puts  forth  never  a  blade  of  grass,  let  alone  a  flower,  in  return. 
There  must  have  been  an  overwhelming  display  in  private  of  his  affec* 
don  for  her :  there  was  very  little  in  public  ;  and  yet,  otherwise,  how 
could  so  excellent  a  girl  have  loved  him  so  much  ?    They  lived  together 


CURIOUS  COUPLES.  923 

several  years  after  marriage.  Pardon  me  if  I  use  too  many  figures,  but 
you  can  understand  how  she  concentrated  upon  him  all  her  accomplish- 
ments and  &culties  if  you  imagine  a  cluster  from  the  choicest  vineyard 
to  crush  all  its  grapes,  to  the  last  berry,  into  a  cup  for  the  drinking  of 
the  meanest  of  mortals.  In  this  case  the  cup  was  drunk  at  a  gulp,  and' 
speedily  f<nrgotten. 

She  fell  into  a  consumption,  and  I  was  with  her  when  she  was  dying. 
She  was  always  a  firail  creature,  with  flaxen  hair  and  large  blue  eyes. 
She  held  to  him  now  with  those  yine-Uke  arms  which  ding,  by  the 
strong  impulse  of  the  loving  heart  within,  to  a  weed  as  vigorously  as  to 
an  oak. 

Oh,  Harris,"  said  she  to  him,  **  you  know  how  I  have  loved  you  I  " 
Yes,  Harriet^"  he  answered  as  he  stood  by  her.  He  was  weeping, 
but  his  tears  were  more  like  the  leaking  of  a  loosely-hooped  vessel  than 
from  any  force  of  sorrow.     "  Yes,  Harriet — yes,  yes." 

**  You  know  I  have  loved  you  with  all  my  soul,"  she  gasped ;  "  and 
now  you  will  promise,  won't  you )  There  is  our  little  Harry :  I've  loved 
you  so  nwch  I  have  hardly  thought  of  him.  You  will  promise — will 
promise!^ 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,  yes,"  he  said 

**  Then  swear  it  on  this  Bible,  dear,"  she  pleaded. 

**  That  I  won't  marry  again,  you  mean  f  Oertainly.  Yes,  I  swear  I 
won't — ^yes,  oh  yes,"  her  husband  said  in  the  same  weak  way. 

**  You  all  hear ) "  the  poor  woman  cried  with  almost  rapture  to  her 
fikther  and  mother,  who  were  weeping  bitterly,  as  well  as  to  myself.— 
"  Kiss  me  good-bye,  Harris  dear ;  '*  and  she  was  gone,  forgetting  in  her 
devotion  to  him  to  kiss  even  her  little  boy.  **  I'm  willing  to  go  now," 
were  her  last  whispered  words.  **  We'll  soon  be  together  in  heaven, 
and  then  IH  be  all  yours — ^yours,  dear  —yours  for  ever  and  ever ! " 

I  cannot  say  exactly  how  many  months  it  was  after  this — not  very 
many,  I  am  sure — when  I  had  a  call  from  the  bereaved  husband.  He 
wanted  me  to  get  my  hat  and  take  a  little  walk  with  him  in  the  length- 
ening shades  of  the  afternoon.  I  did  so,  glad  to  console  him  as  I  best 
coold. 

"  I  dare  say  you  know  what  I  want,"  he  said  as  soon  as  we  were  out 
of  doors.  '*  What  I'm  afraid  of  is,  she  may  fool  me." 
She  f  Fool  you  f "  I  asked  in  an  imbecile  way. 
Adeline  Jones,"  Mr.  Clark  explained.  '*  You  know  Squire  Jones  t 
She  is  the  stoutest  of  his  three.  You  mus^  have  seen  her,  a  likely 
young  woman,  with  black  eyes  and  red  cheek&  They  live  by  the 
creek.  This  is  the  license :  you  can  take  it.  But  look  here !  She  has 
said  she  would,  and  then  called  me  back  dozens  of  times  before  I  could 
get  out  of  the  front  gate  to  say  she  wouldn't    I  heard  her  call  after  me 


924  CURIOUS  COUPLES. 

to-day,  when  I  had  got  a  piece  away.  *  Don't  you — don't  you  do  it/ 
she  said,  but  I  kept  on,  .  Now,  you  see,  if  she  von't  when  we  get  there, 
you  are  to  give  that  license  back  to  me.  I  told  the  probate  clerk  he 
might  have  his  document  back  again,  and  I  wouldn't  pay  him  a  cent,  if 
she  didn't     You  see,  she  may,  but  then  she  mayn't     See )  " 

But  Miss  Adeline  Jones  did.  I  married  them.  In  her  way  she  made 
him  an  excellent  wife,  I  dare  say.  She  was  a  lady  of  energetic  charac- 
ter, and  her  husband  had  the  extensive  repute  of  being  her  very  obe- 
dient subject.  It  was  even  whispered  that  in  some  measure  she  was 
succeeding  in  making  a  man  of  him.  My  impression  is  that  the  poor 
Harriet  of  other  days  had  fears  in  reference  to  Miss  Adeline  before  her 
death,  or  it  may  have  been  merely  an  instinct  of  her  sensitive  heart.  It 
was  therefore  that  she  tried  to  bind  her  husband  as  she  did.  It  was  a 
foolish  thing  to  do,  but  it  was  the  folly  of  an  affection  at  which  we  may 
wonder,  but  not  laugh.  Surely,  if  the  dead  can  see  those  they  have  left 
behind,  she  must  know  her  former  idol  better  than  she  did  when  she 
worshiped  at  its  feet  She  must  know  him,  in  fact,  as  he  really  is ;  in 
which  case  it  is  impossible  she  should  care.  It  was  that  which  decided 
me  as  to  marrying  him  the  second  time.  The  man  was  so  valueless  in 
every  sense  that  the  attempt  to  impose  such  an  oath  upon  him  was  like 
trying  to  hold  a  floating  chip  with  an  anchor  and  chain  :  the  obligation 
was  not  binding ;  it  fell  from  off  such  a  man  equally  by  his  utter  worth- 
lessness  as  by  its  own  excess  of  weight. 

II. 

I 

I  WAS  called  upon  one  September  evening  by  a  gentleman  to  marry 
him  to  a  certain  lady.  An  infant  could  not  have  been  more  ignorant 
of  it  than  I  was  at  the  time,  but  the  suitor  was  a  man  who  had  been 
detected  by  a  former  husband  of  the  woman  in  criminal  relations  with 
his  wife :  said  suitor  had  promptly  shot  the  injured  husband,  and  now 
sought  to  marry  the  widow.  I  tell  of  this  now  in  order  to  ask  tlie 
reader  what  kind  of  man  and  woman  he  supposes  this  couple  to  have 
been.  You  say  the  murderer  was  probably  a  broad-chested,  loud- 
voiced,  ruddy-visaged,  black-bearded  desperade,  armed  literally  "  tP  the 
teeth  "  with  oaths  as  well  as  bowie-knives  and  revolvers.  Not  at  all. 
Colonel  Caulfield — ^for  that  shall  stand  for  his  name — was  a  small  man 
with  hay-coloured  hair  and  moustache,  gentle  manners  and  wonder- 
fully woman-like  hands,  feet  and  voice.  Nothing  could  be  more  suave 
and  silken  than  his  bearing.  The  very  man,  you  would  naturally  sup- 
pose, to  pet  canaries  and  write  sonnets — to  shed  nothing  more  dreadful 
than  tears,  and  those  his  own.  As  to  the  lady,  the  mildest  way  I  can 
put  it  is  to  say  that  she  more  thoroughly  filled  out  my  ideal  of  a  perfect- 
ly wicked  woman  than  any  I  ever  knew.     When  they  stood  before  me 


CURIOUS  COUPLES.  925 

to  be  married,  you  ran  before  my  pen  in  anticipating  her  appearance. 
Doabtlees  she  was  a  vigorous-limbed,  ample-bosomed  Cleopatra,  with  a 
languishing  darkness  in  her  great  eyes,  as  well  as  a  significant  fullness 
of  the  lips  f  Here,  again,  you  are  mistaken.  Mrs.  Caulfield — for  I  did 
not  get  a  fair  surrey  of  her  until  the  ceremony  ended — was  as  tall  yet 
slight  a  woman  as  one  generally  sees.  She  had  small  eyes,  thin  lips, 
only  pallor  in  her  cheeks  and  shyness  in  her  soul.  An  invalid  lady  of 
refinement,  a  devoted  and  indulgent  mother  to  the  numerous  children 
of  her  deceased  husband,  all  of  whom  were  at  the  wedding,  would  have 
been  your  final  impression.  There  was  so  peculiar  a  modesty  in  the 
custody  of  her  eyes  that  you  would  think  her  a  prude,  and  morbidly  so. 
Those  venomous  eyes  !  No  wonder  she  handled  them,  if  I  may  so 
speak,  as  with  a  careful  hold.  She  carried  them  cautiously,  as  one  does 
a  loaded  pistol  when  the  hammer  is  up  and  the  trigger  yields  to  the 
slightest  touch.  If  you  knew  her  history,  and  knew  herself,  you  would 
acknowledge  that  I  do  not  exaggerate. 

She  had  run  away  with  her  former  husband,  who  was  infatuated  with 
her.  He  was  no  more  to  her,  after  she  came  to  know  Colonel  Caulfield, 
than  the  tongs  leaning  beside  the  fireplace — no  more  to  her  than  Col- 
onel Caulfield  would  be  after  the  next  man  should  arrive.  Now,  natur- 
alists leave  no  specimen  of  the  animal  kingdom  unclassified,  and  take 
the  more  pleasure  in  describing  it  the  uglier  it  is ;  but  the  writer  is  too 
unscientific  in  this  case,  and  declines  to  enter  into  further  analysis. 
Yet  full  opportunity  was  offered.  Immediately  after  marriage  Colonel 
Caulfield  and  his  wife  took  a  pew  at  church,  and  attended  regularly. 
There  was  in  such  a  man  that  which  greatly  interested  me.  Had  he 
arrived  from  Persia  or  the  moon,  he  could  hardly  have  been  more  un- 
like myself,  as  well  as  the  men  with  whom  I  was  generally  thrown. 
Gambler,  drunkard,  seducer,  murderer  as  he  was,  there  ran  through  all 
his  conversation  a  certain  fibre  of  Nature — nature  Indian  and  uncon- 
cealed— which  made  him  more  interesting  to  me  by  far  than  Mr.  Smith, 
who  measured  calico,  or  Mr.  Hopkins,  who  sold  groceries  all  day.  One 
should  yield  to  an  appetite,  so  tfi  speak,  for  the  variation  of  humanity 
in  such  a  case,  if  only  from  hope  of  doing  good.  Possibly  it  was  a  blind 
yearning  after  something  which  might  save  him  from  himself  that  caused 
Colonel  Caulfield  to  reciprocate  my  interest  in  him. 

"  If  I  find  that  the  Morgan  colt  I  am  raising,"  he  said  to  me  one  day 
in  serious  earnest,  **  makes  good  enough  time  on  the  turf,  I'm  going  to 
name  it  after  you,  sir ; "  and  the  man  had  no  higher  proof  than  that  to 
give  me  of  his  liking.  And  who  knows  how  sincerely  that  poor  woman 
may  have  wished  to  become  better  1  She  never  failed  at  church  or 
prayer-meeting,  and  no  one  could  be  more  modest,  even  humble,  in  her 
bearing,  listening  attentively,  often  tearfully.     But  the  simple  fact  is, 


926  CUEIOUS  COUPLES. 

we  were  all  afraid  of  her.  The  ladies  of  our  church  were  profoundlj 
interested  in  her  husband  :  of  him  they  had  strong  hopes,  but  of  his 
wife  none  at  all.  When  she  actually  applied  for  admission  to  the  church 
as  a  communicant,  we  were  seriously  alarmed.  The  board  of  church 
officials,  before  whom  she  appeared  for  this  purpose,  and  whose  duty  it 
was  to  question  her  closely  as  to  her  preparation  for  such  a  step,  made 
sad  work  of  it  They  knew  her  history  weU,  but  then  she  seemed  to  be 
modest  behind  her  veil,  so  penitent,  weeping  as  she  tried  to  answer  their 
questions  in  a  low  voice,  that  they  postponed  the  decision  of  the  case  as 
their  only  relief.  Well  I  knew  that  they  wanted  to  ask  their  wives,  and 
I  well  knew,  also,  how  our  ladies  shrank  from  her  with  horror.  What 
disastrous  mischief  to  the  sheep  and  lambs  might  not  this  beautiful  ser- 
pent do  if  she  should  be  suffered  to  glide  within  the  fold !  Our  oldest 
official  was  directed  to  tell  her  very  kindly  that  her  case  was  under  con- 
sideration. Unfortunately,  he  did  not  do  it,  being  afraid  to  call  on  her 
for  the  purpose,  or  having  forgotten  to  do  so.  It  was  pitiful.  Com- 
munion Sabbath,  supposing  that  she  was  admitted  to  partake,  dressed 
in  deep  black,  she  took  a  back  pew  at  the  appointed  time  among  the 
communicants.  Nervous  at  his  negligence  in  the  matter,  the  same  white- 
headed  official  went  to  her  in  the  face  of  the  whole  congregation,  whis- 
pered to  her  that  she  could  not  commune,  and  led  her  out  of  the  pew  ! 
The  miserable  Magdalene  told  me  that  she  went  home  and  wept  day 
and  night  without  ceasing  until  I  called  and  explained. 

Meanwhile,  there  must  have  been  something  of  deadliest  leprosy  in 
the  very  blood  of  herself,  if  not  of  her  former  husband,  perhaps  both, 
their  children  turned  out  so  badly.  I  dare  say  it  was  the  same  wretched 
feebleness  of  grasp  on  the  part  of  our  Sabbath-school  toward  them  as  of 
the  church  toward  her  husband  and  herself— for  leprosy  itself  is  in  the 
healing  power  of  the  disciple  as  of  the  master — which  is  heavily  to 
blame  for  their  fate.  One  of  her  boys  was  drowned— on  Sunday,  of 
course.  Another  ran  away,  and  was  heard  of  again  as  in  jail  for  hav- 
ing shot  and  killed  another  boy,  who,  for  fun,  had  hidden  his  clothes 
when  they  were  bathing  together.  I  was  called  to  attend  the  funeral 
of  yet  another  who  blew  himself  up  on  a  Fourth  of  July. 

There  was  one  daughter,  Sylvia,  a  slight,  lithe,  marble-complezioned 
girl  of  fifteen,  the  duplicate  of  her  mother,  only  more  beautiful,  in  whom 
we  had  all  taken  at  least  a  sentimental  interest  One  day  Mrs.  Caul- 
field  sent  begging  me  to  come  to  the  house.  Very  hesitatingly  I  did  so, 
it  must  be  confessed.  She  was  eagerly  waiting  for  me,  met  me  at  the 
front  gate  and  ushered  me  in  weeping.  "  Oh,  sir,  what  am  I  to  do  t  '* 
she  said.  "  Colonel  Oaulfield  is  away  from  home — ^you  know  he  is  never 
at  home  these  days — and  Sylvia  has  run  away.  She  climbed  out  of  her 
window  last  night  at  midnight.    She  has  gone  o£f  with  that  young 


CURIOUS  COUPLES.  927 

Proctor,  the  lawyer's  derk.     What  shall  I  do  ?    I  will  do  whatever  you 
say." 

I  was  amazed  at  the  weakness  of  the  woman,  she  seemed  so  foolishly 
dependent  on  me.  In  her  weakness  lay  her  wickedness.  Not  that  she 
did  not  seem  to  have  ardent  aspirations  upward.  Not  that  she  did  not, 
apparently,  reach  upward  as  with  her  long  and  thin  and  fragile  hands, 
graqmig  almost  frantically,  and  as  into  the  empty  air,  after  something 
to  seize  upon  and  lift  herself  up  by.  But,  alas  !  she  had  also  a  peculiar 
gravitation  downward  too.  Some  metals  there  are  upon  which  the  mag- 
net has  no  influence — upon  other  and  baser  metals  it  seizes  with  irresis- 
tible energy ;  not  by  reason  merely  of  a  force  in  the  magnet,  but  of  a 
certain  kindred  something  in  the  object  affected  by  it.  So  of  this  woman. 
There  was  that  in  her  which  seemed  to  afford  the  magnetism  as  of  the 
earth  a  tenfold  power  upon  her  to  drag  her  down,  and  to  drag  down 
with  her  all  she  had  laid  hold  upon. 

She  seized  my  arm  with  the  grasp  of  a  tropical  runner  as  it  were.  To 
me  it  was  like  the  hold  of  the  poisonous  oak-ivy,  and,  somewhat  abrupt* 
ly  detadiing  myself,  I  said,  "  I  am  sorry,  madam,  but  if  Sylvia  has  run 
away,  it  is  too  late.     What  can  you  do  t  " 

**  Yes,"  the  weeping  woman  said ;  '^  but  I  heard  her  getting  down  on 
the  shed-roof,  and  I  started  some  meil  after  them  with  the  colonel's 
blood  mare  in  the  buggy — all  through  the  storm  too— and  they  brought 
them  back.  I  have  locked  young  Proctor  np  in  that  room,  and  Sylvia 
in  that  one,"  indicating  with  her  hand  as  she  spoke  a  door  on  either  side 
of  the  halL  '*  They  are  all  wet,  but  I  locked  them  up  till  you  could  come 
and  tell  me  what  to  do.     Whatever  you  say,  sir,  I'll  do." 

"  Write  to  your  husband,  and  wait  till  he  comes,"  I  suggested. 

"  He  does  not  care,"  she  answered  "  promptly,  and  he  wouldn't  come. 
You  are  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  can  tell  me  what  to  do ;"  and 
she  wept  helplessly  before  me. 

"  Let  me  talk  to  him,"  I  said  at  last,  groaning  under  my  unsought  re- 
sponsibility. Mrs.  Caulfield  wiped  her  eyes,  allowed  me  to  go  in,  and 
locked  the  door  upon  us.  Now,  I  happened  to  know  the  "  bold  Loch^ 
invar  "  in  this  case.  Only,  he  was  not  at  all  bold — was  nothing  but  a 
boy  of  twenty,  ignorant  and  shy,  and  just  now  exceedingly  wet  as  well 
as  frightened.  He  was  an  orphan,  and  there  was  not  a  soul  to  wait  to 
see  or  to  hear  from  in  his  case.  I  soon  found,  too,  that  he  was  alto- 
gether the  seoondary  person  in  the  affidr.  He  too  was  willing  to  do 
anything,  although  I  think  he  would  have  been  very  glad  to  make  his 
escape  from  the  matter  altogether.  ''  I  will  do  whatever  you  think 
best,"  he  said  at  last  3  '<  and  there  is  the  license  if  you  want  to  use  it." 
A  precious  document  it  was  I  Somebody  had  perjured  himself  or  her- 
sdf  frightfully  to  get  it,  the  parties  being  under  the  age  required  by  law ;. 


928  CURIOUS  COUPLES. 

or  possibly  the  probate  clerk  had  taken  the  responsibility  himself,  just 
for  the  fan  of  the  thing.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  try  the 
young  lady.  I  asked/however,  as  I  was  let  out  of  the  room,  "  You  love 
the  girl,  do  you  ?    Sincerely,  now  1    Do  you  really  love  her  ? " 

''  Oh  yes,"  he  answered  with  wondering  eyes,  but  with  hearty  sin- 
cerity.    "  Of  course  I  do.     Love  her?    Yes,  sir." 

I  saw  the  explanation  of  everything  the  moment  I  was  locked  in  with 
Sylvia.  She  was  as  wet  as  she  could  be,  was  muddied  and  draggled  ex- 
ceedingly, her  black  hair  all  spread  out  on  her  shoulders  to  dry.  Her 
eyes,  however,  were  full  alternately  of  fun  and  of  defiance.  She  told  me 
the  whole  story  :  ^*  We  had  it  fixed,  sir,  two  weeks  ago.  I  got  down 
over  the  shed :  he  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  rain.  I  got  into  the  buggy 
with  a  big  bag  of  my  best  things,  and  we  drove  off.  Oh  but  it  was  dark 
and  muddy !  and  how  the  rain  did  pour  down  I  As  day  broke  we  got 
into  the  creek.  We  never  once  thought  about  its  being  swollen  by  the 
rain.  Tt  was  so  funny !  The  old  buggy  upset  right  in  the  middle. 
Away  went  my  bag  and  ever3rthing  I  had  in  the  world :  his  went  too. 
That's  the  reason  we  haven't  changed.  He  hasn't  got  anything  to  put 
on,  you  see,  and  I  won't  put  on  any  of  ma's  things  and  be  dry  and  com- 
fortable when  he  has  to  stay  wet" 

*^  How  did  you  get  out  of  the  creek  ? "  I  asked,  not  able  to  be  as  seri- 
ous as  I  had  hoped. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "  except  that  we  let  the  old  horse  and  buggy 
go,  and  scrambled  out  somehow.  I  made  a  grab  for  him  with  one  hand, 
and  for  the  brush  with  the  other.  All  /  cared  for  was  to  get  out  on  the 
side  farthest  from  home.  We  climbed  out  some  way.  It  was  there  they 
caught  us.  Our  clothes  were  so  muddy  and  heavy  we  could  not  run  to 
save  our  lives — could  not  even  fight.  That  is  the  way  they  bundled  us 
in  and  brought  us  back.  You  all  never  would  have  seen  us  again  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  creek." 

*'  But  Sylvia,"  I  said  as  gravely  as  I  could,  **  do  you  not  know  that  you 
are  too  young  to  marry  ? " 

'^  Ma  was  six  months  younger,"  she  interrupted. 

"  But  for  you  to  run  away  " — I  began. 

"  She  ran  away,"  the  daughter  replied  promptly.  "  She  got  out  over  a 
shed,  just  as  I  did,  and  at  midnight  too.     Only,  she  was  not  caught." 

''  But  that  is  no  reason,"  I  insisted.  **  She  is  your  mother,  and  it  is 
your  duty  to  obey  her." 

As  I  spoke  I  noticed  that  the  girl  had  ceased  to  pass  her  long  and 
abundant  hair  through  her  hands,  first  over  one  shoulder  and  then  over 
the  other.  Her  lips  slightly  opened,  she  looked  at  me  with  her  eyes 
suddenly  filled  with  sorrowful  wonder,  her  pale  cheek  became  pallid. 
^'  You  do  not  know  my  mother,  sir,"  she  said  slowly  and  after  a  short 


CURIOUS  COUPLES.  65 

silence.  "  The  best  thing  any  child  of  hers  can  do,  a  daughter  especially, 
is  to  get  out  of  her  house  as  soon  as  possible." 

There  was  something  wholly  beyond  questioning,  as  much  in  the  sad 
and  hopeless  manner  of  the  girl  as  in  her  words,  and  she  sat  down,  drip- 
ping and  soiled  as  she  was,  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  and  began  to  cry. 
As  I  pondered  the  matter,  she  raised  her  head  and  said,  with  a  kind  of 
childish  dignity  in  her  bearing,  "  The  best  thing  you  can  do,  sir,  is  to 
marry  us.  He  has  got  the  license ;  I  had  it  got  for  him.  If  you  don't 
we  will  run  away  the  first  chance  we  get.  If  I  don't  go  with  him  it  will 
be  with  somebody  else.  It  may  be  something  worse  a  good  deal  than 
getting  married.  Yes,  sir,  I  think  you  had  better  marry  us ; "  and  she 
sat  like  a  child  with  her  hands  clasped  together  in  her  lap,  awaiting  my 
dedsion. 

I  was  a  very  young  man-~for  a  pastor  at  least — at  that  time,  and  I 
saw  nothing  else  to  do  myself.  *'  Miss  Sylvia,''  I  said  with  the  deepest 
solemnity  I  could  assume,  "  it  is  a  very  serious  thing  to  get  married. 
Do  you  really  love  this  young  man  )  Will  you  try  and  be  a  good  and 
faiUiful  wife  to  him  t  What  I  mean  is  this  :  Do  you — now  don't  be  in 
too  great  a  hurry  to  answer-~do  you  really  and  sincerely  and  truly  love 
himr' 

She  listened  to  me  very  seriously.  A  smile  came,  and  then  went. 
She  wept  a  little,  and  then  laughed,  and  then  looked  at  me  through  her 
tears.     **  Yes,  sir,  I  love  him,"  she  said  simply. 

And  so  I  called  in  the  waiting  mother.  The  bridegroom  was  ushered 
in.  From  the  rear  premises  crowded  iu  the  negro  servants  and  stood 
in  the  doorway  while  I  married  this  curious  couple.  If  ever  a  minister 
urged  upon  bride  and  groom  their  duties  fully  and  faithfully,  I  did. 
When  I  had  ended  with  the  usual  benediction  over  their  bowed  heads, 
I  suddenly  kissed  her  as  I  wished  her  happiuess,  but  I  had  no  thought 
of  doing  so  the  instant  before.  She  was  such  a  child,  and  her  chance 
of  future  happiness  was  so  pitiful !  I  never  saw  them  again.  The 
young  husband  took  his  wife  far  away — I  never  knew  where.  If  the 
blood  of  her  mother  was  not  too  strong  in  her  veins,  she  may  have  made 
him  an  exceUent  wife. 

The  worst  thing,  to  me,  in  regard  to  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Caulfield  and 
their  singular  household  is  the  dead  failure  in  reference  to  them  of  my 
church  and  myself.  Every  soul  of  them  passed  out  of  our  hands  and 
utterly  away.  From  all  I  know,  I  fear  the  record  got  worse  and  worse 
with  them  as  the  years  fled.  I  hope  not,  but  I  greatly  fear.  Heaven 
forgive  us  !  it  was  our  fault.  I  am  sure  we  could  have  grasped  and 
held,  perhaps,  every  individual  of  them  if  we  had  fearlessly  and  earnest- 
ly and  vigorously  done  our  best,  instead  of  being  so  miserably  shy  and 

£utidiou8  about  it.     There  has  been,  thank  God,  a  wonderful  change 
5 


66  CURIOUS  COUPLES. 

for  the  better  since  then.  You  could  not  have  induced  the  ladies  of  my 
church  at  that  time  to  visit  and  seek  to  acquire  a  pcnonal  influence  over 
Mrs.  Gaulfield :  it  was  with  a  shudder  tiiat  tiiey  iBven  looked  at  her. 
We  are  learning,  as  we  get  to  be  man  like  the  Master,  better  than  that. 
But  oh  for  the  coming  day  when  every  man  and  woman  of  us  will  lay 
such  loving  hold  upon*  even  the  vilest  and  most  hopeless  within  our 
reach — soeii  unrelazing  hold  as  upon  the  perishing — ^that  nothing  less 
than  God  himself  in  the  person  of  the  angel  of  death  shall  wrest.such 
from  us,  nor  wrest  them  then  except  to  lift  them  from  our  hands  into 
those  of  the  angels  in  heaven ! 

III. 

I  ONCE  knew  a  wealthy  widow  whose  large  plantation  and  swarms  of 
negroes  did  not  give  occasion  for  half  so  much  attention  and  trouble  as 
her  only  daughter,  Kate.  The  mother  was  a  vigorous  specimen  of  her 
sex,  broad  and  ruddy,  used  to  being  up  early  in  the  mornings,  with  a 
voice  which  could  be  heard  and  felt  from  *'  the  gr't  house,"  as  the  man- 
sion of  the  white  folks  was  called,  to  the  "  quarters  *'  where  the  blacks 
lived.  It  was  little  her  slaves  cared  for  their  overseer  in  comparison. 
For  '^  ole  Miss  Kate  '* — the  mother's  name  being  the  same  as  the  daugh- 
ter's— they  did  care.  She  was  the  highest  ideal  of  energy  of  which  they 
could  form  any  conception,  and  of  sleepless  watch  also,  so  feu*  as  smoke- 
house, corn-crib,  poultry-yard,  cotton-gin,  press  or  field  was  concerned. 
Pallas  Athene  was  a  vaporous  phantom  to  the  Athenians  as  a  tutelary 
deity  in  comparison  to  Mrs.  Byle  in  the  eyes  of  her  subjects.  She  was 
their  superstition.  If  she  did  not  see  everything,  know  everything, 
hear  everything,  do  everything  on  the  plantation,  it  was  impossible  for 
Uie  whitest-headed  old  Cndjo  on  the  place  to  suggest  the  exception. 
Never  sick  herself,  never  off  the  grounds,  apparently  never  asleep,  she 
worked  harder  than  the  hardest  worked  hand  there,  and  always  harder 
than  ''  the  smartest  boy ''  of  them  all  in  '*  the  rush  of  the  season,''  when 
the  last  handful  of  cotton  was  to  be  got  in  and  the  last  bale  of  the  crop 
to  be  pressed.  She  was  present  at  every  birth  among  the  blacks,  doc- 
tored all  their  sick,  cut  and  had  made  under  their  own  eyes  all  their 
clothes,  saw  in  person  to  all  their  food,  directed  the  least  details  of  every 
funeral  Any  idea  of  a  Providence  beyond  "  ole  Miss  Kate  "  on  their 
part  was  vague  to  the  last  degree. 

But  Kate  the  daughter — and  she  had  no  son — was  ten  times  the 
trouble  to  her  of  all  her  place  and  people.  At  eighteen  the  lesser  Kate 
gave  assurance  of  filling  up  in  fullest  measure  and  in  due  time  the 
utmost  outlines  of  the  older  and  larger  Elate.  It  was  her  having  neither 
husband  nor  son  to  do  it  for  her  which  had  so  developed  the  mother. 


CURIOUS  COUPLES.  67 

compelled  to  manage  her  large  property  herself.  Now,  Kate  the  younger 
had  gradually  secured  to  herself  the  exclusive  care  of  so  much  of  the 
possessions  of  her  mother  as  came  under  the  head  of  "  the  stock.''  A 
serious  charge  it  was,  requiring  and  wonderfully  developing  all  the 
energies  of  this  duplicate  of  her  motiier.  The  plantation  rolled  its  acres 
upon  one  side  along  a  **  river-bottom/'  the  waxy  black  soil  of  inex- 
faaq/stible  fertility  for  cotton  and  com  wherever  the  pecan  trees,  with 
their  waggon-load  of  nuts  in  the  season,  had  been  girdled  or  cut  down 
for  the  crops.  On  the  other  side  of  the  "  gr't  house,"  which  stood  upon 
a  ridge  above  chills  and  fever,  the  surface  spread  in  billows  as  of  the 
heaving  sea  to  the  horizon,  one  wide  wealth  of  the  sweetest  and  richest 
mesquet-grass,  over  which  roamed  at  will  the  horses  and  cattle.  This 
was  the  undisputed  domain  of  Rate  Kyle  the  younger.  Every  spring 
she  saw  to  the  ingathering  and  branding  of  the  calves  and  colts,  hun- 
dreds at  a  time.  The  milking  and  making  of  butter  and  cheese  at  the 
spring-house,  where  water  was  abundant, were  her  care.  All  this  de- 
manded early  rising,  to  say  nothing  of  being  almost  always  in  the  saddle 
and  on  "  the  lope  " — i,  0.,  a  long  gallop— over  the  prairies  after  wilful 
cows  or  wandering  mares  and  colts.  Very  little  time  had  Miss  Kate 
for  French  or  novels.  She  had  a  piano,  but  did  not  open  it  once  a 
month.  Her  knowledge  of  crocheting  was  as  vague  as  the  dates  in  his- 
tory, but  then  she  was  a  splendid  sight  to  see  on  horseback  with  her 
floating  hair  and  glowing  cheeks  and  radiant  eyes ;  for  oh  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  so  delightful  as  the  open  air  and  the  green  grass 
and  the  swift  riding  of  that  Paradise  of  a  climate. 

But  Satan  entered  into  this  Paradise  also.  Tom  Baffles  was  the  son 
of  a  neighbouring  planter.  Seeing  what  came  of  it  in  the  end,  I  do  not 
know  how  it  could  have  been  helped.  The  growing  of  the  grass;  the 
frisking  of  the  calves,  the  wild  careering  of  the  colts  with  flying  manes 
and  tails  in  the  exhilarating  sun  and  wind,  was  not  more  an  inevitable 
process  of  Nature.  Having  to  care  for  his  stock,  very  often  obliged  to 
separate  his  and  hers  when  their  "  brands  "  got  mixed  up  on  the  open 
prairies,  it  was  impossible  that  Tom  and  Rate  should  not  often  meet, 
and  meeting  it  was  impossible  they  should  not  have  loved.  The  bril- 
liant atmosphere  made  it  wholly  impossible  that  their  spirits  should  not 
have  foamed  and  sparkled  in  it  like  champagne :  being  so  happy  to- 
gether, very  often  loping  side  by  side  in  search  of  strayed  cattle  too,  it 
was  utterly  impossible,  I  insist,  that  what  followed  should  not  have  fol- 
lowed. Rate  herself  told  me  all  about  it.  *'  How  could  Tom  help  our 
men  marrying  among  his  women  f "  she  said  to  me.  *'  Mother  got  mad, 
because  she  hated  to  have  our  hands  going  off  to  their  wives'  houses  on 
his  place ;  but  I  wonder  if  their  men  were  not  coming  to  their  wives' 
houses  on  our  place  f    Mother  told  Tom  he  must  stop  it,  but  how  could 


68  CURIOUS  COUPLES. 

he  1  She  has  got  so  used  to  telling  the  people  on  our  plantatioD  what 
they  must  and  must  not  do,  and  heing  minded,  that  she  thinks  the  stars 
must  do  as  she  says." 

And  that  was  the  way  Kate  happened  to  spend  those  three  winter 
months  with  us.  We  lived  in  a  town  a  day's  journey  distant  from  the 
plantation,  and  had  spent  many  a  delightful  day  under  Mrs.  Ryle's  hos- 
pitable roof ;  and  without  a  word  to  us  she  sent  Kate  to  be  our  ^uest, 
so  as  to  get  her  away  from  Tom.  It  is  amazing  to  me  that  so  sensible 
a  woman  should  have  b^n  so  stupid.  True,  Tom  never  entered  the 
house,  but  thea  I  got  letters  for  her  all  the  time  out  of  the  office ', 
and  why  Kate  was  so  fond  of  long  walks  almost  every  afternoon  I  never 
knew,  beyond  her  telling  me  that  she  was  so  accustomed  to  exercise  in 
the  open  air  that  if  she  did  not  go  out  she  would  die.  I  have  an  im- 
pression that  the  mother  thought  that  my  being  a  minister  was  a  remedy 
for  her  daughter's  malady — that  there  was  a  seriousness  as  in  the  very 
atmosphere  of  my  house  which  would  stifle  all  vain  desires  on  the  part 
of  her  wayward  offspring. 

When  the  sagacious  mother  supposed  Kate'^s  affection  for  her  objec- 
tionable suitor  was  cured  by  such  separation,  she  wrote  for  her  to  return, 
and  to  me,  telling  me  how  heartily  she  was  obliged  for  the  hospitality 
on  my  part  which  had  broken  off  her  daughter's  love  for  ''  that  abomin- 
able Tom  Baffles." 

Kate  left  us  on  Monday.  Saturday  evening  she  was  back  at  our  house 
— ^n  horseback  this  time — ^and  Tom  with  her.  They  fastened  their 
horses  down  at  the  front  gate,  but  I  saw  them,  and  made  up  my  mind, 
as  they  walked  up  between  the  rows  of  cactus-plants  to  our  door,  I 
would  not  do  it. 

^'  This  is  Mr.  Tom  Baffles,"  Kate  said,  introducing  him,  a  roughs 
honest-faced  fellow  enough  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  which  always  deform 
men  of  his  bronzed  and  muscular  sort. 

"  I  see  he  is,"  I  said  promptly ;  "  but,  Kate,  I  cannot  do  it.  Your 
mother  trusted  me,  and  I  will  not  do  it.  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you, 
but  I  will  not." 

"  Who  wanted  you  to  1 "  she  said  [as  promptly ;  and  added,  "  Oh^ 
Tom  !  but  wasn't  it  funny  1 "  and  as  she  coolly  took  off  her  things  she 
laughed  as  people  never  laugh  who  have  not  lived  in  the  open  air. — **  I 
thought  I  should  have  died,"  she  explained,  for  Tom  was  evidently  to  be 
the  secondary  person  of  this  curious  couple.  **  It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
sit  on  my  horse.    There  she  is  now. — Bun  and  help  her  out,  Tom." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  the  roll  of  wheels  at  our  gate,  and  before  Tom, 
who  was  in  no  hurry  about  it,  could  go,  Mrs.  Byle  the  mother  ran  into 
the  room,  panting  and  out  of  breath,  exclaiming,  *'  Hold  on !  stop  ! 
don't  you  do  it^  sir  I  They've  run  away.  I'll  never  consent :  she  isn't 
of  age." 


i 


CURIOUS  COUPLES.  69 

"  I  have  just  assured  them  that  I  will  not,"  I  hastened  to  say  as  Mrs. 
Ryle  laid  her  large  and  eager  hands,  one  on  each  of  my  shoulders  and 
pushed  me  back.  What  a  magnificent  woman  she  was  ! — expanded,  as 
Queen  Elizabeth  was,  by  so  many  years  of  absolute  rule  into  as  power- 
ful a  female  in  every  sense  as  you  would  wish  to  meet.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  in  a  few  years  her  daughter  would  equal  her  in  every  way  :  she 
was  her  mother's  own  child. 

"  We  don't  want  him  to,"  she  said,  and  added,  "  Oh,  but  I  thought  I 
should  have  died !  *' 

"  Come,"  her  mother  said  to  the  gentleman  who  had  accompanied  her 
daughter,  "  you  go  away.  A  nice  neighbour  you  are,  to  let  your  women 
marry  my  men,  and  toll  them  off  my  plantation  that  way,  as  if  they 
could  be  back  by  daybreak  in  time  for  the  cotton-patch  I  And  sow 
you  want  to  steal  Kate  I    No,  sir !    Go  away  I " 

^'  It  almost  killed  me,"  the  daughter  continued,  laughing  until  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheek.  "  Do  hush,  ma,  one  moment  You  see,  she 
would  find  out.  Oh,  we  know  that,"  the  audacious  young  lady  explained 
to  the  company.  '<  We  knew  mother,  and  so  we  fixed  for  it  Tom  had 
the  license  in  his  breast-pocket,  all  ready.  When  we  started  on  horse- 
back we  knew  she  would  be  after  us  in  her  buggy.  Her  horse  is  the 
best,  and  the  road  is  splendid.  But  we  knew  Mr.  Lobbin  would  be  rid- 
ing out  to  his  Sunday  appointment — he  is  the  circuit  preacher,  you 
know — as  regular  as  a  clock.'' 

I  did  not  know,  but  her  mother  did,  and  exclaimed  aloud,  turning 
from  crimson  to  chalk  as  she  did  so. 

"  It  was  the  funniest  thing !  "  the  young  lady  went  on.  "  We  could 
hear  her  wheels  rattling  behind.  Tom  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Sure 
enough,  as  we  loped  along,  there  was  old  Brother  Lobbin  jogging  along 
toward  us  on  hi3  old  white  horse.  The  first  thing  you  know,  Tom  had 
his  bridle  on  one  side  and  I  on  the  other,  the  old  man  whirled  around, 
and  his  horse  galloping  between  us.  I  can  talk  faster  than  Tom,  and 
explained  it  to  him  as  we  went.  Tom  managed  to  get  out  his  docu- 
ment and  unfold  it  for  the  old  man  to  read  as  we  tore  along.  You  see,*' 
the  girl  laughed,  "  we  held  tight  on  to  the  old  gray  as  we  rode.  Some- 
times Tom  would  let  go  to  give  him  a  cut  with  his  raw-hide,  and  then 
again  I  would.  We  had  whirled  Brother  Lobbin  around  so  suddenly, 
and  were  going  so  fast,  that  he  got  confused.  He  is  never  very  bright, 
you  know,  if  he  is  good.  Tom  showed  him  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece, 
and  slipped  it  in  the  old  man's  vest  pocket  as  we  galloped  up  hill  and 
down,  for  the  wheels  were  rattling  close  behind  us.  And  that  was  all, 
and  here  we  are !  " 

"  You  see  he  married  us,"  Tom  explained. 

**  I  could  hardly  keep  on  my  horse,"  the  exuberant  young  lady  broke 


70  CURIOUS  COUPLiS. 

in.  "  Brother  Lobbin  had  never  gone  so  fast,  nor  his  horse  either,  in  his 
life.  *  Dost — thou — take — this — woman  ? "  he  said,  every  word  jerked 
out  of  him  as  you  see  Kershaw  pumpkins  out  of  a  waggon  when  the 
team  is  running  away.  We  were  quick  to  say  '  Tes '  when  the  time 
came.  But  he  wouldn't  make  a  prayer  for  us  at  the  end :  he  said  it 
would  be  wicked  to  pray  loping.  But  we  are  married,  and  we  let  him 
go  as  we  came  into  town.  It's  all  too  funny  for  you  to  stay  mad  with 
us,  mother.  We'll  make  the  best  children  in  the  world — won't  we  Tom  ? 
Both  plantations  will  be  one  now,  mother,  and  the  black  folks  can  marry 
as  they  please.*' 

The  bride's  laughter  subsided,  however,  as  her  mother  turned,  went 
down  to  her  buggy,  got  in  and  drove  off  without  a  word.  Nothing  I 
could  say,  as  I  assisted  her  in,  seemed  to  be  even  heard  by  her.  The 
young  people  rode  back  the  next  day  to  Tom's  plantation,  but  it  was 
many  a  long  month  before  the  mother  relented.  My  own  impression  is 
that  a  bouncing  baby  boy  was  the  intercessor  at  last.  All  \b  made  up 
now.  Tom  has  his  hands  full  with  the  two  plantations,  and  the  emanci- 
pation of  the  slaves  has  by  no  means  simplified  the  management  thereof. 
He  is  his  own  overseer,  however,  and  he  certainly  has  able  assistants  in 
his  mother-in-law  and  wife. 

As  I  did  not  myself  marry  this  couple,  I  cannot  with  good  conscience 
claim  it  as  an  experience  of  my  own,  except  as  preface  to  the  other  side 
of  the  medal  in  this  way.  I  have  recorded  the  running  away  of  a 
daughter  from  her  mother  :  one  day  it  was  the  mother  who  ran  away 
from  the  daughter. 

**  I  want  you  to  marry  us,"  an  ordinary-looking  man  said  when  I  went 
to  my  front  door  one  afternoon  in  reply  to  a  demand  for  my  presence ; 
''  and  there  is  the  license,"  he  added. 

"  With  pleasure,"  I  replied.  **  Please  bring  in  the  lady,"  for  I  saw 
that  he  wished  to  be  married  on  the  spot,  and  was  in  a  great  hnrry. 

**  She  can't  come  in,"  be  said ;  '*  she  came  a-horseback  with  me,  and 
we  are  in  a  desperate  haste.  Please  come  down — never  mind  your  hat 
— and  marry  us  on  our  horses.     You  see  we  are  in  siich  a  hurry." 

I  went  down  to  my  gate,  some  sixty  feet  from  the  front  door — for  we 
lived  in  the  suburbs  of  the  town — and,  sure  enough,  there  was  a  woman 
there  on  horseback  in  a  calico  dress  and  a  deep  sun-bonnet,  holding  her 
companion's  horse  by  the  bridle  as  he  got  on. 

"  I  will  not  marry  you  in  the  street,"  I  said.  ''  Ride  at  least  into  my 
yard ; "  and  I  went  in.  Now  there  was  a  hedge  of  bois  d'arc,  or  Osage 
orange,  along  my  front  fence  twenty  feet  high.  I  had  interwoven  the 
branches  over  the  gate,  so  that  we  had  to  stoop  in  entering  on  foot.  Of 
course  it  was  impossible  to  ride  on  horseback  through  the  close  and  thorny 
barrier,  and  I  went  up  to  the  house,  leaving  them  to  do  as  they  pleased. 


CURIOUS  COUPLES.  71 

Fastening  their  hones  very  rdactandy,  they  came  into  the  hoase.  I 
made  a  swift  ceremony  of  it.  The  bridegroom  forgot  to  pay  me  my  fee — 
which  was  perhaps  his  revenge  upon  me  for  my  obstinacy — and  mount- 
ing their  horses  they  were  soon  out  of  sight. 

Hardly  were  they  gone  before  a  yonng  girl  rode  np  on  a  pony  to  the 
gate,  jnmped  off  and  ran  in,  exclaiming  *^  Oh,  am  I  too  bite  1 " 

She  was  nothing  but  an  ordinary  country-girl,  not  at  all  pretty,  much 
freckled,  evidently  used  to  hard  work,  adorned  with  the  duplicate  of  the 
calico  dress  and  gingham  sun-bonnet  worn  by  her  mother.  The  ladies 
of  my  household  took  pity  on  the  poor  thing  as  she  sank  upon  the  mat- 
ting in  the  hall,  weeping  and  lamenting.  She  had  ridden  hard,  was  very 
dusty  and  thirsty,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  sympathise  with  her.  It 
was  easy  to  imagine  her  story  before  she  told  it :  *^  My  mother  is  a  poor 
sickly  woman.  She  is  almost  worked  to  death  already  since  father  died,'* 
she  sobbed.  ''  We  live  out  along  the  road  on  a  little  place — ^keep  chick- 
ens and  things.  Why,  there's  a  little  baby  in  the  cradle  not  a  year  old 
Bub  we  call  him — and  there's  four  more  of  us,  all  girls ! " 

**  What  on  earth  did  the  man  want  to  marry  her  for  t "  one  of  my 
family  asked,  for  we  saw  that  they  all  belonged  to  the  class  known  as 
"  poor  white  folks,''  with  whom  even  the  negroes  had  as  little  to  do,  ex- 
cept to  sell  stolen  chickens  to  them  for  whiskey,  as  possible.  "  What 
inducement — what  did  the  man  want  f  "  was  asked. 

"  He  wanted  her  to  teork  for  him.  He  has  got  no  nigger,  and  that 
was  the  only  way  he  could  get  one,"  was  the  reply.  **  You  see,  he  lives 
near  us,"  the  poor  girl  proceeded,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  as  she  sat 
on  the  floor,  and  already  sunk  into  the  stony  sorrow  which  seemed  to 
be  her  normal  condition,  ''  and  he  worked  his  other  wife  to  death  not 
six  months  ago— four  months.  There  he  was  with  six  little  children, 
and  he  the  laziest  man  that  ever  lived.  He's  too  lazy  to  patch  his  roof 
to  keep  out  the  water,  and  half  his  children  are  always  down  with  ague 
or  something.  The  weeds  is  higher  than  his  com.  All  he  cares  for  is 
a  patch  of  tobacco  in  a  comer  of  hia  place,  and  that  is  for  his  own 
smoking.  The  castor-oil  weeds  are  taller  than  his  chimney  almost,  and 
he  raises  goober-peas,  only  his  hogs  always  root  'em  up,  for  his  fence  is 
always  down.  He's  got  an  old  cow,  and  she  hooks,  and  he  wants  my 
mammy  to  milk  her  for  him,  I  suppose.  He's  the  meanest  white  man 
living  !  "  the  girl  added. 

"  But  why  did  you  not  persuade  your  mother — "  I  began. 

"  Beg  her  not,  you  mean  ? "  the  girl  said.  ^*  I  never  did  nothing  else. 
I  said, '  Oh,  mammy,  mammy  I  please  don't !  Look  at  poor  little  Bub. 
All  he  wants— old  Parens,  they  call  him — is  to  make  a  nigger  of  you. 
B^  1  I've  been  down  at  her  knees  crying  and  begging  all  this  last  week. 
And  she  is  such  a  good,  good  mother  1  such  a  hard,  hard  working  woman 


72  WONDER. 

when  her  ague  will  let  her  !  /  knew  what  he  meant  when  I  saw  them 
horses  hitched  to  his  fence  this  morning.  But,  you  see,  little  Bab  was 
having  the  fever  after  his  chill — was  cr3ring  for  water.  '  You  run  to  the 
spring,  Marthy/  she  said  to  me — mammy  says,  says  she — '  and  I'll  quiet 
Bub  till  you  come  back.'  I  ran  every  step  of  the  way  there  and  back, 
never  thinking ;  but  when  I  come  back  she  was  gone !  Bub  was  crying 
fit  to  kill ;  but  I  catched  up  Bill — that's  our  pony — in  the  stubble-field, 
and  I  jumped  on,  and  I  hollered  to  a  neighbour  as  I  rode  by,  'Please  to 
run  over  for  a  moment  to  Bub  ! '  and  I  rode  as  hard  as  I  could.  What 
did  you  do  it  for  ? "  she  said  to  me  with  sudden  ferocity.  *'  You  might 
ha'  known  better  I — No,  I  won't  have  anything  to  eat  under  this  here 
roof.  I  want  to  get  back  to  little  Bub.     And  you  a  minister  too !  " 

''  Ah  me ! "  I  thought  as  she  mounted  her  poor  scrub  of  a  pony  and 
rode  wearily  off,  '^  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  feel  after  a  marriage  as 
Jack  Kefcch  feels,  or  ought  to  feel,  after  an  execution  ;  and  I  am  a&aid 
it  will  not  be  the  last  time  I  feel  so."  W.  M.  B. 


3: 


WONDER. 

O  ait  and  look  straight  up  into  the  sky, 
When  not  a  cloud  doth  spot  its  perfect  blue, 

O  look  straight  up,  and  wisely  tell  me  why 
No  human  hand  can  paint  its  lovely  hue  1 

O  gaze  so  long  and  well  that  phantoms  fair 

Shall  float  their  gauzy  robes  above  your  head. 
And  tell  me  are  those  living  pageants  there 

The  hoVring  spirits  of  our  parent  dead  ? 
Or  are  they  pictures  by  an  angel  hand, 

Traced  upon  some  soft  ethereal  veil, 
And  keeping  from  our  view  the  Shepherd  Land, 

As  in  the  vastneas  of  the  sky  they  sail  ? 

O  pierce  the  deepening  twilight's  deeper  hue, 
And  tell  me,  are  those  myriad  bits  of  gold 

The  glorious  lights  of  Heaven  shining  through, 
The  providential  tatters  of  its  fold  ? 

Netoccuile, 


73 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

THE    WAR     WAS     AN     IMPERIAL     ONE — CANADIAN    VETERANS    DENIED 

RECOGNITION — ^ACTION    OF    THE  CANADIAN  GOVERNMENT— ESTAB- 

LISHING  CLAIMS — APPEARANCE      OF     THE     VETERANS — HERMANN 

CRYSLEB. 

BY   DR.   CANNIFF. 

The  war  of  1812  was  not  merely  a  Colonial  affair ;  it  was  one  arising 
entirely  from  the  course  pursued  by  the  Imperial  Government.  It  has 
been  shown  in  another  place  that  the  United  States  was  not  justified  in 
declaring  war  against  Great  Britain,  and  that  a  cause  of  war  was  sought 
by  that  nation  solely  with  the  object  of  gaining  possession  of  Canada: 
Unfortunately  Great  Britain  furnished  reasons  upon  which  were  made 
to  rest  the  ostensible  cause ;  but  these  reasons  were  quite  independent 
of  any  question  relating  to  Canada.  Canadians  fought  and  suffered  on 
behalf  of  their  own  country,  but,  at  the  same  time,  they  were  engaged 
in  a  contest  essentially  Imperial ;  they  were  fighting  England's  battles. 
In  the  light  of  these  facts  it  would  seem  but  reasonable  that  England 
should  recognise  the  services  of  those  who  served  her  as  militia-men,  as 
well  as  those  enrolled  in  the  regular  service.  She  was  at  that  very  time 
paying  mercenaries,  for  far  less  hearty  services.  Upon  this  question  we 
are  not  informed  what  representations  the  Canadian  Government  has 
^er  made  to  the  Imperial  on  behalf  of  Canadian  veterans,  but  from  the 
following  letter  by  the  Commissioners  of  Chelsea  Hospital,  it  appears 
that  individual  claims  have  been  made.  The  letter,  dated  Sept.  10th, 
1874,  is  as  follows  : 

**  Sib,— I  am  directed  by  the  Lords  and  others,  Commissioners  of  this  Hospital,  to 
admowledge  the  receipt  of  your  letter  of  the  13th  ultimo,  relative  to  claim  to  pension 
from  Imperial  funds  proceeding  from  men  who  served  prior  to  the  year  1815,  in  Corps 
of  Canadian  Militia  and  Volunteers,  and  to  inform  you  that,  having  obtained  the  advice 
of  her  Majestjr's  Secretary  of  State  for  War  as  to  the  bearing  of  her  warrant  of  2lBt 
February  last  on  cases  of  this  nature,  the  Conmussioners  find  that  the  warrant  was 
intended  to  apply  solefy  to  service  in  the  Regular  Forces  of  the  Crown.  They  regret, 
therefore,  that  they  must  decline  to  extend  the  benefits  of  this  Hospital  to  any  men  who 
served  exclusively  in  local  Canadian  Forces,  and  they  request  that  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  make  this  decision  known  to  aU  persons  who  may  apply  to  you  for  informa- 
tion on  this  subject.  With  regard  to  the  numerous  applications  which  have  already 
reached  this  office  from  men  of  this  class,  the  Commissioners  will  cause  a  separate  reply 
to  be  sent  to  each,  explaining  the  grounds  on  which  they  are  obliged  to  refuse  a  pension. 
These  replies  will  be  forwarded  to  the  private  addresses  of  the  applicants,  when  shown 
in  their  papers,  but  as  in  many  instances  they  have  omitted  to  give  an  address,  replies 
to  such  men  will  be  sent  to  your  office  in  the  hope  that  you  may  be  able  to  send  them  to 
tikeir  destination. 


74  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

*'  The  Commismonen  desire  me  to  add,  to  save  misapprehension,  that,  prior  to  the 
date  of  the  decision  of  the  Secretary  of  State  for  War,  they  inadvertently  admitted  to 
the  Pension  List  one  man  who  served  in  the  Militia  of  Canada  and  never  belonged  to- 
the  Reguhyr  Forces  of  the  Crown. 
"  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir,  yoor  most  obedient  servant, 

[Signed.]  "  GEORGE  HUTT, 

"  Secretary. 
"  The  Deputy  of  the  Minister  of  Militia  and  Defence,  Ottawa." 

No  Act  of  Parliament  in  Canada  was  ever  so  cordially  endorsed  by  the 
whole  country  as  that  granting  a  pension  to  the  veterans  of  1812  ;  and 
the  expectations  of  those  immediately  concerned  were  very  much  higher 
than  the  result  justified.  We  are  informed  by  Lieutenant  Governor 
Macdonald  in  an  address  by  him  to  the  veterans  at  Toronto,  as  reported 
in  the  Toronto  Mail,  that  **  he  might  say,  without  revealing  any  Cabinet 
secret,  that  when  he  had  the  honour  of  being  a  member  of  the  Grovem- 
ment,  he  was  the  member  of  it  to  propose  that  the  veterans  of  1812 
should  be  remembered  in  this  way,  and  he  was  very  glad  to  tell  them 
that  he  had  the  support  on  that  occasion  of  every  one  of  his  colleagues. 
He  was  only  sorry  the  amount  voted  for  the  veterans  was  so  small ;  but 
at  the  time  the  grant  was  made  the  returns  indicated  that  there  were 
only  between  five  and  seven  hundred  of  the  veterans  of  1812  living. 
He  was  far  from  regretting  that  so  many  veterans  were  still  living ;  he 
hoped  they  would  still  live  long  as  an  example  to  the  youth  of  the 
country,  and  that  the  Grovemment  would  not  forget  to  increase  the  grant 
to  them  next  session,  so  that  the  amount  they  receive  might  be  doubled 
or  trebled.'* 

After  the  passing  of  the  Act  immediate  steps  were  taken  to  obtain  in- 
formation as  to  the  numbers,  and  to  identify  each  ot  them.  It  was 
thought  that  this  could  be  accomplished  by  correspondence  ;  but  it  was 
finally  found  necessary,  in  order  to  become  satisfied  of  the  legitimateness 
of  the  claimant,  to  make  a  personal  examination  of  their  cases.  The 
following  formed  the  basis  upon  which  the  right  to  a  pension  was  estab- 
lished : 

1.  A  satisfactory  comparison  of  their  own  declaration  with  the  official 
documents  on  record  in  the  Militia  department  at  Ottawa  ; 

2.  The  appearance  of  their  name  on  the  list  of  those  who  were  awarded 
land  grants  for  their  services  during  the  war  of  1812-15  ; 

3.  A  solemn  declaration  of  identity  from  the  applicant ; 

4.  A  solemn  declaration  of  services  and  personal  identity  from  another 
veteran,  or  other  person  who  had  personal  knowledge  of  his  services  in 
1812-16. 

With  a  view  of  assisting  such  of  the  applicants  who  could  not  by 
themselves  furnish  that  indispensable  information,  two  officers  of  the 
militia  department  were  detailed  to  visit  and  examine  personally  the 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAB  OF  1812.  75- 

parties  interested.  Lieut-Colonel  John  Macpherson  visited  the  Pro- 
vince of  Ontario,  and  the  Deputy  Minister,  C.  E.  Panet,  of  the  Province 
of  Quebec.  By  mustering  the  veterans  in  groups  from  thirty  to  sixty,, 
according  to  their  number  within  a  certain  limit,  great  facilities  have 
been  afforded  for  the  settlement  of  their  claims.  I  must  say  that  this 
system  worked  in  a  most  satisfactory  manner.  A  great  number  of  those- 
who  could  not  at  first  justify  by  their  own  account  of  the  legitimacy  of 
Uieir  claim,  but  who  had  nevertheless  served  under  arms,  were  thus  put 
in  a  position  to  substantiate  their  declaration. — (Official  Report). 

The  assembling  of  the  veterans  at  the  several  appointed  places  was 
attended  with  no  ordinary  interest  not  only  to  themselves  but  to  the 
several  communities.  Many  incidents  of  a  stirring  and  touching  nature 
attended  these  conventions.  Loss  of  memory  and  the  general  failing 
powers  of  nature  sometimes  made  it  difficult  for  some  to  give  at  once 
direct  and  satisfactory  answers  to  the  questions  submitted.  Many  others 
retained  the  most  vivid  recollections  of  all  the  circumstances  of  the  war 
80  far  as  their  own  experience  went ;  and  they  often  manifested  particu- 
lar delight  in  recounting  their  adventures  and  those  of  their  company 
and  commanders,  their  escapes  and  also  their  escapades.  Now  and  then 
gray-haired  or  bald  men  met,  who  had  not  seen  each  other  since  their 
company  was  disbanded,  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  when  the  head 
was  clothed  with  luxurious  hair  and  the  cheek  was  destitute  of  even  an 
incipient  beard.  The  recognitions  and  hand-shakings  were  extremely 
hearty.  Incidents  of  the  far  away  past,  some  amusing,  some  sad,  were- 
revived,  and  often  old  jokes  recited.  It  was  a  matter  of  observation  at 
the  time  in  every  place,  that  so  many  remained  hale,  hearty  and  vigor- 
ous ;  strong  ip  mind  and  muscle.  One,  for  instance,  was  described  as  be- 
ing ''  as  spry  as  a  kitten,''  and  in  Niagara  District  ^*  one  sprightly  lad  of 
ninety-five  treated  the  onlookers  to  a  hornpipe  in  the  public  hall,  and 
declared  himself  as  good  as  two  men  yet."  In  some  cases,  exhilarated 
by  the  presence  of  old  comrades,  and  inspired  by  the  occasion,  they 
would,  after  recounting  their  exploits,  declare  themselves  "  ready  to  turn 
out  again  to  fight  Yankee  Doodle.''  On  the  other  hand,  some  were  des- 
titute of  eyesight,  some  of  hearing,  some  of  both.  Some  were  palsied 
or  bent  with  rheumatism  and  age  3  or  could  hardly  move  their  feeble 
limbs.  Great  attention  was  invariably  shown  at  each  place  of  meeting, . 
at  least  in  Upper  Canada,  to  the  aged  heroes,  by  all  classes  of  the  com- 
munity. In  some  places  they  were  regaled  with  a  sumptuous  repast^ 
and  everywhere  kindly  addresses  were  made  to  theui  by  local  distin- 
guished persons.  Too  much  cannot  be  said  for  the  gallanc  colonel  who 
conducted  the  examination  of  the  claimants,  for  his  earnest  desire  to  do 
justice,  his  agreeable  way  and  pleasant  words,  all  of  which  were  much 
appreciated  by  the  veterans. 


76  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

We  have  stated  that  a  few,  no  doubt  with  a  perfect  right  to  it,  had 
failed  to  obtain  the  pension.  To  one  such  we  will  now  refer.  The  thea- 
tre of  his  life  has  been  cast  upon  historic  ground,  near  by  the  grandly 
rushing  Niagara,  which  was  the  scene  of  many  of  the  events  of  the  war. 
The  words  we  give  are  those  of  Hermann  Crysler,  of  Clifton.  They 
were  uttered  on  the  auspicious  occasion  of  a  golden  wedding,  celebrated 
on  the  5th  October,  1875.  After  dinner  Mr.  Crysler  addressed  his 
wife  Edna,  daughter  of  Haggar  Cook,  and  among  much  that  was  touch- 
ing, he  said  as  follows  : — 

**  Neither  of  us  can  trace  our  lineage  back  to  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror,  but 
we  know  that  our  fathers  were  honoured  and  respected ;  for  it  was  a  common  saying, 
*  If  Haggar  Cook  said  so  it  must  be  true ; '  and  my  father  bore  the  cognomen  of  '  Hon- 
est John  Crysler.*    And  we  know,  too,  Uiey  were  loyal  and  true  to  their  Sovereign. 
They  left  homes  of  wealth  and  affluence  to  come  and  live  in  the  forests  of  Canada ;  and 
it  is  only  the  first  pioneers  who  know  the  sufferings  and  privations  they  had  to  pass 
through.    Your  father  was  a  '  fine  old  English  gentleman.'    He  and  his  oldest  sons 
bore  arms  in  their  country's  defence.    My  father  was  a  sturdy  Grerman,  who  emigrated 
when  only  a  lad  with  his  father  (Baltus  Crysler)  to  America  in  1768,  and  settled  in  Sco- 
harie,  N.  Y.,  from  where  my  grandfather  joined  the  British  army  in  the  time  of  the 
Revolutionary  War,  leaving  my  father,  who  was  about  seventeen  years  of  age,  to  take 
care  of  home,  and  whom  the  rebels  tied  across  a  stumpand  whipped  unmercifully  to  force 
from  him  the  secret  of  his  father's  hiding-place ;  for  they  supposed  he  was  secreted  some* 
where  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  wished  to  capture  and  shoot  him,  as  he  was  known  to  be 
a  staunch  Loyalist.    I  remember  hearing  my  father  tell  how  his  mother  watched,  and 
wept,  and  waited  for  tidings  from  her  husband,  but  all  they  ever  learned  was  that  he 
had  reached  the  army  in  safety,  and  they  were  forced  to  conclude  he  had  died  on  the 
field  of  battle.    My  father  also  fought  for  his  adopted  Sovereign  in  the  war  of  1812.    I 
remember  hearing  him  tell  that  he  had  been  home  on  furlough  for  a  few  days,  and  was 
on  his  way  back  to  join  Captain  Fitzgibbon's  company,  then  at  Beaver  Dams,  when 
he  met  three  of  the  enemy,  armed  wiUi  pistols  and  swords.    One  of  them  levelled  his 
pistol  at  my  father's  head,  with  orders  to  lay  down  his  musket.    Now,  that  musket  my 
father  prized  very  highly,  for  it  was  one  he  captured  at  the  battle  of  Qil^nston,  where 
brave  Brock  lost  Us  life ;  so,  instead  of  laying  his  musket  down  he  placed  it  to  his 
shoulder,  and  in  a  voice  of  thunder  demanded  that  they  should  lay  down  their  anns 
and  march  on  before  him.    Seeing  he  was  deeply  in  earnest,  they  thought  prudence  pre- 
ferable to  valour,  and  obeyed  orders ;  and  thus  he  marched  them  into  camp.    One 
proved  to  be  a  British  subject,  and  was  shot  as  a  spy ;  the  other  two  were  Americans 
and  were  exchanged  prisoners.    Although  I  was  only  thirteen  years  of  age  at  the  time, 
I  wanted  father  to  give  me  a  gun  to  go  and  fight  the  '  Yankees '  too.    He  said,  '  No,  my 
boy ;  you  are  too  young  to  go  in  the  ranks ;  but  you  know  how  to  drive  my  horses,  and 
you  can  bring  on  food  and  anmiunition,  without  which  the  soldiers  could  not  fight ;  so 
that  if  you  are  not  reaUy  fighting  the  **  Yankees  "  you  wiU  be  helping  others  to  do  it, 
and  be  doing  a  British  subject's  duty.'    So  I  was  satisfied  to  fill  the  position  my  father 
gave  me,  alUiough  I  was  many  a  time  tired,  weary,  wet  and  cold,  and  the  enemy's  balls 
whistling  very  close,  sometimes  caused  me  to  think  how  comfortable  I  could  be  at  home. 
I  felt  my  country  required  my  services,  and  I  filled  that  position  all  through  the  war, 
and  I  know  I  have  as  good  a  right  and  title,  perhaps  better,  than  some  who  get  their 
pensions  as  being  veterans  of  1812,  while  my  claim  was  rejected.     I- say  all  this,  wife, 
to  show  that  we  have  an  honourable  name,  if  not  a  noble  one,  to  hand  down  to  our  pos- 
terity.   When  we  began  we  had  no  dollars  to  spend  on  the  luxuries  of  life,  but  we  had 
everything  necessary  for  our  comfort  and  happiness.    We  were  blest  in  all  our  under- 
takings, and  I  may  say  amassed  wealth.  We  *  covet  no  man's  silver,  or  gold,  or  apparel ; ' 


SUMMER   DAYS  AT  VICHY.  77 

we  never  turned  any  one  from  our  door  hungry,  and  have  always  given  a  helping  hand 
to  friends  in  need,  which  help  has  sometimeB  been  given  unworthily  and  bore  very 
heavy  upon  us,  too.  We  have  known  fair  and  cloudy  weather.  Through  all,  wife,  you 
have  stood  bravely  by  my  side  to  help  and  cheer  me  on,  never  wavering  from  the  pro- 
mise made  just  fifty  years  ago.  Can  I  ever  forget  the  untiring  care  you  gave  me  in  the 
year  thirty-two,  when  the  cholera  was  raging,  and  I  laid  so  long  hovering  between  life 
and  death,  while  scarce  a  house  in  the  neighbourhood  did  not  mourn  some  departed 
loved  one.  I  alwa3r8  felt  that  your  care  did  more  to  save  my  life  than  the  doctor's  medi- 
cine, and  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  care  I  could  not  teU  you  now  that  we  were  married 
just  fifty  years  ago.  We  have  been  blest  with  twelve  children.  Three  God  took  to 
Himself  in  their  infancy  ;  and,  wife,  though  we  mourned  their  loss,  we  know  they  are 
safe  in  heaven,  where  I  hope  we  will  all  be  prepared  to  join  them  when  we  are  called  to 
render  an  account  of  the  deeds  done  in  the  body.  The  children  that  have  been  spared 
to  us  have  been  a  weUspring  of  oomfort,  and  although  we  have  had  our  share  of  vexa- 
tion, care  and  trials  in  rearing  them,  we  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  any  of  them. 
They  are  all  scattered  now,  and  two  of  them  so  far  from  the  old  home  that  it  has  been 
impossible  for  them  to  join  us  even  on  this  occasion,  while  my  eldest  son  is  detained  by 
the  sidmees  of  his  wife.  Tes,  wife,  of  all  our  children  only  our  baby  remains  to  com- 
fort us ;  and  i^though  he  is  now  so  tall  Qvust  six  feet  three)  that  I  can  no  more  dandle 
him  on  my  knee,  or  you  huddle  him  to  your  bosom  as  of  yore,  still  in  our  hearts  he  is 
held  in  as  fond  and  tender  embrace  as  in  his  helpless  infancy ;  and  may  God  help  him, 
and  all  our  children,  to  return  to  us  in  our  old  age  the  love  so  lavishly  bestowed  upon 
theuL  A  few  more  short  years,  perhaps  only  days,  and  we  will  be  gathered  to  our 
fathers ;  the  land  that  has  known  us  will  know  us  no  more." 


SUMMER  DAYS  AT  VICHY. 


What  is  this  shining  little  city  that  rises  before  me  1  This  is  Vichy, 
the  fairest  of  the  French  watering-places,  where  the  air  is  as  bright  as- 
the  eye  of  a  coquette  and  as  soft  as  the  answer  that  turns  away  ii^Tath. 
A  white  bright  road,  which  might  be  termed  the  spine  of  Vichy,  unrolls 
itself  between  a  line  of  unpretending  gray  hotels  and  a  public  park 
where  bands  are  always  playing.  The  park  runs  north  and  south.  At 
its  northern  extremity  stands  the  Etablissement  des  Bains,  where  the 
sick  world  goes  to  bathe— at  its  southern,  the  Casino,  where  for  six 
months  in  every  year  the  same  world  disports  day  and  night,  Sundays 
included*  The  hotels  already  mentioned  are  on  the  western  side  of  the 
park,  and  are  all  first  class.  On  the  eastern  side  extends  a  row  of 
second-class  hostelries  interspersed  with  shops. 

This  ancient  village  is  on  the  east  bank  of  the  river  Allier,  in  the  very 
heart  of  France,  and  is  reached  by  railroad  from  Paris  in  ten  hours.  It 
is  the  Mecca  of  ruined  livers,  devastated  digestions  and  cripples  knobby 
with  arthritic  nodes.  There  wrecked  physiques  drift  dejectedly  ashore. 
There  too  yop  will  find  cheerful  incurables,  who  no  longer  bathe  or 
drink,  but  taste  the  quiet  waters  of  resignation  drawn  from  deep  wells 
of  suffering. 


78  SUMMER   DAYS  AT  VICHY. 

The  nonnal  population  is  five  thousand,  and  twenty  thousand  visitors 
are  said  to  go  there  annually.  Scarcely  a  house  appears  that  is  not 
white  or  gray,  and  innamerable  villas  of  stone  and  wood  are  embowered 
amid  tradition-haanted  and  shadow-tangled  groands.  Chief  among 
these  villas,  and  an  exhaustless  object  of  curiosity  to  visitors,  is  the  one 
which  was  occupied  by  Napoleon  III.  during  his  visit  to  Vichy  in  1861. 
Behind  the  line  of  principal  hotels  another  park,  called  in  distinction 
the  New  Park,  is  laid  out.  It  commands  the  Allier,  whence  it  is  sepa- 
rated by  a  spacious  road,  and  protected  by  an  iron  railing  and  stone 
^embankment.  Napoleon  III.  ordered  these  improvements,  but  it  is  in 
the  old  park  that  the  promenades  are  made,  the  bands  play  and  Vichy 
society  is  seen  in  living  panorama. 

Twenty  centuries  of  history  rally  to  the  support  of  this  little  water 
ing-place.  The  stone  bridge  of  to-day  over  the  Allier  is  the  successor  of 
the  wooden  one  which  Julius  Caesar  crossed.  Relics  have  been  so  re- 
morselessly exhumed  that,  unless  a  new  Cesnola  were  to  arise,  one  could 
scarcely  expect  any  fresh  excavation  to  reveal  the  cunningly  chiseled 
statuettes  and  vases  wherewith  the  tutelary  nymphs  were  wont  to  be 
propitiated.  Traditions  are  almost  mute  with  respect  to  Vichy's  fate 
from  the  time  of  her  invasion  by  the  barbarians  of  the  North  to  the 
•<3lose  of  the  fourteenth  century.  In  1410,  however,  Louis  XI,  Duke  de 
Bourbon,  strongly  fortified  the  little  hamlet  and  founded  the  monastery 
of  Les  C^lestins,  the  ruins  of  which  are  still  visible.  Two  centuries 
later,  Henri  IV.  instituted  thermal  inspections  in  order  to  remedy  cer- 
tain abuses  connected  with  the  sale  of  the  Vichy  waters.  In  1614  a 
^Capuchin  convent  was  built  near  the  present  thermal  establishment,  and 
it  is  upon  this  site  that  the  reservoirs  as  they  stand  to-day  were  con- 
structed. The  mineral  springs  which  constitute  the  wealth  of  Vichy 
have  not  always  been  collected  into  a  handsome  establishment ;  for  a 
long  time  they  were  left  to  the  care  of  themselves.  It  was  not  until 
1787  that  a  building  was  put  up  for  their  especiid  accommodation.  At 
that  time  Mesda^es  Adelaide  and  Victoire  de  France  went  to  Vichy  for 
their  health*  A  new  building  was  then  erected,  and  various  other  im- 
vprovements  were  contemplated.  But  it  is  to  the  efforts  of  the  Duchesse 
d'Angouldme  in  1814  that  the  present  thermal  establishment  Ib  due,  and 
the  stimulus  thus  given  to  Vichy  was  subsequently  increased  by  the 
patronage  of  the  Third  Napoleon. 

Notwithstanding  the  evil  condition  in  which  this  watering-place  so 
long  remained,  it  enjoyed  the  presence  of  several  distinguished  visitors. 
The  illustrious  Fishier  sojourned  here  in  his  youth,  and  speaks  of  it 
with  passionate  admiration.  Madame  de  S^gn^  made  two  visits  to  it 
— one  in  1676,  and  the  other  a  year  later — and  was  only  prevented  from 
«paying  a  third,  in  1687,  through  the  persuasions  of  the  Duchesse  de 


SUMMER  DAYS  AT  VICHY.  79 

Chaulnes,  who  preferred  the  baths  of  Bourbon.  The  brilliant  marquise 
remained  here  some  weeks  in  pleasant  companionship  with  the  Duchesse 
de  Brissic,  the  Ghanoinesse  de  Longueval  and  other  friends,  read  Ariosto, 
amused  herself  with  watching  the  peasants  dance  and  wrote  some  of 
her  most  charming  letters  to  Madame  de  Grignan,  her  daughter.  The 
house  she  is  said  to  have  inhabited  is  still  pointed  out,  but  the  tradition 
is  obscure,  and  after  the  lapse  of  two  hundred  years  it  is  difficult  under 
auch  circumstances  to  feel  certain  that  70U  are  standing  in  the  room 
magnetised  by  her  genius  and  virtue. 

At  the  present  day  life  deposits  itself  here  in  indolent  punctualities. 
Whatever  diversity  of  taste  there  may  be,  you  generally  do  the  same 
thing  at  the  same  hour,  allowing  a  small  margin  for  picnics,  excursions 
and  other  digressions.  If  your  heart  is  as  big  as  the  Yosemite  and  your 
purse  as  long  as  the  Union  Pacific  Bailroad,  the  beggars  who  abound 
will  keep  you  busy.  But  unless  you  consider  alms-giving  an  obligation, 
your  only  duties  are  to  bathe  and  drink,  rising  at  least  in  time  to  take 
^e  waters  as  perscribed.  This  prescription  is  that  you  shall  imbibe  be- 
fore breakfiftst  two  half  tumblers  of  water  at  half  an  hour's  interval. 
Very  many  of  the  Vichy  visitors,  however,  are  dilettante  invalids,  vexed 
with  paltry  ailments  which  they  doctor  themselves  with  all  the  enthu- 
siasm of  ignorance.  Spurred  onward  by  the  blithe  conviction  that  they 
cannot  swaUow  too  much,  the  less  they  have  drunk  of  the  Pierian  spring 
the  more  they  drink  of  these  springs  at  Vichy.  The  average  dose  pre- 
scribed by  a  resident  physician  certainly  does  not  exceed  a  pint  per  day 
But  at  a  popular  spring  named  Les  C^lestins  the  genuinely  gouty  and 
rheumatic  swaUow  at  their  peril  thirty  or  forty  glasses  per  day,  with  an 
ecstacy  which  wisdom  is  incapable  of  inspiring.  One  poor  lady  there, 
cadaverous  enough  to  have  been  made  out  of  a  rib  taken  from  the  side 
of  Death,  drank  her  fifty  glasses  daily,  in  meek  unconsciousness  that  the 
circle  of  healthy  jibers  standing  around  punctured  her  with  satire. 

There  are  two  events  at  Vichy  to  which  every  one,  no  matter  how 
eccentric  or  extravagant  in  oUier  things,  submits  with  a  captivating  do- 
cility. These  are  breakfast  and  dinner — the  one  taking  place  at  ten, 
and  the  other  at  half-past  five.  At  these  hours  the  walks  are  deserted, 
the  park  is  abandoned,  silence  reigns  in  the  Casino,  the  baths  are  tenant- 
less.  A  bright  hush,  a  sunny  desolation,  faUs  upon  Vichy,  for  through- 
out its  drives  and  walks,  its  nooks  and  byways,  not  a  soul  is  to  be  seen. 
The  village  and  outskirts  are  left  to  radiant  loneliness,  the  brooding  of 
sunshine,  the  dreamfulness  of  balmy  air.  Life  is  concentrated  in  the 
salle-i-mang^,  existence  centres  in  the  palate.  What  perfect  attuning 
of  tongue  to  knife  and  fork,  of  morals  to  menu  I  There  may  have  been 
invalids  too  ill  to  eat^  but  if  so  no  one  ever  brought  them  forth,  and  they 
lived  and  died  in  deserved  obscurity.    With  few  exceptions  the  average 


80  SUMMEB  DAYS   AT  VICHY. 

appetite  fringed  on  the  voracioos.  One  of  these  exceptions  was  a  sweet 
American  lady  with  a  voice  like  a  sigh,  a  face  like  a  magnolia,  and  a 
form  as  fragile  as  a  skeletonized  flower.  Occasionally  she  swallowed  a 
little  soup  or  took  a  few  spoonfuls  of  cr^me  glac^,  but  it  was  evident 
that  her  nice  digestion  pined  for  something  it  could  not  get.  Futile 
were  the  beguilements  of  the  maitresse  d'h6tel.  In  vain  that  accom- 
plished caterer  (swarthy  and  gracious,  and  with  a  fine  rudimentary 
moustache)  tempted  her  with  peculiar  dishes  and  brought  her  mashed 
potatoes  with  her  own  brown  hands.  The  beautiful  dyspeptic  confessed 
to  me  in  an  access  of  confidence  that  she  was  pining  for  the  fruits  and 
vegetables,  so  numerous,  so  delicious,  of  her  native  land — that  she  was 
wearied  to  death  of  the  unending  round  of  bathing  and  drinking,  where 
claret  supplanted  water,  and  the  celery  was  stewed,  and  muskmelon  suc- 
ceeded the  soup ;  where  ice  was  a  novelty,  the  demand  for  which  was 
provocative  of  astonishment  in  the  breast  of  the  gar9on,  and  where  in- 
vention was  exhausted  in  devising  the  unnatural. 

Whatever  may  be  the  rule  at  other  watering-places  where  a  service 
medical  is  found,  certainly  no  restraint  is  laid  at  Vichy  upon  the  appe 
tites  of  invalids.  No  one  was  to  be  met  who  confessed  to  having  re- 
ceived from  his  physician  more  than  vague  advice  upon  that  subject. 
The  sufferer  from  diabetes  and  the  victim  of  dyspepsia  went  through  all 
the  courses  with  touching  scrupulousness,  and  the  organization  which 
showed  a  vicious  assimilation  of  sugar  vied  in  voracity  with  the  one 
prostrate  beneath  an  affection  of  the  spleen.  Some  few  even  intercalated 
a  lunch  at  noon,  and  defiantly  wound  up  the  day  with  a  nine-o'clock  tea. 
At  Carlsbad  a  different  system  prevails.  There  the  physicians  pay  great 
attention  to  diet,  and  invalids  who  profess  to  follow  the  resident  medi- 
cal advice  are  compelled  to  adopt  a  strict  regimen. 

The  serviu  medical  consists  of  about  twenty  physicians,  appointed  by 
the  French  government  Most  of  them  make  their  permanent  residence 
at  Paris,  and  stay  at  Yichy  only  during  the  summer  months.  If  you  are 
an  invalid,  of  course  the  first  thing  yo  are  expected  to  do  is  to  seek  a 
physician*  In  the  selection  you  will  be  apt  to  be  guided  by  chance  un- 
less previous  reasons  have  already  decided  you.  An  hour's  waiting  i3 
the  usual  penalty  you  pay  for  being  euamoured  of  a  physician's  reputa- 
tion. The  mode  of  initiation  is  as  follows  :  You  call  on  the  doctor  and 
state  your  case,  giving  with  your  name  the  address  of  your  hotel  He 
makes  voluminous  notes,  informs  you  that  he  will  visit  you  at  seven  the 
next  morning,  and  directs  you  to  remain  in  bed  until  he  comes.  At  the 
appointed  hour  he  arrives,  makes  an  examination  of  that  portion  of  your 
frame  which  is  affected,  and  prescribes  the  number  and  kind  of  baths 
and  drinks.  You  hint  meekly,  perhaps  blunderingly,  something  about 
compensation,  and  he  informs  you  that  you  are  to  call  upon  him  at  stated 


SUMMER  DAYS  AT  VICHY.  81 

intervals— once  or  twice  a  week  as  the  case  may  be — and  that  only  when 
you  pay  your  last  visit  will  your  reckoning-hour  have  arrived.  After  he 
has  gone  you  rise,  aglow  with  beautiful  resolutions,  like  a  convert  to  a 
new  religion. 

The  Vichy  guide-books  declare*  that  baths  of  three  classes  are  to  be 
found  there.  I  was  able  to  discover  but  two,  baths  of  the  first  class, 
three  francs  ;  baths  of  the  second,  a  franc  less.  So  far  as  essentials  are 
concerned,  these  classes  are  the  same,  the  chief  difference  being  that  in 
the  first-class  establishment  each  bath- tub  has  a  linen  lining,  called /ond 
de  bain,  and  you  are  furnished  with  two  peignoirs  instead  of  one.  Few 
cis-Atlantic  people  have  sufficient  moral  courage  to  take  a  second-class 
bath.  They  cannot  withstand  the  spell  of  saperfluous  servieUes  and  pei- 
gnoirs, to  say  nothing  of  the  subtle  witchery  of  the  fond  de  bain.  People 
with  frayed  fortunes  and  not  a  sou  to  spare  walk  with  kingly  tread  into 
the  first-class  establishments.  For  them  Vichy  contains  no  other,  and 
they  give  the  gar^on  a  pourhoire,  the  princeliness  of  which  is  often  in 
inverse  proportion  to  their  means. 

The  waters  are  used  for  three  groups  of  diseases.  The  first  group 
comprises  gastralgia,  chronic  gastritis,  acidity  of  the  stomach,  nausea, 
vomiting,  enlargement  of  the  liver,  spleen  and  abdominal  viscera,  and 
tardy,  painful  and  laborious  digestion.  The  second  group  includes  dia^ 
betes  and  kindred  diseases.  The  third  group  is  composed  of  rheumatic 
gout,  gout  proper  and  sciatica.  All  the  springs  have  a  common  origin. 
Bicarbonate  of  soda  is  the  principal  ingredient  This  exists  in  the  pres- 
ence of  free  carbonic  acid,  and  is  mixed  with  minute  proportions  of  the 
bicarbonates  of  potassa,  magnesia,  strontia,  lime,  protoxide  of  iron,  pro- 
toxide of  manganese,  sulphate  of  potassa,  silica,  chlorate  of  sodium, 
phosphate,  arseniate  and  borate  of  soda,  and  traces  of  bituminous  organic 
matter.  In  each  spring  these  elements  are  united  in  different  propor* 
tions,  their  relative  proportions  determining  the  physician  in  his  prefer- 
ence of  certain  springs  for  special  cases. 

The  springs  of  Vichy  are  twenty  in  number.  Eleven  belong  to  the 
state  and  nine  to  private  individuals.  The  former  include  the  natural 
springs  of  La  Grande  Grille,  Le  Puits  Chomel,  Le  Puits  Carr6,  Lucas, 
L'Hopital,  Les  C^lestins  (old  and  new),  and  the  artesian  wells  Du  Pare, 
De  Vaisse,  D'Hauterive  and  De  Mesdames.  The  private  springs  are  the 
two  natural  ones  of  St  Yorre  and  the  wells  of  Lardy,  Larbaud,  Gusset, 
Elizabeth,  Sainte  Marie,  the  Abattoir  and  Tracy.  The  mineral  foun- 
tains of  this  region  divide  themselves,  therefore,  into  two  great  classes 
— ^natural  springs  and  artesian  wells.  The  first  have  issued  from  time 
immemorial  from  the  solid  rock  :  the  last  have  been  reached  by  drilling 
more  or  less  deep. 

The  springs  most  convenient  to  the  principal  hotels  are  La  Grande 
6 


82  SUMMER  DATS  AT  VICHY. 

Grille,  Le  Poits  Chomel,  Lncas,  L'H6pita],  De  Mesdames  and  Du  Pare^ 
and  the  ones  most  universally  used  are  L'Hdpital,  La  Grande  Grille,  De 
Mesdames  and  Les  C^lestins.    The  last  mentioned  has  an  immense  repu- 
tation among  the  gouty  and  rheumatic.     It  is  situated,  however,  at  quite 
a  distance  from  the  hotels,  and  its  celebrity  among  the  arthritic  clique 
is  somewhat  factitious.   Around  Les  O^lestins  despairing  cripples  swarm, 
drinking  more  than  they  can  possibly  assimilate.     In  many  cases  these 
overdoses  produce  a  giddiness  that  causes  the  drinker  to  reel  like  a 
drunken  man,  and  sometimes  this  giddiness  is  accompanied  by  a  curious 
and  painful  confusion  of  the  intellect,  resembling  the  first  stages  of  in- 
sanity.    It  is  a  singular  fact  that  the  waters  of  Les  G^lestins,  which 
should  be  used  with  most  caution,  are  the  very  ones  imbibed  with  the 
extreme  of  recklessness  and  fatuity.     The  new  spring  is  located  in  a 
pretty  little  park  picturesquely  laid  out  with  grottoes,  arbours  and  groves. 
La  Grande  Grille,  Chomel  and  Mesdames  are  in  the  corridors  of  the 
Etablissement  des  Bains.     La  Source  de  THdpital  is  nooked  in  a  sunny 
little  street  behind  the  Casino.     With  its  perpetual  crowd  of  drinkers,  • 
and  its  various  accessories  in  the  shape  of  booths  and  stalls,  mendicants 
and  vendors,  it  offers  a  most  animated  spectacle.     The  elbowing  is  eter- 
nal.    Bargains  are  to  be  had  on  every  hand.     A  blue-bloused  cripple  in 
a  wheeled  chair,  and  with  fingers  hooked  with  rheumatism,  holds  up 
matches  piteously  for  sale,  while  his  wife,  in  wooden  shoes  and  a  straw 
hat,  stands  by,  at  the  door  of  the  Chapelle  de  rH6pital,  beseeching 
charity  'pcmr  Vamou/r  de  Lieu.     A  circle  of  stone  steps  ascends  to  the 
spring,  which  wells  up  into  a  round  basin  protected  by  a  polyhedral  roof 
on  slender  pillars,  like  those  of  the  park  kiosks.     Here  two  women  and 
a  young  girl,  called  donneuses  d^eau  (** givers  of  water"),  scoop  the 
colourless  elixir  up  from  early  in  the  morning  until  sunset,  using  tin 
cups  attached  to  poles  like  broomsticks.     The  cups  are  whitely  encrust- 
ed through  the  chemistry  of  the  salts.     The  donneuses  are  driissed  in  the 
invariable  blue-striped  gown  and  white  cap  which  seem  the  conventional 
toilette  of  the  French  peasantess. .  Most  of  them  are  in  the  prime  of 
womanhood,  their  upper  lips^pencUed  with  those  shadowy  moustaches 
which  virilize  the  countenances  of  so  many  continental  women  of  the 
lower  class.     None  of  these  donneuses  are  old — several  are  young  and 
pretty.    The  youngest  water-giver  at  La  Source  de  THdpital  had  a  face 
unusually  attractive — not  sojmuch  for  its  delicacy  and  beauty,  though  it 
was  not  without  both — ^as  for  sweetness,  freshness  and  simplicity,  the 
affectionateness  of  the  soft  brown  eyes,  the  apparent  unconsciousness  of 
admiration  with  which  sh^  performed  her  task.     She  could  not  have 
been  more  than  sixteen,  and  her  slender  figure,  serene  and  sunny,  the 
fine  pure  curves  of  her  small  red  mouth,  the  flawless^complexion,  which 
the  forbearing  sun  had  shyly  bronzed,  and  that  simplicity  of  manner 


SCTMMER  DATS  AT  TIGHT.  85 

which  culture  inculcates,  but  cannot  always  produce,  made  her  a  most 
graceful  contrast  to  her  swarthy,  semi-masculine  sisters.  Like  a  new 
angel  of  Bethesda,  she  troubled,  not  the  pool,  but  the  hearts  of  some 
who  went  there. 

To  return  to  the  baths  for  a  moment  Those  of  the  first  class  are  one 
hundred  in  number,  without  counting  cabinets  for  douches  of  all  kinds. 
At  one  extremity  of  the  grand  gallery  are  windows  for  the  sale  of  tickets, 
and  at  the  other  rooms  for  the  inhalation  of  oxygen  and  baths  of  car- 
bonic acid  gas.  The  main  difference  betweea  baths  of  the  first  and 
second  grades  has  been  already  intimated.  The  presiding  genius  of  the 
first-class  establishment  was  a  nervous  and  wiry  old  gentleman  with  a 
nose  glowing  with  recollections  of  vin  rouge  and  dreams  of  erysipelas. 
His  manner  was  as  sleek  as  an  Italian  greyhound,  and  he  glittered  with 
decorations  like  a  dollar  store.  His  toothlessness  was  no  bar  to  his  lo- 
quacity. On  the  contrary,  his  dental  loss  appeared  to  be  his  lingual 
gain,  for  his  tongue  was  as  exhaustless  as  the  Vichy  basin  itself.  He 
was  shrewdly  suspected  of  being  alive  to  the  logic  of  a  five-franc  piece  ; 
and,  judging  from  the  enthusiasm  with  which  certain  bathers  were  ac- 
commodated, and  the  humiliating  neglect  visited  upon  others,  perhaps  this 
painful  suspicion  was  not  altogether  baseless.  His  bosom  friend  was  the 
corn-doctor,  a  magnificent  gentleman  who  called  himself  count,  wore  a 
star  on  his  breast  and  was  a  cynosure  at  the  theatre  every  evening.  His 
manner  was  marked  by  a  sort  of  bland  ferocity,  amiable,  but  eruptive, 
and  he  exploded  harmlessly  among  us  like  a  volcano  in  evening  dress. 
He  knew  that  he  had  rendered  our  feet  too  comfortable  for  us  to  tread 
upon  him. 

While  taking  your  bath  the  mineral  composition  of  the  water  pro- 
duces a  singular  illusion,  causing  the  submerged  limbs  to  be  of  preter- 
natural size  excepting  toward  the  extremity  of  the  fingers  and  toes, 
which  apparently  become  truncated,  and  retire  into  themselves  in  a  mys- 
terious and  perplexing  manner.  A  half  hour  elapsing,  you  ring  a  bell 
just  within  reach,  and  the  attendant  brings  you  warm  towels,  and  two 
warm  peignoirs,  injo  which  you  slip  successively.  Then,  after  dressing, 
comes  a  flirtation  at  croquet  or  a  walk  to  St.  Amand,  a  neighbouring 
hiU,  or  anything  else  to  make  you  forget  you  are  an  invalid  and  to  inten* 
sify  the  sweet  sense  of  convalescence. 

The  amusements  of  almost  all  watering-places  are  in  their  general 
drift  identical.  In  all  there  is  the  same  transferral  of  metropolitan 
pleasures  to  sylvan  surroundings,  the  same  effort  to  be  elegantly  rural. 
Even  Penelope  affects  the  wood-nymph.  At  Vichy,  after  the  deje4ner, 
the  problem  was  how  to  evade  ennui  during  the  six  and  a  half  hours 
that  must  elapse  untQ  dinner.  An  hour  and  a  half  of  this  might  easily 
be  devoted  to  bathing  and  drinking,  leaving  five  hours  to  be  annihilated. 


84  SUMMER  DATS  AT  VICHY. 

Neither  riding  nor  driving  was  very  much  in  vogue,  and  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  children  but  one  party  had  the  hardihood  to  organize  an 
expedition  of  this  kind.  It  was  composed  of  a  dozen  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen  from  adjoining  hotels,  headed — need  it  be  said ) — by  two 
American  demoiselles  almost  faultlessly  fair.  Everything  was  a  success 
excepting  the  donkeys.  These  were  abnormal  concretions  of  amiability, 
stupidity  and  sluggishness — a  fortuitous  blending  of  the  angel,  the  idiot 
and  the  snail.  Incredibly  minute,  they  were  almost  hidden  beneath  the 
skirts  of  the  ladies.  But  it  was  the  male  riders  who  were  the  most 
severely  tested.  To  prevent  their  feet  touching  the  ground,  they  were 
compelled  to  bend  their  legs  in  an  acute  angle,  the  general  outline  of 
each  figure  being  that  of  forked  lightning.  Only  by  this  expedient  could 
the  donkeys  be  kept  in  place  and  prevented  sliding  from  under.  The 
hoarse  shouts  of  the  gentlemen,  the  pretty  coaxing  of  the  ladies  and  the 
belabouring  of  an  army  of  little  boys  of  whom  the  beasts  were  hired, 
and  who  followed  con  amove  with  curses  and  sticks,  succeeding  at  long 
intervals  in  goading  the  donkeys  into  faint  trots  of  fifteen  seconds. 
Whether  the  party  reached  the  distant  bourne  for  which  they  started 
could  only  be  guessed,  but  if  they  did  they  doubtless  returned  on  foot 
to  save  themselves  fatigue. 

Our  chief  persecutors  were  the  flower-girls  and  the  Italian  woman  who 
sold  silks  and  laces.  The  former  remorselessly  disposed  themselves  in 
double  rows  in  the  hall,  and  after  each  meal  it  was  necessary  to  run  this 
gauntlet  in  order  to  reach  the  sidewalk.  Gigantic  and  beautiful  their 
bouquets  were,  and  not  dear,  ranging  in  price  from  one  franc  to  three. 
They  were  composed  of  red  and  white  camellias,  Japanese  and  calla 
lilies,  azaleas  and  mignonette,  ferns,  smUax,  creeping  vines  and  orchids. 
The  very  young  gentlemen  were  the  chief  victims,  and  it  was  principally 
to  them  that  the  seductions  of  the  subtle  vendors  were  addressed.  Tlie 
Italian  woman  had  a  more  ambitious  field.  Providence  had  granted  her 
a  superior  gift  of  loquacity,  and  she  was  as  eloquent  in  French  as  in  her 
native  tongue.  She  was  one  of  those  bronzed  contadinas,  with  heavy 
eyebrows  and  coarse  black  hair  and  of  a  certain  rank  grace  and  sensuous 
beauty,  who  seem  made  to  fit  picturesquely  into  barren  nooks  and  lend 
a  bit  of  warm  colour  to  the  parched  highways  of  life.  Her  industry  and 
pertinacity  were  infinite.  Twice  daOy  she  made  the  round  of  the  prin- 
cipal hotels,  spreading  her  laces  upon  chairs  and  benches,  voluble  as  an 
auctioneer,  quenchless  as  a  prairie  fire,  seductive  as  a  Turkish  bath  adver- 
tisement, fond  of  a  joke,  rapid  at  repartee,  seldom  overstepping  the 
bounds  of  good  taste,  brimming  with  appeals  that  no  society  smuggler 
could  withstand.  She  sold  much,  and  her  laborious  life  was  sweetened 
with  occasional  triumphs,  which  consisted  in  subduing  the  obduracy  of 
those  who  refused  to  buy.     Her  greatest  trial  in  this  respect  was  an  old 


SUMMER  DAYS  AT  VICHY.  85 

lady,  who,  though  endowed  with  wealth,  taste  and  liberality,  made  it  a 
nde  to  bay  nothing  except  in  the  large  towns.  In  vain  week  after  week 
the  Italian  spread  before  her  the  gauziest  shawls  and  cloudiest  lac^  in 

the  most  alluring  falls  and  folds.     Mrs.  B criticised  them  with  one 

eye  and  implied  good-natured  contempt  with  the  other.  But  one  even- 
ing the  contadina,  as  she  was  packing  up  her  wares,  seemed  to  swell 
with  satisfaction,  as  a  conqueror  might  do  with  his  foot  upon  a  captive's 
neck.     The  reason  was  not  difficult  to  perceive.     There,  in  one  comer 

of  the  porch,  sat  Mrs.  B dandling  a  blue  silk  scarf,  and  criticising 

it  8otio  voce  with  a  half-ashamed  air.  In  a  weak  moment  her  disdain  had 
been  vanquished,  and,  routed  by  the  Italian's  eloquence,  she  had  per- 
mitted herself  to  buy.  With  one  proud,  triumphant  look  toward  her, 
the  conqueror  shouldered  her  bale  of  costly  knickknacks  and  trudged 
down  the  street,  her  eyes  glittering  like  stars,  her  dark  face  aglow  with 
the  pride  of  hard-won  victory. 

Without  the  Casino  the  majority  of  us  would  have  found  the  evenings 
longer  than  we  liked.  It  is  easy  to  denounce  city  pleasures,  and  to  re- 
mind the  invalid  that  he  goes  to  the  country  to  escape  the  town.  Pure 
air,  rejuvenating  waters,  an  agreeable  climate,  an  atmosphere  of  bril- 
liancy and  balm,  the  long  delicious  opportunity  for  sensuous  sauntering, 
are  given,  not  to  satisfy  us  at  the  time,  but  to  be  pined  after  when  they 
become  memories.  The  Casino  is  an  unmixed  blessing  to  ninety-nine 
out  of  every  hundred  of  those  who  go  to  Vichy.  Architecturally,  it  is 
a  huge  brick  building  trimmed  with  marble,  and  situated  at  one  end  of 
the  park.  Soldiers  and  ushers  guard  its  portals,  and  the  little  garden 
attached  is  secluded  by  an  iron  raUing.  The  Casino  contains  a  theatre, 
a  concert-hall  (used  also  as  a  ball-room),  billiard  and  card  rooms,  a  can- 
opied pavilion  in  which  open-air  concerts  are  given,  a  general  reading- 
room  where  newspapers  from  all  parts  of  the  world  are  filed,  and  a  private 
reading-room  for  ladies,  additionally  furnished  with  a  piano  and  billiard- 
table.  The  present  Casino  was  opened  July  1,  1865,  and  supplanted 
the  less  pretentious  places  of  entertainment  previously  under  the  direc- 
tion of  M.  Strauss.  It  is  open  from  May  15  to  October  1,  the  theatre 
attached  to  it  being  open  from  the  same  date  to  September  15.  You 
may  subscribe  either  to  the  theatre  or  to  the  Casino,  or  to  both.  The 
dual  subscription  is  fifty  francs,  or  ten  dollars,  for  each  person  for  one 
month,  and  secures  a  seat  to  all  the  performances  in  the  theatre,  besides 
the  use  of  all  the  privileges  of  the  various  saloons  included  in  the  Casino, 
and  the  right  to  occupy  a  chair  in  the  park  at  Les  C^lestins  while  the 
bands  are  plajing.  In  the  salles  desjeux  gambling  is  forbidden,  and  the 
list  of  permitted  games  includes  piquet,  imperial,  whist,  douze  points, 
boston,  b^zique,  tric-trac,  dominoes  and  drafts.  Balls  are  not  numerous, 
and  Uiose  that  are  given  are  somewhat  informal  and  rather  soberly 


86  SUMMER  DAYS  AT  VICHY. 

dressed.  The  stage  was  the  great  evening  amosement,  and  the  little 
theatre,  capable  of  holding  eight  hundred,  was  filled  every  night,  indad- 
ing  Sundays,  with  an  audience  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  The  reper- 
toire included  almost  every  variety  of  public  entertainment,  from  opera 
to  farce.  For  gala  occasions  a  star  from  one  of  the  Paris  theatres  was 
engaged. 

There  was  one  character  at  the  Casino  more  remarkable  than  any  that 
has  been  mentioned.  It  was  the  demoiselle  who  occupied  the  ticket- 
office,  and  the  chief  business  of  whose  life  appeared  to  be  to  stab  with 
black-headed  pins  the  places  numeroiees  of  the  theatre-charts.  She  was 
a  complete  exemplar  of  modest  ambition  gratified,  of  that  graceful  con- 
tentment which  so  many  betray  in  France  when  they  have  once  worked 
into  a  station  commensurate  with  their  wishes.  Mademoiselle  Sir^ne  ate, 
drank  and  slept,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  like  other  women ;  but  from  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  until  midnight  she  occupied  the  little  windowed 
niche  where  reserved  seats  and  private  boxes  were  sold.  She  had  been 
there  for  nine  years — ever  since  the  theatre  opened — and  will  probably 
remain  for  nine  years  longer,  or  until  decrepitude  forces  her  back  to  a 
lower  plane.  Her  patience  and  politeness,  her  shrewdness  and  precision, 
the  neatness  of  her  toilette  and  her  conscientious  devotion  to  business, 
made  one  pardon  the  rouge  that  was  not  sufficiently  invisible.  There 
were  more  charms  on  her  watchchain  than  in  her  face,  and  yet  she  was 
not  bad-looking.  Fate  had  placed  her  in  a  position  where  the  essentials 
were  ceaseless  industry  and  amiability  all  day  and  every  day,  she  ac- 
cepted the  destiny  with  a  passive  cheerfulness  that  was  not  without 
grace.  Poor  mademoiselle  I  How  many  useless  questions  she  impertur- 
bably  answered  during  her  sixteen  hours  of  daily  toil !  How  many  a 
place  nvmerotec  she  cheerfully  changed  according  to  the  caprice  of  the 
subscriber  !  How  quickly  she  divined  the  foreigner's  meaning  hidden 
like  a  pebble  at  the  bottom  of  his  rivulet  of  execrable  French !  Civility 
circulated  through  her  system  like  sap  through  a  tree.  Nothing  was 
perfunctory  with  her ;  every  duty  seemed  to  be  performed  con  amore. 
Her  pleasures — well,  her  pleasures  were  confined  to  a  chat  now  and  then 
vdth  a  few  female  friends,  and  a  little  badinage  during  the  entr'actes  with 
one  or  two  platonic  admirers.  . 

The  guests  at  Vichy  were  very  heterogeneous.     Nearly  every  civilized  ^ 

nationality  was  represented.  Instead  of  inscribing  your  name  in  a  pub- 
lic register,  after  the  American  fashion,  you  wrote  it  the  day  after  your 
arrival  on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  which  you  handed  quietly,  not  to  say 

surreptitiously,  to  Mademoiselle  M ,  the  assistant  of  the  maitresse 

d'h6tel.  In  due  process  of  time  your  name  was  added  to  a  list  made 
out  in  fair  German  text  and  hung  in  a  glass  Arame  in  the  hall.  This 
frame  was  three  feet  square,  and  occupied  a  conspicuous  position.     Its 


I 


SUMMEB  DAYS  AT  VICHY.  87 

eccentric  feature  was  that  it  chronicled  every  guest  as  a  proprietaire^  and 
without  figuring  as  propriHaire  you  had  no  hope  of  finding  your  name 
there.  This  was  the  homogeneous  attribute  which  reduced  us  all  to 
unity. 

It  was  amusing  to  glance  up  and  down  the  table-d'hdte,  speculating  as 
to  the  varied  interests  which  had  thus  kaleidoscoped  so  many  individuals 
of  different  nationalities.  The  wanderer  crimsoned  by  the  sun  of  Suma- 
tra sat  vis-d-vis  to  the  South  Carolina  belle ;  the  homely  bourgeoise  from 
Bordeaux  accepted  courtesies  from  the  consumptive  Brazilian  ;  the  Fifth 
Avenue  matron,  better  preserved  than  her  daqghters  will  be  at  her  age, 
chatted  with  the  Russian  count  fresh  from  St  Petersburg ;  Berlin  and 
Buenos  Ayres  shook  each  other  by  the  hand.  The  kindliness  of  apparent 
prosperity  gave  the  best  condiment  to  intercourse,  and  those  of  far  dii* 
ferent  ranks  in  life  moved  amongst  each  other  like  equals.  The  only 
exception  to  this  was  the  Archduchess  of  Austria,  who  was  sojourning 
there  under  the  name  of  the  Princess  Ghika,  and  occupied  a  little  villa 
at  the  rear  of  the  hotel.  She  was  accompanied  by  her  physician,  Dr 
Montanari,  of  Nice,  said  to  be  the  (Mriginal  of  "  Doctor  Antonio,"  a  gen- 
tleman of  very  polished  manners  and  possessed  of  a  genuine  geniality, 
such  as  graces  very  few  thorough  men  of  the  world. 

Severe  strictures  have  sometimes  been  made  on  the  American  girls 
abroad,  and  certainly  the  experience  of  an  impartial  critic  does  not  give 
them  as  complete  a  contradiction  as  could  be  wished.  The  average 
American  girl  is  not  altogether  to  blame  that  her  chest  is  flat,  her 
shoulder-blades  sharp  and  her  voice  nasal  These  are  the  unamiabilities 
of  the  body  which  cannot  always  be  perfectly  corrected.  Still,  much 
can  be  done  even  for  them.  But  the  American  x  young  lady  who  has 
travelled  all  over  Europe,  and  feasted  and  junketed  in  every  continental 
city,  is  apt  to  acquire  a  hardness  of  countenance  and  a  raspiness  of  tone 
which  do  not  contrast  advantageously  with  the  voice  and  visage  of  her 
English  and  French  sisters.  Her  flirtations  with  Italian  counts  and 
French  marquises  are  long  and  loud.  She  flings  nasal  objurgations  at 
her  papa  and  corrects  in  public  her  mother's  pronunciation,  and  an  auda- 
city that  daily  increases  takes  the  tenderness  from  her  cheek  and  the 
girlhood  from  her  eyes.  This  description,  indeed,  is  far  from  applying 
to  all  American  young  ladies  who  travel  much  in  Europe,  but  the  class 
which  it  suggests  is  not  so  small  as  it  should  be. 

Three  of  the  most  interesting  places  to  visit  are  the  Oh&teau  de  Ran- 
dans, the  intermittent  springs  and  the  museum  of  petrifactions.  Ran 
dans  is  the  chief  canton  in  the  department  of  Puy-de-D6me,  and  is 
about  ten  miles  from  Vichy,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Allier.  An  easy 
and  well-travelled  road  conducts  through  the  forest  to  this  princely  resi- 
dence.   The  ch&teau  is  very  old,  but  has  been  so  often  repaired  and  en- 


88  SUMMER  DATS  AT   VICHY. 

larged  that  it  shows  few  evidences  of  ancient  constmetion.  In  1821  it 
passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Princess  Adelaide  d'Orleans.  It  still  re- 
mains in  the  possession  of  the  Orleans  family,  who  spend  a  portion  of 
every  summer  beneath  its  roof.  The  entrance  is  through  a  spacious 
court  guarded  by  a  gigantic  iron  gateway.  Through  this  you  discern 
the  facade  of  the  chateau,  elevated  by  a  doable  t^race  crowned  with 
turrets  in  brick.  The  interior  is  remarkable  for  the  beauty  and  richness 
of  its  decorations,  its  valuable  paintings,  its  armoury  filled  with  curiosi- 
ties. After  having  visited  the  grand  salon^  the  royal  chamber  and  the 
library,  one  passes  by  a  terrace  to  the  chapel.  The  light  penetrates 
here  through  stained  windows  representing  the  three  theological  Virtues. 
But  to  the  ordinary  visitor  the  most  pleasing  features  of  this  sequestered 
old  chateau  are  the  terrace,  sentinelled  with  orange  trees  and  gay  with 
numerous  flowers,  and  an  adjacent  walk  cool  with  shadows  cast  from 
lime-boughs  thickly  pleached. 

The  intermittent  spring  is  situated  on  the  left  or  west  bank  of  the 
Allier.  To  reach  it  you  cross  the  stone  bridge.  Entrance  is  through  a 
little  house  where  medals  and  souvenirs  are  sold,  and  the  price  of  ad- 
mission is  half  a  franc.  The  point  at  which  the  spring  wells  up  has 
been  surrounded  by  a  circular  basin  of  masonry,  and  tlus  has  been  en- 
closed by  a  sort  of  iron  cage  thirty  or  forty  feet  high.  Four  or  five  feet 
intervene  between  the  basin  and  the  circular  cage  surrounding  it,  and 
this  space  is  graveled.  Several  door-like  openings  in  the  cage  permit  of 
entrance  and  exit.  Outside  the  iron  framework  benches  and  chairs  are 
arranged  at  intervals,  which  are  generally  oeeupied  by  an  inquisitive 
crowd.  The  spring  flows  every  few  hours  with  great  punctuality,  and 
visitors  are  wont  to  collect  a  few  moments  before  the  expected  time.  As 
the  moment  draws  near  faint  bubblings  are  seen  at  the  mouth  of  the  ori- 
fice which  forms  the  centre  of  the  basin.  Every  few  seconds  the  bub- 
blings increase  in  foam  and  force.  Then  a  white  effervescence  is  pei> 
ceived,  which  by  degrees  beeomes  more  violent,  until  a  jet  of  water  con- 
cealed in  foam  leaps  up  a  foot  or  more.  In  throes  and  spasms  and  amid 
spouts  and  sputterings  the  jets  proceed,  until  finally  a  perpendicular 
shaft  of  water,  palm-tree  shaped  and  crowned  with  q>ray,  stands  blus* 
tering  and  triumphant,  rejoicing  in  its  own  brief  but  beautiful  paroxysm, 
and  blinding  you  literally  with  a  flood  of  Sequence  concerning  the 
earth's  bosom  whence  it  came. 

The  petrifactions  are  found  in  a  house  and  grounds  devoted  to  their 
preparation  and  located  on  one  of  the  by  streets.  A  little  outhouse 
near  the  main  building  is  filled  with  a  sloping  series  of  shelves,  over 
which  trickles  the  water  which  produces  the  petrifaction.  The  model 
or  cast  that  is  to  be  reproduced  is  placed  on  one  of  these  shelves  and  left 
untouched  for  weeks  or  months,  as  the  case  may  be.    The  mineral  salta 


SUMMER  DAYS  AT  VICHY.  89^ 

meuitime  fonn  a  shell,  which  becomes  the  exact  duplicate  of  the  model 
it  encmste.  With  the  aid  of  a  knife  this  crast  is  easily  broken  off,  and 
its  exterior  surface  being  polished  it  becomes  an  inexpensive  and  inter- 
esting souvenir.  The  sheds  where  the  petrifactions  were  proceeding 
ecHitained  hundreds  of  specimens  in  various  stages  of  lapidescence.  Many 
hundreds  more  ornamented  the  shelves  and  glass  cases  inside  the  adjoin- 
ing shop.  Scores  of  Uerculaneum  and  Pompeiian  cameos  were  thus 
repeated.  Sometimes  the  petrified  objects  were  tolerably  large,  such  as 
baskets  and  birds'  nests.  The  finest  work  is  reproduced  vdth  a  delicacy 
with  which  the  indurating  waters  would  scarcely  be  credited.  But  Na* 
ture  is  an  artist  who  evidently  takes  a  pride  in  her  work,  and  loves  to 
show  man  that  he  cannot  expect  to  rival  her. 

Vichy  had  of  course  its  disagreeable  reminiscences,  and  certainly  one 
of  the  most  unpleasant  was  the  room  devoted  to  the  inhalation  of  various 
gases  and  the  carbonic  acid  gas  baths.  The  spectacle  presented  of  various 
ladies  and  gentlemen  seated  at  tables  holding  tubes  in  their  mouths  or 
having  their  tonsils  drenched  with  spray  was  far  from  being  picturesque, 
and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  not  a  few  ladies  with  affections  of 
the  throat  refused  to  resort  in  public  to  so  ui^repossessing  a  cure.  In 
taking  the  gas-bath  you  stepped  with  your  clothes  on  into  an  empty 
bath-tub,  and  found  at  your  feet  a  rubber  pipe  coUed  like  a  snake.  Hav  • 
ing  seated  yourself  on  a  cushion  at  the  upper  end  of  the  tub,  a  tin  lid 
was  clapped  down  through  which  your  head  protruded  like  a  prisoner's 
in  the  stocks.  The  gas  was  then  turned  on  through  the  rubber  pipe. 
This  pleasant  incarceration  lasted  for  half  an  hour,  the  carbonic  acid  gas 
being  assumed  to  ease  the  pains  of  rheumatism.  After  having  bathed 
in  and  drunk  the  Vichy  water,  and  dozed  in  the  gas-bath,  and  inhaled  a 
certidn  quantity  of  oxygen,  a  little  imagination  was  all  that  was  needed 
in  order  to  get  well.  Yet  even  the  room  devoted  to  the  seances  dUnhoLo' 
Hon  had  its  compensations.  Annette,  one  of  the  attendants,  had  the  soul 
of  a  nun,  and  went  about  her  u'ork  with  the  serenity  of  a  Sister  of 
Mercy.  In  this  room,  which  was  her  world,  she  wove  her  little  romances 
destined  never  to  become  real.  She  was  full  of  trouble — ^the  trouble 
that  comes  from  a  strong  desire  for  self-progress  for  ever  crushed  by  sur- 
rounding conditions.  No  wonder  she  gazed  with  passionate  mournful- 
ness  into  faces  that  had  beamed  kindly  on  her,  and  which,  passing  into 
the  great  world  outside,  she  should  never  see  again. 

Vichy,  then,  like  any  other  place  from  which  one  has  extracted  good, 
is  not  to  be  remembered  without  affection.  You  wrestle  with  disease 
tbere  as  Jacob  wrestled  with  the  angel,  and  feel  that  perhaps  you  have 
won  a  blessing  in  return.  The  last  hour  I  remained  there  was  spent  in 
bidding  fiurewell  to  places  where  the  days  had  been  dreamed  away,  some* 
tames  in  pain,  but  oftener  in  peace.     Somehow  or  other,  I  was  ingenuous 


90  SUMMER  DAYS  AT  VICHY. 

enough  to  expect  that  every  one  would  share  my  regret,  but  this  egoism 
was  properly  disillusioned.  The  rosy  mistress  of  the  Berne  Library 
(one  of  the  two  public  libraries  in  the  place)  received  my  adieux  with 
aggravating  calmness,  and  imposed  an  appropriate  fine  upon  Madame  Du- 
devant's  EUe  et  Lm,  which  had  been  detained  too  long.  She  was  not  a 
woman  abandoned  to  false  sentiment.  Her  vascular  system  was  healthy, 
and  doubtless  sustained  her  in  her  devotion  to  domestic  economy.  Her 
cheeks  were  threaded  with  little  red  veins,  delicate  as  frostwork,  and  fed 
with  vin  rouge.  An  honest  bovine  look  came  from  her  direct  brown  eyes, 
calm  as  a  star-depth,  but  not  so  poetical ;  and  if  wrinkles  had  begun  to 
show  themselves,  they  were  not  caused  by  speculations  concerning  the 
unknowable.  She  was  a  prosaic,  contented  woman,  with  no  tendency  to 
suspect  that  when  her  fate  was  written  there  was  a  hair  in  the  pen  and 
her  destiny  was  blurred.  When  October  came  she  should  shut  up  shop, 
she  said,  and  pass  the  winter,  according  to  custom,  in  the  adjacent  vil- 
lage of  Yernet  Happy,  homely  soul,  entrenched  among  those  isolat- 
ing hills,  hearing  nothing  of  the  world,  without,  vexed  by  no  introspec- 
tion of  the  world  within,  content  that  bread, and  meat  and  warmth  and 
shelter  were  forthcoming  {pr  the  day  ! 

It  required  too  much  courage  to  visit  Annette,  who  had  given  me  my 
gas-baths  and  hinted  at  her  troubles.  The  principal  thing  apparent  in 
this  woman  and  others  in  her  position  was  the  monotonous  serenity  of 
their  features,  aglow,  like  the  faces  of  the  blind,  with  sadness  veiled  in 
resignation.  Their  lives  thus  caught  a  certain  grace  not  often  seen  else- 
where. Vichy  was  all  the  world  that  they  had  ever  seen — "  un  petit 
Paris,"  as  they  expressed  it.  A  career  of  unending  toil  was  all  their 
future.  They  did  the  work  of  men,  but  brought  to  it  a  tenderness  few 
men  could  have  bestowed. 

An  idyllic  light  surrounds  those  peaceful  weeks  of  watering-place 
dreaming.  The  flower-girls  and  the  women  with  laces  and  lingerie;  the 
monks  and  friars,  rope^cinctured  and  sandal-footed ;  the  washerwomen 
with  clattering  wooden  shoes  and  conical  straw  hats  ;  the  lottery-dealers 
with  revolving  wheeb  and  cabalistic  shingles ;  the  nationalities  of  the 
world  massed  and  grouped  in  the  promenade  or  at  the  theatre ;  the 
world-forgotten  and  forlorn  chllteaux,  full  of  melancholy  alleys  and  cor- 
ridors -J  the  wax-polished  floors,  mirroring  your  footsteps  as  you  walked  ; 
the  donkeys  whose  consciousness  told  them  of  a  universe  peopled  with 
bludgeons  and  resonant  of  oaths ;  the  cafe  noir  and  vin  ordinaire,  which 
made  the  thirsty  American  yearn  for  the  ice-pitchers  of  Ms  native  land  ; 
the  centenarian  beggars  keeping  up  with  your  carnage,  and  petitioning 
for  alms  in  the  name  of  the  good  God  ;  the  witty  haunchbacked  dwar&, 
iike  epigrams  in  flesh,  who  thank  you  for  sous  with  bows  that  D'Orsay 
might  have  coveted ;  the  springs  surrounded  with  their  jostling  crowds, 


.* 


SUMMER  DATS  AT  VICHY.  91 

past  which  the  travelling  carriage  of  the  Princess  Ghika  flashed  on  its 
way  to  Bourbon-Busset ;  the  queer  little  French  physician  tottering  un- 
der traditions,  and  believing  devoatly  in  Vichy  as  the  back-bone  of  all 
being ;  the  Casino,  dedicated  to  pleasure,  nightly  winking  its  myriad 
eyes  at  the  dark  and  desolate  Etablissement  des  Bains,  the  rendezvous 
of  pain ;  the  gleamy  roads  winding  to  remote  chateaux  through  bosky 
forest  or  by  lonely  watercourse  ;  and  the  glimpses  of  quaint  dreamy  gar- 
dens where  the  centuries  lay  sound  asleep  for  ever  and  for  ever, — people 
and  places  such  as  these  flitted  before  me  in  melancholy  confusion  when 
the  moment  had  come  to  bid  them  a  long  farewell. 

In  the  early  September  morning  I  walked  alone  across  the  deserted 
park.  At  every  step  the  trees  rained  russet,  the  shower  we  must  ex- 
pect when  April  is  exchanged  for  autumn.  The  dull  sky  brooded,  and 
a  low  wind  murmured  premonitions  of  a  storm.  The  gay  band  in  the 
kiosk  discoursed  with  its  accustomed  flippancy  to  a  sadly-dwindled 
audience.  Six  guests  alone  loitered  in  the  principal  hotel.  Crossing  at 
last  to  the  salMtrTnangery  I  partook  of  an  early  breakfast,  in  company 
with  two  or  three  others  about  to  depart  Sentiment  evaporated  over 
the  mutton-chope,  and  we  fell  to  sciandalizing  the  service  medical  and 
comparing  our  doctors'  bills,  with  respect  to  which  opinion  was  divided. 
The  arrival  of  the  carriage  nipped  this  pleasant  gossip  in  the  bud,  and 
in  the  midst  of  that  excitement  and  confusion  in  which  events  seem  to 
transact  themselves  our  trunks  were  hoisted,  we  gave  gar^on  ^nd/emme 
de  chambre  their  well-earned  gratuities,  and  shook  hands  with  madame 
our  hostess  and  her  husband,  who  now  for  the  first  time  became  visible 
in  that  acknowledged  capacity.  He  was  a  meek,  amiable  man,  excellent 
at  carrying  a  market-basket  and  winding  up  a  clock ;  and  I  am  sure  we 
all  felt  sorry  that  he  should  make  our  acquaintance  only  at  a  moment 
when  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  cultivate  it.  And  so,  amid  waving 
handkerchiefs  and  gazing  groups  and  moist  eyes  and  kindly  memories, 
we  drove  away,  most  of  us  to  return  to  the  practicalities  of  life,  and  in 
them  forget  our  day-dreams.  Still,  in  convalescent  life  at  Vichy  there 
is  often  something  so  elegiac  and  pastoral  that  one  who  has  enjoyed 
this  attribute  of  it  would  not  wholly  forget  it  if  he  could.  Its  simpli- 
city, its  silence,  its  repose,  are  precious.  A.K  L. 


92    . 


THE  PHOTOGRAPH. 


It  is  only  a  sun-print  on  a  card, 
The  picture  of  one  who  died  long  ago  ; 

'  Tis  faded  by  time,  but  the  eyes,  unmarr'd, 
Look  up  at  me  so.  * 

As  they  used  to  do,  in  the  halcyon  past, 
With  a  sudden  glance  of  a  sweet  surprise  ; 

A  look  that  was  too  full  of  bliss  to  last, 
Look'd  those  dear  blue  eyes. 

Holding  a  court,  herself  Queen,  was  my  sweet, 
When  first  we  met  'mid  the  music,  and  glare 

Of  the  lighted  gas,  £,  new  to  the  scene, 
Stood  close  by  her  chair. 

Again,  in  the  church,  with  a  year  between, — 
I  was  kneeling,  white^robed  in  the  surpliced  chuit 

All  through  the  prayers  £  look'd  down  at  my  pet, 
I  could  not  look  higher. 

My  pet,  did  I  say !  She  was  mine  in  name. 
In  name  and  in  dreams  she  was  mine,  my  own  ; 

'*  Engaged  to  be  married,"  the  rumour  came. 
And  my  heart  turn'd  stone. 

Engaged  to  another  means  dead  to  me— 
Engaged  !    She  is  married  ;  I  heard  the  bell 

Ring  joy  to  the  bride,  but  to  me  its  tone 
Was  a  funeral  knell. 

It  is  only  a  sun-print  on  a  card. 
The  picture  of  one  who  died  long  ago. 

Shut  it  up  in  the  drawer  with  eyes  unmarr'd. 
And  lock  it  up— so, 


Frbd.  Travers. 


93 


THE  PRIESTS  SON. 

About  twenty  years  ago  I  was  yisiting  my  aunt's  many  estates  while 
acting  as  her  agent.  The  different  village  priests  whose  acquaintance  I 
thought  it  my  duty  to  make  seemed  to  be  a  monotonous  set  of  men,  all 
cut  on  the  same  pattern.  But  finally,  in  the  last  village  I  had  to  inspect, 
I  came  across  a  priest  who  was  very  unlike  his  colleagues.  He  was  a 
very  old  man,  almost  decrepit,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  urgent  en- 
tai^eaties  of  his  parishioners,  who  loved  and  respected  him  very  much--  a 
rare  thing  in  Russia— he  would  long  before  that  have  resigned. 

Two  things  struck  me  in  Father  Alexis;  for  that  was  this  priest's 
name :  in  the  first  place,  he  not  only  asked  nothing  for  himself, 
but  told  me  at  once  that  he  really  needed  nothing ;  and  secondly,  I  do 
not  remember  ever  having  seen  on  a  human  face  a  sadder  expression, 
one  more  completely  detached  from  outside  matters ;  it  was  what  is 
called  an  expression  of  living  death.  His  features  were  uninteresting 
and  of  the  rustic  type  ;  his  forehead  was  wrinkled  ;  he  had  little  grey 
oyes,  a  large  nose,  a  pointed  beard ;  his  skin  was  red  and  weatherbeaten. 
But  the  expression  !  In  its  dull  indifference  there  lingered  but  a  vague, 
sad  trace  of  life.     And  his  voice  was  dull  and  heavy. 

I  fell  ill,  and  was  obliged  to  keep  my  bed  for  some  days.  Father 
Alexis  came  to  see  me  every  evening — not  to  talk,  but  to  play  douraki 
with  me.  He  appeared  to  take  more  pleasure  in  the  game  than  I  did. 
Once,  when  he  had  just  beaten  me  several  times  in  succession,  I  turned 
the  conversation  to  his  past  life  and  the  griefs  of  which  the  traces  were 
still  so  manifest.  Father  Alexis  did  not  comply  at  once  with  my  wish, 
but  at  last  he  told  me  his  story.  I  must  have  pleased  him  in  some  way 
or  other,  for  certainly  he  would  not  have  been  so  open  with  every  one. 

I  shall  try  to  give  you  the  very  words  he  used.  Father  Alexis  talked 
very  simply,  clearly  and  logically,  without  any  of  the  pompous  expres- 
sions one  hears  at  the  seminaries  and  in  the  provinces.  I  have  often 
noticed  that  these  Russians  who  have  had  a  hard  experience  of  life,  and 
have  become  resigned  to  everything,  use  very  simple  forms  of  speech, 
whatever  their  social  condition  may  be. 

Father  Alexis  began :  I  had  a  good  sensible  wife.  I  loved  her  with 
my  whole  heart,  and  she  bore  me  eight  children,  but  they  almost  all 
died  in  infancy.  One  of  my  sons  became  an  archbishop  ;  he  died  not 
long  since  in  his  diocese.  My  other  son,  James — I  am  going  to  tell  you 
about  him. 

I  put  him  in  the  seminary  of  the  city  of  T Soon  I  began 


94  THE  priest's  son. 

to  bear  the  most  favourable  reports  about  him  ;  he  was  first  in  every 
class.  WhUe  a  little  boy  at  home  |he  was  noted  for  his  diligence  and 
quiet,  never  uttering  a  word  all  day,  but  sitting  quietly  reading  a  book. 
He  never  gave  his  mother  or  me  the  slightest  uneasiness.  He  was  a 
good  little  fellow ;  only  sometimes  he  had  strange  dreams,  and  his  health 
was  very  delicate. 

Once  a  singular  thing  happened.  He  was  just  ten  years  old.  He 
went  out  from  the  house  at  daybreak  on  the  vigil  of  St  Peter,  and 
stayed  out  all  the  morning.  At  last  he  came  back.  My  wife  and  I 
asked  him  where  he  had  been. 

**  I  went  out  to  walk  in  the  woods,''  he  said,  "  and  I  met  a  little  green 
old  man  who  talked  a  good  deal  with  me,  and  gave  me  some  little  nuts 
which  are  very  good  to  eat." 

"  Who  was  the  little  green  old  man  ? " 

*'  I  don't  know,"  he  said  :  "  I  (never  saw  him  before.  A  very  little 
old  man,  with  a  hunch  on  his  back,  who  sprang  about  and  laughed  all 
the  time.    He  was  green — as  green  as  the  leaves." 

"  What  I  was  his  face  green  too  1 " 

"  Face,  hair  and  eyes. 

Our  son  had  never  told  a  lie,  but  at  this  his  mother  and  I  began  to 
have  our  doubts. 

"  You  fell  asleep  in  the  woods,  the  sun  shone  on  your  face,  and  you 
dreamed  about  the  old  man." 

**  I  did  not  fall  asleep ;  and  besides,  since  you  don't  believe  me,  here 
is  one  of  the  little  nuts  which  was  left  in  my  pocket."  And  with  these 
words  James  drew  t^e  nut  from  his  pocket  and  showed  it  to  us.  It  was 
round  like  a  chestnut,  but  downy,  and  unlike  ordinary  nuts.  I  took  it 
to  show  to  the  doctor,  but  afterward  I  could  never  find  it 

Then  we  sent  the  boy  to  the  seminary,  as  I  have  already  told  you, 
and  he  delighted  us  by  his  success.  We  often  said,  my  wife  and  I,  that 
he  would  become  a  great  man.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  him  when  he 
came  home  for  vacation,  he  was  so  pretty  and  well  behaved,  and  kind  to 
everybody,  so  that  everybody  praised  him  to  us.  Only  his  body  remained 
very  weak,  and  he  seldom  had  a  good  healthy  colour.  When  he  had 
entered  his  nineteenth  year,  and  had  nearly  finished  his  studies,  suddenly 
we  received  a  letter  from  him.  It  was  thus  he  wrote  to  us :  '^  Do  not 
be  angry  with  me,  my  parents.  Give  me  leave  to  enter  a  secular  life. 
My  heart  is  opposed  to  spiritual  duties  ;  I  dread  the  responsibility :  I 
am  afraid  of  sin ;  doubts  have  risen  within  me.  Without  your  consent, 
without  your  blessing,  I  shall  not  make  a  decision :  I  am  afraid  of  my- 
self, because  I  have  begun  to  think." 

Oh,  what  pain  that  letter  gave  me,  my  good  sir !    It  showed  me  that 
should  have  no  successcH*  to  my  offica     My  eldest  son  was  a  monk. 


THE  priest's  son.  95- 

and  this  one  wanted  to  abandon  a  spiritual  life.  This  news  was  the 
more  cmel  to  me  because  for  two  centuries  all  the  priests  of  our  parish 
had  belonged  to  my  family.  Nevertheless,  I  said  to  myself,  ^*  Why 
knock  my  head  against  a  stone  wall  1  His  destiny  controls  him.  What 
sort  of  a  shepherd  of  souls  would  hh  be  who  had  doubts  1  '* 

I  consulted  my  wife,  and  wrote  to  my  son  to  this  effect:  *'  Oh,  my 
dear  James,  reflect  well :  consider  tiiis  step  carefully  before  you  take  it. 
The  difficulties  and  troubles  of  a  secular  life  are  great— cold,  hunger  and 
the  contempt  that  is  felt  for  the  sons  of  priests.  Be  warned  of  this  in 
good  time,  my  son,  and  know  that  no  one  will  hold  out  to  you  a  suc- 
couring hand.  Do  not  expose  yourself  to  the  risk  of  regretting  later 
what  you  will  have  no  chance  of  taking  up  again.  But  if  you  have 
doubts  about  your  calling,  and  your  faith  is  really  shaken,  I  must  not 
compel  you.  God's  will  be  done  !  Your  mother  and  I  do  not  refuse 
you  our  blessing." 

James  answered  at  once  with  a  grateful  letter :  *'  You  have  filled  me 
with  joy,  father,  and  I  intend  to  devote  myself  to  professional  studies. 
I  have  friends,  and  I  shall  enter  the  university.  I  shall  take  a  degree 
there,  for  I  feel  a  great  interest  in  scientific  studies."  I  read  this  letter 
of  his,  and  was  only  made  sadder  by  it  And  soon  I  had  no  one  with 
whom  to  share  my  grief,  for  my  poor  wife  about  this  time  took  a  cold 
and  died.  Was  it  on  account  of  this  cold,  or  from  pity  for  her,  that 
€vt>d  took  her  from  this  world  ?  How  often  I  burst  into  tears,  widower 
as  I  was,  and  quite  alone  !  Yet  what  was  to  be  done  ?  Such  was  my 
fate,  and  at  the  same  time  I  was  expecting  my  son,  for  he  had  promised 
me  a  visit  before  liis  departure  for  Moscow.  Indeed,  he  came  home 
soon,  but  did  not  stay  long.  Something  seemed  to  be  weighing  upon 
him  :  he  appeared  to  long  for  wings  to  fly  more  quickly  to  the  univer- 
sity. I  questioned  him  about  his  doubts,  but  I  got  only  vague  answers. 
He  had  but  one  thought  in  his  head. 

When  he  left  for  the  university  he  took  hardly  a  penny  with  him, 
only  a  few  clothes.  He  had  great  confidence  in  himself,  and  naturally. 
He  passed  the  entrance  examination  very  well,  was  matriculated,  and 
arranged  to  give  lessons  in  private  houses,  for  he  was  very  strong  in  the 
ancient  languages.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  He  even  sent  me  money. 
I  was  gratified,  not  on  account  of  the  money,  which  I  sent  back  to  him 
with  a  scolding  letter,  but  because  I  saw  he  would  make  his  way.  Alas ! 
my  joy  was  of  brief  duration. 

He  came  home  for  the  first  vacation,  and,  strange  to  say,  1  did  not 
recognise  my  James.  He  had  become  so  sad  and  taciturn  that  it  was 
hard  to  get  a  word  from  him.  He  seemed  ten  years  older.  Formerly 
he  was  timid,  and  at  the  slightest  provocation  he  blushed  like  a  girl, 
but  when  he  raised  his  eyes  one  saw  how  clear  his  mind  was.    Bui  now 


96  THE  priest's  son. 

it  was  timidity  no  longer,  but  a  sort  of  wolfish  savageness  that  he 
showed ;  he  kept  his  eyes  cast  down.  When  I  questioned  him,  either 
he  was  silent  or  he  lost  his  temper.  "  Doesn't  he  drink  9 — Heaven  help 
him ! — or  has  he  been  gambling,  or  has  he  got  into  trouble  about  some 
woman  ?  At  his  age  such  temptations  are  strong,  and  in  a  large  city  like 
Moscow  there  is  no  lack  of  bad  example  and  opportunity."  And  yet 
nothing  of  the  sort  was  true  of  him :  he  drank  nothing  but  small  beer 
and  water ;  he  did  not  even  look  at  women,  and  he  did  not  associate 
with  young  men  of  his  age. 

What  pained  me  most  was  that  he  lost  his  confidence  in  me ;  he 

showed  absolute   indifierence,  as  if  ever}'thing  had  become  insipid  to 

him.    I  tried  to  talk  to  him  about  his  studies  and  the  university,  but 

•  even  on  these  subjects  he  gave  me  no  answer,  or  at  least  no  satisfactory 

answer.  Nevertheless,  he  went  to  church,  though  with  a  certain  strange- 

'  ness :  everywhere  else  he  was  silent  and  savage,  but  when  there  a  slight 

smile  never  left  his  lips.     He  lived  at  home  in  this  fashion  for  six 

weeks ;  then  he  left  for  Moscow.     He  wrote  me  from  there  several  times, 

■  and  I  fancied  I  saw  the  traces  of  better  feelings  in  his  letters.  But  imar 

gine  my  amazement  when  suddenly  in  the  dead  of  winter,  a  few  days 

before  Christmas,  James  appeared  before  me  I     Why  ?  How  ?  for  I 

.  knew  very  well  there  was  no  vacation  at  that  season. 

"  You  have  come  from  Moscow  ? " 

"  From  Moscow." 

"  And  the  university  ? " 

"  I  have  left  it" 

«  Left  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

"For  good?" 

"For  good." 

"  James,  are  you  ill  1 " 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  ill,  but  don't  torment  me  with  questions, 
•or  I  shall  go  away  frt)m  here,  and  you  shall  have  seen  me  for  the  last 
time." 

James  told  me  he  was  not  ill,  but  his  face  frightened  me.  It  was 
terrible  that  face — gloomy,  barely  himian.  The  hollow  cheeks,  the  pro- 
jecting cheekbones,  nothing  but  skin  and  bone,  his  voice  sounding  as  if 
it  came  from  a  barrel,  and  his  eyes — merciful  Heavens  !  what  eyes  they 
were  ! — threatening,  sullen,  restless,  impossible  to  catch,  and  his  eye- 
brows scowling  till  they  met  And  his  lips  were  for  ever  twitching. 
Ah,  what  had  become  of  my  James,  the  innocent  little  fellow  ?  Hasn't 
he  lost  his  mind  1  I  sometimes  thought.  He  wandered  about  like  a 
spectre,  did  not  sleep  at  night,  would  suddenly  look  in  a  comer  and 
grow  rigid,  so  that  your  blood  would  run  cold.    He  had  threatened  to 


THE  priest's  son.  97 

leave  the  house  if  I  didn't  leave  him  alone,  but  after  all  I  wto  his  father. 
My  last  hope  was  shattered,  and  I  was  to  keep  silence?  Oh  no !  So 
one  day,  having  chosen  my  time  well,  I  began  to  entreat  my  James  with 
tears  in  the  name  of  his  departed  mother ;  ^  James  teU  me,  as  your 
actual  and  spiritual  father,  what  ails  you  f  Don't  make  me  die.  Tell 
me  your  secret ;  unburden  your  heart.  Have  you  not  injured  some  one  f 
In  that  case  confess  it.'' 

**  Well,  father,"  he  burst  out — and  this  conversation  took  place  about 
nightfall — "  you  have  moved  me ;  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all  the  truth. 
I  have  injured  no  one.     My  soul  is  perishing." 

**  How  so  1 " 

''  I  will  tell  you ;  "  and  then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  mine  for  the  first 
time  for  four  months. 

**  For  four  months — "  he  began.  But  at  this  point  his  voice  failed 
him  ^d  he  breathed  uneasily. 

'*  Four  months,  do  you  say  1  What  else  1  Speak  I  do  not  keep  me 
waiting." 

"  It  is  now  four  months  that  I  kept  seeing  him." 

"  Him  ?  whom  1 " 

"  I  mean  him  whom  one  don't  like  to  mention  when  it's  growing  dark." 

I  grew  cold  from  head  to  foot  and  began  to  tremble.  "  What  him  t " 
I  asked.     "  Do  you  see  him  I " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  see  him  now? " 

"Yes." 

"  Whom  ? "  At  the  same  time  I  was  afraid  to  look  round,  imd  we 
both  talked  in  a  low  tone. 

"  There,  over  there : "  and  with  his  eyes  he  indicated  the  place— 
"over  there." 

I  made  a  mighty  effort  and  looked  at  the  place :  there  was  nothing 
there.    "  But  James,  there  is  nothing  there.     For  Heaven's  sake—" 

"  You  don't  see  him,  but  I  do." 

I  looked  again,  but  there  was  stiU  nothing  there.  I  then  remembered 
the  little  old  man  of  the  woods  who  had  given  him  a  chestnut. 

"  What  colour  is  he  1  green  1 " 

"  No,  not  green — black." 

"  With  horns  ? " 

"  No.  He  is  like  men,  except  that  he  is  all  black."  While  speaking 
his  upper  lip  was  drawn  above  his  teeth,  he  had  become  as  pale  as  death, 
he  leaned  against  me,  and  his  eyes  seemed  starting  from  his  head. 

"  But  that  is  only  an  apparition,'*  I  said.  "  It  is  the  darkness  of  some 
shadow  you  see,  and  you  misti&e  it  for  a  man." 


98  THE  priest's  son. 

.  <'  No,  indeed  it  isn't  I  see  his  eyes.  There  !  he's  moving  them  :  he's 
raising  his  arm,  making  a  sign."  / 

"  Stop,  stop,  James !  don't  give  way  to  this.  I  'U  bom  incense,  pray 
and  sprinkle  you  from  head  to  foot  with  holy  water." 

James  stopped  me  with  a  gesture :  ^*  I  don't  believe  in  your  incense 
or  your  holy  water  :  it's  all  not  worth  a  farthing.  I  shall  never  be  free 
of  him.  Since  he  first  came  to  me  one  day,  one  summer's  day — accursed 
day  . — he  is  my  continual  visitor,  and  I  can't  get  rid  of  him.  Under- 
stand this,  my  father :  don't  be  surprised  any  longer  at  my  conduct,  and 
don't  torment  me  any  more." 

"  What  day  was  it  he  first  came  V*  I  asked,  continually  signing  my 
son  with  the  cross.  *^  Was  it  not  the  day  you  wrote  me  about  your 
doubts  t " 

James  pushed  aside  my  hand :  ''  Leave  me.  Don't  make  me  angry, 
lest  something  worse  should  happen.  It  would  not  take  much  to  drive 
me  to  desperation." 

You  can  imagine,  sir,  what  I  felt  in  hearing  that  I  remember  I  wept 
all  that  night  *'  0  Lord  God  ! "  thought  I,  ^*  how  have  I  incurred  thy 
wrath  1 " 

At  this  point  Alexis  drew  from  his  pocket  a  great  chequered  pocket 
handkerchief,  and  while  blowing  his  nose  tried  to  dry  his  eyes  with  a 
comer  of  it. 

Very  sad — he  resumed — was  the  life  that  then  began  for  us.  I  had 
but  one  thought :  ^'  If  he  only  do  not  forget  himself  and  lay  violent 
hands  on  himself ! "  I  watched  him  all  the  time,  but  I  took  care  not  to  say 
a  word.  We  had  at  this  time  a  neighbour,  the  widow  of  a  colonel — 
Martha  Savischna.  I  had  a  great  respect  fbr  her,  because  she  was  a 
sensible,  quiet  woman,  although  young  and  good-looking.  I  often  went 
to  see  her,  and  she  had  no  contempt  for  my  condition.  Driven  by  grief 
and  suffering,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  I  told  her  how  things  stood. 
She  was  at  first  alarmed,  and  then  an  idea  came  to  her.  She  wanted  to 
make  my  son's  acquaintance  and  to  have  an  interview  with  him. 

I  returned  home  and  tried  to  persuade  James  :  '*  Come,  my  son,  come 
and  see  the  widow  of  the  colonel" 

But  he,  stretching  his  arms  and  legs,  cried  out,  "  No,  I  shall  not  go. 
What  could  we  have  to  talk  about  t " 

However,  I  finally  persuaded  him,  and  having  harnessed  my  little 
sleigh  I  carried  him  to  the  widow's  house ;  then  I  left  him  as  we  had 
agreed.    Three  or  four  hours  later  my  son  returned. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  how  did  you  find  our  neighbour ! " 

He  made  no  answer,  but  I  was  not  discouraged. 

**  She  is  a  virtuous  lady,"  I  went  on,  *'  and  certainly  she  has  been  very 
kind  to  you." 


THE  priest's  son.  99 

*'  YeSy  she's  not  like  the  others." 

Then  seeing  him  gentler  than  usual,  I  ventured  to  ask  him,  ^*  And  the 
temptation  of  the  devil,  eh  ? " 

James  gave  me  a  look  which  pnxluced  on  me  a  feeling  as  if  I  had  re- 
ceived the  cut  of  a  whip,  and  he  became  silent  again.  I  did  not  tor- 
ment him  any  longer,  but  made  my  way  to  my  room.  An  hour  later, 
approaching  his  door,  I  looked  through  the  keyhole,  and — would  you 
believe  iti — my  James  was  asleep.  He  was  lying  on  his  bed  Cast 
asleep.  I  crowed  to  myself  at  least  twenty  times :  **  May  God  send  all 
sorts  of  prosperity  to  Martha  Savischna  !  She,  dear  dove  !  has  known 
how  to  touch  his  hard  heart."  The  next  morning  I  saw  James  take  his 
hat  without  saying  a  word.  Should  I  ask  him  where  he  was  gdng  1 
No,  indeed.  He  is  surely  going  to  call  upon  her.  And  in  fact  he  went 
there,  and  remained  longer  than  the  day  before.  And  the  next  d%y  and 
the  next  he  went  again.  I  felt  myself  taking  fresh  courage.  I  saw 
there  was  a  change  in  my  son,  and  indeed  it  was  possible  to  catch  his 
eyes  again.  There  were  signs  of  sadness  stiU,  but  none  of  that  former 
despair  and  alarm.  Alas !  I  was  not  long  happy.  Soon  everything 
went  wrong.  James  became  sullen  agaiu  :  as  before,  it  was  impossible 
to  go  near  him.  He  locked  himself  up  in  his  room,  and  there  were  no 
more  visits  to  the  widow.  "  Can  he  have  offended  her  t "  I  thought, 
"  and  can  she  have  forbidden  him  her  door  f  No,  wild  as  he  is,  he  can- 
not have  forgotten  himself  to  that  point" 

I  could  not  restrain  myself — I  asked  him :  "  WeU,  James,  and  our 
neighbour?    It  seems  to  me  you  have  quite  forgotten  her." 

"  Our  neighbour  ! "  he  cried  like  a  madman.  ''  Do  you  want  him  to 
make  fun  of  me  1 " 

"What!" 

And  James,  clenching  his  fist ,  roared  :  **  He  used  in  old  times  to  be 
always  crouching  there ;  now  he  has  begun  to  laugh  and  show  his  teeth. 
Go  away  1  leave  me  ! " 

I  did  not  know  exactly  to  whom  these  words  were  addressed.  My 
feet  could  hardly  carry  me  from  the  room. 

I  went  that  same  day  to  Martha  Savischna,  and  found  her  very  me- 
lancholy ;  she  had  even  become  very  thin.  But  she  did  not  want  to 
talk  about  my  son  with  me ;  she  said  but  one  thing ;  '*  No  human  aid 
will  be  of  any  use ;  you  must  pray." 

Oh,  great  God  !  as  if  I  were  not  praying  day  and  night  1 

At  this  point  Father  Alexis  again  drew  forth  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  eyes — this  time  without  making  any  effort  at  concealment. 
And  after  a  moment's  rest  he  resumed :  Then  James  and  I  glided  to- 
ward our  fate  like  an  avalanche  on  a  mountain.  We  both  saw  clearly 
the  abyss  below,  but  to  what  support  could  we  cling  ?    And  conceal- 


100  THE  priest's  son. 

ment  was  no  longer  possible  :  ever^tbiDg  in  the  parish  was  in  confusion  ; 
it  began  to  be  whispered  that  the  sou  of  the  priest  was  possessed,  and 
that  it  was  time  to  tell  the  authorities ;  and  they  would  have  done  so 
had  it  not  been  that  they  felt  pity  for  me.  Meanwhile,  winter  had 
passed  and  spring  had  come.  And  the  good  Lord  had  sent  a  pleasanter, 
clearer  spring  than  the  oldest  persons  had  ever  seen.  The  sun  shone 
all  day  long  :  there  was  no  wind,  and  the  air  was  neither  hot  nor  cold. 
Suddenly  an  idea  came  into  my  head — whether  I  might  not  persuade 
James  to  undertake  a  pUgrimage  with  me  to  St.  Mitrophanos  of  Voro- 
ney  ]  If  this  last  plan  failed  there  would  be  nothing  left  but  death. 
So  one  evening  1  was  sitting  on  the  steps  of  my  house ;  the  sunset  still 
shone  in  the  sky,  and  some  larks  were  still  singing ;  the  apple  trees 
were  in  blossom.  I  was  seated,  and  wondering  to  myself  how  I  could 
tellJames  my  intention,  when  suddenly  he  came  out  of  the  house,  stood 
surprised  for  a  moment  without  stirring,  and  sat  down  by  my  side.  I 
was  almost  frightened  I  was  so  glad.  But  hush  1  He  sat  there  looking 
at  the  sunset  withot  sa3dng  a  word.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  he  was 
moved.  His  eyes  grew  slowly  clearer ;  a  trifle  would  have  brought 
tears.  Noticing  this  change,  I  ventured  to  try.  "  James,"  I  said  to 
him,  "  listen  to  me  without  anger.''  And  I  began  to  tell  him  my  plan 
at  length — how  we  two  should  start  for  St.  Mitrophanos  on  foot,  with 
knapsack  on  back  ;  and  from  our  home  to  Voroney  was  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  versts ;  and  how  agreeable  it  would  be  to  walk  in  the 
early  spring  morning  on  the  tender,  green  grass — to  walk  all  the  time ; 
and  how  once  there,  if  we  should  prostrate  ourselves  humbly  and  make 
really  sincere  prayers  on  the  saint's  tomb,  who  knows ) — perhaps  he 
would  interceede  for  us,  and  the  great  Grod  would  take  pity  on  us,  and 
cure  my  son  James.     Such  a  thing  was  not  unheard  of 

Oh,  imagine,  sir,  my  joy  when  James  said  suddenly,  "  Very  weU,  I 
agree :  let  us  go." 

I  was  stupefied.     "  My  friend  ! "  I  stammered,  "  my  little  pet !  " 

And  he  asked,  "  Wlien  do  we  start  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  if  you  want  to." 

In  fact  we  did  start  the  next  day.  We  put  our  knapsacks  on  our 
backs,  took  our  big  walking  sticks,  and  set  off.  We  walked  for  seven 
whole  days.  And  during  the  whole  time  the  weather  was  miraculously 
pleasant — no  rain  and  no  excessive  heat.  James  grew  better  every 
hour.  I  must  tell  you  that  even  before  this  James  did  not  see  him  when 
he  was  in  the  open  air,  but  he  always  felt  him  and  heard  him  walking 
behind  him,  or  else  he  saw  him  gliding  along  the  ground  like  a  shadow, 
which  tormented  him  more  than  anything.  This  time  nothing  of  the 
sort  happened.  Even  in  the  inns  where  we  slept  nothing  appeared. 
We  talked  little,  but  how  happy  we  were  !  and  especially  I,  for  I  saw 


THE  priest's  son.  101 

my  child  getting  better.  At  last  we  reached  Voroney.  We.  washed 
ourselves  and  made  our  way  to  the  church.  For  three  days  we  hardly 
went  out  of  it.  How  many  masses  we  had  said  ?  how  many  candles 
burned  !  And  all  went  so  well — holy  days  and  peaceful  nights.  My 
good  James  slept  like  a  child. 

It  was  he  who  first  spoke  of  the  thing.  '*  Father/'  he  asked  me,  *<  you 
don't  see  anything  1 "    And  while  he  said  that  he  smiled. 

'*  I  see  nothing,"  I  said. 

"Well,  neither  do  I." 

What  more  could  be  asked  f  My  gratitude  to  the  saint  knew  no 
bounds. 

Three  days  passed  thus,  and  I  said  to  James,  "  WeU,  my  boy,  we 
must  start  away  again.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done  :  you  must 
confess,  receive  the  communion,  and  then  we  shall  go  home,  if  it  please 
Grod.  Then,  when  you  have  rested  and  given  up  household  labours  to 
get  back  your  strength, — then  we  shall  have  to  look  about  and  get  you 
some  employment    Martha  Savischna  will  certainly  come  to  our  aid." 

"  No,  no,"  said  James,  "  we  must  not  trouble  her."  But  he  agreed  to 
all  the  rest 

The  next  day  we  went  to  church,  my  boy  went  to  confession,  and 
after  having  prayed — with  what  fervour  I — ^he  prepared  for  the  commu- 
nion. As  for  me,  I  kept  a  little  to  one  side  :  I  did  not  feel  the  ground 
beneath  my  feet     Angels  in  heaven  are  not  more  happy. 

But  while  I  am  looking  at  him,  what  is  happening  1  James  has  par- 
taken of  the  sacramental  bread,  and  is  he  not  going  to  dip  his  lips  in 
the  cup  of  warm  wine,  as  every  good  Christian  does  who  has  just  re- 
ceived the  body  of  Christ  1  He  turned  his  back  to  me  :  I  went  to  him 
and  said,  "  Well,  James,  you  don't  drink  it." 

He  turned  round  suddenly.  Oh,  sir,  I  sprang  back  firom  terror.  His 
face  was  terrible  to  see.  It  was  that  of  a  brute — pale  as  death,  his  hair 
straight,  his  eyes  crossed.  My  voice  failed  me  with  fear.  I  wanted  to 
speak,  but  could  not.  He  hastened  out  of  the  church,  I  after  him.  He 
ran  straight  to  our  inn,  threw  his  knapsack  on  his  back  and  started  off 
bareheaded. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  James  1  '*  I  cried.     "  Stop  !  stop  I  *' 

But  he  made  no  answer :  he  ran,  running  first  to  one  side,  then  to  the 
other,  and  there  was  no  way  of  catching  him.  Without  losing  a  mo- 
ment I  turned  to  the  inn  and  hired  a  telega :  at  the  same  time  I  trembled 
in  all  my  limbs,  not  ceasing  to  murmur  '^  0  God  I  0  God  1 "  for  I  could 
not  understand  what  had  happened.  I  started  back  home,  for  I  thought 
he  would  certainly  have  run  there ;  and  in  fact,  six  verste  from  the  town 
I  overtook  him,  walking  with  great  steps  along  the  road.  I  came  up 
to  him,  and  jumped  down  from  the  telega  :  *'  James  !  James  ! " 


102  THE  PRIEOT'S   son. 

He  stopped  short,  tamed  half  way  round  toward  me  like  a  soldier, 
his  eyes  lowered,  his  lips  tightly  closed,  and  whatever  I  could  say  he 
stood  stock-still  there  like  an  idoL  Then  he  continued  his  journey. 
What  could  I  do  f  I  followed  behind.  Oh,  what  a  journey  that  was, 
sir !  Our  return  from  Voroney  was  as  terrible  as  the  walk  there  had 
been  pleasant.  If  I  spoke  to  him  he  snapped  his  teeth,  with  his  head 
on  his  shoulder,  like  a  tiger  or  a  hyena.  I  have  never  understood  how 
I  did  not  lose  my  wits.  Finally,  one  night  in  a  smoky  peasant's  hut, 
he  was  sitting  with  his  l^s  hanging,  looking  slowly  at  the  things  around 
him.  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  besought  him  :  *^  Don't  kill  the  poor  old 
man  who  is  your  father.    TeU  me  what  happened  to  you." 

**  Listen  I  You  want  to  know  the  truth.  Well,  here  it  is  :  When 
I  was  receiving  the  sacrament — ^you  remember  when  I  had  the  wafer  in 
my  mouth — suddenly  I  saw  him  in  the  church  in  fuU  light — him  before 
me  as  if  he  had  risen  from  the  earth — and  he  whispered  to  me,  '  Spit  it 
out,  and  trample  it  under  your  foot ;'  and  I  did  as  he  said :  I  spat  it 
out  and  trampled  it  under  my  foot ;  imd  now  I  am  damned  for  all 
eternity,  for  all  sins  can  be  forgiven  except  the  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost" 

Having  said  these  horrible  words,  my  son  feU  back,  and  I  too  fell  to 
the  ground. 

Father  Alexis  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with  his 
two  hands.  Well,  he  continued,  I  need  not  distress  you  or  myself  any 
longer.  We  managed  to  reach  home ,  and  the  end  soon  came,  and  I 
lost  my  James.  He  neither  ate  nor  drank  the  last  few  days.  Almost 
all  the  time  he  was  running  up  and  down  the  room,  saying  his  sin  could 
not  be  forgiven.  But  he  never  saw  kim  any  more ;  and  why  should  he 
have  come,  since  he  had  finished  the  destruction  of  my  boy's  soul  ? 
And  as  soon  as  James  took  to  his  bed  he  lost  consciousness,  and  without 
confession,  like  a  miserable  worm,  he  left  this  world  for  the  next.  How- 
ever, I  don't  like  to  think  that  the  Lord  has  judged  him  severely ;  and 
this  is  why  among  other  reasons — because  he  was  so  handsome  in  his 
coffin.  He  seemed  to  have  grown  younger.  He  looked  as  he  used  to 
when  he  was  a  little  boy — his  face  so  smooth  and  calm,  a  soft  smile 
upon  his  lips.  Martha  Savischna  came  to  see  him,  and  she  had  the 
same  idea.  She  had  him  stirrounded  with  flowers,  and  it  was  she  too 
who  had  the  stone  put  up  at  Lb  grave. 

As  for  me,  I  have  remained  al«  ne  -,  and  now  you  know,  my  dear  sir, 
the  cause  of  the  great  grief  you  not. « ed  on  my  face.  It  will  never  pass 
away — it  cannot ' 

I  wanted  to  say  a  few  words  of  consolation  to  Father  Alexis,  but  I 
could  think  of  nothing,  and  we  parted  in  silence. 

Ivan  Tourguenkff. 


103 


KE^RAMOS. 


(BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW.) 


Tum^  turn,  my  wheel!    Turn  round  and 

round 
Wtthnd  a  pamty  without  a  sound  : 

So  spins  the  flying  world  away  I 
This  clay,  weU  mixed  with  marl  and  sand, 
Follows  the  motion  of  my  hand  ; 
For  some  must  follow  and  some  command^ 

Though  all  are  made  of  clay  I 

Thus  sang  the  Potter  at  his  task 
Beneath  the  blossoming  hawthorn-tree, 
While  o'er  his  features  like  a  mask. 
The  quilted  sunshine  and  leaf  shade 
Moved,  as   the  boughs  above  him 

swayed, 
And  dothed  him,  till  he  seemed  to  be 
A  figure  woven  in  tapestry. 
So  sumptuously  was  he  arrayed 
In  that  magnificent  attire 
Of  sable  tissue  flaked  with  fire. 
Like  a  magician  he  appeared, 
A  conjuror  without  book  or  beard  ; 
And  while  he  plied  his  magic  art — 
For  it  was  magical  to  me — 
I  stood  in  silence  and  apart. 
And  wondered  more  and  more  to  see 
That  shapeless,  lifeless  mass  of  clay 
Rise  up  to  meet  the  master's  hand. 
And  now  contract  and  now  expand. 
And  even  his  slightest  touch  obey ; 
While  ever  in  a  thoughtful  mood 
He  sang  his  ditty,  and  at  times 
Whistled  a  tune  between  the  rhymes.   . 
As  a  melodious  interlude. 

Turn,  turn,  my  wheel!    AU  things  must 

change 
To  something  new,  to  something  strange : 

Nothing  that  is  can  pause  or  stay : 
The  moon  ivill  wax,  the  moon  will  wane. 
The  mist  and  cloud  will  turn  to  rain, 
The  rain  to  mist  and  cloud  again. 

To-morrow  be  to-day. 


Thus  still  the  Potter  sang,  and  still. 
By  some  unconscious  act  of  will. 
The  melody,  and  even  the  words. 
Were  intermingled  with  my  thought, 
As  bits  of  coloured  thread  are  caught 
And  woven  into  nests  of  birds. 
And  thus  to  regions  hx  remote. 
Beyond  the  ocean's  vast  expanse. 
This  wizard  in  the  motley  coat 
Transported  me  on  wings  of  song. 
And  by  the  northern  shores  of  France 
Bore  me  with  restless  speed  along. 

What  land  is  this,  that  seems  to  be 
A  mingling  of  the  land  and  sea  ? 
This  land  of  sluices,  dikes  and  dunes  ? 
This  water-net,  that  tessellates 
The  landscape  ?  this  unending  maze 
Of  gardens,  through  whose  latticed  gates 
The  imprisoned  pinks  and  tulips  gaze  ; 
Where  in  long  summer  afternoons 
The  sunshine,  softened  by  the  haze. 
Comes  streaming  down  as  through  a 

screen; 
Where  over  fields  and  pastures  green 
The  painted  ships  float  high  in  air, 
And  over  all  and  every  where 
The  sails  of  windmills  sink  and  soar 
Like  wings  of  sea-gulls  on  the  shore? 

What  land  is  this  ?    Yon  pretty  town 
Is  Delft,  with  all  its  wares  displayed ; 
The  pride,  the  market-place,  the  crown 
And  centre  of  the  Potter*s  trade. 
See  1  every  house  and  room  is  bright 
With  glimmers  of  reflected  light 
From  plates  that  on  the  dresser  shine ; 
Flagons  to  foam  with  Flemish  beer. 
Or  sparkle  with  the  Rhenish  wine. 
And  pilgrim-flasks  with  fleurs>de-lis. 
And  ships  upon  a  rolling  sea. 
And  tankards  pewter-topped,  and  queer 
With  grotesque  maisk  and  musketeer  I 


104 


KfiBdHOS. 


Each  hospitable  chimney  smiles 

A  welcome  from  its  painted  tiles  ; 
The  parlour  walls,  the  chamber  floors, 
The  stairways  and  the  corridors, 
The  borders  of  the  garden  walks, 
Are  beautiful  with  fadeless  flowers. 
That  never  droop  in  winds  or  showers. 
And  never  wither  on  their  stalks. 

Tum^  turtty  my  wheel!    All  life  is  brief; 
What  tiffw  is  bud  will  soon  be  leaf 

What  now  is  leaf  will  soon  decay : 
The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west; 
The  blue  eggs  in  the  robin*  s  nesl 
Will  soon  have  wings  and  beak  and  breast^ 

And  flutter  and  fly  away. 

Now  southward  through  the  air  I  glide, 
The  song  my  only  pursuivant, 
And  see  across  the  landscape  wide 
The  blue  Charente,  upon  whose  tide 
The  belfries  and  the  spires  of  Saintes 
Ripple  and  rock  from  side  to  side. 
As,  when  an  earthquake  rends  its  walls, 
A  crumbling  city  reels  and  fiedls. 

Who  is  it  in  the  suburbs  here. 
The  Potter  working  with  such  cheer. 
In  this  mean  house,  this  mean  attire, 
'  His  manly  features  bronzed  with  fire. 
Whose  figulines  and  rustic  wares 
Scarce  find  him  bread  from  day  to  day  ? 
This  madman,  as  the  people  say, 
Who  breaks  his  tables  and  his  chairs 
To  feed  his  furnace  fire^  nor  cares 
Who  goes  unfed  if  they  are  fed. 
Nor  who  may  live  if  they  are  dead  ? 
This  alchemist  with  hollow  cheeks. 
And  sunken,  searching  eyes,  who  seeks, 
By  mingled  earths  and  ores  combined 
With  potency  of  fire,  to  find 
Some  new  enamel  hard  and  bright. 
His  dream,  his  passion,  his  delight  ? 

O  Palissy  !  within  thy  breast 
Burned  the  hot  fever  of  unrest ; 
Thine  was  the  prophet's  vision,  thine 
The  exultation,  the  divine 
Insanity  of  noble  minds. 
That  never  falters  nor  abates. 
But  labours  and  endures  and  waits. 
Till  all  that  it  foresees,  it  finds. 
Or  what  it  cannot  find,  creates  ! 


Turn,  tumy  my  ivheelJ     This  earthen  jar 
A  touch  can  make,  a  touch  can  mar  ; 

And  shall  it  to  the  Potter  say. 
What  makest  thou  t     Thou  hast  fio  hand  I 
As  men  who  think  to  understand 
A  world  by  their  CrecUor  planned. 

Who  wiser  is  than  they. 

Still  guided  by  the  dreamy  song, 

As  in  a  trance  I  float  along 

Above  the  P3nrenean  chain. 

Above  the  fields  and  farms  of  Spain, 

Above  the  bright  Majorcan  isle 

That  lends  its  softened  name  to  art, 

A  spot,  a  dot,  upon  the  chart. 

Whose  little  towns,  red-roofed  with  tiVe,. 

Are  ruby-lustered  with  the  light 

Of  blazing  furnaces  by  night, 

And  crowned  by  day  with  wreaths  of 

smoke. 
Then  eastward  wafted  in  my  flight 
On  my  enchanter's  magic  cloak, 
I  sail  across  the  Tyrrhene  Sea 
Into  the  land  of  Italy, 
And  o'er  the  windy  Appmines, 
Mantled  and  musical  with  pines. 
The  palaces,  the  princely  halls, 
The  doors  of  houses,  and  the  walls 
Of  churches  and  of  belfry  towers. 
Cloister  "and  castle,  street  and  mart. 
Are  garlanded  and  gay  with  flowers 
That  blossom  in  the  fields  of  Art. 
Here  Gubbio's  workshops  gleam  and 

glow 
With  brilliant  iridescent  dyes, 
llie  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  snow. 
The  cobalt  blue  of  summer  skies  ; 
And  vase  and  scutcheon,  cup  and  plate,. 
In  perfect  finish  emulate 
Faenza,  Florence,  Pesaro. 

Forth  from  Urbino's  gate  there  came 
A  youth  with  the  angelic  name 
Of  Raphael,  in  form  and  face 
Himself  angelic,  and  divine 
In  arts  of  colour  and  design. 
From  him  Francesco  Xanto  caught 
Something  of  his  transcendent  grace. 
And  into  fictile  fabrics  wrought 
Suggestions  of  the  master's  thought. 
Nor  less  Maestro  Giorgio  shines 
With  madre-perl  and  golden  lines 


s 


KiKAMOS. 


10& 


Of  arabesques,  and  interweaves 

His  birds  and  fruits  and  flowers  and 

leaves 
Abont  some  landscape,  shaded  brown, 
With  olive  tints  on  rock  and  town. 

Behold  this  cup  within  whose  bowl. 
Upon  a  ground  of  deepest  blue 
With  yellow-lustred  stars  overlaid. 
Colours  of  every  tint  and  hue 
Mingle  in  one  harmonious  whole ! 
With  large  blue  eyes  and  steadfinst  gaze, 
Her  yellow  hair  in  net  and  braid, 
Necklace  and  ear-rings  all  ablaze 
With  golden  lustre  o'er  the  glaze, 
A  woman's  portrait ;  on  the  scroll, 
Cana,  the  Beautiful !     A  name 
Forgotten  save  for  such  brief  fame 
As  this  memorial  can  bestow — 
A  gift  some  lover  long  ago 
Gave  with  his  heart  to  this  fair  dame. 

A  nobler  title  to  renown 
Is  thine,  O  pleasant  Tuscan  town. 
Seated  beside  the  Amo's  stream  ; 
For  Luca  ddla  Robbia  there 
Created  forms  so  wondrous  fair 
They  made  thy  sovereignty  supreme. 
These  choristers  with  lips  of  stone, 
Whose  music  is  not  heard  but  seen. 
Still  chant,  as  from  their  organ-screen, 
Their  maker's  praise  ;  nor  these  alone. 
But  the  more  fragile  forms  of  clay. 
Hardly  less  beautiful  than  they. 
These  saints  and  angels  that  adorn 
The  walls  of  hospitals,  and  tell 
The  story  of  good  deeds  so  well 
That  poverty  seems  less  forlorn. 
And  life  more  like  a  holiday. 

Here  in  this  old  neglected  church, 
That  long  eludes  the  traveller's  search. 
Lies  the  dead  bishop  on  his  tomb  ; 
Earth  upon  earth  he  slumbering  lies, 
life-like  and  death-like  in  the  gloom  ; 
Garlands  of  fruit  and  flowers  in  bloom 
And  foliage  deck  his  resting  place  ; 
A  shadow  in  the  sightless  eyes, 
A  pallor  on  the  patient  face. 
Made  perfect  by  the  furnace  heat ; 
All  earthly  passions  and  desires 
Burnt  out  by  purgatorial  fires  ; 


Seeming  to  say,  «*  Our  years  are  fleet. 
And  to  the  weary  death  is  sweet." 

But  the  most  wonderful  of  all 
The  ornaments  on  tomb  or  wall 
That  grace  the  fair  Ausonian  shores 
Are  those  the  faithful  earth  restores. 
Near  some  Apulean  town  concealed, 
In  vineyard  or  in  harvest  field  : 
Vases  and  urns  and  bas-reliefs. 
Memorials  of  forgotten  griefs. 
Of  records  of  heroic  deeds 
Of  demi-gods  and  mighty  chiefs  ; 
Figures  that  almost  move  and  speak. 
And,  buried  amid  mould  and  weeds, 
Still  in  their  attitudes  attest 
The  presence  of  the  graceful  Greek  : 
Achilles  in  his  armour  dressed, 
Alcides  with  the  Cretan  Bull, 
And  Aphrodite  with  her  boy. 
Or  lovely  Helena  of  Tn>y, 
SaU  living  and  stiU  beautiful ! 

Tum^  turn,  my  wheel  I     *Tis  Nature's^ 

plan 
The  child  should  ercw  into  the  man. 

The  man  grow   wrinkled,  old,   and 
gray  : 
In  youth  the  heart  exults  and  sings. 
The  pulses  leap,  the  feet  have  wings  ; 
In  age  the  cricket  chirps  and  brings 
The  harvest-home  of  day. 

And  now  the  winds  that  southward  blow  ^ 
And  cool  the  hot  Sicilian  isle. 
Bear  me  away.     I  see  below 
The  long  line  of  the  Libyan  Nile, 
Flooding  and  feeding  the  parched  lands 
With  annual  ebb  and  overflow  : 
A  fallen  palm  whose  branches  lie 
Beneath  the  Abyssinian  sky, 
Whose  roots  are  in  Egyptian  sands. 
On  either  bank  huge  water-wheels, 
Belted  with  jars  and  dripping  weeds, 
Send  forth  their  melancholy  moans. 
As  if,  in  their  gray  mantles  hid. 
Dead  anchorites  of  the  Thebaid 
Knelt  on  the  shore  and  told  their  beads. 
Beating  their  breasts  with  loud  appeals 
And  penitential  tears  and  groans. 

This  city  walled  and  thickly  set 


106 


K^BAHOS. 


With  glittering  mosque  and  minaret, 
Is  Cairo,  in  whose  gay  bazars 
The  dreaming  traveller  first  inhales 
The  perfume  of  Arabian  gales, 
And  sees  the  fabulous  earthen  jars, 
Huge  as  were  those  wherein  the  maid 
Morgiana  found  the  Forty  Thieves 
■Concealed  in  midnight  ambuscade  ; 
And  seeing  more  than  half  believes 
The  fascinating  tales  that  run 
Through  all  the  thousand  Nights  and 

One, 
Told  by  the  fair  Scheherezade. 

More  strange  and  wonderful  than  these 
Are  the  Egyptian  deities — 
Ammon,  and  Emoth,  and  the  grand 
Osiris,  holding  in  his  hand 
The  lotus  ;  Isis,  crowned  and  veiled ; 
The  sacred  Ibis,  and  the  Sphinx  ; 
Bracelets  with  blue  enameled  links ; 
The  Scarabee  in  emerald  mailed. 
Or  spreading  wide  his  funeral  wings ; 
Lamps  that  perchance  their  night-watch 

kept 
0*er  Cleopatra  while  she  slept — 
All  plundered  from  the  tombs  of  kings. 

7«rw,  tm^y  my  wheel!     The  human  race. 
Of  every  tongue,  of  every  place, 

Caucasian,  Coptic,  or  Malay 
All  that  inhabit  this  great  earth. 
Whatever  be  their  rank  or  worth. 
Are  kindred  and  allied  by  birth. 
And  made  of  the  sanu  clay. 

O'er  desert  sands,  o*er  gulf  and  bay. 
O'er  Ganges  and  o'er  Himalay, 
Bird-like  I  fly,  and  flying  sing. 
To  flowery  kingdoms  of  Cathay, 
And  bird-like  poise  on  balanced  wing 
Above  the  town  of  King-te-tching, 
A  burning  town,  or  seeming  so — 
Three  thousand  furnaces  that  glow 
Incessantly,  and  fill  the  air 
With  smoke  uprising,  gyre  on  gyre 
And  painted  by  the  lurid  glare 
Of  jets  and  flashes  of  red  fire. 

As  leaves  that  in  the  autumn  fall, 
Spotted  and  veined  with  various  hues. 
Are  swept  along  the  avenues. 


And  lie  in  heaps  by  hedge  and  wall, 
So  from  this  grove  of  chimneys  whirled 
To  all  the  markets  of  the  world. 
These  porcelain  leaves  are  wafted  on — 
Light  yellow  leaves  with  spots  and  stains 
Of  violet  and  of  crimson  dye, 
Or  tender  axure  of  a  sky 
Just  washed  by  gentle  April  rains. 
And  beautiful  with  celadon. 

Nor  less  the  coarser  housdiold  wares — 
The  willow  pattern,  that  we  knew 
In  childhood,  with  its  bridge  of  blue 
Leading  to  unknown  thoroughfiures  ; 
The  solitary  man  who  stares 
At  the  white  river  flowing  through 
Its  arches,  the  fantastic  trees 
And  wild  perspective  of  the  view  ; 
And  intermingled  among  these 
The  tiles  that  in  our  nurseries 
Filled  us  with  wonder  and  delight. 
Or  haunted  us  in  dreams  at  night. 

And  yonder  by  Nankin,  behold  ! 
The  Tower  of  Porcelain,  strange  and  old 
Uplifting  to  the  astonished  skies 
Its  ninefold  painted  balconies, 
With  balustrades  of  twining  leaves, 
And  roofe  of  tile,  beneath  whose  eaves 
Hang  porcelain  bells  that  all  the  time 
Ring  with  a  soft  melodious  chime  ; 
While  the  whole  fabric  is  ablaze 
With  varied  tints,  all  fused  in  one 
Great  mass  of  colour,  like  a  maze 
Of  flowers  illumined  by  the  sun. 

Turn,  turn,  my  whed!     What  is  begun 
At  daybreak  must  at  dark  be  done 

To-mormv  will  be  another  aay  ; 
To-morvrow  the  hot  furnace  flame 
Will  search  the  heart  and  try  the  frame. 
And  stamp  with  honour  or  with  shame 

These  vessels  made  of  clay. 

Cradled  and  rocked  in  Eastern  seas, 
The  islands  of  the  Japanese 
Beneath  me  lie ;  o'er  lake  and  plain 
The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  crane 
Through  the  clear  realms  of  azure  drift. 
And  on  the  hill-side  I  can  see 
The  villages  of  Imari, 
Whose  thronged  and  flaming  workshops 
lift 


kIramos. 


107 


Their  twisted  columns  of  smoke  on  high, 

Cloud-cloisters  that  in  ruins  lie, 

'With  sunshine  streaming  through  each 

rift, 
And  broken  arches  of  blue  sky. 

All  the  bright  flowers  that  All  the  land. 
Ripple  of  waves  on  rock  or  sand. 
The  snow  on  Fusiyama*s  cone. 
The  midnight  heaven  so  thickly  sown 
With  constellations  of  bright  stars, 
The  leaves  that  rustle,  the  reeds  that 

make 
A  whisper  by  each  stream  and  lake. 
The  saflfron  dawn,  the  sunset  red. 
Are  painted  on  these  lovely  jars ; 
Again  the  sky-lark  sings,  again 
The  stork,  the  heron,  and  the  crane 
Float  through  the  azure  overhead, 
The  counterfeit  and  counterpart 
Of  Nature  reproduced  in  Art. 

Art  is  the  child  of  Nature  ;  yes. 
Her  darling  child  in  whom  we  trace 
The  features  of  the  mother's  face. 
Her  aspect  and  her  attitude. 
All  her  majestic  loveliness 
Chastened  and  softened  and  subdued 
Into  a  more  attractive  grace, 
And  with  a  human  sense  imbued. 
He  is  the  greatest  artist,  then. 
Whether  of  pencil  or  of  pen, 


Who  follows  nature.     Never  man. 

As  artist  or  as  artisan. 

Pursuing  his  own  fantasies. 

Can  touch  the  human  heart,  or  please. 

Or  satisfy  our  nobler  needs. 

As  he  who  sets  his  willing  feet. 

In  Nature's  foot- prints,  light  and  fleet. 

And  follows  fearless  where  she  leads. 

Thus  mused  I  on  that  mom  in  May, 
Wrapped  in  my  visions  like  the  Seer, 
Whose  eyes  behold  not  what  is  near, 
But  only  what  is  far  away. 
When  suddenly  sounding,  peal  on  peal. 
The  church  bell  from  the  neighbouring 

town 
Proclaimed  the  welcome  hour  of  noon. 
The  Potter  heard  and  stopped  his  wheel. 
His  apron  on  the  grass  threw  down, 
Whistled  his  quiet  little  tune 
Not  overloud  nor  overlong. 
And  ended  thus  his  simple  song  : 

Stopy  stopy  mywktd ;     Too  s^on,  too  soon^ 
The  noon  will  be  the  afternoon^ 

Too  soon  to-day  be  yesterday : 
Behind  us  in  our  path  we  cast 
The  broken  potsherds  of  the  Past, 
And  all  are  gfoand  to  dust  at  last 

And  trodden  into  clay  / 

— Harpet^s  ^'^agamte  Jbr  Dec. 


106 


mttni  Siteratttte. 


At  the  outset  of  this  review/  we  will  remark,  in  all  fairness  to  Mr.  Cook,  that 
we  are  almost  entirely  concerned  with  his  work  from  a  literary  point  of  view, 
leaving  to  cognoscenti  in  science  the  gratifying  occupation  of  criticising  his 
theories,  propositions,  etc.  The  volume  contains  13  of  the  Boston  .Monday 
Lectures,  delivered,  first  of  all  in  the  Meianaor,  then  in  the  Park  Street 
Church,  and  finally  in  the  Tremont  Temple^  the  last  named  building  alone 
being  capable  of  containing  the  large  audiences  which  Mr.  Cook's  sensational 
lectures  attracted,  audiences  which,  by  the  way,  a  publishers'  note  informs 
the  reader,  were  composed  of  *^  representative  of  the  broadest  scholarship, 
the  profoundest  philosophy,  the  acutest  scientific  research,  and  generally  of 
the  finest  intellectual  culture  of  Boston  and  New  England. "  The  publishers' 
note  also  explains,  with  praiseworthy  care,  that  it  is  because  of  those  rare 
audiences  that  the  marks  of  ^*  applause,"  '^  laughter,"  and  even  '^  sensation," 
have  been  retained  in  publication,  as  denoting  '^  the  immediate  and  varying 
impressions  with  which  the  lectures  were  received. "  This  thoroughly  Ame- 
rican premonitory  flourish  is  followed  by  another  in  the  introduction,  where 
yet  again  the  audiences  are  referred  to  as  having  contained  '*  large  numbers 
of  ministers,  teachers,  and  other  educaUd  men, "  The  first  lecture  is  entitled 
*'  Huxley  and  Tyndall  on  Evolution, ''  though  a  more  appropriate  title  might 
be  ^*  Cook  on  Huxley  and  Tyndall,"  for  it  is  really  a  querulous  and  ill-na- 
tured attack  on  the  New  York  lectures  of  Huxley  and  Tyndall's  Belfast 
address.  If  the  object  of  these  lectures  is,  as  the  introduction  would  have 
us  believe,  to  present  the  results  of  the  freshegb  German,  English  and  Ameri- 
can scholarship,  on  the  more  important  topics  concerning  Religion  and 
Science,  is  it  necessary,  or  in  good  taste  to  bring  up  again,  and  in  so  un- 
pleasant a  way,  those  New  York  addresses  of  Professor  Huxley,  which  have 
surely  been  talked  over  and  criticised,  and  found  fault  with  sufficiently 
already  ?  But  good  taste  is  not  the  reigning  attribute  of  Mr.  Cook  ;  in  fact, 
his  whole  book  \a  a  breach  of  it.  Having  apparently  proved  that  these  New 
York  lectures  were  self  contradictory,  vague,  and  historically  inexact,  he 
sums  up  their  imperfections  by  stating  that  they  disagreed  notably  with  the 
conclusions  of  Dana  and  VerriU,  American  scientists  of  course,  whose  theories 
and  discoveries  have  influenced  and  will  influence  a  mind  like  that  of  Huxley 
in  not  the  slightest  degree,  and  brands  as  pure  and  confirmed  materialists 
Huxley,  TyndaU,  Spencer,  and  even  Fiske.  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Cook  is  a 
student  of  what  he  is  pleased  to  call  religious  science,  and,  as  such,  has  come 
to  the  Monday  LecturesMp  prepared  to  defend  orthodoxy  at  any  risk,  having 

*  Botton  Monday  Lectures,  Oology.    By  Joseph  Cook.    Osgood  A  Go.  :  Boston. 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  109 

no  conception  of  tho  difficulties  in  the  way  of  Buch  men  as  those  he  pretends 
to  understand  and  depreciate.  In  the  present  state  of  scientific  thought,  and 
for  all  we  can  tell  in  every  future  state,  there  may  be  '*  self-contradiction," 
there  must  be  *'  yagueness/'  and  there  will  be  **  historical  hiexactness. "  The 
^  grand  mission,  and  to  some  minds  the  equally  sad  one,  of  those  men  whom 

we  have  named  of  probing  for  truth  wherever  it  may  be  found,  is  as  elevat- 
ing to  character  and  purpose  as  the  fierce  and  narrow  orthodoxy  of  such  men 
as  Joseph  Cook.  What  can  be  said  of  the  reverence  of  such  a  man  who  can,  as 
we  are  told  in  a  bracket,  '*  lower  his  voice  "  and  actually  intrude  the  origin  of 
the  life  of  our  Saviour  into  a  lecture  on  living  tissues  i  It  would  be  deeply 
offensive  were  it  not  ludicrous  to  hear  him  attempting  to  prove  the  supema 
tural  conception  of  Christ  by  the  purely  ncUural  fact  that  the  drone  bee  is  of 
virginal  origin.  Are  we  to  understand  that  orthodoxy  is  compatible  only 
with  irreverence,  bad  taste  and  small  ability  1  Why  too  should  a  scholar  and 
lecturer  on  Biology,  surely  a  mere  scientific  subject,  insist  on  bringing  in  such 
a  fund  of  bad  rhetoric  and  uncaUed  for  emotion,  or  quoting  so  frequently 
lines  and  passages  that  are  utterly  at  variance  with  the  subject  ?  What  is 
''  Tyndall's  barge  of  the  gods,  which,  like  Cleopatra's  burned  on  the  water  ?*' 
&c ,  &C.  And  in  what  connection  must  we  read  directly  after  **  that  until  this 
reef  IB  exploded"  there  will  be  proof  of  Design  in  Creation.  ''Reef  **  by  the  way 
is  a  favourite  word  of  the  lecturer  ;  here  it  is  used  as  we  dare  to  suppose  in 
^  another  sense.  "  Based  upon  incontrovertible  axiomatic  truth,  any  man  may 

stand  in  the  yeasting  seas  of  speculation,  and  feel  that  victorious  reef  tre- 
morless  beneath  him  ;  ay,  atvdfaU  adeep  on  it^  while  the  rocks  in  muffled, 
stem  thunders,  speak  to  the  waste,  howling  midnight  surge  :  *  Aha !  thus 
far  ye  come,  but  no  farther.* " 

Will  not  this  recall  to  readers  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Miss  Toppit's  speech 
to  the  Honourable  Mr.  Pogrom,  ''  Howls  the  sublime  and  softly  sleeps  the 
calm,  I  deal  in  the  whispering  chambers  of  imagination.  To  hear  it,  sweet 
it  is.  But  then  outlaughs  the  stem  philosopher  and  saith  to  the  Ghrotesque, 
'  What  ho  !  arrest  for  me  that  Agency.  Gk),  bring  it  here  ! '  And  so  the 
vision  fadeth."  Nothing  in  the  book,  however,  is  so  thoroughly  senseless, 
vulgar,  and  unscholarly,  as  the  following  cruel  application  of  the  Laureate's 
wonderfully  beautifully  little  poem,  which  yet  contains  so  large  a  thought : 
"  Flower  in  the  crannied  wall — 

*  Cells  in  the  crannied  flesh, 
I  pluok  you  out  of  the  crannies ; 
Hold  you  here  in  my  hand, 
Little  cells,  throbs  and  all, 
And  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  throbs  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
J  I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is  I' " 

Can  anything  be  more  horrible  than  this  ?  Again  we  have  a  sentence  as 
falsely  historical  and  as  thoroughly  out  of  place  as  the  following  : — "  Ay, 
my  friends,  in  the  oossy  depths  of  the  pools  where  the  reptiles  lie  among  the 
reeds  in  the  marshes  of  materialism,  there  arises  a  vapour,  which,  as  it  de* 
soends  higher,  that  sun  will  irradiate,  wiU  stream  through  with  his 
slant  javelins  of  scientific  clearness,  until  this  very  matter  (he  refers  to 
the  immortality  of  instiDct)  which  we  have  dreaded  to  investigate,  shall  take 


110  CURRENT    LITERATURK. 

on  all  the  glorieB  of  the  morning,  and  become  by  reflected  light  the  bridal 
couch  of  a  new  day,  in  a  future  civilization  !  Carlyle  is  cited  as  an  authority 
on  biology,  Kingsley,  Jean  Paul,  Richter,  Tennyson,  Plato,  the  ship  **  Chal- 
lenger,'' De  Tooqueville,  Lowell,  Longfellow,  and  Webster,  are  referred  to  on 
every  other  page,  while  Gyzer's  ring,  the  story  of  the  Adriatic  and  the  Doge  of 
Venice,  the  thread  of  Ariadne,  and  the  Sistine  Madonna  are  brought  in  some- 
how to  serve  as  illustrations.  In  fact,  the  lecturer  read  in  this  respect  like 
the  first  puerile  effort  of  a  much  over-learned  and  conceited  school-boy,  who 
having  no  ideas,  constructs  an  essay  out  of  the  names  of  the  authors  he  has 
read,  and  their  books,  with  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  quotations  and  enough 
matter  of  his  own  to  serve  as  string  to  keep  the  rest  together. 

Mr.  Cook  is  also  open  to  criticism,  on  the  subject  of  English  scholarship, 
as  we  suppose  he  would  call  it.  The  peculiar  characteristics  of  Ameri- 
cans have  made  them  for  an  entire  century  a  source  of  amusing 
contemplation  to  Englishmen.  More  than  amusing  contemplation  has 
hardly  ever  been  spent,  however,  by  a  nation  whose  chief  character- 
istics may  be  said  to  be  her  firm,  haughty,  and  even  assertive  be- 
lief in  her  own  supremacy  on  another  nation,  who  quite  as  characteristically 
tries  to  believe  in  her  superiority  only  in  so  fretful  and  boastful  a  manner 
that  one  is  inclined  sometimes  to  think  that  belief  may,  after  all,  be  wanting. 
It  is  this  quality  pre-eminently  which  has  made  Americans  so  peculiarly  un- 
comparisonable,  to  put  it  mildly,  to  Englishmen,  and  to  ourselves  in  personal 
and  social  intercoure,  in  correspondence,  and  very  frequency  in  literature. 
Much  of  this  has  passed  away,  however,  as  also  the  bitterness  of  feeling* 
which  is,naturally  enough,  the  usual  concomitant  of  war  between  peoples  of  the 
same  language  and  blood,  and  as  Americans  are  beginning  to  understand  the 
beauty  of  the  English  character,  which  is  often  so  very  cold  and  uninteresting 
on  the  surface,  and  as  Englishmen  on  their  side  are  learning  to  respect  many 
American  characteristics,  and  admire  fully  and  cheerfully  many  of  their  in- 
stitutions, shall  we  say? — ^we  see  already  ap  leasant  understanding  established 
between  the  two  countries.  It  is,  therefore,  to  be  regretted  that  Mr.  Cook, 
with  all  his  travel  and  all  his  *'  wealth  of  learning,"  which  does  not  sit  as 
lightly  as  a  flower,  should  still  retain  some  of  the  silly  prejudices  universal 
among  his  countrsnuen  some  yeat^s  ago.  Although  we  must  thank  him  for 
having  made  of  Hermann  Lotze,  of  whom,  as  he  says,  (it  is  a  pleasure  to  be 
able  to  find  even  one  good  point  in  these  lectures)  too  little  is  known,  he 
need  not  elevate  him  to  the  throne  of  scientific  thought,  quite  so  much  at  the 
expense  of  Herbert  Spencer  as  he^does.  This  is  some  of  the  language  he  em- 
plo3rs  after  he  has  done  with  Spencer,  and  is  talking  of  England  as  a  whole, 
'*  Am  I  to  stand  here  in  Boston,  and  be  told  that  there  is  no  authority  in 
philosophy  beyond  the  Thames  ?  Is  the  outlook  of  .their  cultured  audience, 
m  hea/ven^8  name,  to  be  limited  by  the  North  Sea  ?  *'  Then  occurs  the  beauti- 
ful specimen  : — ''  England,  green  England,  sour,  sad,  stout  skies,  with  azure 
tender  as  heaven  omnipresent,  but  not  often  visible  behind  the  clouds,  sour, 
aad,  stout  people,  with  azure  tender  as  heaven  and  omnipresent,  but  not  often 
visible  behind  the  vapours.     Such  is  England,  such  the  English.** 

Many  remaining  paragraphs  are  there  in  the  same  strain,  which  it  would 
be  waste  of  time  and  energy  to  notice,  for  our  review  must  close  ;  but  not 


CURRENT    LITERATURK.  Ill 

without  a  few  words  on  the  purpose  or  motive  of  Mr.  Cook,  which,  of  itself > 
is  Uiudable. 

He  urges  that  dergjrmen  and  students,  generally  of  theologioal  and  psyho- 
logical  philosophy  should  be  acquainted  with  the  great  facts  and  important 
discoTeries  of  physiology  andjbiology,  as  well  as  of  geology,  and  the  other  mod- 
em sciences,  which  seem  to  conflict  so  madly,  and  with  the  Bible,  and  in 
this  he  is  perfectly  right.  Is  it  not  a  painful  fact  that  there  are  in  our  own 
land  for  example,  dozens  of  pulpits  filled  by  clergymen,  men  of  moral  life  and 
decent  conversation,  but  of  dry  and  limited  reading  on  orthodoxy,  who  preach 
Sunday  after  Sunday  to  congregations,  comprising  men  and  women  who  read 
with  avidity  such  periodicals  as  the  Westminster  and  Fortnightly  ReviewSy 
who  buy  the  freshest  publications  of  Spencer  or  Darwin  with  as  much  keen 
pleasurable  excitement  as  their  grand  parents  did  a  novel,  or  who  are  in  all 
the  fascinating,  interesting,  and  all-important  modem  questions,  better  in- 
structed than  their  spiritual  fathers  !  No  one  will  deny  that  not  one  clergy- 
man in  ten  knows  anything  of  such  subjects.  It  would,  therefore,  seem  right 
and  immensely  important  and  necessary,  that  such  men  should  inform  them- 
selves at  once  on  these  topics,  so  as  to  meet  the  laymen  on  their  own  ground. 
But  there  certainly  exists  one  great  difficulty  in  the  way  of  their  improve- 
ment in  the  mental  condition  of  the  clergy,  and  it  is  this  :  A  theologian,  for 
example,  and  we  speak  more  of  the  purely  ordinary  type  of  theologian,  with 
)  average  intellect,  sense  and  originality  must  be,  because  he  has  been  trained 

for  a  theologian,  the  narrowest  of  men.  His  training  has  included  those  of 
petrifying  classics,  which  Sydney  Smith,  in  one  generation,  and  Grant  DufT 
in  another,  both  denounce  heartily,  and  theology  proper  ;  much  of  anything 
elise  he  has  to  learn  for  himself. 

Now,  when  a  mim  of  this  school,  frightened  by  the  complex  questions  which 
are  being  raised  by  an  agitated  world  about  him,  settles  himself  to  study 
and  decide  these  questions,  must  he  not  do  so  in  a  narrow  way  ?  Is  it  likely 
that  mere  difference  of  bent  and  subject  will  ensure  dilSerentiation  of  charac- 
ter, of  mental  process,  and  of  final  decision  ? 

For  he  wiU  decide  where  the  scientist  rarely  dares  to,  and  behold !  your 
theologian,  your  minister,  your  spiritual  father  writes  a  book,  or  preaches  a 
sermon,  or  gives  a  course  of  lectures,  in  which  the  tone  is  loud,  fierce,  per- 
haps unreasonably  bitter ;  scientists,  one  and  all,  are  dubbed  '*  materialists,*^ 
and  the  truth  remains  that  it  might  have  been  better  had  he  never  attempted 
to  keep  up  with  the  times  he  lives  in,  for  in  one  word — he  has  failed  to  grasp 
the  subject.  But  make  physical  science  as  important  as  the  classics  in  the 
eaHy  training  of  such  a  man,  anil  with  years  and  knowledge  will  come  the 
breadth  and  tenderness  with  which  all  religious  students  should  regard  scieu- 
\  tific  inquiry.  No  proposition  made  for  years  has  struck  us  as  evincing  as  truly 

grand  an  appreciation  of  the  need  of  great  changes  in  this  direction,  than  that 
of  Mr.  Grant  Duff,  in  his  article  on  **  Rational  Education,''  in  the  Fortnightly 
for  August,  which  is,  that  every  good  education  should  include  *'  a  good  gen- 
eral idea  of  the  history  of  speculation^  from  the  earliest  days  down  to  Comte, 
Schopenhauer,  Hartman,  and  MilL"  These  remarks  may  seem  to  have  little 
to  do  in  a  review,  yet  they  are  applicable  to  Mr.  Cook,  who  has  rushed  into 
lecturing  with  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  his  subject,  is  acrimonious,  hasty. 


112  CURRENT  UTERATURE. 

inaccurate  and  prejudiced,  and  can  neither  be  termed  logical  or  truly  philoso- 
phical. It  is  to  be  hoped  that  no  clergyman  unll  take  the  book  up  on  account 
of  its  orthodoxy,  without  proper  investigation. 

The  story  of  the  life  of  Pius  the  Ninth/  as  told  by  Mr.  T.  Adolphus  Trol- 
lope,  IB  given  to  the  public  at  a  most  opportune  moment.  Now  in  his  eighty- 
«ixth  year,  his  death  momentarilly  expected,  and  his  successor  already 
nominated,  Pius  the  Ninth,  the  occupant  of  the  chair  of  St.  Peter  for  over 
thirty-one  years,  may  be  considered  as  one  who  has  passed  away,  dead  as 
regards  further  action  in  ecclesiastical  or  political  affairs.  The  present  Pope 
has  been  an  important  factor  in  European  history  for  the  last  thirty  years, 
:and  towards  the  close  of  his  career  has  done  that  which  will  cause  him  to  be 
regarded  by  adherents  of  the  Church  of  Rome  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  Popes, 
and  which  will  probably  lead  to  his  canonisation  soon  after  he  dies.  Although 
this  *'  Life  **  is  from  the  pen  of  a  Protestant,  it  is  written  in  a  kindly  spirit, 
and  evidently  with  a  view  to  furnishing  a  key  to  the  public  acts  of  the  Su- 
preme Pontiff,  many  of  which  are  apparently  contradictory,  but  in  reality  are 
the  outcome  of  the  same  set  of  motives.  TroUope's  **  Life  of  Pius  the  Ninth '' 
is  divided  into  five  books,  the  first  of  which  is  devoted  to  ''  the  man,''  the  re- 
maining four  to  **  the  Pope.''  It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  the  first  fifty-four 
years  of  that  remarkable  man's  life  would  be  wholly  uninteresting  to  the 
world  but  for  his  election  to  the  Papacy  in  1S46  ;  and  so  entirely  is  this  the 
fact  that,  as  TroUope  says,  '^  one  might  begin  the  story  to  be  told  with  the 
day  which  turned  Giovanni  Mastai  into  Pius  the  Ninth,  as  many  of  his  bio- 
graphers have  done,  were  it  not  that  the  old  saw,  of  the  child  being  father  to 
the  man.  is  true  even  in  the  case  of  a  Pope."  In  his  youth,  Mastai  was  a 
provincial  dandy,  looking  forward  not  to  an  ecclesiastical  but  to  a  military 
career.  He  would  have  received  a  commission  in  the  Noble  Qtiard  of  Pius 
the  Seventh  but  for  the  discovery  by  the  commandant  of  the  corps  that  he 
was  liable  to  epileptic  seizures,  a  malady  which  had  pursued  him  from  very 
early  youth,  and  which  has  never  altogether  quitted  him.  The  same  malady 
rendered  him  equally  unfit,  according  to  the  canons  of  the  Church,  to  re- 
ceive Holy  Orders  ;  but  dispensations  got  rid  of  all  canonical  difficulties,  and 
the  future  Pope  received  his  first  orders  as  sub-deacon  in  1818.  By  virtue 
of  more  dispensations,  full  priest's  orders  were  bestowed  upon  him  shortly 
after,  on  condition  that  he  should  never  celebrate  mass,  save  with  another 
priest  at  his  elbow,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  sacrilege  happening  to  the 
sacred  elements  in  consequence  of  an  epileptic  attack  seizing  him  at  tke  mo- 
ment of  his  taking  them  into  his  hands.  He  was  subsequently  relieved  even 
of  this  condition,  at  his  request,  by  Pius  the  Seventh.  Mastai's  rise  in  the 
Church  was  rapid,  and  was  due  to  a  combination  of  circumstances.  He  had 
considerable  family  influence  to  work  in  his  favour  ;  he  possessed  a  fine  pre- 
sence and  voice,  and  proved  himself  a  very  popular  preacher ;  and,  as  Bishop 
of  Imola — the  incumbency  of  which  carries  a  Cardinal's  hat  with  it — he  dis- 
covered considerable  admimstrative  ability.  The  story  of  the  conclave  which 
so  unexpectedly  elected  Mastai  to  be  the  successor  of  Gregory  the  Sixteenth 
IB  graphically  told  by  Mr.  Trollope,  and,  altogether,  one  gathers  from  the 


*  The  Story  q/the  Life  qfJHtu  tke  Ninth,    By  T<  Adolphus  Trollops.    Toronto :  B«lfonl  Bros. 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  113 

initial  book  a  tolerably  dear  idea  of  Mastai's  character^  and  of  the  rarions 
drcumstanoefl  which  brought  it  about  that  he  became  the  two  hundred  and 
sixty-second  Pope.  The  story  of  Pius  the  Ninth's  rule  from  June  1846  to 
November  1858,  furnishes  Mr.  TroUope  with  sufficient  matter  for  Book  Two. 
Short  as  is  the  period,  important  events  crowd  into  it.  It  was  during  this 
"*  time  that  the  Pope  tried  the  role  of  popular  sovereign,  gave  the  people  repre- 

sentation of  a  sort,  and  all  Europe  entertained  the  hope  that  the  Territories 
<rf  the  Chtuch  were  about  to  be  governed  in  conformity  with  modem  ideas. 
But  it  proved  all  a  mistake.  The  concessions  made  were  of  a  kind  to  whet 
the  popular  appetite  rather  than  to  satisfy  it ;  and  when  the  Pope  began  to 
see  the  tendencies  of  his  own  concessions,  he  drew  back.  The  result  was,  his 
flight  to  Graeta — the  second  instance  of  a  Pope  in  exile.  Book  Three  carries 
us  on  from  1848  to  1860.  It  narrates  the  circumstances  attending  the  Pope's 
sojourn  at  Gaeta,  and  his  attempt  to  govern  Rome  from  there.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  lifciiHing  of  the  French  troops  at  Oivita  Vecchia,  resulting  in  the 
French  occupation  of  Rome,  which  only  terminated  with  the  Franco-German 
war.  **  Sustained  by  French  bayonets  " — as  was  the  phrase  at  the  time — 
Pins  the  Ninth  re-established  an  iron-handed,  despotic  rule  in  Rome  and  the 
territories  of  the  Church,  and  abandoning  all  attempts  to  become  a  great  So- 
vereign, he  turned  his  attention  to  becoming  a  great  Pope.  In  1854  his  holi- 
ness promulgated  the  doctrine  of  the  Immaculate  Conception  of  the  Virgin 

^  Mary,  which  was  that  the  mother  of  our  Saviour  was  herself  miraculously 

bom  without  an  inheritance  of  original  sin.  It  has  to  be  remarked  that  the 
present  Pontiff  in  nowise  invented  this  doctrine.  It  was  a  very  ancient  and 
wide-spread  notion  in  the  Church,  as  may  be  seen  set  forth  in  the  learned 
work  of  the  Jesuit  Passaglia,  published  by  the  College  of  the  Propaganda. 
The  action  of  the  Pontiff  limited  itself  to  issuing  an  authoritative  declaration 
of  the  truthfulness  and  accuracy  of  this  notion,  and  a  decree  making  it  im- 
perative and  obligatory  on  all  persons  to  believe  it  to  have  been,  and  to  be  so, 
on  pain  of  incurring  all  those  penalties  which  are  attached  to  the  wilful  re- 
jection of  any  other  portion  of  the  doctrines  of  the  Church.  Previous  to  this 
authoritative  declaration  no  one  was  obliged  to  believe  it  on  pain  of  imper- 
fection in  his  orthodoxy.  Indirectly  affecting  the  temporal  power  of  the  Pa- 
pacy, the  war  between  France  and  Austria,  which  ended  with  the  peace  of 
Yillafranca,  forms  an  important  episode  of  this  period  ;  and  the  subsequent 
annexation  of  the  Legations  to  the  kingdom  of  Italy  left  Pius  the  Ninth  with 
his  dominions  reduced  to  his  capital  city  and  the  province  lying  around  it. 
Mr.  TroUope  is  evidently  of  opinion  that  the  ecclesiastical  activity  of  the 
Pope  has  been  of  much  more  importance  in  the  history  of  the  world  than  his 
efforts  as  a  temporal  prince,  and  Book  Four  deab  Jwith  the  most  important 
ecclesiastical  acts  in  the  life  of  the  present  Pontiff.     "  It  was  on  the  8th  of 

^  December^  1864,"  says  our  author,    ''that  the  world  was  startled  by  the 

first  trumpet-note  of  the  spiritual  warfare  that  the  Pope,  beaten  at  all  points 
in  his  character  of  temporal  king,  was  minded  to  wage  with  mankind.  It 
came  in  the  form  of  an  Encyclical  letter  addressed  to  '  all  our  Venerable  Bre- 
thren the  Patriarchs,  Primates,  Archbishops  andJBishops  in  grace  and  com- 
mnnion  with  the  Apostolic  See.'"  This  was  the  now  celebrated  Encyclic, 
which  was  accompanied  by  the  yet  more  celebrated  Syllabus.  Of  these  docu- 
8 


114  CURRENT  UTERATURE. 

ments  Mr.  Trollope  gives  a  careful  analysis.  But  the  culminatiog  act  of  the 
present  Pope  was  the  summoning  together  of  an  (Ecumenical  Council,  a 
thing  which  had  not  been  attempted  by  any  Pope  for  three  hundred  years 
before — the  Council  of  Trent  having  been  the  last.  It  is  very  remarkable 
that  Pius  the  Ninth  took  the  step  of  calling  together  an  CScumencial  Coun- 
cil against  the  advice  of  his  duly  appointed  councillors.  To  the  Sacred  Col- 
lege of  Cardinals  he  submitted  the  twofold  question,  in  reference  to  the  Sum- 
moning of  an  (Ecumenical  Council,  '*  An  Ht  necessarivm  ? "  **  An  Operteat?  '* 
to  which  that  body  replied,  that  it  was  neither  necessary  nor  desirable  that 
such  a  Council  should  be  called  at  that  time.    Says  Mr.  Trollope  : — 

'^  That  is  a  remarkable  circumstance  !  The  line  of  conduce  thus  adopted 
by  Pius  the  Ninth,  was  one  of  extreme  audacity  and  hardihood.  It  would 
seem  to  indicate  a  strength  of  character,  a  power  of  standing  alone,  which 
very  few  men  possess  !  Let  it  be  remembered  what  the  calling  of  an  (Ecumi* 
cal  Council  is  and  involves,  and  what  the  relationship  between  the  Pope  and 
the  body  of  Cardinals  !  The  Sacred  College  is  the  appointed  Council  of  the 
Pontifil  That  office  is  the  sole  raison  (TSire  of  a  hieratic  order.  Without  them 
according  to  all  ecclesiastical  theory,  the  Pope  would  stand  absolutely  alone 
and  isolated.  And  as  regards  the  welfare  of  the  Church,  the  calling  of  an 
(Ecumenical  Council  is  by  very  far  the  most  important  act  that  the  Pontiff  can 
do  !  It  is  an  act  from  which  most  Popes  have  shrunk — from  very  unworthy 
motives  it  may  be  said.  And  it  may  be  argued  that  the  Pope  who  desires 
and  caUs  together  a  Council  of  the  Church,  must  at  least  feel  the  assurance 
that  he  can  meet  the  Universal  Church  with  a  clean  conscience  and  a  heart 
fearless  in  its  undoubting  rectitude.  And  the  argument  is  a  cogent  one. 
Nevertheless  it  is  not  always,  or  only  the  upright  who  rush  in  where  wise 
men  have  feared  to  tread.  And  those  who  have  feared  the  assembling  of 
that  awful  body,  the  world-wide  Council  of  the  Universal  Church,  have  been, 
if  not  among  the  best  of  men,  assuredly  among  the  wisest  of  all  who  were 
not  among  the  best.  But  Pius  the  Ninth  not  only  did  not  fear  the  assem- 
bling of  a  Council,  but  ardently  desired  it,  and  not  only  desired  it  but  deter- 
mined to  have  it  despite  the  advice  and  adverse  opinion  of  the  only  body  of 
men  appointed  by  the  Church  to  assist  him  with  their  counsel. '' 

The  author  goes  on  to  state  why  he  thinks  Pius  the  Ninth  was  not  a  man  of 
this  exceptional  hardihood  and  strength  of  character  and  that  he  did  not  stand 
alone  in  the  matter,  but  was  urged  thereto  by  the  Jesuits.  Everyone  knows 
the  result  of  the  Council, — the  declaration  of  the  dogma  of  Papal  Infallibil- 
ity. One  of  the  most  valuable,  as  well  as  most  interesting,  features  of  Mr. 
TroUope's  work  is  the  secret  history  of  the  (Ecumenical  Council,  which  gave 
forth  this  new  doctrine  to  the  Roman  Catholic  world.  The  concluding  book 
of  Mr.  Trollope's  work  deab  with  the  Italian  occupation  of  Rome,  and  the 
termination  of  the  Pope's  civil  sovereignty.  A  few  chapters  are  added  giv- 
ing some  account  of  the^  Pope's  habits,  and  of  the  manner  in  which  he  latterly 
occupied  his  time.  The  etiquette  of  the  Vatican  would  seem  to  be  very 
rigid,  and  although  the  Pontiff  delights  in  regarding  himself  as  a  prisoner 
now  that  tbey  have  stripped  him  of  his  sovereignty,  much  of  the  pomp  and 
circumstances  of  the  Papal  Court  is  still  maintained. 


CUBRENT  LITERATURE.  115 

The  Pope's  inteUectnal  calibre,  bajs  Trollope,  '*  is  such  as  to  enable  him  to 
believe  with  entire  sincerity  all  that  a  Pope  should  believe/'  Love  of  admir- 
ation and  approbation  amounts  to  a  passion  in  him  : ''  Vanity  is  the  master- 
passion  of  the  man,  and  the  key  to  his  character.  An  ever  hungry,  a  never 
satiated  craving  for  admiration — ^not  such  as  can  be  satisfied  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  secured  the  favourable  verdict  of  his  own  and  of  future 
generations,  but  such  applause  a9  the  actor  covets,  the  present  and  visible 
clapping  of  hands,  and  loud  manifestations  of  the  multitude — is  the  ruling 
p  isaion,  as  of  the  youngster  flaunting  in  the  streets  of  his  native  Sini^glia , 
so  of  the  aged  Pontiff  spending  his  last  strength  in  gathering  in  the  tribute  to 
it,  offered  by  devotees  from  every  quarter  of  the  earth." 

This  biography  of  Pius  the  Ninth  is  written  with  thorough  knowledge  of 
its  subject,  and  of  the  concurrent  events  in  which  the  Pope  was  concerned, 
and  Mr.  TroUope  has  the  additional  charm  of  a  pleasant  style,  thus  produc- 
ing at  once  a  valuable  work  and  a  readable  book. 

"Egypt,"  says  the  author  of  the  valuable  work  before  us,'*  is  ''  the  most 
interesting  country  in  the  world."  The  claim  thus  set  up  for  the  land  of  the 
Nile,  always  valid  on  many  substantial  grounds,  bids  fair  to  become  more  evi- 
dent as  the  years  roll  on.  The  cradle  of  the  most  ancient  civilization  of  which 
we  have  authentic  record,  the  birth-place  of  Greek  learning  and  literature, 
and,  through  Greece,  of  European  culture,  Egypt  to-day,  after  surviving  the 
vicissitudes  of  untold  centuries,  holds  the  key  to  India,  and  flings  wide  open 
the  portals  to  a  newly-found  continent,  where  the  Nile,  the  Congo,  and  the 
Zambesi  part  from  a  common  source  to  pursue  separately  and  alone  their 
devious  courses  to  the  north,  the  west,  or  the  east.  As  Egypt  of  old  was  the 
centre  from  which  the  first  rude  essays  of  humanity  in  knowledge  and  art , 
rough-hewn  like  her  own  massive  monuments,  were  copied,  enlarged,  and 
refined  ;  so  now,  even  in  her  low  estate,  the  land  of  the  Pharaohs  and  the 
Ptolemies  again  figures  upon  the  scene  as  the  paitU  (Tappui  for  the  civilization 
of  Africa.  It  would  be  irrelevant,  in  dealing  with  a  book  which  treats  only 
of  contemporary  Egypt,  to  refer  even  cursorily  to  the  mighty  past  of  that 
wonderful  land,  or  to  the  pearly  thread  of  antiquities  which  adorns  the  neck 
of  old  Father  Nile  from  Alexandria  to  Phil®.  Mr.  McOoan  refers  only  inci- 
dentally to  either,  although  his  allusions  are  always  pregnant  and  suggestive  . 

"  Egypt  as  it  is,"  opens  with  a  general  description  of  the  country  and  its 
divisions,  of  the  races  which  inhabit  it,  and  of  its  chief  cities  and  towns  • 
The  Nile  necessarily  occupies  a  chief  place  in  the  early  part  of  the  work  ;  for 
the  river  is  not  so  much  a  stream  belonging  to  the  land,  as  the  land,  so  far  as 
it  is  arable,  is  the  gift  of  the  river — ^a  gift  it  lavishly  supplies  or  grudgingly 
withholds  season  after  season.  The  northern  boundary  is,  of  course,  wel 
defined  by  the  Mediterranean,  but  towards  the  other  points  of  the  compass^ 
especially  the  south,  its  limits  are  by  no  means  determinate.  Eastward  the 
Khedive  holds  the  Peninsula  of  Sinai  and  a  thread  of  territory  running  down 
the  Red  Sea.     Westward,  in  the  Lybian  desert,  dye  large  oases,  one  of  them 

«  3fflfpt  a$Uit.  Bjr  J.  G.  MoOo^w.    With  &  Hap,  taken  from  the  most  recent  Snrve;.  New  York : 
Henry  Holt  ft  Oo. ;  Toronto :  WiUtnsr  ft  WIlUMmoo. 


116  CUKRENT  LITERATURE. 

not  leas  than  two  hundred  miles  long,  by  twenty  broad,  also  own  allegiance  to 
him.  Southward,  the  land  of  Egypt  proper  ended  near  tbe  first  cataract,  at 
Syene,  now  represented  by  Assouan.  The  Prophet  Esekiel  speaks  of  it  as 
stretching  from  Migdol  (east  of  the  Delta)  to  Syene.  At  present,  Mr.  McCoon 
fixes  upon  New  Dongola,  above  the  third  cataract,  as  the  proper  termination 
of  Egypt  proper.  The  territory  southward  to  Gondokoro  is  virtually  under 
the  suzerainty  of  the  Khedive,  and  has  been  the  scene  of  military  and  explo- 
ratory operations  under  Sir  Samuel  Baker  and  Gordon  Pasha.  The  Elhedive 
in  a  general  way  lays  claim  to  all  the  territory  south  to  the  line,  at  the  Vic- 
toria Nyassa,  and  the  confines  of  Zanzibar.  Each  portion  of  Egypt  proper, 
and  New  Egypt,  as  Mr.  McCoan  terms  it,  including  Soudan,  are  fuUy  treated 
of  in  this  work. 

The  population,  our  author  estimates  at  five  millions  and  a-half,  of  whom 
four  and  a-half  are  settled  Arabs — ^the  fellahetn  or  tillers  of  the  soil,  and  ar- 
tizans.  Here  it  may  be  remarked  that,  in  spite  of  his  evident  truthfulness 
and  honesty  of  purpose,  Mr.  McOoan  is  not  so  impartial  as  he  evidently  sup- 
poses that  he  is,  or  intends  to  be.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Consular  service 
for  some  years, — the  guest  of  pashas  and  notables  generally,  and  we  know 
from  last  year's  experience  in  Bulgaria  and  Bosnia,  how  easily  honourable 
men's  eyes  may  be  blinded,  and  their  judgments  warped  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances. Mr.  McOoan  sees  nothing  but  a  glorious  future  for  Egypt, 
under  such  a  government  as  that  of  Ismail  Pasha,  and  soundly  berates  all 
who  do  not  see  the  wretched  degradation  and  brutal  treatment  of  the  fella- 
heen as  he  does,  through  court  spectacles.  This  ancient  peasantry,  he  des- 
cribes as  of  an  olive  complexion,  where  they  are  not  exposed  to  the  sun, ''  fine 
oval  faces ;  bright,  deep-set  black  eyes  ;  straight,  thick  noses  ;  large,  but  well- 
formed  mouths ;  full  lips,  but  not  negro-turned  ;  beautiful  teeth,  broad  shoul- 
ders, and  well-shaped  limbs."  Of  this  fine  muscular  race,  Mr.  McOoan  goes 
on  to  say,  ''  As  they  were  under  the  Pharaohs,  the  Ptolemies,  the  Romans 
and  the  Oaliphs,  so  in  the  main  they  are  now — the  most  patient,  the  most 
pacific,  the  most  home-loving,  and  withal,  the  merriest  race  in  the  world." 
Now,  bearing  in  mind  this  acknowledgment  of  their  patience,  and  also  the 
after  account  of  the  Khedive's  extravagant  expenditures,  and  the  fellah's  pal- 
try pittance,  one  reads  with  surprise  these  words  : — ''  It  is  the  fashion  to  write 
and  speak  of  this  large  section  of  the  Khedive's  subjects  as  being  intolerably 
oppressed,  ground  down  by  crushing  taxation,  and  generally  wretched  beyond 
any  parallel  elsewhere."  Mr.  McOoan  has  new  light  upon  the  subject,  per- 
ceived by  the  aid  of  his  coxdertr  de  rose  lenses,  not  vouchsafed  to  former  tra- 
vellers or  residents  on  the  Nile.  Oonsidering  the  paltry  pittance  the  poor 
wretches  obtain,  the  following  easy  way  of  getting  over  an  ugly  feature  in  the 
Khedive's  system  is  astonishing  : — "  That  the  taxation  is  heavy,  but  not  op- 
pressive, is  admitted  ;  and  that,  until  lately,  the  methods  of  its  collection 
have  been  often  brutal,  may  also  be  conceded.  But,  apart  firom  the  tradi- 
tional cruelty  of  tax-gathering  all  the  East  over,  the  Egyptian  peasant  has 
been  noted  in  all  time,  from  Oheops  to  Ismail,  for  his  unwillingness  to  pay 
taxes  at  all.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  point  of  honour  to  bear  any  amount  of  '  stick, ' 
if  by  so  doing  the  impost,  or  any  part  of  it,  can  be  evaded."  Oonsidering 
what  the  unhappy  labourers  have  suffered  from  the  time  when  the  foundation- 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  117 

stone  of  the  first  pyramid  was  laid  until  now,  his  impatience  at  taxation  must, 
in  official  eyes,  be  as  inexcusable  as  it  is  incomprehensible.  Mr.  MoCoan's 
"  stiflk  logic"  is  nothing  new ;  the  Legrees  of  the  South  made  us  familiar  with 
it  years  aga  On  p.  310,  our  author,  haying  undertaken  to  defend  Egyptian 
slavery,  which  he  does  with  perhaps  more  success,  he  lets  in  a  little  light  upon 
the  condition  of  the  poor  fellaheen,  who  contribute  the  entire  revenue,  and 
have  nothing  left^  but  what  the  State  cannot  get  out  of  them.  He  says, 
"  From  every  material  point  of  view  they  (the  slaves)  are  infinitely  better  off 
than  the  free-bom  fellahs,  on  whom,  indeed,  they  look  down  with  (Hroud  con- 
tempt, as  an  inferior  class — since,  as  before  remarked,  both  law  and  religion 
combine  to  protect  them,  as  neither  protect  the  peasant. ''  A  happy  peasantry 
that  must  certainly  be,  upon  which  eunuchs  and  concubines  can  afford  to  look 
down  **  with  proud  contempt  !'* 

Of  the  remaining  million,  the  Oopts  number  one-half,  the  Bedoweens,  or 
roving  Arabs,  not  quite  a  third,  Nubians  atfdSoudaios  (mostly  slaves)  40,000, 
and  the  rest  are  Jews,  rayah  Greeks,  Armenians,  Syrians,  Turks,  Abyssinians, 
and  foreigners  of  all  sorts.  The  Oopts,  though  smaller  in  number  are,  says 
Mr.  McCoon,  ''  before  them  in  historical  interest,  not  only  the  most  ancient, 
but,  strictly  speaking,  the  only  native  Egyptian  race.'*  Volney,  Young,  and 
ChampoUion  supposed  them  to  be  of  Ethiopic  origin,  but  ''  ethnologiBts  are 
now  generally  agreed  in  regarding  them  as  the  descendants  of  the  Pharaonic 
I^Qrptian,  mixed  more  or  less  with  the  Persians  left  by  Oambyses,  and  the 
Greeks  who  followed  the  standard  of  Alexander,  but  still  visibly  preserving 
the  characteristics  of  the  old-world  race  that  built  Thebes  and  worshipped 
Amoun-ra**'  To  their  Arab  conquerors,  he  further  observes,  **  they  bear  a 
similar  relation  to  that  of  the  QbxlIb  to  the  Franks  under  the  Merovingian 
kings."  Many  embraced  the  Moslem  faith,  but  a  large  remnant  are  still 
OhristiaDS  of  the  Monophysite  sect,  and  claim  St.  Mark  as  the  founder  of  their 
church.  Into  the  detailed  account  of  the  other  races  we  have  no  space  to 
enter,  but  we  may  remark  that  the  Turks,  who  conquered  Egypt  in  1517,  only 
number  10,000. 

The  cities  and  towns  of  Egypt  afford  Mr.  McOoan  ample  scope  for  much 
gn^hic  and  interesting  description.  ,  There  are  eight  cities,  but  historical  as 
well  as  commercial  interest  attaches  chiefly  to  two  of  them,  Oairo  and  Alex- 
andria— the  one  above  the  apex  of  the  delta,  the  other,  the  second  port  (Mar- 
seilles being  the  first),  on  the  Mediterranean.  Alexandria,  which  commemo- 
rates the  name  of  the  great  Macedonian  conqueror,  amd  was  eulogized  by  his 
modem  imitator,  Napoleon,  **  was  twelve  hundred  years  old  when  ihe  foun- 
dations of  Oairo  were  laid  ;"  yet  it  is  but  a  modem  settlement  compared  with 
those  children  of  the  hoary  time^  Thebes,  Memphis,  and  Heliopolis.  All  these 
are  in  ruins,  and  so  also  is  the  ancient  Alexandria,  but  even  these  remains 
are  ''an  inheritance  to  which  Oairo  can  boast  nothing  equal.  Of  the  three 
moholiths,  Pompey's  Pillar  and  Oleopatra's  Needles,  one  of  which  is  now  an 
object  of  interest  and  solicitude,  there  is  an  interesting  account.  The  Pillar 
had  nothing  to  do  with  Pompey,  but  was  erected  on  its  present  site  in  honour 
<^  Diocletian ;  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  sole  remaining  relic  of  the  famous 
Serapeion.  The  Needles — **  which  had  equally  nothing  to  do  with  Oleopatra, 
were  brought  from  Heliopolis  by  Julius  Oa^sar,  to  adorn  his  own  temple,  the 


118  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

Cesarium.  Both  are  of  red  Syene  granite,  and  are  covered  with  hyeroglypics 
of  the  reign  of  Thothmes  UI.,  RameBes  II.,  and  Sethi  U.,  fully  twelve  cen- 
turies before  the  Christian  era.  Alexandria  has  of  late  yean  sprung  into  new 

life,  and  even  the  opening  of  the  Suez  Canal  has  not,  in  the  slightest  degree, 
interfered  with  the  tide  of  its  prosperity." 
Cairo  is  a  city  of  a  different  kind.     It  presents  "  a  much  more  lively  and 

varied  picture  of  Eastern  life"  than  Damascus,  ''  and  in  this  regard  also  as  far 
surpasses  Constantinople  as  Bagdad  excels  Smyrna."  "  In  Cairo  only  are  now 
to  be  found  the  scene  and  most  of  the  dramatis  personce  of  the  *  Thousand  and 
One  Nights,'  within  a  stone's  throw  of  nineteenth  century  civilization  in  many 
of  its  latest  results.  The  short  quarter  of  an  hour's  drive  from  the  railway 
station  transports  you  into  the  very  world  of  the  Caliphs — the  same  now  as 
when  Noureddin,  Abou-Shamma,  Benreddin  Hassan,  Ali  Cogie,  the  Jew  Phy- 
sician, and  all  the  rest  of  them  played  their  parts,  any  time  since  or  before 
Saladin.  The  old  city  itself  is  still  a  labyrinth  of  dark,  dirty,  intricate  lanes 
and  alleys,  in  many  of  which  two  donkeys  can  hardly  pass  abreast,  and  whose 
toppling  up|)er  storysso  nearly  meet  as  to  shut  all  but  the  narrowest  streak  of 
the  cloudless  sky.'*  In  singular  contrast  is  the  lively  picture  of  the  Esbekieh, 
or  modem  European  quarter,  with  its  slately  mansions,  luxuriant  gardens, 
fashionable  drives  and  clubs.  Then  follow  graphic  sketches  of  the  Pyramids 
and  that  other  awe-striking  monument  of  untold  antiquity — the  Sphinx. 
**  In  a  sand  hoDow,  a  few  hundred  yards  to  the  south-east  of  the  Great  Py- 
ramid, stands,  or  rather  crouches,  this  half-buried  Sphinx — *  gazing  straight 
on  with  calm  eternal  eyes'  across  the  vista  of  seven  thousand  years,  for, 
accordiug  to  Marriette  Bey,  it  was  already  old  before  the  stupendous  gnomon 
of  Cheops  was  built."  Upon  all  the  invasions  and  revolutions  of  many  hun- 
dred centuries,  ''and  more,"  says  Kinglake,  ''this  unworldly  Sphinx  has 
watched  and  watched  like  a  Providence,  with  the  same  earnest  eyes  and  the 
same  tranquil  mien.  And  we,  we  shall  die,  and  Islam  wither  away ;  and  the 
Englishman,  straining  far  over  to  hold  his  loved  India,  will  plant  a  firm  foot 
on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  and  sit  in  the  seats  of  the  Faithful  ;  and  still  that 
shapeless  rock  will  lie  watching  and  watching  the  works  of  the  new  busy  race, 
with  those  same  sad,  earnest  eyes,  and  the  same  tranquil  mien  everlasting." 

About  equi-distant  from  Cairo  in  a  north-easterly  direction,  over  the  plain 
where  Selim  Pasha  won  Egypt  in  1517,  and  ELleber  defeated  the  Turks  in 
1800,  and  by  "  the  famous  jessamine  and  orange  gardens,  in  which  stands  the 
*  Virgin's  Tree,'  the  grand  old  sycamore  that  (tradition  says)  sheltered  Joseph 
and  Mary  after  their  flight  into  Egypt,  we  reach  the  sacred  city  On,  the  Heli- 
opolis  of  the  Greeks,  the  Besh-shemesh  (house  of  the  sun)  of  Old  Testament 
prophecy,  through  a  shady  acanthus  grove,  and  you  reach  the  lone  granite 
obelisk — the  oldest  in  the  world — that  marks  the  site  of  the  famous  '  City  of 
the  Sun,'  in  the  family  of  whose  high  priest  Joseph  found  his  bride,  where 
Moses  learned  the  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians,  Jeremiah  penned  his  Lamenta- 
tions, and  Plato  thought  out  his  sublime  doctrine  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  For  nearly  4,000  years  this  solitary  pillar  has  pointed  its  tapering  apex 
to  the  sky,  and  yet  the  hieroglyphics  on  its  sides  are  still  nearly  as  sharp  and 
distinct  as  if  graved  a  year  ago." 

Of  the  temple  ruins  of  Abydos,  Denderah,  Thebes,  Esneh,  Edfon,  and 


CURRENT  LITERATCrRE.  119 

Philae — ''the  shattered  but  splendid  memorials  of  a  dead  faith  and  civiliza- 
tion, with  which  the  world  can  nowhere  else  show  anything  to  compare" — Mr. 
McCoan  does  not  speak  at  length,  his  purpose  being  to  describe,  not  the  Egypt 
of  the  past,  but  of  that  of  to-day.  Here  the  author  strikes  a  new  vein,  and 
although  we  may  not  be  so  sanguine  about  the  future  of  that  deeply-interest- 
ing country  under  the  Pashas,  as  he  appears  to  be,  there  can  be  no  question 
about  the  value  of  the  information  contained  in  this  volume.  Unfortunately 
so  much  space  has  been  already  occupied  in  topics,  which  however  attractive, 
are  to  some  extent  outside  the  purpose  of  the  work  under  review,  that  we  can 
only  give  a  brief  and  condensed  account  of  the  major  part  of  it.  We  have 
read  with  care  the  chapters  devoted  to  the  products  and  capabilitcs  of  the 
Nile  valley,  the  Fayoum,  and  the  oases  ;  to  the  army,  navy,  educational  and 
administrative  institutions  of  the  Khedive ;  and  we  have  endeavoured  to  get 
some  notion  of  the  Egyptian  finance  as  pictured  in  gay  colours  by  Mr. 
McCoan,  and  more  soberly  by  Mr.  Cave,  and  Messrs  GU>schen  and  Joubert. 
With  our  author's  view  of  the  vast  capabilities  of  Egypt  we  may  readily  agree. 
His  account  in  detail,  of  the  vegetable  resources  of  the  country  are  as  in- 
structive as  they  are  interesting  ;  and  there  is  much  promise  in  the  compara- 
tively new  staples  of  sugar  and  cotton.  Egypt  is  now  burdened  with  a  debt 
amounting  altogether  to  between  ninety  and  one  hundred  millions  sterling. 
This  is  made  up  of  all  sorts  of  liabilities,  consolidated  and  floating.  The 
Diaira  or  departmental  debts,  are  the  most  troublesome — so  troublesome 
indeed  that  Mr.  Cave  did  not  meddle  with  them.  To  most  people  a 
Department  conveys  the  idea  of  a  branch  of  the  public  service  ;  but, 
in  Egypt,  it  means  one  of  the  conduit  pipes  by  which  the  country  is 
drained  to  support  the  Oriental  magnificence  of  the  family  which,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  McCoan,  is  bringing  in  a  Millennium.  There  is  the  Dalra-Khassa 
or  Civil  List,  which,  even  under  Mr.  Gk)schen's  reformed  system,  is  to  swal- 
low up  £dOO,000  sterling  annually ;  then  the  Daira  of  the  Khedive's  personal 
estate  ;  those  of  the  Queen-Mother,  the  family  property  generally,  the  heir- 
apparent,  and  those  of  two  other ''  Highnesses/'  sons  of  the  Khedive.  Where 
much  of  the  money  wrung  from  the  impoverished  peasantry  of  Egypt  goes 
may  bo  seen  in  the  new  Palaces  erected  and  furnidied  year  after  year,  and  sel- 
dom or  never  used  by  the  Khedive. 

That  the  Elhedive  has  received  a  varnish  of  European  civilization  may  be 
true.  He  is  enterprising,  after  a  fashion,  and  if  constructing  railways  and 
public  works,  and  speculating  in  sugar  refining  at  a  loss,  are  proofs  of  sagacity, 
Ismail  Pasha  is  sagacious  enough.  Mr.  Cave,  in  Ms  Report,  however,  stripped 
off  the  varnish  and  tinsel,  and  exposed  the  rottenness  within.  Mr.  McOoan 
inserts  it  at  page  372  as  an  Appendix,  and  it  ought  to  expel  any  dreams  of  a 
brilliant  future  by  binding  the  speculative  spirit  of  European  civilization  to  the 
dead  corpse  of  Oriental  decrepitude  and  decay.  Notwithstanding  our  dissent 
from  some  of  Mr.  McCoan*s  views,  grounded  upon  the  opinions  of  those  who 
have  had  at  least  as  favourable  an  opportunity  of  judging  aright  as  h«,  we 
cannot  conclude  without  giving  a  most  favourable  opinion  of  the  work  as  a 
whole.  It  is  certainly  the  fullest,  most  instructive,  and  interesting  work  on 
contemporary  Egypt  that  has  yet  appeared. 


120 


ttsical. 


The  imputation  under  which  England  has  lain  so  long  may  surely  be  said  to 
be  now  dissipated  :  the  imputation  of  being  an  unmusical  country,  and  in 
particular  of  producing  no  composers  of  more  than  third  or  fourth  rate  merit. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  notwithstanding  the  absurd  fuss  made  lately  in 
England  over  Purcell,  who  never  wrote  a  line  in  his  life,  that  was  not  an  imi- 
tation of  Handel,  and  over  Storace,  Ame,  Bishop,  and  others,  her  fame  as  a 
country  of  musicians  will  rest  on  those  men  who  are  now  the  pride  of  this 
generation,  rather  than  on  the  antiquated  contrapuntists  of  former  centuries. 
We  are  certain  that  shamefully  little  is  known  in  Canada  of  the  compositions 
of  Bamett,  MacFarren,  Benedict,  and  Smart  for  instance.  Arthur  Sullivan, 
of  course,  being  more  of  a  popular  composer,  a  song-writer,  and  so  forth,  is 
better  known  and  appreciated  ;  but  we  doubt  if  many  of  our  readers,  on  being 
told  that  Dr.  MacFarren's  new  oratorio  of  '*  Joseph  "  was  the  great  feature  of 
the  Leeds  Festival,  would  know  very  much  more,  either  about  him  or  his 
music,  than  that  he  is  principal  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Music,  and  an  hon- 
oured and  sufSciently  talented  musician.  However,  as  we  only  propose  to 
give  a  slight  sketch  of  "  Joseph,"  we  will  address  it  to  those  among  our  read- 
ers, who  are  interested  in  Dr.  MacFarren's  career,  and  understand  and  ad- 
mire his  genius,  though  they  be  in  the  minority.  And  that  career  has  not 
been  an  idle  one,  though  it  has  been  an  easily  successful  one.  Four  years 
ago,  his  first  oratorio,  St,  John  the  Baptist,  was  produced,]  and  since  then  he 
hasproduoed  the  "  Resurrection, "a  cantata  of  grand  dimensions  to  be  brought 
out  at  Glasgow  shortly,  and  finally  there  is  **  Joseph,"  a  work  of  grandeur  and 
importance.  **  Joseph  "  engaged  the  attention  at  one  time  of  Handel,  and 
of  course  Mehul's  "  Joseph,''  or  at  least  parts  of  it,  are  well  known.  But  it 
seems  that  it  has  been  left  to  Dr.  MacFarren  to  perpetuate  the  story  by  means 
of  his  learning  and  great  powers.  The  librettist  of  this  as  weU  as  of  the  other 
two  oratorios,  is  Dr.  Monk,  organist  of  York  Minster,  and  although  generally 
speaking  he  has  suited  his  book  to  the  genius  of  his  colleague,  some  of  the 
respective  texts  are  evidently  both  out  of  place  and  radically  unfit  to  be  set 
to  music.  The  persons  are  Joseph  (baritone),  Jacob  (bass),  Reuben  (tenor), 
Benjamin  (soprano),  and  Pharaoh  (tenor)  ;  also  three  choruses  of  tenors  and 
basses,  an  impersonal  soprano,  (there  is  no  woman  in  the  dramatis  persofue, 
by  the  way),  and  full  choruses  of  Sheperds,  Wise  Men,  Ishmaelites  and 
Egyptians.  The  influence  of  Wagner  on  modem  music  is  remarkable  in  this 
oratorio,  redtatJon  being  to  a  great  extent  discarded  for  *'  dialogue."  There 
are  thirty-six  numbers,  including  the  overture,  which  is  said  to  be  strictly 
classical,  full  of  power  and  beautiful  motives,  the  two  principal  being  Jacob's 
love  for  Joseph,  and  the  *'  Oaiiaan  "  motive. 


MUSICAL. 


121 


Ab  far  aa  we  can  judge,  however,  from  aome  aoraps  that  have  floated  to  ua 
in  the  English  papers,  the  Wagnerian  tendency,  at  least  in  this  oratorio,  leads, 
to  effects  absord  in  the  extreme.  It  is  one  of  the  great  miM^o^t  theories  that 
"  words  yearn  for  musio,*'  and  therefore  he,  in  most  of  his  compositions,  and 
now  Dr.  MacFarren  in  his,  endeavour  to  repeat  in  music  the  very  reflection  of 
the  force  which,  as  we  know,  pcwd  so  much  the  meaning  of  the  word. 

For  instance,  here  is  a  duet  between  Jacob  and  Joseph,  which  teUs  of  the 
coat  of  many  colours  : 


ti*iiKT^Cirrri^Trrir  J^  Ji 


And    I     have   made  thee    a       coat      of     ma  -  ny 


ool  -  oart. 


^ 


£ 


^f  fC 


r^l^rnrM 


a    coat  I 


a     coat! 


a  coat  of  ma    ny        col  -  oun ! 


i 


^r    ifjr' 


coat! 


a  coat! 


a        coat! 


of  ma-  ny 


col    -    oun ! 


We  think  the  effect  of  this  would  at  least  be  laughable,  and  mirth  can 
hardly  be  said  to  be  the  fitting  outcome  of  oratorio  music.  This  far  fetched 
attempt,  however,  has  not  many  others  of  the  kind  to  keep  it  company,  and 
several  soprano  and  baritone  airs,  two  martial  and  startling  choruses,  and 
other  interesting  numbers,  quite  make  up  we  expect  for  the  failure  of  such 
passages  as  the  one  we  have  alluded  to.  Criticism  is  in  fact  impossible,  until 
we  can  hear  the  whole  work,  which  will  not  be  here  for  some  time.  But  un- 
til then,  all  thanks  may  be  given  to  Dr.  MacFarren  for  having  aided  by 
his  latest  work  the  growth  of  Knglish  music  in  particular,  and  sacred  music 
in  generaL 

We  take  from  the  AfuMcoZ  World  the  subjoined  list  of  characters  sustained 
by  the  late  Mdlle  Tietjens  in  London  : 

Valentina .Les  Huguenots April  13,  1858. 

Leonora II  Trovatore  May  4,        ** 

Donna  Anna Don  Giovanne  May  11,      *' 

La  Contessa  Le  Nozase  di  Figaro    May  29,      '^ 

Lucrezia  Borgia LucreziaJBorgia June  17,      *' 

Norma  Norma     July  7,  1859 

H^^ne Les  Vdpres  Siciliennes. . . .  July  27,     *' 

Martha   Marhta  Nov.  11,    ** 

Semirmmide    Semiramide    ^  .May  17, 1860 

Laoia  de  Lammermoor. . . .  Lucia  di  Lammermoor. . . .  Jime  19, 

Beda  Oberon   June30, 

Amelia    Un  Ballo June  15, 1861 


(( 


(( 


122  MUSICAL. 

Alice    Roberto June  14,  1862 

Norma DonPasquale Nov.  8,       ** 

Selvaggia    Selvaggia    May  7,  1863 

Margherita Faust June  11,  " 

Elvira .IlPuritani AprilU,  " 

Mrs.  Ford Le  Spoae  Allegre  May  4,  1864 

Leonora Fidelio    June  23,  " 

Mirella    Mirella   July  6,      ** 

Medea Medea June  6,  1866 

Elvira Ernani    Aug.  5,     ** 

Agatha    Der  Freischtltz Oct.  28,    ** 

Iphigenia    Iphigenia  in  Tauride   May  8, 1866 

Constanza  II  Seraglio June  30,  " 

Donna  Leonora La  Forza  del  Destino  June  22, 1867 

Pamina   II  Flauto  Magico  July  23,     " 

Giselda    II  Lombardi "        " 

Gertrude Hamlet   May  19,  1870 

Anna  Bolena Anna  Bolena Aug.  1, 1871 

OoBtanza* Le  DuGiomato June  20, 1872 

Leonora  liaFavorita May  1, 1873 

Ortrud Lohengrin June  12,  1876 

Herr  Joachim  Baff  has  left  Wiesbaden,  where  he  has  been  domiciled  since 
May,  1866,  and  taken  up  his  residence  in  Frankfort,  to  fulfil  his  duties  as 
Director  of  Hoch's  Oonservatoiy  of  Music. 

Thanks  to  the  great  amelioration  in  his  health,  M.  H.  Vieuxtemps  has  re- 
sumed his  duties  as  ''finishing  professor,"  ('"|>ro/e«»et*r  deperfeetionnement^') 
in  the  Brussels  Conservatory. 

Mad.  Pauline  Lucca  is  to  receive  ten  thousand  four  hundred  pounds  for 
hor  twelve  nights'  engagement  in  Madrid,  and  eight  hundred  and  forty  pounds 
for  her  six  performances  at  Nice. 

By  a  decree  of  King  Victor  Emanuel,  Signer  Yerdi  is  appointed  a  member 
of  the  Italian  Commission,  at  the  Paris  Universal  Exhibition. 

Mad,  Adelina  Patti  opened  in  Milan  on  the  27th  of  last  month,  the  prices 
at  the  Scala,  during  her  performances,  being  for  orchestra  stalls,  fifty  francs, 
and  for  a  pit  seat,  thirty. 

The  Grand  Duke  of  Baden  has  conferred  the  cross  of  the  Zfthringer  Lion 
on  Don  Pablo  Sarasato,  the  violinist. 

Signer  Schira  has  returned  from  Milan,  having  made  all  arrangements 
with  a  celebrated  Italian  man  of  letters  for  the  libretto  of  his  projected  new 
opera,  which  will  be  in  these  desolate  times  a  godsend  to  the  ''sunny"  but 
now  not  over  fertile  peninsula. 


MUSICAL.  123 

Kowalaki,  known  in  Canada  at  least  better  as  a  briUiant  pianist  than  as 
composer,  is  rehearsing  his  new  opera  in  Paris,  OiUea  de  Bretagne. 

M.  Gounod,  who,  by  the  way,  is  producing  very  little  just  now,  is  at  work 
on  a  comic  opera  founded  on  a  subject  taken  from  the  story  of  **  Abelard 
et  H^oise,"  and  entitled  '*  Mattre  Pierre."  We  hope  it  may  not  be  unworthy 
of  so  great  a  maestro. 

Signer  Rossi,  of  the  Naples  Conservatory,  has  written  to  some  of  the  most 
eminent  pianists  of  the  day,  begging  them  to  add,  by  each  contributing  a  not 
too  difficult  piece  of  his  own  composition,  in  the  formation  of  an  album,  the 
receipts  from  which  would  be  devoted  to  a  monument  to  be  erected  in  hon- 
our of  Bellini  Among  the  artists  to  whom  Sig.  Rossi  has  thus  appealed  are 
Albert,  Andreoli,  Brahnit,  Bruch,  Brull,  Bulon,  Cesi,  Fissot,  Fumagalli, 
Stephen  Beller,  Henselt,  Henri  Herz,  Hiller,  Jaell,  Kiel,  Richner,  Marie 
Rebt,  Fr.  Sachner,  Lisst,  Litolf,  T.  Mattel,  Palimibo,  Raff,  Reinecke,  Reur- 
iano,  Antoine  and  Nicolas  Rubinstein,  Saint  Siteur,  A.  Scharvenka,Wilhelm- 
ine  Szarvady,  Tchaikousld  and  R.  Volkmann. 

Mr.  Sims  Reeves'  carriage  was  amongst  those  sent  as  a  mark  of  respect  and 
esteem,  to  follow  the  remains  of  Mdlle.  Tietjens  to  her  last  resting  place. 
Miss  Reeves  represented  her  father  on  the  melancholy  occasion.  The  Leeds 
Musical  Festival  Committee  was  represented  at  the  funeral  of  Mddle. 
Tietjens  by  Councillor  Fred.  R.  Spark,  one  of  the  Honorary  Secretaries  to 
the  Festival.  It  seems  that  much  violence,  if  not  indecency  of  behaviour, 
characterized  the  vast  crowds  that  followed  the  funeral  cortege,  which  was 
simply  a  private  demonstration.  The  English  papers  seem  to  think  that  if 
it  had  been  made  a  public  affair,  with  proper  precautions  taken  to  ensure 
from  annoyance  in  that  particular,  it  would  have  been  more  complimentary 
to  the  dead,  and  more  comfortable,  to  say  the  least,  to  the  living  who  fol- 
lowed her. 

The  coming  event  of  importance  in  Hamburg  is  to  be  the  second  centen- 
ary Jubilee  of  the  Loun  Theatre.  On  the  2nd  January,  1878,  it  will  be 
two  hundred  years  since  the  first  opera  in  Germany  was  performed.  The 
theatre  was  begun  in  1696,  and  finished  in  1697.  First  adapted  for  plays 
and  dramas,  it  was  afterwards  devoted  to  opera.  The  first  opera  given  was 
"  Adam  and  Eve  "  libretto,  by  Richer,  music  by  Franz  Shell.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  **  The  Devil  in  Love,"  which  some  believe  to  have  been  its  precur- 
sor ;  to  one  of  the  two,  at  any  rate,  the  distinction  of  being  the  first  German 
opera  ever  played  at  that  theatre  is  due.  The  coming  festival  on  the  2nd  of 
January  will  be  one  of  peculiar  attraction,  and  if  the  scene  exist,  it  will  be 
interesting  to  compare  the  past  with  the  present  **  The  Devil  in  Love,'*  with 
**  Der  Ring  der  Nibelunger." 

Says  the  Orchestra  ;  *'  The  recent  performance  at  the  Covent  Garden  Con- 
certs of  Had]m's  '  Abechied '  symphony  was  very  ridiculous.  Our  readers 
are  well  aware  of  the  object  with  which  it  is  said  to  have  been  written — ^to 
obtain  a  revocation  of  the  order  to  dismiss  a  certain  prince's  orchestra.    This 


124  MUSICAL. 

said  orchestra  did  not  include  a  modem  '  conductor.'  We  remember  hav- 
ing assisted  '  once  upon  a  time '  at  a  performance  of  this  symphony,  we 
believe  the  first  time  in  England.  As  there  was  no  conductor,  the  musicians 
severally  put  out  their  lights,  took  up  their  instruments  and  withdrew,  until 
only  a  trio  was  left,  violin,  'cello  and  basso^Mori,  Lindley,  and  Dragonnetti. 
Of  these  three  ,-Dragonetii  was  the  first  to  leave,  drawing  his  big  oontra-basso 
behind  him.  Lindley  paused,  sliook  his  head,  sighed  and  walked  out,  cud- 
dling his  violincello  in  his  arms.  Mori  went  on  fiddling  for  some  time,  all 
alone,  suddenly  he  awoke'to  a  sense  of  his  loneliness,  and  hurriedly  rushed  off, 
fiddle  in  hand,  without  stopping  to  put  out  his  light.  The  effect  was  whim, 
sical,  if  not  really  pathetic.  Now  we  can  understand  how  the  leader  of  the 
band  was  so  absorbed  in  playing  his  violin  part  as  to  be  unconscious  of  being 
deserted,  but  we  can't  understand,  how  a  conductor  attending  to  his  business 
could  see  aU  his  musicians  walk  out  without  knowing  it.  Still  as  Signcnr 
Arditi  was  very  funny,  the  desired  end  was  perhaps  gained,  though  not  by 
legitimate  m^ans,  the  audience  roared  with  laughter  and  applauded  vocifer- 
ously. The  *  Abschied  *  might  be  a  good  joke,  when  Hadjm  first  produced 
it,  but  even  then  it  was  but  trivial,  and  it  hardly  admit  of  successful  repe- 
tition. There  may  be  conductors  who  would  not  miss  half  the  instruments 
of  their  band,  but  Signor  Ajxliti  is  not  one  of  these,  if  he  does  the  *  Ab- 
scied '  again,  we  hope  he  will  make  it  consistent.*' 

According  to  the  Miniitrdly  the  Qilmore  Garden  Orchestra  from  New  York, 
numbering  one  hundred  performers,  will  pay  a  visit  to  Europe  next  year,  and 
make  a  tour  in  England,  Germany  and  France,  giving  a  series  of  one  hun- 
dred concerts.  The  principal  aim  of  this  musical  expedition  is  to  make 
Englishmen  acquainted  with  one  of  the  best  orchestras  in  the  United  States, 
which  has  many  solo  performers,  and  also  to  take  part  in  the  musical  compe- 
tition at  the  next  International  Exhibition  at  Paris,  although  he  knows  that 
he  will  have  to  contend  with  the  band  of  the  Garde  Republicaine,  and  with 
those  of  the  English  Guards,  as  well  as  some  of  the  most  celebrated  bands 
of  Austria,  Belgium,  Italy,  yet  Mr.  Gilmore  anticipates  carrying  off  the  first 
prize,  or  at  least,  the  second.     We  wish  he  may  get  it.     N<ms  verrons. 

The  following  capital  speech  was  made  by  Madame  Patey,  the  famous  Eng- 
lish Contralto,  at  a  recent  meeting  at  Gloucester,  after  the  distribution  of  prizes 
gained  by  competition  in  a  musical  competiti<m  in  connection  with  Trinity 
College,  London. 

''  Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  &  Gentlemen, — It  is  with  no  ordinary  pleasure 
that  I  to-day  discharge  the  duties  of  the  flattering  position  in  which  you  have 
been  good  enough  to  place  me.  Tou  were  right  in  assuming  that  the  work 
upon  which  you  are  engaged  has  my  warmest  sympathies ;  for  who  ought 
more  to  desire  the  spread  of  musical  culture  than  one  whose  life  is  devoted, 
in  however  modest  a  capacity,  to  the  service  of  the  divine  art  ?  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  institution  you  represent  has  particular  claims  upon  your  re- 
gard. It  seems  to  promote  music  in  its  most  exalted,  and  perhaps  I  should 
say  its  most  popular  form.  Nor  do  I  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  labours 
of  Trinity  College  and  its  affiliated  associations  tend  to  perpetuate  the  fair 
fame  of  England  in  a  field  of  art  to  which  our  country  has  sent  so  many  illus- 


MUSICAL.  125 

trioTiB  workers.  Because  then  you  strive  for  the  perfecting  of  the  praise  of 
God's  Church  on  earth,  and  as  a  consequence,  of  the  popularizing  of  good 
sacred  music  throughout  the  land,  as  well  for  the  continuance  and  increase 
of  a  high  national  reputation.  Tour  claims  to  hearty  support  are  incontestable, 
and  in  my  humble  measure  I  recognise  them  by  being  here  to-day. 

''  Having  carefully  examined  the  plan  upon  which  Trinity  College  works,  I 
cannot  but  express  my  admiration  of  its  liberality  and  comprehensiveness. 
By  the  establishment  of  local  centres,  the  institution  of  free  scholarships,  and 
the  encouragement  of  talent  through  the  prizes  given  in  connection,  as  to-day, 
with  local  examinations,  the  College  does  that  which  no  other  institution  at- 
tempts :  it  goes  among  the  people  in  search  of  ability,  instead  of  waiting  in 
London  and  elsewhere  for  ability  to  come  to  it.  With  equal  satisfaction  I 
observe  that  you  seek  to  associate  a  good  general  education  with  advancement 
in  music,  thus  taking  the  surest  method  of  raising  the  musical  profession  to 
the  place  of  dignity  and  honour  which  it  ought  to  occupy  in  general  esteem. 

''  Let  me  add  in  conclusion,  that  the  College,  especially  this  branch  of  it,  has 
my  best  wishes  for  increasing  prosperity,  and  of  seeing  it  prosper,  more  par 
ticularly  those  who  have  received  prizes  to-day,  rise  to  positions  of  usefulness 
and  eminence." 


^ 


126 


WHAT  FLOWBB  IS  THIS*/ 


WHAT  FLOWER  IS  THIS  7 


^  mmm  m 


Words  by  OLIVER  WEHBIU  HOLMIS. 

AlUgro  Moderato. 


Muslo  by  H.  P.  KEEKS 


g|J    Jl J .  iJ^j_^^^|^ 


I.  What  flow'r  is    this      that  greets    the  morn,         Its  hues  from  Heav*!!    so    fresh    -    ly 
a.    Be  -  hold  its    streaming  rays       u  -  nite,  One  mingling    flood     of    braid    -    ed 

3.   Thy    sa  -  cred  leaves,  fair    ftee-dom's  flow'r,       Shall  ev  -  er      float      on    dome       and 


i/  'J'ji  ^  JJ^. 


m 


^  J,   ij. 


^ 


**'  ai'^=y 


^m 


P 


i 


bom? 
light: 
tow*r. 


S 


With  bailing  star       and  flam  -  ing  band, 

The  red  that  fires       the  south-em    rose, 

To    all  their  heav^  -  ly     col  -  ors    tme. 


t 


m 


It    kindles     all  the 

With  spotless  white       from 

In  black'ning  frost         or 


WHAT  FLOWBB  18   THIS? 


JJJU  I 


<S>-4^i-i 


127 


tan-set      land.  O,    tell  as     what       its    name      may      bel  Is    this  the 

northern    snows;         And  spangled    o'er         its       a    -    xare,     see  The  sis-ter 

crimson      dew,  And  God  love    os  as     we        love     thee,        Tboa  ho  -  ly 


V 


flow'r  of  Lib  -  er  -  ty? 
stars  of  Lib  -  er  -  tyl 
flow'r      of       Lib     -     er  -   ty! 


It  is  the  ban  •  ner  of 
Then  hail  the  ban  -  ner  of 
Then  hail   the       ban    •    ner    of 


1^.1       ij     M^    ^h   -Qh 


(4^  J.    I 

V  *       « 


nt 


free, 
free, 
free. 


m 


^m 


the 
the 
the 


H  ,1,   h^T— +f  -ij::    i;   c^^ 


The  star-ry  flow'r  of  Lib  -  er  -  ty! 
The  star-ry  flow'r  of  Lib  •  er  -  ty' 
The      star  -  ry    flow'r     of         Lib  -  ei     -     ^ 


^l4Ji  \jp^ 


128 


WHAT  PLOWBB  18  THIS '/ 


lit  *  tB«  Tm 


Ak*. 


Id* 


PUXO.- 


It         is       the        ban  -  ner  of  the         free, 


It         is       the        ban  -  ner 
Then  hail^  &e. 


It         »       the 
Then    hail,  &c. 


^^ 


i 


^^ 


ban  -  ner 


of 


the        free, 


u       U       U 


^ 


^^ 


=^"=5 


^ 


^^ 


r^- 


fe^fi  F  c  c  1  = 

I        I I 


Sp 


ps 


.U==6, 


i  ■!    'l^-i 


of      lib  -  er    -   lyl.  .  .  .      It       is       the     ban  -  ner 

TAm  ^i/,  &c. 

/7\ 


im.  a  tempo. 


The     star  -  ry      flow  -  er       of       lib  -  er  •   ty !.  .  .  .       It       is     the       ban  -  ner 

.  .  Then  hail,  &c. 


iCCji^  g| 


;^J3^|Mf  Jr    1-^ 


of  the    free,  The    star-ry       flow-er  of         lib  -  er     -     tyl 


^Ul.^=|^ 


1 


the     ft«e, 

^  r    0^' 


^-j^p^j'  ij  II 


BELFORD'S 
MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


JANUARY,  1878. 


■PttUiihed  by  spedAl  anangeinent  with  the  »uthor. 


130  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

our  social  and  religiouB  life ;  it  leads  to  the  performance  of  deeds  which 
with  ^lad  hearts  angels  record.  Such  a  deed,  without  reference  to  mis- 
sionanes,  did  Kachel  Levy  perform.  On  a  cold  and  bitter  Christmas 
night  she  took  to  her  bosom  an  infant  whose  mother  died  when  the  snow 
was  falling.  The  child  was  a  child  of  shame,  and  had  but  one  relation 
whose  protection  it  could  claim— the  Poor-Eouse.  The  mother  was  a 
Christian;  Rachel  Levy  was  a  Jewess.  But  Charity,  thank  God !  is  a 
heavenly,  not  a  theological,  crown. 

'  What  will  become  of  my  child  1 '  murmured  the  dying  mother. 

'  I  will  take  care  of  her,'  said  Rachel. 

'  God  bless  you  ! '  were  the  woman's  last  words.  '  (rod  bless  and 
reward  you  ! ' 

She  died  with  that  prayer  on  her  lips,  in  the  light  of  the  falling  snow, 
and  while  the  Christmas  bells  were  rinKing. 

It  is  for  this  reason  I  have  made  Rachel  Levy  the  heroine  of  my 
Christmas  story. 


INTRODDCES    MOSES   LBVY   AKD   HIS    DAOOHTBa    RACHEL. 

M0SE8  Lbvy's  arm-chair  was  drawn 
close  to  the  table,  and  Moses  Levy 
himself  was  bending  over  a  large 
and,  much  dog-eared  book,  of  ancient 
date,  as  its  yellow  leaves  and  an- 

Sue  binding  sufficiently  testified, 
though  the   old  man's  thoughta 
were  not  often  fixed  upon  the  an- 
cient volume,  he  turned  its  leaves 
with  care  and  reverence,  and  as  he 
leant  forward  in  the  loose  coat  which 
he  had  worn  for  half  a  generation, 
-    his  appearance  was  both  picturesque 
z_  and  patnarchal.   The  furrows  in  his 
forehead   were    deep   and  strongly 
marked,  his  eye  was  clear,  his  face 
benignant,  and  a  long  white  beard  flowed  over  his  breast.   Opposite,  in 
strong  contrast,  sat  Rachel  Levy,  his  daughter,    in  a  modem  dress,  and 
with  a  nineteenth  century  air  upon  her.     It  was  in  its  outward  aspect  a 
singular  association.     For  notwithstanding  that  Moses  levy's  coat  was 
cut  and  sewn  about  a  dozen  years  ago,  it  hung  about  his  form  in  such 
old-time  waves  and  folds  that,  observing  them,  your  thought*  must  in- 
sensibly have  wandered  into  the  centuries  when  hia  ancestors  walked 
the  marts  in  long  gabardines,  trading  in  money,  after  the  tashion  of  his 
race ;  and  perchance  to  the  days  when  the  world  was  young,  even  to 
the  time  when  Jacob  tended  Laban's  sheep,  and  tricked  the  simple  ewes 
with  ringstraked  rods.    Whereas  Rachel  was  in  every  respect  as  to  the 
manner  bom  in  this  year  of  grace   1877 — a  modern  miss,  pure  and 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  131 

simple-miDded,  with  just  as  many  vanities  and  weaknesses  and  homely 
virtues  as  are  necessary  to  constitute  a  human,  lovable,  and  lovingbeing/ 
And  despite  his  patriarchal  appearance,  Moses  Levy,  as  well  as  Kachel, 
was  English  bom,  and  sojourned  not  in  Canaan  or  Padan-Aram,  but  on 
British  soil  in  Spitalfields. 

In  that  locality  reside  a  mixed  community  of  human  beings,  composed 
chiefly  of  English,  Irish,  and  aliens  from  Holland,  Germany  and  Poland. 
The  land  of  the  Inquisition,  also,  is  well-represented,  and  dark-eyed  des- 
cendants of  old  Spanish  families,  still  bearing  the  lofty  names  of  their 
forefathers,   hob-a-nob  with  ragged  representatives  of  Erin,  some  of 
whom,  no  doubt,  are  as  proud  of  their  lineage  as  their  stately  and 
subtler  neighbours.      No  stranger  conjunction  of  civilized  races  can  be 
found  thui  this,  where  a  Mendoza  lives  next  door  to  an  CVFlanagan, 
and  where  Sara,  a  black-ringleted  damsel,  with  rich  olive  blood  in  her 
veins,  stands  in  equal  social  position  with  barelegged  Biddy  OToole. 
They  have  a  very  healthy  contempt  for  one  another,  the  Irishman  re- 
garding the  Jew  as  something  worse  than  the  scum  of  the  earth,  and 
the  Jew  looking  upon  the  Irishman  as  an  i^iorant  being  of  the  lowest 
order.    But  Spitalfields  is  fortunate  in  the  possession  of  one  grand 
virtue,  which  infuses  outward  harmony  into  the  discordant  elements.  Its 
community  is  an  industrious  one,  and  Jew  and  Christian  alike  work  hard 
from  sunrise  until  after  sunset.   Some  risine  early  in  the  morning  for  the 
markets,  go  far  afield  to  seek  their  livelihood,  with  bags  and  barrows  and 
baskets,  and  among  these  bread-winners  are  women  who  trudge  the 
streets  with  heavy  baskets  of  common  glassware  on  their  arms ;  others  stay 
at  home,  plodding  and  stitching  through  the  daylight  hours,  and  often 
through  the  night;  the  click  of  the  sewing  machine  is  a  familiar  sound,  and 
may  be  heard  in  many  a  house  from  garret  to  basement;  and  what  with  the 
coming  and  going,  the  early  rising  and  the  late  retiring,  and  the  continual 
bustling  about,  the  grass  is  not  aUowed  to  grow  under  the  feet  of  the  busy 
bees  of  Spitalfields.    They  take  their  pleasures  too,  in  a  rational  way, 
and  the  pits  and  galleries  of  the  theatres  are  well-patronized  by  them, 
especially  on  Saturday  nights,  when  the  Jewish  Sabbath  is  at  an  end. 
As  everybody  knows,  Spitalfields  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  common 
neighbourhood  ;  but  poor  people  must  live  somewhere — and  must  cer- 
tainly have  room  to  die,  claiming  thereby  their  inalienable  death-right 
of  six  feet  of  land :  in  which  heritage,  quality,  whether  the  soil  is  in 
St.  Giles's  or  St.  James's,  is  of  no  considerauon  to  the  inhabitant.  And 
Spitalfields,  if  it  chooses,  can  hold  up  its  head  in  a  worldly  way,  for 
there  is  an  astonishing  secret  connected  with  it  which  shall  now  be  dis- 
closed.    Poor  as  it  has  the  reputation  of  being,  it  contains  persons  who 
keep  accounts  at  the  Bank  of  England,  and  who,  if  they  died  to-morrow, 
would  leave  thousands  of  pounds  behind  them.     This  class  is  composed 
ahnost  entirely  of  Jews,  who  moving  in  the  sphere  best  suited  to  them, 
pass  their  days  in  comfort  until,  urged  by  their  own  swelling  impor- 
tance, or  by  the  ambition  of  their  wives  and  daughters,  they  plunge 
into  more  fashionable  quarters  and  become  miserable ;  making  room  for 
others,  who  in  the  course  of  time,  will  tread  in  their  footsteps,  and  do 
likewise.     There  is  something  of  mathematical  precision  in  the  manner 
in  which  these  fortunate  ones  ascend  the  golden  ladder.     Chance  plays 
no  part  in  the  achievement,  and  their  prosperity  is  solely  due  to  the 
wise  application  of  intellectual  forces.     Step  by  step,  they  slowly  and 


132  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

surely  mount.  It  would  almost  appear  as  though  they  were  impreg- 
nated with  the  qualities  possessed  by  loadstone  for  iron  and  steel,  for 
tridy  their  natures  are  goldenly  magnetic. 

Moses  lievy  and  his  daughter  did  not  belong  to  this  mimetic  dub, 
and  were  far  from  rioh  in  the  world's  goods.  But  although  they  were 
as  poor  as  synagogue  mice,  it  would  be  difficult  to  have  found  in  all 
London  two  happier  persona  The  rooms  in  which  they  lived  in  Spital- 
fields  were  on  the  second  floor,  and  the  armchair  in  which  of  an  evening 
Moses  Levy  read  and  dozed  and  enjoyed  his  well-earned  ease  had  been 
picked  up  at  auction  for  a  song — as  indeed  was  the  case  with  pretty  well 
all  the  other  furniture  in  the  apartmest.  Everything  in  the  place  was 
second-hand,  and  looked  it. 

Rachel  was  a  waistcoat-maker,  and  Moses  Levy  was  a  dealer  in  old 
clothes. 

Regularly  every  morning,  at  a  little  past  eight  o'clock — so  as  to  catch 
any  stray  worm  of  a  servant  who  had  a  master's  old  clothes  to  dispose 
of — did  Moses  Levy  commence  his  business  with  his  warehouse  on  his 
back,  going  forth  like  a  tortoise,  which  with  his  curved  back  and  slow 
gait,  he  somewhat  resembled  indeed.  His  hour  for  rising  was  seven, 
and  after  he  washed  he  bound  his  forehead  and  arm  with  leathern 
straps,  the  knobs  of  which  contained  a  parchment  scroll  on  which  was 
written  a  quotation  from  the  sacred  books  of  the  Law,  and  said  his 
prayers,  with  his  fa^ce  to  the  east,  swaying  his  body  gently  backwards 
and  forwards,  and  sotlbly  beating  his  breast,  the  while  he  repeated  the 
morning  service  in  a  low,  sing-song  voice.  Never  once  in  his  life  had 
he  neglected  the  perfoimance  of  this  sacred  duty,  and  had  he  com- 
menced the  business  of  the  day  without  saying  the  prayer,  '  Hear,  0 
Israel ! '  he  would  have  expected  a  curse  to  fall  upon  him.  Then  he 
kissed  his  daughter,  who,  while  he  was  at  his  prayers,  had  prepared  the 
morning  meal,  and  sat  down  with  her  to  breakfast,  first  dipping  for  her 
and  for  himself  two  small  pieces  of  dry  bread  in  salt,  with  which,  with 
the  customary  grace  for  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  meals  were  invaria- 
bly commenced.  The  breakfast  seldom  ever  consisted  of  anything  but 
coffee  and  bread  and  butter,  except  on  Saturday  morning,  when,  in 
honour  of  the  Sabbath  there  was  fried  fish,  or  perhaps  a  bit  of  fish 
stewed  in  white  or  brown  gravy,  with  onions  cunningly  cooked  and 
made  deliciously  tasty  with  lemon,  and  emitting  so  wondrous  an 
odour  that,  in  anticipation  of  the  sweet  and  savoury  meal,  Moses  Levy's 
eyes  would  glisten  like  diamonds.  Rachel's  face,  at  that  sign  of  satis- 
faction from  her  father,  was  worth  seeingj  to  give  him  pleasure  in  such 
simple  ways  was  a  great  delight  to  her.  These  were  the  Sabbath  break- 
fasts ;  but  occasionally,  even  on  week-days,  Rachel  would  gladden  the 
old  man  with  a  herring  or  a  Dutch  cucumber  pickled  in  brine,  which, 
with  a  fiill  appreciation  of  the  good  things  of  earth  and  sea,  he  would 
eat  with  a  grateful  heart.  Thus  refreshed  and  strengthened,  and  with 
two  or  three  slices  of  bread-and-butter,  or  of  meat  and  dry  bread,  wrap- 
ped in  paper  for  his  midday  meal,  Moses  Levy  would  embrace  his  daugh- 
ter, and  issue  forth  with  his  warehouse  on  his  back  and  his  mind  occu- 
pied with  the  serious  business  of  the  day. 

Be  sure  that  from  the  moment  he  went  out  to  the  moment  he  returned, 
his  mind  was  never  so  fully  occupied  that  the  image  of  his  Rachel  was 
absent  from  it   A  very  pure  and  faithful  love  existed  between  these  two. 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  133 

Of  course  you  undurstand  that  by  his  warehouse,  I  mean  his  rusty 
black  bag,  ia  which  he  depiosited  such  articles  of  clothing  as  he  was  for- 
tnn&te  enough  to  purchase  during  the  day.    This  bag  had  been  the 
depository  of  his  worldly  hopes  and  fears  for  at  least  a  generation,  hein^ 
older  in  his  serrice  than  Rachel  was  in  his  love  ;  and  wnen  he  began  his 
day's  wanderings  it  was  empty,  and  hung  disconsolately  flat  over  his 
shoulder.       It  was  often  empty   when,    heart-sore  and    foot-sore,    be 
returned  to  his  home  in  the  evening,  and  then  his  face  would  be  sad  and 
his  mind  filled  with  misgivings  for  the  future.    For  he  lived  so  literally 
from  hand  to  mouth,  that  to  pass  two  or  three  days  without  making 
profits  was  a  serious  afTair  for  the  old  man.     But  there  were  evenings 
Then  he  returned  with  his  bag  quite  filled,  and  wearing  perhaps  a  hat 
or  two  in  addition  to  his  own.     Many 
persons  laughed  at  the  nervous,  excited 
figure  of  this  modem  patriarch,  and  at 
the  pyramid  of  hats  on  hisihead,  and 
saluted  him  disrespecttully  as  he  sham- 
hied  along ;  but  be  cared  not  a  whit 
for  their  light  looks  and  words.     He 
had  grown  accustomed  to  them.    Time 
was  when  their  jeers,  directed  always 
against  his  religion,  used  to  sting  him, 

and  cause  his  nerves  to  quiver  with  ^ 

anguish;  and  dnriuK  his  early  man- 
hood he  had  inward^  rebelled  at  the 
persecution.  Ha  was  wiser  now,  and 
the  softest  breese  affected  him  more 
than  such  revillnge.  Nay,  he  would 
sometimes  receive  them  with  pleasant 
nods,  which  expressed,  '  Oh,  yes,  you 
are  right,  quite  right,  and  I  am  really 
pleased  to  bear  you  speak  in  that 
manner  I '  Thus  did  he  rob  these 
arroira  of  their  sting,  and,  when  his 
bag  was  filled  would  trudge  baibk  to 
Spitalfidds  with  an  exultant  heart  aud 
with  smiles  upon  his  lips.  'They  don't 
know,'  he  would  think,  'they  don't  • 
know  that  my  Rachel  is  waiting  at 
home  for  me  ; '  and  he  would  hug  him  -  ' 
self  at  this  triumph  over  his  enemies,  ' 
and  shamble  along  the  faster.  His 
usual  walk  was  alone  certain  streets  in 
the  west  end  of  London,  where  he  and 

his  monotonous  cry  of  'Clo',  old  clo' !'  were  as  well-known  as  ihe  beggar- 
woman  from  the  slums  of  Westminster,  whose  harsh,  croaking  voice  has 
been  beard  anytime  these  last  ten  years,  singing,  'Bonny  Mary  of  Ar- 
gyle,'  with  a  perennial  baby  in  her  arms,  doomed  by  an  amazing  and 
inexorable  law  never  to  reach  the  age  of  twelve  months.  It  was 
doubtless  a  deep  and  harrowing  affliction  that  caused  this  woman's 
fkce  to  be  perpetually  blotched  and  pimply,  and  her  eyes  to  stare  almost 
out  of  her  head,  and  that  induced  her  never  to  appear  in  the  west- 


134  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

end  streets  unless  it  blew  a  hurricane,  or  rained  'heavens  hard/  as 
the  saying  is.  Then  would  she  shiver  and  sigh,  and,  despite  her  blot- 
ches and  pimples,  presentea  so  pitiable  a  spectacle  as  to  draw  practical 
relief  from  a  host  of  tender  hearts.  Many  a  compassionate  look  and 
many  a  copper  were  given  to  this  woman,  but  seldom  was  a  kind 
thought  bestowed  upon  the  stooping  figure  of  the  old  clo'  buyer.  It 
did  not  trouble  him.  He  did  his  work  to  the  best  of  his  ability, 
driving  a  good  bargain  when  he  could,  and,  when  he  was  more  than 
usually  harassed,  thought  of  his  dear  daughter  Rachel  waiting  at  home 
for  him,  and  thanked  God  for  all  things. 

And  now  on  this  evening  they  were  sitting  together  as  described  at 
the  commencement  of  the  chapter.  Tea  was  over,  and  cleared  away, 
and  father  and  daughter  had  been  silent  for  perhaps  a  quarter-of  an-hour. 
Moses  Levy's  thoughts  belonged  entirely  to  the  lower  earth  ;  Rachel's 
were  spiritual,  and  tinged  with  heavenly  colour.  The  old  man  was 
engaged  in  nothing  more  elevating  than  a  studious  calculation  of  the 
value  of  certain  old  trousers  and  waistcoats  he  had  purchased  that  day. 
He  had  given  so  much  for  them  ;  he  would  sell  them  for  so  much — ^for 
not  a  penny  less,  no,  not  a  penny.  He  reckoned  up  his  profits  on  his 
day's  purchases  at  not  less  than  nine  or  ten  shilliugs,  and  he  was  happy 
in  the  contemplation.  Rachel's  musings  were  of  a  different  character  ; 
the  sun  was  shining  brightly  on  her  young  life,  and  the  sweetly-pensive 
light  in  her  eyes  indicated  that  her  thoughts  were  fixed  on  some  loved 
object,  the  contemplation  of  which  brought  joy  to  her  heart.  Her  needle 
worked  blithely,  and  now  and  then  a  happy  sigh  escaped  her  breast. 
Presently  she  arrested  the  current  of  her  musings  by  a  little  neighbourly 
news. 

'  We've  had  such  an  excitement  in  the  neighbourhood,  father  ! ' 

'  Ah,  my  dear,'  said  the  old  man,  looking  up  from  his  book,  which 
was  in  a  language  few  can  understand. 

<  Everybody's  been  talking  of  it  all  day  long.' 

'  Nothing  bad,  I  hope,  Rachel ) ' 

*  Oh  no.  It  is  about  Mrs.  Lilienthal.  Didn't  you  hear  as  you  came 
home  ? ' 

'  No,  my  dear ;  no  one  told  me  anything.  I  was  too  much  in  a  hurry, 
to  stop  and  gossip.     Qo  on  Rachel.     Mrs.  Lilienthal  1 ' 

*  Two  things  happened  to  her  to-day,  father.' 

*  Two  things  !  Well,  now  !  *  In  a  tone  which  implied  that,  without 
further  explanation,  news  of  the  first  importance  had  already  been 
disclosed. 

*  One,  a  good  thing — the  other,  a  thing  you  will  be  sorry  to  hear, 
though  it  turned  out  well.  Quite  sudden  and  unexpected,  Mrs.  Lili- 
enthal's  old  father,  Mosh^,  arrived  here  from  Jerusalem  this  morning.' 

Moses  Levy  murmured  under  his  breath  a  few  words  in  Hebrew  re- 
ferring to  the  aucient  city,  which  being  translated,  run,  *  May  it  soon  be 
rebuilt  and  established  I '  A  singular  fiction  attaches  to  this  and  some 
other  devout  aspirations  indulged  in  by  the  children  of  Israel  at  stated 
times  in  their  prayers,  especiidly  during  their  festivals.  It  represents 
them  as  being  animated  by  a  burning  desire  to  become  the  repossessors 
of  the  Holy  City,  so  that,  without  a  day's  delay,  they  may  fly  thither 
from  all  quarters  of  the  earth,  and  there  take  up  their  abode.  Whereas 
nothing  could  possibly  be  more  repugnant  to  their  wishes  than  the  fulfil- 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  185 

ment  of  these  sentimental  aspirations.  They  would  account  it  the 
greatest  misfortune  of  their  lives  to  be  compelled  to  escape  from  the 
captivity  in  which  they  are  languishing,  and  not  unfr^quently  a  sly  smile 
plays  about  their  lips  as  the  devout  words  are  uttered  in  the  synagogues. 
They  joke  about  it,  too,  and  merrily  say  to  each  other,  as  they  fold  their 
garments  of  fringes  and  lay  aside  their  prayer-books,  '  Oh,  yes,  well  all 
go  back — on  donkeys  !  As  for  me,  I  am  dying  to  go  back !  Are  not 
you  1 '  But  except  in  the  •  way  of  making  light  of  a  prayer — if  that  is 
worth  mentioning — these  unmeaning  sighings  for  a  heaven  they  would 
strive  hard  to  avoid  do  little  harm :  they  certainly  serve  the  purpose  of 
amusing  the  worshippers,  and  that  is  something,  in  church  or  sjmagogue. 

'  Old  Moeh^  ! '  said  Moses  Levy,  aloud.  *  Well,  well !  That  is  an 
astonishing  thing.  Simkha  Lilienthal  has  often  talked  to  me  about 
him.' 

'  Such  an  old,  old  man,  father  !  Ninety  odd,  they  say,  and  almost  bent 
double.  He  has  come  over  to  live  with  Mrs.  LiUenthal,  and  he  never 
told  her  he  was  coming.' 

'  Now,  what  made  him  do  that,  Rachel  t ' 

*  He  had  an  idea  that  Mrs.  Lilienthal  was  very  rich,  and  that  she 
Uved  in  a  beautiful  house,  because  she  sent  him  a  little  money  now  and 
then.' 

'  Yes,  yes ;  she's  a  good  soul  is  Simkha.' 

'  Old  Mosh^  can't  speak  a  word  of  English,  and  he  had  Mrs.  Lilien- 
thal's  name  and  address  written  on  a  piece  of  parchment  He  showed 
this  to  people  as  he  walked  along,  but  the  name  was  in  Hebrew,  and 
the  address  was  almost  rubbed  out,  so  that  they  couldn't  make  anything 
of  it  At  last  a  soldier  stopped  him,  and  looked  at  the  paper  and 
brought  Mosh^  as  far  as  Honndsditch.  Mrs.  Pinto  says  the  soldier 
must  be  a  Jew,  or  he  wouldn't  have  understood  that  it  was  Hebrew 
on  the  parchment.     It  was  kind  of  him  to  help  the  old  man.' 

Moses  Levy  stroked  his  beard  contemplatively. 

'  It  was  a  good  action,  my  dear ;  but  I  never  heard  of  a  Jewish  soldier 
in  England.     I  didn't  think  there  was  such  a  thing.' 

*  Oh,  yes.  Why,  there  was  young  Capua  that  ran  away  and  enlisted 
twelve  years  ago ;  and  Joshua  Emanuel  that  went  to  fight  in  India.  But 
I  mustn't  forget  Mosh^.  When  the  soldier  left  him  in  Houndsditch, 
he  got  plenty  of  people  to  direct  him,  and  he  kept  walking  and  walking 
tUl  he  found  himself  in  Bevis  Marks,  by  the  Spanish  synagogue.  There 
be  saw  Sholem  the  beggar * 

*  Rachel,'  interrupted  Moses  Levy,  with  an  air  of  vexation,  *  whenever 
I  hear  Sholem's  name  mentioned,  it  makes  me  ashamed  of  myself  I 
don^t  believe  that  man  has  ever  done  a  day's  work  in  his  life.  He  does 
nothing  but  hang  about  public-houses  and  drink  rum.  I  think  he  must 
drink  a  pint  a  day.' 

'  Welt  he  brought  old  Mosh*  to  Spitalfields,  but  couldn't  show  him 
where  Mrs.  Lilienthal  lives.  Before  he  went  away  he  asked  Mosh^  for 
money  ;  but  Mosh^  didn't  understand  him,  and  he  gave  Sholem  a  bless- 
ing instead.'  rrhis  picture  caused  Moses  Levy  to  laugh  for  full  five 
minutes,  and  when  he  had  recovered  and  wiped  his  eyes  Rachel  pro- 
ceeded with  her  story.)  *  Then  old  Mosh^  walked  about  calling 
"  Simkha  !  Simkha  I "  lliat  made  people  walk  after  him,  and  there 
was  quite  a  crowd  till  he  got  to  Mrs.  Simon's  shop.     She  thought  of 


SOLOMON   ISAACS. 


Simkha  Litienthal  at  odm,  and  she  took  the  old  man  to  the  bunse ;  be 
went  up  Btturs  citing  aa  loud  as  be  could  "  Simkha  !  Simkba !"  Mrs. 
Lilientnal  thought  it  was  his  spirit  calUngout  to  her,  and  when  he  came 
into  the  room  she  fainted  away.  No  wonder,  poor  thing ;  her  hands  are 
full  of  trouble.  Mr.  LiHenthal  had  been  ill  for  a  month,  and  not  able 
to  work,  and  three  of  the  children  are  down  with  the  whooping-couKb.' 

'  You've  been  there,  Rachel.' 

'  Yes  ;  there's  no  fear  of  my  catching  it,  for  Tve  bad  whooping-cough, 
you  remember.  Since  the  children  have  been  ill,  I  run  in  every  morn- 
ing fur  an  hour,  and  help  Mrs.  Lilieathal  to  tidy  up  her  room.  Old 
Mosh6  could  not  have  come  at  a  worse  time,  for  Mrs.  Lilienthal  was 
behindhand  with  her  rent,  and  the  brokers  had  just  been  put  in.  When 
he  was  made  to  understand  that  something  was  wrong,  Mosh^  took  the 
man  in  possession  into  a  corner,  and  gave  him  a  long  blessing,  thinking 
that  would  make  it  all  right,  and  then  the  man  would  go  away  satisfied  ; 
but  of  course  he  didn't.' 

'  I  didn't  know,'  said  Moses  Levy  gravely,  '  that  Simkha  Lilienthal 
was  80  badly  off.' 

'Nobody  knew.  She's  a  quiet  woman  when  she's  in  trouble  and 
keeps  everything  to  herself.  But  when  she  fell  down  in  a  faint,  and 
the  children  began  to  scream,  Mn.  Cohen  and  Mrs.  Simons  ran  into  the 
room  and  brought  her  to,  and  then  they  discovered  what  distress  she 
was  in.  They  went  out  at  once  and  made  a  collection  for  Mrs.  Lilienthal, 
Mrs.  Cohen  taking  old  Hosh^  with  her.  And  what  do  you  think  i 
In  less  than  two  hours  they  collected  two  pounds  seven — enough  to  pay 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  137 

the  rent,  and  something  over.  While  they  were  gone,  Mrs.  Ahrahams 
cooked  some  sausage  and  cabhage ;  and  when  I  left  Mrs.  Lilienthal's 
this  afternoon,  all  the  family  were  eating  their  dinner,  old  Mosh^  sitting 
at  the  top  of  the  table,  as  happy  as  king  and  qneens.' 

*  Good — good — good  ! '  murmured  Moses  Levy,  rubbing  his  hands  in- 
satisfaction  at  this  pleasant  termination  to  the  story. 


CHAPTER  II. 


A   COLD  BRIGHT  NIGHT. 


Rachel,  looking  at  the  clock,  put  her  work  aside,  and  saying,  '  I  sha'n't 
be  long,  father,'  went  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  a  cold,  bright,  starlit  night,  Christmas  being  but  a  few  days 
off.  With  brisk  steps  Rachel  walked  to  a  baker's  shop  in  an  adjacent 
street,  and  bought  two  fresh  twopenny  loaves.  There  were  not  many 
persons  about,  and  certainly  not  one  with  a  lighter  heart  than  this  young 
girl,  who  appeared  to  find  in  the  cold  sweet  air  cause  for  grateful  feeling. 
Her  cheeks  hardened,  and  a  brighter  colour  came  into  them.  She  did 
not  say,  but  thought,  how  beautiful  the  night  was.  The  stars  seemed 
to  smile  upon  her,  the  air  to  kiss  her,  the  night  to  enfold  her  with  hap> 
piness.  She  counted  the  strokes  of  the  hour  proclaimed  by  Spitalfields 
Church.    It  was  seven  o'clock. 

*  Leon  will  not  be  home  till  eight,'  she  whispered  to  herself,  and  smiled 
back  on  the  stars,  and  kissed  the  wind,  and  breathed  happiness  into  the 
night.  Wooed  by  the  sweetness  of  the  time,  she  prolonged  her  walk, 
and  her  steps  fell  with  a  cheerful  sound  on  the  pavement.  On  her  way 
round  Bishopsgate  and  Threadneedle  Streets  and  the  Royal  Exchange 
in  the  street  of  Gracechurch,  by  which  road  she  returned  to  Spitalfields, 
she  met  but  three  persons  who  diverted  her  thoughts  from  the  happy 
current  in  which  they  were  moving.  The  first  of  these  was  a  very  little 
spare  old  man,  who  from  Sunday  till  Friday  obtained  a  scant  living  by 
selling  watercresses  in  spring  and  periwinkles  in  winter ;  from  sunset 
on  Friday  until  Saturday  evening  he  attended  to  the  fires  and  candles 
of  a  few  Jews  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Spitalfields,  who  were  too  poor 
to  keep  servants,  and  who  were  not  allowed  by  the  laws  of  their  religion 
to  touch  fire  even  with  their  breath  on  the  Sabbath.  Barney — which 
is,  singularly  enough,  a  name  common  to  Irishman  and  Israelite — 
was  a  favourite  in  Spitalfields,  and  the  penny  he  earned  from  each  of 
the  twelve  or  fourteen  households  he  attended  on  the  Jewish  Sabbath 
was  cheerfully  paid  and  contentedly  received.  A  busy  time  he  had  of 
it  going  his  rounds  on  Friday  nights  to  snuff  the  candles  and  poke  the 
fires  of  his  Jewish  patrons,  among  whom  Moses  Levy  was  the  one  he 
honoured  most.  For  Rachel's  sake.  She  had  been  kind  to  the  old 
watercress-seller  in  times  of  trouble,  and  had  attended  him  in  sickness, . 
and  indeed  had  so  won  Barney's  heart  by  her  sweet  ways  that  had  she 
been  inclined  to  proselytise  (a  luxury  forbidden  by  her  race)  he  would 
have  been  the  first  to  fall  into  the  theological  trap.  Rachel  met  Barney 
in  Bishopsgate  Street.  He  had  his  basket  of  periwinkles  on  his  arm, . 
and  the  cry  of  his  wares  was  piercing  the  air  with  its  long  shrill  sound. 


138  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

She  gave  him  a  nod  and  a  smile,  which  caused  his  eyes  to  twinkle  and, 
it  is  to  be  hoped,  imparted  something  of  music  to  his  voice.  Further 
on,  in  the  shade  of  Threadneedle  Street,  close  to  the  great  money  maga- 
zines which  line  that  wonderful  thoroughfare,  Rachel  saw  Solomon 
Isaacs.  He  was  slouching  slowly  along,  so  deep  in  thought  that  he  did 
not  observe  the  young  gin,  who  did  not  care  to  disturb  his  musings.  It 
was  in  Bishopsgate  also,  opposite  the  little  church  with  its  pretty  bit  of 

farden  for  the  people  to  sit  in,  and  its  miniature  fountain  to  light  the 
re  of  fancy  in  the  minds  of  those  who  had  never  travelled  out  of  Lon- 
don streets,  that  RacheFs  attention  was  attracted  to  a  figure  which  she 
thought  of  many  times  before  it  crossed  her  line  of  life  again — the  figure 
of  a  woman,  young  and  plain-looking,  walking  very  slowly  in  the  gutter, 
sin^ng  in  a  vacant  and  apparently  aiinless  way  some  lines  about  Jacob's 
Ladder.  It  was  in  truth  a  Christmas  carol,  but  it  was  not  that,  nor 
any  suspicion  of  melody  in  the  woman's  voice,  nor  even  the  frequent  re- 
ference to  a  name  so  familiar  to  her,  that  drew  Rachel  after  the  singer. 
What  touched  her  heart  and  made  her  sad  with  pity  and  compassion 
was  the  woebegone  manner  of  the  woman,  who  crawled  along  as  though 
she  had  no  hope  of  meeting  with  sympathy  from  human  being.  Some- 
thing also  in  the  woman's  face — a  look  of  want,  of  dumb  despair,  of  fear 
of  the  morrow,  and  at  the  same  time  of  recklessness  of  what  the  morrow 
might  bring  to  her  desolate  soul.  Ever  and  again  she  raised  her  face 
to  the  light,  and  seeing  no  one  pause  to  listen,  her  eyes  sought  the  earth 
again  as  she  sighed  forth  the  carol  of  Christmas.  She  was  a  common 
woman  commonly  dressed,  with  no  kind  of  beauty  about  her  to  attract 
those  whose  sympathies  are  drawn  through  their  artistic  sense.  But 
that  she  was  in  want  was  apparent  to  Rachel,  whose*  heart  was  never 
unmoved  at  the  sight  of  suffering.  She  placed  her  hand  on  the  woman's 
shoulder;  the  woman  turned,  wearily,  wonderingly,  and  then  Rachel 
saw  more  clearly  the  pinched  look  in  her  face  that  told  the  tale  of  hun- 
ger and  distress. 

*  You  are  hungry,'  said  Rachel. 

*  Yes,  miss.' 

She  spoke  with  a  country  accent. 

*  You  are  not  a  Londoner,  then  ?  * 

*  No,  miss  ;  I  am  from  Worcester.' 

*  Have  you  no  home  1 ' 

*  None — nowhere.' 

*  Here  is  bread  for  you.' 

The  woman  snatched  it  from  Rachel's  hand,  and  began  to  eat ;  but 
hungry  as  she  was,  she  spat  the  first  mouthful  into  the  road. 

'  I  am  fairly  in  want,  miss  ;  but  I  need  something  more  than  bread.' 

*  What  1 ' 

'  Something  to  drink,  for  the  Lord's  sake  1 ' 

Rachel  had  in  her  purse  a  shilling  and  a  few  coppers.     She  gave  the 
silver  piece  to  the  woman. 

*  This  will  buy  you  what  you  want,  and  get  you  a  bed  for  a  night  or 
two.     I  hope  a  happier  time  will  come  to  you.' 

The  tender  voice,  the  sweet  compassionate  face,  more  than  the  money, 
filled  the  woman's  eyes  with  tears. 

*  God  bless  you.  miss  !     What  is  your  name,  that  I  may  never  forget 
itV 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  139 

*  Eachel  Levy.' 

The  woman  recoiled  a  stop. 

*  A  Jewess  ! '  she  cried,  in  a  scornful  tone. 
'Yes.^ 

*  And  you're  the  only  one  that's  took  pity  on  me  in  all  this  big  city  ! 
Kachel  Levy— -oh,  I'll  never  forget  your  name  !  I'd  give  you  your  money 
back  if  I  dared.  So  I  must  thank  you,  I  suppose,  and  stomach  it  the 
best  way  I  can/ 

With  these  words,  and  with  a  motion  of  her  hand  denoting  that  she 
did  not  desire  further  companionship,  the  woman  walked  away — on  the 
pavement  this  time,  as  having  the  right  now  with  money  in  her  posses- 
sion. 

Eachel  not  knowing  what  reply  to  make  and  having  other  matters  in 
her  mind,  sped  homewards  to  Spitalfields,  stopping  only  at  a  baker's  to 
buy  a  fresh  loaf.  Moses  Levy  was  still  poring  over  his  book.  She  told 
him  the  adventure,  softening  the  woman's  last  words  ;  and  he  approved, 
and  said,  *  You  did  right.'  Then  there  was  silence  in  the  room.  Eachel 
IHTOceeded  with  her  work,  but  her  mind  was  wandering  from  it  evidently. 
She  paused  frequently,  and  her  needle  was  often  idle,  as  she  listened  for 
an  expected  sound.  Presently  there  was  a  quick  step  upon  the  stairs, 
so  quick  and  eager  that  Eachel  made  two  or  three  false  stitches — which 
perhaps  was  the  cause  of  the  blood  rushing  to  her  face.  They  are  some- 
what awkward,  these  sudden  interruptions  to  one's  work.  Old  Moses 
Levy,  also,  heutl  the  steps  upon  the  stairs,  and  the  sound  brought  a 
slight  fluttering  of  pleasure  to  his  heart.  The  door  opened,  after  the 
most  unceremonious  of  taps,  and  Leon  Isaacs  made  his  appearance. 
Eachel,  who  had  started  to  her  feet,  smiled  an  affectionate  welcome,  and 
when  Leon  took  her  hand  in  his  he  did  not  let  it  go. 

These  two  young  persons  were  lovers. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

A  LEARNED  C0NVER.SATI0N  ON  THE  PROPER  MODE  OP  PRYING  PISH. 

Eachel  and  Leon  stood  in  silence,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

*  Ah,  ah  ! '  chuckled  Moses  Levy  slyly,  to  himself ;  *  Old  Moses  Levy 
is  nobody  now — nobody  now  !  ' 

But  he  did  not  seem  pained  by  the  reflection,  for  he  said  aloud — the 
old  hypocrite ! — ^in  his  most  corcUal  tone, 

'  Glad  to  see  you,  Leon,  glad  to  see  you  ! ' 

'  Thank  you,  Mr.  Levy,'  said  Leon  Isaacs,  not  casting  a  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  old  man,  and  quite  forgetting  to  relinquish  Eachel's 
hand. 

'  All  well  at  home,  Leon  1 '  asked  Moses  Levy. 

*  Quite  weU,  thank  you,'  replied  Leon,  in  an  absent-minded  way. 

*  Things  right  at  the  shop,  Leon  9 '  continued  Moses  Levy,  deeming 
it  necessary  to  make  a  show  of  conversation. 

*  Yes,  Mr.  Levy.'  And  then  suddenly  remembering  himself,  *  How's 
business  with  you,  Mr.  Levy  1 ' 

*  Nothing  to  complain  of,  thank  G^od.' 

'  Leon,  have  you  had  tea  9 '  asked  Eachel. 


140  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

*  No  ;  I  came  home  only  five  minutes  ago,  and  I  ran  here  at  once.' 
Rachel's  eyes  sparkled  at  this  proof  of  eagerness  on  the  part  of  her 

lover,  and,  without  another  word,  she  released  her  fingers,  and  taking  a 
cloth  from  a  drawer,  spread  it  over  a  comer  of  the  tahle.  Leon's  eyes 
followed  her  swift  and  clever  movements  with  admiration. 

*  If  we  had  known,*  said  Moses  Levy,  his  loving  heart  stirred  to 
deeper  gratitude  by  Rachel's  happy  manner,  *  we  would  have  waited  tea 

^or  you.' 

*  I  am  glad  you  did  not  put  yourself  out  for  me,  Mr.  Levy.' 

The  kettle  was  nearly  boiling  by  the  side  of  the  fire,  and  within  five 
minutes  Leon  was  sitting  down  to  tea,  with  Rachel  sitting  very  close  to 
him.  Rachel's  hand  cut  the  fresh  loaf  she  had  bought — it  was  evident 
now  for  whom — and  Rachel's  hand  poured  out  the  tea  for  him ;  and 
Moses  Levy  laughed  silently  as  he  saw  Leon  cutting,  with  great  satis- 
faction, into  a  fine  fried  sole  :  he  and  Rachel  having  had  plain  bread  and 
butter  for  tea.  Rachel,  after  placing  the  fried  sole  on  the  table,  had,  in 
passing  to  the  cupboard,  rested  her  hand  lightly  on  her  father's  shoulder, 
and  had  given  him  an  afifectionate  apologetic  glance ;  and  he,  in  response, 
had  pressed  his  old  brown  palm  on  her  small  white  hand,  in  loving  ap- 
proval It  was  a  slight  action,  but  it  was  well  understood  between 
them. 

Leon  was  the  only  son  of  Solomon  Isaacs,  whose  name  supplies  the 
title  to  this  story,  and  was  employed  in  a  fancy  warehouse  in  Hounds- 
ditch.  C!ommencing  as  an  errand-boy,  he  had  gradually  risen  to  the 
position  of  salesman,  and  expected  soon  to  be  engaged  as  one  of  the 
commercial  travellers  of  the  furm,  in  which  capacity  he  hoped  to  be  able 
to  save,  in  twelve  months,  sufficient  money  to  furnish  the  nest  which 
Rachel  was  to  adorn.  He  was  a  handsome  young  fellow,  with  good 
manners  and  a  good  address.  Here  is  his  portrait  in  brief :  Short  fore- 
head, slishtly  projecting  below ;  dark-brown  eyes,  neither  small  nor 
large,  full  of  fire  and  vivacity;  compressed  eyebrows,  clearly  defined, 
near  to  the  eyes ;  well-formed  nose,  with  wide  nostrils,  breathing  sensi- 
bility ;  large  mouth,  with  well-proportioned  lips,  showing  power  ;  shapely 
teeth;  firmly-moulded  chin.  Certainly  a  well-looking  man.  All  the 
marriageable  females  in  Spitalfields  said  Rachel  was  a  lucky  girl.  Rachel 
thought  so  too. 

Leon  was  also  to  be  envied  for  having  won  the  love  of  such  a  girl  as 
Rachel  Levy.  She  is  not  presented  to  you  as  a  heroine,  in  the  way  that 
word  is  generally  understood,  or  as  a  being  possessing  exceptional 
virtues.  Nor  is  it  desired  that  you  should  look  upon  Leon  as  a  hero. 
It  was  his  good  fortune  to  be  fitted  for  the  sphere  in  which  he  was  born, 
and  to  be  able  to  adapt  himself  to  any  reasonable  level  to  which  he 
might  raise  himself ;  and  if,  in  his  career,  he  is  guilty  of  an  act  of  mean- 
ness, you  must  not  judge  him  too  harshly,  remembering  how  liable 
human  nature  is  to  err ;  and  if  he  commit  himself  to  an  act  of  unselfish 
generosity,  or  even  something  higher,  you  must  not  lift  him  out  of  the 
ordinary  scale  of  human  beings.  The  commonest  among  us  is  equal  to 
an  act  of  nobility,  should  occasion  call  for  it ;  the  highest  among  us  is 
equal  to  an  act  of  baseness,  should  temptation  assaU  him.  To  strive  to 
keep  in  the  right  path — that  is  the  duty  of  all ;  and  those  who  best  suc^ 
ceed,  in  the  face  of  the  miserable  promptings  and  cravings  of  the  spirit, 
are  best  entitled  to  our  esteem.     As  for  Rachel,  she  was  simply  an  ordi- 


SOLOMON    ISAACS.  141 

nary  girl,  pretty,  good,  and  virtuous.  I  declare,  upon  my  honour,  in  the 
teeth  of  the  spreading  heresy  that  folly,  fashion,  and  frippery  are  mak- 
ing havoc  in  the  ch^^acter  of  the  modem  woman,  that  I  believe  such 
girls  as  Bachel  abound,  and  move  within  the  circle  of  every  man's 
acquaintance.  Vanities  of  course  they  have,  and  1  don't  envy  the  man 
who  desires  a  woman  without  them.  Heaven  keep  me  from  such  a 
lump  of  perfection !  To  be  mated  with  a  woman  without  whims  and 
whams,  without  vanities  and  weaknesses,  without  human  hankerings 
after  this  and  that,  without  even  a  little  bit  of  temper  of  her  own,  would 
render  my  life  a  misery.  No  perfect  saint  for  me.  Give  me  a  woman, 
sweet  and  loving  often,  and  sometimes  wayward ;  a  woman  the  sunshine 
of  whose  face  is  on  a  just  occasion  clouded  :  a  woman  with  a  woman's 
heart  in  all  its  mortal  imperfection.  When  my  soul  wends  its  way  to 
another  and,  let  us  hope,  a  better  world,  I  will  put  up  with  an  angel. 
But  down  here,  such  a  girl  as  Kachel  is  good  enough — for  me  or  any 
man.  She  was  amiable  and  loving,  and  was  fond  of  a  new  ribbon  and 
a  new  dress ;  she  liked  amusement,  and  was  proud  of  her  white  even 
teeth  and  of  her  white  soft  hands — she  took  infinite  pains  to  keep  them 
so,  despite  her  work,  and  who  shall  blame  her )  She  had  a  trick  of 
smiling  softly  to  herself  when  she  was  pleased — which  was  natural ;  and 
as  she  displayed  her  teeth  when  she  smiled,  she  had  a  trick  of  being 
pleased  at  the  opportunity  of  showing  how  beautiful  they  were— which 
was  natural  also.  She  was  pretty,  and  she  knew  it,  and  was  glad  of  it ; 
and  the  gladness  that  caused  her  heart  to  throb,  and  stirred  her  mind 
with  innocent  vanity,  had  so  much  of  the  quality  of  natural  gratitude  in 
it,  that  it  was  almost  as  good  as  a  prayer. 

With  Rachel  sitting  close  to  him,  and  her  little  hand  pleading  for  the 
shelter  of  his,  Leon's  meal  was  the  sweetest  he  had  ever  tasted.  And 
how  the  moments  flew  !  Tick — tick — tick  !  went  the  clock,  and  seem- 
ed to  say,  *  Be  happy,  young  people,  be  happy.  Time  flies.  Be  happy 
and  true  to  each  other.'  Happiness  was  theirs,  and  no  thought  to  dim 
the  bright  shield  of  truth  and  constancy  disturbed  their  minds.  There 
was  no  discord  in  their  souls  or  their  surroundings.  Love  made  every- 
thing harmonious  :  the  tick  of  the  old  clock,  the  bumble  room,  the  cat 
lying  at  full  length  on  the  faded  hearthrug,  blinking  her  eyes  in  solemn 
and  sleepy  approval,  the  sounds  of  the  people  in  the  streets  calling  out 
to  each  other — nothing  was  out  of  place  or  out  of  season.  That  such 
an  old  rabbi  as  Moses  Levy  looked,  in  his  loose  coat  and  long  white 
beard,  should  know  anything  of  the  ins  and  outs  of  billing  and  cooing, 
and  should  so  sympathise  with  such  doings  as  to  derive  infinite  delight 
from  them,  appeared  inconceivable.  But  it  was  not,  and  sly  Moses  Levy 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  lovers'  hands  were  locked  in  close  embrace 
beneath  the  tablecloth,  and  his  beaming  face  proclaimed  that  the  pro- 
ceeding met  with  his  entire  approval. 

'  Rachel  fried  that  fish,  Leon,'  said  the  old  man,  without  attempting 
to  lead  up  to  the  subject 

Artful  old  fellow  !  Cunning  old  patriarch  !  To  so  try  to  enhance 
the  value  of  his  one  fair  daughter  in  the  eyes  of  her  lover !  But  the 
Jews  were  ever  an  artful  race. 

*  I  know  she  did,'  said  Leon. 

Bachei  looked  up  at  him.     She  had  not  told  him. 

'  I  know  by  the  taste,'  he  said,  with  a  fond  pressure  of  his  girl's  hand. 


142  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

*  Of  course  you  do,  Leon — of  course  you  do/  rejoined  Moses  Levy, 
ready  to  agree  to  anything. 

'  When  you  get  familiar  with  anyone's  frying,'  said  Leon,  speaking 
with  an  air  of  authority,  *  you  can  never  mistake  it.  It  is  like  a  voice 
or  a  footstep  one  is  in  the  habit  of  hearing.  The  moment  I  put  a  piece 
into  my  mouth,  I  say  to  myself,  '^  Ah,  that  is  So-and-so's  frying,  or  So- 
and-so's."    But  I  needn't  wait  to  taste  it.     I  know  it  by  its  very  look' 

'  That  is  quite  true,  Leon,'  acquiesced  Moses  Levy;  '  it  can  be  known 
so.     I've  remarked  it  myself.' 

'  There  are  so  many  different  ways  of  frying,'  contini^ed  Leon.  '  Some 
women  are  born  with  a  genius  for  it,  while  others  could  never  learn. 
You  can  put  a  finer  flavour  into  the  fish,  or  take  all  the  flavour  out  of 
it,  even  in  the  way  you  turn  it  in  the  pan.' 

'  It's  the  way  the  batter  is  mixed,'  said  Moses  Levy,  entering  with 
zest  into  the  subject.  *  And  the  eggs  !  there  mustn't  be  any  suspicion 
about  the  eggs  1    One  musty  egg  will  spoil  a  whole  frying.' 

'  Everything  must  be  done  perfectly.  The  very  cloth  in  which  the 
fish  is  dried  before  it  is  put  in  the  pan  must  be  newly  washed  and  aired. 
It  sives  sweetness  to  the  fish.' 

*  1  ou  are  quite  right,  Leon.  Rachel  is  very  particular  about  these 
things.' 

'  Then  you  can't  be  too  careful  how  you  dip  the  slices  in  the  batter, 
not  to  leave  too  much  or  too  little  on  the  skin.  Then  the  proper  way 
to  lay  it  in  the  pan — it  should  be  done  gently,  and  even  with  delicacy.' 

'Bravo,  Leon,  bravo! ' 

'  Then  the  hands  that  do  all  this,'  said  Leon,  toying  with  Rachel's 
fingers,  with  a  positive  conviction  that  for  the  magic^  frying  of  fish,  or 
for  any  other  magical  operation,  there  were  no  finders  in  the  world  to 
compare  with  hers — Hhey  must  be  dainty  hands,  light,  and  soft,  and 
nimble.  There  is  a  kind  of  spiritual  influence  in  some  finger-tips  that 
can  accomplish  wonders.' 

<  And  above  all,'  saidT Moses  Levy,  with  enthusiasm,  <  the  oil !  That 
is  the  grand  secret  of  frying — the  oU ! ' 

'  But  everything  would  be  wasted  without  the  right  hands  and  the 
right  spirit  One  must  really  take  pleasure  in  it  to  do  it  well,  and  to 
turn  out  the  fish  at  last  with  the  skin  just  enough  browned,  and  not  lying 
too  close  to  the  flesh.  I  do  believe,'  added  Leon,  with  a  light  laugh, 
*  that  the  fish  know  when  they  are  properly  handled,  and  are  grateml 
when  they  are  served  up  in  a  handsome  way :  as  they  deserve  to  be,  for 
nothing  in  the  world  is  sweeter  than  sweet  fish  sweetly  cooked.' 

His  laugh  was  echoed  by  Moses  Levv.  Rachel  took  no  part  in  the 
conversation,  but  had  it  been  of  a  vital  character  she  could  not  have 
listened  with  deeper  gravity  and  attention. 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Leon,  with  satisfied  nods,  '  whose  frying  I  like 
best,  Rachel's  or  mother's.  My  mother,  you  know,  Mr.  Levy,  isa  fEmious 

cook.' 

*  Rachd's  mother,'  said  Moses  Levy,  with  a  sigh,  '  God  rest  her 

soul! ' 

<  God  rest  her  soul ! '  murmured  Leon  ;  and  Rachel  also  breathed  a 
benediction. 

< Was  the  best  cook  in  the  world/  continued  Moses  Levy.  '  That 

was  admitted  by  everybody ;  she  took  a  pride  init.     And  Rachel  learnt 


SOLOMON    ISAACS.  14H 

from  ber.  There  were  some  things  she  did  that  couldn't  be  approached, 
and  she  used  to  say,  "  My  little  Eachel's  Roing  to  beat  her  mother  when 
she  gets  to  be  a  woman.  — Rachel,  I  thiiLK  L^n  has  never  tasted  your 
sweet  and  sour  French  beans.' 

Leon  answered  for  Bachel.     *  No,  Mr.  Levy,  I  haven't* 

'  It's  wonderful — wonderful !  There's  nothing  in  the  world  to  com- 
pare with  it.     Leon,  your  mother  couldn't  beat  Rachel  in  that ! ' 

Moses  Levy  smacked  his  lips,  and  his  nostrils  quivered.  He  had  had 
a  sufficient  tea,  but  he  was  fond  of  good  eating  and  drinking,  and  he 
would  have  dearly  liked  the  dish  he  spoke  of  for  supper. 

'  Father  doesn't  care  for  sweet  and  sour  French  beans,'  said  Leon, 
'  and  mother  never  makes  a  dish  that  he  doesn't  like.  I  am  very  fond 
of  it.' 

'  We'll  have  it  for  dinner  next  Sunday,  and  you  must  come.  Don't 
forget,  Rachel.* 

*  No,  father.* 

'  There  are  no  cooks  like  Jewish  cooks,'  observed  Leon. 

'  Thaf  s  true,'  acquiesced  Moses  Levy. 

'  There  isn't  a  Ghristian  woman  in  England/  pursued  Leon,  whose 
share  in  this  dialogue  proved  that  he  also  was  fond  of  the  good  things 
of  the  table — as,  indeed,  all  Jews  are — '  who  knows  how  to  treat  fish  aa 
it  ought  to  be  treated.  It  is  really  sinful,  the  way  they  ill-use  it.  I  tell 
you  what,  Rachel.  There  are  two  dishes  I  am  very  fond  of  that  mother 
will  teach  you  how  to  make — meat  and  boiled  chestnuts,  and  meat  cooked 
with  raisins — a  raisin  stew.     What  do  you  say  to  that,  Mr.  Levy  1 ' 

'  A  lovely  dish ! '  exclaimed  Moses  Levy,  with  an  enthusiastic  sniff;  '  a 
lovely  dish  !  Rachel  will  be  able  to  cook  them  beautifully.  She  only 
wants  telling,  Leon.' 

Rachel  smiled,  and  made  mental  notes.  It  was  her  way.  Then,  after 
quietly  learning  her  lesson,  she  would  make  use  of  it,  and,  for  reward, 
be  satisfied  with  an  affectionate  look  or  word. 


CHAPTER  IV.  ^ 

WHLLB  RACHEL  AND   LEON   ARB  LOVBMAKINO,  MOSBH   LEVY    DREAMS. 

Leon  having  finished  his  meal,  the  tea-things  were  cleared  away,  and 
the  lovers  fell-to  whispering,  while  Moses  Levy  reclined  in  his  old  arm- 
chair, and  closed  his  eyes.  As  he  lay  thus,  with  the  soft  murmurs  of 
the  lovers'  voices  falling  on  his  ears,  his  thoughts  wandered  back  to  his 
own  courting-days,  when,  after  the  morning  service  on  the  Sabbath- 
day,  he  would  wait  within  the  Synagogue's  gates  in  Duke's  Place, 
to  press  the  hand  of  his  Rebecca,  and  to  walk  home  with  her. 
Dressed  most  carefully  in  his  best  was  he  on  those  occasions ;  and  his 
Rebecca,  on  her  side  performed  her  part  of  looking  her  brightest  as 
well  as  he,  raising  her  eyes  shyly  from  her  prayer-book,  as  she  sat  in 
the  gallery  of  the  Great  Synagogue,  to  see  if  Moses  Levy  were  in  his 
placa  It  may  really  be  said  that  piurt  of  their  courting  was  carried  on 
in  the  Synagogue ;  for  although  they  paid  attention  to  their  prayers 
and  did  not  miss  a  response,  they  were  tremulously  sensible  of  each. 


SOLOMON   ISAACS. 


other's  preseDc«,  anii,  sitting  on  opposite  aides,  she  above  and  he  below, 
gazed  at  each  other  at  intervale  during  the  entire  service.  Tbej  ivere 
but  boy  and  girl  at  that  time,  and  they  Tnarried  while  they  were  still 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  145 

young  and  poor.     Poor  they  always  remained,   and  young — in  their 
hearts — and  their  life  was  a  life  of  love  and  content,  with  many  crosses 
and  many  joys,  and  many  troubles  and  much  happiness.     As  Moses 
Levy  sat  and   dreamed,  all  the  most  familiar  reminiscences  connected 
with  his  wife  and  daughter  came  to  his  mind  in  harmonious  order. 
There  was  his  old  mother,  Sool,  who  was  not  English  bom,  and  whose 
unsuccessful  attempts  to  master  the  English  language  were  the  theme  of 
continual  merriment  in  the  home-circle ;  and  by  the  side  of  his  mother 
stood  his  father,  Jacob.fa  painfully-orthodox  Dutchman,  wise  in  many 
unworldly  ways,  and  learned  in  Rabbinical  lore.  A  source  of  just  pride 
had  it  ever  been  with  Moses  Levy  that  his  mother  was  a  woman  fur 
whom  every  one  had  a  good  word,  and  that  his  father  was  an  upright 
man,  honest  in  his  dealings,  and  owing  never  a  debt  that  he  was  unable 
to  pay.     How  well  he  remembered  the  long  evenings  of  his  childhood, 
when,  with  patience  and  affection,  his  father  taught  him  Hebrew,  in  such 
a  way  as  to  make  it  a  living  language  to  the  lad,   explaining   the 
meaning  of     this  and    that,    expoundmg  with  superabundant  ear- 
nestness as  they  progressed,  and  throwing  new  light  on  old  traditions 
with  an  air  which  said,  '  My  son,  get  these  precepts  and  these  disquisi- 
tions well  into  your  noddle,  and  aJl  the  world  is  open  to  you ;  *  which 
was  really  the  simple  Dutchman's  firm  conviction.     That  he  had  not 
done  over-well  in  the  world  with  such  armour — that  is  so  far  as  the 
amassing  of  money  was  concerned — was  no  proof  to  him  that  his  son, 
armed  in  like  manner,  would  not  become  a  great  commander.     Then, 
when  the  lesson  was  ended,  and  the  books  laid  aside,  the  father  would 
tell  stories  of  his  boyish  days,  when  he  and  Sool  were  in  love  with  each 
other  in  their  native  land,  and  unable  to  marry  because  of  their  poverty  ; 
of  their  parting  in  tears  and  sadness,  with  vows  of  faithfulness,  and  with 
an  unspoken  fear  in  their  hearts  that  they  might  never  meet  again  ;  of 
their  coming  together  in  the  strangest  way  in  England,  and  marrying 
when  the  summer  of  their  lives  was  past ;  of  their  happy  married  days, 
and  of  their  joy  when  Moses  was  bom  to  them.     And  the  while  these 
sober  particukurs  were  being  narrated,  Sool,  work  in  hand,  sat  and 
listened  with  tearful  eyes,  testifying  with  emphatic  nods  to  the  truth  of 
every  word  uttered  by  her  husband.     *  God  has  been  very  good  to  us,' 
was  the  constant  refrain  of  this  poor  and  faithful  couple ;  *  pndse  be  to 
His  name  for  ever  and  ever.'    Moses  Levy  was  bom  into  a  happy  home, 
and  his  boyhood's  days  were  strewn   with  forget-me-nots.     With  sad 
memories  also,  from  which  no  man's  life  is  free.     With  what  vividness  / 
can  he  recall  the  last  illness  of  his  mother,  her  last  words  to  him,  her 
last   kiss,   and  the  week's  mourning  in  sack-doth  and  ashes  which 
followed  her  death  1     The  memorable  and  never-to-be-forgotten  day  ou 
which  his  mother  was  buried  opens  out  to  him  as  he  lies  back  iu  his 
chair.     The  rain  is  falling,  and  he  and  his  father  and  the  coffin,  and 
seven  or  eight  hired  mourners  to  insure  the  necessary  and  sacred  ten 
for  prayers,  are  all  squeezed  and  tightly  packed  together  in  one  poor 
coach,  which  jolts  rheumatically  to  the  burial-ground,  groaning  as  it 
toils  onwards,  at  the  weight  of  melancholy  humanity  within.     A  sad, 
sad  journey  !    His  father  says  never  a  word,  but  pats  his  knee  softly  and 
intermittently,  and  never  for  a  moment  removes  his  eyes  from  the  coffin 
in  which  his  beloved  rests  in  peace.     The  other  occupants  of  the  coach 
are  for  the  most  part  old  men  from  Holland  and  Poland,  all  poor,  all 
2 


146  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

shabby,  and  all  with  ragged  beards  and  bleared  eyes.  Melancholy  speci- 
mens of  humanity,  indeed,  they  appear,  as,  bending  towards  each  other, 
they  talk,  with  mournful  vivacity,  of  the  deceased,  of  her  good  qualities, 
of  her  hospitality  and  kindly  ways ;  and  this  one  woman  gone  brings  up 
the  memory  of  other  women  gone  who  were  connected  in  other  lands 
with  the  bright  and  sunny  days  of  these  shabby,  blear-eyed,  ragged- 
bearded  old  aliens.  Stars  of  love  shine  in  ihe  heaven  of  the  past, 
as  the  coach,  with  its  burden  of  sorrow,  creaks  onwards  to  the  grave. 
Sool,  though  she  had  no  money  to  bequeath,  had  left  a  legacy  of  sweet 
memories  behind  her.  She  had  done  as  much  good  in  her  days  as 
lay  in  her  power ;  her  heart  was  large  and  tender,  and  if  ever  mortal 
deserved  a  numerous  following  to  the  grave,  she  did ;  but  such  a  tribute 
is  rarely  given  unless  the  coffin  is  of  polished  oak — and  then  there  is  a 
solid  reason  for  it.  How  clearly  does  Moses  Levy  see  with  his  mind's 
eye  every  small  incident  of  that  memorable  day  I  The  knot  of  dirty, 
unruly  boys  and  girls  assembled  outside  the  rusty  gate  of  the  burial- 
ground,  curious  to  see  as  much  as  they  are  permitted  of  a  Jewish  funeral ; 
the  mingled  awe  and  aversion  with  which  the  children  regard  the  ragged- 
bearded,  harmless  old  men ;  their  muttered  remarks  and  pointed  fingers, 
their  looks  of  contempt  and  fear ;  the  lifting  of  the  coffin  from  the  coach, 
and  the  slow  carr3ring  of  it  to  the  cold  bare- walled  room,  in  which  pray- 
ers for  the  dead  are  said  ;  and  the  strange  feeling  which  steals  upon  him 
daring  the  prayers,  that  the  world  has  suddenly  come  to  a  stand-stiil,  and 
that  nothing  can  ever  again  be  the  same  as  it  was  in  the  past ;  the  mourn- 
fdl  procession  over  the  wet  and  tangled  grass,  beneath  which  restless 
human  passions  and  yearnings,  now  for  ever  stilled,  have  found  their 
grave — over  the  tangled  grass,  winding  round  old  mounds  of  earth  and 
past  ancient  tombstones,  from  the  crumbling  walls  of  one  of  which  a 
bird  moodily  watches  them,  and  meditates  on  the  vanity  of  life  in  bird 
and  mortal — slowly,  slowly  on  until  the  corner  is  reached  where  Sool  is 
to  be  laid ;  the  momentary  dizziness — as  though  heaven  and  earth  were 
merging  into  one — which  seizes  him  as  the  coffin  is  gently  lowered,  and 
the  shudder  which  passes  through  him  when  the  grating  of  the  rope,  as 
it  is  pulled  from  beneath  the  coffin,  fails  upon  his  ears ;  the  trembling 
hands  with  which  he  throws  the  orthodox  three  shovelfuls  of  earth  into 
the  grave ;  the  sobs  of  the  old  Dutchman  as  he  is  led  away  from  the 
spot ;  the  cutting  of  his  waistcoat,  which,  while  it  expresses  nothing  of 
the  despair  and  grief  which  caused  the  Jewish  mourners  of  old  to  rend 
their  garments,  still  bears  a  solemn  significance ;  the  melancholy  ride 
home,  with  his  father's  arm  tenderly  embracing  him  j  and  the  arrival  at 
the  house  made  desolate  for  a  time  by  his  mother's  removal,  where  he 
and  his  father  sit  in  slippers,  on  low  stools,  in  the  dai  !<ened  parlour.  How 
changed  is  everything !  How  gloomy  and  mournful !  How  bright  was 
the  past !  How  dreary  will  be  the  future  !  But  as  he  sits  and  mourns, 
comes  the  crowning  feature  of  the  day,  which  all  these  reminiscences 
lead  up  and  are  subservient  to — the  beautiful  star  shining  through  the 
sad  clouds.  He  sees,  for  the  first  time  Rebecca— she  who  is  to  become 
his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  Rachel.  Rebecca  and  her  parents  have 
but  lately  arrived  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  a  motherly  woman,  know- 
ing that  the  old  Dutchman  and  his  son  have  commenced  their  days  of 
mourning,  and  have  no  female  about  them  to  attend  to  their  wants,  has 
pressed  Rebecca  Magnus  into  her  service,  and  together  they  come  to  help 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  14j7 

tha  bereaved  ones  in  their  trouble.  Among  poor  people,  Jews  and 
Christians  alike,  such  good  and  timely  services  are  freely  rendered  and 
gratefully  accepted,  the  receivers  being  always  ready  in  their  turn,  to 
repay  the  kindly  debt  To  young  Moses  Levy,  sitting  in  the  darkened 
parlour,  oppressed  with  sad  thoughts  arising  from  the  melancholy  duties 
of  the  day,  the  entrance  of  Rebecca  is  like  a  beautiful  sunrise.  He  follows 
every  movement,  every  graceful  turn  of  her  form,  with  eyes  entranced. 
Her  presence  soothes  him,  and  sweetens  his  grief  To  his  youthful 
mind  she  is  a  revelation  of  all  that  is  most  lovely  and  sacred  in  the 
world.  She  brings  comfort  even  to  the  widowed  man  in  his  affliction, 
and  before  she  leaves  he  kisses  her  as  he  would  a  daughter  of  his  own. 
'  That  is  a  good  girl,'  the  old  Dutchman  says  to  his  son,  '  a  good  girl 
— a  good  girl ; '  and  when  she  comes  again  the  following  morning,  he 
also  follows  her  movements  with  a  melancholy  pleasure.  Deep  in  the 
lad's  heart  is  imprinted  the  picture  of  her  fair  face,  never  to  be  blurred 
or  blotted  ;  and  though  she  is  now  in  her  grave,  and  he  is  an  old  man 
with  white  beard,  waiting  for  his  turn,  he,  as  he  reclines  in  his  chair, 
muses  upon  the  days  so  far  back  that  they  might  almost  be  said  to  belong 
to  another  life,  and  recalls  from  memory's  depths  the  colour  and  pattern 
of  young  Rebecca's  dress  when  she  first  appeared  to  him,  the  little  bit  of 
ribbon  she  had  about  her  neck,  the  fashion  of  her  hair,  from  which  a 
a  stray  lock  has  fallen,  and  beholds  her  moving  here  and  there,  perform- 
ing this  and  that  necessary  duty  with  exact,  unerring  faithfulness. 
He  won  her,  and  married  her,  and  worked  for  her,  and  she  for  him ; 
their  life  and  ways  were  simple,  and  few  were  happier  than  they  in  their 
humble  home. 

In  the  midst  of  his  dreams  he  is  aroused  by  a  slight  touch  upon  his 
arm.  His  heart  beats  more  quickly,  and  his  trembling  hands  are  raised 
in  agitation  produced  by  the  momentary  fancy  that  it  is  his  pretty  young 
wife  he  sees  standing  by  his  side. 

*  Father  i ' 

And  he  brushes  the  fancy  aside,  and  knows  that  it  is  Rachel,  the 
daughter  of  his  love,  who  has  spoken. 

Bright  sparkles  are  in  her  eyes,  a  flush  is  on  her  face,  and  Leon  Isaacs, 
calm  and  smiling,  and  with  much  tenderness  in  his  manner,  holds  her 
hand  and  looks  with  confident  pleading  at  the  old  man.  Rachel  bends 
her  head,  and  whispers  a  few  tremulous  words  into  her  father's  ear,  not 
raising  her  face  when  she  has  finished ;  and  then  Moses  Levy  learns  that, 
while  he  has  been  dozing,  Leon  has  spoken  to  Rachel  the  words  which 
girls  who  have  lost  their  hearts  are  yearning  to  hear. 

'  One  moment,  Leon,  one  moment,'  murmurs  the  old  man,  with  a  sud- 
den revulsion  of  feeling  at  the  prospect  of  losing  his  Rachel ;  and  he 
hides  his  eyes  upon  her  neck.  But  a  feeling  so  selfish  cannot  long  abide 
Mrith  him,  and  he  turns  his  eyes  once  more  upon  the  young  man  who 
has  won  his  child. 

*  Rachel  loves  me,'  says  Leon  modestly,  and  with  manliness,  *  and  I 
love  her.    What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Levy  ? ' 

Moses  Levy  rises,  trembling  and  eager.  His  face  is  very  pale,  and 
large  tears  have  gathered  in  his  eyes. 

*  Have  you  weU  considered,  Leon  1 '  he  says.  *  Are  you  sure  you  know 
your  heart?    Nay,  Rachel,  let  Leon  speak  for  himself.' 

*  If  there  is  truth  in  the  world,'   replies  Leon,  deeply  touched  by  the 


148  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

solemn  tendemees  of  the  old  man's  manner,  '  I  know  my  heart.     It 
beats  for  Bachel,  and  for  Rachel  only.' 

*  Rachel  has  nothing,  Leon — not  a  penny.' 

Leon  gazes  with  pride  upon  his  ^1.  '  She  is  to  me,  sir,  richer  than 
the  richest  lady  in  the  world.  She  is  Rachel  I  want  nothing  with  her^ 
I  want  only  her.' 

'  And  you,  Rachel  1 ' 

Her  arms  embrace  him  with  a  tenderer  pressure  :  an  eloquent  answer. 
He  places  her  by  the  side  of  her  lover,  and  joins  their  hands,  clasping 
them  in  his  own. 

'  The  Lord  God  of  Israel  bless  and  prosper  you,  my  children,'  he  saya 
tremulously.  '  You  will  make  my  Rachel  a  good  husband,  Leon,  and 
my  daughter  will  be  a  true  and  faithful  wife  to  you.  Love  each  other 
all  your  lives,  and  your  days  will  be  days  of  peace  and  happiness.  I 
can  go  down  to  my  erave  now  with  an  untroubled  heart' 

He  covers  his  head ;  the  lovers  incline  towards  him ;  and  placing  a 
hand  on  the  head  of  each,  he  slowly  and  solemnly,  in  the  ancient  lan- 
guage, breathes  a  prayer  over  them.  Then,  in  true  patriarchal  fashion, 
he  kisses  Rachel's  forehead. 

<  When  you  touched  my  arm,  Rachel,'  he  says,  looking  into  the  girl's 
eyes,  with  his  hands  on  her  shoulders, '  I  was  dreaming  of  your  mother. 
I  thought  for  a  moment  she  stood  before  me.  You  are  as  she  was,  my 
dear,  when  she  was  young.' 

Rachel  gazes  wiBt&lly  at  the  old  man,  and  whispers, 
'  It  will  jnake  no  difference  between  us,  father.' 

*  Surely  not,  Rachel.     It  is  right— it  is  good.    Be  happy,  my  child/ 

<  Yes,  yes,'  she  says,  with  a  tender  contradiction  to  herself,  'it  vnU 
make  a  difference.     I  shall  love  you  all  the  more.' 

He  resumes  his  chair,  and  the  lovers  enjoy  a  blissful  silence.  Moses 
Levy  softly  turns  the  leaves  of  the  Hebrew  book,  but  has  no  understand- 
ing of  it  now ;  the  characters  swim  before  him.  Once  again  he  is  roused 
by  his  daughter's  light  touch. 

*  We  are  ffoing  to  take  a  walk,  Rachel  and  I,'  says  Leon  ;  '  we  shall 
not  be  gone  long.' 

*  Very  well,  Leon,  very  well,'  replied  Moses  Levy. 

'  I  daresay,  while  we  are  away,  father  will  come  in  for  his  game  of 
cards.' 

'  Does  he  know,  Leon  1 ' 

*  If  he  doesn't,  he  ought  to,  Mr.  Levy.  I  think  it  has  been  pretty 
plain  to  everybody.  I  told  mother  before  I  came  out  that  it  might 
happen  to-night' 

*  Yes,  yes,  Leon ;  and  what  did  she  say  9 ' 

*  That  if  it  did,  I  was  to  bring  Rachel  round  at  once.  We  are  going 
to  her  now.' 

'  It  is  right — go,  go  at  once.' 

But  although  he  appears  eager  that  they  should  leave  him,  Moses 
Levy's  arm,  which  is  round  Rachel's  waist,  rather  tightens  in  its  clasp 
than  otherwise. 

*  Mother  wiU  be  very  glad,  Mr.  Levy.' 

'  That  is  good  —that  is  good  !    Your  mother's  a  good  creature.' 

*  She  has  been  a  good  mother  to  me.' 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  149 

*  Well  said,  Leon.  Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thy  days 
may  be  long  in  the  land  which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee  ?  * 

One  hand  being  disengaged,  he  holds  it  out  to  Leon,  who  presses  it 
with  affection  and  respect.     Leon  has  a  proper  appreciation  of  the  char  • 
acter  of  the  good  old  man. 

'  Mr.  Levy.' 

*  Yes,  Leon.' 

'  There  is  no  need  to  keep  it  secret' 

*  Surely  not,  surely  not !     There  is  nothing  to  keep  secret' 
'  I  shall  tell  everybody.' 

'  That  is  as  it  should  be,  Leon.     Let  everybody  know.' 
Leon  lingers  a  little,  till  Rachel  says, 

*  I  will  be  with  you  presently,  Leon,* 

He  goes  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Rachel  with  her  father,  and  stands 
on  the  dark  staircase,  waiting  for  her.  In  a  few  minutes  she  joins  him. 
Her  face  is  wet  with  tears. 

*  You  are  all  my  own,  now,'  he  whispers,  drawing  her  close  to  him. 
*  Are  you  happy  1' 

*  Very  happy.' 

*  I  shall  sJways  love  you,  Rachel' 
'  And  I  shall  you,  Leon.* 

'  I  shall  be  able  to  work  with  a  stouter  heart,  now  that  I  have  you 
to  work  for.  Rachel,  your  father  mustn't  lead  a  lonely  life.  He  would 
feel  it  too  much  ;  he  has  only  us.  A  corner  of  our  fireside  shall  always 
be  his.' 

'  It  is  one  of  my  dearest  wishes.' 

*  And  perhaps  one  day — who  knows  1 — ^I  may  grow  rich.  Then  he 
need  not  go  out  any  more.' 

She  listens  with  heartfelt  gratitude  to  the  expressions  of  those  loving 
thoughts.  They  walk  slowly  down  the  dark  stairs,  he  clasping  her 
waist,  and  pressing  her  close  to  him.  To  Rachel  there  is  no  man  in  the 
world  to  compare  with  her  hero,  and  her  heart  pulses  with  infinite  love 
for  him  as  he  kisses  her  lips  and  dewy  eyelashes. 

Such  a  convenient  staircase  1    Not  a  soul  about ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

SOLOMON   ISAACS  DBCLARES  THAT  THERE   IS  NOTHINO  LIKE  MOKBT. 

The  sound  of  Solomon  Isaacs'  heavy  tread  on  the  stairs  aroused  Moses 
Levy  from  the  reverie  into  which  he  had  faUen  upon  the  departure  of 
Rachel  and  Leon.  He  counted  his  old  friend's  footsteps  with  impatience, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  Solomon  Isaacs  tarried  an  unconscionable 
time  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  door.  But  Solomon  Isaacs  was  generally 
slow  and  wary  in  his  movements,  as  became  a  man  on  the  looK-K)ut  for 
snares. 

Full  of  the  important  event  which  had  just  taken  place,  Moses  Levy 
peered  eagerly  into  the  hard-featured  face  of  his  visitor,  who,  scarcely 
looking  at  his  host,  gave  a  careless  nod  as  he  entered,  and  removing 
from  his  head  a  hat  which,  if  it  had  ever  seen  better  days,  was  by  this 


150  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

time  lost  to  shame,  took  from  it  an  exceedingly  snuffy  bandanna  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  dabbed  his  forehead.  He  then  applied  his  handker- 
chief to  his  nose,  which  he  blew  so  loudly  that  a  little  ornament  with 
bells  which  stood  on  the  mantel-shelf  played  music  to  the  sound,  and 
jingled  in  sympathy.  Carefully  returning  the  handkerchief  to  its  shel- 
ter, he  replaced  the  hat  on  his  head,  and  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large 
yellow  wooden  snuff-box,  and  stuffed  an  enormous  pinch  of  brown  rap- 
pee up  his  nose,  closing  the  box  with  a  loud  snap.  Having  successfully 
gone  through  this  programme  of  performance,  Solomon  Isaacs  drew  a 
chair  to  his  accustomed  place  at  the  table,  and  mechanically  stretched 
forth  his  hand,  in  the  expectation  of  meeting  familiar  objects. 
'  Where's  the  cards,  Mo  f '  he  demanded. 

*  Eh  ? '  exclaimed  Moses  l^evy,  with  a  bewildered  air.  Cards  were 
the  last  thing  in  his  mind  at  that  moment 

*  The  cards.  Mo,'  repeated  Solomon  Isaacs,  impatiently  drumming  on 
the  table ;  *  where's  the  cards  ? ' 

His  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  a  crow,  or  like  a  lock  imperfectly  oiled. 
Either  simile,  however,  scarcely  holds  good,  for  his  voice  had  not  the 
merit  of  consistency.  One  spoken  syllable  out  of  every  four  or  five  was 
fairly  smooth — which  made  its  general  rustiness  more  conspicuous. 

Moses  Levy,  recalled  to  himself  by  the  harsh  tones,  rose  hurriedly, 
and  went  to  the  cupboard. 

'  I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons,  Ikey,'  he  said  apologetically ;  '  I  was 
almost  forgetting.' 

In  this  familiar  style — Mo  and  Ikey — were  they  accustomed  to  ad- 
dress each  other. 

Solomon  Isaacs  did  not  reply,  and  Moses  Levy  produced  from  the 
cupboard  a  cribbage-board  which  had  borne  the  brunt  of  a  thousand 
fights,  and  a  greasy  pack  of  cards  by  which  many  a  battle  had  been 
won  and  lost  These  he  placed  on  the  table.  Solomon  Isaacs'  fingers 
immediately  closed  upon  the  cards,  and  he  commenced  to  shuffle  them, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  thoughts  were  far  away.  For  a  moment 
or  two,  Moses  Levy,  who  had  returned  to  the  cupboard,  stood  by  the 
open  door  discussing  some  important  point  with  himself,  which  he  soon 
settled  by  taking  from  a  shelf  two  odd  decanters,  one,  cracked,  contain- 
ing rum,  the  other,  chipped,  containing  shrub;  supplementing  them 
with  two  odd  glasses,  one  long  and  narrow,  '  with  lean  and  hungry 
looks,'  the  other  pot-bellied  like  an  alderman.  So  engrossed  in  thought 
was  Solomon  Isaacs,  that  when  his  host  placed  the  decanters  and  classes 
close  to  his  elbow  he  did  not  observe  them ;  but  he  never  ceasea  from 
shuffling  the  cards,  mechanically  recognising,  with  a  curious  kind  of 
satisfaction,  old  friends,  by  marks  on  their  backs. 

It  was  the  custom  of  these  old  men,  two  nights  in  every  week,  to 
meet  in  Moses  Levy's  rooms,  and  play  cribbage  for  a  penny  a  game. 
Many  a  friendly  wrangle  had  they  had  over  these  contests,  and  often, 
when  luck  went  against  Solomon  Isaacs,  had  he  quitted  the  room  in 
anger,  vowing  that  he  would  never  set  foot  in  it  acain ;  but  he  invari- 
ably returned  to  win  back  the  pennies  he  had  left  behind  him.  For 
twenty  years  had  this  been  going  on,  until  cribbage  had  become  like 
meat  and  drink  to  them. 

The  shadow  of  Moses  Levy,  who  settled  himself  opposite  the  absent- 


SOIX)MOS   ISAACS.  151 

minded  man,  aroused  Soliimon  Iftaacs  from  hia  abstraction.  Taking  up 
the  oribbage-board,  he  cried  testilj-, 

'  No  pegs,  Mo  1  You're  losing  your  'ead.  What's  the  matter  with 
you  to-night  f  Is  there  anything  a-going  wrong  1  Where's  the  pegs  % 
Ab,  ah  !  what's  this  1 ' 

A  pleAsanter  expression  came  into  his  face  as  his  eyes  lighted  on  the 
decanters  of  spirits. 

'  I  thought  yoit  would  like  a  drop,'  said  Moses  Levy,  who  had  hastily 
commenced  to  fashion  four  pegs  for  the  cribbage- board  out  of  as  many 
wooden  matches.     '  It'll  warm  you,  Ikey  ;  let  me  fill  your  glass.' 


With  a  shrewd  eye  for  the  main  chance,  Solomon  Isaacs  seized  the 
pot-bellied  glass,  which  was  twice  as  large  as  the  narrow  one,  and  held 
It  out  to  Moees  Levy,  who  filled  it  to  the  brim,  and  filled  his  own  after- 
wards. Then  the  two  old  men  drauk,  Moses  Levy,  as  he  held  his  glass 
^  to  his  lips,  saying  in  Hebrew, '  Peace  be  unto  you,'  and  Solomon  Isaacs 


152  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

responding  with,  *  Unto  you  be  peace.'  Solomon  Isaacs  smacked  his 
lips  with  keen  enjoyment.     He  dearly  loved  a  glass  of  cheap  liquor. 

'  That's  good/  said  Solomon  Isaacs  amiably,  holding  out.  his  glass, 
which  Moses  Levy  refilled ;  *  It  goes  right  through  one.  Where  do 
you  buy  your  liquor,  Mo  ?    At  RaphaeFs  ?  * 

Moses  Levy  nodded. 

*  It's  the  best  place,'  remarked  Solomon  Isaacs ; '  Raphael  must  make 
a  fortune  every  year  out  of  Kosher  rum.' 

Moses  Levy  nodded  again,  and  having  finished  cutting  the  pegs,  sig- 
nified that  he  was  ready  to  commence  the  game. 
'  Cut  for  crib,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs.     *  Nine.' 

*  Ace,'  said  Moses  Levy. 

'  Your  crib.     You're  always  in  luck.  Mo,  always  in  luck  ! ' 

Moses  Levy  put  down  a  bright  penny,  and  proceeded  to  deal  the 
cards.  Solomon  Isaacs,  watching  his  adversary  carefully  the  while,  to 
see  that  he  was  dealing  fairly,  extracted  from  his  pocket  all  the  coppers 
it  contained,  and  selecting  an  old  halfpenny  which  had  been  beaten  out 
so  as  to  look  like  a  penny,  carefully  deposited  his  stake  beneath  Moses 
Levy's.  To  the  secret  delight  of  his  friend,  Moses  Levy  played  with 
less  than  his  usual  skill,  and  the  game  proceeded  in  silence,  until  Solomon 
Isaacs  cried  triumphantly, 

*8ix!' 

Moses  Levy  put  down  a  four.     *  Ten.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  slapped  down  a  five.  *  Fifteen  two,  ahd  a  run's  ^ve. 
My  game,  Mo,  my  game  I ' 

'  So  it  is,'  said  Moses  Levy,  with  a  light  laugh. 

It  pleased  him  that  Solomon  Isaacs  was  winning.  He  would  have 
liked  him  to  win  every  game. 

Solomon  Isaacs  drew  Moses  Levy's  bright  penny  from  the  stakes,  and 
pocketed  it,  leaving  his  own  doubtful  one  on  the  table.  He  gloated  in 
secret  over  his  clever!)e:^s,  and  the  wrinkles  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
came  out  conspicuously. 

*  Leon's  getting  along  well  at  his  shop,'  remarked  Moses  Levy,  nerv- 
ously approaching  his  subject. 

*  Orfice,  Mo,  orfice,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs  in  correction. 

*  It's  all  the  same,  Ikey — shop  or  office.' 

*  It  ain't  all  the  same,'  contended  Solomon  Isaacs  viciously. 

*  Well,  it  was  when  we  were  boys.' 

*  What  was  when  we  was  boys,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  with  a  positive 
shake  of  his  head,  *  ain't  now.  Things  is  altered.  When  we  was  boys, 
we  'ad  to  go  into  the  streets  to  get  a  living.  Leon  didn't  'ave  to  do 
nothing  of  the  sort  He  went  to  school.  When  we  was  boys,  it  was 
shop — now,  it's  orfice.  Yes,  he's  getting  on  well,  is  Leon.  If  he  be- 
haves 'isself ' 

But  he  suddenly  paused,  and  left  the  sentence  uncompleted. 

*  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  Leon,  Ikey ;  he's  quite  a  gentleman.' 

*  I've  done  my  best  for  'im,  and  I  'ope  he'll  remember  it.  He'll  be 
proud  of  me  one  of  these  days.  You'll  live  to  see  it,  Mo.  Yes,  yes — 
one  of  these  days,  one  of  these  days  ! ' 

Moses  Levy  looked  into  the  face  of  his  friend  for  an  explanation  of 
these  enigmatical  utterances,  but  none  was  given. 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  153 

'  Leon's  been  here  to-night/  said  Moses  Levy,  in  the  middle  of  t^e 
second  game.     *  Three,  four,  five,  of  a  flush.     Six.* 
'  You '  6  taken  seven  I '  cried  Solomon  Isaacs. 

*  So  I  have.     I  didn't  see  it,  Ikey,  I  give  you  my  word. ' 

'  You're  an  artful  one,  Mo ;  you  want  looking  arter.  Leon's  been 
'ere,  you  said.' 

'  Yes  ;  he's  gone  with  Rachel  to  see  Mrs.  Isaacs,'  said  Moses  Levy, 
scarcely  knowing  what  cards  he  was  playing,  as  he  plunged  desperately 
into  the  subject  he  wished  to  broach.  *  Ikey,  what's  the  very  bcwBt  thing 
in  the  world  1 ' 

'  What  a  question,  Mo  !  The  very  best  thing  in  the  world  ?  Money, 
of  course,  money  ! ' 

'  No,  no,  Ikey  I '  exclaimed  Moses  Levy,  in  an  imploring  tone. 

*  Yes,  yes,  Mo,'  persisted  Solomon  Isaacs.  *  Money.  Another  game 
to  me.'  (Pocketing  another  of  Moses  Levy's  good  pennies,  and  ready 
by  this  time,  in  case  of  dispute,  to  swear  that  the  beaten-out  halfpenny 
had  been  staked  by  his  opponent.)  *  There's  nothing  like  it,  nothing  1 
Money  makes  the  mare  to  go.     I  wish  you  'ad  a  bagful ' 

*  I  wish  I  had,'  murmured  Moses  Ijevy. 

* — ^And  that  you  couldn't  move  from  your  chair  till  you  gave  me  *arf  I 
What  do  you  mean  by  your  No,  no  ? '  cried  Solomon  Isaacs,  putting 
down  his  cards  in  his  excitement.  *  What  do  people  bow  down  to  ? 
Money.  What  do  people  worship  ?  Money.  What  are  we  trying  all 
our  lives  to  make  )  Money.  What  was  the  temple  made  of  1  Money. 
What'll  buy  fine  'ouses,  fine  clothes,  fine  diamonds  ?  Money — money — 
money  !    There's  nothing  like  money.' 

Moses  Levy  sighed.     *  There's  love,  Ikey.' 

'Eh,  eh?    There's  what  r 

*  Love,  Ikey.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  pushed  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head  in  astonish- 
ment. 

*  Love  better  than  money.  Mo  1 ' 
*Ye8,  Ikey.' 

'  Rubbish,  Mo,  rubbish  !  You'll  be  saying  next  that  kisses  is  better. 
All  right.  You  take  all  the  love  and  all  the  kisses ;  I  give  'em  to  you 
— ^there  !  I'll  take  all  the  money.  Why,  where's  your  sense  ?  Will 
love  fill  your  belly  ?  Can  you  eat  kisses  ?  Can  you  drink  'em  ?  Will 
they  lend  you  anything  on  'em  at  the  pawnbroker's  )  If  I  go  to  people, 
and  say,  "  'Ere's  some  love  for  you  ;  'ere's  some  kisses  for  you,"  will 
they  bow  down  to  me  for  'em  t — will  they  wipe  my  shoes  for  'em  ?  Not 
them  !  They'd  laugh  in  my  face,  and  say,  "  Solly  Ikey's  gone  mad — 
he's  gone  mad  !  "  And  they  wouldn't  be  far  wrong.  But  if  I  go  to  'em 
and  say,  "  'Ere's  some  money  for  you,"  they'd  bow  down  to  me  for  it, 
and  love  me  for  it,  and  vripe  my  shoes  for  it.  Then  they'd  say,  '*  Oh, 
what  a  good  man  Solly  Ikey  is — oh,  what  a  good  man  !  "  If  you  come 
to  my  'ouse,  and  I  give  you  some  love,  and  nothing  else,  will  you  ever 
want  to  come  agin  ?  Not  likely — unless  you're  a  fool !  But  if  you  come, 
and  I  give  you  chocolate  and  cakes,  you'll  come  agin  as  often  as  I  want 
you.     I  should  be  tired  of  you  before  you'd  be  tired  of  me.' 

Moses  Levy  sat  in  silence,  with  his  hands  nervously  clasped,  and  both 
men  for  a  time  forgot  their  game  of  cribbage.  It  must  have  been  the 
thirst  created  by  his  eloquent  championship  of  money  that  caused  Solo- 


154  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

mou  Isaaca  to  empty  the  decanter  of  rum  into  his  pot-bellied  L'lass,  and 
to  drain  it  to  the  last  drop  before  he  resumed  the  subject.  What  fol- 
lowed proved  that  his  appetite  had  only  been  whetted  by  the  words  he 
had  already  uttered. 

*  Money,  Mo,  '11  buy  everything — 'ouse,  'orses,  carriages,  servants, 
bows,  shakes  of  the  'and — everything.  What  was  he  without  money  ? 
A  beast !  What  is  he  with  money  )  A  beautiful  man — a  beautiful  man  I 
You  remember  *im,  don't  jou,  when  he  travelled  and  sold  steel  pens — 
who'd  speak  to  'im  then  ?  Who  'ad  a  good  word  to  say  for  *im  then  ? 
Not  a  soul  in  the  world.  His  own  relations  would'nt  look  at  'im 
would'nt  own  'im  ;  he  was  like  a  bit  o'  dirt.  It  must  be  eighteen  year 
since  you  and  me  and  'im  played  klobberyoss  together  one  night.  What 
did  you  say  when  he  went  away  1  That  you  didn't  care  if  you  never 
set  eyes  on  'im  agin.  And  that  was  the  way  with  everybody ;  he  was 
'ated  like  pizen.  But  when  he  goes  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  speky- 
lates,  and  makes  a  'eap  of  money,  and  buys  a  grand  'ouse  in  Hyde  Park, 
and  comes  to  shool  in  a  set  of  dimond  studs  in  'is  shirt  that's  worth 
five  'undred  guineas  if  they're  worth  a  penny,  everybody  bows  and 
scrapes  to  'im,  and  says,  "  'Ow  do  you  do,  Mr.  Cohen  1  'Ow  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Cohen  ?  "  And  when  'is  back's  turned,  it  ain't  **  Good  riddance  to 
bad  rubbish  ! "  it's  "  What  a  nice  man  Sam  Cohen  is  ]  What  a  good 
man  !  Did  you  see  'is  lovely  studs  1  'ow  they  blaze  !  And  'is  big  gold 
watch  1  'ow  it  shines  !  He  puts  on  a  clean  shirt  every  day !  And  he's 
a  good-looking  man,  too ! "  That's  the  way  they  speak  of  'im  now.  As 
for  'is  relations,  they  worship  the  ground  he  treads  on,  since  he's  growd 
rich  ;  when  people  say,  "  That's  Sam  Cohen's  cousin — that's  Sam  Cohen's 
brother-in-lore,  it  ma^es  'em  proud  to  'ear  it.  Once,  if  Cohen  'appened 
to  come  late  at  prayers,  all  the  nobs  used  to  look  at  'im  with  frowns, 
and  say,  **  It's  too  bad  of  that  Cohen ;  he's  got  no  sense  of  decency ;  he 
must  be  spoke  to."  The  very  beadle  used  to  look  black  at  'im.  Now, 
when  he  comes  late,  they  listen  quite  affable  to  the  creaking  of  'is  boots 
as  he  walks  to  'is  seat,  and  the  beadle  pushes  people  on  one  side  to  make 
way  for  'im.  I  never  did  'ear  boots  creak  like  'isn  since  he's  got  rich  I 
Why,  I've  seen  Baron  Lionel  speak  to  'im.  Ain't  that  a  honour  1  If 
he  'ad  'is  pockets  full  of  love,  would  all  this  'appen  !  No,  Mo,  no  !  But 
he's  got  'is  pockets  full  of  money,  and  they  bow  down  to  'im,  and  don't 
remember  the  time  when  they  used  to  say,  **  Sam  Cohen's  a  beast ! " 
He  ain't  a  beast  now — oh,  no ;  he's  a  long  way  off  from  a  beast  now  ! ' 

Solomon  Isaacs  dabbed  his  forehead  with  his  bandanna,  being  some- 
what heated  by  this  outburst ;  after  which,  all  the  rum  and  shrub  being 
gone,  he  refreshed  himself  with  another  pinch  of  snuff,  and  set  the  belk 
of  the  little  ornament  on  the  mantelshelf,  ringing  vigorously  again. 

'  I  passed  his  house  last  week,'  said  Moses  Levy,  sadly  ;  '  it  is  a  great 
house  truly.' 

'  It's  a  grand  'ouse — a  grand  'ouse ! '  exclaimed  Solomon  Isaacs. 

<  It's  almost  as  high  as  the  Tower  of  Babel.  I  couldn't  help  wondering 
what  he  did  with  all  the  rooms  in  it.  There's  only  himself  and  Mrs. 
Cohen  and  his  daughter  Bella—and  there  must  be,  ah,  fifty  rooms  in  the 
house.     He  can't  sit  in  more  than  one  room  at  a  time.' 

'  But  he  knows  all  the  other  rooms  are  there  if  he  wants  'em.  Then 
there's  the  servants — they've  got  to  be  accommydated  ;  and  he  gives  a 
good  many  parties,  and  likes  to  make  a  show.     He's  got  pillars  with 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  155 

ornaments  on  'em  outside  the  'ouse,  and  inside  there's  picters  and  stat> 
chooSy  and  carved  chimbley-pieces,  and  every  step  of  the  grand  stairckse 
is  made  of  white  marble — of  beaatiful  white  marble.' 

*  Yes,  it's  well  known,' said  Moses  Levy.  '  But  what  will  it  matter  to 
Sam  Cohen,  when  he's  dead,  whether  he's  carried  out  of  the  house  to  the 
grave  down  a  narrow  flight  of  wooden  steps  or  a  white  marble  stair- 
case?' 

*  It'll  matter  a  lot/  replied  Solomon  Isaacs,  warmly ;  '  if  I  was  as 
lucky  as  Sam  Cohen,  and  had  sich  a  fine  'ouse,  I  should  know  when  I 
was  dead,  God  forbid  ! ' 

*  We've  all  got  to  die,  Ikey.' 

'  I  daresay — I  daresay,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs  angrily,  as  though  he  did 
not  see  the  necessity  of  it  *  Well,  I  should  know  that  I  was  being 
carried  down  a  grand  marble  staircase,  and  I'd  feel  proud  in  my  coffin. 
It's  something  to  work  for — something  to  grow  rich  for.  There'd  be  a 
crowd  of  people  outside  my  door  to  see  me  brought  out,  and  'eaps  of 
'em  'd  follow  me  to  the  ground  ;  and  there'd  be  carriages,  and  a  regular 
procession — wouldn't  that  be  a  honour )  Would  they  stop  to  look  at  a 
poor  man's  corfin — would  they  send  their  carriages  to  follow  it  1  Not 
them  1  And  do  you  think  the  minister  don't  know  when  he's  saying 
prayers  over  a  poor  man  and  a  rich  man  9  It's  gabble,  gabble,  gabble 
over  a  poor  man  ;  it's  slow,  and  choky,  and  looking  up  between  every 
word  over  a  rich  man.  Do  you  think  it  don't  make  a  difference  in — ^in 
— another  place — do  you  think  it  don't  make  a  difference  there,  the  way 
that  prayers  is  said  over  your  corfin )  I  tell  you,  Mo,  there's  nothing 
like  money — nothing  like  money  I ' 

So  excited  had  Solomon  Isaacs  become  that  there  is  no  telling  what 
more  he  would  have  said,  had  not  Moses  Levy's  eyes,  which  had  been 
fixed  upon  him  in  sorrow  and  wonder,  caused  him  to  pull  himself  up 
suddenly.  Thus  brought  to  a  standstill,  he  cast  a  startled  look  around, 
with  much  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  has  incautiously  betrayed  a 
precious  and  dangerous  secret. 

*  Well,  well,'  said  Moses  Levy,  after  a  long  pause,  during  which  Solo- 
mon Isaacs  won  another  game  of  cribbage,  and  pocketed  another  of  his 
host's  good  pennies,  '  money's  a  good  thing  in  its  way ;  it  would  be 
foolish  to  deny  it' 

He  spoke  in  a  melancholy  tone  ;  a  dark  cloud  seemed  to  have  fallen 
upon  him.  ^ 

'  You're  coming  to  your  senses,'  growled  Solomon  Isaacs,  with  a  con- 
temptuous laugh.  '  If  you  did  deny  it  you'd  be  fit  for  Bedlam.  A  good 
thing  !    The  best  thing  ! ' 

*  I  should  like,'  said  Moses  Levy  pensively,  thinking  of  Eachel  and 
Leon,  *  to  have  a  heap  of  it  on  the  table  before  me.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  looked  greedily  at  the  table,  and  made  an  involuntary 
clutch  at  an  imaginary  pile. 

'  Of  course  you  do,'  he  said ;  *  and  so  would  any  man  with  a  grain  of 
sense.     By  my  life,  you'd  know  what  to  do  with  it !' 

*  Rachel  should  have  it,  every  penny.  For  myself,  I  have  enough.  I 
am  satisfied  to  die  as  I  have  liv^' 

'  That's  because,'  remarked  Solomon  ioaaos,  with  a  furtive  look  under 
his  eyebrows,  as  though  his  words  were  intended  to  convey  a  deeper 
meaning  th&n  they  expressed,  'you  ^in't  rich.' 


156  SOLOMON  ISAACa 

'  Rich  1     No,  indeed  ;  I  am  as  poor  as  yourself,  Ikey.' 
A  little  flash  came  into  Solomon  Isaac's  eyes,  and  his  nostrils  quivered 
with  secret  pride. 

*  You'd  be  of  a  different  mind,  Mo,  if  you  'ad  a  lot  of  money.' 

*  One  can  be  happy  with  very  little.  It's  my  belief  that  love's  a  better 
thing  than  money.'  ^ 

Solomon  Isaacs  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  evidently  a  waste  of 
time  to  argue  with  such  a  man. 

*  Now,'  said  Moses  Levy,  throwing  out  two  cards  for  crib  that  com- 
pletely spoiled  his  hand,  *  there's  Leon  and  Rachel * 

*  What ! '  cried  Solomon  Isaacs. 

*  I  was  speaking  of  Leon  and  Rachel.  Tou  heard  me  say  that  Leon's 
been  here  to-night' 

*  There's  nothing  in  that,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  in  his  harshest  tones : 
*  it's  not  the  first  time  Leon's  been  'ere.' 

*  No ;  you  are  quite  right.  I  was  about  to  say  that  he  and  Rachel 
have  love  on  their  side,  and  I  hope  by-and-by  the/U  have  money.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  spilled  his  cards  on  the  floor,  and  while  he  was  picking 
them  up  Moses  Levy  continued, 

*  It's  all  settled  between  Leon  and  Rachel ' 

<  What's  all  settled  ? ' 

*  They  are  engaged.     Next  Sunday  they  will  sit  for  joy.' 

To  judge  from  the  way  he  behaved,  the  chair  upon  which  Solomon 
Isaacs  sat  might  have  been  stuffed  with  pins  and  needles. 

*  Leon  ought  to  have  spoke  to  me,'  he  muttered,  *  before  he  spoke  to 
Rachel.' 

*  Perhaps  so,  Ikey ;  but  no  one  could  help  knowing  what  was  going 
on.  There's  scarcely  a  day  that  they  haven't  been  together.  You  must 
have  seen  it.  Surely,'  said  Moses  Levy  very  gravely — he  had  paused 
between  the  sentences,  to  allow  his  companion  an  opportunity  of 
speaking,  but  Solomon  Isaacs  had  not  opened  his  lips — '  surely  you  hove 
nothing  to  say  against  it ! ' 

His  serious  tone  awed  Solomon  Isaacs. 

*  What  could  I  'ave  to  say  agin  iti'  he  asked  sullenly. 

'  That's  what  makes  me  wonder.  I  asked  Leon  if  you  knew,  and  he 
said  if  you  didn't  you  ought  to  have  done.  They've  gone  together  to 
your  house  to  breaJc  the  happy  news  to  your  wife.  She'll  be  ready  to 
jump  out  of  her  skin  for  joy.     She  lo^  Rachel  like  a  daughter.' 

'  Rachel's  a  good  girl,  certainly,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  feeling  it  im- 
perative to  say  something ;  but  his  manner  was  not  gracious ;  *  I've 
never  'eerd  a  word  agin  her.' 

The  blood  rushed  into  Moses  Levy's  cheeks,  and  his  blue  eyes 
glittered. 

*  The  tongue  that  should  uttor  such  a  word  should  be  cut  out !  But, 
there  1  Forgive  me,  Ikey.  I'm  letting  my  temper  get  the  bettor  of 
me.'  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Solomon  Isaacs  was  compelled  to  take 
it.  *  I  love  my  child  so,  you  see.  There  isn't  a  better  in  all  the  wide 
world.  She  has  been  a  good  daughter  to  me,  and  a  good  dauffhter 
makes  a  good  wife.  The  Lord  bless  and  prosper  them  1  Our  children 
and  our  children's  children  will  bring  joy  to  all  of  us  I' 

In  this  way  the  matter  was  understood  between  the  two  men,  and  be- 
fore they  had  time  for  further  converse,  Milly  Isaacs,  Solomon's  wife. 


SOLOHOH   ISAACS.  15T 

rushed  into  the  room,  panting  with  intense  excitement.  Mrs.  Isaacs,  a 
abort  podg7  creature  was  fat  and  scant  of  breath,  and  she  had  ma 
throQgli  the  streets  and  up  the  stairs  so  quickly,  that  the  moment  she 
entered  Moses  Levy's  room  she  sank  into  a  chair,  into  a  state  of  utter 
exhaustion.  But  nevertheless  her  eyes  were  beaming,  and  in  every  gasp 
that  escaped  her  she  strove  not  unsuccessfully  to  express  her  delight  A 
comical  picture  she  presented,  as  she  sat  holding  her  sides,  her  lips 


twitching  convulsively,  her  bosom  panting,  her  fat  shoulders  rising  and 
Calling,  and  her  head  wagging  this  way  and  that  in  good  humonred  dis- 
tress. Moses  Levy  bad  jumped  to  his  feet  when  she  entered,  but  she 
kept  him  off  with  a  flattering  motion  of  her  hand,  ^ping,  '  Let  me 
alone  a  minute,  Mr.  Levy,  till  I  ketch  my  breath  ! '    Leon  and  Rachel 


158  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

had  started  with  Mrs.  Isaacs  from  her  house,  and  the  moment  they  were 
in  the  street  she  left  them,  laughingly  desiring  them  not  to  hurry. 
*  You  cuiiie  along  slow/  she  said  to  them,  with  a  sly  look ;  '  I  can't 
wait  a  minute.  I  must  run  to  Mr.  Levy,  and  give  him  a  'ug.'  And 
^hen  she  hurried  away  in  her  slippers,  her  feet  pit-patting  on  the  pave- 
ment as  she  chuckled  at  her  wit  in  leaving  the  lovers  to  themselves. 

So  now,  when  she  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  her  panting  condi- 
tion, she  threw  her  arms  round  Moses  Levy's  neck,  and  pressed  him  to 
her  capacious  bosom,  and  kissed  him  more  than  once. 

*  I  wish  you  joy,  Mr.  Levy,'  she  said  ;  *  this  is  the  'appiest  day  of 
my  life.     There's  a  crandfather  you'll  make.' 

*  I  wish  you  joy,  Mrs.  Isaacs,'  responded  Moses  Levy,  all  his  sad- 
ness dispelled  by  her  cordiality :  *  you  do  my  heart  good.  You  are 
really  glad  1 ' 

<  Glad  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Isaacs.  '  I'm  ready  to  go  out  of  my  mind 
with  'appiness.  You  won't  find  a  'andsomer  couple  in  all  Spitalfields ! 
**  What  are  you  running  along  in  that  way  for  1 "  cried  Mrs.  Simmons, 
i^ho  was  standing  at  'er  door  as  I  runs  by,  and  she  puts  'er  'and  on  me. 
**  Don't  stop  me  !  "  I  screams  ;  "  don't  stop  me  !  My  Leon  and  Rachel 
Levy's  engaged  I "  "  Leon  and  Rachel  engaged  ! "  she  cries ;  "  I  wish  you 

joy,  Mrs.  Isaacs  !  "  And  then  I  'ears  her  calling  out  to  Mrs.  Wolf,  who 
was  looking  out  of  window  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  "  Mrs.  Wolf ! 
Leon  Isaacs  and  Rachel  Levy's  engaged  ! "  "  I'm  glad  to  'ear  it,"  screams 
Mrs.  Wolf.  As  sure  as  I'm  alive,  it's  all  over  Spitalfields  by  this  time. 
Well,  this  is  a  happy  day.     Ha,  ha,  ha !     Ha,  ha,  ha ! ' 

And  once  more  fairly  overcome  with  excitement,  Mrs.  Isaacs  glided 
from  a  paroxysm  of  hysterical  sobbing,  and  working  her  way  back  again, 
was  only  brought  to  by  a  glass  of  cold  water,  administered  by  the  grate- 
ful hands  of  Moses  Levy. 

At  this  juncture,  I^hel  and  Leon  made  their  appearance.  They 
were  radiant  with  joy,  and  there  was  a  proud  look  in  Leon's  eyes,  which 
expressed,  '  I  have  won  the  best  treasure  earth  can  give  me.'  To  Ra- 
chel, a  new  beauty  seemed  to  have  come ;  she  had  never  in  her  life 
looked  so  pretty.  At  the  sight  of  the  young  people,  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  on 
the  point  of  going  into  another  paroxysm,  but  was  checked  by  Solomon 
Isaacs  exclaiming  gruffly, 

'  Don't  be  a  fool,  MUly !  You'll  have  a  fit  if  you  go  on  like  that. 
Well,  Leon  V 

<  Well,  father  V  said  Leon 

*  You  might  'ave  told  me,  I  think,  Leon.' 

'  Why,  father,  couldn't  you  see  1     You're  generally  pretty  wide  awake.' 

*  Of  course  he  could  see,'  interrupted  Mrs.  Isaacs.  *  Don't  you  mind 
him,  Rachel ! '  For  Rachel's  happiness  was  suddenly  damped  by  Solo- 
mon Isaacs'  cold  bearing.  *  It's  only  'is  joking  way.  There  now,  give 
him  a  kiss,  Rachel.  He  used  to  like  'em  when  I  was  as  young  and 
pretty  as  you.  And  I  was  once,  Rachel ;  but  I've  got  that  fat  now  that 
I  can  hardly  abear  myself ! ' 

Rachel  obeyed  the  worthy  creature,  and  held  up  her  pretty  face  to 
Solomon  Isaacs.  He  touched  her  soH^  cheek  carelessly  with  his  lips,  and 
received  Rachel's  kiss  without  enthusiasm. 

<  Just  to  think,'  said  Mrs.  Isaacs,  affectionately  patting  Rachel's  hand 
with  her  fat  and  podgy  fingers,  *  'ow  things  comes  about !     When  Leon 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  159 

was  no  'igher  than  my  knee,  he  comes  to  me  with  a  apple  in  'is  'and, 
and  ses,  "  Mother,  see  what  Kachel  Levy's  give  me,"  and  ses,  as  he  takes 
a  bite,  **  When  I'm  big  enough  I'm  going  to  marry  Kachel."  And  now 
he  is  big  enough,  and  it's  a-going  to  be  ! ' 

While  Mrs.  Isaacs,  laughing  and  shaking,  and  wiping  tears  of  pleasure 
from  her  eyes,  was  rattling  on  with  suchlike  reminiscences,  of  which  she 
had  apparently  an  inexhaustible  store,  Moses  Levy  seized  the  opportunity 
of  slipping  out  of  the  room  ;  returning  soon  with  a  bottle  under  one 
arm,  and  a  paper  packet  under  the  other.  Understanding  upon  what 
errand  he  had  gone,  Rachel  laid  the  table  for  supper,  and  unfolding  the 
paper  disclosed  a  few  slices  of  smoked  salmon — whereat  Solomon  Isaacs' 
lips  commenced  to  overlap  one  another.  The  bottle  also  contained  some- 
thing good,  and  presently  all  in  the  room  were  plying  their  knives  and 
forks,  the  lovers  negligently,  Moses  Levy  pensively,  M  illy  Isaacs  tearfully, 
and  Solomon  Isaacs  greedily.  After  supper,  this  being  a  night  which* 
might  fairly  be  devoted  to  dissipation,  the  two  old  men,  each  with  a 
glass  of  hoi  brandy  by  his  side,  resumed  their  battle  of  cribbage.  The 
lovers  sat  in  a  comer  of  the  fireside,  softly  conversing,  while  Mrs.  Isaacs, 
from  the  opposite  comer,  regarded  them  with  motherly  affection.  Solo- 
mon Isaacs  won  no  fewer  than  seven  consecutive  games  of  cribbage,  and 
this  triumph,  with  the  ample  supper  he  had  eaten — you  may  be  sure 
that  the  richest  slices  of  salmon  were  put  on  his  plate — and  the  hot 
hrandy-and-water  that  followed,  put  him  in  good-humour.  Pocketing 
the  last  won  penny,  he  allowed  his  own  flattened  halfpenny  to  remain 
fi>r  a  moment  on  the  table,  and  then,  as  though  his  attention  was  just 
directed  to  it,  he  took  it  between  his  fingers,  and  examined  it  with  an 
uir  of  frowning  curiosity. 

*  I  wouldn't  *ave  believed  it  of  you.  Mo,'  he  said,  pushing  the  coin  to- 
wards Moses  Levy ;  '  I  wouldn't  'ave  believed  it  of  you.  See  what 
you've  been  trying  to  pass  oflf  on  me  for  a  penny.  A  flattened  half- 
penny I ' 

'  Did  I  put  it  down,  Ikey  1 '  asked  Moses  Levy,  examining  the  coin. 

'  Did  you  put  it  down  1 '  echoed  Solomon  Isaacs,  in  an  injured  tone. 
*  Who  else  did,  I'd  like  to  know  1  Would  you  suspect  nu  of  doing  sich 
a  thing  ] ' 

*  No,  no,'  said  Moses  Levy  hurriedly ;  *  it  was  me,  of  course  I  But  I 
didn't  see  it,  Ikey,  I  pledge  you  my  word.  I  beg  you  a  thousand  par- 
dons.' 

His  giving  Solomon  Isaacs  a  good  penny  in  its  stead  was  the  crown 
ing  point  of  that  sharp  old  fellow's  triumph.      It  was  by  t'lis  time  past 
midnight,  and  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  beginning  to  nod. 

*  Wake  up,  Milly,*  said  Solomon  Isaacs.     *  Are  you  coming,  Leon  ? ' 

*  I'll  be  home  as  soon  as  you  are,  father,*  said  Leon. 

He  was  not  as  good  as  his  word,  for  which  he  may  be  excused,  hav- 
ing so  good  an  excuse  as  Rachel  to  tempt  him  to  break  it.  It  was 
nearly  one  o'clock  before  he  returned  home.  His  mother  was  sitting 
up  for  him,  to  give  him  a  kiss  before  he  went  to  bed.  Solomon  Isaacs 
was  already  fast  asleep,  dreaming  that  there  was  nothing  like  money — 
iiothing  like  money. 


160  SOLOUON   ISAACS, 

CHAPTER  VI. 

aimsa  Foa  joy. 

This  waa  the  most  important  event  that  had  yet  occurred  in  Bachel'a  ' 
life,  and  she  looked  Torward  to  it   with  pleasure  and  trepidation.     '  I 
sha'n't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry,'  she  said  to  Leon, '  when  the  peo- 


ple come  in.'  Sunday  was  the  day  fixed  for  the  friendly  ceremonial, 
when  all  who  knew  and  took  an  interest  in  the  young  couple  were  ex- 
pected to  viBit  them  and  wish  them  joy.  It  would  be  a  good  omen  if 
everything  passed  ofi'  well ;  and  to  assist  in  this  desirable  consummation 
the  inner  man  had  to  be  provided  for,  in  the  shape  of  chocolate  and 
cakes  and  a  glass  of  wine  for  the  guests.  Then,  some  few  of  the  privil- 
eged ones  would  stop  to  supper  in  the  evening.  Moses  Levy  gave 
Rachel  as  much  money  as  he  could  Mrape  together,  and  she  did  wonders 
with  it,  having  a  natural  gift  in  the  way  of  spending  money  to  advan- 
tage. She  stocked  the  cupboard,  and  made  the  prettiest  drese  in  the 
world  for  herself,  the  colours  of  the  material  being  a  combination  of  the 
new  browns  which  were  all  the  rage.  She  knew  that  Leon  liked  her  to 
look  well,  and  she  took  a  proper  pride  in  her  personal  adornment. 
Modesty  was  so  dominant  a  qutdity  in  her  nature,  that  it  was  impossible 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  161 

for  ber  to  commit  absurdities  in  tbe  way  of  dress ;  then,  she  had  an 
eye  for  the  harmony  of  colour ;  and  altogether  she  was  a  girl  in  whom 
any  man  would  have  taken  a  just  pride. 

For  Leon's  sake  Rachel  wished  the  gathering  of  their  friends  to  be 
large — as  large,  for  instance,  as  that  of  her  friend,  Lizzie  Davis,  when 
she  went  through  the  same  ordeaL  It  was  certainly  nothing  more  than 
an  outward  sign  of  respect,  but  it  meant  much  to  KacheL  She  hoped 
that  certain  girls  of  her  acquaintance  would  not  keep  away,  vexed  with 
her  because  Leon  had  preferred  her  to  any  other.  These  things  agitated 
her  a  great  deal  during  the  week,  but  the  result  proved  that  she  might 
have  spared  herself  anxiety  on  the  subject,  for  pretty  well  every  one  in 
Spitalfields  with  whom  she  and  her  fetther  weie  on  speaking  terms  visi- 
ted Moses  Levy's  humble  dwelling  on  the  Sunday  to  offer  their  con- 
gratulations to  the  younff  people. 

The  room  had  quite  a  noliday  appearance,  being  sweet  and  clean,  and 
prettily  decorated  with  every  little  nicknack  Rachel  could  lay  hands  on. 
Extra  chairs  had  been  borrowed  from  friends,  and  a  table  in  a  corner  of 
the  room  was  set  with  decanters  and  glasses  and  plates  filled  with  spiced 
cakes.  That  the  glasses  were  odd  in  shape  and  pattern  did  not  in  the 
slightest  dim  the  splendour  of  the  hospitality.  Rachel  looked  bright 
and  fresh,  and  when  she  kissed  her  father  in  the  early  morning  there 
was  a  glistening  moisture  in  her  eyes,  like  dew  upon  flowers.  The  cere- 
mony through  which  she  had  to  pass  on  this  day  bore  to  her  a  solemn 
as  well  as  a  beautiful  si^nificailce  ;  it  was  a  seal,  a  ratification,  an  assu- 
rance that  nothing  could  occur  to  disturb  the  harmonious  current  of 
their  happiness. ' 

'  Ah,  ah«  Leon,'  said  Moses  Levy,  as  the  young  man  made  his  appear- 
ance, '  what  an  elegant  suit  of  clothes  I     You  look  really  handsome  in 
them.    Where  did  you  buy  them  ?    At  Moses's  or  Hyams's ) ' 
'  Hyams  made  them  for  me,'  replied  Leon. 

'  Why,'  said  Moses  Levy,  feeling  the  texture,  and  examining  them 
critically,  *  they  must  have  cost  three  pounds  at  least' 
'  More  than  that,  Mr.  Levy.    Do  you  like  them,  Rachel )' 
'  They  are  beautiful,'  said  Rachel 

'  What  do  you  think  of  Rachel's  dress,  Leon  ? '  asked  Moses  Levy. 
'  And  how  do  you  think  she  looks  in  it  ?  She  made  it  every  bit  herself. 
Not  another  soul  put  a  stitch  in  it' 

Leon  nodded  in  affectionate  approval  His  arm  was  round  Rachel's 
waist,  and  she  was  nestling  close  to  him,  in  the  very  face  of  a  third 
party.  It  seemed  natural  that  she  should  cling  to  him.  He  was  her 
rock,  her  shelter ;  her  life  was  bound  up  in  his.  There  certainly  was 
no  need  for  Moses  Levy  to  call  attention  to  her  dress,  for  Leon's  eyes 
had  taken  in  every  detail  of  it  the  moment  he  entered  the  room,  and 
he  noticed  with  thrills  of  satisfaction  that  the  little  bits  of  ribbon  she 
wore  were  of  the  colour  and  shade  he  was  in  the  habit  of  praising. 
These  delicate  and  heart-moving  ways  belonged  to  Rachel's  nature,  and 
if  they  served  to  make,  her  dearer  and  more  precious  to  Leon,  all  the 
better  for  both  of  them. 

Taking  from  his  pocket  a  small  article  wrapped  in  silver  tissue-paper, 
Leon,  with  a  smile  and  a  kiss,  handed  it  to  his  betrothed.    Rachel's 
heart  beat  high ;  it  was  the  engagement-ring.     There  were  three  stones 
in  it,  two  small  diamonds  and  a  torquoise  in  the  centre. 
3 


162  SOLOMON  ISAACS.  McuvtiDJ 


a; 


St.- " 


*  Ought  I  to  put  it  on  your  finger^  Eftchel  f '  asked  Leon. 
He  placed  it  on  the  finger  she  held  out — she  knew  which  was  the 

proper  one,  the  puss ! — and  kissed  the  hand  that  bore  it. 

*  May  it  bring  you  good  fortune,  my  dear  ! '  he  said  tenderly. 

'  It  will  be  sure  to  do  that,'  she  replied.  '  Leon,  I  am  so  happy  that 
I  am  almost  afraid.' 

Moses  Levy  watched  all  this  dimly ;  his  cup  of  happiness  was  so  full 
that  it  brimmed  over  in  his  eyes.  '^^ 

Warned  by  a  sound  outside  that  a  visitor  was  coming  up  stairs,  Ka- 
chel  and  Leon  flew  to  two  chairs  placed  at  the  furthermost  end  of  the 
room,  where  they  seated  themselves  side  by  side ;  but  they  jumped  up 
again  immediately  at  the  familiar  sound  of  hard  breathing  without  which 
heralded  Mrs.  Isaacs.  She  entered,  her  bosom  panting,  and  holding 
her  sides  as  usual. 

'  Them  stairs  '11  be  the  death  of  me,  Mr.  Levy  ? '  she  gasped.  '  I  wish 
there  was  pulleys  in  'ouses  to  'oist  a  body  up.' 

*  There's  so  much  of  you,  mother,'  said  Leon  merrily. 

'  Don't  you  make  game  of  your  mother,  Leon ;  you  don't  know  what 
you  may  come  to  yourself.  When  fat  takes  'old  of  a  body,  there's  no 
keeping  it  down.  It  keeps  on  coming  and  coming,  till  it's  enough  to 
drive  a  woman  out  of  'er  mind !  I  was  as  slim  as  Bachel  once  ;  you  re- 
member me,  Mr.  Levy,  when  I  was  only  a  slip  of  a  girl.' 

'  That  I  do,  Mrs.  Isaacs.  I  never  would  have  believed  you  would 
have  grown  so  fat.' 

*  It  can't  be  'elped,'  said  Mrs.  Isaacs,  with  smiles,  more  reconciled  to 

life  now  that  she  had  recovered  her  breath  ;  *  we've  got  to  put  up  with  ^ 

things — ^though  I  do  often  ketch  myself  wishing  that  I  could  sell  'arf  of 
me  at  so  much  a  pound  ! ' 

Mrs.  Isaacs  was  dressed  in  a  light  silk  gown,  with  such  enormous  dark 
bars  in  it  broadways  and  longways,  that  she  looked  as  if  she  were  in 
prison.  Her  gray  hair  was  pasted  close  to  her  head  in  bands,  and  in 
honour  of  the  occasion  she  wore  a  pair  of  cleaned  lavender  gloves  very 
much  too  large  for  her.  But  her  good-humoured  face  amply  atoned  for 
any  want  of  taste  she  displayed  in  her  costume. 

*  There's  some  one  coming  ! '  she  cried  excitedly.  '  You  mustn't  be 
caught  standing  up.    Run  to  your  chairs ! ' 

Leon  and  Rachel  dropped  upon  their  chairs  with  a  celerity  which 
suggested  that  they  might  have  received  an  electric  shock,  Leon  with  a 
half  smile  (seeing  some  humour  in  the  situation),  and  Rachel  with  a 
serious  face  and  a  quick-beating  heart.  Their  visitors  were  Mrs.  Lilien- 
thal  and  her  father,  old  Mosh^. 

*  I  wish  you  joy,  Rachel ;  I  wish  you  joy,  Leon,'  said  Mrs.  Lilienthal ; 
*  all  the  children  send  their  love  to  you.' 

'  Tou  shaU  take  them  some  cakes,  Mrs.  Lilienthal,'  said  Rachel,  and 
at  once  put  a  few  in  paper  for  her  youne  friends. 

Old  Mosh6  nodded  his  head  a  hundred  times  to  every  one  in  the  room, 
and  made  up  for  his  ignorance  of  the  English  language  by  lon^  mumb-  "y 

ling  speeches  in  the  Hebrew  tongue,  chuckling  to  hunseif  at  his  felici- 
tous remarks  and  witticisms,  of  which  no  one  but  Moses  Levy  and  the 
speaker  had  the  slightest  understanding.  Rachel's  bright  face,  the  hospi- 
table display  of  cakes  and  wine  on  the  table  in  the  comer,  and  the  gene- 
ral happiness  of  all,  gave  the  old  fellow  unbounded  satisfaction.    After 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  168 

his  seventy  and  odd  years  in  Jerusalem,  Spitalfields  was  like  fairyland 
to  him  ;  and  as  he  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  with  his  long  white 
beard,  dressed  in  the  clothes  in  which  he  travelled  from  the  holy  city, 
saying  a  prayer  over  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  piece  of  cake  which  Moses 
Levy  had  handed  to  him,  he  made  a  striking  figure  in  the  scene. 

Following  him  came  Solomon  Isaacs,  hot  and  inflamed  from  a  contest 
over  the  disposal  of  some  goods  to  a  shopkeeper  in  Cutlernstreet,  in 
which  he  had  been  *  bested,'  as  he  expressed  it. 

*  I  sold  'em  at  so  much  a  piece,'  he  said,  appealing  now  to  one,  now 
to  another — *  seven  coats,  nine  westcuts,  and  five  pairs  of  trouses,  at 
three  and  tenpence  a  piece-— dirt  cheap  !  There  was  a  blue  welwet  west- 
cut  among  'em  as  was  worth  three  'arf  crowns  for  the  welwet  alone.  Jo 
'Arris  and  Mike  Myers  both  wanted  'em,  but  I  sold  'em  to  Mike.  "  I 
wouldn't  sell  to  no  one  but  you,  Mike,"  I  ses,  as  I  puts  the  money  in  my 
pocket,  "  to  no  one  bat  you."  There  they  was,  all  of  a  'eap  on  the  floor, 
and  Mike  a-looking  of  'em  over.  All  at  once, ''  Hallo  1  wot's  this  1 "  he 
ses,  a-feeling  of  a  westcut.  I  snatches  it  out  of  'is  'and,  and  he  snatches 
it  from  me  agin,  and  it  drops  on  the  floor,  and  I  'ears  a  rinff.  "  By  my 
life,  it's  money  1 "  cries  Mike ;  and  he  rips  up  a  seam,  and  fishes  out  a 
sovering  as  was  sewed  up  in  the  back.  '^  It's  mine,"  I  ses ;  "  give  it  to 
me,  Mike  f "  Would  you  believe  it  1  He  puts  'is  finser  to  'is  nose,  and 
ses,  **  I've  bought  the  westcut,  and  paid  for  it ;  and  if  it  was  lined  with 
dimonds  they'd  belong  to  me."  I  tried  to  argey  with  'im  ;  1  told  'im  it 
was  a  thieving  thing  to  do  ;  I  orfered  to  go  arves  with  'im ;  but  he  only 
laughs  at  me,  and  ses, ''  The  sovering's  mine,  and  I  mean  to  stick  to  it." 
And  he  does  stick  to  it !  It's  scandalous — scandalous !  If  he  shows 
'is  face  in  this  room  to  day,  I  leave  it — ^mind  that,  Mo — I  leave  it !  The 
thief !    I  wouldn't  bemean  myself  by  speaking  to  'im.' 

Solomon  Isaacs,  as  he  narrated  this  grievance,  fumed  with  rage  and 
vexation. 

Now  the  company  be^m  to  arrive  in  earnest  As  they  entered,  they 
shook  hands  first  with  Moses  Levy,  who  stood  on  the  threshold  to  re- 
ceive them,  and  then  walked  to  where  the  lovers  were  sitting  demurely 
side  by  side,  and  said,  with  a  hand-shake,  '  I  wish  you  joy,  Leon ; '  '  I 
wish  you  joy,  Rachel/  The  ceremonious  part  of  the  visit  was  concluded 
by  the  guests  shaking  hands  with  Solomon  Isaacs  and  his  wife,  with  the 
same  formalities.  Moses  Levy  received  his  guests  with  beiuning  face 
and  untired  spirit — he  could  have  stood  there  for  twenty-four  hours  with- 
out feeling  fatigue ;  Bachel  and  Leon  behaved  weU,  considering  the  em- 
barrassment of  the  situation  ;  Mrs.  Isaacs,  though  often  '  ready  to  drop,' 
as  she  whispered,  more  than  once,  to  Rachel,  never  flagged  for  a  moment, 
but  came  up  smiling  at  the  approach  of  every  new  friend ;  while  Solo- 
mon Isaacs,  after  a  flabby  hand-shake,  regarded  the  visitors  with  a  gen- 
erally distrustful  eye.  It  was  fortunate  for  the  harmony  of  the  day  that 
Mr.  Mike  Myers  did  not  make  his  appearance.  Leon's  happiness  was 
not  without  its  cloud.  He  particularly  wished  his  father  to  appear  in 
an  amiable  mood  on  this  day,  and  it  vexed  him  to  observe  that  Solomon 
Isaacs  took  no  pains  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  their  friends. 

*  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  father  lately,'  Leon  said  privately 
to  his  mother. 

'Men  are  like  the  moon,'  Mrs.  Isaacs  remarked  sagely;  'they're 
always  a-changing.    Your  father's  worried  about  business.     Don't  take 


1^4  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

HO  notice  of  him ;  it's  the  best  way.  Bless  my  'eart !  ain't  you  got 
'enough  to  think  of  now  you're  engaged,  without  botheringjyour  *ead 
About  us  1 ' 

She  spoke  in  a  hearty,  pleasant  tone,  but  when  Leon  was  not  observing 
her  she  went  into  another  room  and  had  a  good  cry  to  herself.  Perhaps 
it  was  Leon's  affectionate  manner  towards  her,  which  on  this  day,  more 
than  on  any  other,  set  her  nerves  quivering  with  tender  love  for  her  boy. 

In  all  other  respects  the  day  was  a  complete  and  gratifying  success. 
There  was  a  continual  stream  of  persons  coming  and  going,  and  through- 
out the  whole  time  Moses  Levy  stood  at  the  door  with  a  face  glowing 
with  pride  and  pleasure,  shaking  hands  with  everybody  with  unremitting 
vigour.  Many  came  who  were  not  expected — Leon's  schoolmaster,  for 
instance ;  and  Julian  Emanuel,  who  haid  won  honours  for  a  prize  essay, 
snd  who  was  expected  to  make  a  name  for  himself  one  of  these  days ; 
and  Marcus  Benjamin,  the  furniture  broker,  who  kept  his  own  horse 
And  dog-cart ;  and  Leon's  rich  employer,  who,  from  a  poor  boy  selling 
matches  in  the  streets  for  a  living,  had  risen  to  be  a  great  exporter  of 
fancy  goods  to  the  colonies ;  so  that  it  was  plain  that  Moses  Levy  was 
reaily  respected.  Some  snuffy  old  foreigners  presented  themselves,  who 
•earned  a  miserable  living  as  hired  mourners  and  watchers  of  the  dead. 
Yery  poor  and  very  shabby  were  they,  but  it  did  not  matter  to  Moses 
Levy ;  they  were  welcome,  and  a  glass  of  wine  or  a  cup  of  chocolate  and 
a  piece  of  cake  were  offered  to  all  alike.  You  may  be  sure  that  every 
one  *of  Rachel's  particular  female  friends  was  there«  to  see  how  she  looked 
on  the  occasion,  and  that  a  great  many  jokes  and  much  pleasant  badin- 
age passed  to  and  fro.  Rachel's  own  bosom  friend  and  companion,  ^ 
Phoebe  LemoUj  could  not  come  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  A  saucy - 
looking  girl  was  Phoebe,  with  black  ringlets  nearly  down  to  her  waist, 
«ye6  liKe  sloes,  and  cheeks  the  colour  of  a  red  rose. 

*  I  wish  you  joy,  Rachel/  said  Phoebe,  '  and  I  shall  be  glad  when  my 
turn  comes.' 

*  Well,  there's  Mark  Samuel,'  said  Leon,  laughing ;  *  you  know,  Phoebe, 
iie's  dying  of  love  for  you.  There  he  is  now,  staring  this  way ;  he  can't 
take  his  eyes  off  you.' 

*  Oh,  I  daresay,'  was  Phoebe's  reply  to  Leon  ;  *  if  he's  dying  of  love, 
why  doesn't  he  say  so  ? ' 

*  I'll  go  and  tell  him  what  you  say,'  said  Leon  merrily,  rising  from  his 
chair. 

*  *  If  you  do,*  cried  Phoebe,  '  I'll  never  speak  another  word  to  you. 
Call  him  back,  Rachel !    The  idea  !     As  if  I  meant  it ! ' 

This  kind  of  thing  had  been  going  on  from  the  time  the  visitors  began 
to  arrive.  All  day  long  there  was  a  pleasant  ripple  of  laughter  and  con- 
versation in  the  room.  A  happy  evening  followed  the  exciting  day,  so 
full  of  bright  promises  to  Leon  and  Rachel  Candles  were  lighted,  and 
the  table  was  spread  with  what  Solomon  Isaacs  declared  was  a  '  hand- 
«ome  meal'    And  when  ample  justice  was  done  to  it,  the  company  sat  .^ 

d6wn  to  cards  and  general  conviviality.     Solomon  Isaacs  was  in  high  ^ 

feather.  Perhaps  it  was  the  extra  glass  of  wine  he  drank,  or  the  ab- 
sence of  Mr.  Mike  Myers ;  or  because  he  won  at  cards.  His  eracious 
manner  produced  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  company.  All  unpleasant- 
ness was  forgotten,  and  even  those  who  lost  at  loo  bore  their  losses  with 
resignation. 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  165 

Afi  Solomon  Isaacs  walked  home  with  his  wife,  he  surprised  her  by 
asking  how  she  would  like  to  be  a  lady.  His  voice  was  thick,  and  his 
gait  unsteady. 

'  A  lady,  Milly/  he  said,  nudging  his  wife.  '  'Ow  should  you  like  to 
be  a  lady — a  real  lady  1 ' 

'  What  nonsense  you  do  talk  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Isaacs.  '  'Ow  could 
I  be  a  lady  without  a  'eap  of  money  7 ' 

'  That's  it,  that's  it ! '  concurred  Solomon  Isaacs,  shaking  his  head 
wisely  at  the  lamp>post;  Hhat's  what  makes  ladies  and  gentlemen^ 
money,  money.  There's  nothing  like  it  Milly,  it's  my  belief  as  'ov 
Mo  Levy  is  a  artful  old  cuss ! ' 

Milly  Isaacs  stared  at  her  lord  and  master. 

'  You've  taken  a  glass  too  much,  Ikey.' 

'  Have  I  ?  Well,  it  didn't  cost  me  nothing,  that's  one  comfort.  A 
artful  old  cuss,  that's  what  Mo  Levy  is  !    He's  a  artful  old  cuss  ! ' 

'  What  on  earth  is  your  'ead  a-running  on  ) '  asked  Mrs.  Isaacs,  to 
whose  own  heavy  burden  of  flesh  was  added  the  form  of  her  inebriated 
husband,  who  leaned  heavily  against  her. 

'  He's  artful,  artful ! '  repeated  Solomon  Isaacs.  '  He's  got  money  put 
by,  MiUy — he's  got  money  'id  somewhere.* 

'  What  makes  you  think  so  ? '  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  not  unwilling  to  be  eon- 
vinced,  but  was  extremely  sceptical,  notwithstanding. 

'  What  makes  me  think  so  1  Because  he  sajrs  he's  poor — ^because  he's 
always  saying  he's  poor.  If  he  said  he  was  rich,  I  know  he'd  be  telling 
a  lie,  and  I  wouldn't  believe  'im,  if  he  stood  on  'is  'ead.  He  thinks  I 
want  to  borrow  money  of  'im,  the  old  cuss . ' 

'  0  Ikey ! ' 

*  What  do  you  mean  with  your  "  0  Ikey  1 "  violently  demanded  So- 
lomon Isaacs,  who,  when  he  was  under  the  influence  of  liquor — whicb 
was  but  seldom ;  Mrs.  Isaacs  could  reckon  up  on  her  fingers  the  number 
of  times — was  prone  to  be  especially  unamiable.  '  I  tell  you  he's  an  old 
cuss  I  If  I  did  want  to  borrow  money  of  'im  I'd  pay  'im  back,  I  sup- 
pose. If  there's  one  thing  I  abominate  more  than  another,  it's  mean- 
ness, and  Mo's  a  mean,  artful  old  cuss ! ' 

'  Do  come  along,  Ikey  ! '  implored  Mrs.  Isaacs,  the  perspiration  trick- 
ling from  her  face.  '  Don't  glare  about  like  that !  Gome  along  'ome  and 
git  to  bed.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  here  gave  a  lurch,  and  fell  his  full  length  upon  the^ 
kerb,  where  he  lay  for  a  moment  or  two,  gazing  at  a  muddy  reflection 
of  himself  in  the  gutter.     It  was  not  without  difficulty  that  he  was: 
raised  to  his  feet  again,  and  supported  home  ;    and  all  the  time  he  never 
ceased  from  reiterating  his  conviction  that  Moses  Levy  had  a  secret 
hoard  of  money,  adding  that  it  would  be  worse  for  him  if  such  was  not 
the  case.     Mrs.  Isaacs  had  no  idea  of  the  meaning  of  these  mutterings. 
Solomon  Isaacs  had  said  so  many  strange  things  lately  that  she  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  understanding  him,  and  at  times  she  was  haunted 
by  a  fear  that  the  man  was  going  out  of  his  mind.     She  was  frightened 
to  confide  in  any  one,  for  her  husband  enjoined  the  strictest  secrcy  upon 
her,  hinting  darkly  that  if  a  soul  in  the  world  suspected  aoything,  it 
would  be  the  ruin  of  him — a  declaration  which  threw  no  light  upon  th& 
mystery,  and  only  added  to  her  uneasiness.     From  all  this  it  may  be 


166  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

inferred  that  Solomon  Isaacs  had  a  secret  which  he  deemed  it  wise  to 
keep  to  himself.     What  that  secret  was  will  presently  he  revealed. 

In  the  meantime,  the  courtship  of  Kachel  and  Leon  progressed 
famously,  and  it  appeared  as  if,  for  once,  the  proverb  that  the  course  of 
true  love  never  did  run  smooth  was  about  to  be  falsified.  The  young 
people  went  out  and  visited  together,  and  Leon's  every  spare  hour  was 
spent  in  Rachel's  company.  He  began  to  save  for  the  modest  home ; 
such  a  thing  as  a  house  was  out  of  the  question  ;  they  would  commence 
their  married  life  in  lodgings  in  Spitalfields,  where  Rachers  father  and 
his  own  parents  could  come  and  spend  comfortable  evenings  with  their 
children.  In  this  way,  gladdened  by  such  hopes,  a  few  happy  weeks 
passed,  until  a  rumour  b^an  to  be  circulated  in  connection  with  Solo- 
mon Isaacs  which  made  all  his  acquaintances  excitedly  interested  in 
him,  and  the  verification  of  which  caused  the  good  boat  True  Love  to 
drift  into  troubled  waters. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HOW  SOLOMON  ISAACS  GRBW  RICH. 

The  rumour  which  so  excited  Solomon  Isaacs'  neighbours  and  acquain- 
tances was  that  he  had  made  his  fortune. 

It  was  a  fact.     Solomon  Isaacs  was  a  rich  man. 

He  was  an  old-clo'  man,  as  Moses  Levy  was,  but  he  had  driven 
shrewder  bargains,  and,  by  so  doing,  had,  little  by  little,  saved  a  small 
sum  of  money.  It  was  hard  work  at  first — desperately  hard  work.  In 
such  circumstances  it  behooves  one  to  be  careful  and  secret  If  your  poor 
friends  know  you  have  a  little  money  put  by,  they  will  be  sure  to  want 
to  borrow  of  you.  Solomon  Isaacs  had  no  desire  to  be  worried,  and  the 
first  five-pound  note  he  saved  he  sewed  up  in  the  band  of  his  trousers.  In 
course  of  time  a  second  was  added,  and  a  third,  as  he  plodded  through  the 
streets  on  cold  days,  the  knowledge  that  he  was  a  walking  money-box  kept 
him  warm.  So  he  went  on  from  year  to  year,  until  one  day,  with  fear  and 
trembling,  he  invested  his  savings  in  a  foreign  stock  which  he  believed 
had  reached  its  lowest  ebb.  He  suffered  tortures  for  months,  during  which 
the  stock  still  further  decreased  in  value,  and  he  could  not  realize,  even 
at  a  loss,  the  money  he  had  invested ;  but  he  waited  and  suffered,  and 
bided  his  time,  continuing  his  old-clo'  pursuit  steadily  all  the  while 
until  a  turn  in  the  market  took  place,  and  the  shares  began  to  rise.  He 
watched  them  rising  higher  and  higher,  and  when  they  were  quoted  at 
three  times  the  price  he  had  paid  for  them  he  sold  them.  He  was  an 
eccentric  man,  but  having  an  enormous  organ  of  secretiveness,  he  con- 
cealed his  eccentricities  from  human  eyes,  and  with  the  money  in  his 
hand  he  went  to  his  bedroom,  while  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  out  marketing,  and 
spreading  it  upon  the  bed,  actually  danced  and  capered  before  it,  wav- 
ing his  arms,  and  snapping  his  fingers  in  defiance  of  the  world.  It  was 
his  fetish  ;  he  bowed  before  it,  and  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  his  features 
worked  triumphantly,  and  he  jumped  about  the  room  till  he  was  tired 
and  sobered  down.  His  wild  fit  at  an  end  he  pocketed  the  money,  but- 
toning his  pocket  tightly,  and  walked  about  Spitalfields  in  humbleness, 


SOLOMON  ISAACS. 


complainiDg  of  the  hardness  of  the  timea.  Within  s  week  he  re-inyested 
his  money  in  another  concern  of  which  he  had  reason  to  think  well. 
The  result  of  hia  second  venture  was  almost  as  fortunate  as  that  of  hia 
first,  and  old  Solomon  Isaacs,  wlio  it  roust  be  confessed,  did  Dot  know 
the  letter  A  from  a  bull's  foot,  saw  spread  before  him  a  clear  avenue  to 
fortune.  But  not  even  to  his  wife  did  he  whisper  a  word  of  his  good 
hick.  Not  a  soul  should  know  it  till  the  proper  time,  not  a  sooL 
Like  many  another  gambler  he  was  superstitious,  and   he  feared  that, 


168  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

if  be  confided  in  any  one,  things  would  go  wrong  with  him.  He  ven- 
tured again,  and  again  he  won.  Success  made  him  bolder,  and  he 
b^an  to  lend  money  to  tradesmen  and  others^  secretly.  When  he 
launched  into  this  new  phase  of  speculation  he  grew  more  cautious  than 
ever,  and  more  humble  in  his  demeanour,  always  complaining  to  Moses 
Levy  of  the  hard  times,  saying  that  the  clothes  business  nras  going  to 
the  dogs,  and  that  he  did  not  know  what  things  were  coming  to.  In 
this  way  he  put  everybody  off  the  scent.  And  good  luck  pursued  him. 
Opportunity  threw  in  his  way  an  affair  which,  requiring  more  than 
oniinary  prudence  and  shrewdness,  led  Solomon  Isaacs  into  the  very 
lap  of  Fortune.  It  is  not  necessary  to  give  particulars  of  this  business ; 
it  was  no  worse  than  many  another,  the  transactors  of  which,  having 
full  purses,  are  held  in  honour  by  the  world  ;  and,  like  many  another,  a 
second  person  was  concerned  in  it,  who  at  a  sudden  and  critical  time 
was  conveniently  not  to  be  found.  There  was  some  hubbub  about  it 
— not  in  anyway  affecting  Solomon  Isaacs,  who  plodded  through  the 
streets  with  the  meek  cry  of  '  Old  do'  I '  on  his  lips.  He  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world  whom  suspicion  could  fall  upon.  A  number  of  in- 
dividuals happened  to  be  interested  in  this  person  who  had  so  suddenly 
disappeared,  and  they  traced  him  to  a  ship  which  only  a  week  before 
had  sailed  for  the  Bermudas.  They  immediately  set  the  law  in  motion, 
and  took  steps  to  have  him  *  interviewed '  (best  put  it  politely)  on  his 
arrival  at  his  destination. 

Now  how  was  it  that  this  proceeding  reached  Solomon  Isaacs'  ears, 
and  why  did  it  have  such  an  effect  upon  him  that  he  shut  himself  up 
in  his  bedroom,  and  wept  and  tore  at  the  small  quantity  of  hair  on  his 
head  of  which  time  had  not  yet  robbed  him  1  In  the  quietude  of  his 
chamber  he  did  this,  and  when  he  mourned  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  the 
walls  were  the  only  witnesses  of  the  pitiable  spectacle.  With  his 
friends  and  acquaintances  he  was  more  humble  than  ever ;  he  abased 
himself,  as  it  were,  before  them,  and  in  his  game  of  cribbage  with 
Moses  Levy,  resorted  to  no  small  tricks  for  the  purpose  of  winning  an 
additional  penny.  Truly,  he  was  bom  under  a  lucky  star.  On  one  red- 
letter  day  in  his  life  he  heard  news  of  a  wreck  which  caused  the  loss  of 
a  score  of  lives.  Among  those  whose  names  were  printed  in  the  papers 
as  being  drowned  was  the  person  already  referred  to,  whose  bones 
were  now  lying  peacefully  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Solomon  Isaacs 
could  hardly  believe  his  ears,  and  ho  convinced  himself  by  bribing  a 
newsboy  to  read  an  account  of  the  wreck  and  the  names  of  those  who 
were  washed  overboard.  He  and  the  newsboy  stood  together  in  a  little 
courtyard,  away  from  the  whirl  of  the  city's  busy  life,  the  boy  spelling 
out  the  words  slowly  and  painfully,  and  Solomon  Isaacs,  with  his  old- 
clo'  bag  across  his  shoulders,  bending  over  him,  enthralled.  Convinced 
that  there  was  no  deception,  Solomon  Isaacs  hastened  to  Spitalfields, 
and  running  to  his  bedroom  again,  plumped  himself  upon  a  chair  in  the 
excitement  of  his  joy.  As  he  entered  the  room  he  touched  with  his  fin- 
gers the  little  tablet  of  tin  attached  to  the  portal — the  little  tablet  which 
contained  an  inspiration  in  Hebrew  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  evil 
spirits.  He  kissed  his  fingers  and  muttered  in  the  ancient  tongue  a  few 
grateful  words  ;  for  he  was  a  devout  man,  and  went  to  synagogue  regu- 
larly every  Sabbath,  and  mumbled  through  a  form  of  prayers  of  the 
meaning  of  which  he  had  as  much  knowledge  as  the  Man  in  the  Moon. 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  169^ 

■ 

He  knew  most  of  these  prayers  by  heart,  and  was  convinced  of  their 
efficacy  in  cases  of  wrong-doing.  Not  a  few  persons  use  prayer  as  a  con- 
venient purifier.  Then  he  rubbed  his  hands,  and  reflected  with  pious 
gratitude  that  now  no  one  could  discover  anything — that  no  one  knew 
anything  of  the  affair  but  himself  and  the  litde  fishes. 

'No  one  but  me  and  the  little  fishes  !'  he  chuckled  to  himself  with  a 
powerful  sense  of  humour ;  '  and  they  can*t  speak  the  poor  little  inno- 
cents !  they're  only  good  for  frying,  or  stewing  with  balls,  the  poor 
little  things  !' 

In  this  way  did  old  Solomon  Isaacs  comport  himself  in  the  solitude  of 
his  bedchamber  in  Spitalfields,  and(mingle  thanksgivings  to  his  Greater 
with  self-congratulations  on  his  good  fortune. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AK  BZOITBHBirr  IN  SPITALFIJILD8 . 

Soon  after  this  he  settled  his  plans.  He  would  not  for  a  little  whife 
make  it  apparent  to  his  friends,  that  he  need  no  longer  work  for  his 
living.  He  went  out  as  usual  every  morning  with  ins  bag,  and  exper- 
ienced immense  delight  by  trifling,  as  it  were,  with  the  old-clo'  business. 
When  he  was  called  into  a  house,  he  played  with  those  who  wished  to 
dispose  of  their  cast  aside  garments,  as  a  cat  with  a  full  stomach  plays 
with  a  mouse.  He  laughed  in  his  sleeve  as  he  offered  a  quarter  of  what 
the  articles  were  worth,  and  took  his  departure  with  inward  chuckles  at 
them  for  the  time  they  had  wasted. 

'  On  such  and  such  a  day,'  said  he  to  himself,  *  I  will  go  out  for  the 
last  time  with  my  bag.    Arter  that,  I'll  set  up  as  a  gentleman.' 

Then  would  the  grub  cast  its  skin,  and  be  transformed  to  a  butterfly. 

The  day  arrived. 

'  How  should  you  like  to  be  a  lady,  Milly  ? '  he  said  to  his  wife  for 
the  twentieth  time  before  he  left  the  house;  'a  fine  lady— a  grand 
ladyr 

She  made  no  reply.  §he  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  understanding 
the  meaning  of  his  strange  remarks.  He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a 
moment  or  two,  with  a  sly  leer  in  his  eye,  and  took  from  his  pocket  two 
sovereigns. 

'  Gp  and  buy  yourself  a  dress,'  he  said,  giving  her  the  money ;  *  a 
grand  dress . — a  yaller  silk,  with  flowers  in  it  Something  as  'U  make 
a  show,  and  make  you  look  like  a  lady  V 

A  new  wonder  to  Mrs.  Isaacs.  Since  their  courting  days,  he  had  not 
done  the  like. 

'  Are  you  sure  you  can  afford  it  1 '  she  asked.  '  Business  'as  been 
so  bad  with  you  lately,  you  know.' 

He  was  so  tickled  with  this,  that  he  had  to  sit  in  a  chair  and  enjoy  it. 

*  Never  mind  if  I  can  afford  it,'  ho  replied  ;  *yott  pocket  the  money 
or  I  might  take  it  back.  Solomon  Isaacs  knows  what  he's  about. 
Mind  I  a  showy  dress,  as  '11  make  people  stare  I ' 

And  he  left  her,  murmuring  softly  to  himself, 

•  ao' !  Old  clo' !  Ha  I  ha  I  Clo  I  Old  clo*  I  What  a  game  it  is  ! 
CloM     Old  clo'!' 


170  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

Had  any  curious  person  followed  his  movements  on  that  day,  he  would 
have  been  considerably  astonished,  for  Solomon  Isaacs  walked  through 
his  usual  streets  with  a  swagger,  and  his  cry  of  '  Clo ' !  Old  clo' ! '  had 
4m  exultant  ring  in  it.  He  cast  inquiring  glances  at  the  fine  houses  he 
passed,  as  though  calculating  how  much  a  year  he  would  have  to  pay  for 
them.  When  he  returned  in  the  evening,  after  a  most  enjoyable  day, 
his  bag  had  not  a  single  article  of  clothing  in  it,  and  as  he  entered  the 
dirty  street  in  Spitalflelds,  in  which  he  had  resided  for  so  many  years, 
he  turned  up  his  nose  at  it — although  truth  compels  the  declaration  that 
his  nose  was  not  that  way  inclined.  Then  he  shouted  for  the  last  time, 
^  Clo' !  Old  clo' ! '  and  was  about  to  cast  his  bag  into  the  road,  in  a  fit 
•of  reckless  enthusiasm,  when  he  was  arrested  by  the  thought  that  it 
might  *  fetch  '  something  (at  the  rag-shop  next  to  his  house ;  the  rag- 
shop  that  was  kept  by  an  Irishman  with  red  eyes  and  no  eyelashes,  and 
in  the  windows  of  which  was  the  filthiest  conglomeration  of  rags,  and 
fab,  and  rusty  locks,  and  blue-mouldy  bits  of  copper  and  brass,  that  it  is 
possible  to  imagine.  Into  the  shop  of  this  red-eyed  Irishman,  who  was 
popularly  known  as  the  Vampire,  did  Solomon  Isaacs  betake  himself, 
and  there  and  then  offered  his  old  clo'  bag  for  sale  as  ra^-s,  asking  so 
much  a  pound  for  it.  The  two  men  commenced  to  haggle.  What  passed 
is  not  known,  but  presently  Solomon  Isaacs  came  out  of  the  shop  with 
a  flaming  face,  clasping  his  old-clo'  bag  in  trembling  hands,  muttering, 

'  1*11  keep  it,  the  Irish  thief !  I  wouldn't  sell  it  'im  if  he  went  down 
on  'is  knees  to  me.' 

And  some  other  words  to  the  effect,  that  the  Vampire,  after  driving  a 
hard  bargain  for  the  bag,  after  beating  him  down  to  the  last  farthing, 
had  tried  to  pass  a  bad  halfpenny  upon  him.  The  Vampire,  following 
Solomon  Isaacs  to  the  door  of  his  shop,  attacked  him  with  such  violence 
that  a  crowd  assembled,  who  listened  with  delight  to  the  compliments 
exchanged  between  the  two.  Bad  language  was  used,  the  record  of 
which  can  be  dispensed  with,  and  Solomon  Isaacs  retired  to  his  English- 
man's castle  in  a  fit  of  great  indignation. 

When  he  declared  that  he  would  keep  his  old-clo'  bag  he  spoke  the 
truth.  He  made  no  further  attempt  to  dispose  of  it.  Throwing  it  to 
his  wife,  he  desired  her  to  burn  it,  or  do  anything  else  she  liked  with  it. 

Before  two  minutes  had  elapsed,  the  whole  neighbourhood  rang  with 
the  news  that  Solly  Ikey  and  the  Vampire  had  had  a  desperate  row, 
and,  as  it  was  the  breathing- time  of  day,  the  residents  were  prepared  to 
enjoy  the  excitement.  Mrs.  Simons,  Mrs.  Jacobs,  Mrs,  Cohen^  Mrs. 
Lilienthal,  and  a  number  of  other  intimates,  rushed  from  their  houses 
into  the  street,  and  discussed  it  with  animated  gestures  and  eager 
tongues,  while  the  Vampire  raged  and  stamped  in  front  of  his  shop, 
uttering  dreadful  imprecations,  and  challenging  Solomon  Isaacs  to  come 
on  find  have  it  out  like  a  man.  If  his  allusions  had  been  confined  to  the 
object  of  his  wrath,  the  neighbours  would  have  listened  to  them  with 
-enjoyment  and  satisfaction  ;  but  as  they  affected  the  general  body  of  the 
Hebrew  community,  it  was  not  long  before  the  Vampire  found  himself 
pitted  against  a  score  or  two  of  indignant  neighbours,  whose  nerves 
were  quivering  at  the  insults  hurled  against  their  religion  by  the  irate 
Milesian.  This  suited  him  exactly ;  he  was  in  his  element ;  and  very 
soon  all  Spitalfields  was  in  a  ferment.  Never  was  a  call  to  arms  more 
•eagerly  responded  to.     Girls  and  boys  swarmed,  as  though  by  magic,  in 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  171 

immense  numbers ;  men  ran  from  their  rooms  with  their  shirt-sleeves 
tacked  up  ;  women  joined  the  throng  with  their  needles  in  their  hands  ; 
the  click  of  the  sewing-machine  was  suddenly  suspended ;  barrows  were 
left  to  take  care  of  tnemselves  ;  the  policeman,  for  whom  such  excite- 
ments had  no  joys,  strolled  pensively  from  the  battle-field  to  enjoy  the 
sweets  of  repose  ;  first  and  second  floor  windows  were  thrown  up,  necks 
were  craned  to  their  utmost  tension,  and  verbal  defiances  flung  in  every 
direction.  It  was  a  curious  feature  in  this  ebullition  of  feeling  that  it 
was  the  direct  means  of  stirring  up  personal  animosities  which  had  long 
been  peacefully  slumbering,  and  which  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  particular  point  at  issue.  You  may  imagine  the  scene  ;  the  perfect 
Babel  of  sound  ;  everybody  quarrelling  with  everybody ;  the  red  faces, 
the  inrions  gesticulation ;  the  running  from  one  to  another ;  the  unintel- 
ligible and  deeply  interesting  explanations  ;  and  at  its  proper  stage  (all 
the  fuel  being  burned)  the  gradual  cooling  down  of  the  volcano,  the 
shutting  of  the  first  and  second  floor  windows,  the  dropping  off  of  the 
exhausted  combatants  to  look  after  their  household  affairs,  the  melting 
away  of  the  boys  and  girls,  the  return  of  the  policeman,  the  excited  exit 
of  the  Vampire  into  his  shop,  and  the  small  group  of  neighbours  left 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  still  endeavouring,  with  pertinacious 
curiosity,  to  arrive  at  some  understanding  of  the  matter. 

One  fact  this  small  and  devoted  band  did  elicit — that  the  quarrel 
arose  during  the  negotiation  of  a  bargain  between  Solomon  Isaacs  and 
the  Vampire,  in  the  course  of  which  the  Vampire  had  attempted  to  pass 
a  bad  half-penny  upon  the  old-clo'  dealer.  But  what  was  Solly  Ikey 
trying  to  sell  to  the  Vampire )  they  asked  of  one  another.  His  Bag, 
answered  one,  wiser  than  his  fellows.  Thereupon  a  silence  pervaded  the 
assembly,  for  the  circumstance  of  a  person  in  Solomon  Isaacs'  position 
wishing  to  get  rid  of  his  old-clo'  bag  was  too  astonishing  for  words. 
Had  he  attempted  to  sell  his  shadow,  it  would  have  excited  scarcely 
less  surprise.  During  the  silence,  Mike  Myers  made  his  appearance,  to 
whom  tne  incident  was  related  by  a  dozen  voices,  in  a  dozen  different 
keys.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  they  inquired  of  Mike  Myers,  as  of  an 
oracle. 

*  Why,  don't  you  know  ? '  he  exclaimed. 

*  Know  !     Know  what  ? '  they  demanded,  crowding  round  him. 

*  Why,  that  Solly  Ikey's  made  his  fortune  ! '  he  cried. 

*  What ! '  they  screamed. 

*  It's  true,'  said  Mike ;  *  he's  got  no  more  use  for  his  old-clo'  bag,  my 
dears.     He  could  buy  up  all  Spitalfields.' 

No  one  questioned  the  veracity  of  the  statement,  and  the  news  ran 
through  the  assembly  with  the  suddenness  and  certainty  of  electricity. 

*  That  accounts  for  it,'  said  Mrs.  Simons.  *  Mrs.  Isaacs  bought  a  new 
dress  this  morning — a  yaller  silk.  She  showed  it  me.  Solly  give  her 
the  money  before  he  went  out  this  morning,' 

Confirmation  this,  strong  as  proof  in  Holy  Writ.  Yes,  there  was  no  room 
for  doubt  Solomon  Isaacs  had  made  his  fortuna  The  astonishing  news 
was  freely  commented  on  and  discussed,  the  women  gossips  retiring 
one  by  one  to  retail  the  wonderful  news  to  their  friends.  In  the  course 
of  the  evening  all  sorts  of  theories  were  started  as  to  how  he  had  made 
his  money,  and  the  door  of  his  house  was  eagerly  watched,  in  the  hope 
that  he  would  issue  therefrom,  and  converse  with  his  neighbours  upon 


172  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

the  subject.  In  this  hope  they  were  disappointed.  Solomon  Isaacs  did 
not  appear  among  them,  and  they  were  left  to  wonder  and  speculateand 
to  multiply  the  amount  he  had  amassed,  until  it  reached  a  perfectly  fa- 
bulous sum. 

Could  they  have  witnessed  the  scene  that  was  taking  place  in  Solo- 
mon Isaacs'  sanctum  sanctorum,  they  would  have  been  much  edified. 
The  door  was  locked  and  bolted,  and  even  the  keyhole  had  been  carefully 
stuffed  by  Solomon  Isaacs'  cautious  fingers,  so  that  no  prying  eyes  or 
ears  should  get  an  inkling  of  what  was  going  on  within.  Solomon 
Isaacs  and  his  wife  were  sitting  at  the  table,  very  close  together.  In 
front  of  Mrs.  Isaacs  were  a  torn  piece  of  smudged  paper,  and  a  broken 
egg-cup  containing  some  very  thick  and  muddy  ink ;  in  her  hand  was 
an  old  quUl  pen.  In  front  of  Solomon  Isaacs  was  a  large  ereasy  pocket- 
book,  from  which  he  extracted  a  number  of  dirty  bank-notes.  He 
thumbed  them  carefully  over,  wetting  his  thumb  with  his  tongue,  and 
occasionally  held  a  note  up  to  the  light,  to  make  sure  that  two  were  not 
sticking  together.  His  faice  was  very  red.  Mrs.  Isaacs'  face  was  very 
pale,  and  her  knees  trembled.  Making  a  little  pile  of  a  portion  of  the 
notes,  Solomon  Isaacs  placed  them  on  one  side,  with  something  heavy 
upon  them,  to  prevent  them  from  fluttering  away. 

'  Put  down  a  eight,'  said  he. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  put  down  an  eight,  to  judge  from  Mrs. 
Isaacs'  manner.  It  occupied  her  a  minute  to  fix  the  pen  properly  in  her 
fingers,  and  her  features  underwent  unconceivable  contortions  in  the 
process.  Her  movements,  however,  were  sufficiently  rapid  for  her  hus- 
band, whose  calculations  were  of  so  abstruse  a  character  that  he  was 
compelled  to  dictate  slowly  and  laboriously.  When  the  task  was  finished, 
the  paper  was  covered  with  figures,  which  he  studied  with  exultation. 
They  were  not  elegantly  formed,  for  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  *  no  scholard,'  as 
she  often  declared ;  but  it  did  not  detract  from  their  value  and  import- 
ance that  this  figure  appeared  to  be  afflicted  with  cramp,  and  that 
with  gout,  and  that  they  were  swollen  or  attenuated,  and  twisted  out 
of  all  proper  proportion.  Miserable  and  mis-shapen  as  they  were,  they 
represented  money — solid  substantial  gold,  to  which  all  men  bent  the 
knee. 

'  There,  Milly,'  exclaimed  Solomon  Isaacs,  pacing  the  room  in  a  glow. 
*  You  wouldn't  'ave  believed  it  of  me,  would  you  1  Every  penny  of  it 
is  mine,  every  penny  I ' 

'  But  why  did  you  keep  it  so  close,  Ikey  1 '  asked  Mrs.  Isaacs,  in  a 
bewildered  tone.  *  Why  couldn't  you  'ave  told  me  before  ?  Didn't  I 
deserve  to  be  told  ] ' 

'  I  wanted  to  surprise  you,'  replied  Solomon  Isaacs  ;  '  I  wanted  to 
surprise  everybody.  Even  Leon  don't  know.  When  I  put  by  the  first 
five-pound  note  I  was  afeard  to  say  anything  to  anybody  !  It  might 
'ave  changed  my  luck.  I  wouldn't  run  the  risk — no,  I  wouldn't  run  the 
risk.  If  you're  playing  cards,  and  winning,  never  change  your  seat. 
If  you  do,  you'll  begin  to  lose.  When  you're  in  a  lucky  seat,  don't 
move,  don't  stir  from  it !  Go  on  as  you  commence.  That  was  the  way 
with  me — things  'd  'ave  all  gone  wrong  if  I'd  whispered  a  word  to  a 
soul.' 

Mrs.  Isaacs  sighed  as  she  thought  of  the  many  times  she  had  been 
piuched  for  a  few  shillings,  and  how  she  had  had  to  scrape  and  manage 


SOLOMON  ISAACS. 


173 


to  make  both  ends  meet  with  the  money  her  husband  allowed  her  for 
housekeeping ;  but  she  uttered  no  complaint.  She  was  too  dazed  with 
the  prospect  before  her ;  she  could  not  realize  what  it  meant  With  a 
strange  regret  she  cast  her  eyes  across  the  room  in  which  she  had  lived 
during  the  best  part  of  her  married  life.  She  had  enjoyed  much  happi- 
ness within  those  common  walls,  and  she  had  never  felt  till  now  how 
dear  they  were  to  her.  The  very  piece  of  carpet  upon  which  her  feet 
rested  seemed  to  appeal  to  her,  faded  and  worn  as  it  was.  The  room 
was  filled  with  old  familiar  friends. 

With  a  very  different  feeling  did  Solomon  Isaacs  contemplate  the. 
room  j  it  had  never  looked  so  shabby,  so  mean,  so  entirely  undesirablei 
'  A  beastly  place  1 '  he  thought ;  *  a  beastly  place  !  I  shall  be  glad  when  1 
turns  my  back  on  it'  And  then  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  quarre 
he  had  had  with  the  Vampire.  He  related  it  to  his  wife,  putting  such 
oolour  into  it  as  best  suited  his  view  of  the  incident 

'  Don't  keep  the  quarrel  up  with  him,  Ikey,'  implored  Mrs.  Isaacs. 
'  He's  the  spitefullest  creature  in  the  street' 

'  He's  a  foul-mouthed  thief ! '  cried  Solomon  Isaacs.    '  I  wash  my  'ands 
of  him!' 

Which,  looking  at  the  colour  of  his  hands,  was  undoubtedly  a  good 
resolve,  if  there  was  likely  to  be  anything  cleansing  in  the  operation. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


SOLOMON   ISAACS  IS   DISGUSTED  WITH  HIS  NAME. 

The  following  morning  Solomon  Isaacs  com- 
menced to  live  a  new  life.  No  longer  was  he 
compelled  to  jump  out  of  bed  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, summer  and  winter,  hail,  rain,  snow,  or 
blow,  and  prepare  for  his  weary  wanderings  to 
earn  his  bread-and-butter.  He  could  lie  abed 
as  long  as  he  pleased,  and  laugh  at  the  weather. 
No  more  trudgings  on  foot  all  day,  looking  hun- 
geringly  this  way  and  that  for  beckoning  fingers 
at  door  and  window ;  no  more  fpuUing  off  his 
hat  in  dark  passages,  trying  to  curry  favour  with 
the  servants  by  agreeable  words  and  by  promi- 
ses of  reward  if  he  made  a  good  bargain  with 
the  master  and  mistress  ;  no  more  usherings  in  to 
the  breakfast  or  sitting  room,  where  would-be 
fine  ladies  and  fashionable  gentlemen  haggled 
and  chaffered  and  inflicted  torments  upon  him  by  the  prices  they  i^ed 
for  frayed  waist-coats,  brimless  hats,  buttonless  trousers,  and  white  - 
aeamed  and  white-elbowed  coats  :  no  more  being  called  *  a  disgusting 
old  wretch,'  '  a  thundering  old  villain*'  '  an  old  thief  of  a  Jew,'  and  he 
the  while  standing  meekly  by,  with  bended  head,  as  if  engaged  in 
prayer,  or  as  if  these  revUings  were  fairly  his  due ;  no  more  being  turned 
out  of  the  room  with  insolent  vituperation,  and  bein^  called  in  again 
With  insulting  sneers ;  no  more  being  asked  if  he  would  like  a  nice  piece 


174  *  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

of  roast  pork  before  he  went  away  9    All  this  was  at  an  end.     He  wa» 
as  20od  as  the  best  of  them.     He  was  a  rich  man. 

As  he  stood  at  his  door,  a  halo,  created  by  the  power  of  money, 
seemed  to  descend  ^m  the  clouds — surely  the  angds  were  on  his  side  ! 
— and  shed  a  glory  around  him.  He  felt  its  warm  influence,  and  already 
began  to  reap  the  benefit  of  his  new  importance.  The  signs  were  un- 
mistakable. A  dog,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  rubbing  against  him 
when  he  left  and  returned  to  Spitalfields,  approached  him  now  with  ti- 
midity in  his  manner,  and  being  rolled  into  the  gutter  by  a  touch  of 
Solomon  Isaacs'  foot,  rose  and  slunk  sneakingly  away,  with  his  tail  be- 
tween his  legs ;  many  of  his  old  acquaintances,  who  had  been  wont  to 
speak  to  him  in  tones  of  the  commonest  familiarity,  passed  him  by  with 
a  humble  nod ;  little  boys  and  girls  gazed  at  him  horn  a  distance,  with 
looks  of  awe,  and  with  their  dirty  fingers  in  their  dirty  mouths,  sUently 
set  him  up  as  a  kind  of  example  whom,  when  they  became  men  and  wo- 
men, they  would  wish  to  emulate  ;  a  man  with  whom  he  had  had  bitter 
quarrels,  and  who,  only  two  or  three  days  ago,  had  called  him  names 
which  a  pen  would  be  ashamed  to  write,  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  abashed  and  chapfallen  in  the  presence  of  money,  and  had  not  a 
word  to  say  for  himself.  What  could  be  plainer  1  Solomon  Isaacs'  head 
gradually  rose  and  rose,  and  his  neck  lengthened  and  stiffened,  until 
they  were  the  exact  counterparts  of  other  necks  and  heads  attached  to 
the  bodies  of  wealthy  magnates  whom  in  his  career  he  had  observed  and 
envied.  *  They've  'eerd  of  it,*  he  thought,  with  becoming  pride.  *  I 
don't  belong  any  longer  to  their  common  set.  They  knew  better  than 
to  take  the  liberty  of  speaking  to  me.'  But  there  was  a  bitter  drop  in 
his  cup.  An  old  acquaintance,  in  passing,  did  take  the  liberty  of  speak- 
ing to  him.  *  Good  morning,  Ikey,'  he  said.  Solomon  Isaacs  started 
as  though  he  had  been  stung,  and  gave  the  man  such  a  look  of  purse- 
proud  indignation  that  he  did  not  forget  it  for  a  month  afterwards. 

Solomon  Isaacs  had  much  to  think  of  and  much  to  do — engrossing 
business  with  reference  to  money — and  during  the  entire  day  there  re- 
curred to  him  at  intervals  the  memory  of  the  disgustingly  familiar  *  Good- 
morning,  Ikey.'  It  distressed  and  annoyed  him  in  the  most  amazing 
manner.  It  was  a  pin  with  a  very  sharp  point,  and  pricked  him  sorely. 
In  the  afternoon  he  told  his  wife  that  he  was  goine  to  Moses  &  Son's  to 
buy  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  In  accordance  with  his  wish,  Mrs.  Isaacs 
was  dressed  in  her  yellow  silk — she  had  bought  it  ready  made  at  a  cheap 
costumer's — and  she  felt  so  grand  in  it  that  she  was  afraid  to  move. 

*  Very  well,  Ikey,'  she  said. 

He  went  out  of  the  house,  fuming  at  nothing. 

'  Hallo ! '  whispered  one  young  salesman  to  another  in  Moses  &  Son's 
establishment,  as  Solomon  Isaacs  entered  the  clothing  department; 
'  there's  old  Solly  Ikey  !    Wonder  what  he  wants ! ' 

What  he  wanted  at  that  moment — his  sharp  ears  having  caught  the 
disrespectful  reference — was  to  wither  into  ashes  with  a  glance  of  his 
eagle  eye  the  young  blackguard  who  dared  to  call  him  Solly  Ikey.  He 
took  hiiB  revenge  upon  the  salesman,  who  couldn't  persuade  him  that 
this  coat  was  a  beautiful  fit  ot  that  those  trousers  were  just  the  thing — 
and  drove  the  man  into  a  state  of  desperation  by  trying  on  at  least 
thirty  pairs  of  trousers,  with  coats  and  waistcoats  to  match,  before  he 
pleased  to  be  suited  ;  and  all  the  time  he  was  pulling  on  and  pulling  off 


SOLOMON   ISAACS. 


\  y'^V,        <-^.     //-^   //., 


the  clothes,  and  survefiDg  himself  in  the  fflase,  the  iuBulting  '  Oood- 
momiDg,  Ike)*,'  and  '  Hallo !  here's  old  Souj  Ikey  ! '  rang  in  bis  ears. 
Never  bad  Bnch  an  affiront  been  put  upon  him.  With  his  old  suit  wrapped 
up  in  a  bundle  under  his  arm,  he  desired  the  aaleaman  to  make  out  and 
recMpt  his  bill  '  And  none  of  your  imperence,  young  man,'  he  added, 
with  a  rich  man's  irown ;  '  if  you  don't  write  my  name  proper,  I'll  re- 
port yon.  Mr.  Solomon  Isaacs,  Esquire,  that's  the  way  to  put  it  down.' 
The  bill  being  duly  made  out  and  receipted,  Solomon  Isaacs  walked 
into  Whitecb&pel,  arrayed  in  his  new  suit.  And  now  a  singular  impree- 
aion  crept  upon  and  impressed  him.  Everybody  seemed  to  know  him, 
seemed  to  be  staring  at  him,  seeoied  to  be  laughing  at  him.  '  Didn't 
they  never  see  agentieman  with  new  clothes  on  before ) '  he  muttered, 
be^ning  to  feel  uncomfortable  at  his  respectable  appearance.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  his  marriage  Uiat  he  had  on  an  entirely  new  suit, 
an4  he  was  not  easy  in  them.  So  strong  grew  his  discomfort  that  he 
qnickened  bis  steps  until  they  became  a  trot,  the  speed  of  which  in- 
creased when  he  arrived  at  SpitalfieldSj  where  everybody  stared  at  him 
harder  than  ever,  and  where  the  little  bays  and  girls  ran  to  have  a  good 
look  at  him.  Eushing  up^atairs,  he  stripped  off  his  new  suit,  and  whipped 
on  his  old,  and  all  the  while  he  ran,  and  all  the  while  he  dressed  and  un- 
drened '  Qood-momiDg,  Ikey,'  and  '  Hallo  I  here's  old  Solly  Ikey  ! '  never 
oeased  to  worry  him.     Ikey!  Ikey  1     What  a  disagreeable  meaning  it 


176  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

conveyed!   What  a  misfortune,  what  an  injustice,  it  was  for  a  rich  man 
to  be  born  with  the  name  of  Ikey  ! 

Later  on  in  the  night  he  recovered  his  composure,  and  again  arrayed 
himself  in  his  new  suit,  for  the  enjoyment  of  Mrs.  Isaacs.  He  did  not 
venture  out  of  doors.  He  and  his  wife  sat  together  in  their  room, 
staring  at  each  other  for  an  hour  and  more.  In  the  coarse  of  the  enter- 
tainment he  produced  with  much  ceremony  first  a  feather  which  he  de- 
sired her  to  '  stick  in  'er  'ead,'  and  then  two  pairs  of  lavender  kid 
gloves,  one  for  Mrs.  Isaacs,  the  other  for  himself. 

*  Put  'em  on,  Milly,'  he  said. 

They  were  sizes  too  large  for  her,  and  his,  also  were  sufficiently  roomy, 
but  they  completed  the  grandeur  of  their  appearance.  Mrs.  Isaacs  stUl 
wore  her  yellow  silk,  and  once  or  twice  her  husband  said, 

*  Git  up,  Milly,  and  walk  about     I  likes  to  'ear  it  rustle  ! ' 

And  as  she  walked  round  and  round  the  table,  he  gave  her  lessons  in 
deportment,  and,  bearing  in  mind  what  he  had  seen  other  ladies  do, 
desired  her  to  bend  forward  and  stick  out  her  back,  and  sway  her  body 
gently  to  and  fro,  and  walk  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  encouraging  and 
sustaining  her — ^for  she  panted  fearfully,  and  nearly  came  to  grief  once 
or  twice — ^by  clapping  his  hands  and  saying, 

*  Bravo,  Milly,  bravo !  You  look  like  a  queen !  By  my  life,  Milly, 
you  look  like  a  queen  ! ' 

Of  course  the  wonderful  news  that  Solomon  Isaacs  had  made  his 
fortune  reached  the  ears  of  Moses  and  Rachel  Levy ;  but,  although  the 
whole  neighbourhood  was  talking  of  it,  very  little  was  said  upon  the 
subject  by  either  the  old  man  or  bis  daughter.  During  this  excitement, 
Leon  was  absent  from  London.  His  hopes  of  promotion  had  been 
more  than  realized.  His  employer,  noting  his  steadiness  and  general 
ability,  had  entrusted  to  him  a  delicate  duty  connected  with  a  new 
manufacture  of  special  fancy  goods  of  which  he  had  received  early  in- 
formation. These  goods  were  manufactured  in  Switzerland,  and  Leon 
had  been  selected  to  proceed  there,  and  ascertain  all  particulars  relating 
to  them.  He  left  England  with  a  light  heart,  without  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  the  aetonishing  change  which  was  presently  to  take  place 
in  his  father's  fortunes. 

Moses  Levy  was  afraid  to  converse  with  Rachel  on  the  subject  which 
was  agitating  all  Spitalfields.  He  knew  well  the  mighty  influence 
which  such  a  change  of  circumstances  makes  in  a  man*s  nature,  and  he 
had  reasons  which  he  could  not  well  have  explained  for  mistrusting  his 
old  Mend.  Rachel,  also,  was  full  of  fears,  and  could  not  banish  from 
her  mind  the  harrowing  thought  that  now  that  Solomon  Isaacs  was  rich, 
he  would  not  be  pleased  that  his  sou  should  marry  a  girl  as  poor  as  her- 
self. Moses  Levy  heard  of  the  quarrel  between  Solomon  Isaacs  and  the 
Vampire  on  the  night  of  its  occurrence,  and  he  related  it  to  Rachel 

'  They're  saying  all  sorts  of  foolish  things  about  Leon's  father,'  said 
Moses  Levy,  referring  to  the  gossip  of  the  neighbours  ;  '  but  I  don't  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it.    Rachel,  there's  more  mischief  in  one  tongue  than  in 
^fty  pair  of  hands.' 

*  Perhaps  he  will  come  up  to-night,'  said  Rachel,  bustling  about  with 
the  tea-things,  ^  and  tell  us  all  about  it.' 

It  was  not  one  of  Solomon  Isaacs'  regular  nights  for  visiting  Moses 
Levy,  but,  considering  the  close  relations  which  existed  between  them, 


* 

SOLOMON   ISAACS.  177 

the  expectation  that  he  would  come  and  impart  his  sood  fortune  to  so 
old  a  friend  was  not  unreasonable.  It  was  what  Moses  Levy  himself 
would  have  done,  from  the  natural  instinct  of  friendship.  Solomon 
Isaacs,  however,  did  not  make  his  appearance,  being,  as  we  know,  very 
busily  employed  in  calculating  his  riches ;  and  Moses  Levy  and  Rachel 
sat  sadly  silent,  he  pretending  to  be  busy  with  his  Hebrew  book,  and 
she  quietly  employed  in  her  waistcoat  making.  When  she  said  *  Father, 
I  think  I  will  go  to  bed,'  he  rose  without  a  word,  and  took  his  candle- 
stick— for  he  slept  in  the  inner  room,  and  she  in  the  sitting-room,  where 
they  bad  their  meals.  Placing  his  candlestick  in  his  bedroom,  Moses 
Levy  returned  to  wish  Rachel  good-night  She  inclined  her  modest 
head  before  him,  and  he  placed  his  hands  upon  it  and  blessed  her,  as  waa 
his  habit  before  retiring  to  rest,  but  more  impressively  on  this  night 
than  he  had  done  for  many  a  month.  There  was  a  solemn  tenderness 
in  his  manner  which  brought  a  dimness  to  her  eyes.  He  uttered  no 
word  aloud,  but  the  blessing  he  breathed  over  her  was  from  his  heart  of 
hearts,  and  he  sent  a  mute  appeal  to  God  that  his  child  might  be  spared 
the  cruel  disappointment  that  saddens  the  liv^  of  many  poor  girls.  She 
understood  him,  and  when  he  removed  his  hands  from  her  head  she 
raised  her  face  to  his,  and  kissed  him.  Her  heart  was  too  full  to  speak. 
It  was  only  by  keeping  silence  that  she  was  able  to  repress  her  tears. 


CHAPTER  X. 

M08BS  LBVY  PLAYS  A   GAME   OP   ORIBBAGB  WITH    HIMSELF   FOR  AN  IMPORTAOTf 

STAKE. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week,  as  Moses  Levy  returned  from  his  weary 
wanderings  he  met  Solomon  Isaacs  face  to  face.  The  rich  man  would 
have  been  glad  to  avoid  the  meeting,  but  being  absorbed  in  meditating 
upon  the  suitability  of  a  fine  house  in  a  fashionable  locality,  the  lease  of 
which  had  that  day  been  offered  to  him,  he  did  not  see  Moses  Levy 
until  he  came  full  plump  upon  him.  It  was  an  awkward  moment  for 
both,  but  more  so  for  the  rich  man  than  for  the  poor  man.  Solomon 
Isaacs  stammered  and  flushed  up,  and  attempted  to  say  a  few  words,  but 
they  came  out  of  his  mouth  all  of  a  tangle,  and  Moses  Levy  therefore 
did  not  understand  them.  But  he  understood  the  manner  of  his  quon- 
dam friend,  and  would  have  expressed  himself  angrily  had  he  not  been 
restrained  by  thought  of  his  daughter. 

*  How  do  you  do,  Ikey  ? '  said  Moses  Levy,  forcing  himself  into  this 
mode  of  salutation.  It  cost  him  a  pang  to  speak  the  words  in  a  cordial 
tone;  something  whispered  to  him  that  he  owed  it  to  himself  to  be 
more  dignified ;  but  he  was  not  thinking  of  himsel£  His  salutation, 
however,  in  whatever  words  it  had  been  expressed,  could  not  have  pro- 
duced a  worse  effect  upon  Solomon  Isaacs.  Ikey  1  Ikey !  It  was  a 
deliberate  insult  to  be  thus  addressed  ;  the  more  he  thought  of  it,  the 
more  offensive  the  name  was  growing  to  him.  He  made  a  clumsy 
attempt  to  conceal  his  annoyance,  and  answered  stiffly  and  ungraciously, 

*  Very  well,  veiy  well,  thankee,  Mr.  Levy.' 

Mr.  Levy !   The  *  Mr.'  drove  itself  like  a  sharp  blade  into  Moeee 
Levy's  heart,  for  he  seemed  to  hear  in  it  the  knell  of  Rachel's  happiness. 
4 


178  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

^Been  out  to-day  1'  asked  Moses  Levy,  not  kDowing  exactly  what 
to  say. 

'No/  answered  Solomon   Isaacs,    pompously    inflating  his    chest. 

•  'Aven't  you  'eerd ' 

*  That  you've  got  suddenly  rich ! '  interrupted  Mones  Levy.  *  Oh, 
yes.    It  is  true,  then  V 

*  Yes — yes — yes  I  '  As  though  a  redundancy  of  money  required  a 
redundancy  of  affirmation. 

<  I  thought  it  likely  you  would  have  come  and  told  us  yourself,'  ob- 
served Moses  Levy. 

*  Been  busy — busy  !    Had  to  look  after  things.' 

*  How  did  it  all  happen  ? ' 

*  Spekylated — spekylated,  Mo  ! '  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  becoming 
more  familiar  in  the  contemplation  of  his  good  fortuna 

'  Ah  1 '  ejaculated  Moses  Levy,  dwelling  lengthily  on  the  little  word. 

There  was  a  meaning  in  it,  as  he  uttered  it,  that  was  not  pleasant  in 
Solomon  Isaacs'  ears.  It  conveyed  to  him  a  doubt,  a  suspicion  that  his 
money  had  not  been  well  come  by,  and  he  resented  it  by  saying  abruptly, 

*  Good-night,  good-night,'  and  hurrying  away. 

Moses  Levy  gazed  mournfully  at  the  retreating  figure  of  the  rich  man, 
and  the  old-clo'  bag  on  his  shoulders  became  as  heavy  as  lead,  notwith- 
standing that  there  was  very  little  in  it.  He  crept  slowly  to  his  house, 
and  up  his  two  flights  of  stairs,  to  the  little  room  where  Rachel  was 
awaiting  him.  He  did  not  speak  to  her  of  his  interview  with  Leon's 
father,  nor  of  the  uneasiness  he  felt  in  consequence.  He  was  more  than 
usually  tender  towards  her,  and  strove  to  cheer  her  by  telling  her  that 
he  had  made  a  good  day's  work — which  was  not  true.  Then  he  related 
to  her,  in  a  comical  way,  a  story  he  had  heard  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
after  which  he  washed  himself,  and  said  his  prayers,  and  sat  down  with 
her  to  tea. 

*  I  wonder  what  Leon  is  having  for  tea  1 '  said  Rachel  during  the 
meaL 

*  Not  fried  fish,  you  may  depend,"  replied  Moses  Levy.  "  He'd  sooner 
be  here  than  where  he  is — eh,  Rachel  ? "  with  a  wistful  questioning 
of  her  pale  face. 

'He  says  just  those  words  in  a  letter  I  got  from  him  this  morning.' 

'  A  good  letter,  Rachel  1 ' 

'  A  beautiful  letter.' 

Moses  Levy's  spirits  rose. 

'  Does  he  say  anything  about — about  Mr.  Isaacs ! ' 

*  No,'  replied  Rachel,  with  blushes ;  *  it's  all  about  me.' 
^  Then  it  isn't  likely  Leon  has  heaid  the  news,  Rachel.' 

'  I  should  think  not,  father.  He  would  have  been  certain  to  have 
mentioned  it,  if  he  had.' 

Moses  Levy's  spirits  fell  to  a  desponding  point  again. 

Rachel  was  not  in  the  habit  of  showing  Leon's  letters  to  her  father  ; 
she  would  select  portions  here  and  there,  and  read  them  to  the  old  man  ; 
but  this  letter,  in  silence,  she  handed  to  him.  Moses  Levy  read  it  care- 
fully. It  was  in  every  respect  a  model  lover's  letter,  and  was  undoubt- 
edly calculated  to  promote  confidence  in  the  truth  and  honesty  of  the 
writer.  But  the  impression  left  upon  Moses  Levy's  mind  by  his  recent 
interview  with  Solomon  Isaacs  was  too  powerful  to  allow  such  confidence 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  179 

nndisputed  sway.  Although  himself  an  unworldly  man,  he  was  to  some 
extent  versed  in  the  world's  ways,  and  he  murmured  to  himself,  '  Leon 
does  not  know  yet :  he  does  not  know/ 

^  What  are  you  saying  f '  inquired  Bachel,  observing  that  her  father's 
lips  were  moving. 

'  That  itis  B.  beautiful  letter,  my  dear.  Leon  will  be  true  to  you,  my 
dear — yes,  yes ' 

*  Father ! ' 

All  the  colour  had  died  out  of  her  face,  and  her  hands  were  trem- 
bling. For  a  moment  she  looked  upon  her  father  as  her  enemy,  and  she 
took  sides  against  him  with  Leon  and  Solomon  Isaacs.  How  dare  he 
whisper  a  doubt  of  Leon's  truth  I  To  hear  it  spoken  distracted  almost 
beyond  endurance  her  already  troubled  mind.  Her  eyes  sparkled  with 
resentment  against  the  father  she  so  loved  and  honoured. 

*  Rachel,  my  blessing  I '  he  cried  imploringly.  *  Forgive  me— for- 
give me ! ' 

She  crept  into  his  arms,  and  he  pressed  her  to  his  breast,  and  soothed 
her  with  loving  words. 

*  Mr.  Isaacs  has  been  too  busy  to  come  and  see  us  this  week,'  said 
BacheL     '  We  must  not  be  unjust  to  him.' 

*  No,  no,  Rachel ;  you  are  right — ^yes,  yes,  there  is  no  doubt  you  are 
right.' 

*  When  you  grow  rich,  father * 

*  Yes,  my  blessing,'  he  said  with  a  wan  smile ;  '  when  I  grow 
rich ' 

'  You  will  be  the  same  at  first ;  you  will  have  so  much  to  do,  so  much 
to  look  after.' 

*  Of  course,  my  dear,  of  course.' 

'  So  because  Mr.  Isaacs  has  not  been  here  yet,  we  must  not  blame 
Leon,  or  doubt  Leon.  Father,  you  and  Leon  are  the  two  best  men  in 
the  world ;  I  think  you  could  not  do  a  bad  thing,  if  you  tried.  And 
Mr.  Isaacs  is  the  next  best.' 

'  Yes,  Rachel,'  replied  Moses  Levy,  with  a  sinking  heart ;  *  Solomon 
Isaacs  is  a  good  man,  a  good  m^n.' 

'  There  is  no  sacrifice  you  can  think  of,'  continued  Rachel,  with  a 
beautiful  glow  in  her  face,  '  that  I  would  not  make  for  Leon's  sake,  and 
because  his  father  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  grow  rich — ^for  I  suppose 
it  is  true — I  am  not  going  to  believe  that  this  is  a  wicked  cruel  world. 
Why,  it  should  make  things  brighter  for  us,  instead  of  darker  !' 

*  True,  my  dear.     I  am  a  heartless,  unfeeling  old  man  ! ' 

'  You  are  not — you  are  not,'  she  said,  with  a  fond  pressure,  kissing 
bis  old  fingers.  '  Only  you  must  never  whisper  a  word  against  Leon 
— ^never,  never!' 

'  You  will  never  hear  a  word  of  that  sort  pass  my  lips,  Rachel.' 

'  Nor  against  Mr.  Isaacs.  He's  not  to  be  blamed  because  he  has  grown 
rich.     You  wouldn't  mind  it  yourself,  father.' 

'That  I  shouldn't,  Rachel;  there  wouldn't  be  any  trouble  then,  my 
dear.' 

'  And  there's  none  now.  You'll  see !  To-night  is  Mr.  Isaacs'  regular 
night  for  cribbage.  When  he's  sitting  at  this  table,  playing  with  you, 
you'll  be  sorry  for  what  you've  said  against  him.' 

She  cleared  the  table  briskly,  and  placed  the  greasy  old  pack  of  cards 


180  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

and  the  war-worn  cribbage-board  before  her  father.  Then  she  went  into 
his  bedroom,  and  washed  her  eyes  with  cold  water,  and  kissed  Leon's 
letter  in  the  dark  Leon  not  true  to  her !  Would  there  ever  be  light  in 
heaven  again  ? 

Of  the  two  nights  in  the  week  on  which  Solomon  Isaacs  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  Moses  Levy's  room  to  play  cribbage,  this,  which  was  at  the 
latter  end  of  the  week,  was  the  more  important — for  the  reason  that 
Eachel  used  to  provide  a  little  bit  of  supper  for  the  old  friends.  On 
this  occasion  there  was  something  especially  dainty  in  the  cupboard,  a 
favourite  dish  which  Solomon  Isaacs  had  often  praiswL  For  years  Solo- 
mon  Isaacs  had  not  missed  a  night  unless  it  was  holiday  time.  Moses 
Levy  felt  that  the  breaking  of  the  custom  would  be  almost  like  the 
snapping  of  a  vital  cord  in  his  body.  Then,  again,  it  was  a  test — ab- 
solutely a  test  of  ri^ht-dbing ;  if  Solomon  Isaacs  came  scatheless  out  of 
the  fire,  pure  gold,  indeed,  would  he  prove  himself  to  be. 

Moses  Levy  awaited  the  result  with  fear  and  trembling.     He  sat  at 
the  table,  and,  in  deep  suspense,  listened  for  the  familiar  sound  of  Solo- 
mon Isaacs'  footfall.     Rachel,  as  usual,  took  her  work  in  her  hand,  and 
sat  in  her  accustomed  seat,  where  she  could  see  the  old  friiBuds,  and  ex- 
change smiles  with  them.     The  time  passed  slowly  and  heavily,  and 
every  moment  the  silence  became  more  impressive.    Nothing  was  heard 
but  thetick  of  the  old  clock,  which  seemed  to  beat  '  He  will  soon  come, 
he  will  not  come ,  he  will  soon  come,  he  will  not  come.'     It  is  really 
true  that  to  both   Moses  and  Rachel  Levy's  ears,  the  tick  of  the  clock 
conveyed  the  same  meaning.     Moses  Levy  had  but  little  hope  ;  Rachel 
had  failed  to  convince  him.  As  though  it  lay  before  him  in  a  clear  glass,* 
had  Solomon  Isaacs'  soul  been  revealed  to  him  in  their  last  interview* 
and  when  the  clock  marked  half  an  hour  beyond  the  rich  man's  usual 
time  of  arrival,  it  distinctly  proclaimed  to  him  that  the  old  friendship 
had  come  to  an  end.    Money  had  broken  the  tie  between  them.    Bat 
for  money,  he  and  Solomon  Isaacs  might  have  gone  onto  the  end  of  their 
days,  enjoying  each  other's  companionship  in  the  good  old  way.     But 
for  money,  no  cloud  would  have  darkened  his  dear  daughter's  happiness. 
Surely  what  could  work  so  much  ill,  and  bring  so  much  unmerited  suf- 
fering to  tender  hearts,  could  be  nothing  but  a  curse  !    Sadly  and  sofUy, 
so  as  not  to  attract   Rachel's  attention,  Moses  Levy  took  up  the  cards, 
and  b^an  to  play  a  game  of  patience ;  but  after  losing  a  couple  of 
games,  he  changed  it  to  cribbage,  dealing  out  the  cards  fairly  and  hon- 
estly to  himself  and  an  opponent  '  shaped  i'  the  air.'      In  the  course  of 
his  sad  amusement,  Moses  Levy  made  mute  wagers  with  his  invisible 
antagonist,  out  of  his  hopes  and  fears.     As  thus:  '  If  I  win,'  he  whis- 
pered, shaping  each  word  as  distinctly  as  though  an  actual  opponent 
were  sitting  opposite,  *  if  I  win,  Leon  will  be  faithful  to  Rachel ;  if  I 
lose,  he  wiU  be  false  to  her.'    And  he  lost  every  game  1    It  would  be 
difficult  to  describe  his  grief  and  dismay  at  the  uniformity  of  this 
result ;  if  he  had  won  once,  he  would  have  been  comforted :  it  would 
have  given  him  hope.    It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  he  scored  the 
game  against  himself  on  the  cribbage-board.     He  cast  furtive  glances 
at  Rachel,  actually  apprehensive  that  she  knew  that  he  was  playing  for 
her  happiness,  and  was  losing.  He  tried  hard  to  win ;  at  the  commence- 
ment of  each  fresh  game  he  whispered,  '  This  is  the  real-game,'  trying 
to  cheat  himself  into  the  belief  that  the  last  was  not  played  in  earnest^ 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  181 

asd  that  he  really  had  not  meant  to  stake  anything  upon  it  But  his 
melancholy  ju^ling  met  with  its  punishment ;  not  a  game  could  he  win, 
not  a  game,  ui  luck  clung  close  to  him,  and  drove  him  almost  out  of 
his  wits.  At  length  he  resolved,  for  the  last  time,  to  stake  the  entire 
issue  on  one  concluding  game.  Having  settled  this  definitely  and  deter- 
minedly, having  pledged  himself  solemnly  to  abide  by  the  result,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  cut  for  crib,  and  to  deal  the  cards.  He  played  well  and  care- 
fully— never  in  his  life  had  he  played  so  well ;  he  did  not  throw  away 
a  single  chance  ;  he  played  fairly  too ;  to  win  by  trickery  would  be  sure 
to  bring  misfortune.  The  same  ran  pretty  close  to  the  end,  when  at 
the  last  deal  he  found  himself  with  the  best  chance  of  winning  he  had 
had  during  the  night.  His  eyes  brightened  ;  his  heart  grew  lighter.  It 
was  his  enemy's  crib  ;  he  himself  wanted  only  one  for  game,  and  his 
enemy  wanted  two.  He  threw  out  for  crib,  having  a  sure  two ;  he  cut 
the  cards  for  his  enemy  with  his  right  hand,  and  turned  up  the  enemy's 
crib  card  with  the  left.  It  was  a  knave,  and  it  placed  his  enemy's  peg 
in  the  winning  hole  I  Moses  Levy  dropped  his  cards  upon  the  table 
with  a  look  of  despair.  He  had  worked  himself  into  such  a  fever  of 
nervous  excitement  as  to  positively  believe  that  the  turning  up  of  that 
knave  had  irretrievably  wrecked  his  daughter's  happiness.  It  was  suffi- 
ciently suggestive,  Heaven  knows !  in  its  application  to  the  affairs  of 
life.  For  how  often  are  our  dearest  hopes  blasted  by  the  turning  up  of 
a  knave ! 


CHAPTER  XL 


THE  LESSON   OF  LOVE. 


More  than  a  month  elapsed  before  Solomon  Isaacs  left  Spitalfields,  and 
during  that  time  he  did  not  visit  Moses  Levy.  Havine  no  desire  to 
meet  his  old  friend  in  the  street,  he  was  careful  to  avoid  him,  there  was 
a  matter  in  his  mind  which  caused  him  great  disturbance,  and  it  was 
not  until  he  had  taken  his  departure  from  his  old  quarters  that  he  re- 
solved upon  his  course  of  action  with  reference  to  it  Leon  was  still 
absent  from  London.  His  mission  had  been  entirely  successful,  and  had 
led  him  to  other  discoveries  in  the  shape  of  suitable  new  goods  for  his 
employers.  Mentioning  this  in  his  correspondence,  he  was  instructed  to 
pursue  his  inquiries,  and  although  he  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  Rachel, 
his  future  career,  as  he  believed,  depended  upon  his  compliance  with  the 
orders  he  received.  He  had  no  suspicion  that  his  father  had  anything 
to  do  with  his  long  absence — which  was  really  the  case— uor  of  the 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  Solomon  Isaacs'  fortuna  Solomon  Isaacs 
had  strictly  desired  his  wife  not  to  mention  the  matter  in  her  letters. 
'  I  want — '  said  Solomon  Isaacs ;  *  I  want  to  make  'im  stare.' 
Rachel  Levy  also  had  her  reasons  for  keeping  silence.  Leon,  she 
thought,  must  surely  know  that  his  father  had  grown  rich,  and  it  dis- 
tressed her  and  caused  her  uneas^ess  that  he  made  no  reference  to  it. 
She  would  not,  however,  write  a  word  on  the  subject ;  it  was  his  place 
to  speak  first  Solomon  Isaacs  was  most  particular  in  enjoining  his  wife 
not  to  visit  Spitalfields  until  he  gave  her  permission,  and  when  she  re- 


182  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

monstrated,  flew  into  a  passion,  and  said  he  knew  his  own  business  best. 

*  Do  you  want  to  ruin  me  1 '  he  cried. 

She  was  compelled  into  obedience,  and  wept  many  bitter  tears  over 
the  estrangement  between  herself  and  Rachel  Levy. 
^But  why  don't  they  come  to  see  us  ? '  she  asked. 

*  You'll  drive  me  out  of  my  mind  ! '  was  the  only  reply  he  vouchsafed. 
*  Can't  you  wait  1  Ain't  we  up  to  our  'eads  and  ears  with  things  ?  You 
take  my  advice,  Milly  Isaacs  ! — let  me  manage  my  own  business  my  own 
way!' 

He  was  certainly  busy  night  and  day  furnishing  his  new  residence  m 
the  West  end  of  London,  and  superintending  certain  alterations  therein. 

He  was  mighty  particular  about  this  and  that,  and  endeavoured  in  his 
conversations  with  builders  and  house-agents  to  impress  them  with  the 
notion  that  he  had  been  used  to  grandeur  all  his  life.  It  was  a  comical 
sight  to  see  him  attempt  to  act  the  gentleman,  with  the  old  Adam  peep- 
ing out  the  moment  he  began  to  bargain  with  the  tradesmen.  Then  it 
was  that  all  his  native  shrewdness  was  displayed,  and  that,  in  his  wran- 
gles over  the  values  of  textures  and  materials,  he  baited  down  to  the 
last  shilling.  When  he  was  gone  the  tradesmen  exchanged  winks,  and 
put  their  fingers  to  their  noses  ;  they  knew  all  about  old  Solomon  Isaacs, 
and  they  had  many  a  good  laugh  at  him  behind  his  back.  His  bank- 
notes, however  were  as  good  as  any  other  man's.  A  nice  thing  it  would 
be  in  this  world  if  tradesmen  were  particular  as  to  where  the  money 
they  put  into  their  tills  came  from  I 

Mrs.  Isaacs  was  dazed  and  bewildered  at  this  tremendous  jump  up 
the  social  ladder,  and  her  heart  sank  as  she  walked  through  the  grand 
rooms,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  they  were  going  to  do  with  them. 
She  did  not  know  whether  to  be  pleased  or  sorry. 

At  length  Solomon  Isaacs,  having  come  to  a  certain  decision,  set  apart 
an  evening  for  his  visit  to  Moses  Levy.  Behold  him,  then,  mounting 
the  stairs  in  Spitalfields  which  led  to  his  old  friend's  apartoaents. 

It  had  been  his  custom  hitherto  to  enter  the  room  without  ceremony, 
but  on  this  occasion,  after  stepping  up-stairs — ^not  with  his  old  rapid 
shuffle,  but  slowly  and  in  a  stately  manner — he  rapped  with  his  knuckles^ 
and  waited  for  permission  to  enter.  He  heard  the  voices  of  Rachel  and 
her  father  in  the  room,  and  he  put  his  ear  to  the  door,  to  hear  what  they 
were  saying.  '  They're  a-playing  cribbage,'  he  whispered  to  himself ; '  I 
didn't  think  Rachel  could  play.'  He  was  correct  in  this  conjecture;  Rachel 
had  learnt  the  game  for  the  purpose  of  amusing  her  father,  and  to  afford 
him  some  recompense  for  the  loss  of  his  old  opponent.  Solomon 
Isaacs  waited  a  little,  and  then  rapped  again.  It  is  not  customary  for 
persons  in  Moses  Levy's  condition  in  life  to  say  '  Come  in,'  in  response 
to  a  knock  at  the  door ;  they  usually  open  the  door  for  their  visitor  ; 
and  on  this  occasion  Rachel  rose,  with  her  cards  in  her  hands,  and  fell 
back  with  a  little  hysterical  cry  when  she  saw  who  the  visitor  was.  This 
in  itself  was  sufficient  to  cause  some  discomposure  to  Solomon  Isaacs, 
and  he  lingered  on  the  threshold,  scarcely  knowing  whether  to  enter  the 
room  or  go  out  of  the  house.  Moses  Levy,  also,  was  discomposed  by 
the  sight  of  Solomon  Isaacs;  but  i^e  recovered  himself  quickly,  and, 
actuated  both  by  his  anxiety  for  Rachel  and  the  instinct  of  hospitality — 
a  beautiful  and  strongly-marked  feature  in  the  Jewish  character — he  de- 
sired his  visitor  to  take  a  seat,  indicating,  with  a  courteous  motion  of 


SOLOMON  ISAACS^]  183 

his  hand,  the  chair  which  Solomon  Isaacs  was  to  occupy.  The  unusual 
circumstance  of  Solomon  Isaacs  removing  his  hat  from  his  head  when  * 
he  sat  down  may  have  been  brought  about  by  his  desire  to  indicate  by 
an  outward  sign  that  his  present  visit  was  not  to  be  regarded  in  the 
same  light  as  of  old^  or  it  may  have  been  compelled  by  tiie  singularly 
courteous  manner  of  Moses  Levy,  whose  calmness,  considering  the  stake 
at  issue,  was  wonderful  to  behold.  The  two  old  friends  presented  at 
this  moment  a  notable  contrast  Moses  Levy's  white  beard,  his  bene- 
volent expression,  his  blue  eyes — somewhat  of  an  uncommon  attribute 
among  Jews — his  loosely-hannng  old  coat,  the  stoop  of  his  shoulders, 
his  shapely  hands,  formed  a  harmonious  and  pleasant  picture.  In  his 
youth,  he  must  have  been  remarkably  handsome,  and  the  goodness  of 
his  character  and  the  simplicity  of  his  heart  imparted*  grace  to  his  old 
age.  In  his  face  you  could  see  the  source  of  RacheFs  beauty,  and  the 
likeness  between  them  received  a  spiritual  charm  from  the  fact  that  in 
feeling  and  sentiment  the  one  was  the  exact  counterpart  of  the  other. 
Moses  Levy's  face  was  almost  fair,  and  the  furrows  in  his  forehead  added 
to  the  benignancy  of  his  appearance.  Solomon  Isaacs'  forehead  and  face 
were  also  deeply  furrowed,  but  the  spirit  of  cunning  lurked  in  the  hard 
lines,  and  the  pinched  nostrils  and  the  wrinkles  in  the  corners  of  his  lips 
were  tell-tale  witnesses  of  a  life  storm  tossed  by  greed  and  avarice.  Moses 
Levy's  voice  was  soft  and  silvery.  Solomon  Isaacs'  voice,  since  he  had 
become  rich,  had  grown  more  than  ever  like  the  turning  of  a  rusty  key 
in  a  rusty  lock. 

Solomon  Isaacs  was  dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  from  the  top  of 
his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot — a  suit  of  clothes  not  bought  ready- 
made,  but  cut  and  put  together  by  a  fashionable  tailor.  The  cloth  of 
his  coat  was  superfine  of  the  superfinest ;  his  waistcoat  was  soft  and 
velvety ;  his  hat  was  glossy  of  the  glossiest.  His  open  coat  displayed  a 
massive  gold  chain,  weighing  four  ounces  at  least,  the  device  of  which 
was  formed  by.  solid  links  of  gold  manacled  to  each  other  like  galley- 
slaves  ;  and  he  wore  a  great  diamond  pin  in  his  black-satin  cravat,  and 
three  great  diamond  rings  on  his  fingers,  outside  his  gloves — any  of 
which  articles  of  jewellery  he  would  have  been  glad  to  sell  you,  at  a  profit, 
at  a  moment's  notice.  But  with  all  his  finery,  if  ever  a  man  in  this 
worid  presented  a  mean  and  disreputable  appearance,  Solomon  Isaacs  did 
80,  as  he  sat  in  the  presence  of  Moses  and  Rachel  Levy.  He  was  ab- 
ashed by  the  modest  beauty  of  Rachel  and  by  the  dignity  of  her  father, 
and  he  did  not  feel  at  his  ease. 

He  was  rendered  still  mote  uncomfortable  by  Moses  Levy's  behaviour 
towards  him.  With  a  great  deal  of  fuss  and  parade,  be  took  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket  a  beautiful  heavy  gold  watch,  and,  opening  it,  held  it 
in  hiB  hana  for  a  much  longer  time  than  was  necessary  for  him  or  any 
man  to  ascertain  the  hour.  He  was  compelled  to  turn  his  face  towards 
the  lamp  upon  the  table,  so  that  the  hands  might  catch  the  light.  Mo- 
ses Levy's  eyes  wandered  to  the  watch,  Moses  Levy  sm'ded,  bat  never  a 
word  in  praise  of  the  watch  passed  Moses  Levy's  lips.  He  fully  expected 
Moses  Levy  to  exclaim,  '  Oh,  what  a  lovely  watch  I  How  much  did  it 
cost)'  and  was  prepared  in  an  amicable  spirit  to  go  into  the  question  of 
value.  He  closed  the  watch  with  a  vicious  click,  and  returning  it  to  his 
pocket,  smoothed  his  face  with  his  hands  in  such  a  manner  as  to  most 
conspicuously  display  the  beauty  and  brillancy  of  the  diamonds  on   his 


184  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

fingers.  And  Mosee  Levy's  eyes  wandered  again,  and  his  lips  smiled, 
bat  never  a  word  in  praise  of  the  rings  did  Moses  Levy  utter. 

All  this  side-play  did  not  take  place  in  perfect  silence.  When  Solo- 
mon Isaacs  was  seated,  and  the  door  closed,  Moses  Levy  bade  Rachel  sit 
down,  and  said,  without  any  futher  notice  of  his  visitor, 

^  We  will  finish  our  game,  my  dear.' 

It  proceeded  but  slowly,  and  ten  minutes  elapsed  before  it  was  finished. 
Solomon  Isaacs,  despite  the  attention  he  lavished  upon  himself  and  his 
personal  adornments,  found  time  to  watch  the  progress  of  the  game,  and 
thought,  *  'Ow  badly  Rachel  Levy  plays — 'ow  badly  she  plays !  *  She 
did  play  badly ;  she  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doiug.  Her  eyes  were 
so  dim  that  she  could  hardly  tells  hearts  from  diamonds — perhaps  be- 
cause hearts  and  diamonds  was  really  the  game  that  was  being  played  in 
her  life  just  then. 

*  You  have  lost,  my  dear,'  says  Moses  Levy,  with  a  sad  significance  in 
bis  tone. 

He  carefully  picked  up  the  cards,  and  placing  them  and  the  cribbage- 
board  in  the  cupboard,  resumed  his  seat,  and  waited  for  Solomon  Isaacs 
to  speak.  He  was  determined  not  to  be  the  first ;  and  Solomon  Isaacs, 
perceiving  this,  and  that  it  placed  him  at  a  disadvantage,  said  to  him- 
self, '  I'll  be  even  with  'im  for  it,  the  beast . — I'll  be  even  with  'im !' 

'Well,  Mo/  he  said  aloud,  clearing  his  throat  after  the  awkward 
pause,  '  and  'ow's  business  ? ' 

It  was  undoubtedly  a  familiar  way  for  a  rich  man  like  Solomon  Isaacs 
to  address  so  poor  a  person  as  Moses  Levy,  but  Solomon  Isaacs  had  a 
purpose  to  achieve,  and  was  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  to  succeed.  But 
for  that,  he  would  surely  have  resented  the  afiront  offered  to  him  in 
being  compelled  to  wait  like  a  servant  until  Rachel  and  her  father  had 
finished  their  game  of  cribbage. 

*  Well,  Mo,  and  'ow's  business  1 ' 

'  Pretty  well  the  same  as  when  you  left  it,  Mr.  Isaacs/  replied  Moses 
Levy.     *  I  bought  a  good  lot  to-day.' 

'  Glad  to  'ear  it.  Mo,  glad  to  'ear  it,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  and  then 
paused  from  not  knowing  how  to  proceed. 

Moses  Levy  showed  no  disposition  to  assist  him  out  of  his  dilemma, 
and  every  moment  of  continued  silence  added  to  his  perplexity  and  an- 
noyance. Rachel  had  taken  up  her  work,  and  although  her  fingers  were 
busy  with  the  needle,  and  she  never  once  raised  her  eyes  to  Solomon 
Isaacs'  face,  all  her  heart  was  in  her  ears. 

During  this  pause,  time  is  allowed  for  the  contemplation  of  the  pic- 
ture of  iSe  presented  in  the  humble  room  in  Spitalfields,  with  all  its 
mementos  of  homely  love  and  suffering.  The  oddly  assorted  furniture, 
the  worn  carpet,  the  cheap  ornaments  ;  the  simple  tokens  of  affection, 
each  of  which  has  in  the  bygone  days  given  pleasure  to  the  giver  and 
the  receiver ,  the  chair  in  which  Rachel's  mother  used  to  sit  and  gaze 
with  loving  eyes  upon  the  bright  flower  of  her  existence ;  her  faded  pic- 
ture over  the  mantelshelf,  and  by  its  side  the  newer  picture  of  Le6n, 
fresh  and  smiling  ;  the  Hebrew  device  upon  the  eastern  wall,  worked  in 
silk  by  Rachel's  hands,  towards  which  Moses  Levy  turns  his  eyes  when 
he  prays  :  all  hallowed  by  the  spirit  of  love  which,  in  hours  of  peace  and 
heartsease,  sheds  its  sweet  influence  over  the  meanest  things.  Staring 
before  him  uneasily  sits  Solomon  Isaacs,  and  near  him  Moses  Levy,  with 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  185 

sad,  benignant  features,  and  the  modest  figure  of  Rachel  bending  over 
her  work.     Her  face  is  hidden  from  the  men,  and  its  gentle  grace  and 
beauty  are  shadowed  by  fear  and  sorrow.     The  old  clock  marks 
the  record  which  hastens  all  mankind  to  the  common  level  of  the 
grave,  and  its  melancholy  accents  seem  to  proclaim  a  knowledge  of 
the  game  that  the  living  actors  in  the  room  are  playing — seems  to  in- 
dicate a  consciousness  of  the  sickening  battle  which  is  being  fought  in 
the  hearts  of  Rachel  and  her  father.    Truly  the  game  resembles  some 
game  of  cards.     '  I  play  hearts ! '  whispers  poor  Rachel,  with  white 
and  trembling  lips.     *  I  play  diamonds  ! '  cries  Solomon  Isaacs,  and  a 
<K>ld  glitter  of  money  darts  from  his  eyes,  like  a  poison  fang,  and  strikes 
desolation  into  the  young  girl's  life.     There  are  old,  old  lessons  which 
played  their  parts  thousands  of  years  ago,  and  which  are  playing  their 
parts  to-day  as  though  they  are  newly  born,  and  imbued  with  the  strength 
of  a  strong  young  life.     The  lesson  of  love  is  one  of  these.     What  was 
put  into  the  eartli  thousands  of  years  ago,  of  which  no  material  atom 
shall  be  seen — what  turned  into  dust  thousands  of  years  ago,  and  was 
used  in  after-days  for  Heaven  knows  what  base  purpose — once  pulsed 
with  such  hopes  and  fears  as  Rachel's  heart  is  pulsing  with  now.     Think 
of  the  dust  of  pure-souled,  tender-hearted  woman — be  she  lowly-born  or 
highly-born,  it  matters  not — and  then  of  the  passion,  perhaps  the  fruition 
of  love,  which  stirred  the  heart  of  that  dust,  when  it  was  young  and 
bright  and  imbued  with  life  !    The  dawning  of  the  love— the  musings 
by  day,  the  dreams  by  night — the  tender  fancies,  the  fond  imaginings, 
the  sweet  hopes,  the  flushmg  of  bright  blood  to  the  neck  and  face  when 
her  lover  comes  before  her,  not  as  he  is,  but  as  her  great  love  makes 
him — the  thrills  of  adoration,  the  shy  glances,  the  tender  hand-clasps, 
the  joy  hidden  in  the  hero's  breast — what  svmbols  them  now  %    Dust. 
The  heart  that  beat,  the  eye  that  brightened,  the  fingers  in  whose  soft 
pressure  Heaven-bom  hopes  were  wont  to  speak,  the  dewy  eyelash,  the 
tongue  that  uttered  the  loving  thought : — a  handful  of  dust  is  all  that 
remains.     It  is  the  old,  old  story — the  old,  old  lesson,  to  which  men's 
and  women's  hearts  have  throbbed  since  the  first  man  and  the  first 
woman  drew  breath  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.     Old  as  the  hills,  new  as 
the  sunrise.     Glad  am  I  to  believe  that  some  who  read  this  simple  tale 
of  human  passion  must  surely  know  that  what  these  things  are  the 
symbol  of  shall  never  die  if  it  be  pure.     Flesh  shall  turn  to  dust,  and  in 
its  transformation  shall  play  its  allotted  part  in  Nature's  wondrous 
scheme — shall  strengthen  the  veins  of  tender  blades  of  grass,  shall  ripen 
the  juices  of  buttercup  and  daisy,  shall  make  the  air  healthful  for  tree 
and  flower — shall  fade  utterly  away,  and  lose  all  form  and  likeness  of 
itself;  but  love  that  is  pure  shall  live  for  ever,  untransformed ! 

And  another  old  lesson  !  Mammon-worship — the  lust  for  power  bom 
of  money  !  What  need  to  speak  of  the  shame  of  it,  when  it  lives  apart 
from  nobler  attributes  I  But  how  we  covet  it — how  we  yearn  for  it — 
how  we  pray,  lie,  and  sin  for  it !  Here  is  a  tmism — new,  it  may  be, 
though  it  is  scarcely  likely,  for  there  are  not  many  such,  but  not  the 
less  true  whether  it  be  old  or  new.  Those  are  the  most  blessed  who  are 
not  born  to  money.  Sweet  as  the  morning's  dew  is  money  when  it  is 
honestly  earned  ;  sweeter  than  dew  when  it  is  well  and  worthily  used. 
*  I  have  more  than  enough  for  my  wants — take  you,  my  poor  and  strug- 


186  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

gling  brother,  a  portion  of  my  superfluoas  store.     With  free  hand  and 
heart  I  ^ve  ;  take — ^and  let  no  one  know.' 

Here  is  another  truism :    Too  much  money  makes  a  man  drunk. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SOLOMON  ISAACS  MAKBS  A  PBOPOSmON  TO  RAOHBL. 

Finding  that  Moses  Levy  would  not  speak,  Solomon  Isaacs  was  com- 
pelled once  more  to  break  the  silence.     In  an  injured  tone  he  asked. 

'  Ain't  you  pleased  to  see  me.  Mo  ? ' 
^    Moses  Levy  returned  a  qualified  answer. 

*  I  am  always  pleased  to  see  my  friends.' 

*  I'd  'ave  been  'ere  before,  but  I  couldn't  find  time.  I've  come  now 
on  a  little  bit  of  business.  Business  is  always  agreeable,  eh,  Mo  f 
Always  agreeable  1 ' 

'  I  didn't  suppose  you  came  on  a  little  bit  of  pleasure,'  replied  Moses 
Levy,  pointodly  waiving  the  agreeable  aspect  of  the  visit ;  '  though  you 
have  been  glad  to  do  that,  now  and  then,  you  remember.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  turning  his  largest  diamond  to  the 
light,  and  admiring  the  brilliancy  of  the  stones  ;  '  but  times  is  changed 
now,  times  is  changed ! ' 

*  They  are,  indeed,'  responded  Moses  Levy. 

*  And  we  must  go  with  'em ;  we've  got  to  go  with  *em — eh  ? ' 
'  You  know  best,  Mr.  Isaacs.' 

'  Of  course  I  do,  of  course  I  do.  I'm  a  rich  man  now' — and  Solomon 
Isaacs  would  have  proceeded  to  dilate  upon  his  riches  but  that  Moses 
Levy,  mildly  and  firmly,  arrested  the  arrogant  current  with, 

'  Never  mind  that,  if  you  please.' 

'  Oh,  as  you  like ! '  blustered  Solomon  Isaacs ;  '  I  don't  want  to  force 
it  on  you.' 

<  Thank  you.  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  know  the  little  bit 
of  business  you've  come  upon  1 ' 

Thus  challenged,  Solomon  Isaacs  turned  to  Rachel,  and  addressed  her 
in  a  tone  of  whining  familiarity. 

'  Rachel,  I  want  to  say  something  private  to  your  father.  '  Adn't  you 
better  leave  the  room,  my  dear  ? ' 

Rachel  raised  her  eyes  pleadingly  to  her  father's  face,  and  said  to  him, 
without  uttering  a  word — eyes  can  on  occasions  speak  more  eloquently 
than  words—'  He  is  going  to  speak  about  Leon.  Do  not  send  me  away ; 
let  me  stay.' 

'  Yes,  my  child,'  said  Moses  Levy,  in  answer  to  the  silent  appeal,  '  you 
can  stay.     There  is  not  the  slightest  occasion  for  you  to  go.' 

*  As  a  particular  favour,  Rachel ! '  said  Solomon  Isaacs  -,  *'  I  arks  it  as 
a  particular  favour ! ' 

Rachel  did  not  look  at  him ;  her  eyes  were  still  directed  towards  her 
father,  waiting  for  a  fuller  expression  of  his  wish. 

'  Mr.  Isaacs,'  continued  Moses  Levy  steadily,  '  has  been  in  the  habit 
of  coming  here  night  after  night,  ever  since  you  were  born,  Rachel ;  he 
has  been  in  this  room  hundreds  of  times,  and  never  a  word  has  passed 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  187" 

between  ns  that  I  should  be  sorry  to  hear.    What  he  has  to  say  now  he- 
can  say  before  you,  if  he  is  not  ashamed.' 

'  Ashamed ! '  cried  Solomon  Isaacs. 

'  You  must  blame  yourself  for  making  me  speak  the  word/  said  Moses^ 
Levy,  with  a  grave  motion  of  his  hands  ;  4f  I  have  used  it  wrongly,  I 
beg  your  pardon.' 

'  But,  Mo  ! '  still  urged  Solomon  Isaacs. 

*  Call  me  Mr.  Levy,'  said  Moses  Levy,  with  a  touch  of  pride ;  *  it  will 
sound  much  better  as  things  are.  And  as  for  Bachel,  it  is  my  desire 
that  she  shall  not  leave  the  room.  So,  as  your  time  must  be  very  pre- 
cious now  that  you're  a  rich  man,  you  had  best  come  at  once  to  your 
little  bit  of  business.' 

it  was  evident  that  delicacy  of  feeling  was  thrown  away  upon  such  an. 
obstinate  old  man  as  Moses  Levy,  and  Solomon  Isaacs  had  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  speak  in  the  presence  of  Itachel,  who  had  quietly  resumed\ 
her  work. 

'  Well,  then,  Mo ' 

'  Mr.  Levy,  it  you  please,'  again  interrupted  Moses  Levy. 

'  Well,  then,  Mr.  Levy/  cried  Solomon  Isaacs,  firing  up  at  Moses 
Levy's  obstinacy,  but  cooling  down  immediately  at  the  thought  that  if 
he  spoke  in  anger  he  might  not  be  able  to  occomplish  his  purpose.  *  It's-^ 
best  to  speak  plain,  ain't  it  ? ' 

'  Surely,  surely  i '  said  Moses  Levy,  with  a  significant  glance  at  the 
rich  man  ;  '  plain  and  honest  speaking,  like  plain  and  honest  dealing,  is 
the  best.' 

'  Jist  my  motto  1  No  'ambug,  you  know  ;  come  to  the  point,  you* 
know  !  Since  I've  got  rich — no  offence  in  mentioning  it,  I  'ope  1 '  and^ 
Solomon  Isaacs  broke  off  suddenly,  thinking  he  had  made  a  good  hit. 

*  It's  no  offence  to  me,  if  it's  none  to  you.' 

*  You're  very  good.     I  can't  say  'ow  much  obliged  to  you  I  am.' 

*  Don't  then.' 

'Don't  what?'  exclaimed  Solomon  Isaacs,  not  knowing,  from  Moses- 
Levy's  impenetrable  manner,  whether  his  arrows  were  taking  effect. 

'  Don't  say  how  much  obliged  to  me  you  are,'  replied  Moses  Levy. 

Solomon  Isaacs  felt  as  though  he  would  like  to  throw  something  at 
Moses  Levy's  head.  '  You  exasperate  me  so,'  he  cried,  <  that  I  don't  > 
know  where  I  am  !     Where  was  I  ? ' 

'  Since  you  grew  rich/  prompted  Moses  Levy. 

'  Yes,  yes,  that's  it.  Since  I've  got  rich,  I've  been  thinking  a  good 
deal.  When  a — a  gentleman  ain't  got  no  longer  to  go  out  with  'is  bag 
for  a  living,  he  can't  'elp  thinking  of  all  sorts  of  things,  can  he  f '  A 
happy  illustration  occurred  to  him  here.  *  When  a  old  suit  of  clothes 
is  worn  out,  and  you've  got  no  more  use  for  'em,  you  throw  'em  away 
or  sell  *em  you  know.' 

'  And  when  old  friends,'  added  Moses  Levy,  continuing  the  illustra- 
tion, 'are,  as  you  say,  worn  out  and  you  have  no  further  use  for  them,, 
do  you  throw  them  away  or  sell  them  1 ' 

'Ba,hal '  chuckled  Solomon  Isaacs  ;  '  you  will  'ave  your  joke.  Mo,, 
you  will  'ave  your  joke.' 

*  My  joke ! '  echoed  Moses  Levy  sadly. 

'  Among  other  things,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  '  I've  been  thinking  of. 
Leon,  and  what's  open  to  'im  now  that  he'll  come  into  money.' 


188  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

He  watched  Moees  Levy's  face  narrowly,  to  see  how  this  was  reoeived. 
'  Qo  on,  Mr.  Isaacs/  said  Moses  Levy  qnietly. 

*  Well,  this  is  'ow  it  is.  There's  a  sort  of  a — a  kind  of  a — ^you  know 
what  I  mean — between  Leon  and  JElachel.' 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean/  said  Moses  Levy ;  his  heart  was 
bleeding  in  his  daughter's  cause,  but  he  was  at  the  same  time  obsti- 
nately bent  upon  compelling  Solomon  Isaacs  to  speak  plainly.  Another 
opportunity  might  not  be  afforded  to  him  of  ascertaining  exactly  how 
the  ground  lay.  *  A  kind  of  a — a  sort  of  a — what,  between  Leon  and 
Rachel  f ' 

'  You  knov,  Mo— Mr.  I  mean — a  sort  of  engagement.' 

'  I  can't  say  that  I  exactly  understand  you,'  said  Moses  Levy,  his 
hands  tightly  clasped.  '  There  is  no  question  as  to  the  engagement  be- 
tween my  daughter  and  your  son.  There  is  an  absolute  and  not-to-be- 
disputed  engagement Rachel,  my  dear,  you  can  leave  the  room,  if 

you  wish.' 

^  No,  father,'  said  Rachel,  in  as  steady  a  voice  as  she  could  command, 
*  I  will  stay,  if  you  please.' 

*  Very  good,  my  dear ;  go  on  with  your  work* 

He  was  fearful  that  if  he  watched  her  too  closely,  she  might  break 
down,  and  he  therefore  turned  his  attention  to  his  visitor.  He  had  a 
clear  duty  to  perform  towards  his  daughter.  He  was  her  champion,  her 
defender,  her  only  friend,  and  his  eyes  kindled  as  they  fell  upon  the 
hard  face  of  the  man  who  sat  opposite  to  him. 

'  There  is,  as  I  have  said,  an  absolute  and  positive  engagement  be- 
tween my  child  and  yours.  They  sat  for  joy  in  this  very  room ;  you 
were  present  the  whole  of  the  day,  and  shook  hands  with  every  one 
who  came  to  congratulate  us  upon  what  I  hoped  would  prove  the  hap- 
piness of  my  child's  life.  You  have  no  intention  of  denying  this,  I 
suppose  f ' 

'1  ain't  a-going  to  deny  it.  I've  come  'ere  for  your  good,  and  Rachel's.* 

'  I  hope  so,  Mr.  Isaacs,'  said  Moses  Levy  more  mildly. 

*  If  you'll  only  listen  to  reason !  You're  old  enough  to  know  the 
ways  of  the  world,  but  you  talk  like  a  babby, — as  if  you  was  bom 
yesterday ! '  (So  ill  at  ease  was  Solomon  Isaacs  as  he  administered  this 
rebuke,  that  in  his  nervousness  he  plucked  the  button  from  one  of  the 
gloves — colour,  invisible  green — in  which  his  large  coarse  hands  were 
incased.)  '  Can't  you  see  'ow  it  is  yourself  ?  When  you  was  poor  and 
I  was  poor,  it  was  all  very  well ;  but  now  that  I'm  rich,  things  is  dif- 
ferent to  what  they  was.  Leon  can  look  'igher  than  Rachel,  who  is  a 
good  ffirl — oh,  yes,  a  good  girl !  I'm  not  a-going  to  speak  agin  'er,  for 
I've  always  been  fond  of  'er,  and  she  wouldn't  stand  in  Leon's  way. 
She  knows  'er  position,  and — and ' 

And  here  Solomon  Isaacs'  voice  trailed  off  like  a  clock  that  had  been 
over- wound,  and  had  come  to  a  gradual  stop. 

The  colour  had  flushed  into  Moses  Levy's  face,  and  Rachel's  head 
had  drooped  lower,  lower  over  her  work,  upon  which  her  tears  were 
falling. 

'  Tes,  Mr.  Isaacs,'  said  Moses  Levy,  '  Rachel  knows  her  position. 
You  are  quite  right  there.  Has  that  anything  to  do  with  the  business 
you  have  come  upon  1 ' 

'  Of  course  it  'as.  Rachel's  been  properly  brought  up,  and  'as  feelings  ; 


SOLOMON   ISAACS. 


I've  thought  a  good  deal  of  that.  Oh,  jm — Rachel  'as  feelings  I  }fow, 
what  will  people  say  about  Rachel  when  they  know  that  she  wanta  to 
many  Leon  for  'is  money — that  she  wants  to  many  'im  because  he's 
rich  t  What  will  people  say — eh  I  All  sorts  of  naaty  UiingB — aU^sorts- 
of  nasty  thiags !  And  Rachel's  too  proud  a  girl,  I'm  sure— ain't' yon, 
my  dear  1 — to  stand  it.' 

No  Bonnd  came  from  Rachel's  lips  in  response.  Her  teai^tained  face 
was  hidden  both  from  the  man  who  loved  tier  more  dearly  than  his  own 
life,  and  the  man  who  was  conspiring  against  her  happiness.  Her  fingers 
were  idle  now — indeed,  she  could  not  see  her  work,  for  her  tears  were 
blinding  her — and  they  trembled  so  that,  even  if  her  eyes  had  been  clear, 
she  would  have  made  but  a  clumsy  job  of  her  stitches. 

Moaes  Iievy  leant  forward  to  her,  and  with  a  firm,  fond  clasp  of  her 
huid,  whispered, 

<  Keep  up  your  oonrage,  my  dear — don't  bt«ak  down  before  him.  I,_ 
your  father,  will  speak  for  you.' 

Then  he  said  aloud. 


190  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

'  When  Leon  and  Rachel  were  engaged,  Mr.  Isaacs,  there  was  no 
<^ue8tion  of  money  between  them.  It  was  known  that  I  was  a  poor  man, 
and  I  told  Leon  that  Rachel  had  not  a  penny — not  a  penny.  He  was 
quite  satisfied.  He  said  he  wanted  nothing  with  my  daughter — he 
wanted  only  her.* 

*  That  was  then,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs  testily, '  and  then  ain't  now.' 

*  I  believed — everybody  believed — that  Leon  was  quite  as  poor  as 
Rachel  is.  If  there  was  any  advantage  on  either  side — God  forbid  I 
should  say  there  was  ! — but  if  calculating  persons  had  at  that  time  reck- 
-oned  up  what  they  might  have  considered  advantages,  the  balance  of 
good  fortune  would  have  fallen  to  Leon's  share  in  having  won  the  love 
of  my  daughter.  It  was  not  a  question  of  money — it  was  a  question  of 
love.' 

*  Love  ! '  sneered  Solomon  Isaacs.     *  Rubbish — rubbish  ! ' 

*  That  is  your  creed — it  is  not  mine.  Anyhow,  I  did  not  welcome 
Leon  here  for  anything  but  himself  and  his  good  qualities.  I  did  not 
^ask  him  to  come — which  does  not  mean  that  I  was  not  glad  to  see  him, 
and  that  I  did  not  feel  towards  him  as  I  would  have  felt  towards  a  son 
of  my  own.  He  came  after  Rachel ;  Rachel  did  not  go  after  him— 
although,'  added  Moses  Levy,  in  the  words  a  patriarch  of  old  might 
have  used,  '  Rachel's  heart  went  out  to  him,  and  she  was  ready  to  follow 
him,  even  as  Rebecca  followed  Isaac' 

*  I  daresay,  I  daresay,'  responded  Solomon  Isaacs,  displaying  infinite 
rpatience  in  his  conduct  of  this  delicate  matter.  '  But  then  it  was  water 
:and  water ;  now  it's  water  and  wine.' 

^  Which  is  the  water,  and  which  the  wine,  Mr.  Isaacs  ? ' 

'  What  a  question !     Are  you  out  of  your  mind  ?    Water  you  can  git 

for  nothing ;  but  you  can't  pump  wine  out  of  a  well,  and  when  it  rains 

you  know  what  goes  into  your  water  butt.     I  say  agin — think  of  what 

people'U  say  when  they  know  that  Rachel  wants  to  marry  Leon  for  'is 

'money  I  * 

'  If  they  know  anything  of  the  sort,  it  will  be  a  false  knowledge,  and 
as  for  what  i^ight  fall  from  wicked  tongues,  under  any  circumstances — 
though,  out  of  this  room  I've  heard  nothing  as  yet  that  Rachel  would 
be  sorry  to  hear — you  know,  Mr.  Isaacs,  that  you  can't  keep  people  from 
saying  ill-natured  things.  There's  that  man  the  Vampire,  that  you  had 
the  quarrel  with  when  you  tried  to  sell  your  bag.  You'd  be  astonished 
to  hear  the  nasty  things  he  has  said  about  you  since  you  left  Spital- 
.fields.' 

'  The  Irish  thief ! '  cried  Solomon  Isaacs,  in  a  fury ;  '  he  tried  to 
swindle  me,  he  did !  He  may  thank  'is  stars  I  didi^t  'ave  the  law  of 
'im.     I  could  ruin  'im,  the  thief,  I  could ! ' 

^  Don't  you  think,  therefore,'  remarked  Moses  Levy,  *  that  we  had 
best  leave  off  talking  of  what  p^ple  choose  to  say  of  us  ?  Haven't  we 
troubles  enough  already,  without  making  another  trouble  of  that !  The 
best  judge  we  can  have  is  our  conscience.' 

<  So  it  is,  so  it  is.    That  is  what  I  want  Rachel  to  consider.' 

'  She  will  consider  it ;  and  now,  as  I  suppose  you  have  said  all  that 
you  came  here  to  say,  let  us  wish  each  other  good-night,  and  leave  every- 
thing else  to  be  settled  when  Leon  returns  from  Germany.' 

Moses  Levv  made  this  suggestion  from  his  conviction  that  no  good 
result  would  be  achieved  by  continuing  the  interview,  and  in  the  belief 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  191 

that  Solomon  Isaacs  had  really  nothing  more  to  say.  He  was  soon 
undeceived. 

'  There  you  go/  exclaimed  Solomon  Isaacs  ;  '  flying  off  again  before 
I*ve  commenced  what  I  want  to  speak  about ! ' 

*'  Indeed !     Bad  you  not  better  come  to  the  point  at  once,  then  f ' 

*  To  be  sure — yes,  yes — that's  sensible.  Well,  Mrs.  Isaacs  and  me 
'as  talked  it  over,  and  we've  thought  it  best  to  mi^e  a  proposition.' 

'  A  proposition ! '  echoed  Moses  Levy,  clutching  the  arms  of  his 
chair. 

'  Yes,  a  proposition — a  sensible,  business  proposition.  It  stands  to 
reason,  don't  it.  Mo  t — Mr.,  I  mean — that  as  things  is,  Leon  can't  marry 
Eachel,  and  Rachel's  too  good  a  girl,  too  good  and  sensible  a  girl,  to 
want  to  marry  Leon  now  that  nasty  remarks  '11  be  sure  to  be  thrown  in 
'er  face.  But  right's  right— oh,  you'll  find  I  mean  to  act  straight  and 
honest !  Rachel  '11  be  a  little  disappointed  at  first,  perhaps,  at  losing  a 
chance.  I^ot  that  there's  not  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out 
of  it.  Rachel's  a  good-looking  girl,  and  there's  a  'undred  young  chaps 
as  'd  be  glad  to  'ave  'er ;  and  I'm  going  to  make  it  up  to  'er,  'andsome, 
Mo,  'andsome !  I  daresay  she'll  liKe  a  new  silk  dress,  and  a  gold  watch 
and  chain,  and  a  ring— and — and — the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that 
if  you  and  Rachel  '11  sign  this  paper,  only  jist  put  your  name  to  it,  I'll 
give  you  fifty  pounds — there  ! — not  a  cheque,  Mo,  or  bank- notes,  but 
gold—  fifty  golden  sovereigns  'ere  this  very  minute,  on  this  very  table  t ' 

Solomon  Isaacs  took  from  his  breast  i)Ocket,  very  near  his  heart,  a 
little  chamois-leather  bag,  tightly  strangled  at  the  neck,  filled  with  sove- 
reigns, and  plumped  it  upon  the  table,  so  that  the  full  rich  sound  might 
convey  its  proper  meaning  to  the  ears  of  Rachel  and  her  father.  But 
though  he  danced  it  upon  the  table,  and  dandled  it  with  as  much  pride 
and  affection  as  he  might  have  exhibited  had  it  been  his  own  flesh  and 
blood,  he  kept  a  firm  hold  of  the  little  bag,  lest  either  Moses  Levy  or 
Rachel  should  snatch  it  from  him,  and  run  away  with  the  precious  trea 
«ure.  In  one  hand  be  held  the  gold,  close  to  him ;  in  his  other  hand' 
he  held  the  paper,  for  the  signing  of  which  he  was  ready  to  pay  so  hand- 
•some  a  sum. 

Strange  to  say,  Moses  Levy  evinced  no  immediate  anxiety  to  examine 
the  document  which  Solomon  Isaacs  held  towards  him,  and  for  a  little 
while  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

*  It  is  only  fair  to  us,'  he  said  presently,  *  that  we  should  know  the 
•exact  truth.' 

'  That's  what  I  want  you  to  know,'  replied  Solomon  Isaacs,  congratu- 
latbg  himself  upon  the  absence  of  passion  in  Moses  Levy's  voice. 

'  X  ou  think  it  would  be  wrong,  notwithstanding  what  has  passed  be- 
tween them^  that  Rachel  should  desire  to  marry  Leon  ? ' 

*  She  wouldn't  desire  no  such  a  thing.  She's  too  proud  a  girl — too 
proud  a  girL' 

'  Answer  my  question,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Isaacs.  You  think  it  would 
be  wrong?' 

'  You're  as  good  as  a  lawyer.  Mo.  Yes,  I  think  it  would  be  wrong. 
It  stands  to  reason.' 

'  Mrs.  Isaacs  also  thinks  so  1 ' 

'  Of  course  she  does  ? ' 

*  She  has  said  as  much  1    One  moment,  please,'  stop{  ing  the  answer 


192  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

lie  saw  rising  to  Solomon  Isaacs'  lips.  '  I  might  take  it  into  my  head 
to  go  to  Mrs.  Isaacs,  and  ask  her  the  question  myself,  if  I  saw  any  rea- 
son to  doubt.' 

'  Well,  then/  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  with  prudent  candour,  '  she  ain't 
said  so  exactly ;  but  she  thinks  so— she  can't  think  different.' 

^  Then  it  isn't  quite  true  that  you  and  Mrs.  Isaacs  have  talked  it  over, 
as  you  said  just  now  1 ' 

*  Well,  not  exactly  talked  it  over.  Mo  ;  I  ain't  going  to  deceive  you — 
but  I  ought  to  know  my  own  wife  by  this  time.' 

*  You  ought  to — yes.' 

*  It's  what  she  would  say,  then,  if  we  'ad  talked  it  over.  There's  no 
doubt  of  that' 

*  You  didn't  show  her  the  little  bag  of  money  you  have  there  I ' 

'  There  was  no  call  to  show  'er,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  beginning  to 
experience  some  slight  annoyance  at  this  string  of  questions. 

*  So  that  we  know  now  exactly  how  the  matter  stands,'  remarked 
Moses  Levy,  taking  the  paper  which  Solomon  Isaacs  wished  them  to 
sign. 

It  was  a  carefully-worded  document,  drawn  up  by  Solomon  Isaacs' 
lawyer,  in  which  Eachel  Levy,  for  the  consideration  of  fifty  pounds  cur- 
rent coin  of  the  realm,  the  receipt  of  which  she  acknowledged,  released 
Leon  Isaacs  from  his  engagement  with  her. 

'  And  this  is  your  little  bit  of  business  1 '  said  Moses  Levy,  after  a 
silent  perusal  of  the  release. 

*  Yes,  Mo,  yes ! '  replied  Solomon  Isaacs^  rubbing  his  hands  in  satis- 
&ction. 

Everything  was  right ;  there  was  no  scene,  no  bull3ring.  Moses  Levy 
was,  to  all  appearances,  calm  and  composed,  and  no  word  escaped  from 
Eachel's  lips.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  tumultuously,  but  nothing  could 
be  more  natural  than  such  emotion,  undoubtedly  produced  by  the  start- 
ling prospect  of  coming  into  so  much  money.  There  crept  into  Solomon 
Isaacs'  mind,  now  that  the  matter  was  about  to  be  satisfactorily  settled, 
a  feeling  of  remorse  that  he  had  offered  so  much.  Fifty  pounds  !  He 
was  a  fool — a  fool  I  Why  had  he  not  offered  twenty-five  1  It  would 
have  done  the  business  quite  as  well  as  fifty.  '  Mo  Levy's  a  thief  1 '  he 
thought,  with  a  troubled  heart;  'he's  a  thief!  He's  robbing  me  of 
twenty-five  pound  I  * 

'  Are  you  sure,'  said  Moses  Levy,  '  that  you  have  not  given  me  the 
wrong  paper  ? " 

The  chance  shot  took  effect,  for  it  happened  that  Solomon  Isaacs  had 
carried  away  from  his  lawyer's  two  documents,  closely  resembling  each 
other  in  appearance,  but  entirely  different  in  the  nature  of  their 
contents. 

'  Let  me  see  it  I '  he  cried,  in  alarm,  snatching  the  paper  from  Moses 
Levy's  hands.  '  No,  no ;  it's  the  right  un ;  I  put  a  thumb  mark  in  the 
comer  'ere,  so  that  I  should  know  it  agin  I  *' 

The  unmistakable  mark  of  a  broad  and  dirty  thumb  was  there  ;  but 
Solomon  Isaacs,  gazing  at  his  sign- manual,  was  still  haunted  by  a  mis- 
giving that  he  might  have  smudged  the  wrong  document.  The  contents 
did  not  enlighten  him,  being  as  so  much  Greek  in  his  eyes. 

*  Read  it  to  Bachel,'  said  Moses  Levy,  with  a  pardonable  touch  of 
spiteful  satire.     *  But  I  forgot ;  you  are  not  able  to  read.     Rachel,  my 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  193 

dear,  listen  to  me.  This  is  a  paper  which  Mr.  Isaacs  wishes  you  to  sign, 
by  which  act  you  release  Leon  from  his  engagement  with  you,  and  leave 
him  free  to  marry  whom  he  pleases.  For  signing  this  release,  Mr  Isaacs 
is  ready  to  give  you  fifty  sovereigns — he  has  the  money  in  the  little  bag 
he  is  dancing  on  the  table.  I  see  that  Mr.  Isaacs's  lawyer  has  written  K 
L.  with  a  pencil  to  show  you  where  your  name  is  to  go  ;  and  here  is  M. 
L.  in  pencil,  in  the  place  my  name  is  to  go.  I  am  to  witness  your  signa- 
ture, my  dear.     Do  you  understand  V 

*  Yes,  father.' 

'  Mr.  Isaacs  is  anxious  that  the  matter  should  be  placed  clearly  before 
you,  and  that  you  should  know  the  exact  truth — are  you  not,  Mr. 
Isaacs  V  • 

'Certainly,  Mo,  certainly,'  replied  Solomon  Isaacs,  with  a  wistful, 
hungry  look  at  the  bag  of  gold. 

'  Therefore,  Rachel,  it  is  right  I  should  tell  you  what  Mr.  Isaacs  has 
forgotten  to  mention.  He  is  afraid  that  you  might  bring  an  action  for 
breach  of  promise  against  Leon.' 

*  No,  Mo,  I  give  ypu  my  word  ! '  remonstrated  Solomon  Isaacs,  raising 
his  hands  in  astonishment  at  the  suggestion. 

'  And,'  continued  Moses  Levy,  tc^ng  no  notice  of  the  interruption, 
'  Mr.  Isaacs  does  not  relish  the  idea  of  going  to  law.  Such  ugly  things 
come  out  when  a  man's  in  the  witness-box  !  Think  carefully  of  every- 
thing, Eachel.  Think  of  the  effect  it  will  have  upon  Leon  when  Mr. 
Isaacs  teUs  him  you  have  taken  money  to  give  him  up ;  and  at  the  same 
time,  my  dear,  don't  forget  the  gold  watch  and  chain,  and  the  silk  dress, 
and  the  other  nice  things  you  can  buy  for  the  money — for  it  will  be 
yours,  my  dear,  not  mine.     Take  time,  Rachel,  before  you  decide.' 

Not  a  muscle  in  Rachel  Levy's  face  had  stirred  during  the  explana- 
tion.    In  a  voice  almost  as  calm  as  her  father's,  she  said, 

'  Does  Leon  know  of  this,  father  ? ' 

'  Does  Leon  know  of  this,  Mr.  Isaacs  1 '  repeated  Moses  Levy. 

*  Yes — no  I  I  won't  tell  a  lie,  Mo.  Leon  is  away  in  Germany,  you 
know.' 

For  the  first  time  that  evening,  Rachel  turned  towards  Solomon 
Isaacs,  and  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face.  His  lips  twitched  as  the 
pure  light  of  her  truthful  eyes  fell  upon  them,  and  he  plucked  the  but- 
ton off  his  other  glove  in  his  nervousness. 

'  You  are  a  rich  man,  sir,'  said  Rachel^  '  and  Leon's  father  ;  but  if  I 
thought  that  Leon's  heart  was  like  yours,  and  that  it  could  be  so  hard 
and  cruel,  I  should  be  even  more  unhappy  than  you  have  made  me.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  1  What  does  she  mean  1 '  stammered  Solomon 
Isaacs,  confounded  at  this  change  in  the  aspect  of  affairs. 

'  She  means  this,  Solomon  Isaacs,'  exclaimed  Moses  Levy ; '  be  silent, 
Rachel,  my  dear ;  I  will  say  the  rest.     She  means  this — that  you're  a 

contemptible,  rascally ! But  no,  I  will  not  say  it,  because  of  Leon 

and  Rachel.  I — I  don't  want  to  forget  myself,  so  take  yourself,  and 
your  new  clothes,  and  your  diamond  rings,  and  your  bag  of  money,  out 
of  my  room  at  once  !  Take  them  out,  I  say,  and  never  show  your  face 
here  again,  unless  it  is  to  beg  pardon  of  my  child  1 ' 

Solomon  Isaacs  grew  scarlet  in  the  face. 

'  I  wash  my  'anas  of  you ! '  he  cried,  as  he  rose,  trembling  with  pas- 
sion.    *  You — ^you  beggar ! ' 
5 


194  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

'Yes,  I  am  a  beggar/  said  Moses  Levy,  also  rising,  and  speaking  with 
dignity — he  afterwards  declared  that  he  was  astonished  he  had  been 
able  to  keep  himself  cool ;  *  and  you  are  a  rich  man.  But  I  wouldn't 
change  places  with  you,  though  your  money  were  multiplied  a  thousand 
fold.  I  would  like  to  be  rich,  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  my  child's 
— (his  hand  was  resting  on  her  head,  as  if  in  the  act  of  blessing  her) — 
but  I  would  not  care  to  grow  so  in  the  way  you  have  done,  if  a  tenth 
part  of  what  I  havci  heard  is  true.  You  and  I  are  old  men,  and  must 
soon  die — but  I  think  my  death-bed  will  be  happier  than  yours,  poor  as 
I  am,  rich  as  you  are.  You  can't  take  your  gold  and  your  diamonds  with 
you  to  the  grave.  Naked  shall  you  stand  before  the  Glory  of  God,  and 
by  youf  deeds  you  shall  be  judged !  * 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

SOLOMON  ISAACS  CHANGBS  HIS  NAlfE* 

Solomon  Isaacs  strove  to  put  the  words  addressed  to  him  by  Moses 
Levy  entirely  out  of  his  mind.  Upon  his  return  home  Mrs.  Isaacs  was 
in  bed,  and  as  the  game  had  gone  against  him,,  no  impulse  came  upon 
him  to  awake  her,  for  the  purpose  of  relating  how  it  had  been  played. 
The  next  morning  other  matters  occupied  his  attention,  among  them 
being  the  important  announcement  of  Leon's  early  return.  The  young 
man^  employers  told  Solomon  Isaacs  they  expected  him  in  a  couple  of 
days,  and  as  Leon's  first  business  was  with  them,  Solomon  Isaacs  left  his 
new  address  for  his  son,  desiring  him  to  come  at  once  to  the  grand  house 
in  the  West-end  which  was  henceforth  to  be  his  home. 

Two  days  afterwards  Leon  arrived.  His  train  was  late,  and  his  inter- 
view with  his  employers  delayed  him  until  nearly  midnight.  As  the  son 
of  a  rich  man,  they  received  him  at  their  private  house,  and  before  he 
left  he  was  informed  of  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  his  father's 
circumstances. 

'  But  why  has  he  been  so  secret  about  it  ? '  inquired  Leon.  '  I  have 
been  away  now  nearly  four  months,  and  this  is  the  first  word  I  have 
heard.' 

*  Your  father  wished  to  surprise  you,'  they  replied. 

*  He  has  surprised  me,'  was  Leon's  remark,  as  he  wished  his  employers 
good  night,  in  a  somewhat  bewildered  mood. 

Why  had  Rachel  not  written  to  him  about  it  1  What  was  the  reason 
of  all  this  mystery  1  These  were  the  questions  that  perplexed  the  young 
man's  mind.  It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  therefore  too  late  to  go  to 
Spitalfields,  so  he  had  no  option  but  to  drive  straight  to  his  fig^ther's 
house. 

His  mother  and  father  were  waiting  up  for  him.  The  door  was  opened 
by  a  solemn  individual  in  silk  stockings  and  a  powdered  wig,  at  whom 
Leon  burst  out  laughing,  as  much  from  nervousness  as  from  a  sense  of 
humour.  His  nerves  were  so  highly  strung  that  any  trifle  would  have 
driven  him  either  into  a  fit  of  crying  or  laughing. 

<  Where  is  my  father  1 '  asked  Leon. 

"  Hup-stairs,  sir,'  replied  the  footman,  not  a  muscle  in  his  face  moving. 


SOLOMON    ISAACS.  195 

Mra.  Isaacs  wanted  *^  "'"  nnwn 
when  the  beard  Leon 
door,  but  her  hnsbMid 
still. 

'  We  must  do  the  i 
able.'  he  said,  '  We  n 
oDraelves  to  the  servai 

So,  when  Leon  eaU 
ing-room,  he  beheld  li 
ting  bolt  upright  in  gi 
which  they  did  not  n 
servant  ghnt  the  dooi 
In  the  paaaage,  and 
fhnctionaiT's  proceed  ii 
seeing.  GaTami  or 
have  been  delighted 
His  face  broadened 
lines,  hia  eyee  twink 
riment,  he  rubbed  his 
es,  he  twisted  himsell 
most  extraordinary  ' 
sound  escaped  Mm ;  he 
the  impromptu  pro- 
gramme in  dead  si- 
feuce,  and  stepped 
into  the  pantry  with 
a  cat's  step,  shaking 
with  laughter. 

Leon's  parents  were 
dressed  in  their  finest 
clothes;  both  wore 
gloves;  his  mother 
had  a  feather  stuck 
in  her  hair ;  his 
fiither  wore  afiuhion- 
able  dressing-gown, 
with  gold  tassels,  and 
a  smoking-cap  perch- 
ed on  one  side  of  his 

head.     These  small  r>:  r 

matters    of    detail  '' 

were    the  inveution 

of  Solomon  Isaacs ;  he  kept  his  eyes  open  in  his  new  sphere  of  life,  and 
knew  the  correct  thing  to  do.  He  looked  rakish  and  foolish  ;  Mrs. 
Isaacs  was  trembling  and  agitated ;  her  only  desire  was  to  throw  her 
arms  round  her  boy's  neck,  and  clasp  him  to  her  bosom. 

'  Well,  Leon,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  observing  with  satisfaction  the 
expression  of  wonder  on  his  son's  face. 

'  Well,  father,'  said  Leon — and  would  have  said  Heaven  knows  what 
in  his  bewilderment,  had  not  a  look  of  alarm  on  his  father's  lips  arrested 
his  words. 

'  Supper  is  served,  sir,'  said  a  voice  behind  him. 


196  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

It  was  aii other  footman,  acting  according  to  his  instructions,  but  en- 
tering a  minute  sooner  than  he  was  expected  by  his  master.  Solomon 
Isaacs  was  afraid  of  his  grand  servants,  and  was  apprehensive  that  Leon 
might  say  something  that  would  coropromiee  him  in  the  eyes  of  his  do- 
mestics. 

*  I  don't  want  any  supper,'  said  Leon,  motioning  the  servant  out  of 
the  room  with  an  impatient  wave  of  his  hand.  *  What  is  the  meaning 
of  all  this,  father?' 

*  Can't  you  see  1 '  answered  Solomon  Isaacs.  *  We're  rich  now,  and 
moving  in  a  different  spear.' 

*  All  right,'  exclaimed  Leon,  shrugging  his  shoulders ;  *  you  can  tell 
me  everything  to-morrow.  Mother,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  take  that  absurd 
feather  out  of  your  head.  Good-night,  father.  I'm  tired,  and  I'm  going 
to  bed.     What  are  you  ringing  for?' 

*  For  the  servant  to  show  you  your  room,*  replied  Solomon  Isaacs, 
somewhat  abashed. 

*  Mother  will  show  it  to  me.     Good-night.' 

In  the  bedroom  his  mother  told  him  a  great  deal ;  he  listened  patiently, 
and  took  advantage  of  a  pause  by  inquiring  after  Rachel  and  Moses 
Levy. 

*  I'll  tell  you  all  about  'em  to-morrow,  Leon,'  said  Mrs.  Isaacs.  '  Go 
to  sleep,  now  ;  there's  your  father  a-calling  of  me.' 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  unhappy  and  uncomfortable  in 
the  presence  of  her  son. 

In  the  morning  she  was  in  his  room  before  he  was  awake.  When  he 
opened  his  eyes,  the  sun  was  pouring  in  at  the  window,  and  his  muther 
was  sitting  by  his  bedside. 

*  Why,  mother,'  said  Leon,  drawing  her  down  to  him,  and  kissing 
her,  *  it  must  be  late.' 

*  It's  past  eleven,  Leon,'  said  Mrs.  Isaacs.  *  But  don't  'urry  up.  You 
must  be  dreadful  tired  after  your  long  journey.  'Ere's  some  letters  for 
you.  When  you're  dressed,  get  your  breakfast — I've  'ad  mine  hours 
ago — and  then  come  to  us,  and  we'll  'ave  a  long,  long  talk.' 

Leon  was  satisfied  with  this  arrangement,  and  allowed  his  mother  to 
leave  the  room  without  inquiring  about  HacheL  In  a  lazy  mood  he 
looked  at  the  letters  his  mother  had  placed  on  the  bed.  An  exclamation 
of  gladness  escaped  him  as  on  one  of  the  envelopes  he  recognised  Rachel's 
handwriting.     He  opened  it  eagerly,  and  read  : 

*  My  dear  Leon,— Since  I  last  saw  you  so  many  strange  things  have 
occurred  that  I  scarcely  know  how  to  write  to  you.  And  yet  I  have  a 
duty  to  perform  which  must  be  pei formed,  notwithstanding  the  pain  it 
gives  me.  When  we  were  first  engaged,  our  circumstances  were  equal, 
and  we  were  both  poor.  Some  time  ago,  however,  we  were  all  surprised 
to  hear  that  your  father  had  grown  rich.  I  was  a  little  bit  afraid  of 
the  news,  I  must  confess,  for  I  knew  the  difference  that  money  makes 
in  people.  It  has  made  a  great  difference  in  your  father.  You  know 
he  used  to  come  to  our  place  twice  a  week  to  play  cribbage  with  my 
dear  father,  but  from  the  moment  it  was  known  that  he  was  rich  he 
never  came  near  us  until  the  night  before  last.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to 
tell  you  the  purpose  for  which  he  came,  but  I  am  compelled  to  do  so  by 
truth  and  respect  for  myself  and  my  own  dear  father.  He  said  that  now 
you  were  rich  it  would  not  be  right  for  you  to  marry  a  poor  girl  like 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  197 

me,  and  that  he  was  sure  that  I  would  uot  stand  in  your  way.  I  would 
not  stand  in  your  way,  Leon,  for  worlds,  although  I  believe  if  I  was 
somehow  to  grow  suddenly  rich,  and  you  remained  poor,  it  would  be 
my  best  pleasure  to  come  to  you  and  say,  ''  Here,  Leon,  here  is  my  mo- 
ney— ^it  is  yours,  and  I  only  hope  it  will  make  us  happier  than  I  am 
sure  we  should  have  been  without  it !  "  But,  then,  that  is  all  fancy, 
and  I  only  write  it  because  it  is  in  my  thoughts,  and  because  I  think 
it  right  that  you  should  know  something  of  what  is  in  my  mind.  Your 
father,  after  a  good  deal  of  hesitation,  then  asked  me  to  sign  a  paper, 
releasing  you  from  our  engagement,  and  oifered  me  fifty  sovereigns  if  I 
would  do  it.  Fifty  sovereigns  !  Why,  it  would  more  than  furnish  the 
rooms  we  were  to  live  in  when  we  were  married !  But  I  was  hurt  and  sorry 
that  he  should  have  made  the  offer  ;  for  he  must  have  thought  within 
himself  that  I  could  be  bought  for  money — that  I  could  sell  my  love  for 
money.  As  if  love  was  a  thing  that  can  be  bought  and  sold !  Well, 
now,  Leon,  you  can  guess  the  answer  I  gave  him  ;  you,  who  know  me 
so  well,  can  understand  that  I  refused  his  money.  And  I  am  afraid  that 
my  dear  father  said  some  hard  words  to  him.  But  they  were  true,  hard 
as  they  were.  All  this  occurred  two  days  ago,  and  I  have  been  think- 
ing very  seriously  of  what  is  the  right  thing  for  me  to  do.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind.  Now  that  you  are  rich  I  have  no  right  to  stand  in  your 
way ;  as  your  father  says,  you  can  look  higher  than  me  now.  I  do  for 
love  what  I  would  not  do  for  money ;  I  release  you  from  the  engage- 
ment There  !  it  is  written  ;  and  hard  as  it  was  to  write,  I  feel  more 
easy  now.  You  must  not  think  harshly  of  me ;  you  must  not  think  that 
I  am  changed  ;  I  am  the  same  Eachel  that  you  have  always  known,  and 
I  am  doing  what  1  believe  to  be  right.  So  now,  Leon,  good-bye.  I  hope 
you  will  be  happy  and  prosperous. 

'  Yours  affectionately, 

'Rachel  Levy.' 

Leon  read  the  letter  three  or  four  times.  All  was  clear  to  him  now> 
and  he  understood  why  his  father  had  not  informed  him  that  he  was  no 
longer  poor,  and  why  his  mother  was  so  agitated  when  he  mentioned 
Rachel's  name.  He  was  not  long  making  up  his  mind  as  to  the  course 
.  he  would  pursue,  and  with  as  much  coolness  as  he  could  bring  to  his  aid 
he  dressed  himself,  breakfasted,  and  then  went  to  the  room  in  which  his 
mother  and  father  were  sitting.  He  found  them  looking  admiringly  at 
some  visiting-cards,  which  had  been  delivered  within  the  last  five  minutes. 
There  were  three  small  packages,  and  the  names  inscribed  upon  them 
were — 

Mr.  Sloman  Izard. 

Mrs.  Sloman  Izard. 

Mr.  Leon  Izard. 

Before  Leon  could  utter  a  word  his  father  thrust  one  of  the  packets 
into  his  hand,  and  said, 

*  There,  Leon,  that's  yours.* 

Leon  read  the  name  aloud  :  '  Mr.  Leon  Izard.     Who  is  he  T 

*  You,  Leon,  you  I '  answered  his  father,  with  a  triumphant  air. 
*Me!' 

*  And  this  is  me  :  "  Mr.  Sloman  Izard."     And  this  is  mother  :  "  Mrs. 
Sloman  Izard.*' 


198  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

^  I  don't  understand  it/  said  Leon,  very  much  mystified. 

'  Not  understand  it ! '  exclaimed  Solomon  Isaacs.  '  It's  as  clear  as 
mud.  They  all  do  it,  every  one  of  'em — so  the  lawyer  told  me — directly 
they  gets  rich.  He's  done  the  business  for  lots  of  *em  'isself.  He  put  a  e 
to  Brown,  and  made  him  6rown-e ;  and  he  took  the  t  out  of  Smith,  and 
put  in  a  jy  so  that  no  one  could  pronounce  it — that  was  clever,  Leon, 
very  clever  I — and  he  made  a  Marsh  out  of  Moses ;  and  put  a  de  before 
Robinson,  and  made  him  De  Robinson ;  and  he  took  such  a  nasty  lot  of 
letters  out  of  Izzy  Jacob's  name  that  his  own  father  didn't  know  it !  It 
costs  money,  Leon,  it  costs  money  ;  it's  done  by  Act  of  Parleyment.  I 
don't  understand  much  about  it,  but  the  lawyer  said  it  was  all  right.' 

'  Oh,'  said  Leon,  a  light  breaking  upon  him,  *  then  you  have  altered 
your  name  1 ' 

*  Our  name,  Leon,  owr  name  I '  interrupted  his  father. 

*  And  Izard  stands  for  Isaacs,  and  Sloman  for  Solomon  ? ' 

*  Yes,  that's  it,  that's  it.  Mr.  Sloman  Izard  !  sounds  grand,  don't  iti 
And  the  lawyer  says  I  can  be  a  baron  if  I  like ;  he  can  do  it  for  a 
'undred  pound.  Baron  Sloman  Izard  !  <  Ow  would  that  sound,  eh  t 
Baroness  Sloman  Izard  !  'Ow  do  you  like  that  Milly  %  If  anybody  calls 
me  Solly  Ikey  now,  I'll  'ave  the  lore  of  *im !  The  lawyer  says  I  can,  and 
I  will.     So  they'd  better  look  out  with  their  imperence.' 

'  I  think  the  lawyer  is  mistaken,'  said  Leon  drvly ;  and  then,  after  a 
pause,  '  What  on  earth  made  you  do  such  a  foolish  thing ) ' 

*Leon,'  cried  Solomon  Isaacs,  'you're  out  of  your  mind.  It's  the 
fashionable  thing  !     They  all  do  it.' 

'  Solomon  Isaacs :  Sloman  Izard,'  said  Leon,  in  a  musing  tone,  hold- 
ing out  his  hands,  palms  upward,  and,  as  it  were  weighing  the 
names.  '  Isaac  was  a  prince  in  Israel,  and  Solomon  was  our  wisest  king.' 

*But  they  didn't  call  him  Eang  Solly!*  interposed  Solomon  Isaacs 
eagerly.  *  There's  no  wisdom  in  Solly.  And  as  for  Isaac — do  you  think 
'is  own  wife  dared  to  call  him  Ikey  1 ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  replied  Leon  ;  '  what  I  do  know  is  that  I  am  quite 
satisfied  with  my  name.     Leon  Isaacs  is  good  enough  for  me.' 

'  But  there's  the  cards,  Leon,  there's  the  cards ! '  implored  Solomon 
Isaacs.  '  You  won't  waste  the  cards  !  Think  of  the  expense !  and  see 
'ow  beautiful  they  look  I  You'll  use  the  cards  now  they're  printed — say 
you'll  use  the  cards,  like  a  good  boy  ! ' 

'  Not  I,  father.  Izard  !  Izard !  What  in  the  world  is  the  real  mean- 
ing of  Izard  1 '  He  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  returned  with  a  dictionary 
in  his  hand.     '  Why,  father,'  he  said,  *  do  you  know  what  an  Izard  is  \ 

'  I'm  one,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  a  look  of  alarm  spreading  over  his 
features. 

*  Then  you're  a  goat — a  foolish  goat ! ' 

'  A  goat  i  a  foolish  goat ! '  groaned  Solomon  Isaacs,  falling  back  on 
his  wife,  and  almost  upsetting  her. 

'  Yes,  a  foolish  wild  goat     Here  it  is  in  the  dictionary.' 

It  stood  in  the  dictionary,  '  a  wild  goat.'  Leon  added  '  foolish '  out 
of  malice ;  he  was  ashamed  of  his  father's  act. 

For  a  moment  or  two  Solomon  Isaacs  was  speechless  with  indignation. 
Then  he  gasped,  *  I'll  'ave  the  lore  of  'im  !  he's  swindled  me  1  A  goat  I 
rU  ruin  'im  !  I'll-I'U ' 

*  It  serves  you  right,'  said  Leon.      *  You  can  do  as  you  please,  of 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  199 

•course ;  I  intend  to  stick  to  Isaacs.     Tm  not  ashamed  of  the  name,  and 
I  hope  I  shall  never  do  an3rthiDg  to  shame  it     If  anybody  asks  me  for 
.  a  person  of  the  name  of  Izard,  I  shall  declare  I  know  nothing  of  him.' 

*  But  what  am  I  to  do  ) '  inquired  Solomon  Isaacs,  with  a  helpless 
look.  '  I  can't  be  Izard  and  Isaacs  too  ;  and  the  lawyer  told  me  I'm 
Izard  now,  by  Act  of  Parleyment ! ' 

*  All  your  letters  will  go  wrong,  father.  There'll  be  a  regular  con- 
fusion.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  groaned. 

"  You'll  be  summoned  twice  over  if  you  dispute  a  debt,'  said  Leon, 
secretly  enjoying  his  father's  discomfiture,  *  once  in  the  name  of  Izard, 
and  then  in  the  name  of  Isaacs.  I  think  you  have  made  a  mistake. 
You  had  best  go  to  the  lawyer,  and  consult  him  about  it.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  threw  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  was  about 
to  rush  out  of  the  room,  when  Leon  stopped  him. 

'  That  business  will  wait,  feither.  I  have  something  here  that  must 
be  attended  to  at  once.' 

*  What  is  it,  Leon  1 ' 

'  I  have  received  a  letter  from  Bachel,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
4ibout  it.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  coolc^  down  immediately.  This  truly  was  important 
business,  and  must  be  attended  to  without  dela}^ 

'  Shall  I  read  the  letter,  father  1 ' 

'  Yes,  Leon,  read  it ;  tliere's  no  'arm  in  that' 

Leon  read  the  letter  carefully,  and  with  feeling. 

Mrs.  Isaacs  listened  to  it  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  her  heart  bled  for 
the  poor  girL  Solomon  Isaacs  listened  to  it  with  gloating  satisfaction. 
His  purpose  was  accomplished,  and  he  had  saved  his  fifty  pounds. 

'  Keep  that  letter  ! '  he  cried ;  '  keep  that  letter,  Leon  !  It's  worth  a 
thousand  pound  !    The  girl's  a  fool  I ' 

'  Don't  call  Eachel  hard  names,  father.     I  intend  to  keep  the  letter.' 

*  That's  right,  my  boy,  that's  right  I  went  there  for  your  good, 
Leon,  to  prevent  a  breach  of  promise  case.' 

*  Was  anything  said  about  such  a  thing,  then  1 '  asked  Leon. 

*  No ;  but  it  would  be  sure  to  come.  You're  all  right  now.  She  can 
never  bring  an  action  agin  you  as  long  as  you've  got  that  paper !  Why, 
there's  not  another  girl  in  London  would  write  such  a  letter ! ' 

'  I  don't  believe  there  is,  father.  I  wouldn't  part  with  it  for  five 
hundred  pounds.' 

'  Bravo,  Leon,  bravo  ! ' 

*  I  will  keep  it  as  a  testimony ' 

*  Yes,'  interrupted  Solomon  Isaacs,  *  that's  it  As  a  testimony— as  a 
testimony  ! ' 

* ^As  a  testimony — though  I  required  none — of  the  goodness  and 

nobleness  of  the  girl  I  intend  to  make  my  wife^  if  she  will  have  me  ! ' 

'  Eh  r  cried  Solomon  Isaacs,  with  a  blank  look  of  amazement 

'  I  shall  go  to  her  at  once,  and  shall  tell  her  that  you  have  done  a 
cruel  and  unwarrantable  thing ;  and  I  shall  beg  her  pardon  and  her 
father's  pardon  for  you.' 

'  Leon,'  cried  Solomon  Isaacs,  in  despair,  '  are  you  a  fool  1 ' 

*  Neither  fool  nor  rogue,  I  hope,'  was  the  answer,  somewhat  sadly 
■spoken. 


200  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

*  Do  you  forgit  what  I've  done  for  you  I '  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  almost 
sobbing  with  grief  and  vexation.  *  Do  you  forgit  the  eddycation  I  give 
you  so  that  you  might  be  a  gentleman  1 ' 

*  No,  father,  I  do  not  forget  it — I  never  can  forget  it.  I  shall  ever 
be  grateful  to  you  for  having  given  me  an  education  which  helps  per- 
haps to  teach  me  my  duty  now.' 

*  What !  *  screamed  Solomon  Isaacs.     *  Is  it  because  I  sent  you  to  the  ^ 
Free  School,  and  gave  you  an  eddycation,  instead  of  sending  you  into 

the  streets  to  'awk  for  a  living,  that  you're  a-goins  to  throw  me  over 
now — that  you're  a-going  to  act  contrairy  to  your  father's  wishes  ? ' 

'  It  may  be  so ;  I  cannot  tell.  I  have  your  blood  in  me,  and  some- 
thing of  your  nature  ;  if  I  had  grown  up  ignorant,  I  might  perhaps 
have  acted  as  you  wish.  But  I  am  grateful  that  I  can  see  things  in  a 
better  light.' 

Solomon  Isaacs  dashed  his  fist  "Upon  the  table  and  cried,  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  passion, 

'  Damn  eddycation  ! ' 

'Bless  education!'  cried  Leon  warmly.  'Thank  God,  it  is  now 
within  the  reach  of  every  poor  boy  in  the  land  !  Good-morning,  father. 
A  kiss  for  you,  mother  !  I'm  off  to  see  Rachel ! ' 

He  dashed  out  of  the  room.  Solomon  Isaacs  ran  after  his  son,  with 
some  dim  notion  in  his  mind  of  laying  violent  hands  upon  him ;  but  by 
the  time  he  reached  the  street-door  Leon  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  street. 
Returning  to  the  sitting-room,  Solomon  Isaacs  fumed  about  for  some 
time,  and  condescended  to  give  his  wife  a  highly  inflamed  account  of  his 
visit  to  Moses  Levy.  > 

'  I  went  there  for 'is  good,  Milly,'  he  said,  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
fanciful  narration, '  with  money  in  my  pocket,  and  he  abused  me  like  a 
pickpocket  "  Mo  Levy,"  I  said  to  'im,  as  I  wiped  my  shoes  on  'is  mat 
— I  did,  Milly ;  I  wiped  the  dirt  oflT  my  shoes  afore  I  left  'is  'ouse ;  I 
wouldn't  take  a  bit  of  it  away  with  me.  "  Mo  Levy,"  I  said,  "  never 
you  take  the  liberty  of  opening  your  lips  to  me  agin."  I  'ad  to  come 
away  quick,  or  I  should  'ave  done  'im  a  mischief ;  I  didn't  want  to  soil 
my  'ands  with  touching  of  him.  "  Arter  what  you've  said  to  me  this 
night,"  I  said,  "  and  arter  what  you've  said  agin  Mrs.  Isaacs,  I  wouldn't 
bemean  myself  by  walking  on  the  same  side  of  the  street  with  you.** 
Them  was  my  last  words  to  'im,  my  last  words.' 

'  What  did  he  say  agin  me  1 '  moaned  Mrs.  Isaacs,  her  heart  palpitat- 
ing with  distress.     '  What  could  Mo  Levy  'ave  to  say  agin  me  1 ' 

'It'd  blister  my  tongue  to  tell  you,'  replied  Solomon  Isaacs;  *I 
wouldn't  be  so  low  as  to  repeat  it !  There  was  nothing  bad  enough  for 
you.' 

*  0  Ikey  ! 

Solomon  Isaacs  gave  a  violent  jump.  He  required  something  more 
tangible  than  mere  fancies  to  vent  his  rage  upon,  and  his  wife  had  sup- 
plied it. 

*  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  distracted  with  your  "  0  Ikey  "  ? '  he  v 
snarled.   *  Confound  your  "  O  Ikey  !  "  What  do  you  mean  by  throwing 
dirt  in  my  face  1    If  ever  you  "  0  Ikey  I "  me  agin,  I  won't  live  in  the 
same  house  with  yon  !    Mind  that ! ' 

Then  he  also  dashed  out  of  the  room — oddly  enough,  vrith  an  uncon- 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  201' 

scioas  imitation  of  Leon's  manner  a  few  minutes  previously — somewhat 
comforted  by  the  distress  into  which  he  had  thrown  his  wUe. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MB8.  ISAACS  DREAMS  THAT  HBB  HUSBAND  HAS  SOLD  HIMSELF  TO  THE- 


Mrs.  Isaacs  did  not  see  her  lord  and  master  a^in  until  the  evening. 
In  the  meantime  she  received  a  short  note  from  Leon,  in  which  he  said 
he  had  important  business  to  attend  to,  and  would  not  be  home  until 
very  late,  certainly  not  until  past  midnight.  Solomon  Isaacs  upon  his 
return  asked  his  wife  after  Leon,  and  she  gave  him  the  message.  '  Very 
well,' said  he ;  'then  we'll  go  to  the  theaytre  to  night,  and  show 'im 
that  we  can  do  without  'im.  If  that  was  really  his  aim,  it  was  not 
likely  to  be  successful,  to  judge  from  his  behaviour.  The  hour  that  in- 
tervened until  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  theatre  he  agreeably  filled  up 
by  reopeninff  the  subject  of  his  visit  to  Moses  Levv,  and  giving  his 
comments  thereon.  Mrs.  Isaacs  did  nothing  but  sit  and  wring  her 
hands  in  silence.  Her  heart  was  heavy  with  grief  at  these  dreadful 
proceedings — at  Leon's  absence  from  home,  at  the  breach  between  her- 
self and  the  friends  she  loved  best  in  the  world,  at  the  severance  of  all 
the  ties  which  made  life  sweet  to  her.  All  her  strength  was  gone,  and 
she  f^t  as  though  she  would  like  to  die.  Her  hot  tears  fell  upon  the 
silk  dress  she  had  put  on  for  the  theatre  that  night  Was  it  for  this 
they  had  grown  rich  9  Was  money  to  poison  her  days,  and  bring  dis- 
cord into  her  life  1  Was  it  not  only  to  rob  her  of  her  old  friends,  but 
of  her  child's  and  husband's  love  %  Since  she  and  her  husband  had  lived 
in  their  grand  house,  scarcely  one  affectionate  word  had  passed  between 
them.  He  was  a  changed  man ;  his  mind  was  entirely  occupied  with  the 
cares  of  money.  The  more  he  had,  the  more  he  wanted,  the  more  he 
grasped  at.  It  seemed  to  her  at  times  that  he  was  going  out  of  his  mind. 
He  was  speculating  heavily,  often  wildly,  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  al- 
most every  word  he  uttered  had  reference  to  the  rising  and  falling  of 
stock  and  shares.  *  Why  shouldn't  I  be  as  rich  as  the  Rothschilds  )  he 
said  to  her  more  than  once  ;  '  I  know  as  much  as  they  do.'  But  he  was 
deficient  in  heroic  qualities  ;  he  was  not  equal  to  either  fortune.  When 
the  market  went  against  him,  he  suffered -agonies,  talking  in  his  sleep,  and 
getting  up  at  all  hours  of  the  night;  when  the  securities  he  held  were  ris- 
ing in  value,  he  paced  the  room  in  transports  of  delight,  and  so  comported 
himself  that  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  afraid  of  him.  His  manner  terrified  her ; 
she  could  neither  suffer  with  him  in  his  losses,  nor  rejoice  with  him  in 
his  gains.  W^hen  he  was  an  old-clo'  man,  she  sympathised  with  him  in 
his  dealings ;  she  did  so  no  longer.  If  her  experiences  during  the  past 
few  months  were  a  foretaste  of  what  was  to  come,  all  her  happiness  in 
life  was  gone.  Humbly  bom,  she  was  happy  and  contented  to  move  with 
those  of  her  own  degree.  When  she  was  among  poor  the  gleams  of  sun- 
shine in  her  life  were  neither  few  nor  far  between,  and  many  simple 
pleasures  were  ready  to  her  hand,  to  enjoy  in  simple  ways.  How  dif- 
ferent everything  was  now  !  Parted  from  her  friends,  deprived  of  love, 
her  days  were  days  of  misery.     How  she  wished  she  were  back  in  Spi-- 


202  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

tal fields,  dressed  in  her  cotton  gown,  working  and  cooking,  and  ex- 
changing the  friendly  word  and  smile  with  old  acquaintances  whom  she 
had  known  from  childhood  !  How  she  envied  the  poor  people  there,  and 
the  life  they  led  !  'I  must  have  done  something  very  wicked  when  I  was 
■  a  girl,'  she  thought,  '  for  sich  a  misfortune  as  this  to  come  upon  me.' 

This  was  the  substance  of  her  musings  as  she  sat  waiting  for  her  hus- 
band, who  was  dressing  for  the  theatre.  They  went  in  state,  in  their 
own  carriage,  with  their  own  coachman  on  the  box,  and  their  own  foot- 
man beside  him  to  open  and  shut  the  door  for  them. 

'  Don't  look  so  glum,  Milly,'  Solomon  Isaacs  whispered  to  her  as  they 
entered  the  theatre  ;  *  look  lively,  or  everybody'U  be  staring  at  you.' 

She  tried  to  look  lively,  and  failed  dismally.  She  was  dismayed  by 
the  fuss  and  ceremony  of  their  entrance ;  she  was  not  allowed  to  sit  in 
her  bonnet,  and  the  attendants  worried  her  into  complete  bewilderment 
with  their  officious  attentions.  Such  a  thing  as  enjoyment  under  these 
circumstances  was  out  of  the  question.  The  people  did  stare  at  her — 
stared  at  her  when  she  spoke,  stared  at  her  husband  when  he  made  com- 
ments on  the  company  (it  must  be  confessed  they  both  spoke  in  very 
loud  voices),  cast  scomAil  glances  at  them,  and  shrugged  their  shoulders, 
as  much  as  to  say,  *  How  on  earth  have  these  vulgar  creatures  found 
their  way  in  here  ? '  Supremely  unconscious  of  the  disdain  with  which 
he  was  regarded,  and  interpreting  the  notice  he  attracted  into  a  species 
of  adulation  of  the  diamonds  in  his  shirt  and  on  his  fingers,  Solomon 
Isaacs  lolled  back  in  his  chair,  put  up  his  feet,  to  the  disgust  of  the  lady 
before  him,  and  patronised  the  performers  and  the  audience  in  a  lordly 
way. 

Ignorant  as  she  was,  Mrs.  Isaacs  understood  what  was  soingon  around 
them,  and  was  ready  to  cry  with  grief  and  vexation.  The  comedy  that 
was  being  played  caused  peals  of  laughter  to  proceed  from  all  parts  of 
the  tdieatre,  but,  from  the  rise  to  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  not  a  smile 
crossed  Mrs.  Isaacs'  lips.  How  miserable  she  was  !  How  comfortable 
she  used  to  be  when  she  sat  in  the  pit  or  the  gallery,  wagging  her  head, 
and  holding  her  sides  with  laughter  !  In  those  times  she  was  not  too 
proud  to  ti^e  a  packet  of  sandwiches  with  her,  to  stuff  her  pockets  with 
oranges,,  and  to  eat  them  with  enjoyment  in  the  very  face  of  the  British 
public.  Ah  !  those  were  the  happy  nights  !  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to 
go  to  a  theatre  then — anticipating  the  treat  for  a  week  before,  and  talk- 
ing of  it  for  weeks  afterwards.  Then  she  would  clap  her  hands  till  they 
were  red,  and  call  for  the  performers  by  their  fiuniliar  names ;  now  she 
-dared  not  move  a  finger. 

^  Ices  and  refreshments  ! '  said  a  spruce  attendant,  in  a  dulcet  voice, 
•between  the  acts ;  '  will  the  lady  take  an  ice,  sir  % ' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  in  a  loud  tone  ;  he  would  show  the 
people  about  him  that  he  had  money  to  spend.  ^  Yes,  ye&  Take  a  ice, 
Milly.' 

She  took  one  gingerly,  and  spik  some  of  it  over  her  dress  as  she 
listened  to  the  attendants  crying  out  in  the  pit,  '  Oranges  !  Lemonade  1 
Bottled  ale  or  stout  1 '  That  is  where  she  would  like  co  be  sitting,  not 
in  the  stalls,  surrounded  by  persons  who  put  up  their  eye-glasses  at  her. 
Mr.  Isaacs  also  took  an  ice,  and  devoured  every  particle  of  it.  He  did 
jnot  relish  paying  a  shilling  each  for  them,  but  he  comforted  himself  with 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  203 

the  reflection  that  he  was  doing  the  fashionable  thing  in  a  fashionable 
way. 

On  the  drive  home,  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Of  the  footman  wbo 
opened  the  door  for  them  Solomon  Isaacs  asked  if  his  son  had  come  in, 
and  being  answered  in  the  nc^tive,  walked  straight  up.  stairs  to  bed, 
without  looking  at  his  wife.  She,  poor  soul,  went  to  the  grand  drawing- 
room,  which,  in  accordance  with  her  husband's  instructions,  had  been 
lighted  up  for  Leon's  behoof,  and  sat  down  and  thought  over  the  ex- 
periences she  had  passed  through  since  her  departure  from  Spitalfields. 
During  her  sad  musings,  an  odd  reminiscence  intruded  itself  upon  her, 
connected  with  her  first  visit  to  a  theatre  in  the  days  of  her  childhood. 
On  that  memorable  occasion  she  had  seen  a  melodrama,  the  principal 
character  in  which  had  sold  himself  to  the  devil.  The  incidenj^  which 
led  to  the  unholy  barter,  with  the  figures  of  the  two  personages  whom 
it  chiefly  concerned,  had  formed  themselves  into  an  abiding  remembrance, 
conveying  hitherto  no  terror  to  Mrs.  Isaacs*  mind,  but  presenting  itself 
in  a  somewhat  agreeable  light,  as  a  pleasant  memory  of  childhood.  But 
in  the  recalling  of  the  reminiscence  at  this  period  of  her  life,  its  aspect 
was  entirely  changed.  The  man  in  the  melodrama  had  sold  his  soul  for 
money — had  betrayed  an  innocent  girl,  and  brought  her  to  shame — and, 
in  the  end,  had  paid  the  forfeit  of  his  bond  by  a  descent  into  the  regions 
of  everlasting  fire. 

The  room  in  which  Mrs.  Isaacs  sat  and  brooded  over  her  unhappy 
lot  was  gaudily  furnished  and  decorated.  In  point  of  fact,  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  gilt  about  it,  yellow  being  the  colour  i^)proximating  most 
nearly  to  Solomon  Isaacs'  conception  of  the  highest  style  of  art.  In  the 
centre  of  the  mantelpiece,  flanked  with  gilt  ornaments,  stood  a  large 
gilt  clock,  with  a  gilt  representative  of  old  Father  Time  pointing  a 
eilt  forefinger  to  the  gilt  figures  on  the  dial,  with  a  gesture  which  in- 
dicated, *  Time  flies,  but  I  (cilt)  go  on  for  ever.'  Above  the  dial, 
hovering  within  a  species  of  cupola,  was  the  figure  of  a  flying  angel, 
somewhat  out  of  hannony  with  the  prevailing  tone,  inasmuch  as  its 
robes  and  wings  were  fashioned  of  shining  silver.  But  every  other 
object  in  the  room  obtrusively  proclaimed  Solomon  Isaacs'  leading  idea. 
The  le^  and  backs  of  the  chairs  were  gilt,  the  knobs  and  cornices  of  the 
chiffonier  were  gilt,  the  chandelier  was  gilt,  and  the  lustres  were  wrapped 
in  yellow  gauze  ;  the  gas  (London  gas)  burnt  with  a  yellow  flame.  With 
this  uniform  glare  in  her  eyes,  and  with  silence  aU  around  her,  Mrs. 
Isaacs  sobbed  and  dozed. 

The  knobs  and  cornices  of  the  chiffonier  gradually  resolve  themselves 
into  faces,  stony  and  immovable  at  first,  but  presently  imbued  with  life. 
Their  features  move  and  twitch  into  innumerable  forms  of  expression  ; 
the  faces  multiply  with  amazing  rapidity  ;  and  every  one  of  the  thousands 
of  eyes  are  directed  towards  Mrs.  Isaacs.  Whichever  way  she  turns, 
the  eyes  follow  her.  She  looks  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  grotesque  forms 
peer  upon  her  from  within  the  folds  of  the  yellow 'gauze;  she  looks 
down  upon  the  carpet,  and  grotesque  images  creep  about  her  feet  And 
now  a  painful  idea  impresses  itself  upon  her.  It  is  that  her  gaze 
possesses  the  magic  gift  of  transmuting  everything  into  gold — everything 
with  the  exception  of  the  figure  of  the  angel  of  shining  silver  which 
floats  above  the  image  of  old  Father  Time.     On  the  wall  hang  two  pic- 


204  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

tures,  representing  Hcenea  of  rural  faappiaesa ;  and  aa  Mrs.  leaaca  turnft 
towards  them,  the  flowers  asanme  a  golden  hue,  the  fields  become  golden 
fields,  the  water  golden  water.  The  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  apartment 
change  to  gold,  and  the  transformation  continues  until  the  room  and 
everything  it  contains  glitter  with  the  precious  metal.  This  fatal  gift 
inezprcBsibl;  distresses  her,  and  she  ezperiences  a  feeling  of  relief  when 
the  anget  of  shining  silver  floats  from  the  cupola,  and  stands  in  radiant 
whiteness  before  her.  It  does  not  snrprise  her  that,  in  its  flight,  it  has 
assumed  the  proportions  of  a  human  form. 

'  This  woman's  husband,'  says  the  aogel, '  where  is  he  t ' 

With  one  voice,  which  does  not  rise  above  a  whisper,  the  grotesque 
figures  in  the  room  reply, 

'Asleep,  and  dreaming.' 

The  angel  floats  through  the  golden  walla,  and  instantaneously  reap- 
pears, bearing  in  his  arms  the  form  of  Solomon  Isaacs,  asleep. 

The  angel  places  the  man  on  the  ground,  where  he  lies  surrounded 
by  a  circle  of  weird  and  eager  faces.  Following  the  indication  of  their 
fingers,  Mrs,  Isaacs  observes  that  the  apace  occupied  by  her  husband 
has  assumed  the  shape  of  a  pit,  filled  with  innumerable  coins  of  gold. 
Rolling  in  bis  golden  grave,  the  sleeping  man  clutches  at  tbe  treasure, 
and,  holding  his  hands  above  his  head,  allows  the  precious  pieces  to  fall 
through  his  fingers  in  a  glittering  shower.  • 

'  Hold  your  hands,'  aays 
the  angel,  '  hold  your 
hands  and  answer  me.  Is 
this  gold  which  fills  your 
soul  with  joy  more  prec- 
ioas  to  you  than  aught 
else  in  the  world  1 ' 

'  More  precious  than 
all,'  replies  the  sleeping 
man,  holding  his  empty 
hands  above  nis  bead. 

'  More  precious  than  a 
good  name  t ' 

'  It  brings  with  it  agood 
name.' 

'  More  precious  than 
happiness  i ' 

'It  M  happiness.' 

'  More  precious  than 
love  t ' 

'  It  is  love.' 

'  More  precious  than 
sweet  memories  1 ' 

A  disdainful  smile 
hovers  about  the  lips  of 
the  sleeping  man  as  he 
atrivea  to  release  his  hands 
from  the  spiritual  thral- 
dom which  holds  them  fast. 

'  Not  yet,'  says  the  angel.     '  You  have  a  son.' 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  205 

I  hava' 

*  Over  whose  heart  you  would  throw  the  glittering  spell  which  guides 
your  ways/ 

*  Leon  is  wise.' 

'  You  had,  in  years  gone  by,  another  child,  who  died  when  you  were 
poor/ 

'  I  had  another  child.     Who  is  that  I  hear  crying  ? ' 

*  Your  wife.     You  sorrowed  when  that  child  was  taken  from  you.' 

*  Well  1 ' 

'  Why,  then,  did  you  smile  when  I  asked  if  gold  was  better  than  sweet 
memories  ? ' 

There  is  a  moment's  pause  before  the  sleeping  man  replies : 

'  That  was  long  ago.  I  live  in  to-day.  AU  my  life  I  have  worked  for 
to-day.' 

'  It  is  not  possible,'  says  the  angel,  turning  from  the  sleeper,  '  that  tins 
man  can  understand  the  true  meaning  of  his  words.  Human,  he  mubt 
possess  humanity.  There  must  be  within  him  some  hidden  spring  whose 
released  waters  would  sweep  from  his  soul  his  monstrous  creed.' 

As  he  speaks,  the  air  becomes  fragrant  with  the  perfume  of  flowers, 
and  the  ground  about  his  feet  is  strewn  with  roses  and  lilies.  Stooping, 
he  gathers  the  loveliest  of  these,  and  fills  the  hands  of  the  sleeping  man 
with  flowers.  His  touch  transforms  them  and  robs  them  of  their  beauty ; 
they  slip  through  his  fingers  to  the  ground,  with  a  dull  metallic  sound. 

Then  it  is  that  Mrs.  Isaacs  sees  lying  among  the  flowers  at  the  angel's 
feet  the  babe  that  was  taken  from  her  in  the  early  days  of  her  married 
life.  With  a  yearning  motion  she  stretches  forth  her  arms  to  clasp  it 
to  her  bosom,  and  sobs  to  find  that  it  is  beyond  her  reach.  With  infinite 
compassion  the  angel  raises  the  body  of  the  dead  child,  and  places  it  in  the 
sleeper's  uplifted  hands.  Pallid  and  sweet  it  lies — for  a  moment  only  ; 
its  form  withers  into  yellow  dust,  which  falls  in  a  shower  upon  the  golden 
grave. 

*  I  have  no  power  over  him,'  says  the  ancel  sadly.  *  What  fancies  are 
stirring  within  this  man's  brain  that  render  him  dead  to  life's  most  sacred 
teachings  1 ' 

A  startling  change  takes  place  in  the  scene,  and,  for  a  moment  only, 
Mrs.  Isaacs  beholds  the  fantasy  of  Solomon  Isaacs'  dream—  a  vision  with- 
in a  vision.  It  presents  itself  in  the  shape  of  a  tableau  from  the  melo- 
ilrama  she  witnessed  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit  to  a  theatre,  when 
she  was  a  girl  Every  detail  is  reproduced  with  faithful  exactness,  the 
only  point  of  difference  being  that,  in  the  face  of  the  principal  character 
who  is  about  to  enter  into  an  unholy  compact  with  the  Evil  One,  Mrs. 
Isaacs  recognises  the  face  of  her  husband. 

*  Don't  do  it !  don't  do  it  I '  she  screams,  as  this  vision  within  a  vision 
is  fading  from  her  sight,  and,  falling  on  her  knees,  she  clasps  the  angel's 
vobes.  '  Save  him  1  He  doesn't  know  the  meaning  of  it.  He  wasn't 
always  so.     Don't  let  him  do  it  I     When  we  was  first  married * 

*Why,  mother!'  the  angel  replies,  in  the  voice  of  her  son  Leon 
'  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  have  you  got  the  nightmare  1 ' 

She  opens  her  eyes.  Leon  stands*  before  her,  looking  down  upon  her 
in  wonder.  The  angel  in  shining  silver  is  in  its  proper  place,  within 
the  cupola,  hanging  over  the  figure  of  old  Father  Time.    There  b  tio 


20  6  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

change  in  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  nor  is  there  a  grinning  face  to  be  se^n . 
Everything  in  the  room  is  as  it  was  before  she  fell  asleep. 

Grateful  as  she  is  to  discover  she  has  been  dreaming,  Mrs.  Isaacs  can- 
not for  a  little  while  recover  from  her  agitation. 

'  0  Leon/  she  whispers,  as  he  assists  her  to  rise,  *  I  dreamt  that  your 
father  was  selling  himself  to  the  devil ! ' 

^  I  wouldn't  tell  him,'  says  Leon,  in  a  cheerful  tone.  *  You've  eaten 
something  that  has  disagreed  with  you.' 

'  I  took  a  ice  at  the  tbeaytre  to-night,  Leon,'  says  Mrs.  Isaacs,  panting. 

<  It  must  have  been  that,  then,'  says  Leon,  with  a  smile.  '  Extremes 
meet.  Ice  is  the  last  thing  you'd  expect  to  find  in  the  old  gentleman's 
quarters.  Come,  mother,  it's  time  to  get  to  bed.  Look  at  the  clock. 
It's  nearly  one  in  the  morning.' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

RACHBL  WILL  NOT  GFVB  WAY. 

When,  after  the  expression  of  their  differing  views  on  education,  Leon 
left  his  father's  house,  he  made  his  way  at  once  to  Spitalfields,  £or  tie 
purpose  of  seeing  Rachel.  He  was  indignant  and  hurt  at  his  father's 
conduct,  and  was  eagerly  anxious  to  remove  from  Rachel's  mind  any 
idea  that  he  was  a  P^i^^y  ^  ^he  treacherous  offer  Solomon  Isaacs  had 
made  to  the  girl.  The  perusal  of  her  letter  had  set  his  generous  young 
soul  on  fire  ;  as  he  walked  rapidly  towards  Moses  Levy*s  apartments,  he 
dwelt  fondly  on  the  image  of  the  girl  he  truly  loved,  and  every  remi- 
niscence associated  with  her  was  charged  with  new  tenderness.  In  the 
midst  of  the  surging  life  through  which  he  moved,  with  its  throbbing 
ambitions,  its  wild  hopes  and  desires,  its  sadness,  its  exultation,  its  crooked 
scheming  and  plotting,  its  mean  pride  and  small  aspiration,  he  was  a 
living  embodiment  of  the  sentiment  in  the  light  of  which  all  the 
wealth  of  the  world  fades  into  insignificance.  It  is  a  gladdening 
thought  that  the  crowded  streets  are  sometimes  sweetened  thus 
by  honest  feeling.  When  a  fresh  young  face  flashes  brightly  past  me — 
as  Leon's  face  might  have  done  on  this  occasion — it  is  like  a  cool  refresh- 
ing wind  sweeping  through  the  streets  on  a  hot  feverish  day.  What 
shall  I  sigh  for  1  What  shall  I  hunger  for  1  Much  money — the  finest 
houses — richly  embroidered  clothes  1  These  are  not  the  treasures  that 
will  sweeten  my  days.  The  true  wealth  of  life  and  of  humanity  lies  iu 
love,  and  in  kind  thought  that  shows  itself  in  action.  Let  me  receive 
these,  and  give  me  these  to  bestow,  and  add  to  them  the  blessing  of  faith 
in  God,  and  I  am  richer  than  a  myriad  Aladdin's  caves  could  make  me. 
As  Leon  sped  onwards  his  steps  grew  more  animated.  He  was 
approaching  the  familiar  byways  of  his  childhood,  and  his  heart  beat  the 
quicker,  ^on  he  was  in  Spitalfields.  He  could  scarcely  sufficiently 
control  his  impatience  to  exchange  fair  words  and  looks  with  old  friends 
who  ran  from  their  houses  to  greet  him.  *  There's  Leon  Isaacs ! '  they 
cried.  *  How  well  he  looks  ! '  He  got  away  from  them  as  quickly  as 
lie'could,  and  ran  into  the  dear  old  house,  and  up  the  dear  old  stairs 
which  led  to  Moses  Levy's  rooms.     *  He's  just  come  from  abroad,'  the 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  207 

neighbours  said  to  one  another,  *  and  the  first  thing  he  does  is  to  go  to 
see  Hachel  Levy/  Ho  did  not  lose  in  their  estimation,  for  it  was  no 
secret  by  this  time  that  old  Solomon  Isaacs  did  not  look  with  favour* 
able  eyes  upon  the  engagement 

.  Leon  paused  in  the  passage  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  listened  ;  ho 
heard  Rachel  rooyiug  about  the  room.  Then  he  knocked,  and  almost 
before  her  gentle  voice  reached  his  ears  bidding  him  enter,  he  opened 
the  door.  With  an  eager  exclamation  he  ran  towards  her,  and  she,  for 
a  moment  betrayed  by  love  and  joy,  flew  into  his  arms.  But  when  he 
kissed  her  she  quickly  released  herself,  and  stood  apart  ^rom  him.  She 
had  uttered  no  word ;  only  a  little  cry  of  heart-gladness  had  escaped  her ; 
and  now,  recalled  to  herself,  she  pressed  one  hand  to  her  heart  and 
raised  the  other  with  an  imploring  motion.  He  understood  her,  and 
came  no  nearer  to  her. 

He  could  find  no  words  to  speak  ;  nor  could  she  for  a  little  while. 
But  woman's  wit,  at  such  a  critical  time,  is  keener  than  a  man*s — ^a  kind 
provision  of  Nature,  as  she  is  compelled  more  often  to  be  on  the  defensive. 
So  Eachel,  weak  as  she  was,  showed  a  greater  strength  than  Leon,  and 
was  the  first  to  speak.  The  words  she  uttered  were  very  simple,  and  ^ 
she  spoke  them  timidly  and  hesitatingly.  She  said  she  was  sorry  her 
father  was  not  at  home  to  see  Leon. 

'  But  I  did  not  come  to  see  your  father,'  said  Leon ;  '  I  came  to  see 
you.  I  arrived  from  the  country  late  last  night,  and  I  thought  I  should 
have  seen  you  at  my  father's  house  to  welcome  me  home.' 

*  You  received  my  letter,  Leon  ? ' 

*  Yes  ;  and  I  have  brought  you  the  answer.' 

Involuntarily  she  held  out  her  hand  for  it.  He  seized  her  hand,  and 
did  not  relinquish  it,  although  she  struggled — just  a  little. 

'  You  can  understand  the  answer  I  have  brought  you,  Rachel.  I  am 
here  myself.' 

Not  all  her  woman's  wit  and  cunning  could  keep  the  happy  light  from 
her  face  at  this  proof  of  her  lover's  truth  and  faitiifulness.  He  saw  the 
gladness  of  her  heart  in  her  eyes,  and  he  would  have  taken  her  in  his 
arms.     She  yielded  for  a  moment,  then  heroically  repulsed  him. 

*  No,  Leon,'  she  said,  *  it  cannot  be.  It  must  not  be.  Father  and  I 
have  talked  it  over,  and  we  have  decided  on  what  is  right.' 

*  Are  you  and  your  father  to  be  the  only  judges  1 '  he  asked  impetu- 
ously.    '  Am  I  to  have  no  voice  in  it ! ' 

'Do  not  speak  loudly,  Leon;  people  will  hear  and  think  we  are 
quarrelling.  And  I — I  am  not  strong  !  No-— do  not  touch  me  !  I  can 
see  my  duty  clearer  if  you  keep  away  from  me.' 

*  Your  duty  is  to  come  to  me,  Rachel,  as  you  have  promised.  You 
are  my  wife,  and  I  claim  you.' 

She  was  on  the  point  of  yielding  again  as  he  called  her  his  wife,  but 
by  a  great  effort  she  restrained  herself. 

'  No,'  she  said  firmly,  '  I  can  see  that  your  father  is  right.     You  must . 
not  marry  a  poor  girl  like  me.     Do  you  think,'  she  added,  with  spirit, 
'  that  I  am  going  to  have  it  flung  in  my  teeth  that  I  hold  you  to  your 
promise  now  you  are  rich,  and  in  the  face  of  your  father's  refusal  1 ' 

'  And  do  you  think,'  he  retorted,  *  that  I  am  going  to  have  it  flung  in>. 
my  teeth  that,  because  my  father  happens  to  have  filled  his  pockets  with 
money,  I  am  false  to  my  promise  and  my  word  ? ' 


208  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

*  The  world  will  not  blame  you,  Leon ;  such  things  are  not  uncommon.' 
^  Hang  the  world  !     It  did  not  teach  me  to  love  you,  and  it  shall  not 

teach  me  to  be  false  to  you.     You  have  given  me  back  my  promise * 

'  Yes/  she  said  sadly,  *  I  have  given  you  back  your  promise.' 

*  But  I  don't  give  you  back  yours.  That's  a  thing  you  have  forgotten. 
Rachel,  you  do  not  love  me  as  I  believed  you  did.* 

'  You  must  not  say  that,  Leon.  You  \aust  not  make  things  harder 
for  me  than  they  are.  If  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered,  you  would 
pity  me.' 

'  I  do  pity  you,  and  I  ask  you  to  be  just  to  me.  You  must  marry  me, 
Rachel — you  must !  * 

'  I  cannot,  Leon,  without  your  father's  consent.' 

^  Must  my  father's  money  part  us,  Rachel  ? ' 

*  Yes,  Leon.  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  money  has  parted  two 
faithful  hearts.' 

She  could  not  help  speaking  the  words,  for  she  knew  that  he  was  true 
to  her.  The  knowledge  took  away  from  her  much  of  the  bitterness 
with  which  her  life  had  been  filled  lately. 

*  If  it  part  us,'  said  Leon,  *  it  will  be  your  fault,  not  mine.  You  have 
behaved  nobly  to  me,  and  you  will  make  it  appear  that  I  have  behaved 
basely  to  you.  You  will  let  it  be  said  that  the  moment  my  father  be- 
came rich,  I  turned  my  back  on  the  girl  who  accepted  me  as  her  lover 
when  I  was  poor.' 

These  arguments,  and  many  others  as  cunning,  be  used  in  his  endea- 
vour to  convince  Rachel  that  she  was  wrong  in  her  resolve ;  but  the 
pride  of  the  girl  had  been  deeply  wounded,  and  he  could  not  prevail 
upon  her  to  go  back  from  her  word.     At  length  he  said, 

'  Listen  to  me,  Rachel.  I  refuse  to  release  you  from  your  engage- 
ment.    You  are  pledged  to  me.     You  understand  that  1 ' 

'  Yes,'  she  replied,  ^  I  understand  it.    But  you  are  not  pledged  to  me.' 

'  I  am,  and  you  cannot  prevent  it.  You,  and  no  other  woman,  shall 
:  be  my  wife.' 

'And  you,  and  no  other  man,  shall  be  my  husband;'  adding,  with 
womanly  inconsistency,  *  But  all  is  over  betwt.en  us.' 

*  That  is  not  so.  Give  my  love  to  your  father,  Rachel,  You  will  not 
.  kiss  me,  I  suppose  1 ' 

*  No,  Leon.' 

*  I  love  you  all  the  more  for  it.     You  will  shake  hands,  I  suppose  ? ' 
'  Oh,  yes.' 

'  You  see,'  he  said,  as  he  held  her  hand  in  his,  '  You  cannot  prevent 
^me  from  kissing  your  hand.     Good-bye,  for  a  little  while.' 

And  when  he  left  her,  with  looks  of  love,  she  could  not  help  giving 
.  him  a  tender  smile. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

SOLOMON  ISAACS  PLOTS  AND  SOHEMBS   WITHOUT  SUCCESS. 

In  an  interview  with  his  father,  Leon  stated  clearly  his  intentions 
with  respect  to  Rachel,  and  not  all  Solomon  Isaacs'  fuming  and 
stamping  about  induced  him  to  swerve.     For  his  mother's  sake,   he 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  209 

consented  to  live  at  home,  although  his  inclination  was  to  take  lodgings 
in  Spitaifields,  quite  dose  to  Moses  Levy's  rooms.  Then  Solomon 
Isaacs  began  to  scheme.  He  invited  to  his  house  a  class  of  persons  who 
had  risen,  as  he  had  risen,  from  nothing,  and  who  were  unable  to  push 
themselves  into  more  elegant  society.  Strangely  enough,  these  persons,. 
in  their  hearts,  bore  no  great  good-will  to  each  other,  partly  for  the  rea- 
son that  they  were  all  acquainted  with  antecedents  which  they  were 
foolishly  desirous  should  ne  buried  in  oblivion.  But  company  was 
necessary  to  their  existence ;  therefore  they  visited  each  other  in  their 
carriages,  and  gave  parties,  and  played  cards,  and  wrangled  as  in  the- 
olden  days,  and  endeavour^  to  outshine  each  other  in  their  diamonds. 
Occasionally  some  struggling  worker  in  the  arts,  to  whom  perhaps  they 
had  lent  small  sums  of  money,  found  himself  in  their  midst  If  he  had 
a  sly  laugh  at  his  entertainers  it  was  not  from  ill-nature,  but  because  his 
sense  of  humour  was  excited;  he  more  often  laughed  with  than  at 
them,  and,  despite  the  touches  of  vulgarity  which  i^peared  on  the  sur- 
face of  their  nature,  their  hospitality  was  so  generous  and  liberal  that  he 
found  it  impossible  not  to  like  them.  They  gave  him  the  choicest 
cigars,  the  finest  wines,  and  dishes  of  rare  cookery,  not  to  be  obtained  in 
any  but  Jewish  homes ;  they  entertained  him  with  stories  spiced  with 
wit ;  they  f§ted  and  flattered  him ;  and  he  would  have  been  a  churl  in- 
deed, had  he  gone  away  with  ill-natured  thoughts  of  his  hosts. 

To  those  of  the  well-to-do  who  had  daughters  to  marry,  Solomon 
Isaacs  whispered  slyly  that  his  son  was  free  to  choose,  and  was  looking 
out  for  a  w^e.  Then  commenced  a  hunt  matrimonial,  Leon  being  the 
stag.  He  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  was  often  put  out  of  patience — 
although  he  could  not  help  feeling  amused  at  the  game  that  was  being 
played.  He  was  not  sufficient  of  a  hero  to  fling  his  father^s  money  from 
him,  and  refuse  to  use  it ;  but  he  was  hero  enough  to  be  faithful  in  his 
heart  to  RacheL 

Difficult  as  was  the  task  Solomon  Isaacs  had  set  himself  to  accomplish, 
he  did  not  despair  of  success.  He  trusted  to  time  to  assist  him,  and  to 
the  effect  of  the  increased  wealth  he  was  endeavouring  with  all  his 
cunning  to  accumulate.  *  You  will  'ave  it  all,  Leon,'  he  said,  '  every 
penny,  if  you  don't  go  agin  me  I '  He  was  deeply  involved  in  Stock 
Exchange  speculations,  bulling  and  bearing,  lying  and  scheming,  now 
losing,  now  winning,  now  suffering  agonies,  now  swelling  with  pride 
and  sptisfaotion,  His  grand  home  was  not  a  happy  one,  and  he  sought 
for  distraction  in  the  whirl  of  that  great  gambling  mart,  where  every 
mean  trick  the  human  mind  can  invent  is  pressed  into  the  service  of  the 
race  for  wealth.  More  than  once  he  was  on  the  verge  of  ruin ;  but  luck 
never  entirely  deserted  him,  and  by  many  a  bold  manoeuvre  he  recovered, 
and  found  himself  richer  than  the  day  before.  In  a  certain  way  he  be- 
came famous,  and  one  Friday  evening  his  wife  rushed  into  the  room 
with  a  paper  fluttering  in  her  hand. 

*  You're  in  the  paper ! '  she  screamed.     '  You're  in  the  paper  ! ' 

He  turned  as  white  as  any  ghost,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Isaacs  was  too  excited  herself  to  notice  his  agitation.  In  a  shrill 
voice  she  read  a  paragraph  from  a  Jewish  paper,  to  the  effect  that '  our 
esteemed  and  talented  co-religionist,  Mr.  Solomon  Isaacs,  has  purchased 
a  country  seat  near  a  fashionable  watering-place,  .whither,  in  the  summer 


210  SOLOMON   ISAACS. 

months,  he  and  his  family  will  retire,  to  enjoy  the  deserved  fruits  of  his 
enterprise  and  good  fortune.' 

Before  she  had  finished  reading,  he  recovered  his  composure. 

*  Very  proper,  very  proper,'  he  said  complacently.  *  Esteemed  and 
talented  !    Is  them  the  words,  Milly  1  * 

'  Yes.' 

'  1*11  go  into  the  City,  and  buy  two  copies  of  that  paper,'  he  said.  '  It's 
a  sensible  paper.     It  ought  to  be  encouraged.' 

The  idea  flashed  into  his  mind  that  it  would  not  be  a  bad  thing  to  cut 
out  the  paragraph  and  have  it  framed. 

*  What  do  they  mean  about  a  country  seat,'  inquired  Mrs.  Isaacs,  '  and 
a  fashionable  watering-place )' 

*  I  don't  know,'  he  replied.  *  They  may  say  anything  they  like,  so 
long  as  they  don't  say  nothing  nasty.' 

*  Margate's  the  place  for  me,'  observed  Mrs.  Isaacs. 

'  We'll  have  a  month  there,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  smiling  graciously 
at  her,  '  and  we'll  do  it  fashionable,  Milly,  we'll  do  it  fashionable.' 

At  about  that  time  he  had  instilled  hope  into  Mrs.  Isaacs'  breast 
by  the  subterfuge  that  he  had  '  made  it  up  with  his  old  friend  Moses 
Levy. 

'*  Tou  'ave  made  me  so  'appy,'  said  the  worthy  woman,  with  a  beam- 
ing face.     '  May  I  go  and  see  'im  and  Rachel ) ' 

*Not  yet — not  yet,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs.  *Wait  a  bit;  every- 
thing'll  come  right.' 

*  But  they'll  come  to  see  us,  then,'  urged  Mrs.  Isaacs. 

*  Presently — presently,'  was  'his  reply.  *  You  leave  me  to  manage, 
Milly.' 

His  duplicity  met  with  its  reward. 

On  the  Tuesday  following,  his  wife,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  mentioned 
that  their  old  friend  had  passed  the  house,  with  his  old-clo'  bag  on  his 
shoulders. 

*  His  voice  went  right  through  me,'  she  said  patheticaUy.  *  I  felt  as  I 
would  like  to  throw  my  arms  round  'is  neck.  I  ran  into  the  street  and 
cried,  "  Mr.  Levy  !  Mr.  Levy  ! "  When  he  'eerd  my  voice,  1  thought 
he  would  'ave  dropped,  he  shook  so.  He  ain't  looking  at  all  well,  Ikey  ; 
I  think  he  must  'ave  been  laid  up.  "  Mr.  Levy,"  I  cried ;  "  won't  you 
come  in  ? "  "  Does  your  'usband  want  me  ? "  he  asked,  all  of  a  tremble  ; 
"  did  he  send  you  out  for  me  1 "  "  No,  Mr.  Levy,"  I  said ;  "  Ikey  ain't 
at  'ome.  Come  in,  and  see  the  'ouse,  and  have  a  glass  of  wine."  He 
looked  at  me  so  strange  that  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  'im.  "  No," 
he  said,  "  I  won't  come  in  upon  your  invitation.  I  wish  you  good  morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Isaacs."  And  he  was  going  away,  actually  going  away  without 
another  word,  when  I  puts  my  hand  on  'is  arm,  and  said,  **  Don't  be 
unfriendly,  Mr.  Levy.  It  ain't  because  we've  got  rich  that  you  should 
treat  us  as  enemies."  Upon  that  he  said,  "  God  knows  I  don't  want  to 
do  that,  Mrs.  Isaacs;  it's  none  of  my  doings."  "'Ow's  Rachel?"  I 
asked.  His  face  got  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  he  put  my  'and  away  from 
'is  arm.  "  It  won't  do  you  or  me  any  good  to  talk  any  longer,"  he  said ; 
"  I  wish  you  good  morning,  Mrs.  Isaacs."  Then  he  walked  away,  so 
low  and  shaky  that  he  'adn't  spirit  enough  to  cry  "  Old  clo'  I  "  and  I  stood 
like  a  fool  looking  after  'im.  You  might  *ave  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather,  I  was  that  took  aback' 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  211 

Solomon  Isaacs  glared  at  his  wife  with  fury  in  his  countenance. 

*  What  made  you  speak  to  'im  1 '  he  screamed.  *  You  don't  know 
-what  you've  done  !  If  you  go  agin  me,  all  the  fat'll  be  in  the  fire  ! 
Mind  what  I  say.  If  you  speak  to  Mo  Levy  agin  without  my  leave  I'll 
— ^111  run  away — I'll  sell  up  everything,  and  run  away  ! ' 

*  I  won't,  I  won't/  sobbed  Mrs.  Isaacs.  *  But  what's  the  matter  with 
'imi    What's  he  been  a-doing  of?    You  said  you  'ad  made  it  up  with 

im. 

*  And  I  told  yon  at  the  same  time  not  to  interfere,'  said  Solomon 
Isaacs  J  '  if  you  want  to  live  peaceable,  you  do  as  I  tell  you.' 

Be  pat  a  stop  to  further  conversation  in  his  usual  way — by  bouncing 
out  of  the  room  and  the  house,  and  slamming  every  door  after  him. 

During  all  this  time,  the  warfare  between  himself  and  his  «on  on  the 
one  vitsd  point  at  issue  showed  no  signs  of  abatement.  Unpleasant 
scenes,  of  course,  were  inevitable.  Such  as  on  a  night  when  the  three 
were  sitting  in  the  stage-box  of  the  Vaudeville  Theatre,  laughing  at  a 
comedy.  In  the  midst  of  their  enjoyment,  Leon  caught  sight  of  old 
Moses  Levy  and  Rachel,  who  were  sitting  in  the  front  row  of  the  pit  It 
was  evident  to  him  that  they  knew  he  and  his  parents  were  in  the  pri- 
vate box ;  there  was  a  sad  consciousness  on  Rachel's  face,  and  she,  who 
used  to  enjoy  a  good  play  so  thoroughly,  had  not  a  smile  now  on  her 
lips.  Leon's  mother,  on  the  contrary,  beguiled  out  of  her  unhappiness 
by  the  cunning  of  the  play,  laughed  so  loudly  that  she  attracted  atten- 
tion. *  This  is  the  way,'  thought  Leon,  gazing  on  Rachel's  wistful  face, 
*  that  I  am  made  to  pour  poison  into  her  cup.'  His  heart  went  out  to 
the  girl,  and,  without  a  word  to  his  parents,  he  left  the  box  and  made 
his  way  to  the  pit,  where,  being  unable  to  reach  the  spot  where  Rachel 
and  her  father  sat,  he  waited  at  the  back  until  the  play  was  over.  There 
he  lingered  until  Rachel  came  up  to  him. 

She  did  not  start,  or  change  colour. 

'  Here's  Leon,'  she  said  to  her  father. 

Moses  Levy  shook  hands  gravely  with  the  young  man,  and  did  not 
demur  to  Leon's  walking  by  the  side  of  Rachel  along  the  Strand.  It  was 
a  clear  night,  and  there  was  time  for  them  to  walk  to  Spitalfields. 
Rachel  shook  bands  also  with  Leon,  but  did  not  accept  the  offer  of  his 
ann.  Moses  Levy  approved  of  his  daughter's  decision  with  regard  to 
Leon,  knowing  well  it  brought  her  unhappiness.  She  had  hidden 
nothing  from  the  old  man,  and  had  spoken  of  Leon's  conduct  in  terms 
of  affectionate  admiration ;  but  both  father  and  daughter  were  agreed 
that  the  engagement,  so  far  as  Rachel  was  concerned,  must  be  considered 
at  an  end  until  Solomon  Isaacs  openly  consented  to  the  union. 

Once  again  on  this  night,  as  Leon  walked  by  her  side,  did  he  endea- 
vour to  shake  her  resolution.  He  met  with  no  success ;  Rachel  was 
firm. 

The  following  day  was  a  busy  one  in  Solomon  Isaacs'  house.  He  gave 
a  grand  party  in  the  evening,  at  which  it  was  his  intention  to  play  a 
trump  card.  A  young  lady  was  coming  to  captivate  Leon,  and  Solomon 
Isaacs  was  full  of  hope  that  his  son  would  be  caught  by  her  attractions. 
In  the  morning  he  dilated  upon  the  splendour  of  the  forthcoming  enter- 
tainment, and,  rubbing  his  hands  gleefully,  told  Leon  that  he  would  be 
the  prince  of  the  party.  To  his  consternation  Leon  commenced  to  open 
the  old  wound. 


SOLOMON   ISAACS. 


'  Do  you  know  where  I  went  last  night,  when  I  left  the  box,  father  t ' 
•No,  Leon.' 

'  I  went  to  the  pit,  where  Rachel  and  Mobbs  Levy  were,  and  waited 
for  them.' 

'Well  1 '  said  Solomon  Isaacs  uneasily. 

'  I  walked  home  with  them.* 

'It  was  a — a  insult  to  your  father,  Leon,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs  meekly. 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  213 

He  was  frightened  of  his  son,  and  knew  that  he  would  place  himself  at 
a  disadvantage  by  passionate  remonstrance. 

'  It  was  a  mark  of  respect  to  them/  said  Leon,  '  a  mark  of  respect 
and  love.  You  can  guess  what  subject  we  talked  upon.  But  Rachel 
wouldn't  give  in.' 

*  She  knows  her  dooty  better  than  you  do.' 

'  She  excels  me  in  this  as  in  everything  else.  Yet  I  also  am  resolved, 
and  have  come  to  a  decision.  This  is  November — ^it  is  eleven  months 
since  we  were  engaged,  and  I  hoped  to  be  happily  married  before  this 
time.  Once  more  I  ask  you  to  allow  me  to  go  to  Rachel  and  tell  her 
you  consent  to  our  marriage.' 

'  No,  Leon,  no,'  replied  Solomon  Tsaacs.  *  You  don't  know  what's 
good  for  yourself.  You  must  look  'igh — ^you  must  marry  a  rich  girL 
Now  there's  Becky  Moss.  She's  got  twenty  thousand  pound,  and  three 
times  that  when  'er  mother  dies.  And  'er  mother's  old,  Leon,  old  ! 
and  ketches  'er  breath  so  as  you  think  she's  never  goin'  to  git  it  back 
agin  !  She  can't  last  long.  Becky  Moss  is  a  fine  girl,  a  fine  girl ! — 
something  to  show  for  your  money,  Leon  1 ' 

'  Yes,  there's  plenty  of  her,  but  she's  not  made  for  me.' 

And  Leon  mentally  set  the  two  girls  before  him,  Rachel  Levy  and 
Becky  Moss,  and  the  substantial  figure  of  Becky  faded  away,  while 
Rachel's  sweet  sad  face  remained  present  to  his  mind's  eye.  Solomon 
Isaacs  saw  no  such  vision. 

'  Not  made  for  you !  I  tell  you  she  is.  Arks  'er,  and  see  if  I  ain't 
right.  What  more  do  you  want,  Leon  1  Beckjr's  got  twenty  thousand 
pound,  and  'U  'ave  sixty  more — d'ye  'ear  1  And  she's  quite  a  lady. 
She  knows  how  to  behave  in  the  best  society,  Leon.  You  should  see 
'er  walk  along  the  room  when  she's  at  a  party — with  'er  'ead  up  'igh,  as 
if  she  was  used  to  it  all  'er  life  !  You  should  see  'o w  she  dresses — ^in 
the  heighth  of  fashion,  Leon,  with  puffs  and  bows  behind  bigger  than  I 
«ver  see,  and  with  a  train  six  yards  long  if  it's  a  inch !  And  she's  ed- 
dicated,  my  boy,  eddicated — talks  languages,  and  plays  the  pianey  as 
loud  as  the  best  on  'em !  I  'eerd  her  the  other  night  at  a  party.  She 
looked  tip-top— a  girl  to  be  proud  of.  She  'ad  on  a  silk  dress  as'd  stand 
alone !  She  'ad  twice  as  much  'air  on  'er  'ead  as  any  of  the  other  girls, 
and  there  was  diamonds  in  it,  Leon,  real  stones,  not  paste !  She  must 
*ave  'ad  five  hundred  pound  worth  of  jewellery  on  'er.  I  reckoned  it  all 
up,  and  i'td  fetch  that  at  the  coffee-shop  in  Duke's  Place.  You're  never 
a-going  to  throw  away  a  chance  like  that,  Leon  ? ' 

*  No,'  replied  Leon,  *  I'll  not  throw  it  away.  It's  too  heavy.  But 
I'll  not  marry  Miss  Rebecca,  if  that's  what  you  mean.' 

At  this  Solomon  Isaacs  lost  his  presence  of  mind. 

*  If  you  say  that  agin,  I'll  cut  you  out  of  my  will !  Mind — I  mean 
what  I  say.     You  sha'n't  'ave  a  shilling  of  my  money.' 

'  Saddled  with  your  conditions,'  said  Leon,  with  spirit,  *  I  would 
sooner  be  without  Good  day,  sir.  When  I  feel  that  I  am  not  ashamed 
of  my  father,  I  will  come  and  see  you  again.     Not  till  then.' 

When  Solomon  Isaacs  recovered  his  temper  he  was  not  greatly  alarmed 
by  his  son's  words.  It  was  not  the  first  quarrel  they  had  had  upon  the 
theme,  nor  the  first  time  Leon  had  threatened  to  leave  the  house  for 
good.  That  he  had  not  done  so  was  an  assurance  that  a  calmer  mood 
would  lead  to  a  wiser  decision. 


214  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

Therefore  when  Solomon  Isaacs'  guests  were  assembled  in  the  even- 
ing  he  was  not  doubtful  that  Leon  would  make  his  appearance.  He  wa» 
proud  of  his  boy,  who  looked  every  inch  the  gentleman,  and  whose  edu- 
cation and  manners  enabled  him  to  hold  his  own  in  good  society. 
'  And  Leon  knows  on  which  side  his  bread's  buttered/  thought  Solomon 
Isaacs. 

But  he  was  doomed  to  disappointment  Leon  did  not  appear^  Becky 
Moss  and  her  mother  were  there,  and  made  anxious  inquiries  after  the- 
young  fellow. 

*  He'll  be  'ere  after  supper,*  said  Solomon  Isaacs.  *  Keep  a  few  darnces 
for  'im,  Miss  Moss.* 

Becky  was  resplendent,  having  made  up  her  mind  that  Leon  was  the 
man  for  her.  Dress,  feathers,  and  diamonds  were  there,  and  a  good- 
looking  girl  in  the  bargain.  It  was  the  best  chance  that  had  fallen  in  the 
young  lady's  way,  and  she  had  come  to  the  party  prepared  for  victory. 

The  appearance  of  the  supper  table  elicited  expressions  of  unanimous 
approbation.  There  were  salmon  and  other  fish  and  meats  in  wonder- 
ful profusion  ;  wet  and  dry  almond-puddings  and  cocoa-nut  tarts ;  amaz- 
ing jellies,  and  raised  pies,  and  hothouse  fruits;  and  everything  that 
was  out  of  season.  Solomon  Isaacs  related  choice  stories  concerning  the 
feast,  as  to  how  much  the  wine  cost  him  a  dozen,  and  how  much  he  had 
paid  for  that  fruit  in  the  market.  One  of  the  guests,  carried  away  by 
the  enthusiasm  at  the  liberality  of  the  spread,  cried  to  the  host,  with 
his  mouth  full, 

*  By  my  life,  Mr.  Izard,  the  salmon  is  good  I ' 

Whereupon  Solomon  Isaacs,  in  his  loud  and  delicate  way,  related 
proudly  how  the  captain  of  the  steamer  had  brought  the  salmon  over 
from  Rotterdam  expressly  for  him,  and  how  Mr.  Sloper,  the  great  cook, 
had  offered  him  five  shillings  a  pound  for  it. 

*I  suppose,'  said  Solomon  Isaacs,  'he  'ad  a  wedding  breakfast  or  a 
supper  to  provide.  "  Five  shillings  a  pound,  Mr.  Izard,"  he  said.  "  No, 
Mr.  Sloper,"  said  I.  "  I  likes  my  profit,  but,  by  my  life,  my  company 
comes  first. "  ' 

*  Bravo,  bravo,'  ran  round  the  table,  although  a  few  of  the  more  re- 
fined shuddered  at  the  vulgarity.  '  You  were  born  to  be  a  gentleman, 
Mr.  Izard.' 

Upon  this  point  opinions  differed  after  supper,  in  consequence  of  the 
absence  of  Leon.  Mrs.  Moss  had  her  adherents,  and  she  declared  that 
never  in  all  her  life  had  such  an  affront  been  put  upon  her — declining,, 
when  asked,  to  specify  the  nature  of  the  affront.  Her  indignation  re> 
solved  itself  into  an  emphatic  declaration  that  Solomon  Isaacs  was  an 
upstart,  and  that  to  sit  at  his  table  was  *  a  lowering  of  oneself.'  Becky 
Moss  also  had  something  to  say,  and  as  a  girl  of  spirit  she  said  it  in 
plain  terms  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Isaacs.  This  unpleasant  state  of  affairs 
was  made  still  more  unpleasant  by  disturbances  at  the  card-tables,  those 
who  lost  at  loo  ranging  themselves  on  the  side  of  Becky  Moss  and  her 
mother,  while  those  who  won  were  in  too  good  a  temper  to  take 
sides  with  either  party.  It  is  a  disagreeable  thing  to  record  that  Solo- 
mon Isaacs,  himself  by  no  means  amiably  inclined,  met  Mrs.  Moss's  on- 
slaught with  vigour,  and  a  battle  of  words  occurred  which  it  would  be 
profitless  here  to  set  down.     It  ended  in  a  hasty  departure  of  all  the 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  215 

guests,   with  scarcely    one  cordial  good-night  to  the  host  who  had 
splendidly  feasted  them. 

Only  Solomon  Isaacs  and  his  wife  were  left  in  the  drawing-room.  In 
the  turmoil  a  few  chairs  had  been  overturned,  and  a  few  packs  of  cards 
had  been  spilled  on  the  floor.  Solomon  Isaacs  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  flashed  and  excited,  and  Mrs.  Isaacs  sat  in  a  chair,  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro  in  deep  distress. 

'  The  ungrateful  beasts  ! '  exclaimed  Solomon  Isaacs.  They're  a  mean 
lot !  Not  one  on  'em  shall  ever  set  foot  in  the  'ouse  agin  ! '  He  was 
checked  by  the  hysterical  sobbing  of  his  wife.  '  Be  quiet !  *  he  cried. 
*  Be  quiet — can't  you  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  piling  on  the  aggrawa- 
tion  1 ' 

But  grief  and  distress  had  so  worked  upon  Mrs.  Isaacs'  feelings  that 
they  were  beyond  her  control,  and  she  continued  to  rock  herself  to  and 
fro. 

'  Oh,'  she  sobbed,  *  I  wish  we  was  poor  agin  !  I  wish  we  was  poor 
agin !' 

Solomon  Isaacs  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears,  and  for  a  moment 
astonishment  made  him  dumb. 

'  Oh,'  continued  Mrs.  Isaacs,  wringing  her  hands,  '  I  wish  things  was 
the  same  as  when  you  used  to  go  out  every  morning  with  your  bag  !  We 
was Jappy  then.     Oh,  I  wish  we  was  poor ! ' 

*  Wnat ! '  screamed  Solomon  Isaacs.  *  Are  you  out  of  your  mind  ?  Do 
you  want  to  degrade  me  ?  Do  you  want  to  make  me  ashamed  to  look 
myself  in  the  face  1  * 

He  could  not  stop  her,  however,  and  in  the  end  he  stamped  up-stairs 
alone  to  his  bedroom,  leaving  Mrs.  Isaacs  moaning,  and  praying  with  all 
her  heart  and  soul  that  her  husband  might  be  stripped  of  his  riches,  and 
be  compelled  to  work  for  his  living,  as  in  the  olden  days. 


Had  Solomon  Isaacs  known  how  earnestly  his  wife  prayed  for  his 
downfall,  there  is  no  telling  what  he  might  have  done  in  his  anger. 
Much  has  been  written  and  said  about  the  efficacy  of  prayer,  and  here 
was  an  argument  in  its  favour ;  the  charm  that  was  to  work  Solomon 
Isaacs'  ruin  began  on  the  very  day  following  his  grand  party.  The  two 
descriptions  of  stock  in  which  he  was  most  deeply  interested  were  Turk- 
ish and  Peruvian  bonds.  His  greed  had  led  him  to  those  fatal  pits,  in 
which  so  many  innocent  lives  have  been  made  wretched,  so  many  bright 
hopes  engulfed.  The  present  chronicler  has  no  desire  to  dilate  upon 
the  villainy  of  the  respectable  men  who,  to  the  destruction  of  the  un- 
wary, pull  the  strings  of  the  greatest  Gambling  Hell  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  It  is  in  some  poor  way  a  satisfaction  to  know  that  occasionally  a 
cunning  one  is  made  to  bite  the  dust.  This  happened  to  Solomon 
Isaacs. 

Maddened  by  his  private  troubles,  of  which  he  alone  was  the  creator, 
Solomon  Isaacs,  heedless  of  the  warning  held  out  by  the  sudden  fall  of 
Peruvian  stocl^  bought  and  bought,  and  pledged  his  fortune  and  his 
credit  in  a  rotten  cause.  Lower  and  lower  fell  the  stock,  wilder  and 
wdder  grew  his  infatuation,  until  he  awoke  one  morning  to  find  him- 
self more  famous  than  ever.  His  castle  had  toppled  over.  The  respec- 
table black  rooks  of  the  Stock  Exchange  swooped  upon  him  with  a  re- 


216  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

eistless  rush,  and  he,  who  hoped  to  make  them  suffer  to  his  honour  and 
credit,  found  himself  torn  and  bleeding — a  laughing-stock  to  those 
whose  superior  cunning  and  larger  ezpenence  enabled  them  to  weather 
the  storm  which  lefb  him  a  ruined  man  and  a  beggar. 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

THE  CK08S  OF  HUMAIOTY. 

Mention  has  been  made  in  these  pages  of  one  Barney,  who  obtained  an 
insufficient  living  by  selling  watercresses  and  periwinkles,  and  eked  it 
out  by  attending  to  the  Sabbath  fires  of  the  Jewish  poor  in  Spitalfields. 
Since  Eachel  Levy  met  him  on  the  happy  night  of  her  engagement  with 
Leon,  a  year  has  passed,  and  Christmas  has  come  round  once  again  to 
gladden  the  hearts  of  the  poor  with  its  brief  respite  from  the  weary  toil 
of  life. 

'  It's  bitter  cold,  miss,'  says  Barney  to  Eachel,  as  he  warms  his  fingers 
at  the  fire  he  is  tending.     *  A  fire  is  a  real  comfort  such  a  night  as  this.' 

Eachel  nods  assent,  and  presently  notices  that  Barney  is  lingering  in 
the  room,  evidently  with  something  on  his  mind  which  he  finds  a  diffi- 
culty in  bringing  to  his  lips. 

'  Times  are  dreadful  hsj:*d,  miss,'  he  says. 

'  They  seem  so,  Barney/  says  Eachel ;  '  all  the  poor  round  about  are 
complaining.' 

*  That's  so,  miss ;  but  some  are  poor  and  others  are  poorer.'  ^ 

*  Is  there  anything  you  wish  particularly  to  say  to  me,  Barney  1 ' 

*  Thank  you,  miss.  Yes,  there  is  something.  Last  night  when  I  got 
home — it  was  late ;  I  was  trying  to  sell  out  my  basket ' 

'  Did  you  succeed  1 ' 

'  No,  miss  ;  things  are  getting  dreadful  bad ;  people's  got  no  money  to 
spend  on  luxuries.  When  I  got  home,  miss,  what  do  you  think  I  saw 
on  my  doorstep  1 ' 

*  I  can't  guess.' 

<  A  woman,  miss,  with  a  babby  in  her  arms.  How  old  do  you  think 
the  babby  was,  miss  ? ' 

'  Tell  me,  Barney.' 

'  Not  six  weeks,  I  should  say.  A  thin  little  creature  it  was,  with  a 
face  that  didn't  seem  bigger  than  a  penny-piece.  It  was  pouring  tor- 
rents hard,  and  there  they  was,  the  pair  of  'em,  a-laying  on  my  door- 
step, soaked  through,  the  pair  of  'em.' 

*  0  Barney  I ' 

^  It's  gospel  truth,  miss.  I  stoops  down,  and  shakes  the  woman. 
"  Hallo  !  "  I  says.  "  Hallo  !  "  Now  what  do  you  think  the  woman  says 
to  that  I ' 

'  What  1 ' 

'  She  says,  says  the  woman,  "  Don't  touch  me  !     Don't  turn  me  away  !  ^ 

For  God's  sake,  let  me  lay  here  and  die  I "  ' 

Eachel  starts  to  her  feet  with  a  look  of  compassion. 

*  I  was  thinking,  miss,'  continues  Barney,  *  that  perhaps  you'd  ad- 
vance me  a  shilling  to  get  something  nourishing  for  the  poor  creature.* 


SOLOMON   ISAACS.  217 

*  Where  is  she,  then  ? ' 

*  In  my  garret,  miss.  I  carried  her  up-stairs  and  put  her  on  my  bed. 
She  don't  seem  able  to  eat  the  bread-and-butter  I  orfer  her ;  and  there 
she  is.  You  see,  miss,  I've  never  been  able  to  lay  up  for  a  rainy  day, 
and  I'm  that  selfish  that  every  penny  I  get  I  spend  on  myself.' 

Before  he  has  finished  this  his  longest  speech,  Rachel  has  taken  from 
the  cupboard  a  piece  of  cake  and  two  slices  of  fried  fish,  which  she  wraps 
in  paper. 

'  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  coming  to  see  her  to-morrow,  miss,  if  she 
ain't  better.     Then  you  might  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do.' 

^  Do  you  know  her,  Barney  1 ' 

*  Never  set  eyes  on  her  till  last  night.  And  can't  get  anything  out 
of  her.     She's  a  kind  of  unconscious.' 

*  I  will  come  to-morrow,  Barney ;  I  can't  go  to-night,  because  my 
father  is  not  well.  Here  is  something  she  may  be  able  to  eat,  and  here's 
a  shiUing.' 

'Thank  you,  miss.     I. may  come  and  fetch  you  to-morrow,  then,  if 
she  ain't  better  ? ' 
'  Yes,  Barney.' 

*  Grood-night,  miss.' 

*  Good-night.' 

On  the  following  evening  Barney  knocked  at  Rachel  Levy's  door. 
The  ^1  and  her  father  were  at  home. 

'  You  have  something  fresh  to  tell  me,  Barney,'  said  Rachel,  gleaning 
her  knowledge  from  an  expression  of  curiosity  on  his  face.  '  Am  I  to 
come  with  you  now  1 ' 

*  If  you  please,  miss.' 

Rachel  brought  out  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 

*  How's  the  poor  woman  ? ' 

'  As  bad  as  can  be.  The  doctor's  been  to  see  her,  and  '11  come  again 
to-night.  I  have  something  new  to  tell  you.  I  asked  her  this  afternoon 
if  she  didn't  have  any  friends.  What  name  do  you  think  comes  to  her 
lips  in  a  whisper  ? ' 

'  I  cannot  say.' 

*  Yours,  miss.' 
'Mine!' 

*  Yes.  "  Friends  ? "  she  whispers ;  she  ain't  got  breath  enough  to 
speak  loud.  "  Friends  ?  There  was  a  Jewess  as  give  me  money  and 
bread  last  Christmas — Rachel  Levy."  She  says  your  name  more  than 
once  after  that,  miss.' 

*  I  remember — I  remember,'  said  Rachel,  with  a  sigh.  *  Father,  I 
will  come  back  as  soon  as  I  can.  If  I  am  wanted,  I  am  at  Barney's 
lodgings.' 

*  Very  well,  my  dear,'  said  Moses  Levy,  and  followed  Rachel  to  the 
door  with  wistful  eyes.  He  did  not  like  to  lose  sight  of  her,  and  was 
for  ever  watching  the  signs  in  her  face,  which  told  him  too  frequently 
that  she  was  thinking  of  the  days  that  were  ^one.  His  only  amuse- 
ment now  was  a  game  of  cribbage  with  Rachel  or  a  game  of  patience 
by  himself,  and  this  at  the  best  of  times  was  but  a  sad  enjoyment.  The 
salt  had  gone  out  of  his  life. 

Game  after  came  of  patience  he  played,  with  varying  success,  paying 
indeed  but  slight  attention  to  the  cards.     Vague  rumours  of  Solomon 


218  SOLOMON  ISAACS. 

Isaac's  downfall  had  reached  his  ears  during  the  past  foiinight,  but 
they  were  so  conflicting  that  he  scarcely  knew  what  to  believe.  During 
that  time  he  had  not  seen  Leon,  and  therefore  had  no  opportunity  of 
arriving  at  the  truth.  As  he  shuffled  and  laid  out  the  cards,  he  endea- 
voured to  thread  his  way  through  a  labyrinth  of  possibilities,  and  what 
result  the  news,  if  true,  would  have  upon  Rachel's  fortunes.  She  had 
not  spoken  to  him  upon  the  subject,  nor  he  to  her ;  Solomon  Isaac's 
name,  by  tacit  consent,  had  not  been  uttered  by  one  to  the  other  for 
months. 

He  heard  shuffling  footsteps  on  the  stairs ;  he  listened  with  a  strange 
fluttering  at  his  heart,  recognising  a  familiar  sound.  It  ceased  in  the 
passage,  and  there  was  a  long  pause.  Moses  Levy  gazed  at  the  cards 
spread  out  on  the  table,  and  made  no  movement.  He  trembled  so  that 
when  a  knock  came  at  the  door  his  voice  scarcely  rose  above  a  whisper. 
The  door  was  slowlv  opened,  and  Solomon  Isaacs  stood  on  the  threshold. 

He  was  dressed  m  shabby  clothes,  he  wore  a  shabby  hat,  he  had  his 
old-clo'  bag  over  his  arm.  No  rings  were  on  his  Angers,  no  massive 
chain  hung  across  his  waistcoat,  no  diamond  pin  was  in  his  scarf.  His 
beard  was  growing  ragged  once  more,  and  his  face  was  as  the  face  of  one 
whose  purse  was  empty. 

*  May  I  come  in,  Mo  T  he  asked  humbly. 

'  Yes,'  replied  Moses  Levy,  white  and  shaking,  *  if  you  come  in  peace. ' 

*  That's  what  I've  come  for — that's  what  I  arks  for  I  Mo,'  said  Solo- 
mon Isaacs,  holding  forth  his  hand,  '  will  you  shake  'ands  with  a  old 
friend  V 

*  Does  Leon  know  you  are  here  V  asked  Moses  Levy. 

*  Yes ;  I  told  'im  I  was  coming.  Won't  you  shake  'ands  1  Don't  *it 
a  man  when  he's  down !' 

Moses  Levy  gave  Solomon  Isaacs  his  hand. 
'  Be  seated,'  he  said. 

Solomon  Isaacs  instantly  began  to  gather  the  cards  together. 
'  A  game  of  crib.  Mo  !     For  the  sake  of  old  times  !     For  Rachel  and 
Leon's  sake.' 
Tears  gathered  in  Moses  Levy's  eyes. 

*  So  be  it,'  he  said ;  '  let  bygones  be  bygones,  for  our  children's  sake. 
You  are  welcome.' 

Leon,  making  his  appearance  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards/  found 
the  old  men  playing  cribbage.  Not  with  the  heartiness  of  old ;  there 
was  still  an  awkward  restraint  upon  them. 

Moses  Levy  welcomed  the  young  man  with  cordiality. 

'  It  is  just  a  year  to  night,  sir,'  said  Leon,  that  I  asked  Rachel  to  be 
my  wife.  You  gave  your  consent  then.  Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  ask 
for  it  again  V 

*  What  does  your  father  say,  Leon  ?* 
They  both  turned  to  Solomon  Isaacs. 

'  Leon  couldn't  make  a  better  match,'  he  said,  with  a  little  huskiness 
in  his  throat 

*  Gro  and  bring  Rachel  home,  Leon,'  said  Moses  Levy ;  and  told  the 
young  man  where  he  would  find  her. 

Rachel  was  kneeling  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying  woman,  whose  last 


SOLOMON  ISAACS.  219 

words  had  just  been  uttered.    Through  the  garret  window  the  moon's 
rays  streamed  athwart  a  beam  which  stretched  from  floor  to  ceiling.. 
The  shadow  of  the  solemn  symbol  fell  upon  the  figures  in  the  room  with 
Divine  meaning ;  and,  bathed  in  the  sacred  light  of  Humanity's  Cross,, 
the  Christian  died  and  the  Jewess  wept. 

"  Hush  !'  said  Rachel,  as  Leon  softly  entered. 

THE  END. 


THE  ST.  LAWRENCE. 

0  THOU  grand  St.  Lawrence  River  !  flowing  onward  to  the  sea  ; 

Fraught  with  pleasant  recollections  are  thy  sunny  banks  to  me. 

Happy  hours  IVe  passed  beside  thee,  where  thy  bright  blue  waters  flow  ; 

With  the  vaulted  heavens  reflected  in  thy  glassy  waves  below. 

Where,  from  broad  Ontario's  waters,  thou  dost  issue,  'mongst  the  Isles  ; 

Foaming  proudly  past  the  woodlands,  over  which  the  glad  sun  smiles. 

Past  the  banks,  where  pine  trees  nodding,  gently  woo  the  summer  breeze  ; 

Where  timid  deer  and  saucy  squirrel  seek  their  food  amid  the  trees. 

Now,  past  pleasant  meadows  gliding,  where  the  peaceful  cattle  graze  ; 

Where  the  bark  canoes  above  thee  dance  in  noontide's  fervid  rays. 

Now  receiving  Ott'wa's  waters,  as  the  groom  receives  his  bride. 

Reinforced  thou  speedest  onward  to  the  heaving,  far-off  tide. 

Now,  with  deeper,  stronger  current,  flowing  silent,  deep  and  dark  ; 

Past  Yille  Marie  thy  proud  waters  bear  the  ocean-going  barque. 

*  Neath  the  long  '*  Suspension"  whirling  envious  of  its  giant's  strength  ; 

Water-lapping  its  huge  pillars,  on  thou  goest ;  and  at  length — 

Angry,  that  these  should  impede  thee,  since  thou  canst  not  'whelm  them  o'en- 

Fierce,  uprise  thy  foaming  billows,  with  a  sullen,  thunder  roar. 

Then  with  slow  and  solemn  motion,  swelling  grandly,  deep  and  wide  ; 

Thou  receiv'st  another*  river  to  thy  now  full  swollen  tide. 

Flowing  ever,  stronger,  broader,  till  with  grand  triumphant  sweep. 

Past  Quebec  thy  full-flowing  current  rolls  to  meet  the  boundless  deep. 

Thus  we  sketch  thee,  grand  St.  Lawrence  !  and,  as  we  thy  waters  scan  ; 

Does  the  thought  ne'er  rise  within  us  :     How  like  to  the  life  of  man  ? 

Sometimes  gliding,  calmly,  smoothly,  oftimes  checked  by  hostile  force  ; 

As  thro'  lonely  vales  and  shadows  he  pursues  his  endless  course. 

But  in  spite  of  all  obstructions,  firmly,  bravely,  passing  on  ; 

Till  they  all  give  way  before  him,  till  aU  clouds  and  storms  are  gone. 

Growing  stronger,  as  he  journeys,  till,  from  earthly  tempests  free, 

Life  is  lost  within  the  boundless  Ocean  of  Eternity. 

Oshawa.  Constantine. 

•  St.  Maurice. 


220 


ROXY. 

BY  EDWARD  EGOLESTON. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  REVIVAL. 

There  was  a  revival  in  the  town.  Do  you  know  what  that  means  1  In 
4t  country  village,  where  most  of  the  time  there  is  a  stagnation  even  in 
gossip,  where  a  wedding  of  any  sort  is  a  capital  event,  where  a  funeral 
is  universal  interest,  and  where  even  a  birth  is  matter  of  common  talk, 
it  is— all  moral  aspects  of  the  case  aside — ^a  great  thing  to  have  a  hurri- 
-cane  of  excitement  sweep  over  the  still  waters  of  the  little  pool.  Every 
one  of  the  fifteen  hundred  people  in  the  little  town  knew  that  there  was 
a  revival  ''  going  on."  Every  one  of  them  carried  in  his  head  each  day 
a  list  of  those  who  had  "  been  to  the  mourner's  bench  "  the  night  be- 
fore, and  of  those  who  were  converted  ;  and  everybody  knew  who  had 
shouted  or  "  taken  on "  in  any  way  at  the  meetings.  Forlorn  groups 
of  young  men  who  looked  as  though  the  day  of  judgment  were  surely 
come,  stood  upon  the  street  comers  and  discussed  the  fact  that  Bill 
Works  had  "cone  forward'*  the  evening  before.  Some  thought  he 
wouldn't  "  hold  out  long."  But  the  morning  after  old  Tom  Walters 
*'  got  religion,"  the  town  was  convulsed  with  excitement.  He  was  a  no- 
torious drunkard,  and  when  he  was  converted  there  did  seem  some- 
thing supematurally  awful  about  it.  To  see  Tom  sober  was  like  seeing 
a  dead  man  alive.  Few  were  living  now  who  could  remember  when 
Walters  had  been  entirely  sober  before.  There  was  many  a  man  ready 
to  assure  you  that  he'd  "seen  a  good  many  of  these  roaring  excitements 
in  his  time/'  and  that  they  "  all  died  down  afore  hay-harvest,"  and 
"  old  Tom  Walters  would  be  drunker'n  ever,  time  the  com  crop  was 
laid  by."  And  yet,  and  yet,  all  this  spoken  in  a  voice  a  little  tremulous 
•did  have  an  air  of  grave-yard  whistline. 

There  were  the  scoffers,  however,  who  laughed,  and  who  banded  to- 
gether to  laugh.  The  best  man  among  them  was  Ben  Thomas,  who 
laughed  in  the  preacher's  face,  when  he  was  going  through  the  congre- 
gation exhorting.  The  preacher,  a  slender  Boanerges,  had  rebuked  him 
from  the  pulpit,  and  this  had  given  Ben  a  still  greater  prominence  among 
his  fellows.  But  when  two  of  Ben's  cronies,  after  a  fiery  and  prophet- 
like denunciation  from  the  preacher,  became  frightened,  and  came  cowed 
and  bellowing  to  the  "  mourner's  bench,"  even  Ben's  voice  grew  a  little 
tremulous  as  he  saw  himself  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  opposition.  But  all 
the  thunders  of  the  preacher  could  not  bring  him  down.  He  was  too 
much  flattered  by  his  unique  position.  It  was  better  to  be  the  devil  than 
to  be  nobody  in  particular,  and  Ben  would  have  faced  perdition  itself 
for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  love  of  bravado. 

All  this  storm  was  raised  by  the  new  Methodist  preacher,  a  man  who 


ROXT.  221 

had  been  a  mechanic  until  religion  seized  upon  his  enthusiastic  spirit. 
Since  that  time  he  had  been  a  blazing  torch  of  religious  excitement 
sweeping  like  a  prairie  fire  over  every  region  to  which  the  conference 
had  assigned  him.  In  the  autumn,  after  the  August  election,  he  had 
been  sent  to  Luzerne.  In  November,  Greneral  Harrison  and  his  log- 
cabin  were  elected  to  the  presidency.  Now,  the  ebb  tide  of  political 
or  financial  excitement  often  ends  in  becoming  a  flood  tide  of  religious 
excitement  It  is  a  resolution  of  force,  not  easily  accounted  for,  but  very 
easily  seen.  So  that  Mr.  Dale's  revival  took  on  proportions  surprising 
even  to  his  faith  and  enterprise. 

Mr.  Whittaker  was  a  new  Englander,  and  to  him  this  revival  was 
something  appalling.  Not  that  he  did  not  believe  in  revivals  ;  but  he 
believed  in  revivals  like  Dr.  Payson's  and  Jonathan  Edwards's — of  the 
quiet,  awful,  and  persuasive  kind,  which  would  not  have  been  possible 
among  the  inflammable  people  of  Ohio  in  the  last  generation.  Mr.  Whit- 
taker, believing  that  some  good  must  be  done  in  spite  of  the  "  wild-fire," 
thought  it  no  more  than  right  that  he  should  attend  the  Methodist  meet- 
ings. He  could  not  do  this  in  any  spirit  of  patronage  as  he  might  have 
done  in  New  England,  for  here  the  Methodists  were  more  than  half  the 
town.  Still  he  could  not  but  feel  that  it  would  be  a  condescension  for 
a  college-bred  man  like  himself  to  lend  his  countenance  to  these  people 
whose  ndnister  had  laid  down  his  hatter's  bow  to  become  a  preacher  on 
an  education  consisting  chiefly  of  a  reading  of  Wesley's  Sermons  and 
Clarke's  Commentary.  He  went  one  evening  and  did  his  best  to  get 
into  sympathy  with  the  meeting,  but  the  loud  praying,  the  constant  in- 
terruptions of  responsive  "  Amens  "  and  other  ejaculatory  cries,  the  kneel- 
ing mourners  weeping  and  sobbing,  fifty  at  a  time,  in  the  space  around 
the  pulpit,  Uie  public  prayer  offered  by  women,  the  pathetic  melodies 
and  choruses,  the  occasional  shouting, — these  and  a  hundred  other  things 
oflended  his  prejudices  and  grated  on  his  sense  of  propriety.  He  won- 
dered how  Roxy  could  seem  oblivious  to  the  din  about  her  as  she  moved 
among  the  penitents  on  the  women's  side  of  the  house,  to  comfort  whom  ^ 
was  her  special  vocation.  He  saw  how  everybody  loved  her,  how  the 
gladness  of  her  face  seemed  to  mollify  the  terribleness  of  Dale's  fiery 
preaching.  It  happened  to  be  the  very  night  of  old  Tom  Walters'^ 
"  start,"  and  Whittaker  saw  that  after  the  old  man  had  wept  and  cried, 
lying  prone  upon  the  floor  during  the  whole  evening,  he  seemed  not  a 
little  cheered  by  the  words  which  sister  Roxy  spoke  to  him  at  the  close 
of  the  meeting ;  not  by  the  words,  perhaps,  but  by  the  radiant  fstce  and 
hopeful  tone. 

But  Whittaker  did  not  go  again.  How  could  he  )  To  him  this  re- 
ligious intoxication  was  profanation,  and  he  wrote  a  strong  letter  to  the 
Home  Missionary  Society  setting  forth  the  *'  wild  and  semi-barbarous 
character  "  of  many  of  the  religious  services  at  the  West,  and  urging  the 
importance  of  sending  men  to  plant  *'  an  intelligent  and  thoughtful 
Christianity  "  in  its  place.  This  was  because  he  was  an  exotic.  The 
religion  he  despised  was  indigenous.  A  better  aud  more  thoughtful 
Christianity  has  grown  as  the  people  have  grown  thoughtful.  But  it 
has  developed  on  the  gronnd.  It  is  not  chiefly  New  England  thought- 
fulness,  but  the  home  growth  of  Western  intelligence  that  has  done  it. 

But  though  Whittaker  washed  his  hands  of  this  ranting  revivalism, 
he  wished  that  he  were  free  to  dislike  it  wholly.     Tom  Walters,  he  re- 


222  ROXY. 

fleeted,  would  no  doubt  slip  back  into  the  mire  as  soon  as  the  excite- 
ment was  over,  but  in  all  this  ingathering  there  must  be  some  good 
grain.  And  so  he  found  himself  in  that  state  which  is  least  comfortable 
of  all — his  sympathy  dividing  the  ground  with  his  antipathy.  And  such 
is  the  solidarity  of  people  in  a  village  that  an  excitement  of  this  sort  is 
sure  to  affect  everybody  sooner  or  later.  Whittaker  soon  saw  in  his  own 
congregation  an  unusual  solemnity.  He  was  unwilling  to  admit  that 
the  Mejthodist  revival  had  influenced  him,  but  he  found  himself  appeal- 
ing more  earnestly  than  ever  to  his  few  hearers  to  become  religious  He 
found  himself  expecting  something.  What  to  do  he  did  not  know.  At 
last  he  appointed  an  '*  Inquiry  Meeting  ''  at  the  close  of  his  Sunday 
evening  service.  Just  one  person  remained  as  an  ^'  inquirer."  To  Mr. 
Whittaker's  amazement  this  was  Twonnet  There  were  many  others  a 
week  later,  but  that  the  first  should  be  the  volatile  Twonnet,  whose  gay 
banter  and  chaffer  had  made  him  afraid  to  speak  to  her  seriously,  quite 
upset  him.  After  the  inquiry  meeting  was  over  and  he  had  seated  him- 
self alone  in  the  little  parlour  at  Mr.  Lefaure's,  where  a  melancholy 
ticking  was  kept  up  by  an  old  Swiss  clock  screwed  to  the  wall  with  its 
weights  and  pendulum  hanging  exposed  below,  he  looked  into  the  blaz- 
ing fire  on  the  hearth  and  wondered  how  it  was  that  Twonnet,  who,  at 
supper  that  very  evening,  had  been  as  gay  as  ever,  should  have  sud- 
denly remained  to  an  inquiry  meeting.  He  tried  to  think  what  there 
was  unusual  in  his  sermon  that  might  have  impressed  her. 

Just  then  the  brass  knob  of  the  door  was  turned  hesitantly,  the  old- 
fashioned  latch,  big  at  one  end  and  little  at  the  other,  was  raised  with  a 
snap,  and  the  door  was  opened  a  little  way  by  Twonnet,  who  imme- 
diately began  to  close  it  irresolutely. 

"  Gome  in,  Twonnet,"  said  the  minister,  gravely. 

Thus  re-assured,  Twonnet  entered',  took  up  the  broom  mechanically, 
and  swept  the  ashes  on  the  hearth  into  the  fire-place,  set  the  broom 
down  and  stood  halting  by  the  fire. 

"  Sit  down,  Twonnet,''  said  Whittaker,  gently,  as  though  he  were  ad- 
dressing a  little  child.  "  How  long  have  you  been  thinking  seriously  of 
becoming  a  Christian  1 " 

"  Ever  since  I  can  remember." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  lately." 

^'  All  the  time."  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  I  would  like  to  be  as  good  as 
Roxy  but  I  can't  I  can't  be  serious  long  at  a  time,  I'll  be  laughing  and 
teasing  somebody  to-morrow,  I  suppose.  That's  the  reason  I  haven't 
tried  before.     I  can't  be  much  of  a  Christian  anyhow." 

"  But  divine  grace  can  help  you,"  said  Whittaker,  using  the  form  of 
words  to  which  he  had  always  been  accustomed. 

"  But  divine  grace  won't  make  me  somebody  else,  will  it  1  It  won't 
make  me  like  to  look  inside  as  Roxy  does,  and  to  keep  diaries  and  all  that 
It  won't  make  me  want  to  be  a  martyr  as  she  does,  I'm  sure.  I'll  never 
be  good  all  over.  It  doesn't  seem  to  make  other  people  all  alike,  and  I 
suppose  I'll  be  the  same  giddy-headed  Twonnet  as  long  as  I  live,  and 
father  will  have  to  keep  shaking  his  head  and  saying,  '  Taistoiy  Toinette,' 
in  that  awful  way,  forever.  If  I  ever  get  to  heaven,  I'll  laugh  one 
minute  and  get  mad  the  next,"  and  at  this  she  laughed  in  her  sudden 
mercurial  fashion. 

The  minister  was  silent     He  was  afraid  to  say  anything  that  might 


ROXY.  223 

discourage  her.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  cant  or  mimicry  in  her  piety. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  a  strange  lack 
of  the  seriousness  which  he  had  always  been  taught  was  the  first  step  of 
a  Christian  life.  The  cold  Saxon  New  Englander  was  trying  to  apply 
Puritan  rules  to  one  of  a  different  race. 

"  But  I  thought,"  continued  Twonnet,  gravely,  "  that,  if  I  couldn't  be 
as  good  as  I  wanted  to,  I  would  just  try  to  be  as  good  as  I  could.''  And 
here  she  began  to  shed  tears.  **  I  thought  that  was  the  common-sense 
way.  I've  got  a  temper — all  of  us  Swiss  have ;  but  then  we  don't  stay 
mad,  and  that's  a  good  thing."  Here  she  laughed  again.  ''  Any  way, 
I'm  going  to  do  my  best." 

Mr.  Whittaker  thought  it  safe  to  approve  of  this  last  resolution,  though 
the  girl  was  a  puzzle  to  him.  This  certainly  was  not  an  experience 
according  to  the  common  standard.  He  could  not  dissect  it,  and  label 
its  parts  with  the  approved  scientific  names. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  MEMBER  FOR  LTTZERNE. 

During  this  revival  regret  was  often  expressed  that  Mark  Bonamy  was 
absent  If  he  were  at  home  he  might  be  converted,  and  his  conversion 
would  tell  upon  the  other  young  men  of  the  town.  And  then  he  might 
•come  to  be  a  preacher.  What  a  preacher  he  would  make  !  He  would 
doubtless  come  to  be  a  famous  presiding  elder,  like  John  Strange  or 
Allen  Wiley.  He  might  some  day  set  to  be  a  great  bishop,  like  Elijah 
Hedding.  But  he  was  away  attending  the  session  of  the  legislature. 
None  regretted  this  more  than  his  mother,  a  devout  Methodist  who 
prayed  d[ay  and  night  that  the  son  who  "  had  wandered  into  paths  of 
worldly  pleasure  and  ambition  "  might  be  "  led  to  ground  the  arms  of 
his  rebellion,  and  enlist  under  the  banner  of  the  cross." 

As  for  Mark,  his  ambition  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  be  gratified.  For 
the  first  time  the  State  government  was  in  the  control  of  the  Whigs.  He 
had  happened  to  change  just  in  time  to  come  in  on  the  rising  wave,  and 
all  Luzerne  recognized  him  now  as  destined  to  become  a  distinguished 
citizen.  Some  days  before  the  time  for  the  legislature  to  meet,  Mark 
buckled  on  his  leggings,  packed  his  saddle-bags,  and  mounted  his  horse. 
He  rode  for  four  days  through  thick,  yellow  clay,  soft  enough  to  let  his 
horse  sink  down  one  or  two  feet  at  nearly  every  step,  arriving  late  in  the 
evening  of  the  fourth  day  at  Indianapolis,  a  straggling  muddy  village  in 
a  heavily  wooded  morass.  The  newly  projected  capital  had  been  laid  off 
with  true  Hoosier  magnificence  and  liopefulness.  The  governor's  house 
— remarkable  for  a  homely  bigness  and  a  dirty  colour — stood  in  the 
middle,  surrounded  by  a  circular  street  which  left  His  Excellency's  family 
no  back  yard — all  sides  were  front.  Around  this  focus  most  of  the  new 
wooden  churches  were  built,  so  that  the  people  going  to  meeting  might 
inspect  the  governor's  wood-pile  and  count  the  inmates  of  bis  chicken 
coop,  whose  death-warrants  had  not  yet  been  signed.  Outside  of  the 
**  circle  "  the  city  was  laid  off  with  nice  rectangularity,  except  that  four 
great  diagonal  avenues  running  from  the  centre  gave  the  town  on  the 


224  ROXY. 

map,  the  appearance  of  a  blazing  sun  in  a  cheap  picture.  Nowadays, 
when  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  people  have  filled  up  this  radiant 
outline  with  many  costly  buildings,  and  when  the  unsightly  '^  governor's 
mansion,"  having  ceased  to  exist,  no  longer  presents  its  back  door  to  the 
Episcopal  Giiurch,  the  beautiful  Hoosier  metropolis  has  justified  the 
hopes  of  its  projectors.  But  in  Bonamy's  time  the  stumps  stood  in  the 
streets ;  the  mud  was  only  navigable  to  a  man  on  a  tall  horse ;  the 
buildings  were  ugly  and  unpainted ;  the  people  were  raw  emigrants, 
dressed  in  butternut  jeans,  and  for  the  most  part  afflicted  either  with  the 
"  agur  "  or  the  "  yaller  janders  ; "  the  taverns  were  new  wooden  build- 
ings with  swinging  signs  that  creaked  in  the  wind,  their  floors  being  well 
coated  with  a  yellow  adobe  from  the  boots  of  the  guests.  The  alkaline 
biscuits  on  the  table  were  yellow,  like  the  floors  ;  the  fried  "  middling  " 
looked  much  the  same,  the  general  yellowness  had  extended  to  the  wiQls 
and  the  bed-clothing,  and  combined  with  the  butternut  jeans  and  cop- 
peras-dyed linsey-woolsey  of  the  clothes,  it  gave  the  universe  an  air  of 
having  the  jaundice. 

It  is  quite  depressing  to  a  man  who  has  been  the  great  man  of  his 
town,  and  who  has  been  duly  commissioned  to  some  deliberative  body, 
to  find  that  all  his  fellow-memberb  consider  themselves  the  cential 
objects  of  interest  Mark  was  neglected  at  first  ^by  all  except  those 
members  who  wanted  to  get  state  roads  or  other  projects  of  local  interest 
carried  through  the  house.  He  was  only  "the  young  fellow  from 
Luzerne.''  Nevertheless,  after  he  had  made  his  maiden  speech  on  the 
necessity  for  internal  improvements  by  the  general  govemQient,  he  was 
more  highly  esteemed.  A  young  man  with  so  telling  a  style  of  declam- 
ation was  not  to  be  slighted.  A  shrewd  old  member  nodded  to  his 
neighbour  as  Mark  sat  down  at  the  close  of  |us  effort,  and  said,  ''  Ck)n- 
gress  some  day.''  For  that  was  the  day  before  the  reign  of  newspapers. 
Declamation  was  the  key  to  promotion. 

One  day  when  the  session  was  drawing  to  its  close,  a  messenger  came 
for  Bonamy.  The  man  had  ridden  hard  over  frozen  ground  for  two  days, 
and  now  with  horse  worn  out,  he  came  to  tell  Mark  that  his  mother  was 
dying  of  one  of  those  bilious  fevers  which  made  the  west  a  grave-yard  in 
those  days.  Mark  was  a  man  of  strong  feeling.  He  had  often  disre- 
garded the  advice  of  his  mother,  but  she  was  the  good  influence  of  his 
life,  so  that  it  was  with  a  mixed  emotion  of  grief  and  remorse  that  he 
mounted  his  horse  and  turned  his  back  upon  the  legislature,  then  in  its 
last  week,  to  make  a  f  treed  ride  of  eighty  miles  in  two  days  over  frozen 
roads  of  horrible  roughness,  with  only  the  faintest  hope  of  seeing  his 
mother  alive. 

But  Death  does  not  wait  for  us.  When  Mark  rode  his  tired  horse  up 
to  his  father's  gate,  tne  serious  faces  of  those  who  met  him  at  the  door 
told  him  that  he  was  too  late.  It  only  remained  to  receive  her  blessing 
at  second-hand  from  the  old  woman  who  had  been  with  her  to  the  last, 
and  who  gave  her  message  to  Mark  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  say  :  "  Now, 
you  reprobate,  you  !  don't  you  feel  mean  that  you  did  not  repent  as  your 
mother  wanted  you  to  ?  Now  yon  see  in  a  time  like  this  how  superior 
to  you  we  pious  people  are  ;  aha  !  "  It  is  the  persuasive  way  of  some 
people — this  crowing  over  a  sinner.  Mark  wouldn't  have  taken  a  short 
step  in  the  direction  of  Paradise  on  any  j»ocount,  just  then. 

His  two  sisters  were  fiiJl  of  sorrow,  though  Amanda,  the  elder,  showed 


ROXY.  225 

it  in  a  severe  and  dignified  way,  quite  becoming  in  a  Bonamy.     Even 
Colonel  Bonamy  looked  softened — just  a  little. 

Mrs.  Bonamy  was  buried  after  the  village  custom.  The  funeral 
tickets  were  distributed  on  the  day  of  her  death.  The  little  printing- 
office,  conducted  by  the  editor,  publisher,  proprietor,  and  printer  of  the 
WeMy  PaUadivm,  and  one  small  boy,  kept  a  black  ornamental  border 
aU  set  up  for  funeral  tickets.  The  type  of  the  set  phrases,  such  as 
"  Yourself  and  family  are  respectfully  invited,"  were  never  distributed  ; 
the  name,  and  date,  and  hour  only  were  changed  as  occasion  required. 
As  soon  as  the  tickets  for  Mrs.  Bonamy's  fiineral  were  ordered,  the 
printer  set  the  form  of  the  funeral  ticket  on  the  imposing-stone  and  pro- 
ceeded to  make  the  alterations  needed  to  render  it  appropriate  to  the 
present  occasion.  He  pulled  it  apart,  placed  the  lines  needing  change  in 
his  composing-stick,  took  out  the  name  of  Job  Raymond,  the  last 
deceased,  and  replaced  it  with  Mrs.  Bonamy's,  changed  the  dates  and 
other  particulars,  *' justified  '*  the  lines,  and  then  replaced  them  in  the 
form  and  proceeded  to  "  lock  it  up."  In  a  short  time  the  small  inky 
boy  was  rolling  and  the  editor  was  working-off  with  an  old  hand-press, 
little  tickets  much  like  this : 


Yourself  and  family  are  respectfully  in- 
vited to  attend  the  funeral  of  Olivia  W. 
Bonamy,  from  the  residence  of  her  husband, 
Daniel  K.  Bonamy,  on  Wednesdav,  Feb- 
ruary 19th,  1841,  at  one  o'clock,  P.  M. 


You  will  find  many  of  these  tickets  laid  away  between  the  leaves  of 
old  books  in  Luzerne.  When  the  proper  number  were  printed,  the  inky, 
impish-looking  lad  made  a  feint  of  washing  lus  hands,  put  on  his  round- 
about, and  started  out  to  distribute  them,  with  the  greater  part  of  his 
face  in  appropriate  mourning.  He  did  not  go  to  certain  select  families 
set  down  on  a  pre-arranged  list.  A  small  town  is  democratic;  the  tickets 
were  left  at  every  house,  and  you  might  have  seen  the  village  folks  dis- 
cussing the  matter  over  their  division  fences ;  for  people  must  discuss 
something — it  is  the  great  preventive  to  insanity.  So  now  every  symp- 
tom of  Mrs.  Bonamy's  disease  was  gone  over,  and  what  Mrs.  So-and-so 
said  about  it  three  days  ago,  and  what  the  doctor  thought,  and  when 
'*the  change"  took  place,  and  who^were  "sitting  up  the  night  she  died,'' 
and  whether  she  "  died  happy  "  or  not,  and  what  she  said,  and  whether 
the  corpse  looked  "  natural,"  and  how  old  she  was,  and  "  what  time 
Mark  got  home,''  and  how  he  "  took  it,"  and  how  "  the  old  colonel  took 
it,"  and  whether  he  would  stay  an  infidel  or  not,  and  how  Amanda 
"  took  it,"  and  whether  the  girl  had  much  heart  or  not,  and  whether  the 
old  man  would  marry  again,  and  what  he  would  do  about  his  family,  and 
7 


226  ROXY. 

whether  Mark  would  get  under  "  conviction  "  or  not,  and  whether  he 
would  make  a  preacher  if  he  was  converted.  But  everybody  was  agreed 
that  coming  just  at  this  time  it  was  a  '^  mighty  solemn  call ''  to  Mark, 
and  Jemima  Dumbleton  expressed  herself  very  positively  on  this  point. 
She  said  he  needed  a  solemn  call,  "  Fer  that  'ere  Mark  Bonamy,"  she 
went  on,  '^  haint  eot  no  other  god  but  Mark  Bonamy.  And  worshippin' 
hisself  is  mighty  like  bowin'  down  to  a  god  o'  brass,  or  to  Aaron's  calf, 
80  it  seems  to  me/' 

The  funeral  took  place  like  all  the  other  village  funerals  of  that  day. 
First  the  minister  preached  a  sermon  of  warning  and  consolation  to  the 
living,  reviewing  and  eulogizing  the  life  of  the  deceased.  Then  there 
was  a  procession,  which  included,  beside  the  waggon  on  which  the  coffin 
rested,  some  old  family  carriages  or  carry-alls,  several  buggies,  one  gic, 
fifteen  people  from  the  country  on  horsebiEick,  and  a  long  line  afoot,  wiUi 
the  usual  number  of  stragglers  and  small  boys,  who  ran  alongside  be- 
cause it  was  a  procession.  These  small  boys  reached  the  grave-yard  in 
advance  of  the  rest  and  perched  themselves  high  on  the  fences,  where 
they  could  see  all  that  might  take  place.  They  were  not  noisy,  though 
they  showed  much  excitement — this  was  a  spectacle,  and  any  spectacle 
is  a  godsend  to  a  viUage  lad.  Whether  it  is  a  muster,  or  a  funeral,  a  cir- 
cus, or  a  ^'  baptizing,"  matters  not  to  him, — so  that  something  goes  on 
and  he  sees  it. 

The  coffin  was  lowered,  the  Methodist  service  was  read,  the  grave  was 
quickly  filled  and  rounded  up  with  the  spades  of  kindly  neighbours, — 
i^r  which  the  minister  said  that  he  *^  was  requested  on  behalf  of  the 
family  of  the  deceased  to  thank  the  Mends  who  had  shown  so  much 
kindness  durine  her  illness."  Then  he  pronounced  the  benediction,  and 
the  small  boys  leaped  from  the  fences  and  hurried  away  pell-mell  for  the 
town,  while  the  friends  slowly  dispersed,  the  wintry  winds  playing  a 
pathetic  requiem  in  the  frozen  and  vibrant  boughs  of  the  clump  of  weep- 
ing willows  which  keep,  even  unto  this  day,  a  perpetual  vigil  over  the 
graves  of  the  village  dead,  while  generation  follows  generation  to  the 
lonely  sleeping-place.  . 

It  was  sometime  during  the  next  day  that  Mark  Bonamy  went  to  see 
Boxy  Adams,  to  thank  her  for  her  faithful  kindness  to  his  mother,  and 
receive  some  messages  that  the  mother  had  left  in  the  keeping  of  Eoxy. 
In  his  present  state  of  mind  Mark  was  a  little  afraid  of  Eoxy.  But  he 
was  ill  at  ease  in  his  conscience,  and  he  gave  himself  much  credit  for 
submitting  to  Koxy's  exhortations.  It  showed  that  he  was  not  so  very 
bad,  after  all. 

Roxy  did  not  take  the  lofty  and  patronizing  stand  he  expected.  There 
was  something  so  strange  and  persuasive  in  the  earnestness  with  which 
the  eager  girl  spoke  of  his  mother,  something  so  touching  in  her  enthu- 
siastic appeals  to  his  conscience  through  his  natural  affection,  that  Bo^ 
namy,  who  was  full  of  sensibility,  found  himself  strangely  affected  by 
it  He  was  always  susceptible  to  female  influence,  but  he  found  that 
Boxy  called  out  what  was  best  in  him.  He  readily  promised  her  that 
he  would  go  to  meeting  that  night,  and  he  kept  his  word. 

He  expected  to  be  touched  by  the  absence  of  his  mother,  who  had 
always  been  a  prominent  figure  in  the  meetings.  But  there  was  so  much 
change,  that  he  did  not  feel  his  mother's  absence  as  he  thought  to  feel 
it.    The  old,  unpainted  and  unfenced,  brick  meeting-house  with  its 


BOXY.  227 

Tound-top  front  windows  and  its  &n-li^ht  over  the  door,  was  the  same. 
Within  there  were  the  same  stiff  benches  with  awkward  backs  consist- 
ing of  two  narrow  boards  far  apart,  the  same  unpainted  pulpit  with 
posts  on  either  side  supporting  candles  in  brass  candlesticks,  the  same 
rusty  box-stove  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  aisle,  and  the  same  hanging 
tin  chandeliers  with  candles  in  every  stage  of  consumption.  The  same 
tall,  kindly  sexton,  a  man  with  one  eye,  went  round  as  before,  taking 
careful  sight  on  a  candle  and  then,  when  sure  of  his  aim,  suddenly  snuf- 
^g  i^>  gently  parting  the  wick  afterwards  to  increase  the  light,  then 
opening  the  stove  dooi^  with  a  clatter  and  pushing  in  a  piece  of  wood. 
It  was  all  as  of  old,  but  all  so  different  The  young  men  wiUi  whom 
Mark  had  had  many  a  wild  spree,  sat  no  longer  back  near  the  door  in  the 
seat  of  the  scomfhl  but  in  the  "  amen  comer  /'  the  giddiest  girls  he  had 
ever  waltzed  with  were  at  this  moment  joining  with  Boxy  and  the  rest 
in  singing  that  plaintiff  melody : 

*'  Our  bondage  here  ahaU  end, 
By  and  by— by  and  by." 

When  one  follows  in  the  track  of  a  storm  one  measures  the  force  by 
the  uprooted  trees  and  the  shattered  branches.  So  Mark,  seeing  all  at 
once  the  effects  of  the  revival,  felt  that  the  town  had  been  subjected  to 
a  fearful  power,  and  the  sense  of  this  invisible  power  almost  overwhelmed 
him.  Then,  too,  he  was  as  one  who  beholds  all  his  friends  sitting  guests 
at  a  feast  while  he  shivers  without  in  cold  and  darkness.  The  preach- 
er's words  were  evidently  levelled  at  him.  Dale  knew,  as  aU  revivalists 
do,  the  value  of  natural  sensibility  as  a  sort  of  priming  for  religious  feel- 
ing: he  touched  with  strong  emphasis  on  '' praying  mothers,''  and 
''  mends  gone  before,"  and  on  probable  separation  in  the  world  to  come, 
and  Mark  felt  the  full  force  of  the  whole  tide  of  magnetic  feeling  in  the 
audience  turned  on  himself. 

He  sought  diversion  in  looking  about.  But  this  was  vain.  Those  who 
had  not  yet  "  made  a  start"  looked  full  of  grave  apprehension.  One  or 
two  stood  like  trees  unscathed  by  the  blast.  Ben  Thomas  was  as  full  of 
mockery  as  ever.     He  looked  at  Mark,  and  nodded,  saying : 

**  He  means  you,  Mark.  He  loves  a  shining  Mark  i  Amt  you  under 
conviction  yet  f " 

But  his  horrible  scoffing  at  ev^thing,  which  to  anybody  else  seemed 
sacred,  only  reacted  on  Mark,  and  made  him  ready  to  put  any  gap  be- 
tween himself  and  Ben.  Near  Ben  sat  Major  Tom  Lathers,  tall  and 
strinpy  and  solemn.  He  kept  himself  for  ever  ''  in  an  interesting  state 
of  mind"  in  order  that  religious  people  might  encourage  him  by  further- 
ing his  political  aims.  Lathers  made  every  church  in  the  village 
believe  that  he  '*  leaned  toward"  it  in  preference  to  the  others.  He 
talked  to  the  Methodists  about  his  Methodist  wife,  '^  now  dead  and  in 
heaven ;"  he  told  the  Baptists  about  his  **  good  Baptist  brinnng  up,"  and 
spoke  feelingly  to  the  Presbyterians  about  his  ^*  good  old  rresbyterian 
grandmother,"  who  taught  Mm  to  say  his  prayers.  Thus  did  this  exem- 
plary man  contrive  to  keep  in  a  perpetual  bond  of  sympathy  with  his 
lellow-men,  regardless  of  sect  or  creed.  Had  there  been  any  CathoUcs 
and  Jews  in  the  town  he  would  doubtless  have  discovered  a  Catholic 
ancestor  somewhere,  and  a  strong  leaning  towards  Judaism  on  account 
of  his  lineal  descent  from  Noah.    Provided  always  that  the  said  Catho- 


228  noxY. 

lies  and  Jews  had  at  the  least  filed  a  declaration  of  their  intention  to  be- 
come citizens  of  this  great  republic 

Mark  knew  Lather's  hypocrisy  and  hated  it.  But  what  was  his  dis- 
gust when,  catching  the  major's  solenm  eye  and  following  its  direction, 
he  saw  on  the  women's  side  of  the  church,  decked  out  in  cheap  finery, 
Nancy  Kirtley.  She  sat  next  the  aisle,  and  her  splendid  and  self-conscious 
face  was  posed  on  purpose  to  attract  his  attention.  She  had  come  to 
town  to  spend  a  week  at  the  house  of  her  brother,  the  drayman,  and  had 

Erolonged  her  stay  when  she  heard  that  Mark  had  been  sent  for.  She 
ad  not  felt  the  revival  excitement  Roxy  had  besought  her,  the  min- 
ister had  preached  at  her,  the  sisters  had  visited  her.  All  this  flattered 
and  pleased  her.  She  liked  to  be  the  centre  of  attention,  and  she  had 
managed  on  occasion  to  squeeze  out  a  tear  or  two  by  way  of  encouraging 
the  good  people  to  keep  up  their  visits.  But  for  her— healthy,  full- 
blooded,  well-developed,  beautiful  animal — there  was  no  world  but  this. 
Such  people  are  enough  to  make  one  doubt  whether  immortality  be  a 
gift  so  generally  distributed  as  we  sometimes  think.  On  this  evening 
the  ramant  Nancy  sat  smiling  among  the  solemn  and  even  tearful  people 
about  her.  Her  shallow  nature  had  no  thought  now  for  anything  but 
her  appearance  and  its  probable  effect  on  Mark. 

Little  did  Nancy  think  what  a  goblin  her  face  was  to  the  young  man. 
In  his  present  state  of  mind  she  was  the  ghost  of  his  former  sm  and 
weakness.  The  very  attraction  he  found  in  her  face  startled  him.  So 
at  last  when  he  went  forward  to  be  prayed  for,  it  was  not  altogether 
repentance,  nor  altogether  a  fear  of  perdition,  even,  but  partly  a  desire 
to  get  out  of  the  company  in  which  he  found  himself.  Mark  was  hardly 
a  free  agent.  He  was  a  man  of  impulsive  temperament.  His  glossy, 
black,  curly  hair  and  well-rounded,  mobile  face  expressed  this.  In  this 
matter  he  floated  in  on  the  tide,  just  as  he  would  have  floated  out  on  an 
evil  tide  had  the  current  set  in  the  other  direction. 

That  night  Twonnet  went  home  with  Roxy.  For  how  can  girls  be 
friends  without  sleeping  together  1  Is  it  that  a  girl's  imagination  is  most 
impressed  by  secrets  told  in  the  dark  1  I  am  not  a  girl ;  the  secret  of 
this  appetency  for  nocturnal  friendship  is  beyond  me,  but  I  know  that 
when  two  girls  become  friends  their  favourite  trysting-place  is  sure  to 
be  the  land  of  Nod.  So  Twonnet,  having  attended  the  Methodist  meet- 
ing, went  home  with  Roxy.  And  they  discussed  the  "  start"  which  Mark 

had  made. 

*«  I  don't  just  like  it,"  said  the  Swiss  girl.  "  You  see  Mark  is  grieved 
by  his  mother's  death ;  he  is  sorry  in  a  general  sort  of  a  way  that  he 
didn't  do  as  she  wanted  him  to.  But  is  he  sorry  for  any  particular  sins  1 
Now,  when  a  body  repents  I  don't  believe  in  their  saying,  *  I'm  sorry  Fm 
a  sinner.'  When  I  can  say,  *  I  am  sorry  that  I  get  mad  so  quick  and 
that  I  trouble  other  people,'  then  I  repent.  Now,  if  Mark  could  say, 
'  I'm  sorry  I  was  drunk  on  such  a  night,  and  that  I  gambled  at  such  a 
time,'  it  would  all  be  well  enough  " 

"  How  do  you  know  he  can't  ?"  asked  Roxy,  somewhat  warmly.  For 
Mark  was  a  friend  of  hers,  and  now  that  his  conversion  was  partly  the 
result  of  her  endeavour,  she  felt  a  sort  of  proprietary  interest  in  his  Chris- 
tian life. 

"  1  tell  you  what,  Twonnet,"  she  added  with  enthusiasm, "  it's  a  grand 
thing  to  see  a  young  man  who  has  the  glittering  prizes  of  this  world  in 


ROXY.  229 

his  reach,  bring  all  his  splendid  gifts  and  lay  them  as  a  sacrifice  on  the 
altar  of  the  Lord,  as  Mark  did  to-night" 

''  You  give  Mark  more  credit  than  he  deserves/'  persisted  the  unchar- 
itable Twonnet,  with  a  toss  of  her  curls.  "  He  didn't  do  anything  very 
deliberately  to-night  He  felt  bad  at  his  mother's  death  and  sorry  that 
he  had  treated  her  badly.  Wait  till  he  actually  gives  up  something 
before  you  praise  him.'' 


CHAPTER  X. 

THB  BXHOBTBB. 

But  if  friends  over-estimate  the  chan^  in  Mark  it  is  quite  certain  that 
the  critics  were  equally  mistaken.  For  Mark  converted  was  quite  a 
different  Mark.  Even  the  scoffers  had  to  admit  so  much.  A  man  who 
finds  his  excitement  in  prayer-meetings  and  love-feasts  is  not  the  same 
with  a  man  who  finds  his  diversion  in  cards  and  whisky  and  all-night 
dancing.  He  was  not  the  same  Mark ;  and  yet,  and  yet,  reli^on  is 
only  the  co-efficient,  and  the  co-efficient  derives  its  value  from  that  of 
the  quantity,  known  or  unknown,  into  which  it  is  multiplied.  Mark 
was  different  but  quite  the  same. 

Wicked  or  pious,  he  must  lead.  In  politics  he  had  shown  himself 
self-confident,  ambitious  and  fond  of  publicity.  In  religious  affairs  he 
was — ^let  us  use  the  other  names  for  similar  traits  when  Uiey  are  modi- 
fied by  a  noble  sentiment — bold,  zealous  and  eager  for  success. 

He  began  to  speak  in  meeting  at  once,  for  the  Methodists  of  that  day 
were  not  slow  in  giving  a  new  convert  opportunity  to  "  testify."  Indee<^ 
«very  man  and  woman  who  became  a  Methodist  was  exhorted,  persuaded, 
coaxed,  admonished,  if  need  be,  until  he  felt  himself  all  but  compelled 
to  "  witness  for  Christ."  If  there  was  any  hesitancy  or  natural  diffidence 
in  the  way  of  a  new  beginner's  "  taking  up  the  cross,"  brethren  did  not 
fail  to  exhort  him  in  psalms  and  hymns  and  spiritual  songs  according  to 
the  scripture.    They  would  sing  at  him  such  words  as  these  : 


Or, 


'  *  Pm  not  ashamed  to  own  my  Lord, 
Or  to  defend  his  oanse,"  eta 


**  Are  there  no  foes  for  me  to  face? 

Must  I  not  stem  the  flood? 
Is  this  vile  world  a  friend  to  graoe 

To  help  me  on  to  God?'^ 


It  was  a  sharp  discipline  to  which  the  convert  was  thus  subjected. 
No  very  clear  distinction  was  made  between  moral  courage  and  mere 
effrontery,  between  natural  diffidence  and  real  cowardice.  But  this  dis- 
cipline made  every  one  bear  his  share  of  responsibility.  Methodism 
captured  the  West  by  mobilizing  its  whole  forc^  Jn  time  of  revival  at 
least  there  were  no  reserves, — ^the  whole  landtoehr  was  in  tuciioiL  Every- 
body must  speak  in  meeting,  or  pray,  or  exhort,  or  "^  talk  to  mourners," 
or  solicit  the  hesitating  in  uie  congregation  personally.  And  so  it  came 
iibout  that  the  clear,  flexible  voice  of  Mark  Bonamy  was  heard  in  the 


230  ROXT. 

meetings  almost  immediately.  His  addresses,  if  not  eloquent,  were  at 
least  striking  and  effective.  The  visible  tokens  of  the  influence  of  his 
addresses  were  pleasant  to  him, — there  are  few  men  to  whom  this  sort 
of  power  would  not  be  gratifying.  Mark  was  active,  he  enjoyed  the  ex- 
citement, he  liked  to  feel  himseu  at  last  on  the  side  of  the  right ;  he 
threw  himself  more  and  more  into  the  work  of  exhorting,  he  went  out 
of  town  frequently  to  address  meetings  in  the  country,  ana  as  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  brave  storm  or  flood  in  these  expeditions,  he  soon  acquired  a 
reputation  for  zeal  which  was  quite  agreeable  to  dim,  for  it  could  not  be 
expected  that  his  natural  vanity  should  have  all  disappeared  under  the 
influence  of  bis  piety.  For  that  matter,  our  motives  are  never  quite  so 
good  as  we  think,  and  never  quite  so  bad  as  our  enemies  suppose.  Our 
best  is  inwoven  with  evil,  and  our  worst,  let  us  hope,  has  some  strands 
of  good.     Only  Ood  can  unravel  the  complexity. 

Mark,  for  his  part,  did  not  attempt  it.  He  was  of  too  complacent  a 
temper  to  go  behind  the  popular  verdict  when  that  was  so  favourable  as 
in  the  present  case.  He  often  confessed  his  depravity,  his  sinfulness, 
his  unworthiness ;  but  this  old  heresy  that  a  man  is  all  bad  is  the  devil's 
own  cloak  under  which  one  is  always  prone  to  hide  specific  sins. 

Of  course  Mark's  religiousness  occasioned  much  gossip  in  the  small 
political  circles  of  the  country.  The  sheriff,  claiming  to  be  intimate 
with  Bonamy,  was  often  inquired  of,  about  it 

"  Well,  you  see,"  Lathers  replied  when  the  solution  was  demanded  by 
a  crony,  ''I  don't  think  it's  a  sharp  move.  It  makes  friends  and  the 
like  for  Mark,  and  gives  him  the  preachers  and  class-leaders  and  ex- 
hausters and  whatye-may-call-'ema  But  you  see  he  can't  ride  both 
horses  with  their  heads  turned  different  ways,  and  the  like.  And  it's 
the  fellers  that  don't  go  to  class-meetin'  and  the  like  that  carry  elections. 
How's  Mark  goin'  it  with  them )  Can't  drink,  can't  dance — pshaw !  it 
aint  the  best  card  Mark  had,  and  I  don't  see  for  my  life  what  made  him 
throw  it.  He  aint  too  smart  at  'lectioneerin'  and  the  like  noways.  Eft 
hadn'  been  for  me  that  dancin'  so  much  with  Nance  Rirtley  would  'a' 
tripped  him  last  run ;  I  laid  myself  out  to  save  him  from  that  scrape  and 
lost  votes  and  the  like  a-doin*  it  And  he  don't  appreciate  it  But  he 
don't  come  a-foolin'  round  me  with  his  religion  and  goin's*on,  and  the 
like,  I  tell  you  now." 

Here  the  astute  man  took  a  good  bite  from  a  plug  of  tobacco.  Then 
he  expectorated  awhile  with  a  deadly,  melancholy,  meditative  aim  at  the 
rusty  grate. 

''  Liker'n  not,  now,  I  may  do  Mark  injestice,"  he  went  on  with  a  sus- 
picious twinkle.  "  It  may  be  one  of  them  Methodist  girls  and  the  like 
he's  after.  But  then  he  don't  show  no  signs.  That  aint  like  him.  He's 
a  plump  fool  when  they's  anything  of  that  kind  a-goin'.  I  can't  make 
it  out.  I  don't  believe  he  kin  nother !  It's  like  the  feller't  had  measels, 
and  mumps,  and  janders,  and  cholery  infEintu-um  all  in  one  heap.  '  I 
can't  make  it  out,'  says  the  doctor,  *  but  I'll  ^ve  you  a  little  of  every- 
thing I've  got  in  the  pill-bags,  and  something  'U  hit  the  disease,  may  be.' 
I  heurd  that  the  Kirtley  gin  had  went  forreri  and  the  like  in  one  of  the 
meetin's  out  on  the  crick.  I  know  what  tree  she's  a-barkin'  up.  It's 
like  the  man  said  about  his  dog.  *  He's  treed  a  bear,'  says  he  ; '  he 
barks  too  big  fer  a  'coon.'  Nothing  but  big  game  would  make  Nancy 
Kirtley  put  on  the  pious  and  the  like." 

If  the  sheriff  erred  in  his  estimate  of  Mark,  he  was  more  nearly  right 


Roxr.  231 

when  it  came  to  Nancy.  To  many  Mark  Bonamy  was  more  to  her 
than  heaven  itself ;  for  the  bliss  of  heaven  or  any  other  joy  long  deferred 
made  no  impression  on  her  shallow  nature.  When  Mark  became  religious 
ahe  followed  him.  And  her  large-eyed  beauty  became  yet  more  dazzling 
when  she  tried  to  appear  religious.  It  made  one  hope  that,  after  ali^ 
there  might  be  a  soul  within.  So  long,  indeed,  as  she  said  nothing  she 
was  a  picture  of  meditative  wisdom,  a  very  Minerva.  But  when  she 
spoke,  it  was,  after  all,  only  Minerva's  bird.  Such  was  the  enchantment 
of  the  great  still  eyes  in  her  passively  beautiful  face,  that  after  many 
shocking  disillusions  brought  about  by  the  folly  of  her  tongue,  one  was 
sure  to  relapse  again  into  a  belief  in  her  inspiration  as  soon  as  she  became 
silent.  I  doubt  if  good  John  Kaspar  Lavater  himself  could  expound  to 
us  this  likeness  of  absolute  vacuity  to  deep  thoughtfulness.  Why  do 
owls  and  asses  seem  so  wise  ? 

Nancy's  apparent  conversion  was  considered  a  great  triumph.  Wher- 
ever Mark  went  he  was  successful,  and  nearly  everybody  praised  him. 
Mrs.  Hanks,  Eox/s  well-to-do  aunt,  held  forth  to  Jemima  upon  the 
admirable  ability  of  the  young  man,  and  his  great  eoodness  and  self- 
sacrifice  in  **  laying  all  his  advantages  of  talent,  and  wealth,  and  pro- 
spects at  the  foot  of  the  cross.'' 

"  I  tell  you  what  I  think,  Henriette,"  replied  Jemima,  with  her  cus- 
tomary freedom :  "  I  think  that's  all  fol-de-rol  and  twaddle-de-dee. '^ 
Here  she  set  her  iron  down  with  emphasis  and  raised  her  reddened  face 
from  her  work,  wiping  the  perspiration  away  with  her  apron.  "  I  think 
if  s  all  nonsense  fer  the  brethren  and  sisters  to  talk  that  way,  jest  like 
as  ef  Mark  had  conferred  a  awful  favour  on  his  Greater  in  lendin'  him  his 
encouragement.  Do  you  think  it's  sech  a  great  thing  to  be  Colonel 
Bonamy^B  son  and  a  member  of  the  Injeanny  legislater,  that  God  must 
feel  mightily  oble^ed  to  Mark  Bonamy  fer  bein'  so  kind  as  to  let  him 
save  his  immortal  soul  ?  Now,  I  don't,"  and  here  she  began  to  shove 
her  iron  again.  ''  You  all  '11  spile  Mark  by  settin'  him  up  on  a  spin- 
nade  of  the  temple/'  she  added,  as  she  paused  a  moment  to  stretch  out 
a  shirt-sleeve,  preparatory  to  ironing  it 

'^Jemima,"  said  Mrs.  Hanks,  '<  it's  wicked  to  talk  that  way.  You 
are  always  making  fun  of  the  gospel.  I'm  sure  Mark's  very  humble. 
He  calls  himself  the  chief  of  sinners." 

« I  s'pose  he  does.  That's  nice  to  set  himself  up  alongside  of  Paul 
and  sav  :  '  See,  Paul  and  me  was  both  great  sinners.'  That  makes  you 
think  he's  a-goin'  to  be  like  Paul  in  preachin'.  But  s'pose  one  of  the 
brethren — ^brother  Dale,  now — was  to  say :  *  Brother  Bonamy,  you're 
the  biggest  sinner  en  town.  You're  wuss'n  ole  Gatlin  that  went  to 
penitenshry,  an'  you're  wuss'n  Bob  Oramps  that  was  hung.'  D'you  Uiink 
he'd  say,  *  Amen,  that's  a  fact  1 '  But  ef  bein'  the  chief  of  sinners  means 
anything,  that's  what  it  means." 

"  Jemima,  I  tell  you,  you're  wicked.  It's  right  to  kill  the  fatted  calf 
for  the  returning  prodigal." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know,"  and  Jemima  wiped  her  face  again.  '^  But  I 
wouldn't  kill  all  the  calves  on  the  place  and  then  begin  on  the  ye'rlin's 
so  as  to  make  him  think  it  was  a  nice  thing  to  be  a  prodigal.  I'd  be 
aindd  the  scamp  would  go  back  and  try  it  over  again." 

And  here  Jemima  broke  out  with  her  favourite  verse : 

**  Oh  bender  me  not,  fer  I  wiU  serve  the  Lord, 
And  I'll  praise  Him  when  I  die." 


232  ROXY. 

Mark  did  find  the  attention  which  his  piety  brought  him  very  pleas- 
ant^ and  indeed  his  new  peace  with  himself  made  him  happy.  His  cup 
would  have  been  full  of  sweetness  if  it  had  not  been  for  ike  one  bitter 
drop.  Nancy  would  follow  him.  Wherever  he  held  meetings  she 
availed  herself  of  the  abounding  hospitality  of  the  brethren  to  pursue 
him.  She  boasted  a  little,  too,  of  her  acquaintance  with  Brother  Bon- 
amy  before  his  conversion.  She  received  much  attention  on  account  of 
her  friendship  for  him.  But  Mark's  worst  trouble  was  that  he  could 
not  emancipate  himself  from  her.  She  attracted  him.  Struggle  as  he 
might  with  the  temptation,  her  exceeding  fairness  was  a  continual  snare 
to  his  thoughts.  It  humbled  him,  or  at  least  annoyed  him,  to  remember 
that  while  all  the  world  thought  him  a  saint,  he  could  not  but  feel  a 
forbidden  pleasure  in  looking  on  one,  to  attach  himself  to  whom  would 
be  certain  overthrow  to  all  plans  for  goodness  or  usefulness.  Did  there 
also  dawn  upon  the  mind  of  Mark,  unaccustomed  as  it  was  to  self-analy- 
sis, the  thought  that  this  passion  for  Nancy  had  nothing  to  do  with 
what  was  best  in  him  ?  Did  he  ever  reflect  that  it  had  no  tinge  of  sen- 
timent about  it  f  Certain  it  is  that  he  struggled  with  it,  after  a  fashion ; 
but  his  attempts  to  extinguish  it,  as  is  often  the  case,  served  to  fan  it 
into  something  like  a  flame ;  for  such  passions  are  not  to  be  fought, — 
-when  one  fights  one  thinks,  and  thought  is  oil  to  the  flame.  They  are 
to  be  extinguished  by  the  withdrawal  of  fuel ;  to  be  eliminated  by  sub- 
stitution of  serious  purposes.  Mark  prayed  against  his  passion ;  re- 
flected wisely  on  the  folly  of  it  j  did  everything  but  what  he  ought  to 
have  done.  He  perpetually  hid  from  himself  that  his  conversations 
with  Nancy  on  the  subject  of  religion  were  sources  of  nothing  but  evil 
to  himself  and  to  her.  Was  she  not  a  convert  of  his  own  labours  9 
Should  he  not  do  what  he  could  to  strengthen  her  purpose  to  do  right ) 

About  this  time  Dr.  Ruter's  missionaries  in  Te^^as  had  attracted  much 
attention,  and  Mark  thought  of  joining  them.  He  would  thus  under- 
take a  hard  thing,  and  Mark  was  in  the  humour  of  doing  something 
Herculean.  He  spurned  the  idea  that  he  was  to  settle  himself  to  the 
ordinary  and  unpoetic  duties  of  life,  or  that,  if  he  should  become  a 
preacher  he  could  be  content  with  doing  only  what  commonplace  circuit- 
riders  did.  In  a  general  sort  of  way,  without  wishing  for  specific  mar- 
tyrdom, he  would  have  liked  to  brave  wild  beasts  or  persecution& 
Most  of  us  would  be  willing  to  accept  martyrdom  in  the  abstract, — to 
have  the  glory  and  self-complacency  of  having  imitated  Paul,  without 
having  our  heads  specifically  beaten  with  specific  stones  in  the  hands  of 
specific  heathen,  or  our  backs  lacerated  with  Philippian  whips  on  any 
definitely  specified  day. 

Bonamy  nad  caught  the  genuine  Methodist  spirit,  however,  and  being 
full  of  enterprise  and  daring  he  was  ready  for  some  brave  endeavour. 
Perhaps,  too,  he  found  a  certain  relief  in  Uie  thought  that  a  mission  of 
some  kind  would  carry  him  away  from  the  besetment  of  Nancy,  who 
had  lately  persuaded  him  to  give  her  his  pocket-testament  as  an  assis- 
tance to  her  religious  life. 

At  any  rate,  it  was  soon  noised  that  Bonamy  was  going  to  do  some- 
thing. The  rumour  was  very  vague  ;  nobody  knew  just  what  the  enter- 
prise of  the  young  Methodist  was  to  be.  Texas,  and  even  Mexico,  was 
mentioned ;  Choctaw  Indians,  the  Dakota  mission  and  what  not,  were 
presently  woven  into  the  village  gossip. 


ROXY.  233 

Colonel  Bonamy  debated  in  himself,  how  he  should  defeat  this 
scheme.  As  a  lawyer  he  was  accustomed  to  manage  men.  He  had  but 
two  ways  :  the  one  to  play  what  "he  called  "  bluflF," — to  sail  down  on 
his  opponent  and*  appal  him  by  a  sudden  display  of  his  whole  arma- 
ment ;  the  other  was  a  sort  of  intellectual  ambuscade.  With  Mark, 
who  had  always  been  under  authority,  he  chose  the  first.  It  is  not 
pleasing  to  parental  vanity  to  have  to  take  roundabout  courses. 

'*Mark,''  said  the  old  colonel,  as  the  young  man  entered  his  office^ 
"  sit  down  there,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  chair. 

This  was  a  sign  of  coming  reproof.  Mark  had  been  so  much  flattered 
by  the  Whigs  on  the  one  hand  and  his  religious  associates  on  the  other, 
that  he  did  not  quite  like  this  school-boy  position.  He  seated  himself 
in  the  chair  indicated.  The  old  gentleman  did  not  begin  speech  at 
once.  He  knew  that  when  "bluff"  was  to  be  played  a  preliminary 
pause  and  a  great  show  of  calmness  on  his  part  would  tend  to  demora- 
lize the  enemy.  So  he  completed  the  sentence  he  was  writing,  gathered 
up  his  papers  and  laid  them  away.  Then  he  turned  his  chair  square 
around  toward  his  son,  took  off  his  glasses,  stroked  the  rough,  grizzled 
beard  of  three  days'  growth  on  his  chin,  and  fastened  his  eyes  on  Mark. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  being  an  infernal  fool  1 ''  said  the  old  man.  "  I 
let  you  take  your  own  course  in  politics.  I  didn't  say  anything  against 
your  being  a  little  unsteady ;  I  was  a  young  man  myself  once  and 
sowed  some  wild  oats.  I  knew  you  would  set&e  after  a  while.  But  I 
never  was  such  a  confounded  fool  as  you  !  To  let  a  set  of  shouting  old 
women  and  snooping  preachers  set  you  off  your  head  till  you  throw 
away  all  your  chances  in  life,  is  to  be  the  plaguedest  fool  alive.  Npw, 
I.  tefi  you,  by  godamity,  Mark  Bonamy,  that  if  you  go  to  Texas  you 
may  go  to  the  devil,  too,  for  all  of  me.  I'll  cut  you  out  of  every  red 
cent.     I  don't  waste  my  money  on  a  jackass,  sir.     That's  all." 

The  old  man  had  by  this  time  wrought  himself  into  a  real  passion. 
But  he  had  mistaken  link's  temper.  He  was  no  more  a  man  to  jdeld 
to  threats  than  his  father.  Many  a  man  with  less  heart  for  martyrdom 
than  Mark  can  bum  at  the  stake  when  his  obstinacy  is  aroused. 

"  Keep  your  money,  I  don't  want  it,"  he  said  contemptuously,  as  he 
strode  out  of  his  father's  office,  mentally  comparing  himself  to  Simon 
Peter  rejecting  the  offer  of  ^imon  Magus. 

He  was  of  a  temper  quite  earnest  enough  to  have  made  more  real 
sacrifices  than  the  giving  up  of  a  reversionary  interest  in  an  estate  be- 
tween him  and  the  possession  of  which  there  stood  the  vigorous  life  of 
his  father.  But  the  apparent  sacrifice  was  considerable,  and  it  was 
much  extolled.  Eoxy  in  particular  was  lost  in  admiration  of  what 
seemed  to  her  unchecked  imagination  a  sublime  self-sacrifice.  She  re- 
joiced humbly  in  the  part  she  had  taken  in  bringing  Mark  to  a  religious 
life,  while  she  estimate^l  the  simplicity  and  loftiness  of  his  motives  by 
the  nobleness  of  her  own.  And,  indeed,  Mark's  missionary  purpose 
was  in  the  main  a  noble  one. 


CHAPTER  XL 

DlVININa  CUPS. 

Intense  excitements  cannot  endure.    It  is  a  **  merciful  provision." 
Human  nature  strained  too  long  in  any  direction  must  find  repose  in 


EOXY.  235^ 

relaxation  or  change  in  reaction.  As  the  white  heat  of  the  political 
excitement  of  "  the  campai^  of  '40  "  had  cooled  off,  so  now  the  revival 
excitement  slowly  but  sureTj  subsided.  There  were  brethren  unversed 
in  the  philosophy  of  human  nature  who  did  not  know  that  after  the 
summer  heat  of  religious  excitement  a  hibernation  is  needful  and  healthy^ 
and  who  set  themselves  to  prevent  the  cooling,  or  the  ''  bactoliding ''  as 
they  termed  it  But  the  ebb  tide  was  too  strong  for  them,  they  were 
caught  in  it  themselves,  tired  nature  overstrained  in  one  direction  sank 
into  torpor,  in  them  as  well  as  in  others.  Doubtless  this  period  of  re- 
action was  worth  quite  as  much  to  the  church  as  the  period  of  revival.. 
TTie  winnowing  went  on  rapidly  now;  the  good  folks  were  greatly 
alarmed  to  see  how  much  of  what  they  had  raked  together  was  mere 
chaff;  but  ever  as  the  wind  drove  away  the  chaff,  the  soUd  grain  became 
visible. 

Among  those  who  proved  steadfast  was  the  young  lawyer.  He  did 
not  go  out  to  exhort  so  much  in  meetings  as  before,  but  then  it  was 
corn-planting  time  and  meetings  were  no  longer  common  in  the  countiy^ 
He  gave  attention  to  his  business,  but  it  was  still  understood  that  he 
meditated  some  dreadful  mission  to  some  outlandish  place,  Oregon  or 
Texas  or  Guinea—  gossips  were  divided  about  the  exact  locality — it  was 
away  off  in  that  direction  somewhere.  Mark  talked  less  about  it  now^ 
and  was  not  quite  so  sure  of  hjus  own  mind  in  the  matter  as  he  had  been, 
except  while  talking  to  Roxy.  He  grew  more  and  more  fond  of  talking 
to  Roxy.  In  conversation  with  her  it  was  the  better  Mark  who  spoke. 
The  lower,  the  passionate,  the  vacillating  Mark  was  quite  put  out  of 
sifiht.  Roxy  cidled  out  his  best,  and  quite  put  him  in  conceit  with  him- 
sea.  All  that  was  highest  in  her  transferred  itself  somehow  to  him,, 
and  he  was  inclined  to  give  himself  credit  for  originating  the  impulses 
with  which  she  inspired  him.  He  liked  to  look  at  himself  shining  in 
the  light  of  her  reflected  enthusiasm.  She  had  set  up  an  ideal  Mark 
Bonamy,  and  the  real  Mark  was  so  pleased  to  look  at  this  flattering 
picture  in  the  mind  of  the  pure-hearted  girl,  that  he  came  to  believe 
the  image  of  himself  which  he  saw  there  to  be  an  accurate  likeness. 

Of  couicse  interviews  so  frequent  and  so  pleasant  must  grow  to  som»* 
thing  more.  It  doesn't  matter  what  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman 
talk  about,  even  sympathetic  conversations  about  missionary  labours  in 
Texas  or  in  Greenland  are  apt  to  become  tender.  One  enthusiasm 
translates  itself  so  easily  into  another  !  This  worship  of  his  real  and 
imaginary  goodness,  and  this  stimulus  of  what  was  best  in  him  was  so 
agreeable  to  Bonamy  that  he  began  to  doubt  whether  after  all  it  was 
best  to  undertake  a  mission  to  the  Texans  single-handed  and  alone. 
€K>od  old  dsters  whose  matchmaking  proclivities  had  not  died  but  had 
only  been  sanctified,  took  occasion  to  throw  out  hints  on  the  subject^ 
which  greatly  encouraged  Mark  to  believe  that  Roxy  was  divinely  in- 
tended and  ifkoulded  to  be  his  helpmate  in  that  great,  vast,  vague 
enterprise  which  should  be  worthy  of  the  large  abilities  he  had  conse- 
crated. 

Roxy  on  her  part  was  a  highly  ima^native  girl  Here  was  a  large- 
shouldered,  magnificent,  ApolTo-like  fellow,  who  thought  himself  some- 
thing wonderful,  and  whom  his  friends  thought  wonderful  It  was  easy 
to  tidke  him  at  the  popular  estimate,  and  then  to  think  she  had  discovered 
even  more  than  otners  saw  in  him.    For  was  it  not  to  her  that  he  re- 


1536  ROXY. 

vealed  his  great  unsettled  plans  for  suffering  and  dying  for  the  cross  of 
Christ  1  And  as  he  came  more  and  more,  the  pure-spirited  girl  began 
to  long  that  she  might  somehow  share  his  toils  and  sufferings.  The 
ambition  to  do  some  heroic  thing  had  always  burned  in  her  heart,  and 
in  her  it  was  a  pure  flame  with  no  taint  of  selfishness  or  egotism. 

Mark  went  into  Adam's  shop  one  day  to  have  his  boots  mended. 

**  So  you  are  going  to  Texas,  are  you  ? "  broke  out  the  shoemaker,  with 
half-suppressed  vehemence. 

"Yes." 

"  FooFs  errand,— fooFs  errand,"  muttered  the  old  man  as  he  turned 
the  boots  over  to  look  at  the  soles.  Then  he  looked  furtively  at  Bonamy 
and  was  disappointed  to  find  in  his  face  no  sign  of  perturbation.  "  Fool  s 
errand,  I  say,"  sharper  than  before. 

Mark  tossed  back  his  black  hair,  and  said  with  a  twinkle  : 

"  So  you  think,  no  doubt" 

"  Think  )  think  ?  "  Here  the  shoemaker  choked  for  utterance.     ''  I 

tell  you  if  you  were  my  son  I'd "  then  he  went  on  turning  the  boots 

over  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  Perhaps  because  he  could  not 
think  what  he  would  do  to  such  a  strapping  son  as  Mark ;  perhaps  be- 
cause the  sentence  seemed  more  frightful  in  this  mysterious  state  of  sus- 
pended animation  than  it  could  have  done  with  any  conceivable  penalty 
at  the  end. 

"  You'd  spank  me  and  not  give  me  any  supper,  may  be,"  said  Mark, 
who  was  determined  to  be  good-natured  with  Koxy's  father. 

The  old  man's  face  did  not  relax. 

''  That  shoe  needs  half-soling,"  he  said,  ferociously.  '^  What  makes 
you  run  your  boot  down  at  the  heel  1 " 

"  To  make  business  lively  for  the  shoemakers." 

"  And  what'U  you  do  when  you  get  to  Texas  where  there  are  no  shoe- 
makers 1     I  wish  I  could  patch  cracked  heads  as  easy  as  cracked  shoes." 

Adams  was  not  averse  to  Mark's  flattering  attentions  to  Eoxy,  to 
which  he  had  attached  a  significance  greater  than  Mark  had  intended 
or  Roxy  suspected.  Missionary  fever  would  soon  blow  over,  perhaps, 
and  then  Mark  was  sure  to  "  be  somebody." 

Besides,  the  shoemaker  was  himself  meditating  a  marriage  with  Miss 
Moore.  Her  sign  huns  next  to  his  own  on  Main  Street,  and  read  "Miss 
Moore,  Millinery  and  Mantuarmaker."  Adams  may  have  guessed  from 
•the  verbal  misconstruction  of  the  sign,  that  the  mantua-maker  was  as 
much  in  the  market  as  the  millinery ;  but  at  least  he  had  taken  pity  on 
her  loneliness  and  Miss  Moore  had  "  felt  great  sympathy  for  "  his  loneli- 
ness, and  so  they  were  both  ready  to  decrease  their  loneliness  by  making 
a  joint  stock  of  it  Mr.  Adiuns,  thinking  of  marriage  himself,  could 
not  feel  unkind  toward  a  similar  weakness  in  younger  people. 

There  was,  however,  one  person  who  did  not  like  this  growing  attach- 
ment between  Mark  Bonamy  and  Roxy  Adams.  Twonnet  had  built 
other  castles  for  her  friend.  She  was  not  sentimental,  but  shrewd, 
practical,  matter-of-fact — in  short  she  was  Swiss.  She  did  not  believe 
in  Mark's  steadfastness.  Besides,  her  hero  was  Whittaker,  whose  seri- 
'Ous  excellence  of  character  was  a  source  of  perpetual  admiration  in  her. 
She  was  fuUy  conscious  of  her  own  general  unfitness  to  aspire  to  be  the 
wife  of  such  a  man  j  she  had  an  apprehension  that  she  abode  most  of 
the  time  under  the  weight  of  the  minister's  displeasure,  and  she  plainly 


BOXY.  28T 

saw  tiiat  in  his  most  kindly  moods  he  treated  her  as  one  of  those  who 
were  doomed  to  a  sort  of  perpetual  and  amiable  childhood.  It  was  by 
no  KToat  stretch  of  magnanimity,  therefore,  that  Twonnet  set  herself  to 
find  a  way  to  promote  an  attachment  between  Whittaker  and  Koxy. 
Next  to  her  own  love  af^Etir  a  girl  is  interested  in  somebody  else's  love 
affair. 

But  Twonnet  saw  no  way  of  pushing  her  design,  for  Whittaker  care- 
fully abstained  firom  going  to  Adams's  house.  Twonnet  beguiled  Roxy 
into  spending  evenings  at  her  father's.  Whittaker,  on  such  occasions 
took  the  dispensations  of  Providence  kindly,  basking  in  the  sunlight  of 
Roxy's  inspiring  presence  for  a  few  hours,  and  lying  awake  in  troubled 
indecision  the  entire  night  thereafter.  It  was  with  an  increase  of  hope 
that  Twonnet  saw  the  mutual  delight  of  the  two  in  each  other's  society, 
and  she  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  she  was  the  humble  instru-- 
mentality  set  apart  by  Providence  to  bring  about  a  fore-ordained  mar- 
riage. She  managed  on  one  pretext  or  another  to  leave  them  alone  at 
times  in  the  old-fashioned  parlour,  with  no  witness  but  the  Swiss  clock 
on  the  wall,  the  tic-tac  of  whose  long,  slow  pendulum  made  the  precious 
moments  of  communion  with  Koxy  seem  longer  and  more  precious  to 
the  soul  of  the  preacher.  But  nothing  came  of  these  long-drawn  seconds 
of  conversation  on  indifferent  topics — nothing  ever  came  but  sleepless 
nights  and  new  conflicts  for  Whittaker.  For  how  should  he  marry  on 
his  slender  salary  and  with  his  education  yet  unpaid  for  ?  After  each 
of  these  interviews  contrived  by  Twonnet,  the  gooid-hearted  maneuverer 
looked  in  vain  to  see  him  resume  his  calls  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Adams. 
But  he  did  not.    She  could  not  guess  why. 

One  night  Twonnet  spent  with  Roxy.  Mark  dropped  in,  in  his  inci 
dental  way,  during  the  evening,  but  he  did  not  get  on  well.  The  shrewd 
Twonnet  got  him  to  tell  of  his  electioneering  experiences,  and  contrived 
to  make  him  show  the  wrong  side  of  his  nature  all  the  evening. 
Boxy  was  unhappy  at  this,  and  so  was  Mark,  but  Twonnet  felt  a  mis- 
chievous delight  in  thus  turning  Mark  aside  from  talking  about  Roxy's 
pet  enthusiasms,  and  in  showing  them  the  discords  which  incipient 
lovers  do  not  care  to  see. 

The  girls  sat  at  the  breakfast-table  a  little  late  the  next  morning,  — 
late  in  relation  to  village  habits,  for  it  was  neai-ly  seven  o'clock.  Twon 
net  proposed  to  tell  fortunes  with  coffee-grounds,  after  the  manner  of 
^1&  Roxy  hesitated  a  little  ;  she  was  scrupulous  about  trifles,  but  at 
Twonnet's  entreaty  she  reversed  her  cup  to  try  the  fortune  of  her  friend. 
"  I  don't  see  anything,  Twonnet,  in  these  grounds,"  she  said,  inspect- 
ing the  inside  of  her  cup,  "  except — except — ^yes — I  see  an  animal  I 
can't  tell  whether  it's  a  dog  or  a  mule.  It  has  a  dog's  tail  and  mule's 
ears.     What  does  that  mean  ? '' 

"  Pshaw  !  you  am't  worth  a  cent,  Roxy,  to  tell  fortunes,"  and  with 
that  Twonnet  looked  over  her  shoulder.  "  Dog's  tail  I  why  that's  a 
sword,  don't  you  see.  I  am  to  have  a  gentleman  come  to  see  me  who 
is  a  military  man." 

"  But  will  he  carry  his  sword  up  in  the  air  that  way  as  if  he  were 
going  to  cut  your  head  off  if  you  should  refuse  him  1 "  asked  Roxy, "  and 
what  about  these  ears  1 " 

''  Ears  1  that  is  beastly,  Roxy.  Those  are  side-whisker&  Now,  see 
me  tell  your  fortune." 


"238        HOW  FIVE  LITTLE  MIDGETS  SPENT  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

With  this,  Twonnet  capsized  her  cup  in  the  sauoer  and  let  it  remain 
inverted  for  some  seconds,  then  righting  it  again  she  beheld  the  sediment 
of  her  coffee  streaked  up  and  down  the  side  of  her  cnp  in  a  most  nnin- 
telliable  way.     But  Twonnet's  rendering  was  fore-determined. 

''I  see/'  ehe  began,  and  then  she  paused  a  long  time, for  in  truth  it 
-was  hard  to  see  aujrthing.     "  I  see " 

"  "Well,  what  1 "  said  Roxy,  '*  a  dog's  tail  or  side- whiskers  1 " 

*'  I  see  a  joung  man,  rather  tall,  with  flowine  hair  and — ^and  broad 
shoulders.''  Twonnet  now  looked  steadily  in  the  cup,  and  spoke  with 
the  rapt  air  of  a  Pythoness.  Had  she  looked  up  she  would  nave  seen 
the  colour  increasing  in  Roxy's  cheeks.  "  But  his  back  is  turned,  and 
so  I  see  that  you  will  reject  him.  There  are  crooked  lines  crossing  his  figure 
by  which  I  perceive  it  would  have  been  a  great  source  of  trouble  to  you 
had  you  accepted  him.    There  would  have  been  discord  and  eviL" 

Here  Roxy  grew  pale,  but  Twonnet  still  looked  eagerly  in  the  cup. 

"  I  see,"  she  continued,  '*  a  tall,  serious  man.  There  is  a  book  in 
front  of  him.  He  is  a  minister.  The  lines  about  him  aro  smooth  and 
indicate  happiness.     His  face  is  toward  me  and  I  perceive— that ** 

But  here  Roxy  impatiently  wrested  the  cup  from  her  hand  and  said, 
"  Shut  up,  you  gabbling'story-teller ! "  Then  looking  in  the  cup  curiously, 
she  said,  '* There's  nothing  of  all  that  there.  Just  a  few  streaks  of 
coffee  grounds." 

"  May  be  you  spoiled  it,"  said  the  gypsy  Twonnet.  "  You  cannot  read 
your  own  destiny.    I  read  it  for  you." 

<<  And  1  read  yours,"  said  Roxy  ;  '<  an  animal  with  a  dog's  tail  and 
cow's  horns.  But  don't  let's  talk  any  more  nonsense,  Twonnet,  it's  a  sin." 

'<  More  harm  comes  of  religious  talk  sometimes  than  of  fooling,"  re- 
torted Twonnet 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  demanded  ROxy,  with  anger  and  alarm. 

But  Twonnet  did  not  answer  except  by  a  si^incant  look  from  her 
black  eyes.  The  girls  had  changed  places  for  a  tune.  Tt  was  Twonnet 
who  had  taken  the  lead. 

(To  he  continued,) 


HOW  FIVE  LITTLE  MIDGETS  SPENT  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

A  STORT  FOB  OHILDBEK. 
BY  GEO.   STEWART,  JR. 

Onoe  upon  a  time,  there  lived  far,  far  from  here,  at  a  place  called  the 
Cedars,  a  little  family  of  five  persons.  There  was  Alice,  she  was  the 
youngest,  and  a  perfect  little  mite,  but  always  full  of  mischief  and  play. 
Oertie  came  next,  and  she  was  much  the  same,  but  the  third  one,  Edith, 
was  a  decided  romp,  and  her  clear  ringing  laugh  was  heard  idl  over  the 
house  from  five  in  the  momiuK,  when  she  got  up,  to  half  past  six  in  the 
evening,  when  her  heavy  litUe  eyes  went  to  sleep.  Annie  was  the 
.fourth,  and  she  was  a  mild-mannered  little  puss,  her  auntie's  pet,  and,  I 


HOW  FIVE  LITTLE  MIDGETS  SPENT  CHRISTMAS  EVE.         239 

am  sorry  to  add,  a  sly  boots.  Georgia  came  last.  He  was  the  eldest  of 
the  femily  and  the  only  boy  in  it.  What  shall  I  say  of  himi  He  was 
always  in  some  sort  of  mischief  or  other.  He  had  more  troubles  than 
most  boys,  and  had  an  unfortunate  habit  of  tumbling  into  new  ones  as 
soon  as  he  got  comfortably  out  of  the  old  ones.  He  was  his  uncle's  boy, 
and  not  a  bad  boy  either.  Georgie  was  smart  and  active,  perhaps  tod 
active  for  his  frame  and  brain.  But  he  was  a  regular  boy,  with  this 
difference  from  most  boys,  perhaps,  for  he  would  much  rather  stay  in 
the  house  than  go  out  of  it.  You  will  smile  at  me  when  I  tell  you  he 
was  fond  of  dolls  and  preferred  a  black  kitten  to  a  shaggy  dog  any  day. 
But  if  Georgie  loved  doUs  and  cats  and  little  sets  of  baby  furniture  and 
patch  work,  he  was  by  no  means  girlish.  Far  from  it,  for  he  was  a 
manly  little  fellow  despite  his  feminine  tastes. 

Well,  these  five  little  people  lived  together  in  a  great,  square,  old- 
fashioned  house,  with  beautiful  gardens  attached,  and  ample  grounds 
all  round  it.  In  these  grounds  were  swings  for  the  little  folks'  summer 
pleasures,  and  when  winter  came  and  it  was  not  too  cold  for  them  to  be 
out,  they  used  to  coast  down  the  steep  hills  in  front  of  the  house  on 
their  pretty  sleds  and  fleet  toboggans.  What  fun  they  had,  too,  these 
&ve  little  rogues,  and  what  shouts  came  from  their  little  throats  as  they 
shot  down  the  hills,  and  went  belter  skelter  over  the  crusted  snow,  with 
many  a  tumble  and  laugh.  And  they  never  hurt  themselves  in  the  least, 
but  up  and  away  again  for  another  trial,  and  another  bounce,  and 
another  laugh.  Dear  me,  I  think  I  see  them  now  as  I  used  to  look  out 
of  my  front  window  watching  them,  in  their  warm  frocks  and  Ulsters, 
and  Georgie  in  his  Ulster  and  woollen  leggings,  with  rosy  cheeks  and 
bright  sparkling  eyes  full  of  excitement  and  joy. 

But  I  am  going  to  tell  you  of  an  adventure  which  happened  to  these 
five  little  people,  to  show  you  how  wrong  it  is  to  be  too  inquisitive.  It 
was  winter  time,  and  if  you  want  to  see  "  The  Cedars  "  at  its  prettiest, 
you  must  pay  a  visit  there  when  the  fleecy  snow  is  on  the  ground,  and 
the  trees  are  clad  in  crystal  foliage,  and  the  panes  are  made  beautiful  by 
the  etching  frost  king.  You  must  go  there  in  the  bracing  winter  sea- 
son. And  if  vou  go  at  Christmas  time,  you  will  never  want  to  leave  it. 
If  you  taste  the  good  cheer  there  once,  you  will  hardly  ever  be  content 
with  a  Christmas  anywhere  else. 

It  was  the  night  before  Christmas,  and  Alice,  Gertie,  Edith,  Annie, 
and  Georgie  were  in  high  glee.  All  day  long  they  teased  and  coaxed 
their  auntie  to  tell  them  something  about  Santa  Claus,  and  to  let  them 
sit  up  all  night  so  that  they  might  see  the  good  old  man  coming  down 
the  wide  chinmey  on  his  reindeer  with  his  pack  of  presents.  Many  a 
sly  allusion  was  made  to  the  great  room  across  the  hall  where  the  Christ- 
mas tree  stood  in  all  its  glory  and  beauty.  But  Annie  said  no.  The 
friend  of  all  good  children  never  came  when  he  was  watched,  and  the 
great  room  was  securely  locked  and  the  key-hole  stuffed  with  paper. 
The  little  folks  were  more  eager  than  ever,  and  every  gust  of  wind  that 
whistled  down  the  chimney  roused  them  to  the  very  tiptoe  of  ex- 
citement. 

"Auntie,"  said  little  Alice,  "  there  he  is  now." 

"  Oh  do  let  us  sit  up,"  said  Edith. 

"  What's  the  hurt  ?  "  said  Georgie. 

**  Can't  we,  auntie  1 "  said  Annie. 


240         HOW  FIVE  LITTLE   MIDGETS   SPENT  CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

"  Mayn't  we  ?  "  asked  Gertie. 

But  auntie  was  firm,  and  the  five  little  faces  were  long  again,  and  very 
grave  till  another  gust  whistled  and  roared,  and  little  Alice  called  out 
again, 

''Oh  auntie,  its  coming  now.  I  see  his  taiL''  And  Edith  was  sure 
she  saw  the  head  of  a  doU,  while  sly-boots  Annie  declared  she  saw  Santa 
Claus  himself,  and  wanted  to  point  out  the  veritable  stick  on  which  he 
stood  resting  his  foot,  when  he  winked  at  her.  As  for  Georgie,  he  was 
too  much  engaged  in  looking  out  for  the  reindeer  to  pay  much  attention 
to  the  driver.     Nothing  less  than  that  would  satisfy  him  ! 

At  last  bedtime  came,  and  five  demure  little  people  went  off  to  bed, 
to  dream  of  the  joys  and  pleasures  of  the  morrow.  The  whole  five 
kissed  the  ones  they  loved  the  best,  and  with  Lizzie  they  trooped  along 
the  hall-way,  and  i^ter  trying  to  peep  through  the  clinch  of  the  door  in 
the  big  room,  they  mounted  the  stairs  and  were  put  to  bed. 

It  was  one  of  the  maddest,  merriest  Christmas  eves  you  ever  heard 
of.  The  sleigh-bells  tinkled  past  the  house  every  few  minutes.  The 
great  bell  of  the  old  chapel  across  the  road  rang  out  its  peals.  There 
were  merry  greetings  and  shouts  out  of  doors,  there  were  kindly  senti- 
ments exchanged  within.  The  snow  was  coming  down  in  large, 
handsome  flakes,  and  the  air  was  alive  with  Christmas  greetings.  The 
sharp  sound  of  the  hammer  told  of  busy  preparation  for  the  morrow's 
festivities.  Bertie  and  Charlie  and  Walter  were  trimming  the  library 
room  with  spruce  and  evergreens,  and  sprigs  of  mjotle  and  the  misletoe, 
and  five  little  curly  heads  ^ept  upstairs  unconscious  of  it  all. 

At  midnight  all  was  done,  and  uncle  and  auntie  and  the  rest  of  the 
family  had  retired.  The  house  was  very  stiU,  and  the  old  eight-day 
clock  in  the  hall  was  the  only  object  awake.  "  Tick-tock,"  said  the 
venerable  time  piece,  "  tick-tock,"  "  ticktock." 

''  Goodness,  what's  that  1 "  said  Edith,  as  she  tumbled  out  of  bed  and 
came  down  thump  on  the  floor.  "  Oh  my,'*  said  Alice,  rubbing  the 
sand  out  of  her  eyes  with  both  fists,  ''  is  it  Christmas  yet  % "  And 
Georgie  and  Annie  and  Gertie  exclaimed  in  a  breath,  "  let's  go  down 
and  peep  in  the  big  room." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Alice,  "  auntie  said  we  mustn't,  and  p'raps  Santa  Claus 
wouldn't  give  us  anything  if  we  did." 

But  the  majority  decided  to  go,  and  little  Alice  marched  along,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  with  the  rest  Five  long  white  flannel  night-gowns  trudged 
through  the  upper  hall,  noiselessly  slipped  down  the  staircase  and  walked 
along  the  lower  hall-way  till  the  door  of  the  mysterious  room  was 
reached.  Here  the  five  night-gowns  stood  still.  They  were  all  drawn 
up  like  a  company  of  soldiers  with  Greorgie  at  their  head.  The  door 
creaked  a  little  as  one  of  the  prettiest  spirits  you  ever  saw  slipped  out 
of  the  forbidden  room.  She  was  dressed  in  a  pure  white  dress  trimmed 
with  a  border  of  silver  and  little  blue  flowers.  She  had  silver  slippers 
on,  and  a  silver  crown  rested  on  her  forehead.  In  her  right  hand  she 
held  a  plain  white  staff  tipped  with  gold,  while  in  her  left  she  bore  a 
shield.  She  had  two  white  wings,  parted  with  diamonds  on  her  back. 
She  smiled  sweetly  on  the  little  people  before  her,  and  asked  them  what 
they  wanted  there  at  that  time  in  the  morning.  Now  Alice,  you  may 
be  sure,  was  very  much  frightened  at  all  this,  and  she  could  not  speak 
for  some  time.     Chatterbox  Edith,  usually  so  noisy,  hadn't  a  word  to 


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HOW  FIVE  LITTLE  MIDGETS  SPENT  CHRISTMAS  EVE.         241 

say.  Gertie  looked  as  if  she  was  going  to  cry,  and  Annie  looked  very 
grave  and  wise.  G^rgie  plucked  up  a  little  courage,  and  managed  to 
ask  the  sprite  if  they  could  see  the  room  for  a  few  moments. 

To  their  delight  the  sprite  touched  the  door  with  her  staff,  bade  them 
enter,  and  the  little  party  filed  in.  The  moment  the  party  passed  the 
threshold  a  loud  noise  was  heard,  and  the  door  closed  with  a  savage 
bang.  The  five  little  people  were  terribly  frightened  at  this  you  may  . 
be  sure,  but  they  wisely  said  nothing.  Their  fear,  however,  vanished 
as  they  began  to  look  about  them.  They  had  never  seen  the  room  look 
80  pretty  before.  Pieces  of  green,  with  here  and  there  a  red  blossom, 
or  a  tiny  white  bud,  ran  all  round  the  apartment  An  arch,  tastily 
arranged,  was  mounted  directly  over  the  fire-place,  and  in  the  centre  a 
very  pretty  motto,  bearing  the  words  "  A  merry  Christmas,'*  was  placed. 
But  it  was  something  in  the  middle  of  the  room  which  aroused  their 
curiosity  and  nearly  drove  them  wild  with  delight.  It  was  nothing  less 
than  a  large  Christmas  tree,  literally  loaded  down  with  beautiful  offer- 
ings. There  were  presents  for  them  all.  No  less  than  five  dolls  hung 
gracefully  by  the  hair  from  the  tree's  emerald  branches.  There  was  one, 
a  tall  brunette,  for  Alice,  a  golden-haired  blonde  for  £dith,  a  waxen 
beauty  for  Annie,  a  elaborately  dressed  wax  baby  for  Gertie,  and,  would 
you  believe  it,  a  porcelain  dolly  for  Greorgie  1  The  children  made  a 
rush  for  the  tree  and  would  fain  have  grasped  their  dolls,  and  started 
back  to  their  rooms,  but  the  silver  sprite  waived  them  back  and  said 
they  must  touch  nothing,  they  could  only  look,  for  it  was  not  yet  time. 
**  You  mustn't  speak,  only  look,  and  handle  nothing,"  said  the  sprite. 
"  Look,  see  what  they  are  doing." 

The  five  dolls  jumped  down  from  the  tree  and  began  to  play  and  run 
round  the  room.  **  Let  us  eat  all  the  candy,"  said  Alice's  doll,  as  she 
glanced  slyly  at  her  little  mistress. 

"  Yes,"  said  Georgie's  doll,  "  our  owners  have  no  right  here  at  this 
time,  and  we  will  eat  all  their  candy  and  figs  and  nuts  and  raisins  right 
before  their  eyes.     This  will  do  them  good  next  year." 

"  Oh  my,"  said  Gertie's  doll,  "  my  mistress  is  going  to  cry.  I  must 
hurry  up  and  eat  her  share  before  she  alarms  the  household." 

And  then  the  five  dolls  sat  down  on  the  five  little  chairs  which  hung 
on  the  tree,  and  began  to  eat,  and  eat,  until  their  little  faces  grew  red- 
der and  redder,  and  the  more  they  ate  the  longer  they  grew,  and  when 
they  had  finished  they  were  nearly  as  tall  as  the  children  themselves, 
who  stood  shivering  and  shaking  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  watch- 
ing the  movements  of  their  dolls. 

^*  Let  us  play  Snap  Dragon,"  shouted  the  dolls  in  concert,  and  away 
they  scampered  around  the  room,  their  little  high-heeled  boots  making 
quite  a  racket  on  the  uncarpeted  floor.  The  sprite  gave  a  whistle,  and 
ten  other  dolls  came  galloping  in  on  little  wooden  ponies.  They  dis- 
mounted, the  ponies  went  off  to  their  stables,  and  the  new  comers  were 
warmly  welcomed.  They  sat  down  on  a  buffalo  robe  in  the  comer  and 
glared  at  the  children,  who  were  speechless  with  astonishment  at  the 
strange  performance  they  had  witnessed.  In  a  few  minutes  a  curious 
sound  was  heard.  The  tree  seemed  to  open  in  the  centre,  and  a  large 
dragon  with  horns  on  the  top  of  his  head  leaped  out.  The  tree  closed 
up  at  once,  and  no  one  could  see  the  place  out  of  which  the  dragon  had 
come.  He  was  a  fierce-looking  fellow  with  great  glaring  eyes  offire  and 
8 


242         HOW  FIVE  LITTLE  MmOETS  SPENT  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

claws  of  iron.  Bis  body  was  covered  with  homy  scales,  and  he  seemed 
to  glide  along  on  his  tail.  From  his  shoulders  hung  a  long  scarlet  doak, 
and  his  terrible  tongue  was  of  a  deep  red  colour  and  fork-shaped.  The 
children  gazed  in  wonder  at  this;  but  the  dolls  only  laughed  and 
clapped  their  hands. 

"  Here  is  the  dragon,"  they  cried,  ^*  here  is  the  dragon,"  and  they  feU 
to  clapping  their  hands  again.  The  sprite  touched  the  dragon  on  the 
left  horn  with  the  staff  and  immediately  a  silver  dish  began  to  grow  out 
of  his  claws,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes,  indeed,  the  dragon  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  with  his  great  dish  held  before  him,  out  of  which 
terrible  flames  sported  and  danced.  He  laughed  at  this,  and  his  laugh 
was  more  like  the  roar  of  a  lion.  He  pranced  around  and  called  in 
each  doll  and  invited  her  to  a  feast  of  raisins  out  of  his  fiery  dish.  He 
lauehed  louder  than  ever  when  a  doll  burned  her  fingers,  and  he  grum- 
bled very  much  when  he  lost  his  raisins. 

The  sprite  whispered  some  words  in  the  dragon's  ear,  and  he  seemed 
quite  pleased  at  what  he  heard.  The  children  heard  him  say  ''aU 
right,"  and  they  did  not  know  just  what  to  make  out  of  it.  They  soon 
found  out,  for  the  dragon  in  a  loud  voice  said  : 

**  There  are  people  here  at  this  Snap  Dragon  festival  who  have  no 
right  to  be  present  As  they  are  here  they  must  share  the  peril  as  well 
as  the  pleasure.  Let  all  the  lights  be  put  out,  and  the  game  will  be 
played  according  to  our  ancient  custom.     Out,  out,  with  the  lights  ! " 

Then  there  was  complete  darkness,  and  little  Alice,  who  always 
wanted  to  go  to  sleep  when  she  could  no  longer  see  the  light,  grew  very 
sleepy,  and  even  Greorgie  admitted  that  he  was  just  a  little  bit  sleepy, 
but  the  dolls  laughed,  and  were  ungenerous  enough  to  say  that  AUce 
and  G^rgie  were  afraid  to  stay  with  them,  and  wanted  to  break  out  of 
the  arrangement.  The  sprite  ended  the  discussion,  however,  by 
promptly  sa3ring  that  none  could  leave  the  room  until  the  games  were 
over,  and  no  excuses  would  be  taken.  In  order  to  make  sure  she  passed 
her  wand  over  the  eyes  of  the  five  little  children,  and  do  their  utmost 
they  could  not  close  them  again. 

The  lights  being  extinguished,  the  flame  in  the  dish,  which  had  grown 
very  shallow  indeed,  was  now  a  brilliant  blue  colour,  and  the  contrast 
between  it  and  the  red  eyes  of  the  dragon  was  very  curious,  not  to  say 
alarming.  The  chairs  were  all  put  away  and  the  fun  commenced.  It 
was  certainly  weird  and  ghastly  fun,  but  the  dolls  called  it  fun,  and  the 
sprite  said  it  was  fun  ;  as  for  the  dragon,  he  pronounced  it  ''  excellent 
fun,"  so  I  must  be  content  and  say  the  fun  commenced.  What  a  time 
they  had,  those  merry  dolls !  The  dragon  raced  around,  first  to  one  then 
to  another,  and  as  he  ran,  the  dolls  sang  in  a  peculiar  minor  key,  the 
ancient  ballad,  which  you  know  runs  thus  : 

**  Here  he  comes  with  flaming  bowl, 
Don^  he  mean  to  take  his  toll, 
Snip,  Snap,  Dragon  1 

'*  Take  care  you  don't  take  too  much, 
Be  not  greedy  in  your  clutch, 
Snip,  Snap,  Dragon  ! 


HOW   FIVE  UTTLE  MIDGETS  SPENT  CHBISTMAS  EVE.         248 

'*  With  his  blue  and  lapping  tongue, 
MMiy  of  you  -will  be  stung. 

Snip,  Snap,  Dragon  ! 

''  For  he  snaps  at  all  that  comes 
Snatching  at  his  feast  of  plums, 
Snip,  Snap,  Dragon  1 

'*  But  Old  Christmas  makes  hJm  come» 
Though  he  looks  so  fee,  fa,  fum  ! 
Snip,  Snap,  Dragon  1 

**  Don*t'ee  fear  him,  but  be  bold — 
Out  he  goes,  his  flames  are  cold. 
Snip,  Snap,  Dragon  ! " 

And  as  ihey  sang  they  made  a  snatch  at  the  boiling  plums,  and  Alioe'^s 
doll  burned  her  fingers  very  much,  and  £dith*8  doll  fared  equally  as  had, 
but  Annie's  doll  captured  a  lot  of  raisins,  and  the  old  dragon  was  very 
angry  with  her  and  scowled,  and  would  have  torn  his  hair,  I  am  sure, 
but  he  hadn't  any.  They  kept  the  game  up  till  they  were  all  so  tired 
that  they  wished  they  were  up  in  the  tree  again,  waiting  for  Ohristmas 
morning.  And  then  the  dragon,  who  seemed  never  to  get  tired  of  any- 
thing, ran  or  rather  glided  over  to  the  five  trembling  night-gowns  who 
were  looking  at  him  with  eyes  as  big  as  saucers.  He  made  them  snap 
at  the  plums  till  Gertie's  fiugers  were  full  of  blisters,  and  Annie's  hand 
was  covered  with  the  same.  As  for  dainty  Alice,  she  managed  one 
plum  and  three  burns  very  well.  Of  course  Georgie  fooled  the  dragon 
so  often  that  he  made  his  dragonship  quite  savage,  and  when  Edith's 
turn  came,  he  put  the  dish  so  close  to  her  face  that  she  singed  her  eye- 
brows till  she  cried  with  pain,  and  told  him  **  she  wouldn't  have  any  of 
his  old  plums,  and  she  would  tell  her  auntie  in  the  morning,  if  he  didn't 
go  away.''  And  the  dragon  laughed  and  said,  "  snip,  snap,  what  did 
you  come  here  for,  snip,  snap,"  and  he  hopped  before  her,  first  on  one 
side  and  then  on  the  other,  and  little  Edith  was  very  downcast  over  it 
all,  and  began  to  think  she  was  spending  a  very  disagreeable  Ohrist- 
mas Eve. 

But  at  last  the  brandy  in  the  dish  began  to  grow  cold,  and  the  dra- 
gon was  becoming  weaker  and  weaker,  and  suddenly  with  a  loud  snap 
he  and  his  dish  vanished  into  the  tree  again,  and  pretty  blue  and  pink, 
and  yellow,  and  green,  and  ^  liitt)  lights  shone  out  round  the  room,  and 
the  ten  little  dolls  mounted  ineir  ponies,  and  kissing  their  hands  to  the 
other  dolls,  and  doing  the  same  to  the  little  children,  ofi*  they  galloped 
through  the  air  on  their  steeds  to  their  homeu  in  the  sky.  And  the  five 
dolls  came  over  to  Alice  and  Edith,  and  Gt^rtie  and  Annie  and  G«orgie, 
and  shook  hands  with  them,  and  took  them  over  to  the  tree  and  showed 
them  the  pretty  lanterns  that  Santa  Glaus  had  brought  all  the  way 
from  Japan,  and  gave  to  each  a  handsome  fan  which  was  got,  they  said, 
during  the  summer  from  Ohina.  And  Alice  clapped  her  hands  when 
she  saw  a  charming  little  set  of  dishes  which  came  from  Paris,  and  she 
held  up  her  night-gown  and  asked  to  have  them  put  into  it.  Georgie 
felt  the  pair  of  skates  that  hung  from  one  of  the  top  boughs,  all  over,  to 


244         HOW  FIVE  LITTLE  MIDGETS  SPENT  CHBISTMAS  EVE. 

see  if  they  were  rea],  and  he  sat  down  twice  on  the  '*  Red  Rover/'  to 
see  if  it  would  bear  him.  Annie  was  much  taken  with  a  baby  cradle 
which  was  only  ten  inches  long  and  four  inches  wide,  and  it  had  little 
mattresses,  and  tiny  pillows,  which  made  her  wonder  if  babies  ever  loere 
as  small  as  that.  A  rocking-chair  painted  blue  was  marked  "  (Gertie,'' 
and  Edith  was  overjoyed  to  find  a  little  set  of  bed-room  furniture  which 
the  sprite  told  her  was  for  her.  And  the  five  little  people  inspected 
their  own  presents  and  each  other's,  and  finally  everybody  else's,  and 
they  thought  that  this  Christmas  tree  was  the  prettiest  they  had  ever 
seen  in  their  lives. 

The  old  clock  ticked  in  the  hall,  and  the  morning  was  breaking.  The 
snow  had  stopped  falling,  and  a  bright  light  was  shining.  The  sprite 
sounded  her  whistle  and  the  room  was  empty,  and  the  dolls  hung  by 
their  hair  on  the  tree  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  "  Tick-tock,  tick- 
tock,"  said  the  clock.  **  Dear  me,  I'm  rather  late  in  getting  away,"  said 
Santa  Glaus,  as  he  hastily  darted  up  the  chimney,  and  swung  himself 
over  the  roof  to  the  ground.  '*  Tick-tock,"  continued  the  clock,  and  its 
honest  old  face  seemed  to  smile  as  the  rosy  dawn  appeared.  "  Tick- 
tock,"  it  said,  and  it  looked  just  as  if  it  wanted  to  say  "  Merry  Christ- 
mas to  you  all" 

It  was  six  o'clock,  and  there  was  some  excitement  you  may  be  sure 
in  the  room  where  the  five  irrepressibles  slept.  Edith  was  the  first  out 
of  bed. 

''  Dear,  dear,  what  is  the  matter  with  me,  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  I 
feel  so  tired." 

"  Where  have  I  been  all  night,"  said  Georgie,  stretching  himself. 

"  I  thought  I  saw  Santa  Glaus,"  said  Alice,  **  he  has  snapping  eyes, 
and  hot  plums,  hasn't  he  f " 

<*  I  know  what  I  am  to  get,"  said  Annie,  "  it's  a  doll,  for  I  saw  it  in 
the  big  room.     I  was  down  there  all  night." 

*'  Ajid  there  is  a  rocking  chair  for  me,"  said  Gertie.  "  It  is  growing 
on  a  tree  down  stairs." 

*'  Dear  me,"  said  the  children  at  once,  and  all  putting  on  their  shoes 
at  the  same  time,  "  let  us  run  down  and  see  what  Santa  Glaus  has 
brought  us." 

And  the  little  troop  hurried  along,  not  in  white  night-gowns  this  time, 
but  with  nice  new  frocks  and  shoes  and  stockings  on.  And  when  they 
saw  the  great  generous  tree,  they  ran  to  it  with  a  shout,  and  each  little 
fairy  beheld  the  realization  of  a  dream  which  had  come  to  each  on  that 
happy  Christmas  Eve.  (rood  old  Santa  Glaus  had  not  forgotten  a 
thing.  But  ugly  Snap  Dragon  was  no  where  to  be  seen.  Where  was 
he )    I  guess  he  was  in  Scandinavia,  where  he  belongs. 


245 


TEE  NORTH. 

0,  WBLOOME  are  our  Bhrill  north  breezes. 
That  nip  as  they  pass  men  by, 
Crisping  the  snow  as  it  freezes, 
Brightening  the  stars  in  the  sky  ; 
Spangling  the  air  with  a  glittering  rain 
Of  diamond  dust,  so  fine  and  clear. 
The  silvery  motes,  with  might  and  main. 
Seem  dancing  to  some  far-off  refrain, 
That  rings  through  the  sharp-cut  atmosphere. 

Songs  from  the  misty  cloudland. 

Strains  from  the  icy  halls 

Of  the  Boreal  realms — some  proud  land 

Whence  the  gleaming  shower  falls. 

Shook  down  from  ice-mountains  lone, 

In  the  dreariest  haunts  of  the  frozen  zone. 

By  the  shouts  and  the  laughter  of  jovial  sires, 

Who  make  the  welkin  ring 

With  the  old-time  zest, 

With  the  old-time  jest. 

As  they  lustily  laugh, 

While  they  jollily  quaff 

From  brimming  golden  chaKces, 

To  their  merry  old  hearts*  desires, 

The  red-ripe  wine  that  the  old  blood  fires, 

In  the  northernmost  depths  of  the  far-north  palaces. 

Where  Winter  stem  reigns  king. 

Where  crystallized  rivers  slop  3  to  the  sea. 

Like  ocean-ghosts  standing  silently 

On  the  verge  of  some  voiceless  eternity  ; 

Flashing  back  light  like  molten  glass, 

Or  mountains  of  steel  in  grand  repose. 

O,  it  were  death,  white  death,  to  be 

Alone  in  their  silent  company — 

Death  from  the  plinth  of  the  glitterino^  ma9S 

To  the  flush  of  their  crowns  of  rose  ; 

Death  'mid  the  fretwork  of  mist  and  spray 

Daintily  fringed,  aerially  tossed, 

Arrested  as  it  fell. 

By  a  word,  a  wand,  or  an  elfin  hand, 

Or  the  freak  of  a  Wizard's  speU, 

Whose  spirits  have  breathed 


246  THE  NORTH. 

On  the  air  and  wreathed 
Their  Miracle  of  Frost, 
Suspended  there 
Like  a  dream  in  air, 
Above  the  basalt  strand. 

Sharp  and  orystal-olear 

As  his  breath  falls  here, 

When  the  white  wolf  winter  speeds  in  haste 

With  howl  and  leap  o*er  the  frozen  waste  ; 

Keen  as  his  keenest  breezes  blow  ; 

'Tis  the  merriest  taste, 

Maidenly  chaste. 

Of  those  regions  of  ice  and  snow. 

Where  the  calm  airs  fierce 

To  the  marrow  pierce. 

Where  the  storm  is  a  demon,  fury-rife. 

Rending  the  delicate  web  of  life 

With  a  frenzy  we  may  not  know  : 

Our  wintry  air 

Were  but  summer  there, 

In  the  bleak  land  of  bei^  and  floe. 

In  the  land  of  the  glacier  that  gleams 

Like  the  battle-axe  swung  in  the  dreams 

Of  some  conqueror- Jarl,  as  the  steel 

Makes  some  terrible  Sea-King  reel, 

Or  smites  a  long-dreaded  Viking  low, 

When  Fate  directs  the  unerring  blow 

In  St.  Olaf  s  realms  of  bei^  and  floe. 

Then  welcome  to  the  shrill  north  breezes, 

That  nip,  as  they  pass,  in  play  ; 

The  laughing  winter-sprite  that  teases 

Youth,  childhood,  and  old  men  gray  ; 

Welcome  to  the  storm  that  pleases. 

Whose  mission  is  not  to  slay  ; 

For  they  deepen  the  bloom  of  the  roses 

That  tingle  the  cheeks  of  the  fair. 

Warm  the  heart  where  love's  secret  reposes, 

And  strangle  the  One  Care. 

The  snow*s  noiseless  falling, 

The  wind's  loudest  brawling — 

These  bring  life,  not  death, 

In  their  vigorous  breath. 

And  nature's  true  wealth, 

A  largess  of  Health, 

In  the  flash  of  their  sparkling  air. 

Chablbs  Sanostbb. 


247 


COLONEL  MEREITT'S  CUP. 

AN  OLD  lady's  CHBISTMAS  STORY. 

NiooDBMUS  Merritt  had  been  a  grocer.  Don't  imagine  for  a  minute 
that  I  mention  his  former  occupation  through  any  disrespect,  or  to  make 
little  of  such  a  worthy  man.  I  merely  mention  it  to  show  how,  by 
industry,  perseverance,  and  a  careful  partner — (for  Mrs.  Merritt  was  a 
model  house-wife,  and  in  the  days  before  Merritt  retired,  when  they 
kept  the  little  comer  grocery,  all  the  customers  used  to  cite  Patience 
Merritt  as  an  example  to  their  other  halves,  or,  as  was  with  some  of 
them  the  case,  their  better  two-thirds) — a  man  may  rise,  in  this  blessed 
country  (which  we  don't  want  any  more  emigration  to,  as  there  is  now 
more  people  in  than  there  is  good  times  for),  from  the  lowest  station  to 
the  highest.  But  Nicodemus  Merritt,  Esquire,  as  was  written  on  his 
envelopes,  although  they  spelt  it  '*  Esq.,"  was  no  longer  a  grocer.  He 
retired — (as  is  fashionable  to  say,  though  "give  up  the  shop"  sounds 
kind  of  more  familiar  like  to  me)--nabout  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  ago— 
I  was  never  much  on  remembering  dates — on  a  snug  little  fortune,  and 
joined  the  Colonial  Volunteers,  that  was  just  started  then,  for  Nicode- 
mus waa  not  an  old  man  (he  had  barely  turned  five  and  forty  at  that 
time),  and  he  bubbled  all  over  with  military  ardour.  Some  evU-minded 
old  ladies  as  lived  in  the  neighbourhood  insinuated  as  much  that  Mrs. 
Merritt  was  at  the  bottom  of  lus  joining  the  "  sogers,"  as  they  disrespect- 
fully called  the  Colonial  Patriots,  because  now,  as  how  he  had  given  up 
the  shop,  the  "  dear  man,"  as  they  called  Merritt,  though  he  used  to  seU 
his  sugar  a  copper — ^for  we  had  no  cents  then — less  than  any  other  gro- 
cer, must  join  something,  and  go  somewhere  in  the  evenings,  to  keep  out 
of  the  reach  of  his  wife's  tongue.  But  I  do  not  believe  it,  for  Patience 
Merritt  had  a  character  and  was  a  model  woman,  when  on  the  contrary 
the  parties  as  said  this  about  her  had  no  characters  to  lose,  and  spoke 
that  way  of  everybody  they  knew  or  heard  tell  of,  dead  or  alive. 

But  if  I  keep  on  writing  about  what  was  said  by  the  Scandal  Com- 
mittee— and  well  they  deserved  the  name,  for  they  were  always  poking 
about,  interfering  with  other  people's  business  and  never  minding  their 
own,  and,  like  these  people,  having  none  to  mind — I  will  never  be  able 
to  tell  you  about  the  handsome  piece  of  plate  that  Colonel — ^I  don't  see 
what  they  say  "  Rumel "  for,  and  spell  it  with  lots  of  0  s  and  L's, 
which,  if  I  hadn't  been  stood  down  on  last  winter  at  one  of  these  spel- 
ling bees,  as  went  out  of  fashion  like  the  blue  glass  —which  I  tried  all 
this  summer  without  any  virtue  for  my  corns — a  pretty  mess  I'd  have 
made  of  it,  having  the  critics  poking  fun  at  my  phonetic  spelling) — 
Merritt  got  the  Christmas  after  he  resigned  command  of  the  Colonial 
Volunteers. 

There  !  just  like  me.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  before  that  Mr.  Merritt 
was  the  Colonel  of  the  Patriots,  and  used  to  ride  on  horse-back  ahead 
of  the  volunteers  and  just  behind  the  band,  with  a  long  drawn  sword, 
and  surrounded  by  all  the  little  boys  who  stopped  from  school  announts 


248  COLONEL  merritt's  cup. 

to  their  parents  to  follow  the  band  whenever  the  Volunteers  turned  out, 
which  was  about  twelve  times  a  year ;  and  the  little  boys  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Loafers'  Union — (an  unincorporated  society,  whose  roll  of 
membership  has  greatly  increased  of  late — this  is  a  little  pleasantness 
of  mine,  don't  mind  it !) — used  to  follow  the  regiment  just  as  fondly 
and  devoutedly  as  if  it  was  a  circus  procession  or  a  Govemor'a 
funeral 

Mr.  Merritt  was  rapidly  promoted  from  the  time  he  first  joined  the 
Patriots,  as  I  insist  upon  calling  them — and  you  would  call  them 
patriots  too,  if  you  heard  how  beiautifully  and  how  loud  they  used  to 
cheer  the  Queen,  with  their  hats  on  their  guns,  on  review  days — ^for 
he  was  greatly  liked,  as  he  used  to  take  his  whole  company,  when  he 
was  captain,  down  to  the  hotel  and  give  them  a  cold  lunch  or  a  cold 
supper,  when  they  would  drink  each .  other's  healths  until  they  would 
find,  when  they  got  home,  their  beautiful  new  uniforms,  which  were 
made  in  London  by  a  real  military  tailor,  all  stained  with  beer  and  all 
dirty  from  rubbing  against  so  many  fences  on  their  way  home,  and 
sometimes — I  say  it  with  sorrow — soiled  from  rubbing  against  the  side- 
walks, too.  So,  by  this  means — or  by  these  means — (I  never  studied 
as  much  giammar  as  I  should  when  I  went  to  the  girls'  school,  kept, 
better  than  thirty  years  ago,  ly  the  two  Miss  Barneses,  who  charged 
one  pound  a  quarter,  for  we  had  no  public  schools  then,  and  the  girls 
used  to  learn  to  sew  and  work  samplers,  which,  since  as  how  they  have 
got  the  public  schools  and  the  sewing-machines  now-a-days,  nobody 
pays  any  attention  to)—  he  was,  inside  of  four  years,  made  Colonel — 
the  men  used  to  ele<;t  their  own  oflScers  then,  but  now-a-days  they  are,. 
I  believe,  or  at  least  I  was  told  so,  appointed  by  a  commission  from 
~  Ottawa,  consequently  cold  suppers  don't  have  as  much  effect  in  making 
a  colonel  as  they  used  to  hava 

Nicodemus  Merritt  was  Colonel  Merritt  for  three  years  when,  to  the 
surprise  of  everybody,  he  quite  unexpectedly  resigned.  Among  the  rea- 
sons given  for  his  resignation,  I  heard  as  how  he  said  to  the  Patriots, 
when  he  announced  to  them  his  intention  of  resigning,  that  it  was 
owing  to  his  age,  as  he  was  on  the  down  grade  of  life — though  he  was 
barely  past  fifty,  which  is  considered  the  prime  of  life — (though  there 
is  precious  few  men  now-a-days  that  are  not  past  their  prime  at  fifty. 
What  can  you  expect  when  the  most  of  them  come  home  primed  every 
night  of  their  life,  to  the  annoyance  of  their  wives  and  the  destruction  of 
their  door-latch  !) — and  that  he  found  himself  unequal  to  the  task  of 
managing  his  horse  and  charging  at  their  head.  Now,  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve the  Colonel  said  tJiis — or  that, — for  Flash,  that  was  the  name  of 
his  charger,  was  as  quiet,  modest,  industrious  and  well-disposed  a  horse 
as  ever  1  saw,  and  I  used  to  see  him  oflen,  especially  on  Sunday,  when 
he  used  to  draw  the  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Merritt  to  church,  in  their  open 
carriage,  lined  with  blue  silk ;  he  would  go  along  so  meek  and  humble 
you'd  think  he  was  going  to  attend  service  himself ;  and  then  on  parade 
days  they  would  bring  Flash  out  afore  the  Colonel's  door  nicely  toggered 
up,  with  a  piece  of  white  velvet,  as  large  as  a  clean  towel,  with  gold 
crowns  worked  in  the  comers  of  it,  under  the  saddle,  and  a  pair  of  big 
pistols,  that  were  dreadful  to  look  at,  though  they  were  never  loaded, 
covered  with  a  whole  bear  skin  in  front  of  the  saddle;  and  they  used  to 
hang  brass  chains  and  steel  reins  about  that  poor  beast,  as  if  he  was  the 


COLONEL  MERRITT'S  CUP.  24^ 

wild  Araby  steed  as  Mrs.  Norton  (poor  woman  !  to  die  so  soon  after 
her  marriage,  makes  one  feel  quite  sad  like)  writes  so  beautifully  about. 
And  then  to  see  the  Colonel,  as  he'  would  come  aclatteriug  down  the 
steps  with  his  brass  spurs,  and  his  brass  sword,  and  his  cocked  hat, 
with  white  and  red  feathers  in  the  top  and  a  gold  band  down  the  side, 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  the  picture  of  the  Duke  of  Wellin^n,  in 
the  Province  building ;  and  he  would  climber  up  on  Flash's  back,  with 
nobody  aholding  the  reins,  and  Flash  would  not  move  a  step  until  the 
Colonel  had  gathered  up  all  the  chains  and  got  his  feet  safely  into  the 
stirrup^what  with  his  spurs  and  his  trappings  was  no  easy  or  quick 
thing  to  do— then  the  Colonel  would  kiss  his  hand  to  Mrs.  Merritt, 
who  would  be  watching  out  of  the  front  window,  and  say,  "  Get  along, 
Flash ! "  and  Flash  would  go  along  the  street  becomingly,  with  the 
Colonel's  long  sword  bouncing  agaiust  his  ribs  at  every  step.  Bless  your 
heart !  that  horse  was  no  ways  proud  and  conceited  like  other  horses  as 
carry  military  men ;  none  of  your  prancing,  and  jumping,  and  snorting 
on  two  legs  for  him  !  He  was  too  well-conducted  a  horse  for  that ;  he 
would  take  his  place  behind  the  band  and  among  the  little  ragamuffins 
just  like  a  Christian.  The  bare-footed  urchins  were  not  afraid  of  Flash, 
— they  roust  have  understood  him  better  than  his  master— for  they 
would  often  chase  after  him  and  seize  him  by  the  tail,  and,  against  his- 
most  emphatic  protest,  escort  the  Colonel  when  he  was  inspecting  the 
line  of  troops.  So  I  hardly  think  that  the  difficulty  of  managing  such  a 
"  warrior  steed  "  could  be  the  reason  for  the  Colonel  resigning. 

The  Scandal  Committee  referred  to  before  as  sajring  that  Mrs.  Mer- 
ritt was  the  cause  of  his  joining  the  Patriots,  now  turned  round  and  said 
that  Mrs.  Merritt  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  leaving  them.  One  old  lady,^ 
a  member  of  that  Committee,  said  that  Mrs.  Merritt's  servant  girl — 
they  only  kept  one,  as  they  had  no  children,  and  a  sly,  deceitful,  brazen 
hussy  she  was  too,  and,  although  I  would  be  very  sorry  to  take  away 
any  girl's  character  (especially  when  there  is  none  to  spare),  it's  my 
opinion  that  she  was  no  better  than  she  should  be — said  to  her  as  how 
one  evening  she  was  alistening  at  the  key-hole — I  wouldn't  put  it  apast 
her — when  the  Colonel  came  home  from  the  Volunteers'  dinner  "  a  little 
on  his  dignity  like,"  and  how  Mrs.  Merritt  said  to  him  "  That  it  was 
bad  enough  wasting  his  money  treating  and  feasting  a  whole  company 
of  hungry  flatfoots  " — (I  hardly  think  that  Patience  Merritt  would  call 
the  defenders  of  her  country  "  flatfoots,"  but  I  give  it  to  you  as  I  got  it) — 
"  but  that  she  would  not  allow  him  to  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  his  for- 
tune by  feeding  a  whole  regiment."  And  that  she  continued  further  and 
said,  **  That  it  was  about  time  an  old  man  like  him  would  cease  making  a 
fool  and  laughing  stock  of  himself,  playing  soldier  for  the  amusement  of 
the  public,"  and  that  she  put  her  foot  down  hard  at  the  end  and  said  that 
if  he  didn't  leave  the  Colonials  at  once  she'd  know  the  reason  why.  This 
is  what  the  old  lady  said  that  Mrs.  Merritt's  servant  girl  said  that  Mrs. 
Merritt  said.  I  have  got  matters  a  little  kind  of  mixed  here ;  these  quo- 
tation marks  and  stops  do  bother  one  so,  you  know,  but  if  you  only  stop  a 
little  and  think  over  it,  you'll  get  all  right  again.  Of  course  I  don't  believe 
that  Mrs.  Merritt  said  any  such  thing.  I  just  mention  it  to  show  how  far 
these  parties  would  go  to  belie  the  character  of  a  respectable  woman,  and 
dll  because  Mrs.  Merritt  shut  her  door  against  them,  and  quite  properly 
too,  after  what  they  said  of  the  Colonel,  which  I  am  not  going  to  repeat. 


250  COLONEL  MERRITT*8  CUP. 

Iiere,  as  a  better  man  than  Merritt  does  not  live,  and  that  I  always  6aid  and 

always  will  say  as  long  as  I've  a  tongue  to  meet  these ladies,  indeed ! 

who  go  about  stealing  their  neigh'bours'  characters  as  if  they  were  com- 
mon property. 

I  laid  out  to  finish  this  story  in  half-a-dozen  pages,  but  if  L  continue 
to  go  on  in  this  way  I  will,  I  am  afraid,  write  a  book  before  I  come  to 
the  Colonel's  cup ;  but  musn't  all  writers  defend  their  characters  when 
4ittacked  f  and  I  don't  see  anything  I  have  written  that  I  could  have  left 
out  unless  I  left  out  the  whole  of  it,  and  perhaps  you  would  have  been 
better  pleased  with  it  if  it  had  never  been  written.  I  thought  it  a  very 
easy  matter  before  I  commenced,  to  write  like  the  clever  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  write  nice  novels  and  short  newspaper  stories  just  about 
nothing  at  all ;  but  I  have  my  doubts  now  about  being  able  to  write  like 
them,  although  I  ought,  as  I  have  a  novel  every  week  r^ular  from  the 
library  for  Sunday ;  and  our  minister,  who  is  a  very  good  sort  of  a  man 
in  his  way,  but  his  way  ain't  mine,  asked  me  if  I  was  not  aware  that  the 
Church  (he  is  very  high  Church,  and  has  a  weakness  for  candles  and 
crosses)  required  us  to  devote  the  Sabbath  to  prayer, — "  And  good 
works,  minister,"  said  I ;  **  and  this  work  which  1  am  now  reading  is  a 
very  good  one,  by  Mrs.  Oliphant,  a  woman  as  who—" 

♦  *  ♦  ♦  ♦       ^ 

It  was  the  evening  three  days  before  Christmas.  Mrs.  Merritt  sat 
alone  in  her  sitting-room,  a  comfortably-furnished  room  in  the  firont  part 
of  the  house,  boasting  of  a  Kidderminster  carpet  and  a  Pranklyn  stove. 
The  carpet  was  of  a  most  tormenting  pattern,  which  caught  the  eye  of  a 
visitor  on  entering  the  room,  and  compelled  it  to  follow  a  yellow  streak 
which  twisted  in  and  out,  twined  here  and  there,  ending  at  last  in  a  per- 
plexing tangle,  and  leavine  the  gazer  in  a  bewildered  state.  The 
Franklyn  was  polished  so  that  it  reflected  the  light,  and  the  fire  was 
spitting  and  sputtering  away  as  if  the  coals  were  fighting  to  get  out 

Mrs.  Merritt  was  in  the  arm  chair,  which  was  under  the  gas,  and  at  a 
convenient  distance  from  the  Franklyn.  Mrs.  Merritt  was  robed  in  black 
silk,  with  a  provoking  little  house-tippet  thrown  over  her  shoulders, 
while  her  hair  was  brushed  well  back  from  her  ears,  which  were  small 
and  white,  and  much  admired.  Her  feet,  in  morocco  slippers  trimmed 
with  fur,  were  on  a  stuffed  cricket,  with  a  bird  of  paradise  worked  upon 
the  cover,  though  how  it  was  discovered  to  be  a  bird  of  paradise  will  for 
ever  remain  a  mystery. 

Mrs.  Merritt  was  not  knitting  nor  sewing,  nor,  in  fact,  doing  any  kind 
of  house- work.  When  Merritt  had  kept  the  grocery  store  (and  the 
grocery  store  returned  the  compliment),  she  had  worked  all  the  time, 
but  now,  tempora  mrUaniur^  the  times  had  changeil,  and  she  had  changed 
with  them.  She  considered  it  vulgar  to  work,  so  she  was  reading, — 
reading  a  book  on  etiquette.  Her  favourite  works  were.  The  RahUs  (^ 
Good  Society y  Etiquette  for  Ladies^  and  The  Gentlewoman* 9  Companion^  by 
that  elegant,  ban  ton,  high-flown  writer,  S.  H.  Oddy,  Esq.  Mrs.  Merritt, 
believing  that  a  little  polish  would  not  be  thrown  away  upon  her  lord 
and  master,  tried  very  hard  to  induce  the  Colonel  to  read  these  works  ; 
but  although  the  Colonel  generally  put  himself  out  to  oblige  bis  good 
huiy,  he  refused  point  blank  to  read  such  *'  rot  "—that's  the  unsavoury 
name  he  gave  these  beautiful  works — so  he  received  their  contents  in 
large  and  frequent  instalments  from  the  lips  of  his  better  half. 


COLON  fcX  MERRITT'S  CUP.  251 

* 

Harried  and  heavy  steps  were  heard  on  the  stairs,  and  the  Colonel 
'bnrsi  open  the  door  and  entered  in  a  state  of  perspiring  excitement, 
looking  as  red  as  the  coat  he  wore  in  his  warlike  days. 

"  By  Job|  my  dear  !"  the  Colonel  gulped  out,  and  he  placed  his  dirty 
boot  firmly  on  the  head  of  the  blue  spotted  leopard  that  glared  at  him 
from  the  hearth-rug.  Mrs.  Merritt  raised  her  eyes  and  glared  at  him 
too.  He  had  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  to  actually  come  upstairs  with 
snow  on  his  boots,  no  doubt  leaving  many  foot-prints  on  the  white  linen 
that  covered  the  Brussels  on  the  stairs.  By  so  doing  he  had  broken,  as 
he  well  knew,  the  first  order  in  the  order-book,  one  of  the  standing 
regulations  of  the  Home  Office. 

''  How  often,  Nicodemus,  have  I  requested  you,"  said  the  lady,  not  a 
little  displeased,  '*  to  refrain  from  using  that  expression,  *  By  Job  1 '  And 
have  I  not  informed  you  frequently  that  excitement  and  hurry  are  pro- 
minent marks  of  ill-breeding  ? " 

''But,  my  dear,  I  have  such  good  news,"  explained  the  Colonel, 
dropping  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  I  am  sure  it  does  not  make  the  news  any  better  to  break  into  the 
room  with  your  hair  on  an  end  like  a  Comanche  Indian." 

"  By  Job — ! "  here  a  look—  a  wicked  look — from  Mrs.  M.  stopped 
him.  The  Colonel  always  swore  by  Job.  It  was  a  harmless,  inoffensive 
sort  of  a  swear,  and  became  the  Colonel.  The  Scandal  Committee  said 
that  if  anyone  was  entitled  to  the  expression  Merritt  was  the  man,  as  he 
wanted  Job's  patience  to  stand  his  own  Patience — ^meaning  his  wife. 
After  a  pause  the  Colonel  calmed  down,  and  continued  — 

'*  What  would  you  say.  Patience,  if  the  Volunteers  would  make  a  pre- 
sentation to  me  at  Christmas  1 '' 

"  I  would  say  it  is  the  least  they  might  do,  and  no  thanks  to  them 
either,  after  all  the  money  and  dinners  you  have  lavished  upon  them." 

*'  My  love,"  continued  the  husband,  **  they  intend  to  give  me  a  hand- 
some silver  cup,  which  the  officers  and  men  have  generously  subscribed 
for,  and  which  I  consider  quite  handsome  on  their  part." 

With  woman's  perverseness,  for  the  sake  of  being  perverse,  the  wife 
replied,  **  I  could  have  put  a  silver  tea-service  to  better  use,  but  I  suppose 
we  shall  have  to  take  it.  It  will  look  well  on  the  side-board  with  a  glass 
shade  over  it" 

*'  I  have  a  copy  of  the  address  that  will  accompany  it  in  my  pocket," 
said  Merritt,  scorning  to  notice  his  wife's  cool  way  of  taking  the  momen- 
tous disclosure ;  *'  they  sent  it  to  me,  so  that  I  might  be  ready  with  my 
reply." 

The  knowledge  that  she  was  surely  mentioned  in  that  address  flashed 
on  Patience  Merritt  the  moment  the  word  was  uttered — leave  a  woman 
alone  to  feel  a  compliment  coming  long  before  it  is  expressed.  With  an 
interest  that  quite  charmed  and  surprised  tb)  Colonel,  she  said — 

**  Read  the  address,  Nicodemus  dear,  so  I  will  know  all  about  it  I 
do  like  addresses,"  and  she  settled  herself  in  the  arm-chair  to  hear  it 
comfortably. 

Merritt  searched  every  pocket  before  he  produced  the  address,  although 
he  knew  exactly  which  pocket  it  was  in ;  but  he  wished  to  make  it 
appear,  even  to  his  wife,  that  it  was  quite  an  ordinary  affair,  and  that 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  carrying  addresses  and  receiving  silver  cups  every 
day  in  his  life.     After  having  wiped  his  spectacles  twice,  turned  the 


252  COLONEL  MERRITT's   CUP. 

light  up  and  then  down,  changed  the  position  of  his  chair,  and  lost  all 
the  tiine  possible,  he  regretfully  and  slowly  read  the  following  address, 
which  he  already  knew  by  heart ; — 

"  To  Nicodemus  Merritt,  Esq.,  late  Colonel  of  the  Colonial  Volunteers- 
''Respected  Sir, — 

"  We,  the  officers,  non-commissioned  officers,  and  men  of  the  Colonial 
Volunteers,  feel  that  we  would  be  neglecting  a  duty — a  sacred  duty — 
unless  we  would  convey  to  you  our  admiration  and  acknowledgement  of 
the  free,  kind,  and  impartial  manner  in  which  you  acted  during  the 
years  we  had  the  honour  and  good  fortune  of  being  commanded  by  you. 
The  great  abilities  you  displayed  as  an  officer,  your  gentlemanly  bearing 
as  a  man,  and  your  kind  consideration  as  a  friend,  have  left  a  mark  in 
our  hearts  that  change  cannot  alter  nor  time  obliterate. 

"  We,  therefore,  hope  that  you  will  accept  and  treasure  the  accom- 
panying mark  of  our  esteem— not  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  value,  but 
as  a  remembrance  of  the  happy  days  of  yore,  when  it  was  our  ambition 
to  follow  whither  you  dared  to  lead.  We  trust  that  this  trifling  souvenir, 
this  memento  of  the  past,  will  always  remain  in  your  family,  and  descend 
to  generations  yet  unborn. 

"  With  best  wishes  for  your  health  and  happiness,  and  the  future  long 
life  of  your  most  amiable  lady  ;  and  trusting  that,  through  the  blessings 
of  kind  and  indulgent  Providence  that  watches  over  the  meanest  of  its 
creatures,  you  may  be  long  spared  to  each  other  and  the  world,  we 
remain,  and  have  much  pleasure  in  signing  ourselves, 

'*YouR  Companions  in  Danger." 

Mrs.  Merritt  looked  unutterable  things  when  "  generations  yet  un- 
born "  was  mentioned,  but  brightened  up  again  at  "  your  most  amiable 
lady,"  so  when  the  Colonel  finished,  with  a  sigh  that  it  was  not  longer, 
she  said, — 

"  It's  all  very  nice,  but  I  don't  exactly  like  that  turn  to  the  last  of  it, 
about  *  the  meanest  of  God's  creatures.'  It  sounds  a  little  sarcastic, 
but  then  I  suppose  it's  well-meaning  enough."  After  a  meditative 
pause,  "  Oh,  who  will  we  get  to  answer  it  1  If  I  was  a  little  more  con- 
fident about  the  grammatical  construction  of  my  language,  I'd  undertake 
the  task  myself." 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Merritt,  stammering  and  blushing,  "  I  was 
thinking  since  I  heard  of  the  affair,  about  some  suitable  expressions  to 
use,  and  I 


ana  i " 


Nicodemus  Merritt,  don't  be  a  fool  I  I  won't  listen  to  such  a  thing !" 
and  although  by  the  way  he  was  snapped  up  the  Colonel  might  have 
known  that  his  hopes  of  being  allowed  to  answer  that  address  were  vain, 
yet  so  deep  in  his  heart  were  his  hopes  that  he  still  persisted. 

**  Mrs.  Merritt,  you  don't  know  me !  Mrs.  Merritt,  you  don't  know 
your  husband,  marm  ! " 

"  There,  that'll  do  ;  we'll  have  no  speeches,  please  !  Unhappily  I  do 
know  you,  but  I  don't  want  the  whole  world  to  know  what  a  conceited 
ignoramus  you  are.     You  write  the  reply  indeed  !    Just  you  leave  that 


^ 


COLONEL  MERRITT*S  CUP.  253 

business  in  my  hands,  if  you  please.     Mr.  Merritt,  I  will  attend  to  the 
reply." 

Merritt's  visions  of  luxuriating  in  polysyllables  faded  as  she  spoke. 
His  cherished  and  studied  expressions  of  "  Your  flattering  encomiums," 
**  your  unexpected  and  munificent  kindness,"  **  my  humble  exertions  and 
anworthy  labours,"  were,  alas,  never  to  be  mis-spelled,  erased,  and 
re-written  by  him.  Like  a  dutiful  husband  he  knew  better  than  to  argue 
the  point,  and  so  brought  matters  amicably  around  by  saying, — 

"  I  believe  that  Lawyer  Springtie  wrote  the  address,  so  1 11  get  him, 
if  you  like,  to  write  the  reply.  It's  quite  customary  to  do  so,  and  he  is 
a  good  hand  at  such  work.  Besides  we  can  invite  him  to  the  presenta- 
tion ;  he  will  help  to  keep  up  the  conversation." 

^'  Ah,  Nicodemus,"  said  his  lady,  pleased  that  he  had  surrendered  so 

readily,  "  you  have  more  cleverness  than  1  ever  gave  you  credit  for ! 

^ut  mind,  though,  don't  let  Springtie  have  the  answenng  all  his  own 

way.    Show  me  the  reply  before  you  approve  of  it,  and  I'll  suggest  any 

improvements  needed." 

For  the  next  three  days  there  was  great  commotion  in  the  Merritt 
mansion.  The  address  was  sent  to  Lawyer  Springtie  for  him  to  write 
the  reply.  Mr.  Springtie  prepared  a  reply,  and  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  the 
Colonel,  who,  approving  of  it,  at  once  took  it  to  his  "  amiable  lady." 
She  disapproved  of  it,  on  the  ground  that  as  her  name  appeared  promin- 
ently in  the  address  it  should  also  figure  prominently  in  the  reply.  The 
reply  went  back  to  the  lawyer's  office,  with  a  note  of  the  improvements 
needed.  Next  day  it  came  back,  and  the  *'  most  amiable  lady  "  figured 
largely  in  it.  Merritt  was  in  raptures  with  it,  and  confidingly  showed 
it  to  Mrs.  M.  as  a  miracle  of  art  That  classical  woman  was  not  to  be 
easily  pleased, — her  taste  was  far  more  critical.  She  sent  it  straight 
back  to  Springtie,  her  name  was  not  prominent  or  often  enough.  Mr. 
Springtie  returned  the  reply  unaltered,  with  a  note  stating  that  if  Mr. 
Merritt  wished  to  make  a  laughing  stock  out  of  the  affair,  he  declined 
•having  anything  to  do  with  it. 

Mrs.  Merritt  said  Springtie  was  "  a  brute."  The  Colonel  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  so  he  contented  himself  by  remarking  that  he  was  surprised 
at  Springtie.  Mrs.  Merritt  got  a  young  gentleman  who  was  studying 
for  the  bar,  to  make  a  number  of  amended  copies  of  Springtie's  reply, 
containing  many  additions  of  her  own  suggesting. 

A  question  of  etiquette  now  arose,  which  threatened  Mrs.  Merritt's 
peace  of  mind,  and  disturbed  the  general  harmony  of  the  household. 
Mrs.  Merritt  was  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  she  should  stand  or  sit 
during  the  reading  of  the  address.  Not  even  her  matchless  books  on 
society  could  help  or  advise  her  on  this  vexed  point.  One  hour  of  the 
day  she  had  determined  in  her  own  mind  to  stand  ;  the  next,  she  was 
sure  it  would  look  better  for  her  to  be  seated. 

As  only  gentlemen  would  be  present  at  the  presentation  ceromoay, 
Merritt  received  orders  to  invite  three  or  four  talkative  parties  of  the 
male  persuasion,  whose  duty  it  should  be  to  keep  up  the  conversation. 
Mrs.  Merritt  determined  to  receive  the  company  in  the  front  parlour 
and  to  have  a  cold  supper  and  drinkables  to  wind  up  the  presentation, 
in  the  large  dining-room,  which  was  separated  by  folding-doors  from  the 
parlour. 


254  COLONEL  MERRITT'S  CUP. 

At  last  Christmas  Day  came.  The  family-dinner  passed  off  in  silence. 
The  Colonel  mechanically  wielded  his  knife  and  fork.  If  you  had  ques* 
tioned  him  he  would  have  been  unable  to  state  whether  it  was  goose  or 
turkey  he  had  been  eating.  As  for  Mrs.  M.,  she  touched  nothing.  .She 
divided  her  attention  between  The  Habits  of  Good  Society — to  see  if  she 
should  stand  up  or  sit  down, — and  superintending  the  preparations  for 
the  evening ;  and  she  gave  Betty  quite  a  blowing-up,  which  she  well 
deserved,  for  neglecting  to  place  the  cru^t  over  the  darn  in  the  best 
cloth,  and  also  for  omitting  to  put  a  little  mat  over  the  greasy  stain. 

As  you  no  doubt  remember,  dear  reader,  it  came  on  to  rain  that 
Christmas  Day,  and  it  did  rain.     The  water  came  down  as  if  it  were  a 
scrubbing-dny  up  above.     At  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  Mrs.  M.,  attired 
in  her  b^t  sUk  and  ''sparkling  with  jewels/'  as  they  say  of  that. dark- 
complexioned  Queen  of  Sheba,  was  seated  on  the  so£&  in  the  room  of 
ceremony,  intently  poring  over  Etiquette  for  Ladies,  to  see  if  it  wouid  * 
assist  her  on  the  disputed  point.     The  Colonel,  in  full  evening  costun^e, 
with  a  collar  that  took  him  sharp  under  the  chin,  and  a  cravat  tied  so 
tight  that  the  blood  that  had  run  to  his  head  turned  purple  with  vexa- 
tion when  it  found  it  could  not^  its  retreat  being  cut  off,  get  back  again, 
was  seated  by  the  fire,  rehearsing  his  reply,  and  consulting  a  dictionary 
for  the  pronunciation  of  the  poly^7llables  which  Mrs.  Merritt  and  the 
law-student  hatl  sprinkled  over  it.    Betty  was  in  the  hall,  toggered  out 
in  one  of  her  mistresses'  cast-off  dresses,  altered  for  the  occasion,  with  a 
white  apron  on,  ready  at  a  moment's, notice  to  open  the  door. 

The  doorbell  rang.  Mr.  Merritt  pitched  his  dictionary  into  the 
drawer,  and  placed  the  reply  on  the  mantel-piece.  Mrs.  M.  rose  disap- 
pointed from  her  book,  and  placed  it  upon  the  table.  Betty,  who  had 
answered  the  bell,  put  her  head  in  the  door,  and  yelled, — 

«  Mr.  Scoombs !" 

Mr.  Scoombs  entered.  Mr.  Scoombs  was  the  outside  reporter  for 
The  Beflector.  If  a  little  boy  roUed^off  his  sled  while  coasting,  it  became 
Mr.  Scoombs'  melancholy  duty  to  chronicle  it  under  the  heading  of 
''  TerriUe  Sleighing  Catastrophe.^*  Mr.  Scoombs  had  been  invited,  so  that 
the  ceremony  would  be  reported  in  a  column  and  a  half  of  The  Reflector, 
You  could  tell  at  once  that  Mr.  Scoombs  was  connected  with  the  daily 
press,  by  his  clothes — they  smelt  strongly  of  brandy,  stale  cheese,  and 
condensed  cigar-smoke.  The  Colonel  shook  hands  with  Scoombs,  and 
introduced  him  to  Mrs.  Merritt.  That  well-bred  lady  smiled,  put  out  the 
tips  of  three  fingers,  and  said  she  was  delighted  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  such  a  distinguished  gentleman.  Scoombs  made  a  suitable  reply — ^in 
fact,  said  it  was  wet,  and  dropped  into  Merritt's  arm-chair — ^literary 
gentlemen  always  take  things  easy. 

The  bell  rang  again,  the  trio  straightened  np,  Betty  popped  her  whole 
body  in  this  time,  and  screamed — 

"  Mr.  BeUoch  !" 

Ik  r.  BeUoch,  with  an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  an  outer  garment  in 
the  other,  followed  so  close  after  Betty  that  when  that  gentle  girl  turned 
to  go  out  she  got  a  wet  overcoat  piled  over  one  arm,  and  a  dripping 
umbrella  tuck^  under  the  other,  while  their  late  proprietor  said,  "  Sweet 
damsel,  place  these  downstairs  by  the  fire,  so  that  they  may  be  dry  by 


COLONEL  merritt's  cvp.  255 

the  hour  of  my  departure."  The  toss  Betty  gave  her  head,  the  slam 
Betty  gave  the  door,  and  the  stamp  Betty  gave  along  the  hall,  led  all 
present,  except  Belloch,  to  think  that  she  would  indeed  make  it  hot  for 
the  wet  articles.  As  for  Belloch  himself,  he  shook  hands  warmly  with 
the  trio,  for  the  trio  knew  Belloch,  and  made  the  original  remark  to  each 
that  it  was  a  very  inclement  night  out. 

.Mr.  Belloch— who  was  by  no  means  an  ordinary  man,  for  everything 
Mr.  Belloch  said,  and  everything  Mr.  Belloch  did,  stamped  him  as  being 
an  exception  to  the  common  run  of  mortals — immediately  dropped  into 
a  chair  and  an  argument,  and  proved  to  his  small  but  admiring  audience 
thatif  the  first  Napoleon  had  been  hanged  in  early  life,  a  fate  which,  in 
the  opinion  of  Mr.  Belloch,  he  richly  deserved,  his  descendant  and 
namesake  Napoleon  III.  would  be  a  boot-black  in  Philadelphia,  or  in 
some  other  shining  position  besides  that  of  having  been  Emperor  of  the 
French;  and  showed  them  conclusively  that,  in  such  a  case,  Europe 
would  be  in  a  different  state  to-day — or  rather  in  many  different  states- 
to-day. 

As  Belloch  was  speaking  forcibly  and  at  length  on  this  deep  subject, 
steps  were  heard  in  the  porch,  and  some  body  or  bodies  evinced  a  desir4 
to  run  away  with  the  bell-puU.  Betty  immediately  ran  to  the  relief  of 
the  belL  She  opened  the  street-door,  then  the  door  of  the  reception- 
room,  popped  in  her  head,  and  yelled  defiantly  at  Belloch,— 

**  Colonel  Hardy,  and  officers  of  the  'Lonial  Volunteers  '" 

"  God  bless  my  soul  I "  muttered  Belloch,  '*  that  interesting  maiden  has 
a  voice  like  a  steam  whistle  1" 

Colonel  Hardy,  Merritt's  successor,  shook  hands  with  the  ex-colonel, 
said  it  was  wet  out,  and  bowed  to  the  rest  of  the  company ;  while  the^ 
major,  the  adjutant,  and  all  the  captains  and  lieutenants  came  in  sheep- 
ishly, whispered  that  it  was  a  "juicy"  night,  and  glided  quietly  into 
out-of-the-way  comers  of  the  room.  The  party  seemed  transformed  into 
Quakers.  That  common  and  disagreeable  silence,  which  frequently  fol- 
lows a  general  conversation,  fell  upon  the  company.  Messrs.  Belloch 
and  Scoombs  were  not  equal  to  the  occasion.  Betty  came  promptly  to 
the  rescue.  She  bounced  into  the  room,  jerked  out,  "  A  letter  from  Mr. 
Springtie,  sir !  "  slapped  the  note  into  the  Colonel's  hand,  glared  savagely 
at  Belloch,  and  was  out  again  like  a  shot.  Mr.  Merritt  read  the  note 
aloud, — 

"I  regret  that  sudden  and  unexpected  business  prevents  me  from 
attending  the  presentation  this  evening." 

This  interruption  was  fortunate.  All  present  commenced  retailing 
select  passages  from  poor  Springtie's  private  history. 

After  a  few  preliminary  hems  and  haws,  and  an  attempt,  a  wretched 
attempt,  at  a  few  introductory  remarks.  Colonel  Hardy  produced  the 
address  and  read  it.  At  the  close  of  the  reading  the  adjutant  dived  out 
into  the  hall,  and  returned  with  the  cup.  I  might  mention  here  that 
during  the  reading  of  the  address  Mrs.  Merritt  sat  on  the  sofa.  Every- 
body commenced  admiring  the  ColoneFs  Christmas  box.  The  cup,  which 
looked  like  anything  but  a  cup,  was  a  very  beautiful  silver  ornament, 
about  eighteen  inches  high,  on  a  handsome  and  highly  polished  ebony 
stand.  The  following  inscription  was  engraved  upon  a  shield  upon  one 
side  of  it ; — 


256  COLONEL  merritt's  cup. 

"PRESBNTBD    TO 

COLONEL    MERRITT, 

ON    THB  OCCASION    OF    HIS    RESIGNING  THE    COMMAND 

OF   THE 

COLONIAL  VOLUNTEERS, 
BY  THB  OFFIOBBS  AND  MEN  OF  THAT  REGIMENT, 
DECEMBER   25TH,   1869." 

Mr.  Merritt  then  read  his  reply,  which,  on  account  of  its  extreme 
length,  cannot  be  given  here.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  it  was  a  very  flowery 
production,  and  that  the  "  most  amiable  lady  "  predominated  in  it.  Every- 
body was  pleased  with  it — at  least  they  said  so — and  at  the  close  of  the 
reading  Mrs.  Merritt  retired,  and  the  worthy  colonel  invited  his  brother 
colonel  and  the  other  officers  and  guests,  to  step  into  the  next  room 
and  partake  of  his  poor  fare. 

The  valiant  volunteers  charged  the  table  with  a  will ;  and  when,  after 
a  well-sustained  attack  for  upwards  of  half-an-hour,  they  had  succeeded 
in  clearing  the  tables  of  the  eatables,  then  the  drinkables  put  in  an 
appearance.  First,  the  champagne,  with  their  long  necks  outstretched, 
looking  among  the  company  for  the  most  promising  subjects  to  attack. 
The  champagne  Was  ably  assisted  by  other  labourers  from  the  same 
vineyard.  The  gallant  veterans  drank  the  health  of  the  host  and  hostess, 
and  Mr.  Merritt,  with  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  responded,  but 
whether  the  tears  were  from  excess  of  emotion,  or  from  a  bottle  of  fizz 
which  the  adjutant  let  fly  over  him,  it  is  impossible,  with  any  degree  of 
accuracy,  to  state.  They  then  drank  one  another's  healths,  and  the 
health  of  everybody  in  the  house,  not  forgetting  Betty.  When  the  home 
supply  was  exhausted  they  went  abroad,  and  they  drank  the  health  of 
-every  man  of  prominence  and  every  institution  of  note  in  the  outside 
world,  the  adjutant  returning  thanks  for  Bismarck,  and  Mr.  Belloch 
responding  to  the  toast  of  "  The  Suez  Canal." 

Determined  to  make  Christmas  as  merry  as  possible,  and  the  health 
drinking  having  exhilarated  their  spirits,  all  present  commenced  speak- 
ing at  the  one  time.  The  Adjutant  and  Merritt,  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  lectured  each  other  on  the  Russian  and  Turkish  military  systems. 
The  Adjutant,  with  wine  glasses  for  squadrons  of  men,  and  soda  bottles 
for  troops  of  cavalry,  illustrated  the  Russian  system  of  attack.  The 
ex-colonel,  with  a  champagne  bottle  doing  duty  for  the  terrible  mitrail- 
leuse, interrupted  the  Adjutant's  strategetic  manoeuvres,  and  put  horse, 
foot,  and  artillery  in  ignominious  rout.  At  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
Mr.  Belloch  was  bringing  all  his  eloquence  to  bear  on  Colonel  Hardy  in 
proving  that  Noah's  Ark  must  have  been  copper-fastened.  T^e  Colonel, 
being  in  an  agreeing  mood,  sided  with  him,  and  the  pair  of  worthies, 
unsuspected  by  the  rest  of  the  company,  who  would  have  been  only  too 
happy  to  have  joined  them,  quietly  proposed  and  solemnly  drank  Noah's 
health. 

The  younger  officers,  after  pledging  all  their  lady  friends,  the  supply 
at  last  giving  out,  now  called  upon  the  Adjutant  for  a  song.  That  mili- 
tary hero,  who  bore  his  late  crushing  defeat  with  the  best  possible  grace, 


COLONEL  MEREITT'S  CUP.  257 

favoured  the  compaDV  by  rendering  "  Little  Footsteps."  During  the 
progress  of  the  song,  Mr.  Scoombs,  who  had  given  his  undivided  atten- 
tion to  the  brandy  bottle  the  whole  night  long,  and  who  had  drank  all 
the  toasts,  sadly  and  silently,  as  if  all  the  parties  proposed  had  died 
deeply  in  his  debt,  seemed  greatly  affected,  and  was  observed  to  use  his 
handkerchief  freely.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  song,  rising  with  dignity 
and  supporting  himself  with  difficulty,  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
slightly  hoarse  and  indistinct  from  raw  brandy  and  deep  emotion — 

^*  Mr.  Grentleman  and  Chairmen,  I  am  personally  unacquainted  with 
the  gentleman  who  has  just  favoured  the  company — I  do  not  know  even 
if  he  rejoices  in  the  name  of  Smith  or  glories  in  that  of  Eobinson,  but  I 
shall  always  remember  him  as  a  warm  personal  frien*.  (Hear,  hear ! 
from  the  company.)  That  song,  those  tender  little  verses,  tender  as  the 
leg  of  a  chicken,  gentlemen  (and  here  he  held  a  drum  stick  up),  cause 
me  to  feel  a  deeper  interest  in  my  fellowmau  an'  woman — make  me 
weep  for  him — hie  !  unanimity  " — and  here  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  a 
napkin,  thinking,  in  his  grief,  it  was  a  pocket  handkerchief  he  had  in 
his  hand,  while  one  of  the  young  lieutenants  lisped  out  with  a  hiccup, 
^<  Why  these  bwring  twears  ? "  Mr.  Scoombs,  as  soon  as  order  was  par- 
tially restored,  continued,  '^  I  have  heard  '  Little  Footsteps '  at  all  times 
an'  in  all  places,  an'  in  all  styles — by  brass  ban's,  on  concert  screamers, 
pianos,  tin  whistles,  even  by  a  woiUd-be  Pa^inini,  a  young  man  in  the 
next  boarding  house,  who  is  practising  on  the  fiddle,  who  has  blasted 
the  joy  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  who  will  bring  my  grey  hairs  in  sor- 
row to  the  grave,  but  it  never  af  ec'ed  me  as  it  did  this  evening  when  sung 
be  the  gen'eman  opposite,  who  is  paying  marked  'tention  to  the  bran'y- 
bottle.  (Oreat  rapping,  and  rattle,  and  crash  of  glasses.)  My  ole  frien' 
Merritt  will  par'on  me  for  trying  to  bring  sorrow  to  such  a  place  as  this, 
but  where  is  the  man  who  does  not  feel  as  I  do  ?^-echo  answers  where  ! 
I  am  sure  you  will  all  join  with  me  in  drinking  the  health  of  '  Little 
Footsteps.' " 

The  health  of  ^'  Little  Footsteps  "  was  drunk  in  solemn  silence,  the 
Adjutant  whistling  the  "Dead  March."  Mr.  Scoombs  was  so  overcome  by 
Ms  late  kpeech  and  his  emotions  that,  in  his  endeavour  to  regain  his 
seat,  he  quietly  and  unexpectedly  glided  under  the  table.  This  caused 
great  confusion,  as  all  the  company  immediately  dived  after  him  and 
tried  to  drag  him  out  at  the  four  sides  at  the  one  time.  They  succeeded, 
after  many  had  fallen  in  the  attempt,  in  bringing  him  to  the  perpendi- 
cular and  standing  him  in  a  comer,  where  he  kept  muttering  to  himself, 
'^  Little  shoes  and  stockings,  little  soles  and  heels,"  looking  the  picture 
of  helplessness  and  sorrow.  All  the  visitors  now  looked  at  their  watches, 
and  the  semi-sober  guests  were  surprised  to  find  that  it  was  after  twelve, 
while  the  others,  who  had  pulled  out  their  watches  out  of  pure  sym- 
pathy, were  bevoldered  by  the  unexpected  number  of  hands,  pointing 
m  all  directions,  which  appeared  upon  the  faces  of  their  watches. 
Everyone  proposed  to  depart  Mr.  Scoombs  carefully  piloted  his  way 
up  to  the  host  and  said,  with  a  smile  that  could  not  be  out  of  place 
on  the  face  of  a  chief  mourner, — 

"I  hope  you  are  not  'fended  with  me  for  'posing  the  health  of 
littlefoot  steps?" 

Mr.  Merritt,  whose  face,  blushing  like  the  rose,  was  one  perpetual 
smile,  assured  him  that  he  was  del^hted,  whereupon  Scoombs  clapped 
9 


258  COLONEL  meeritt's  cup. 

liim  on  the  back,  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  said,  <'  Such 
feelings  do  honour  to  your  sen'iments,  old  boy ! " 

If,  when  gentlemen  are  in  that  peculiar  state  they  arrive  at  after 
a  public  dinner,  one  of  the  party  does  anything  out  of  the  common, 
the  others  are  sure  generally  to  follow  the  example.  It  is  needless 
to  state  that  all  the  other  gentlemen  slapped  Merritt  on  the  back  and 
shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand.  They  then  paired  oS,  Mr.  Scoombs 
and  Belloch  leading,  the  others  following  suit,  all  in  a  whole,  happy 
and  half  hilarious  state.  Betty,  who  was  nodding  in  the  hall,  gladly 
let  them  out;  and,  unheeding  the  slush,  the  majority  proceeded  to 
slide  down  the  balustrade  or  coast  down  the  steps.  The  night  air 
seemed  to  have  a  revivifying  effect  upon  them,  as  they  could  be  heard 
for  some  time  as  they  marched  up  the  street,  Mr.  Scoombs  singing 
"  Little  Footsteps,"  Mr.  Belloch  unsuccessfully  struggling  with  "  The 
Death  of  Nelson,"  the  Adjutant  informing  the  streets  that  he  was 
"A  Jolly  Good  Fellah,"  and  the  other  officers  complaining  of  non- 
drawing  qualities  of  Merritt's  cigars,  which  they  tried  to  light  with- 
out biting  the  ends  off,  and  disturbing  the  slumbers  of  the  night 
watchman,  who  was  snoring  in  a  porch  hard  by,  by  yelling  out  their 
intention  of  not  going  home  until  morning. 

Betty  had  hard  work  that  eventful  night  to  get  the  Colonel  to  his 
room.  When  she  had  him  half  way  up  the  stairs  he  stopped,  turned 
around,  grasped  the  balustrade,  and  refused  to  proceed  a  step  higher. 
Then,  addressing  the  steps  he  had  just  ascended,  he  said, — 

'*  Gentlemen,  this  is  the  proudesh  and  happiesh  moment  of  my 
life " 

Betty  interrupted  what  would  have  been,  no  doubt,  a  brilliant  speech, 
by  saying,  as  she  clung  on  to  the  extended  arm, — 

"  Good  gracious !  come  along  and  don't  make  such  a  fool  of  your- 
self, sir.     If  Mrs.  Merritt  was  to  hear  you  now." 

The  Colonel  straightened  himself  up  at  the  mention  of  his  wife's 
name,  then  grimly  smiled,  and  sang  out  rather  loudly, 

''  Betty  you're  a  fool !  Hold  your  tongue,  Betty.  What  do  I  care 
for  Mrs.  Merritt  1  I'm  master  in  my  own  house,  and  I'll  let  you  and 
Patience  know " 

What  else  the  gallant  Colonel  was  going  to  say  was  never  said,  for 
hearing  the  door  of  Mrs.  Merritt's  room  open  savagely,  he  stopped  sud- 
denly and  went  up  stairs  very  quietly. 


Merritt,  now  stouter  and  jollier  than  ever,  often  narrates  to  his  male 
Mends — when  his  wife  is  not  present — the  history  of  the  "  little  time  " 
they  had  over  the  cup.  He  always  commences  the  history  by  pointing 
to  the  cup  and  exclaiming, 

**  By  Job,  sir  !  Do  you  see  that  cup,  sir  1  You  would  hardly  be- 
lieve, sir,  that  that  little  piece  of  plate  cost  over  a  thousand  dollars^ 
Fact,  sir,  by  Job  !" 

And  this  is  how  he  reckons  up  the  cost.  To  say  nothing  of  the  agony 
of  mind  that  preceded  the  cup,  the  deplorable  drunk  that  accompanied 
it,  and  the  curtain  lecture  (of  which  Merritt  nAver  speaks)  which  fol- 
lowed it,  which  neither  words  nor  figures  can  represent,  there  was, 


A  GHOSTLY  WARNING.  269 

To  cash  paid  for — 

Captain's  outfit  and  unifonn  for  the  Colonial  Volun- 
teers, say $  100  00 

Annual  Supper  to  the  Company,  50  men,  at  $1  00 

per  heaa,  four  years 200  00 

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four  years. 100  00 

Outfit  and  uniform,  from  London,  for  the  Colonel  of 

the  Colonial  Volunteers 150  00 

Military  housings  for  horse,  including  holsters  and 

field  glass 75  00 

Hodge  rodge  to  Regiment,  400  at  50c.,  on  occasion 

of  taking  command. 200  00 

Do.       do.      on  occasion  of  resigning 200  00 

Cold  Supper,  including  wine  and  cigars  to  officers  of 

Regiment  on  occasion  of  presentation  of  cup 70  00 

Drafting  address,  Springtie, 20  00 

Amend^   copies   made  by  law  students   by  Mrs. 

Merritt's  order 20  00 


$1135  00 
MRa  J.  C. 


A  GHOSTLY  WARNING. 


I  CALL  it  a  ghostly  warning  because,  though  it  came  not  in  the  night- 
watches,  in  £Ar-away  tones,  from  the  thin  lips  of  a  filmy  apparition,  it 
did  come  to  me  in  the  name  of  a  dear  friend  long  since  gone  to  the  Un- 
known Land. 

In  the  spring  of  1875, 1  visited  Montreal,  and,  wishing  to  be  entirely 
free  for  the  business  which  necessitated  my  presence  there,  instead  of 
going  to  the  house  of  a  relative,  engaged  board  in  a  convenient  locality 
under  the  same  roof  with  an  acquaintance.  Excepting  this  lady,  one 
friend  and  a  cousin,  no  one  to  whom  I  was  known  was,  during  the  ^t 
week,  aware  that  I  was  in  the  city.  This  cousin,  a  verv  favourite  one, 
then  chanced  to  be  in  Canada  for  a  few  weeks,  having  left  his  wife  and 

fiBmily  temporarily  alone  in  their  home  at  Paris.    As  G ^'s  evenings 

hung  rather  heavUy  on  his  hands  while  away  from  his  family,  to  which 
he  was  always  devoted,  he  was  good  enough  to  enliven  by  his  welcome 
presence  many  of  mine,  which  otherwise  would  have  been  as  dull  as 
evenings  in  a  boarding-house  full  of  strangers  must  always  be. 

One  morning,  perhaps  the  third  or  fourth  after  my  arrival,  came  the 
warning,  delivered  in  a  very  straightforward,  prosaic,  unghostly  way  by 
the  letter-carrier.  One  always  examines  the  outside  of  a  letter  to  see 
who  it  is  from,  probably  for  the  same  reason  that  leads  one  to  listen  to 
what  other  people  say  about  one's  friends  before  hearing  what  these 
have  to  say  for  uiemselves.  I  looked  at  this  letter  curiously.  It  was 
post-marked  in  tiie  dty  at  five  o'clock  of  the  previous  afternoon,  yet  it 


260  A  GHOSTLY  WABNINO. 

was  directed  in  a  hand  I  had  never  expected  to  see  again  saye  when  I 
looked  again  with  tearful  eyes  over  a  bundle  of  yellow  old  letters  tied 
up  carefully  in  a  comer  of  my  desk  at  home.  It  was  curious,  I  thought, 
that  this  rather  peculiar  chirography  should  be  duplicated.  Then  I  ob- 
served, with  a  start,  that  the  middle  name  in  the  direction  was  not  that 
which  belongs  to  me,  but  one  which  I  had  adopted  for  two  or  three  years 
of  my  childhood,  preferring  it  to  the  family  name  which  my  parents 
gave  me.  I  had  outgrown  this  whim  and  returned  to  my  baptismal 
name,  but  the  friend  referred  to  always  took  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  remind- 
ing me  of  this  and  several  other  childish  fancies  which  we  had  held  in 
common.  No  one  now  living,  so  far  as  I  was  aware,  so  much  as  knew 
that  I  had  ever  signed  the  name  I  now  saw  before  me. 

So  my  curiosity  was  well  awake  before  I  opened  the  envelope.  Owing 
to  a  circumstance  which  will  be  related  further  on,  the  letter  is  not  now 
in  my  possession,  but  it  ran  very  nearly,  if  not  quite,  as  follows : 

"  Dearest  E— , — It  is  sometimes  permitted  to  us  who  have  already 
stepped  into  the  light  to  give  words  of  comfort  or  of  warning  to  those 
who  still  wander  in  darkness.     My  word  to  you  now  is  one  of  warning. 

"  One  who  is  very  dear  to  you  is  about  to  trust  his  life  to  the  treach- 
erous deep.  If  he  does  so  he  will  be  lost.  Upon  you  rests  the  respon- 
sibility.    Prevent  him  from  recrossing  the  ocean  if  you  value  his  life. 

"  I  am  now,  as  of  yore,  ever  lovingly  yours, 

"Annie  M.  H . 

"  By  the  hand  of  A.  B.  Sears,  Spiritual  Medium." 

I  don't  think  I  am  naturally  superstitious,  but  it  would  be  difficult  to 
describe  the  e£fect  of  this  letter  upon  my  mind.  It  was  not  merely  the 
liature  of  the  communication,  but  its  entire  unexpectedness,  that  made 
it  impressive.  I  read  and  re-read  it  carefully.  The  handwriting,  if  not 
precisely  the  same  as  that  of  my  friend,  certainly  resembled  it  very 
strongly,  and,  though  I  had  vdth  me  none  of  the  actual  writing  to  compare 
with  it,  I  felt  reasonably  sure  that  my  memory  on  this  point  was  trust- 
worthy. After  thinking  carefully  over  my  list  of  acquaintances,  I  felt 
certain  that  there  was  no  one  of  them  who  would  be  willing  to  play  a 
practical  joke  of  such  a  nature,  and  I  knew  of  no  one  in  the  city  who 
had  ever  heard  of  Annie's  name.  Then,  too,  there  was  the  middle  name 
of  childish  fancy  which  I  had  never  signed  since  the  days  when  Annie 
was  my  sole  correspondent 

I  put  the  letter  in  my  bureau  drawer  and  turned  the  key  upon  it. 
Putting  this  in  my  pocket,  I  went  out,  as  usual,  for  the  day,  resolved 
not  to  let  the  matter  trouble  me.  The  business  of  the  busy  day  totally 
drove  it  out  of  my  mind,  until,  as  I  entered  the  house  at  dusk,  the  mem- 
ory came  back  to  me  with  a  slight  shock,  such  as  an  unwelcome  memory 
frequently  produces.  This  was  repeated  and  intensified  when,  upon  en- 
tering my  room,  I  found  the  letter  lying  on  the  top  of  the  bureau.  I 
tried  the  drawers :  all  were  locked.  I  felt  in  my  pocket :  there  was  the 
key.  I  laughed  at  myself,  and  said,  "  I  must  have  locked  the  stable-door, 
leaving  the  horse  outside.  I'll  see  that  it's  in  now,  any  wa^."  So  I  put 
the  letter  into  the  drawer,  and,  turning  the  key,  placed  it  m  my  pocket 
before  going  down  to  dinner. 

Soon  after  dinner  my  cousin  came  in,  and  we  passed  the  evening  in 


A  GHOSTLY  WARNING.  261 

the  pleaBftnt  parlour  of  mj  only  acqaaintance  in  the  house,  whom  I  will 
call  Mrs.  Murray.  During  these  hours  I  did  not  think  of  the  letter, 
having  determined  that  I  would  not  think  of  it ;  but  when  I  went  into 
my  room  for  the  night,  after  turning  up  the  gas  and  stirring  the  fire,  I 
went  to  the  bureau  to  lay  off  my  bracelets.  There,  stuck  in  the  frame 
of  the  looking-glass,  was  the  letter.  The  drawers  were  all  locked  :  not 
a  thing  in  them  had  been  disturbed.  A  brooch,  a  little  money,  a  finger- 
ring,  some  laces,  and  many  little  things  that  might  have  tempted  a  thief 
or  a  pilfering  housemaid,  were  all  just  as  I  had  left  them  in  the  same 
drawer  where  the  letter  bad  been.  There  could  be  no  mistake  about 
the  matter  this  time.  I  had  locked  that  letter  in  the  drawer  just  before 
dinner,  and  had  not  since  entered  the  room.  Yet  th^re  the  thing  was 
staring  me  in  the  face,  with  the  old,  well-remembered  handwriting  and 
the  long  disused  middle  name,  defying  me  to  doubt  the  reality  of  its  pre- 
sence in  a  place  where  I  had  not  put  it. 

Holding  it  in  my  hand  and  sitting  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  I  thought 
over  the  subject  of  the  letter. 

It  has  never  seemed  to  me  to  be  unreasonable  to  believe  that  if  there 
is  a  life  beyond  the  present,  the  spirits  of  those  who  have  reached  it  be- 
fore us  may  sometimes  possess  the  inclination  and  the  power  to  commu- 
nicate with  us.  But  I  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  accept  this  communica- 
tion as  coming  from  the  Spirit  Land  simply  because  it  purported  to  do 
so.  I  had  seen  only  one  or  two  professed  ^*  mediums,"  and  these  by  ac- 
cident, but  they  had  given  me  no  desire  to  see  more  of  their  sort.  It 
was  a  strong  argument  against  the  genuineness  of  this  communication 
that  it  professed  to  come  through  the  hands  of  a  ^*  medium."  Still,  I 
would  grant  to  myself,  for  the  moment,  that  this  letter  undoubtedly  was 
from  my  dear  old  friend.  What,  in  that  case,  could — what  ought—I  to 
dO'?    Of  course,  the  person  referred  to  as  in  danger  could  only  be  my 

cousin  G ,  for,  as  far  as  I  knew,  no  one  else  who  was  dear  to  me 

was  then  thinking  of  crossing  the  Atlantic  or  any  other  ocean.  But  it 
was  nonsense  to  say  that  if  he  were  lost  the  responsibility  of  his  loss 
would  rest  upon  me.  If  any  particular  vessel  had  been  mentioned  in 
which  it  was  said  it  would  be  dangerous  to  sail,  or  if  any  special  week 
or  month  had  been  named^  I  would,  to  have  satisfied  my  conscience,  have 
faced  my  cousin's  certain  ridicule,  and  used  my  best  powers  of  persuasion 
to  induce  bim  to  take  passage  on  another  vessel  or  at  a  different  time. 
But  there  was  no  such  mention.  He  did  not  even  know  by  what  steamer 
he  should  leave,  as  all  depended  upon  his  business  arrangements.  As 
it  was,  how  could  I  do  or  say  anything  to  prevent  his  going  where  both 
his  domestic  and  his  business  interests  called  him  ? 

Thinking  about  it  as  a  real  communication  from  a  present  but  unseen 
friend,  I  at  last  said  aloud,  as  to  one  within  hearing,  *^  No,  Annie,  I  can 
do  nothing,  and  I  will  bum  this  letter,  so  that  it  shall  not  trouble  me 
any  more. 

"  A  distinct  whisper,  apparently  just  by  my  ear,  answered,  "  You'll 
be  sorry  if  you  do."  Startled,  I  looked  all  about  the  room — ^behind  the 
sofa,  under  the  bed,  back  of  the  window  curtains — though  I  knew  as 
well  before  as  I  did  afterward  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  room.  The 
occupants  of  the  rooms  next  to  mine  had  been  snoring  for  the  last  hour, 
and  the  halls  had  long  been  perfectly  quiet. 

Heedless  of  the  whispered  warning,  I  persisted  in  my  purpose.    The 


262  A  GHOSTLY  WABNING. 

grate-fire  was  nearly  out,  but  there  were  live  coals  enough  to  light  the 
paper,  and  I  watched  it  while  it  was  consumed  to  ashes. 

The  next  morning  I  went  out,  as  usual,  spending  the  day  in  tedious 
details  of  business  tiiat  would  not  arrange  itself  satis&ctoruy,  and  hi^ 
pily  forgetting  the  burned  letter  until  it  was  recalled,  as  I  entered  the 
house  late  in  the  afternoon,  by  the  sight  of  the  mail-carrier's  latest  bud- 

St  waiting  its  several  claimants  on  the  shelf  of  the  hat-rack.  Three 
;ters  were  for  me,  and  one  of  them  was  directed  in  the  strange-familiar 
hand,  and  mailed  in  the  city  that  morning.  In  the  evening  my  cousin 
was  to  take  Mrs.  Murray  and  me  to  the  Academy  of  Music ;  so  I  put 
the  letter,  unopened,  into  my  pocket,  and  resolutely  forgot  it  until  I  had 
locked  myself  into  my  room  for  the  night.  Then  I  opened  it  The  con- 
tents were  the  same  as  before,  only  that  this  time  the  missive  opened 
with  a  tender  reproach  for  my  unbelief,  and  the  address  of  the  "  me- 
dium "  was  placed  below  his  name. 

Again  I  sat  down  and  thought  it  all  over,  coming  to  the  same  conclu- 
sion as  before.  Even  supposing,  I  reasoned,  that  this  is  a  genuine  com- 
munication from  Annie,  she  is  mistaken  in  imagining  that!  can  do  any- 
thing to  save  G 's  life  upon  such  vague  information  as  this.    If  she 

knows  so  much  of  the  future  as  she  here  professes  to  do,  she  must  know 
much  more  than  has  here  been  told ;  and  if  she  could  write  what  she 
has  written,  she  can  write  more.  If  that  *' medium"  thinks  I'm  going 
to  him  to  make  inquiries,  he's  mistaken.  The  communication  either  is 
or  is  not  from  Annie.  If  it  is,  she  must  remember  that  I  have  always 
detested  hints  and  oracular  utterances,  and  know  that  I  shall  wait  till 
she  gives  me  proof  of  her  power  to  foretell  future  events.  If  it  is  not 
from  herself,  the  Vhole  thing  is  a  despicable  trick,  unworthy  of  a  thought 
But  who,  I  reasoned  again,  could  have  either  the  information  necessary 
to  enable  him  even  so  far  to  personate  Annie,  or  the  motive  to  induce 
him  to  do  it  ?    Certainly,  no  one  that  I  knew. 

So  I  went  to  bed  with  the  resolve  that,  as  I  could  know  nothing,  I 
would  think  nothing  more  about  it — a  resolution  easier  to  make  than  to 
adhere  to. 

The  next  momine  my  first  thought  was  how  I  should  dispose  of  the 
communication.  Plainly,  it  was  of  no  use  to  lock  it  up,  and  as  little  to 
bum  it  I  would  carry  it  with  me.  If  I  lost  it,  that  would  surely  be 
the  last  of  this  copy,  and  perhaps  the  discouraged  writer  would  ]!Lot  try 
it  again.  So,  crossing  a  street  hurridly,  I  drew  out  my  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  with  an  emotion  of  relief  felt  that  the  uncanny  little  missive 
had  fallen  upon  the  mud-covered  pavement  amid  thick-comine  hoofe  and 
wheels.  But  I  had  congratulated  myself  too  quickly.  A  gentleman  who 
crossed  the  street  just  after  me  saw  it  fall,  and  in  the  mistaken  kindness 
of  his  heart  followed  half  a  block  to  restore  the  document  I'm  afraid 
he  thought  my  acknowledgments  very  ungracious,  yet  I  tried  my  best 
to  dissemble.  Two  more  efforts  to  rid  myself  of  the  letter  met  with  no 
better  success.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  fetch  the  mud-discol- 
oured epistle  back  with  me,  and  that  evening,  as  my  cousin  had  other  en- 
gagements and  Mrs.  Murray  had  gone  out,  I  had  nothing  to  hinder  me 
m>m  reflection  on  its  contents. 

I  would  not  allow  myself  to  think  that  I  believed  in  the  genuineness 
of  the  communication,  yet  the  more  I  thought  about  it  the  more  unac- 
countable it  became.    Still,  I  was  strongly  fixed  in  the  opinion  that 


A  GHOSTLY  WARNING.  263 

even  if  the  communication  were  what  it  purported  to  be,  there  was  no 
step  that  I  could  or  ought  to  take  in  regard  to  it.  For  a  few  moments 
I  thought  of  handing  the  letter  to  my  cousin  to  read,  and  so  shifting 
whatever  responsibility  there  might  be  over  to  his  broad  shoulders.  But 
that,  I  reflected,  would  be  but  a  cowardly  thing  to  do.  Even  if  he  should 
now  laugh  at  the  warning — as  doubtless  he  would  do — yet,  if  on  his 
homeward  voyage  an  accident  should  happen  to  the  steamer  on  which  he 
was,  the  memory  of  the  despised  warning  would  then  be  sure  to  awaken, 
as  people  always  think  of  the  things  they  should  not )  and  perhaps,  by 
disturbing  the  coolness  of  his  judgment,  and  arousing  the  notion  of  far 
tality  which  slumbers  in  us  all,  the  prophecy  might  help  to  its  own  ful« 
filment    That  was  a  responsibility  I  would  not  take. 

The  letter  continued  a  dreadful  plague  to  me.  I  burnt  this  second  one, 
imd  the  next  day's  mail  brought  a  third  nearly-literal  copy.  This  I  tried 
to  hide,  but  every  evening,  when  I  unlocked  my  door,  the  letter  appear- 
ed in  some  new  and  conspicuous  place — now  pinned  to  the  head  of  my 
bedstead,  then  to  a  window  curtain  ;  now  on  the  pillow,  now  on  the 
sofa,  or  again  stuck  in  the  frame  of  the  looking-glassh— once  tied  to  the 
gas-fixture,  and  twice  to  the  door-handle.  I  could  not  get  rid  of  its 
ever-reproachful  face,  silently  saying,  "  I  warn,  and  you  will  not 
heed." 

As  far  as  I  could  without  exciting  suspicion  as  to  my  motives  in  mak- 
ing the  inquiries — for  I  dreaded  the  sort  of  notoriety  which  would  sure- 
ly attach  to  one  who  was  supposed  to  have  received  a  supernatural  com- 
munication— I  satisfied  myself  that  the  landlady  and  servants  had,  and 
could  have  had,  nothing  to  do  with  this  letter  and  its  mysterious  migra- 
tions. It  was  ascertained  that  there  had  once  been  a  duplicate  key  to 
my  bureau,  but  not,  as  far  as  was  known,  to  the  hall-door.  The  other 
doors  were  bolted  on  both  sides. 

Now,  whether  it  was  altogether  owing  to  the  effect  on  my  imagina- 
tion of  this  mysterious  agility  of  an  inanimate  thing,  or  whether  it  was 
that  the  vexatious  and  troublesome  nature  of  the  business  which  de- 
tained me  in  town,  and  the  physical  and  mental  weariness  it  induced, 
<^ombined  with  the  undeniably  poisonous  cookery  of  the  fashionable 
boarding-house,  had  together  seriously  affected  my  nervous  system,  I  do 
not  know,  but  certain  it  is  that  day  and  night  I  could  not  escape  from 
the  haunting  refrain,  "  I  have  warned,  but  you  will  not  heed,  and  you 
will  be  responsible  for  a  life.  For  his  life — the  life  of  the  father  of  the 
beautiful  children  you  are  so  fond  of,  the  husband  of  the  woman  who  is 
dear  to  you,  the  friend  whom  you  love  for  his  own  sake.  It  is  for  his 
life  that  you  will  be  responsibla" 

During  the  daytime  my  work  smothered  this  refrain,  so  that  I  only 
heard  it  as  a  disturbing  echo ;  but  when  evening  came  with  its  relaxa- 
tions I  could  not  shut  it  out.  At  the  theatre,  the  pretty  stage  where 
Rignold  played  Henry  V.,  seemed  written  over  with  the  flaming  words. 
W^en  I  dined  with  friends,  and  one  said  in  a  laughing  way  about  some 
trifling  thing,  "  You  will  be  responsible  for  that,"  I  felt  as  if  I  had  re- 
ceived judicial  condemnation.  When  my  cousin  stood  on  the  rug  in 
front  of  Mrs.  Murray's  sitting-room  fire,  telling  in  eloquent  words  about 
Old- World  wonders  which  had  burnt  themselves  into  his  artist  heart,  I 
heard  them  only  as  through  a  din  of  surging  waters,  in  which  I  saw  his 


264  A  GHOSTLY  WARNING. 

noble  head  aseleselj  struggling,  or  I  heard  his  voice  as  through  the  sobs 
of  wife  and  children  lamenting  for  husband  and  father. 

I  had  maturely  reflected  and  decided  upon  my  course^  and  I  would 
not  permit  reason  to  be  overriden  by  imagination  so  far  as  to  let  the 
latter  influence  my  actions ;  yet  many  a  night  I  woke  to  And  myself 

bitterly  weeping  and  pra3ring  the  papdon  of  G 's  wife  that  I  had  not 

at  least  tried  the  eflect  of  giving  him  the  warning. 

I  was  glad  when  my  business  was  at  length  despatched  and  I  could 
leave  the  city ;  but  it  was  not  until  several  weeks  after  this  that  my 
cousin  start^  for  France.  The  twelve  days  that  elapsed  between  the 
sailing  of  his  steamer  and  that  on  which  its  safe  arrival  was  reported  in 
the  papers  were  very  long.  And  when  it  was  all  over,  how  angry  I  was 
at  myself  that  I  should  have  paid  any  heed  to  such  a  vague,  and,  as  it 
now  seemed,  transparently  spuriously  sort  of  warning ! 

My  next  thought  was  to  send  to  a  friend  the  letter  of  which  I  still 
held  the  third  copy,  with  the  request  that  he  would  ascertain  for  me 
if  there  were  any  such  person  as  A.  B.  Sears  professing  to  be  a  "  Spirit- 
ual medium."  After  some  weeks  the  answer  was  returned :  "  Yes,  A. 
B.  Sears  is  the  nom-de-guerre  of  Abiathar  Parsons,  who,  under  his  pro- 
per name,  boards  in  the  same  house  where  you  boarded  last  spring.'** 

Abiathar  Parsons !    Then  I  remembered.    In  the  days  when  Annie 

H and  I,  as  recently  separated  schoolmates,  were  carrying  on  an 

active  correspondence  by  maol,  this  Parsons  was  a  clerk  in  the  employ 
of  the  storekeeper  who  acted  as  postmaster  in  our  native  village. 
Upon  inquiry,  which  I  caused  to  be  made  of  the  housekeeper  at  my  late 
lodgings,  I  found  that  during  my  stay  in  Montreal  he  had  occupied  the 
room  next  to  Mrs.  Murray's  parlour,  and  on  the  same  floor  with  my 
room,  and  that  his  place  at  table  had  been  nearly  opposite  my  own. 
Parsons  had  not  borne  the  best  of  reputations  during  his  clerkship  with 
the  postmaster,  and  after  a  stay  of  a  year  or  so  had  drifted  away,  carry- 
ing his  laziness  and  cunning  to  a  more  appreciative  market.  In  the 
well-covered,  florid-faced  man  with  black-dyed  hair  I  had  failed  to  re- 
cognize the  lank,  sallow,  red-haired  youth  whom  I  had  only  seen  and 
hardly  noticed  behind  the  counter.  Evidently,  his  memory  had  been 
better  than  mine,  and  from  the  position  of  his  room  in  relation  to  Mrs. 
Murray's  parlour  he  might  easily  have  overheard  the  conversations  be- 
tween my  cousin  and  myself  relative  to  the  former's  return  to  Europe. 
How  Mr.  Parsons  obtained  access  to  my  room  and  bureau-drawers  I  do 
not  certainly  know,  but  as  it  seems  that  he  had  once  occupied  the  apart- 
ment for  some  weeks,  it  may  not  be  doing  him  injustice  to  suggest  that 
he  then  supplied  himself  with  duplicate  keys,  thinking  that  they  might 
prove  useful  in  some  possible  contingencies. 

Possessing,  as  he  did,  a  remarkable  facility  in  imitating  handwritings 
— a  facility  which  had  more  than  once  turned  the  eyes  of  suspicion  upon 
the  postmaster's  clerk — and  remembering  that  of  Annie  H— — ,  which 
must  have  often  passed  through  his  hanas,  while  knowing  that  she  had 
long  since  passed  away,  his  cunning  presented  to  Abiathar  Parsons — 
cUias  A.  B.  Sears — the  idea  that  as  he  knew  me,  and  probably  remem- 
bered many  little  things  connected  with  my  family  and  early  life  which 

*  The  facts  in  this  paper  are  strictly  true,  but  for  obvious  reasons  both  the-  real  and 
assomed  names  of  the  persons  here  mentioned  have  been  changed. 


THE  FIBST  CHRISTMAS.  iSS 

he  cotdd  use  to  advantage  in  trading  upon  my  credulity  (while  he  re- 
mained unrecognised  by  me),  here  was  an  excellent  opportunity  to  get 
a  little  money  and  extend  his  reputation  as  one  whose  predictions  of  the 
future  must  be  relied  upon,  seeing  that  he  knew  so  much  of  the  past. 

If,  by  any  chance,  the  steamer  on  which  my  cousin  sailed  had  met 
with  disaster,  and  he  had  failed  to  reach  his  home,  I  should  probably 
have  made  no  investigation,  but  have  simply  accepted  the  communici^ 
tion  as  having  been  a  genuine  but  sinfully-unheeded  warning  from  the 
Spirit  Land,  and  all  the  rest  of  my  life  have  been  weighed  down  with 
a  burden  of  remorse  as  heavy  as  any  ever  borne  or  by  an  actual  mur- 
derer. 

The  trick  of  Mr.  Parsons-Sears  was  a  very  simple  one,  now  it  has  been 
told,  and  I  have  not  found  it  an  easy  task  to  excuse  myself  to  myself 
for  the  importance  I  attached  to  the  supposed  warning,  and  for  the  real 
suffering  so  uselessly  eddured  on  account  of  it.  But  since  that  time  I 
have  felt  much  more  charity  than  before  for  those  unfortunate  people 
who  in  hours  of  doubt,  anxiety  and  grief  have  resorted  for  knowledge 
or  consolation  to  sources  which  in  their  calmer  moments  they  would  have 
looked  upon  with  contempt. 

E.  C.  G. 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


[In  ''The  Legend  of  the  Roses,"  which  is  perhaps  not  so  fi^miliftr  to 
some  of  our  readers  as  it  ought  to  be,  Mr.  S.  J.  Watson,  the  gifted, 
author  makes  some  allusions  to  the  festival  of  Christmas.  We  give  this 
extract — ^Ed.] 

Thallon. 

Bast  thou  seen  Him  whom  I  have  named  just  now, 
And  who,  for  coantless  deeds  of  timely  mercy^ 
Is,  throughout  all  the  Judean  land,  adored, 
And  called  by  fonder  name  than  Osdsar  is — 
"  The  Healer  of  the  People  ? " 

QXJTNTUS. 

I  have  beheld  him  often,  and,  each  time. 
He  looked  more  gracious  than  he  did  before  ; 
The  incarnation  of  the  holiest  pity, 
That  Virtue  in  her  noblest  ecstaoies 
Could  picture  or  aspire  to ;  and  besides. 
What  is  to  me  a  baffling  mystery, 
His  miracles,  which  so  astound  men's  eyes, 
Wherein  His  will  o'erides  all  natural  laws, 
And  sends  Experience  and  Reason  both 
To  do  dumb  war  with  Wonder,  seem  to  me 
To  be  performed  to  show  His  love  to  men, 
Rather  than  show  His  power,  which  always  gives, 
Unlike  all  power  the  world  e'er  saw  before, 
The  foremost  place  to  kindness. 


:ii66  THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 

Thallon. 

Haat  ever  heard  it  talked  of  in  dark  whispers, 
That  much  about  the  time  when  He  was  bom, 
The  GodB  ceased  to  conyerse  with  mortal  men. 
Even  in  those  dark  and  double  utterances 
Wherein  both  Chance  and  Ignorance  conspired 
To  fool  men*s  minds  and  fortunes  ? 

QUINTUS. 

I  am  not  old  enough  to  call  to  mind 
The  time  when  all  the  oracles  grew  dumb, 
And  the  gods  chose  to  mock  their  worshippers 
With  taunting  marble  muteness. 

Thallon.    ' 

• 

IVe  heard  it  said  at  home,  amongst  us  Greeks, 
That  at  the  time  the  oracles  grew  dumb, 
A  strange  thing  happened  on  the  sea  at  night — 
Would'st  like  to  hear  the  tale  ? 

QUINTUS. 

In  mystery  there  is  a  fascination 
Whidi  idl  men  yield  to  ;  and,  fair  Truth,  herself. 
Wears  not  such  pleasing  visage  if  she  come 
'  Wanting  the  robe  of  ttrangeness. 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 

Thalloit. 

'  *'  'Twas  night,  a  Grecian  pilot  calmly  steering 
By  the  bright  beacons  of  the  stars  o'erhead, 
Heafd  a  weird  voice  along  the  waves  careering, 
Saying,  in  thunder  tones,  '  Great  Pan  is  Dead.' 

*'  He  glanced  around,  no  vessel  was  in  showing, 
lior  could  he  aught  in  human  shape  descry  ; 
He  only  saw  the  billows*  white  plumes  flowing 
In  the  wake  of  the  cloud-waves  of  the  sky. 

"  He  saw  no  Naiad  near,  with  tresses  streaming 
Like  web  of  gold  with  amethysts  enwove  ; 
To  tell  him  that,  no  more,  save  in  priest's  dreaming, 
Pan  should  hold  nde  o'er  meadow,  vale,  and  grove. 

^  *'  And  that  no  more  Pan's  thousand  altars  bending 

With  weight  of  garlands,  and  with  wealth  of  years. 
Should  see,  from  off  their  dust-strewn  crowns  ascenoing, 
Aught  than  the  bitter  incense  of  scant  tears  : 

' ''  And  that  the  Gods  had  earthly  grown,  and  olden. 
In  their  long  contact  both  with  men  and  time  ; 
That  unto  dross  had  changed  their  foreheads  golden. 
Worshipped  and  wreathed  in  trusted  days  of  prime  : 


MUSICAL.  267 

» 

''  And  that  Old  Truth,  grown  dim,  and  few  bouIb  leading, 
Had  downward  circled,  till  at  length  it  came 
To  the  abyss  of  Doubt,  where  death-mists  breeding 
Over  the  grave  of  Hope,  bedimmed  Faith's  flame. 

*  *  The  pilot  heard  no  tale  like  this,  when  leaning 
Across  his  helm,  to  listen,  but  he  read 
Some  strange,  dread  import  in  the  mystic  meaning 
Of  the  four  solenm  words,  '  Great  Pan  is  Dead.*^ 

*'  And  as  they  went,  like  funeral  echoes  boominff, 
They  stirred  the  pilot's  soul  with  prescient  fear  ; 
Was  the  old  passing,  was  a  new  age  looming, 
Was  the  Ideal  past,  the  Real  near  ? 

* '  He  left  this  unto  Fate,  but  told  the  warning  ; 

O'er  every  haunt  of  Nymph  and  Fawn  it  spread  : 
And,  ere  on  noon-days  breast  had  swooned  the  mohiing, 
All  Greece  had  heard  the  wail,  *  Great  Pan  is  Dead.' " 


itsital. 


[Erratwm, — In  last  month's  ^*  Musical  '*  the  statement  that  PurceU  wrote 
onlT  in  imitation  of  Handel  is  wholly  incorrect,  arising  from  a  misconception 
of  dates.  Handel  came  to  England  in  December  of  the  year  1710,  and  beforb 
that  year,  Blow,  Wise,  Croft,  Weldon,  and  Purcell  had  all  finished  their  edu- 
cation, and  formed  that  style,  which  so  much  like  Handel's  was  in  reality  the 
mannerism  of  the  day,  in  much  the  same  way  that  Mendelssohnism  is  at 
present.] 

Probably  the  new  year's  prospectus  of  the  magazine  has  informed  many  of 
our  readers  already  that  in  this  department  we  are  intending  to  publish  such 
original  compositions,  songs,  instrumental  pieces,  part-songs,  &c.,  as  may 
seem  to  us  suitable  and  worthy.  We  believe  that  it  can  be  done,  and  cry  witn 
Lewis  Carroll  in  the  **  Snark,''  ''  the  thing  shall  be  done,"  and  now  we  are 
going  to  appeal  to  any  of  our  readers  who  compose,  or  who  know  of  friends 
and  acquaintances  gined  in  like  manner,  to  let  us  have  their  manuscripts  at 
once,  and  to  oommimicate  at  least,  with  the  Musical  Editor. 


Of  late  years,  it  has  been  a  frequent  lament,  both  in  England  and  in  the 
colonies,  that  the  old  customs,  many  of  them  beautiful  and  appropriate  in 
themselves,  others  tolerated  on  account  of  ancient  usage  or  associations  that 
cluster  round  Christmas,  the  central  feast  of  the  Christian  year,  are  rapidly 
losing  ground  and  disappearing.  It  is  not  to  be  expected,  naturally,  that 
customs  redolent  of  superstition  and  child-like  credulity,  should  stand  long 
before  the  active  wrestlers  and  scientific  spirit  of  the  present  age,  when  the 
faith  which  is  the  centre  and  cause  of  such  customs  is  itself  attacked,  doubted, 
and  in  some  cases  altogether  set  aside.  This  prosaic  spirit  is  doing  for  such 
customs  gradually  in  uns  century  just  what  Puritanism  in  the  seventeenth 
century  did  suddenly.  There  are  cynics  who  assert  that  men  and  women  and 
children  would  be  much  better  off  in  mind  and  body  if  the  annual  gorging  of 


268  MUSICAL. 

themBelyee  at  Christmas-tide  with  minoe  pyes,  to  keep  the  old  spelling,  plum 
puddings,  and  the  other  delicacies  or  heavmesses  which  reign  in  the  mundus 
edibilii  at  that  season  were  dispensed  with.  So  there  are  those  who  reject 
the  mistletoe  as  a  piece  of  foolishness,  and  who  never  spend  an  hour  on  home 
decoration,  which,  apart  from  its  gracious  results,  is  surely  an  admirable 
social  medium,  giving  rise  to  much  display  of  taste  and  ingenuity,  bringing 
out  the  stupid  members  of  the  family,  and  restraining  the  impetuosity  of  the 
dever  ones  who  find  they  are  not  to  have  everything  their  own  way.  In 
speaking  of  England's  colonies,  in  this  respect,  we  only  mean  our  own  Do- 
minion, for  we  fancy  that  India  and  Australian  Christmases  are  at  best  but 
very  imperfect  attempts  at  reproduction  of  those  in  the  *^  old  country."  But 
Canada  seems  so  admirably  fitted  by  reason  of  her  bright  and  sunny  winters, 
of  her  many  characteristic  amusements  and  national  pastimes  which  do  not 
stand  in  the  way,  as  some  may  think,  of  her  peculiar  loyalty,  for  all  these 
merry  and  healthful  customs  (if  indulged  in  properly)  that  we  long  for  a  re- 
suscitation, a  great  and  energetic  revival  in  the  matter,  and  hope  it  will  come. 
If  we  have  not  the  holly  and  mistletoe  except  as  we  get  it  expensively  from 
the  grocer,  we  have  material  not  to  be  surpassed  for  festooning  and  draping 
in  the  many  kinds  of  pine  and  fir,  hemlock,  spruce  and  cedar,  with  which  we 
are  siurounded,  and  the  berries  of  the  winter-green  and  the  mountain  ash 
are  beautiful  however  used.  There  is  no  reason  why  much  of  the  diverting 
and  innocent  mummenr  characteristic  of  the  West  of  England  at  this  time 
should  not  be  welcomed  eagerly  along  with  our  modem  charade  ;  the  play  of 
**  St.  Gteorge,"  usually  pronounced  "  Gaarge  "  by  the  tenantry  who  laud  it 
in  certain  parts,  might  come  most  freshly  to  the  Canadian  mind.  And  as  for 
Christmas  Carols — ^well,  this  really  is  our  subject  although  we  have  been  a 
long  time  coming  to  it.  The  custom  of  carolling  is  assiiredly  one  of  those 
which  we  designated  as  beautiful  and  appropriate  in  itself,  being  derived  from 
the  singing  of  the  angels  to  the  shepherds  on  the  plains  of  BethJohem.  That 
it  is  of  ffreat  antiquity  therefore  is  certain,  and  it  is  interesting  to  know  that 
originaUy  the  word  carol  meant  a  song  accompanied  by  dancing,  the  per- 
formers taking  hands  and  singing  as  they  made  a  rins  much  in  tine  style  of 
many  children's  games  at  present  At  this  time  carols  were  often  profane 
and  always  hum<»*ous,  and  not  till  the  fifteenth  century  did  any  appear  to  be 
at  all  popular  that  were  of  a  more  serious  character.  The  earbest  printed 
carols  were  a  collection  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde,  1521,  but  all  of  them  were 
convivial.  From  the  Restoration  up  to  the  present,  carol-singing  has  been 
practised  at  Christmas  in  many  parts  of  England,  particularly  in  Cornwall 
and  other  western  coimties,  many  ancient  and  quaint  tunes  wedded  to  equally 
curious  words  being  still  sung  there.  Of  these  **  I  saw  three  ships  come  sail- 
ing in,"  **  The  first  Nowell,"  and  one  entitled  "  To-morrow  shall  be  my  danc- 
ing day,'*  are  particularly  interesting.  In  the  last  one  it  is  Christ  who  speaks, 
and  the  ^*  dancing  day  "  is  evidentlv  meant  for  the  second  coming  of  Christ, 
as  in  the  last  verse  from  Uie  words  *^to  lead  man  to  the  general  dance."  Jean 
Paul  Richter  savs  that,  ''the  Jews  believed  that  after  the  coming  of  the 
Messiah,  hell  will  be  pushed  along-side  of  paradise  to  make  a  larger  dancinff- 
hall,  and  God  will  lead  the  dance,'*  probably  only  a  coincidence,  out  one  full 
of  interest.     Here  is  the  first  verse  of  this  curious  carol. 

'*To  morrow  •hall  be  mj  dancing  day, 
I  would  my  true  love  did  so  chance, 

To  see  the  legend  of  my  play, 
To  call  my  true  love  to  the  dance. 
Sing  Oh !  my  love  I  Oh  !  my  love,  my  love,  my  love  ! 
Thus  shall  I  do  for  my  true  love." 

In  the  large  collection  edited  by  Dr.  Stainer  and  the  Rev.  Henry  Rams- 
den  Bromley,  of  Oxford,  may  be  found,  with  a  few  exceptions ,  all  those 
tunes  and  verses  worth  retaining,  forty-two  in  number.  Of  these,  fourteen 
are  entirely  traditional,  twenty-four  have  tunes  by  modem  English  oonyp^p- 
sers,  andiour  are  miscellaneous.     *'  God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen,"  "  The 


MUSICAL.  269 

aeven  joys  of  Mary,"  '*  The  Cheny  Tree  carol,"  and  "  Diree  and  LazaruB/* 
are  among  those  called  traditional,  and  are  perhaps  the  most  curious.  One 
istrange  thing  to  be  noticed  in  these  very  old  carols  is  the  persistent  way  in 
which  the  most  cheerful  words  are  set  to  music  of  most  doleful  character. 
"  The  Holly  and  the  Ivy/'  tune,  Old  French,  is  a  fair  example  of  this  ;  liie 
words  of  the  refrain  being, 

**  Oh !  the  risiiiff  of  the  Sun, 
The  ninninff  of  the  deer, 
The  playing  of  uie  merry  Organ, 
Sweet  flDglng  in  the  quire !  '* 

• 

These  are  sung  to  an  indescribably  melancholy  air.  Many  of  these  old 
carols  have  Latin  scraps  interspersed.  *'  The  Boar*s  Head'  carol  is  a  well- 
known  instance. 

Of  the  modem  tunes,  the  much  lamented  Dr.  D^ker  contributed  five,  Dr. 
Stainer,  three ;  Joseph  Bamby,  four  ;  Rev.  Sir  fred.  Ouseley,  three  ;  Dr. 
Steggall,  two  ;  while  Henry  Smart,  Arthur  Sullivan,  Sir  John  Qoss,  and  the 
Rev.  S.  0.  Hamerton  are  all  represented.  There  are  several  editions  of  the 
work,  one  quite  within  the  reach  of  everyone,  in  paper  covers,  and  whethes^ 
purchased  for  the  home  circle  or  the  choir,  it  is  certam  to  give  pleasure,  and 
to  those  who  care  to  interest  themselves  in  the  subject  and  its  bearings, 
profit. 

To  musicians  in  Canada,  and  to  many  who,  though  not  known  as  musi- 
cians, take  a  deep  and  absorbing  interest  in  music,  there  can  hardly  be  a 
greater  pleasure  than  that  of  receiving,  buying,  or  lookini;  through  a  heap  of 
music,  fresh  and  ancient,  from  I^ovello  or  Boosey  if  scores,  from  Stanley 
Lucas,  Weber  &  Co.,  or  Hutching's  &  Romer,  if  sheet  music.  New  music 
is  far  more  exciting  to  such  an  one  than  is  a  new  novel  to  the  novel-reader 
by  profession  and  is  eagerly  seized  upon  and  devoured.  We  notice  particu- 
lirly  this  year  the  vast  number  of  beautiful  and  original  cantatas.  Gade, 
known  chiefiv  in  the  country  as  the  author  of  **  Spring's  Message"  contributes 
*'  Conuda,'*  founded  on  a  story  of  Ossian,  showing  in  its  very  theme  the 
influence  that  Mendelssohn  has  still  over  his  young  friend,  and  the  "  Erl 
King's  Ikmghter"  thoroughly  original,  weird,  and  full  of  fine  instrumenta- 
tion. '*  St.  Cecilia's  Bay^*  by  Van  Bree,  is  a  lighter,  easier  work  in  a  more 
hackneyed  style,  but  more  suitable  accordingly  for  general  singing,  the  final 
chorus  indeed  is  masterly,  and  probably  the  composer  is  keeping  back  his 
technicalities  in  order  to  be  popular.  Schumann's  *'  Vie  d'une  Bose,"  ren- 
dered in  En^^lish,  ^^The  Pilgrimaae  of  the  Bose,"  is  full  of  almost  unearthly 
beauty,  quaint  progressions,  and  weird  harmonies,  and  is  characterized  bv 
the  same  touchmg  melody  which  so  often  graces  his  songs.  The  English 
composers  are  weU  to  the  front ;  Barnby's  '*  Bebe  Ba>t"  Dr.  Maofarren's 
wonderfully  realistic  ^'  Outward  Bound,"  John  Francis  Bamett's  "  Good 
Shepherd,*'  and  many  others  have  at  last  reached  us  here.  In  piano  music  we 
notice  some  very  clever  things  from  Misses  Agnes  Zimmerman,  Ooenen, 
Spindler,  and  others,  while  in  songs  four  new  writers  appear  ;  but  Sullivan, 
Molloy,  and  the  host  of  popular  song-writers  are  well  represented.  In  short, 
there  is  no  dearth  of  really  good  music,  but  almost  too  much  to  write  about 
properly,  or  to  choose  judiciously. 

It  is  proposed  to  raise  a  fund  for  a  bust  of  Mdlle.  Tietjiens,  to  be  placed 
in  the  vestibule  of  Her  Majesty's  theatre.  A  far  better  notion  is  to  found  a 
scholarship  at  the  Royal  Aoeuiemy.  It  is  also  announced  that  Mdlle.  Tiet- 
jiens has  left  £30,000  to  her  sister,  Mrs.  Croix,  with  reversion  to  her  two 
nieces,  one  of  whom  is  married. 

The  first  London  performance  of  Dr.  Macfarren's  oratorio  of  "  Joseph," 
will  be  on  December  17tii,  by  the  Brixton  Ohoral  Society ;  the  cantata,  by 
Mdme.  Sainton  Dolly,  '*  A  Legend  of  St  Dorothea,"  is  included  in  tlie 
programme. 

The  d^ut  at  St.  Petersburg  of  Mdlle.  BteUca  Qerster,  is  described  as  an 


270  BfUSICAL. 

extraordinaiy  Buocess.    She  appeared  ia^^La  Sannambulaf^  and  was  recalled 
eight  times. 

Adelina  Patti  and  Sig.  Nicoli  are  n^otiating  for  a  six  nights'  engagement 
at  the  Berlin  Opera.  They  demand,  however,  no  less  than  10,000  francs  a 
niffht  ^£400),  a  sum  the  Berlin  managers  do  not  feel  inclined  to  pay. 

MdUe.  lima  di  Mnrska  has  been  singing  very  successfully  in  Mr.  Max 
Strakosh's  Company  at  San  Francisco.  She  was  to  appear  in  New  York  on 
the  1st  of  N  ovember. 

Le  Mhiestrd  announces  that  four  unpiiblished  Masses  by  Palestrina,  and 
several  autograph  manuscripts  by  T.  S.  JBach,  have  been  discovered  in  a  con- 
vent at  Gray. 

Mdme  Christine  Nilsson  is  engaged  for  three  months,  the  latter  end  of 
October  to  January,  at  St.  Petersburgh.  She  has  accepted  an  engagement 
for  the  spring  at  the  Vienna  Opera  House. 

The  Boyal  Albert  Hall  Choral  Society  has  commenced  its  season  opening 
on  November  22nd  with  Verdi's  "  Beqmem,"  Mr.  Bamby  is  again  the 
conductor. 

At  Milan  a  triumphal  arch  was  erected  in  honour  of  Patti  on  her  recent 
arrival  there.  Standing-room  will  be  ten  francs  during  her  engagement  at 
La  Scala. 

Mr.  Horton  Allison  gave  a  performance  of  his  Oratorio  *'  Prayer  "  in  the 
Hall  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  on  October  19th,  for  his  Doctor's  d^ree. 
The  work  consists  of  an  overture,  a  recitative  for  bass  voice,  a  duet  for  soprano 
and  tenor,  a  double  fugue,  and  a  recitative  for  tenor  ;  this  serves  as  an  intro- 
duction to  a  setting  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  as  quartet  and  chorus,  contralto 
solo,  soprano  solo,  double  chorus,  a  canon,  two  in  one  for  soprano  and  tenor, 
and  a  double  fugue. 

The  prospectus  of  the  Monday  and  Saturday  Popular  Concerts  has  been 
issued,  and  is  marked  by  the  same  high  diaracter  as  those  of  former  years.  . 

This  the  twentieth  season,  will  consist  of  twenty  morning  and  twenty-one 
evening  performances,  the  former  having  commenced  on  November  17th,  and 
the  latter  on  Monday,  November  12th.  The  principal  engagements  are  those 
of  Mr.  Sims  Reeves,  Mr.  Santley,  Herr  Joachim,  Mdme  Norman  Neruda, 
Mr.  Charles  Hall6,  Mdlle  Maria  Firebs,  Miss  Agnes  Zimmerman,  Mdlle  Anna 
Mehlig,  and  Sig.  PattL 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  keep  one's  self  properly  informed  with  respect  to 
the  ever  increasing  number  of  pianists.  In  London  alone  there  must  be  a 
stupendous  number  of  first-class  pianists,  both  native  and  foreign.  Mr. 
Sycuiev  Smith  gave  the  first  recital  of  his  sixth  season  on  November  9th,  at 
Willis  Rooms.  Bach,  Handel,  Scarlatti,  Beethoven,  Liszt,  Chopin,  Thal- 
berg,  were  represented  in  the  programme. 

Mr.  Walter  Bache  also  gave  a  recital  on  November  5th  at  St.  James'  Hall^ 
playing  Beethoven's  thirty-two  variations  in  C  minor,  and  Sonata  in  E 
major.  Op.  109. 

The  Sacred  Harmonic  Society's  forty-sixth  season  commenced  on  Novem- 
ber 30th.  Macfarren's  **  John  the  BwpHfft,''  Rossini's  "  Mosi  vn  EgiUo*'  and 
Crotch's  "  Palestine,**  are  promised. 

The  death  of  a  celebrated  vocalist^  Mdme.  Stockhausen,  is  announced. 
This  lady  was  exceedingly  popular  in  England  at  one  time,  and  used  to  ex- 
cite English  audiences  to  a  high  pitch  of  enthusiasm  by  her  rendering  of 
Swiss  airs,  in  which  she  was  sometimes  accompanied  by  her  husband  on  the 
harp.  These  performances  were  mere  relaxations,  for  the  lady  was  at  home 
in  the  highest  v^ks  of  music,  and  her  husband  was  a  most  sidlled  haipist. 
Her  son,  M.  Jules  Stockhausen,  an  excellent  bass  singer,  has  sung  with  great  ^ 

success  in  London. 

The  Naples  correspondent  of  the  Athenoewn  writes  as  follows  : — *'  A  story 
is  going  the  round  of  the  journals  of  Naples  whidi  will  interest  many  of 
your  readers.  On  Saturday,  the  Baroness  Caterce,  daughter  of  Lablache^ 
visited  the  theatre  of  San  Carlo,  accompanied  by  her  children.      After 


MUSICAL.  271 

haling  admired  the  magnificent  interior,  she  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the 
stage  as  weU.  but  she  haa  no  sooner  phioed  her  foot  upon  it  than  she  burst 
into  tears.  The  daughter  of  Lablaohe  was  overoome  by  the  reoollection  of  the 
many  and  splendid  trinmphs  which  her  father  had  won  on  these  boards. 
l%e  Baroness,  who  is  like  her  father,  is  said  to  have  a  "  stupendous  "  soprano 
voice,  and  were  she  to  make  art  her  profession,  she  would  become,  it  is  pre- 
dicted, one  of  the  great  stars,  'worthy  to  continue  her  paternal  glory.' 
Accompanied  by  a  piano-forte  sue  sang  a  piece  from  the  '  Stciat  *  of  RoMini, 
with  such  power,  expression,  and  colour,  that  she  awakened  the  enthusiasm 
of  those  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  her.  Alas  !  for  the  death  of  the 
queen  of  soi^,  Titjiens.  Some  years  have  passed  since  she  visited  Naples  and 
sang  in  St.  Carlo.  The  Neapolitans  did  not,  or  rather  could  not,  appreciate 
her  genius,  and  Titjiens  was  much  antioyed  by  the  offensive  criticisms  oi  unbred 
persons  who  occupied  front  seats  in  the  pit.  Alexandre  Dumas  was  here,  too, 
at  the  same  time,  and  at  the  instigation  of  a  mutual  friend  lashed  the  imper- 
tinences of  the  8oi  diMmt  critics  in  a  little  journal  that  he  edited." 

Miss  Blanche  Tucker,  of  Chicago,  musically  known  as  Rosavella,  recently 
married  Signer  Marochetti,  son  of  the  Director  of  Telegraphs,  in  Italy. 

We  regard  with  no  slight  feeling  of  envy  the  excellent  programme  which, 
from  time  to  time  the  citizens  of  Chicago,  New  York,  and  Boston  are  enjoy- 
ing this  winter.  The  Handel  and  Haydn  Society  of  the  latter  dtv  give,  on 
Sunday,  December  23rd,  Bach's  Christmas  Oratorio,  and  "  Noel,*'  by  Saint 
Sadur,  Bach's  work  having  Robert  Franz's  additional  instrumentation.  On 
OhrisUnas  day  the  Messiah.  Mendelssohn'  St.  Pmd  is  set  down  for  March  6th, 
and  the  Creation  for  Easter  Simday,  April  2l8t.  Miss  Thursby,  Miss  Cary, 
Winch,  Stoddard,  and  Whitney,  are  all  engaged  for  the  Christmas  performan- 
ces. On  the  14th  and  17th  of  November,  Th^>dore  Thomas  gave  two  subs^p- 
tion  concerts  in  Boston,  assisted  by  the  Swedish  Ladies  quartette  and  a  youth- 
ful violinist,  Leopold  Lichtenbuig,  a  pupil  of  WioniawskL  The  overture  to 
Cherubim,  Water-Carrier,  '*  La  «ieuneese  d'Hercule,"  a  svmphonic  poem,  by 
Saint  Salus  and  a  violin  concerto  by  Viotti,  were  among  the  pieces  given. 

Mdme  Madeline  SchiUer  intends  going  back  to  England  this  month,  and 
with  this  view  she  will  give  a  series  of  three  piano  recitals  in  Boston  before 
her  departure,  assisted  by  Miss  Cronyn. 

By  the  way,  Dwight's  Mudcal  Journal  is  asserting  most  rabidly  its  Wag- 
nerian proclivities,  which  show  with  what  headlong  impetuosity  do  the  Ame- 
ricans rush  into  novelties,  from  pottery  to  Wagner — sometimes,  one  would 
think  because  they  are  novelties.  Speaking  of  Fryer's  Wagner  Festival,  the 
article  says : — **  On  Thursday  night — Oh  !  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  coun- 
trjrmen,  this  high  and  mighty  IHtra-German  Opera,  this  Wagner  Festival 
became  Italian,  and  came  down  to  Trovatore,  Italian  of  the  tra8hiest,most  hack- 

nied  harrel-organ  type  I From  Fidelo  to  Trovatore  !    Beethoven's 

divine  masterpiece  with  half  a  house,  and  Verdi's  sensaUonal  affair  hailed 
.  three  times  by  eager  crowds  ! "  Truly  if  Beethoven's  superb  work  were 
greeted  with  so  miserable  an  audience,  that  would  be  the  fault  of  the  city  and 
coimtry  it  was  presented  to,  and  all  must  be  surprised  at  Boston  incurring, 
such  an  imputation.  Still,  to  designate  Trovatore  as  *'  trash,"  is  to  show  a 
totally  incorrect  reading  of  What  we  may  call  the  present  musical  situation. 
We  ourselves  are  deeply  interested  in  the  grand  career  and  works  of  Wagner, 
and  convinced  of  the  truth  of  many  of  his  dogmas.  The  time  is  assuredly 
coming  when  sensuous  music  must  be  nearly  altogether  supplemented  by  in- 
tellectual music  ;  still,  to  compare  Verdi  with  Beethoven,  who  in  ''  Fidelio  " 
was  decidedly  anticipatory  of  Wagner,  is  impossible.  Verdi  is  Verdi,  and 
his  music  will  always  be  beautiful,  even  when  it  no  longer  represents  the 
existing  school.  Indeed,  we  can  imagine  that  ten  nights  prove  to  the  most 
advanced  thinkers  too  intensely  intellectual,  so  that  one  night  at  least  slip- 
ped in,  of  bright,  melodious  Italian  music,  would  be  a  relief  and  not  some- 
thing to  be  avoided  as  if  it  brought  a  pestilence,  and  spoken  of  with  vitu- 
peration. 


^72  MUSICAL. 

New  York  music  seems  to  be  included  in  Dr.  Damrosch's  orchestra  which 
has  given  liszf s  Preludes.  Raffs  8th  symphony,  and  other  difficult  works 
most  creditably.  This  orchestra,  as  most  of  our  readers  know,  consist  mostly 
of  the  men  dismissed  by  Theodore  Thomas  some  time  ago.  The  latter  musi- 
cian is  forming  a  new  orchestra  to  include  Brandt,  Hamson,  Brenstein,  and 
other  famous  men.  To  call  it  an  America:,  oi  uhcstra  seems  absurd,  after 
reading  such  a  lengthy  list  of  German  names  as  Prusser,  Ldstmann,  Dietrich, 
Klugescheid,  Gruppe,  Bhaesa,  Uthof,  Pfeiffenacheider,  and  many  others. 

Imisic  in  Canada  as  usual  is  a  very  barren  thing.  In  our  own  city,  we 
have  heard  the  Quintette  Club,  Mr.  Torrington's  Church  Concerts  and 
scarcely  anything  else  besides.  We  may  take  this  opportunity  of  directing 
the  attention  of  our  readers  to  the  excellent  original  song  published  in  this 
nimiber.  Many  attempts  at  so-called  ''natural  song"  have  been  made 
already,  resultmg  in  nothing ;  but  ''Canada"  comes  at  this  merry  Xmas 
tide  to  wake  and  warm  us  into  increasing  patriotism  and  loyalty  to  the 
Mother  Country,  from  which  seems  to  come  all  happy  Xmas  associations  and 
xmstoms.  Mrs.  Moore  is  a  writer  and  composer  of  great  ability,  and  the  pre- 
iient  publication  is  attractive  in  many  ways,  and  is  uioroughly  musical. 


"  CANADA." 


273 


"Oj^IsTj^ID^. 


yf 


DEDICATED  TO  ALL  LOYAL  CANADIANS. 


Musle  and  Words  by  F.  J.  HATTOH. 

AlUgro  Mod^tato, 


OmS.  CHAS.  6.  HOORI.) 


fr^H  r  J  ^  J I 


Con  SpirUo. 


I"'1-'T|.  !'flUrfibJ>L^u'lJI' 


V^w        Qai^asA   aMAn  ^m^A    ••••A   I^Ata    > 


I.  Brave  men  and  true  let's  name    the  land  where  ^ee  -  dom  loTee     to    dwelk....^.. 
a.  When  o'er  the  eea  the   war   cry  ringa,  And  moomed  are  deeds   of    woe^ 


.Where 
.   The 


^m 


tmth    and  hon  -  or   firm  -  ly     aland,  Whoeechil  •  dren  love  her    well, 
true    Ca  •  oa^dianl  brave  heart  springtr  And  longs  to     meet  the     foe. 


CIVS. 


■  '  fi^r  Mflirg-"rir  J  J  ^iJ     i^'; 


Can-a-dal        Cas^^k  Can-a-dal  Fair  UAd    so  broad  and  free ;  Ohl 


S74 


"  CANADA.'' 


1 


cottavoc^ 


give    me    then  ikir     Can-a-da,  Aye, she's  the    land      for     me! 

cres.  ^ 

■I-, : ^ .       I 


^m 


^^^4^^ 


H=hi 


li 


AH*. 


Tmtr. 


Hm.. 


ftAIO. 


Can-a-da !      Can-a-da !       Can-a-da !       Fair  land  so  broad  and  free ; 


$ 


Wm 


^ — b— ^  I    1^    1^  ~1^ 


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FF=1= 


22: 


it  / 

u 


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8va. 


Sva. 


?f 


Bva. 


Oh! 


Can-a-da!      Can-a-da!       Can-a-d*!       Fair  land  so  broad  and  tree;  Oh! 

/ 


m 


Can-a-da!      Can-a-da!       Can-a-da!       Fair  land  so  broad  and  free :  Oh! 

/ 


^^^^=^>=^^^^^^^^^Ed=f=f^—f-^ 


Can-a-da !      Can-a-da !       Can-a-da !       Fair  land  so  broad  and  fr*ee :         Oh ! 
/ 


colla  voc.  fU 


give  me  then  fair  Can  -  a  •  da,      Aye,  she's  the  land  for   me. 
cres.  ^ 


TjJ^\Jfe^^^ 


I 


give  me  then  fair  Can  •  a  -  da,      Aye,  she's  the  land  for   me. 
cres.  ;    ^ 


A f^-K- 


T 


t 


T 


— ^•U  z^_«)_^r_^: 


-T 


give  me  then  fair  Can  -  a  -  da.      Aye,  she's  the  land  for   me. 
cres.  ^ 


3t^ 

give  me  then  fair  Can  -  a  •  da,      Aye,  she's  the  land  for   me. 


**  CANADA." 


27S 


$ 


^"=1 


:t 


3 


■L^L^i   I    r  ^ 


3.  Come      peace     or       war       a     •     mid        us       then.  We'll 


W=^ 


Bvtk. 


^  in  ,S  ^' 


join    the  rank  and     file 


If     war  must     be     we're    rea-dy,    men,  Con  - 


V 


i  r  r  r"n 


•    tent    with  peace  the       while ; 


/ 


{ 


eres. 


t 


Con    -    tent  with  peace    the       while. 


/ 


lUl  V6ioe»ln  nalaoQ  alnfflst  T^nA. 

'  r  J  ^  J'  '  '""^ 


^ 


Brave  men  and  tmelet'a  name    the  land  Where  tree  -  dom  loves     to    dwell Where 


«t  igt  rig:    TT  ■»- 


V   - 


a 


276 


"  CANADA." 


truth    and  hon  •  or    firm  -  ly     ttand,  Whocechil  -  dren  love  ber     welL 


cret. 


"  F  i:  1.  i'i  j 


;;i 


Can-ft-da!         Can-a*^!  Can<«-dal  Fair  land    to  broad  and  free; 


Oh  I 


eoUavoct. 


BepoMi  Obonm  ••  t>efbra 


BELFORD'S 
MOISTTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


FEBKUART,  1878. 


EOXY. 

BY  EDWARD  ECQLBSTON. 


278  ROXY. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

whittakeb's  ship  comes  in. 

I'OYERTY  is  always  superstitious,  if  we  may  believe  the  Bonhomme  m 

B^rauger,  and  Whittaker,  driven  to  and  fro  between  a  growing  love  for 
Eoxy  Adams  and  an  honest  sense  of  obligation  to  pay  for  his  education, 
had  one  superstition.  His  father  had,  four  years  before,  invested  all 
his  small  savings  in  a  whaling  vessel  sailing  out  of  the  port  of  New 
Bedford.  News  had  come  from  the  Arctic  seas  which  led  to  the  belief 
that  the  ship  was  lost.  Distress  at  the  loss  of  his  property,  with  the 
superadded  grief  of  losing  his  wife  soon  after,  had  caused  the  death  of 
Whittaker's  father.  But  the  son  had  never  been  quite  convinced  that 
the  **  Petrel "  had  eone  down.  And  now  he  even  dreamed  at  night  of 
the  "  Petrel,*'  weather-worn  but  richly  laden,  sailing  into  New  Bedford 
harbour  with  Boxy  on  her  prow,  while  he  stood  in  the  crowd  of  rejoic- 
ing stockholders,  anxious  friendis  of  sailors,  curious  idlers,  on  the  busy 
pier  watching  her  return.  But  the  "  Petrel "  never,  except  in  Whit- 
taker's,  float^  again  over  the  waters  of  Buzzard's  Bay.  He  hoped  in 
vain  for  his  dividend,  and  the  weary  wives  of  sailors  on  the  '*  Petrel  '* 
waited  in  vain  for  husbands  whose  graVe-stones  were  the  ice-bergs. 

But  if  the  **  Petrel "  did  not  come,  another  ship  did.  The  rich  and 
childless  deacon,  who  out  of  his  large  means  had  lent  young  Whittaker 
enough  to  IkAsh  his  education  for  the  ministry,  died,  and  remembering 
that  notes  and  bonds  could  not  add  to  his  comfort  in  heaven,  he  willed 
to  his  beneficiary  the  amount  of  his  debt  On  the  very  morning  of 
Twonnet's  fortune-telling,  Whittaker  had  gone  feverishly  to  the  village 
post-office^  in  the  back  part  of  a  dry-goods  store,  to  look  for  the  letter 
that  should  bring  him  news  of  the  *^  Petrel."  He  readily  paid  the 
thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  postage  on  a  letter  from  his  brother,  and 
opened  it  eagerly  to  read,  not  the  return  of  the  '*  Petrel,"  but  the  death 
of  Deacon  Borden  and  his  own  release  irom  bondage.  I  am  afraid  that 
his  joy  at  his  deliverance  from  debt  exceeded  his  sorrow  at  the  death 
of  his  benefactor.  He  would  now  cany  out  a  plan  which  he  had  lately 
conceived  of  starting  a  school,  for  there  was  no  good  one  in  the  village. 
The  two  hundred  doUars  a  year  which  this  would  bring,  added  to  his 
two  hundred  from  the  Home  Missionary  Society,  and  the  one  hundred 
salaiy  from  the  church,  would  be  ample  for  his  support  antd  that  of  a 
wife.    ' 

He  was  so  elated  that  he  could  not  quite  keep  his  secret  He  had 
gotten  into  a  habit  of  talking  rather  freely  to  Twonnet  Her  abundimt 
animal  spirits  were  a  relief  to  his  sobriety,  and  he  had  observed  that 
her  regard  for  him  was  kindly  and  disinterested.  So  with  his  letter  full 
of  news,  he  began  to  walk  the  upper  piazza,  waiting  for  the  blithe 
Twonnet  to  come  out,  for  she  had  returned  home  and  was  now,  as  she 
«  made  up"  the  beds,  singing  and  chatting  to  her  younger  sisters  hfldf 
in  French  and  half  in  Engli&L  In  circumstances  such  as  his,  one  ffmst 
talk  to  somebody.  Once  he  paused  in  his  pacing  to  and  fro  and  looked 
off  at  the  deep  green  of  the  Kentucky  hills,  overlaid  by  a  thin  blue  at- 
meq^eric  enamel ;  he  looked  through  the  grape-vines  which  over-clam- 
bered the  upper  piazza,  to  the  great^  peaceful  current  of  the  Ohio,  flow- 


ROXY.  279 

ing  steadily  in  a  majestic  stillness — a  placid  giant  is  that  river — he  lis- 
tened to  the  red-bird  in  a  neighbouring  cberry-tree  pouring  out  an  ecstasy 
of  amorous  song  to  bis  mate,  as  be  leaped  joyously  from  bough  to  bough  ; 
and  be,  the  grave,  severe  young  minister,  rejoiced  in  bills,  and  sky,  and 
river  and  sinking  birds,  half  reproaching  bunself  all  the  time  for  being 
so  happy,  and  feeling  like  a  good  boy  that,  under  some  influence  quite 
irresistible,  has  suddenly  played  truant 

Twonnet  was  long  in  appearing,  and  Mr.  Whittaker  resumed  his 
pacing  to  and  fro,  glancing  every  now  and  then  at  the  hills  and  the  river, 
and  listening  in  a  dreamy  way  to  the  delicious  melody  of  the  red-bird 
and  the  occasional  soft  cooing  of  a  turtle-dove,  whose  nest  was  in  an 
apple-tree  just  beyond  the  garden  fence.  At  last  Twonnet  came  out 
on  the  piazza— -or  porch,  as  they  call  it  in  Indiana — and  Whittaker  UAd 
her,  of  the  old  deacon,  and  then  of  his  own  good  fortune. 

<*  I'm  glad,"  said  Twonnet,  beginning  to  guess  what  had  kept  Whit- 
taker from  visiting  Boxy. 

'*  Glad  the  deacon's  dead  1 ''  queried  Whittaker,  smiling. 

**  I  do  not  know  your  friend  and  I  can't  be  very  sorry  for  him.  But 
I  do  know  you  and  I  am  glad,  since  he  must  die  that  he  was  good 
enough  to  give  you  your  debt  It  shows  he  was  prepared  to  go,  you 
see,  so  my  pleasure  is  quite  religious  and  rieht,"  and  she  laughed  roguish^. 
**  Besides,  you  don't  seem  heart-broken  about  it,  and— »-"  but  here  she 
checked  herself,  seeing  that  she  had  given  pain. 

'<  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  selfish,  said  Whittaker — all  the  gladness 
had  gone  now — **  but  you  don't  know  what  a  nightmare  this  debt  has 
been.  I  don't  wonder  thi^t  debt  makes  men  criminals — it  hardens  the 
heart" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Whittaker,  if  he  had  wanted  you  to  feel  sorry  when  he 
was  gone,  he  ought  to  have  given  you  the  money  while  he  was  alive," 
said  Twonnet,  lightly.  Then  she  started  away  but  looked  ba<dc  over 
her  shoulder  to  say  teasingly,  ^'  Now,  Mr.  Whittaker,  you'll  go  to  see 
somebody,  I'll  bet" 

"  Twonnet,"  he  called  after  her,  and  when  she  had  stopped  hd  asked : 
**  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  skould'nt  go  to  see  somebody ) " 

*'  Of  course  not  £very  reason  why  you  should  so  right  of^  You 
are  not  too  late,  but  you  will  be  if  you  wait"  *  This  last  was  said  with 
the  old  bantering  tone,  and  Whittaker  looked  after  her  as  she  disi4;>- 
peared,  saying  to  himself : 

"  A  splendid  girL     Pity  she  is  so  giddy." 

After  mature  reflection  lasting  fifteen  minutes,  he  decided  to  call  on 
Boxy  Adams  that  very  afternoon.  He  had  not  understood  Twonnet's 
warning,  but  some  J4>prehension  of  grave  disaster  to  his  new-bom  hope, 
and  the  nervousness  of  an  austere  man  who  has  not  found  duty  and 
inclination  coincident,  made  him  in  haste  to  forestall  any  misadventure. 
He  ate  but  little  dinner,  not  even  enjoying  his  favourite  dish  of  dande- 
lion greens  cooked  in  good  Swiss  fashion.  Mr.  Lefaure  watched  anx- 
iocwly  and  at  last  inquired  with  earnestness  : 

^*  Est-ce  qus  vous  ne  vcu9  portez  pas  bieriy  Monsieur  ?  " 

But  Whittaker  smiled  and  assured  the  host  that  he  was  well,  but  had 
no  appetite. 

Twonnet,  at  last,  solemnly  told  her  father  that  Mr.  Whittaker  had 
received  a  letter  that  very  morning  informing  him  of  the  death  of  an 


280 

old  friend,  and  this  informataon  tallied  so  liUle  with  the  expieadon  <m 
the  minister's  hee  that  Twonnet's  £uher  was  qoite  sospicioas  that  the 
girl  was  playing  one  of  her  little  |Mviks  on  him*  But  when  he  looked 
Whit 


again  at  Whittak^'s  face  it  was  serioas  enough. 

After  dinner  he  tried  to  get  ready  with  great  deliberation.  By  se- 
vere constraint  he  compelled  himsdi  to  move  slowly,  and  to  leave  the 
little  frt>nt  gate  of  palings,  painted  black  atop,  in  a  direction  opposite 
to  that  whidi  his  feet  longed  to  take. 

"  The  other  wa?/'  cried  the  mischievoos  voice  of  Twonnet,  from  be- 
hind a  honersQckle  which  she  affected  to  be  tying  np  to  its  trellis. 

"  Presently,"  replied  he,  finding  it  so  mnch  easier  not  to  keep  his 
secret,  and  pleased  with  Twonnet's  friendly  sympathy.  Bat  that  word, 
spoken  to  her  half  in  tenderness,  pierced  her  like  an  arrow.  A  sharp 
pang  of  jealousy  and  I  know  not  what,  shot  throng  her  heart  in  that 
moment ;  tbe  sunshine  vanished  from  her  hce.  She  had  accomplished 
her  purpose  in  sending  Mr.  Whittaker  to  Rozy,  and  now  her  achieve- 
ment suddenly  became  bitter  to  her.  She  ran  upstairs  and  closed  her 
door  and  let  down  the  blind  of  green  slats,  then  she  buried  her  head  in 
the  great  feather  pillows  and  cried  her  eyes  red.  She  felt  lonely  and 
forsuen  of  her  friends..    She  was  mad  wiUi  the  minister  and  with  Kozy. 

But  Whittaker  walked  away  in  the  sunlight,  friU  of  hope  and  hi^pi- 
ness. 


CHAPTER  Xni! . 

A  WEATHBB^BBXBDER. 

Peeps  into  the  friture  are  depressing.  Twonnet's  gypsy-ffift  did  not 
raise  Boxys  spirits.  By  means  of  divination  she  had  suddenly  found, 
not  exactly  that  she  was  in  love  with  Mark,  but  that  she  was  in  a  fair 
wav  to  love  him.  It  was  painfril,  too,  to  know  that  all  the  joy  she  had 
had  in  talking  with  Bonamy  was  not  as  she  had  thought  it,  purely  re- 
ligious and  ^interested.  Her  sensitive  conscience  uiuddered  at  the 
thought  of  self-deception,'  and  she  had  been  in  this  case  both  deceiver 
and  dupe.  She  had  little  belief  in  Twonnet's  gift  of  prophecy  but  much 
in  her  shrewd  insight  Was  it  true,  then,  that  the  great,  brilliant  and 
self-sacrificing  Man:  loved  her  ?  This  thought  would  have  been  enough 
to  plunffe  her  into  doubt  and  questionings.  But  Twonnet's  evident  &- 
trust  of  her  hero  vexed  and  perturbed  her.  And  then  to  have  her 
other  hero  suddenly  thrown  into  the  opposite  scale,  drove  her  into  a 
tangle  of  complex  feelings.  How  did  Twonnet  know  anjrthing  about 
Mr.  Whittaker's  feeling  towards  her  ?  Was  it  likely  that  he  would  want 
to  marry  a  Methodist  t 

Alas !  just  when  her  life  was  flowing  so  smoothly,  and  she  seemed  to 
be  able  to  be  useful,  the  whole  stream  was  suddenly  perturbed  by  cross- 
currents and  eddies,  and  she  was  thrown  into  doubts  innumerable. 
Prayer  did  not  seem  to  do  any  ffood ;  her  thoughts  were  so  distracted 
that  devotion  was  impossible.  This  distraction  and  depression  seemed 
to  her  the  hiding  of  the  Lord's  face.  She  wrote  in  her  diaiy  on  that 
day:    . 


ROXY.  281 

<  <  1  am  walking  iu  great  darkness.  1  have  oommitted  some  sin  and  the  Lord 
has  withdrawn  mm  me  the  light  of  his  countenance.  I  try  to  pray,  but  my 
thoughts  wander.  I  fear  I  have  set  my  heart  on  earthly  things.  What  a 
sinner  I  am.  Oh  Lord  !  have  mercy  !  Leave  me  not  in  my  distress.  Show 
me  the  right  way,  and  lead  me  in  paths  of  righteousness  for  thy  name's 
sake.'' 

The  coming  of  Whittaker  that  afternoon  added  to  her  bewilderment 
She  did  her  best  to  receive  him  with  composure  and  cordiality,  but 
Twonnet's  prophecy  had  so  impressed  her  beforehand  with  the  purpose 
of  his  visit,  that  she  looked  on  him  firom  the  first  in  doubt,  indecision 
and  despair.  And  yet  her  woman's  heart  went  out  towards  him  as  he 
sat  there  before  her,  gentle,  manly,  unselfish  and  refined.  It  was  clear 
to  her  then  that  she  could  love  him.  But  thoughts  of  Mark  Bonamy 
and  his  mission  intruded.     Had  Whittaker  come  a  week  or  two  earlier  ! 

While  the  minister  talked.  Boxy  could  not  control  her  fingers  at  her 
knitting,  fler  hands  trembled  and  refused  to  make  those  motions 
which  long  since  had  become  so  habitual  as  to  be  almost  involuntary. 

There  was  one- relief ;  Bobo  sat  alongside  of  her  and  the  poor  fellow 
grew  uneasy  as  he  discovered  her  agitation.  She  let  fall  her  knitting 
and  pushed  the  hair  from  the  boy's  enquiring  face,  lavishing  on  him  the 
pity  she  had  felt  for  her  suitor,  speaking  carressing  words  to  him,  wiiich 
he  caught  up  and  repeated  like  an  echo  in  the  tones  of  tenderness 
which  she  used.  Whittaker  envied  the  perpetual  child  these  caresses 
and  the  pitying  love  which  Roxy  gave  him.  Boxy  was  much  moved  by 
Whittaker's  emotion.  Her  pitiful  heart  longed  not  so  much  to  love  him 
for  her  own  sake  as  to  comfort  him  for  his  sake.  Some  element  of  com- 
passion must  needs  have  been  mingled  with  the  highest  love  of  which 
she  was  capable. 

The  minister  came  to  the  love-making  rather  abruptly.  He  praised 
her,  and  Ms  praises  were  grateful  to  her,  he  avowed  his  love,  and  love 
was  very  sweet  to  her,  but  it  was  when,  having  exhausted  his  praises 
and  his  declarations,  he  leaned  forward  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  said, 
"  Only  love  me,  Boxy,  if  you  can,"  that  she  was  deeply  moved.  She 
ceased  her  caresses  of  the  boy,  and  looked  out  of  the  window  in  silence, 
as  though  she  would  fain  have  found  something  there  that  might  show 
her  a  way  out  of  her  perplexities  into  which  her  life  had  come.  Bobo, 
in  whose  mind  there  was  always  an  echo,  caught  at  the  last  words,  and 
imitating  the  very  tone  of  the  minister,  pleaded : 

"  Only  love  me,  Boxy,  if  you  can." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  girl's  pent-up  emotions,  she  caught  the 
lad  and  pressed  him  in  her  arms  eagerly,  saying  or  sobbing  : 

"  Tes,  I  will  love  you.  Bo,  Grod  bless  you  ! " 

She  had  no  sooner  relaxed  her  hold  than  the  minister,  in  whose  eyes 
were  tears,  put  his  arm  about  the  simple  lad  and  embraced  him  also, 
much  to  the  boy's  delight.  This  act,  almost  involuntary  as  it  was, 
touched  Boxy's  very  heart.  She  was  ready  in  that  moment  to  have 
given  herself  to  thd  good  man. 

But  again  she  looked  out  of  the  window,  straining  her  eyes  in  that 
blind,  instinctive,  searching  stare,  to  which  we  are  all  prone  in  time  of 
perplexity.  There  was  nothing  without  but  some  pea  vines,  climbing 
and  blossoming  on  the  brush  which  supported  them,  a  square  bed  of 
lettuce  and  a  hop-vine  clambering  in  bewildering  luxuriance  over  the 


282  ROXY. 

rail  fence.  The  peaceful  hen  mother,  troubled  by  no  doubts  or  scruples, 
scratched  diligently  in  the  soft  earth,  ducking  out  her  content  with  a 
world  in  which  there  were  plenty  of  angle  worms  and  seeming  ux  her 
placidity  to  mock  at  Eozy's  perturbation.  Why  should  all  these  dumb 
creatures  be  so  full  of  peace  ?  Eoxy  had  not  learned  that  internal  4xm> 
flicts  are  the  heritage  of  superiority.  It  is  so  easy  for  small-headed  stu* 
pidity  to  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow. 

But  all  that  Roxy,  with  her  staring  out  of  the  window,  oould  see 
was  that  she  could  not  see  anjrthing  at  alL 

^'Will  you  tell  me,  Miss  Adiois,"  asked  the  minister,  presently, 
**  whether  I  am  treading  where  I  ought  not — wheth^  you  are  engaged  ?  " 

**  No,  I  am  not"  Boxy  was  a  little  startled  at  his  addressing  her  as 
^*  Miss  Adams."  For  in  a  western  village  the  Christian  name  is  quite 
the  common  form  of  speech  to  a  young  person. 

There  was  another  long  silence,  during  which  Boxy  again  enquired  of 
the  idle-looking  pea-vines,  and  the  placid  hen,  and  the  great,  green  hop 
vine  clambering  ovw  the  fence.    Then  she  summoned  courage  to  speak  :  . 

"  Please,  Mr.  Whittaker,  give  me  time  to  think— to  think  and  prav 
for  light    Will  you  wait — wait  a  week — or  so  ?  I  cannot  see  my  way. 

^*  I  cannot  see  my  way,"  put  in  Bobo,  pathetically. 

«  Certainly,  Roxy.    Good-bye ! " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  he  pressed  it,  but  without  looking  at  her  face, 
put  on  his  hat,  and  shook  hands  with  little  Bobo,  whose  sweet  infantile 
fiice  looked  after  him  wistfully. 

He  was  gone  and  Roxy  sighed  with  relief.  But  she  had  only  post- 
poned the  decision. 

'  The  minister,  who  had  carried  away  much  hope,  met  Mr.  Adams  in 
the  street,  and  partly  because  he  felt  friendly  towards  everybody  and 
toward  all  connected  with  Roxy  in  particular,  he  stopped  to  talk  with 
him ;  and  he  in  turn  was  in  one  of  his  most  contrary  moods,  and  took 
pains  to  disagree  with  the  preacher  about  everything. 

"  It  is  a  b^utiful  day,"  said  Whittaker  at  last,  as  he  was  sajdng  good- 
bye, resolved  perhaps  to  say  one  thing  which  his  friend  could  not  con- 
trovert. 

**  Yes,  nice  day,"  growled  Adams,"  **  but  a  weather-breeder." 

This  contradictoriness  in  the  shoemaker  took  all  the  hopefulness  out 
of  Whittaker.  The  last  words  seemed  ominous.  He  returned  home 
dejected,  and  when  Twonnet  essayed  to  cheer  him  and  give  him  an 
opportunity  for  conversation  by  saying  that  it  was  a  beautiful  day,  he 
startled  himself  by  replying,  with  a  si^  : 

"Yes,  but  a  weather-breeder. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CARPET  RAGS  AND  RIBBONS. 


"  It  seems  to  me " 

It  was  Mrs.  Henrietta  Hanks  speaking  to  her  faithful  Jemima  on  the 
day  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  previous  chapter  of  this  story. 
Jemima  and  her  mistress  were  cutting  up  all  manner  of  old  garments 


1 


BOXY.  288 

tmd  sewing  them  into  carpet  rags,  while  Bonaparte  Hanks,  whose 
Bane  is  better  known  to  our  readers  in  its  foreshortened  form  as  Bobo, 
was  rolling  the  yellow  balls  of  carpet-rags  across  the  floor  after  the 
bkck  ones,  and  clapping  his  hands  in  a  silly  delight,  which  was  in 
strange  contrast  to  its  erowing  bulk. 

^'  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Hanks,  **  that  Mark  and  Boxy  will  make 
A  nateh  of  it" 

''Umph,"  said  Jemima.  She  did  not  say  <'umph," — nobody  says 
that ;  but  she  gave  forth  one  of  those  guttund  utterances  which  are  not 
pat  down  in  the  dictionary.  The  art  of  alphabetic  writing  finds  itself 
quite  unequal  to  the  task  of  grappling  with  such  words,  and  so  we  write 
otiiers  which  nobody  ever  uses,  such  as  umpA  and  eh  and  ugh,  as  alge- 
briac  signs  to  represent  the  unknown  quantity  of  an  expressive  and  per- 
haps unique  objurgation.  Wherefore,  let  "  umph,"  which  Jemima  did 
not  say,  equal  l£e  intractable,  undefinable,  not-to-be  spelled  word 
which  she  did  use.  And  that  undefinable  word  was  in  its  turn  an 
algebraic  symbol  for  a  whole  sentence,  a  formula  for  general,  eon- 
tem^uons,  and  indescribable  dissent. 

'^  He  goes  there  a  good  deal,''  replied  Mrs  Hanks,  a  little  subdued  by 
Jemima  s  mysterious  grunt. 

''I  thought  he'd  made  a  burnt  sackerfice  of  hisself  and  laid  all  on  the 
altar,  and  was  agoin'  off  to  missionate  among  the  Texicans,*'  said  Jemi- 
ma, prudently  reserving  her  heavier  shot  to  the  last,  and  bent  on  teas- 
ing her  opponent." 

"  Well,  I  don't  imagine  that'll  come  to  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Hanks. 
**  Youn^  Christians  in  their  first  love,  you  know,  always  want  to  be 
better  than  they  ought,  and  I  don't  think  Mark  ought  to  throw  away 
his  great  opportunities.  Think  how  much  good  he  might  do  in  Oon- 
gresa ;  and  then,  you  know,  a  Christian  congressman  is  such  an  orna- 
ment— ^to — the  church." 

*'  And  to  all  his  wife's  relations  besides,"  chuckled  the  wicked  Jemi- 
ma. "  But  for  my  part,  I  don't  'low  he's  more'n  a  twenty  'leventh  part 
as  good  as  Boxy.  She's  jam  up  all  the  time,  and  he's  good  by  speUs 
and  in  streaks — one  of  the  fitty  and  jerky  kind." 

''Jemima,  you  oughtn't  to  talk  that  way."  Mrs.  Hanks  always  pitted 
her  anger  and  her  slender  authority  against  Jemima's  rude  wit.  '*  You 
don't  know  but  Mark  '11  come  to  be  my  nephew,  and  you  ought  to  have 
more  respect  for  my  feelings." 

" They  haint  no  immegiate  danger  of  that"  answered  Jemima  with 
emphasis.  He  may  come  to  be  your  nephew  to  be  sure,  and  the  worl'  may 
stop  off  short  all  to  wunst  and  come  to  an  end  by  Christmas.  But 
neither  on  'em's  likely  enough  to  make  it  wuth  while  lajdn'  awake  to 
think  about  it" 

"  How  do  you  know  1 " 

"  Well,  I  went  over  arter  Bobo  yesterday  evenin',*  and  what  d'ye 
think  I  see  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hanks  did  not  inquire,  so  Jemima  was  obliged  to  proceed  on  her 
own  account. 

"  I  see  Mr.  Whittaker  a-coming  out  of  the  house,  with  his  face  all  in 
ik  Jlctsh,  like  as  ef  he'd  been  a  talkin'  sumpin'  pertikular,  and   he  spoke 

*  *'  Evening,"  in  the  Ohio  valley  and  in  the  South,  is  used  in  its  primary  sens  s  of  the 
later  afternoon,  not  as  in  the  eastern  states,  to  signify  the  time  just  after  dark. 


284  ROXY. 

to  me  kinder  shaky  aud  trimblin'  like.  And  when  I  came  in,  I  see 
Koxy's  face  a  sort  of  red  and  white  in  spots,  and  her  eyes  lookin'  down 
and  to  one  sides,  and  anywheres  but  straight, — ^kinder  wander'n  roan' 
onsartain,  like's  ef  she  was  afeard  you'd  look  into  'em  and  see  sompin 
you  hadn't  orter." 

"  Well,  I  do  declare  ! "  Whenever  Mrs.  Hanks  found  herself  entirely 
at  a  loss  for  words  and  ideas  she  proceded  after  this  formula  to  deeUvre. 
She  always  declared  that  she  did  declare,  but  never  declared  what  she 
declared. 

*'  Well,  I  do  declare  !  "  she  proceeded  after  a  pause.  "  Jemimy  Dum- 
bleton,  if  that  don't  beat  the  Dutch  !  for  you  to  go  prying  into  people's 
houses,  and  peeping  into  their  eyes  and  guessing  their  secrets,  and  then 
to  run  around  tatthng  them  all  over  town  to  everybody,  and " 

But  the  rest  of  this  homily  will  never  be  known,  for  at  this  critical 
moment  the  lad  with  the  ambitious  name,  who  was  eng^ed  in  develop- 
ing his  military  genius  by  firing  carpet-rag  cannon-balls  in  various  direc- 
tions and  watching  their  rebound,  made  a  shot  which  closed  the  squab- 
ble between  Mrs.  Hanks  and  her  help.  He  bowled  a  bright  red  ball — 
relic  of  an  old  flannel  shirtr— through  the  middle  of  a  screen  which 
covered  the  fire-place  in  the  summer.  When  he  heard  the  cmshing  of 
the  ball  through  the  paper  he  set  up  a  shout  of  triumph,  clapping  his 
hands  together,  but  when  he  saw  that  his  missile  did  not  come  back  from 
its  hiding-place,  he  stood  looking  in  stupefied  curiosity  at  the  screen,  the 
paper  of  which  had  almost  closed  over  the  rent.  He  was  quite  unable 
to  account  for  the  sudden  and  total  eclipse  of  his  red  ball. 

Mrs.  Hanks  saw  with  terror  the  screen,  which  had  cost  the  unskilled 
hands  of  herself  and  Jemima  two  or  three  hours  of  cutting  and  plan- 
ning and  pasting,  destroyed  at  a  blow.  Mischief  done  by  responsible 
hands  has  this  compensation,  that  one  has  the  great  relief  of  scolding, 
but  one  would  as  well  scold  the  wind  as  to  rebuke  so  irresponsible  an 
agent  as  Bobo.  Mrs.  Hanks  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  shook  him, 
then  ran  to  the  screen  and  put  her  hands  behind  it,  holding  the  pieces 
in  place  as  one  is  prone  to  do  in  such  a  case.  It  is  the  vague,  instinc 
tive  expression  of  the  wish  that  by  some  magic  the  injury  might  be  re- 
called. Then  she  looked  at  her  late  antagonist,  Jemima,  for  sympathy, 
and  then  she  looked  at  the  rent  and  uttered  that  unspellable  interjection 
made  by  resting  the  tongue  against  the  roof  of  the  mouth  and  suddenly 
withdrawing  it  explosively.  One  writes  it  "  tut  —tut — tut,"  but  that  is 
not  it  at  all. 

Bobo  fretted  a  little,  as  he  generally  did  after  being  shaken  up  in  this 
way,  but  having  recovered  his  red  ball,  he  was  on  the  point  of  dashing 
it  through  the  screen  again,  when  his  mother  prudently  took  it  away 
from  him,  put  on  his  cap,  led  him  to  the  door  and  said : 

"  Go  to  Roxy." 

"  Gro  to  Eoxy  1"  cried  the  little  fellow,  starting  down  the  path,  re- 
peating the  words  over  and  over  to  himself  as  he  went,  as  though  he 
found  it  needful  to  revive  instantly  his  feeble  memory  of  its  destination. 

Having  thus  comfortably  shed  her  maternal  responsibilities,  Mrs. 
Hanks  proceeded  to  shed  the  carpet-rags  also,  by  arraying  herself  to  ko 
out.     This  was  a  very  simple  matter,  even  for  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
principal  men  in  the  town,  for  in  those  good  old  days  of  simplicity 
nothing  more  elaborate  than  a  calico  dress  and  sun-bonnet  was  needed 


I  ROXY.  285 

to  outfit  a  lady  for  minor  shopping.    Mrs.  Hank's  sun-bonnet  was  soon 

adjusted,  and  she  gave  Jemima  a  farewell  look,  expressive  of  her  honor  of 

I  gossiping  propensities,  and  then  proceeded  to  where  the  tin  sign  beside 

!  the  door  read,  **  Miss  Moore,  Millinery  and  Mantua-maker,"  for  the  pur- 

^  pose  of  verifying  Jemima's  report. 

Miss  Moore  was  all  attention.  She  showed  Mrs.  Hanks  the  latest 
novelty  in  scoop-shovel  bonnets  which  she  had  just  brought  from  Cin- 
cinnati, got  out  her  box  of  ribbons  and  set  it  on  the  table,  and  assented 
to  ev^nrthing  Mrs.  Hanks  said  with  her  set  formula  of  "  very  likely, 
Mrs.  Hanks,  very  likely." 

MIbs  Moore  was  not  at  all  the  conventional  old  maid.  She  was  one  of 
the  mild  kind,  whose  failure  to  marry  came  neither  firom  flirting  nor 
from  a  repellent  temper,  nor  from  mere  chance,  but,  if  it  is  needful  to 
account  for  it  at  all,  from  her  extreme  docility.  A  woman  who  says 
"  indeed  "  and  "  very  likely  "  to  everything,  is  very  flavourless.  Adams 
had  concluded  to  marry  her  now,  perhaps,  because  he  liked  paradoxes 
and  because  MLbs  Moore  with  her  ready  assent  would  be  the  sharpest 
possible  contrast  to  his  contradictoriness.  Then,  too,  she  was  the  only 
person  he  could  think  of  with  whom  he  could  live  without  quarreling.. 
She  never  disputed  anything  he  said,  no  matter  how  outrageous.  He 
experimented  on  her  one  day  by  proving  to  her,  conclusively,  that  poly- 
gamy was  best  and  according  to  Scripture,  and  when  he  had  done  and 
looked  to  see  her  angry,  she  smiled  and  said,  "  Very  likely — very  likely, 
^  indeed." 

\  Now  that  the  long-becalmed  bark  of  Miss  Moore  was  about  to  sail 

into  the  looked-for  haven,  she  set  all  her  pennons  flying.  This  call  from 
Mrs.  Hanks,  who  was  the  sister  of  the  first  Mrs.  Adams,  seemed  to  her 
very  significant.  She  became  more  complacent  than  ever  before.  If  Mrs. 
Hanks  thought  the  orange  ribbon  a  little  too  bright.  Miss  Moore  said,. 
**  very  likely,  indeed."  If  Mrs.|Hank8  thought  the  blue  ribbon  just  the 
thing.  Miss  Moore  was  again  impressed  and  said, ''  very  likely."  But 
when  Mrs.  Hanks  said  that  on  the  whole  the  blue  would  not  do.  Miss 
Moore  thought  so,  too. 

At  last  Mrs.  Hanks  pushed  back  her  sun-bonnet,  fingered  the  roUs  of 
ribbon  absently,  and  approached  the  point  of  attack. 

"  Well,  Miss  Moore^  they  do  say  you're  not  going  to  be  Miss  Moore 
always." 

The  milliner  smiled  and  blushed  and  bridled  a  little,  and  then  gave^ 
way  and  tittered.     For  when  a  woman's  courtship  comes  late,  the  omitted 
emotions  of  her  girlhood  are  all  interpolated  farther  on,  and  it  is  no- 
affectation  for  her  to  act  like  a  young  girl.     Young  girl  she  is  in  all  the 
fluttering  emotions  of  a  young  girl.    Only  the  fluttering  does  not  seem 
to  us  so  pretty  and  fitting  as  it  might  have  been  twenty  years  earlier. 
"  Well,  suppose  Roxy  wont  trouble  you  long," 
Miss  Moore  looked  mysterious. 
'  "  Very  likely,  indeed,"  she  replied,  and  then  added  with  a  blush, 

"  I've  heard  she  has  a  beau."  Miss  Moore  had  heard  only  of  Mark's 
attentions,  but  the  suspicious  Mrs.  Hanks  was  now  on  the  track  of  Whit- 
taker. 

"  Mr.  Whittaker  ? "  she  queried. 

"  Very  likely."  This  was  said  partly  from  habit  and  partly  to  cover 
her  real  surprise  at  hearing  the  name  of  Whittaker.  But  this  mechani- 
cal assent  did  not  satisfy  the  inquisitive  lady. 


286  BOXT. 

**  Now  do  T<m  know  aDything  about  it,  Ifias  Moore  I  Dont  8$sy 
^  very  likelj '  bat  tell  me  plainly. 

MiM  Moore  iras  cornered.  8Uie  did  not  want  to  teD  a  He,  for  MiM 
Moore  waa  a«  tmthfdl  a«  a  person  of  her  mild  temper  coold  be.  Bat 
she  waa  very  loth  to  confess  her  ignorance  and  thas  loae  something  of 
iier  importance  in  Uie  eyes  of  Mrs.  Hanks. 

^  Well,  beinc^s  it's  yon,  Mrs.  Hanks— being's  if  s  yoa  " — liGas  Moore 
spoke  as  thongh  she  were  going  to  sell  a  bonnet  under  price— ^  I  don't 
mind  telling  jfou  tiie  plain  truth  without  any  double-and-twisting.  I  tell 
you  plainly  *t  I  shoiUdn't  be  surprised  'f  there  was  $omeMng  in  ^lat^ 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it.    Very  likely,  indeed." 

With  this  Mrs.  Hanks  had  to  be  content,  for  to  all  further  inquiries 
Miss  Moore  returned  only  her  stereotyped  assent- 

At  hist  Mrs.  Hanks  turned  away  from  the  ribbons  without  buyiiq;, 
4md  said : 

''  Well,  I  must  be  Koing." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Auiss  Moore  from  sheer  habit  And  then,  too^ 
she  was  turning  over  in  her  mind  the  intelligence  Bfrs.  Hanks  had  given 
her,  and  what  a  nice  morsel  it  would  be  to  tell  tiie  wife  of  the  ruling 
-elder  in  Mr.  Whittaker's  church. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


MABK*8  MISSION. 


^*  You  don't  say  so."  It  was  Sheriff  Lathers  who  spoke,  as  he  did  so, 
putting  his  boots  up  on  the  mantel-piece,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and 
spitting  in  the  fire-place — expectorating  by  way  of  facilitating  the  ex- 
pression of  his  ideas.  He  never  could  say  anything  of  great  importance 
without  stopping  to  spit,  and  his  little  clique  of  hangers-on  knew  ^lat 
when  Major  Tom  Lathers  thus  loosened  his  mental  machinery  he  was 
about  to  say  something  quite  oracular.  It  was  the  signal  for  general 
silence  aod  intense  attention  on  the  part  of  the  bottle-nosed  deputy  and 
other  interested  disciples  of  the  eminent  and  astute  political  philosopher, 
whose  misfortune  it  was  that  he  must  repose  his  boots  on  the  popular 
mantel-piece  in  the  sheriff's  office  in  Luzerne,  rather  than  on  the  so&s 
in  the  United  States  Senate  Chamber,  for  which  last  position  of  repose 
nature  had  clearly  intended  him.  But  while  I  have  thus  digressed,  the 
philosopher  has  run  his  sharp  grey  eyes  in  a  scrutinizing  way  around 
the  circle  of  loafers,  has  rammed  his  fists  into  his  pockets,  com^gated  his 
intellectual  brow,  resumed  his  meditative  stare  at  the  fire-place,  in  which 
there  are  the  charred  relics  of  the  last  fire  it  contained,  destined  to  re- 
main until  the  next  fire  shall  be  lighted  in  the  fall.  And  now  he  is 
ready  to  speak. 

"  Well,  rll  be  swinged  I  **  Here  he  paused.  Pauses  of  this  sort  whet 
people's  appetites.  He  looked  about  him  once  more  to  be  sure  that  he 
had  now  fairly  arrested  the  whole-hearted  attention  of  his  devout  fol- 
lowers. 

"  I  didn't  believe  on  ways,  as  Mark  Bonamy  would  so,  and  he  wouldn't 
a  gtme  a  step  ef  the  ole   man  hadn't  a  threatened.     Mark's  one  of  this 


1 


EOIY. 


287 


'ew  kind :  you  can  coax  him  and  tole  him  with  a  yer  of  corn,  but  jist 
try  to  drive  him  and  he  wont.  '  Git  up/  says  you,  *  I  won't,'  says  he  ; 
*Git  up  there,'  says  you,  *  Fll  be  dogged  ef  I  do,'  says  he,  and  lets  his 
heels  nj  and  you  keel  over  backward.  I  tried  drivin'  and  tolin'  last 
summer  uul  hi6  kicked  up  every  time  I  tried  the  spurs  onto  him.  But 
he's  coin'  to  Texas  shore  enough,  they  say.  That'll  wear  out  soon  and 
he'll  be  back  here,  like  the  procu^  son,  eatin'  swine's  flesh  with  the  rest 
of  us." 

Here  he  gave  a  knowing  look  at  each  of  his  auditors  and  received  a 
significant  blink  in  return. 

Just  at  this  point  Mark  Bonamy  himself  came  in  to  attend  to  some 
business  with  tne  sheriff's  deputy. 

"  Good-morning,  Major,"  he  said,  half-conscious  at  once  that  he  had 
interrupted  some  conversation  about  himself. 

«  Howdy,  Mark  1    Goin'  to  Texas,  shore  as  shootin',  so  they  say  % " 

"  Yes."  This  with  some  hesitation,  as  of  a  man  who  would  fain 
make  an  avowal  with  reserve  lest  he  should  want  to  creep  out  of  it. 

"  WeU,  Mali,"  here  Lathers  paused,  placed  his  feet  on  the  mantle- 
(nece  again  and  again  performed  the  preliminary  rite  of  expectoration, 
"  I  do  say  that  they  aint  many  folks  that  gives  up  more'n  you  do  in 
goin'  away  on  a  fool  mission  to  convert  the  heathen.  Now,  Mark,  it 
mayn't  be  a  bad  move  after  all  Texas  is  a  small  republic,  and  you 
may  come  to  be  president  there,  like  Joseph  did  in  the  land  of  Canaan. 
Hey  ?  And  Texas  may  be  hitched  on  behind  Uncle  Sam's  steamboat 
some  day  as  a  sort  of  yawl.  In  which  case  look  out  for  Mark  Bonamy, 
United  States  Senator.  It's  better  to  be  capt'in  of  a  yawl  than  deck- 
hand on  board  the  'Greneral  Pike.'  I  don't  know  whether  you're  eudi 
a  fool  after  alL  Joseph  didn't  go  down  into  Egypt  for  noUiing.  He 
tad  his  eye  on  the  com." 

Here  Lathers  winked  at -the  deputy's  luminous  nose,  and  then  looked 
seriously  at  Bonamy.  Somehow  Mark,  at  this  moment,  felt  ashamed  of 
his  mission,  and  was  quite  willing  to  have  Lathers  impute  to  him  in- 
terested designs  rather  than  to  appear  to  the  eyes  of  that  elevated  moral 
philosopher  a  man  who  was  somewhat  disinterested  and  therefore  a  fooL 
The  real  chameleon  is  a  sensitive  vanity,  prone  to  change  color  with 
every  change  of  surrounding. 

Mark  Bonamy  was  not  yet  a  licensed  preacher,  nor  even  an  exhorter, 
for  his  probation  of  six  months  had  not  expired.  He  exhorted  in  meet- 
ing by  general  consent,  but  as  a  layman.  A  glowing  account  of  his 
abilities  and  of  his  missionary  enthusiasm  had  been  sent  to  Bishop  Hed- 
ding,  who  immediately  booked  him  in  his  mind  as  suited  to  some  dan- 
gerous aud  difficult  rdle  ;  for  Hedding  looked  on  men  as  a  chess-player 
does  upon  his  pieces,  he  weighed  well  the  difference  between  a  knight 
and  a  rook,  and  especially  between  a  piece  with  great  powers  and  a 
mere  pawn.  The  death  of  Dr.  Martin  Kuter  had  weakened  the  Texan 
mission.  In  Mark,  as  described  to  him,  he  saw  a  man  of  force  who 
might  in  time  prove  of  the  utmost  value  to  the  church  in  that  new  re- 
public So  he  wrote  to  Mark,  asking  if  he  would  proceed  in  the  autumn 
to  Texas  and  take  a  place  as  second  man  on  a  circuit  of  some  five  hun- 
dred miles  around)  with  forty-seven  preaching-places.  The  letter  came 
at  the  right  moment,  for  Bonamy  had  just  returned  from  the  great 
camp-meeting  in  Moore's  Woods,  with  all  his  religious  enthusiasm  and 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AFTER  THE  MEETING. 


On  the  Wednesday  evening  following  Mark's  reception  of  his  call  to  go 
to  Texas  and  his  talk  with  Lathers,  he  would  fain  see  Boxy.  It  was 
the  evening  of  the  prayer-meeting,  and  if  he  had  heen  prone  to  neglect 
it,  he  would  have  found  Hoxy  nowhere  else.  But  he  had  no  inclination 
in  his  present  state  of  feeling  to  go  away  from  the  meeting. 


288  ROXY. 

missionary  zeal  at  white  heat.  He  had  renewed  for  the  tenth  time  in 
six  months  his  solemn  consecration  of  himself  to  some  great  work,  had 
made  a  public  and  penitent  confession  of  his  backslidings,  and  resolved 
to  grow  cold  no  more.  And  of  all  his  spiritual  leaders  none  were  wise 
enough  to  know  and  point  out  to  him  that  this  keying  himself  higher  "^ 
than  his  impulsive  nature  would  bear,  was  one  of  his  chief  perils.  Re- 
actions were  inevitable  while  he  continued  to  be  Mark  Bonamy. 

But  while  he  was  thus,  as  Cartwright  would  have  said,  ''  under  a 
shouting  latitude,"  there  came  the  letter  from  the  great  bishop  like  the 
voice  of  God  telling  him  to  leave  his  father's  house,  and  to  get  him  out 
into  the  wilderness  to  seek  the  lost  sheep.  Many  a  man  gets  committed 
to  some  high  and  heroic  course  in  his  best  moment,  often  wondering 
afterward  by  what  inspiration  he  was  thus  raised  above  himself.  Happy 
is  he  whose  opportunity  of  decision  finds  him  at  high-water  mark. 
Happy,  if  he  have  stability  enough  to  stand  by  his  decision  after  it  is 
made. 

Mark  was  not  without  debate  and  hesitation.  He  might  even  now 
have  faltered  but  for  two  things.  The  influence  of  Roxy  and  of  his 
father  alike  impelled  him  to  accept.  As  soon  as  the  word  came  to  Col- 
onel Bonamy  that  Mark  had  received  such  a  letter,  he  did  his  best,  un- 
wittingly, to  confirm  him  in  his  purpose  by  threatening  him  again  with 
.  disinheritance.  It  only  needed  to  awaken  the  son's  combativeness  to 
give  his  resolution  strength  and  consistency.  Even  the  religious  devo- 
tion of  a  martyr  may  gain  tone  from  inborn  oppugnancy. 

Then  there  was  the  influence  of  Roxy.  Her  relation  to  Mark  was 
only  that  of  a  confidential  religious  friend.  He  had  had  occasion  to 
consult  her  rather  frequently,  sometimes  when  meeting  her  on  the  street, 
sometimes  calling  at  her  house.  But  how  often  does  one  have  to  re- 
mark that  mere  fnendship  between  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  is 
quite  impossible  for  any  considerable  time.  There  is  no  King  Knud 
who  can  say  to  the  tide  of  human  affection,  '*  thus  far  and  no  farther." 
Mark's  love  for  Roxy  had  ceased  to  be  Platonic — he  was  not  quite 
Plato.  But  how  should  he  even  confess  to  himself  what  he  loved  Roxy. 
For  loving  Roxy  and  going  on  a  mission  to  the  Brazos  River  were  quite 
inconsistent.  A  man  was  not  supposed  to  want  a  wife  to  help  him  fight 
Indians,  rattlesnakes,  Mexican  desperadoes  and  starvation.  And  to 
give  up  the  mission  for  Roxy's  sake  would  have  heen  to  give  up  Roxy 
also.  He  knew  dimly  that  it  was  only  in  the  light  of  a  self-samficing 
hero  that  she  admired  him.  Perhaps  he  unconsciously  recognized  also 
that  this  admiration  of  him  on  her  part  had  served  to  keep  las  purpose 
alive. 


ROXY.  289 

The  brethren  had  heard  of  the  call  to  the  missioD,  and  most  touching 
prayers  were  offered  for  his  welfare  and  success.  Mark  himself  prayed 
with  deep  and  genuine  pathos.  Toward  the  last  the  minister  called  on 
Roxy  to  pray,  and  she  who  had  been  born  full  of  the  missionary  spirit, 
who  would  have  rejoiced  to  lay  down  her  life  for  the  lost  sheep  in  the 
wilderness,  who  had  been  the  source  of  most  of  Mark's  inspiration,  be^ 
gan  to  pray,  not  with  her  accustomed  directness  and  fervour,  but  with  a 
faltering  voice.  Twonnet's  fortune-telling  had  awakened  in  Roxy  a 
sense  of  the  strength  of  her  own  feeling  for  Mark,  and  with  this  came  a 
maidenly  delicacy.  She  faltered,  hesitated,  picked  her  words,  prayed 
in  platitudes,  until  at  last,  after  mentioning  Mark  only  in  the  most 
general  way,  she  proceeded  to  pray  for  those  to  whom  he  was  sent  All 
the  force  of  her  strong  nature  found  utterance  in  the  cry  of  the  lost,  and 
when  she  ceased  everybody  was  weeping.  And  when  the  brethren  and 
sisters  rose  from  their  knees,  the  old  schoolmaster  in  the  amen  comer 
started  to  sing  : 

"  From  Greenland's  icy  mountainB ;  * 

and  as  everybody  sang  it  with  feeling,  Mark  felt  ashamed  that  he  should 
ever  have  thought  of  any  other  life  than  that  of  a  missionaiy.  It  were 
better  to  die  of  malarial  fever  among  the  rowdies  and  rattlesnakes  of  the 
Brazos  Eiver,  than  to  live  a  thousnnd  years  in  ease  and  plenty.  And 
when  at  the  close  of  the  meeting  the  military  notes  of  *^  Ain  I  a  Soldier 
of  the  Cross  ) ''  resounded  through  the  old  meeting-house,  Mark  regretted 
that  so  much  time  would  intervene  before  he  could  reach  the  field  of 
batUa 

In  this  state  of  enthusiasm  he  walked  home  with  Roxy.  And  this 
enthusiasm  lifted  him  almost  to  the  height  of  Rox3r's  perpetual  exalta-' 
tion.  They  talked  of  that  in  which  they  both  were  interested,  and  is  it 
strange  that  they  were  drawn  the  one  to  the  other  by  their  community 
of  feeling  ?  Mark  did  not  even  now  distrust  himself ;  he  did  not  once 
imagine  that  there  was  any  difference  between  his  flush  of  zeal,  and  the 
life-long  glow  of  eager  unselfishness  and  devoutness  that  was  the  very 
essence  of  the  character  of  Eoxy.  He  could  not  distinguish  between 
himself — thin  comet  that  he  was,  renewing  his  ever-waning  heat,  first 
by  the  fire  of  this  sun  and  then  by  the  radiance  of  that — and  Koxy,  the 
ever-burning  fixed  star  whose  fire  of  worship  and  charity  was  within 
herself.  But  taking  himself  at  the  estimate  she  put  upon  him,  he  re- 
joiced in  having  a  Mend  worthy  to  sympathize  with  him,  and  when  he 
parted  with  her.  he  pressed  Roxy's  h^d  and  said : 

''  Oh,  Eoxy !  if  you  were  only  going  with  me  !  You  make  me  brave. 
I  am  better  when  I  am  with  you.  Think  of  the  good  we  might  do  to- 
gether.   Some  day  I  shall  come  back  for  you  if  you'll  let  me." 

He  held  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  he  could  feel  her  trembling. 

His  voice  was  full  of  pleading,  and  Boxy  was  in  a  flutter  of  mingled 
admiration,  pity,  and  love.  Tluit  this  brave  servant  of  the  Lord,  tak- 
ing his  life  in  hand,  casting  ambition,  Mends,  and  property  behing  him 
should  appeal  to  her  !  She  dared  not  speak  and  she  could  not  pray. 
In  a  moment  Bonamy  had  kissed  her  hand.  A  maidenly  recoil  seized 
her,  she  withdrew  her  hand,  opened  the  gate  and  ran  up  the  walk  be- 
tween the  rows  of  pretty-by-nights  and  touch-me-nots.    It  was  not  un- 


290  ROXY. 

til  she  stood  in  the  door  with  her  hand  on  the  latoh-string,  that  the 
turned  toward  her  companion  and  said  softly,  in  a  voice  suffused  with 
emotion : 

"  Good-night,  Mark !" 

And  then  she  went  into  the  house  with  her  soul  in  chaos.  Zeal, 
duty,  and  love,  neither  contented  nor  agreed.  The  scrupulous  girl 
could  understand  nothing,  see  nothing.  Pitying  thoughts  of  Whitta&er 
strove  with  her  thoughts  of  Mark. 

And  that  night  she  dreamed  that  she  had  set  out  to  find  the  lost 
sheep  that  had  left  the  ninety-and-nine  and  strayed  in  the  wilderness, 
and  Mark  had  set  out  with  her.  But  ever  they  became  more  and  more 
separated  in  the  thorn-thickets  of  Texas,  until  at  last  Mark  left  her  to 
travel  on  alone  while  he  gave  over  the  search.     And  the  thickets  grew 

Sher  and  more  dense,  her  feet  were  pierced  with  thorns,  and  her  body 
lausted  with  weariness.  She  saw  panthers  and  catamounts  and  rat- 
tlesnakes and  alligators  and  indescribable  creatures  of  terror  about  her ; 
they  hissed  at  her  and  rushed  upon  her,  so  that  she  shuddered  as  she 
pushed  on  and  on  through  the  dense  brake,  wondering  whether  the 
poor  lost  sheep  were  not  already  devoured.  But  at  last  she  came  upon 
the  object  of  her  search  environed  with  wild  beasts.  Trembling  with 
terror  she  broke  through  and  laid  hold  on  the  far-wandering  sheep, — 
the  monsters  fled  before  her  and  the  impregnable  fold  all  at  once  in- 
closed her  and  the  lost  one.  Then  she  discovered  that  the  lost  whom 
she  had  saved,  was,  by  some  transformation,  Mark  himself.  And  even 
while  the  Shepherd  was  commending  her,  the  trembling  girl  awoke. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

A  BEHOKSTBANOE. 

After  her  visit  to  the  millinery  and  mantua-makery  of  Miss  Moore^ 
Mrs.  Hanks  debated  with  herself  what  to  do.  She  oould  not  consult 
Jemima,  for  Jemima  belonged  to  the  enemy.  But  upon  debating  vari- 
ous plans  she  resolved  to  see  Boxy  herself.  She  was  Roxy's  aunt,  and 
the  aunt  ought  to  have  some  influence  with  the  motherless  niece,  she 
reasoned.  She  was  a  little  ashamed  to  go  to  Roxy  now,  it  was  so  long 
since  she  had  entered  the  old  log-house  which  had  sheltered  her  child- 
hood in  the  days  when  wandering  Indians  still  traversed  at  intervals 
the  streets  of  the  new  village  of  Luzerne.  But  then  she  had  been  so 
busy  with  her  own  children,  Roxy  ought  to  make  allowuice  lor  that 

l!liese  explanations  she  made  to  Roxy  when  she  made  her  call  on  the 
next  day  i^r  the  prayer-meeting.  She  couldn't  come  before.  And 
then  Roxy  was  so  steady  that  she  didn't  need  looking  after.  It  wasn't 
every  girl  that  could  keep  a  house  so  clean  and  do  so  much  for  her 
father.  All  this  talk  troubled  Roxy.  She  was  simple-minded  and 
direct,  and  the  lurking  suspicion  of  ulterior  purpose  in  Her  aunt's  words, 
a    1  ^ho  consciousness  of  having  something  to  conceal,  disturbed  her. 

"  I  understand,  Roxy,"  she  said  at  Ijist,  "  that  you've  had  one  or  two 
bean  i  lately,  Now  you  know  that  I'm  in  the  place  of  a  mother  to  you, 
and  I  hope :  ou  wont  do  anything  about  marrying  without  consulting: 
me." 


ROXY.  291 

Hoxj  bent  over  her  sewing  and  grew  red  in  the  face.  Mrs.  Hanks, 
interpreted  this  flush  of  indignation  as  a  blush. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  already  engaged/'  she  said,  with  an  air  of  offence. 
''  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  treat  your  mother's  sister  in  that  way.  I 
was  told  that  you  were  engaged  to  Mr.  Whittaker.  I  must  say  I  don't 
think  it  the  best  you  can  do." 

''I  am  not  engaged  to  Mr.  Whittaker  or  to  anybody  else,"  said 
Boxy,  giving  way  to  her  rising  anger,  and  breaking  her  needle.  "  I 
wishpeople  would  mind  their  own  business." 

'*  Well,  Eozy,  I  must  say  that  is  not  a  nice  way  to  treat  me  when  I 
come  to  give  you  advice.    If  I  can't  talk  to  you,  who  can  V* 

Bozy's  sense  of  injury  and  neglect  which  she  thought  she  had  con> 
querred  by  prayer  w  revived  now,  and  she  bit  her  lip. 

"  I  tell  you  plainly,  Boxy,  that  if  you  many  Mr.  Whittaker  you'U 

St  a  cold  Presbyterian  that  does  not  believe  in  real  heart  religion, 
ley  educate  their  ministers  without  asking  whether  they  have  a  real 
divine  call  or  not.  Some  of  them,  I  expect,  are  not  soundly  converted. 
And  you  know  how  you'll  suffer  for  the  means  of  grace  if  you  join  the 
Presbyterians.  They  wont  have  any  prayinff  or  speaking  by  women. 
They  don't  have  any  class-meetings,  and  I  don't  think  they  have  that 
dsep  depth  of  godliness  you  know  that  we  Methodists  believe  in.  And 
they  don't  allow  shouting  or  crying,  and  that's  a  quenching  of  the  spirit 
So  I  say.  For  David  says  in  the  rsalms  to  shout  and  to  cry  aloud,  and 
to  make  a  joyful  noise  unto  the  Lord.  Now,  I  do  hope  you  wont 
marry  a  cold-blooded  Presbyterian  that  believes  in  predestination  and 
that  a  certain  number  was  bom  to  be  damned.  Aiid  little  children,, 
too,  for  the  Confession  of  Faith  says  that  children  not  a  span  long  are 
in  hell,  and " 

"  The  Confession  of  Faith  don't  say  that,"  said  Boxy. 

''  Oh !  you've  been  reading  it,  have  you.  I  didn't  know  you'd  gone 
so  £».  Now,  I  say  that  Uiere's  aome  good  Christians  in  the  Presby- 
terian ehurch,  but  a  Methodist  that  leaves  her  own  church  to  join  the 
Presbyterians  has  generally  backslid  beforehand.  And  a  girl  that 
chaises  her  religion  to  get  a  husband " 

<<  Who  said  I  meant  to  change  my  religion  to  get  a  husband  V*  Boxy 
was  now  fiercelv  angry.  '*  If  you're  going  to  ttdk  that  way,  I  will  not 
stay  and  listen,  ana  the  girl  drew  herself  up  proudly,  but  her  sensitive 
conscience  smote  her  in  a  moment  for  her  anger,  and  she  sat  down 
again,  irresolute. 

'*  Well,  Boxy,  you've  got  your  Mher^s  temper  along  with  your 
mother's  religion  Though  for  that  matter  I  thmk  a  temper's  a  good 
thing.  But  when  you've  got  a  chance  to  marry  such  a  Methodist  as 
Mark  Bonamy,  now,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  U^e  a  poor  Presby- 
terian preacher  that  hasn't  got  a  roof  to  cover  his  head.  Markll  get 
over  his  mission  soon.  Missionary  fever  with  young  Christians  is  like 
wild  oats  with  young  sinners — ^it?s  soon  over.  You  can  cool  Mark 
down  if  you  try.  Show  him  how  much  good  he  can  do  if  he'U  stay 
here  and  inherit  his  father's  wealth.  But  Mark'U  get  his  share  anyway. 
The  old  man  wont  leave  him  out.  And  now,  Boxy,  you'll  get  over 
your  freaks  as  I  have  sot  over  mine,  and  if  you  miss  your  chauce  youll 
be  sorry  for  it  It  isn  t  every  day  a  girl  whose  father's  a  poor  shoe- 
maikar  and  who  lives  in  a  log-house,  gets  a  man  with  a  good  farm  and 


292  BOXY. 


a  brick  house,  and  a  chance  of  going  to  Congress  or  getting  to  be  a 
bishop " 

'*  Oh  1  Aunt  Henrietta,  hush  1"  Roxy  was  on  her  feet  now.  "  I've 
got  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Whittaker  or  Marie,  and  if  I  had,  you've 
no  business  talking  that  way.  If  you  don't  hush  I'll  say  something 
awfuL"  1 

''  Well,  I  declare !  For  a  girl  as  religious  as  you,  that's  a  pretty 
how-do-ye-do,  aint  it,  now  f" 

Here  Roxy  left  the  room  to  keep  herself  from  saying  "  something 
awful,"  leaving  Mrs.  Henrietta  Hanks  to  gather  her  cape  about  her 
shoulders,  put  oq  her  sun-bonnet  ^d  depart  with  the  comfortable  feel- 
ing that  she  ^'  had  cleared  her  skirts  anyhow."  The  faithful  discharge 
of  a  duty  disagreeable  to  oUiers  maketh  the  heart  of  the  righteous  to 
rejoice. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

OOSSIP  AND  GiGOLnro. 

Miss  Moore  was  a  gossip  of  the  good-natured  kind.  She  never  told 
anything  for  the  sake  of  harming  anybody.  She  was  as  iiinocent  in 
her  gossip  as  she  was  in  her  habit  of  plucting  out  her  front  hair  with 
tweezers  to  make  her  forehead  intellectual  The  milliner's  shop  in  a  vil- 
lage is  in  some  sort  a  ne ws-d6pdt  People  bring  hither  their  items  of  news 
and  carry  away  whatever  has  beeulefb  hereby  others.  Itis  a  fairexchange. 
The  milliner  has  the  start  of  everybody  else ;  for  who  should  know  so 
well  as  she  whether  Mrs.  Greathouse  wUl  wear  cherry  ribbon  or  brown  t 
Who  knows  the  premonitory  symptoms  of  a  wedding  so  well  as  the 
skillful  woman  who  trims  the  bonnet )  And  shall  we  condemn  gossip  f 
Only  where  it  is  thoughtless  or  malicious.  For  without  the  ventilat- 
ing currents  of  gossip  the  village  would  be  a  stagnant  pool  We  are 
all  gossips.  The  man  who  i^ads  the  daily  paper  may  despise  the 
**  tattle  "  of  the  town,  but  he  devours  the  tattle  of  the  reporter  who  gets 
his  livelihood  by  ^ssip.  Whether  we  talk  about  a  big  world  or  a  little 
oue,  it  is  the  gossip  about  others  that  saves  us  from  becoming  eremites 
in  the  wilderness  of  our  own  egotism. 

But  did  the  red-bird  that  sang  under  Miss  Moore's  window  that 
morning  ask  whether  his  notes  were  a  delight  to  any  one's  ears  t  Or 
-did  he  just  whistle  because  whistling  is  a  necessity  of  red-birdism  7 
Miss  Moore  for  her  part  did  not  ask  mother  her  function  was  of  use  to 
the  community  or  not.  It  was  not  her  place  to  plulosophize  about 
gossips,  but  to  gossip, — an  employment  in  which  she  received  the 
moral  support  of  the  best  citizens.  And  in  a  village  the  general  con- 
sent of  the  best  citizens  is  of  more  weight  than  the  decalogue. 

But  why  should  anything  so  dearly  oeneficial  as  gossip  be  carried  on 
clandestinely )  Why  is  a  bit  of  gossip  told  in  a  voice  that  has  some- 
thing sly  and  wicked  about  it  1  u  it  that  one  enjoys  copyrighted  in- 
formation, which  one  is  not  to  teU — or  at  most  not  with  the  name  of 
the  informant  attached )  Or  is  it  that  one  likes  to  fancy  oneself  doing 
something  forbidden  ? 

Atany  rate  Miss  Moore,  having  possession  of  a  bit  of  information 


BOXY.  293 

which  she  knew  would  delight  Mrs.  Highbury,  the  wife  of  the  principal 
ruling  elder  of  Whittaker^s  church,  was  perplexed  to  find  some  pretext 
for  cfdling  on  Mrs.  Highbury  that  she  might  not  seem  to  have  come  on 
purpose  to  tell  tales.  Elxperienced  gossip  that  she  was,  she  could  not 
eet  over  the  notion  that{  her  traffic  in  information  was  illicit.  She  might 
have  called  on  Mrs.  Highbury  outright ;  for  there  is  no  caste  feeling  in 
a  village  that  proscribes  the  milliner.  A  woman  was  none  the  worse 
in  the  Hoosier  Luzerne  in  1841  for  the  possession  of  that  kind  of  skill 
which  we  call  a  trade.  But  Miss  Moore,  at  last,  remembered  something 
that  she  wanted  to  ask  Mrs.  Highbury's  advice  about,  or  at  least  she 
remembered  something  concerning  which  she  contrived  to  make  herself 
believe  she  wanted  information  or  counsel.  So  Miss  Moore  went  up 
under  the  grape-vines  that  led  to  Mr.  Highbury's  door,  and  then  around 
over  the  stone-paved  walk  to  the  back  door,  where  the  wide  arbour 
shaded  the  broad  pavement,  in  the  mid^e  of  which  stood  the  cistern 
with  its  hook  in  readiness  for  use. 

Miss  Moore  went  in  over  the  broad  clean  porch  into  the  sitting-room 
and  was  received  cordially ;  for  besides  her  importance  as  a  milliner, 
she  was  also  a  member  of  the  Presbyterian  church,  and  in  those  days 
of  polemical  animosities  a  small  and  somewhat  beleagured  denomina- 
tion held  closely  together. 

''  I  thought  rd  run  over,  Mrs.  Highbury,  and  ask  you  about  the  oape 
to  your  bonnet.     How  long  do  you  think  it  ought  to  be  ? '' 

Mrs.  Highbury  had  a  habit  of  leaving  such  things  to  the  superior 
judgment  of  the  milliner.  For  the  milliner  to  throw  the  decision  back 
on  her,  was  like  asking  her  to  solve  a  problem  in  geometry.  And  so 
the  plump,  well-fed  little  lady  sank  down  in  her  armchair  and  began 
rocking  herself  so  energetically  as  to  lift  her  feet  off  the  floor  at  each 
tilt  backward.  Her  mind  was  exhausting  itself  in  thinking  how  im- 
possible it  was  that  she  should  ever  decide  what  should  be  the  length  of 
a  piece  of  rose-coloured  silk  at  the  base  of  a  scoop-shovel  bonnet. 

"  I  declare  to  goodness,  I  don't  know.  Miss  Moore."  Here  Mrs.  High- 
bury opened  her  £eui,  and  began  to  ply  it  and  rock  more  vigorously 
and  cheerfully  than  before.  ''Did  you  see  the  one  that  lady  from 
Cincinnatti  had  on  at  church,  on  Sunday  ?  " 

Of  course,  Miss  Moore  had  noted  every  bonnet  in  the  church.  She 
was  not  such  a  heathen  as  not  to  make  the  most  of  her  '^  Sabbath  and 
sanctuary  privileges."  But  she  did  not  reply  to  Mrs.  Highbury's  ques- 
tion. For  here  was  the  opportunity  she  had  sought.  It  was  a  dan- 
gerous leap  from  the  cape  of  a  straw  bonnet  in  church  to  the  parson's 
love  affair,  but  there  might  not  come  a  better  opportunity.  , 

"  Yes ;  but  now  you  speak  of  church,  reminds  me.  Did  you  notice 
any  change  in  Mr.  Whittaker's  appearance  on  Sunday  1 " 

"  No,  I  didn't.    Why  1" 

Miss  Moore  felt  her  superiority  now. 

**  Did  you  think  he  had  the  look  of  a  man  just  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried 1" 

"  You  don't  tell  me  Mr.  Whittaker's  going  to  be  married,"  cried  the 
stout  little  lady,  forgetting  to  rock,  and  allowing  the  toes  of  her  shoes 
to  rest  on  the  floor. 

"  Well ;  I  don't  say  anything  about  it.    I've  heard  something  of  the 

kind." 

2 


294  BOXY. 

"  Who  to,  for  goodness  gracious'  sake  1 " 

''  Well,  that's  a  delicate  question,  especially  in  view  of  my  peculiar 
circumstances ;  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  say  anything.'' 

Miss  Moore  was  human,  and  she  knew  that  so  long  as  she  had  a 
secret  which  curious  Mrs.  Highbury  did  not  know,  that  lady  was  her 
humble  servant 

"  Yes ;  but  you  must  ttll  me,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Highbury.  "  Mr.  Whit- 
taker  ought  not  to  marry  without  consulting  the  session.  And  if  he 
consults  the  session  I  will  know,  I  suppose.  You  can't  keep  secrets 
between  man  and  wife." 

**  Very  likely.  But  you  know  with  me  it's  a  sort  of  a  family  secret 
Not  exactly  a  family  secret "  here  Miss  Moore  tittered  and  stam- 
mered. "  Well,  you  know  I  didn't  mean  to  let  my  own  secrets  out,  but 
I  suppose  everybody  knows.     I  never  did  see  such  a  horrible  town  for 

fossip  as  this  is.  They  wofi't  let  anybody's  private  affairs  alone." 
[ere  Miss  Moore's  face  reddened,  and  she  smothered  a  girUsh  giggle. 

Mrs.  Highbury  suddenly  leaned  forward  so  as  to  bring  her  heels  on 
the  floor,  and  beean  to  fan  herself  again. 

"  Why,  Rachel  Moore,  what  've  your  family  affairs  got  to  do  with  Mr. 
Whittaker's  marrying.  Is  he  going  to  marry  you  1  You're  too  old — I 
mean  you're  already  engaged  to  Mr.  Adams,  they  say.  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Don't  be  so  mysterious,  or  folks  '11  think  you've  lost  your 
senses." 

*'  I  believe  I  have,"  said  Miss  Moore,  and  then  she  burst  into  another 
fit  of  laughing,  while  the  aristocratic  little  dumpling  rocked  away  again 
for  dear  life.     Rocking  was  her  substitute  for  thinking. 

Miss  Moore's  habitual  propriety  and  gravity  soon  came  to  her  rescue , 
and  she  attempted  to  explain  to  Mrs.  Highbury  that  by  *' family  secret  " 
she  meant  to  allude — che-he — to  the  family— che-he — with  which  she 
was  to  become  the — the — che-he-he, — or  rather  that  Mr.  Whittaker 
was  not  going  to  che-he — ^marry  her, — but  that  it  was  somebody  else 
who  was  going  to  be  a  che-he-he-he, — that  is,  he  was  going  che-he-he 
he-he. 

Poor  Mrs.  Highbury  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  get  angry, 
and,  being  in  doubt,  she  took  a  middle  course — she  rocked  herself. 
Her  round  face  had  a  perplexed  and  injured  look,  as  she  waited  for  Miss 
Moore  to  explain  herself. 

"  I  do  believe  that  I  am  che-he-he-he,"  said  Miss  Moore. 

"  I  know  you  are,  Rachel.  Why  can't  you  control  yourself  and  tell 
a  straight  story.  Who  is  Mr.  Whittaker  going  to  marry ;  you,  or  your 
mother  1    You  say  it's  in  your  family." 

"  My  mother !  Oh !  che-he-he.  Not  my  mother,  but  my  che-he- 
he." 

"  Your  che-he-he !    What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Not  my  che-he  mother,  but  my  daughter  che-he-he." 

"  Your  daughter !    Why,  Miss  Moore  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 

yourself." 

**  I  don't  mean  my  che-he  daughter,  but  my  che-he-he-he-hoo  !  " 
By  this  time,  little  fat  Mrs.  Highbury  was  also  laughing  convulsively 

and  screaming  between  her  fits  of  laughter. 

"  What  is — what  is  che-he,  what  is  your  che-he-he  ? " 
"  My  che-he — ^my  che-he  step^augnter  that  is  to  be." 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  295 

Mrs.  Highbury  grew  sober  and  began  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

"  You  don't  mean  Roxy  Adams  1  *' 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

Mrs.  Highbury  shut  her  pretty  mouth  tight  She  didn't  know  whe- 
ther she  approved  or  disapproved  of  Roxy  Adams.  How  could  she  tell 
what  she  thought  until  she  heard  Mr.  Highbury's  opinion.  For  Mrs. 
Highbury's  role  was  that  of  echo.  It  might  be  that  Roxy  Adams  would 
m^e  a  good  Presbyterian.  It  might  be  that  she  would  corrupt  the 
church.  She  would  wait  until  her  husband  spoke.  Then  she  would 
give  him  back  his  own  opinions  with  emphasis,  and  tell  her  friends  that 
she  had  "  told  Mr.  Highbury  so."  People  were  certain  that  the  little 
Mrs.  H.  had  great  influence  with  the  big  Mr.  H.  Turned  him  round 
her  little  finger. 

{To  he  cordinued,) 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

LOTALTT  AND  DISLOYALTY — TREASON — DBSSBTION — ^THE  JOHNSONS — 
OOLONEL  WILLIAM  JOHNSON — JAMBS  JOHNSON  AND  HIS  SONS — 
"  BILL  "  JOHNSON — ^ANDREW  JOHNSON — THOMAS  S.  WOOD — LOOK- 
WOOD. 

BY  DR.   OANNIPF. 

Wb  have  in  a  fonn#r  paper  spoken  of  the  want  of  loyalty  and  disaflfeo- 
tion  which,  to  a  certain  extent,  existed  in  Canada  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
war.     Of  this  Gkn.  Brock  was  well  aware.     He  knew  also  that  there  were 
some  weak-hearted  ones  who  believed  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  resist 
the  invading  foe.      His  stirring  speech  at    the  opening  of  the  legisla- 
ture in  the  beginning  of  Feb.  1812  was  intended  to  counteract  these  ad- 
verse  influences,  and  in  a  great  measure  it  had  that  effect.     In  a  letter  to 
CoL  Boynes,  the  Adj.-G^neral,   dated   12th  Feb.,  he  says :    "The  assur- 
ance which  1  gave,  in  my  speech,  of  England  co-operating  in  the  defence  of 
this  Province,  has  infused  the  utmost  confidence ;  and  I  have  reason  at 
this  moment  to  look  for  the  acquiescence  of  the  two  houses  to  every  meas- 
ure I  may  think  necessary  to  recommend  for  the  peace  and  defence  of  the 
country.     A  spirit  has  manifested  itself,  little  expected  by  those  who  con- 
ceived themselves  the  best  qualified  to  judge  of  the  disposition  of  the 
members  of  the  House  of  Assembly.     The  most  powerful  opponents  to 
Gk>vemor  Gk)r6's  administration  take  the  lead  on  the  present  occasion.     I, 
of  course,  do  not  think  it  expedient  to  damp  the  ardour  displaved  by  these 
once  doubtful  characters.     Some  opposed  Mr.  Gore  evidently  from  per- 
sonal  motives,  but  never  forfeited  the  right  of  being  numbered  among  the 
most  loyal.     Their  character  will  very  soon  be  put  to  a  severe  test.     The 
measures  which  I  intend  to  propose  are :  1  A  Militia  Supplementary  Act : 
2  The  suspension  of  the  Habeas  Corpus :  3  An  Alien  Law  :  4  The  offer  of 
a  reward  for  the  better  apprehension  of  deserters.     If  I  succeed  in  all  this, 
I  shall  claim  some  proviso,  but  I  am  not  without  my  fears.''     Again,  we 
find   in  a  letter  to  Sir  Gteorge  Prevost  written  not  long  after,    "  I  had 


296  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812 

every  reason  to  expest  the  almost  unanimous  support  of  the  two  Houses  of 
the  legislature  to  every  measure  the  Government  thought  it  necessary  to 
recommend,  but  after  a  short  trial  I  found  myself  egregiously  mistaken 
in  my  calculations.  The  many  doubtful  characters  in  the  Militia  made 
me  anxious  to  introduce  the  oath  of  abjuration  into  the  bill :  there  were 
twenty  members  in  the  house  when  this  highly  important  measure  was 
lost  by  the  casting  vote  of  the  chairman.  The  great  influence  which  the 
numerous  settlers  from  the  United  States  possess  over  the  decisions  of  the 
Lower  House  is  trulv  alarming,  and  ought,  immediately  by  every  practical, 
means,  to  be  diminished.''  ....<*  The  bill  for  the  suspension  of 
the  habeas  corpus,  I  regret  to  say,  was  likewise  lost  by  a  trifling  majority. 
A  strong  sentiment  now  prevails  that  war  is  not  likely  to  occur  with  the 
United  States,  which,  I  believe,  tended  to  influence  the  votes  of  the 
members.  I  mean  of  such  who  though  honest,  are  by  their  ignorance 
easilv  betrayed  into  error.''  On  the  24th  Feb.  1812,  four  months  before 
ihe  declaration  of  war.  General  Brock  issued  the  following  proclamation  : — 
"  To  all  whom  U  may  concern  : — Greeting.  WHsasAS,  information  has 
been  received,  that  divers  persons  have  recently  come  into  this  Province, 
with  a  seditious  intent  to  disturb  the  tranquility  thereof,  and  to  endeavour 
to  alienate  the  minds  of  His  Majesty's  suDJects  from  his  person  and  gov- 
ernment, I  hereby  require  and  enjoin  the  several  persons  authorized  to 
to  carry  into  effect  a  certain  statute,  passed  in  the  forty-fourth  year  of  His 
Majesty's  reign,  intitled  <  An  Act  for  the  better  securing  this  Province 
against  all  seditious  attempts  or  dedgns  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  thereof,' 
to  be  vigilant  in  the  execution  of  their  duty,  and  strictly  to  enquire  into 
the  behaviour  and  conduct  of  all  such  persons  as  may  be  subject  to  the 
provisions  of  the  said  Act ;  and  I  do  also  charge  and  require  all  His 
Majesty's  good  and  loyal  subjects  within  this  Province  to  be  aiding  and 
assisting  the  said  persons,  in  the  execution  of  the  powers  vested  in  them 
by  the  said  Act" 

The  great  success  which  crowned  the  prompt  efforts  put  forth  by  Brock 
in  the  early  months  of  the  war  tended  very  largely  to  sUence  the  doubtful, 
discourage  the  unfaithful,  and  strengthen  the  waning.  StiU  traitors,  re- 
bels, and  spies  existed  in  every  neighbourhood.  An  Act  was  finally  passed 
in  Ae  winter  of  1814  "  to  empower  His  Majesty,  for  a  limited  time,  to 
secure  and  detain  such  persons  as  his  Majesty  shall  suspect  of  a  treason- 
able adherence  to  the  country."  Commissioners  were  appointed  for  the 
several  districts  of  the  Province  to  carry  into  effect  the  provisions  of  the 
Act.  For  the  midland  district,  were,  we  learn  the  following  gentlemen : 
— The  Hon.  R.  Cartwright,  Alexander  McDonell,  Alexander  Fisher, 
Thomas  Borland,  Timothy  Thompson,  Thomas  Markland,  Peter  Smith, 
John  Comming,  James  McNabb,  Ebenezer  Washburn,  Robert  C.  Wilkins, 
James  Young,  William  Crawford. 

We  will  now  proceed  to  give  a  brief  account  of  two  brothers,  one  of 
whom,  from  a  devoted  U.  E.  Loyalist,  became  an  active  and  dangerous 
ally  of  the  Americans.  The  scenes  of  his  daring  exploits  were  along  the 
St  Lawrence,  the  Bay  of  Quinte,  from  Kingston  up  to  Bath,  and  the  lake 
west  of  Trenton,  toward  York. 

Li  addition  to  the  family  of  Sir  William  Johnson,  there  were  a  large 
number  of  that  name  who  remained  loyal  in  the  colonies  at  the  time  of  t£e 
rebellion  of  the  American  Colonies.  A  considerable  number  of  them  wero 
combatants  and  mostly  all  conspicuous  for  their  gallant  deeds  of  arms. 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  297 

One  of  the  name.  Captain  William  Johnson,  of  the  King's  Royal  Kegi. 
ment,  settled  a  few  miles  west  of  Kingston.  He  became  Colonel  of  the 
militia  of  Addington,  and  it  is  said  he  was  the  first  to  master  the  militia 
in  that  part  of  the  coantry  if  not  in  the  Province.  He  died  here,  leaving 
one  daughter  who  married  a  Mr.  McCoy,  and  who  removed  to  Toronto. 
But  it  is  quite  another  family  of  whom  we  have  to  speak. 

James  Johnson,  an  Irishnum,  was  a  soldier  in  Rogers'  battalion,  an  in- 
fantry corps  which  had  foaght  against  the  American  rebels  and  which  had 
after  the  first  surveys  of  Upper  Canada,  allotted  to  its  members  the  second 
township  laid  out,  at  Ernestown.  James  Johnson  served  in  the  capacity 
of  Captain  of  the  cattle  drivers.  His  family  consisted  of  seven  sons  and 
six  daughters ;  the  sons'  names  were  Daniel,  James,  William,  Matthew, 
Jacob,  Andrew  and  Nathan.  Of  these  William  and  Andrew  became  some- 
what noted  and  deserve  our  attention. 

William,  or  as  he  was  universally  called  Bill  Johnson,  spent  his  early 
years  on  the  front  of  Ernestown.  His  father  had  drawn  his  land  where 
afterwards  existed  the  Village  of  Ernestown,  subsequently  named  Bath, 
and  was  the  neighbour  of  the  Fairfields  and  Davys,  also  U .  E.  Loyalists, 
whose  descendants  are  well  known  in  Ontario.  His  father's  log  house  was 
used  for  three  years  for  church  services  by  the  Rev.  D.  John  Stuart,  a 
refiigee  loyalist  and  "  the  father  of  the  Upper  Canada  Church,"  before  the 
erection  of  the  frame  building  on  the  hiU.  The  house  would  hold  from 
thirty  to  forty  persons.  Respecting  ''Bill "  Johnson, which  we  shall  continue 
to  call  him,  we  have  derived  our  information  from  two  sources,  namely  : — 
Thomas  S.  Wood,  Esq.  and  Sergeant  Lockwood,  both  of  whom  had  Uvely 
recollection  of  the  events  connected  with  him.  Mr.  Wood  who  lives  at 
Morrisburg,  came  to  Canada  in  1810  from  the  States  and  took  the  Oath  of 
Alliance,  nor  did  his  loyalty  swerve  during  the  war  of  1812.  He  lived 
at  Bath,  and  naturaUy  the  events  came  under  his  notice.  He  served  as 
sei^eant  in  the  Lennox  militia,  and  receives  a  pension.  His  family  is  not 
unknown  in  Canada,  Dr.  Wood,  of  Ottawa,  being  his  eldest  son,  A.  F. 
Wood,  of  Madoc,  long  time  reeve  and  warden  of  the  county  of  Hastings, 
and  president  of  the  Belleville  and  North  Hastings  Railway,  and  S.  0. 
Woody  M.P.P.,  Provincial  Treasurer  for  Ontario,  being  his  two  other  living 
sons.  Mr.  Wood  favoured  us  with  a  communication  dated  9th  February, 
1676,  at  which  time  he  was  eighty-five  years  old,  and  his  wife  81. 

Mr.  Wood  says,  "  it  was  often  remarked  that  Bill  Johnson  was  the  first 
male  child  of  the  U.  E.  Loyalists  bom  in  Kingston."  This  was  probably 
at  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  Roger's  corps  in  1784.  ''  The  whole  of  the 
Johnson  family  had  always  been  noted  for  their  loyalty  and  Bill  was  held 
up  by  his  nei^bours  as  a  good  specimen  of  his  race.  Soon  after  the  de- 
claration of  war,  the  militia  of  Ernestown  were  mustered,  and  a  call  for 
Tolnnteers  was  made ;  when  Bill  was  the  first  to  respond,  and  in  ten  min- 
utes there  were  more  volunteers  than  were  wanted  for  immediate  service. 
Bill  was  made  sergeant,  and  they  were  ordered  to  hold  themselves  in  readi- 
ness for  active  duty  at  a  minute's  notice. 

The  volunteers  were  soon  called  to  Kingston  and  heartily  responded, 
Johnson  with  the  rest  But,  '^  Bill  Johnson  had,  for  several  months  pre- 
vious, been  getting  together  all  the  money  he  could  in  order  to  go  to  Mon- 
treal to  purchase  merchandize  to  set  up  a  small  store.  After  being  in 
Kingston  three  or  four  days  he  procured  a  substitute  who  was  accepted  by 
the  captain,  Patrick  Smith.  But  before  he  could  get  away  to  Montreal,  he 


298  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

was  ordered  to  report  himself  for  duty.      He  did  so,  and  had  some  hot 
words  with  his  commanding  oflEicer,  and  hired  another  suhstitnte  who  was 
accepted.     Again  he  arranged  to  start  for  Montreal,  and  had  reached 
Kingston  on  his  way  when  he  was  told  hy  P.  Smith  that  the  second  sab- 
stitute  had  deserted,  and  that  he  must  go  into  the  ranks.     A  very  severe 
qnarrel  was  the  result.     Johnson  was  arrested  and  conveyed  to  the  Guard 
House.     He  soon  effected  his  escape,'  it  was  supposed  through  sympathizers 
of  whom  there  were  not  a  few,  and  getting  on  board  of  a  batteau,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Montreal.     In  about  two  weeks  he  returned  with  a  supply  of 
goods  in  a  batteau,  and  on  reaching  the  wharf  at  Kingston  was  arrested 
by  a  guard  and  taken  to  jail,  while  his  goods  were  left  with  no  one  to  take 
care  of  them.     *  He  was  kept  in  jail  ten  days,  and  when  let  out  six  hun- 
dred dollars  worth  of  goods  were  missing.      He  never  found  them,  but 
Government  found  BiU  Johnson  and  all  his  family  Rebels.^ "     He  took 
the  few  goods  left  him,  and  with  two  Yankees,  residents  of  Bath,  he  went 
over  to  Sieicket's  Harbour  in  a  small  boat."    Respecting  this  event  we  have 
received  a  somewhat  different  version.     Mr.  Lockwood  of  Sidney  who  was 
a  Sergeant  at  the  time  in  Kingston  says  that  Wm.  Johnson  was  drafted ; 
and,  after  serving  for  a  short  time  procured  his  brother  as  a  substitute. 
After  a  while  his  brother  deserted  to  the  States,  and   the  captain,  not 
doubting  William's  lovalty,  desired  him  to  resume  his  place  which  his 
brother  had  left,  but  he  would  not  do  so.     The  result  was  that  a  file  of 
soldiers,  commanded  bv  Sergeant  Lockwood  himself,  was  sent  to  arrest  Bill 
by  order  of  the  captain,  Mathew   Clark,  of  Emestown.      Upon  the  ap- 
proach of  the  soldiers.  Bill  shouted  to  Lockwood,  who  had  been  his  life-lonff 
playmate,  "  I  know  what  you  are  after,  but  you  won't  get  me  yet ;  *'  and 
at  once  shut  the  door  and  turned  the  key.     Lockwood,  promptly,  with  the 
butt  of  his  musket  knocked  the  door  open  in  time  to  see  Bill  escaping  by 
the  back  door.     A  close  chase  ensued  into  a  back  enclosure  and  Lockwood 
succeeded  in  catching  him  by  the  leg  as  he  was  passing  through  a  window. 
Bill  submitted  and  was  conveyed  to  the  Guard  House  within  the  jail. 
Ailer  being  confined  for  some  time  he  escaped  by  breaking  jail,  probably 
aided  by  sympathizers.     Whatever  may  have  been  Johnson's  feelings  be- 
fore towards  the  British  Gk>vemroent,  he  now  became  a  most  determined 
enemy  of  his  native  country.      He  vowed  he  should  be  a  *'  thorn  in  Great 
Britain's  side."    This  account  we  had  from  the  lips  of  Sergeant  Lockwood, 
whom  we  visited  in  1866,  who  seemed  to  have  a  clear  recollection  of  the 
event.     And  the  statement  of  Andrew  Johnson,  brother  of  Bill,  whom  we 
saw  on  the  same  day,  seemed  to  corroborate  it.    Mr.  Lockwood,  we  believe, 
diod  a.  few  years  ago. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  exact  nature  of  the  causes  of  Bill  John- 
son's alienation  and  espousal  of  the  American  cause,  he  lost  no  time  in  car- 
rying out  his  desperate  resolve  to  gratify  his  revenge,  and  do  all  he  could 
to  injure  Canada  and  aid  the  Americans.  Before  many  days,  according  to 
Mr.  Wood,  his  former  captain,  P.  Smith,  suffered  a  personal  loss.  A 
schooner  of  his  laden  with  sawed  lumber  was  passios;  from  Gananoque  to 
Kingston,  when  Bill,  with  a  number  of  Yankee  soldiers,  boarded  her  and 
destroyed  her  by  fire.     During  the  summer  season  Bill  frequently  visited 

Bath,  being  secreted  by  his  brothers  and  his  Yankee  nephew.  Dr. , 

and  returned  to  the  States  with  all  the  news  his  friends  could  give  him. 
One  night  at  11  o'clock,  a  man  named  George  Huffman,  who  was  bu  ning 
a  coal  pit  in  the  woods  about  a  mile  from  the  shore  of  the  Bay,  saw    even 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  299 

men  armed  ooming  towards  him ;  but  upon  seeing  him  they  hurried  into 
ihe  thick  woods.  At  day  break  he  went  home  and  saw  on  the  shore  near 
his  house  a  gig  with  eight  oars.  He  immediately  gave  the  alarm  to  Capt. 
Davis  Hanly,  who  at  once  called  out  his  men  and  commenced  scouring 
the  woods.  They  shortly  met  six  Yankee  soldiers  who  delivered  themselves 
up.  They  declared  Bill  Johnson  was  not  with  them,  that  they  had  been 
in  pursuit  of  a  spy  and  two  deserters,  and  had  almost  caught  them  in  the 
upper  gap,  but  darkness  and  a  high  wind  frustrated  them  and  compelled 
them  to  land  in  Canada.  They  were  taken  to  Kingston,  and  afterwards  to 
Cape  Vincent.  But,  (says  Mr.  Wood)  Huffman  was  right,  there  toere 
seven.  Bill  Johnson  was  with  them.  Captain  Hanley,  not  believing  their 
story,  seized  all  the  boats  along  the  buy  for  several  miles  east  and  west, 
and  guarded  the  coast  day  and  night  for  eight  days.  On  the  ninth  night, 
however,  George  Finkle's  distillery  was  broken  open  and  his  boat  stolen. 
In  this.  Bill,  his  brother  Mathew,  and  a  Yankee  named  Roswell  Rice  went 
over  to  Sacket's  Harbour. 

Although  Bill's  visits  to  Bath  were  frequent,  but  few  outside  his  own 
connection  were  ever  aware  of  them  at  the  time.  He  was  usually  harboured 
by  his  nephew  with  whom  his  sister  lived.  His  place  of  concealment  was 
in  the  second  story  of  the  house,  from  which  he  could,  through  a  curtained 
window,  obtain  fM  view  of  the  centre  of  the  village.  One  afternoon 
when  he  was  in  this  hiding  place,  Capt.  Hanly  called  to  see  the  proprietor, 
Dr.  —  on  business ;  but  as  he  was  not  in,  the  Captain  said  he  would 
call  again  in  two  hours'  time.  Bill,  who  had  seen  him  come  and  go, 
thinking  the  danger  was  over,  went  down  probably  to  hear  the  news.  But 
Capt  Hanly  had  returned  toward  the  house,  and  Bill,  as  he  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  saw  him  through  the  window  about  to  open  the  door. 
He  had  no  time  to  retreat  upstairs,  so  he  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  door, 
so  that  when  it  was  opened  he  was  concealed  until  again  shut.  Here  he 
stood  with  pistol  in  his  hand  waiting  the  issue.  But  Capt  Hanly  only 
opened  the  door  and  said  without  entering  to  Bill's  sister,  that  he 
would  call  the  next  day,  and  took  his  departure.  Said  his  sister  to  him  — 
"  Bill,  what  would  you  have  done  had  the  Captain  come  in  ? "  He  re- 
plied, "  I  would  have  showed  him  the  pistol,  and  said,  Davis  Hanly,  we  are 
old  neighbours,  but  have  not  seen  each  other  for  about  two  years.  I  must 
insist  on  year  company  this  afternoon  and  to-night.  I  will  give  you  a  free 
passage  to  Sackets'  Harbour ;.  and  if  you  don't  like  the  Yankees  I  will  get 
you  a  permit  to  return  by  the  way  of  Ogdensburg."  Mr.  Wood  declares 
the  foregoing  to  be  a  fact,  and  it  quite  corresponds  with  other  acts  of  dar- 
ing which  he  performed.  It  seems  that  Bill  had  the  sympathy  of  many 
of  the  inhabitants  about  Bath.  '*  Many  of  his  acquaintances  were  heard « 
to  say  that  if  he  had  had  a  decent  and  liberal  man  to  deal  with  as  a  cap- 
tain he  would  have  remained  a  loyal  British  subject :  "  and  '*  one  thing  is 
certain  that  if  any  of  the  villagers  had  become  informers  against  Bill  they 
would  have  endangered  their  lives.     There  was  a  good  deal  of  anxiety 

caused  by  the  Johnson  family ;  and  yet  Dr. was  deeper  in  the  mud 

than  they  were  io  the  mire.  No  moral,  political,  social,  fraternal  or 
matrimonial  obligations  could  bind  him ;  but  there  was  one  thing  about 
him  ;  he  was  a  skilful,  sly  man." 

From  time  to  time  Johnson  extended  his  operations  as  a  spy  up  the  lake. 
On  one  occasion,  Mr.  Wood  says,  he  waylaid  an  express  carrier  between 
Whitby  and  York. 


300  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

Mr.  Lockwood  says  he  was  a  bold,  determioed  and  fearless  man.  He 
built  several  small  boats,  light  and  trim,  and  would,  at  times,  unhesita- 
tingly voya^  up  the  lake.  His  operations  consisted  in  privateering,  in  in- 
ducing American  sympathizers  in  Canada  to  accompany  him  to  the  States, 
and  in  acting  as  a  spy.  During  the  war  there  were  frequently  boat  loads 
of  goods,  consisting  of  liquors  and  other  valuable  articles  passing  up  the 
Bay  of  Quints  and  across  the  carrying  place  thence  to  York.  Johnson's 
frequent  visits  to  Bath  were  doubtless  to  watch  for  the  passage  of  these 
boats.  On  one  occasion,  Thomas  Parker,  who  was  engaged  in  the  business, 
left  Kingston  with  a  batteau,  laden  with  valuables  for  York ;  and  Johnson, 
who  saw  him  enter  the  Bay,  proceeded  with  some  Yankees  up  the  lake  and 
awaited  Parker  off  Presqulsle.  In  due  time  they  seized  the  batteau  and 
took  it  to  the  southern  shore  of  Prince  Edward,  and  landed  Parker  on 
Point  Troverrc.  Another  exploit  was  the  seizure  of  Oovemment  despatches 
near  Brighton.  A  company  of  dragoons  under  Captain  Stinson,  were  on 
duty  to  carry  despatches  between  the  river  Trent  and  Smith's  Creek,  now 
Port  Hope,  from  which  two  places  other  companies  discharged  similar  du- 
ties east  and  west  On  one  occasion  when  a  draeoon  named  Gardner  was 
pursuing  his  way  with  despatches,  he  was  suddenly  accosted  by  Bill  John- 
son, who  deliberately  led  him  on  his  horse  to  the  lake  shore,  where  he  shot 
the  horse  and  placed  the  despatches  in  his  boat.  He  then  allowed  Gurdner 
to  go  his  way  as  best  he  could  to  report  himself. 

Up  to  a  few  years  ago  at  least,  Bill  Johnson  lived  at  French  Creek,  on 
the  American  side  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  He  took  an  active  part  in  the 
events  of  1837-8,  and  it  is  supposed  had  much  to  do  in  recruiting  for  the 
army  of  sympathizers  with  Canadian  rebels.  But  the  real  facts  are  un- 
known in  consequence  of  the  great  amount  of  fiction  admixed  by  the  Am- 
ericans. A  highly  sensational  book  was  published  shortly  after  the  Canar 
dian  rebellion,  in  which  Bill  and  his  daughter  Kate  were  pictured,  in  gor- 
geous colours,  as  the  highest  types  of  heroes  and  patriots,  the  victims  of  a 
tyrannical  govenimcDt.  It  was  said  he  was  one  of  the  few  who  escaped 
from  the  windmill.     We  strongly  suspect  that    lUll  in  his  later  days  was 

f'ven  to  boasting  respecting  himself  and  Kate  to  please  the  taste  of  his 
ankee  friends. 

We  now  turn  to  Andrew  Johnson,  whose  history  though  not  so  striking 
as  his  brother  BilFs,  is  not  devoid  of  interest.  We  visited  Andrew  in  1866, 
and  learned  much  of  what  we  here  give  from  his  own  lips,  most  of  it  being 
corroborated  by  Mr.  Lockwood  before  mentioned.  He  was  then  living  on 
the  front  of  Sidney,  a  few  miles  west  of  Belleville,  with  his  son.  He  was 
at  this  time  upwards  of  a  hundred  years  old,  and  was  gently  and  peace- 
fully dreaming  away  his  last  days ;  hb  memory  was  a  little  defective  ;  but 
he  retained  a  good  deal  of  bodily  vigour  and  his  movements  were  remark- 
ably quick.  Andrew  was  born  in  the  State  of  New  York,  and  was  a  boy, 
with  his  father,  when  he  settled  in  Ernestown.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century  he  was  known  as  an  unusually  rapid  walker  ;  and  was  en- 
gaged by  Mr.  Stuart,  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Stuart,  to  carry  the  mail  from 
ElSigston  to  York,  walking  all  the  way.  His  route  was  along  the  Bay  of 
Quinte  to  Adolphustown,  across  the  bay  and  by  Picton  to  Wellington, 
thence  along  the  lake  shore.  He  forded  the  streams  on  his  way  as  best  he 
could,  sometimes  by  swimming,  sometimes  upon  a  fallen  tree.  He  wuuld 
spend  five  hours  in  York  and  then  start  on  his  way  back.  These  trips 
were  generally  made  once  a  fortnight     Johnson  was  of  low  stature  with  a 


MY  grandfather's  GHOST  STORY.  301 

8  mall  frame  and  spare  limbs  3  but  was  always  remarkably  quick  in  hb  move- 
ments. Mr.  Lockwood  says  that  he  walked  with  him  m  1812  from  Gana- 
noque  to  Kingston,  but  he  could  get  over  the  ground  three  times  as  fast  as 
he  (Lockwood)  could.  It  is  related  that  Andrew  once  offered  to  bet  with  his 
brother  Bill,  who  had  a  very  fast  horse,  a  hundred  dollars,  that  he  could 
travel  from  Kingston  to  York  quicker  than  he  could  on  his  horse ;  but  the 
challenge  was  not  accepted.  It  must  be  remembered  however  that  there 
was  only  a  bridle  path.  Andrew  was  a  loyal  soldier  in  1812,  and  belonged 
to  the  same  company  that  his  brother  Bill  did. 


MY  GRANDFATHER'S  GHOST  STORY. 

**I  AM  now  eighty  years  old,"  said  my  grandfather,  as  we  were  all 
gathered  around  a  blazing  log  fire  on  a  pleasant  evening,  some  five  years 
ago,  **  but  even  were  God  to  spare  me  until  I  reached  double  the  period, 
allowed  by  the  Psalmist  as  the  limit  of  human  life,  I  think  the  events 
which  I  am  going  to  relate  would  be  as  firmly  fixed  upon  my  mind  a& 
they  were  at  the  time  of  tjieir  occurrence." 

At  this,  we  little  ones  all  pricked  up  our  ears,  and  a  suppressed  "  Oh !  '* 
and  ''  Ah  ! "  indicated  our  susceptibillity  to  the  marvelous.  Even  brother 
Tom,  who  boasted  of  19  years,  and  an  upper  lip  covered  with  a  down 
which  was  quite  perceptible  in  a  strong  light,  condescended  to  manifest 
a  certain  degree  of  interest ;  for  Grandfather's  Ghost  Story  had  been 
spoken  of  in  the  family  for  some  years,  though  only  with  bated  breath, 
and  as  something  which  at  a  future  day  might  be  disclosed. 

But  a  few  weeks  ago,  the  news  had  reached  us  of  the  death,  in  India, 
of  the  last  person  who  had  taken  part  in  the  events  about  to  be  related, 
and  the  promise  that  we  should  hear  it  from  grandfather's  own  lips 
when  this  happened,  was  now  about  to  be  fulfilled  ;  otherwise  we  could 
only  have  read  it  in  manuscript  after  both  grandfather  and  Mr.  John 
Osborne,  the  gentleman  who  had  just  died,  had  passed  away.  So 
drawing  our  chairs  closer  to  the  fire,  and  casting  timid  glances  back  into 
the  further  comers  of  the  room,  where  the  flickering  fire  shed  only  an 
uncertain  light,  we  settled  ourselves,  all  attention,  and  grandfather  knock- 
ing the  ashes  out  of  the  long  church-warden's  pipe  that  was  his  constant 
companion,  and  laying  it  aside,  paused  for  a  moment,  while  an  expres- 
fiion  almost  of  pain  passed  over  his  face,  and  then  continued  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"My  parents,  as  you  older  ones  know  already,  emigrated  to  this 
country  when  I  was  quite  a  lad.  We  had  been  in  affluent  circumstances 
in  England,  and  it  was  the  loss  of  the  greater  portion  of  his  fortune  in 
the  year  1807,  which  induced  my  father  to  realize  what  remained,  and 
join  his  old  friend.  Captain  Osborne,  a  retired  officer,  who  had  obtained 
a  grant  of  land,  in  what  is  now  the  County  of  Wetland,  and  near  whom 
he  hoped  to  settle.  Indeed  he  was  fortunate  enough,  within  a  few 
months  after  his  arrival,  to  obtain  at  a  very  moderate  price,  a  farm  not 
five  miles  from  that  of  his  friend,  and  the  two  families  afterwards  saw 
a  great  deal  of  each  other,  the  young  people  striking  up  as  warm  a 
friendship  as  their  seniors.     Indeed,  Lucy  Osborne,  as  I  can  remember 


302  Mr  grandfather's  ghost  story. 

her  at  that  time,  was  one  that  would  have  attracted  a  youth  far  less 
susceptible  than  I  was.  And  this  accounted,  no  doubt,  for  the  Mendship 
which  I  conceived  for  her  brother  Jack,  who  was  just  two  years  my 
junior. 

*'  We  were  neither  of  us  in  the  least  degree  imaginative  or  superstitious, 
and  troubled  ourselves  as  little  about  the  supernatural  as  any  two  healthy 
young  fellows,  between  fifteen  and  twenty,  that  were  to  be  found  in  the 
country.  I  mention  this  to  shew  you  that  our  minds  were  not  so  pre- 
disposed in  that  direction  as  to  render  it  probable  that  we  were  carried 
away  by  any  morbid  fancies,  engendered  by  reading  or  thinking  on  such 
subjects.  I  doubt  if  either  of  us  had  ever  read  a  Ghost  Story,  as  cur- 
rent literature  was  unknown  in  Canada  in  those  days.  We  passed  our 
leisure  time  in  hunting  and  visiting,  and  managed  to  enjoy  ourselves 
.  thoroughly  without  neglecting  our  fair  share  of  work  on  the  farms. 

"Such  was  our  life  until  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  of  1812,  wlieq 
Captain  Osborne  volunteered  for  active  service,  and,  being  gazetted 
Major  in  one  of  the  regiments  of  incorporated  militia,  he  left  home,  as 
zealous  and  eager  for  the  fray  as  a  lad  of  seventeen  or  eighteen.  Both 
Jack  and  I  would  have  given  anything  we  possessed  to  go  too,  but  as 
•my  father  was  recovering  from  a  severe  illness,  I  could  no  more  be 
spared  than  Jack,  who  remained  to  take  c^re  of  his  sisters  and  look 
after  the  workinjj^  of  the  farm. 

*^  Our  surprise,  then,  may  be  well  imagined  when,  in  the  month  of 
January,  1814,  Jack  received  a  letter  from  his  father,  briefly  informing 
him  that  he  had  rented  the  farm  for  the  present,  with  all  its  belongings, 
and  telling  him  to  bring  Lucy  and  little  Minnie,  then  seven  years  old 
(Major  Osborne  was  a  widower),  to  York,  and  giving  him  the  option  of 
joining  his  regiment  as  a  private  or  getting  what  employment  he  could 
at  York,  or  elsewhere. 

**  It  is  needless  to  say  Jack's  choice  was  at  once  made  for  soldiering, 
and  as  my  father  had  by  that  time  quite  regained  his  health,  and  my 
martial  ardour  was  undiminished,  I  gained  permission  to  accompany 
him.  We  entered  with  great  zest  into  our  new  life,  and  submitted  with 
that  willingness  which  novice^  alone  feel  to  all  the  discomforts  and  an- 
noyances of  an  army  on  active  service.  We  soon  mastered  the  small 
modicum  of  drill  it  was  necessary  to  teach  us,  and  when  in  the  spring 
we  were  ordered*  to  the  Niagara  frontier  we  looked  upon  ourselves  as 
veterans,  although  we  had  never  yet  seen  a  shot  fired  in  anger.  All 
this,  no  doubt,  prevented  us  from  noticing  what  we  readily  recalled 
afterwards,  the  absent  and  preoccupied  air  of  Major  Osborne,  his  fre- 
quent reveries,  and  the  time  he  spent  in  writing.  But  I  must  hasten 
on,  without  wearying  you  with  more  details  than  are  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  enable  you  to  understand  what  follows. 

"  At  last,  about  the  middle  of  July,  we  got  forwajpd  to  the  front, 
where  we  joined  the  force  under  General  Riall,  and  lived  in  almost 
hourly  expectation  of  an  engagement.  Jack  had,  a  few  weeks  before^ 
been  made  a  sergeant,  and  been  removed  to  another  company,  so  I  did 
not  see  as  much  of  him  as  formerly,  when  we  had  been  almost  insepar- 
able. It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  25th  we  received  intelligence  that 
the  enemy  was  advancing  upon  us  in  full  force,  and  a  retreat,  or,  at  any 
rate,  a  change  of  position,  was  necessary.  General  Riall  oi*dered  the 
advance-guard,  composed  chiefly  of  incorporated  militia,  to  move  by  the 


MY  grandfather's  GHOST  STORY.  303 

upper  road  to  Queenston,  and  we  all  made  preparations  to  follow. 
Jack's  company  formed  part  of  this  advance,  and  I  remember  envying 
the  prospect  he  had  of  being  sooner  engaged  than  myself.  They  had 
not  been  gone  long,  however,  when  the  entire  aspect  of  affairs  was 
changed  by  the  arrival  of  General  Drummond,  with  about  800  regulars* 
He  at  once  assumed  the  command,  countermanded  our  orders  to  march, 
and  sent  an  aide-de-camp  with  all  speed  to  recall  the  party  to  which 
Jack  belonged.  I  well  remember  the  bustle  and  confusion  this  occasioned, 
and  how  hurriedly  we  were  got  into  position.  Nor  was  it  any  too  soon, 
for  the  enemy  was  almost  in  sight  when  we  b^an,  and  had  they  pos- 
sessed the  modem  rifles  we  could  not  have  done  anything.  We  were 
placed  on  a  ridge  of  ground  a  little  way  in  front  of  the  now  famous 
Lundy's  Lane,  and  were  on  the  extreme  left  of  the  line,  although  the 
actual  flank  was  occupied  by  a  detachment  of  the  3rd  Buffs. 

"  The  feelings  of  those  going  into  action  for  the  first  time  have  been 
so  often  described  that  I  shall  not  say  much.  It  was  a  beautiful  after- 
noon as  we  stood  upon  the  ridge  of  ground  and  watched  the  enemy 
approach  us.  The  sun  shone  so  brightly,  grass  and  trees  looked  so  green, 
that  one  could  scarcely  realize  how  soon  the  work  of  destruction  would 
commence.  Bat  there  was  the  dark  blue  line  in  front  of  us,  gradually 
getting  more  distinct,  until  we  could  almost  see  their  faces.  Then  a 
Gttle  hesitation,  as  it  seemed,  on  their  part,  followed  by  a  cloud  of  white 
smoke  and  a  whizzing  over  our  heads,  which  told  us  that  the  hesitation 
was  only  a  slight  hadt  to  fire  a  volley.  Another  moment  and  we  were 
returning  it,  and  after  that  I  can  give  you  no  connec^ted  idea  of  what 
followed.  The  firing  was  continued  for  what  seemed  to  me  a  long  time, 
and  became  very  heavy,  but  I  could  see  nothing  beyond  what  was  going 
on  in  my  immediate  neighbourhood.  Yet  it  was  not  very  long  before 
our  little  comer  of  the  field  became  the  scene  of  a  terrific  struggle. 
Down  upon  our  weak  ranks,  thinned  by  a  constant  fire  at  short  range, 
poured  an  entirely  fresh  body  of  troops,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  though 
all  I  knew  at  the  time  was  that  they  seemed  steadily  to  advance  like  a 
dark  cloud  through  a  thick  vapour,  not  very  quickly  at  first,  but  firing  as 
they  advanced,  until  quite  near  us.  Then  they  charged  upon  us  with  a 
rushy  and,  after  a  short  hand-to-hand  fight,  we  were  driven  back.  Not 
very  rapidly  eithei:,  for  we  made  several  stands,  and  at  lastgot  a  posi- 
tion on  the  brow  of  the  road  at  Lundy's  Lane.  There  we  held  our 
own,  though  only  acting  on  the  defensive,  owing  to  our  small  numbers  ; 
while  they  dare  not  cross  the  road,  and  for  some  time  a  murderous  fire 
at  that  short  distance  was  fiercely  kept  up. 

*^  I  had  not  seen  Major  Osborne  since  we  had  first  been  driven  back, 
and  had  had  no  time  to  think  of  anything  beyond  the  immediate  stmg 
gle  in  which  I  was  engaged,  until  towards  dark,  when  there  seemed  a 
sort  of  lull  in  the  battle ;  and  while  resting  for  a  few  moments  on  my 
musket,  for  the  first  time  since  the  firing  began,  I  felt  myself  touched  on 
the  shoulder,  and  one  of  the  orderly  Serjeants  drew  me  aside,  and  led 
me  back  to  a  clump  of  trees  where  some  of  the  surgeons  had  made  a 
very  temporary  sort  of  hospital,  and.  were  dressing  such  wounds  as  re- 
quired immediate  attention.  There  lay  poor  Major  Osborne,  with  a 
bullet  through  his  lungs,  his  life  fast  ebbing  away.  He  slightly  raised 
his  head,  looked  up  at  me,  and  smiled,  though  evidently  in  pain,  and 
feebly  pressed  my  hand  when  I  took  his.     Then  h^  endeavoured  to 


304  MY  grandfather's  ghost  story. 

speak,  but  the  e£fort  only  brought  the  blood  welling  from  his  mouth,  and 
with  a  half  sigh,  half  gasp,  he  sank  back,  and  a  slight  shudder  passed 
over  his  frame.  Kneeling  by  his  side,  I  took  his  huid,  and  asked  him 
if  there  was  anything  I  could  do  for  him :  but  it  was  too  late,  he  never 
spoke  again,  and  shortly  afterwards  expired.  I  had  to  hurry  away  before 
he  died,  as  I  did  not  wish  to  appear  a  skulker  while  there  was  any  fight- 
ing to  be  done,  but  was  told  afterwards  that  he  made  several  efforts  to 
speak,  and  appeared  greatly  distressed  at  being  unable  to  do  so,  and  no 
doubt  his  death  was  hastened  by  his  agitation. 

"  The  next  day  was,  as  you  may  imagine,  a  very  sad  one  for  Jack  and 
myself.  In  the  evening  the  dead  were  buried,  and  among  them  the 
body  of  Major  Osborne.  But  the  Ufe  of  a  soldier  is  not  conducive  to 
melancholy,  and  we  soon  regained  our  usual  spirits.  Indeed,  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  Jack  to  keep  serious,  under  ordinary  circumstances 
for  more  than  five  minutes  at  a  time,  he  possessed  such  a  cheerAil,  light 
hearted  disposition. 

*  *  A  few  weeks  afterward  a  letter  arrived  from  England  for  Mi^or 
Osborne,  which  naturally  fell  into  Jack's  hands,  and  which  occasioned 
us  (for  he  always  took  me  fully  into  his  confidence),  no  little  Ibewiider- 
ment.  It  was  from  an  English  solicitor,  in  answer,  evidently,  to  one 
firom  the  major,  and  hence  the  difficulty  of  getting  at  its  meaning.  It 
spoke  of  the  preliminary  enquiries  as  not  quite  completed,  yet  pro- 
gressing very  satisfactorily,  but  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  proceed 
much  further  without  the  papers,  as  well  as  other  particulars  to  substan- 
tiate the  claim. 

'*  Just  at  this  time  we  obtained  permission  to  go  to  a  village,  about 
four  miles  Arom  where  the  camp  was^then  pitched,  m  order  to  make  some 
necessary  purchases ;  and  as  our  passes  were  good  till  midnight,  we  did 
not  hurry  home,  but  resolved  to  take  tea  at  the  house  of  a  hospitable 
farmer,  who  was  always  glad  to  see  any  of  the  more  respectable  class  in 
the  militia,  and  then  walk  slowly  back  by  moonlight.  It  was  about 
ten  o'clock  when  we  started — one  of  those  beautiful  dear  nights,  almost 
as  bright  as  day,  save  when  an  occasional  fleecy  white  cloud  cast  its 
shadow  for  a  few  moments  over  the  scene.  Jack  and  I  walked  along  more 
briskly  than  we  had  intended,  feeling  invigorated  by  the  glorious  surround- 
ings, and  it  was  only  a  little  past  eleven  when  we  came  in  sight  of  the 
camp.  The  road  was  cut  at  this  spot  through  a  cedar  swamp  of  about 
one  hundred  yards  in  depth,  and  was  composed  of  logs  laid  very  unevenly, 
so  that  our  gait  was  both  ungainly  and  uncomfortable  as  we  traversed 
it.  At  the  termination  of  the  swamp  the  main  guard  of  the  camp  was 
stationed,  and  there  we  had  to  report  ourselves  on  returning.  We  had 
accomplished  about  half  the  distance,  and  I  remember  laughing  very 
heartily  at  Jack's  endeavour  to  whistle  '  Rule  Briitania '  while  the  breath 
was  nearly  jerked  out  of  his  body  by  the  uneven  logs,  when  we  both 
caught  sight  of  a  figure  coming  to  meet  us  from  the  direction  of  the 
camp.  It  seemed  to  near  us  very  rapidly,  yet  without  any  appearance 
of  effort,  or  of  the  unequal  and  irregular  steps  we  were  obliged  to  take. 
We  could  just  distinguish  that  it  wore  an  officer's  forage  cap  and  a  long 
miUtary  cloak,  when  the  moon  was  obscured  by  a  passing  cloud,  and  we 
could  make  out  nothing  further,  except  that  it  continued  its  i^proach. 
More  from  habits  of  precaution  than  from  any  real  suspicion,  we  drew 
>our  pistols — they  'were  Major  Osborne's,  and  when  we  started  Jack  had 


jnr  grandfather's  ghost  story.  305 

taken  one  himself  and  lent  me  the  otiher.  When  within  twenty-five  yards, 
and  an  involuntary  shudder  had  already  run  through  me  from  the  strange 
&miliarity  of  the  figure,  the  moon  suddenly  reappeared  from  hehind  the 
cloud,  and  disclosed,  just  as  distinctly  as  I  can  see  any  of  you  now  in 
this  room,  the  features  of  Major  Osborne.  Not  as  I  had  seen  them  last, 
when  in  the  rough  shell  we  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure  for  his 
remains,  but  as  I  remembered  him  in  health,  yet  with  an  eager,  anxious, 
half  pleading  expression,  very  difficult  to  describe.  He  continued 
to  advance,  and  when  about  ten  yards  from  us  drew  his  right  hand 
from  under  the  cloak,  and  held  out  to  us  a  bundle  of  parchments  tied 
wit^  red  tape.  The  manner  of  his  approach  was  the  same  as  we  at  first 
noticed,  an  easy  gliding  motion,  not  exactly  without  any  movement  of 
the  feet,  yet  to  a  great  extent  independent  of  it,  and  it  certainly  bore  no 
relation  to  the  character  of  the  ground  over  which  he  passed.  A  low 
cry  of  horror  involuntarily  broke  from  both  our  lips,  and  my  pistol  went 
off  as  I  held  it  in  my  hand,  so  great  was  my  terror.  Seeing  our  alarm, 
Major  Osborne,  if  I  may  venture  thus  to  speak  of  the  figure,  stopped, 
raiaed  his  hand  as  if  in  depreciation  of  our  fears,  and  seemed  to  invite 
OS  to  approach.  But  before  we  could  muster  courage  enough  to  adopt 
any  c^prse  of  action,  some  five  or  six  men  of  the  guard  came  running^ 
down  the  road,  alarmed  by  the  report  of  my  pistol.  The  figure  shook 
his  head  at  us  reproachfully,  then  turned  and  moved  rapidly  in  the 
direction  of  the  approaching  men,  and  having  passed  them,  vanished  at 
some  time  when  their  bodies  were  between  us  and  it,  and  so  obscured 
our  view. 

**  Although  perhaps  the  more  frightened  of  the  two,  at  the  time,  I 
was  the  first  to  recover  my  presence  of  mind,  and  explained  to  the  men 
that  we  thought  we  saw  a  figure,  and  that  I  had  fired  at  it,  and  asked 
them  if  anyUiing  had  passed  them.  They  had  assured  us  they  had 
seen  nothing,  so  we  told  them  it  must  have  been  our  mistake,  and  re- 
turned with  them  to  camp,'  but  not  to  sleep.  We  spent  the  night  dis- 
cussing in  low  whispers  the  possible  meaning  of  it,  and  what  we  should 
have  done,  and  ought  to  do.  That  it  was  a  supernatural  revelation 
from  Jack's  father,  neither  of  us  for  a  moment  doubted,  as  the  features 
were  distinctly  seen  by  both  of  us ;  and  besides,  the  figure  had  passed 
within  two  yards  of  the  men  running  from  the  guard,  and  none  of  them 
had  noticed  it.  From  this  we  believed  that  the  revelation  was  to  us 
alone,  and  that  he  did  not  wish  it  known  to  others.  So  after  much 
hesitation,  we  wrote  to  England,  announcing  Major  Osborne's  deatib, 
and  asking  for  information  as  to  the  nature  of  the  papers  required. 

"  Communication  being  so  slow  in  those  days,  we  did  not  look  for  an 
answer  for  some  months,  but  hoped  to  hear  before  the  winter  set  in. 
In  the  meantime,  we  endeavoured  to  let  our  minds  rest  about  the  mat* 
ter,  and  to  a  certain  extent  succeeded.  Jack  went  over  to  York,  and 
searchii^  among  his  fathers  papers  in  a  box  which  Lucy  had  charge  of, 
discovered  a  bundle,  which  looked  very  like  that  he  believed  he  had 
seen  in  his  father's  hands.  Upon  opening  them  they  seemed  to  be 
bonds  or  something  of  the  sort,  entitling  the  holder  to  so  many  shares 
in  a  now  extinct  Spanish  Mining  Company,  and  bearing  a  value  upon 
the  face  of  them  of  about  £10,000.  He  wrote  to  me  asking  me  to  get 
leave  of  absence,  and  join  him  which  I  did ;  and  on  the  night  of  my 
arrival  we  talked  the  matter  over,  and  after  a  great  deal  of  hesitation 


306  MY  grandfather's  ghost  story. 

resolved  to  await  further  news  from'England.     We  sat  up  late  and  did 
Dot  retire  until  past  twelve  o'clock.     Our  room  was  the  same,  but  we 
occupied  separate  beds,  at  opposite  ends  of  it,  the  door  being  in  the  wall 
at  the  east  side  of  the  room,  to  which  our  feet  pointed,  so  that  we  had 
full  view  of  it  without  moving,  or  would  have  had,  but  for  the  darkness. 
I  went  to  bed  tired  enough  fh>m  my  long  journey,  but  no  sooner  had 
I  laid  my  head  upon  the  pillow,  than  a  strange  restlessness  seized  me, 
and  I  felt  it  impossible  to  fall  into  the  peaceful  sleep  that  I  so  much 
coveted.      I   spoke   to  Jack,  and  he  assured  me   that  he  felt  ihe 
same,   and  that  unless  he  was  more   disposed   to   sleep   in  a  very 
short  time,  he  would    light  a  candle,  and  try  to  read.     With  me, 
the  uneasy  feeling  increased,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  I  felt  a  cool 
breeze,  as  it  were,  passing  over  me — very  gentle,  yet  perfectly  distinct, 
and  causing  an  involuntary  shudder.     I  called  out  to  Jack  that  I  felt  a 
draught,  and  asked  if  the  door  was  shut.     He  replied  that  it  was,  but 
that  he  felt  the  draught  too,  and  would  close  the  window  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  wMch  had  been  left  open  for  purposes  of  ventilation. 
Before  he  could  do  so,  our  attention  was  attracted  by  a  peculiar  crack- 
ling sound  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  direction  of  the  door — ^much 
the  same  as  would  be  caused  by  rubbing  a  lock  of  hair  near  the  ^r  be- 
tween the  thumb  and  forefinger.     At  the  same  time  a  faint  circular 
light  could  be  seen  there,  about  two  feet  from  the  floor.     It  gradually 
extended,  and  increased  in  brightness,  till  we  were  able  to  see  everything 
in  the  room  with  tolerable  clearness.     A  dark  hazy  figure  was  near  the 
door,  about  the  human  height,  but  at  that  time  ill-defined  in  shape, 
gradually,  however,  it  grew  clearer,  and  shewed  us,  what  we  were  by 
this  time  not  unprepared  for — the  form  of  Major  Osborne.     This  time, 
he  was  bareheaded,  wore  a  military  undress  frock,  but  carried  a  cloak 
under  his  arm,  and  in  one  hand  the  very  papers  we  had  restored  to  the 
box  that  night  before  going  to  bed.  He  was  hardly  more  than  four  yards 
from  either  of  us,  and  could  be  seen  with  perfect  distinctness.     Yet  the 
figure  was  semi-transparent,  for  I  remember  distinguishing  the  panels  of 
the  door  through  his  body.     He  looked  at  us  again  with  the  same  ear- 
nest, entreating  air,  which  we  had  noticed  at  the  camp.     Not  turning 
from  one  to  the  other,  but  gazing  at  us  both  simultaneously  as  you  will 
find  an  oil  painting  does,  if  any  two  of  you  stand  at  opposite  ends  of 
the  room.     Then  he  moved  in  the  direction  of  the- door  which  opened 
in  answer  to  some  wave  of  his  hand,  and  beckoning  us  to  follow,  went 
into  the  passage.     During  this  time  I  was  almost  pfu^ysed  with  terror, 
and,  bathed  in  a  cold  perspiration,  dare  not  move^  much  less  speak.  For 
although  both  of  us  expected  another  such  appearance,  and  had  talked 
over  the  proper  course  to  adopt,  the  reality  was  a  very  difierent  matter 
to  a  daylight  rehearsal,  and  I  felt  a  strong  desire  to  bury  my  head  under 
the  bedclothes,  and  leave  matters  to  take  their  course.     Jack  was  the 
first  to  recover  his  speech.    Let  us  do  as  he  wishes  this  time,  he  said,  in 
a  hoarse  whisper,  springing  out  of  bed.     I  followed  him  ;  and  hastily 
donning  our  trousers,  we  rushed  into  the  hall,  and  down  stairs,  at  the 
foot  of  which  we  could  see  the  light.    It  preceded  us  into  the  room  where 
we  had  spent  the  evening,  and  we  followed  arm  in  arm,  and  stood  just  with- 
in the  door.  The  figure  then  deliberately  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  threw 
its  cloak  across  it,  and  sat  down.     On  the  table  were  paper  and  writ- 
ing materials,  and  to  these  he  directed  his  attention.     He  first  carefully 


MY  GRANDFATHER*8   GHOST  STORY.  307 

enclosed  the  parchments  in  a  paper  covering,  as  we  were  obliged  to  do 
before  envelopes  came  into  use,  removing  the  tape  so  as  to  make  the 
packet  even,  and  then  sealed  it  with  some  wax  that  lay  before  him, 
drawing  out  his  watch  and  chain,  and  using  the  seal  with  the  Osborne 
arms,  which  was  attached  to  it.  The  wax  seemed  to  melt  when  applied 
to  the  paper,  for  there  was  no  candle  in  the  room,  the  only  light  being 
the  mysterious  luminous  atmosphere  in  which  he  moved.  He  then  ad- 
di-essed  the  package,  and  after  steadily  contemplating  his  work  with 
apparent  satisfaction  some  moments,  turned  to  ua,  and  with  a  firm,  de- 
termined expression,  quite  different  from  his  former  look  of  entreaty, 
pointed  to  the  packet  as  it  lay  on  the  table.  While  we  were  hesitating 
what  to  do,  the  light  grew  gradually  fainter,  and  in  a  couple  of  minutes 
had  entirely  disappeared. 

"  We  rushed  up  stairs  and  struck  a  light  at  once.  Jack's  first  thought 
was  to  look  for  his  father's  watch,  which  he  had  worn  ever  since  his 
deaths  and  kept  under  his  pillow  at  night.  Yes,  there  it  was,  ticking 
away  as  usual ;  so  with  it  in  one  hand,  and  the  light  in  the  other,  he 
went  down  the  stairs  again,  I  following.  On  the  table  was  the  packet 
just  as  we  had  seen  it  when  the  light  faded  away.  It  was  sealed  with 
the  seal  at  the  end  of  the  watch-chain  (we  tried  it,  and  the  impression 
fitted  exactly),  and  addressed  in  Major  Osborne's  undoubted  handwrit- 
ing, with  *  Immediate '  marked  in  the  corner,  to  the  English  solicitor 
who  had  written  to  him.  On  searching  the  box,  which  was  locked,  the 
papers  were  missing,  but  the  piece  of  red  tape  lay  on  the  table  beside 
the  packet,  just  where  we  had  seen  it  placed. 

"  There  was  no  more  sleep  for  us  that  night,  nor,  on  returning  to  bed 
did  we  extinguish  the  light.  The  meaning  of  the  apparition  was  so 
clear,  and  his  intention  to  induce  us  to  alter  our  plans  so  plain,  that  we 
never  thought  of  disobeying  it,  but  without  opening  the  packet  (although 
sorely  tempted  to  examine,  and  then  reseal  it).  Jack  posted  it  the  next 
morning. 

**  The  question  then  arose,  whether  Lucy  should  be  told,  or  whether 
it  were  wiser  that  she  should  be  kept  in  ignorance.  On  the  one  hand 
we  feared  the  shock  to  her  sensitive  nervous  system,  of  such  terrible 
revelations — on  the  other,  we  did  not  know  how  far  her  ignorance  might 
impede  the  proper  carrying  out  of  her  father's  wishes,  should  anything 
require  to  be  done  in  our  absence.  Besides  it  seemed  such  a  want  of 
confidence  towards  a  sister  (and  Uf  me  she  was  then  even  dearer  than  a 
sister)  not  to  make  her  acquainted  with  an  event  of  such  importance 
in  the  family  history. 

**  So  we  decided  to  tell  her  everything,  and  fixed  upon  the  morning 
after  the  packet  had  been  sent  in  order  that  her  rest  might  be  less  dis- 
turbed than  in  the  evening.  The  task  was  undertaken  by  Jack,  who 
gave  her  a  careful  and  accurate  account  of  all  that  we  had  witnessed  on 
both  occasions.  Poor  Lucy  was  terribly  staggered  by  the  recital,  I 
could  see,  even  though  at  the  time  unable  to  take  in  the  full  import  of 
the  whole  matter.  Indeed,  as  no  further  manifestations  were  made  to  us 
I  doubt  if  she  ever  realized  the  truth  of  it,  though  never  questioning  our 
word. 

''In  the  hope  of  comforting  her,  I  took  occasion  that  day,  during 
Jack's  temporary  absence,  to  confess  to  her  the  love  I  had  so  long  felt 
but  which  I  had  resolved  to  keep  locked  up  in  my  own  heart  until  I 


308  MY  grandfathkr's  ghost  story, 

was  in  a  position  to  offer  her  a  home.     But  I  could  get  nothing  from 
her  but  tears." 

**  Why  grandpapa/'  explained  Bessie,  a  maiden  of  twelve  summers, 
''  she  did  have  you.  You  are  not  telling  the  story  fair !  One  day 
mamma  told  me  that  grandmother's  name  was  Lucy  Osborne,  when  she 
shewed  me  a  bracelet  with  her  name  on  it" 

"  My  dear  child,"  replied  grandfather,  "  do  you  suppose  that  young 
ladies  are  as  candid  and  outspoken  at  eighteen  as  at  twelve  ?    Besides 
you  did  not  give  me  time  to  finish.     Nor  did  I  say  that  she  refused 
me,  but  only  that  she  felt  too  unhappy  and  unsettled  to  think  of  the 
matter  for  the  present.     So  Jack  and  I  returned  to  our  regiments  and 
were  soon  busy  enough.     We  took  part  in  all  the  engagements  about 
Fort  Erie  with  Oenend  Drummond,  and  Jack  got  his  commission  for 
gallant  conduct  in  rescuing  a  wounded  man  after  the  first  unsuccess- 
ful assault,  while  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  made  a  corporal.    Late 
that  autumn  we  had  news  from  England.  The  solicitor  informed  us 
that  he  had  been  written  to  by  Major  Osborne,  whom  he  had  not 
heard  of  for  years,  asking  him  to  make  enquiries  as  to  the  prospect  of 
recovering  any  value  for  certain  shares  in  the  mine  in  question.    On 
doing  so  he  found  that  a  very  large  sum  of  money  had  lately  been  paid 
in  by  the  Spanish  ffovemment,  which  had  been  dis^rged  by  certain 
plunderers,  who  had  caused  the  failure  of  the  mine.  The  Court  of  Chan- 
cery was  at  this  time  engaged  in  distributing  it,  and  all  claims  had  to  be 
put  in  before  the  1st  of  October  of  that  year.     *  It  was  very  fortunate,' 
he  added  in  conclusion  '  that  you  found  and  afterwards  forwarded  to  me 
the  papers  which  your  father  had  evidently  prepared  and  addressed  ;  for 
if  I  had  been  obliged  to  write  again,  they  would  not  have  reached  here 
in  time  to  be  fyled  in  court,  and  your  claim  for  the  £10,000  which  will 
now  most  probably  be  paid  in  full^  would  not  have  held.' 

*  *  *  it  *  *  * 

"  Finally,  £9,000  were  allotted  to  the  Osborne  family,  and  the  three 
children  shared  alike.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  war.  Jack  was  fortunate 
enough  to  get  an  exchange  into  a  regular  regiment,  and  afterwards 
served  in  India,  in  the  Company's  service.  I  married  Lucy  Osborne  the 
next  year,  and  her  l^acy  enabled  me  to  brine  in  and  stock  her' father's 
flEurm,  and  build  up  a  K)rtune  of  which  you  children  will  one  day  reap  the 
benefit." 

"  But  grandpapa,"  asked  Bessie,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  did  it  aU 
really  happen?"  **  Yes  dear,"  he  answered.  "  If  I  had  wished  to  tell 
you  a  Ghost  Story,  I  could  have  invented  something  far  more  horrible. 
But  as  this  actually  occurred  within  my  own  personal  experience,  I  feel 
it  only  right  to  hand  it  down  in  the  family.  But  come,  we  have  had 
enough  of  this — ^the  little  ones  will  be  afraid  to  go  to  bed,  let  us  young 
people  have  a  game  of  blind  man's  buff,  while  your  mamma  gets  the 
snap-dragon  ready  for  us."  W.  I.  D. 


THE  RIVER  IN  THE  DESERT.  309 


THE  RIVER  IN  THE  DESERT. 

BY  J.   G.    BOURINOT. 

It  is  proposed  in  the  present  paper  to  take  the  reader  on  a  short  excur- 
sion to  a  wild  aud  picturesque  part  of  Canada,  of  which  probably  very 
few  persons,  outside  of  the  valley  of  the  Ottawa,  can  have  any  definite 
or  accurate  knowledge.  This  section  of  country  lies  to  the  north  of  the 
political  capital,  and  is  watered  by  the  Gatineau,  one  of  the  largest  tribu- 
taries of  the  Ottawa  River.  If  any  one  will  look  at  the  latest  map  pub- 
lished by  the  Government  of  Quebec,  or,  indeed,  at  any  correct  map 
that  may  be  most  conveniently  at  hand,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  Qatineau 
takes  its  rise,  some  hundreds  of  miles  from  Ottawa  City,  in  a  region  of 
rocky  hills  and  lakes,  where  the  Indians  are  the  sole  inhabitants.  The 
whole  country  is  intersected  in  a  marvellous  manner  by  rivers  and  lakes 
which  connect  with  the  Gtttineau,  and  afford  invaluable  facilities  to  the 
lumberman,  who  for  some  thirty  years  has  stripped  the  hills  and  valleys 
of  the  magnificent  pine  forests  that  constitute  the  chief  wealth  of  this 
comparatively  unknown  region. 

The  names  of  the  townships,  lakes  and  rivers  of  the  Gatineau  country 
illustrate  different  epochs  and  events  in  the  history  of  Canada.  The 
Reanock  and  Kazabazoua  rivers,  and  the  Papanegeang  and  Kakebon^a 
lakes,  are  names  that  have  come  down  to  us  from  the  Algonqum 
tribes,  who  have  inhabited  that  section  from  times  immemorifd.  But 
French  names  predominate  here  just  as  they  do  as  in  so  many  other 
parts  of  the  Dominion,  and  illustrate  the  spirit  of  adventure  that  has 
carried  away  at  all  times  so  many  French  Canadians  into  the  wilderness, 
either  to  trap  furs  or  level  the  forest  The  names  of  most  of  the  rivers 
and  lakes,  like  those  generally  given  by  the  Cowrewrs  des  hois  and  voyageurs, 
note  some  natural  characteristic  or  striking  incident  connected  with  the 
locality.  The  "  Mer  Bleue  "  has  been  so  called  from  the  peculiar  peb- 
bly bottom,  which  gives  a  pale  opaque  blue  tinge  to  the  waters  of  this 
large  and  picturesque  lake.  The  "Castor  blanc,"  and  "Poisson  blanc," 
beax  testimony  to  the  existence  of  the  white  beaver  and  the  white  fish. 
The  townships  of  Hincks,  Dorion,  Sicotte  and  AUeyn  recalls  old  politi- 
cal contests  in  Canada,  while  Ljrtton,  Kensington,  and  Wakefield  are  so 
many  mementoes  of  prominent  men  and  places  in  the  mother  country. 
Bouchette  reminds  us  of  one  of  the  earliest  surveyors  of  Canada,  to  whom 
we  owe  the  ablest  topographical  description  ever  published  of  what  is 
now  the  Province  of  Quebec.  The  River  in  the  Desert,  la  riviere  au 
Diserty  is  itself  an  illustration  of  the  aptness  for  graphic  description 
which  distinguished  the  pioneers  of  a  wild  and  cheerless  region,  while 
its  Indian  name  of  Maniwaki,  or  Land  of  Mary,  attests  the  devotion  of 
the  missionaries.  The  name  of  the  Gatineau  is  also  of  French  origin, 
and  was  given  to  a  Seigniory  of  the  County  of  St.  Maurice,  in  honour 
of  the  JDemoiselle  Marie  Josephe  Gatineau  Duplessis,  to  whom  the  con- 
cession of  the  fief  was  made  by  Marquis  de  la  Jonqui^re  and  Francis 
Bigdt,  that  corrupt  Finance  Minister  of  New  France. 

The  history  of  this  region  only  goes  back  a  very  few  years.  Champlain 
refers  to  it  incidentally  in  his  account  of  his  voyages  up  the  Ottawa 
River,  and  tells  us  that  the  Indian  tribes  not  unfrequently  ascended  the 
3 


310  THE  EIVEB  IN  THE  DESERT. 

CUttineau  for  a  long  distance  until  they  were  able  at  last,  by  means 
of  a  number  of  portages,  lakes  and  streams,  to  reach  the  St  Maurice, 
and  then  descend  to  the  St.  Lawrence  at  Three  Rivers ;  and  it  was  in 
this  way  only  they  were  able  at  times  to  avoid  their  hereditary  enemies, 
the  Iroquois,  who  were  waiting  for  them  on  the  banks  of  the  Lower 
Ottawa.  The  Ottawa  country  was  first  settled  in  the  beginning  of  this 
century  by  Philemon  Wright,  an  energetic  New  Englander,  but  it  does 
not  appear  that  any  attempt  was  made  to  open  up  the  Gatineau  valley 
until  many  years  later.  When  Mr.  McTaggart,  one  of  the  engineers 
engaged  on  the  Eideau  Canal,  wrote  his  notes  on  Canada,  he  had 
the  idea — one  which  shows  the  use  to  which  Englishmen  would  put 
colonies  in  those  days — that  the  vale  of  the  Gatineau  would  make  a 
most  favourable  home  for  a  very  undesirable  class  of  settlers.  ^'  It  might 
become,"  he  says,  "  a  place  of  great  importance  and  utility  to  the  mother 
country,  and  a  receptade  for  villains  near  to  the  British  gaols,  where  they 
could  be  delivered  and  retained  with  much  security,  and  employed  to 
advantage.''  But,  happily  for  Central  Canada,  Mr.  McTaggart's  plan 
was  not  adopted,  and  it  was  left  to  the  lumberman  to  open  up  a  valu- 
able section  of  country.  It  has  only  been  some  thirty  years  since  the 
Gatineau  valley  attracted  the  lumberman  and  his  inevitable  corollary, 
the  settler.  When  Bouchette  wrote  his  topographical  description  of 
Canada,  published  in  1832,  he  appeared  to  be  quite  ignorant  of  the  ca- 
pabilities of  the  valley  for  lumbering  and  settlement ;  but  since  then 
several  great  firms  have  bought  and  worked  the  most  valuable  limits 
over  a  face  of  a  splendid  timber  country,  and  the  Gatineau  has  been 
found,  despite  its  swift  current  and  numerous  rapids,  one  of  the  best 
rivers  in  this  section  for  the  speedy  transport  of  logs.  But  these  and 
other  particulars  will  be  best  noted  in  the  course  of  the  brief  description 
which  I  purpose  to  give  of  a  visit  which  I  lately  made  to  the  Gatineau 
valley  and  the  region  beyond  the  River  in  the  Desert, 

The  time  is  not  far  distant  when  the  tourist  will  seek  the  hills  and 
lakes  of  the  Gatineau  for  recreation  and  health,  and  many  a  gentleman 
will  have  his  summer  cottage  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  The  Adiron- 
dack Hills,  or  the  Androscoggin  Lakes  so  often  described  in  American 
periodicals,  cannot  vie  with  many  parts  of  the  Gatineau  country  in  cer- 
tain aspects  of  wild,  sylvan  beauty.  The  scenery  about  Lake  Couchich- 
ing  is  exceedingly  tame  and  monotonous,  in  comparison  with  the  varied 
landscape  of  the  Laurentian  Hills.  The  drive  up  the  river  is  certainly 
the  most  picturesque  to  be  seen  in  Canada.  The  road  for  over  twenty 
miles  is  thoroughly  made,  and  takes  you  for  the  most  part  by  the  side 
of  the  river,  which  now  narrows  to  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  or  so  of 
rushing,  foaming  waters,  and  then  widens  into  a  placid  lake  around 
which  the  hills  tower  in  every  imaginable  form.  The  hilly  slopes  are 
well  cultivated  for  a  considerable  distance,  and  here  and  there  we  pass 
rich  alluvial  flats  near  the  river,  where  the  large  lumberers  have  estab- 
lished fine  farms  as  dep6ts  for  the  convenience  of  their  shanties.  The 
houses  throughout  the  country  are  chiefly  built  of  sawn  lumber  and 
present  as  a  rule  a  snug,  comfortable  appearance.  The  soil  of  the  motm- 
tain  slopes  is  naturally  rich,  while  in  the  more  rocky,  irregular  parts 
there  is  found  a  nutritious  herbage  valuable  for  cattle  and  sheep.  Be- 
tween the  Gatineau  and  the  Ottawa,  there  is  a  very  fine  fanning  and 
grazing  country,  well  watered,  and  supporting  a  thrifty,  industrious 


J 


THE  RIVER  IN  THE  DESERT.  311 

cladd  of  people,  who  have  a  ready  market  for  all  they  produce  among  the 
lumbermen. 

Several  villages  are  situated  at  different  points  on  the  river.  The 
principal  is  commonly  known  as  the  P^he,  n*om  a  stream  flowing  into 
the  main  river ;  there  you  will  see  several  inns  comfortable  in  their  way, 
two  or  three  churches,  and  a  fine  brick  store,  besides  several  neatly 
painted  frame  dwellings.  The  situation  is  exceedingly  romantic,  for  it 
is  built  on  the  banks  of  a  broad  expansion  of  the  river,  here  surrounded 
by  a  perfect  amphitheatre  of  hills.  But  the  whole  landscape,  until  you 
reach  the  burnt  district,  is  equally  charming.  The  rapids  you  pass  at 
distant  intervals,  are  beautiful  miniatures  of  the  grander  scenes  on  the 
St.  Lawrence  and  Ottawa.  As  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  you  may  follow 
a  long  succession  of  bills  which  rise  in  graceful  outlines,  until  they  are 
lost  in  the  purple  of  distance — 

**  You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range, 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven — 
How  through  each  pass  and  hoUow  streamed 
The  pnriuing  light  of  heaven—." 

Tou  may  drive  in  a  perfect  avenue  of  forest,  through  whose  umbrageous 
shade  every  now  and  then  glisten  the  foaming  waters  as  they  leap  tumul- 
tuously  over  impeding  rocks.  Cascades  tumble  over  the  brow  of  abrupt 
hills,  and  offer  to  the  thirsty  traveller  a  bounteous  supply  of  crystal 
water,  fresh  and  icy  cold  from  its  mountain  spring.     The  very  highest 
hills  do  not  exceed  some  seven  or  eight  hundred  feet  above  Ottawa,  but 
many  of  them,  the  further  you  go,  are  rugged  and  precipitous  in  the 
extreme.  Gray  boulders  of  every  imaginable  size  seem  to  have  been  to^t 
by  some  giant  arm  in  a  fit  of  rage,  and  now  lie  piled  on  each  other  in  a 
bewildering  chaotic  mass.   Some  fifty  or  sixty  miles  up  the  river,  on  the 
summit  of  a  hill,  not  far  from  the  main  road,  there  is  to  be  seen  a  mon- 
ster boulder — enormous  even  for  a  region  so  famous  for  its  rocks.     It 
is  almost  as  large  as  St.  James's  Cathedral  in  Toronto,  and  it  is  perplex- 
ing to  think  how  so  large  a  mass  ever  found  a  resting  place  on  the  hills 
of  the  Gatineau.    We  are  told  that  there  are  evidences  throughout  the 
Laurentian  range,  that  sometime  in  a  now  forgotten  past,  in  a  mysteri- 
ous, silent  geological  era,  great  earthquakes  convulsed  the  whole  northern 
part  of  this  continent,  and  formed  the  hills  and  valleys  which  are  its 
characteristic  features.  Perhaps  it  was  then  that  this  enormous  boulder 
was  tossed  from  the  heart  of  the  earth  upon  the  hills  where  it  has  lain 
for  unknown  ages.     Or  we  may  believe  in  another  theory,  that  at  an 
equally  remote  period  of  time  the  enormous  glaciers  which  then  gradu- 
aUy  spread  over  the  whole  of  this  region,  bore  this  huge  rock  from  the 
mountains  of  the  extreme  north,  and  left  it  a  memorial  of  their  icy  reign 
on  the  Laurentian  hills.    Be  that  as  it  may,  there  has  rested  for  ages 
past  and  will  rest  for  centuries  to  come,  that  magnificent  specimen  of 
nature's  rough  handiwork. 

Summer  and  winter  equally  afford  attractions  to  those  who  wish  to 
see  this  country  in  its  varied  aspect.  The  fisherman  will,  of  course,  visit 
it  in  the  spring,  when  the  numerous  lakes  are  teeming  with  fish  of  every 
kind.  It  is  always  easy  to  procure  a  guide  and  canoe,  and  then  you  may 
be  sure  to  have  all  the  sport  you  wish,  provided  you  are  accustomed  to 
combat  the  flies  which  are  the  inevitable  companions  of  the  fishermen. 


•H12  XHE  BIVEB  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Trout,  bass,  pickerel,  and  white  fish  are  caught  in  krge  quantities. 
Trout  from  six  to  twelve  pounds  are  not  unfrequently  the  prize  of  the 
adventurous  sportsman  who  does  not  hesitate  **  to  seek  fresh  woods  and 
pastures  new/  in  the  remotest  fastnesses  of  the  wilderness.  A  favourite 
starting  place  is  Fanels',  a  well  kept  inn,  picturesquely  situated  amid 
encircling  hills. 

But  it  is  in  the  winter  you  can  best  form  an  accurate  idea  of  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  lumbering  trade  of  the  valley.  The  Hamilton  Brothers, 
Gilmour  &  Co.,  Hall  &  Co.,  Edwards  &  Co.,  and  some  smaller  firms, 
work  the  greater  part  of  the  country  for  many  thousands  of  square 
miles,  on  the  Eagle  Grand  Lake,  Kazabazoua,  Blue  Sea,  Cedar  Lake, 
Kakebonga,  and  other  streams  and  lakes.  For  two  winters  past,  through 
the  kindness  of  a  genial  gentleman  connected  with  a  large  lumbering 
firm,  the  writer  has  had  more  than  ordinary  opportunities  for  travelling 
over  a  large  district,  which  it  is  not  easy  to  see,  except  at  a  season  when 
the  snow  allows  access  to  an  otherwise  impenetrable  country.  The 
number  and  size  of  the  lakes  was  very  remarkable,  and  impress  the 
mind  with  the  admirable  adaptation  of  nature  to  man's  necessities. 
Without  our  cold,  snowy  climate,  without  a  network  of  lakes  and  rivers, 
this  region  of  rocks  and  hills,  and  cedar  swamps,  would  be  comparatively 
worthless.  The  magnificent  pine  forests  would  still  be  untouched,  and 
silence  would  reign  unbroken  in  a  wilderness  of  shade.  But  thanks  to 
the  wise  provisions  of  Nature,  many  millions  of  dollars  worth  of  timber 
has  come  in  the  course  of  years  from  these  mountains,  and  more  remain 
yet  to  come  in  the  future,  if  fire  does  not  sweep  the  whole  country,  and 
finish  the  work  which  the  axe  has  only  commenced.  No  one  who  has 
not  travelled  over  the  face  of  this  lumber  region  can  have  any  adequate 
conception  of  the  fearful  havoc  made  in  the  forests  by  bush  fires,  origin- 
ating, as  a  rule,  in  the  most  culpable  negligence.  Between  the  Six 
Portages  and  the  Desert,  and  on  the  way  to  the  Blue  Sea,  there  are 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  gaunt  stripped  trunks,  all  showing  by  their 
girth  and  height,  the  great  value  of  the  timber  that  has  been  destroyed 
in  this  way.  As  I  drove  far  into  the  interior,  over  the  Grand  Lake,  and 
Blue  Sea,  to  a  country  remote  from  the  farming  settlements,  the  evidences 
of  fire  became  less  frequent,  and  I  found  myself  at  last  in  a  wilderness 
of  pine.  Eoads  branched  off  in  different  directions,  from  the  log  shan- 
ties, two  or  three  of  which  are  built  on  every  limit  according  to  its  area 
and  value.  Long  rows  of  logs,  many  of  enormous  size,  lay  on  the 
firm  ice,  awaiting  the  thaws  of  spring.  The  whir  of  the  axe,  and  the 
cry  of  the  teamsters,  found  many  an  echo  in  the  long  avenues  of  pine. 
No  nobler  sight  is  presented  by  nature  than  a  forest  of  perfect  pines, 
with  their  taU  clean  trunks  and  bushy  tops  which  sough  and  tremble  as 
the  winds  rush  from  the  mountains,  and  grasp  them  in  a  fierce  embrace. 
Here  and  there  towers  many  an  enormous  tree,  which  recalls  the  often 
quoted  lines  of  Longfellow's  finest  poem  : 

<*  This  is  the  forest  primevaL    The  mummring  pines  and  the  hemlock, 
Bearded  with  moes  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the  twilight 
Stand  like  Druids  of  old,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic.'* 

But  the  lumberman  cares  nothing  for  primeval  beauty.  He  not  un- 
frequently  sees  signs  of  decay  in  what  the  inexperienced  eye  believes  to 
be  the  most  beautiful  specimen  of  forest  beauty.     At  a  glance  he  can 


THE  RIVBB  IN  THE  DES£RT.  318 

tell  yody  if  it  is  sound  to  the  core,  or  defective  in  any  serious  degree. 
But  when  he  decides  that  it  is  p^ect,  his  axe  is  deftly  swung  at  its 
base,  and  in  five  or  six  minutes  the  tree  totters  and  then  £&Us  gradually 
with  a  crash  among  the  brush,  while  its  executioner  stands  carelessly 
leaning  on  his  axe,  knowing  to  a  certainty  the  spot  where  it  will  rest. 

Game  is  not  very  plentiml  now  throughout  the  G^tineau  country. 
Deer  are  not  unfrequently  kiUed  at  certain  secluded  spots  in  the  hilk, 
and  fur-bearing  animals,  including  the  beaver,  but  principally  red  foxes 
and  mink,  are  trapped  in  the  interior.  Bears  are  constantly  met  near  the 
settlements.  The  writer  has  been  told  of  a  farmer  who  discovered  that 
a  piece  of  buckwheat  was  disappearing  in  a  mysterious  fashion,  and 
having  his  suspicions  aroused,  he  watched,  and  was  at  last  rewarded  by 
the  sight  of  an  enormous  bear  quietly  nibbling  the  srain.  He  chased 
the  animal,  but  missed  him  on  that  occasion.  Some  days  later  he  went 
up  to  a  pasture  behind  his  bam  for  his  cows,  and  here,  to  his  amazement 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  old  friend  enjoying  a  feast  of  acorns.  He 
crept  home,  only  a  short  distance  away,  and  then  was  obliged  to  run 
some  bullets,  but  still  he  was  in  time  to  shoot  Mr.  Bruin,  who  was 
munching  hiis  nuts  with  much  gusto.  These  animals  rarely  do  any  in- 
jury to  the  cattle.  They  prefer  nuts  and  berries — and  com,  when  they 
can  safely  steal  it — and  are  on  the  whole  decidedly  well-disposed  bears  ; 
but  of  course  it  is  very  different  if  you  attack  their  cubs,  if  they  have 
yoa  at  a  disadvantage  at  that  moment,  you  will  probably  feel  more  un- 
comfortable than  at  any  previous  time  of  your  life.  Wolves  are  now 
and  then  heard  near  the  shanties,  and  their  skins  are  seen  in  some  of 
the  distant  farm  houses,  but  a  few  years  hence  they  will  be  unknown  in 
the  CkUineau  Valley. 

But  all  this  is  a  long  prelude  to  a  description  of  the  Biver  in  the 
Desert.  From  the  moment  you  leave  the  Six  Portages,  seventy  miles 
up  the  Gatineau,  you  lose  sight  of  that  rapid  river,  with  its  picturesque 
hills  and  green  slopes,  and  pass  over  a  comparatively  level  tract,  covered 
for  the  most  part  with  stumps  and  dead  pines,  and  only  relieved  at  dis- 
tant intervals  by  some  pretty  sequestered  lake,  around  which  a  thick 
growth  of  wood  has  sprang  up  since  the  fires  which  have  devastated  the 
whole  of  this  section.  It  is  a  wild,  cheerless  drive  to  the  Bdsert,  for 
every  step  carries  you  away  from  the  prosperous  farming  settlements. 
It  was  a  piercing  cold  day  in  January  when  we  reached  the  top  of  the 
ridge  overlooking  the  valley  where  the  two  rivers  mingle  their  waters. 
As  we  drove  rapidly  along  the  smooth  icy  road  we  caught  a  sound  as 
welcome  as  that  which  Whittier  tells  us,  delights  the  ears  of  the  Bed 
Biver  voyageurs  as  they  draw  near  the  end  of  their  bleak  journey  over 
the  plains  of  the  North- West. : 

*'  Hark  1  Is  it  the  olADg  of  wild  geeee. 
Is  it  the  Indian's  yeU, 
That  gives  to  the  voice  of  the  northwind, 
The  sound  of  a  far-off  beU  ?  " 

Then,  as  we  rounded  a  height,  we  saw  for  the  first  time  the  massive 
stone  church  of  "  Notre  Dame  du  Dteert,"  of  our  Lady  of  the  Desert, 
whose  gilded  image  surmounts  the  tower,  and  overlooks  a  wide  expanse 
of  barren  country.  Connected  with  the  chapel  are  several  substantial 
buildings  for  the  accommodation  of  the  priests  and  nuns,  engaged  in  the 


314  THE  RIVER  IN  THE  DESERT. 

education  of  the  Indians.  The  village  itself  is  of  considerable  size,  but 
many  of  the  stores  were  closed  at  the  time  of  my  visit,  on  account  of  the 
dullness  of  the  times.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  which  is  of 
considerable  breadth  at  this  point,  is  a  block  of  buildings,  belooging  to 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  whose  posts  are  now  to  be  found  scattered 
at  distant  intervals  between  the  Desert  and  Hudson's  Bay.  The  next 
station  is  on  Lake  Kakebonga,  and  the  furthest  north  on  James's  Bay, 
which  is  many  hundred  miles  distant  from  the  village. 

The  land  about  the  D^ert  is  cultivated  by  one  or  two  of  the  lumber- 
ers, and  a  few  Indians.  For  the  most  part  the  land  is  poor,  while  the 
timber  becomes  scarcer  the  further  north  you  go.  The  village  itself  is 
the  last  outport  of  commerce  and  civilization  in  the  country  to  the  north 
of  the  Ottawa.  A  wide  wilderness  of  picturesque  lakes,  rocky  hills, 
and  scrubby  plains,  with  intervals  of  cultivable  land,  stretches  to  the 
waters  of  far-off  Hudson's  Bay.  The  Kakebonga  Lake  is  the  limit  of 
the  lumberer's  operations  in  this  region.  If  you  glance  at  the  map,  you 
will  notice  that  the  Desert  River  takes^a  sudden  curve,  a  few  miles  from 
its  junction  with  the  Oatineau,  runs  parallel  with  it  for  a  considerable 
distance,  and  then  merges  at  last  into  the  Lake  of  the  Desert,  which 
itself  joins  a  chain  of  streams  and  lakes,  all  connecting  with  Lake  Kake- 
bonga, and  finally  with  the  River  Ottawa.  In  fact,  all  the  rivers  and 
lakes  of  the  Upper  Ottawa  region  are  connected,  and  form  a  series  of 
water  stretches,  remarkable  for  their  erratic  course.  It  is  quite  possible 
to  ascend  the  Ottawa  to  Temiscamingue,  and  by  a  number  of  "  carri^" 
to  avoid  the  rapids  and  falls  that  are  so  numerous  in  this  country,  des- 
cend into  the  Gatineau  at  the  Desert 

The  village  of  "  Our  Lady  of  the  Desert "  is  the  centre  of  the  Indian 
missions  which  extend  over  a  large  tract  of  country.  Here,  some  years 
ago,  the  Government  of  old  Canada  reserved  several  thousands  of  acres 
for  the  Indians  of  the  wilderness.  The  situation  is  particularly  favour- 
able for  bringing  together  the  Indians  of  Grand  Lac,  Temiscamingue, 
St.  Maurice,  and  AbbitibbL  It  is  from  this  point  that  the  Indian  mis- 
sionaries set  out  periodically  in  canoes  for  Wassinippi,  the  furthest  post 
of  the  St.  Maurice  district;  and  for  Makiskaw,  situate  beyond  the 
height  of  land  whence  the  country  descends  to  Hudson's  Bay.  The  Ro- 
man Catholic  missionary  is  the  only  professor  of  the  Christian  faith  to 
be  seen  in  this  wild  region,  where  the  Indian  and  the  voyageur  alone 
dip  their  paddles  in  the  waters  of  its  picturesque  rivers.  Neither  the 
cold  of  winter  nor  the  heat  of  summer  retards  his  progress  among  the 
savages.  Differ  from  him  we  may,  but  we  must  always  admire  that 
fidelity  to  his  purpose,  which  for  centuries  has  taken  him  into  the  re- 
motest and  wildest  corners  of  the  earth.  The  noble  chapel  which  domin- 
ates over  the  Desert  is  a  monument  of  his  untiring  zeal  and  energy. 

The  Indians  of  this  region  are  numerous  despite  the  ravages  of 
disease,  and  belong  to  the  Algonquin  family.  Some  of  the  more  remote 
tribes,  the  Indians  of  Wassinippi  for  instance,  speak  a  dialect  which 
approaches  nearer  the  Cree.  Many  of  them  are  industrious,  and  live 
in  snug  cabins  on  small  farms  ;  but  the  majority  are  shiftless,  and  pre- 
fer obtaining  a  precarious  subsistence  by  hunting  and  fishing.  At  cer- 
tain seasons,  they,  congregate  in  large  numbers  around  the  Company's 
posts,  and  dispose  of  their  poultry.  The  missionaries  have  still  a  diffi- 
cult work  to  cure  them  of  the  superstitions  and  juggleries,  which  they 


THE  RIVER  IN  THE  DESERT.  315 

were  accustomed  to  practise  for  ages.  It  was  not  long  since  one  of  the 
missionaries  heard  of  the  practice  of  the  *^  Kasabandjakerin/'  or  cabin 
trick,  in  which  the  Indian  conjurer  proves  himself  the  prototype  of  the 
Davenport  Brothers.  He  has  a  conical  lodge  built  of  upright  poles, 
and  birch  bark,  into  which  he  is  rolled,  when  he  has  been  securely  tied 
with  cords.  Then  his  awe-struck  audience,  waiting  for  his  revelations 
outside,  is  saluted  by  the  most  frighful  groans  and  invocations  to  the 
evil  spirit,  who  at  last  makes  his  appearance  in  the  shape  of  an  ugly 
black  man,  and  liberates  the  conjuror  from  his  bonds  and  gives  him  all 
the  necessary  information.  A  similar  trick  was  practised  in  Cham- 
plain's  presence,  and  shows  that  the  spiritualistic  magician  of  modem 
times  is  after  all  only  a  weak  imitator  of  the  aboriginal  juggler. 

The  Indians  around  the  village  are,  however,  comparatively  civilized 
and  are  certainly  devout  attendants  on  the  chapeL  It  was  the  Feast  of 
the  Epiphany,  when  the  writer  first  witnessed  an  Indian  service  in  the 
Church,  which  is  unfinished  inside,  and  presents  consequently  a  cheer- 
less look,  not  at  all  relieved  by  the  cheap  tawdry  prints  which  are  hung 
on  the  walls.  The  altar  decorations  also,  showed  clearly  the  poverty  of 
the  congregation,  for  everything  was  tinsel  and  paper,  and  very  rudely 
executed.  The  majority  present  were  Indians,  many  of  whom  were 
neatly  dressed  and  not  unintelligent  in  expression,  though  I  did  not  see 
a  single  type  of  so-called  Indian  beauty.  The  music  was  certainly  the 
most  pecuhar  I  ever  heard.  Six  Indians,  three  of  them  squaws,  com- 
posed the  choir,  and  the  organist's  place  was  filled  by  three  fiddlers. 
The  air  was  a  low  monotonous  chaunt,  adapted  to  the  Indian  voice, 
and  it  sounded  inexpressibly  mournful,  when  it  blended  with  the  sighs 
the  wild  north  wind,  as  it  swept  in  rude  gusts  around  that  lonely 
church  on  the  bleak  hill  of  the  desert.  But  I  must  not  forget  that 
there  was  one  voice  which  led  the  choir  from  behind  the  altar,  and 
whose  sweetness  and  cultivation  could  not  be  drowned  even  by  the 
guttural  monotony  of  the  Indian  singers.  The  voice  was  probably  that 
of  a  nun  connected  with  the  sisterhood  who  have  consecrated  them- 
selves to  the  work  of  educating  the  Indian  youth.  The  officiating 
priest  was  a  small  keen-eyed  man,  whose  face  seemed  to  indicate  that 
he  too  had  Indian  blood  in  his  veins.  When  he  came  to  marshal  the 
children  for  the  procession  which  takes  place  regularly  every  Epiphany, 
it  was  pleasing  to  notice  the  benevolent  smile,  and  fatherly  patient 
care  with  which  he  instructed  the  little  ones.  The  scene  that  followed 
was  very  bizarre  in  its  way.  An  Indian  girl,  dressed  in  white,  and  with 
more  pretensions  to  regular  features  than  any  I  saw  there,  marched  at  the 
head  with  a  banner  and  cross.  Four  little  ones,  also  in  white  to  represent 
angels,  carried  a  cradle,  in  which  was  laid  a  waxen  doll  as  an  image  of 
the  infant  Jesus.  The  gentile  world  was  represented  by  a  curious  col- 
lection of  children,  dressed  in  all  sorts  of  tinsel  and  poor  finery  as  Magi, 
and  Eastern  potentates.  One  little  fellow,  about  two  feet  high  and  as 
much  broad,  had  a  very  gay  turban  wrapped  about  a  copper  coloured 
face,  perfectly  beaming  all  the  while  with  smiles ;  and  he  was  supposed  to 
represent  the  Great  Mogul  or  some  other  famous  personage  of  the  East 
The  procession  marched  around  the  church,  to  the  music  of  a  low,  wierd- 
like  chaunt,  but  not  without  making  several  mistakes,  which  were  cor- 
rected with  a  paternal  smile  by  the  accompanying  priest.  It  finally 
reached  the  altar  where  the  m  axen  doll  was  lifted  reverently  from  its 


316  THE  RIVER  IN  THE  DESERT. 

soft  couch  of  down  and  silk,  and  its  feet  presented  to  each  child  to  be 
kissed.  I  daresay  it  was  a  spectacle  calculated  to  impress  the  Indian 
mixid  which  is  peculiarly  susceptible  to  all  outward  forms  and  obser- 
vances, and  is  better  able  apparently  to  comprehend  such  than  mere 
abstract  ideas  and  doctrines,  unassisted  by  symbolism  and  ceremonials. 
One  even  forgot  the  ludicrous  aspect  of  the  affair — the  tawdry,  coloured 
garments,  the  paper  tinsel,  the  jocund  grins  of  the  happy  youngsters — 
when  looking  at  the  awestruck  and  attentive  faces  of  the  older  Indians 
as  they  joined  or  listened  to  the  processional  hymn. 

What  is  to  be  the  future  of  that  wilderness  which  stretches  from  the 
headwaters  of  the  Gatineau  and  St.  Maurice  to  the  shores  of  the  lonely 
James's  Bay  ?  What  the  writer  has  learned  of  the  topo^phical  features 
of  the  country  ft*om  missionaries  and  others,  does  not  lea^  him  to  form 
a  favourable  opinion  of  its  capabilities.  The  lumber  is  poor  and  scraggy 
and  the  land  is  for  the  most  part  rough  and  unfit  for  settlement.  Even 
game  is  now  scarce,  and  the  valuable  fur-bearing  animals  must  soon  be 
hunted  off  the  face  of  the  region  by  the  ever  pursuing  Indian.  No 
settlers  are  likely  ever  to  be  attracted  to  a  section  which  presents  no 
inducements,  except  a  great  variety  of  rocks,  and  water  courses  of  great 
beauty.  The  Village  of  the  Desert  is  likely  to  remain  the  last  settle- 
ment of  any  size  in  this  region  of  the  north.  Silence  and  shadow  must 
always  rest  upon  this  wilderness,  unless  valuable  economic  minerals  are 
discovered  amid  the  rocky  hills.  We  know  that  in*the  neighbourhood  of 
the  "Riviere  aux  Li^vres,*'  which  flows  into  the  Ottawa  from  the  north, 
akid  possesses  remarkable  facilities  for  driving  machinery — there  are 
valuable  deposits  of  plumbago  and  phosphate  of  lime,  and  that  iron  of  a 
very  superior  description  exist  in  many  places  throughout  the  Lauren- 
tian  rocks.  Some  persons  profess  to  have  seen  indications  of  silver,  but 
Mr.  Yennor,  who  has  made  geological  researches  over  this  region,  as  far 
as  the  Desert,  is  of  opinion  that  what  many  persons  believe  to  be  silver 
i^  simply  mespickel  or  *'  fool's  silver."  The  same  gentleman  does  not 
think  that  gold  or  silver  has  been  found  in  a  single  instance  in  any  pai;t 
of  the  country  watered  by  the  Gatineau  and  its  tributary  rivers,  and 
adds  emphatically  that  "  if  silver  should  be  discovered,  it  will  be  in 
association  with  galena  or  blende,  and  in  unremumerative  quantities." 
But  it  is  just  possible  geologists  may  sometimes  be  mistaken ;  for  the 
writer  well  remembers  the  fact,  that  even  so  eminent  an  authority  as 
Professor  Dawson  had  no  idea  of  the  existence  of  gold  in  Nova  Scotia, 
where  he  and  other  savants  had  long  been  engaged  in  geological  enqui- 
ries, and  it  was  left  to  a  thirsty  wayfarer  to  see  the  precious  metal  glitter- 
ing from  the  pebbly  bottom  of  a  brook  as  he  knelt  down  to  drink  of  its 
crystal  water.  If  precious  metals  are  found  in  what  is  now  a  very  un- 
favourable country  for  settlement,  its  fortunes  will  of  course  be  assured, 
but  until  then  the  region  I  have  so  briefly  described,  must  remain  in  fact 
as  well  as  in  name  a  Desert. 


AUWT  Cindy's  dinner  817 


AUNT  CINDY'S  DINNER. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Bai^ss  Blammed  the  front  gate  to,  not  becaase  he  was 
aogry  :  the  gate  reused  to  stay  shut  unless  it  was  slammed ;  and  be- 
sideo,  the  Eev.  Mr.  Burgiss  was  one  of  those  bustling,  nervous  people 
who  go  through  the  world  slamming  everything  that  can  be  slammed. 
Moreover,  on  this  particular  day  he  felt  unusually  nervous.  He  bustled 
along  the  unkempt  walk — things  were  apt  to  be  unkempt  on  Mr.  Bur- 
giBs's  place — bustled  up  the  steps  into  the  square  **  passage,"  and  bus- 
tled into  the  room  at  his  right.  In  this  room  sat  Mrs.  Burgiss,  as  com- 
placent as  her  husband  was  excitable,  eating  in  a  leisurely  way  an  In- 
dian peach.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Burgiss  had  a  pale 
face  with  brown  trimmings.  She  wore  her  hair  in  "  dog-ears  ; "  that  is, 
the  front  locks  were  combed  smooth  and  low  over  the  cheeks,  then  car- 
ried above  the  ears  and  confined  to  the  back  hair.  Mr.  Burgiss  wore 
his  hair  reached.  He  had  a  receding  chin — almost  no  chin  at  all — and 
a  short,  very  curved  parrot  nose.     He  looked  like  a  cockatoo. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  impetuously,  "  I've  invited  four  persidin'  elduz 
to  dinner  to-morrow.  Now  you'll  have  a  chance  to  put  the  big  kettle 
in  tke  little  one,  an'  I  hope  to  see  you  do  it.  Let  our  brethren  see  what 
hospitality  means  in  Brother  Burgiss's  house." 

^  We  haven't  any  long  tablecloth."  Mrs.  Burgiss  made  this  startling 
announcement  in  an  unconcerned  way,  qaite  in  contrast  with  her  hus- 
biuid's  important  manner.  Then  she  slowly  buried  her  teeth  in  the 
erimson  flesh  of  the  peach. 

•*  Borrer  one,"  said  Mr.  Burgiss  with  a  promptness  and  energy  en- 
tirely equal  to  the  occasion — "  sen*  over  to  Brother  Phillpotts's  an'  bor- 
rer one.  He's  a  brother  in  the  Lord  an'  one  of  the  salts  of  the  earth : 
an'  Sister  Phillpotts  is  a  lovely  sister — a  sweet  little  sister  as  ever  joined 
the  church.  She'll  be  delighted  to  len'  a  tablecloth  or  anything  else  to 
help  on  the  good  cause.  Jus'  sen'  to  Sister  Phillpotts's  for  anything 
you  haven't  got.  She  can  len'  from  her  abundance  an'  feel  no  lack — no 
lack  at  all.  It's  her  duty  to  help  Grod's  min'st'rin'  servants.  There  is 
a  comman'  in  her  name.  Phillpotts — fill  pok.  She  is  a  stewardess  of 
tlie  Lord's,  an'  mus'  one  day  give  an  account  of  her  stewardship.  Be- 
sides, haven't  I  been  preachin'  to  Sister  Phillpotts,  off  an'  on,  for  going 
on  fou'  years — a-leadin'  her  an'  her  fam'ly  to  glory  1  Isn't  the  labourer 
worthy  of  Ms  hire  ? " 

"  Tell  Cindy,"  said  Mrs.  Burgiss,  indolently,  removing  the  peach-stone 
from  her  mouth,  where  it  had  been  forming  a  knot  on  the  cheek.  She 
tossed  it  lazily  into  the  open  chimney-place,  an  omnium  gatherum  of  lit- 
ter and  trash. 

«  Tell  Oindy  ! "  said  Mr.  Burgiss  :  "  of  course  we'll  tell  Cindy.  She'll 
have  to  do  her  tip-top  bes'  on  the  dinner,  but  you  mus*  len'  a  helpin* 
han'.  Do,  my  dear,  please  try,  for  once,  to  wake  out  of  you'  easy-goin' 
way,  an*  let's  do  somethin'  worthy  of  this  gran'  occasion.  Yere  we  air 
to  have  fou'  of  God's  distinguished  ambassaduz  under  our  humble  roof 
to  pa'take  of  our  salt.  It  may  be  the  occasion  of  my  gettin'  appointed 
to  a  number-one  station  at  the  nex'  confrunce.  It's  the  persidin'  elduz, 
with  the  bishop,  that  have  the  appointin'  power.  Kissin*  goes  by  favour. 
So,  now,  deah,  jus'  please  do  you'  bes*.'* 


318  AUNT  Cindy's  dinner. 

"  Of  course  I'll  do  all  I  can — ^I  al'ays  do,"  responded  Mrs.  Borgiss. 
She  rose  with  a  languid  air,  went  to  a  glass  of  the  size  of  a  hymn-book 
that  hung  on  the  wall,  took  down  a  brush  from  its  top  and  began  to  re- 
arrange her  "  dog-eara"  The  Rev.  Mr.  Burgiss  bustled  out  of  the  room 
into  the  square  passage.  This  square  passage  is  a  feature  seldom  want- 
ing to  plantation-houses  in  certain  localities  of  the  South.  It  is  a  square 
floor  connecting  the  two  main  rooms  of  the  house,  sometimes  enclosed, 
but  oftener  open  on  two  sides.  In  Mr.  Burgiss's  house  of  hewed  logs 
and  clay  chinking  the  passage  was  open,  with  block  steps  at  the  two  un- 
enclosed sides.  Log  houses,  as  planters'  residences,  are  not  uncom- 
mon. I  have  kno¥m  Southern  satraps,  owning  hundreds  of  slaves 
and  leagues  of  land,  dwelling  in  log  hquses  of  four  or  five  rooms,  and 
entertaining  at  dinners  and  evening-parties  the  country  gentry  for  mil^ 
around.  However,  Mr.  Burgiss  was  not  one  of  these  autocrats.  All 
told,  he  owned  but  seventeen  slaves.  At  this  time  he  was  a  "  local 
preacher  "  of  the  Methodist  Church,  but  he  was  intending  to  go  into  the 
travelling  connection  at  the  next  conference. 

Mr.  Burgiss  hurried  down  the  back  steps  into  the  yard,  and  crossed 
the  yard  to  that  kitchen.  I  wish  I  could  take  you  into  this  kitchen. 
You,  perhaps,  have  been  used  to  a  city  kitchen,  whose  wood-work  is 
grained  or  painted  white — as  one  of  my  friends  insists  on  having  hers, 
that  dirt  may  stand  confessed  beyond  all  peradventure.  Your  kitchen 
floor  is  carpeted  or  painted,  or,  better  still,  kept  scoured  white  as  new 
pine.  The  stove  shines,  the  tins  are  like  silver.  There  are  hydrants 
and  drains,  pantries,  closets,  cupboards,  drawers — a  place  for  everything 
and  everything  in  its  place.  Now  let  me  tell  you  about  Mrs.  Burgiss's 
culinary  department,  or  rather  Aunt  Cindy's,  for  Mrs.  B.  fought  shy  of 
the  kitchen.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  an  outhouse,  sixty  feet  at  least 
from  the  family  residence — "  the  house,"  as  it  is  called  par  eascdlence — 
so  that  the  meals  had  to  pass  under  the  skies,  rain  or  shine,  to  reach  the 
table.  In  the  second  place,  this  kitchen  was  no  house  at  all,  but  a 
simple  rude  shed — a  roof  supported  by  four  posts  sunk  in  the  ground. 
On  tl)e  dirt  floor  stood  the  biscuit-table,  where  the  biscuits  were  made 
deliciously  light  without  the  aid  of  chemical  processes — beaten  light — 
and  where,  in  a  wooden  dug-out  tray,  the  various  corn-breads  were  mixed 
as  only  the  Aunt  Cindies  and  Aunt  Dinahs  of  the  South  can  mix  them. 
Why  is  it  that  the  most  skilful  cook  in  a  Northern  kitchen,  using  un- 
sparingly all  those  "  good  things  "  that  are  conceded  to  ensure  a  delicious 
result,  is  unable  to  produce  corn-bread  at  all  approaching  in  sweetness 
and  delicacy  that  found  in  almost  any  Southern  negro  cabin  i  The 
Southern  dinner-bread  found  at  the  table  of  rich  and  poor  is  made  by 
stirring,  with  the  naked  hand,  water  and  a  pinch  of  salt  into  a  coarselv- 
ground  corn-meal,  and  yet  Aunt  Dinah's  "  corn-dodger  "  is  more  tooth- 
some than  any  preparation  of  Indian  meal  of  which  Delmonico's  is 
capable. 

But  to  return  to  Aunt  Cindy.  Her  kitchen  was  enturely  open  on  three 
sides,  the  fourth  being  partially  occupied  by  a  clay-aud-stick  chimney. 
In  the  fireplace  the  logs  rested,  in  lieu  of  andirons,  on  two  chunks,  and 
here  depended  the  iron  crane  on  which  by  means  of  pothooks  were  hung 
the  kettles  for  boiling.  The  baking  was  accomplished  in  deep  Dutch 
ovens  or  in  shallow  skillets  with  lids,  the  glowing  coals  plying  their  heat 
above  as  well  as  below.  The  hoe-cakes  were  cooked  on  a  flat  disk  of  iron 
supported  on  lege  over  coals.  The  broiling  was  done — and  capitally  done, 


AUNT  CINDY'S   DINNER.  319 

too — on  a  gridiron  laid  on  the  coals  :  sometimes  the  meat  was  placed 
immediately  on  the  coals,  from  which  the  ashes  had  been  blown.  Then 
there  was  a  trivet — ^arim  of  iron  on  three  legs  a  few  inches  high — which 
was  the  coffee-pot's  stool.  Besides  these,  there  was  a  meat-block,  which 
also  served  Aunt  Cindy  as  a  seat.  Standing  almost  under  the  eaves  was 
a  bench  which  she  used  for  elevating  her  portly  figure  when  she  was 
searching  the  hewed  log  sleeper  under  the  rafters  for  spoons  or  forks, 
or  papers  of  spice,  each  with  the  inevitable  leak.  Indeed,  these  sleepers 
and  the  yellow  clay  jambs  of  the  chimney-place  answered  the  purposes 
of  shelves,  closets,  drawers,  and  all  those  other  things  belonging  to  the 
class  called  *^  kitchen  conveniences.''  Those  jambs  especially  Aunt  Cindy 
pronounced  **  mighty  handy."  They  were  the  receptacles  of  the  shovel 
and  tongs,  the  kitchen  knife,  the  dish-cloth,  the  trivet,  the  coffee-pot, 
the  rolling-pin,  the  cook's  tobacco  and  pipe,  the  gridiron,  the  pot-covers, 
and  indeed  everything  pertaining  to  kitchen  furniture  to  which  they 
could  afford  lodgment 

"  Well,  Cindy,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Burgiss,  "  you  air  goin*  to  have  a 
a  chance  to-morrow  to  distinguish  you'self." 

Cindy  was  a  tall  and  fleshy  woman,  weighing  three  hundred  and 
seventeen  pounds.  She  was  sitting  on  the  block  which  was  seat  or 
meat-slab  as  the  occasion  demanded.  She  rose  from  this  block  with  a 
heaving  laboured  motion,  which  called  to  mind  a  steamboat  jetting 
under  way.  "  I's  tolerbul  distinguished  a'ready,"  she  replied.  Perhaps 
the  speaker  found  a  difficulty  in  raising  and  lowering  her  astonishing 
lower  jaw  and  double  chin :  her  words  had  a  queer  smothered  sound, 
as  though  coming  through  hot  mush.  "  What's  gwyne  on  ter-morrer  ? " 
she  asked. 

"  Why,  we  air  goin'  to  have  fou'  persidin'  elduz  yere  to  dinner  to- 
morrow—yes, fou'  persidin'  elduz." 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Cindy,  almost  overwhelmed. 
**  Mussy  on  us !  Fou'  puzzidun'  elduz !  Reckons  I  had  to  stir  my 
stumps  tolerbul  lively  'bout  dat  dar  dinner;"  and  her  eyes,  hid  away  in 
rolls  of  fat  like  pin-heads  in  a  cushion,  began  to  twinkle  in  anticipation 
of  a  culinary  triumph.  "  But,"  she  continued,  clouding  again,  **  we-all 
aint  got  no  little  pig.  Can't  git  no  dinner  fit  for  shucks  widouten  a 
pig  roas'  whole,  wid  a  red  apple  in  its  mouf.  Mus'  hab  a  pig  some- 
hows,  to  be  sartin." 

"Oh,  we  can  get  a  pig,"  said  Mr.  Burgess  assuredly;  "just  sen* 
Tony  over  to  Brother  Phillpotts's  early  in  the  mawnin'  to  borrer  one. 
Tell  him  to  tell  Sister  Phillpotts's  that  I'll  return  it  the  fus'  chance. 
An'  now  Cindy,  my  girl,  jus'  do  you'  bes'  on  that  dinner.  Trus'  in  the 
Lord  an'  fear  nothin'." 

"  'Deed  I'll  do  my  very  bes'.  Puffidin'  dinner  for  fou*  puzzidin* 
elduz  is  a  heap  er*  'spons'bil'ty,  but  I  reckons  yer'll  fin*  ole  Cindy  kin 
tote  it     Jis*  don't  worrit  you'sef.*' 

Aunt  Cindy  was  an  ardent  Methodist  That  the  path  to  heaven  lay 
through  the  Methodist  "  meetin'-house  "  she  as  earnestly  believed  as  that 
she  had  a  soul  to  save.  She  would  reluctantly  grant  that  a  sinner  might 
"  git  rerligion  "  elsewhere  than  at  a  Methodist  protracted  meeting  or  on 
a  camp-ground,  but  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  did  not  believe  the  thing  pos- 
sible. With  her,  any  Methodist  minister  was  an  object  of  reverence — a 
presiding  elder,  as  being  nearer  God,  of  adoration.  According  to  hercreed, 


I 


320  AUNT  Cindy's  dinner. 

*'  Jesus  hes  got  hoP  er  God's  han' ;  de  bishop  hoi'  er  Jesus's ;  de  puzzidin^ 
elduz  hop  er  de  bishop's;  den  comes  de  station-preachers,  an'circuit-riduz, 
ftQ'eggsorters ;  den  we  pore  mizzibul  sinners,  all  in  a  string,  puUin'  forheb- 
ben ;  an'  if  we-ali  hoPs  on  tell  deaf  pawts  dis  immottle  frame,  we'll  git 
dar  shos  yer  bawn." 

When  the  Rev.  Mr.  Burgiss  had  left  her,  Aunt  Cindy  lighted  her 
cob-pipe  from  the  hot  embers,  and  reseated  herself  on  the  meat-block, 
as  though  she  was  settled  for  life.  She  shut  her  eyes  that  she  might 
the  better  contemplate  the  morrow's  responsibilities,  and  was  soon  fast 
asleep,  her  cob  pipe  fallen  and  emptied  into  her  lap,  and  her  copperaa- 
striped  apron  slowly  burning  under  her  nose.  The  fames  finally  woke 
her.  "  Sakes  er  live  I "  she  exclaimed,  rubbing  out  the  fire  between  her 
broad  fat  hands  with  their  cushion-like  backs.  "  What  in  de  worP  ef  I 
hadn't  woked  jis'  in  time  to  put  mysef  out !  Dat  dar  dinner  fer  dem 
fou'  puzzidin'  elduz  !  Take  kere,  Cindy  Burgiss,"  she  continued,  apos- 
trophizing herself :  "  yer  can't  be  spawed  yit — not  by  no  means." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Burgiss  entered.  Aunt  Cindy  retained  posses- 
sion of  the  meat  block.  She  wished  to  conceal  the  bums  in  her  apron  ; 
then  she  never  rose  to  her  feet  when  she  could  help  it,  and  she  did  not 
hold  her  mistress  in  any  great  awe. 

*'  What  yer  come  fer,  Miss  Rithy  1 "  she  demanded  in  a  challenging 
tone. 

"  I  come  to  see  'bout  the  dinner  to-morrow.  How  wa'm  it  is  1 "  and 
then  the  lady  yawned. 

"  Now  look  yere,  Miss  Rithy  "  (Zuretha  was  Mrs.  Burgiss's  name) : 
"yer  needn't  come  yere  henderin'  de  cook  wid  you'  nonsense-talk  'bout 
dat  dar  dinner.  Yer  don't  know  nuthin'  't  all  sca'cely.  Jis'  go  'long, 
an'  don't  go  pesterin'  you'sef  'bout  dat  dar  dinner.  Yer  better  b'lieve 
I's  gwyne  ter  fetch  it  out  all  right — dinner  fer  fou'  puzzidun'  elduz.  De 
Lord'll  puffide :  Hell  he'p  me.  Law !  I's  seed  de  circuit-rider  go  inter 
de  pulpit,  not  knowin'  nuffin'  't  all  'bout  what  he's  gwyne  ter  preach — 
jis'  leanin'  on  de  Lord — an'  I's  seed  him  preach  sich  a  discou'se  es  would 
set  mos'  ebrybody  derstracted.  De  Lord  '11  he'p  me  to  be  sho.  Ain't 
I  got  ter  git  dinner  ready  fer  fou'  pu<5zidun'  elduz  uv  His'n  1  Don't  yer 
pester  you'sef  one  bit :  jis'  lean  on  me  an'  de  Lord." 

"  Well,  you  do  it  up  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Burgiss,  relieved  of  all 
anxiety — if  indeed  she  was  capable  of  any — by  Aunt  Cindy's  tone  of 
sufficiency. 

"  Law,  Miss  Rithy !  "  the  negro  answered  with  a  dash  of  resentment 
in  her  tone,  "  ain't  I  bin  uster  dinners  an'  sich  all  my  bawn  days  1  When 
I  lib  at  you'  paw's  we  uster  hab  sich  things  gwyne  on  all  de  blessed 
time.  Dat  wus  when  yer  was  tolerbul  little,  'fo'e  ole  Mars'  Pettergill 
loss  his  prop'ty.  Yer  paw  uster  hab  a  heap  er  black  folks,  an'  I  tell  yer, 
we  all  uster  hab  a  heap  er  fun  a-dancin'  an'  a-morayin'  an'  a-habbin' 
funruls ;  but,  law  !  when  dar's  sich  few  es  dar  is  on  dis  yere  plantation  J 

yer  can't  hab  no  musements  sca'ody.   Law,  Miss  Rithy !  yer  don't  know  ^ 

what  yer  tawkin'  'bout.  I's  seed  a  heap  mo'e  fine  gwjrne-ons  dan  what 
yer  ebber  done,  kase  when  you'  paw  los'  his  prop'ty  yer  was  tolerbul 
little.  I'll  bring  dat  dar  dinner  all  right  outen  dem  dar  pots  an'  kittle's, 
shos  her  yer  bawn." 

With  this  assurance  Mrs.  Burgiss  departed  from  the  kitchen,  fully 
restored  to  her  usual  complacent  mood  of  spirit. 


AUNT  CINDY'S  DINNER.  321 

**  Dat  light  bread  ought  ter  be  sot  ter  raisin'  ? "  Aunt  Cindy  solilo- 
quized when  left  alone.  She  spread  out  a  fat  hand  upon  each  knee  and 
helped  herself  up  from  the  meat-block.  Then  she  mounted  the  bench 
that  served  as  her  observatory  and  began  searching  the  log  sleeper, 
rmnmaging  among  the  various  paper  parcels.  "  Wonder  what's  gone 
wid  dem  twin  brudders  1 "  she  said.  (Aunt  Cindy  was  looking  for  a 
small  package  of  "  Twin  Brothers  yeast  cakes,"  which  some  Yankee  had 
introduced  in  the  neighbourhood.)  " Dat  dar  Tony's  gone  an'  toted  off 
dem  dar  twin  brudders,  I'll  be  boun'.— To-nee !  To-nee  ! "  she  called  at 
the  height  of  her  muffled  voice.  "  I  see  ver  sneakin'  hin'  dat  dar 
chicken-coop ;  yere'd  better  come  yere,  'fo^o  I  comes  dar  an'  fotches 
yer  wid  a  peach  tree  limb.     Hurry  'long  outen  dat  dar  snail's  pace." 

Tony  appeared,  looking  like  a  tattered  scarecrow  with  a  live  head. 

"  Whar's  dem  dar  twin  brudders  ?  I  want's  ter  put  one  uv  dem  ter 
soak.  What  yer  gone  and  done  wid  dem  dar  twin  brudders  ? "  persisted 
Aunt  Cindy. 

"I  hain't  done  nuffin"tall  wid  dem  dar  twin  brudders— nebber 
tetched  um,"     Tony  declared,  half  frightened,  half  sullen. 

"  Hush  you'  mouf,  yer  story-teller !  I'll  be  boun'  yer's  gone  an' 
feeded  all  dem  twin  brudders  to  de  chickens ;  yer's  too  lazy  ter  mix  a 
little  cawn  meal  fer  um." 

"  Nebber  feeded  dem  dar  twin  brudders  to  de  chickens,  no  more'n 
nuffin',"  Tony  insisted. 

"  How  yer  reckons  I  gwyne  ter  git  dinner  fer  dem  dar  fou'  puzzidun' 
elduz  ef  I  hain't  cot  no  twin  brudders  to  make  de  light-bread  ?  " 

"  I  dun  know.' 

'•Ob  cou'se  yer  dun  know;  yer  dun  know  nuffin'.  Come  yere  while 
I  boxes  you'  jaw  :  I  boxes  yer  kase  I  lubbed  you'  gran'mudder.  Me  an' 
her  uster  play  togedder  when  we-all  wusbofe  gals  togedder." 

Aunt  Cindy  was  heaving  and  balancing  herself  preparatory  to  a 
descent  from  the  bench  on  which  she  was  mounted.  Down  she  stepped 
at  length,  her  broad  bare  foot  meeting  the  dirt  floor  with  a  heavy  thud 
— or  slap,  rather. 

"  Come,  long  up  yere,"  continued  Aunt  Cindy. 

Tony  was  moving  toward  her  with  a  reluctant,  bewildered  air,  his 
dead  grandmother  and  the  twin  brothers  all  in  a  jumble  in  his  brain 
when  Aunt  Cindy  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Dar's  dem  twin  brudders  now* 
on  dat  dar  jam' ! "  Tony  smiled  from  ear  to  ear  in  his  satisfaction  at 
having  escaped  the  impending  boxing.  "  Hush  you'  grinnin'  dar,  yer 
imperence  !  an'  go  'long  an'  fotch  me  some  hick'ry-bok  to  cook  dat  din- 
ner.    Wasn't  yer  'ware  I's  got  to  git  dinner  fer  fou'  puzzidun'  elduz  ? " 

Tony  gave  a  long  whistle  of  astonishment,  and  went  off  toward  the 
woods. 

While  the  yeast-cake  was  soaking  Aunt  Cindy  set  to  work  collecting 
materials  for  a  cake — a  pound  cake  with  icing — she  had  decided  upon. 
Although  her  movements  were  slow  and  laboured,  there  were  strength 
and  force  in  them,  so  that  she  accomplished  a  surprising  amount  of 
work.  She  didn't  lose  much  time  looking  for  spoons  and  forks.  She 
stirred  things  with  her  finger,  and  with  it  she  tested  her  gravies  and 
sauces  and  custards.  It  needed  but  a  few  strokes  of  her  warm,  strong 
hand  to  beat  the  butter  to  a  cream :  a  few  turns  more  and  the  sugar  was 
thoroughly  incorporated  with  this.    Then  with  some  twigs  of  crape- 


322  AUNT  CINDY'S  DINNER. 

myrtle,  in  lieu  of  an  egg-beater,  the  yelk  of  the  eggs  was  soon  foaming 
and  the  white  standing  alone.  Lastly,  she  bethought  her  of  the  cinna- 
mon to  mak  it  "  tasty/'  she  said.  Panting  and  blowing,  she  again  as- 
cended her  observatory,  and  began  snuffiing,  tasting  and  peering  at  the 
various  paper  parcels  on  the  log  sleeper.  **  Whar  kin  dat  cin'mon-bok 
be  at ) ''  she  said.  "  I  hain't  seed  it  sence  I  tuck  it  to  meetin'  to  scent 
my  han'kercher.  I'll  be  bound  dat  dar  Tony's  done  gone  an'  tuck  an' 
et  dat  dar  cin'mon-bok,  ha'r  an'  hide.     Maybe  I  put  it  in  de  big  gou'd.*' 

She  -waddled  down  from  the  bench  and  across  the  shed  to  a  gourd  as- 
large  as  a  giant  pumpkin,  and  with  much  the  shape  of  one.  She  turned 
it  bottom  up  on  the  dirt  floor,  and  out  poured  an  incredible  assortment 
of  things — a  fork,  three  partridge-eggs,  a  headkerchief,  a  pair  of  slippers, 
a  dish  towel,  two  peaches,  a  purple  belt-ribbon,  a  vial  of  hair  oil,  a 
hymn-book,  a  lump  of  loaf  sugar,  a  stick  of  sassafras-root,  a  paper  of 
saleratus,  and  another  of  snuff.  "  'Taint  yere."  She  looked  the  jambs 
over,  and  then  with  a  majestic  waddle,  she  crossed  the  yard  to  the 
house. 

"  Miss  Rithy,"  she  said,  when  she  found  herself  in  Mrs.  Burgiss's  pre- 
sence, "  I  ain't  gwyne  ter  take  de  'spons'bil'ty  uv  no  poun'-cake  wid- 
outen  cin'mon-bok  to  puffume  it,  an'  I  hain't  got  no  cin'mon-bok  on  my 
premsis." 

**  Sen'  over  to  Brother  Phillpotts's  an'  borrer  a  stick,"  said  the  lady 
appealed  to,  returning  to  her  perforated  cardboard,  on  which  she  was 
working  in  rainbow  worsteds  a  church  with  a  man  beside  it  The  man 
was  taller  than  the  steeple. 

Aunt  Cindy  went  her  way,  and  soon  the  yard  was  resounding  with 
calls  for  Tony.  But  in  vain  it  resounded ;  no  Tony  answered.  "  I'll 
be  boun'  he's  laid  down  under  a  black-jack  an'  gone  ter  sleep,"  she 
muttered.  Then  she  called  Nervy,  and  there  came  an  answer  from  away 
off  in  the  gin-house.  Nervy  was  granddaughter  to  Aunt  Cindy,  and 
her  mother  was  dead.  She  was  nurse  maid  to  all  the  slave  babies  in 
turn,  unless  there  were  more  than  one  at  a  time,  so  that  the  girl  wa& 
seldom  seen  without  a  baby  in  her  arms  or  on  her  back. 

Up  the  lane,  in  a  field  to  the  right,  stood  the  gin-house  where  the 
cotton  was  ginned,  with  two  broad  wing-like  scaffolds  where  the  cotton 
was  sunned.  Close  by  was  the  great  screw,  with  its  long  arms,  where  the 
cotton  was  bailed.  Nervy  came  out  of  the  pick-room,  the  apartment' 
which  received  through  a  wooden  flue  the  light,  downy  cotton  as  it  came 
from  the  gin,  and  where  the  fleece  hung  from  the  walls  and  rafters  in 
streamers  and  festoons  like  white  gauze,  and,  piled  in  great  drifts  soft  and 
pure  as  snow,  was  banked  up  to  the  roof  like  summer  clouds.  A  plunge 
into  one  of  those  tempting  banks  was  not  unattended  with  the  risk  of 
smothering,  for  it  was  unstable  and  treacherous  as  down.  Of  course,  then, 
Nervy  ought  not  to  have  been  in  the  pick-room  with  that  little  black 
baby,  but  that  the  place  was  well-nigh  empty,  containing  only  a  remnant 
of  last  year's  crop,  which  had  been  reserved  for  home  consumption. 

Over  the  fence  into  the  lane  scrambled  Nervy,  the  little  black  baby 
clinging  squirrel-like  as  she  pulled  up  one  side  of  the  rail-fence  and 
backed  down  the  other.  Throwing  her  arms  behind  her  and  clasping 
the  baby,  she  went  trotting  down  the  lane.  Cotton-lint  was  clinging  in 
fantastic  streamers  and  bunches  all  over  her  funny  hair;  her  coarse 
home-spun  dress  was  streaming  out  behind  as  she  trotted,  for  it  was  slit 
to  the  knee,  exposing  her  bare  legs  and  feet. 


AUNT  cindt's  dinner.  323: 

''Yer  better  hurry  long,"  called  her  grandmother  in  a  scaring  tone. 
"  Whar  yer  been  all  dese  two  hours,  anyhow  1  an'  what  yer  doin*  wid  all 
dat  dar  cotton  in    ou'  head ) '' 

"  NuffinV'  said  poor  Nervy  with  a  hang-dog  look.  "  Bin  playin'  in 
de  pick-room,"  she  added. 

"  Yes,  an'  fus'  thing  we-all  knows  yer'll  go  smudder  dat  dar  baby  in 
sof  cotton.  Playin' !  What  business  yer  got  playin'  when  I's  wukkin* 
mysef  to  skin  an'  bones,  yer  lasy  good-fer-nuffin' ! " 

As  the  speaker  stood  there,  her  fat  hands  spread  out  on  her  fat  thighs, 
her  monstrous  chest  rising  and  falling  with  her  effort  at  scolding.  Nervy 
giggled  at  the  skin-and-bone  image.  Being  laughed  at  was  one  thing 
uiat  Aunt  Cindy  always  resented.  "  Gome  yere,  while  I  show  yer  how 
to  laugh  'totherside  uv  you'  mouf." 

What  the  speaker  meant  by  this  threat  I  cannot  say,  and  I  am  equally 
unable  to  tell  you  the  location  of  that  'totherside  of  Nervy's  mouth  that 
was  not  laughing. 

**  I  won't  laugh  no  more,  gran'mammy,  long  es  I  live,"  the  child 
pleaded. 

"  I  don't  reckons  yer  will  arter  I  guv  yer  dis  boxin'.  Yerll  'member 
it  long  es  yer  libs.  Sot  dat  dar  chile  down  while  I  boxes  yer." 

Nervy  deposited  the  little  half-nude  baby  on  the  dirt  floor,  and  stood 
up  cowering,  glancing  from  the  broad,  strong  hands  to  the  face  whose 
cheeks  stood  out  with  fatness.  There  was  a  meek,  supplicating  look  in 
the  little  upturned  black  face. 

"  Mockin'  you'  s'periors  ! "  continued  the  grandmother.  "  It's  my 
duty  ter  box  yer  fer  you'  mudder's  sake.  Jjaw  I  yer  look  jis'  like  yer 
mammy  !  Go  'long ! "  she  said,  suddenly  turning  away  from  the  child 
with  the  quick  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  remembered  her  dead  Hannah  in 
the  graveyard  at  "  ole  Mars'  Petter^'s."  "  Go  to  de  woods  an'  fotch 
dat  dar  Tony,"  she  continued,  without  showing  her  face  to  the  child. 

Nervy  knelt  with  her  back  to  the  little  black  baby.  The  baby 
scrambled  to  its  accustomed  place  and  clung  with  its  arms  and  legs. 
Then  Nervy  trotted  off  with  her  burden. 

In  process  of  time  Tony  appeared  with  three  small  pieces  of  bark,  and 
was  properly  or  improperly  belaboured  by  Aunt  Cindy's  tongue,  she  de 
clariuff  that  she  could  **  eat  all  dat  dar  bok,"  and  demanding  to  be  told 
how  she  was  "  gwyne  ter  cook  dinner  fer  fou'  puzzidun'  elduz  wid  dat 
thimbulful  of  bok.  An'  my  cakes  a-sottin'  yere  waitin'  all  dis  while, 
an'  all  dat  'nifikent  white  froff  gittin'  limber,  an'  all  de  lather  done  gone 
outen  dat  dar  yaller  !  An'  I  beat  dat  dar  eg^  tell  my  arm  ache  to  de 
morrer-bone.  Yer  go  'long  an'  hurry  an'  co^  ole  Jack  an'  go  to  Mis' 
Phillpotts's  ter  borrer  somethin'." 

Tony  hurried  off,  glad  to  get  away  from  Aunt  Cindy  and  her  uncertain 
moods.  It  was  over  an  hour,  however,  before  he  got  started  for  Mrs. 
Phillpotts's ;  for,  first,  he  had  to  indulge  himself  in  repeated  climbings 
and  slidings  on  the  fodder-stacks ;  then  in  divers  tumblings  and  leap- 
ing in  the  straw-pen  ;  then  he  *^  skinned  the  cat "  a  few  dozen  times  * 
then  he  had  a  thrilling  ride  round  and  round  the  barnyard  swinging  on 
old  Jack's  tail ;  then  he  made  a  raid  on  some  blackberry  bushes  in  the 
fence  comer,  where  he  ate  berries  as  long  and  thick  as  his  thumb  for  ten 
minutes.  Then  he  put  a  bridle  on  the  old  gray  mule,  mounted  its  bare 
back,  and  entered  upon  a  course  of  puUings,  tuggings  and  kickings  to 


324  A0NT  Cindy's  dinner. 

the  end  of  making  the  said  mule  go  forward  to  Mrs.  Phillpotts's,  instead 
of  backwards  to  its  stall,  as  it  seemed  deteitnined  to  ao.  As  all  the 
boy's  thoughts  and  energies  were  thus  engaged,  it  never  occurred  to  him 
that  he  di&t  know  what  he  was  goin  for  until  he  stood  in  Mrs.  Phill- 
potts's  presence,  feeling  and  looking  very  foolish.  Nothing  remained  to 
be  done  but  to  remount  his  gallant  steed,  return  to  Aunt  Cindy,  and 
ascertain  the  nature  of  the  something  he  was  to  borrow  from  Mrs.  Phill- 
potts.  Oh,  how  he  shrunk  from  the  forthcoming  interview  with  Aunt 
Oindy  !  Her  dreaded  hands  doubled  in  size  to  his  frightened  fancy, 
and  his  ears  seemed  to  tingle  with  the  inevitable  boxing  which  Aunt 
Cindy  would  be  certain  to  feel  her  duty  to  administer  because  she  loved 
his  grandmother. 

**  Wish  she  nebber  lubbed  my  gran'mammy — wish  she  hate  my  gran'- 
mammy,"  Tony  whispered  to  his  beating  heart  as  on  went  old  Jack  at  a 
spanking,  bouncing  trot  that  threatened  to  unhorse  the  rider.  It  seemed 
to  Tony  that  no  other  mule  ever  trotted  so  relentlessly.  He  clung  des- 
perately to  the  bridle  and  the  roached  mane,  and  was  trotted  on  by  the 
merciless  brute  past  the  house,  through  the  barnyard  and  into  the  stable, 
Tony  throwing  rdmself  almost  under  the  belly  to  save  himself  from  being 
rubbed  off  in  the  low  doorway. 

"Whyn't  yer  spen'  de  night  at  Mis'  Phillpotts's  T'  Cindy  asked 
when  he  appeared  in  her  presence,  his  eyes  distended  and  rolling  in 
frightened  anticipation.  "  Dat  white's  done  gone  back  twict,  waitin'  on 
you'  lazy  bones.  Nobody  but  a  bawn  cook  could  fotch  a  poun'-cake  fit 
fer  fou'  puzzidun'  elduz  out-en  sich  triblation.  Don't  yer  know  I's  got 
ter  git  dinner  fer  fou'  puzzidun'  elduz  ?  But,  law  !  yer  wouldn't  kere 
ef  dey  wus  fou'  bishops.  What  do  yer  kere  'bout  rerligion?  Yer's  so 
wicked  !  Gim  me  dat  cin'mon-bok,  an'  don't  stan'  dar  shilly-shally,  like 
a  gobbler  on  hot  tin." 

Then  came  Tony's  acknowledgment  that  he  had  gone  all  the  way  to 
Mrs.  Phillpotts's  without  once  thinking  that  he  did  not  know  what  he  was 
going  for.  You  should  have  seen  how  Aunt  Cindy  received  this  when  the 
idea  had  fairly  taken  possession  of  her  mind.  It  went  to  her  funny  spot. 
Planting  her  hands,  outspread,  on  her  sides,  as  if  to  fortify  herself  against 
shaking  to  pieces,  she  began  laughing  almost  without  a  sound,  as  though 
she  was  too  well  cushioned  to  make  any  noise.  She  quivered  all  over 
like  a  great  mass  of  jelly,  swaying  back  and  forth,  her  head  falling  on 
her  chest,  on  this  shoulder  and  on  that,  till  she  fell  with  a  great  flop  on 
the  meat-block,  where  she  continued  to  sway,  and  roll,  and  quiver. 
Tony's  intense  appreciation  of  the  turned  tide,  expressed  in  broad  grins, 
in  titters,  in  giggles,  in  shuffles,  in  balancings,  in  hand- rubbings,  was 
about  as  funny  as  Aunt  Cindy's  characteristic  laughing.  Before  this 
laughing  was  ended  he  had  made  good  his  escape,  and  in  process  of  events 
was  repeating  his  tuggings  and  pullings  at  old  Jack's  bridle.  It  was 
dark  before  he  returned  from  his  errand,  for  Mrs.  Phillpotts,  not  having 
any  cinnamon,  had  sent  a  runner  to  Mrs.  McDonald  for  the  article ; 
Mrs.  McDonald,  in  turn,  had  sent  to  Mrs.  Doubleday,  and  Mrs.  Double- 
day  to  the  cross-roads  store.  Aunt  Cindy  never  went  to  bed  that  night 
never  went  to  her  cabin :  she  sat  up  with  her  cake  and  light-bread. 

It  was  on  the  next  day,  the  day  of  the  important  dinner  for  the  im- 
portant guests,  that  the  real  bustle  began.  Everybody  on  the  plantation 
was  enlisted  except  the  babies.  These,  left  to  their  own  tender  mercies, 
were  toddling  or  crawling  about  the  yard  in  a  lost  and  reckless  way,  and 


/ 


AUNT  CINDY'S  DINNER.  325 

had  to  be  rescued  from  many  a  thrilling  danger — ^from  •tubs  of  water, 
from  cracks  of  fences,  from  dizzy  heights,  from  thorns  and  briers,  from 
the  setting  hen,  the  gander  and  the  turkey-gobbler.  There  were  dishes 
to  be  borrowed,  and  knives  and  forks  and  spoons  and  ovens  and  skillets 
and  pots  and  kettles.  The  pig  had  to  be  butchered  and  the  chickens 
dressed.  There  was  the  square  table  to  be  pieced  out ;  fuel  to  be 
brought  from  the  woods  and  chopped ;  countless  pails  of  water  from  the 
spring,  distant  an  eighth  of  a  mile.  All  the  plantation  had  to  be  ran- 
sacked for  eggs — the  garden,  fields  and  orchards  scoured  for  vegetables, 
melons  and  fruit  Pete  was  sent  six  miles  for  a  bag  of  apples  from  Mr. 
La  Mai's  orchard,  the  only  one  in  the  neighbourhood.  Andy  had  to  go 
to  mill  with  a  bag  of  com  before  there  could  be  any  bread  for  dinner,  for 
"  light-bread,'*  which  with  Northern  people  is  the  staff  of  life,  is  with 
Southern  people,  a  knick-knack. 

It  was  approaching  ten  o'clock,  and  Aunt  Cindy  was  getting  panicky  ; 
not  that  she  distrusted  her  abilities — she  believed  in  herself  as  she  did 
in  the  Methodist  Church.  "  But,"  she  said,  '*  niggers  ain't  to  be  'pend- 
ed  on,  'specially  dat  dar  Tony."  It  was  about  this  hour  that  a  very  im- 
portant article  in  the  get-up  of  a  dinner  was  found  to  be  missing — namely, 
salt.  After  the  customary  search  that  preceded  the  use  of  anything 
which  Aunt  Cindy  had  occasion  to  employ,  she  went  into  Mrs.  Burgiss 
with  the  intelligence.  This  lady  was  gathering  a  ruffle  for  the  neck  of 
her  dress,  and  was,  by  all  odds,  the  most  composed  person  on  the  planta- 
tion. Mrs.  Burgiss  made  the  usual  suggestion  of  sending  to  Mrs.  Fhill- 
potts's.  Aunt  Cindy  went  her  way,  but  in  a  moment  was  back :  **  We-all 
ain't  got  no  blackberry  cordial  ter  pass  'roun'  wid  dat  dar  poun'-cake," 
she  said. 

"  Well,  don't  pester  me.  Aunt  Cindy :  jus'  sen*  to  Brother  Phillpotts's 
or  somewhere  else  for  anything  we  haven't  got." 

"  Ain'  no  bosses  lef  in  de  bawn  ter  sen'  fer  nuffia'  else :  dey's  all  off 
bor'rin'." 

"  Then  sen'  one  of  the  negroes  afoot." 

"  Ain't  no  niggers  nuther  ter  sen' :  dey's  all  off  bor'rin,  too." 

^*  Well,  manage  it  jus'  as  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Burgiss  blandly. 

*'  Humph  ! "  ejaculated  Aunt  Cindy,  turning  away.  She  came  back 
immediately :  "  Law,  Miss  Rithy  !  here's  dem  dar  chil'ren — Miss  Maiy 
Summerfiel'  an'  Miss  Susan  Wesley — ain't  fix  up  a  speck.  Yer  mus'  git 
fix  up,  honeys.  Law  !  didn't  you-all  know  we-all's  gwyne  ter  hab  fou* 
puzzidun'  elduz  ter  dinner  ?  Go  put  on  you'  shoes  an'  stockin's  an'  you' 
new  caliker  fix)cks." 

"  Mine's  dirty,"  said  Susan  Wesley. 

*^  Mine's  tore,"  said  Mary  Summerfield. 

As  it  was  scarcely  practicable  to  borrow  dresses  for  these  little  ladies, 
Susan  Wesley  was  set  down  to  mend  Mary  Summerfield's  calico  dress, 
and  Mary  Summerfield  was  sent  with  Susan  Wesley's  to  the  spring, 
where  black  Polly  was  washing  out  some  articles  which  would  be  in  de- 
mand at  the  dinner-party. 

"  Dell  law !  Miss  Rithy  ! "  said  Aunt  Cindy,  reappearing  after  a  few 
minutes,  "  dat  Tony  an'  Alfred  mus'  be  fix  up  an'  sot  at  de  fron'  gate 
ter  take  de  fou'  puzzidun'  elduz'  bosses,  an'  ter  tote  um  to  de  bawn ;  an' 
Nervy  mus'  be  fix  up  ter  keep  de  flies  offen  dat  tabuL" 

All  this  was  desirable  but  when  it  came  to  the  point  of  fixing  up  the 
4 


326  AUNT  CINDY'S  DINNER. 

Bnrgiss  retamen  they  came  upon  a  problem.  After  much  search  and 
consultation  it  was  decided  as  a  last  resort  to  hem  up  the  legs  of  Mr. 
Burgiss's  winter  pantaloons  for  the  boys  that  were  *'  to  tote  the  fou' 
puzzidun'  elduz'  bosses  to  the  bawn/'  Then  a  reverend  swallow-tailed 
coat  was  added  to  Al^ed's  wardrobe,  the  cuffs  being  turned  back  and 
the  long  waist  buttoned  to  the  chin.  Tony,  who  was  smaller  and  had 
a  clean  shirt,  was  more  comfortable  but  less  satisfied  in  massa's  vest. 
Very  grotesque-looking  figures  they  were,  as  was  little  Nervy  in  a  dress 
which  she  stepped  on  in  walking,  and  which  necessitated  a  ceaseless 
hitching  up  of  the  shoulders  to  prevent  its  slipping  off  the  wearer. 

But  how  can  I  hope  to  picture  Aunt  Cindy's  kitchen  as  the  battle 
thickened )  Great  logs  were  roaring  and  blazing  in  the  broad  fireplace. 
Hanging  before  this  was  the  pig  roasting  entire.  Then  came  a  huge  tin 
reflector,  with  its  buggy-like  top  gleaming  in  the  firelight  and  reflecting 
its  heat  on  the  rows  of  beaten  biscuits  thus  baking.  Over  half  the  dirt 
floor  patches  of  coals  had  been  drawn  from  the  fireplace,  and  on  these 
beds  were  ovens  and  skillets  and  pots  and  trivets  and  gridirons  in  be- 
wildering number  and  confusion.  Outside  the  kitchen  shed,  seated  on 
the  ground,  were  negro  children,  boys  and  girls,  husking  green  com, 
paring  potatoes,  peeling  and  stoning  peaches,  stringing  beans,  paring 
cvmlius,  peeling  tomatoes,  etc.,  etc.  Nervy  was  shelling  marrowfats,  and 
the  little  black  baby  was  eating  them.  Then  there  were  three  women 
assistants  in  the  kitchen  that  **  hendered  more'n  they  he'ped,"  according 
to  the  head'cook.  Cindy  herself  was  moving  about  in  her  elephantine 
way,  ordering  the  assistants,  boxing  the  children,  basting  the  hissing 
pig,  stirring  the  custards,  tasting  the  gravies,  lifting  the  pot-covers,  shift- 
mg  an  oven  on  the  coals  to  ensure  an  even  bake  ;  transferring  a  shovel 
of  coals  from  the  chimney-place  to  a  kettle  on  the  outskirts  of  her  lines ; 
searching  the  jambs  and  sleepers  for  some  condiment  or  cloth ;  renewing 
the  fire,  calling  for  water,  etc.,  etc.  And  all  the  while  there  was  such  a 
hissing  and  sputtering  and  bubbling  and  steaming  and  sizzling  as  would 
have  been  entirely  worthy  of  four  times  "  fou'  puzzidun'  elduz." 

Nervy,  having  finished  her  pearshelling,  was  prancing  back  and  forth 
over  the  brown  grass,  admiring  over  her  shoulder  the  effect  of  her  sweep- 
ing train,  when  she  perceived  up  the  lane  a  great  cloud  of  dust,  and 
heard  Tony  call,  "  Dey*s  er  comin* !  dar  dey  is  !  Dem  fou*  puzzidun' 
elduz  is  er  comin' ! " 

Nervy  repeated  the  cry ;  then  somebody  else  did  the  same ;  then  some- 
body else  did  the  same ;  then  another,  till  the  whole  plantation  rang 
with  it  Then  there  was  a  general  rush  from  said  plantation.  Even 
Mrs.  Burgiss  rushed— buttoning  her  dress  as  she  rushed — ^to  the  front 
window.  Aunt  Cindy  deserted  her  dinner,  and  with  a  flour-sifter  in 
her  hand  went,  blowing  like  a  porpoise  and  strewing  the  sifted  flour  as 
she  went,  to  the  side  yard  to  witness  the  important  arrival.  Little  black 
faces  and  big  black  faces  were  pressed  against  cracks  in  the  palings  or 
were  peering  from  behind  chimneys  and  around  house-corners,  while  the 
happy,  important  and  envied  Tony  and  Alfred  ran  to  their  posts  at  the 
gate  to  take  the  horses  and  '^  tote  "  them  to  the  barn. 

Mr.  Burgiss  was  on  hand,  giving  a  bustling  and  noisy  greeting  to  his 
guests.     "Welcome  my  brother,"  he  said  to  each  of  the  four  in  turn — 
"  welcome  to  the  hospitalities  of  my  humble  roof.     As  long  as  Brother 
Burgiss  has  a  cms'  of  cawn-bread  he'll  share  it  with  a  brother  Metho- 
dist." 


AUNT  Cindy's  dinner.  327 

They  were  conducted  to  the  house,  and  seated  in  the  open  passage  for 
coolness,  for  the  air  was  sultry.  There  was  that  inertia  and  hush  in  the 
atmosphere  that  precedes  a  thunderstorm,  and  dark-gray  clouds  were 
banking  in  the  south-west. 

"  I  see  you  take  the  Ladies'  Repository ^  Brother  Burgiss,"  said  one  of 
the  elders  in  the  course  of  conversation,  opening  the  magazine  and  turn- 
ing to  an  engraving. 

"  The  Ladies^  Repository,''  exclaimed  Brother  Burriss,  with  energetic 
enthusiasm,  **  is  the  pretties*  book  in  America ; "  and  he  brought  hS  leg 
a  ringing  slap  with  his  open  palm  by  way  of  emphasizing  his  remark. 
"  The  pretties'  book  in  America  !  "  Again  he  slapped  his  leg.  "  The 
han'somes*  book  on  this  continent  or  any  other,  Brother  Falconer.  As 
to  its  matter,  I  place  it  among  the  classics  ;  *'  and  he  turned  to  another 
of  the  elders — "  in  the  fron*  rank  of  the  classics.  Brother  IngersoU.  There 
are  but  two  books  in  the  worl*  that  outrank  it,  Brother  Underwood," 
he  continued,  again  changing  his  auditor. 

**  And  what  are  those  ? "  asked  Elder  Underwood,  his  eyes  twinkling 
at  this  extraordinary  announcement. 

"  The  Methodis*  Discipline  and  the  Bible,"  answered  Brother  Burriss, 
courageously.  "  The  Methodis*  Discipline  is  the  mos'  wonderAil  book  in 
the  civilized  language — the  mos'  superior  uninspired  work  that  was  ever 
extant — ^the  mos'  superior  book.  I  may  say,  the  universe  ever  saw. 
We're  a  wonderful  people,  my  dear  brother — a  wonderful  people,  we 
Methodists.     We  keep  the  worF  movin'." 

"  We  help  to  do  it, '  Brother  Foster,  modestly  amended. 

**  My  dear  Brother  Foster,  we  move  the  worl' — we  move  it,"  Mr. 
Burgiss  reiterated,  bringing  his  hands  together  with  a  ringing  spat — ' 
"  the  religious  worl*,  you  understan*.  Who's  doin'  anything,  for  instance, 
to  take  this  district  to  glory  except  the  Methodists  1 " 

"The  Presbyterians  have  established  some  flourishing  churches  in 
this  neighbourhood,"  suggested  Elder  IngersoU. 

•*  The  Presbyterians ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Burgiss,  with  impetuous  scorn. 
"  I  wouldn't  give  that " — and  he  snapped  his  finger  with  a  flourish, — 
"  for  all  the  good  they'll  do  at  bringin'  sinners  down.  The  Presbyte- 
rians are  bemnders — ^the  Methodists  are  leadin'  the  advance  :  we're 
Christ's  vanguard.  Presbyterians  can't  hold  a  candle  to  us.  We  can 
out-number  them ;  we  can  out-preach  them ;  we  can  out-sing  them ;  we 
can  out-pray  them ;  we  can  out-shout  them.  Religion  would  die  out — 
die  out  from  the  face  of  the  livin*  earth,  Brother  IngersoU — but  for  the 
Methodis'  Church,  but  for  our  protracted  meetin's,  our  class-meetin's, 
our  camp-meetin's,  our  love-feasts,  our  revivals.  Presbyterians  could 
never  have  such  a  thing  as  a  camp-meetin',  Brother  Underwood — never  ! 
They  ain't  got  enough  of  the  knock-down  in  'em:  too  col' — no  fire. 
They're  afraid  to  shout — afraid  somebodyll  hear  'em.  It  takes  the 
Methodists  to  storm  heaven :  it's  only  the  Methodists  that  can  be 
trusted  to  give  the  devil  a  bayonet  charge.  Presbyterians  will  do  to 
Stan'  off  an  shoot  arrers,  but  when  heaven  is  to  be  carried  by  assault, 
give  me  the  ol'-fashioned  camp  meetin',  shoutin'  Methodists.  Sinners 
can't  get  to  heaven  at  no  easy  Presbyterian  gait :  if  we  ever  get  to  hea- 
ven Brother  Underwood  (which  may  we  idl  do,  my  dear  brethren  I), 
we've  got  to  trot  it  every  step  of  the  way.  The  Methodists  have  got 
hoi'  of  the  bes'  thing  out  Indeed,  the  Methodis'  Church  is  the  pheno- 
mena of  America." 


328  AUNT  Cindy's  dinner. 

'*  I  remember  hearing  you  say  that  in  a  sermon  at  the  Bush-camp- 
ground last  fall,'*  said  Brother  Underwood. 

Mr.  Burgiss  coloured,  for  these  heroics  he  had  been  delivering  were 
passages  from  one  of  his  favourite  sermons. 

"  That  was  a  very  striking  discourse,"  continued  Brother  Underwood, 
*<  but  one  sentence  in  it  impressed  me  as  so  remarkable  that  I  have  re- 
membered it  to  this  day." 

Mr.  Burgiss  brightened  and  bustled  with  delight.  **  And  what  was 
that  sentence,  my  dear  brother  ? "  he  asked. 

"  You  said,  *  When  Cleopatra  raised  the  poisoned  chalice  to  her  lips.* 
I  had  always  supposed  that  Cleopatra  was  killed  by  the  poison  of  asps.*' 

"  Hem !  haw  !  *'  said  Mr.  Burgiss,  bustling  and  fidgeting,  "  it  was — 
hem  I — it  was  formerly  thought  so,  but — hem  I — more  recent  historical 
authorities.  Brother  Underwood,  says  deflTrent.*' 

Here  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Burgiss  created  a  diversion,  and  the  con- 
versation changed  to  the  duties  of  Methodist  women  in  matters  of  dress. 
Soon  after  this  the  impending  storm  broke.  The  rain  appeared  to  de- 
scend not  in  drops,  but  in  streams  and  sheets  and  spouts  ;  the  thunder 
seemed  on  the  roof,  and  the  roof  coming  down.  And  the  storm  burst 
just  as  Aunt  Cindy  was  dishing  her  dinner.  By  dint  of  engaging  all  the 
hands  on  the  plantation  in  simultaneous  action  she  had  managed  to  get 
all  the  dinner  accessories  from  the  spring-house  just  as  the  vegetables, 
meats,  etc.  in  the  kitchen  were  being  dished,  so  that  all  the  cold  things 
might  be  kept  cold,  and  all  hot  things  hot,  till  the  final  moment.  And 
now  it  was  *•  rainin*  blazes,**  according  to  Tony.  But  delay  was  out  of 
the  question :  the  dinner  must  be  got  on  the  table,  yet  the  kitchen,  as 
you  are  supposed  to  remember,  was  sixty  feet  from  the  house.  Aunt 
Cindy  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.     Everybody  stood  irresolute. 

Tony  had  an  inspiration :  he  was  bursting  to  tell,  yet  Aunt  Cindy 
looked  as  stormy  as  the  skies.  He  recalled  her  uncertain  moods,  and 
remembered  that  she  owed  a  duty  to  him  for  his  grandmother's  sake. 
Tony  trembled,  but  spoke :  "  Umberillers  an*  porr'sols  I  *' 

A  swift  change  swept  the  leader's  face.  She  caught  Tony  up  and 
kissed  him,  and  that  made  Tony  cry.  "  Git  um,"  she  said— ''git  aUde 
umberillers  an'  porr'sols.'* 

Soon  there  was  collected  a  dozen  or  more  of  these,  the  '*  fou*  puzzi- 
dun'  eldnz's  **  umbrellas  being  pressed  into  service.  Almost  every  negro 
at  the  South  who  owns  anything  has  an  umbrella  or  parasol,  for  there  is 
a  long  period  of  sunshine  to  fight 

A  procession  was  formed  of  the  dinner-carriers,  at  whose  head 
marched  Aunt  Cindy,  bearing  the  roast  pig  with  a  red  apple  in  its 
mouth.  I  must  tell  you  that  Aunt  Cindy  wore  a  pink  calico  dress, 
made  with  short  sleeves  and  low  in  the  neck.  When  all  was  ready,  and 
she  had  sufficiently  bewildered  her  corps  of  assistants  by  the  multitude 
of  her  instructions,  with  a  tread  of  her  bare  feet  that  shook  the  house 
she  crossed  the  square  passage,  from  which  the  rain  had  driven  the 
company,  and  stood  in  the  august  presence  of  the  '*  fou*  puzzidun* 
elduz.*'  "  Sarvant,  marsters  ! "  she  said  in  a  tone  of  simple  reverence 
which  was  really  touching.  Then  she  curtsied  in  a  way  that  raised  a 
momentary  fear  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  recover  herself,  but 
must  go  down.     "  Dinner  is  serve.** 

Mrs.  Burgiss  rose  languidly,  Mr.  Burgiss  bustlingly. 


ASLEEP.  S29 

"  Come,  my  brethren,"  said  the  reverend  host,  "let  us  see  what  good 
things  — " 

"The  cook  hath  provided  for  them  that  love  them — that  is  to  say,  the 
good  thines/'  interrupted  Elder  Underwood,  who  was  a  funny  man. 

Then  they  crossed  the  open  passage,  bein^  well  sprinkled  in  the 
transit,  and  entered  the  room^  where  Aunt  Cindy's  dinner  was  spread* 
The  table  reached  the  length  of  the  room,  and  was  literally  jammed. 
From  this  you  will  infer  ^at  Aunt  Cindy  had  served  all  her  viands  to- 
gether. This  was  even  so — fish,  flesh,  fowl,  pig,  pastry,  pudding,  cabbage, 
cake,  cordial,  all  in  a  jumble.  But  there  was  method  in  her  jumbling. 
As  head-waiter  she  superintended  all  the  serving,  and  she  never  offered 
two  incongruous  articles  together.  There  was  complete  harmony,  per- 
fect dovetflolinff.  She  was  an  untutored  culinary  genius.  She  had  never 
heard  of  a  fiueen-course  dinner,  but  she  nevertheless  played  off  the 
courses  by  "  ear,"  to  borrow  from  the  musicians. 

And  surely  there  never  was  a  funnier  subject  than  Aunt  Cindy — ^her 
great  heart  in  an  attitude  of  reverence  towards  those  "  fou'  puzzidun' 
elduz,"  every  inch  of  her  swollen  with  the  importance  of  ministering  to 
such  dignitaries ;  buzzing  and  panting  and  heaving  about  the  table ; 
finessing  to  get  aU  her  dishes  tested  ;  upbraiding,  threatening,  encourag- 
ing in  pantomime  her  assistants ;  vibrating  in  a  waddling  run,  under  an 
umbrella,  between  the  dining-room  and  kitchen  ;  shaking  the  house  as 
she  moved,  even  to  the  dislodging  of  the  clay  daubing,  and  causing  the 
dishes  to  tremble  for  their  lives. 

And  there  never  was  a  happier,  more  complacent  creature  than  this 
same  Aunt  Cindy,  seated  that  afternoon  on  the  meat-block,  with  a  satis- 
fied stomach,  re-living  in  memory  her  triumph,  and  fondly  repeating  to 
her  heart  all  the  words  of  commendation  bestowed  on  her  dinner  by  the 
"  fou*  puzzidun'  elduz  " — no  happier  creature,  Tony  perhaps  excepted, 
as  he  sat  under  a  clump  of  china  trees,  the  skies  having  cleared,  eating 
all  that  he  wanted,  and  more  too,  of  the  marvellous  dinner.  And  if  that 
dinner  did  not  procure  for  the  Rev.  Mr.  Burgiss  the  desired  station  ap- 
pointment, is  it  not  clear  that  presiding  elders  are  ungrateful  1 

Sarah  Winter. 


ASLEEP. 

Babe-traveller  on  life's  beaten  track, 
Made  by  the  feet  of  ages  past 
While  urging  onward,  spreading  wrack 
And  deadly  rapine  on  their  way. 
Each  SBon  deadlier  than  the  last- 
Wars,  tumults,  earthquakes,  portents  dire. 
Deluge  and  pestilence  and  tire. 
With  here  and  there  a  sonny  gleam, 
Like  that  which  glints  athwart  thy  dream  - 
A  rainbow  o'er  the  storm-cloud  cast  : 
Sleep  on  !  For  thee  no  dangers  loom  ; 
Before  thee  spreads  the  age  in  bloom, 
The  great  world  lying  at  thy  back. 

All  its  past  conflicts,  present  fears, 
The  varied  aspects  of  the  years. 
To  thee,  as  if  they  had  not  been. 
These  have  evanished  from  the  scene, 


330  ASLEEP. 

Though  thou  art  held  to  strict  account 
For  evils  reaching  to  their  fount, 
In  a  fair  land  one  fairest  mom 
Thousands  of  years  ere  thou  wert  bom  ! 
«  Through  the  sweet  dreams  thy  slumbers  weave,  ^^1 

The  arrow  of  this  sin  shall  deave  !  ^ 

Through  all  thy  weary,  life-long  march, 
This  one  harsh,  dissonant  note  shall  sound  ! 
A  storm-cloud  o'er  the  rainbow's  arch. 
Disturber  of  the  peace  profound 
Sighed  for  through  all  this  earthly  round. 

Sleep  on,  O  soid  devoid  of  stain  ! 

May  nap  thou  shalt  not  live  in  vain. 

Cherub  or  seraph,  or  the  bands 

Of  angel's  waiting  God's  commands, 

Which  of  them  wears  a  brighter  face, 

Less  earthly  calm  more  heavenly  grace,         • 

Or  holds  within  a  sinless  breast 

A  richer  heritage  of  rest  ? 

Well  for  thee  couldst  thou  sleep  for  ever  ! 

Unconscious  of  the  mad  endeavour. 

The  wrestling  with  those  unseen  powers 

That  tempt  us  in  our  holiest  hours, 

To  whom  the  purest  heart  that  beats 

Yields  up  a  portion  of  its  sweets. 

From  whom  the  whitest  soid  that  lives 

Some  touch  of  sin  perforce  receives  ! 

Sleep  on,  thou  complex  mystery  ! 
Angelic  wings  o'ershadowed  thee ; 
The  living-dead  above  the  smile, 
Knowing  that  thou  art  free  from  guile  ; 
The  spirit  nestling  in  thy  breast 
Dreams  but  of  everlasting  rest : 
And  no  accusing  angel  dsxe 
To  aught  of  evil  thee  compare. 
Not  for  the  mighty  conqueror 
Returning  with  the  spoils  of  war ; 
Not  for  the  man  whose  mortal  name 
Blazes  upon  the  scroll  of  fame, 
But  who  is  still  unlike  to  thee 
In  child-grace  and  humility  : 
For  thee — for  thee  the  kingdom  waits  ; 
For  thee  roll  back  the  gleaming  gates, 
Through  which  souls  pass  to  victory. 

Though  thunders  roll  and  heaven's  wrath 
Bestrew  with  worlds  thy  flowery  path. 
For  thee  no  angrv  portents  loom 
O'er  all  the  ruin-haunted  track  ; 
The  starry  fields  would  burst  in  bloom. 
And  open  up  through  storm  and  wreck 
A  pathway  brighter  than  the  sun, 
And  endless  g^^ens  of  perfume 
Through  which  thy  rosy  feet  should  run  ; 
While  far  across  the  ethereal  seas 
The  anthems  of  the  ages  flung 
Would  hail  thee — thee,  with  trumpet  tongue 
Heirs  of  the  blest  eternities. 
Ottawa.  Charles  Sakosteb. 


331 


POLICY   OF   THE    ENGLISH    AND    AMERICAN    GOVERN- 
MENTS TOWARDS  THE  INDIANS. 


**  Welcome  Englishmen  !  **  were  the  first  words  which  greeted  the  Pil- 
grim Fathers  when  they  landed  at  Plymouth,  on  "  the  rock-bound  coast" 
of  New  England,  on  the  historical  eleventh  day  of  December,  1620. 
They  were  words  of  peace  and  good-will  to  the  new-comers,  and  fell  upon 
their  ears  as  a  benison  and  a  blessing  at  the  end,  as  well  as  at  the  recom- 
mencement of  their  perilous  enterprise. 

Nor  did  these  assuring  words  of  greeting,  uttered  by  the  friendly 
chief,  Samoset,  fall  to  the  ground  as  unmeaning.  They  were  made  good 
by  the  great  Sagamore,  Massasoit,  the  acknowledged  head  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts tribes,  who,  on  the  21st  March,  1621,  concluded  a  treaty  with 
the  Pilgrims.  During  his  lifetime  of  forty  years  he  observed  it  faith- 
fully, and  treated  the  English  with  great  kindness, — not  so  much  *'  be-, 
^»use  of  the  binding  articles  in  the  treaty,  but  from  the  natural  goodness 
of  his  heart." 

Boger  Williams  also,  writing  in  1654,  speaks  of  the  many  hundreds 
of  the  English  who  were  witnesses  to  the  friendly  disposition  ot  the 
Narraganset  Indians,  and  says : — 

*^  Their  late  famous  Sachem,  the  long-lived  Canonicus,  so  lived  and 
died  [in  1647,  at  the  age  of  85  years],  and  in  the  same  most  honoured 
manner  and  solemnity  you  laid  to  sleep  your  prudent  peace-maker... . . 
and  their  prudent  and  peaceable  prince ;  yea  through  all  their  towns  and 
•countries  how  frequently  do  many  and  oft  times  Englishmen  travel  alone 
with  safety  and  loving-kindness." 

Further,  the  great  Sachem,  Uncas,  chief  of  the  Mobegan  Indians,  who 
also  lived  to  a  great  age,  espoused  the  English  cause,  and  "  was  said  to 
have  been  engaged  in  all  the  Indian  wars  on  the  part  of  the  English 
during  his  life  time.  He  also  shielded  some  of  the  infant  settlements  of 
Connecticut  in  times  of  trouble."     He  died  about  1682  or  1685. 

Again,  in  terms  of  the  memorable  treaty  of  "  friendship  and  alliance,** 
made  with  the  Indians  on  the  Delaware  river,  by  William  Penn,  in  1682, 
the  whole  of  the  Indians  in  his  young  colony  were  bound  to  the  English 
in  indissoluble  bonds  of  peace  and  friendship, — "  the  only  treaty,"  says 
Voltaire,  '*  between  these  people  [Indians]  and  the  Christians  that  was 
not  ratified  by  an  oath,  and  that  never  was  broken."* 

*  This  memorable  treaty  not  only  recorded  the  transfer  of  the  proprietorship  of 
-of  lands  to  Wm.  Penn,  but  in  it  the  Indians  pledged  themselves  : — **To  Uve  in 
love  with  Wm.  Penn  and  his  children  [adherents,  fnends,  etc.],  as  long  as  the  sun 
and  moon  should  endure."  This  personal  friendship  was  continued  uninterrupt- 
edly for  upwards  of  seventy  years,  '*  or  so  long  as  the  Quakers  retained  power  in 
the  Government  of  Pennsylvania.  Penn*s  conduct  to  these  people  was  so  engag- 
ing, his  justice  so  conspicuous,  and  the  counsel  and  advice  which  he  gave  to  them 
was  so  evidently  for  their  advantage,  that  he  became  thereby  very  much  endeared 
to  them ;  and  the  sense  thereof  made  such  deep  impressions  on  their  understand- 
ings that  his  name  and  memory  will  scarcely  ever  be  effaced  while  they  continue 
a  people." — Clarhson's  Memoirs  of  Fenn, 


332      ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  POLICY  TOWARDS  THE  INDIANS. 

Further :  on  the  settlement  of  G^rgia,  by  Oglethorpe,  in  1732,  he 
was  welcomed  by  the  chief  men  of  the  various  tribes  of  the  Creek  In- 
dians. Oglethorpe  well  repaid  their  friendly  oTertures  and  kindness,  and, 
like  Penn,  proved  himself  a  just  and  generous  friend  of  the  Indians  of 
the  South. 

England  herself,  at  a  very  early  day  in  her  colonial  history,  laid  down 
several  equitable  rules  for  the  guidance  of  her  governors  and  "  loving 
subjects"  in  the  newly-settled  American  plantations.  Thus  Charles  II., 
in  1670,  issued  the  following  instructions  to  the  Colonial  Secretary  : — 

*'  Forasmuch  as  most  of  our  said  colonies  do  border  upon  the  Indians, 
and  peace  is  not  expected  without  the  due  observance  and  preservation 
of  justice  to  them,  you  are,  in  our  name,  to  command  all  the  governors, 
that  they,  at  no  time,  give  any  just  provocation  to  any  of  the  said  In- 
dians that  are  at  peace  with  us,"  etc. 

Wm.  Penn,  too,  among  certain  conditions  on  which  "  adventurers" 
wei^  allowed  to  purchase  land  and  settle  in  his  province,  declared  : 

"  That  no  man  shall  by  any  ways  or  means,  in  word  or  deed,  affront 
or  wrong  an  Indian  ;  but  he  shall  incur  the  same  penalty  of  the  law  as 
if  he  had  committed  it  against  his  fellow-planter,"  etc. 

On  the  conquest  of  Canada,  in  1763,  George  III.  issued  a  proclama- 
tion in  regard  to  the  Indians  in  which  he  also  laid  down  those  broad 
equitable  principles  of  justice  and  fair  treatment  of  the  Indians,  which 
has  ever  since  been  traditional,  and,  in  the  main  characteristic  of  the 
policy  of  the  British  Government  towards  the  Indians  on  this  continent. 
The  first  part  of  the  proclamation  declared  it  to  be : — 

*^  Just  and  reasonable,  and  essential  to  our  interests  and  the  security 
of  our  colonies,  that  the  several  nations  or  tribes  of  Indians  with  whom 
we  are  connected,  and  who  live  under  our  protection,  should  not  be  mo- 
lested or  disturbed  in  the  possession  of  such  parts  of  our  dominions  and 
territories  as,  not  having  been  ceded  to  us,  are  reserved  to  them,  or  any 
of  them,  as  their  hunting  grounds,"  etc. 

The  latter  part  of  this  proclamation,  speaking  of  "  the  great  frauds  and 
abuses"  which  had  been  committed,  etc.,  forbids  : — 

''  Private  persons  from  presuming  to  make  any  purchase  from  the  said 
Indians  of  any  lands  reserved  to  the  Indians  within  those  parts  of  our 
colonies  where  we  had  thought  proper  to  allow  settlements.  But  (as  it 
goes  on  to  say)  if  at  any  time  any  of  the  said  Indians  should  be  inclined 
to  dispose  of  the  said  lands,  the  same  shall  be  purchased  only  for  us,  in 
our  name,  at  some  public  meeting  or  assembly  of  the  said  Indians,  to  be 
held  for  that  purpose  by  the  Governor,  or  Commander-in  Chief  of  our 
colony,  respectively,  within  which  they  shall  lie." 

It  does  not,  of  course,  follow  that  the  principles  of  justice  towards  the 
Indians,  thus  laid  down  by  high  official  authority,  were  observed,  either 
by  the  American  colonists,  or  by  His  Majesty's  "  loving  subjects"  in  these 
provinces.  Far  from  it ;  but  that  non-observance  w^as  due  to  the  natural 
cupidity  of  the  stronger  sigainst  the  weaker,  and  to  the  convenient  doc- 
trine, founded  on  a  "  wish,  father  to  the  thought,"  that  the  Indians  were 
a  "  irreclaimable  race,"  which  could  never  be  induced  to  adopt  the  civi- 

It  may  be  here  stated  that  before  Pena  returned  to  England,  in  1684,  he  con- 
cluded treaties  of  friendship  and  alliance  with  no  less  than  nineteen  distinct  tribes 
of  the  Lenni  Lmape  or  Delaware  Indians. 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  POLICY  TOWAKDS  THE  INDLAN8.       833 

Used  habits  of  the  white  man ;  and  that,  therefore,  they  were,  (and  if 
if  not,  should  be,)  doomed  to  speedy  extinction. 

We  shall  now  inqture  into  some  of  the  ooorses  which  have  led  to  the 
almost  chronic  state  of  antagonism,  and,  in  most  cases,  warfare,  between 
the  white  and  red  man  on  this  continent,  and  notably  so  among  the  *'  Long 
Knives''  (Americans)  and  the  "  red  skins."  In  doing  so  we  shall  have 
to  glance  at  some  of  the  sad  and  painfol  episodes  which  history  on  this 
continent  records. 

It  is  true  that  the  romantic  ideal  of  the  North  American  Indian,  as 
portrayed  by  Ck)oper  and  other  writers,  has  been  but  very  rarely  realized 
in  actual  life.  Nevertheless,  numerous  striking  and  touching  examples 
have  been  known,  which  tend  to  justify  the  ideal  portraiture  dt  Indian 
character  by  writers  of  fiction.*  From  Massasoit  down  to  Black  Hawk, 
for  example,  many  of  the  noted  chiefs  who  have  figured  in  the  various 
Indian  wars  have  been  great  men  and  famous  warriors,  according  to  their 
'^  red  skin  gifts  f  and  have  exhibited  traits  of  nobleness,  generosity,  mag- 
nanimity and  courage  which  have  not  been  excelled  by  any  of  their  pale- 
faced  brethren. 

In  the  seclusion  of  their  native  woods  such  examples  have  been  more 
numerous  than  we  are  willing  to  allow  ;  but,  in  the  fatal  contact  with  the 
whites,  the  d^pradation  of  such  noble  specimens  of  the  red  man  has  not 
been  more  marked  than  was  that  of  the  descent  of  the  ideal  Chingach- 
gook,  in  his  earlier  volumes,  to  the  '*  Indian  John'*  in  Cooper's  Leather 
Stocking  tales,  t 

We  have  already  indicated  some  of  the  principles  a£fecting  the  right 
of  the  Indians  to  their  natural  domain  which  have  always  been  recog- 
tdzed  by  the  British  authorities.  These  principles,  until  within  a  few 
years,  were  also  recogniBed  by  the  American  Government,  when, at  length, 
a  fatal  "  repudiation"  of  them  took  place,  as  we  shall  explain.^  Another 

*6exi.  Walker,  in  his  **  Indian  Question,"  thns  sketches  *Hhe  Indian  of  his- 
tory,  in  his  ''  original  and  native  character  :" — 

**  Voluptuary  and  stoic ;  swept  by  gusts  of  fury  too  terrible  to  be  witnessed, 
yet  imperturbable  beyond  all  men  under  the  ordinary  excitements  and  accidents 
of  life ;  ffarmlous,  yet  impenetrable ;  curious,  yet  hunself  reserved ;  proud,  yet 
mean  alike  beyond  compare  ;  superior  to  torture  and  the  presence  of  certain  death, 
yet,  by  the  standards  of  all  otner  peoples,  a  coward  in  battle  ;  capable  of  the 
magnanimous  actions  which,  when  uncovered  of  all  xomance,  are  worthy  of  the 
best  days  of  Roman  virtue,  yet  more  cunning,  false,  and  cruel  than  the  Bengalee, 
this  copper-coloured  Syhinx,  this  riddle  unread  of  men,  equally  fascinates  and 
foUs  the  enquirer."— Pages  15,  16. 

t  In  this  connection  the  following  portrait  of  the  noted  modem  warrior.  Sitting 
Bull,  as  he  recently  appeared  at  Fort  Walsh,  is  striking  and  interesting  : — 

"  Sitting  Bull  is  alK>at  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height.  He  wore  a  black  and 
^riiite  calico  shirt,  black  cloth  leggings,  magnificently  embroidered  with  beads  and 
porcupine  quills.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  fox  skin  cap,  its  brush  drooping  to  his 
feet.  With  the  grace  of  a  natural  gentleman  he  removed  it  from  his  head  at  the 
threshold  of  the  audience  tent.  His  long  black  hair  hung  far  down  his  back, 
athwart  his  cheeks,  and  in  front  of  his  shoulders.  His  eyes  gleamed  like  black 
diamonds.  Uis  visage,  devoid  of  paint,  was  noble  and  commanding;  nay  it  was 
somewhat  more.  Besides  the  Indian  character  given  to  it  by  hiffh  cheek  bones, 
a  broad,  retreating  forehead,  a  prominent  aquiline  nose,  there  was  about  the  mouth 
something  of  beauty,  but  more  of  an  expression  of  exquisite  and  cruel  irony." — 
Correspondence  of  the  New  York  Herald. 

t  This  repudiation  of  the  natural  rights  of  the  Indians,  and  of  the  correspond- 
ing obligations  of  the  American  (Government  to  them,  has  as  completely  destroyed 
the  faith  of  the  Indian  tribes  in  the  promises  of  the  Government,  as  did  the  Penn- 
sylvanian  repudiation  (so  frequently  stigmatized  by  8y<iney  Smith),  weaken  the 
confidence  of  British  investors  of  that  day  in  American  bonds. 


334       ENGUSH  AND  AKEBICAN  POUCr  TOWARDS  THE  INDIANS. 

fundamental  principle  affecting  the  Indians  was  not  only  held  sacred  hj 
all  goyemment6,  but  traditionally  so  even  by  its  violators,  and  that  was 
the  indefeasible  right  of  the  Tndiftng  to  the  soil,  as  its  first  oocnpants. 
Blackstone  lays  down  this  doctrine  in  the  following  words : — 

'*  As  ocoapancy  gave  a  right  to  the  temporary  use  of  the  soil,  so,  it  is 
agreed  upon  all  hands,  that  occupancy  gave  also  the  original  right  to  the 
permanent  property  in  the  substance  of  the  earth  itself,  which  excludes 
every  one  else  but  the  owner  from  the  use  of  if* 

It  is  true  that  the  doctrine  of  the  sovereignty  of  whatever  European 
nation  first  discovered  a  country  was  held  and  maintained  by  all  alike. 
And  this  declaration  of  sovereignty  was  generally  made  by  the  ex- 
plorers dither  by  the  simple  act  of  hoisting  a  flag,  or  erecting  a  cross,  or 
other  emblem  of  christian  civilization.  But  even  this  formal  and  decisive 
act  of  national  supremacy  was  never  held  to  cover  the  right  to  the  soil 
itself,  until  it  was  conveyed  by  formal  treaty  or  cession  on  the  part  of  the 
natives.     A  recent  American  writer  of  authority  on  this  subject  says  : — 

"  In  a  early  history  of  the  Western  World,  the  principle  was  fuUy  re- 
cognized that,  while  sovereignty  rested,  not  with  the  Indians,  but  with 
the  civilized  power  claiming,  by  virtue  of  discovery,  the  Indians  were 
the  rightful  oocuiMuits,  with  a  just  and  perfect  claim  to  retain  possession 
and  enjoy  the  use,  until  they  should  be  disposed  voluntarily  to  part  with 
it.  Great  Britain,  Holland,  France  and  Spain,  the  four  powers  claiming 
sovereignty  by  virtue  of  discovery  within  the  present  territory  of  the 
United  States,  conceded  no  less  than  this  to  the  natives  ;  while  France, 
in  the  cession  of  the  Province  of  Louisiana,  expressly  reserved  the  rights 
allowed  the  Indians  by  its  own  treaties  and  articles,'^  etc.t 

To  say  that  the  wrongs,  which  have  been  inflicted  upon  the  red  man 
by  the  whites  have  been  but  a  just  retribution  for  his  savage  cruelty,  is 
to  falsify  the  records  of  history,  even  as  inscribed  by  his  natural  enemies, 
the  pale  faces.  It  is  true  that  these  records  testify  to  the  unsparing 
hatred  and  barbarous  cruelty  of  a  treacherous  and  remorseless  Indian 
foe ;  but  it  is  also  true  that  these  records  disclose  more  fearful  scenes 
and  more  refined  cruelty  on  the  part  of  the  white  man,  j:  than  even  sav- 
age ingenuity  could  devise.  From  the  wanton  massacre  of  the  Pequods, 
in  1635,  to  the  latest  crowning  act  (as  Bishop  Whipple  says),  of  the  un- 
just and  cruel  war  against  the  Nez  Percys,  last  year,  the  page  of  the 
white  man's  history  is  black  with  examples  of  wanton  cruelty,  and  acts 
of  the  grossest  wrong. 

Samuel  Drake,  in  his  "  History  and  Biography  of  the  Indians,"  gives 
innumerable  examples.     He  speaks  of  a  Captain  Chub  in  command  of 


*  Blackstone's  Commentaries,  abridged  and  adapted,  by  Samuel  Warren,  Q.C. 
tThe  Indian  Question,  by  Gen.  F.  A.  Walker.    Page  10. 

t  An  example  of  barbarous  justice  is  related  in  the  history  of  Black  Hawk. 
Shortly  before  the  war  of  1812,  one  of  the  Indians  had  killed  a  Frenchman  at 
Praine  des  Ohiens.  He  was  taken  prisoner  and  sentenced  to  death.  The  eveninff 
before  his  execution  he  begged  to  go  and  see  his  wife  and  children,  and  promised 
to  return  at  sunrise  next  morning.  They  permitted  him  to  go.  At  daybreak  he 
parted  from  his  wife  and  six  litUe  ones — how  he  did  so  is  not  recorded — hurried 
through  the  prairie  to  the  fort,  and  arrived  just  at  sunrise.  The  soldiers  were 
ready  and  were  marched  out,  and  shot  him  down  in  cold  blood  1  The  sentence  waa, 
no  doubt,  just ;  but  such  an  example  of  barbarous  justice  and  refined  cruelty  we 
think  has  been  rarely  paralleled  even  in  savage  wari^ffe. 


i 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   POTJCr  TOWARDS  THE  INDUNS.       335 

Fort  Pemaquid,  who  invited  the  chief  sachem  of  Kennebec  and  three  or 
four  other  chiefe  to  a  conference  od  the  Lord's  Day,  and  treacherously 
murdered  them.  He  says  : — ^*  Their  seizure  and  murder  could  not  have 
been  outdone  by  the  greatest  barbarians."  He  also  mentions  the  case 
of  companies  of  the  Cherokees,  in  returning  home  during  the  French 
and  Indian  war,  which  : — 

"  Were  set  upon  by  the  Grerman  inhabitants  and,  without  any  provo- 
cation, killed  in  cold  blood  in  different  places,  although  each  party  was  in 
command  of  a  British  subject.  After  Braddock's  defeat  also,  Virginia 
offered  a  reward  for  the  scalps  of  hostile  Indians.  Here  was  an  induce- 
ment for  remorseless  villains  to  murder  friend  and  foe,  for  it  was  impos- 
sible to  distinguish  scalps.  Out  of  this  grew  the  excessive  calamities 
which  soon  after  distressed  the  southern  provinces  [states].  Forty  inno- 
cent men,  and  friends  too,  murdered  in  cold  blood  by  the  backwoodsmen 
of  Virginia,  brought  on  a  war  which  caused  as  much  distress  and  misery 
among  the  parties  engaged,  as  any  since  that  region  of  country  was 
planted  by  the  whites.  At  one  place  a  monster  entertained  a  party  of 
Indians,  and  treated  them  kindly,  while  at  the  same  time  he  caused  a 
gang  of  his  kindred  ruffians  to  lie  in  ambush  where  they  were  to  pass,  and 
when  they  arrived,  barbarously  shot  them  down  to  a  man."* 

In  a  recent  address  at  New  York,  the  distinguished  Bishop  Whipple, 
of  Minnesota,  thus  sums  up  the  dark  record : — 

*'  You  may  begin  far  back  to  the  time  when  pious  men  marched  to  the 
music  of  fife  and  drum  with  the  head  of  King  Philip  on  a  pole,  when 
in  solemn  conclave  they  decided  that  it  was  the  will  of  God  that  the 
sins  of  the  fathers  should  be  visited  upon  the  children,  and  that,  there- 
fore, Philip's  son  should  be  sold  as  a  slave  to  Bermuda,  and  he  was  sold.t 
And  you  may  follow,  down  to  the  martyrdom  of  the  Delawares,  who 
were  burned  to  death  on  Lord's  Day  in  the  Moravian  Church  ;J  and  so 
on  to  the  time  when  the  brave  Worcester  was  convicted  and  sentenced 
to  the  penitentiary,  for  preaching  Jesus  Christ  to  the  Cherokees !  We 
find  inwrought  with  the  history  of  every  tribe  such  a  story  of  blunders 
and  wrong  that  we  wonder  that  there  is  a  solitary  Indian  who  does  not 
hate  the  white  man.     We  have  forgotten  that  God  was  not  blind,  and 

*  This  led  (the  same  writer  says)  to  determined  hostility  on  the  part  of  the  Che- 
rokees. A  deputation  was  sent  to  Governor  Littleton.  He,  however,  imprisoned 
them  in  Fort  Frince  Gf  orge.  Afterwards,  a  stratagem  to  capture  the  fort  was 
attempted.  Being  unsucceasful,  the  prisoners  were  put  to  the  sword,  or,  as  Drake 
says  :  **  The  dastard  whites  found  time  and  means  to  murder  their  victims,  one  by 
one,  in  a  manner  too  horrible  to  relate." — Pages  304,  373,  376. 

t  Pometacom,  or  King  Philip,  was  the  second  son  of  the  noted  Sagamore,  Mas- 
sasoit.  The  English,  having  executed  his  son  (though  innocent)  for  the  alleged 
murder  of  Sassamon,  a  Christian  Indian,  who  had  revealed  Philip's  retaliatory  de- 
signs,— this,  in  addition  to  his  other  grievances,  exasperated  the  King,  who  there, 
upon  waged  a  fierce  war  against  the  English.  Having  maintained  an  heroic  struggle, 
he  was,  after  the  c^ture  of  his  sister,  wife,  and  son,  surprised  and  shot.  The  Bishop 
tells  the  remainder  of  the  story. 

t  This  massacre  took  place  in  March,  1782.  It  was  the  result  of  a  rash  and  fool- 
ish mistake.  A  family  having  been  murdered  by  some  lawless  western  Indians 
from  Sanduttky,  Col.  Williams  and  ninety  men  surprised  the  Moravian  Indians, 
the  alleged  murderers,  and  massacred  ninety-six  of  them  '*of  all  ages  and  sexes, 
from  the  aged  grey-headed  to  the  helpless  infant  at  its  mother's  breast,  with  tom- 
ahawk, mtmet,  war-club,  spear,  and  scalping -knife.  .  Besides  women,  there  were 
thirty-four  children  murdered  in  cold  blood  by  the  whites. " 


336       ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   POLICY  TOWARDS  THE   INDIANS. 

that  a  nation  reaps  equally  as  it  sows.  The  nation  forgot  Worcester  and 

his  prison  cell.     God  did  not  forget.     There  came  a  time  when  from  the 

top  of  Lookout  Mountain,  the  home  of  that  murdered  servant  of  Grod, 

there  descended  a  host  [during  the  Confederate  War]  under  the  flag  of 

the  constitution,  and  laid  waste  the  very  country  which  had  been  / 

[coveted  from  and]  owned  by  the  expatriated  Cherokees.  .... 

*^  I  need  not  repeat  the  story  of  other  wars.  The  Sioux  of  Minnesota, 
sold  us  800,000  acres  of  their  reservation,  all  of  which  was  taken  from 
"  claims."  The  Navajoes,  who  had  flocks  and  herds,  orchards  and  well- 
tilled  fields,  fought  with  us  to  average  the  theft  of  their  daughters,  who 
were  doomed  to  a  fate  worse  than  death.  The  Modocs,  whose  names 
are  a  synonym  for  cruelty  and  treachery,  had  bitter  memories  of  their 
own  fathers,  murdered  under  the  white  man's  flag,  to  avenge.  No  Indian 
chief  could  tell  a  darker  story  of  violated  faith  than  the  fierce  Gochisi 
of  the  Apaches.  The  records  of  savage  cruelty  do  not  show  any  story 
darker  than  the  Sand  Hill  massacre  of  Mokatava's  band.  Our  late 
Sioux  war  was  the  direct  result  of  the  violation  of  a  treaty  made  by  the 
highest  officers  of  the  army.  The  Indians  have  never  been  the  first  to 
violate  a  treaty. 

"  Our  last  Indian  war  with  the  Nez  Percys  is  the  crowning  act  of  our 
injustice.  The  Nes  Perc^  have  been  the  Mends  of  the  wMte  man  for 
three  quarters  of  a  century,  and  have  an  untarnished  record  of  fidelity 
and  friendship.  Lewis  and  Clarke  who  visited  them  in  1804,  say  that 
they  were  the  most  friendly  and  the  noblest  of  red  men.  Gx)v.  Stevens, 
who  made  the  first  reconnoissance  of  the  Northern  Pacific  Railway,  paid 
them  a  like  tribute  of  praise.  They  served  as  scouts  during  our  Or^on 
wars.  They  furnished  our  cavalry  with  five  thousand  dollars  worth  of 
ponies,  for  which  they  were  never  paid.  During  our  own  war  with  the 
Snake  and  Shoshones  Indians  ....  our  army  was  saved  from  destruc- 
tion by  the  Nez  Perc^ At  length  seven  thousand  white  men 

flocked  to  their  country  to  dig  for  gold Their  people  were 

murdered  in  cold  blood ;  their  women  suffered  brutal  violence.  .  .  . 
War  followed  ;  .* .  but  there  are  no  words  of  righteous  indignation  that 
are  strong  enough  to  denounce  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  such  a  war.*' 

Such  are  the  burning  words  of  indignation  and  warning  uttered  by  a 
thoughtful  Bishop  of  the  American  Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  as  to 
the  treatment  of  the  Indians  by  the  American  Government  and  people. 
They  are  sanctioned  by  higher  American  authority  than  even  that  of  this 
eminent  Christian  Bishop.  President  John  Quincy  Adams,  thus  wrote 
in  his  private  diary,  in  1841 : — 

"  The  policy  of  the  Presidents  of  the  United  States,  from  Washington 
to  myself,  had  been  justice  and  kindness  to  the  Indian  tribes,  to  civilize 
and  preserve  them.  With  the  Creeks  and  the  Cherokees  it  had  been 
successful.  Its  success  was  their  misfortune.  The  States  within  whose 
borders  their  settlements  were,  took  the  alarm  and  broke  down  all 
treaties  which  had  pledged  the  good  faith  of  the  nation.  Georgia  ex- 
tended her  jurisdiction  over  them,  took  possession  of  their  lands,  houses, 
cattle,  furniture  and  negroes,  aud  drove  them  from  their  dwellings. 
Andrew  Jackson,  by  the  simultaneous  operation  of  fraudulent  treaties 
and  brutal  force,  consummated  the  work.  The  Florida  war  is  one  of  the 
fruits  of  this  policy,  the  conduct  of  which  exhibits  an  uninterruptecl 
scene  of  the  most  profligate  corruption.     All  resistance  to  the  abomina- 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   POUCY   TOWARDS  THE  INDIANS.       337 

tion  is  yam.     It  is  one  of  the  henious  sins  of  the  nation,  for  which  God 
will  surely  bring  them  into  judgment " 

"  Such,"  as  Bishop  Whipple  says,  "  was  the  out  cry  of  a  noble  heart, 
which  in  utter  helplessness,  turned  away  from  Grod's  suffering  children 
whom  he  could  not  relieve.  Since  then  the  prairies  of  Minnesota,  the 
^  plains  of  Colorado,  the  States  of  New  Mexico  and  Arizona,  the  lands  of 
Dacotah  and  the  Pacific  Slope,  have  all  been  desolated  by  wars — the 
fruit  of  our  broken  faith." 

Such,  indeed  is  the  dark  record  of  the  American  people,  as  told  by 
distinguished  men  among  themselves,  as  to  their  treatment  of  the  Indians. 
Had  we  not  such  high  authority  for  the  statement  made,  we  might  have 
supposed  that  such  injustice  and  wrong  were  wholly  the  result  of  the 
lawless  conduct  of  border  men  and  unscrupulous  squatters,  or  adven- 
turers. But  however  much  such  men  may  have  accelerated  the  war 
and  disaster  which  followed  in  their  train,  they  appear  to  have  fiilly 
reckoned,  not  only  upon  the  moral  (or  rather  unmond)  sanction  of  their 
countrymen,  but  also  upon  the  physical  support  of  the  nation,  in  their 
acts  of  lawless  aggression  upon  those  whose  security  against  such  aggres- 
sion rested  solely  upon  the  treaty-keeping  faith  of  the  American  people. 

President  J.  Q.  Adams  and  Bishop  Whipple,  have  shown  that  these 
treaties  were  fraudulent  delusions.  The  history  of  these  transactions 
show  also,  that  it  was  never  meant  that  they  should  be  observed  longer 
than  it  would  be  safe  to  apply  to  the  credulous  victims  of  such  delusive 
shams,  the  maxim  that  *^  might  makes  right."  Nevertheless,  for  years 
4  the  hollow  form  of  treaty-making  was  observed  by  the  American  author- 

^  ities,  with  the  intention,  as  events  have  proved,  that  the  '*  treaties" 

should  be  either  evaded  by  gross  fraud,*  or  openly  violated  without  any 
hope  of  redress. 

At  length  a  true  and  consistent  solution  of  this  cruel  and  hypocritical 
policy  has  been  found ;  and,  in  1871,  the  American  Congress  declared 
that  from  henceforth  : — 

"  No  Indian  nation  or  tribe  within  the  territory  of  the  United  States 
shall  be  acknowledged,  or  recognized  as  an  independent  nation,  tribe,  or 
power,  with  whom  the  United  States  may  contract  by  treaty." 

Although  this  was,  probably  under  the  circumstances,  the  only 
honest  solution  of  the  "  Indian  difficulty"  which  presented  itself  to  Con- 
gressmen, from  the  fact  that  the  nation  did  not  pretend  to  observe  its 
own  solemn  treaties,  yet  of  its  gross  injustice  no  one  can  have  any 
doubt.  It  also  indicates  a  degree  of  national  cowardice  which  can 
scarcely  be  conceived. 

From  an  Indian  stand  point,  therefore,  and  with  their  knowledge  of 
this  declaration  of  Congress,  it  was  not  a  matter  of  surprise  that,  with 
an  expression  of  indignant  scorn  and  contempt.  Sitting  Bull  rejected  the  ' 
recent  overtures  of  the  American  Commissioners  at  Fort  Walsh,  in  our 
North  West  Territories.     Yet  many  readers  of  the  New  York  HeraM's. 
/  graphic  narrative  of  the  interview,  failed  to  comprehend  the  point  and 

f  bitterness  of  that  rejection,  owing  to  the  fact  that  they  were  not  aware 

of  how  the  wily  chieftain  regarded  the  hollowness  of  the  proposal  made 

♦  Thu8  in  giving  effect  to  a  "  treaty"  with  the  Nez  Percys,  in  furnishing  them  with 
supplies.  Senator  Nesmith  reported  that  the  "  best''  blankets  were  made  out  of  shoddy 
and  glue  ;  the  '*  best"  boots  had  paper  soles,  and  the  "  best"  steel  spades  were  made  of 
sheet  iron  !    BUItop  Whippldt  speech  at  New  York,  Nov,  1877. 


338       ENOnSH  AND  AMERICAN   POLICY  TOWARDS  THE  INDIANS. 

to  him.  It  was  equally  a  surprise  to  many  to  see,  that  while  Sitting 
Bull  with  so  much  emphasis  contemptuously  rejected  the  terms  proposed 
hy  the  American  Commissioners,  he  subsequently  made  an  unqualified 
submission  to  the  terms  proposed  by  the  Canadian  officers,  in  the  fol- 
lowing words  :— 

My  Fbiend  and  all  the  Queen's  Men  whom  I  so  respect  :  I  have  heard 
of  your  talk.  I  knew  you  would  speak  to  me  in  this  way.  Nobody  told  me. 
I  just  knew  it.  It  is  right.  I  came  to  you  in  the  first  place  because  I  was 
being  hard  driven  by  the  Americans.  They  broke  their  treaties  with  my 
people,  and  when  I  rose  up  and  fought,  not  against  them,  but  for  our  nghts^ 
as  ilie  first  people  on  this  part  of  the  earth,  they  pursued  me  like  a  dog,  and 
would  have  hung  me  to  a  tree.  They  are  not  just.  They  drive  us  into  war, 
and  then  seek  to  punish  us  for  fighting.  That  is  not  honest.  The  Queen 
would  not  do  that-  Long  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  heard  of  the  Queen,  now 
my  Great  Mother.  I  heuxl  that  she  was  just  as  good.  Now  I  know  it.  Ton 
gave  me  shelter  when  I  was  hard  pressed.  My  own  life  is  dear  to  me, 
but  I  did  not  value  it  when  I  fought  the  Americans,  but  i  did  value  the  life 
of  my  nation.  Therefore,  I  brought  my  people  to  you.  I  do  thank  you  for 
what  you  have  done  for  them.  I  will  go  to  the  Bed  River  and  be  at  peace. 
Tell  the  Queen  that.  Tell  her  I  will  be  a  good  man,  that  my  people  will  be 
good.  Tell  her  also  that  we  never  were  bad,  for  she  knows  it  is  not  wrong 
to  fight  for  life.  My  people  are  weary  and  sick.  I  will  take  them  to  the 
Bed  Deer  River  ;  and  now  I  declare  from  you  that  I  will  not  make  trouble, 
or  annoy  you,  or  give  pain  to  the  Queen.  I  will  be  quiet.  I  will  never  fight 
on  your  soil  unless  you  ask  me  to  help  you.  Then  I  will  fight.  I  wish  you 
good  good-bye.  Place  me  where  you  like,  I  will  be  at  |>eaoe  in  Canada.  iBut 
you  Tdio  are  brave  soldiers  and  not  treaty-breakers,  thieves  and  murderers, 
you  would  think  me  a  coward  if  I  did  not  die  fighting  the  Americans.  There- 
fore, while  I  go  to  the  river  of  the  Bed  Deer  now  to  live  at  peace,  I  will  come 
back  when  my  braves  are  strong ;  or  if  they  will  not  come  with  me  I  will 
come  alone  and  fight  the  Americans  until  death.  Ton  I  love  and  respect ; 
them  I  hate,  and  you,  Queen's  soldiers,  would  despise  me  if  I  did  not  hate 
them.     That  is  all.     I  am  ready  to  go  with  you  to  the  Red  Deer  River." 

It  is  proper  at  this  point  to  stop  and  consider  for  a  moment,  some  of 
the  practical  difficulties  which  American  Statesmen  encounter  in  dealing 
with  this  Indian  question,  and  the  difficulties  which  may  yet  force 
themselves  upon  our  attention.  In  theory,  and  even  in  practice,  the 
Americans,  up  to  the  last  six  years,  fully  admitted  the  natural  and  in- 
herent right  of  the  Indians  to  the  soil  of  the  country.  In  our  earlier 
history  this  right  was  an  important  subject  of  negotiation  and  surrender 
— for  a  consideration.  At  that  time  the  Indians  were  indeed  formidable 
foes,  and  independent  neighbours.  It  was,  in  this  day  of  their  power 
and  influence,  a  matter  of  expediency  as  well  as  of  grave  public  policy, 
to  acknowledge  the  absolute  independence  of  the  native  tribes,  and  their 
consequent  competency  to  enter  into  treaties.  As  time  went  on,  the 
relation  of  the  Indian  tribes  to  the  white  man  was  changed.  The 
"  balance  of  power"  was  destroyed ;  and  the  Indian  was  no  longer  to  be 
dreaded  as  a  formidable  foe,  except  in  distant  localities.  More  than 
that.  From  the  position  of  dreaded  and  powerful  tribes  they  became 
in  many  cases  the  helpless  wards  of  the  nation.  In  this  relation  the 
nation,  although  a  guardian,  was  still  required  by  an  historical  and  tra- 
ditional fiction,  to  enter  into  formal  treaties  with  them,  and  to  negotiate 
with  its  pensioners  for  the  surrender  of  certain  rights  which  were  only 


t 


/ 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  POLICY  TOWARDS  THE  INDIANa       339 

theoretically  acknowledged  to  exist.  This  state  of  affairs,  although  well 
understood  and  provided  for  by  the  Crovemment,  was  looked  upon 
differently  by  the  squatters,  the  emigrant  and  the  miner  in  pursuit  of 
''claims.''  To  them  the  Indian  was  an  incumberance,  a  dog-in-the- 
manger  occupier  of  desirable  territory,  and  an  "  unmitigated  nuisance'' 
to  be  got  rid  of  with  the  least  possible  delay.  Such  men  looked  on  the 
Indians  as  an  obstruction  in  their  path  to  the  possession  of  the  promised 
land  of  their  rightful  inheritance. 

With  a  Congress,  half-hearted  in  its  desire  to  keep  faith  with  a 
'<  doomed  "  and  helpless  race,  and  sympathizing  as  individuals  with,  if  not 
sharing  in,  the  covetous  and  selfish  hostilities  of  the  encroaching  whites, 
it  can  easily  be  understood  how  that  body  finally  arrived  at  a  decision  in 
1871,  so  dishonouring  to  the  nation,  and  so  fatal  and  unjust  to  the 
wandering  tribes  who  were  barely  tolerated  upon  the  reservations  set 
apart  for  them  under  the  sanction  of  solemn  treaties. 

The  proclamation  of  Charles  II.,  which  we  have  already  quoted, 
utters  a  truism  which  the  history  of  the  American  treatment  of  the 
Indians  sadly  verifies.     It  declares  that : — 

"  Peace  [with  the  Indians]  is  not  to  be  expected  without  the  due  ob- 
servance and  preservation  of  justice  to  them." 

This  is  proved  by  the  declaration  of  President  J.  Q.  Adams;  and,  with 
the  dark  record  enumerated  by  Bishop  Whipple  and  other  competent 
authorities,*  throw  upon  the  white  man  in  the  United  States  the  entire 
responsibility  of  the  dreadful  wars  and  unsparing  destruction  of  life,  of 
which  the  expeditions  under  the  ill-fated  General  Canby  and  Custer,  pre- 
sent such  sad  and  melancholy  examples. 

President  Hayes  in  his  late  message  to  Congress,  on  this  point, 
says : — 

"  Many,  if  not  most,  of  our  Indian  wars  have  had  their  origin  in 

broken  promises  and  acts  of  injustice  upon  our  part When  the 

Indians  had  settled  down  upon  land  assigned  to  them  by  compact,  and 
begun  to  support  themselves  by  labour,  they  were  rudely  jostled  off  and 

tiirust  into  the  wilderness  again Their  advance  in  civilization 

has  been  slow,  because  the  treatment  they  received  did  not  permit  it  to 
be  faster  or  more  general." 

Gen.  Hazen  thus  explains  the  origin  of  the  Oregon  Indian  war  of 
1865.     He  says : — 

•  Samuel  Drake,  a  noted  writer  on  the  Biography  and  History  qf  the  Indians  qf 
North  America^  in  giving  an  account  of  the  attack  upon  Major  Waldron,  an  un- 
principled trader  in  Dover,  New  Hampshire,  who  had  always  defrauded  the  In- 
dians, says: — 

"  To  enumerate  the  villainies  practiced  upon  this  devoted  people,  would  be  to 
expose  to  everlasting  odium  the  majority  of  frontier  traders  £rom  the  earliest  to  the 
present  time."    Page  299.    Again  he  says  : — 

*'  It  would  be  temous  to  relate,  and  irksome  to  read,  the  half  of  what  mieht  be 
gathered  of  the  robberies  and  enormities  committed  by  infamous  white  villams  on 
'  the  Indian  borders ;  and  it  is  equally  insufferable  to  read  of  the  manner  that  justice 

r  is  trodden  under  foot  by  bodies  bearing  the  name  of  Court.*'    Page  462. 

Bishop  Tuttle,  of  Montana,  in  a  recent  speech  in  New  York,  says  : — 

"  Time  would  fail,  and  I  will  not  enter  mto  the  connivance  and  collusions,  the 
thefts  and  robberies,  the  cheating  and  lying,  and  sins  abounding  in  the  treatment 
of  the  Indians  on  the  reservations.  .....    There  are  Statutes  for  punishing 

those  who  embezzle  soods  in  the  Military  service,  in  the  (Consular  service,  in  the 
Naval  service,  and  the  Postal  service,  but  there  are  no  specific  Statutes  for  pun- 
ishing an  Indian  agent  for  embezzlement  of  goods  in  the  Indian  service." 


340       ENGLISH  AND   AMERICAN   POLICY  TOWARDS  THE  INDDLNS. 

"  A  few  days  before  my  arrival,  there  had  been  a  controversy  between 
a  white  man  and  an  Indian,  about  a  pony.  The  white  man  shot  the 
Indian.  The  friends  of  the  Indian  soon  after  shot  some  white  men. 
Then  the  whites,  at  break  of  day,  attacked  the  Indian  camp  and  mur- 
dered, indiscriminately,  numbers  of  Indians.  War  followed,  and  lasted 
eight  months,  costing  the  Government  many  millions  of  dollars." 

Bishop  Whipple  says : — 

"  There  is  not  a  single  body  of  Indians  in  this  country,  if  their  history 
was  known,  whom  we  have  not  wronged.  If  any  one  of  you  will  go 
through  the  records  and  find  out  how  often  faith  Ims  been  violated,  yon 
will  be  perfectly  appalled,  and  you  will  wonder  how  people  who  believe 
in  God,  have  dared  to  breast  His  anger  and  indignation,  as  we  have 
done."  Jowmol  of  Conference  vnth  EepresenioHves  of  Beligious  Bodies  in 
regard  to  work  among  the  Indians,     Page  21. 

In  concluding  this  portion  of  our  paper,  we  shall  glance  briefly  at  the 
steps  which  have  been  taken  by  the  Government  and  religious  bodies  in 
the  United  States,  with  a  view  to  the  civilization  and  ohristianization  of 
the  Indian  tribes.* 

.  As  to  the  capabilities  of  the  Indian  to  obtain  to  a  high  degree  of  civi- 
lization, and  his  adoption  to  the  habits  of  the  white  man  in  their  varied 
forms  of  business,  professional  and  public  life,  agricultural  employments, 
&c.,  they  have  been  a  good  deal  of  questioned.  Knowing,  however,  how 
readily  man  adapts  himself  to  all  kinds  of  circumstances,  this  would 
seem  at  first  sight  an  easy  question  to  decide.  But  it  is  not  so.  It  may 
be  easy  to  change  the  habits,  tastes  and  pursuits  of  a  youth,  if  he  be 
placed  very  early  in  life  under  suitable  influences  :  but  it  is  a  very  diffe- 
rent thing  to  change  the  settled  habits  of  a  tribe,  or  race,  except  very 
slowly,  and  even  then  under  the  most  favourable  circumstances.f 

Those,  however,  who  have  had  a  large  personal  experience  of  the 

*  I  have  in  this  article  distinguished  between  the  acts  of  the  American  Oovem- 
ment  and  those  of  Congress.  Owing  to  the  peculiarity  of  the  American  form  of 
Government,  both  may  be  pursuing  a  different  policy,  and  yet  no  actual  dead-lock 
ensue.  The  Government  is  not  responsible  for  the  proceedmgs  of  th^  Legislature, 
as  with  us.  Generally,  and  especially  of  late  years,  it  has,  or  rather  many  of  its 
administrative  officers  have  pursued  a  humane  policy  towards  the  Indians. 

i  **Are  the  Indians  dying  out  ?  '*  is  the  title  of  a  pamphlet  recently  issued  by 
General  Eaton,  the  distinguished  U.  S.  Commissioner  of  Education,  at  Washing- 
ton. Two  interesting  letters  on  the  subject  are- inserted  by  the  Commissioner. 
One  is  from  the  Rev.  Dr.  Biegs,  an  eminent  and  well  known  American  Indian 
Scholar  and  Missionary,  and  ^e  other  from  J.  P.  Williamson,  Esq.,  U.  S.  Special 
Indian  Agent  in  Decotah,  and  whose  life  from  childhood  has  been  passed  among 
the  Sioux.     Dr.  Riggs  says  : — 

"  It  accords  with  my  observation,  that  for  a  certain  period  after  the  process  of 
civilization  has  well  commenced  in  an  Indian  commumty,  we  are  quite  likely  to 

tind  their  numbers  diminishing Thus  the  first  steps  towards  civilization 

[and  contact  with  whites]  naturally,  almost  necessarily  increase  disease  and  death. 
....  When  this  crucial  point  is  once  passed,  the  gospel  of  cleanliness  becomes 
in  a  large  sense  the  gospel  ot  physical  salvation.  Then  families  and  communities 
commence  to  increase  again  in  large  numbers."    (Page  31). 

Mr.  Williamson  says ; — 

"  My  observation  of  the  Sioux,  since  my  childhood,  forty  years  ago,  leads  me  to 
think  that  the  vision  of  the  last  Indian  jumping  into  etemi^  towards  the  setting 
sun,  is  a  poet's  dream  of  the  distant  future.  Forty  years  ago  the  Sioux  was  sup- 
posed to  number  25,000.  ....  Now  the  Sioux  is  estimated  at  50,000,  though 
40,000  would  probably  be  a  better  count.  ....  This  would  show  an  increase  oi 
60  per  cent,  in  forty  years.'' 


ENGLISH   AND  AMERICAN   POUCY  TOWARDS  THE  INDIANS.       341 

habits  and  capabilities  of  the  red  man,  speak  most  favourably  of  him,  as 
susceptible  of  a  very  high  degree  of  civilization^-especially  christian 
civilization.  Two  distinguished  American  Bishops  recently  visited 
Toronto,  and  favoured  its  citizens  with  admirable  addresses  on  the  great 
Indian  question  in  the  United  States.    Both  of  these  prelates  are  mis- 

^  sionary  Bishops,  and  have  laboured  amone  the  Indians  for  several  years. 

The  venerable  Bishop  Whipple,  whose  life  has  been  chiefly  devoted  to  this 
work,  in  referring  to  the  capabilities  of  the  Indian  for  civilization,  said, 
that  though  not  generally  known,  yet  it  is  a  significant  fact,  that  the 
Indian  of  North  America  is  the  only  heathen  who  is  not  an  idolater. 
In  his  speech  in  New  York,  the  Bishop  said,  that : — 

^*  The  North  American  Indian  is  the  noblest  tjrpe  of  a  wild  man  on 
the  earth.  He  recognizes  a  Great  Spirit ;  he  believes  in  a  future  life ; 
he  is  devoted  to  his  children ;  he  will  die  for  his  tribe.  ...  No  christsan 
missions  have  brought  richer  rewards  than  those  amon^  the  Indians. 
When  our  church  began  this  work  all  was  dark  as  midnight  The  In- 
dians were  degraded  and  desperate.  Everything  which  the  cupidity  of 
the  white  man,  or  the  malice  of  the  devil  could  do,  was  done  to  hinder 
the  work.  Yet,  to-day,  we  have  half  a  score  of  Indian  clergy,  who,  far 
away  on  the  Missouri,  and  in  the  forests  of  Minnesota^  are  preaching  the 
gospel  to  l^eir  heathen  brethren.  We  number  our  communicants  by 
hundreds ;  and  many  whom  we  once  met  as  painted  savages,  will  meet 
us  in  paradise  to  join  in  that  song  which  no  man  could  learn,  but  they 
who  were  redeemed  from  among  men." 

/  As  to  the  proper  and  only  successful  agents  of  civilization,  the  Bishop 

'  thus  enumerates  them : — 

''  The  means  to  be  used  to  advance  civilization  among  the  Indians, 
are  :  government,  personal  rights  of  property,  and  education ;  and  with 
l^eee,  the  Gospel  of  Christ  will  give  honour  and  freedom  to  these  heathen 
people." 

As  to  the  effect  of  mere  human  civilization,  without  the  superadded 
power  of  the  gospel,  Bishop  Hare,  of  Niobrara,  a  territory  wholly  among 
the  western  Indians,  says : — 

**  The  Indian,  when  he  becomes  a  little  civilized,  is  apt  to  sufBor  an 
awful  collapse.  The  wild  Indian  is  the  most  self-confident  and  self- 
reliant  of  men.  He  thinks  that  white  men  are  slaves.  Judging  fnim 
the  few  white  soldiers  he  sees  on  the  plains,  he  thinks  he  could  sweep 
the  whole  white  population  off  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  When  in^ 
stmeted  his  eyes  are  opened,  and  he  becomes  a  saddened,  broken  spirited 
man.  Such  a  man,  with  sorrow  in  his  heart,  and  tears  on  fak  face,  once 
said  to  me :  *  My  people  have  no  future— civilization  to  them  is  like  a 
great  railway  train,  rushing  past  the  wayfarer  tired  out  on  his  march.' 
The  only  power  that  can  were  come  in  and  give  him  new  vigour  and 
hope,  is  the  Gospel  of  the  blessed  God.  The  effect  of  it  is  to  make  him 
feel  that  there  is  ever  present  at  his  side,  a  brother.  He  finds  that  his 
people  are  uplifted  and  educated ;  that  his  daughters,  living  with  white 
women  in  christian  households,  dress  and  protected  as  white  girls  are. 
He  then  begins  to  feel  that  they  who  were  not  a  people — their  national 
Ufe  broken  up — are  becommg  the  people  of  God.  This  is  a  sacred  bond, 
they  are  fellow  citizens  with  saints  of  the  household  of  God :  and  under 
this  inq^iration-^it  is  an  essential  inspiration — the  Indian  will  try  to 


342       ENGLISH  AND  AMEBICAN  POUCY  TOWABDS  THE  INDIANS. 

better  his  condition.     The  missionary  work,  with  the  policy  of  help 
towards  self-helf — ^that  I  think  will  solve  the  Indian  question.'** 

There  are  numerous  examples  in  the  United  States  of  the  effects  of 
the  humanizing  in  America,  of  civilization  upon  the  Indians.  Gren.  F. 
A.  Walker,  late  United  States  Commissioner  of  Indian  Affairs,  (in  his 
work  on  ''  the  Indian  Question,'')  speaking  of  the  natural  capacity  of 
the  Oherokees  for  civilization,  says : — 

"  The  Oherokees,  who  originally  owned  ....  Georgia,  Ala- 
bama and  Tennesee,  [and  were  driven  from  them]  have  now  a  reserva- 
tion in  the  Indian  Territory  of  nearly  4,000,000  acres.  .  .  .  They 
have  their  own  written  language,  their  national  constitution  and  laws ; 
their  churches,  schools,  and  academies ;  their  judges  and  courts.  Their 
dwellings  consist  of  500  frame,  and  3,600  log  houses.  They  raise  about 
3,000,000  bushels  of  com,  besides  large  quantities  of  wheat,  oats  and 
potatoes — ^their  aggregate  crops  being  greater  than  those  of  New  Mexico 
Utah  combined.  Their  stock  consists  of  16,000  horses;  75,000  neat 
cattle ;  160,000  hogs  and  9,000  sheep.  .  .  .  They  have  60  schools 
in  operation,  with  an  aggregate  attendance  of  2,133  scholars.  .  .  • 
They  are  creditors  of  the  United  States  on  a  sum  of  $1,716,000 — the  in- 
terest of  which  is  paid  to  the  treasurer  of  the  nation.  .  .  .  There 
are  in  the  Indian  Territory  several  other  important  tribes,  aiggregating 
45,000  persons,  who  are  in  the  same  general  condition  as  the  Oherokees. 

.  .  .  Other  Indians  in  Kansas,  Nebraska,  New  York,  Michigan, 
Wisconsin,  Minnesota  and  the  Pacific  Ooast,  like  them.  The  100,000 
Indians,  thus  characterised,  will  boar  comparison,  on  the  three  points  of 
industry,  fragality  and  sobriety,  with  an  equal  population  taken  out  of 
any  southern  or  border  States." 

There  are  in  round  numbers,  about  300,000  Indians  in  the  United 
States — nearly  10,000  of  whom  are  half  breeds.  Not  more  than  100,- 
000,  as  already  intimated,  have  been  brought  under  the  humanizing  in- 
fluence, more  or  less  remote,  of  the  white  man's  civilization,  through  the 
local  agencies  of  the  Indian  Department ;  and  not  more  than  25,000  of 
these  Indians  are  members  of  Christian  Ohurches.  The  average  num- 
ber of  births  h  not  above  2,000,  and  the  number  of  deaths  about  1,800. 
Hie  number  of  houses  occupied  by  the  civilized  Indians  is  fully  20,000 
— ^property  at  the  rate  of  500  a  year.  The  number  of  Indians  who  wear 
citizen's  dresses  is  under  100,000.  The  number  of  schools  in  operation 
among  the  Indians  on  the  *'  Eeservation  "  (as  given  in  the  **  report  of 
the  U.  S.  Commissioner  of  Indian  Affairs  ")  for  last  year,  is  under  350  ; 
number  of  teachers,  420  ;  (males,  160  ;  females,  260) ;  number  of  pupils, 
10,500  (males,  5,480 ;  females,  5.020) ;  number  who  can  read  in  Eng- 
lish, 8,615  ;  in  Indian,  6,656 ;  in  English  and  Indian,  6,314 ;  number 
who  have  learned  to  read  during  the  year,  1,390 ;  number  who  have 
learned  trades,  106  ;  number  of  miUs,  84  ;  of  shops,  140. 

The  same  Bishop  in  his  noble  speech  in  Toronto,  ably  oUscossed  the  question, 
and  illustrated  each  point  by  facto,  as  to  the  manhood,  conscience,  reverence,  belief, 
sentiment,  judgment,  and  reflection  of  the  Indian,  and  showed  that  in  all  of  these 
attributes  he  was  quite  equal  to  the  white  man.  ^ 

Bishop  Tuttle,  oi  Montana,  in  his  speakinff  on  the  same  topic,  said  : — 
' '  The  Indian  is  a  man  ;  and  there  is  a  noble  type  of  manhood  among  Indians.  .  . 
At  the  agencies  and  railway  stations,  you  do  not  see  the  chiefs,  you  do  not  see  the 
self  respectful,  noble  Indiuis  at  alL  .  .  .  .  There  are  noble  features  in  his  nature. 
He  is  a  man  :  and,  in  the  main,  trustful  if  he  has  confidence  in  you. 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   POLICY  TOWARDS  THE  INDIANS.       343 

Of  all  the  religions  bodies  which  have  devoted  themselves  to  the  wel- 
fare of  the  Indians,  the  Friends^  or  Quakers,  have  for  years  stood  out 
pfe-eminently  for  their  humane  and  benevolent  treatment  of  them. 
rTothing  can  exceed  the  touching  character  of  many  of  the  details  given 
at  the  *'  yearly  meetings  "  of  these  people,  of  the  patience,  care  and  so- 
licitude evinced  by  the  members  of  that  community,  who  were  entrusted 
with  the  religious  oversight  of  scattered  Indian  bands  in  the  United 
States.  (George  Fox,  the  eminent  leader  of  the  Friends,  viedted  America 
in  1672,  and  addreieed  to  many  of  the  Indian  tribes  scattered  between 
Maryland  and  Rhode  Island  loving  words  of  peace  and  good  will  William 
Penn/  coming  after  him  in  1681,  by  many  acts  of  generous  friendship, 
so  endeared  himself  to  the  red  man,  that  for  more  than  a  century  after- 
wards, his  memory  was  held  in  grateftd  remembrance  by  the  Indians  of 
Pennsylvania  and  New  Jersey.t 

The  Edinburgh  Review  of  July  1806,  referring  to  the  dealings  of  the 
Quakers  with  the  Indians  of  North  America,  and  discussing  the  ill- 
advised  efforts  of  the  colonists  to  civilize  them,  says : — 

''  The  people  called  Quakers,  a  society,  in  many  respects^  by  tax  the 
most  meritorious  and  amiable  among  our  religious  sects,  seemed  to  have 
sdved  the  problem.  .  .  They  appear  to  have  proceeded  upon  the  funda- 
mental assumption,  that  the  only  means  of  civilizing  those  tribes  .... 
must  be  sought  in  a  well  planned  attempt  to  reclaim  them  from  the  pre- 
carious and  idle  life  of  hunters.  For  this  purpose  they  conceived  that 
the  settlement  of  a  few  missionaries,  ....  carpenters,  blacksmiths  and 
ploughmen,  ....  was  absolutely  necessary.  ....  They  Likewise 
imagined  that  such  persons,  chosen  for  their  quiet  conduct  and  indus- 
trious, regular  habits,  sent  to  settle  among  the  Indians  without  pomp  or 
parade,  would  do  more  good  than  the  most  splendid  scheme  of  coloniza- 
tion  Example  was  to  be  their  great  engine — and  example  they 

well  knew,  works  slowlv,  gradually  and  quietly." 

In  explaining  their  plans  the  Quakers  say : 

''  Some  readers  may  think  every  scheme  of  civilization  defective,  that 
does  not  immediately  attempt  to  plant  Christianity.  Of  the  infinite 
value  of  Christianity  our  Pennsylvanians  are  doubtless  aware  ;  but  here, 
though  they  are  not  directly  acting  the  part  of  ndssionaries,  they  are 

*  The  area  of  the  present  State  of  Pemuiylvaiua  and  part  of  New  Jersey,  granted 
to  William  Penn,  in  I68I,  by  Charles  II.,  in  lien  of  a  debt  of  £16,000  due  by  the 
Crown  to  his  father,  Admiral  Penn,  for  arrears  of  pay,  and  for  sums  of  money  ad- 
vanced by  him  for  naval  purposes. 

t  Thus  in  1728,  Governor  Gordon,  addressing  the  Indians  at  Conestoga,  on  the 
Snaqnehanna,  said: — 

'*  Vonr  leagues  with  William  Penn,  and  his  governors,  are  in  writing  and  on  re- 
cord, that  our  children  and  our  children's  childron  may  have  them  in  everlasting  re- 
membrance. And  we  know  that  you  preserve  the  memory  of  those  things  among 
you  by  telling  them  to  your  children,  and  they  again  to  the  next  generation ;  so 
that  they  remain  stampied  on  your  minds  never  to  be  foigotten.^' 

At  a  treaty-conference  held  in  1756,  a  Delaware  chief  expressed  himself  to  the 
Gk)vemor : — 

'*  We  rejoice  to  hear  that  you  are  disposed  to  renew  the  old  good  understand- 
ing, and  that  you  call  to  mind  the  first  treaties  of  friendship  made  by  Onas  [the 
IncUan  name  of  Penn]  one  great  friend  deceased,  with  our  forefathers,  when  himself 
and  his  people  first  came  over  here.  We  take  hold  of  those  treaties  with  both  our 
hands,  and  desire  you  to  do  the  same,  that  a  good  understanding  and  true  friend- 
ship nuiy  be  re-established.'* 


844      UrOLISa  AND  AMERICAN  P0UC7  TOWARDS  THS  INIIIANS. 

preM^ing  religion  bj  example ;  and  are  probably  preparing  the  Indians, 
by  more  means  than  one,  for  the  reception  and  acknowledgment  of  ihe 
G^pel.'*— Page  445. 

Up  to  Represent  time  the  humane  efforts  of  the  Friends  are  indftaabed. 
in  a  repcftt  published  by  the  American  GU>vemment  in  1874,  it  is  ^Ated 
that  "  the  prominent  men  connected  with  the  Society  have,  at  theirown 
expense,  visited  all  the  agencies  under  their  care.'*  They  haTe  also  ex- 
pended about  f20,000  during  the  year,  besides  clothing,  eta  The  mis- 
sionarieB  and  teachers  are  reported  '^  thoroughly  earnest  in  their  work ; 
and  the  rep(»i»  of  schools  and  civilization  ....  show  a  satisfAotory 
and  encouraging  progress." 

We  may  here  explain  that  the  Indian  Department  of  the  United 
States  k  controlled  by  a  Commission,  and  the  local  oversigfat  of  the 
Indians  on  the  reservations  is  committed  to  resident  agents.  The  reli* 
gious  oversight  of  the  Indians  in  these  agencies  is  apportioned  out  to  the 
various  rdiffious  bodies.  From  a  government  report  published  in  18/74 
we  gaUier  the  following  particulars : 

''The  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  as  rq>orted  to  have  expended 
$68,000  fipom  it  own  treasury,  besides  quite  a  large  sum  contribBted 
by  Indians  and  others  engaged  directly  in  the  work.  Thev  have  a  mis- 
sionary Bishop  (Dr.  Hare),  and  a  large  staff  of  earnest  workers. 

*'  The  Presbyterian  Board  report  an  expenditure  of  $28,000,  besides 
contributions  from  their  Indian  diurohes.  They  have  44  missicmaries 
and  teachers.  This  is  exclusive  of  the  efforts  of  the  Southern  Presby- 
terian Church  not  reported. 

^*  The  Methodists  report  20  white  missionaries  and  30  native  pfoaoh 
ers.    Some  of  the  most  successful  missions  belong  to  this  churdL 

**  The  Baptist,  Congregational,  Dutch  Reformed  Lutheran  and  Boman 
Ca&olic  Churches  are  reported  as  actively  engaged  in  mission  work,  but 
tiie  particulars  are  not  given." 

In  addition  to  the  efforts  of  the  various  religious  bodies  for  the  spiri- 
tual wel&re  of  the  Indians,  the  Covemment  itself  is  doing  a  good  work 
in  an  educational  direction.  At  the  Centennial  Exhibition  last  year  part 
of  the  Gkvemment  exhibit  was  both  novel  and  curious ;  and  to  any  one 
who  sympathized  with  the  fast-disappearing  red  man,  it  was  impressive. 
It  consisted  of  practical  and  interesting  illustrations  of  what  the  United 
States  is  now  doing  towards  bringing  the  civilizing  influences  of  Chris- 
tian Education  to  bear  upon  the  Indian  tribes.  General  Eaton  kindly 
devoted  some  time  in  explaining  to  the  writer  the  various  details  of  the 
system  or  scheme  of  Indian  education,  in  which  he  felt  so  deep  an  inter- 
est. He  pointed  out  from  the  various  illustrations  and  examples  on  the 
collection,  how  remarkably  successful  had  been  the  efforts  of  the  Govern- 
ment as  far  as  they  had  gone,  in  demonstrating  the  entire  feasibility  of 
bringing  the  Indian  tribes  under  the  potent  influ^ices  of  the  semi- 
domestic  and  Christian  home-like  influences  of  the  various  mission 
schools  in  active  operation  amone  them.  As  to  the  nature  oiHie  exhibit, 
a  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Tribune  in  speaking  of  it,  says : — 

<'  The  Bohools  of  the  Indian  Territoiy  have  made  a  very  creditable  display. 
They  have  sent  photographs  of  their  school-houses,  prominent  teachers,  and 
representatiye  pupils,  and  exhibit  specimens  of  text-books,  chirography, 
needle- work,  drawing,  etc.  The  wonderful  progress  which  even  some  of  the 
wilder  tribes  of  Indians  have  made  in  a  few  years'  residence  in  the  Indian 


THE  hermit's  bride.  345 

Territory,  as  shown  in  this  exhibit,  demonstrates  the  wisdom  of  an  Indian 
policy  that  removes  the  savages  from  the  demoraludnfl  influence  of  frontier 
settlements,  aiid  places  them  under  direct  civilizing  influences.  The  Modoos, 
even,  who  a  few  years  ago,  from  their  fastnesses  in  the  lava  beds,  defied  the 
power  of  the  United  States,  and  spread  terror  throughout  a  whole  region,  are 
now  rapidly  learning  the  arts  of  civilization,  and  their  schools  make  a  very 
creditable  display  in  the  Oentennial  Exhibition.*'* 

We  have  in  this  paper  presented  the  **  American,"  or  United  States, 
side  of  the  Indian  question.  In  our  next  we  shall  deal  with  the  matter 
i^rom  a  Canadian  stand  point 

J.  OeOROB  HODGIN& 


THB  HBRMIT'S  BRIDB. 

On  a  rivulefs  bank  far  from  mountain-home, 

I  found  a  woodland  belle. 
Arrayed  in  a  robe,  white  as  pure  sea-foam — 

The  joy  of  that  sylvan  deU. 

On  ^  winding  banks  of  the  laughing  stream 

I  wdoed  this  queen  of  Hght ; 
I  made  her  a  throne  where  the  wild-flowers  gleam, 

In  a  haunt  by  tiie  mountain  height 

Still  she  loved  the  wild  life  in  the  mossy  vale 

Far  better  than  reigning  a  queen. 
Where  the  pale-brown  tints  of  the  autunm  gale 

Barly  blast  the  silver  and  sheen. 

Like  the  weird  music-moan  of  the  ocean-shell, 

As  it  sighs  for  the  far  off"  sea, 
Came  a  nightly  wail, — ^a  sad  fairy-spell. 

From  my  homesick  cherry-tree. 

She  moaned  through  the  dxyn  of  that  ?rinter  drear, 

She  died  at  the  violet's  birth. 
And  now  in  my  sorrow  I  drop  a  tear 

By  my  lonely  mountain  hearth. 

Truro,  K.  8.  Abthub  Lanoblot. 


*  6p«»ci»l  report  on  Uie  Ontario  EdocatioDal  Exhibit  and  the  Educational  Features 
of  the  Inienatiooal  Exhibition  at  Philadephia,  1876.  By  J.  Qeorge  Hodgi«9,  LL.  D. 
Pages  9e,  97. 


DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

FIRST  PAFKB. 


nCSlKOI  AI  COHBTJJfOB    WHBBI  TBI  COVHdL  KIT, 

lilKX  a  certain  old,  etemslly-young,  and  dearly-monotonoQa  anbject, 
the  Bbina  haa  been  an  inexbaustible  theme  for  song,  legend  and  romance. 
Old  M  is  its  ^ce  in  literature,  familiar  as  are  its  shores  not  only  to  the 
traTellsr  in  Europe,  but  to  the  least  well-read  of  the  stay-at-homes, 
there  is  always  something  new  to  be  said  about  it,  or  at  least  it  can 
be  viewed  in  a  new  aspect.  Ite  early  stages  are  ceitunly  leas  well 
known  than  its  middle  portion — the  lUiine  of  poetry  and  legend — bat 
they  are  eqtiaUy  beantifnl,  and  especially  characteriied  ^  natural 
scenery  of  the  most  picturesque  kind.  Historical  memories  are  not 
lacking  either,  even  within  fifty  miles  of  its  rise  in  the  glaciers  of  the 
Alps,  while  its  early  beauty  as  a  mountain-torrent,  dasmng  over  tb.e 
rooks  of  Via  Mala,  has  for  some  a  greater  charm  than  even  its  Ivoad 
lake-like  waters  fringed  with  cathedrals,  abbeys,  and  stately  guildhalls, 
or  its  windings  among  "  castled  crags." 

One  branch  of  the  river  bursts  firam  under  a  tumbled  mass  of  ice  and 
look — one  of  those  marvelous  "  seas  "  of  ice  which  are  the  chief  prcn- 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  347 

liarity  of  the  Alps,  and  which  sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  the  glacier  of 
the  Rheiawald,  present  amoDg  other  features  that  of  an  immense  frozen 
waterfall     Passing  through  the  village  of  Hinterrhein,  whose  inhabit- 
ants are  the  descendants  of  a  colony  planned  there  by  Barbarossa  to 
guard  the  old  military  road  over  the  Alps,  and  which  boasts  of  a  Roman 
temple  and  other  less  well-defined  remains  of  human  dwellings  of  the 
same  period,  the  Rhine  enters  the  grand  gorge  of  the  Via  Mala,  between 
Andeer  and  Eongella,  on  the  road  below  the  Splilgen  Pass  and  the  vil- 
lage.   Every  such  pass  has  its  Devil's  Bridge  or  its  "  Hell "  or  its  "  Bot- 
tomless Pit,"  and  tradition  tells  of  demons  who  pelted  at  each  other  with 
the  riven  masses  of  rock,  or  giants  who  in  malice  split  the  rocks  and 
dug  the  chasm  across  which  men  dared  no  longer  pass.     But  it  needs  no 
such  figures  of  speech  to  make  a  mountain-gorge  one  of  the  sublimest 
scenes  in  Nature,  one  which  thrills  the  beholder  with  simple  admira- 
tion and  delight.     The  Via  Mala  is  one  of  the  most  splendid  of  these 
scenes.     A  sheer  descent  of  two  thousand  feet  of  rock,  with  clinging 
shrubs,  and  at  the  bottom  the  trunks  of  pines  and  firs  that  have  lost 
their  hold  and  grown  into  mossy  columns  stretched  across  the  stream 
and  often  broken  by  its  force ;    a  winding,  dizzy  road  leading  over 
single-arched  bridges  and  half  viaducts  built  into  the  black  rock ;  a  foam- 
white  stream  below ;  a  succession  of  miniature  water-falls,  rapids  and 
whirlpools;  spray  and  rainbow  poised  over  the  stream  at  intervals, 
and  here  and  there  the  narrowing  rocks  bending  their  ledges  together 
and  wellnigh  shutting  out  the  sun ;  the  ^'  Lost  Hole,"  where  taO  firs, 
with  their  roots  seemingly  in  space,  stand  up  like  a  forest  of  lances, 
and  the  very  formation  of  the  rocks  reminds  one  of  gigantic  needles 
closely-wedged  together, — such  are  the  features  of  the  gorge  through 
which  the  Rhine  forces  its  way.     Then  comes,  Zillis,  a  regular  Swiss 
village,  at  the  entrance  of  the  valley  of  Thusis,  which  is  a  broad  green 
meadow  dotted  with  chalets,  a  picturesque,  domestic,  rural  landscape, 
a  bit  of  time  set  in  the  frame  of  eternity,  and  holding  in  its  village 
chronicles  memories  to  which  distance  lends  enchantment,  but  which, 
in  view  of  the  scenes  we  have  just  described  seem  wonderfully  bare  of 
dignity.     Here  is  the  Castle  of  Ortenstein,  the  warrior-abbey  of  Katsis, 
the  Roman  Realta,  the  Castle  of  Rhazilnz,  the  Bridge  of  Juvalta,  and 
many  castles  on  the  heights  overlooking  the  valley,  which  at  the  time  of 
the  '^  Black  League  '*  of  the  nobles  against  the  "  Gray  Confederation  " 
of  the  citizens  (which  gave  its  name  to  this  canton,  the  Orisons)  were 
so  many  rallying-points  and  dens  of  murder.    There  is  romance  in  the 
legends  of  these  castles,  but  one  seldom  stops  to  think  of  the  robbery 
and  lawlessness  hidden  by  this  romance.      For  these  knights  of  the 
strong  hand  were  no  '^  Arthur's  knights,"  defenders  of  the  weak,  cham- 
pions of  the  widow  and  the  orphan,  gentle,  brave  and  generous,  but 
mostly  oppressors,  Bedouins  of  the  Middle  Ages,  ready  to  pounce  on  the 
merchandise  of  travelling  and  unarmed  burghers  and  defy  the  weak 
laws  of  an  empire  which  could  not  afford  to  do  without  their  support, 
and  consequently  winked  at  their  offences. 

A  legend  of  this  part  of  the  Rhine,  less  well  known  than  those  of  the 
Loreley,  Drachenfels  or  Bishop  Hatto's  Tower,  belongs  to  Rhazdnz. 
After  the  feud  had  lasted  long  years  between  the  nobles  and  the  citizens, 
the  young  lord  of  this  castle  was  captured  in  battle  by  the  Gray  Con- 
federates, and  the  people's  tribunal  condemned  bim  to  death.     The  ex- 


DOWN  THE  RHINE 


DOWN  THE  EHINU.  349 

ecntioner  stood  ready,  when  an  old  retainer  of  the  prisoner's  fiunily 
asked  to  be  heard,  and  reminded  the  people  that  although  the  yonth  s 
hot  blood  had  betrayed  him  isto  many  a  fray,  yet  some  of  his  forefathers 
had  been  mild  and  genial  men,  not  unwilling  to  drink  a  frieudlj[  glass 
with  their  humbler  neighbours.     For  old  associations'  sake  let  this  cns- 


tom  be  renewed  at  least  once  before  the  execution  of  the  last  of  the 
race  of  Bhaziinz:  it  was  the  first  and  last  farour  the  youth,  in  his  dy- 
ing momeots,  requested  of  them.  Stone  drinking-ressels  were  brought : 
:i  regular  carousal  followed,  and  good-humour  and  good  fellowship  began 
to  soften  the  feelings  of  the  aggrieved  citizens.  Then  the  faithful  old 
servant  began  to  speak  again,  and  said  it  would  be  a  pity  to  kill  the 
young  man,  a  good  swordsman  too,  who,  if  they  would  spare  his  life. 


DOWN  THE  SHINE. 


join  the  Gray  Confederacy  and  fighb  for,  instead  of  against  the  people 
— be  their  champion,  in  a  word,  in  all  their  quarrels,  instead  of  their 
foe  and  oppresBor.  He  prevailed,  and  the  youth,  it  is  said,  religiously 
kept  the  promise  made  for  him. 

Passing  the  Toms  Lake,  a  small  mountain-tarn,  whence  riaes  one  of 
feeders  of  the  Vorder-Khein,  and  Dissentis,  whose  churcheB  are  crowned 
with  Greek  looking  cupolas  set  upon  high,  square  towers,  and  whose 
history  goes  back  to  the  ravages  of  Attila's  barbarian  hordes  and  the 
establishment  of  the  beuedictine  monastery  that  grew  and  flourished  for 
upwards  of  a  thousand  years,  and  was  at  last  destroyed  by  fire  by  the 
soldiers  of  the  first  French  republic,  vre  follow  the  course  of  the  incieas- 


DOWN  THE  BHINE. 


TAIIIN4  BFRna. 


352  DOWN  THE  BBINB. 

ioj;  river  to  when  tti«  anuller  uid  shorter  Middle  Rhine  &lb  into  the 
main  branch  at  Bieheaaa.  The  Torder-Bhein  has  almost  u  snblime  & 
cradle  as  the  other  branch.  Colossal  rocks  and  yet  deef»er  silence  and 
eolitode  hem  it  in,  for  do  road  folIowB  or  bridges  it,  and  it  comes  rolling 
through  the  wildest  cantons  of  SwitierUnd,  where  eagles  still  nest  nn- 
distorbed  and  bears  still  abonod,  and  where  the  eternal  snows  and  gla- 
ciers of  Erimlt,  Badas  and  Furka  are  still  nnaeen  save  b;  nadre  hnnt- 
ers  and  herdsmen  whose  homes  are  far  away.  Here  is  the  great  Alpine 
watershed,  dividingthe  basin  of  the  North  Sea  from  that  of  the  Hedt- 
teiranean.  Bnt  at  Rlchenau  the  Rhine  absorbs  the  individnality  of  each 
of  these  mountain  torrents,  and  here  we  meet  with  memories  of  the 
medieval  and  the  modem  worldly  curionsly  mingled  in  the  history  of 
the  castle,  which  has  been  an  episcopal  fortress  of  the  bishops  of  Ghnr, 
its  founders,  a  lay  domain  when  the  lords  of  Planta  owned  it,  and  an 
academy  or  high  school  when  Monsieur  Chaband,  the  director  gave 
fourteen  hundred  francs  a  year  salary  to  a  young  teacher  of  history, 
geagrapby,  mathematics  and  French,  who  was  afterward  the  dtizen- 
Mng,  Louii  Philippe.  Here  is  Martinaloch,  where  Sawarrow  shamed 
bis  mutinous  Cossacks  who  refused  to  attempt  the  passage  of  the  Alps, 
by  ordering  a  grave  to  be  dug  for  him,  throwing  off  his  clothes  andcall- 
ing  to  his  men  to  cast  him  in  and  cover  him,  "  since  yon  are  no  longer 
my  children  and  I  no  longer  your  father." 

Ilanz  is  the  first  town  on  the  Rhine,  and  has  all  the  pictnresqnenesB 
one  could  desire  in  the  way  of  quunt  architecture,  bulbous  cupolas, 
steep  roofs  with  windows  like  pigeon-holes,  covered  gateways,  and  a 
-queer  mixture  of  wood  and  stone  which  gives  a  wonderfully  old  look  to 
every  house.  Chur — or  Coire,  as  it  is  more  commonly  called  out  of 
Qermany  and  Switzerland — is  of  much  the  same  character,  an  old  episco- 
pal stronghold,  for  its  bishops  were  temporal  lords  of  high  renown  and 
still  higher  power.  Then  the  Rhine  winds  on  to  another  place,  whose 
present  aspect,  that  of  a  fashionable  watering  place,  hardly  brings  its 
nistoiy  as  a  medisval  spa  to  the  mind.    'Hie  healing  springs  at  Bagats 


were  discovered  by  a  hunter  of  the  thirteenth  century  on  the  land 
belonging  to  the  great  and  wealthy  Benedictine  abbey.  For  centuries 
the  spring,  whose  waters  come  from  Piaffers  and  Tamina,  and  are 
brought  half  a  mile  to  Rasatz  through  iron  pipes,  was  sorronnded  by 
mean  little  huti,  the  only  noines  of  the  local  health  seekers,  exc^t  of 


DOWS  THB  SHIHB.  85S 

sach  —  and  they 
were  the  minority 
— as  were  the  guests 
of  the  abbey;  but 
wheu  ctowds  in- 
creased and  times 
changed,  the  abbey 
built  a  large  gnest- 
honae  at  the  springs. 
Now  the  place  has 
passed  into  the 
hands  of  a  brother- 
hood no  less  well 
known  the  world 
over,  and  who  cer- 
tainly, however  well 
they  serve  as,  give 
no  room  for  ro| 
mance  in  their  deal- 
ings with  Qs,  The 
Eromenade  and 
otels  of  the  place 
S  rival  Baden  and 
I  Homburg,  bnt  the 
I  old  spring  of  Ta- 
xi mina,  in  its  wild 
S  bew^.Btill  remains 
3  the  same  as  when 
y  the  medisBval 
°  sportsman  stom- 
bled  upon  it,  no 
doubt  full  of  awe 
and  trembling  at 
the  dark,  damp 
walls  of  rock 
around  I)''",  where 
visitors  now  admire 
and  sketch  on  the 
guarded  path.  The 
only  other  interest 
of  Bagatz,  exoept 
its  scenery,  is  Schel- 
ling's  grave  and 
monument,  put  up 
by  Maximilian  II. 
of  Bavaria,  his 
scholar  and  friend. 
Everywhere,  as 
the  Shine  flows  on, 
the  tourist  notices 
its  wonderful  col- 
onritig,  a  light,  clear  green,  which  characterizes  it  at  least  as  far  as 


354  DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

the  lake  of  Constance,  in  whose  neighbourhood  the  vines  first  b^in  to 
bloom  and  become  an  important  item  in  the  prosperity  of  the  country. 
Here  too  the  river  first  becomes  navigable,  and  the  heavy  square  punt 
that  ferries  you  over  at  Riithi,  and  the  pictures  of  the  old  market-ships 
that  preceded  the  first  American  steamer  of  1824,  and  carried  the  vine 
produce  to  other  and  dryer  places  (for  in  Constance  the  land  lay  so  low 
that  cellars  could  not  be  kept  dry,  and  the  surplus  of  the  vintage  was  at 
once  exchanged  for  com  and  fruit,  etc.),  are  the  first  signs  of  that  stir- 
ring commercial  life  which  is  henceforth  inseparably  connected  with  the 
great  €(erman  stream. 

Five  different  governments  crowd  around  and  claim  each  a  portion 
of  the  shores  of  the  "  great  lake  "  of  Germany.  Yet  it  is  not  much  more 
than  fort^  miles  long,  with  a  breadth  at  its  widest  part  of  nine.  In  old 
Eoman  tmies  its  shores  were  far  more  beautiful  and  worthy  of  admira- 
tion than  now.  Then  it  was  fringed  by  forests  of  birch,  fir  and  oak,  and 
its  islands  were  covered  with  dense  groves.  The  chief  beauty  of  low- 
land is  in  its  forests  :  when  they  are  gone  the  bareness  of  the  landscape 
is  complete.  Bocky  mountains  can  afford  to  be  treeless,  but  to  an  artist's 
eye  there  is  littie  beauty  in  treeless  plains,  and  all  the  boasting  of  G^- 
man  enthusiasts  about  this  lake  cannot  hide  the  fact  that  its  shores  are 
singularly  low  and  bare.  But  if  the  landscape  is  tame,  the  historical 
recollections  of  the  Lake  of  Constance  are  rich  and  interesting.  Hie 
oldest  town  on  its  shores  is  Bregenz,  the  Brigantium  mentioned  by  Pliny 
and  Strabo  and  Christianized  by  Saint  Q&M  and  Saint  Columbanus,  the 
Irish  missionaries,  whose  wanderings  over  Europe  produced  so  many 
world-famous  monasteries.  The  great  Abbey  of  St.  Gall  was  not  far 
from  the  lake,  and  Columbanus  established  his  last  monastery  at  Bobbio 
in  Italy,  Lindau  {'*  the  field  of  linden-trees ''),  almost  as  old  a  city  as 
Bregenz,  built  on  an  island  and  connected  with  the  mainland  by  a  long 
bridge  over  which  the  railway  runs,  was  founded  by  the  Germans,  and 
some  of  the  earliest  Christian  converts  built  its  churches  and  convents, 
while  later  on  its  commerce  grew  to  be  one  of  the  most  important  in 
Crermany,  and  raised  the  status  of  the  city  to  the  level  of  the  members 
of  the  Hanseatic  League ;  but  all  this  was  lost  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War, 
when  it  was  devastated  and  partly  burnt :  now  it  ranks  as  a  third-rate 
Bavarian  town.  But  it  is  impossible  to  string  together  all  the  remem- 
brances that  distinguish  these  lake  towns,  many  of  them  now  refuges 
for  Englishmen  in  narrow  circumstances,  their  commerce  dwindled,  their 
museums  the  thing  best  worth  seeing  in  them. 

We  pass  Arbon ;  Friedrichshafen,  the  summer  palace  of  the  kings  of 
Wurtemberg,  a  sturdy,  warring  city  in  the  Carlovingian  times ;  Meers- 
burg,  now  a  fishing-centre,  once  a  stronghold  of  its  martial  bishops,  and 
famous  in  later  times  as  the  residence  of  the  baron  of  Lassberg,  a  modem 
sa/vant  and  virtuoso  of  whom  Germany  is  justly  proud ;  and  lastiy  Con- 
stance, the  city  of  the  Soman  emperor  Constantius,  still  beautiful  and 
stately  in  its  buildings.  Charlemagne  tarried  here  on  his  way  to  Rome 
on  the  occasion  of  his  coronation,  and  many  German  kings  spent  Christ- 
mas or  Easter  within  its  walls.  Here,  in  the  lai^  but  low  hall  of  the 
Kaufhaus,  or  Merchants'  Exchange,  the  council  of  1414  met  and  never 
did  the  Greek  councils  of  the  primitive  Church  present  more  varied  and 
turbulent  scenes.  The  walls  are  panneled.  and  frescoed  by  Philip 
Schworen,  an  artist  of  Munich,  and  Frederick  Pecht,  a  native  of  Con- 


DOWN   THE  BHIME.  365 

sUnoe,  witli  representatioDa  of  theae  scenea,  but  it  was  rather  a  rough 
place  in  those  daya,  and  tapestries  and  dais,  woapous  and  costly  hang- 
ings, concealed  the  unfinished  state  of  walls,  fioor  and  roof.  The  old 
city  has  other  buildings  as  intimately  connected  with  the  council  as 
this  hall — the  convents  of  the  Dominicau  and  Franciscan  Friars,  each 
sQCcesaively  the  prison  of  John  Huse,  the  firat  containing  a  dungeon 
below  the  water-level  and  fool  in  the  extreme,  the  second  a  better  and 
airier  cell  for  prisoners,  as  well  as  a  ereat  hall  in  which  several  sessions 
of  the  council  took  place,  and  where  Buss  was  examined  and  condemned; 
the  house  where  Husa  first  lodged  with  a  good  and  obscure  widow  ;  and 
three  miles  from  the  town  the  castle  of  tiottlieben,  also  a  prison  of  the 
Beformer,  and  for  a  short  time  of  the  deposed  pope,  John  XXIII.  Zattle 
more  than  a  century  later  the  Reformation  had  grown  powerful  in  Con- 
stance, and  Charles  V.  beaieged  and,  notwithstanding  the  desperate  re- 
sistaoce  of  the  borghera,  took  the  town,  but  not  before  a  most  murderous 
defence  had  been  made  on  the  Khine  bridge,  the  picture  of  which,  after 
the  nnauccessful  fight,  reminds  one  of  the  heroic  defence  of  the  dyke  at 
Antwerp  against  the  Spaniards,  and  even  of  that  other  memorable  event 
in  Spanish  history,  the  Noche  Triate  of  Mexico. 


As  we  leave  the  lake  two  islands  come  in  Inght,  Mainau  and  Reich- 
«nau,  the  latter  having  a  legend  attached  to  it  connected  with  the  fouD- 
4lation  of  its  abbey,  which  is  the  counterpart  of  that  of  Saint  Patrick 
and  the  snakm  and.  vermin  of  Ireland.  The  "  water  was  darkened  by 
the  multitude  of  serpenta  swimming  to  the  mainland,  and  for  the  spaoe 
of  three  days  this  exodus  continued,"  whereupon  St.  Firmin  founded  the 
abbey,  which  grew  to  such  wealth  and  power,  both  as  a  religious  house, 
a  school  for  the  nobOity,  and  a  poasessor  of  broad  feudal  domains,  that 
the  abbots  used  to  boast  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  that  they 
could  sleep  on  their  own  lands  all  the  way  to  Borne.     The  Rhine  issues 


356  DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

from  the  lake  at  Stein,  a  picturesque  little  town  of  Merovingian  times, 
which  has  seen  as  many  '*  tempests  in  a  tea-cup"  as  any  of  its  grander 
and  more  progressive  rivals  ;  and  not  far  off  is  the  castle  of  Hohentwiel, 
built  into  a  towering  rock,  once  the  home  of  the  beautiful  and  learned ' 
Hedwige,  Duchess  of  Swabia.  We  need  not  dwell  on  Schaffhaqaen,  one 
of  tlie  best-known  points  of  the  river,  an  ancient  town  overgrown  with 
modem  excrescences  in  the  way  of  flsishonable  hotels  and  Parisian  dwel- 
lings. One  of  the  features  of  these  river  towns,  when  they  are  not 
''  improved,"  is  the  crowding  of  houses  and  garden-walls  sheer  into  the 
stream,  leaving  in  many  places  no  pathway  on  the  banks,  which  are  gen- 
erally reached  by  steep,  mossy  steps  leading  from  old  streets  or  through 
priTate  yards. 

We  are  nearing  the  four  ^*  forest  towns''  of  the  Habsburghs,  at  the  first 
of  which,  Waldshut — where  stood  in  Roman  times  a  single  fort  to  com- 
mand the  wilderness,  much  as  the  pioneers'  outposts  used  to  stand  on  the 
edge  of  the  Western  forests  peopled  with  hostile  Indians—  the  Aar,  the 
Rhine's  first  tributary  of  any  consequence,  joins  the  great  stream.  Lauf- 
fenburg,  Sackingen,  and  Rheinfelden,  the  three  other  forest  towns,  each 
deserve  a  page  of  description,  both  for  their  scenery  and  their  history, 
their  past  architectural  beauties,  and  their  present  sleepy,  museum-like 
existence  :  but  rather  than  do  them  injustice  we  will  pass  on  to  B&le  or 
Basel,  as  it  should  be  written,  for  the  French  pronunciation  robs  the 
name  of  its  Greek  and  royal  etymology  from  BasUeia,  Basel  was  never 
lagging  in  the  race  of  intellectual  progress :  her  burghers  were  proud  and 
independent,  not  to  say  violent ;  her  university  was  eager  for  novelties  ; 
her  merchants  spent  their  wealth  in  helping  and  furthering  art  and  lite- 
rature. The  Rathhaus  or  guildhall  is  a  gauge  of  the  extent  of  the  bur- 
gher supremacy :  ail  over  Germaoy  and  the  Low  Countries  these  civic 
buildings  rival  the  churches  in  beauty  and  take  the  place  of  the  private 
palaces  that  are  so  specially  the  boast  of  Italian  cities.  Among  the  great 
men  of  Basel  are  Holbein  and  the  scarcely  less  worthy,  though  less  well- 
known  artist,  Matthew  Merian,  the  engraver.  Of  the  former's  designs 
many  monuments  remain,  though  injured  by  the  weather — a  fountain 
with  a  fresco  of  the  dance  of  the  peasants,  and  some  houses  with  mural 
derocations  ascribed  to  him.  Basel  has  its  own  modem  excitements — ^ 
races  and  balls  and  banquets — although  the  private  life  of  its  citizens  is 
characterized  by  great  simplicity.  The  profession  of  teaching  is  in  such 
repute  there  that  many  rich  men  devote  themselves  to  it,  and  among  the 
millionaires  of  the  old  city  may  be  found  not  a  few  schoolmasters.  As  in 
Geneva,  learning  and  a  useful  life  are  the  only  things  on  which  the  old  fiet- 
milies  pride  themselves. 

From  Basel,  whose  every  reminiscence  is  German,  and  whose  Swiss 
nationality  dates  only  from  the  epoch  of  the  Reformation,  the  Rhine  flows 
through  the  '*  storied"  Black  Forest,  peopled  with  nixies  and  gnomes,  the 
abode  of  the  spectre  woodcutter,  who  had  sold  all  power  of  feeling  hu- 
man joys  for  the  sake  of  gold,  and  who  spent  every,  night  cutting  down 
with  incredible  swiftness  and  ease  the  largest  fir  trees,  Umt  snapped  like 
reeds  under  his  axe.  Old  Breisach,  with  its  cathedral  of  St.  Stephen, 
and  its  toppling,  huddled  houses  clustering  around  the  church,  is  the 
most  interesting  town  before  we  reach  Freiburg.  The  tendency  of  medi- 
aeval towns  to  crowd  and  heighten  their  houses  contrasts  sharply  with 
the  tendency  of  our  modem  ones  to  spread  and  broaden  theirs.     Defence 


1 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  357 

and  safety  were  the  ke3mote  of  the  old  architecture,  while  display  is  that 
of  ours,  but  with  it  has  come  moDotonj,  a  thing  unknown  to  the  build- 
ers of  tjie  Middle  Ages.  Houses  of  each  century,  or  each  period  of  att, 
hare,  it  is  true,  a  family  likness,  but,  like  the  forms  of  Venetian  glass, 
a  pair  or  a  set  have  minute  differences  of  ornamentation  which  redeem 
the  objects  from  any  sameness.  So  it  was  with  all  mediseval  art,  in- 
cluding that  of  building  the  commonest  dwelling-houses:  there  was 
congruity,  but  never  slavish  uniformity. 

^e  first  sight  of  Freiburg — we  include  it  among  tthenish  towns, 
though  it  is  not  on  the  Rhine — ^presents  a  very  Glerman  picture.     Old 
dormer  windows  pierce  the  high-pitched  roofe ;  balconies  and  garden 
trellises  hang  in  mid-air  where  you  least  expect  them  ;  the  traditionary 
storks,  the  beloved  of  Hans  Andersen,  are  realities  even  here  on  the  tall 
city  chimnies ;  and  no  matter  where  you  look,  your  eye  cannot  help  fal- 
ling on  the  marveUonsly  high  and  attenuated  spire  of  one  of  the  finest 
catibedrals  in  the  world.  Artistically  speaking,  this  church  has  the  unique 
interest  of  being  the  only  completed  work  of  ecclesiastical  architecture 
that  Germany  possesses.  The  height  of  the  spire  and  its  position  imme- 
diately above  the  great  gateway  produce  here  the  same  illusion  and  dis- 
appointment as  to  the  size  of  the  church  which  is  proverbial  as  regards 
St.  Peter's  at  Rome.     This  impression  soon  disappears,  and  every  step 
reveals  new  beauties.    Each  cluster  of  simple  tall  grey  columns,  support- 
ing maasive  fourteenth-century  arches,  is  adorned  with  one  carved  niche 
and  its  delicate  little  spire  sheltering  the  stone  statue  of  an  apostle  or 
evangelist ;  the  chancel  is  filled  with  the  canons'  stalls,  each  a  master- 
piece of  wood-oarving ;  and  at  the  eastern  end,  beneath  the  three  higher 
windows  and  separated  from  the  wall,  stands  the  mediaeval  high  altar 
with  its  three  carved  spires  surmounting  the  reredos,  and  just  below  this 
a  '' triptych  "  of  enormous  size,  a  pictured  altar-piece  with  folding-doors, 
the  latter  being  painted  both  inside  and  out  scriptural  subjects  as  quaint- 
ly interpreted  by  the  devout  painters  of  the  early  German  school     But 
not  only  the  nave,  with  its  carved  pidpit  and  canophy,  its  old  dark 
benches,  not  renewed  since  the  seventeenth  century  at  least,  and  its 
crowds  of  worshippers,  is  interesting  to  the  sight-seer,  but  each  side 
chapel,  rich  with  what  in  our  times  would  be  thought  ample  decoration 
for  a  large  church,  is  enough  to  take  up  one's  day.     In  these  and  in  the 
aisles  lie  buried  the  patrons,  founders,  defenders  and  endowers  of  the 
cathedral,  while  in  the  chapel  of  the  university  are  laid  the  masters  and 
doctors  whose  fame  reached  over  the  learned  and  civilized  world  of  the 
Middle  ages,  and  whose  labours  Holbein  no  doubt  flatteringly  hinted  at 
when  he  chose  for  the  subject  of  his  great  altar-piece  in  his  chapel  the 
visit  of  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East  to  the  infant  Saviour.     In  each  of 
these  chapels  are  wood-carvings  of  great  beauty  and  variety,  and  stained 
glass  windows  whose  colours  are  as  vivid  as  they  were  fbur  hundred 
years  ago;  and  in  one  is  still  preserved  a  heavy  Byzantine  cross  of 
dtksMd  nlver,  the  gift  (or  trophy)  of  a  crusading  knight,  for  Freiburg  too 
**  took  the  cross  "  un<^r  the  enthusiastic  direction  of  that  great  aian, 
Bem«rd  Clairvaux.     It  is  not  often  that  such  a  building  as  this  cathe- 
dral has  such  a  worthy  neighbour  and  companion  as  the  beaiuMM  ex- 
change, or  Kaufhaus  that  stands  opposite  on  the  "  platz."    This,  though 
of  later  date  and  less  pure  architecture,  is  one  of  the  most  beauta^ 
buildii^  of  its  kind  in  Germany.     The  lower  part  reminds  one  of  thd 
6 


DOWN  THE  RHINE. 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  369 

doges'  palace  at  Venice — a  succeBsion  of  four  round  arches  on  plain, 
strong,  saxon-looking  pillars ;  at  each  comer  an  oriel  window  with  three 
equal  sides  and  a  little  steep-pointed  roof  of  its  own,  shooting  up  to  the 
height  of  the  main  roof.  The  great  hall  on  the  same  level  has  a  plain 
balcony  the  whole  length  of  the  building,  and  five  immense  windows  of 
rather  nondescript  form,  and  mullioned  like  Elizabethan  windows,  be- 
tween each  of  which  is  a  statue  under  a  carved  canopy  ;  and  these  are 
what  give  the  characteristic  touch  to  the  house.  They  represent  the 
«mperor  Mazimillian,  lovingly  called  *'  the  last  knight,"  Charles  Y.,  *^  on 
whose  dominions  the  sun  never  set,"  Philip  I.  and  King  Ferdinand. 
The  colour  of  the  material  of  which  this  exchange  is  built  (red  sand- 
stone) increases  the  effect  of  this  beautiful  relict  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
But,  though  we  should  be  ^ad  to  linger  here  and  admire  it  at  our  lei- 
sure, there  are  other  houses  in  the  city  that  claim  our  attention  as  show- 
ing, in  their  less  elaborate  but  perfectly  tasteful  decoration,  the  artistic 
instincts  of  those  burghers  of  old.  And  the  fountains  too !  Not  the 
bald,  all^orical,  monotonous  and  rarely-found  (and  when  found  only 
useless  and  ornamental)  fountains  of  our  new  cities,  but  the  lavishly- 
carved,  artistic  creations  of  an  art-imbued  age — the  water  free  to  all  and 
flowing  for  use  as  well  as  for  show,  and  the  statues  of  civic  patron-saints 
and  occasionally  men  of  local  renown ;  as,  for  instance^  the  single  statue 
of  a  meditative  monk,  his  left  hand  supporting  his  chin,  and  a  closed 
book  in  his  right  hand,  Berthold  Schwarz,  the  inventor  of  gunpowder. 
From  this  inland  side-trip  we  go  back  to  the  now  broadening  river, 
the  part  of  the  Rhine  where  the  **  watch  "  has  been  so  often  kept  as 
well  as  sung — that  part,  too,  where  Eoman  forts  were  thickly  strewn, 
and  where  the  Merovingian  and  Garlovingian  emperors  fought  and  dis- 
puted about  the  partition  of  their  inheritances.  But  everywhere  in  this 
land  of  Upper  Alsace  1870  has  effaced  older  memories,  and  modem 
ruins  have  been  added  to  the  older  and  more  romantic  ones.  No  for- 
eigner can  impartially  decide  on  the  great  question  of  the  day — i.e,, 
whether  German  or  French  sentiment  predominates — while  the  inter- 
ested parties  themselves  each  loudly  ignore  the  no  doubt  real  claims  of 
the  other.  As  a  simple  matter  of  fact^  Alsace  is  German  by  blood  and 
by  language,  but  race^lifferences  are  so  often  merged  in  other  feelings 
the  product  of  kind  treatment  and  domestic  ties,  that  the  sympathies 
of  nations  may  be  materially  changed  in  less  than  a  century.  We  cer- 
tainly come  across  a  good  deal  that  is  very  French  in  the  villages  be- 
tween New  Breisach  and  Colmer :  the  blowe  is  the  costume  of  the  men ; 
the  houses  are  painted  in  light  colours,  in  contrast  to  their  steep  gray 
roofs ;  the  women  bring  refreshments  out  to  the  waggoners,  and  stop 
for  a  coquettish  gossip  in  a  light-hearted,  pleasant,  vivacious  way  not 
seen  in  other  places,  whose  matrons  seem  graver  and  more  domestic. 
But  Ck)lmar,  in  its  streets,  the  names  over  the  shops,  the  old  comer 
windows,  is  as  German  and  antique,  as  good  a  '' specimen"  city,  as 
Nuremberg  or  Augsburg.  Here  is  the  artists  delight  and  the  anti- 
cmaiy's  mine.  Comiar,  contemptuously  styled  **  a  hole  "  by  the  great 
Napoleon,  was  living  enough  at  the  time  of  the  emperor  Frederick  II., 
and  was  one  of  the  prosperous,  haughty,  freedom-loving  burgher  cities 
to  which  the  sovereigns  so  gratefully  gave  the  name  and  privileges  of  an 
"  imperial  *'  town.  This  city  of  ancient  Germany  is  now  one  of  the  most 
stagnant  among  modem  towns,  just  "  advanced  enough  to  possess  comer 


DOWN  THE  RHINE. 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  361 

''loafers,^  and,  we  hope,  to  be  ashamed  of  having  publicly  burnt  the  works 
of  Bayle  in  the  market-place ;  but  its  architectural  beauties  are  such  and 
60  many,  that  if  you  are  on  your  way  to  Strassburg  you  had  better  deny 
yonrself  the  pleasure  of  stopping  here..  Balconies  and  galleries  strike 
the  eye  at  every  turn ;  irregular  houses,  their  beams  often  visible ;  door- 
ways of  wonderful  beauty ;  and  a  population  nearly  as  antique,  the 
women  carrying  loads  on  their  heads,  and  wearing  short  dark  stuff 
gowns,  thick  blue  worsted  stockings  and  wooden  shoes.  Of  course  the 
cathedral  is  the  pride  of  the  town,  and  it  has  some  rather  rare  charac- 
teristics distinguishing  it  from  the  rest  of  the  churches  of  this  neighbour- 
hood, chiefly  its  simplicity  of  decoration.  The  impression  of  a  noble 
simplicity  is  specially  borne  in  upon  us  by  the  aspect  of  the  dark, 
broad  chancel  with  its  carved  stalls,  and  little  else  in  the  way  of 
ornament :  the  sculptured  door  leading  to  the  sacristy  unfortunately 
hides  a  remarkable  work  of  early  derman  art,  the  The  Virgin  of  OU 
JRoa^hedge,  by  Martin  Schon.  The  tower  of  the  cathedral  has  above  it 
only  a  small  buildinff,  with  a  steep,  irregular  tapering  roof,  and  here 
sits  the  watchman  whistling  on  bis  cobbler's  stool  in  a  place  that  would 
be  the  envy  of  many  a  scholar  pestered  in  his  lower  dwelling  by  incon- 
siderate visitors ;  as,  for  insUaoiv  ^^bat  perfect  type  of  scholais,  Isaac 
Gasaubon,  whose  journal  bean  witness  to  his  yearning  after  more  time 
and  fewer  admiring,  consultiiu;  and  tonayenting  friends.  Not  far  from 
Colmar  is  a  castle-ruin  with  three  toweni,  *^  Drei  Exen,**  illustrating  an 
old  Alsatian  proverb,  the  translation  of  which  is,  in  substance, 

n^roecMtlef  oaoa&ebiil; 
nree  (^utcImb  in  one  dbsaxcbjaird 
Thros  cttiee  in  one  vaUey, — 
Such  i»  Alsace  eversrwhere. 

Other  castles  erown  the  heights  above  the  viUaffes  of  Kaiseibei^  and 
Bappoltsweiier.  but  we  are  getting  tired  of  castks,  and  this  region  is 
abundant  in  oU  booses,  the  aieXL  ol  the  old  home-life  which  has  changed 
80  little  in  the  ooootry.  What  difference  is  there  between  tbis  ruddy, 
blue-eyed  girl,  with  thick  plaits  of  fair  hair,  and  utter  innocence  of  ex- 
pression, the  lapther  of  a  future  generation  as  healthy  and  sturdy  and 
innocent  as  herself,  and  her  own  grandmother  at  the  same  age  three 

Cnerations  back  i  Neither  the  village  interests  nor  the  village  manner 
ve  changed  :  placidly  the  life  flows  on,  like  that  of  the  Rhine  water 
itself,  in  these  broad,  level,  fruitful  plains  between  the  Black  Forest  and 
the  Yosge&  And  so  we  seem,  in  these  various  houses  with  wide  gables 
turned  to  the  street,  cross-beams  and  galleries  and  unexpected  windows, 
outside  stairs  of  stone  or  wood  climbing  up  their  sides,  wide  low  door- 
ways, tiny  shrines  set  in  the  rough  wall,  and  dizzy  roofs  pierced  like 
dovecotes--houses  that  remind  us  of  Chester,  the  old  English  town  that 
has  suffered  least  from  innovation, — ^in  these  we  seem  to  see  some  part 
of  the  old  tranquil  home-life  of  this  Alsatian  people  renewed  and  re- 
acted before  our  eyes.  Again  the  same  variety  of  beautiful  houses  will 
will  meet  us  at  Strassburg.  But  the  woods  are  no  less  lovely  :  old  trees 
round  Uie  ruins  of  St.  Ulrich,  and  on  the  way  to  the  abbey  of  Du- 
.senbacb,  and  round  the  shores  of  the  **  White  "  and  the ''  Black  "  Lake, 
bring  to  the  mind  a  yet  older  picture  of  Glerman  life,  that  of  the  free 
Teutons  of  Tacitus,  the  giant  men  who  made  it  so  important  to  the 


362  DOWN  THE  RHIMK. 

Romans  to  h&ve  the  Khine,  the  great  natural  highway,  atrragly  fortified 
from  its  soarces  to  its  mouth. 

Hoh-Konigsbuig,  a  splendid  ruin,  said  to  be  the  loveliest  in.  Akace,  is 
now  the  property  and  the  pride  of  the  commune  of  that  name,  bo  that 
the  victory  of  the  present  over  the  past  is  also  represented  in  tJiese  liv- 
ing panoraiaas  before  us,  for  there  is  deep  meaning  in  the  poeseasion  by 
the  people,  as  an  artistic  shov,  of  the  very  strongboid  vhich  was  once 
their  bane  and  their  terror.     Then  we  run  through  Schlettstadt,  with  ita 


sedgy  banks,  among  which  herons  and  storks  are  picking  up  their  daily 
bread  :  deep  shadows  of  old  trees  hide  the  blank  walls  on  the  river-aide^ 
and  its  cathedral  towers  high  above  the  mingled  steeples  and  cupolas  and 
nearly  as  high  roofs  as  some  of  the  larger  buildings,  while  we  think  of 
its  successful  warfare  with  the  bishops  of  Stressburg,  its  firm  adherence 
in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  to  the  imperial  cause,  of  its 
sieges  and  fires,  and  also  its  famous  "  academy  "  and  library ;  not  for- 
getting, however,  its  shame  in  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the  Jews 


364  DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

were  more  signally  persecuted  here  than  in  many  other  towns — at  a  time, 
too  when  the  fanatacism  that  had  driven  so  many  to  change  their  faith 
should  have  taught  both  parties  of  Christians  some  home-lessons.  Its 
neighbour,  Strassbuig,  has  nearly  as  bad  a  record,  but  what  with  the 
beauty  of  the  latter  and  its  recent  stormy  history,  its  sins  are  the  last 
things  a  traveller  thinks  of.  Its  cathedral  and  its  clock  have  been  fully 
described,  but  other  churches  of  the  old  city  are  well  worth  a  visit,  th^ 
of  St.  Thomas  being  a  specimen  of  an  architecture  essentially  GhristiaQ 
and  anterior  to  the  Gtothic,  the  same  whose  perfection  is  seen  in  many 
churches  in  Umbria  and  Tuscany  and  Komagna,  before  the  miserable 
mania  of  the  Renaissance  style  grew  up.  What  was  pardonable  in  a 
palace  was  monstrous  in  a  church,  but  there  was  an  evil  age  just  before 
the  Ileformation,  when,  if  certain  learned  and  elegant  and  pc^gan  prelates 
had  had  their  way,  Chiistianity  would  have  be^  condemned  as  "  bar- 
barism." They  were  the  Yoltaires  of  their  day,  the  disciples  of  a  cul- 
tured infidelity  which  brought  on  the  great  rent  between  Latin  and  Teu- 
tonic Christianity. 

In  Strassburg  we  have  the  river  HI  and  its  canal  joining  the  Bhine, 
and  Yenice-like  scenes,  narrow  quays,  clumsy,  heavy  punts,  fiBtnciful 
chimney-stacks,  crazy,  overhanging  btdconies,  projecting  windows,  a  stir- 
ring human  tide,  voices  and  noises  breaking  the  silence,  an  air  of  uncon- 
sciousness of  beauty  and  interest,  an  old-world  atmosphere ;  but  there  is 
a  newer  side,  less  attractive,  the  Place  Broglie,  crowded  with  Parisian 
caf<6s  with  all  their  tawdry  paraphrenalia,  and  prim  white  square  housei^ 
proud  of  their  wretched  uniform,  like  a  row  of  charity-school  children  in 
England.     Here  is  the  fashionable  centre,  the  lounging,  gossiping  dan- 
dyism and  pretension  of  the  modem  world ;  but,  thank  Heaven !  it  is  only 
an  excrescence.     Bum  down  this  part,  and  the  town  would  look  as  larse 
and  as  important,  for  at  every  turn  of  more  than  two-thirds  of  the  cid 
area  you  are  met  by  the  living  pictures  that  make  these  market-places, 
crooked  streets  and  hidden  chapels  so  familiar  to  the  heart.     The  Fer- 
kelmarket,  or  ''  pig-market,"  though  not  in  the  most  famous  quarter  of 
the  town,  is  remarkable  for  its  old  gabled,  galleried  houses,  while  the 
view  of  the  great  spire  of  the  cathedral  is  also  good  :  not  far,  again,  is  a 
thirteenth-century  house,  with  two  stories  in  the  gable  and  tiiree  below, 
besides  the  ground-floor,  which  is  a  shop ;  and  even  many  of  the  common 
houses,  not  specially  pointed  out  to  the  tourists,  are  beautified  by  some 
artistic  ironwork  about  the  doors,  some  carved  gateway  or  window,  some 
wall-niche  with  a  saint's  statue,  or  a  broad  oak  staircase  as  noble  in  pro- 
portions and  beautiful  in  detail  as  if  it  were  a  princely  abode.     The 
absence  of  all  meanness,  of  all  vulgarity,  of  all  shams,  is  what  strikes  one 
most  in  examining  mediaeval  domestic  architecture.    Would  we  could  go 
to  school  again  in  that  regard !     Just  outside  Strassburg  we  come  upon 
a  path  leading  through  beach-woods  upward  toward  rocky  ledges  and 
walls  and  a  convent ;  not  a  ruined  one  this  time,  but  a  most  frequented 
and  friendly  place,  built  on  the  top  of  a  hill  and  presided  over  by  a  hos- 
pitable sisterhood.     This  is  the  scene  of  the  life  history  and  legends  of 
St.  Ottilia,  and  the  spring  for  eye-diseases  has  been  from  time  immemo- 
rial connected  with  her.    The  little  chapel  over  the  spring  has  the  charm 
of  small,  unpretending,  common  places,  where  no  show  is  made  and  no 
conventional  admiration  expected.     Just  as  a  speaker  pauses  here  and 
there  in  his  speech,  expecting  applause  for  such  and  such  a  popular 


THE  NBAFOLITANS  TO  MOZABT.  865 

phrase  or  Btriking  sensationalism,  so  is  oar  admiration  as  travellers  regu- 
lated and  bespokmi  beforehand.  Here  no  man  with  any  pretension  to 
education  dare  pass  in  silence  or  let  out  a  criticism :  some  things  are 
sacred,  like  the  tradition  of  the  beauty  of  a  faded  society-queen.  **  What 
has  been  must  always  be.''  But  what  a  relief  to  find  some  places  you  are 
not  expected  to  go  into  ecstasies  about !  And  they  are  generally  worthy 
of  more  attention  than  they  get,  and  if  churches  they  are  invariably 
more  likely  to  move  you  to  devotion.  This  has  been  my  experience  in 
Europe.  The  great  pageants,  gorgeous  processions,  etc.,  leave  the  soul 
cold,  but  an  empty  church,  a  sparsely-attended  service,  a  lack  of  music, 
a  quiet  frame  of  mind,  unstrained  by  rushing  after  this  or  that  picture, 
this  or  that  monument^such  are  the  things  one  remembers  with  thank- 
fulness. 

Ebin. 


THE  NEAPOLITANS  TO  MOZART. 

• 

"  We  remember  MoEart*B  beh^  obliged  to  take  off  his  ring,  while  perfonning  at 
Naples.  The  i)oetioal  and  music-loviiig  public  of  that  land  of  song  oonld  onlv  aooonnt 
for  nis  divine  geninB  by  the  belief  that  a  spirit  inhabited  the  jewel  on  his  nnger." — 
Foreiffn  Review  No.  VIX. 

Stravob  musical  wizard  !  the  qmUb  of  thine  art 
Can  ne'er,  but  with  life,  from  our  memory  depart ; 

The  notes  are  now  hushed,  but  their  echo  still  rolls. 
Like  a  slow-ebbing  tlde^  o*er  our  passionate  souls. 

Fair  Naples,  thou  know'st,  is  the  home  of  sweet  song, 
And  thither  earth's  minstrels  all  lovingly  throng  : 

Inspired  are  the  pilgrims  who  visit  this  shrine. 
But  when  have  we  known  inspiration  like  thine  f 

The  kings  of  this  world  never  heard  on  their  thrones 
Such  rare  modulationB,  such  jubulant  tones  ; 

The  music  of  dreams  is  less  marvellous  far 

Than  the  chords  of  thy  ravishing  harmonies  are . 

With  thy  nostrils  dilated,  and  tremulous  lips, 
Thine  eyes  lit  with  glory  that  nought  can  eclipse, 

Thou  seemest  some  Angel,  and  multitudes  trace 
€k>d's  breath  passing,  shadow-like,  over  thy  face. 

Where  leamt  thy  weird  fingers  each  exquisite  strain 
Ihat  floods  onr  quick  spirits  with  pleasure  or  pain  ? 

Who  taught  thee  to  wake  from  mute  ivory  ke3rs 
Low  moans  like  deep  thunder,  sighs  soft  as  the  breeze  ? 

Our  poets  have  chronicled  oft  in  their  rhyme 

Fantastic  old  legends  of  madness  and  crime, 
Of  human  souls  bartered  for  gold,  might,  or  fame. 

In  compact  with  One  whom  we  shudder  to  name  : 

Is  it  thus  thou  hast  gained  supernatural  skill  ? 

Hast  thou  mortgaged  thy  soul  to  the  Spirit  of  HI  ? 
Away  with  thy  harmony,  Wizard —  but,  no — 

Those  tones  are  seraphic, — it  cannot  be  sa 


366  A  FEW  HOUBS  IN  BOHEMIA. 

There  are  beings,  we  know,  of  celestial  birth. 
Commissioned  to  haunt  this  dim  planet  of  earth  ; 

Their  silver-winged  legions  float  ever  in  air, 
Our  eyes  may  not  see  them,  bat  still  they  are  there. 

Perchanoe  some  bright  minister,  now  at  thy  side. 
To  music's  keen  pathos  thy  fingers  may  guide  ; 

For,  oh  !  thy  rapt  strains  in  their  tenderness  seem 
lake  snatches  of  angel-song  heard  in  a  dream. 

See  !  see  !  on  thy  finger  there  flashes  a  gem — 

Its  radiance  is  fit  for  a  king's  diadem  : 
Oast  off"  that  ring,  Wizard  !    Some  musical  sprite 

DweUs  shrined  in  that  jeweFs  ineffable  light. 

Now,  strike  the  still  chords  :  sweeter  murmurs  are  heard 
like  the  whispers  of  love,  or  the  song  of  a  bird. 

Our  tears  fall  like  rain — Stnmger,  give  us  thy  prayers — 
Men  have  entertained  Angek,  ere  now,  unawares  ! 

Montreal  Gbo.  Mubkat. 


A  FEW  HOURS  IN  BOHEMIA. 

The  beauty  of  this  country  is  that  no  turbulent  sea  confines  its  borders, 
nor  are  martello-towers  needed  to  guard  its  coast ;  no  jealous  neighbour 
threatens  its  frontier,  no  army  oppresses  its  citizens,  and  no  kmg  can 
usurp  its  throne.  Its  locality  is  hard  to  define.  Like  the  Fata  Morgana 
it  is  here  to^lay  and  gone  to-morrow,  for  its  territory  is  the  mind  of 
men,  and  in  extent  it  is  as  boundless  as  thought  Natives  of  every  clime 
are  enrolled  among  its  freemen,  and  all  lands  contain  its  representatives^ 
but  it  is  in  the  picturesque  streets  of  the  older  continental  cities  of 
Europe,  where  rambling  lodgings  and  cheap  apartments  are  many,  that 
the  invisible  mother-country  founds  her  colonies.  I  will  tell  you  how  I 
went  and  what  I  saw  there. 

Afra  was  a  cosmopolite,  and  consequently  knew  Bohemia,  its  by-ways 
and  thoroughfares.  If  any  one  could  fill  the  office  of  guide  thereto  Afra 
could,  and  when  one  evening  she  rushed  into  my  room  saying,  *^  Gome 
along  if  you  want  to  go  to  Bohemia,"  I  did  not  hesitate  a  moment,  but 
made  ready  for  the  journey,  with  the  simple  precaution  of  putting  on  my 
bonnet  and  shawl. 

''  A  cab  V*I  asked,  as  we  moved  from  the  door. 

''  Who  ever  heard  of  entering  Bohemia  in  a  cab  ) "  laughed  Afra, 
dryly.  "  People  have  been  known  to  drive  out  in  their  own  carriages, 
but  they  always  make  their  first  appearance  there  on  foot,  or  at  best  in 
an  omnibus." 

"  As  you  please,"  I  replied,  trying  to  keep  pace  with  her  rapid  step, 
which  showed  constant  practice. 

''  I  wonder  you  did  not  propose  a  balloon  • '  she  continued  pettishly. 
"  The  gods  don*t  give  everything  to  one  person  :  now,  they  give  us 
brains,  and  they  give  other  people — money." 

"  If  you  would  understand,  I—" 


A  FEW  HOUBS  IN  BOHEMU.  367 

"No,  you  wouldn't  I  shan't  ride  in  cabs  until  I  can  pay  for  them 
myself ;  meanwhile,  I  have  gros  sous  enough  in  my  pocket  for  an  omni- 
bus &re,  and  if  you  have  uie  same  we  will  stop  here/'  At  this  she 
entered  a  bureau,  and  as  I  followed  I  saw  her  get  some  tickets  from  a 
man  who  sat  behind  a  small  counter,  and  then  composedly  sit  down  on 
a  bench,  while  she  said,  "  We  shall  have  some  time  to  wait  for  our  lux- 
ury ;"  then,  showing  me  the  tickets,  she  said,  "  Twelve  and  thirteen ;  it 
is  a  full  nisht,  and  all  these  people  ahead  of  us." 

**  Is  it  a  lottery  1 "  I  asked,  ignorantly. 

"  Very  much  of  a  lottery,"  Afra  replied  grimly — "  like  all  the  ways 
of  Bohemia,  remarkably  uncertain.  You  ^t  a  ticket  for  something  in 
the  giving  of  the  Muses,  and  you  wait  until  your  number  is  called.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  the  most  unlikely  people  are  called  before  you,  and  some 
get  disgusted  and  leave, — ^there  goes  one  out  at  the  door  at  this  mom^it. 
Well,  hie  may  be  better  or  he  may  be  worse  off  than  those  who  finally 
win  :  who  knows  if  any  race  is  worth  the  running  1  Still,  if  vou  have 
courage  to  hold  on,  I  believe  there  is  no  doubt  that  everyone  ultimately 

Kts  something."  Seeing  my  perplexity,  she  twisted  the  round  tickets 
tween  her  fingers,  and  added,  "  Do  not  be  alarmed ;  these  are  only 
good  for  a  seat  in  the  first  empty  'bus  that  comes  up.  The  conductor 
wiU  call  out  the  numbers  in  rotation,  and  if  ours  is  among  them  we  shall 
go.  It  is  frightful  that  you  have  never  ridden  in  a  'bus  before.  I  won- 
der where  we  should  get  ideas  if  we  shut  ourselves  up  in  cabs,  or  never 
walked,  or  were  hungry  or  tired,  and  thought  only  of  our  own  comfort 
from  morning  to  night  1  You  don't  know  what  you  miss,  you  poor, 
deluded,  unfortunate  rich  people.  I  will  tell  you  of  something  I  saw  the 
other  evening ;  and,  as  it  is  worthy  of  a  name,  it  shall  be  called  *  The 
Bomance  of  an  Omnibus.'  Listen  1  isn't  that  our  numbers  I  heard  ? 
Yes ;  come  quick  or  we  shall  lose  our  chance." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  when  we  had  successfully  threaded  the  crowd,  and 
were  seated — "  the  romance." 

"  You  have  no  idea  of  the  fitness  of  things.  My  story  is  pathetic  :  it 
will  look  badly  to  see  you  drowned  in  tears — people  will  stare." 

"  I  promise  not  to  cry." 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  one  of  those  stolid,  unemotional  beings  who  are  never 
moved,  I  shan't  waste  my  tale  upon  you.    Wait  until  to-morrow  ;  we 

will  get  Monsieur  C to  recount,  and  you  shall  hear  something  worth 

listening  to.  He  is  a  regular  troubadour — has  the  same  artless  vanity 
hey  were  known  to  possess,  their  charming  simplicity,  their  gestures, 
*ana  their  power  of  investing  everything  with  romance.  One  is  trans* 
ported  to  the  Middle  Ages  while  he  speaks ;  no  book  written  on  the 
subject  could  so  fully  give  you  the  flavour  of  the  times.  He  recalls 
Froissart.  If  you  are  not  affected  by  C.'s  stories,  you  had  better  pretend 
to  be.  But  that^  I  am  sure,  will  not  be  necessary ;  a  great  tragedian  was 
lost  when  he  became  a  great  painter." 

"  Might  I  ask  how  and  when  and  where  I  am  to  meet  this  wonderful 
mani" 

"  At  the  garden-party." 

"  In  what  way  am  I  to  get  there." 

"  By  strategr.  There  is  a  little  re-union  to-night  of  what  may  be 
called  female  Bohemians.  They  are  going  to  settle  the  prelinunaries  of 
this  party,  and  if  you  happen  to  be  present  they  will  invite  you, — not 


'SfiS  A  FBW  HOUBS  IN  BOHEMIA. 

tliAt  they  ptarticalariy  care  for  your  company,  but  because,  as  I  said,  you 
happ^i  to  be  there.  Only  don't  get  yourseu  into  a  mess  by  tramping  on 
anyone's  toeis." 

"  Have  they  corns." 

""Yes,  on  every  inch  of  surface:  they  are  dreadfully  thin-skinAad. 
But  they  hate  shain  even  more  than  a  hard  knock,  and  are  quicker  than 
a  police-officer  in  detecting  it,  so  be  oareful  not  to  talk  about  anythuig 
you  are  ignorant  of." 

^  Give  me  a  few  rules,  and  I  promise  to  conduct  myself  properly." 

<'  Well,  don't  be  snobbish  and  patronize  them,  and  don't  look  shocked 
•at  BXij  strange  opinions  you  hear,  nor  act  as  if  you  were  at  an  animal 
show  and  were  wondering  what  would  happen  next  Be  sure  not  to  as- 
:  sent  when  you  see  they  wish  to  argue,  and  don't  argue  when  they  expect 
aequiescenoa  If  any  of  them  speak  in  broken  English,  and  you  can't 
for  the  life  of  you  understand,  don't  ask  them  to  repeat,  but  answer  im- 
mediately, for  you  can  imagine  when  one  has  tabsn  pains  to  leam  a 
f(»eign  language  one  likesit  to  be  apjpreciatedand don't — But  here  we  are, 
in  short,  make  yourself  at  home  as  if  you  had  been  there  all  your  Ufo," 

^'  Afra,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  on  her  arm  as  she  took  to  her  swift 
paoe  again,  ^'  perhaps  I  had  better  go  home :  I  am  afraid  I  can'^— I 
»think— that  is—" 

<<  Nonsense!  as  if  you  could  not  get  on  after  all  those  hints!  Avjnvay, 
you  cannot  return  alone,  and  I  am  unable  to  go  with  you.  l^l^e  up 
your  mind  to  blunder,  and  do  it  There  was  an  amateur  vidted  the 
studio  about  three  months  ago,  her  absurdities  have  served  us  for  lavish- 
ing material  ever  unce.  As  she  is  getting  rattier  stale  you  can  take  her 
place.    This  is  the  house ;  come  in. 

With  this  doubtful  prospect  in  view  I  followed  my  peremptory  guide 
from  the  narrow  street  into  what  appeared  to  be  a  spacious  court,  but  as 
the  only  light  it  received  was  from  a  blinking  candle  in  the  window  of 
the  conciergerie,  I  could  not  determine.  After  exchanging  some  cabal- 
istic sentences  with  a  toothless  old  woman,  the  proprietor  <^  the  candle, 
Afra  turned  to  the  right,  and  walking  afew  steps  came  to  a  door  opening 
'  on  a  stairway,  which  we  mounted.  I  can  think  of  nothing  black  enougE 
for  comparison  with  the  darkness  surrounding  us.  At  last  a  faint 
glimmer  showed  an  old  lamp  standing  in  the  comer  of  a  hall  bare  and 
carpetless.  A  series  of  doors  flanked  the  place,  looking  to  my  unaocos- 
tomed  eyes  all  alike,  but  Afra,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  went  to 
one  of  them  and  knocked  It  was  opened  by  a  lady,  who  smiled  and 
said,  '<  Enter.  You  are  just  in  time :  school  is  over,  and  the  model  about 
going." 

I  found  n^self  in  a  high-ceiled  room,  at  one  end  of  which  was  SHS- 
prided  a  row  of  perhaps  a  dozen  lamps.  Here,  at  least,  there  was  no 
lack  of  light ;  it  required  some  moments  to  accustom  our  eyes  to  the 
sudden  contrast.  The  yellow  blaze  was  directed  by  reflectors  into  the 
space  immediately  beneath  the  lamps,  which  left  the  rest  of  the  room 
pleasantly  tempered.  Some  easels,  a  few  chairs  and  screens,  plaster  casts 
on  shelves,  sketches  in  all  stages  of  progress  on  the  wall,  a  tesnkettle 
singing  over  a  bright  fire  in  a  stove,  and  a  curtain  enclosing  a  comer 
used  as  a  bedroom,  completed  the  list  of  furniture.  It  was  a  night- 
school  for  lady  artists.  The  class  had  finished  for  the  evening,  and  a 
number  of  the  students  were  moving  about  or  seated  near  the  fipe, 
talking  in  an  unlimited  number  of  languages. 


A  FEW  HOUBS  IN  BOHEMIA.  36^ 

I  was  giyen  seyeral  random  introduotions,  and  did  my  best  to  follow 
Afra's  directions ;  bat  there  was  an  indeseribable  quaintness  about  A» 
appearance  and  manners  of  my  new  acqnaintance  that  made  it  difficolt 
not  to  stare.  I  found,  however,  that  little  notice  was  taken  of  me,  as  a 
lively  discussion  was  being  carried  on  over  a  study  of  an  arm  and  hand 
whidi  one  of  them  was  holdine  up  for  inspection. 

*  '^  It  is  a  style  I  should  call  the  lantern/'  said  she.  '*  The  redness  of 
the  flesh  can  only  be  accounted  for  on  the  supposition  that  a  li^t  is 
shining  through  it" 

"  I  should  call  it  raw  beef/'  remarked  another. 

'*  It  is  a  shame,  mademoiselle ! "  began  the  model  in  an  injured  tone. 
She  had  been  tyins  on  her  bonnet  before  a  bit  of  looking-glass  she  had 
taken  from  her  pocket.  '^  Does  my  arm  look  like  that  t '  Here  she  in*- 
dignantly  drew  up  her  sleeve  and  held  out  that  dimpled  memb^,  mean- 
wmle  gazing  wrathfuUy  at  the  sketch.  '*  It  ought  not  to  be  allowed. 
The  silver  tones  of  my  flesh  are  entirelv  lost;  and  see  how  you  have 
caricatured  the  elegance  of  my  beautifal  hand.  Will  not  some  one  he^ 
mademoiselle  to  put  it  right  before  my  reputation  is  ruined  t" 

"  Jeanne,  a  model  is  not  a  critic/'  said  the  author  of  the  drawing, 
cominff  forward  and  grasping  the  canvas  with  no  gende  hand. — "  La- 
dies, if  you  wish  to  &d  fault,  turn  to  ^our  own  studies.  That  propor- 
tion is  frightful" — she  pointed  to  diflerent  sketches  as  she  epoke — 
"  that  ear  is  too  large ;  and  madame,  if  you  take  a  crust  of  paint  like 
yours  for  fi'eedom  of  touch,  I  pity  you." 

This  dispute  was  bv  no  means  the  last  durine  the  evening.  Opintons^ 
seemed  to  be  plentiful  in  Bohemia,  each  individual  being  furnished  witii 
a  set  of  her  own  on  every  subject  broached ;  and  as  no  diffidence  was 
shown  in  puttuig  them  forth,  the  company  quarrelled  wit^  great  good- 
nature and  evident  enjoyment.  A  pot  of  tea  was  then  brewed  by  the 
owner  of  the  studio,  who  had  been  English  before  she  became  iBohe- 
ndan,  and  the  beverage  was  handed  round  in  tea-cups,  which,  like  the 

rions  of  the  ^ests,  differed  widely  from  each  other.    In  the  silenee 
attended  tms  diversion  Afra  took  the  floor  and  said,  *'  How  about 
the  garden-party  to  the  country  t  Who  is  going  f " 

Several  spoke,  and  one  asked,  ''  Shall  we  take  lunch  with  us  ? " 

"  No,  something  will  be  provided  for  us  there." 

^  So  much  thebstter.    When  are  we  to  meet,  and  where  ?  " 

"  Twelve  o'clock,  midday,  at  -^ — " 

''  What  messieurs  are  going  1 " 

**  Quite  a  number — ^a  tenor  from  the  Grand  Opera,  and  the  leader  of 
the  orchestra,  who  is  a  magnificent  violinist ;  that  new  Spanish  painter 
who  plays  the  guitar  divinely ;  a  poet — that  is^  he  has  written  some 
pretty  songs — ^besides  plenty  mote.' 

"That  promises  well." 

"  Ton  will  bring  your  friend  f "  and  the  speaker  nodded  her  head  to* 
ward  me. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted:  I  am  so  curious  to  see  those  eccentric — "  Here 
a  warning  glance  from  Afra  stopped  me. 

But  the  lady  only  laughed  and  said,  "Ton  will  see  eccentricity 
enough  to-morrow,  if  that  is  what  you  want  People  who  devote  their 
min£  to  great  objects  have  no  time  to  think  of  little  things.  You  had 
better  see  that  Afra  has  on  her  bonnet  or  cdie  will  go  without  one." 


370  A  FEW  HOUES  IN  BOHEMIA. 

**  Nonsense !  **  replied  Afra. — **  Miss/'  this  to  the  owner  of  the  studio, 
who  was  so  called  in  honour  of  her  English  birth,  ''are  you  ever 
troubled  by  the  ghost  of  that  young  painter  who  hung  himself  up 
there!" 

**  Those  who  have  occasion  to  commit  suicide  are  not  likely  to  come 
back :  they  have  had  enough  of  this  world/'  said  the  Englishwoman. 

"  Did  some  one  really  die  here  V  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  really  /'  and  Afra  mimicked  my  tone  of  horror.  "  You  know, 
a  Bohemian  is  at  home  anywhere,  so  a  change  of  country  don't  affect 
him  mucL    If  we  find  a  place  disagreeable,  we  travel." 

"  Was  he  insane  1 " 

«  Not  more  than  the  rest  of  us,  but  you  can't  understand  the  feeling 
t^t  would  induce  a  man  to  do  such  a  thing.  This  young  fellow  painted 
a  picture  :  he  put  his  mind,  his  soul,  himsdf,  into  it,  and  sent  it  to  the 
Exhibition,  it  was  rejected — ^that  is,  he  was  rejected — and  he  came 
here  and  died.  They  found  him  suspended  firom  that  beam  where  the 
lunps  hang  now." 

"  I  thought  your  Bohemia  was  so  gay  ? " 

**  So  it  is,  but  the  brightest  light  makes  the  deepest  shadows." 

The  conversation  went  on.    These  ladies  discussed  politics,  litera- 
ture, art  and  society  with  absolute  confidence.     One  of  the  topics  was 
Alfred  de  Musset    The  Englishwoman  was  praising  the  Engush  Al- 
fred, when  a  pale-faced  girl,  who  up  to  this  moment  had  been  intently 
reading,  oblivious  of  all  about  her,  closed  her  book  with  a  snap  (it  was 
a  much-worn  edition  of  one  of  the  classics,  bought  for  a  few  sous  on  the 
<|uay)  and  broke  out  with — "Your  Tennyson  is  childish.    His  Kine 
Arthur  puts  me  in  mind  of  our  Louis  Philippe  and  his  umbrella.     Did 
you  know  Louis  carried  an  umbrella  with  nun  when  he  was  obliged  to 
fly  from  Paris  1    One  would  have  looked  well  held  over  Arthur's  dra- 
gon helmet  that  disagreeable  night  he  left  the  queen  to  so  and  fight 
his  nephew.     But  perhaps  Guinevere  had  lent  it  to  Launceiot,  and  even 
the  best  friends,  alas  !   do  not  return  umbrellas.    Your  poet  writes  in 
white  kid  gloves,  and  thinks  in  them  too.    Imagine  the  magnificent 
rush  and  struggle  of  those  ancient  days,  the  ecstasy  of  battle,  the  in- 
tensity of  life,  and  then  read  your  Tennyson's  milk-and-water  tale6,with 
their  modem  English-manage  feelings.    Arthur  would  have  been  much 
more  likely  to  give  his  wife  a  beating,  as  did  the  hero  of  Nibekmgen 
Liedf  than  that  high-flown  lecture ;  and  it  would  have  done  the  Guine- 
vere of  that  time  more  good." 

"  And  what  is  your  Alfred,  Anita  1" 

"  He  is  divine." 

"  After  the  heathen  pattern.     He  dipped  his  pen  in  mire." 

"What  is  mirel — ^water  and  earth.  What  are  we  ?— water  and  earth. 
Mire  is  humanity,  and  holds  in  itself  not  only  the  roots  of  the  tree,  but 
the  germ  of  the  flower.  A  poet  who  is  too  delicate  to  plant  his  thought 
in  earth  must  be  content  to  give  it  but  the  life  of  a  parasite  :  it  can 
have  no  separate  existence  of  its  own." 
"  But  one  need  not  be  bad  to  be  great." 

"  Nor  need  one  be  good  to  be  great,"  returned  Anita  sarcastically. 
"  Alfred  de  Musset  was  a  peculiar  type  of  a  peculiar  time.  He  did  not 
imagine :  he  felt,  he  lived,  he  was  himself,  and  was  orimnal,  like  a  new 
variety  of  flower  or  a  new  species  of  insect     Tennyson  nas  gleaned  from 


A  FEW  HOURS  IN  BOHEMIA.  371 

everybody's  fields :  our  Alfired  gathered  only  from  his  own.     The  one  is 
made,  the  other  is  bom." 

"  Come  away/'  said  Afra  impatiently :  "  no  one  can  speak  while  Anita 
is  on  her  hobby.  Besides,  I  must  get  home  early  to  trim  a  bonnet  for 
to-morrow;"  and  without  more  leavetaking  than  a  *' Good-evening/' 
which  included  every  one,  we  found  ourselves  in  the  street 

"  Who  is  Anita  ?"  I  asked. 

'<  She  is  nobody  just  now :  what  she  will  be  remains  to  be  seen.  Her 
family  wish  her  to  be  an  artist :  she  wishes  to  adopt  the  stage  as  a  pro- 
fession, and  is  studying  for  it  8nb  rosa.  Did  you  ever  see  a  more  tragic 
facel" 

"  Poor  thing  1"  I  involuntarily  exclaimed. 

«  Don't  pity  her,"  said  Afra,  more  seriously  than  she  had  yet  spoken. 
'*  The  best  gift  that  can  be  bestowed  upon  a  mortal  is  a  strong  natural 
inclination  for  any  particular  life  and  the  opportunity  of  following  it. 
The  man  or  woman  who  has  that  can  use  the  wheel  of  Fate  for  a  spin- 
ning wheeL" 

The  next  morning  at  the  appointed  time  I  met  Afra  at  the  station. 
"  How  do  I  look  1 "  she  asked  standing  up  for  my  inspection  as  soon  as 
I  appeared  in  sight,  at  the  same  time  regarding  as  much  of  her  dress  as 
it  was  possible  for  her  to  sea  But  before  I  could  reply  the  satisfied  ex- 
pression of  her  face  changed:  an  unpleasant  discovery  had  been  made. 
"I  have  shoes  on  that  are  not  mates,"  she  exclaimed — "doth  and 
leather :  that  looks  rather  queer,  doesn't  it?  Do  you  think  it  will  be 
noticed  ?  I  could  not  decide  which  pair  to  wear,  and  put  on  one  of  each 
to  see  the  effect :  afterward  I  forgot  them.  Now,  I  suppose  that  would 
be  thought  eccentric,  though  any  one  might  make  the  same  mistake.  It 
shows  I  have  two  pairs  of  shoes,"  she  added  more  cheerfully,  **  and  they 
are  both  black.     How  is  my  bonnet  ? " 

The  bonnet  was  black  velvet,  and  we  were  in  midsummer.  The  mi^ 
terial,  however,  was  skilfully  draped  with  a  veil,  and  a  profusion  of  pink 
flowers  gave  it  a  seasonable  air.  A  crimson  bow  was  also  tied  at  her 
neck ;  me  complacently  remarked  that  ''  pink  and  crimson  harmonize 
beautifully ;"  and  others  of  the  party  arriving  at  that  moment,  I  was 
saved  the  trouble  of  making  a  polite  answer. 

The  ride  through  ripening  grain-fields  and  moss-thatched  hamlets 
need  not  be  described ;  suffice  it  to  say,  it  was  France  and  June.  An 
omnibus  was  waiting  at  the  station  where  we  dismounted :  it  carried 
us  near,  but  not  to,  our  destination.  After  leaving  it  we  walked 
through  the  streets  of  a  low-roofed  village,  then  followed  a  path  bor- 
dered with  wild  mignonette  and  apple  trees  that  wound  up  the  side  of 
a  hill  covered  with  vineyards.  A  couple  of  chattering  magpies  ran  be- 
fore us,  an  invisible  cuckoo  was  heard  between  snatches  of  Italian  mel- 
ody warbled  by  the  tenor  sotto  voce,  and  the  little  company  overflowed 
with  gayety. 

The  house  we  arrived  at  looked  as  if  it  might  be  a  castle  in  the  air 
materialized — pointed  windows  hidden  in  ivy,  through  which  you  saw 
the  chintz-covered  walls  of  the  interior ;  turrets  on  the  roof  and  a  stair- 
tower  j  odd  nooks  for  pigeons  and  cattle  ;  the  colour  a  weather-toned 
red,  met  by  gray  roofs,  green  trees  and  blue  sky.  We  passed  through 
it  to  the  quaint  warden :  rows  of  dwarf  pears  bordered  its  paths,  and 
trellises  and  waUs  supported  nectarines  and  vines,  with  sunshine  and 
shadow  caressing  the  half-ripe  fruit. 


372  A  FEW  HOUBS  IN  BOHEMIA. 

The  shady  spaces  were  occupied  by  guests  who  had  arriyed  before  vs, 
and  we  saw  with  pleasure  that  ceremony  had  not  been  invited  to  attend. 
The  host's  kindly  manner  was  sufficient  to  put  the  company  at  once  at 
ease.  We  wandered  at  will  from  group  to  group,  listening  or  convers- 
ing :  introductions  were  sometimes  given,  but  more  often  not. 

At  one  table  some  ladies  and  ^ntlemen  were  playing  the  artiMic 
gone  of  "  five  points."  A  more  difficult  pastime  was  never  invented. 
The  materials  necessary  are  simply  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil :  it  is 
their  use  that  is  extraordinary.  A  person  puts  five  dots  on  the  pi^)er 
in  whatever  position  fancy  may  dictate  :  on  this  slight  foundation  an- 
other is  expected  to  design  a  figure,  the  puzzle  .being  to  include  all  the 
marks  given.  One  that  I  saw  had  four  of  the  dots  placed  unusually 
close  together,  and  the  fifth  in  a  distant  comer :  tins  latter,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  lookers-on,  would  surely  prove  refiractory.  After  some 
moments  of  consideration,  with  pencil  suspended  and  eye  attentive,  the 
artist  commenced  drawing.  In  ten  minutes  the  sketch  was  finished.  It 
was  an  angel :  her  upturned  head  took  in  the  highest  of  the  group  of 
dots ;  one  hand  hanging  by  her  side  the  next ;  a  knee  ibe  thiitl ;  and 
the  flowing  hem  of  her  robe  the  fourth ;  but  the  fifth  in  the  comer — 
what  could  reach  it  ?  With  a  touch  of  the  pencil  the  angel's  other  hand 
appeared  flin^g  up  a  censer  attached  to  a  long  chain,  which  strack  the 
soUtary  dot  like  a  shot  amid  acclamations.  To  show  that  he  dkl  not 
consider  the  feat  a  Umr  deforce^  the  artist  turned  the  paper,  and  taking 
the  same  marks  drew  a  devil  in  an  entirely  diffidrent  attitude,  the  diffi- 
cult point  being  reached  by  his  pitchfork.  This  gave  rise  to  a  learned 
discussion  as  to  whether  the  devil's  emblematic  pitchfork  was  not  a  de- 
scendant of  Neptune's  trident,  which  I  did  not  stay  to  hear,  as  Afra 

whispered  she  wanted  to  present  me  to  Monsieur  0 ^  and  I  was 

taken  to  a  gentleman  of  no  great  height,  but  of  such  wondrous  width 
that  Nature  must  have  formed  him  in  a  most  generous  mood. 

"Ton  are  English  1"  said  this  wide  man  to  me  as  I  was  introduced, 
and  without  waiting  for  a  reply  went  on  :  '*  I  like  your  country-people : 
they  admire  frankly.  Show  them  a  picture,  they  exclaim,  'BeautiM ! 
magnificent  1  lovely  I  exquisite!  name  your  price;'  and  they  buy  it 
Here  the  public  look  and  look.  *  Not  bad,'  they  say, '  but  the  colour  is 
from  Yeronese,  and  that  attitude  is  surely  Eaphael'a  What  a  mine 
that  man's  genius  has  been  to  ambitious  but  less  gifted  artists  I'  and  so 
they  ^0  on.  I  wish  they  would  let  the  dead  rest  in  peace.  Are  yon 
acquainted  with  Mr.  B         %** 

1  was  obliged  to  say  "  No." 

« I  wish  to  send  a  message  to  him,"  he  continued  grandly :  ''  tell  him 
that  I  paint  now  for  him  alone." 

**  You  are  court-painter  to  Mr.  B-— — ,"  I  remarked  laughingly. 

''Don't  speak  of  courts,"  he  exclaimed  pettishly.  ''I  was  to  have 
painted  the  baptism  of  the  prince  imperial  for  the  state :  it  gave  me  na 
end  of  anno3rance,  and  in  the  end  was  never  finished." 

''  I  understood  that  you  insisted  on  painting  the  little  prince  nude, 
aft^r  the  Bubens  manner,  and  that  was  one  ground  of  objection  to  the 
design,"  said  Afra. 

''The  baby  would  have  had  on  plenty  of  clothes :   one  of  his  dresses 

was  sent  from  the  Tuileries  for  Monsieur  0 to  painty  and  I  sewed  a 

rosette  on  it  myself."    This  from  the  painter's  wife 


A  FEW  HOURS  IN  BOHBMIA.  373 

**  A  countmnan  of  yoars  sat  for  the  head  of  a  young  priest  at  the 
ceremony.  He  had  a  fine  countenance :  he  was  studying  art  with  me 
at  the  time,  and  has  since  been  professor  of  drawing  at  your  Naval 
Academy.     Teaching  is  a  sad  trade — Pagasns  dragging  the  plough.'' 

"  At  least,  your  other  great  picture  brought  you  nothing  but  praise." 

**  The  public  have  since  repented  of  being  so  good  to  me.  Then, 
they  could  not  say  enough  in  my  favour  :  now,  if  a  person  asks  what  I 

am  doing,  every  one  repeats  like  a  parrot,  *  C- doesn't  paint,  C 

doesn't  paint'     I  have  heard  it  so  often  that  I  begin  to  believe  it 

myself,  and  when  I  am  asked  join  the  general  cry,   '  C doesn't 

paint' " 

I  laughed,  thinking  this  a  joke,  but  I  soon  found  that  though  C — -*- 
might  be  cynical,  sarcastic  or  bitter,  though  he  might  excite  uninten- 
tional laughter  by  his  remarks,  he  was  too  sensitive  a  man  to  take  any 
but  a  serious  view  of  life.  The  imperfections  of  the  world  excited  his 
disgust,  his  anger,  never  his  mirth. 

''  Ah  but,  monsieur,"  said  Afra,  ''  you  should  be  satisfied,  and  leave 
some  little  honour  for  the  rest  of  us  to  gather.  The  stories  one  hears 
of  your  youth  are  like  fairy-tales." 

"  And  they  are  true,"  replied  the  artist  with  evident  enjoyment  "  In 
those  days  I  was  pointed  out  to  people  when  I  walked  the  street ; 
which,  by  the  way,  gave  rise  to  an  odd  incident  A  gentleman  thought 
he  had  seen  me  in  a  crowd,  but  he  had  taken  an  older  and  taller  man 
for  the  great  painter.  He  believed  big  pictures  were  painted  by  big 
men,  and  I  had  not  then  my  present  circumference.  This  gentleman 
sent  me  an  invitation  to  dice  with  him.  On  the  day  appointed  I  ar- 
rived at  the  house,  and  was  met  at  the  door  by  my  host,  a  look  of  sur- 
prise and  annoyance  on  his  face  which  he  tried  to  conceal  by  a  low  bow^ 
at  the  same  time  asking  politely,  *  How  is  your  father  1 ' — *  Very  well, 
thank  you,'  I  returned,  although  I  could  not  understand  why  my  father's 
health  should  be  a  matter  of  interest  to  him. — *  You  have  come  to  tell 
me  of  some  catastrophe  which  prevents  his  attendance  here  to-day  ? ' — 
*  Not  at  all :  I  have  come  to  dine  with  you,  according  to  this  invitation.' 
Here  I  pulled  out  the  card,  which  I  happened  to  have  in  my  pocket — 
'Are  you  the  person  here  addressed  ?"  he  said,  staring  at  me. — *  I  am.' 
'  I  beg  your  pardon,  there  is  a  mistake :  I  meant  it  for  your  father, 
the  painter  of  the  ^*  Decadence  des  Remains." ' — '  I  am  the  painter  of  the 
"  Decadence,"  but  I  am  not  my  father.' — *  You  ought  to  be  an  older 
man.' — 'I  should  have  been,  monsieur,  had  I  been  born  sooner.' — At 
that  moment  a  friend,  overhearing  the  conversation  and  divining  the 
cause,  came  and  explained  to  my  wonder-struck  host  that  I  was  really 
the  artist  in  question.  With  many  i^logies  I  was  led  into  a  hall 
adorned  with  floral  arches  in  my  honour,  next  to  a  beautiful  salon,  like^ 
wise  decorated,  and  finally  we  reached  the  dining-room,  which  was  ar- 
ranged to  represent  my  picture.  Columns  wreathed  with  flowers  sup- 
ported the  roof;  flowers  festooned  the  white  table-linen  and  adorned  the 
antique  vessels  that  covered  it ;  couches  of  different  coloured  silk  were 
laid  after  the  Roman  fashion  for  the  guests  to  recline  upon ;  and  lovely 
women  dressed  in  costly  Roman  costumes,  their  heacfs  crowned  with 
flowers,  were  placed  in  the  attitudes  that  you  will  see  on  my  celebrated 
canvas.     Was  it  not  a  graceful  tribute  to  my  genius  t " 

*'  K  a  Frenchman  wants  to  pay  a  compliment,  he  never  uses  one  that 
7 


374  A  FEW  HOURS  IN  BOHEMIA. 

has  done  duty  before,  but  invents  something  new/'  said  Afra  emphati- 
cally. 

"  What  are  you  painting  now,  monsieur  ? "  I  asked. 

"  A  series  of  pictures  called  *  Pierrot  the  Clown.'  He  succeeds  in 
tricking  the  world  in  every  station  of  life.  I  am  just  finishing  his  death- 
bed. All  his  friends  are  weeping  about  him  :  the  doctor  feels  his  pulse  H 
and  gives  some  learned  name  to  the  disease — doctors  know  so  much — 
while  hidden  everywhere  around  the  room  are  empty  bottles.  The 
drunken  clown  plays  with  even  death  for  a  mask." 

'*I  thought  he  painted  such  romantic  pictures,"  said  I  to  Afra  as  we 
turned  from  the  master. 

"  So  he  does  :  there  is  one  in  his  studio  now.  A  girl  clad  in  gray 
and  shadow — open-air  shade  which  in  his  hands  is  so  clear  and  luminous. 
She  walks  along  a  garden-path,  her  head  bent  down,  dreaming  as  she 
goes,  and  unconsciously  nearing  a  half-open  gateway,  through  which  the 
the  sunshine  is  streaming.  Above  the  rustic  gate  two  doves  are  billing 
and  cooing.  You  feel  sure  the  girl  is  about  to  pass  through  this  typical, 
sunshiny,  invitingly  half-open  door ;  and — what  is  beyond  V*    • 

Just  then  we  were  called  to  lunch,  a  plentiful  but  not  luxurious  re- 
past. There  was  no  lack  of  lively  repartees  and  anecdotes,  and  we  had 
speeches  and  songs  afterward.  I  wonder  if  1  ever  heard  "  'Tis  better  to 
lau^h  than  be  sighing"  given  with  more  zest  than  on  that  day  ?  One 
comd  easily  imagine  that  it  was  such  an  occasion  as  this  that  had  in- 
spired it. 

Lunch  being  over,  IVlonsieur  C was  asked  to  relate  one  of  his  own 

stories.  I  cannot  give  it  entire,  but  the  plot  was  this  :  A  pilgrim,  whom 
he  called  poor  Jacques,  hearing  much  of  heaven,  set  out  to  find  his  way 
to  the  blessed  abode,  with  only  a  little  dog  to  accompany  him  on  the 
journey.  As  he  went  he  met  many  of  his  contemporaries,  who  had  made 
what  a  walker  would  style  but  poor  time.  The  allusions  to  well-known 
peculiarities  in  the  various  people  and  their  occupation  in  the  other  life 
caused  much  amusement  For  instance,  Ingres,  the  painter,  was  seated 
by  the  roadside  playing  Rossini's  music  on  the  violin,  on  which  instru- 
ment he  was  a  great  proficient.  But  he  was  known  to  detest  the  Italian's 
music  before  he  started  heavenward  :  his  taste  must  then  have  grown 
en  route.  (Critics  might  object  to  this  supposition.)  However,  Jacques 
was  anxious  to  push  on,  and  spent  little  time  listening.  But  he  was  a 
good-hearted  man,  and,  though  he  would  not  delay  for  his  own  amuse- 
ment, he  could  not  refuse  to  stop  when  fellow-pilgrims  asked  him  for  as- 
sistance. Little  children  were  continually  straying  from  the  path,  and 
without  Jacques  and  his  little  dog  would  inevitably  have  been  lost. 
Feeble  old  people  were  standing  looking  with  despair  at  some  obstacle 
that  without  Jacques's  friendly  arm  they  would  have  found  it  im- 
possible to  pass.  Young  men  who  never  looked  where  they  were  walk- 
ing were  continually  calling  on  him  for  a  hand  to  help  them  out  of  the 
ditch  where  they  had  fallen ;  and  young  girls — ^well,  one  would  suppose 
they  had  never  been  given  feet  of  their  own  to  walk  with,  from  the 
trouble  they  were  to  poor  Jacques.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that  when  all 
these  good  people  were  well  over  the  worst  of  their  troubles  they  called 
Jacques  a  simpleton  for  his  pains,  and  refused  to  have  any  intercourse 
with  him,  giving  him  the  worst  side  of  the  road  and  laughing  at  his  old- 
fashioned  staff  and  scrip,  and  even  at  his  little  dog,  to  which  they  gave 


' 


A  FEW  HOURS  IN  BOHEMU.  375 

many  a  sly  kick.  Nor  was  it  any  wonder,  for  there  were  many  in  the 
company  robed*  in  silk,  wearing  precious  stones  and  with  well  filled  wal- 
lets by  their  sides.  Jacques  was  but  human,  and  often  he  wished  he  had 
never  set  out  for  heaven  at  all  in  such  company  ;  but  even  in  their  bit- 
terest moods  neither  Jacques  nor  the  little  dog  could  ever  hear  a  cry  of 
distress  without  forgetting  all  unkindness  and  rushing  at  once  to  the 
rescue. 

The89  labours  exhausted  Jacques's  strength  ;  the  little  dog,  too,  was 
worn  to  a  shadow^  and  so  timid  from  ill-treatment  that  it  was  only  when 
some  great  occasion  called  out  his  mettle  that  you  saw  what  a  noble  little 
dog-heart  he  had.  He  did  his  best  to  comfort  his  master,  but  when 
Jacques's  sandals  were  worn  out  and  his  cloak  in  rags,  and  when  he 
looked  forward  and  saw  nothing  yet  of  the  holy  city  in  view,  though  he 
still  tried  to  go  forward.  Nature  gave  way :  he  sank  to  the  ground,  and 
the  little  dog  licked  his  hands  in  vain  to  awaken  him. 

There  is  a  band  of  angels  who  each  night  descend  the  holy  mount 
whereon  is  built  the  city,  in  search  of  such  pilgrims  as  have  failed 
through  fatigue  to  reach  the  gate.  They  are  clothed  in  robes  woven  of 
good  deeds,  which  never  lose  their  lustre,  for  they  are  renewed  every 
day.  It  was  this  company  which  found  Jacques  in  his  swoon  by  the  road- 
sida  One  gently  touched  his  tired  body,  and  more  than  the  vigour  of 
youth  leapt  through  his  veins.  Another  whispered  ^'  Come,"  and  he 
arose  and  walked  with  them.  As  he  moved  on  with  eyes  abashed, 
thinking  of  the  rents  in  his  garments  and  regretting  their  poverty,  he 
noticed  that  they  were  toot^hanged,  and  were  as  bright  as  those  of  his 
companions.  <*  Who  has  done  this ) ''  he  said,  venturing  to  address  the 
one  that  walked  at  his  right  hand.  *^  You  wore  them  always,"  he  an- 
swered with  an  angelic  smile,  **  but  it  is  this  light  which  shows  their 
beauty ; ''  and  he  pointed  to  that  which  streamed  from  the  celestial 
walls. 

There  was  much  applause.  I  saw  Afra  wipe  a  tear  from  her  eye ;  only,  a 
thin-faced  individual  who  sat  near  me  whispered  that  it  was  too  long. 
The  delicacy  and  pathos  of  expression  and  language  it  is  impossible  to 
give,  and,  though  old  in  form,  the  story  was  skillfully  new  in  incident ; 
nor  must  I  forget  that  the  little  dog  clipped  through  the  eternal  gate 
with  his  master.  Some  one  asked  the  troubadour  why  he  did  not  write 
it  out.  He  shook  his  head  and  threw  up  his  hands  as  he  replied,  **  I 
wrote  one  book,  and  gave  it  to  a  literary  man  for  correction.  You 
should  have  seen  the  manuscript  when  he  sent  it  home  :  not  a  pt^e  but 
was  scarred  and  cut.  He  called  that  'style.'  Now,  what  did  I  want 
with  style )    I  wanted  to  write  as  I  talked." 

"  Certainly,"  said  one.    "  What  did  you  do  ? " 

"  I  quickly  put  Monsieur  le  E^acteur's  style  out  of  my  book :  then 
I  published  it.  Greorge  Sand  promised  to  write  the  prefistce,  but  some 
busybody  told  her  that  I  was  attacking  the  whole  world,  so  she  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  was  misled :  I  blamed  nothing  in  my 
book  but  what  deserved  censure." 

Having  heard  this  excellent  representation  of  the  ancient  minstrel,  we 
were  shortly  given  a  touch  of  the  modem  usurper  of  the  name.  A 
gentleman  was  present  who  in  the  many  turns  of  Fortune's  wheel  had 
once  found  himself  a  follower  of  the  burnt-cork  persuasion.  He  gave  us 
a  n^o  melody  with  a  lively  accompaniment  on  the  guitar.    A  melan- 


376  THE  HIRELING  SCHOOLMASTER. 

choly  Spanish  song  followed.  The  company  again  dispersed  into  con- 
genial groups,  and  in  the  long  twilight  you  heard  the  mnrmur  of  voices 
broken  by  occasional  snatches  of  melody  or  the  nightingale's  song. 

•  "  And  what  do  you  think  of  Bohemia  ? "  asked  Afra  as  we  returned 
that  night. 

"It  was  different  from  what  I  expected.  They  are  refined,  and, 
though  irank,  never  rude.     1  think — " 

Afra  laughed :  "  You  had  unconsciously  thought  them  a  set  of  sharpers ; 
but  there  is  a  great  difference  between  living  Dy  your  brains  and  living 
by  your  wits.  My  dear,  you  have  broken  bread  with  giants  to-day : 
such  men  live  in  another  world  that  they  may  rule  this  one." 

Ita. 


THE  HIRELING  SCHOOLMASTER. 

BY  THE  REV.   JOHN  MAY,  M.  A. 

The  Human  Family  has  always  been  torn  by  internal  dissensions. 
Nations,  tribes,  families,  fall  out  and  fight.  This  unhappy  world  is  a 
bear-garden.  It  is  one  continued  scene  of  national,  social,  political,  re- 
ligious, and  scientific  warfare.  In  the  midst  of  the  din  and  dust,  the 
clank  and  clangour  of  the  serried  hosts  of  bWle,  then,  is  it  not  refresh- 
ing to  see  that  there  is  at  least  one  subject  on  which  men  agree ;  one 
foe  against  which  every  sword  is  unsheathed  )  That  foe  is  ignorance. 
The  consensus  of  opinion  in  modem  times  on  the  question  of  Popular 
Education  is  simply  marvellous,  when  we  consider  the  utter  want  of 
harmony  that  prevails  so  generally  elsewhere.  Nor  is  this  unanimity  of 
thought  confined  to  civilized  or  Christian  peoples.  Ontario  won  laurels 
at  Philadelphia  for  her  school  system ;  but  so  did  Japan.  True,  a 
thinker  here  and  there  may  shake  his  head  in  doubt,  or  even  lift  his 
voice  in  opposition  ;  but,  so  firm  a  hold  has  the  idea  of  universal  educa- 
tion taken  of  the  human  mind,  that  no  sane  candidate  for  the  suffrages 
of  the  people  can  anywhere  be  found  so  fool-hardy  as  to  pronounce 
against  it.  Nor  can  there  be  any  reasonable  doubt  that  here  at  least 
voxpoptdi  is  vox  dei.  That  the  simultaneous  development  of  man  in  his 
moral,  physical,  and  intellectual  natures  is  the  true  lever  of  his  elevation, 
may  now  be  said  to  have  fairly  passed  beyond  the  region  of  contro- 
versy. 

This  is  matter  of  mutual  congratulation.  Ignorance  is  a  foeman 
worthy  of  our  steel ;  and  it  is  a  cheering  sight  to  behold  the  armed  battal- 
Hons  of  the  day  unitedly  arrayed  against  him.  But,  although  the  prize 
is  priceless  and  the  victory  sure,  yet  the  warfare  is  costly.  In  our  own 
country,  education  costs  the  people  an  immense  sum  of  money  every 
year.  On  the  whole,  this  money  is  paid  with  wonderful  cheerfulness ;  al- 
beit in  the  rural  parts  a  certain  amount  of  grumbling  may  from  time  to 
time  be  heard  concerning  the  increased  and  increasing  expenditure.  Is 
there  any  just  cause  of  dissatisfaction  on  the  part  of  tiie  rate-payer )  I 
believe  that  in  most  instances  there  is  not.     The  rate-payer  receives  ten- 


THE  HIBEUKG  SCHOOLMASTER,  377 

fold  value  for  his  money.  This  is  the  rule;  just  as  ample  accommodatioa 
and  efficient  teaching  are  now  the  rule,  and  not  the  exception.  But, 
alas  !  there  are  exceptions ;  and  the  object  of  this  paper  is,  to  briefly 
deal  with  them,  and  suggest  a  means  .of  their  swift  and  effectual  re 
movaL  And  T  trust  that  the  subject  may  commend  itself  to  public  con- 
sideration in  viow  of  its  extreme  practical  importance.  For,  just  as  no 
money  consideration  can  ever  adequately  represent  the  value  of  faithful, 
efficient  instruction ;  so  must  it  also  fail  as  a  measure  of  the  evil  done, 
the  injury  inflicted  by  the  opposite  of  this. 

For  an  infant  people,  we  are  justly  proud  of  our  school  system.  No 
expense,  no  pains  have  been  spared  in  the  erection  of  the  stately  edifice. 
Strong  are  its  foundations ;  lordly  its  pillared  aisles  and  lofty  domes ; 
exquisite  its  polish.  A  true  master-buuder  laid  its  comer  stone ;  and 
another  able  workman  is  finishing  the  edifice  with  "  shoutings"  of  praise. 
The  first  legislative  wisdom  in  the  land ;  the  choicest  administrative 
ability,  have  been  put  under  tribute.  Funds  without  stint  have  been 
supplied  for  its  needs.  The  workmen  on  its  walls  have  been  cheered  by 
the  plaudits  of  the  multitude.  The  face  of  the  country  has  been  lined 
as  a  chess-board  to  facilitate  the  work.  Thousands  of  school  sections, 
wards  and  districts ;  a  legion  of  Trustees,  Teachers,  Examiners,  In- 
spectors ;  books,  pamphlets,  papers,  reports ;  all  manner  of  aids  and  ap- 
pliances are  brought  into  requisition,  in  order  that  our  youth  of  both 
sexes  may  gain  a  sound,  useful,  practical  training  for  their  several 
callings  in  life ;  or  be  enabled  to  mount  the  ladder  of  knowledge  from 
the  little  school  in  the  woods  to  the  University  itself.  WUl  it  be 
<;redited  that  the  power  to  frustrate  and  render  nugatory  all  this  para- 
phernalia of  educational  enterprise,  to  reduce  the  actual  harvest  of  all 
this  machinery  and  exertion  to  nil  is  still  suffered  to  reside  in  a  single 
one  of  all  these  agencies ;  the  success  of  all  the  others  being  absolutely 
dependent  on  his  will  t  Incredible !  but  so  it  is.  The  very  life  of  the 
school  system  dwells  in  the  Scoolmaster.  He  is  its  heart.  When  this 
organ  is  healthy  and  vigorous,  growth  and  beauty  are  diffused  through- 
out ;  when  it  ceases  to  beat  or  is  embedded  in  the  "  fatty  degeneration  " 
of  sloth  or  indifference,  what  can  follow  but  decay  or  death  ?  And,  in 
not  a  few  sections,  this  school-death  reigns  undisturbed.  The  School- 
master holds  the  key  of  success.  He  shuts  or  opens ;  binds  or  looses, 
at  pleasure.  He  is  the  Arbiter  of  educational  destiny.  He  is  the  main 
pillar  of  the  tea|^le ;  and  woe  to  the  building  when  he  is  untrustworthy  I 
On  him  rests  a  responsibility  not  elsewhere  surpassed.  In  him  resides 
a  power ;  in  him  is  vested  a  trust  ,far-reaching,  sacred  !  And  yet,  in 
every  County  in  the  Province  may  be  found  teachers  who  are  utterly 
insensible  of  this  responsibility,  utterly  recreant  to  this  trust.  Prac- 
tically unassailable,  the  hireling  defies  every  criticism,  and  smiles  at 
every  futile  assault.  In  vain  may  Legislatures  deliberate ;  ministers 
issue  manifestoes  ;  Inspectors  scrutinize  and  condemn  ;  ^*  Central  Com- 
mittees "  elevate  the  **  standard  "  to  the  "  plucking  "  point ;  Trustees 
remonstrate;  taxpayers  growl  and  grumble;  the  hireling  teacher  frus- 
trates, defies,  laughs  at  them  all  !  And  little  he'll  reck  if  they  let  him 
■sleep  on  in  the  place  where  the  School-law  has  laid  him, 

In  cmy  human  being  sloth  is  a  vice, — in  the  teacher  it  is  a  crime. 
What  would  be  thought  of  the  engineer  who,  through  sheer  indifference 
to  the  welfare  of  the  human  freight  aboard,  should  let  the  motive  fire 


378  THE  HIRELING  SCHOOLMASTEB, 

die  out,  or  barely  maintain  a  flickering  existence  ?  Would  he  not  be 
"  sacked  "  at  the  nearest  port  ?  Now,  the  school  is  a  ship  freighted  with 
young  immortals ;  its  cargo  is  in  value  far  above  rubies  ;  its  engineer  is 
the  schoolmaster ;  speed  is  ess^tial,  for  life  is  short ;  the  master  slum- 
bers ;  the  fires  die  out ;  the  vessel  rolls  idly  about,  and  the  passengers 
kill  time  as  best  they  may.  Failure  as  a  teacher  is  either  manslaughter 
or  murder.  Inefficiency  arising  from  sheer  incapacity,  should  it  be  the 
first  offence,  may  be  styled  simple  homicide ;  if  repeated  under  new  en 
gagements  it  becomes  manslaughter  in  the  first  degree.  The  culpability 
consists  in  the  repetition  of  the  offence,  for  the  manifest  reason  that  on 
account  of  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  vocation,  no  person  can  know  for  a 
certainty  in  advance  of  actual  experiment,  whether  he  is  about  to  prove 
a  failure  or  a  success.  Up  to  this  point  he  is  blameless  ;  but  experiment 
having  once  demonstrated  his  incapacity,  a  second  attempt  without  at 
least  additional  training,  would  seem  to  savour  of  trifling  with  grave  re- 
sponsibilities and  solemn  interests  ;  and  would  thus,  if  wanting  in  suc- 
cess, involve  a  degree  of  clear  culpability.  And  it  is  precisely  here,  in 
its  incipient  form,  that  incapacity  should  be  met  and,  if  possible,  removed 
from  the  arena  of  mischief  before  the  youthful  mind  and  character  have 
been  hopelessly  devastated  by  its  baneful  influence.  Nothing  will  jus- 
tify reiterated  failure.  The  juvenile  mind  is  not  a  legitimate  sphere  for 
amateur  experiment  in  the  noble  art  of  teaching.  Let  the  teacher's  other 
qualifications  be  what  they  may,  if  life,  zeal,  earnestness  is  wanting,  aU 
is  wanting.  No  amount  of  learning  will  have  the  faintest  tendency  to 
compensate  for  the  lack  of  these.  Devoid  of  them  the  work  done  is  a 
soulless  corpse. 

And  yet  the  warmest  zeal,  the  most  untiring  industry  may  fail  of  suc- 
cess. Preceptor  nascttur  ;  non  Jit  Teaching  is  an  art  The  best  part 
of  it  is  an  inspiration,  an  instinct.  No  Normal  or  Model  School  can  im- 
part this  afflatus,  any  more  than  a  Mozart  or  a  Beethoven  could  create 
an  "  ear  for  music."  The  non-musical  may,  by  dint  of  practice,  learn  to 
play  on  an  instrument,  but  the  playing  is  always  coldly  mechanical ;  so, 
too,  may  the  Normal  School  rules  be  appropriated  by  one  whose  native 
inaptitude  for  teaching  can  never  be  removed.  I  have  known  very 
zealous  teachers,  in  a  few  instances,  fall  lamentably  short  of  success. 
The  careless  rmist  fail ;  the  zealous  may.  In  both  cases,  duty  to  them- 
selves as  well  as  duty  to  a  suffering  public,  demands  retirement  from  the 
profession.  # 

We  feel  sympathy,  not  indignation,  towards  the  teacher  who  does  his 
best  in  vain.  We  pity  incapacity  ;  we  loathe  unprincipled  dereliction 
of  duty.  When  failure  springs  from  pure  indolence  or  sheer  indifference,, 
words  fail  to  characterize  the  fault  as  it  deserves.  The  lazy  teacher  is 
a  downright  criminal ;  a  living,  bare-faced  fraud ;  a  salaried  calamity. 
In  the  first  place  he  obtains  money  under  false  pretences.  Is  this  the 
extent  of  hia  criminality  ?  By  no  means.  His  salary,  a  dead  loss  to  the 
section,  forms  but  a  single  item  in  the  school  disasters  of  the  year,  and 
it  is  not  the  principal  item.  Think  of  the  time  far  worse  than  wasted  in 
that  school  of  forty  or  fifty  children, — precious  weeks  and  months  gone 
never  to  return,  at  a  period  of  life,  too,  when  every  hour  is  gold.  The 
true  seed-time  is  lost  for  ever.  Nor  is  this  all.  Money  squandered ^ 
time  lost,  what  next  1  Habits  of  idleness  or  trifling  contracted.  Think 
of  the  demoralizing  influence  of  bad  example  daily  brought  to  bew  on 


/ 


THE  HIRELING  SCHOOIJCASTER.  79 

the  plastic,  imitative  mind  of  y^uth.  From  the  person  and  character  of 
the  teacher  flows  forth  a  ceaseless  stream  of  unseen  mystic  power,  mould- 
ing the  youthful  character  for  better  or  for  worse.  Mere  inaction  does 
not  arrest  the  process.  The  teacher  who  tries  to  kill  weary  time  by 
whittling  a  stick,  is  silently  but  surely  whittling  out  of  his  pupils  any 
habits  of  industry  they  may  have  acquired.  Tt  is  difficult  to  expose  in 
words  the  deep,  farreaching  effects  of  an  influence  so  malign.  Banish  it 
from  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  schoolroom !  Make  the  teacher  a  pre- 
sent of  his  year's  salary  the  first  morning  of  the  year,  and  let  him  ffo. 
Do  anything,  everything,  but  allow  an  indolent  master  for  a  single  day 
to  shed  his  baleful  influence  around  your  children.  Were  it  possible  for 
such  a  one  to  leave  the  school  where  he  found  it, — no  better,  no  worse, 
— he  would  be  comparatively  blameless  :  but  it  is  not  so.  The  unfaith- 
ful teacher  not  only  adds  nothing  to  the  work  already  done,  but  mars, 
disfigures,  and  in  part  destroys  it.  To  habits  of  industry,  order,  neatness 
in  the  pupil,  succeed  those  of  idleness,  confusion,  and  slovenliness, — 
habits  at  best  slow  of  removal,  and  which  may  adhere  to  the  character 
while  life  endures.  In  a  word,  when  we  consider  the  mighty  influence 
of  example,  and  especially  the  teacher's  example— his  demeanor,  personal 
appearance,  morals — on  the  minds  of  those  committed  to  his  charge,  it 
is  simply  impossible  to  calculate  his  power  for  good  or  for  eviL 

And  now  for  the  remedy.  Is  there  none  ?  Can  it  be  possible  that  law 
and  regulation  are  both  silent  on  so  grave  a  matter  as  this  %  Will  it  be 
believed  that  the  unprincipled  hireling  can,  in  the  name  of  a  noble  calling, 
with  absolute  impunity  continue  to  rob  school  sections  and  devastate 
youthful  character  ?  If  I  am  not  mistaken  he  can.  Now,  if  this  be  the 
true  state  of  the  case — if  it  is  a  &ct  that  no  remedy  is  provided  for  an 
evil  which,  if  universal,  would  suffice  to  stifle  education  everywhere,  and 
which  bein^,  as  it  is,  not  uncommon,  actually  does  paralyze  only  too 
many  schools  in  the  rural  districts  annually, — then  surely  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  the  defect  is  a  serious,  a  fundamental  one  ;  a  substan- 
tial grievance  crying  aloud  for  earnest  consideration  and  swift  redress. 
Long  and  earnestly  had  I  pondered  over  the  matter,  not  without  pain, 
and  almost  a  sense  of  despair.  I  had  asked  myself  many  a  time  on  turn- 
ing my  weary  steps  from  some  school  which  I  had  found  decaying  or 
dead  in  the  hands  of  one  of  these  hirelings, — "  Is  there  no  cure  for  the 
distressing  malady  ?  no  possible  means  of  release  %  no  conceivable  device 
by  which  the  oppressed,  defrauded  ratepayer  may  be  rescued  from  so 
dire  an  injustice  1  no  specific  wherewith  to  purge  the  profession  of  this 
plague  %  Long  time  I  reflected,  but  reflection  only  generated  despair. 
Experience  had  demonstiated  the  fact  that  ability  to  teach  may  co-exist 
with  unwillingness  to  use  this  ability  \  and  that  consequently,  as  regards 
third-class  teachers,  relief  could  not  be  sought  from  the  Examining 
Boards.  It  was  cleai*  that  no  height  of  standard,  no  amount  of  arith- 
metic or  grammar,  must  necessarily  generate  zeal,  dislodge  a  rooted  aver- 
sion to  the  work,  or  exorcise  the  spirit  of  indifference.  It  was  patent 
that  even  a  handsome  salary  might  fail  to  convert  sloth  into  energy,  or 
stimulate  the  sluggard  to  deeds  of  devotion.  Finally  it  was  distressingly 
apparent  that  in  such  cases,  inspection,  continuing  a  daty.  constituted  an 
inspectoral  discomforture.  At  last  one  day  the  light  flashed  in,  and  I 
shouted  "  Eureka ! " 

Before  proceeding  further,  I  must  anticipate  a  possible  objection.   The 


380  THE  HIBEUNO  SCHOOLMASTEK. 

existence  of  the  evil  may  be  admitted*  the  ktck  of  remedy  denied.  It 
may  be  said  that  the  existing  **  Form  of  Agreement "  between  Teacher 
and  Trustees  contains  all  that  is  required  as  a  guarantee  of  faithfulness 
on  the  part  of  the  former,  or  redress  on  that  of  the  latter.  I  deny  this. 
It  is  quite  true  that  the  Teacher  solemnly  binds  himself  to ''  teach  faith* 
fully  ; "  so  far,  so  good.  Now,  suppose  he  should  not  teach  faithfully, 
where  is  the  redress  on  the  part  of  the  Trustees )  Remonstrance  might 
fail ;  threats  pass  unheeded ;  dismissal  would  be  a  dangerous  resource. 
How  could  inefficiency  be  proved  in  a  Court  of  law  1  Many  a  worthless 
pedagogue  may  thank  the /ear  of  conseqtiencea  (or  that  sublime  immunity 
from  molestation  which  he  enjoys  in  the  occupancy  of  his  sinecure. 
There  ore  occupations  in  which  a  single  day's  idleness  would  mean  dis- 
aster to  the  idler.  Teaching  is  not  one  of  them.  There  is  not  the 
least  difficulty  in  holding  office  here,  one  year  at  least,  without  evincing 
more  than  the  very  faintest  semblance  of  exertion.  An  experienced 
hand  especially  knows  how  to  accomplish  this.  Always  at  his  post — 
doing  nothing — who  can  touch  him  ?  Punctuality  and  routine  effectu- 
ally screen  him  from  all  outside  interference.  Is  not  the  mill  always  in 
motion  f  and  who,  assuming  to  weigh  or  measure  the  peculiar  grist, 
could  positively  su)e(Mr  to  the  number  of  bushels ;  Entrenched  in. a  posi- 
tion impregnable  to  legal  batteries,  the  hireling  laughs  at  all  comers. 
Trustees  bewail  their  contract ;  the  taxpayer  growls ;  the  Inspector  con- 
demns-; the  school-desks  are  sparsely  occupied  ;  the  very  hireling  him- 
self sees,  feels,  understands  it  all :  rCvmporte :  there  he  is ;  and  there, 
too,  in  undisturbed  possession  he  will  remain  till  his  term  expires,  when 
he  means  to. seek  for  ''pastures  new."  The  little  bit  of  personal  exer- 
tion involved  in  his  annual  guest  of  a  new  field  of  uselessness,  is  cheer- 
fully incurred,  as  the  very  moderate  purchase  of  another  twelve  months 
otivm  cum  diynitate.  Everybody  knows  how  the  matter  stands ;  but 
who  can  prove  it  ? 

But,  it  may  be  said  that  the  Inspector  may,  and  ought  to  cancel  a 
third-class  certificate  in  cases  such  as  these.  Very  true.  la  it  dans  f 
The  responsibility  is  too  great.  For  absolute  misconduct,  immorality, 
or  crime,  no  Inspector  would  hesitate  an  instant :  not  so,  for  mere  use- 
lessness. He  may  refuse  advance  to  a  higher  class  of  certificate  ;  but  he 
will  hesitate  to  cut  an  engagement  in  twain.  And,  what  common  sense 
might  here  have  anticipated,  experience  has  proved.  In  brief,  the  best 
proof  of  a  want  of  definite,  reasonable  power,  on  the  part  of  both  Trus- 
tees and  Inspector,  to  act  in  such  cases,  must  be  sought  in  the  all  but 
universal  inaction  that  prevails.  How  many  teachers  have  been  cut  off 
in  mid  career  for  inefficiency  ?  and  what  are  their  names )  I  have  never 
known,  I  have  never  heard  of  a  single  instance  of  abrupt  dismissal  for 
this  cause. 

My  sole  object  in  this  paper  is,  first  to  diagnose  a  wide  epread,  mal- 
ignant disorder  ;  and  then  to  prescribe  a  remedy.  The  malady  is  indeed 
chronic  ;  but  the  purgative  will  prove  effectual  It  is  this :  Let  the 
School  Law  be  so  amended  or  supplemented,  that  the  Inspector  and 
Trustees  may  act  conjointly  in  dealing  with  all  cases  of  inefficiency,  in 
a  summary  manner  ;  and  with  perfect  immunity  from  the  risk  of  legal 
prosecution.  Let  them  be  empowered  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  teacher 
at  cmy  time  during  the  period  of  his  engagement  Let  it  be  made  their 
dutAf  to  do  so,  on  receipt  of  a  complaint  of  inefficiency  made  against  the 


THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE.  881 

teacher,  in  writing,  and  signed  by  any  three  ratepayers  of  the  section. 
Let  their  decision  be  final :  and  let  the  power  of  instant  dismissal  vest 
in  the  Trustees,  should  the  decision  of  the  Board  of  Trial  be  adverse  to 
the  teacher,  and  bear  the  signatures  of  the  Inspector  and  two  of  the 
Trustees  at  least.  Finally,  let  it  be  lawful  and  compulsory  for  the  Trus- 
tees to  pay  the  Teacher  in  full  up  to  date  of  dismissal;  and  for  the  In- 
n>ector  to  publish  his  name  as  a  dismissed  teacher,  in  the  SchoolJoumal, 
^ould  his  failure  be  the  result  of  mere  carelessness  or  indifference. 
Some  such  remedy  as  this,  would  prove  as  effectual  as  it  is  desirable  for 
tJie  relief  of  "  the  present  distress." 


THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE. 

BRET  HAUTE. 

It  was  nooif  by  the  sun ;  we  had  finished  our  game 
And  was  passin'  remarks  goin'  back  to  our  claim  ; 
Jones  was  coimtin'  his  chip,  Smith — relieyin'  his  mind 
Of  ideas  that  a  **  straight "  should  beat  *'  three  of  a  kind," 
When  Johnson,  of  Elko,  came  gallopin'  down. 
With  a  look  on  his  face  twixt  a  griu  and  a  frown. 
And  he  calls  **  Drop  your  shovels,  and  face  right  about, 
For  them  Ohinese  trom  Murphy's  are  cleanin'  us  out — 

With  their  ching  a  ring  chow 
And  their  chic  oolorow 
They're  bent  upon  making 
The  jolliest  row." 

Then  Jones — my  own  pardner — looks  up  with  a  sigh, 
"  It's  vour  wash  bill,"  sez  he,  and  I  answers  **  You  lie  ! " 
But  au>re  he  could  draw,  or  the  others  could  arm, 
Up  tumbles  the  Bates'  boys  who  heard  the  alarm. 
And  a  yell  from  the  hill  top,  and  roar  of  a  gonp^. 
Mixed  up  with  remarks  like  **  Hi  !  yi  I  Ohang-a-wong  !  " 
And  bombs,  sheUs,  and  crackers  that  crashed  through  the  trees 
Revealed  in  tHbir  war-togs  four  hundred  Chinees  ! 

Four  hundred  Chinee 
We  are  eight,  don't  ye  see  ! 
That  made  a  square  fifty 
To  just  one  o*  we. 

They  were  dressed  in  their  best,  but  I  grieve  that  the  same 
Was  largely  made  up  of  onr  own,  to  their  shame. 
And  my  pardner's  best  shirt  and  his  trousers  were  hung 
On  a  spear,  and  above  him  were  tauntingly  swung  ; 
While  that  beggar  Cley  Lee,  like  a  conjuror  sat, 
Pullin'  out  eggs  and  chickens  from  Johnson's  best  hat ; 
And  Bate's  game  rooster  was  part  of  their  '*  loot," 
And  all  of  Smith's  pigs  were  skyiegled  to  boot, 
But  the  climax  was  reached  and  I  liked  to  have  died 
When  my  demijohn,  empty,  came  down  the  hillside  ; — 

Down  the  hillside 

What  once  held  the  pride 

Of  Robinson  County  ^ 

Pitched  down  the  hillside  ! 


382  THE   LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE. 

Then  we  axed  for  a  parley.     When  out  of  the  din 
To  the  front  comes  a-rocking  that  heathen,  Ah  Sin  ! 
"  You  owe  flowty  dooUee — we  washee  you  camp, 
You  catohee  my  washee— me  catchee  no  stamp  ; 
Oee  dollar  hap  dozen,  me  no  catchee  yet 
Now  that  flowty  dollee — no  hab  ?  how  can  get  ? 
Me  catchee  your  piggee — me  sellee  for  cash, 
It  catchee  me  licee — you  catchee  no  ""  hash  ; " 
Me  belly  good  Sheliflf — me  lebbe  when  can, 
Me  allee  same  halp  pin  as  Melican  man  ! 

But  Melican  man 
He  washee  him  pan 
On  bottom  side  hiUee 
And  catchee — how  can  ? 

"  Are  we  men  ? "  says  Joe  Johnson,  **  and  list  to  this  jaw 

Without  process  of  warrant,  or  colour  of  law  ? 

Are  we  men  or — a  chew  ! " — here  he  gasped  in  his  speech  ' 

For  a  stink-pot  had  fallen  just  out  of  his  reach. 

"  Shall  we  stand  here  as  idle,  and  let  Asia  pour 

Her  barbaric  hordes  on  this  civilized  shore  ? 

Has  the  White  Man  no  country  ?    Are  we  left  in  the  lurch  ? 

And  likewise  what's  gone  of  the  Established  Church  ? 

One  man  to  four  hundred  is  great  odds,  I  own. 

But  this  yer's  a  White  Man — I  plays  it  alone  !  " 

And  he  sprang  up  the  hillside — to  stop  him  none  dare — 

Till  a  yell  &om  the  top  told  a  "  White  Man  was  there  !  " 

A  White  Man  was  there  ! 
We  prayed  he  might  spare 
Those  misguided  Heathens 
The  few  clothes  they  wear. 

They  fled,  and  he  followed,  but  no  matter  where 
They  fled  to  escape  him,  the  "  White  Man  was  there," 
Till  we  missed  first  his  voice  on  the  pine- wooded  slope 
And  we  knew  for  the  Heathen  henceforth  was  no  hope. 
And  the  yells  they  grew  fainter,  when  Peterson  said 
**  It  simply  was  human  to  bury  his  dead." 

And  then  with  slow  tread  « 

We  crept  up,  in  dread, 
But  found  next  to  nothing 
Alive  there  or  dead. 

But  there  was  his  trail,  and  the  way  that  they  came. 

And  yonder,  no  doubt,  he  was  bagging  his  game. 

When  Jones  drops  his  pick-axe,  and  Thompson  says  "  Shoo  !  *' 

And  both  of  'em  points  to  a  cage  of  bamboo. 

Hanging  down  from  a  tree  with  a  label  that  swung 

Conspicuous,  with  letters  in  some  foreign  tongue. 

Which  when  freely  tianslated,  the  same  did  appear 

Was  the  Chinese  for  saying  :  "  A  White  Man  is  here  !  " 

For  as  we  draw  near 

In  an^er  and  fear, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  Johnson 

Looked  down  with  a  leer  ! 

In  his  mouth  was  an  opium  pipe — which  was  why 
He  leered  at  us  so  with  a  drunken-like  eye  ! 


SOME  FRENCH  NOVELS,  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.  38& 

I 

They  had  shaved  off  his  eyebrows,  and  tacked  on  a  cue, 
They  had  painted' his  face  of  a  coppery  hue, 
And  riggea  him  all  up  in  a  heathenish  suit, 
Then  softly  departed,  each  man  with  his  *'  loot." 

Yes,  every  galoot, 
/  And  Ah  Sin,  to  boot. 

Had  left  him  there  hanging 
Like  ripening  fruit. 

At  a  mass  meeting  held  up  at  Murphy's  next  day. 
There  were  seventeen  speakers,  ana  each  had  his  say  ; 
There  were  twelve  resolutions,  that  instantly  passed, 
And  each  resolution  was  worse  than  the  last ; 
There  were  fourteen  peUtions— which  granting  the  same. 
Will  determine  what  GUjvemor  Murphy's  shall  name. 
And  the  man  &om  our  District — that  goes  up  next  year,. 
Gk>e8  up  on  one  issue  that's  patent  and  clear  ; 

'*  Can  the  work  of  a  mean, 
Degraded,  unclean, 
Behever  in  Buddha 
Be  held  as  a  lien  ? '' 


SOME  FRENCH  NOVELS  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTUKY. 

Horace's  imprecation  against  "  them  who  have  said  our  witty  sapngs 
before  ns  "  may  be  illustrated  by  Person's  undertaking  to  publish  "  Joe 
Miller,**  with  a  commentary  showing  all  the  jests  to  be  derived  from 
ancient  Greek  writers  !  Porson^s  statement  is  8u£3ciently  correct  if  we 
add  the  late  Greek  romances,  the  Eastern  tales,  the  French  and  Italian 
stories  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  various  collections 
of  short  novels  and  romances  which  have  become  the 'common  property 
of  Christendom  are  traceable,  in  very  many  instances,  to  far  older 
sources.  Bandello  and  other  imitators  of  Boccacio  have  taken  the  story 
of  the  thief  who  robbed  the  King's  treasury  from  Herodotus ;  many 
other  tales  in  these  collections  are  from  Arabian  and  Persian  sources. 
These  collections  of  stories  are  those  found  as  the  model  of  the  "  Hep- 
tameron  "  of  Margaret  of  Navarre  represent  the  most  popular  type  of  fic- 
tion up  to  the  seventeenth  century.  They  are  taken  from  every  con- 
ceivable source,  consisting  of  a  series  of  short  stories  strung  round  a 
central  frame- work,  and  although  we  scarce  recognise  them  when  trans- 
figured in  Chaucer  and  Shakspeare,  they  had  a  place  in  the  early  litera- 
ture of  Europe  which  they  alone  could  fill — each  story  being  like  a  skele- 
ton sermon,  to  be  put  into  fuller  words  by  the  reciter.  The  standard  of 
humour  is  low,  realism  of  life  and  character  they  do  not  attempt/neither 
in  structure  of  plot  nor  in  moral  tone  do  any  of  them  rise  above  the 
Golden  Ass  of  Apuleias. 

The  other  types  of  prose-fiction  which  have  appeared  in  Europe  since 
the  decline  of  the  old  romances  of  chivalry  are  still  more  widely  removed 
from  the  modem  realistic  novel.  Such  were  the  philosophic  tales  like 
"  Eutopia  "  and  "Arcadia,"  the  pastoral  novels  and  long  heroic  stories  of 
GomberviUe  and  Madame  Sandeu — one  of  which,  the  "  Polexandre  "  of 


SSii  SOME  FRENCH  NOVELS,  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

Gomberville,  occupies  five  volumes,  each  of  twelve  hundred  pages  ! — 
allegoric  or  ethical  tales  like  the  great  satires  of  Swift  and  Cervantes. 
Le  Sage's  brilliant  romance,  though  it  has  furnished  the  leading  idea 
for  the  plot  of  the  most  realistic  of  our  English  writers,  Smollet  and  his 
greater  contemporary,  is  in  many  of  its  incidents  taken  bodily  from  ear- 
lier Spanish  tales  and  dramas,  and  in  no  way  aims  at  describing  the 
world  of  real  life  as  Le  Sage  knew  it.  The  disgracefully  impure  stories 
of  CrebiUon,  the  younger,  are  a  mere  reproduction  of  the  worst  faults  of 
Boccacio.  It  illustrates  curiously  the  coarseness  tolerated  by  the  taste 
of  the  time  of  King  Greorge  the  Third  to  find  so  estimable  a  clergyman 
and  so  pure  a  poet  as  Gray,  in  one  of  his  letters,  picturing  as  his  ideal  of 
an  earthly  paradise  to  sit  under  a  tree  and  read  perpetual  new  tales  by 
CrebiUon,  Fils  ! 

Voltaire  has  assigned  to  Madame  La  Fayette  the  distinction  of  being 
the  first  to  represent  in  her  novels  ''  the  manners  of  real  men."  But 
"  Zayde  "  and  "  The  Princess  of  Cleves  "  do  not  belong  to  the  modem 
school — they  describe  the  etiquette  and  pomp  of  courts,  and  give  no 
picture  of  the  every-day  Parisian  life  of  the  days  of  the  "Great 
Monarch."  The  "  Life  of  Mary  Anne  '*  of  McmvavXy  and  the  much 
more  able  and  much  better  known  "  Marion  Lescault "  of  the  AhU 
Prevot  take  us  into  the  world  of  real  Kfe,  of  artists  and  students,  citizens 
and  priests  of  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  two  generations 
before  the  great  Revolution. 

The  "  Life  of  Mary  Anne  "  describes  the  adventures  of  an  orphian  girl, 
adopted  and  educated  up  to  her  sixteenth  year  by  the  cur6  of  a  country  ^' 
parish,  and  forced  by  his  death  to  seek  employment  on  the  recommenda- 
tion of  the  curb's  friends  in  Paris.  In  the  house  of  her  employer  she  is 
tempted,  as  was  Richardson's  Pamela,  her  religious  principles  enabling 
her  to  resist.  Returning  from  church  one  day  she  sprains  her  foot  ana 
is  carried  to  the  house  of  a  M.  Velville,  between  whom  and  the  friend- 
less girl  an  honourable  passion  develops.  Mary  Anne  is  still  persecuted 
by  her  employer ;  she  becomes  homeless,  but  obtains  a  refuge  by  the 
kindness  of  a  religious  lady.  Meanwhile  M.  Velville  refuses  to  con- 
tract a  marriage  in  his  own  rank  in  society,  and,  in  a  very  naturally 
written  scene,  his  mother  appeals  to  Mary  Anne's  love  for  him  to  pre- 
vent a  mesalliance  which  would  ruin  his  prospects.  The  moral  tone  of 
the  book  is  very  pure.  Mary  Anne's  character  is  simple  and  womanly, 
but  the  conclusion  is  lame  and  impotent  Madame  VeMUe,  won  ovet 
by  Ma/ry  Anne's  amiability,  consents  to  the  marriage,  and  all  goes  well, 
when  M.  Velville  suddenly  tires  of  his  passion  for  a  peasant  girl  and 
marries  one  of  his  own  rank.  M.  Marivaux  died  in  1763,  he  seems  to 
have  been  a  man  of  simple  character,  very  charitable  and  pious.  Like 
Richardson,  he  had  no  pretensions  to  scholarship ;  like  Richardson, 
whose  novels  resemble  his  in  some  of  the  incidents,  he  was  the  idol  of  a 
small  clique,  and  had  an  overweening  opinion  of  his  own  writings. 

Very  different  were  the  life  and  works  of  the  Abb^  Prevot.  Bom  in 
Artois  in  1697,  he  twice  joined  the  Order  of  the  Jesuits,  and  twice  left 
it  to  engage  in  military  life.  He  seems  to  have  led  a  Bohemian  exis- 
tence at  Paris,  and  to  have  been  familiar  with  its  lowest  scenes  of  dis- 
sipation and  gambling.  Of  this  too  he  became  sated,  and  sought  refuge 
in  one  of  the  most  strictly  ascetic  of  monastic  foundations,  the  Bene- 
dictines of  St.  Maur.     But  scarce  had  he  bound  himself  with  the  "  three- 


SOME  FRENCH   NOVELS,  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.  385 

fold  cord,"  the  irrevocable  vow  of  Poverty,  Chastity,  and  Obedience,  then 
unable  to  bear  their  restraint,  he  forsook  lofi  convent,  and  fled  to  England, 
where  he  supported  himself  by  literature,  his  books  being  successfcdly 
published  in  Paris.  Here  he  formed  a  connection  which  still  further 
estranged  him  from  his  former  ecclesiastical  position.  But  he  had 
powemQ  friends  in  the  French  Church,  and  a  moral  obstacle  such  as 
a  mistress  was  not  so  insuperable  as  a  canonical  obstacle  such  as  a  vnfe. 
The  errant  abb^  was  recalled  and  raised  to  the  position  of  chaplain  and 
high  almoner  to  the  Prince  de  Conti.  Here  for  many  years  he  lived  in 
great  repute,  publishing,  besides  numerous  pamphlets  and  political 
works,  his  novels  which  at  once  gained  the  highest  position,  and  opened 
a  vein  of  literary  material  never  tried  before.  He  seems  to  have  held 
much  the  position  of  Laurence  Sterne,  whose  gross  and  demoralizing 
novels  did  not  hinder  his  being  the  recipient  of  church  preferment  and 
the  pet  of  good  society.  Prevot's  books  have  far  more  depth  of  feeling, 
far  more  true  moral  tone,  than  those  of  the  Anglican  Prebend  of  York- 
minster.  The  worldly  Abb^  met  a  terrible  end:  On  November  23rd, 
1763,  he  was  returning  home  through  the  royal  forest  of  ChantiUy, 
when  falling  down  in  a  sudden  fit,  some  peasants  supposing  him  dead, 
carried  the  body  on  a  bier  to  the  cur^  of  the  nearest  village.  There  be- 
ing no  dead-house,  the  cur6  had  the  body  placed  in  the  church,  when  an 
inquest  was  held,  and  the  body  opened  by  a  surgeon.  At  the  touch  of 
the  knife,  a  cry  came  from  the  unhappy  maA  whom  the  pain  recalled  to 
consciousness,  the  sui^;eon  tried  to  arrest  his  hand,  but  it  was  too  late, 
a  mortal  wound  had  been  inflicted.  In  such  a  dreadful  scene,  the  more 
so  because  it  took  place  in  a  church,  the  Abb^  Prevot,  author^f  '*  Marion 
Lescault,"  breathed  his  last 

''  Marion  Lescault "  is  the  history  of  a  young  man  of  good  family  and 
position,  gifted  with  many  brilliant  and  amiable  qualities,  who  is  led  by 
a  fSettal  and  irresistible  attachment,  into  a  life  of  the  lowest  degradation, 
and  who  to  the  last  throws  away  every  advantage  of  nature  and  fortune 
in  order  to  live  as  a  wretched  outcast,  with  the  worthless  and  selfish 
being  on  whom  he  has  fixed  his  love. 

This  young  man,  when  at  College,  meets  Marion  Lescault,  in  a  stage 
coach,  by  which  she  is  proceeding  to  school.  He  elopes  with  her.  They 
proceed  to  Paris,  where  he  has  funds  enough  to  support  them  for  some 
tdme.  Her  brother  joins  them  and  introduces  the  practice  of  gambling. 
Marian  is  quite  unable  to  bear  with  poverty,  her  extravagant  vanity 
must  have  perpetual  supplies  of  money.  She  procures  her  own  support 
and  that  of  her  lover  and  brother  by  the  most  indiscriminate  coquetry. 
Yet,  while  continually  false  to  him,  she  preserves  for  her  lover  the 
most  ardent  affection.  The  author  paints  in  the  warmest  colours  her 
matchless  beauty  and  grace  and  charming  gayety,  so  that  while  we  read  we 
almost  forget  to  condemn  the  infatuation  which  she  inspire  .  At  length 
her  lover's  family  procure  evidence  of  an  act  of  fraud,  in  consequence  of 
which  she  is  sentenced  to  penal  servitude  in  the  convict  settlement  at 
New  Orleans.  Her  lover  follows  her  to  the  last  under  the  influence  of 
trial  her  character  becomes  purified  She  rejects  an  advantageous  mar- 
riage in  order  to  keep  with  her  lover,  in  whose  arms  she  dies,  exhausted 
by  grief  and  fatigue. 

^e  novels  of  Prevot  are  closely  related  in  style  to  those  of  Rousseau, 
which  appeared  a  few  years  later — the  influence  of  both  may  be  traced 


386  GENTLEMAN  DICK. 

in  the  tone  of  French  fiction  ever  since.  The  general  corruption  of 
Parisian  society  foand  its  t3rpical  exposition  in  two  novels  published  a 
very  short  time  before  the  Revolution  *'  Les  Liaisons  Dangereuses  *'  and 
the  "  Memoires  du  Chevalier  Faublas  "  by  that  Louvet,  of  whom  Macau- 
lay  says  that  he  is  "  well  known  as  the  author  of  a  very  ingenious  and 
licentious  romance,  and  more  honourably  distinguished  by  the  gener- 
osity with  which  he  pleaded  for  the  unfortunate,  and  by  the  intrepidity 
with  which  he  defied  the  wicked  and  powerfuL" 

Charles  Pelham  Mulvany. 


GENTLEMAN  DICK. 

They  had,  all  of  them,  nicknames  themselves,  for  in  a  Colorado  mining- 
community  it  was  not  difficult  to  acquire  a  title,  and  they  called  him 
Grentleman  Dick.  It  was  rather  an  odd  name,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was 
very  expressive,  and  conveyed  much  of  the  prevailing  opinion  and  esti- 
mate of  its  owner.  They  laughed  when  he  expressed  a  desire  to  join 
the  party  in  Denver,  and  Old  Platte  looked  at  his  long,  delicate  hands, 
so  liKe  a  woman's,  with  a  smile  of  rough,  good-humoured  pity,  mingled, 
perhaps,  witl;!  a  shade  of  contempt  for  the  habits  and  occupation  that 
had  engendered  such  apparent  effeminacy.  But  he  pleaded  so  earnestly 
and  talked  with  such  quiet  energy  and  confidence  of  what  he  could  and 
would  do,  and  moreover  had  about  him  so  much  of  that  spirit  of  subdued 
bonhommie  that  always  captivates  the  roughest  of  the  rough,  that  they  re- 
lented, took  his  money  and  put  it  in  the  '*  pot,"  and  informed  him  tha  t 
he  was  one  of  them.  Their  decision  was  not  altogether  unconnected 
with  the  fact  that  he  had  given  evidence  of  considerable  surgical  skill 
in  his  treatment  of  Mr.  Woods,  more  familiarly  known  as  "  Short  card 
William,"  who  had  been  shot  a  week  or  so  previously  over  a  game  of 
poker  by  an  independent  bull-whacker  whom,  he  had  attempted  to  de- 
fraud. The  sense  of  the  community  had  sustained  the  act ;  and  while 
the  exhibition  of  his  skill  in  dealmg  was  universally  condemned  as 
having  been  indiscreet  under  the  circumstances,  still  he  was  accounted 
a  live  man  among  them,  and  the  discovery  of  a  surgeon  to  drees  his 
wound  was  hailed  with  a  somewhat  general  feeling  of  reliefl  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  fact  that  the  sobriquet  of  Gentleman  Dick  was  already 
conferred  and  accepted  universally  as  his  name,  he  certainly  would  not 
have  escaped  that  of  '*  Doctor,"  and  as  it  was,  Mr.  Woods,  who  was 
profuse  as  well  as  profane  in  his  gratitude,  insisted  upon  so  calling  him. 
A  doctor,  or  anything  bearing  even  a  resemblance  to  a  member  of  that 
sadly-represented  profession,  was  regarded  with  a  certain  degree  of  rev- 
erence among  a  community  whose  peculiar  habits  often  gave  rise  to 
pressing  and  immediate  need  of  surgical  attendance.  Consequently, 
Gentleman  Dick  rapidly  attained  an  elevated  position  in  their  regard, 
and  became  a  great  favourite  with  Old  Platte's  party,  although  they 
still  looked  doubtfully  at  his  slender  figure  and  felt  "  Und  o'  homered 


GENTLEMAN  DICK.  387 

1 

by  the  air  of  gentility  and  good-breeding  which  hung  around  him  in 
spite  of  the  rough  miner's  garments  that  he  had  chosen  to  assume.  By 
tne  time  they  left  Denver  for  the  Blue  he  was  deemed  as  indispensable 
to  the  company  as  Old  Platte  himself. 

The  forest  of  dark  pines  and  furs  that  covered  both  sides  of  the  val- 
ley of  the  Blue  grew  down  to  the  bars  of  the  river,  which  along  its 
banks  was  thickly  grown  with  wild  gooseberry  and  raspberry  bushes, 
and  piled  up  here  and  there  with  great  tangled  heaps  of  driftwood  which 
the  spring  floods  brought  down  and  left  in  masses  of  inextricable  con 
Vision  along  its  sides.  Back  a  little  distance  from  one  of  those  sandy 
flats,  and  nestled  right  in  the  shadow  of  the  forest's  edge,  they  built  a 
long  rough  cabin  early  in  June.  In  summer-time  the  spot  was  a  wild 
and  picturesque  one.  Green  and  luxuriant  vegetation  made  a  soft  and 
brilliant  carpet  at  the  feet  of  the  stately  old  pines  ;  huge  boulder-like 
rocks,  their  ed^es  softened  and  rounded  in  the  grasp  of  one  of  Agassiz' 
pre-Adamite  glaciers  that  had  ground  its  icy  way  aown  from  the  melt- 
ing snow-caps  above — rocks  covered  with  bright  lichens  and  tufts  of 
moss — lay  piled  on  one  another  at  the  foot  of  the  steep  mountain-side  ; 
while  gnarled  cedars  twisted  around  about  them,  their  rough  red  roots 
twining  here  and  there  in  search  of  sustenance.  Below  the  cabin  a  little 
way  lay  the  bar — Chihuahua  Bar  they  had  christened  it,  out  of  defer- 
ence to  "  Jones  of  Chihuahua,"  whose  prospecting-pan  had  developed 
the  fact  that  gold  in  promising  quantities  lay  beneath  it — and  a  little 
farther  on  the  Blue  sang  merrily  in  its  gravelly  bed.  Down  the 
river,  about  two  miles,  was  Blue  Beur,  where  about  two  hundred  miners 
had  formed  a  settlement,  and  where  a  red-headed  Scotchman,  who  com- 
bined the  duties  of  a  self-constituted  postmaster  with  the  dispensation 
of  a  villainous  article  of  whiskey,  kept  a  lively  grocery  and  provision 
store. 

During  the  early  part  of  the  season  they  had  prospected  up  along  the 
river,  finding  gold  all  the  way,  but  not  in  quantities  sufficiently  laree 
to  warrant  working.  At  the  place,  however,  which  they  subsequently 
named  Chihuahua  (pronounced  in  the  vernacular  Chee-waw-waw)  the 
perspicacious  Jones  had  given  it  as  his  opinion,  formed  after  mature 
deliberation  and  a  sapient  examination  of  some  two  or  three  shovolsfiil  of 
dirt,  that  there  was  a  satisfactory  ''colour  in  that  ar  bank."  Some  hard 
work  of  about  a  week  demonstrated  that  there  were  excellent  diggings 
there,  and  then  work  was  commenced  upon  it  in  good  earnest.  The 
Cabin  was  built,  Gentleman  Dick's  choice  of  location  being  unanimously 
approved ;  two  or  three  trips  were  made  across  the  "  Range  "  to  the 
nearest  settlement  for  materials  and  provisions ;  and  then  the  real  labour 
began.  As  they  cut  through  the  heavy  bank  df  mould  and  gravel, 
gnuiually  eating  a  long  trench  to  the  bed-rock,  prospects  grew  better 
and  better.  At  last,  one  day  a  narrow  ledge  of  brittle,  shaly  rock  came 
in  view,  covered  with  a  coating  of  thick,  heavy  yellow  mud,  of  which 
Old  Platte  gathered  a  panful  and  betook  himself  down  to  the  river-side. 
A  war-whoop  from  the  direction  in  which  he  had  disappeared  came 
ringing  through  the  gooseberry  bushes  to  their  ears,  and  with  a  respon- 
sive yell  and  a  simultaneous  dropping  of  shovels  and  picks  they  all 
dashed  ofif  to  his  side.  He  was  discovered  in  a  condition  of  great  excite- 
ment, dancing  wildly  around  the  pan,  in  the  bottom  of  which  about  half 


388  QF^NTLEMAN  DICE. 

* 

a  teaspoonfol  of  coarse  yellow  nuggets  were  shining  among  the  black 
sand  It  was  a  grand  prospect,  and  with  the  exception  of  Gentleman 
Dick,  whose  exultation  was  of  a  very  mild  and  reserved  order,  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  Chihuahua  Claim  behaved  in  a  very  undignified  and  un- 
seemly way ;  Thompson  and  Jones  organizing  an  impromptu  sparring- 
match,  and  Old  Platte  standing  indecorously  on  his  head  in  a  neighbour- 
ing clump  of  bushes.  Sundry  war-whoops  and  divers  indications  of 
activity  eJiowed  that  work  of  a  very  lively  and  energetic  character  was 
being  prosecuted  that  afternoon  on  the  bai' ;  and  when  the  sun  sunk  to 
rest  behind  the  purple  mountains,  and  the  blue  mists  of  evening  rose  in 
the  valley,  they  had  their  sluice-boxes  and  **  riffles  *'  in  order,  and  were 
ready  to  commence  washing  at  sunrise. 

It  did  not  take  very  long  to  clean  the  ledge,  and  early  in  the  afternoon 
the  water  was  shut  off.  When  it  was  found  that  the  "riffles"  yielded 
thirteen  ounces  of  gold  that  would  coin  eighteen  dollars  and  a  half  to  the 
ounce,  a  firm  conviction  seemed  to  settle  upon  the  camp  that  this  was 
an  occasion  which  it  would  be  improper  to  pass  over  without  a  thorough 
and  practical  acknowledgement  of  its  importance  in  the  shape  of  a 
r^^ular  celebration.  The  gold  was  weighed  and  divided,  all  sitting  in  a 
circle  in  the  middle  of  the  cabin  floor,  while  Old  Platte  officiated  at  the 
scales  with  all  the  gravity  and  dignity  which  the  responsible  position 
called  for. 

Mr.  McNab's  grocery  and  post-office  at  Blue  Bar  was  the  scene  of 
much  excitement  and  noisy  revelry  that  evening  and  all  the  next  day 
while  the  gold  lasted.  Miners  who  had  heard  of  the  Chihuahua  "streak" 
flocked  up  to  Blue  Bar  to  get  the  particulars,  and  naturally  joined  in  the 
general  feeling  of  exultation  and  hilarity  that  seemed  to  pervade  that 
community.  Old  Platte  got  terribly  drunk,  and  Thompson  and  Jones 
developed  the  strangest  eccentricities  of  gait,  manner  and  speech,  and 
finally  subsided  into  a  deep  slumber  in  the  dust  and  sand  of  the  main 
thoroughfare  of  the  Bar.  Gentleman  Dick's  absence  from  the  festivities 
was  not  noticed  that  evening,  but  the  next  day  Thompson,  who  seemed 
to  feel  aggrieved  on  the  subject,  announced  his  intention  of  going  up  to 
Ghihut^ua  to  fetch  him  down.  He  left  Mr.  McNab's  on  his  charitable 
mission  armed  with  a  bottle  of  rum,  and  proceeded  up  the  creek  in  a 
moderate  state  of  intoxication.  That  he  was  somewhat  sobered  on  his 
arrival  at  the  cabin  was  perhaps  due  to  the  fact  that  the  cork  was  fixed 
very  firmly  in  the  neck  of  his  bottle  :  at  any  rate,  he  did  not  ask  his 
friend  to  drink  when  he  found  him. 

Gentleman  Dick  had  just  directed  and  sealed  a  letter,  and  was  about 
to  start  for  the  settlement  of  Gold  Dirt,  when  Thompson  loomed  up 
unsteadily  in  the  doorway,  surveyed  him  inquiringly  for  a  moment  and 
asked  undecidedly  and  apologetically,  "  Wass'  up  ?    Were  you  goin*  i  " 

Gentleman  Dick«  apparently  overlooking  his  somewhat  dubious  con- 
dition, told  him  that  he  had  been  writing  a  letter  to  some  one  who  lived 
in  the  States :  he  was  going  to  Gold  Dirt  to  mail  it,  and  a  ring  of  Blue 
Creek  Gk>ld  was  to  accompany  it  to  its  destination.  Thompson  said  na 
more,  but  stood  there  in  the  doorway  with  McNab's  rum  under  his  arm. 
He  did  not  stir,  nor  did  he  seem  to  notice  the  *'  good-bye  "  that  came 
down  the  winding  trail  through  the  pines,  but  remained  ^ere  stolid  and 
immovable,  gazing  vacantly  at  the  writing-paper  on  the  rough  table. 
Sudd^y  he  straightened  himself  up  to  his  fuU  height,  and  taking  the 


GENTLEMAN  DICK.  389 

bottle  from  under  his  arm,  held  it  out  at  arm's  leneth  and  apostrophized 
it  in  terms  which  Mr.  McNab  would  have  regarded  as  a  personal  insult, 
and  which  the  community  on  the  Blue  might  possibly  have  resented 
with  a  challenge  to  mortal  combat.  His  next  step,  had  they  witnessed 
it,  would  certamly  have  led  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  a  dangerous 
lunatic,  and  one,  at  that,  whose  peculiar  madness  was  of  a  kind  specially 
objectionable  to  the  residents  of  Blue  Bar.  He  placed  the  object  toward 
which  his  feelings  had  undergone  so  sudden  a  revulsion  carefully  on  the 
ground,  and  seizing  in  his  hands  a  hu£;e  boulder,  he  proceeded  to  let  it 
orop  accurately  upon  it  He  oscilated  critically  over  the  fragments,  as 
if  to  assure  himself  that  the  result  had  been  satisfactorily  attained,  and 
then  strode  rapidly  and  unsteadily  into  the  forest.  How  such  unsound 
principles  of  economy  came  to  be  adopted  by  him  never  very  clearly 
appeared;  and  the  problem  of  his  absence  from  camp  for  two  whole  days, 
and  his  subsequent  reform  upon  the  subject  of  whiskey,  were  matters 
very  freely  discussed  at  McNab's  hut,  without  any  definate  or  reliable 
result  being  arrived  at. 

Summer  had  melted  imperceptibly  into  autumn ;  and  the  bright  tints 
that  glittered  on  the  mountain-slopes  and  through  the  sturdy  under- 
growth of  the  forest  told  that  it  in  its  turn  was  soon  to  give  way  to 
winter.    Chihuahua  Bar  was  piled  up  with  great  heaps  of  boulders  and 
gravel,  furrowed  here  and  there  with  deep  ditches  and  trenches,  and 
otherwise  gave  ample  evidence  of   the  hard  work  that  had  been  done. 
But,  as  Old  Platte  remarked,  *'  The  luck  was  down  on  them,"  and  the 
partners  had  very  little  to  show  for  their  long  months  of  toil    Gentle- 
man Dick  had  worked  as  hard  and  earnestly  as  the  others,  and  had 
never  been  known  to  utter  a  word  of  complaint  through  the  many  hard- 
ships and  mishaps  they  endured.    But  a  sreat  change  had  come  over 
him.    No  one  who  saw  him  when  he  joined  the  party  in  Denver  would 
have  ventured  to  call  him  strong  or  robust,  but,  delicate  as  he  was  then, 
he  was  now  a  mere  shadow  by  comparison.    The  change  had  been  more 
marked  and  rapid  during  the  last  few  weeks.     He  had  seemed  to  fade 
gradually  away,  growing  daily  weaker  and  weaker,  until  at  last  a  know- 
ledge of  his  increasing  debility  forced  itself  upon  the  not  very  observant 
faculties  of  his  companions — coming  rather  as  a  sense  of  indefinable 
uneasiness  on  his  behalf  than  any  actual  apprehension  of  his  real  condi- 
tion.    His  ffreat  expressive  eyes  shone  out  with  an  unnatural  brilliancy 
from  his  pale,  sunken  cheeks,  and  a  deeper  shade  of  melancholy  seemed 
settling  on  his  naturallv  thoughtful  face.     Thompson  probably  noticed 
it  more  than  anybody  else,  but  said  nothing,  while  Old  Platte  and  Jones 
exchanged  ideas  on  the  subject  with  a  sort  of  puzzled  anxiety,  mingled, 
it  might  be,  with  some  genuine  alarm.    They  noticed  that  the  work 
began  to  fatigue  him  more  and  more,  and  that  he  often  had  to  pause  in 
the  middle  of  it,  weary  and  exhausted. 

At  last,  one  day,  about  the  first  of  November,  he  remained  in  his 
bunk  in  the  cabin,  unable  to  come  down  to  the  claim.  In  their  rough, 
uncouth  way  they  pitied  him,  and  would  have  given  anvthin^  they  could 
command  to  be  able  to  relieve  him.  But  they  seemed  instmctively  to 
feel  that  his  case  was  something  out  of  their  reach,  and  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  weak  suggestion  from  Jones,  that  he  should  try  some  of ''  them 
ar  antibilious  pills  as  he  had  in  his  box^"  no  course  of  medical  treatment 
8 


390  QENTLEMAN  DIC^ 

was  contemplated.  Besides,  was  he  not  himself  a  doctor  t  and  if  he 
could  do  nothing,  what  should  they  be  able  to  effect  t  The  argament 
was  sufficiently  conclusive ;  at  least,  Jones  accepted  it  as  such,  and  re- 
tired in  some  confusion,  comforting  himself  by  the  perusal  of  the  label 
on  his  box  of  pills,  which  really  seemed  to  justify  the  suggestion  he  had 
made.  Twice  after  this,  on  days  when  the  warm  sunshine  tempted  him 
out  of  doors,  he  came  down  to  the  claim  and  sat  by  the  wheel  and 
watched  them  working ;  but  he  never  did  any  more  work.  He  did  not 
tell  them  he  could  not  do  it,  or  complain  that  he  was  too  weak  :  it  was 
tacitly  understood  that  his  share  of  the  season's  labour  was  over. 

About  the  middle  of  November  the  winter  stepped  in  in  its  sudden 
way  and  commenced  to  take  possession  of  the  valley  of  the  Blue,  and  by 
the  first  of  December  the  ice  was  so  thick  that  the  partners  reluctantly 
stopped  work.  ''Jones  of  Chihuahua'' had  expressed  his  determinar 
tion  of  eoing  south  to  Santa-F4,  to  stay  until  spring  among  the  '^Greasers," 
but  Old  Platte  and  Thompson  would  stay  on  the  Blue  for  the  winter, 
and  to  that  end  had  laid  in  such  provisions  as  were  deemed  necessary. 
The  settlement  below  on  the  Bar  had  been  abandoned  early  in  Novem- 
ber ;  and  it  was  doubtful  if  a  white  man  besides  themselves  could  be 
found  by  its  waters  any  nearer  than  the  end  of  the  Great  Gafion  of  the 
Rio  Colorado.  But  they  cared  very  little  for  that,  and  looked  forward 
to  their  voluntary  hibernation  without  any  feeling  of  apprehension  on 
the  score  of  loneliness.  Both  were  hardy  mountaineers.  Thompson 
had  been  the  first  man  that  ever  performed  the  feat  of  crossing  the  range 
at  Grey's  Peak  in  the  middle  of  winter,  with  the  aid  of  a  pair  of  snow- 
shoes ;  and  he  and  Old  Platte  knew  that  if  their  provisions  gave  out  they 
could  readily  reach  some  of  the  Clear  Creek  diggings  in  the  same  way. 
So  Jones  strapped  his  belt  of  gold-dust  around  his  waist  and  prepared 
to  depart.  He  shook  hands  with  the  partners,  and  when  Gentleman 
Dick,  with  a  forced  cheeriness  of  manner  and  with  wishes  for  a  pleasant 
winter  in  New  Mexico,  remarked,  "  Next  spring  the  boys  will  give  you 
a  third  of  my  share,  Jones,"  he  stoutly  and  earnestly  repudiated  the  im- 
plied idea,  but  with  a  confusion  and  uncertainty  of  manner  that  indicated 
a  serious  doubt  in  the  soundness  of  his  own  assertions. 

Gentleman  Dick  released  the  big  hand  as  he  lay  in  his  blankets,  and 
said  for  the  last  time,  "  Good-bye,  Jones." 

"  Good-bye,  old  man." 

Jones  strode  away  abruptly  on  his  journey,  and  if  the  moisture  about 
his  eyes  was  in  excess  of  what  was  required  in  their  normal  condition,  it 
was  probably  due  to  the  bracing  and  biting  frostiness  of  the  morning  air. 

And  so  they  resigned  themselves  to  their  winter's  prison  on  the  Blue — 
Old  Platte  stolidly  and  contentedly,  Thompson  uneasily  and  restlessly, 
and  Gentleman  Dick  peacefully  and  calmly,  knowing  full  well  that  spring 
would  never  bloom  again  for  him.  Thus  the  December  days  flew  by, 
growing  colder  and  colder,  and  the  snow-line  crept  gradually  down  the 
slopes  of  the  range  until  it  reached  the  edge  of  the  timber,  where  it 
seemed  to  pause  for  a  few  days  in  its  advance.  It  had  already  snowed 
several  times  in  the  valley,  and  the  afternoon  sun  had  always  melted  it 
away  ;  but  they  knew  by  experience  that  it  would  soon  come  down  in 
good  earnest  and  cover  everything  up  for  the  winter  in  a  mantle  of  snow 
some  six  or  seven  feet  deep.  And  as  the  days  sped  on.  Gentleman  Dick 
grew  paler  and  paler,  and  nis  bright  eyes  shone  with  a  brighter  lustre. 


( 


i 


OENTLElfAN  DICK.  391 

while  he  seemed  to  be  gradually  slipping  away,  losing  little  by  little  his 
hold  upon  Ufa  He  was  a  mystery  to  his  companions,  Cor  he  had  no 
disease  that  could  be  detected,  and  why  he  should  sink  thus  without  any 
apparent  cause,  was  more  than  they  could  understand. 

^  The  wind  came  roaring  down  the  canon  in  wild,  fierce  gusts ;  the 

dead,  frost-hardened,  brittle  branches  of  the  sturdy  old  pines  rattled  and 
cracked  and  broke  as  it  swept  by  laden  with  glittering  crystals,  stolen 
from  the  range  above,  where  it  circled  madly  round  the  snowy  peaks, 
aiKl  whirled  away  great  winding-sheets  of  snow — fine,  sleety  snow,  that 
filled  the  atmosphere  with  sharp,  prickly  needles,  tbat  made  their  way 
inside  Old  Platte's  rough  woollen  shirt  as  he  chopped  away  at  the  wood- 
pile, and  made  him  shiver  as  they  melted  down  his  back.  Everythinff 
was  frozen  hard  and  fast ;  the  Blue  was  silent  in  its  bed  ;  stones  and 
sticks  adhered  to  the  ground  ae  if  part  and  parcel  of  it,  and  each  piece 
of  wood  in  the  pile  that  Old  Platte  was  working  at  stood  stiffly  and  firmly 
in  its  place.  The  wind,  just  before  a  snow-storm,  always  comes  down 
the  canons  in  fierce  premonitory  gusts,  and  as  it  was  desirable  to  get 
in  a  good  stock  of  wood  before  the  snow-drifts  gathered  around  the 
cabin,  Old  Platte  had  been  hacking  manfully  for  some  hours.  The  sun 
sunk  low  in  the  hollow  of  the  hills  to  the  westward  while  he  was  still 
working,  and  lit  up  with  a  oold,  yellow  glare  the  snowy  wastes  and  icy 
peaks  of  the  mighty  mountains  that  stood  guard  over  the  Blue.  The 
whistling  of  the  wind  among  the  pines  died  gradually  away,  and  the 
silence  t£at  seemed  to  fall  with  the  deepening  shadows  was  only  broken 

^  by  the  ringing  strokes  of  the  axe  and  the  crack  of  the  splitting  wood. 

When  he  ceased,  the  valley  had  faded  into  darkness,  and  the  range  with 
its  sharp  outlines  was  only  faiitflly  discemable  against  the  sombre  gray 
pall  that  had  overspread  the  sky. 

He  made  a  broad  stack  of  logs  by  the  fireplace  and  a  larger  one  out* 
side  the  door,  and  then  stood  by  the  threshold  to  take  a  look  at  the 
weather.  A  great,  soft  feather  of  snow  came  sailing  slowly  down  and 
nestled  in  his  shaggy  beard,  and  another  fluttered  on  to  the  back  of  his 
hand.  He  looked  up  through  the  daiicness  and  saw  that  it  was  already 
beginning  to  fall  thickly,  and  then,  with  a  self-satisfied  glance  of  ap- 
proval at  his  provident  woodpile,  went  into  the  cabin  and  fastened  the 
door. 

Thompson  had  shot  a  fine  argal  or  Rocky  Mountain  sheep  that  morn- 
ing, and  the  broiled  steaks  were  giving  forth  a  most  acceptable  odour.  He 
had  tried  to  get  (jentleman  Dick  to  taste  of  a  choice  piece^  but  he  shook 
his  head  wearily,  as  he  had  every  time  for  some  two  weeks  or  more  when 
proffered  food.  He  could  eat  nothing,  and  lay  there  propped  up  on 
rough  pillows,  seeming  scarcely  conscious  of  their  presence ;  his  dreamy 
eyes,  with  lids  half  drooping^  looking^fixedly  into  the  blazing  fire.  Even 
the  coffee,  civilized  as  it  was  by  the  addition  of  some  patent  condensed 
milk,  and  upon  the  manufacture  of  which  Thcnnpson  had  prided  him- 

^  self  not  a  little,  stood  untouched  by  his  bedside.     Old  Platte  lit  his  pipe 

and  dragged  his  t^ee-leg^ed  stool  into  a  comer  of  the  wide  chimney, 
and  Thompson,  after  moving  the  things  away  to  a  comer,  sat  down  op- 
posite, mending  his  snow  shoes  with  a  bundle  of  buckskin  thongs.  They 
did  not  talk  much  in  that  family  of  evenings  :  men  of  this  class  are  not 
conversational  in  tbi^ir  bsbit?^  rnd  a  stranger  who  should  look  in  would 


:i92  GENTLEMAN   DICK. 

be  apt  to  think  them  an  unsocial  Bel.  Old  Platte  puffed  steadily  at  his 
pipe,  blinking  and  winking  at  the  fire,  which  he  poked  occasionally  with 
a  stick  or  fed  with  a  log  of  wood  from  the  pile  by  his  side.  Thompson 
worked  quietly  with  knife  and  awl  at  his  dilapidated  shoes,  and  the  pale, 
patient  face  beyond  still  gazed  dreamily  into  the  fire.  There  were  old 
scenes,  doubtless,  in  among  those  burning  logs — old  familiar  faces,  dear 
fiiemories  of  the  past,  and  weird  fantastic  visions  pictured  in  the  glow- 
ing coals.  At  last  the  eyes  left  the  fire  for  a  moment,  resting  on  ihe 
I  wo  that  sat  by  it,  and  he  said,  "  Boys,  it's  Christmas  Eve." 

Thompson  started,  for  he  had  not  heard  him  speak  with  so  much  en- 
ergy for  weeks. 

"  Christmas  Eve !  '*  he  repeated  absently.  "  Christmas  Eve,  and  to- 
morrow will  be  Christmas  Day.  Last  Christmas  was  not  like  this :  all 
was  bright  and  fair,  and  she — " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  as  he  muttered  it  uneasily  to  him- 
st'lf  and  resumed  his  watching  of  the  fire.  Christmas  Eve  1  So  it  was, 
they  had  not  thought  of  it.  Christmas  Eve !  The  name  seemed  out  of 
place  among  those  rocky  fastnesses.  What  could  the  pines  and  the 
solitude,  the  snow  and  the  ice,  have  in  common  with  Christmas! 
Christmas  Eve  down  in  that  desolate  valley,  in  the  quiet  depths  of  the 
forest,  away,  miles  away,  from  human  habitation  of  any  kind  1  Christ- 
mas Eve  !  It  seemed  absurd,  but  Christmas  Eve  it  was  nevertheless, 
there  as  everywhere  else. 

Old  Platte  took  his  blackened  old  pipe  from  between  his  lips  and 
mechanically  repeated  the  words.  ''  Christmas  Eve  ! "  he  half  growled, 
as  if  some  perplexing  ideas  had  been  called  into  existence  by  the  sugges- 
tion, and  his  pipe  went  out  as  he  listlessly  shoved  some  stray  coals  back 
into  the  fire  with  his  foot.  But  his  meditations,  to  judge  from  his  coun- 
tenance, were  neither  interesting  nor  profitable.  Probably  his  Christ- 
mases  had  never  been  passed  in  a  way  that  was  calculated  to  make  them 
pleasingly  conspicuous  in  the  background  of  his  life.  Most  of  his  early 
recollections  were  associated  with  a  villainous  roadside  groggery  in 
Pike  county,  Missouri,  of  which  his  father  was  the  proprietor.  Any 
questions  relating  to  this  parent  and  home  he  had  been  known  to  invari- 
ably evade,  and  whenever  conversation  tended  in  that  direction  he 
s*:  tenuously  discouraged  it.  Why  he  did  so  never  very  clearly  appeared. 
Some  people  who  pretended  to  know  used  to  say  that  the  old  gentle- 
man had  been  doing  a  lively  trade  in  horseflesh  without  going  through 
the  customary  formalities  of  finance,  and  that  some  people  with  whom 
his  dealings  had  been  unsatisfactory,  in  consequence  of  this  unbusiness- 
like habit  of  his,  had  called  at  his  house  one  evening  and  invited  him  to 
walk  out  with  them.  The  invitation  was  one  he  would  have  liked  to 
decline,  but  extra  inducements  in  the  shape  of  the  cold  muzzle  of  a  re- 
volver pressed  against  his  forehead  and  a  low  but  determined  **  Dry  up 
and  come  along  ! "  caused  him  to  put  on  his  hat  and  step  out.  He  was 
found  next  morning  hanging  from  a  branch  of  a  neighbouring  tree  with 
a  brief  but  expressive  obituary  written  in  pencil  ou  a  scrap  of  paper  and 
pinned  on  his  coat :  "  Horse-thief !  Jerry  Moon  and  Scotty,  take  notice.'* 
inasmuch  as  one  of  the  latter  individuals  was  the  chief  authority  for  the 
story,  and  had  expedited  his  departure  from  Pike  county  in  consequence 
of  the  intimation  contained  in  the  lines  on  the  same  bit  of  paper,  it  may 
be  safely  inferred  that  there  was  some  foundation  for  the  numerous 


OENTLEMAJf  DICK.  SD'^ 

stories  of  a  similar  nature  that  were  in  circulation.  So  Christoias  spent 
as  his  had  been  had  no  particular  interest  for  Old  Platte,  and  was  pretty- 
much  the  same  as  any  other  kind  of  day  upon  which  there  would  be  an 
equally  good  excuse  for  stopping  work  and  getting  venomously  drunk. 
At  any  rate,  the  memories  that  clung  around  that  Pike  county  whisky- 
shop  were  none  of  the  pleasantest  or  most  gratifying ;  and  with  a  grunt 
of  genend  dissatisfaction  he  rekindled  his  pipe,  put  a  couple  of  sticks  on 
the  fire  and  allowed  his  mind  to  slide  off  into  a  more  congenial  train  of 
reflection. 

To  Thompson,  (Gentleman  Dick's  words  bad  come  as  a  sort  of  revela- 
tion. He  knew  well  enough  that  Christmas  came  in  December,  and 
also  upon  what  day  of  that  month  it  fell,  but  of  late  the  days  had  gone 
by  so  monotonously,  and  had  so  little  to  distinguish  them  one  from  an- 
other, that  he  had  kept  no  account  of  them,  and  had  no  idea  that  it  was 
so  near.  Some  indefinable  influence  that  he  could  not  account  for  had 
of  late  sent  his  mind  groping  into  old  and  better  channels,  and  conse- 
quently when  he  was  reminded  of  the  presence  of  Christmas  he  felt  dis- 
posed to  accord  it  a  measure  of  consideration  rather  different  from  that 
with  which  several  of  its  predecessors  had  met.  Like  Old  Platte,  he 
had  regarded  it  as  a  ^ood  day  to  go  on  a  "  bust "  and  initiate  a  ^'  drunk  " 
of  more  or  less  duration,  but  just  now  he  seemed  as  if  inclined  to  take  a 
different  view  of  it.  HLb  eyes  could  take  a  clearer  and  healthier  view 
of  the  past  than  he  had  for  a  long  time  had,  and  its  old  memories  and 
scenes  flocked  up  before  him  now,  bright  through  the  dim  mist  that 
time  had  cast  over  them,  and  fresher  and  sweeter  than  ever  by  contrast 
with  the  gloomy  present.  The  snow-shoes  slid  from  his  lap  and  one  by 
one  the  thongs  of  buckskins  dropped  upon  the  floor,  as  he  leaned  back 
in  the  comer  of  the  broad  chimney,  his  face  resting  upon  his  sinewy- 
hand  and  his  eyes  looking  through  the  fire  into  the  world  of  the  past. 

Old  Platte  lay  curled  up  in  his  bearskins  and  blankets  fast  ^leep,  but 
the  other  still  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  same  position — still  dreamily  think- 
ing. How  long  he  had  sat  there  he  did  not  know.  The  fire  had  sunk 
into  a  glowing  heap  of  coals,  fast  changing  into  soft  white  ashes,  on 
which  now  and  then  a  melting  snow -flake  that  had  stolen  down  through 
the  chimney  would  fall  and  disappear  with  a  short  angry  sisz,  and  the 
shadows  in  the  cabin  were  deep  ^nd  dark.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him 
in  his  dreaming  that  a  voice  called  him  by  name,  and  he  awoke  from  ha 
reverie  with  a  chill  and  a  shudder  and  a  sense  of  mdefinable  dread 
creeping  over  him — a  dread  of  what,  he  could  not  tell.  A  handful  of 
chips  blazed  up  brightly  and  lit  up  the  cabin  with  their  flickering  light 
as  he  turned  nervously  toward  the  patient,  quiet  face  behind  him.  The 
eyes,  shaded  by  the  long  black  eyelashes,  were  still  on  the  fire,  and 
while  he  was  confident  that  he  had  not  been  called,  he  was  dimly  con* 
scions  of  a  great  change  that  had  taken  place.  As  he  still  looked  anxi- 
ously at  the  faded  features,  the  eyes  left  their  long  watching  of  the  em- 
bers and  were  raised  to  meet  his.  He  felt  he  was  wanted,  and  was  by 
his  side  in  a  moment :  "  How  d'yer  feel,  old  man  1 " 

Gentleman  Dick  smiled  as  he  laid  his  wasted  fingers  across  the  sturdy- 
brown  hand  that  leaned  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk,  and  turning  with  dif- 
ficulty on  his  pillow,  he  said  in  a  voice  scarce  above  a  whisper,  "  Thomp- 
son, old  fellow,  you  and  Platte  have  been  kind,  very  kind,  to  me.  I 
won't  trouble  you  much  more  now.    Tm  going  to  say — good-bye  to  you  ; 


394  TURKISH  ADMINISTRATION  OF  JUSTICE. 

and — ^Thompson — I  want  you  to  do  one  little  thing  for  me  —when  spring 
conies."  He  reached  into  a  chink  among  the  logs  by  his  side  and  drew 
forth  an  envelope  oomaining  a  few  letters,  a  photograph  of  a  woman's 
face,  fair  and  tender,  and  a  gold  ring. 

Thompson  took  it  with  a  hand  that  shook  as  his  rarely  did« 

**  Send  it  soon — it's  addressed  and  all  —send  it  to  her.  Maybe  she 
will  be  glad  to  know  I  am — ^gone — at  last — out  of  her  path — out  of  the 
way-*and  the  world.  She  sent  it  back  to  me — would  not  have  it — 
or  me.  Now — "  Then  his  mind  seemed  to  wander,  and  he  rambled  in- 
coherently, repeating  over  and  over  again  a  name  that  sounded  like  that 
on  the  envelope.  "  You  will  do  it,  won't  you,  Thompson  ? "  said  he, 
rallying  suddenly. 

Thompson's  voice  was  hmky  and  thick  as  he  answered  impressively, 
*'  Damn  me  ef  I  don't ! "  adding  mentally,  as  he  glanced  at  the  package, 
*^  Damn  her  skin,  whoever  she  is !  She's  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  here 
business,  you  bet." 

Gentleman  Dick's  lips  moved  as  *if  he  were  speaking,  and  as  ThoBip- 
son  leaned  over  him  he  could  hear,  in  a  broken  whisper,  *'  Gold — ^in  old 
boot—under  bed— Old  Platte  half." 

He  heard  no  more.  The  pressure  of  the  wasted  fingers  relaxed,  the 
weary  head  sunk  slowly  back  on  the  pillow,  and  the  tired  eyelids 
dropped  over  the  glazing  eyes. 

"  Dick  ! "  said  Thomson—"  Dick,  old  man  !  " 

Too  late.  Away  through  the  softly-falling  snow,  from  the  Bhne  with 
its  stillness  and  solitude,  from  its  heartaches  and  sorrows  and  crouUes, 
the  weary  spirit  had  lied,  and  Gentleman  Dick  was  at  rest. 

Spring  had  come  again ;  the  snow  had  melted  from  the  valleys ;  the 
grass  and  the  ferns  and  the  green  grass  and  bright  lichens  onoe  more 
peeped  out  among  the  gray  boulders  and  about  the  feet  of  the  stately 
pines ;  and  the  Blue,  freed  from  its  wintry  prison,  sang  merrily  over  the 
gravelly  reaches.  And  as  the  miners  flocked  down  that  spring  from  over 
the  range,  they  saw  near  by  the  Chihuahua  Claim  and  the  deserted  cabin, 
in  a  square  formed  by  four  gigantic  pines,  a  neatly-built  cairn  of  bould- 
ers. One  big  gray  boulder  rested  securely  on  top  of  all,  and  on  it  was 
hacked,  in  rough  and  simple  letters,  Gentlkman  Diok. 

Panoloss. 


TURKISH  ADMINISTRATION  OF  JUSTICE 

A  picrruRE  by  Mayer,  which  hangs  in  one  of  the  private  galleries  of 
America,  illustrates  the  rough-and-ready  methods  with  which  justice  is 
administered  in  Turkey.  The  cadi  soes  out  in  the  morning  without 
making  known  his  intended  route,  takes  his  walk  with  suitable  atten- 
dant<<,  and  stops  at  the  first  bazaar.  He  seats  himself  at  random  in  one 
of  the  shops  and  examines  the  weights,  measures  and  merchandise.  He 
lends  an  ear  to  all  complaints  ;  interrogates  any  merchant  accused  of 
infraction  of  law ;  and  then,  without  court  or  jury,  and  especially  with- 
out delay,  pronounces  judgtuent^  applies  the  penalty,  and  goes  on  in 


TURKISH  ADMIIOSTRATION  OF  JUSTICE.  386. 

quest  of  other  delinquents.  In  these  cases,  however,  the  punishment 
is  of  a  different  character.  Notwithstanding  the  identity  of  the  crime, 
he  cannot  treat  the  offending  merchant  as  a  common  thief ;  that  would 
have  a  prejudicial  effect  on  commeoce*  The  pemdty  is  graduated  thus : 
the  mildest,  confiscation ;  the  moderale^  dosing  the  shop ;  the  severest^ 
exposure.  This  last  is  inflicted  in  a  singular  manner.  The  culprit  is 
placed  with  his  back  against  his  shop,  and  is  compelled  to  raise  himself 
on  his  toes  until  the  weight  of  his  whole  body  rests  on  them ;  his  ear 
is  then  nailed  to  the  door  or  shutter  of  his  shop.  This  punishment  lasts 
two,  four  or  six  hours.  It  is  true*  the  criminal  may  abridge  its  dura- 
tion whenever  he  chooses  to  let  himself  down  \  but  the  Turkish  mer- 
chant is  jealous  of  his  reputation,  and  nothing  but  the  last  necessity 
would  induce  him  to  resemble  a  thief  by  the  mutilation  of  his  ears. 
As  one  gazes  upon  the  wretch  thus  nailed'  up,  one  is  disposed  to  compas- 
sionate his  case,  but  Mohammed  tells  you  that  he  is  an  old  offender,  and 
if  you  should  observe  his  ear  closely  it  would  resemble  a  colander. 

It  was  after  receiving  this  explaaAtion  that  M.  Mayer  found  his  horror 
sufficiently  alleviated  to  allow  of  Ids  making  the  sketch  from  which  the 

Eicture  referred  to  was  afterwards  composed.  The  criminal,  nailed  by 
is  ear,  was  standing  stiff  and  motionless  on  the  extreme  points  of  his 
great  toes,  and  seated  near  him,  on  the  sill  of  the  door,  was  the  guard, 
charged  with  seeing  the  punishment  duly  executed,  smoking  a  pipe. 
The  quantity  of  tolmcco  in  the  pipe  seemed  to  be  graduated  to  the  time 
the  punishment  was  to  continue.  Aix)und  these  two  personages  was  a 
demicircle  of  idlers.  After  a  time  the  culprat,  fmding  he  had  nothing 
to  expect  from  the  crowd — among  whom,  perhaps,  he  recognised  some 
of  his  customers — hazarded  a  word'  to  the  guard.  '*  Brother,''  said  he, 
**  one  law  of  our  holy  prophet  is,  that  men  should  helt>  one  another." 
The  guard  seemed  to  take  no  exception  to  the  precept  in  the  abstract, 
and  continued  quietly  to  smoke»  "  Brother,"  resumed  the  patient,  "  did 
you  not  hear  me ) "  The  guard  made  uo  other  reply  than  a  large  puff 
of  smoke  that  ascended  to  his  neighbour's  nose.  *'  Brother,"  still  pre- 
sisted  the  man,  ^*  one  of  us  can  aid  the  other,  and  do  a  thing  acceptable 
to  Mohammed."  The  puffs  of  smoke  succeeded  each  other  with  a  re* 
gularity  that  extinguished  the  poor  fellow's  hopes.  **  Brother,"  cried  the 
dependant  with  a  dolorous  voice,  *'  put  a  stone  under  my  heels  and  I 
will  give  you  a  piastre."  No  reply.  '*  Two  piastres."  A  pause.  "  Three 
piastres."  Smoke.  **  Four  piastres."  ^<  Ten  piastres,"  said  the  guard 
quietly.  The  ear  and  the  purse  of  the  man  held  the  parley  which  was 
visiUe  in  the  countenance.  At  length  the  pain  conquered  and  the  ten 
piastres  rolled  at  the  feet  of  the  guard,  who  counted  them  with  great 
deliberation,  put  them  in  his  purse,  rested  his  pipe  against  the  wall,  and 
picking  up  a  pebble  about  as  iaree  as  the  egg  of  a  tomtit,  placed  it  un- 
der the  man's  heels.  "  Brother,'  said  the  culprit,  '*  I  feel  nothing  under 
my  feet."  "  A  stone  is  there,  however,"  answered  the  guard,  resuming 
his  seat  and  pipe  ;  but  it  is  true  I  selected  it  in  reference  to  your  price. 
Qive  me  a  taUm  (five  fxancs)  and  I  will  place  a  stone  under  you  so  ap- 

fropriate  to  your  necessities  that  you  shall  sigh  for  it  when  you  reach 
aradise*"    The  Desiilb  may  be  anticipated ;  t^  guard  bad  his  mooeify 
Jind  the  merchant  his  stK>ne.  H.  W.  yL 


1 


396  CURBENT  UTEBATUBB. 


Wbbn  life,  like  the  morning, 
With  bright  hope  is  dawning, 
Our  Bpirits  are  tree,  and  untrammerd  with  care ; 

Unchained,  unBorrowing, 

Whilst  we  are  borrowing 
Moments  of  happiness,  brilliant  and  fair. 

And  fondly  we  cherish 

Those  visions  which  perish, 
Whilst  storms  of  affliction  come  silently  on. 

Oh,  how  few  can  disoover 

The  dark  clouds  which  hover 
Like  tempest,  to  deluge,  when  pleasure  is  gone. 

Thus,  as  Spring  flowers  decay 

Our  youth  glides  away, 
And  manhood  with  peril  and  trouble  draws  near. 

We  look  back  with  sorrow, 

Tet  hope  for  to-morrow 
Seems  casting  her  sunbeams  on  things  which  are  drear 

Thus  hope,  with  her  false  light, 

Beams  witn  a  lustre  bright, 
Gildinjz  the  visions  of  fiction,  as  truth. 

Till,  with  the  waste  of  time, 

Sear'd  is  our  manhood's  prime  ; 
Vanished  away,  as  the  dreams  of  our  youth ; 

Then,  when  the  life  of  man 

Draws  to  its  shortest  span, 
Eneivies,  which  were  once  firm  in  command  y 

Feebly  are  languishing,  f 

Light  of  life  vanishing. 
Faint  are  our  faculties,  unnerved  the  hand. 

Strongest  reasons  decay, 

And  our  dreams  pass  away  , 
One  moment  we  pause  on  the  border  of  thought ; 

But  our  visions  are  fled 

And  are  named  with  the  dead  ; 
One  moment  we  pause  ;  but  we  hallow  it  not. 

For  even  whilst  thinking, 

Our  spirits  are  sinking. 
To  shades,  which  but  yield  to  eternity's  call, 

Our  thought  is  not  given 

In  silence  to  heaven, 
Where  registered  lie  the  deep  thoughts  of  us  aU. 

Toronto,  7th  Nov.,  1877.  E.  J.  W.  R. 


/ ' 


wcttxd  literature* 


In  a  new  book  by  the  author  of  ''A  Princess  of  Thule,"  we  have  a  right  to 
expect  something  above  the  ordinary  run  of  novels,  and  his  latest  produc- 
tion* certainly  promises  at  the  outset  to  fulfil  all  reasonable  expectations. 
That  it  falls  away  most  miserably  almost  as  soon  as  one's  interest  is  estab- 
lished in  the  leading  characters  we  feel  constrained  to  assert,  and  shall  take 
occasion  to  indicate  the  reason  why.     One  of  the  chief  charms  of  Mr.  Black 

^Chttn  P<utvre$  and  PiecadiUy.    By  Wm.  Black.    Montreal :  Dawson  Bros. 


CUBRENT    LITERATUBK.'  S9T 

as  a  writer  of  fiction  is  in  his  taking  us  out  of  that  oonventional  worid  which 
hack  noYclists  have  invented,  and  delineating  choice  bits  of  that  world  of 
which  all  of  us  have  some  experience.  For  the  first  twenty  chapters  or  so  of 
"  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly'*  the  story  eyolyes  itself  after  Mr.  Black's- 
best  style,  and  we  follow  the  ante-and  post-nuptial  love-story  of  Lady  Sylvia 
and  Mr.  Balfour  with  appreciative  interest,  and  entertain  lively  expectations  - 
in  regard  to  what  is  to  come.  But  beyond  that,  the  story  is  a  complete  fai- 
lure. It  is  as  if  Mr.  Black  had  set  out  to  write  a  story  worthy  of  his  reputa- 
tion, but  when  it  was  half  done  his  health  failed  him  ;  so,  coming  to  this 
continent  by  way  of  relaxation,  he  bethought  him  of  making  his  holiday  notes 
do  service  for  the  concluding  portion  of  the  book.  We  can  quite  believe  that 
Lady  Sylvia's  jealousy  of  politics,  which  seemed  to  sever  her  husband  from 
that  dose  and  loving  communion  which  her  nature  yearned  for,  was  part  of 
^.  Black's  original  conception  ;  but  to  bring  about  Balfour's  financial  ruin 
so  suddenly,  and  to  change  the  story  to  the  dry  narration  of  a  transaUantic 
^r,  should  we  in  Canada  say,  cisatlantic  ?)  tour,  savours  very  much  of  the 
Deu8  ex  machina.  It  is  true  that  the  story  passes  through  Canada  by  rail,  and 
that  we  are  treated  to  Impressions  of  Niagara,  but.  even  to  readers  in  this  Dom- 
inion, these  facts  will  not  compensate  for  the  lack  of  artistic  conditions  in  the 
second  half  of  the  story.  The  first  impression  recorded  of  Canadians  is,  that 
they  **  converse  in  guttural  French  ;"  and  the  readers  of  the  book  who  hap- 
pen to  know  something  of  western  Canada  must  smile  when  they  read  that. 
After  leaving  Niagara,  the  excursionists  **  plunged  into  that  interminable 
forest-land  l^tween  Lakes  Huron  and  Erie," — a  statement  as  absurd  in  point 
of  fact  as  of  geography.  We  learn  from  the  title-page  that  the  work  was 
written  in  conjunction  with  an  American  writer.  This  will  account  for  the 
local  colouring  given  to  the  scenes  laid  in  the  Far  West,  but  we  cannot  help 
thinking  that  '*  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly"  is  spoiled  as  a  work  of  art  be 
cause  of  its  being  taken  beyond  Piccadilly  and  the  green  pastures  around 
Lady  Sylvia's  home,  beyond  the  range  of  Mr.  Black's  experience  and  obser- 
vation 

Critics  have  frequently  brought  the  objection  against  stories  written  by 
the  author  of  **  Ginxs'  Baby,"  mat  they  were  written  with  a  purpose,  flis- 
most  recent  production,^  however,  is  not  one  of  them,  and  a  capital  story  in 
fourteen  chapters  it  is.  In  his  preface  to  it  the  author  says,  he  shall  be  con- 
tent if  *'  The  Captain's  Cabin"  rends  its  perusers  some  good  lesson  of  human 
S3rmpathy,  forbearance,  and  charity.  Whether  this  be  so  or  not,  they  cannot 
&il  to  be  interested  in  the  story,  which  professes  to  relate  simply  the  inci- 
dents of  a  particular  AUantic  voyage,  but  which  manages  to  introduce  com- 
plications and  incidents  enough  to  satisfy  the  readers  of  three-volume  novels. 
in  one  respect,  the  book  is  highly  objectionable.  We  understand  that  the 
author,  Mr.  Jenkins,  is  himself  a  Canadian,  and  as  several  of  the  characters 
in  the  storv  are  represented  to  be  Canadians,  it  is  a  matter  of  astonishment 
to  us  that  ne  should  depict  them  all  as — more  or  less — so  many  prigs.  Sir 
Benjamin  Peakman,  a  "  Quebec  politician,"  is  a  prig,  as  is  also  his  wife.  So, 
to  some  extent,  is  Sandy  McGowkie.  '*of  the  firm  of  MoGowkie  &  Middle- 
mass,  who  keep  a  store  at  Toronto.*  To  the  only  ** gentleman"  whom  Mr. 
Jenkins  has  thought  proper  to  depict,  he  has  given  the  name  and  title  of 
''  Lord  Peodlebury.'  Mr.  Jenkins  published  some  time  ago  in  St.  James's 
Magazine,  **  Legends  of  Muskoka,"  and,  judging  both  from  these  and  '*  The 
Captain's  Cabin,"  we  really  think  he  ought  to  leave  Canada  and  the  Cana- 
diiuis  alone,  until,  at  least,  he  has  taken  some  little  pains  to  understand  hia 
own  country  and  countrymen. 

Vennor's  reputation  as  a  weather  prophet,  notwithstanding  some  unlucky 


*The  Captain*9  Oabm :  a  OhriUmas  Story.   By  Edward  Jenkins,  M.P.  Illustrated. 
Montreal :  Dawson  Bros: 


398  MUSICAL. 

foreoasts  made  by  him,  ift.toJflc&bly  well  established,  and  the  Almanac*  which 
fl^es  by  his  name  promiaea  to  beoomea  an  institution.  In  point  of  fact,  Mr. 
V  ennor  cmly  oontribttte»  a  few  pages  to  the  Almanac^,  and  these  by  no  means 
oonstitnte  tho  most  valuable  portion  of  the  publiflatioD.  It  Lb  essentially  a 
'*  weather  almanao,"  and  its  editor,  whoever  he  may  be,  deserves  the  utmost 
credit'  for  his  industry  and  ability  in  oompiling  and  collecting  such  a  mass  of 
*'  wea^^er  literature."  A  valuable  and  speeiaSy  coiomendable  feature  of  the 
Almanac  is,  the  elaborate  and  caoref ul  review  of  the  weather  of  1877. 

Mrs.  Holmes  is  a  well-known  and  popular  Amexicau  novelist  whose  wocka 
evince  a  degree  of  power  which  is  far  from  common  in  works  of  fiction4 
There  are  two  ways  in  which  the  power  of  the  story  tellers  shows  itself — in 
the  construction  of  the  plot  and  in  the  delineation  of  the  character,  Bv  both 
of  these  ckaracteristios  is  Mrs.  Holmes't  '*  Mildred  "  distinppiished,  althou^ 
there  are  some  characters  in  it — such  as  Lilian  and  G^raldme — who  are  un- 
necessatily  conventional,  and  incidents—  such  as  the  meeting  of  Mildred  and 
her  father — which  are  too  strained.  The  whole  story,  however,  is  of  engross* 
ing  interest,  and  most  of  the  leading  characters  are  well  delineated.  '*  MH* 
died  "  is  the  story  of  a  foundling  girL  who  illustrates  in  a  very  marked  degree 
the  law  of  heredity,  both  as  regards  features  and  temperament ;  and,  after 
gaining  upon  the  affections  of  her  own  grandfather  to  such  an  extent  that  he 
adopts  her^  events  prove  her  to  be  his  own  grandchild  indeed.  The  story  is 
laid  in  New  England,  and  the  reader  is  made  acquainted  with  many  characr 
teriatio  incidents  of  New  England  life,  and  many  well-drawn  New  England 
characters.  Mildred  herself  and  Judge  Howell,  aro  admirable  portraitures, 
as  are  also  Oliver  and  Lawrence.  The  hopeless,  but  enduring,  love  of  Oliver 
is  told  with  much  pathos,  and  the  vacillation  of  Lawrence  between  Lilian  and 
Mildred^-between  the  dictates  of  interest  and  the  impulsion  of  love,  is  clear- 
ly depicted.  Altogether,  the  book  may  be  pronounced  the  happy  production 
of  a  clever  writer. 


nsical 


The  winter  season  in  London  has  been  marked  so  far  diiefly  by  Uie- extra 
operatic  performances  at  the  Haymarket,  which  Mr.  Mapleson  seems  to  have 
found  lucrative  and  popular,  and  the  myriad  swarms  of  concerts  and  recitals 
of  every  description.  Among  the  operas  produced  at  the  Haymarket  have 
been  Ruy  Bias,  Robert  Le  Diahle.  Fmist,  Von  OiovaiMii,  Der  Fteiachuiss  and 
II  Flauto  Magico  ;  the  principal  artists  being  Mddle.  Mariman,  Mddle  Cairo- 
line  Salla,  Mddle.  Belocca,  and  Signers  Foli  and  Fancelli.  Ruy  Bias,  ihe 
terrible  drama  of  Victor  Hugo,  is  very  different  it  would  seem  from  Rujr 
Bias,  the  opera  of  Signor  Marshetti,  who,  although  he  may  have  done  his 
best,  cannot  possess  the  requisite  genius  for  such  an  undertaking.  His  music 
is  simply  an  imitation  of  that  of  Verdi,  and  where  Verdi  could  only  fail, 
what  can  be  expected  of  Marshetti  ?  The  setting  appears  to  have  little  merit 
beyond  illustrating  the  thorough  vapidity  of  Italian  music  as  applied  to  drama 

*V€nnor's  Winter  Almanac  and  Weather  Record  for  1877-S.    Montraal :   fohn  Don- 
gall  &  Son ;  Dawson  Bros. 

\  Mildred.    Bjr  Mrh.  Vary  J.  HolmW).    Toronto  :  Belford  Brothers, 


I 


MUSICAL.  399 

by  tbe  side  of  the  true  and  more  dramatic  successes  of  recent  Germiin  com- 
pi>8itionB. 

GurioiiBly  enough,  the  character  of  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan,  for -whom  it  will 
be  remembered  Rny  Bias  ia  passed  off  at  Court,  is  omitted  in  the  present 
Italian  yeraion.  ^ieakin^  of  Mddle.  Marimon,  the  Times  has  almost  extra- 
vagant praiee  of  her  singing,  this  season,  it  says,  **  there  is  no  living  artist' 
who  excels  her  in  the  command  of  what  is  styled  hravu/ra"  and  this  seems  to 
have  been  partioularly  shown  in  her  renderinff  of  the  difficult  and  somewhat 
eccentric  music  allotted  to  Astrifiammante  in  II  FUmto  Ma^ico,  Leaving  the 
Haymaricet,  the  "  Ante-Christmas  "  ballad  concerti  of  Mr.  John  Boosey,  at 
8t.  James's  Hall,  claim  our  attention.  The  artists  here  have  been  Mrs.  Os- 
good and  Miss  Orridge,  the  latter  a  nsing  young  soprrno  of  much  ability, 
and  the  Edith  Wynne  type,  Mr.  Sims  Reeves,  Mr.  Lloyd,  Mr.  Maybrick, 
Mr.  Thurley  Beale  and  other  ballad  singers,  par  excellence,  well  known  out- 
aide  a  Lonaon  audience.  It  seems  to  us  though,  that  even  the  rarest  genius 
amongst  all  these,  Mr.  Sims  Beeves,  has  after  all  a  wonderfully  limited  re- 
pertoire, and  we  find  ourselves  wondmng  how  a  London  audienee  can,  year 
after  year,  go  and  hear  him,  even  him,  the  pet  and  idol  of  thousands,  aing— 
"  My  pretty  Jane^"  "  Come  into  the  gardm  Maud,**  and  "  The  Message,''  The 

n'  Jiist  at  these  concerts  has  been  MUss  Margaret  Bucknall,  a  name  quite  un- 
own  out  here,  although  its  possessor  is  rapidly  rising  into  view  as  a  first- 
class  performer.  Next  comes  the  Monday  popular  concerts.  Director,  Mr.  S. 
Arthmr  Chi^pell,  altematingwith  the  Saturday  popular  concerts,  both  being 
held  in  St.  James's  Hall.  The  artists  are,  Mdme.  Norman,  N^rinda,  MM. 
Rico,  Zerbini  and  Piatti,  all  instrumentalists,  Mr.  Charles  Hall6,  Miss  Dora 
Schirmaoher,  a  young  and  already  notable  pianist,  Mr.  Santly,  Fraulien  Fried- 
lander  and  Redeker  and  other  first-class  vocalists.  The  concerts  at  the  Cry- 
stal Palace  are  well  understood  here,  but  they  have  been  recently  enriched 
by  the  performances  of  flerr  Wilhelmj. 

It  seems  to  us  almost  incredible,  that  an  entertainment,  including  an  over- 
ture of  Mendelssohn's,  a  Raff  concerto,  a  Liszt  rhapsodic  and  solos  by  Wil- 
helmj, c(ndd  be  enjoyed  for  the  sum  of  sixpence,  and  yet  such  is  the  case. 
The  students'  orchestral  concerts  in  connection  with  the  Royal  Academy  of 
Music,  form  a  leading  foature  ot  the  present  season  ;  on  the  13th  December, 
the  first  two  parts  of  Bach's  Christmas  Oratorio,  were  given  by  a  complete 
band  and  chorus  formed  by  the  Professors,  and  the  late  and  present  students 
and  the  choir  of  the  Academy. 

An  event  of  interest  at  the  Cr3^8tal  Palace,  was  the  production  of  "  Heze' 
kiahf"  a  new  work  by  Mr.  Joseph  Hatton,  the  popular  composer  of  **  Good- 
by,  Siffeetheart,**  &o,  Hezekiah  is  a  sacred  drama,  the  libretto  by  Beatrice 
Abercrombie,  and  the  artists  included  Mdme.  Lemmens-Sherrington,  Mdme. 
Patey,  Mr.  Lloyd  and  Mr.  Maybrick,  and  the  Cr3r8tal  Palace  choir.  Mr. 
Sydney  Smith  is  evidently  well  appreciated  as  a  popular  pianist  and  composer, 
his  recent  recitals  at  Willis's  having  been  surprisingly  well  attended.  He 
delighted  the  audience  with  much  of  his  own  sparkling  composition,  and 
played  besides  part  of  a  Chopin  concerto,  and  several  pieces  of  Schumann. 
He  was  assisted  by  Mr.  Shakspeare  and  the  MdUes.  Badia,  while  Sir  Julius 
Benedict,  Mr.  W.  Ganz.  and  Signor  Badia  accompanied  the  vocal  music. 
At  the  Royal  Albert  Hall,  Verdi's  Requiem  Mass  has  been  lately  given,  with 
Barnby  as  conductor,  and  Mdme.  Lemmens-Sherrington,  as  chief  soloist. 
So  much  for  London,  and  it  must  be  held  in  mind  that  these  concerts  form 
onl^  half  of  the  actual  musical  entertainments  of  this  wonderful  city,  a  fact 
which  by  itself  is  sufficient  to  refute  the  statement,  that  England  is  an  un- 
musical country.  Turning  then  from  London  music  to  that  which  is  dis- 
tinctly known  as  '*  provincial  "  the  same  activity  may  be  noticed.  Man- 
chester has  indeed  been  specially  favoured  by  having  had  a  symphony  by 
Goldmark,  **  A  rustic  Wedding,"  performed  there  by  Charles  Halle  s  orches. 
tra.  At  a  recent  concert  in  the  assfie  town,  the  second  part  of  tbe  programme 
was  devoted  entirely  to  Wagner's  {nusic,  including  a  march  from  OOttw, 


400  MUSICAL. 

(Idmmening,  A  Norwich  oonoert  for  the  benefit  of  Dr.  Bunnett  waa  well  at> 
tended  and  testified  in  many  ways  to  the  estimation  in  which  the  injured  gen> 
tleznan  is  held.  It  may  be  remembered  that  in  consequence  of  some  promise 
to  an  older  friend  of  the  Dean's,  Dr.  Bunnett  was  deprired  of  that  promotion 
to  the  highest  musical  position  in  the  city  to  which  he  was  so  fairly  entitled. 
Arabella  Goddard  has  been  delighting  the  provinces,  and  was  specially  snc- 
cessful  at  Brighton.  Mr.  Best's  fine  organ  recitals  at  Liyerpool  have  been 
almost  entirely  stopped  by  the  condition  of  the  organ,  which  is  almost  too 
uncertain  to  be  usm  at  all.  Says  the  Liverpool  Porcupine : — *'  It  is  suffer- 
ing from  what  may  be  termed  orga/nic  asthma.  It  is  subject  to  strange  in- 
ternal rumblings,  its  whole  system  in  fact,  is  demoralized."  It  will  be  a  lasting 
di^pracefor  the  citizens  of  Liverpool,  if  the  great  orffan  of  St.  George's  Hall, 
which  has  almost  of  itself  conferred  on  her  musicu  repute,  is  not  repaired 
inunediately. 

After  MacFarren's  **  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  the  two  most  interesting  recent 
English  compositions  are  Dr.  Armes'  (organist  of  Durham  Cathodal),  oratorio 
of  *'  Bezehicikf*^  and  **  The  Sorcerer,*^  the  latter  a  comic  opera  half  Sullivan, 
half  Gilbert.  The  oratorio  seems  to  be  a  production  altogether  in  the  spirit 
of  the  old  school,  the  choruses  being  characterized  by  Handelian  uniformity, 
and  little  or  no  originality.  The  soloists  at  the  first  representation  were 
Miss  Anna  Williams,  Madame  Patey,  Mr.  Lloyd  and  Mr.  Sims  Thomas, 
the  latter  in  the  part  of  Hezekiah.  But  The  Sorcerer  was  a  real  success,  and 
a  work  of  singular  merit  We  quote  from  the  *'  Examiner"  : — ^**The 
character  of  refined  humour  as  opposed  to  low  comicality  is  fully  sustained 
by  Mr.  Sullivan's  music.  That  Mr.  Sullivan  is  a  learned  musician,  an  ex- 
eellent  writer  for  the  orchestra,  and  a  musical  humourist  of  the  true  order, 
are  facts  beyond  dispute.  But  never  before  have  these  qualities  appeared 
combined  on  so  important  a  scale  as  in  the  present  instance.  The yino/e  of 
the  first  act  is  an  elaborate  piece  of  construction  with  as  many  as  nine  solo 
parts,  independently  sustained  and  grouped  together  according  to  their  dif- 
vers^nt  emotions  in  the  most  masterly  way.  Here  also  we  meet  in  the 
whispered  **  aside  "  of  Alexis  and  Aline  with  as  pretty  a  bit  of  true  senti- 
ment as  can  well  be  imagined.  The  ensemble  in  the  second  act,  *'  Oh  !  joy, 
the  charm  works  well,"  is  equally  well  constructed,  while  the  quintel  of  the 
same  act — coupleU  with  interesting  bits  of  concerted  music  would  be  the 

technical  description — ^the  lighter  vein  of  comic  opera  prevails 

Amongst  the  happiest  touches  of  humour  in  the  opera,  is  the  Uandelian 
character  of  the  music  which  accompanies  the  old-fashioned  courtship  of  Sir 
Marmaduke  Point  Dextre,  and  the  Lady  Sangazure.  In  other  places  the 
claptrap  of  the  modem  opera  is  parodied  in  the  most  amusing  manner. 
The  preparation  of  the  philtre  strikingly  recalls  numerous  ^*  incantation  " 
scenes  from  popular  operas,  and  such  a  stanza  as — 

Now  for  the  tea  of  our  host. 

Now  for  the  rollicking  bun, 
Now  for  the  muflSn  and  toast, 

Now  for  the  gay  Sally-Lun— 

is  an  admirable  equivalentfor  the  familiar  *'  andiam  beviam  "  of  the  lyric  stage 
.  .  .  .  Here  at  last  is  a  work  of  entirely  English  growth  which  bids  fair 
to  hold  its  own  by  the  side  of  numberless  foreign  importations.  Mr.  Gilbert *s 
dialogue  is,  as  regards  true  humour,  as  superior  to  the  ordinary  run  of 
French  libretti,  as  Mr.  Sullivan's  music  is  to  the  clever  commonplaces  of 
Ofienbach  and  Lecocq,  and  it  is  quite  time  that  our  public  should  realize  the 
part.  Enthusiasts,  moreover,  may  cherish  a  hope  that  an  early  opportunity 
will  be  afforded  to  our  rising  composer  to  show  his  strength  on  that  higher 
dramatic  stage,  the  weakness  of  which  he  has  so  clearly  parodied." 

Continental  music  does  not  present  so  interesting  an  aspect.  It  is  imposs- 
ible to  tell  what  half  the  musicians  are  doing,  there  is  so  little  movement 
among  performers  and  few  works  of  merit  being  sent  out  by  composers. 


/'. 


MUSICAL.  401 

Wagner,  who  by  common  consent,  stands  at  last  at  the  head  of  living 
musicians,  is  publishing  through  Schott  &  Go.,  the  poem  of  his  new 
BiihnenwhfuUpid  (Po/rstfal),  8ieg  fried  (idyll  for  orchestra^,  and  a  '' Sketch 
of  a  Piano-forte  Sonata. "  At  Leipsio  an  interesting  musical  event  was  the 
representation  of  Frans  bon  fiolstein's  romantic  opera.  Die  Hochlander  late 
in  the  fall,  attended  with  great  enthusiasm.  At  the  Genandham  concert 
much  new  and  somewhat  strange  music  has  been  performed.  Lux,  Scholz, 
Bungert,  Saint,  Saens,  and  Hifter  contributing  the  more  important  produc- 
tions. Milan  has  said  good-by  to  Adelina  PaUi,  who  by-the-way,  certainly 
appears  to  arrange  that  Signer  l^icolini  shall  sing  with  her  in  every  place 
she  goes  to.  In  the  Austrian  Church  at  Rome,  was  recently  performed  in 
Liszt's  honor  the  **  Trostungen,''  a  Sonata  by  Mendelssohn,  two  figures  by 
Bach  and  other  pieces.  The  church  was  filled  with  the  pick  of  the  fashion^ 
able  world,  Roman  and  foreign,  and  the  Host  havin^^  been  removed,  the 
company  conversed  aloud  without  any  restraint.  Aner  a  few  bars  of  the 
"  Trostungen,"  a  door  was  flung  open  and  Liszt  advanced  to  receive — the 
Princess  l^rolina  Layn — Wittgestein .  Taure's  latest  successes  were  achieved 
at  Brussels,  where  it  was  expected  that  Lohengrvn,  under  Wagner's  immediate 
direction  will  shortly  be  revived. 

The  Harvard  Musical  Association  (U.S.),  lately  gave  a  fine  performance  of 

Schubert's  great  ninth  Symphony,  besides,  a  comparatively  new  overture  by 

Gade,   '*In  the  Highlands,'*    and    Schumann's   Symphony  in   D  Minor. 

Amonst  the  Boston  concerts,  we  notice  Miss   Amy  Fary's  piano  recitals, 

wonderful  efibrts  of  memory  if  nothing  else,  a  chamber  concert  of  more  than 

average  interest  in  Union  Hall,  Boston,  at  which  two  young  lady  violinists, 

pupils  of  Julius  Vichberg,  played  remarkable  selections  in  a  truly  remarkable 

manner,  and  piano  recitals  by  Mr.  Wm.  H.  Sherwood.     The  Hinar  oratorios, 

.  Bach  and  Handel  were  doubtless  given  in  the  creditable  manner  lon«[  ago  as 

^  siffned  to  the  Handel  and  Hadyn  society,  and  such  soloists  as  Miss  Thursby 

^  Mr.  Joseph  Maas,and  Mr.  Whitney.  According  toDwight,  New  York  is  to  have 

in  a  season  of  five  months,  at  leart  forty-two  concerts,  *'  at  which  the  highest 

order  of  orchestral  music  will  be  rendcKred,"  which  we  can  well  believe  with 

such  men  at  the  hehn  as  Theodore  Thomas  and  Dr.  Damrosch. 

Ambroise  Thomas'  A  Summer  Night's  Dream,  was  lately  presented  by  the 
Hess  English  C^ra  Company  to  a  Philadelphian  audience.  The  libretto  is 
said  to  be  bad,  and  what  else  could  it  be  with  a  drunken  Shakspere,  a 
Queen  Elizabeth  who  lectures  on  Temperance,  and  a  worse  than  conven- 
tional Falstaff 

We  have  the  following  sketch  of  local  music  from  a  Montreal  corres- 
pondent : — 

*'  We  in  Montreal  are  becoming  each  day  more  sensitive  with  respect  to 
our  claim  as  a  musical  city,  particularly  when,  on  all  sides,  we  hear  that 
Toronto  is  the  musical  me^polis,  or  centre  of  the  art,  for  the  Dominion. 
We  like  to  shut  one  eye  to  the  latter  fact  and  fondly  think  that  by  deceiv- 
ing ourselves,  others  too  may  be  unsuspectingly  caught.  The  truth  is,  how- 
ever, that  in  many  ways  ^ere  is  a  great  lack  of  g<x)d  music  here,  and  per- 
haps a  |;reater  dearth  m  soloists  thiui  a^  other  icicle.  Lately  we  seem  to 
be  picking  up,  and  the  recent  arrival  of  Fraulein  Helene  Nievert,  a  German 
singer  of  much  power,  in  our  midst  promises  better  things  for  ihe  soprani. 
What  may  be  termed  though  a  genuine  and  unexpected  treat,  was  enjoyed 
here  last  week  by  those  of  our  music-loving  and  appreciatiiur  citizens,  who 
heard  the  Dow  Opera  Troupe  from  Boston.  Passing  over  Mrs,  Dow,  who, 
r  it  may  be  remembered,  did  some  very  inartistic  things  in  the  ''  Messiah " 

once  in  your  city,  and  who  is  quite  as  inoonsiBtent  in  opera,  dressing  al- 
together in  modem  style,  and  having  simply  no  conception  whatever  of  act- 
ing, there  was  Miss.  Adelaide  Randall,  who  was  supremely  successful  in  all 
her  parts,  although  her  voice  is  far  too  light  for  such  notes  as  Azucena^  the 
gipsy  Queen  in  the  Bohemian  Girl  Her  actinj^  was  so  natural,  well-sus- 
tained and  original  as  to  merit  the  highest  pra^,  which  was  accorded  her 


•^ 


402  MUSIOIL. 

in  conjiinciion  with  Mr.  Joseph  Maas.  Thie  Utter  artist  is  ahnoet  unequal' 
led,  and  as  I  hear  that  Carl  Rosa  has  engaged  him  for  next  season,  yon  may 
expect  to  hear  something  of  him.  His  tenor  is  wonderfully  pore,  rich  and 
full,  always  sympathetic,  and  when  in  II  Trovatore,  at  the  close  of  ^*  Di 
Qitdla  Fira,**  he  f^ve  as  the  iU  de  paitrino  twice,  and  with  the  utmost  ease, 
I  felt,  in  common  with  many  others  doubtless,  that  I  had  heard  the  consum- 
mation of  Tocalism.  The  lugh  tenor  0  is  usually  pheoominal,  and  Tamber^ 
lik  and  others  who  possess  it  (and  they  are  very  few^  possess  nothing  else. 
But  Maas  has  lost  none  of  his  natural  richness  of  quality  in  attempting  a 
high  note,  and  I  believe  he  could  quite  as  easily  sing  a  note  or  'two  higher  if 
he  choose.  That  he  is  destined  for  something  great  you  may  be  assured,  for 
in  presence,  figure  and  acting  he  is  in  no  whit  oehind  his  beautiful  Toioe.  The 
next  morning,  the  Gazette ,  which  boasts  of  a  very  learned  musical  column 
once  a  week,  noticed  Maas  in  conjunction  with  Clarke,  a  second  tenor  that 
they  had  for  reserve,  as  simply  a  very  efficient  singer  indeed.  I  do  not 
vouch  for  the  words,  but  that  was  the  spirit  of  the  critique. 

As  for  concerts,  there  was  the  one  given  by  the  Philharmonic  Society,  con- 
duoter  Mr.  Madagan,  about  a  month  ago,  which,  in  some  respects,  was  most 
intUfferent.  Mr.  Maclagan  i&  not  popidar  personally,  and  then  he  makes  the 
most  outrageous  fuss  with  his  arms  and  baton,  flourishing  all  three  about  in 
a  highly  excited  way  (which  is  also  exciting  to  those  seated  near  Mm)  and 
wMdi  does  not  even  keep  his  people  in  order.  A  charming  part  nong, 
<*  The  Bell's  of  St.  Michael's  Tower,''  was  perhaps  the  most  successful  item 
on  the  programme.  A  concert  aria  by  Mendelssohn,  sung  by  Fraulein  Nievert, 
was  also  very  much  applauded.  Mr.  Madagan  has  lately  reugned  his  organist- 
ship  of  Christ  Church  Cathedral  here,  and  is  starting  a  eojiBervnSory  of 
music  in  company  with  Mr.  George  Barton,  late  of  Toronto,  whom  deubttess 
you  remember.  i 

The    Mendelssohn  Choir    are   practising    (Jade's    Spring^  Meteagty  for  ^ 

their  concert  early  in  March — ^their  full  concert — some^me  in  Wovem- 
ber,  was  in  eveiy  way  perfect,  the  singing  of  MacFarren's  Sands  of  Dee,  and 
Leslie's  Land  Ho,  being  especially  noticeable. 

Mdme.  Chatterton  Bobrer,  daughter  of  Mr.  Chatterton  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  who  has  settled  here  with  Ilerr  Bohrer,  her  husband,  a  fine  pian- 
ist, gave  lately,  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  Tiffin,  Sherbrooke  street,  a  harp 
recitol,  assisted  by  several  well-known  amateurs.  The  tickets  were  a  dollar, 
reserved  or  sofa  seats,  one  dollar  and  a  half,  which  latter  regulation  met  with 
no  end  of  ridicule  from  all  dasses.  These  occurrences,  past  and  future,  sum 
up  our  musical  life  as  a  city.  For  the  present,  there  is  literally  nothing 
to  say  or  nothing  musical  is  happening.  There  is  some  talk  of  a  permanent 
opera  in  Boston,  and  should  thu  be  established,  it  will  do  good  for  Mon- 
treal, artists  will  be  easily  accessible,  and  a  run  down  to  Boston  will  not 
appear  so  formidable  a  thing  as  it  does  now,  when  you  are  not  quite  sure  if 
there  will  be  anything  going  on  till  you  arrive  there. 

Dr.  Daner  commences  lecturing  on  music  before  the  Ladies'  Educational, 
on  Monday,  the  i4th.     His  prospectus  is  interesting  but  limited. 

M.  Victor  Maurel,  latdy  of  the  Italian  Opera,  Covent  Garden,  proposes 
giving  this  winter,  in  the  great  towns  of  France,  a  series  of  classical  con- 
certs. He  will  be  assisted  bv  Mdlle.  Duval,  of  the  Opera  Comique,  M. 
Paul  Viurdot,  the  violinst,  and  other  artists. 

Mdme.  Marie  Roze  sang  before  a  lar/e  audience  at  the  Brighton  Aquar- 
ium the  first  week  in  December,  being  recalled  after  each  song.  She  sailed 
for  America  on  the  20th  of  the  same  month. 

Another  new  cantata,  **  The  Song  of  the  Months,^'  by  Frauds  Howell,  was 
performed  on  the  19th  and  20th  of  December  at  Seyenoaks  and  Westerham. 

There  was  a  recent  performance  at  Dundee,  by  the  Amateur  Musical  So- 
dety,  of  Mr.  J.  F.  Bamett's  cantata,  **  The  Ancient  Mariner,*'  and  after- 
wards of  *'  Paradise  and  the  FerL"  The  chorus  and  orohestra numbered  150, 
with  Mr.  Carrodier  as  leader. 


t. 


(fi 


k  IfeAB  100. 


403 


-A-  irE-A.1^;  A-O-O. 


MoUuUo, 


>•» 


Miialo  by  OHO*  t«  BITIXIirOc 


^^^ 


(If  f  F I  iirFrj.rgfEfij-j 


^^ 


^=^3^ 


I.    A      jrear        a    •    go         we    walk'd    the    woods,    A      year       a    -    ^o        to- 
3.  And  birds      sang    thro'      the     cool     green  arch,  Where  doods  of      wind  -  flow'rs 
3.  This  year,       oh     love,      noth  -  ing      has    chang'd,  As    bright    a        sun  -  set 


i 


S 


f  • 


ff  — 


I 


■/ 


day;., 
grew;, 
glows; 


The       Uneswere    white  with       black- thorn  bloom,    The 
That       bean  -  ty       all      was         lost       to      me,         For 
A    -     gain    we      walk     the         wild,    wot    woods,      A  - 


^^=]^-g-i-J-i^   r   r   I  ^ 


404 


k  YiTAB    vaOt 


1 


bed  -  get    sweet  with 
lack     of     love     to 
gftin    the     blue  •  bcU 


May. 
you, 
blows. 


We  trod  the  hap  •  py 
And,  you,  too^  miss'd  the 
But        still       our     drift   -  ed 


^^ 


t 


^ 


'-j-g  r  r~^ 


m 


M 

3=^ 


r'  cir- 


^^^S 


:;p=3|: 


wood  -  Und  ways,  Where  sun  -  set  lights    be  •  tween 
peace     that  might  Have  been,   yet  might  not      be, 
spir   •  its   faO,  Spring's  hap  .  pi  -  ness    to    touch, 


The  slen  -  der     haz  -  el 
From  too  much  doubt  and 
For  now    you      do     not 


I 


m 


3E 


t 


:|czqp: 


z      ff  pa-      y    f 


/t\ 


S^ 


i 


^^ 


stems  stream'd  clear,     And    tum'd       to      gold       the 
fear         of        fate.      And       too       much    love       for 


care        for        me,       And 


^ 


love     you       too 
/Pi 


green, 
me. 
much. 


^^^ 


^m 


/t\ 


m 


i 


BELFOED'S 
MOI^THLY  MAGAZINE. 


MABOH,   1878. 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

We  gdlod  from  Trieste  in  the  "  VeauB,  one  of  the  Austrian  Llo^da,"  vith 
a  very  agreeable  captain,  who  had  been  All  over  the  worid  and  spoke 
English  perfectly.  There  were  verj 
few  passengers — only  one  lady  be- 
BideB  myself,  and  she  was  a  bride 
on  ber  way  to  her  new  home  in  Con- 
atantinopla  She  was  a  very  pretty 
yoang  ADstrian,  only  seventeen,  but 
such  an  old  "  Turk  of  a  husbuid  "  as 
she  had  !  Her  mother  waq  a  Vien- 
nese, and  hei  father  a  wealthy  Eng- 
lishman :  what  could  have  induced 
them  to  marry  their  pretty  young 
daughter  to  such  a  man  t  He  was  a 
Greek  by  descent,  but  had  always 
lived  in  Constantinople.  Short,  stout, 
cross-eyed,  with  a  most  sinister  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  old  enough  to 
be  her  father,  the  contrast  was  most 
striking.  His  witeseemed  very  happy, 
however^  and  remarked  in  a  compla-  iMMitB. 

cent  tone  that  her  husband  was  giale 

European.    So  he  was,  except  that  he  wore  a  red  fez  cap,  which  was,  to 
say  the  least,  "  not  becoming  "  to  hia  "  style  of  beauty." 

We  had  a  smooth  passage  to  Corfu,  where  we  touched  for  an  hoar  or 
two.  N and  I  went  on  shore,  climbed  to  the  old  citadel,  and  were  re- 
warded with  a  glorious  view  of  the  island  and  the  harbour  at  onr  feet 
We  picked  a  large  bouquet  of  scarlet  geraniums  and  other  flowers  which 
grew  wild  on  the  rocks  around  the  old  fixtreaa,  took  a  ^hort  walk  through 


406  GLIMPSES   OF  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

the  town,  and  returned  to  our  boat  loaded  with  delicious  oranges  fresh 
from  the  trees.  Several  fine  English  yachts  lay  in  the  harbour.  We 
passed  close  to  ope,  and  saw  on  the  deck  three  ladies  sitting  under  an 
awning  with  their  books  and  work.  The  youngest  was  a  very  handsome 
girl,  in  a  yacht  dress  of  dark-blue  cloth  and  a  jaunty  sailor  hat.  What 
a  chanbifig  way  to  spend  one's  winter !  After  our  taste  of  the  EnglisAi 
climate  in  February,  I  should  think  all  who  could  would  ^>end  their 
winters  elsewhere  ;  and  what  greater  enjoyment  than,  with  bright  Italian 
skies  above,  to  sail  over  the  blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean,  running 
frequently  into  port  when  one  felt  inclined  for  society  and  sight-seeing, 
or  when  a  storm  came  on !  for  the  '*  blue  Mediterranean  "  does  not 
always  smile  in  the  sunlight,  as  we  found  to  our  sorrow  after  leaving 
Corfu. 

Our  state-room  was  on  the  main  deck,  with  a  good-sized  window  ad- 
mitting plenty  of  light  and  air,  and  the  side  of  the  ship  was  not  so  high 
but  we  could  see  over  and  have  a  fine  view  of  the  high  rocky  coast  we 
were  skirting — so  much  pleasanter  than  the  under-deck  state-rooms, 
where  at  best  you  only  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  and  a  one-eyed  glimpse 
out  of  the  little  port-holes  in  fine  weather,  and  none  at  all  in  a  storm. 
Imagine,  therefore,  my  disgust  when,  on  returning  from  our  trip  on  shore 
at  Corfu,  I  found  twilight  pervading  our  delightful  state-room,  caused  by 
an  awning  being  stretched  from  the  edge  of  the  deck  overhead  to  the  j 

side  of  the  ship,  and  underneath  this  tent,  encamped  beneath  my  win- 
dow, the  lesser  wives,  children  and  slaves  of  an  old  Turk  who  was  re- 
turning to  Constantinople  with  his  extensive  family !  His  two  principal 
wives  were  in  state-rooms  down  below,  and  invisible:  Well,  if  I  had  lost 
the  view  f^m  my  state-room  of  the  grand  mountainous  coast  of  Greece, 
I  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  one  phase  of  Oriental  manners  and 
costume  at  my  leiBure,  There  were  three  pale,  sallow-looking  women  of 
twenty  or  twenty  five  years  of  age,  with  fine  black  eyes — their  only 
attraction ;  two  old  shrivelled  hags ;  four  fat,  comfortable,  coal-black 
slave  women  ;  and  several  children.  They  had  their  finger  nails  coloured 
yellow,  and  all,  black  and  white,  wore  over  their  faces  the  indispensable 
yashmak,  and  over  their  dress  the  ferraja,  or  cloak,  without  which  no 
Turkish  woman  stirs  abroad.  As  it  was  cold,  they  wore  under  their 
ferrajas  quilted  sacques  of  woollen  and  calico  coming  down  below  the 
knee,  and  trousers  that  bagged  over,  nearly  covering  their  feet,  which 
were  cased  in  slippers,  though  one  of  the  negresses  rejoiced  in  goi^geous 
yellow  boots  with  pointed  toes.  The  children  had  their  hair  out  close, 
and  wore  their  warm  sacques  down  to  their  feet,  made  of  the  gayest  ^ 

calico  I  ever  saw — large  figures  or  broad  stripes  of  red,  yellow  and  green. 
1?he  {boys  were  distinguished  by  red  fez  caps,  and  the  girls  wore  a 
coloured  handkerchief  as  a  turban.    They  covered  the  deck  with  beds 


QLMPaES  OP  CONSTANTINOPLE.  407 

and  thick  comforters,  and  on  theae  they  coDstantly  sat  or  reclined. 
When  H  vaa  absolutely  tteceseary  a  negress  would  reluctantly  riee  and 
perfonn  some  required  act  of  Betvice.  They  had  their  own  food,  which 
seemed  to  conaist  of  dark-looking  bread,  dried  fish,  black  coffee  and  a 
kind  of  confectionery  which  looked  like  congealed  soap-suda  with  ndsina 
and  ahnonda  in  it.  Most  of  their  wakiug  hours  were  employed  in  de- 
vouring oranges  and  smoking  cigarettes. 

We  had  rough  weather  for  several  days,  and  the  ship  rolled  a  good 
deal.  The  captain  made  us  comfortable  in  a  snug  comer  on  the  officers' 
private  deck,  where,  under  the  shelter  of  the  bridge,  we  could  enjoy  the 
view.  One  amusement  was  to  watch  the  officer  of  the  deck  eat  his  din- 
ner seated  on  a  hatchway  just  in  front  of  the  wheel,  and  waited  on  by  a 
most  obsequious  seaman.  The  sulor,  cap  under  bis  arm,  would  present 
a  plate  of  something :  if  the  officer  ate  it  the  man  would  retire  behind 
him,  and  with  the  man  atjthe  wheel  watch  the  disappearance  of  the  con- 
t«ntB.  If  the  officer  lefL  any  or  refused  a  dish,  the  sailor  would  go  down 
to  the  kitchen  for  the  next  course,  first  slipping  what  was  left  or  re- 
jected behind  the  wheel,  and  after  presenting  the  next  course  to  the 
officer  would  retire  and  devour  with  great  gusto  the  secreted  dish  ;  the 
helmsman  sometimes  taking  a.  sly  bite  when  the  officer  was  particularly 
engaged. 

The  Dardanelles  were  reached 
very  early  in  the  morning.  The 
night  before  I  had  declared  my 
intention  to  go  on  deck  at  day- 
light and  view  the  Hellespont, 
but  when  I  awoke  and  found  it 
blowing  a  gale,  I  concluded  it 
would  not  "  pay,"  and  turned 
in  for  another  nap.    All  that 
day  we  were  crossing  the  Sea  j 
of   Marmora  with  the  strong  ', 
current  and  wind  against  ns,  so  j 
it  was  dark  before  we  reached  j 
Constantinople,  and  our  ship  ' 
was  obliged  to  anchor  in  the 
outer  harbour    till    the  next 
morning.     Seraglio. Point  rose 
just  before  us,  and  on  the  left 
the  seven  towers  were  dimly 
visible  in  the  starlight     We 

walked  the  deck  and  watched  the  lights  glimmer  and  stream  out  over 
titt  Sea  of  Marmora,  and  listened  to  the  incessant  barking  of  the  dogs. 


408  GLIMPSES  OP  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

Next  morning,  bright  and  early,  we  entered  the  Bosphorus,  rounded 
Seraglio  Point,  and  were  soon  anchored,  with  hundreds  of  other  vessels, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Golden  Horn.  Steam  ferryboats  of  the  English  kind 
were  passing  to  and  fro,  and  caiques  flitted  in  and  out  with  the  dexterity 
■  and  swiftness  of  sea-gulla  Quite  a  deputation  of  fez  caps  came  on  board  to 
receive  the  bride  and  groom,  and  when  we  went  ashore  they  were  still  ^ 
smoking  cigarettes  and  sipping  at  what  must  have  been  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  their  twentieth  cup  of  Turkish  coffee.    Madame  A 

was  very  cordial  when  we  parted,  saying  she  should  call  soon  upon  me, 
and  that  I  must  visit  her.  We  bade  adieu  to  our  captain  with  regret. 
He  was  a  very  intelligent  and  entertaining  man.  The  officers  of  the 
Austrian  Doyd  line  ought  certainly  to  be  very  capable  seamen.  Edu- 
cated in  the  government  naval  schools,  they  are  obliged  to  serve  as  mates 
a  certain  time,  then  command  a  sailing  vessel  for  several  years,  and 
finally  pass  a  very  strict  examination  before  being  licensed  as  captains 
of  steamers.  Amongst  other  qualifications,  every  captain  acts  as  his  own 
pilot  in  entering  any  port  to  which  he  may  be  ordered.  They  sail  under 
sealed  orders,  and  our  captain  said  that  not  until  he  reached  Constanti- 
nople would  he  know  the  ship's  ultimate  destination,  or  whether  he 
would  retain  conmiand  or  be  transferred  to  another  vessel.  It  is  the 
policy  of  the  company  seldom  to  send  the  same  steamer  or  captain  over 
the  same  route  two  successive  trips.     In  time  of  war  both  captains  and  •  i 

ships  are  liable  to  naval  duty.  As  we  passed  the  Island  of  Lissa  the 
captain  pointed  out  the  scene  of  a  naval  engagement  between  the  Aus- 
trians  and  Italians  in  1866,  in  which  he  had  participated.  The  salary 
of  these  officers  is  only  about  a  thousand  dollars  a  year. 

We  embarked  with  our  baggage  in  a  caique,  which  is  much  like  an  open 
gondola,  only  lighter  and  narrower,  and  generally  painted  in  light  colours, 
yellow  being  the  favourite  one,  and  were  soon  landed  at  the  custom- 
house. A  franc  satisfied  the  Turk  in  attendance  that  our  baggage  was 
all  right,  and  it  was  immediately  transferred  to  the  back  of  an  ammalef 
or  carrier.  These  men  take  the  places  of  horses  and  carts  with  us.  A 
sort  of  pack-saddle  is  fastened  on  their  backs,  and  the  weights  they  carry 
are  astonishing.  Our  ammale  picked  up  a  medium-sized  trunk  as  if  it 
was  a  mere  feather :  on  top  of  this  was  put  a  hat-box,  and  with  a  bag 
in  one  hand  he  marched  briskly  off  as  if  only  enjoying  a  morning  con> 
stitutionaL  We  made  our  way  through  the  dirty  streets  and  narrow 
alleys  to  the  Hdtel  de  Byzance  in  the  European  quarter.  This  is  a  very 
comfortable  hotel,  kept  in  French  style,  and  most  of  the  attendants  speak 
French.     Our  chijnbeTmaidy  however,  is  a  mariy  a  most  remarkable  old  <^ 

specimen  in  a  Turco-Greek  dress — ^long  blue  stockings  and  Turkish  slip- 
pers, very  baggy  white  trousers,  a  blue  jacket,  white  turban  twisted 
around  his  fez  cap  and  a  voluminous  shawl  about  his  waist.     His  long 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  409 

moustache  is  quite  gray,  but  his  black  eyes  are  keen  as  a  hawk's,  and  as 
he  moves  quickly  and  silently  about  my  room,  arranging  and  dusting,  I 
fancy  how  he  would  look  in  the  same  capacity  in  our  house  at  home. 
Our  hotel  stands  in  the  Kue  de  Pera,  the  principal  street  of  the  Euro- 
^^^  pean  quarter,  and  as  it  is  narrow  the  lights  from  the  shops  make  it  safe 

and  agreeable  to  walk  out  in  the  evening.  This  is  one  of  the  few  streets 
accessible  to  carriages,  though  in  some  parts  it  is  difficult  for  two  to  pass 
each  other.  Most  of  the  shopsare  French  and  display  Paris  finery,  but  the 
most  attractive  are  the  fruit-shops  with  their  open  fronts,  so  you  take  in 
their  inviting  contents  at  a  glance.  Broad  low  counters  occupy  most  of  the 
floor,  with  a  narrow  passage  leading  between  from  the  street  to  the  back 
part  of  the  shop,  and  counters  and  shelves  are  covered  with  tempting 
fruits  and  nuts.  Orange  boughs  with  the  fruit  on,  decorate  the  front  and 
ceiling  of  the  shop,  and  over  all  presides  a  venerable  Turk.  In  the 
evening  the  shop  is  lighted  by  a  torch,  which  blazes  and  smokes  and 
gives  a  still  more  picturesque  appearance  to  the  proprietor  and  his  sur- 
•  roundings.     You  stand  in  the  street  and  make  your  purchase^  looking 

well  to  your  bargains,  for  the  old  fellow,  with  all  his  dignity,  will  not 
hesitate  to  cheat  a  "  dog  of  a  Christian  "  if  he  can.     From  every  dark 
alley  as  we  walked  along  several  dogs  would  rush  out,  bark  violently, 
I  itnd  after  following  us  a  little  way  slink  back  to  their  own  quarter  again. 

Each  alley  and  street  of  the  city  has  its  pack  of  dogs,  and  none  venture 
on  the  domain  of  their  neighbours.  During  the  day  they  sleep,  lying 
about  the  streets  so  stupid  that  they  will  hardly  move  ;  in  fact,  horses 
and  donkeys  step  over  them,  and  pedestrians  wisely  let  them  alone. 
After  dark  they  prowl  about,  and  are  the  only  scavengers  of  the  city, 
all  garbage  being  thrown  into  the  streets.  The  dogs  of  Pera  have  ex- 
perienced, I  suppose,  the  civilizing  effects  of  constant  contact  with 
Europeans,  as  they  are  not  at  all  as  fierce  as  those  of  StambouL  They 
soon  learn  to  know  the  residents  of  their  own  streets  and  vicinity,  and 
bark  only  at  strangers. 

Quite  a  pretty  English  garden  has  been  laid  out  in  Pera,  commanding 

a  fine  view  of  the  Bosphorus.     There  is  a  coffee-house  in  the  centre, 

with  tables  and  chairs  outside,  where  you  can  sip  your  coffee  and  enjoy 

the  view  at  the  same  time.     The  Turks  make  coffee  quite  differently 

*  from  us.     The  berry  is  carefully  roasted  and  then  reduced  to  powder  in 

a  mortar.     A  brass  cup,  in  shape  like  a  dice-box  with  a  long  handle,  is 

.    filled  with  water  and   brought  to  a   boil  over  a  brasier  of  coals :  the 

•coffee  is  placed  in  a  similar  brass  dice-box  and  the  boiling  water  poured 

on  it     This  boils  up  once,  and  is  then  poured  into  a  delicate  little  china 

^up  half  the  size  of  an  after-dinner  coffee-cup,  and  for  a  saucer  you  have 

what  resembles  a  miniature  bouquet-holder  of  silver  or  gilt  filigree.    If 

you  take  it  in  true  Turkish  style,  you  will  drink  your  coffee  without 


110  GLIMPSES  OF  COMSTANTIKOPLE. 

sugar,  grounds  and  all ;  but  a  little  sugar,  minuB  the  coffiae-mnd  at  the 
bottom,  is  much  nicer.     Coffee  aeema  to  be  drunk  everywhere  and  all 
the  time  by  the  Turks,    The  oaffa  are  frequent,  where  thay  sit  curled 
up  on  the  divans  dreamily  smoking  and  sipping  their  fragrant  coffee  or 
hearing  stories  in  the  flowery  style  of  the  ^ro^'on  IfigM:    At  the  street 
comers  the  coffee-vender  sqnats  before  hie  little  charcoal  bnaer  and 
drives  a  brisk  business.     If  you  are  likely  to  prove  a  good  customer  at 
the  bazaar,  yon  are  invited  to  curl  yourself  up  on  the  rug  on  the  floor  of 
the  booth,  and  are  re- 
galed'with  coffee.     Do 
yon  make  a  call  or  visit  m 
a  hatem,  the  samebev-  ? 
erage    is   immediately  Z 
offered.  Even  in  the  go-  ^ 
vemment  offices,  while  S 
waiting'foran  interview 
with  some  grandee,  cof- 
fee is  frequently  passed 
round.    Here  it  is  par- 
ticularly acceptable,  for 
without  its  sustaining 
qualities     one     conld 
hardly  survive  the  slow 
movements    of   those 
most  deliberate  of  all 
mortals,   the   Turkish 
official. 

A  few  days  after  our 
arrival  my  friend  of  the 
steamer,  Madame  A — , 
the     pretty    Austrian 
bride,   invited  me  to 
breakfast,  and  sent  her 
husband's    brother,   a 
fine-looking         young 
Greek,  to  escort  me  to 
her  house.     He  spoke 
only  Greek  and  Italian  | 
— I  neither  ;  however,  S 
he  endeavoured  to  be-  n 
guile  the  way  by  con-  g 
versing  animatedly  in 
Italian.    As  he  gazed 


GLDCTSES  OF  OONSTANTIIIOPLE.  411 

op  at  tbe  Bun  uresnl  times,  inhAUd  widi  Batisfaction  the  exhilantiiig 
air  and  pointed  to  the  aparkling  waters  of  the  Boflphonu  and  dw  diataat 
hillfl,  I  {»resuined  he  was  dilating  on  the  fine  veather  and  the  glorioiu 
prospect.  Not  to  be  oatdone  ia  politeness,  I  smiled  a  great  deal  and 
replied  in  good  square  GngUah,  to  vhich  he  alvajs  assanted,  "  Yes,  oh 
yes ! "  which  seemed  to  be  all  the  English  he  knew.  Fortunately,  onr 
walk  was  Qot  long,  and  Uadame  A — —  was  our  interpreter  daring  the 
breakfasL     Her  husband  was  absent. 

The  break&8t  was  half  German,  halfTurkish.  Here  isthe  bill  of  fat«: 
Oysters,  on  the  shell  from  the  Bosphoriis — t^e  smallest  variety  I  have  ever 
seen,  very  dark-looking,  without  much  flavour ;  fried  goldfish ;  a  sort  (rf 
cony  of  rice  uid  mutton,  without  which  no  Turkish  meal  would  be  com- 
plete ;  cauliflower  fritters  seasoned  wiUi  cheese ;  mutton  croquettes  and 
salad ;  fruit,  confectionery  and  coffee.   With  a  young  housekeeper's  pride, 

Madame  A took  me  over  her  house,  which  was  furnished  in  Enropean 

style,  with  an  occasional  touch  of  Orientalism.  In  the  centre  of  the  recep- 
tion-room,  was  a  low  brass  tripod  on  which  rested  a  oovered  brass  dish 
about  the  size  of  a  large  punch-bowl.  In  cold  weather  this  is  filled  with 
<^arcoaI  to  warm  the  room.  "  Cold  comfort,"  I  should  tbiok,  when  the 
snow  falls,  as  it  sometimes  does  in  Constantinople,  and  the  fierce,  cold 
winds  sweep  down  the  Bosphoras  from  the  Black  Sea  imd  the  Russian 
steppes.  As  in  all  the  best  houses  in  Fera,  there  were  bow-windows  inthe 
principal  rooms  of  each  story.  A  large  divan  quite  fills  each  window,  and 
there  the  Greek  and  Armenian  ladies  lean  back  on  their  cushions,  smoke 
their  cigarettes  «id  have  a  good  view  up  and  down  the  street    There  was 


E  BOSPHORVa. 


412  GLIMPSES  OP  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

a  pretty  music-room  with  cabinet  piano  and  harp,  and  opening  from  that 
the  loveliest  little  winter  garden.  The  bow-window  was  filled  with  plants, 
and  orange  trees  and  other  shrubs  were  arranged  in  large  pots  along  the 
side  of  the  room.  The  wall  at  one  end  was  made  of  rock-work,  and  in  the 
crevices  were  planted  vines,  ferns  and  mosses.  Tiny  jets  of  water  near  the 
ceiling  kept  the  top  moist,  and  dripped  and  trickled  down  over  the  rocks 
and  plants  till  tbey  reached  the  pebbly  basin  below.  The  floor  was 
paved  with  pebbles — white,  gray,  black  and  a  dark-red  colour — laid  in 
cement  in  pretty  patterns,  and  in  the  centre  was  a  fountain  whose  spray 
reached  the  glass  roof  overhead.  There  were  fish  in  the  wide  basin 
around  the  fountain,  which  was  edged  with  a  broad  border  of  lycopo- 
dium.  A  little  balcony  opening  out  of  an  upper  room  was  covered  with 
vines,  and  close  to  the  balustrade  were  boxes  filled  with  plants  in  full 
bloom. 

But  the  housetop  was  my  especial  admiration.  It  was  flat,  with  a 
stone  floor  and  high  parapet  On  all  four  sides  close  to  this  were  wide, 
deep  boxes  where  large  plants  and  shrubs  were  growing  luxuriantly. 
Large  vases  filled  with  vines  and  exotics  were  placed  at  intervals  along 
the  top  of  the  parapet.  Part  of  the  roof  was  covered  with  a  light  wooden 
awning,  and  a  dumb-waiter  connected  with  the  kitchen,  so  that  on  warm 
evenings  dinner  was  easily  served  in  the  cool  fresh  air  of  the  roof.  The 
view  from  here  was  magnificent — the  Grolden  Horn,  Stamboul  with  its  i 

mosques  and  white  minarets,  and  beyond  the  Sea  of  Marmora.     Where  | 

a  woman's  life  is  so  much  spent  in  the  house,  such  a  place  for  air  and 
exercise  is  much  to  be  prized,  but  I  fear  my  pretty  Austrian  friend  will 
sigh  for  the  freedom  of  Vienna,  after  the  novelty  of  the  East  has 
worn  off". 

Of  course  we  paid  a  visit  to  Seraglio  Point,  whose  palmy  days,  how- 
ever, have  passed  away.  The  great  fire  of  1865  burned  the  palace,  a 
large  district  on  the  Marmora,  and  swept  around  the  walls  of  St.  Sophia, 
leaving  the  mosque  unharmed,  but  surrounded  by  ruins.  The  Sultan 
never  rebuilds :  it  is  not  considered  lucky  to  do  so.  Indeed,  he  is  said 
to  believe  that  if  he  were  to  stop  building  he  would  die.  Seraglio 
Point  has  been  abandoned  by  the  court,  and  the  sultan  lives  in  a  palace 
on  the  Bosphorus,  and  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  on  earth  is  left  to  decay. 
Wo  entered  through  the  magnificent  gate  of  the  Sublime  Porte,  passed 
the  barracks,  which  are  still  occupied  by  the  soldiers,  visited  the  arsenal 
and  saw  the  wax  figures  of  the  Janizaries  and  others  in  Turkish  costume. 
The  upper  part  of  the  pleasure-grounds  is  in  a  neglected  state,  and  those 
near  the  water  are  entirely  destroyed.  In  one  of  the  buildings  are  the 
crown-jewels,  and  a  valuable  collection  of  other  articles.  There  were 
elegant  toilet  sets  mounted  in  gold ;  the  most  exquisitely  delicate  china; 
daggers,  swords  and  guns  of  splendid  workmanship  and  sparkling 


< 


GLIMPSES  OF   CONSTANTINOPLE.  413 

with  jewels ;  Chinese  work 
and  earring ;  golden  dishes, 
cnps  and  vases,  and  silver 
pitchers  thickly  encrusted 
with  precioos  stones  ;  hone 
trappings  and  velvet  hang* 
ings  irorked  atiif  with 
pearls,  gold  and  silver 
thread,  bits  of  coral,  and 
jewels ;  three  emeralds  as 
large  as  small  hen's  eggs, 
forming  the  handle  of  a 
dirk ;  and  in  a  large  glass 
case  magnificent  ornaments 
for  the  tnrban.  Thero  must 
.have  been  thousands  of 
diamonds  in  these  head- 
pieces, besides  some  of  the 
largest  pearls  I  have  ever 
seen  ;  a  rubj  tbree-qaarters 
of  an  inch  square ;  four  em- 
eralds nearly  two  inches 
long ;  and  a  great  variety  of 
all  kinds  of  precious  stones.  ' 

The  handle  and  sheath  of  one  sword  were  entirely  cover^  with  diamonds 
and  rubies.  There  were  rings  and  clasps,  and  antique  bowls  filled  with  nn- 
ont  stones,  particularly  emeralds.  It  recalled  the  tales  of  the  Arabian 
Nights.  The  collection  ispoorlyarraDged.and  the  jewels  du8ty,so  that  you 
cannot  examine  closely  or  judge  very  well  of  the  quality.  Those  I  have 
mentioned  interested  me  most,  bat  there  were  many  elegant  articles  of 
European  manufacture  which  had  been  presented  to  the  sultan  by  vari- 
ous monarchs.  Near  the  treasury  is  a  very  handsome  pavillion,  built 
of  white  marble,  one  story  high,  with  fine  large  plate-glass  windows. 
A  broad  hall  runs  through  the  centre,  with  parlours  on  each  side.  The 
walls  were  frescoed,  and  on  the  handsomely  inlaid  and  highly -polished 
floors  were  beautiful  rugs.  The  divans  were  gitt  and  heavy  silk  damask 
— one  room  crimson,  one  blue  and  another  a  delicate  butf.  A  few  large 
vases  and  several  inlaid  Japanese  cabinets  completed  the  furniture :  the 
Koran  does  not  allow  pictures  or  statuary.  The  view  from  the  windows 
and  especially  from  the  marble  terrace  in  front,  is  one  of  the  finest  I 
have  ever  seen.  The  pavillion  stands  on  the  highest  part  of  Seraglio 
Point,  two  hundred  feet  above  the  water :  below  it  are  the  ruins  of  the 
palace,  and  the  gardens  running  down  to  the  shore.    Just  before  you 


414  QLIHF8ES  or   CONSTANTIIJOPLE. 

the  BoBphorus  empties  into  the  Marmora ;  in  a  deep  bay  on  the  AsJatac 
shore  t^poaite  are  the  isUndt  of  Priukipo,  Prote  and  several  ethers ; 
and  on  the  mainland  the  view  ie  boanded  by  the  snow-capped  mountains 
of  Olympus.    On  the  right  side  is  tJie  Sea  of  Marmora.    To  the  left,  as 


HOSQDE  or  BT.   BOFHIA. 

far  as  jou  can  Bee,  the  Bosphorus  stretches  away  toward  the  Black  Sea, 
its  shores  dotted  with  towns,  cf^meteries  and  palaces  ;  on  the  extreme  left 
the  Golden  Horn  winds  between  the  cities  of  Stamboul  and  Pera  j  while 
behind  you  la  St.  Sophia  and  the  city  of  Stamboul.  It  is  a  magnificent 
view,  never  to  be  forgotten.  There  are  several  other  pavillions  near  the 
one  just  described.  A  small  one  in  the  Chinese  etyle,  with  piasn  around 
it,  has  the  outer  wall  covered  with  blue  and  white  tiles,  and  inside 
blinds  inlaid  with  mother  of  pearl.  The  door  was  matted,  and  the 
divans  were  of  white  silk  embroidered  with  gilt  thread  and  crimson  and 
green  flosa.     A  third  pavillion  was  a  library. 

From  the  Seraglio  we  drove  to  St.  Sophia.  Stamboul  can  boast  of 
one  fine  street,  and  a  few  others  that  are  wide  enoogh  for  caniages. 
Wh^i  the  government  desire  to  widen  a  street  a  convenient  fire  gene- 
rally occurs.  At  the  time  they  proposed  to  enlarge  this,  the  principal 
street,  it  ia  said  the  fire  broke  out  simultaneously  at  many  points  along 
the  line.  As  the  houses  are  generally  of  wood,  they  bom  quickly,  and  a 
fire  is  not  easily  extinguished  by  their  inefficient  fire  department  Then 
the  government  seizes  the  necessary  ground  and  widens  the  street,  the 
owners  never  receiving  any  iDdemnification  for  their  lasses.  I  need  not 
attempt  a  minute  description  of  St.  Sophia.    We  took  the  precaution  to 


QUUPSE8  OF  GOKBTANTIHOPLE.  415' 

cany  overshoes,  which  we  put  on  kI the  door,  iuatead  of  being  obliged 
to  talu  off  our  boots  and  put  on  ellppers.  A  firman  frond  the  sultan  ad- 
mitted OB  without  difBcultf .  We  admired  the  one  hundred  and  seventy 
colunme  of  marble,  granite  and  poiphyry,  many  of  which  were  taken 
from  ancient  temples,  and  gated  up  at  the  lofty  dome  where  the  four 
Christian  seraphinu  executed  in  mosaic  still  remain,  though  the  names 
of  the  four  archangels  of  the  Moslem  faith  are  inscribed  underneath 
them.  Behind  where  the  high  altaronce  stood  maystill  be  fun  tij  discerned 
the  figure  of  our  Saviour.  Several  little  Turks  were  studying  their 
Eonna,  and  aometunes  whispering  and  playing  much  like  school-boys, 
at  homa 

The  mosques  of  Suleiman  the  Magnifieent,  Snhan  Acbmed  and  Mo- 
hatnmed  II.  were  visited,  but  next  to  St.  Sophia  the  mosque  which  inter- 
ested me  most  was  one  to  which  we  could  not  gain  adndttaoce  —  a 
mosque  some  distance  up  the  Golden  Horn,  where  the  Sultan  is  crowned 
and  where  the  friends  of  Mohammed  and  mother  of  the  former  sultan 
are  buried.  It  is  considered  so  very  sacred  that  Christian  feet  are  not 
allowed  to  enter  even  the  outer  court  As  I  looked  through  the  grated 
gate  a  stout  n^rees  paeeed  me  and  went  in.  The  women  go  to  the  mos- 
ques at  different  hours  from  the  men. 

Kot  tax  firom  here  is  a  remarkable  well  which  enables  a  fortune-teller 

to  read  the  fates  of  those  who  consult  her.     Mr.  B. ,  who  has  lived 

for  thirty  years  in  Constantinople,  and  speaks  Turkish  and  Arabic  as 
fluently  as  hie  own  language,  told  me  he  was  once  walking  with  an  effendi 


^16  GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

%o  whom  he  had  some  months  before  lent  a  very  valuable  Arabic  book. 
He  did  not  liEe  to  ask  to  have  it  returned,  and  was  wondering  how  he 
should  introduce  the  subject  when  they  reached  the  well.  Half  from 
curiosity  and  half  for  amusement,  he  proposed  that  they  should  see  what 
the  well  would  reveal  to  them.   The  oracle  was  a  wild-looking,  very  old 

Nubian  woman,  and  directing  Mr.  R to  look  steadily  down  into  the 

well,  she  gazed  earnestly  into  his  eyes  to  read  the  fate  there  reflected. 
After  some  minutes  she  said,  "  What  you  are  thinking  of  is  lost :  it  has 
passed  from  the  one  to  whom  you  gave  it,  and  will  be  seen  no  more." 

The  effendi  asked  what  the  oracle  had  said,  and  when  Mr.  R told 

him  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  book,  and.  repeated  what  the  Nubian 
had  uttered,  the  effendi  confessed  that  he  had  lent  the  book  to  a  dervish 
and  had  never  been  able  to  recover  it,  and  feared  it  was  indeed  lost.  It 
was  a  lucky  hit  of  the  old  darkey's,  at  any  rate. 

An  opportunity  came  at  last  to  gratify  a  long-cherished  wish,  by  visit- 
ing a  harem.  Madame  L ,  a  French  lady  who  has  lived  here  many 

years,  visits  in  the  harems  of  several  pashas,  and  invited  me  to  accom- 
pany her.  I  donned  the  best  my  frunk  afforded,  and  at  eleven  o'clock 
we  set  out,  each  in  a  sedan  chair.  I  had  often  wondered  why  the  ladies 
I  saw  riding  in  them  sat  so  straight  and  looked  so  stiff,  but  I  wondered 
no  longer  when  the  stout  Cretans  stepped  into  the  shafts,  one  before  and 
one  behind,  and  started  off.     The  motion  is  a  peculiar  shake,  as  if  you  ^*, 

went  two  steps  forward  and  one  back  It  struck  me  as  so  ludicrous,  my 
sitting  bolt  upright  like  a  doll  in  my  little  house,  that  I  drew  the  cur- 
tains and  had  a  good  laugh  at  my  own  expense.  Half  an  hour's  ride 
brought  us  to  the  pasha's  house  in  Stamboul — a  large  wooden  building, 
with  closely-latticed  windows.  "We  were  received  at  the  door  by  a  tall 
Ethiopian,  who  conducted  us  across  a  court  to  the  harem.  Here  a  slave 
took  our  wraps,  and  we  passed  into  a  little  reception-room.  A  heavy  rug 
of  bright  colours  covered  the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  the  only  furniture 
was  the  divans  around  the  sides.  The  pasha's  two  wives,  having  been 
apprised  of  our  intended  visit,  were  waiting  to  receive  us.     Madame 

L was  an  old  friend  and  warmly  welcomed,  and  as  she  spoke  Turkish 

the  conversation  was  brisk.  She  presented  me,  and  we  all  curled  our- 
selves up  on  the  divans.  Servants  brought  tobacco  in  little  embroidered 
bags  and  small  sheets  of  rice  paper,  and  rolling  up  some  cigarettes,  soon 
all  were  smoking.  The  pasha  is  an  '^  old-style  "  Turk,  and  frowns  on  all 
European  innovations,  and  his  large  household  is  conducted  on  the  old- 
fashioned  principles  of  his  forefathers.  His  two  wives  were  young  and 
very  attractive  women.  One,  with  a  pale  clear  complexion,  dark  hair 
and  eyes,  quite  came  up  to  my  idea  of  an  Oriental  beauty.  Not  content, 
however,  with  her  good  looks,  she  had  her  eyebrows  darkened,  while  a 
•delicate  black  line  under  her  eyes,  and  a  little  well  applied  rouge  and 


\ 


QUMraBS  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  417^ 

powder  (I  regret  to  confess)  made  her  at  a  little  distance  a  still  more 
brilliant  beauty.  I  doubt,  if  any  women  understand  the  use  of  cosmetics- 
as  well  as  these  harem  ladies.  Her  dress  was  a  bright^herry  silk,  the 
waist  cut  low  in  front,  the  skirt  reaching  to  her  knees.  Trousers  of  the 
same  and  slippers  to  match,  completed  her  costume.  The  other  wife  was 
equally  attractive,  with  lovely  blue  eyes  and  soft  wavy  hair.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  white  Brousa  silk  waist,  richly  embroidered  with  crimson 
and  gold  braid,  blue  silk  skirt,  white  trousers  and  yellow  slippers.  They 
both  had  on  a  great  deal  of  jewellery.  Several  sets,  I  should  think,  were 
disposed  about  their  persons  with  great  effect,  though  not  in  what  we 
should  consider  very  good  taste.  Being  only  able  to  wear  one  pair  of 
earrings,  they  had  the  extra  pairs  fastened  to  their  braids,  which  were 
elaborately  arranged  about  their  heads  and  hung  down  behind.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  slaves  in  the  room,  who  when  not  waiting  on  their 
mistresses  squatted  on  the  floor,  smoked  and  listened  to  the  conversation. 
Coffee  was  brought  almost  immediately,  the  cups  of  lovely  blue  and 
white  china,  in  pretty  silver  holders  on  a  tray  of  gilt  filigree. 

After  sitting  here  a  while  exchanging  the  compliments  of  the  day,  we 
passed  to  the  next  room,  a  large  saloon  with  windows  and  door  opening 
into  the  court.  Here  a  fountain  threw  up  a  sparkling  jet  of  water,  and 
several  trees  and  flowering  shrubs,  with  a  profusion  of  ivy  on  the  walls, 
made  it  a  very  attractive  place.  The  child  of  the  eldest  wife,  a  bright- 
eyed  little  boy,  was  floating  chips  in  the  basin  of  the  fountain,  laughing 
and  clapping  his  hands  when  the  dialling  water  upset  them  or  wet  his 
face.  The  floor  was  covered  with  large  handsome  rugs,  and  around  the 
sides  of  the  room  were  luxurious  divans;  little  other  furniture 'seems 
necessary  in  a  Turkish  house.  We  followed  our  hostesses'  example  and 
seated  ourselves  on  the  divans,  though  not,  as  they  did,  with  our  feet 
under  us,  and  refreshments  were  served  on  a  large  gilt  salver,  in  the 
middle  of  which  was  a  handsome  covered  dish  of  Bohemian  glass  filled 
with  sweetmeats,  with  vases  on  each  side  to  match,  one  holding  queer- 
shaped  little  spoons  with  golden  bowls.  There  were  also  four  glasses  of 
water  and  four  minute  glasses  of  pale  ji^Uow  cordial.     Fortunately,  the 

tray  was  passed  first  to  Madame  L ;  so  I  watched  her  movements 

and  learned  what  to  do.  She  took  a  spoon  from  one  vase,  dipped  it  in  the 
sweetmeats,  and  after  eating  placed  her  spoon  in  the  empty  vase.  Then 
she  took  some  water  and  drank  a  glass  of  cordial.  So  we  each  did  (it  is 
polite  to  taste  but  once),  and  placed  the  soiled  spoon  in  the  vase  for  that 
purpose.  I  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  the  sweetmeats  were  rose-leaves, 
for  the  flavour  was  perfectly  preserved. 

Madam  L kindly  repeated  most  of  the  conversation,  which,  on 

their  sides,  was  chiefly  composed  of  questions  concerning  Madame  L 's 

family :  Was  her  husband  as  kind  as  ever )  had  he  made  her  any  pre- 


418  GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTAirriNOPLE. 

sentB  lately  1  waa  I  nuniedf  what  wu  my  husbaod'a  person^  &ppe>r- 
aace  t  did  I  lore  him  t  hov  old  was  1 1  vhere  from  I  and  where  going  1 
These  and  nimilar  questiocB,  which  are  conaidered  perfectly  polite  and 
proper,  they  ask  with  the  cnrioeity  of  cbildren. 

Then  we  were  invited  into  a  third  room  where  we  were  served  with 
violet  sherbet,  cake  and  Turkish  paste.    After  partaking  of  these  the 
ladies  sent  for  their  jewel-boxes  and  displayed  their  treasures,  which 
consisted  of  pins,  earrings,  necklaces,  head  and  belt  ornaments — some 
very  huidsome,  and  all  composed  of  precious  stones  of  more  or  less 
value,  for  a  Tui^h  woman  does  not  value  an  ornament  that  is  not  set 
with  precious  stones.     This  was  an  agreeable  change  from  the  farmer 
conversation,  and  when  we  bad  admired  their  jewels  break&st  was 
served.     The  servants  brought  a  scarlet  rug  of  soft  sha^y  stuff,  which 
was  spread  on  the  floor :  a  low  Found  brass  table,  two  feet  high  and 
three  feet  in  diameter,  was  placed  in  the  centre  of  this  rag,  and  we  four 
ladies  seated  ourselves  round  the  table  it  la  Turquf.    A  servant  brought 
a  brass  basin,  which  was  like  an  immense  wash-bowl  with  a  onllendflr  in 
it  turned  upside  down  :  we  washed  onr  hands  over  this,  water  being 
poured  over  them  from  a  large  coffee-pot  (I  should  call  it)  with  ao  un- 
usually long  nose,  and  wiped  onr  hands  on  handsome  towels  embroidered 
at  the  ends  with  gold  thread.     A  dish  of  iried  fish'was  placed  on  the 
table  for  the  first  course  :  each  helped  herself  to  one,  laying  it  on  the 
table  before  her  {we  had  no  plates,  knives  or  forks),  picking  it  to  pieces 
and  eating  it  with  her  fingers.     When  this  was  ended]  the  debris  was 
thrown  on  the  platter  and  removed,  the  tablel  wiped  (off,  and  a  dish 
of  rice  and  mutton  brought ;  for 
this  wo  had  spoons,  but  all  ate 
fromthedish.  Thencameanim- 
mense  cauliflower  covered  thick 
with  strange-tasting  cheese,  and 
the  Turkish  ladies  used  their  | 
thumbs  and  first  two  fingers  in  ' 
conveying  it  to  their  mouths.  I«j 
am  very  fond  of  cauliflower,  but  ' 
this  waa  not  inviting.  The  next  '• 
■  course  was  onions  cooked  in  oil ; ;] 
I  bad  to  be  excused  from  this  ' 
also :  the  s^ht  of  their  drip-  ' 
ping  fingers  was  enough.  Then 
we  washed  oar  hands  and  ate 
oranges ;   washed    again,   and, 
lighting  fresh  cigarettes  (they 
had  smoked  nearly  all  day),  retired  to  our  divans ;  sipped  coffee  and 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  419 

listened  to  an  old  negroes  (the  story-teller  of  the  harem),  who  squatting 
before  ns,  related  marvellons  stories  in  Eastern  style.  More  sweetmeats 
and  confectionery  were  passed  with  coffee,  and  our  visit  ended.  A  Euro- 
pean woman  could  not  support  such  a  life — at  home  perfect  inactivity, 
eating,  smoking,  gossiping,  an  occasional  visit  to  or  from  a  friend,  a  trip 
to  the  bazaar,  and  a  drive  if  they  possess  a  carriage  or  a  row  in  a  caique 
to  the  Sweet  Waters  on  Sunday.  This  is  the  lifeof  a  Turkish  woman  of 
rank. 

A  note  from  Madame  B one  morning  informed  me  that  the 

mother  and  wives  of  a  rich  Turkish  merchant  were  coming  to  visit  her 
and  invited  me  to  be  present.     I  reached  her  house  about  eleven,  but 
the  Turkish  ladies  were  before  me.    The  appearance  of  a  servant  in  the 
hall  with  her  arms  full  of  yashmaks  and  ferrajas  and  several  pairs  of  pat- 
tens  apprised  me  that  I  was  too  late  to  see  their  street-dresses.     In  the 

reception  room  were  Madame  B ,  a  lady  who  acted  as  interpreter 

and  the  three  Turkish  ladies.  They  were  uncontaminated  by  European 
customs  or  Paris  finery.  The  mother  was  exceedingly  ugly,  as  are  most 
Turkish  women  over  forty.  A  pair  of  high  red  morocco  boots  encased 
her  feet,  which  were  guiltless  of  stockings.  White  full  trousers  were 
gathered  close  at  the  knee  and  fell  over  nearly  to  her  ankles.  Her  dress 
was  a  short  purple  velvet  skirt  embroidered  round  the  bottom  and  up 
the  front  with  gilt  braid  in  a  showy  vine  pattern ;  the  same  embroidery 
on  her  black  silk  jacket,  which  was  open  in  front,  but  without  any  lace  * 
and  round  her  neck  was  a  magnificent  string  of  pearls.  Her  hair  (what 
there  was  of  it)  was  drawn  back  from  her  face,  braided,  and  the  end  of 
the  little  ^'  pig  tail ''  fastened  to  her  head  with  a  diamond  pin  composed 
of  four  fine  diamonds  in  a  clumsy  gold  setting.  Long,  psde  amber  ear- 
drops completed  her  adornments,  and  she  flourished — ^yes,  she  really  did 
— ^a  large  red  and  yellow  bandana !  The  younger  of  the  two  wives  was 
quite  pretty.  She  had  brilliant  black  eyes,  good  features,  and  was  very 
attractive  in  her  gay  dress.  She  wore  pink  slippers,  a  heavy  sky-blue 
silk  skirt  with  trousers  to  match,  and  a  yellow  velvet  sacque  open  in 
front,  displaying  a  lace  chemisette  and  a  handsome  turquoise  necklace. 
Large  gold  hoops  pulled  her  pretty  ears  quite  out  of  shape,  and  her  long 
black  hair  was  braided  in  broad  plaits  and  tied  with  a  gilt  ribbon,  which 
was  also  wound  about  her  head  several  times.  Altogether,  she  was  quite 
gorgeous,  and  rather  threw  the  other  wife  into  the  shade.  Wife  No.  2 
was  array^  in  a  dark-^een  velvet  skirt  and  a  pink  silk  jacket  trimmed 
with  silver  braid.  She  had  a  garnet  necklace  and  pretty  earrings  of 
small  pearls  and  diamonds.  Not  to  be  outdone  by  her  mother-in-law  on 
the  mouchovr  question,  she  displayed  a  white  muslin  handkerchief  thickly 
embroidered  with  gold  thread — more  ornamental  than  useful. 

They  were  all  curled  up  on  divans  sipping  coffee  and  smoking  cigar- 


420  GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

ettes  when  I  entered.  Madame B presented  me,  and  they  received  me 

very  graciously,  asked  my  age,  examined  my  clothes  and  inquired  if  I  had 
any  jewels  at  home.  I  wore  none,  and  suppose  my  black  silk  walking-suit 
did  not  impress  them  greatly.  Dress  is  of  the  first  importance  in  their 
eyes,  and  that  and  their  husbands  are  the  chief  topics  of  interest  when 
they  visit  each  other.  Conversation  was  not  brisk,  as  the  necessity  of 
an  interpreter  is  not  favourable  for  a  rapid  exchange  of  ideas.  After 
sitting  in  the  room  for  an  hour,  Madame  B informed  me  that  Turk- 
ish Etiquette  required  that  she  should  now  invite  her  guests  into  another 
room  and  offer  other  refreshments,  then,  after  sitting  there  a  while,  to 
still  another,  and  so  on  through  the  whole  suit  of  apartments,  refresh- 
ments, (generally  coffee,  sweetmeats  or  sherbet)  with  cigarettes  being 
offered  in  each.  As  they  would  probably  remain  till  four  or  five  in  the 
afternoon,  I  excused  myself  and  reached  the  hotel  in  time  to  join  a  party 
going  to  the  bazaar,  thankful  than  I  did  not  reside  in  Ck>nstantinople, 

and  wondering  how  long  Madame  B would  survive  if  she  had  to 

endure  such  visits  frequently. 

We  started  for  our  first  visit  to  the  bazaar,  crossing  the  Golden  Horn 
to  Stamboul  by  the  old  bridge,  which  has  sunk  so  in  places  that  you  feel 
as  if  a  ground-swell  had  been  somehow  consolidated  and  was  doing  service 
of  a  bridge  ;  up  through  the  narrow  streets  of  Stamboul,  now  standing 
aside  to  let  a  string  of  donkeys  pass  loaded  with  large  stones  fastened  by 
ropes  to  their  pack-saddles,  or  stepping  into  a  doorway  to  let  a  dozen 
small  horses  go  by  with  their  loads  of  boards,  three  or  four  planks  strap- 
ped on  each  side,  one  end  sticking  out  in  front  higher  than  their  heads, 
and  the  other  dragging  on  the  ground,  scraping  along  and  raising  such  a 
dust  that  you  are  not  at  all  sure  some  neighbouring  lumber-yard  has 
not  taken  it  into  its  head  to  walk  off  bodily.  Fruit-vendors  scream  their 
wares,  Turkish  officers  on  magnificent  Arab  horses  prance  by,  and  the 
crowd  of  strange  and  picturesque  costumes  bewilders  you ;  and  through 
all  the  noise  and  confusion  glide  the  silent  veiled  women.  One  almost 
doubts  one's  own  identity.  I  was  suddenly  recalled  to  my  senses,  how- 
ever, by  a  gentle  thump  on  the  elbow,  and  turning  beheld  the  head  of  a 
diminutive  donkey.  I  supposed  it  to  be  a  donkey :  the  head,  tail,  and 
feet,  which  were  all  I  could  see  of  it,  led  me  to  believe  it  was  one  of 
these  much-abused  animals.  The  rest  of  its  body  was  lost  to  sight  in  the 
voluminous  robes  of  a  corpulent  Turk ;  and,  as  if  he  were  not  load 
enough/or  one  donkey,  behind  him  sat  a  small  boy  holding  his  "  baba';$'^ 
robe  very  tight  lest  he  should  slide  off  over  the  donkey's  tail.  I  looked 
around  for  Bergh  or  some  member  of  a  humane  society,  but  no  one 
except  ourselves  seemed  to  see  anything  unusual.  I  thought  if  I  were  a 
Hindu  and  believed  in  the  transmigration  of  souls,  I  would  pray  tlhat 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  421 

whatever  shape  my  spirit  took  when  it  left  its  present  form,  it  might 
not  enter  that  of  a  much-abused  and  long-su&ering  donkey. 

The  bazaar  !  How  shall  I  describe  what  bo  many  travellers  have 
made  familiar  I  Some  one  has  called  it  "  a  monstrous  hive  of  little 
shopB — thousands  under  one  roof  ■"  and  so  it  is.  Each  street  is  devoted 
to  a  peculiar  kind  of  merchandise.  It  would  take  more  than  one  letter 
to  tell  all  the  beautiful  things  we  saw- — cashmere  shawls,  Brousa  silks, 
delicate  gauzes,  elegantly-embroidered  jackets,  dresses,  tablecloths, 
cushions,  etc.,  of  all  textures  and  the  most  fashionable  Turkish  styles. 
We  looked  at  antiquities,  saw  superb  precious  stones,  the  finest  of  them 
uuset,  admired  the  display  of  saddles  and  bridles  and  the  array  of  boots 
and  slippers  in  all  colours  of  morocco.  A  Turkish  woman  never  rushes 
round  as  we  did  from  one  shop  to  another,  but  if  she  wishes  to  buy  any- 
thing— a  shawl  for  instance — she  sits  comfortably  down  on  a  rug,  selects 
the  one  she  likes  best,  and  spends  the  rest  of  the  day  bargaining  for  it  ; 
dnriiig  which  time  many  cigarettes  are  smoked  by  both  customer  and 
merchant,  much  coffee  drunk,  long  intervals  spent  in  profound  reflection 
on  the  subject,  and  at  last  the  shawl  is  purchased  for  a  tenth  perhaps  of 
the  original  price  asked,  and  they  part,  each  well  pleased.  It  takes 
several  visits  to  see  the  bazaar  satisfactorily,  and  we  felt  as  we  left  it 
we  had  but  made  a  bei^innins. 


SCENE   IN  A  BD&IAI^-OHOUND. 

There  is  a  continuous  fascination  about  this  old  city.  The  gnide- 
book  says,  "  A  week  or  ten  days  are  required  to  see  the  eights,"  but 
tluHtgh  we  make  daily  expe<litions  we  seem  in  no  danger  of  Exhausting 
tltem.    Keither  does  one  have  to  go  far  to  seek  amusement.     I  never 


422  GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

look  down  into  the  street  below  my  windows  without  being  attracted  by 
some  object  of  interest.  The  little  donkeys  with  their  great  panniers  of 
long  slim  loaves  of  bread  (oh,  tell  it  not,  but  I  once  saw  the  driver  ose 
one  as  a  stick  to  belabour  the  lazy  animal  with,  and  then  leave  it,  with 
two  or  three  other  loaves,  at  the  opposite  house,  where  a  pretty  Ar-  ^ 

menian,  that  I  afterward  saw  taking  the  air  on  the  roof  with  her  bright 
eyed  little  girl,  perhaps  had  it  for  breakfast) ;  the  fierce,  lawless  Turkish 
soldiers  stalking  along,  their  officers  mounted,  and  locking  much  better 
in  their  baggy  trousers  and  frock-coats  on  their  fine  horses  than  on  foot ; 
Greek  and  Armenian  ladies  in  gay  European  costumes  ;  veiled  TurtoBh 
women  in  their  quiet  street-dress  ;  close  carriages  with  gorgeously-dressed 
beauties  from  the  sultan's  harem  followed  by  black  eunuchs  on  horse- 
back— these  and  similar  groups  in  every  variety  of  costume  form  a  con- 
stant stream  of  strange  and  picturesque  sights. 

One  morning,  attracted  by  an  unusual  noise,  I  looked  out  and  found 
it  proceeded  from  a  funeral  procession.    First  came  a  man  carrying  the 
lid  of  the  coffin  ;  then  several  Greek  priests ;  after  them  boys  in  white 
robes  with  lighted  candles,  followed  by  choir  boys  in  similar  dresses  who 
chanted  as  they  walked  along.     Such  sounds  1    Greek  chanting  is  a  hor- 
rible nasal  caterwauling.     Get  a  dozen  boys  to  hold  their  noses,  and 
then  in  a  high  key  imitate  the  gamut  performed  by  several  festive  cats 
as  they  prowl  over  the  housetops  on  a  quiet  night,  and  you  have  Greek, 
Armenian  or  Turkish  chanting  and  singing  to  perfection.  There  is  not  the 
firstconceptionof  music  in  the  souls  of  these  barbarians.  Behind  this  choir 
came  four  men  carrying  the  open  coffin.    The  corpse  was  that  of  a 
middle-aged  man  dressed  in  black  clothes,  with  a  red  fez  cap  on  the 
head  and  yellow,  red  and  white  flowers  scattered  over  the  body.     The 
hot  sun  shone  full  on  the  pinched  and  shriveled  features,  and  the  sight 
was  most  revolting.     Several  mourners  followed  the  coffin,  the  ladies  in 
black  clothes,  with  black  lace  veils  on  their  heads  and  their  hair  much 
dressed.    The  Greeks  are  obliged  to  carry  their  dead  in  this  way,  un- 
covered, because  concealed  arms  were  at  one  time  conveyed  in  coffijis  to 
their  churches,  and  then  used  in  an  uprising  against  the  government. 
We  witnessed  a  still  more  dreadful  funeral  outside  the  walls.    A  party, 
evidently  of  poor  people,  were  approaching  an  unenclosed  cemetery,  and 
we  waited  to  see  the  interment.     The  body,  in  its  usual  clothes,  was 
carried  on  a  board  covered  by  a  sheet     When  they  reached  the  grave 
the  women  shrieked,  wept  and  kissed  the  face  of  the  dead  man ;  then 
his  clothes  were  taken  ofl^  the  body  wrapped  in  the  sheet  and  laid  in  the 
grave,  which  was  only  two  feet  deep.    The  priest  broke  a  bottle  of  wine 
over  the  head,  the  earth  was  loosely  thrown  in,  and  the  party  went 
away.    There  is  no  more  melancholy  spot  to  me  Uian  a  Turkish  ceme- 
tery.   The  graves  are  squeezed  tightly  together,  and  the  headstones 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLK  423 

generally  in  a  tumble-down  state,  are  shaped  like  a  coffin  standing  on 
end,  or  like  a  round  hitching-post  with  a  fez  cap  carved  on  the  top. 
Weeds  and  rank  wild-flowers  cover  the  ground,  and  over  all  sway  the 
dark,  stiff  cypresses. 

A  little  way  down  the  street  is  a  Turkish  pastry-shop.  Lecturers  and 
writers  have  from  time  to  time  held  forth  on  the  enormities  of  pie-eat- 
ing, and  given  the  American  people  *'  particular  fits  "  for  their  addiction 
to  it  Now,  while  I  fully  endorse  all  I  ever  heard  said  on  the  subject,  I 
b^  leave  to  remark  that  the  Americans  are  not  the  loorst  offenders  in  this 
way.  If  you  want  to  see  pastry,  come  to  Constantinople  :  seeing  will 
satisfy  you — you  won't  risk  a  taste.  Mutton  is  largely  eaten,  and  the 
mutton  fat  is  used  with  flour  to  make  the  crust,  which  is  so  rich  that 
the  grease  fairly  oozes  out  and  *'  smells  to  heaven."  Meat-pies  are  in 
great  demand.  The  crust  is  baked  alone  in  a  round  flat  piece,  and  laid 
out  on  a  counter,  which  is  soon  very  greasy,  ready  to  be  filled.  A  large 
dish  of  hash  is  also  ready,  and  when  a  customer  calls  the  requisite 
amount  of  meat  is  clapped  on  one  side  of  the  paste,  the  other  half 
doubled  over  it,  and  he  departs  eating  his  halfmoon-shaped  pie.  On  the 
coimters  you  see  displayed  large  egg-shaped  forms  of  what  look  like 
layers  of  tallow  and  cooked  meat,  cheesy-looking  cakes  of  many  kinds 
and  an  endless  variety  of  confectionery.  The  sweetmeats  are  perfection, 
the  fresh  Turkish  paste  with  almonds  in  it  melts  in  your  mouth,  and 
the  sherbet,  compounded  of  the  juice  of  many  fruits  and  flowers  and 
cooled  with  snow,  is  the  most  delicious  drink  I  ever  tasted.  There  are 
also  many  kinds  of  nice  sweet-cakes ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  should  prefer 
not  to  board  in  a  Turkish  family  or  employ  a  Turkish  cook.  No  won- 
der the  women  are  pale  and  sallow  if  they  indulge  much  in  such  food  I 

Being  anxious  to  see  a  good  display  of  Turkish  rugs,  and  our  party 
having  some  commissions  to  execute,  we  sallied  forth  one  afternoon  on 
this  errand.  If  you  intend  to  visit  a  Turkish  carpet  warehouse,  and 
your  purse  or  your  judgment  counsels  you  not  to  purchase,  put  yourself 
under  bonds  to  that  effect  before  you  go ;  for,  unless  you  possess  remark- 
able strength  of  character,  the  beautiful  rugs  displayed  will  prove  irre- 
sistible temptations.  Near  the  bazaar  in  Stamboul  is  a  massive  square 
stone  house,  looking  like  a  fortress  compared  with  the  buildings  around 
it.  Mosses  and  weeds  crop  out  of  every  uneven  part  of  its  walls.  A 
heavy  door  that  might  stand  a  siege  admitted  us  to  a  smaU  vestibule, 
and  from  this  we  passed  into  a  paved  court  with  a  moss-grown  fountain 
in  the  centre.  Around  this  court  ran  a  gallery,  its  heavy  arches  and 
columns  supporting  a  second,  to  which  we  ascended  by  a  broad  flight  of 
steps.  A  double  door  admitted  us  to  the  wareroom,  where,  tolerably 
secure  from  fire  the  doors  (alone  were  of  wood),  were  stored  Turkish 
and  Persian  rugs  of  all  sizes  and  colours.    The  Turkish  were  £Eir  hand- 


424  OLMPSES  OF  CONBTANTINOPLK. 

somer  thiui  tJbe  Fersiui,  and  the  colonrs  more  brilliant  than  those  I  hare 
neoally  seen.  The  attendants  unrolled  one  that  they  said  was  a  hun- 
dred years  old.  It  had  a  dusty,  faded  look,  as  if  it  had  been  in  the 
warehouse  quite  that  length  of  time,  and  made  the  modem  ones  seem 
brighter  by  oontrasL  Several  rugs 
haling  been  selected,  we  retorned 
to  tiie  offioe,  where  a  carpet  was 
spread  and  ve  were  invited  to  seat 
ourselvee  on  it.  Coffee  was  passed 
around,  and  we  proceeded  to  hia- 
gain  for  our  goods  through  onr  in- 
terpreter. The  merchant,  as  usual, 
asked  an  exorbitant  price  to  start 
with,  and  we  offered  what  was 
equally  ridiculous  the  other  way; 
and  so  we  gradually  approached  the 
final  price — be  coming  gracefully 
down,  and  we  as  affably  ascending 
in  the  scale,  till  a  happy  medium 
was  reached,  and  we  departed  with 
our  purchases  following  us  on  the 
back  of  an  atamale. 

Three  days  of  each  week  are  ob- 
served as  holy  days.  Friday  is  the 
Turkish    Sabbath,    Saturday    the  ""  »"""■ 

Jewish,  and  the  Greeks  and  Armenians  keep  Sunday.  The  indolent 
government  officials,  glad  of  an  excuse  to  be  idle,  keep  all  three — that 
is,  they  refrain  from  business — bo  there  are  enly  four  days  out  of  the 
seven  in  which  anything  is  accomplished. 

One  of  the  great  sights  is  to  see  the  Sultan  go  to  the  mosque ;  so  one 
Friday  we  took  a  caique  and  were  rowed  up  the  fiosphorus  to  Dolma 
Backt^,  and  waited  on  the  water  opposite  the  palace.  The  Sultan's 
caique  was  at  the  principal  entrance  on  the  water-side  of  the  palace,  and 
the  steps  and  marble  pavement  were  carpeted  from  the  caiiqne  to  the 
door.  Presently  all  the  richly  dressed  officers  of  the  household,  whowtre 
loitering  around,  formed  on  either  side  the  steps,  and  bending  nearly 
double,  remained  so  while  the  Sultan  passed  down  to  his  ouque.  The 
Sultan  is  quite  stout  and  rather  shoi-t,  with  a  pleasant  face  and  cloeely- 
cut  beard.  He  was  dressed  in  a  plain  black  uniform,  his  breast  covered 
with  orders.  The  Sultan's  ofuque  was  a  magnificent  barge — white,  pro- 
fusely ornamented  with  gilt,  and  rowed  by  twenty-four  oarsmen  dressed 
in  white,  who  rose  to  their  feet  with  each  stroke,  bowed  low,  and  setUed 
back  in  their  seats  as  the  stroke  was  expended.     The  Sultan  and  grand 


OLIMFSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  426 

vizier  seated  themulvea  under  the  plum-coloared  velvet  canopy,  and 
the  calqae  proceeded  swiftly  toward  the  moaqa^  followed  by  ^ree 
other  ouqttes  with  his  attendanta.  A  gun  from  an  iron-clad  oppoaite 
the  palace  anoounoed  that  the  Sultan  had  started.  The  shore  from  the 
palace  to  the  mosque  was  lined  with  soldiers :  the  bands  played ;  the 
people  cheered ;  the  ships  ran  up  their  flags ;  all  the  war  vessels  were 
gay  with  buntiog,  had  their  yards  manned  and  tired  salutes,  which  were 
answered  by  the  shore  batteries.  The  mosque  selected  for  that  day's 
devotions  was  in  Tophaoeb,  near  the  water.  Several  regiments  were 
drawn  up  to  receive  the  Sultan,  and  an  elegant  carriage  and  a  superb 
Arab  saddle-horse  were  in  waiting,  so  that  His  Majesty  might  retuni  to 
the  palace  as  beet  suited  bis  fancy.  After  an  hour  spent  in  devotion 
theSuttan  reappeared,  and  entering  his  carriage  was  driven  away.  We 
saw  him  again  on  our  way  home,  when  he  stopped  to  call  on  an  Aus- 
trian prince  staying  at  the  legation.  The  street  leading  up  to  the  em- 
bauy  was  too  narrow  and  steep  for  a  carriage,  so,  mounting  his  horse  at 
the  toot,  he  rode  up,  passing  very  close  to  na. 

Id  the  afternoon  we  drove  to  the  "  Sweet  Waters  of  Europe,"  to  see 
the  Turkish  ladies,  who  in  pleasant  weather  always  go  out  there  in  carri- 
ages or,  by  water,  in  caiques.     Compared  with  our  parks,  with  their 
lovely  lakes  and  streams  and  beautiful  lawns,  the  far-famed  Sweet 
Waters  of  Europe  are  only  fields  with  a  canal  fanning  through  them  ; 
but  here,  where  this  is  the  only  strean^  of  fresh,  water  near  the  city,  and 
in  a  country  liestitate  of  trees,  it  is  a  charming  place.     The  stream  has 
been  walled  up 
to  the  top  of  its 
banks,  which  are 
frotn  three  to  six 
feet   above    the 
water,  and  there 
are    sunny   mea- 
dows    and    flue 
large    trees     on 
each   side.    Hie 
Sultan  has  a  sum- 
mer palace  here, 

withaprettygaf-  ^^,^, 

den ;     and     the 

stream  has  been  dammed  up  by  blocks  of  white  marble  cut  in  scallops, 
like  shdls,  over  which  tfie  water  falls  in  a  cascade.  The  road  to  the 
Sweet  Waters,  with  one  or  two  others,  was  made  after  the  Sultan's  re- 
turn from  his  European  trip,  and  in  anticipation  of  the  Empress  Eegenie's 
visit.     European  carriages  were  also  introduced   at  that  time.     The 


426  GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

ladies  of  the  Sultan's  harem  drive  out  in  very  handsome  conpte,  with 
coachmen  wearing  the  Saltan's  livery ;  but  you  more  frequently  see  the 
queer  one-horse  Turkish  carriage,  and  sometimes  a  '' cow-carriage." 
This  last  is  drawn  by  cows  or  oxen.  It  is  an  open  waggon,  with  a  white 
doth  awning,  ornamented  with  gay  fringes  and  tassels.  Many  peofrie 
go  in  caiques,  and  all  carry  bright-coloured  rugs,  which  they  spread  on 
the  grass.  There  they  sit  for  several  hours  and  gossip  with  each  other^ 
or  take  their  luncheons  and  spend  the  afternoon.  A  Turkish  woman  is 
never  seen  to  better  advantage  than  when  ^<  made  up  "  for  such  an  ex- 
cursion. Her  house  dress  is  always  hidden  by  a  large  cloak,  whidi 
comes  down  to  the  ground,  and  has  loose  sleeves  and  a  cape.  The  cloak 
is  left  open  at  the  neck  to  show  the  lace  and  necklace  worn  under  it, 
and  is  generally  made  of  silk,  often  of  exquisite  shades  of  pink,  blue^ 
purple,  or  any  colour  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  wearer.  A  ^nnall  silk  cap, 
like  the  low  turbans  our  ladies  wore  eight  or  nine  years  h^y,  covers  the 
head,  and  on  it  are  fiAstened  the  most  brilliant  jewels— diamond  {hiis, 
rubies,  anything  that  will  flash.  The  wearer's  complexion  is  heightened 
to  great  brilliancy  by  toilet  arts,  and  over  all,  covering  deficiencies,  is 
the  yashmak  or  thin  white  veil,  which  conceals  only  in  part  and  greatly 
enhances  her  beauty.  You  think  your  "  dream  of  fair  women  "  realized, 
and  go  home  and  read  Lalla  JRookh,  and  rave  of  Eastern  peris.  Should 
some  female  friend  who  has  visited  a  harem,  and  seen  these  radiant 
beauties  face  to  face,  mildly  suggest  that  paint,  powder,  and  the  enchant- 
ment of  distance  have  in  a  measure  deluded  you,  you  dismiss  the  unwel- 
come information  as  an  invention  of  the  ^^ green-eyed  monster,"  and, 
remembering  the  brilliant  beauties  who  reclined  beside  the  Sweet  Waten 
or  floated  by  you  on  the  Oolden  Horn,  cherish  the  recollection  as  that 
of  one  of  the  brightest  scenes  of  the  Orient 

These  I  have  spoken  of  are  the  upper  classes,  from  the  harems  of  the 
Sultan  and  rich  pashas ;  but  those  you  see  constantly  on  foot  in  the 
streets  are  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  and  not  so  attractive*  They 
have  fine  eyes,  but  the  yashmaks  are  thicker,  and  you  feel  there  is  less 
beauty  hidden  under  them.  The  higher  the  rank  the  thinner  the  yash- 
mak is  the  rule.  They  also  wear  the  long  cloak,  but  it  is  made  of  black 
or  coloured  alpaca,  or  a  similar  material  Qray  is  most  worn,  but  black, 
brown,  yellow,  green,  blue,  and  scarlet  are  often  seen.  The  negresses 
dress  like  their  mistresses  in  the  street,  and  if  you  see  a  pair  of  bright 
yellow  boots  under  a  brilliant  scarlet  ferraja  and  an  unusually  white 
yashmak,  you  will  generally  find  the  wearer  is  a  jet-black  uegress. 
Sitting  so  much  in  the  house  it  la  Torque  is  not  conducive  to  grace  of 
motion,  nor  are  loose  slippers  to  well-shaped  feet,  and  I  must  confess 
that  a  Turkish  woman  walks  like  a  goose,  and  the  size  of  her  "  fairy  feet'^ 
would  rejoice  the  heart  of  a  leather<lealer« 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTIKOPLK  427 

We  have  been  to  see  the  Howling  Dervishes,  and  I  will  endeavour  to 
give  you  some  idea  of  their  performances.  Grossing  to  Scatui  in  the 
Bteam  feriy-boat,  we 
walked  some  distance  till 
we  reached  the  mosque, 
where  tiie  services  were 
jnst  commencing.  The 
attendimt  who  admitted 
na  intimated  that  we 
mnst  remove  our  boots, 
and  put  on  the  slippers 
provided.  N —  did  so, 
bnt  I  objected,  and  the 
man  was  satisfied  with 
my  wearing  them  over 
my  boots.  We  were  con- 
ducted np  a  steep,  ladder- 
like staircase  to  a  small 
gallery  with  a  low  front 
Only  a  foot  high,  with  no 
seats  but  sheepskins  on 
the  fioor,  where  we  were 
expected  to  curl  our- 
selves np  in  Turkish 
fashion.  Both  my  slip- 
pers came  off  during  my 
dimb  np4tairs,  but  were 
arrested  in  their  down- 
ward  career  by  N — ,  who 

by  dint  of  mnch  shuffling  managed  to  keep  his  on.  Below  us  were  seat«d 
some  thirty  or  forty  dervishes.  The  leader  repeated  portions  of  the 
Koran,  in  which  exercise  others  occasionally  took  part  in  a  quiet  man- 
ner. After  a  while  they  knelt  in  line  opposite  their  leader  and  began  to 
chant  in  louder  tones,  occasionally  bowing  forward  full  Ien§tli.  Matters 
downbelowprogressedslowlyatfirst.ar.d  were  getting  monotonous.  One 
of  my  feet,  unaccustomed  to  its  novel  position,  bad  gone  to  sleep,  and  I 
was  in  a  cramped  state  generally.  Moreover,  we  were  not  the  sole  oc- 
cnpante  of  the  gallery.  The  sheepskins  were  full  of  them,  and  I  began 
to  think  that  if  the  dervishes  did  not  soon  begin  to  howl  /  should. 
Some  traveller  has  said  that  on  the  coast  of  Syria  the  Arabs  have  a  pro- 
verb that  the  "  SiUtan  of  jUas  holds  his  court  in  Jaffa,  and  the  Grand 
Viricr  in  Cairo."    Certainly  some  very  high  dignitary  of  the  realm  pre- 


GLIMPSES  OF  COMSTANTIHOPLE. 


sides  over  GuDstantiaople,  and  makee  liis  hea<l  quarters  iu  the  mosque 
of  the  Howling  Dervishes. 


tt  THB  nOSPKOBUH. 


The  dervishes  now  stood  up  in  line,  taking  hold  of  hands,  and  swayed 
backward,  forward  and  sideways,  with  perfect  uniformity,  wildly  chant- 
ing, or  rather  howling,  verses  of  the  Koran,  and  keeping  time  with  their 
movements.  They  commenced  slowly,  and  increased  the  rapidity  of 
their  gymnastics  as  they  became  more  excited  and  devout.  'Hie  whole 
pGEfonnance  lasted  an  hour  or  more,  and  at  the  end  they  naturally 
seemed  quite  exhausted.  Then  little  children  were  brought  in,  laid  on 
the  floor,  and  the  head-dervisb  stepped  on  their  bodies.  I  suppose  he 
stepped  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  hurt  them,  as  they  did  not  utter  a 
sound.  Perhaps  the  breath  was  so  squeezed  out  of  them  that  they  could 
not.  One  child  was  quite  a  baby,  and  on  this  he  r«8t«d  his  foot  lightly, 
leaning  his  weight  on  a  man's  shoulder.  I  could  not  find  out  exactly 
what  this  cerenony  signified,  but  was  told  it  was  considered  a  cure  for 
sicknees,  and  also  a  preventive. 

We  concluded  to  do  the  dervishes,  and  so  next  day  went  to  iee  the 
spinning  ones.  They  have  a  much  larger  and  handsomer  mosque  than 
their  howling  brethren.  First  they  chanted,  then  they  indulged  in  a 
"  walk  around."  Every  time  they  passed  the  leader,  who  kept  bis  place 
at  the  head  of  the  room,  they  bowed  profoundly  to  him,  then  passed 
before  him,  and,  turning  on  the  other  side,  bowed  again.  After  this 
interchange  of  courtesies  had  lasted  a  while,  they  saiW  off  around  the 
room,  spinning  with  the  smooth,  even  motion  of  a  top— arms  folded,  head 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  429 

on  one  side  and  eyes  shut  Sometimes  this  would  be  varied  by  the  head 
being  thrown  back  and  the  arms  extended.  The  rapid  whirling  caused 
their  long  f^reen  dresses  to  spread  out  like  a  half-open  Japanese  umbrella, 
supposing  the  man  to  be  the  stick,  and  they  kept  it  up  about  thirty 
minutes  to  the  inspiring  music  of  what  sounded  like  a  drum,  horn  and 
tin  pan.  We  remained  to  witness  the  firU  Bet :  whether  they  had  any 
more  and  wound  up  with  the  German,  I  cannot  say.  We  were  tired  and 
went  home,  satisfied  with  what  we  had  seen.  I  should  think  they  cor- 
responded somewhat  with  our  Shakers  at  home,  as  far  as  their  '*  mus- 
cular Christianity ''  goes,  and  are  rather  ahead  on  the  dancing  question. 

One  of  the  prominent  objects  of  interest  on  the  Bosphorus  is  Robert's 
College.  It  stands  on  a  high  hill  three  hundred  feet  above  the  water,  and 
commands  an  extensive. view  up  and  down  the  Bosphorus.  For  seven 
years  Dr.  Hamlin  vainly  endeavoured  to  obtain  permission  to  build  it, 
and  the  order  was  not  given  till  Farragut's  visit.  The  gallant  admiral, 
while  breakfasting  with  the  grand  vizier,  inquired  what  was  the  reason 
the  government  did  not  allow  Dr.  Hamlin  to  build  the  college,  when  the 
grand  vizier  hastily  assured  him  that  all  obstacles  had  been  removed, 
and  that  the  order  was  even  then  as  good  as  given.  Americans  may  well 
be  proud  of  so  fine  and  well-arranged  a  building,  and  the  able  corps  of 
professors.  We  visited  it  in  company  with  Dr.  Wood  and  his  agreeable 
wife,  who  are  so  well  known  to  all  who  take  any  interest  in  our  foreign 
missiona  After  going  over  the  college  and  listening  to  very  creditable 
declamations  in  English  from  some  of  the  students,  we  were  hospitably 
entertained  at  luncheon  by  Professor  Washburn,  who  is  in  charge  of  the 
institution,  and  his  accomplished  wife.  Within  a  short  distance  of  the 
college  is  the  Castle  of  Europe,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Bosphorus 
the  Castle  of  Asia.  They  were  built  by  Mohammed  IL  in  1451,  and  the 
Castle  of  Europe  is  still  in  good  preservation.  It  consists  of  two  large 
towers,  and  several  small  ones  connected  by  walls,  and  is  built  of  a  rough 
white  stone,  to  which  the  ivy  clings  luxuriantly. 

A  pleasant  excursion  is  to  take  a  little  steamer,  which  runs  up  tibe 
Bosphorus  and  back,  touching  at  Beicos  (Bey  Kos),  and  visit  the  Giant 
Mountain,  from  which  is  a  magnificent  view  of  the  Black  Sea,  and  nearly 
the  whole  length  of  the  Bosphorus.  We  breakfasted  early,  but  when 
ready  to  start  found  our  guide  had  disappointed  us,  and  his  place  was 
not  to  bo  supplied.  The  day  was  perfect,  and  rather  than  give  up  our 
trip  we  determined  to  go  by  ourselves,  trusting  that  the  success  which 
had^  attended  similar  expeditions  without  a  commissionnaire  would  not 
desert  us  on  this  occasion.  The  sail  up  on  the  steamer  was  charming. 
There  are  many  villages  on  the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus,  and  between 
them  are  scattered  palaces  and  summer  residences,  the  latter  often 
reminding  us  of  Venetian  houses^  built  directly  on  the  shore  with  steps 


430  GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

down  to  the  water,  and  caiques  moored  at  the  doors,  as  the  gondolaa  are 
in  Venice.  The  housea  are  aarrovinded  hy  beantifnl  gardens,  with  a  pro- 
faaioQ  of  flowers  blooming  on  the  very  edge  of  the  shore,  their  gay  oolonrc 
reflected  in  the  waves  beneath. 

We  learned  from  the  captain  of  tiie  steamer  that  Giant  Mountain  was 
two  and  a  half  milea  from  the  village,  with  no  very  well-defioed  road 
leading  to  it ;  so  od  laoding  at  Bey  Kos  we  made  inqniriee  for  a  guide, 
and  this  time  were  successful  H  orses  were  also  forthcoming,  but  no  side- 
saddle. I  respectfully  declined  to  follow  the  example  of  my  TntkiBh 
sisters  and  mount  a  gentleman's  saddle ;  neither  was  I  anxious  to  ride 
my  Arab  steed  bareback,  so  we  concluded  to  try  a  cow-carriage  and  des- 
patched onr  guide  to  hire  the  only  one  the  place  afforded.  This  Etyllah 
establishment  was  not  to  be  had ;  so,  having  wasted  half  an  honr  in  try- 
ing to  find  some  conveyance,  we  gave  it  up  and  started  on  foot ;  and 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  431 

were  glad  afterwards  that  we  did  so.  The  road  was  shaded  to  the  base 
of  the  moantain,  and  led  through  a  beautiful  valley,  the  fields  covered 
with  wild-flowers.  I  have  never  seen  such  masses  of  colour — an  acre 
perhaps  of  bright  y ellow,  perfectly  dazzling  in  the  sunlight,  then  as  large 
a  mass  of  purple,  next  to  that  an  immense  patch  of  white  daisies,  so 
thick  they  looked  like  snow.  The  effect  of  these  gay  masses,  with  inter- 
vals of  green  grass  and  grain,  was  very  gorgeous.  We  passed  two  of  the 
Sultan's  palaces,  one  built  in  Swiss  style.  The  ascent  of  Giant  Moun- 
tain from  the  inland  side  is  gradual,  while  it  descends  very  abruptly  on 
the  waterside.  On  the  top  of  the  mountain  are  the  ruins  of  the  church 
of  St  Pantaloon,  built  by  Justinian,  also  a  mosque  and  the  tomb  of 
Joshua :  so  the  Turks  affirm.  From  a  rocky  platform  just  below  the 
mosque  there  is  a  magnificent  view.  Toward  the  north  you  look  off  on 
the  Black  Sea  and  the  old  fortress  of  Riva,  which  commands  the  entrance 
to  the  Bosphorus.  In  front  and  to  the  south  winds  the  beautiful  Bos- 
phorus,  for  sixteen  miles  till  it  reaches  the  Sea  of  Marmora,  which  you 
see  &r  in  the  distance  glittering  in  the  sunlight  You  look  down  on  the 
decks  of  the  passing  vessels,  and  the  large  steamers  seem  like  toy  boats^ 
as  they  pass  below  you.  Near  the  mosque  is  a  remarkable  well  of  cool 
water.  Shrubs  and  a  few  small  trees  grow  on  the  mountain,  and  the 
ground  is  covered  with  quantities  of  heather,  wUd-flowers  and  ivy.  We 
pickedllong  spikes  of  white  heather  in  ftdl  bloom,  and  pansies,  polyan- 
thus, the  blue  iris  and  many  others  of  our  garden  flowers.  The  country 
all  around  Oonstantinople  is  very  destitute  of  trees.  The  woods  were 
cut  down  long  ago,  and  the  multitudes  of  sheep,  which  you  see  in  large 
flocks  everywhere,  crop  the  young  sprouts  so  they  cannot  grow  up  again. 
Beturning  to  Constantinople,  our  steamer  ran  close  to  the  European 
shore,  stopping  at  the  villages  on  that  side.  Most  of  the  officers  of 
these  boats  are  Turks,  but  they  find  it  necessary  to  employ  European 
(generally  English)  engineers^  as  the  Turks  are  fatalists  and  not  reliable. 
It  is  said  they  pay  but  little  attention  to  their  machinery  and  boilers,, 
reasoning  that  if  it  is  the  will  of  Allah  that  the  boiler  blow  up,  it  will 
certainly  do  so  ;  if  not,  all  will  go  right,  and  why  trouble  one's  self  t 
Laughable  stories  are  told  of  the  Turldsh  navy ;  e.  g,,  that  a  certain 
captain  was  ordered  to  take  his  vessel  to  Crete,  and  after  cruising  about 
some  time  returned,  not  being  able  to  find  the  island.  Another  captain 
stopped  an  English  vessel  one  fine  day  to  ask  where  he  was,  as  he  had 
lost  his  reckoning,  although  the  weather  had  been  perfectly  clear  for 
some  time.  In  tiie  GU>lden  Horn  lies  an  old  four-decker  which,  during 
the  Crimean  war  was  run  broadside  under  a  formidable  battery  by  her 
awkward  crew,  who  were  unable  to  manage  her,  and  began  in  their 
fright  to  jump  overboard.  A  French  tugboat  went  to  the  rescue  and 
towed  her  off. 


432  GLIMPSES   OF-  CON8IANT1N0PLE. 

On  oar  iray  to  the  hotel  we  saw  the  Sultan's  soo.  He  was 
driving  in  a  fine  open  carriage  drawn  by  a  yery  handaoma  span  of 
bay  horses,  and  preceded  by  four  outriders  mounted  on  fine  Arabian 
horses.  Coachman,  foolm«i  and  outriders,  in  the  black  livery  of  the 
Sultan,  were  resplendent  in  gold  lace.  The  harness  was  of  red  leather 
and  the  carriagii  painted  of  the  same  tuight  colour.  The  oushioDs  were 
of  white  silk  embroidered  with  scarlet  flowers.  It  was  a  dashing  equip- 
age, but  seemed  better  suited  to  a  harem  beauty  than  the  dark,  Jewi^- 
looking  boy  in  the  awkward  uniform  of  a  Turkish  general  who  was  ito 
sole  oocnpant. 

Yesterday  we  took  our  last  stroll  in  Constantinople,  crossing  the  Gol- 
den Horn  by  the  new  bridge  to  Stamboul.  This  bridge  is  a  busy  spot, 
for  besides  the  constant  throngs  that  cross  and  reeross,  it  is  the  farourite 
resort  of  b^$;ais  and  dealers  in  small  wares.  Many  of  the  ferryboats 
also  start  from  here,  so  that,  although  long  and  wide,  it  is  crowded  moat 
of  the  day.  An  Bnglishman,  who  is  an  officer  in  the  Turidsh  army,  told 
US  of  an  amusing  adveotnre  of  his  in  crou  ing  the  bridge.  He  bad  been 
at  t^e  war  department,  and  was  told  he  could  hare  the  six  months'  pay 
which  was  due  him  if  he  would  take  it  in  piastres.  Thankful  to  get  it, 
and  fearing  If  he  did  not  take  it  then  in  that  shape  he  might  have  to 
wait  a  good  while,  he  accepted,  aud  the  piastres  (which  are  large  copper 
coins  worth  about  four  cents  of  our  money)  were  placed  in  hags  on  the 
backs  of  porters  to  bo  tdcen  to  a  European  hank  at  Pera.  As  they 
were  crossing  the  bridge  one  of  the  bags  burst  open  with  the  weight  of 
the  coins,  and  a  quantity  of  them  were  scattered.     Of  course  a  fiiat«laBB 


GLIMPSES  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE.  48* 

scnmble  eosaed,  in  which  the  beggan,  who  are  always  on  hand,  and 
others  reaped  quite  a  harvett,  &nd  when  the  officer  got  the  hole  tied  up 
the  ammale  found  the  bag  considerably  lighter  to  carry. 

Beaching  Stamboul,  we  made  our  way  through  the  crowded  streets, 
post  the  Seraglio  gardens  aud  St.  Sophia,  till  we  reached  the  old  Hip'po- 
drome,  whiidi  was  modelled  after  the  Circus  at  Rome.     Little  remains 
uf  its  aucient  glory,  for  the  Crusaders  oarried  off  looat  of  its  works  of 
art     The  granite  obelisk  of  Tbeodosius  and  the  pillar  of  Constantine, 
which  the  vandal  Turks  stripped  of  its  bronze  when  they  first  captnred 
the  city,  are  still  left,  but  the 
stones  are  continnalty  filing, 
and  it  will  soon   be  a  ruin. 
The  serpentine  column  consists 
of  three   serpents  twisted  to- 
gether :  the   heads  are  gone, 
M  ohammed  II.  having  knocked 
'v  off  one  with  his  battle-axe.   A 
^  little  Turk  was  taking  his  rid- 
'  ing  lesson  on  the  level  ground 
of  the  Hippodrome,   and  his 

I  frisky  little  black  pony  gave 
the  old  fellow  in  attendance 
plenty    of   occupatioa       We 
watched  the  boy  for  a  whUe, 
,  and  then,  passing  on  toward 
'_  the  Marmora,  took  a  look  at 
the  "  Cistern  of  the  Thousand 
oBEua..  OF  THEODosics.  Columns."    A  broad  flight  of 

steps  leads  down  to  it,  and  the  many  tall  slender  columns  of  Bysantine 
architecture  make  a  perfect  wilderness  of  pillars.  Wherever  we  stood, 
we  seemed  always  the  centre  from  which  long  aisles  of  columns  radiated 
till  they  lost  themselves  in  the  darkness.  The  cistern  has  long  been 
empty,  and  is  used  aa  a  ropewalk. 

The  great  fire  swept  a  Urge  district  of  the  city  here,  which  has  been 
but  little  rebuilt,  and  the  view  of  the  Marmora  is  very  fine.  On  the 
opposite  Asiatic  shore  Mount  Olympus,  with  its  snow-wowned  sammit, 
fitdee  away  into  the  blue  of  the  heavens.  This  is  a  glorious  atmosphere, 
at  least  at  this  season,  the  air  clear  and  bracing,  the  sky  a  beautiM 
blue  and  the  sunsets  golden.  In  winter  it  is  cold,  muddy  and  cheerless, 
and  in  midsununer  the  simoom  which  sweeps  up  the  Marmora  from 
Africa  and  Uie  Syrian  coast  renders  it  very  unhealthy  for  Europeans  to 
remun  in  the  city.  The  simoum  is  exceedingly  enervating  in  its  effects, 
and  all  who  can  spend  the  summer  months  on  the  upper  Boephorus, 


-4S4  OLDfPSES  OF   CONSTAyriNOFLE. 

-where  the  prerailing  winds  &re  &om  the  Blftck  Sea  and  the  air  ia  coot 
and  he&lthfiil.  Nearly  all  the  foreign  legations  except  our  own  have 
eummer  rendencea  tbere  and  beaatdlul  groands. 

Following  the  old  aqueduct  built  by  the  emperor  HadoBD,  which 
soil  supplies  Stambcnl  with  water,  and  is  exceedingly  picturesque  with 
its  high  dripping  archee  covered  with  luxuriant  iry,  we  reach  the  walls 
which  protected  the  city  on  the  land  side,  and  then,  threading  anr  way 
through  the  narrow,  dirty  atreete,  we  retnrned  to  the  Golden  Horn.  I 
do  not  wonder,  after  what  I  have  seen  of  this  part  of  Stamboul,  (hat 
the  cholera  nude  such  ravages  here  a  few  years  since.  I  should  think 
it  would  r«nain  a  constant  scourge.  Calling  a  calqne,  we  were  rowed 
up  the  Golden  Horn  to  the  Sweet  Waters,  but  its  tide  floated  only  oui 
own  boat,  and  the  banks  lacked  the  attraction  of  the  gay  groups  which 
render  the  place  so  lively  on  Fridays.  We  were  served  with  coffee  by 
a  Turk  who  with  bis  little  brasier  of  coals  was  waiting  under  a  wide- 


spreading  tree  for  any  chance  visitor,  and  after  a  short  stroll  on  the 
l»nk  opposite  Ae  Sultan's  pret^  palace  we  floated  gently  down  the 
stream  till  we  reached  the  Golden  Horn  again.  On  a  large  meadow 
near  the  mouth  of  Sweet  Waters  some  Arabs  were  camped  with  an  im- 
mense flock  of  sheep.  They  had  brought  them  there  to  shear  and  wash 
the  wool  in  the  fresh  water,  and  the  ground  was  covered  with  Urge 
quantities  of  beautiful  long  fleece.  The  shepherds  in  their  strange  man- 
tles and  head-dresses  looked  very  picturesque  as  they  spread  the  wool 
t  nd  tended  their  flocks.  Onr  eaiqiiegee,  as  the  oatBman  of  a  caique  is  called, 


shakspeke's  "henby  VI."  435 

ought  not  to  be  overlooked.  His  costume  was  in  keeping  with  his  pretty 
caSque,  which  was  painted  a  delicate  straw-colour  and  had  white  linen 
cushions.  He  was  a  tall,  finely-built  fellow,  a  Cretan  or  Bulgarian  I 
should  think,  for  he  looked  too  wide  awake  for  a  Turk.  The  sun  had 
burned  his  olive  complexion  to  the  deepest  brown,  and  his  black  eyes 
and  white  teeth  when  he  smiled  lighted  up  his  intelligent  face,  making 
him  very  handsome.  He  wore  a  turban,  loose  shirt  with  hanging  sleeves 
and  Toluminous  trousers,  all  of  snowy  whiteness.  A  blue  jacket  em- 
broidered with  gilt  braid  was  in  readiness  to  put  on  when  he  stopped 
rowing.  It  must  have  taken  a  ruinous  amount  of  material  to  make 
those  trousers.  They  were  full  at  the  waist  and  kuee,  and  before  seating 
himself  to  his  oars  he  gracefully  threw  the  extra  amount  of  the  fullness 
which  drooped  behind  over  the  wide  seat  as  a  lady  spreads  out  her 
overskirt 

Last  night  we  bade  farewell  to  the  strange  old  city  with  its  pictures- 
que sights,  its  glorious  views  and  the  many  points  of  interest  we  had 
grown  so  familiar  with.  Our  adieus  were  said,  the  ammales  had  taken 
our  baggage  to  the  steamer,  which  lay  at  anchor  off  Seraglio  Point,  and 
before  dark  we  went  on  board,  ready  to  sail  at  an  early  hour. 

The  bustle  of  getting  underway  at  daylight  this  morning  woke  me, 
and  I  Vent  on  deck  in  time  to  take  a  fEtrewell  look.  The  first  rays  of 
the  sun  were  just  touching  the  top  of  the  GkJata  Tower  and  lighting  up 
the  dark  cypresses  in  the  palace-grounds  above  us.  The  tall  minarets 
and  the  blue  waves  of  the  Bosphorus  caught  the  golden  light,  while 
around  Olympus  the  rosy  tint  had  not  yet  faded  and  the  morning  mists 
looked  golden  in  the  sunlight.  We  rounded  Seraglio  Point  and  steamed 
down  the  Marmora,  passed  the  seven  Towers,  and  slowly  the  beautifu 
city  faded  from  our  view. 

Sheila  Hale. 


SHAKSPEKE'S  "  HENRY  VI." 

When  we  have  learned  to  love  and  admire  an  old  poem  or  an  old  play, 
it  acquires  a  sort  of  sanctity  in  our  eyes.  We  cannot  bear  to  have  it 
wantonly  meddled  with  or  injured.  We  attach  a  proportionate  value 
to  every  phrase  of  it,  and  almost  to  each  separate  word,  and  it  offends 
our  sense  of  harmony  even  to  alter  the  order  of  the  expressions  without 
changing  their  forms.  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table  expresses 
these  feelings  most  happily  in  the  ingenious  analogy  which  he  finds  be- 
tween an  old  poem,  an  old  meerschaum,  and  an  old  violin. 

"  A  poem  must  be  kept  and  used  like  a  meerschaum,  or  a  violin.     A 


436  shakspere's  "henry  vi." 

poemis  just  as  porous  as  the  moerschaum ;  the  more  porous  it  is  the 
better.  I  mean  to  say  that  a  poem  is  capable  of  absorbing  an  indefinite 
amount  of  the  essence  of  our  humanity,  itp  tenderness,  its  heroisms,  its 
regrets,  its  aspirations,  so  as  to  be  gradually  stained  through  with  a 
divine  secondary  colour  derived  from  ourselves.  *  *  *  Then  again, 
as  to  the  mere  music  of  a  new  poem,  who  can  expect  anything  mor^ 
from  that,  than  from. the  music  of  a  violin  fresh  from  the  maker's  hands  ? 
Now,  you  know  very  well  that  there  are  no  less  than  fifty-eight  different 
pieces  in  a  violin.  These  pieces  are  strangers  to  each  other,  and  it  takes 
a  century  more  or  less,  to  make  them  thoroughly  acquainted.  At  last 
they  learn  to  vibrate  in  harmony,  and  the  instrument  becomes  an  organic 
whole,  as  if  it  were  a  great  seed-capsule  which  had  grown  from  a  garden 
bed  in  Cremona  or  elsewhere.  *  *  *  Don't  you  see  that  all  thia 
is  just  as  true  of  a  poem  )  Counting  each  word  as  apiece,  there  are  more 
pieces  in  an  average  copy  of  verses  than  in  a  violin.  The  poet  has 
forced  all  these  words  together  and  fastened  them,  and  ihey  don't  un- 
derstand it  at  first.  But  let  the  poem  be  repeated  aloud,  and  murmured 
over  in  the  mind's  muffled  whisper  often  enough,  and  at  length  the  parts 
become  knit  together  in  such  absolute  solidarity,  that  you  could  not 
change  a  syllable  without  the  whole  world's  crying  out  against  you  for 
meddling  with  the  harmonious  fabric."  * 

When  we  have  acquired  such  a  treasure,  we  treat  it  as  we  would  threat 
a  beautiful  statue  by  an  eminent  artist  We  give  it  a  distinguished 
place  in  our  collection  of  valuable  possessions,  and  however  familiar  with 
it  we  may  grow  by  long  ownership,  and  however  frequently  our 
other  business  may  hurry  us  past  it,  we  often  pause  to  take  another 
glance  at  the  well-known  beauties,  and  to  revive  the  old  recollections 
that  are  associated  with  them.  Too  often,  however,  under  such  circum- 
stances, the  critic  *^  comes  us  cranking  in,"  and  pays  us  a  most  unwelcome 
visit  fie  removes  our  statue  from  its  place  of  honour,  and  sets  it  in  an 
obscure  corner,  strips  off  one  by  one  all  the  decorations  with  which  our 
fondness  has  ornamented  it,  writes  on  the  left  arm,  ^'  copied  from  Michael 
Angelo/'  and  upon  the  right,  '*  done  much  better  by  Praxiteles,  hundreds 
of  years  ago,"  cracks  the  left  knee  to  show  the  grain  of  the  marble  in 
illustration  of  some  of  his  geological  theories,  knocks  three  toes  off  ihe 
right  foot  to  keep  in  accordance  with  some  old  and  perhaps  worthless 
historical  tradition,  smudges  the  nose  with  printer's  ink,  and  then,  wiih 
a  self-satisfied  wave  of  the  hand  says,  '^  There- — ^there  is  your  master- 
piece revised  and  corrected  according  to  the  latest  canons  of  taste  and 
information ! " 

Much  of  the  commonly  received  Shaksperian  criticism,  appears  to  us 
to  be  of  a  nature  similar  to  that  of  the  operations  just  described.  Many 
commentators  and  critics,  diligent,  acute,  learned,  or  the  reverse,  have 


shakspere's  "henry  VI."  437 

laboured  at  different  times  upon  the  life  and  works  of  this  great  poet. 
Of  unquestionable  information,  they  have  given  us  but  little,  and  indeed 
there  was  but  little  for  them  to  give.  Most  of  the  ^*  Lives  "  of  Shak- 
spere  that  are  supplied  to  us,  are  little  more  than  biographical  roman- 
ces in  which  the  few  undisputed  facts  that  are  known,  are  made  a  frame- 
work for  the  support  of  a  tissue  of  fanciful  conjectures  and  more  or  less 
distant  probabilities.  Some  of  the  assertions  therein  made,  we  like  to 
believe,  because  they  correspond  with  our  own  notions  of  what  might  or 
ought  to  have  been  the  case,  and  others  we  reject  for  the  opposite  reason, 
but  when  we  search  for  a  solid  foundation  upon  which  to  base'our  faith, 
or  our  disbelief,  we  are  nearly  always  disappointed.  The  alleged  facts 
have  first  to  be  gleaned  from  remote  authorities,  who  are  often  so  ignor- 
ant, careless  or  mendacious,  as  to  be  at  variance  with  history,  probability 
and  each  other.  From  such  sources  they  are  picked  out  and  dressed  up 
for  our  information,  by  each  commentator  according  to  his  own  tastes 
and  prejudices,  or  as  they  happen  to  agree  or  disagree  with  his  own 
preconceived  hypothesis,  in  such  a  manner  that  too  often  the  sole  result 
of  his  labours  is  but — 

To  darken  that  which  was  obsoure  before. 

As  the  biographers  have  dealt  with  Shakspere's  life,  so  have  the 
commentators  handled  his  texts,  but  these  last,  with  less  excuse,  have 
done  more  mischief.  Of  his  life,  so  little  is  actually  known  or  discover- 
able, that  if  we  are  to  conceive  any  distinct  personal  history  of  the  poet 
at  all,  we  must  have  conjecture  and  surmise  largely  admitted.  But  with 
the  text,  the  case  is  very  different.  This,  after  all,  is  to  most  of  us,  the 
man  himself.  In  it  alone  we  see  him  **  live  and  move,  and  have  his 
being ; ''  and  hence  it  is  particularly  to  be  desired  that  it  should  neither 
be  altered  nor  perverted,  added  to  nor  subtracted  from.  Unfortunately, 
this  text  originally  came  in  a  somewhat  questionable  shape,  which  gave 
from  the  very  first,  a  ready  handle  for  innovation.  Within  the  space  of  two 
centuries  and  a  half,  so  many  commentators  have  been  labouring  so  long 
and  so  assiduously,  to  put  it  in  what  they  consider  to  be  proper  order,  that 
much  of  it  must  now  we  fear  be  regarded  as  a  "  translation  **  of  the  sort 
to  which  poor  Bottom  was  subjected  in  the  thicket.  Some  portions  of 
it  suggest  the  idea  of  worsted  trimmings  upon  a  velvet  coat,  while  other 
parts  hang  in  a  condition  resembling  that  of  a  skirt  of  the  same  coat 
partially  detached  but  not  quite  yet  torn  away.  Many  of  the  conjectures 
offered,  are  beyond  all  our  powers  of  acquiescence.  We  cannot  accept 
them  without  tearing  up  all  our  old  fancies  and  associations  by  the  roots, 
which  roots  are  both  long  and  tough,  and  not  removable  without  the 
upheaving  of  much  pleasant  ground,  and  altering  the  appearance  of  its 
surface  materially  for  the  worse.     And  yet,  to  criticize  the  critic,  and 

examine  the  foundations  of  his  theory,  is  generally  a  task  as  unprofitable 
3 


438  SHAKSPERE's  "henry  VI." 

as  it  is  unattractive.  The  admitted  facts  are  so  few,  and  the  inferences 
which  may  be  drawn  from  them  are  so  various,  that  when  we  have  un- 
dertaken such  au  enquiry  we  often  find  the  values  of  the  pro  and  con 
to  be  equal  and  equivalent  to  zero. 

Of  all  the  innumerable  Shaksperian  controversies,  there  is  none  per- 
haps whicn  has  been  more  strenuously  debated,  than  the  authenticity  of 
the  three  plays  which  bear  the  name  of  Henry  VL  The  question  was 
first  raised  by  Malone,  towards  the  middle  of  the  last  century. 

"  There  is  an  upstart  crowe,  beautified  with  our  feathers,  that  with 
his  tygre^s  heart  wrapped  in  a  player^ a  hide,  supposes  hee  is  as  well  able  to 
bombaste  out  a  blank  verse,  as  the  best  of  you,  and  being  an  absolute 
Joannes  Factotum,  is  in  his  own  conceit  the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country." 

This  now  familiar  passage  occurring  in  a  pamphlet  by  Robert  Greene,  a 
contemporary  of  Shakspere'sand  an  unsuccessful  rival  dramatist,  attracted 
Ma]one*s  attention  and  caused  him  to  make  those  researches  and  reflec- 
tions which  ended  in  his  impugning  the  authenticity  of  Benry  FI. 
The  allusion  to  Shakspere  cannot  be  mistaken,  and  the  first  expression 
in  italics  will  at  once  be  referred  to  its  proper  source  by  everybody  who 
has  read  that  powerful  scene  in  which  the  brave  York,  defeated,  taken, 
and  awaiting  a  cruel  death,  which  is  delayed  for  a  moment,  only  to  give 
an  opportunity  for  such  insults  and  torments  as  can  embitter  the  very 
bitterness  of  death  itself,  expends  his  last  breath  in  hurling  hatred  and 
defiance  at  his  barbarous  enemies.  Malone  therefore  sought  in  these 
three  plays  for  a  special  justification  of  the  charge  of  plagiarism,  and  the 
conclusions  at  which  he  arrived,  may  be  briefly  stated  as  follows  : — 

That  as  regards  the  three  Parts  of  Henry  FL  Shakspere  was  not  the 
original  author  of  any  of  them. 

That  Parts  IL  and  ///.  were  retouched  by  him,  but  there  is  no  reason 
for  believing  that  he  ever  saw  Part  L  in  his  life. 

A  "  most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion"  as  it  appears  to  us.  How- 
ever, as  a  man  of  abilities  is  always  sure  to  have  followers;  Malone's 
views  have  found  favour  with  many  readers  of  Shakspere,  especially 
among  those  who  look  at  the  works  of  the  great  poet  rather  with'  the 
eye  of  an  anatomist  than  with  that  of  an  artist.  Several  leading  counsel 
have  already  been  heard  upon  both  sides,  but  as  the  case  is  still  in 
Court,  we  may  be  permitted  to  add  a  word  or  two  in  favour  of  Shak- 
spere's  authorship. 

The  feelings  with  which  wc  regard  these  plays,  are  the  growth  of  old 
acquaintance  and  frequent  study.  We  do  not  go  quite  so  far  as  a  celebrat- 
ed English  statesman,  who  is  said  to  have  confessed  that  he  was  indebt- 
ed for  his  whole  knowledge  of  the  history  of  his  native  country  to  the 
works  of  Shakspere.  We  admit,  that  in  histories  which  are  intended 
for  the  instruction  of  novices,  strict  accuracy  of  detail  and  date,  is  the 


SHAKSPERE*S  "HENRY   VI."  439 

kind  of  excellence  to  which  all  others  must  give   way.     Yet,  apart 
altogether  from  the  literary  merits  displayed  in  these  plays,  we  prize 
them  as  a  piece  of  historical  writing.     Their  author  may  be  partial,  and 
for  our  own  part  we  cannot  imagine  any  historian  otherwise,  whose  works 
are  in  the  least  degree  more  interesting  than  a  carefully  written  diction- 
ary of  dates.     His  chronology  may  be  somewhat  loose,  and  some  of  his 
minor  facts  of  little  interest  and  no  importance  may  be  contradicted  by 
reliable  authority.     But  no  author  has  ever  told  us  the  story  of  the  loss 
of  France  and  the  wars  of  the  Roses,  with  such  skill  and  power,  with 
so  few  important  omissions  and  discrepancies,  and  withal  in  so  short  a 
compass.     No  important  circumstance  is  omitted  from  the  narrative. 
The  youth  and  incompetence  of  the  £nglish  King,  the  selfish  ambition 
and  ferocity  of  the  nobles,  the  difference  in    natural  temperament, 
character,  and  interests  between  the  English  and  French  nations,  the 
persevering  patriotism  of  the  latter,  and  how  it  was  fed  and  sustained 
by  religious  enthusiasm,  are  all  fully  displayed  to  us ;  and,  such  being 
the  case,  what  matters  it  to  the  general  interest  and  fidelity  of  the  nar- 
rative, whether  Ring  Henry  was  nine  years  old  at  the  time  of  his 
coronation  or  only  nine  months,  whether  Lord  Clifford  fell  by  York's 
own  hand  or  by  those  of  York's  soldiers,  or  whether  the  Parliiiment  of 
1426  was  held  at  Leicester  or  London  1    We  have  no  other  writings 
which  contain  the  general  history  of  the  times  in  question  in  such  a 
lively,  concise  and  intelligible  form,  giving  us  a  picture  of  them  at  once 
so  striking  and  so  correct. 

The  composition  of  these  plays  must  have  demanded  abilities  of  no 
common  order.  The  loss  of  their  continental  possessions  was  sufficiently 
recent  to  be  a  subject  of  a  national  regret  and  mortification  to  the 
English  people ;  and  the  wars  of  the  great  barons  must  also  have  left 
behind  them  some  scars  too  tender  to  bear  injudicious  handling.  To 
draw  from  all  social  ranks,  high  and  low,  a  set  of  characters  natural  and 
consistent  in  themselves,  and  to  combine  them  together  so  as  to  present 
upon  the  stage  a  series  of  pictures  of  these  events,  which  should  attract 
and  please  an  English  general  audience  without  giving  undue  offence 
either  to  national  or  family  vanity  was  no  easy  task,  but  it  is  admirable 
to  see  with  what  dexterity  and  success  it  is  performed.  Both  the  scheme 
of  the  undertaking  and  the  manner  of  its  execution  are  of  the  highest 
dramatical  excellence.  Thoy  are  both  well  worthy  of  that  magical 
power  which  could  not  copied  be. 

The  materials  and  finish  of  the  workmanship  are  not  unworthy  of  the 
skill  which  is  displayed  in  the  plan.  If  the  language  be  below  the  level 
of  that  which  is  used  by  Shakspere  in  other  historical  plays,  it  is  equally 
far  above  that  of  any  other  English  writer  who  has  ever  favoured  us 
with  one  of  these  compositions.     The  objectors  appear  to  feel  the  force 


440  shakspbre's  "HENBY  VI." 

of  this  difficulty,  and  when  the  very  natural  question  is  asked,  "  If 
Shakspere  did  not  write  these  plays,  who  else  could  possibly  have  done 
so  ?"  their  only  answer  is  to  refer  us  to  the  best  four  or  five  of  his  con- 
temporary writers,  and  leave  us  to  make  our  choice  among  them.  They 
in  fact  attempt  to  shift  the  burden  of  proof  from  their  own  side  of  the 
question,  to  which  it  most  properly  belongs.  But  without  recording 
this  protest,  we  say  that  none  of  these  authors,  nor  no  conveivable  com- 
bination of  them  will  satisfy  the  conditions  required.  Ben^  Jonson, 
who  of  them  all  has  best  endured  the  test  of  time,  was  but  twenty  years 
of  age  when  Fart  11.  first  went  through  Stationer's  Hall.  What  his 
drs^atic  abilities  and  his  age  might  be  when  F(vri  I.  was  first  played, 
we  need  hardly  pause  to  conjecture.  But  neither  Ben,  nor  Marlowe, 
nor  Greene  (though  wrapped  snugly  in  his  own  good  "  hide,'*  with  any 
allowance  of  foreign  "  feathers ''  for  garnish),  nor  Peele,  nor  Lodge,  nor 
Kyd,  has  ever  made  such  a  performance  credible  of  him.  They  were  all 
men  of  talent,  some  less,  some  more,  but  to  compose  three  narrative 
plays,  comprising  more  than  8,000  lines,  of  such  uniform  excellence 
throughout,  and  containing  so  many  imperishable  scenes,  was  not  with- 
in the  capabilities  of  any  cf  them.  How  Ben  would  have  ranted  and 
strutted  through  Talbot's  one-to-ten  victories  over  the  French  !  How 
Marlowe  would  have  torn  the  passion  of  the  dying  Cardinal  Beaufort  to 
tatters  and  split  the  very  ears  of  the  groundlings  !  How  Greene  would 
have  made  Warwick  whine  about  the  dishonesty  of  rivals  and  competi- 
tors in  general,  when  his  captive  Edward,  having  first  stolen  his  own 
person  out  of  custody,  and  then  filched  away  the  puppet  King  fhmi 
London  behind  the  King-maker's  back,  finally  crowned  these  secret 
thefts  by  making  a  highway  robbery  of  the  whole  kingdom  itself  at 
Bamet  in  the  presence  of  twenty-thousand  witnesses  1  But  can  we  im- 
agine that  two  or  more  of  these  writers  combined  their  talents,  and  so 
produced  these  plays  ?  This  supposition  will  hardly  serve  the  purpose 
either.  One  of  the  strongest  arguments  against  the  genuineness  of  two 
other  disputed  plays  (Tit/us  Androniciis  and  Pericles),  which  have  been 
attributed  to  Shakspere,  is  the  irregularity  of  the  composition  and  the 
unequal  amount  of  power  that  is  displayed  in  different  acts  and  scenes. 
But  no  plays  which  we  have  ever  read  bear  so  little  the  appearance  of 
patched  or  partnership  work  as  these  three  Farts  of  Henry  VL  If  any 
such  work  exists  in  them,  skilfid  must  be  the  critic  who  can  point  out 
the  traces  of  the  joinings.  From  the  opening  scene  of  the  obsequies  of 
Henry  V.  in  Westminster  Abbey,  down  to  the  finale  where  Edward  IV. 
after  all  his  **  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field,"  establishes  himself 
and  his  issue  in  permanent  security,  as  he  thinks,  upon  the  English 
throne,  the  character  of  the  composition  is  uniform  throughout  No 
personage  exhibits  a  single  trait  of  character  in  one  scene  which  is  in- 


shakspere's  "henry  VI."  441 

consistent  with  those  which  he  manifests  in  any  other.  When  the  action 
rises  the  diction  rises  also,  to  its  level  but  no  higher,  and  when  it  sub- 
sides the  diction  falls  also,  to  the  narrative  pitch  and  no  lower. 

In  admitting,  as  we  did  a  moment  ago,  that  the  general  strain  of  the 
language  of  these  plays  is  less  lofty  than  that  which  is  commonly  made 
use  of  by  Shakspere  in  his  histories,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
action  is  not  here,  as  it  is  elsewhere,  concentrated  in  the  persons  of  a^ 
small  number  of  leading  characters.     In  King  John,  the  King  himself, 
Cardinal  Pandulph,  Constance,  Hubert  and  the  magnificent  Bastard,  ab- 
sorb all  the  interest  and  leave  but  little  for  the  other  characters  to  say 
or  to  do.     In  Richard  IL  the  King,  the  two  Percies,  Bolingbroke  and 
old  York  do  all  the  business.     In  Richard  III.  our  attention  is  chiefly 
taken  up  by  the  movements  of  the  crook-backed  tyrant  and  his  suf^le 
tool  and  follower  Buckingham.     In  Henry  VIII,  all  the  other  charac- 
ters are  little  more  than  foils  to  the  King,  the  Cardinal  and  Queen 
Catharine.     Cranmer,  Gktrdiner  and  Thomas  Cromwell,  however  great 
may  have  been  their  real  influence  upon  the  age,  have  but  little  import- 
ance assigned  to  them  in  the  play,  for  which  circumstance  there  exists 
a  good  and  sufiicient  reason  in  the  recency  of  the  events  described,  and 
the  circumstances  under  which  the  play    was  produced.      Shakspere 
was  not  here  writing  a  history  of  matters  two  hundred  years  old  for  the 
edification  of  the  general  public.     He  was  merely  producing  a  portrait 
as  flattering  as  could  be  drawn  by  the  highest  human  skill  of  the  greatest 
tyrant  that  ever  sat  upon  the  English  throne,  to  be  deposited  as  a  grace- 
ful act  of  homage  at  the  feet  of  his  daughter.     Now  in  Henry  Vf.  we 
have  a  much  larger  number  of  important  characters  brought  forward, 
Besides  King  Henry  there  are  Humphrey  of  Gloucester,  his  Duchess, 
the  Duke  of  York  and  his  two  famous  sons  Edward  and  Richard,  Talbot, 
Warwick  the  "  great  setter-up  and  plucker-down  of  Kings,'*  Joan  of  Arc. 
Margaret  of  Anjou,  Cardinal  Beaufort,  the  Dukes  of  Suffolk  and  Somer- 
set, the  two  Clifibrds  and  Jack  Cade,  all  of  such  importance  in  the  his- 
tory that  each  of  them  must  have  a  fair  share  of  the  action  and  an  op- 
portunity to  develop  a  well-marked  personal  character  as  the  play  pro- 
ceeds.    To  flx  the  spectator's  attention  too  exclusively  upon  some  three 
or  four  of  these  personages  would  have  been  to  crowd  all  the  others  into 
the  background  and  spoil  the  general  efl^ect  of  the  picture.     Hence  the 
speeches  of  individuals  have  for  the  most  part  to  be  shorter,  and  as  the 
action  is  always  being  carried  rapidly  forward  there  is  less  room  for 
lofty  flights  of  imagination  and  long-sustained  bursts  of  passion.     Yet, 
within  the  limits  allowed  by  the  exigencies  of  the  narration,  striking 
scenes  and  speeches  are  not  wanting.     The  words  with  which  Joan  of 
Arc  brings  over  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  to  the  party  of  France,  the  dia- 
logues between  Talbot  and  his  son,  and  that  between  Mortimer  and 


442  shakspere's  "henry  vi." 

young  Plantagenet  in  the  Tower,  and  the  conferences  between  the  rival 
lords  in  the  Temple  Garden,  were  never  penned  by  an  obscure  scribbler. 
All  these  occur  in  the  First  and  most  maligned  Part,  which  Shakspere 
is  supposed  never  to  have  seen.  In  the  other  two  Fo/rtSy  in  which  it  is 
reluctantly  admitted  that  he  may  have  had  a  hand,  the  treasury  is  so 
rich  that  it  is  almost  invidious  to  cite  examples  of  excellence.  It  need 
only  be  said  that  the  death  scenes  of  Duko  Humphrey  and  Cardinal 
Beaufort,  and  the  inimitable  Reform  meetings  of  Jack  Cade  and  his 
rabble  followers  are  such  as  only  one  author's  imagination  has  ever 
"  bodied  forth  "  or  his  pen  "  turned  to  shapes."  If  these  scenes  were 
all  removed  others  might  be  instanced,  inferior  perhaps,  but  still  im- 
measurably beyoDd  the  productive  powers  of  Peele,  Greene  &  Co.  And 
after  the  jewels  have  all  been  removed  the  setting  which  is  left  will  not 
be  pinchbeck  but  gold. 

Without  dwelling  longer  upon  the  merits  of  these  plays,  it  will  be 
enough  to  say,  by  way  of  summary,  that  they  are  as  well  worthy  of 
Shakspere,  both  in  plan  and  execution,  as  they  are  far  above  the  abili- 
ties of  any  other  known  author  of  his  day.  That  for  a  century  and  a 
half  afler  his  death  his  title  to  their  authorship  passed  unchallenged. 
And  that  of  evidence  against  it  now  there  is  not  a  particle  of  that  kind 
which  alone  could  render  impossible  what  all  must  admit  to  be  so  pro- 
bable. Two  of  the  Farts  appeared  in  print  during  his  lifetime,  and  so 
far  as  is  known  were  never  denied  by  him  nor  claimed  by  anybody  else. 
The  thkdf  Fart  I.),  although,  like  many  of  the  best  of  his  other  plays, 
it  was  not  printed  until  after  his  death,  was  never  questioned  until  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Surely  one  would  think  that  the 
evidence  offered  to  upset  all  this  ought  to  be  of  a  very  convincing  kind. 
Setting  aside  Greene's  charge  (of  which  we  shall  presently  speak  more 
particularly)  it  amounts  in  brief  to  this  : — 

The  two  Farts  which  were  published  during  Shakspere's  lifetime 
appeared  anonymovsly.  When  reprinted  under  his  name  they  had  dif- 
ferent titles,  and  their  texts  were  so  changed  by  additions,  subtractions 
and  word-alterations  that  they  may  almost  be  said  to  have  been  re- 
written. The  alterations  are  so  extensive  and  various  that  the  anonyrrums 
plays  must  have  been  by  a  different  author  or  authors.  This  is  the  essence 
of  the  proof  as  against  Farts  II,  and  ///.  And  Fart  L  was  apparently 
never  printed  during  Shakspere's  lifetime,  although  from  this  allusion 
in  the  concluding  chorus  of  Eenry  V.  it  would  seem  to  have  been  a  popu- 
lar play  long  before  the  year  1600  :— 

Henry  t/ie  Sixth,  in  infant  bands  crowned  Kinff 

Of  France  and  England,  did  this  king  succeed, 

Whose  state  so  many  had  the  managing 

That  they  lost  France,  and  made  his  England  \Aeed, 

Which  aft  this  stage  hath  shown    ...  ' 


shakspere's  "henry  VI."  443 

To  account  for  these  facts  we  need  only  remember  that  Shakspere 
appears  to  have  been  perfectly  careless  about  his  prospects  of  posthumous 
fame,  and  to  have  troubled  himself  but  very  little  about  the  future  des- 
tiny of  his  works  after  he  had  once  placed  them  upon  the  stage.  He 
never  took  the  trouble  to  prepare  an  edition  of  them  during  his  lifetim^^ 
and  a  full  half  of  their  number,  including  several  of  those  which  are 
now  among  the  most  esteemed,  were  apparently  never  priuted  until  seven 
years  after  his  death.  It  is  no  very  violent  supposition,  that  having  at 
different  times  brought  out  three  separate  dramas,  one  upon  the  loss  of 
France  and  two  upon  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  he  should  have  afterwards 
revised  and  altered  these  with  a  view  of  combining  them  in  a  series,  as 
a  history  of  that  most  unfortunate  of  English  reigns.  That  they  have 
been  so  re-arranged  is  evident  from  the  continuity  of  the  action  from 
part  to  part,  which  is  so  skilfully  effected  that  one  could  rather  imagine 
the  whole  to  be  one  long  play  divided  into  three,  than  three  indepen- 
dent plays  polished  into  harmony  with  each  other.  A.  circumstance, 
which  along  with  the  uniformity  of  the  style  of  composition,  appears  to 
us  to  furnish  an  additional  and  most  convincing  proof  that  the  work  is 
all  by  the  same  hand.  The  alterations  of  the  folio  are  quite  as  numer 
ous  in  the  ordinary  and  narrative  parts  of  the  play,  as  in  the  most  em(  - 
tional  scenes.  Cardinal  Beaufort's  death  scene  has  but  fourteen  new 
lines  scattered  through  it ;  and  in  the  long  and  powerfully-drawn  tableau 
of  the  deaths  of  Rutland  and  his  gallant  father,  there  are  only  four. 

Before  this  combination  plan  occurred  to  Shakspere,  he  probably 
did  with  these  just  what  he  did  with  most  of  his  other  plays,  t.e.,  left 
them  loose  upon  the  stage  without  taking  the  trouble  to  assert  an 
authorship  which  nobody  then  thought  of  questioning.  It  seems  much 
more  credible  that  Shakspere  should  have  allowed  two  of  his  plays  to 
be  printed  anonymously,  and  a  third  to  remain  un printed,  like  Macbeth, 
JtUius  CcBsoTf  King  John,  Coriolanus,  The  Tempest,  and  nine  or  ten  others 
which  were  never  printed  during  his  lifetime,  than  that  he  should  have 
gone  to  the  works  of  an  obscure  author,  or  brace  of  authors,  in  search  of 
that  dramatic  invention  which  he  himself  possessed  in  greater  measure 
than  any  other  writer  who  has  ever  preceded  him  or  followed  him. 

As  for  Greene's  accusation,  it  f^roves  nothing  except  what  any  of  us 
may  see  illustrated  every  day  of  his  life, — that  is,  that  the  man  who  has 
failed  in  any  given  pursuit,  is  very  apt  to  cherish  hostile  and  vindictive 
feelings  against  those  of  his  contemporaries  who  have  succeeded.  The 
*'  tiger's  heart "  line  appears  in  the  anonymous  quarto  as  well  as  in  tlie 
Shakespeare  folio ;  and  if  the  play  were  not  really  Shakspere's  own^ 
why  should  Greene  have  quoted  this  expression  to  sneer  at  ?  The  charge 
is  evidently  meant  to  be  a  general  one,  and  in  truth  there  were  so  many 
things  in  common  between  all  the  plays  of  that  day,  that  a  captious  writer 


444     •  SHAKSPERE*S  "HENRY   VI." 

might  easily  persuade  himself  that  he  had  detected  a  plagiarism  in  the 
use  of  what  was  in  fact  common  stock  between  all  the  play- writers. 
The  peculiar  literary  taste  of  the  age  demanded  several  things,  which  all 
those  who  aimed  at  pleasing  it,  either  upon  the  stage  or  in  writing,  felt 
themselves  bound  to  supply.  It  delighted  in  puns  and  antitheses,  in 
quaint  conceits  and  illusions,  and  classical  illustrations,  to  an  extent  that 
would  now  be  thought  ridiculous  and  pedantic.  Accordingly,  we  find 
more  or  fewer  of  these  in  all  the  dramas  of  the  epoch,  however  few  other 
features  they  may  possess  in  common.  Shakspere  had  to  make  use  of 
this  kind  of  writing,  and  in  it,  as  in  every  other,  he  excelled  his  neigh- 
bours. A  jealous  and  irritable  dramatist,  in  examining  a  successful  play 
by  a  rival  author,  could  hardly  fail  to  find  some  allusion  to  Phoebus, 
Mars,  or  Diana ;  or  some  play  upon  sound  or  sense  in  expression  which 
would  remind  him  of  something  of  the  same  nature  (only,  of  course, 
much  better  treated),  in  some  play  of  his  own  which  had  failed  to  find 
patronage.  If  "  bombaste  "  means  language  which  is  above  the  level  of 
the  subject,  or  superfluous  to  the  purport  of  the  story,  Hmry  VI.  cer- 
tainly supports  this  charge  as  little  as  any  other  of  Shakspere's  plays. 
But  the  accusation  of  bombaste  and  plagiarism  was  evidently  meant  to 
apply  to  all  of  them  indifferently  ;  and  this  particular  play  was  probably 
quoted  only  because  it  happened  to  be  one  of  those  which  were  most 
popular  at  the  time. 

When  the  historical  part  of  the  evidence  is  so  weak,  it  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  inquire  much  further;  for  in  a  question  of  this  kind  we  are 
much  worse  off  when  we  depend  upon  the  opinions  of  critics  than  when 
we  rely  upon  the  testimony  of  facts,  small  though  they  be.  But  to  pro- 
ceed to  internal  evidence,  thought  to  be  furnished  by  the  plays  them- 
selves. 

In  Part  I.  Henry  says  that  in  his  youth,  his  father  had  spoken  to  him 
of  Talbot's  bravery.(*>  In  Parts  11.^^  and  ///.<«>  the  same  Henry  says  cor- 
rectly, that  when  he  was  crowned,  he  was  but  nine  months  old,  so  that 
of  course  he  could  have  known  nothing  of  his  father.  And  by  a  further 
refinement  of  criticism,  Malone  says  that  the  line  in  Part  II.  is  Shak- 
spere's  and  that  in  Part  III.  is  not,  so  that  neither  Shakspere  nor  the 
author  of  Part  III  could  have  written  Part  I.  To  this  it  may  be 
answered,  that  PaH  /.  was  certainly  played  long  before  the  others,  and 
that  at  the  time  of  its  production  Shakspere  may  have  been  ignorant  of 
Henry's  exact  age  at  the  time  of  his  accession,  and  only  known  that  he 
was  very  young.  During  the  interval  between  this  time  and  the  compo- 
sition or  re-composition  of  Parts  II.  and  ///.  he  may  have  learned  this 
fact  more  exactly.     The  three  line  passage  in  Part  I.  may  he  an  inter- 

W  Act  Ui,  Scene  4     (»»  Act  iv,  Scene  P.    («)  Act  i.  Scene  1. 


shakspere's  "henry  VI."  445 

polatioD.  It  has  no  connection  either  with  what  precedes  or  what  fol- 
lows, and  were  it  removed  neither  the  scene  nor  the  play  would  be 
injured.  Bot^  setting  these  defences  aside,  it  is  one  of  Shakspere's  char- 
acteristics to  be  careless  about  anachronisms  and  even  about  well-known 
matters  of  fact,  when  they  are  not  of  any  particular  importance  to  the 
story  which  he  is  going  to  telL  An  author  who  has  given  a  sea-coast 
•and  a  navy  to  Bohemia,  provided  Lord  Thaliard  at  Antioch  with  a  pistol, 
made  a  warrior  quote  Aristotle  at  the  siege  of  Troy,  and  mentioned 
Giulio  Eomano  the  painter  as  contemparary  with  the  oracle  of  Delphi, 
would  hardly  consider  that  it  mattered  much  to  his  story  whether 
Henry  VI.  was  nine  years  old  at  his  accession,  or  only  nine  mouths.  All 
that  he  would  think  necessary  to  remember  (and  this  he  always  does 
remember)  is  that  Henry  was  then  very  young. 

Again  in  Part  L,(^  Mortimer  tells  young  Plantagenet,  that  Richard 
Earl  of  Cambridge  "  levied  an  army/'  the  fact  being  as  correctly  stated 
by  Shakspere  in  Henry  V,  that  he  was  "  arrested  *'  before  his  treason 
liad  had  time  to  take  effect  But  why  may  not  both  of  these  statements 
be  true  1  It  is  hardly  probable  that  Cambridge  would  have  ventured 
upon  such  a  step  as  assassinating  Henry  Y.  in  the  midst  of  his  courtiers, 
and  at  the  head  of  the  troops  which  he  had  assembled  for  the  invasion 
of  Prance,  without  having  first  secretly  drawn  together  some  kind  of  an 
armed  force  to  act  in  his  support  as  soon  as  he  should  give  it  the  signal* 
Malone  seems  to  forget  that  "armies"  in  those  days  were  merely  armed 
assemblages  of  the  ordinary  inhabitants  of  the  country,  and  were  much 
more  easily  levied  and  disbanded  than  they  are  now. 

"  The  author"  (of  Fart  I)  says  the  critic,  " evidently  knew  the  classi- 
cal pronunciation  of  the  word  Hecate. 

I  speak  not  to  that  railinfj^  Hecate.— (-4  ci  ill,  Scene  2.) 

"  But  Shakspere  in  Ma^beihy  always  makes  Hecate  a  dissyllable." 
Now  this  very  play  of  Macbeth^  ought  to  have  taught  Malone  that 

Shakspere  never  hesitates  to  alter  the  pronunciation  of  a  word  when  by 

so  doing  he  improves  the  sound  of  his  verse. 

Macbeth  shaU  never  vanquished  be,  until 

Great  Bimam  wood  to  high  DunBin&ne  HiU 

Shall  come  against  him. — {Act  iv,  Scene  1.)  ^ 

Yet  shortly  afterwards 

Great  Dnn'sinftne  he  strongly  fortifies. — (Act  v,  Scene  2.) 

And  the  physician  remarks. 

Were  I  from  Dnn'sinftne  away  and  olear 

Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here,— {Act  v,  Scene  3.) 

The  frequency  of  classical  allusion  in  Part  L  is  thought  by  Malone  to 
imply  a  doubt  of  its  genuineness.     "  There  are  found,"  says  he  "  more 

(»)  Act  ii,  Scene  5. 


446  shakspere's  "henry  vi." 

allusion  to  mythology,  to  ancient  and  modem  history,  and  to  classical 
authors  than  are  found  in  any  one  play  of  Shakspere's  written  on  an 
English  story.  They  are  such  as  do  not  naturally  rbe  out  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  appear  to  be  inserted  merely  to  show  the  author's  learning. 
These  allusions,  and  many  particular  expressions,  seem  more  likely  to 
have  been  used  by  the  authors  already  named."  (Greene,  Peele,  Lodge, 
and  Marlowe.) 

Now  if  this  were  so,  it  would  be  a  fact  of  very  little  importance 
seeing  that  a  fondness  for  classical  allusions  was  a  marked  feature  of  the 
literary  tastes  of  the  day,  for  which  all  its  dramatists  were  accustomed 
to  cater.  One  would  think  from  this  objection,  that  Shakspere's  plays 
were  generally  free  from  such  allusions,  whereas  the  fact  is  that  they 
abound  in  them.  In  Hewry  V.  which  nobody  who  has  read  it  will  ven- 
ture to  call  pedantically  written,  there  are  fifteen  classical  and  scriptural 
allusions  in  the  first  four  acts.  In  the  first  act  of  the  Twrning  of  the 
Shrew  and  its  introductory  scene  there  are  a  round  dozen  of  classical 
allusions.  Those  in  Pari  /.  of  Henry  VL  are  sixteen  in  number,  of 
which  twelve  are  crowded  into  the  first  act.  They  are  neither  more 
frequent  nor  less  apropos  than  those  in  Shakspere's  other  plays,  but 
they  attract  more  notice  by  being  concentrated  within  narrower  limits, 
and  also  because  they  are  leas  tHU  than  those  which  he  generally  makes 
use  of.  Mars,  Bacchus  and  Apollo  are  so  familiar  that  they  slip  by  us 
as  we  read,  without  catching  the  attention  which  is  at  once  fixed,  by  the 
mention  of  Julius  Ca3sar's  star,  Hannibal's  fire-bearing  oxen,  or  the 
labyrinth  of  Crete. 

Again,  Malone  thinks  that  the  style  of  the  versification  differs  irom 
that  of  other  Shaksperian  plays  ;  he  says  that  "  the  sense  concludes  or 
pauses  at  the  end  of  almost  every  line,"  and  that  "  there  is  scarcely  ever 
a  redundant  syllable.*'  These  assertions  are  made  with  special  refer- 
ence to  Pa/rt  /.,  and  yet  in  the  second  scene  of  that  play  we  come  at 
once  upon  a  single  sentence  delivered  by  Joan  of  Arc,  which  consists  of 
fifteen  lines,  and  in  her  very  next  speech  she  supplies  us  with  a  brace  of 
redundant  syllables  also,  in  speaking  of  her  famous  sword — 

The  which  at  Touraine  in  St.  Katharine's  Church-tforci 
Out  of  a  great  deal  of  old  iron  I  chose  forth. 

It  would  tire  the  reader  to  point  out  further  contradictions  of  these 
statements. 

So  unsuccessful  is  the  search  for  confirmation  of  the  anti-Shaksperian 
hypothesis,  that  nothing  is  too  trifling  to  be  picked  up.  Exeter  in 
magnifying  the  glory  of  Henry  V,  at  his  obsequies  exclaims — 

What  should  I  say !  his  deeds  exceed  all  speech. 

The  italicized  phrase,  says  the  critic,  is  a  favourite  one  with  Hall,  the 


shakspere's  "henry  VI."  447 

chronicler,  but  Holinshed,  not  Hall,  was  Shakspere's  favourite  author,. 
and  this  furnishes  an  additional  proof  that  the  play  was  not  his  (!) 

And  this  is  the  sort  of  evidence  upon  which  we  are  asked  to  find 
Shakspere  "  not  guilty  "  of  the  authorship  of  three  plays,  forming  not 
so  much  a  connected  as  a  continuous  whole,  and  bearing  throughout  the 
stamp  of  his  genius^  not  merely  laid  lightly  upon  the  surface  in  the  shape 
of  word-fitting  and  polishing,  but  pressed  down  deeply  into  the  very 
grain  of  the  material,  in  its  whole  plan,  construction  and  arrangement. 

The  more  obvious  view,  is  surely  in  this  case,  also  the  more  rational. 
It  is,  that  Shakspere  originally  threw  off  these  dramas,  one  by  one,  at 
different  times  and  without  reference  to  each  other,  and  in  a  form  which 
he  considered  capable  of  much  improvement,  when  he  afterwards  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  completing  his  historical  series  of  the  reigns  of  York 
and  Lancaster,  firom  Richard  II  to  Richard  III,  and  that  he  then  tock 
them  up  again,  retrenched  them,  added  to  them  and  otherwise  re-fitted 
them,  so  as  to  form  from  them  a  harmonious  whole  with  which  to  fill  up 
the  gap  between  Henry  Y,  and  Richard  IIL  We  know  that  Henry  V. 
was  re- written  (and  probably  this  was  done  for  the  same  reason),  the 
folio  edition  of  that  play  in  1623  being  greatly  altered  and  improved 
from  the  first  quarto  edition  published  in  the  year  1600. 

It  is  amusing  to  note  how  criticism,  like  all  other  forms  of  opinion,  tends 
to  run  in  conventional  grooves.  No  sooner  had  Malone  started  his  theory, 
upon  such  grounds  as  we  have  just  been  examining,  than  a  host  of  lesser 
critics  hastened  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  so  orthodox  a  guide.  Theo- 
bald, Morgann,  CampbeU,  Gifford,  and  goodness  knows  how  many  more. 
Morgann*  calls  the  first  part  of  Henry  VI,  "  that  drum-and  trumpet  thing, 
written,  doubtless,  or  rather  exhibited,  long  before  Shakspere  was  born, 
though  afterwards  repaired  and  furbished  up  by  him,  with  here  and  there, 
a  Utile  sentiment  and  diction."  He  seems  to  forget  that  the  play  is 
essentially  the  history  of  a  great  war,  and  that  wars  can  no  more  be  con- 
ducted upon  the  stage  than  in  bitter  earnest,  without  a  more  or  less 
liberal  use  of  these  objectionable  instruments.  Where  the  evidence  comes 
from  by  which  he  so  confidently  establishes  the  antiquity  of  the  play, 
does  not  appear,  but  he  certainly  cannot  find  it  in  the  uncouthness  or 
obscurity  of  the  language,  the  artless  construction  of  the  plot,  or  the 
want  of ''  drawing ''  in  the  characters.  Campbell^  says,  '^  I  am  glad  that 
we  may  safely  reject ''  (his  safety  consists  solely  in  the  infallibility  of  his 
guide),  "  the  First  Part  of  Henry  F/.,  especially  when  I  think  of  that  in- 
fernal scene  in  the  fifth  act,  the  condemnation  of  Joan  of  Arc  to  be  burned 
alive.''  This  scene,  though,  indeed,  far  too  coarse  and  horrible  to  be  tole* 
rated  by  a  modem  audience,  was  a  necessary  part  of  the  story,  which  the 

(a)  Essay  on  the  character  of  Falstaff » 1777.    (b)  Life  of  Shakspere. 


44f8  shakspere's  "henry  vi." 

poet  did  not  go  out  of  his  way  to  bring  in,  and  it  would  not  have  been 
found  fault  with  upon  such  grounds,  at  the  time  when  it  was  written.   It 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  burning  of  a  living  human  being,  even 
the  most  atrocious  of  criminals,  was  not  then  the  antiquated  horror 
which  it  has  deservedly  become  now.    It  was  still  a  recognised  legal 
punishment  for  certain  offences,  and  at  no  very  remote  period  it  had  been 
of  more  frequent  occurrence  even  in  England,  than  hanging  is  in  our 
own  times.     When  this  play  was  first  acted,  there  must  have  been  many 
persons  alive,  and  perhaps  among  the  spectators,  who  were  not  only 
familiar  with  the  idea  but  had  seen  the  frightful  reality,  quite  often 
enough  to  blunt  their  natural  sense  of  its  intolerable  inhumanity.     Re- 
pulsive as  the  scene  is,  it  is  neither  misplaced  nor  unnaturally  treated 
where  it  occurs,  and  we  should  not  feel  thankful  to  any  modem  and  hu- 
manitarian editor  who  should  propose  to  cut  it  out  of  a  play  which 
is  never  acted,  and  which  people  of  morbidly  susceptible  feelings  are  not 
obliged  to  read.    The  contemporary  drama  abounds  in  scenes  as  bad  or 
worse  in  these  respects,  such  as  the  finale  of  Massinger's  Virgin  Martyr, 
and  the  accumulated  horrors  of  Webster's  Duchess  of  McU/i,  which  last  is 
indeed  a  very  palace  of  Atreus — "  a  godless  one,  privy  to  many  murder- 
ous horrors  of  kin  upon  kin,  and  halters,  a  human  shamble,  and  a  drip- 
ping floor.''    *But  we  do  not  think  this  circumstance  in  itself  a  fair 
ground  for  a  sweeping  condemnation,  either  of  a  single  play  or  the  whole 
Elizabethan  Drama.     Even  Mr.  Campbell  would  hardly  wish  that  Shak- 
spere  had  never  written  King  Lear,  simply  on  account  of  the  "  infernal" 
scene  in  which  Gloucester's  eyes  are  put  out.     The  public  taste  for  hav- 
ing these  dreadful  scenes  enacted  upon  the  stage,  probably  took  its  bent 
from  the  earliest  form  of  the  modem  drama — the  Miracle  Plays,  in  whidi 
the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour  and  the  first  martyrs  were  represented  en 
tableau,  and  formed  a  marked  feature  of  the  spectacle.     It  was  not  until 
many  years  after  Shakspere's  time  that  the  Horatian  precept,  **  Nepueros 
coram  populo  Medea  tmcidet,"  became  a  canon  for  the  English  stage. 
As  late  as  1750,  Johnson^  thought  proper  to  introduce  the  bowstring 
upon  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane,  and  though  the  clamour  of  the  audience 
compelled  him  to  withdraw  it,  Rowe  had  done  the  same  thing  without 
objection,  some  forty  years  before.     Gifford*'  speaks  of  the  production  of 
the  First  Part  of  Henry  VL  as  **  a  thing  which  can  confer  distinction 
upon  no  abilities  whatever,"  and  yet  we  feel  quite  confident  that  if  any 
ordinary  reader  who  had  never  perased  either  work  before,  were  to  have 
this  insignificant  play  put  into  one  of  his  hands,  and  the  best  performance 
of  Gifford's  idolized   Ben   Jonson  into  the  other,  Ben's  work  would 

(a)  ^schylus  Agamenon,  v.  1088,  «kc.        (b)  In  his  **  Irene." 

(c)  Memoirs  of  Ben.  Jonsou. 


shakspere's  "henry  VI."  449 

neither  be  the  first  to  be  read  through,  nor  the  longest  to  be  remembered 
and  quoted  from. 

Without  any  wish  '  to  speak  ungraciously  of  the  Shaksperian  critics 
as  a  class,  it  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  the  world  is  much  the 
wiser  for  most  of  their  guidance.  As  a  man  who  advances  in  an  unknown 
country  without  other  directions  than  those  of  his  own  common  sense^  is 
much  more  likely  to  go  right  than  he  who  follows  a  false  map,  so  an  edu- 
cated man  who  reads  Shakspere  by  his  own  lights  and  without  too  implicit 
a  deference  to  other  men's  dogmas,  is  far  more  likely  to  form  a  correct  idea 
of  the  poet  and  its  productions,  than  he  who  takes  all  his  views  from  a 
fashionable  standpoint  created  by  the  arbitrary  prejudices  of  others. 
The  field  in  which  the  critics  work,  if  not  altogether  barren,  is  both 
stiff  and  stony,  and  demands  much  hard  labour,  as  well  as  skilful  culti- 
vation to  raise  any  crop  from  it  which  shall  be  worth  the  harvesting. 
The  facts  which  they  come  at,  generally  resemble  Gratiano's  reasons ; 
they  are  as  two  grains  of  wheat  hidden  in  a  bushel  of  chaff;  you  may 
seek  for  them  all  day,  and  when  you  shall  have  found  them  they  are  not 
worth  the  search.  As  for  the  conclusions  and  hypothesis  which  they 
build  upon  these  facts,  they  are  for  the  most  part  enough  to  drive 
genuine  readers  and  admirers  of  the  poet  to  despair.  We  have  already 
seen  upon  what  flimsy  grounds,  one  of  the  acutest  and  ablest  of  these 
critics  has  tried  to  upset  the  authenticity  of  the  longest  and  far  from  the 
least  able  of  Shakspere's  dramas,  in  toto.  Another  less  famous  authority'' 
has  laid  hold  of  that  scene  of  which  no  true  reader  would  willmgly 
suffer  a  single  word  to  be  touched,  in  which  Dame  Quickly  tells  us  how 
poor  prodigal  old  Falstaff  in  his  last  moments  "  babbled  of  green  fidds^' 
and  proved,  by  reference  to  two  or  three  old  authorities  which  nobody 
but  himself  ever  saw  or  wished  to  see,  that  the  words  have  been  altered 
by  some  subsequent  editor,  and  that  Shakspere  originally  wrote,  *^  his 
nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  pen  upon  a  table  of  green  bcUze,'*  No  doubt  the 
world  of  readers  will  honour  him  for  the  correction,  and  appreciate  at 
their  due  value  the  labours  by  which  he  arrived  at  it.  Improvements 
of  the  sort  are  valuable  enough,  but  more  liberty  was  wanted  still.  The 
ordinary  means  and  appliances  for  tampering  with  the  texts,  not  being 
found  quite  sufficient,  Mr.  Collier  in  1857  brought  forward  a  proposal  for 
establishing  a  precedent,  which  if  followed  up  with  due  diligence  would 
in  the  space  of  a  century  or  two  alter  Shakspere's  works  beyond  his  own 
power  of  recognition,  if  he  were  to  rise  expressly  for  the  purpose.  Mr. 
Collier  discovered  somewhere  a  worthless  old  noveP  upon  the  story  of 
FerideSf  written  in  a  prose  form  when  that  play  was  popular  upon  the 
stage,  and  long  since  deservedly  forgotten.    Noticing  the  facility  with. 

%  Anonymoiis  in  Blackwood's  Magazine.        ^  Printed  in  leOS. 


450  HOW  HAM  WAS  CURED. 

which  some  portions  of  its  stiff  prose  could  be  tuned  into  still  stiffer  and 
blanker  verse,  and  seeing  plenty  of  room  for  improvement  in  the  play, 
he  proposed  to  amend  the  latter  by  the  addition  of  liberal  extracts  so 
treated  from  the  novel  The  play  itself  is  one  of  the  least  worthy  pro- 
ductions that  ever  bore  the  name  of  a  great  author,  and  the  critics  for 
once  agree  that  Shakspere  can  be  held  but  partially  responsible  for  it, 
differing  only  as  to  the  exact  extent  of  his  share  in  it^s  manufacture.  Its 
value,  however,  is  of  the  same  kind  as  that  which  attaches  itself  to  the 
most  insignificant  relics  of  a  great  man,  to  Bonaparte's  tooth  brush,  and 
to  the  homely  old  suit  of  clothes  which  William  the  Silent  wore  when 
assassinated — things  which  however  worthless  in  themselves,  become 
precious  from  their  associations.  For  these  reasons  we  would  have  the 
hands  even  of  admirers  carefully  kept  away  from  both  it  and  them.  We 
look  upon  this  last  suggestion  of  Mr.  Collier's  as  the  ne  pkta  ultra  of 
Shaksperian  criticism,  and  hope  that  the  day  may  be  far  distant  when 
any  one  shall  think  of  acting  upon  it. 

R  C.  Allison,  H.B. 
St.  John,  N.B. 


HOW  HAM  WAS  CURED. 

This  was  in  slave  times.  It  was  also  immediately  after  dinner,  and  the 
gentlemen  had  gone  to  the  east  piazza.  Mr.  Smith  was  walking  back 
and  forth,  talking  somewhat  excitedly  for  him,  while  Dr.  Rutherford  sat 
with  his  feet  on  the  railing,  thoughtfully  executing  the  sentimental  per- 
formance of  cutting  his  nails.  Dr.  Rutherford  was  an  old  friend  of  Mr. 
Smith  who  had  been  studying  surgery  in  Philadelphia,  and  now,  on  his 
way  back  to  South  Carolina,  had  tarried  to  make  us  a  visit. 

*'  You  see,"  Mr.  Smith  was  saying,  "  about  a  week  ago  one  of  our  old 
negroes  died  under  the  impression  that  she  was  '  tricked'  or  bewitched, 
and  the  consequence  has  been  that  the  entire  plantation  is  demoralized* 
You  never  saw  anjrthing  like  it." 

^'  Many  a  time,"  said  Dr.  Rutherford,  and  calmly  cut  his  nails. 

**  There  is  not  a  negro  on  the  place."  continued  Edward,  "  who  does 
not  lie  down  at  night  in  terror  of  the  Evil  Eye,  and  go  to  his  work  in 
the  morning  paralyzed  by  dread  of  what  the  day  may  bring.  Why, 
there  is  a  perfect  panic  among  them.  They  are  falling  about  Uke  a  set 
of  ten-pins.  Thb  morning  I  sent  for  Wash  (best  hand  on  the  place) 
to  see  about  setting  out  tobacco-plants,  and  behold  Wash  curled  up 
under  a  hay-stack  getting  ready  te  die !    It  is  enough  to —    So  as  soon 


HOW   HAM   WAS  CURED.  451 

as  you  came  this  morniog  a  plan  entered  my  head  for  pntting  a  stop  to 
the  thing.  It  will  be  necessary  to  acknowledge  that  two  or  three  of 
them  are  under  the  spell,  and  it  is  better  to  select  those  who  already 
fancy  themselves  so. — Eosalie !  "  I  appeared  at  the  window.  "  Are 
any  of  the  house-servants  *  witched  1 " 

''  Mercy  is/'  said  I,  ''  and  I  presume  Mammy  is  going  to  be  :  I  saw 
her  make  a  curtsey  to  the  black  cat  this  morning." 

"  Well,  what  is  your  plan  1 "  inquired  Dr.  Rutherford. 

Mr.  Smith  seated  himself  on  the  piazza  railing,  dangling  his  feet 
thereagainst,  rounding  his  shoulders  in  the  most  attractive  and  engaging 
manner,  as  you  see  men  do,  and  proceeded  to  develop  his  idea.  J  was 
called  off  at  the  moment,  and  did  not  return  for  an  hour  or  two.  As  I 
did  so  I  heard  Dr.  Rutherford  say,  "  All  right !  Blow  the  horn ;  "  and 
the  overseer  down  in  the  yard 

Blew  a  blast  as  loud  and  shrill 

As  the  wild-1)oar  heard  on  Temple  HiU. 

an  event  which  at  this  unusual  hour  of  the  day  produced  perfect  con- 
sternation among  the  already  excited  negroes.  They  no  doubt  supposed 
it  the  musical  exercise  set  apart  for  the  performance  of  the  angel  Gabriel 
on  the  day  of  judgment,  and  in  less  than  ten  minutes  all  without  excep- 
tion had  come  pell-mell,  helter-skelter,  running  to  **  the  house."  The 
•dairymaid  left  her  chum,  and  the  housemaid  put  down  her  broom  ;  the 
ploughs  stood  still,  and  when  the  horses  turned  their  heads  to  see  what 
was  the  matter  they  found  they  had  no  driver ;  she  also  who  was  cook- 
ing for  the  hands  "  fled  from  the  path  of  duty  "  (no  Casabianca  nonsense 
for  her  /),  leaving  the  "  middling  "  to  sputter  into  blackness  and  the 
corn-pones  to  share  its  fate.  Mothers  had  gathered  up  their  children 
of  both  sexes,  and  grouped  them  in  little  terrified  companies  about  the 
yard  and  around  the  piazza-steps. 

Edward  was  now  among  them,  endeavouring  to  subdue  the  excite- 
ment, and  having  to  some  extent  succeeded,  he  made  a  signal  to  Dr. 
Rutherford,  who  came  forward  to  address  the  negroes.  Throwing 
his  shoulders  back  and  looking  around  with  dignity,  he  exclaimed, 
^'  I  am  the  great  Dr.  Rutherford,  the  witch-doctor  of  Boston !  I  was 
far  away  in  the  North,  hundreds  of  miles  from  here,  and  I  saw  a  spot 
on  the  sun,  and  it  looked  like  the  Evil  Eye  !  And  I  found  it  was  a  great 
black  smoke.  Then  I  knew  that  witch-fires  were  burning  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  witches  were  dancing  in  the  valleys ;  and  the  light  of  the 
Bye  was  red  1  I  am  the  great  Dr.  Rutherford,  the  witch-doctor  of  Bos- 
ton !  I  called  my  black  cat  up  and  told  her  to  smell  for  blood,  and  she 
smelled  ?  She  smelled,  and  she  smelled,  and  she  smelled !  And  pre- 
sently her  hair  stood  up  like  bristles,  and  her  eyes  shot  out  sparks  of 
fire,  and  her  tail  was  as  stiff  as  iron  !  "     He  threw  his  shoulders  back- 


452  HOW   HAM  WAS  CURED. 

looked  imposingly  around  and  repeated  :  *'  I  am  the  great  Dr.  Ruther- 
ford, the  witch-doctor  of  Boston  !  My  black  cat  tells  me  that  the  witeh 
is  here — that  she  has  hung  the  deadly  nightshade  at  your  cabin-doors, 
and  your  blood  is  turned  to  water.  You  are  beginning  to  wither  away. 
You  shiver  in  the  sun-shine ;  you  don't  want  to  eat ;  your  hearts  are 
hPAvy  and  you  don't  feel  like  work ;  and  when  you  come  from  the  field 
you  don't  take  down  the  banjo  and  pat  and  shuffle  and  dance,  but  you 
sit  down  in  the  corner  with  your  heads  on  your  hands,  and  would  go  to 
sleep,  but  you  know  that  as  soon  as  you  shut  your  eyes  she  will  cast  hers 
ou  you  through  the  chinks  in  the  cabin-walL" 

"  Dat's  me  ! "  said  Mercy — "  dat  certny  is  me  ! " 

**Gretdayin  de  mornin',  mas*  witch-doctor  1  How  you  know  I  Is 
you  been  tricked  1 "  inquired  Martha,  who,  having  been  reared  on  the 
plantation,  was  unacquainted  with  the  etiquette  observed  at  lectures. 

Wash  groaned  heavily,  and  shook  his  head  from  side  to  side  in  silent 
commendation  of  the  doctor's  lore. 

^'  My  black  cat  tells  me  that  the  witch  is  here  ;  and  she  is  here  !  " 
(Immense  sensation  among  the  chOdren  of  Ham.)  "  But,"  continued 
he  with  a  majestic  wave  of  the  arm,  "  she  can  do  you  no  harm,  for  I  cUso 
am  here,  the  great  Dr.  Rutherford,  the  witch-doctor  of  Boston ! " 

"  Doctor,"  inquired  Edward  in  a  loud  voice,  *'  can  you  tell  who  is  con- 
jured and  who  is  not  ? " 

^'  I  cannot  tell  unless  robed  in  the  blandishments  of  plagiarism  and 
the  satellites  of  hygienic  art  as  expunged  by  the  gyrations  of  nebular 
hypothesis.     Await  ye !  "    He  and  Mr.  Smith  went  into  the  house. 

The  negroes  were  very  much  impressed.  They  have  excessive  rever- 
ence for  grandiloquent  language,  and  the  less  they  understand  of  it  the 
better  they  liked  it. 

**  What  dat  he  say,  honey  ? "  asked  old  Mammy.  "  1  can't  heer  like  I 
used  ter." 

^'  He  says  he  will  be  back  soon,  Mammy,  and  tell  if  any  of  you  are 
tricked,"  said  I;  and  just  then  Edward  and  the  doctor  reappeared, 
bearing  between  them  a  pine  table.  On  this  table  were  arranged  about 
forty  little  pyramids  of  whitish-looking  powder,  and  in  their  midst  stood 
a  bottle  containing  some  clear  liquid,  like  water.  Dr.  Rutherford  seated 
himself  behind  it,  robed  in  the  black  gown  he  had  used  in  the  dissect- 
ing-room, and  crowned  by  a  conical  head-piece  about  two  feet  high, 
manufactured  by  Edward  and  himself,  and  which  they  had  completed 
by  placing  on  the  pinnacle  thereof  a  human  skull.  The  effect  of  this 
picturesque  costume  was  heightened  by  two  large  red  circles  around  the 
doctor's  eyes — whether  obtained  from  the  juice  of  the  pokeberry  or  the 
inkstand  on  Edward's  desk  need  not  be  determined. 

In  front  of  the  table  stood    the  negroes,  men,  women  and  children. 


HOW  HAH  WAS  CUBED.  453 

There  was  the  preacher,  decked  in  the  clerical  lively  of  a  standing  col- 
lar and  white  cravat,  but,  perhaps  in  deference  to  the  day  of  the  week, 
these  were  modified  by  the  secular  apparel  of  a  yellow  cotton  shirt  and 
homespun  pantaloons  attached  to  a  pair  of  old  "  galluses,"  which  had 
been  mended  with  twine,  and  pieced  wit^  leather,  and  lengthened  with 
string,  till,  if  any  of  the  original  remained,  none  could  tell  the  colour 
thereof  nor  what  they  had  been  in  the  day  of  their  youth.  The  effect 
was  not  harmonious.  There  was  Mammy,  with  her  low  wrinkled  fore- 
head, and  white  turban,  and  toothless  gums,  and  skin  of  shining  black- 
ness, which  testified  that  her  material  wants  were  not  neglected.  There 
was  'Wash,  a  great,  stalwart  n^gro,  who  ordinarily  seemed  able  to  cope 
with  any  ten  men  you  might  meet,  now  looking  so  subdued  and  dis- 
spirited,  and  of  a  complexion  so  ashy,  that  he  really  appeared  old  and 
shrunken  and  weak.  There  was  William  Wirt,  the  ploughboy,  affected 
by  a  chronic  grin  which  not  even  the  solemnity  of  this  occasion  could 
dissipate,  but  the  character  of  which  seemed  changed  by  the  awestruck 
eyes  that  rolled  above  the  heavy  red  lips  and  huge  white  teeth.  There 
was  Apollo— in  social  and  domestic  circles  known  as  'Poller — there  was 
Apollo,  his  hair  standing  about  his  head  in  little  black  tufts  or  horns 
wn^ped  with  cotton  cord  to  make  it  grow,  one  brawny  black  shoulder 
protruding  from  a  rent  in  his  yellow  cotton  shirt,  his  pantaloons  hang- 
ing loosely  around  his  hips,  and  bagging  around  that  wonderful  foot 
which  did  not  suggest  his  name,  unless  his  sponsors  in  baptism  were  of 
a  very  satirical  turn.  There  were  Martha,  and  Susan,  and  Minerva,  and 
Cinderella,  and  Chesterfield,  and  Pitt,  and  a  great  many  other  grown 
ones,  besides  a  crowd  of  children,  the  smallest  among  the  latter  being 
clad  in  the  dishabille  of  a  single  garment,  which  reached  perhaps  to  the 
knee,  but  had  little  to  boast  in  the  way  of  latitude. 

There  they  all  stood  in  little  groups  about  the  yard,  looking  with  awe 
and  reverence  at  the  great  Dr.  Rutherford,  who  sat  behind  the  table 
with  his  black  gown  and  frightfol  eyes  and  skull-crowned  cap. 

'*  You  see  these  little  heaps  of  powder  r  nd  this  bottle  of  water.  You 
will  come  forward  one  at  a  time  and  pour  a  few  drops  of  the  water  in 
this  bottle  on  one  of  these  little  heaps  of  powder.  If  the  powder  turns 
black,  the  person  who  pours  on  the  water  is  'witched.  If  the  powder 
remains  white,  the  person  who  pours  on  the  water  is  not  'witched.  You 
may  all  examine  the  powders,  and  see  for  yourselves  whether  there  is 
any  difference  between  them,  and  you  will  each  pour  from  the  same 
bottle.'' 

During  a  silence  so  intense  that  nothing  was  heard  save  the  hum  of 
two  great  "  bumblebees  "  that  darted  in  and  out  among  the  trees  and 
flew  at  erratic  angles  above  our  heads,  the  negroes  came  forward  and 

stretched  their  necks  over  each  others  .shoulders,  ''peering  curiously  at 
4 


454  HOW  HAM  WAS  CUBED. 

the  little  moundB  of  powder  that  lay  before  them,  at  the  innocent-look- 
ing bottle  that  stood  in  their  midst^  and  the  great  high  priest  who  sat 
behind.  They  stretched  their  necks  oyer  each  others  shoulders^  and 
each  endeavoured  to  push  his  neighbour  to  the  front ;  but  those  in  front, 
with  due  reyerence  for  the  uncanny  nature  of  the  table,  were  determined 
not  to  be  forced' too  near  it,  and  the  result  was  a  quiet  struggle,  a  silent 
wrestle,  an  undertone  of  wriggle,  that  was  irresistibly  funny. 

Then  arose  the  great  high  priest :  **  Range  ye  I  " 

Not  knowing  the  nature  of  this  order,  the  negroes  scattered  instanter 
and  then  collected  en  maase  around  Mr.  Smith. 

**  Range  ye  !  range  1 "  repeated  the  doctor  with  dignity,  and  Edward 
proceeded  to  arrange  them  in  a  long,  straggling  row,  urging  upon  them 
that  there  was  no  cause  for  aJarm,  as,  even  should  any  of  them  prove 
'witched,  the  doctor  had  charms  with  him  by  which  to  cast  off  the  spell. 

**  Come,  Maitha/'  said  Edward ;  but  Martha  was  dismayed,^  and  giv 
ing  her  neighbour  a  hasty  shove,  exclaimed, 

«  You  go  fus',  Unk*  Lumfrey  :  you's  de  preacher." 

Uncle  Humphrey  disengaged  his  elbow  with  an  angry  hitch :  "  I 
don't  keer  if  I  is :  go  'long  yoseX"' 

'<  Wdl,  de  Lord  knows  I'm  'feerd  to  go,"  said  Martha ;  "  but  ef  I  sot 
up  for  preachin',  'peers  to  me  I  wouldn't  be  'feerd  to  sass  witches  nor 
goses,  nor  nuffin'  else." 

<<  I  don't  preach  no  time  but  Sundays,  an'  dis  ain't  Sunday,"  said 
Uncle  Humphrey. 

'*  Hy,  nigger  1 "  exclaimed  Martha  in^desperation,  "  is  you  gwine  to  go 
back  on  de  Lord  cos  'tain't  Sunday  1  How  come  you  don't  trus'  on  Him 
week-a-days1" 

'<  I  does  trus'  on  Him  fur  as  enny  sense  in  doin'  uv  it ;  but  ef  I  go  to 
enny  my  foolishness,  fus'  thing  I  know  de  Lord  gwine  leave  me  to  take 
keer  uv  myse'f,  preacher  or  no  preacher — same  as  ef  He  was  ter  say, 
<  Dat's  all  right,  cap'n :  ef  you  gwine  to  boss  dis  job,  boss  it  j '  an'  den 
whar  /  be  f    Mas'  Ned  tole  you  to  go ;  go  on,  an'  lemme  'lone." 

<*  Uncle  Humphrey,"  said  Edward,  "  there  is  nothing  whatever  to  be 
afraid  of,  and  you  must  set  the  rest  an  example.    Come  !  " 

Uncle  Humphrey  obeyed,  but  as  he  did  so  he  turned  his  head  and  rolled, 
or,  as  the  negroes  say,  walled — his  eyes  at  Martha  in  a  manner  which 
convinced  her,  whatever  her  doubts  in  other  matters  pertaining  to  theo- 
logy, that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  future  punishment.  The  old  fellow 
advanced,  and  under  direction  of  the  great  high  priest  poured  some  of 
the  contents  of  the  bottle  on  the  powder  indicated  to  him,  and  it  re. 
mained  white. 

**  Thang  Oord !"  he  exclaimed  with  a  fervency  which  left  no  doubt  of 
his  sincerity,  and  hastened  away. 


HOW  HAM  WAS  CURED.  455 

Two  or  three  others  followed  with  a  similar  result.  Then  came  Mercy 
the  housemaid,  and  as  her  trembling  fingers  poured  the  liquid  forth,  be- 
hold the  powder  changed  and  turned  to  black !  The  commotion  was 
indescribable,  and  Mercy  was  about  to  have  a  nervous  fit  when  Dr. 
Rutherford,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her,  said  in  a  tone  of  command,  "  Be 
quiet — be  perfectly  quiet,  and  in  two  hours  I  will  destroy  the  speU.  Oo 
over  there  and  sit  down.'' 

She  tottered  to  a  seat  under  one  of  the  trees. 

One  or  two  more  took  their  turn,  among  them  Mammy,  but  the  pow- 
ders remained  white.  I  had  entreated  Edward  not  to  pronounce  her 
'witched,  because  she  was  so  old  and  I  loved  her  so :  I  could  not  bear 
that  she  should  be  frightened.  You  should  have  seen  her  when  she 
found  that  she  was  safe.  The  stiff  old  limbs  became  supple  and  the  ter- 
rified countenance  full  of  joy,  and  the  dear  ridiculous  old  thing  threw 
her  arms  up  in  the  air,  and  laughed  and  cried,  and  shouted  and  praised 
€rod,  and  knocked  off  her  turban,  and  burst  open  her  apron-strings,  and 
refused  to  be  quieted  till  the  doctor  ordered  her  to  be  removed  £rom  the 
scene  of  action.  The  idea  of  retiring  to  the  seclusion  of  her  cabin  while 
all  this  was  going  on  was  simply  preposterous,  and  Mammy  at  once  ex- 
hibited the  soothing  effect  of  the  suggestion ;  so  the  play  proceeded. 

More  white  powders.  Then  Apollo's  turned  black,  and,  poor  fellow  1 
when  it  did  so,  he  might  have  been  a  god  or  a  demon,  or  anything  else 
you  never  saw,  for  his  face  looked  little  like  that  of  no  human  being, 
giving  you  the  impression  only  of  wildly-rolling  eyeballs,  and  great 
white  teeth  glistening  in  a  ghastly,  feeble,  almost  idiotic  grin. 

Edward  went  up  to  him  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder :  <<  That's 
all  right,  my  boy.  We'll  have  you  straight  in  no  time,  and  you  will  be 
the  best  man  at  the  shucking  to-morrow  night." 

More  white  powders.  Then  came  Wash,  great  big  Wash  ;  and  when 
his  powder  changed,  what  do  you  suppose  he  did  i  Well,  he  just  fainted 
outright. 

The  remaining  powders  retaining  their  colour,  and  Wash  having  been 
restored  to  consciousness.  Dr.  Rutherford  directed  him  to  a  clump  of 
chinquapin  bushes  near  the  '*  big  gate  "  at  the  entrance  of  the  plantation. 
There  he  would  find  a  flat  stone.  Beneath  this  stone  he  would  find 
thirteen  grains  of  moulding  com  and  some  goat's  hair.  These  he  was 
to  bring  back  with  him.  Under  the  first  rail  near  the  same  gate  Mercy 
would  find  a  dead  fro^  with  its  eyes  torn  out,  and  across  the  road  in  the 
hollow  of  a  stump  Apollo  was  to  look  for  a  muskrat's  tail  and  a  weasel's 
paw.  They  went  off  reluctantly,  the  entire  corps  de  plcmiaium  following, 
and  soon  they  all  came  scampering  back,  trampling  down  the  ox-eyed 
daisies  and  jamming  each  other  against  the  comers  of  the  rail  fence,  for 
sure  enough,  the  witch's  treasures  had  been  found,  but  not  a  sool  had 


456  HOW  HAM  WAS  CUBED. 

dared  to  touch  them.  Dr.  Rutherford  sternly  ordered  them  back,  but 
all  hands  hung  fire,  and  their  countenances  evinced  resistance  of  such  a 
stubborn  character  that  Edward  at  length  volunteered  to  go  with  theuL 
Then  it  was  all  right,  and  presently  returned  the  most  laughable  proces- 
sion that  was  ever  seen — Wash  wiUi  his  arms  at  right  angles,  bearing  his 
grains  of  moulding  grain  on  a  burdock  leaf  which  he  held  at  as  great  a 
distance  as  the  size  of  the  leaf  and  the  length  of  his  arms  would  admit, 
his  neck  craned  out  and  his  eyes  so  glued  to  the  uncanny  corn  that  he 
stumbled  over  every  stick  and  stone  that  lay  in  his  path ;  Mercy  next, 
with  ludicrous  solemnity,  bearing  her  unsightly  burden  on  the  end  of  a 
com  stalk ;  Apollo  last,  his  weasel's  paw  and  muskrat's  tail  deposited  in 
the  toe  of  an  old  brogan  which  he  had  found  by  the  road-side,  brown  and 
wrinkled  and  stiff,  with  a  hole  in  the  side  and  the  ears  curled  back,  and 
which  he  had  hung  by  the  heel  to  a  long  crooked  stick.  On  they  came, 
the  crowd  around  them  following  at  irregular  distances,  suiging  back  and 
forth,  advancing  or  retreating  as  they  were  urged  by  curiosity  or  repelled 
by  fear. 

It  was  now  getting  dark,  so  Dr.  Rutherford,  having  had  the  table 
removed,  brought  forth  three  large  plates  filled  with  different  coloured 
powders.  On  one  he  placed  Mercy's  frog,  on  another  Wash's  com,  and 
on  the  third  the  muskrat's  tail  and  weasel's  paw  taken  from  Apollo's 
shoe.  Then  we  all  waited  in  silence  whUe  with  his  hands  behind  him 
he  strode  solemnly  back  and  forth  in  front  of  the  three  plates.  At 
length  the  bees  had  ceased  to  hum ;  the  cattle  had  come  home  of  them- 
selves, and  could  be  heard  lowing  in  the  distance ;  the  many  shadows 
had  deepened  into  one  ;  twilight  had  faded  and  darkness  come.  Then 
he  stood  still :  <*  I  am  the  great  Dr.  Rutherford,  the  witch-doctor  of  Bos- 
ton !  I  will  now  set  fire  to  these  witch's  eggs,  and  if  they  bum  the 
flames  will  scorch  her.  She  will  scream  and  fly  away,  and  it  will  be  a 
hundred  years  before  another  witch  appears  in  this  part  of  the  country. 

He  applied  a  match  to  Apollo's  plate  and  immediately  the  whole  place 
was  illuminated  by  a  pale  blue  glare  which  fell  with  ghastly  effect  on  the 
awestricken  countenances  around,  while  in  the  distance,  apparently  near 
the  *'  big  gate,"  arose  a  succession  of  the  most  frightful  shrieks  ever 
heard  or  imagined.  Then  the  torch  was  applied  to  Mercy's  frog,  and 
forthwith  every  nook  and  comer,  every  leaf  and  every  blade  of  grass  was 
bathed  in  a  flood  of  blood-red  light,  while  the  cries  grew,  if  possible, 
louder  and  fiercer.  Then  came  Wash's  com,  which  burned  with  a  pois- 
onous green  glare,  and  flashed  its  sickly  light  over  the  house  and  yard 
and  the  crowd  of  black  faces ;  and  hardly  had  this  died  away  when  from 
the  direction  of  the  big  gate  there  slowly  ascended  what  appeared  to  be 
a  blood-red  balL 

«  There  she  goes  I "  said  the  great  Dr.  Rutherford,  and  we  all  stood 


HOW  HAM  WAS  CURED.  467 

gazing  up  into  the  heavens,  till  at  length  the  thing  burst  into  flames^  the 
sparks  died  away  and  no  more  was  to  be  seen. 

^*  Now,  that  is  the  last  of  her ! "  impressively  announced  the  witch- 
doctor of  Boston  ;  "  and  neither  she  nor  her  sisters  will  dare  come  to 
this  country  again  for  the  next  hundred  years.  Tou  can  all  make  your 
minds  easy  about  witches.''  * 

Then  came  triumph  instead  of  dread,  and  scorn  took  the  pUce  of  fear. 
There  arose  a  succession  of  shouts  and  cheers,  laughter  and  jeers.  They 
patted  their  knees  and  shuffled  their  feet  and  wagged  their  heads  in 
derision. 

''  Hyar !  hyar  1  old  gal !  Done  burnt  up,  is  you  1  Take  keer  whar 
you  lay  yo'  aigs  arfer  dis  !  *'  advised  William  Wirt  in  a  loud  voice. — "Go 
long,  pizen  sass ! "  said  Martha.  "  You  done  lay  yo'  las'  aig,  you  is ! " 
— "  Hooray  tag-rag  I  "  shouted  Chesterfield. — *^  Histe  yo'  heels,  ole  Mrs. 
Satan,"  cried  one.—"  You  ain't  no  better'n  a  free  nigger  !  "said  another. 
— "  Yo'  wheel  done  skotch  for  good,  ole  skeer-face !  hyar !  hyar  I  You 
better  not  come  foolin'  'long  o'  Mas'  Ned's niggars  no  mo'!" 

The  next  night  was  a  gala  one,  and  a  merrier  set  of  negroes  never 
aang  at  a  corn-shucking,  nor  did  a  jollier  leader  than  Wash  ever  tread 
the  pile,  while  Mercy  sat  on  a  throne  of  shucks  receiving  Sambo's  ho- 
mage, and,  unmolested  by  fear,  coyly  held  a  corncob  between  her  teeth 
as  she  hung  her  head  and  bashfully  consented  that  he  should  come  next 
day  to  "  ax  Mas'  Ned  de  liberty  of  de  plantashun." 

"  But,  Edward,"  said  I,  "  why  did  those  three  powders  turn  black  t " 

"  Because  they  were  calomel,  my  dear,  and  it  was  lime-water  that  was 
poured  on  them,"  said  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Well,  but  why  did  not  the  others  turn  black,  too  1  ** 

"  Because  the  others  were  tartarized  antimony." 

*'  Where  did  you  get  what  was  in  the  plates,  that  made  the  lights,  you 
know  ? " 

''  Rutherford  had  the  material.  He  is  going  to  settle  in  a  small  county 
town  so  he  provided  himself  with  all  sorts  of  drugs  and  chemicals  before 
he  left  Phikdelphia." 

"  But,  Edward,"  persisted  I,  putting  my  hand  over  his  book  to  make 
him  stop  reading,  "  how  came  those  things  where  they  were  found  1  and 
the  balloon  to  ascend  just  at  the  proper  moment  ?  and  who  or  what  was 
it  screamed  so  t  Neither  you  nor  Dr.  Rutherford  had  left  the  yard  ex- 
cept to  go  into  the  house." 

"No,  my  dear  ;  but  you  remember  Dick  Kirby  came  over  just  after 
dinner,  and  he  would  not  ask  any  better  fun  than  to  fix  all  that" 

"  Humph  ! "  said  I,  "  men  are  not  so  stupid,  after  all." 

Edward  looked  more  amused  than  flattered,  which  shows  how  con- 

•ceited  men  are. 

Jennie  Woodvillb. 


458 


DEATH  OF  TKCUMSEfl. 

"  Tb  braTOB  !  that  fear  no  foe  and  langh  at  deaths 

Eight  well  I  know  that  to  your  latest  breath 

Toull  6ght  like  heroes,  or  like  heroes  fall, — 

So  now  on  you  I  confidently  call 

To  hurl  destruction  with  relentless  hand 

Upon  the  base  invaders  of  our  land  ! 

The  whiteman's  signal  gun  has  failed  to  sound, 

And  sUence  broods  his  coward  camp  around — 

He  need  not  care — in  sooth  it's  better  so— 

Let's  dash  alone  upon  the  hated  foe, 

Qrasp  for  ourselves  bright  vict'rys  glorious  crown. 

And  share  with  none  the  meed  of  high  renown  ! " 

lake  statues  round  their  stalwart  chief  they  stood 

Within  the  margin  of  the  tangled  wood, 

While  spake  Tecumseh  thus  in  fervent  strain, 

Though  ev'ry  eye  flashed  fire,  and  ev'ry  brain 

Burned  with  desire  to  raise  the  battle  cry, 

Rush  to  the  field,  and  win  the  fight  or  die. 

He  ceased,  waved  high  his  powerful  arm,  and  then 

Flew  onward,  followed  by  his  daring  men, 

Who,  with  one  mighty  whoop  their  silence  broke, 

And  charged  with  vengeance  through  the  fire  and  smoke. 

A  moment  more  and  then  the  meeting  came, 

With  roar  of  thunder  and  with  flash  of  flame. 

While  piled  in  bloody  heaps  the  warriors  fell, 

And  filled  the  woods  with  many  a  dying  yell, 

Teoumseh's  voice  rang  ever  on  the  air. 

And  where  the  fight  was  fiercest  he  was  there, 

Until  at  last  the  fated  bullet  sped. 

And,  dying,  fell  he  'mong  the  ghastly  dead. 

With  breasts  by  grief  and  bitter  vengeance  riven. 

The  red  men  raised  their  battle  cry  to  heaven. 

Closed  round  their  chieftain's  corpse,  and  vainly  tried 

To  curb  the  torrent  of  the  mighty  tide. 

That  swept  upon  them  with  resistless  flow. 

And  hurled  them  headlong  with  it's  mighty  blow. 

Bat  few  escaped  from  out  the  carnage  then 

Of  that  chivalric  band  of  desp'rate  men, 

But  those  that  did,  bore  off  their  leader  too. 

And  hid  his  corpse  from  the  invaders'  view. 

Who  vainly  sought  among  the  silent  dead 

For  him,  whose  might  had  filled  their  minds  with  dread. 

0.  E.  Jakswat,  M.D. 
Stayner,  Out. 


459 


DISRAELFS   NOVELS. 

You  remember,  of  coarse,  that  lazj,  idle  boy  whom  Thackeray  saw  lying 
on  a  bridge,  in  the  son,  one  summer  day  in  Rhineland  reading  a  novel. 
How  the  dear  old  master  loved  the  fellow  1  Ha/itd  ignarans  mali,  not  igno- 
rant of — novels,  himself,  he  loved  the  novel  reading  propensities  of  others. 
He  was  a  great  lover  of  novels,  as  most  great  people  in  literature  have 
been  and  are.  Beading  ''  Macanlay's  Life,"  one  is  struck  by  the  numbers  of 
utterly  worthless  trash  that  the  old  Pundite  appears  to  have  devoured 
in  his  youth.  He  absolutely  gloats  in  his  maturity  over  the  discovery 
of  some  idiotic  fiction  with  which  he  had  been  pleased,  with  his  sisters, 
in  the  old  Clapham  days,  before  life  had  got  to  be  serious,  and  when  the 
bloom  was  on  the  rye.  But  there  are  two  great  masters  of  fiction  who  do 
not  seem  to  have  read  much  fiction  of  others ;  one  is  Dickens,  the  other 
is  Disraeli.  It  is  not  easy  to  say  what  sort  of  books  Dickens  read  or 
loved.  Even  when  he  had  made  his  own  mark,  and  was  on  his  way  to 
fame,  his  library  was  a  vain  and  frivolous  thing,  full  of  presentation 
copies  and  gilt-edged  inutilities ;  later  on  it  improved.  His  own  great 
fictions  seem  to  have  been  bom  in  his  teeming  brain  spontaneously.  In 
like  manner,  Disraeli  owes  no  man  his  style  ;  no  book  seems  to  have 
given  him  hints  for  his  creations.  He,  too,  is  aui  generis,  self  sufficient, 
original  and  unrivalled.  A  year  or  two  ago  there  was  published  "  The 
Boudoir  Cabal,''  in  which  something  like  a  near  approach  was  made  to 
the  Disraeli  manner  and  the  Disraeli  brilliancy ;  it  was,  without  ques- 
tion, the  ablest  novel  that  has  appeared  in  its  line  for  many  years ;  it 
can  be  read  at  least  three  tiroes.  But  with  that  exception  there  has 
been  no  attempt  made  to  imitate  DisraelL  This  is  just.  Disraeli  im- 
itated nobody.  Contarini  Fleming  got  together  fine  paper,  gold  pens, 
beautiful  ink-bottles,  and  sat  down  to  write — ^and  could  not  write.  Mr. 
Disraeli  seems  to  have  also  gathered  about  him  all  the  elegancies  of 
amateur  authorship — the  regular  army  are  contented  with  the  regulation 
camp  life — and  sat  down  to  write  fiction — and  did  write  it  with  unequalled 
brilliancy.  Later  on  he  determined  to  be  a  statesman,  and,  m  spite  of 
greater  difficulties  than  lie  in  the  way  of  writing  fiction,  he  did  become 
a  statesman.  Suppose  he  had  tried  to  become  a  poet !  But  we  must 
draw  the  line  there.  Mr.  Disraeli  (q)peals  to  the  head  and  its  attendant 
satellites  of  fancy,  humour,  wit,  irony ;  but  he  does  not  often  appeal  to 
the  heart.  Cousin  Swift,  you  would  never  have  been  a  poet  And  yet  a 
good  case  might  be  made  against  this  criticism  ;  for  the  man  who  wrote 
the  brilliant  description  of  the  (harden  in  Bethany,  who  followed  Tan- 
cred  into  the  mountains  of  the  Ansarey  and  beheld  the  worship  of  the 
hidden  Apollo,  who  was  the  dark  teacher  of  the  Arian  Mystery  and  the 


460  Disraeli's  novels. 

apologist  of  the  Hebrew  race  on  historic  and  poetic  grounds,  must  have 
had  something  of  the  poet  in  him.  But  somehow,  one  is  not  convinced 
in  even  the  most  beautiful  passages  that  the  writer  is  not  smiling  at  his 
own  rhetoric  and  half  saddened  at  the  imposition  of  his  own  creations. 
One  always  suspects  the  presence  of  the  spirit  of  Vivian  Grey,  that  most 
refined  and  diabolic  deceiver.  Perhaps  never  before  in  the  history  of 
literature  was  any  man  so  made  the  victim  of  his  own  creation  ;  of  no 
other  man  can  it  be  said  that  he  was  at  once  victimised  and  victorious. 
Not  even  the  calm  good  sense  of  the  London  THmea  is  proof  against  the 
temptation  to  hint  at  the  Arian  mystery  when  a  Guildhall  speech  is  a 
little  enigmatical,  or  to  refer  to  the  Oriental  origin  of  the  Speaker  when 
a  passage  is  a  trifle  too  (n'nate.  It  is  particularly  amusing  to  notice  how 
the  Eadical  writers  of  the  FarimghUy,  whose  intellectual  impulses  are 
French  of  the  revolutionary  period,  and  whose  pilgrim  steps,  if  they 
ever  ventured  on  a  pilgrimage,  would  lead  them  to  Femey,  cannot  re 
sist  the  temptation  to  sneer  at  Mr.  Disraeli's  "  foreign  **  and  ^*  un-Eng- 
lish "  mental  habitudes.  And  yet  he  has  so  centered  his  destiny  and 
controUed  his  intellects  as  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  the  most  Eng- 
lish of  the  English  parties,  and  to  keep  his  hand  upon  the  pulse  of  the 
people  ;  while  his  critics  are  ostracised  of  the  two  great  parties,  and  are 
notoriously  not  in  harmony  with  the  feeling  of  the  British  people.  Not- 
withstanding all  this,  there  is  always  the  undefinable  feeling  that  the 
atmosphere  surrounding  the  great  Statesman  is  unreal  and  artificial,  and 
that  he  breathes  best  in  the  air  of  the  romances  which  made  his  youth 
famous,  his  manhood  interesting,  and  his  whole  career  enigmatical. 

Tempting  as  the  opportunity  is  to  sketch  the  society  which  surroun- 
ded Lady  Blessington,  in  whose  wake  young  Disraeli  followed,  it  must 
be  resisted.     Genius  is  not  a  child  of  the  attic  after  all ;  a  generous  nur~ 
ture  is  as  good  for  the  mind  as  the  body ;  and  in  the  gatherings  at 
Hollond  House,  the  circle  which  revolved  about  Lady  Blessington,  and 
in  the  galaxy  of  glory  and  genius  which  surrounded  the  divine  Reoomier 
at  Abbage  an  Bois,  there  were  the  finest  representatives  of  the  high 
possibilities  of  the  human  intellect  that  the  most  exacting  seeker  after 
genius  could  desire.    As  a  novelist  Mr.  Disraeli  was  of  the  Sedan.     His 
experience  had  led  him  into  scenes  of  wealth,  luxury  and  culture ;  and 
these  scenes  he  reproduces  for  his  readers,  tinged  with  the  warmth  of  his 
feelings  and  the  wealth  of  his  fancy.      His  ambitions  from  an  early 
period  prompted  him  into  public  life,  and  his  studies  had  been  of  a  poli- 
tico-historical character ;  consequentiy  in  his  novels  we  find  the  political 
element  predominant  and  political  theories  frequent  and  fanciful    In- 
deed, so  seemingly  natural  were   all  his  sarcasms,  his  Hebraisms,  his 
luxuriant  imaginings,  his  fondness  for  glittering  surroundings,  his  wild 
dreamings  of  social  renovation,  that  it  is  not  unnatural  to  find  them 


DISRAELI'S  NOVELS.  461 

forming  the  chief  noaterialB  uaed  by  his  critics  in  all  estimates  of  his 
public  career  and  his  private  character.  "  Vivian  Grey  "  would  have 
almost  made  it  impossible  for  any  other  man  ever  to  have  acquired  a 
high  place  in  Parliament  or  a  nigh  reputation  for  political  sincerity* 
The  deep,  smUing,  riperous  treachery  so  frankly  and  calmly  described, 
of  that  extraordinary  young  man  would  have  given  the  author  a  high 
place  in  literftture,  but  it  would  have  made  for  most  men,  any  other 
place  nearly  impossible,  particularly  in  public  life.  The  novel  is  the 
apotheosis  of  social  and  political  trickery  and  intrigue  ;  the  wit  is  the 
wit  of  Mephistopheles,  and  the  reader  who  is  sensitive,  feels  that,  like 
Margaret,  in  that  sneering  presence  he,  or  she,  could  not  pray.  In  this 
novel,  we  find  dramatic  genius  enough  to  fit  out  half  a  dozen  modem 
play -Wrights  ;  it  is  a  wonder  that  they  have  never  dug  in  this  mire,  that 
interview  between  Vivian  Qrey  and  Mr.  Felix  Lorraine,  when  the 
masks  of  both  are  thrown  off  and  the  rectory  remains  with  the  stronger 
will  and  the  most  cunning  malignity,  is  a  wonderful  specimen  of  drama- 
tic writing.  All  his  schemes,  shattered  by  a  Norman's  facile  hand,  are 
tumbling  about  his  ears,  his  hopes  are  dashed,  his  prospects  dark,  his 
Aiture  jeopardised,  his  friends  involved,  but  amid  the  agony  of  the 
general  disruption  the  young  fiend  has  the  c(>olness  of  intellect  to  stop 
on  his  way  and  wreak  his  vengeance  on  the  evil  woman  who  betrayed 
and  ruined  him.  It  is  superb.  It  is  unnatural  of  course ;  but  that  is 
because  such  characters  are  not  common  though  not  impossible ;  and 
when  they  do  occur  they  act  and  talk  and  intrigue  not  like  other  peo- 
ple. We  are  too  apt  to  call  that  unnatural  wJiioh  is  only  unfamiliar* 
The  Eastern  Sultan  would  not  believe  the  Scottish  Knight  in  the  Talis- 
man, that  the  rivers  of  the  North  become  solid  in  the  winter  time  so  that 
an  army  might  march  across.  When  a  man  writes  a  book  of  that  kind, 
in  which  the  hero,  who  is  also  a  species  of  intellectual  imp^  is  himself, 
and  if  the  book  becomes  popular,  people  are  apt  always  to  remember  the 
-characterization.  And  we  can  fancy  that  in  political  matters  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli has  found  the  opinions  of  Vivian  Grey  having  occasioned  weight 
against  him  in  Ms  private  political  dealings  with  the  heavier  and  less 
fanciful  of  the  Tory  party.  In  this  book  too,  Mr.  Disraeli,  in  addition 
to  surrounding  himself  with  an  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  malice  with 
the  public,  created  for  himself  another  and  not  more  favourable  repu- 
tation by  the  almost  unconcealed  personalities  of  the  book.  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  Southey,  Lady  Holland,  the  great  Duke,  Lord  Brougham,  Mrs. 
Coutts,  Lady  Caroline  Lamb,  Theodore  Hook,  Prince  Gortschakoff,  and 
many  more  were  made  to  figure  most  disadvantageously  in  this  extraor- 
dinary novel.  Some  of  these  people  ought  never  to  have  forgiven  him ; 
perhaps  some  of  their  friends  never  have.  For  the  personalities  were 
not  mere  clumsy  caricatures ;  they  were  the  work  of  a  genius,  an  impish 


462  DISRAEU'S  NOVELS. 

genius  almost,  that  fixed  the  resemblance  forever.  Every  species  of 
disagreeable  talent  was  pressed  into  sendee  to  make  these  characters 
folfil  their  mission  Tet  now  and  then  some  quick  flash  of  tenderness 
and  pathos  amid  all  this  cynicism  and  scoffing,  shows  us  that  the  writer 
is  not  devoid  of  at  least  the  artistic  perception  of  necessity  for  some 
light  and  softness  in  the  picture.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  history 
of  fiction,  was  so  daring  and  successful  a  venture  made.  There  are 
some  writers  on  medical  subjects  whose  success  has  been  indeed  brilliant 
and  permanent,  but  it  has  been  secured  at  the  expense  of  their  practice 
and  professional  standing.  But  Mr.  Disraeli  dissected  political  Parties, 
satirised  Politicians,  caricatured  Statesmen,  shot  shafts  of  scorn  into 
Society,  fostered  the  fangs  of  gossip  and  slander  on  more  than  one  great 
name,  and  yet  after  all  has  conquered  all  in  the  field  of  Politics,  has 
been  made  the  master  of  Statesmen,  and  has  been  the  pet  of  Society. 

The  same  curious  contrast  between  his  opinions  in  fiction  and  his  ac- 
complishments in  the  field  of  public  life  may  be  made  with  reference  to 
'^  Coningsby,"  perhaps  the  most  brilliant  of  the  political  novels.     In 
this  we  find  conservatism  sneered  at  ^m  the  Toung  England  Stand- 
point by  the  man  who  became  the  Educator  of  the  Conservative  party, 
not  on  the  Toung  England  foundation  or  principles.      "  And  yet,"  says 
Buckhurst,  in  "  Coningsby,"  "  if  any  fellow  were  to  ask  me  what  the 
Conservative  Cause  is,  I  should  not  know  what  to  say."     And  then 
some  of  his  friends  go  on  to  sneer  at  a  Crown  robbed*  of  its  prerogative, 
an  Aristocracy  that  does  not  lead,  and  a  Church  that  is  controlled  by  a 
Parliament,  and  so  on,  in  by  no  means  a  true  conservative  spirit.     In 
"  Coningsby  "  we  have  some  delightful  love-making.     In  deaKng  with 
love  matters,  Mr.  Disraeli  is  always  good,  a  little  profuse  and  ornate,  a 
little  super-romantic  for  an  age  which  is  getting  intensely  practical  and 
likes  its  love  making  done  in  a  very  pLun  fashion  ;  but  still  mainly  true 
to  nature  when  nature  is  rich  in  generous  impulses,  and  true  to  youth 
when  youth  is  full  of  fervour  and  freshness ;  and  always  true  to  delicacy 
of  feeling  and  the  disciplina  arcani  of  the  tender  passion.     The  episode 
of  Coningsby's  passion  for  Edith  and  its  success  at  last  is  always  charm- 
ing ;  the  declaration  is  made  with  wonderful  skill ;  and  the  same  re- 
finement of  cultivated  knowledge  of  higher  nurtured  human  nature  is 
shewn  in  the  Toung  Duke's  declaration  to  the  Lady  of  his  love,  and  in 
Lothair's  arrangement  of  his  engagement  to  Corisande — "  I  have  been 
in  Corisande's  garden,  and  she  has  given  me  a  rose."    In  "  Coningsby," 
too,  the  same  tendency  to  caricature  is  perfectly  plain.     Theodore  Hook 
turns  up  again,  as  in  *'  Vivian  Orey,"  but  in  a  different  character  and 
under  a  new  name.    Mr.  Rigby  is  supposed  to  be  a  scornful  picture  of 
that  unfortunate  man  John  Wilson  Croker,  whom  the  bitter  hate  of 
Macaulay  has  also  pilloried  of  late  in  the  Life  of  Trevelyan.     Tbe  Qaar- 


DISRAELI'S  NOVELS.  46* 

terly's  defence  of  Oroker  against  Macaolay  was  clever,  but  it  leaves- 
someihiDg  to  be  desired,  and  one  is  left  to  imagine  that  Croker's  private 
life  must  have  afforded  at  least,  tome  ground  for  assaults  from  two  such« 
different  writers  as  Disraeli  and  Macaulaj. 

In  the  "  Young  Duke "  and  in  "  Sybel,"  we  have  a  very  peculiar 
phase  of  Disraeli's  earlier  opinions  on  social  and  semi-religious  subjects. 
In  the  Dacres,  particularly  in  the  most  charming  and  delightful  of  his 
female  creations,  May  Dacre,  we  have  ^fr.  Disraeli's  flattering  description' 
of  Soman  Catholic  Society  in  England.     In  the  Catholic  characters  in 
"  Sybel,"  particularly  in  one  wood-scene  where  these  characters  appear,, 
we  have  Mr.  Disraeli's  testimony  to  the  deep  influence  of  Roman  Catho- 
lic traditions  and  ancient  institutions  in  England.    The  pictures  are  by- 
no  means  unflattering ;  and  must  have  pleased  the  Catholic  aristocracy 
greatly  and  won  for  their  author  a  kindly  feeling  among  such  people 
which  has  not  been  without  effect  on  his  career.     If  in  ^*  Lothair"  he^ 
tried  consciously  to  pay  a  still  higher  tribute  to  the  English  Church,  I 
do  not  think  he  greatly  succeeded,  for  after  all  it  was  not  much  of  an 
ecclesiastical  triumph  to  give  Lothaii  to  Consande  and  the  Anglicans  in> 
stead  of  to  the  other  lady  and  the  Catholics,  particularly  when  in  spite 
of  the  young  gentleman's  fervent  protestations  his  heart  had  been  really 
given  to  the  latter.     In  the  "  Young  Duke  "  we  have  some  of  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli's  characteristic  descriptions  and  suggestions.     Who  can  hint  at  an 
intrigue  like  Disraeli  1    And  any  one  who  remembers  or  who  will  read 
the  account  of  the  Duke's  sudden  infatuation  with  the  operatic  Bird  of 
Paradise  who  first  sang,  and  then  supped  at  the  new  palace  the  Duke 
was  building,  will  have  remembered  or  read  a  very  artistic  piece  of  writ- 
ing.   In  fact  the  "  Young  Duke  "  is  a  masterpiece  of  description ;  every 
trait  is  masked,  every  feature  indicated,  every  passion  suggested,  every 
act  described  in  a  manner  that  makes  the  young  hero  of  the  book  a  per- 
fect creation.     Who  can  describe  dress  like  Disraeli  f     The  Duke's 
dressing  is  described  with  parented  fondness.     No  mother  writing  to 
grandma  an  account  of  the  first  bom's  raiment  can  be  more  tenderly 
romantic  and  delightfully  egotistic  than  Disraeli  in  giving  us  the  par. 
ticulars  of  the  Duke's  costume,  as  well  as  of  the  young  ladies'  in  all  the 
books.    The  bitter  irony  of  Blackwood,  in  spite  of  its  support  of  the 
Lazy  Premier,  once  suggested  that  these  descriptions  read  like  **  the  gin- 
inspired  dreams  of  some  milliner's  apprentice,'*  but  this  was  written  by 
some  caustic  Scotchman,  ignorant  of  trousers  perhaps,  and  content  with 
a  plaid.      There  is  poetry  in  costume;    there  is  art  in  dress.     Did 
Michael  Angelo  disgrace  his  artistic  rank  when  he  arranged  the  uniform 
of  the  Pope's  Swiss  Guard  )     Do  the  military  authorities  consider  the 
Hussar's  flying  jacket  a  mere  piece  of  millinery  or  an  adornment,  a  relic 
and  a  tradition  1    Every  button  in  the  costume,  says  Darwin,  has  a 


464  Disraeli's  novels. 

meaning,  every  strap  a  history.  In  fact  the  aasthetic  inflaence  and  his- 
4K>ry  of  dress  deserves  to  be  written  in  other  strains  than  those  of  Car- 
iyle.  Disraeli  is  superior  to  the  vulgar  prejudice  about  tailor-made  men  ; 
and  so  he  describes  dress,  and  his  descriptions  are  delightful.  And 
4igainy  who  can  describe  a  dinner  like  Disraeli  1    In  the  *^  Young  Duke  "  ^ 

there  is  a  dinner  described — ^it  is  long  since  I  read  it,  and  if  the  book 
was  at  hand  I  would  stop  this  moment  to  read  it  again — which  would 
have  won  the  high  approval  of  Brellat-Savarin.  Every  dish  is  an  artis- 
tic creation.  The  wines  are  divine.  The  service  is  silent  and  perfect. 
And  then  the  conversation  is  better  than  the  dishes  and  the  wine ;  not 
the  academic  conversation,  the  conversation  of  Johnson  in  one  age  or 
of  Macaulay  in  another ;  but  the  delightful  badinage,  the  sparkling  wit, 
the  talk  with  a  soupcon  of  mischief  and  personality,  in  which  Disraeli 
alone  is  master,  in  which  all  who  can  may  join,  instead  of  being  com- 
pelled to  eat  grapes  or  finger  a  walnut  while  some  great  oracle  bores, 
and  proses,  and  dictates  and  relates,  garrulous,  tyrannical,  and  dull.  In 
the  Young  Duke  we  get  almost  every  phase  of  the  society  (^  the  day, 
dressing,  dining,  gambling,  intriguing,  dancing,  politics,  finance,  farming 
and  the  end  of  all  marriage.  The  Young  Duke  gambles  away  his  for- 
tune, or  builds  it  away  and  wastes  it  in  other  fashionable  extravagan- 
ces ;  his  Oatholic  guardian  nurses  his  estate  for  him ;  his  guardian's  j 

•daughter —  • 

An  togel,  and  yet  not  too  good 
For  human  natnre^s  daily  food, 

teaches  him  to  love ;  he  becomes  imbued  with  fervour  for  Catholic 
emancipation ;  he  rushes  up  to  London,  takes  his  seat  in  the  house  of 
Lords,  makes  a  great  speach  in  favour  of  emancipation,  and  comes  home 
heroic,  triumphant  at  once  in  politics  and  love.  It  must  be  a  dull  head 
that  loves  not  the  Young  Duke  among  other  heroes  of  Disraeli's  crea- 
tion. 

It  is  not  possible  or  quite  necessary  to  dwell  on  the  wild  romances  of 
^  Contarini  Fleming,"  "  The  Rise  of  Iskonder,"  or  the  "  Wondrous  Tale 
of  Alroy."  They  are  a  species  of  prose  poem ;  they  are  echoes  of  Ossian 
in  some  respects.  They  outrage  probability  ;  they  offend  severe  taste  • 
they  insult  human  credulity ;  yet  in  spite  of  all,  no  young  reader  of  a 
heidthy  mind,  and  therefore  fond  of  romance  will  be  the  worse  for  read- 
ing them.  It  is  long  since  the  present  writer  pored  over  them ;  but 
parts  of  them  all  recur  with  wonderful  clearness  and  with  an  undimin. 
ished  charm.  In  the  "  Wondrous  Tale  of  Alroy  "  there  is  a  scene  of  a 
wild  ride  across  the  burning  desert,  made  for  life  or  death,  in  which  one 
sorrows  for  the  noble  beast  that  pants  and  dies  at  last  beside  the  spring 
which  was  wildly  expected  to  be  sweet  but  which  turned  out  to  be  as 
^t  as  the  ocean.    The  whole  of  that  scene  is  very  vividly  described. 


DISRAELI'S  NOVELS.  465 

Not  even  Browning's  manrellons  ballad  of  '<  How  we  Brought  the  Gkx>d 
News  from  Shent  to  Arise/'  surpasses  it  in  spirit,  while  it  has  none  of 
the  romance  and  the  pathos  of  that  wonderful  ride.  And  in  the  **  Ris& 
of  Iskonder/'  there  are  scenes  of  great  spirit,  passages  of  wonderful 
beauty ;  and  when  at  the  chase,  the  Oreek  Prince  Nicias  rides  out  of  the^ 
battle  wounded  to  death,  and  retires  to  die  in  sad  loneliness  witb 
**  Farewell  to  Greece,  farewell  to  Iduna "  on  his  lips,  we  pardon  his. 
weakness  and  his  violence  and  declare  that  the  book  is  brilliant  and 
wonderful.  But  that  is  in  our  youth.  Afterwards  comes  criticism  with 
its  scalpel,  and  Taste  with  her  rules,  and  youth  is  gone,  and  life  is  robbed 
of  half  its  pleasilre. 

In  **  Tancred  **  we  have  the  "  Asean  Mystery.  Tancred  is  a  most 
wonderful,  eloquent,  fascinating,  exacting  and  exasperating  book.  It 
is  here  we  find  the  sarcastic  face  of  the  writer  peeping  at  us,  as  it  were, 
over  the  shoulder  of  every  character  we  feel  disposed  to  admire,  out  of 
every  scene  that  we  wish  to  linger  over.  Last  year  when  the  Suez 
Canal  Shares  were  purchased,  some  writer  in  the  most  brilliant  of  all 
the  London  Weeklies,  the  "  Spectator,"  made  a  very  apt  quotation  from 
Tancred  in  reference  to  the  lavish  way  in  which  Mr.  Disraeli  was  willing 
to  pour  out  the  gold  of  England  to  secure  the  influence  of  the  Empire 
over  the  CanaL  It  was  that  letter  which  SiDONiA  wrote  to  the  Jewish 
bankers  of  the  East  authorizing  them  to  pay  Tancred,  sold  in  great 
quantities,  to  the  full  value  of  the  golden  lions  and  the  seat  of  Solomon. 
The  Canal  episode  caused  a  new  interest  in  Disraeli's  novels,  for  there 
was  a  touch  of  oriental  lavishness  in  the  scheme,  which,  after  all,  has 
come  to  be  a  very  practical  piece  of  business.  The  •*  Aseas  Mystery  " 
Came  once  more  to  the  front.  The /ons  et  origo  of  the  Asean  Mystery  is 
SmoNiA,  and  Sidonia  is  the  most  mysterious,  the  most  powerful,  the 
most  interesting,  the  most  learned  and  brilliant  of  all  Disraeli's  creations. 
He  does  not  live  in  the  book ;  he  impends  over  them ;  he  permeates 
them  ;  he  surrounds  them.  He  is  the  fiiend  and  patron,  the  teacher 
and  inspirer  of  Coningsby ;  he  is  the  same  for  Tancred.  He  is  the  re- 
presentative of  Hebrew  wealth,  power,  influence,  learning  and  fascina> 
tion.  He  aids  Kings  and  moves  cabinets  in  the  west.  He  inspires  the 
Hebrews  of  the  East,  and  disturbs  the  peace  of  Eastern  Princes.  In 
Europe  he  is  Rothschild ;  in  the  East  he  is  a  combination  of  Asean 
Mystery  and  Eastern  Question.  He  shows  Tancred  and  Coningsby  the 
power  of  the  Jews  in  Europe  by  promoting  to  the  Jew  at  the  door  of 
every  Treasure  house  and  in  the  Cabinet  of  every  Sovereign  in  Europe. 
He  inspires  them  with  the  desire  of  visiting  the  East  and  studying  its 
mysteries.  Tancred  fulfils  this  mission.  After  an  education  which  dis- 
appoints the  Duke  and  Duchess,  his  father  and  mother,  unsettles  his 
political  connections  and  saps  his  religious  teachings,  he  determines  Uy 


466  Disraeli's  novels. 

visit  the  Holy  Land  in  the  hope  that  there,  in  those  holier  scenes  and 
in  that  serener  air,  he  may  win  from  the  associations  of  the  place,  if  not 
from  the  sacred  Syrian  skies,  some  more  exact  belief,  some  diviner  in- 
spiration.    His  adventnres  are  wonderful    He  meets  with  a  wonderful 
young  Arabian  Chief  who,  because  he  is  young,  poor  and  a  Prince,  thinks 
he  ought  to  be  able  to  conquer  the  world.     In  the  scenes  with  this 
young  adventurer  Mr.  Disraeli  exhausts  his  power  of  language  to  des- 
•cribe  beauty,  to  exact  interest  in  the  East^  to  suggest  high  thoughts  of 
the  past  and  the  future,  to  hint  at  the  Asian  Mystery.    In  company  with 
the  eccentric  young  Prince  who  is  also  Prince  of  liars  and  schemers, 
Tancred  visits,  after  obtaining  strange  permission,  the  mysterious  moun- 
tains of  the  Ansarey,  where,  amid  inaccurable  crags  and  surrounded  by 
brave  followers,  the  woman  Queen  worships  in  secret  the  duties  of  al- 
most forgotten  Olympus.     In  the  interview  with  this  Queen,  held  by 
Tancred  and  the  Prince,  we  have  some  exquisitely  humorous  touches 
added  by  the  Prime  Minister  of  the  Queen,  who  under  a  mass  of  polite 
verbiage  conceals  all  he  wishes  to  conceal  and  clouds  as  much  as  possible 
all  that  the  Queen  desires  to  communicate.    After  this  we  have  a  wild 
mountain  fight  and  flight,  given  with  great  vividness  and  skilL    But 
all  the  time  we  are  conscious  of  the  embodied  sarcasm  that  hovers  about 
the  book.    The  hero  himself  is  a  Sarcasm  on  University  Education,  and 
Parental  Anxiety.    The  Arabian  Prince  is  a  Sarcasm  on  our  "  allies  " 
in  the  East.    The  worship  of  Apollo  in  the  Mountains  of  the  Ansarey 
is  a  sarcasm  on  the  Christianity  which^  Tancred  came  to  seek.     His 
growing  love  for  the  beautiful  Arabian  maiden  whom  he  meets  for  the 
first  time  i§  the  garden  at  Bethany  is  a  sarcasm  on  his  half  budded 
loves  at  homa    And  last,  when  he  is  nearly  committing  himself,  what 
a  horrible  sarcasm  it  is  on  all  his  wild  dreams  and  weird  fancies,  his 
fantastic  hopes  and  the  airy  palaces  of  his  imaginative  construction,  to 
learn  that  My  Lord  and  My  Lady,  his  father  and  mother,  proud,  practi- 
<cal,  conservative  and  contemptuous,  have  arrived  at  Jerusalem  I    And 
there  the  story  ends  as  everything  in  the  story  ends,  in  a  very  unsatis- 
factory fashion. 

I  shall  pass  by  some  other  books  that  should  have  some  little  atten- 
tion paid  them ;  but^  on  Mr.  Disraeli's  own  dictum,  **  Woe  to  the  man 
who  n^lects  the  daughters  of  a  family,"  I  have  chosen  the  best  to  dwell 
with  them  the  longest  A  few  sentences  before  closing  may  be  devoted 
to  some  of  the  leading  characteristics  of  the  Disraeli  novel  The  first 
and  most  striking  note  of  them  all  is,  their  regard  for  Youth.  It 
is  in  youth,  and  by  youth,  that  everything  has  been  and  is  done. 
That  is  the  lesson  that  Sidonia  teaches  Coningsby.  "  To  be  young,  to 
be  healthy,  to  be  wealthy,  to  be  hungry  three  times  a  day,''  cries  old 
Thackeray, ^' what  can  be  desired  better  than  that!''    But  Disraeli 


Disraeli's  noveus.  467 

strikes  a  more  resounding  and  poetic  chord.    To  be  young,  to  be  am- 
bitious, to  be  brilliant,  to  love  mildly,  to  hate  deeply,  to  move  men,  to 
be  a  leader,  a  hero,  a  conqueror — ^what  fate  is  equal  to  that  ?    In  the 
next  place,  the  brilliancy  of  the  conversations  is  more  than  remark- 
able, it  is  almost  unequalled.     The  wit,  the  humour,  the  irony,  the 
daring,  the  naturalness  of  all  the  dialogues,  strike  the  attentive  reader 
with  wonder.    An  ingenious  dramatist  might  make  a  fortune  out  of 
Disraeli's  Novels.    A  man  who  wants  to  make  a  study  of  good  conversa- 
tional models  for  brilliant  society — have  weany  such  1— can  find  nothing 
better  than  the  Disraeli  novels.    The  style  too,  is  absolutely  original ; 
it  is  all  the  author's  own.    For  a  rhapsody,  for  a  love  scene,  for  an  epi- 
gram, for  a  sarcasm,  the  talent  of  Disraeli  is  without  rival ;  he  handles 
the  English  language  with  the  deadly  dexterity  with  which  a  mattre 
dCarmes  of  the  Regency  might  have  handled  his  rapier.    I  might  quote 
largely,  but  I  take  the  reader  to  witness  that  I  have  abstained  from 
quotation,  which  is  one  of  the  weaknesses  of  criticism.  It  is  Mr.  Disraeli's 
vivid  descriptions  of  luxury  which  have  won  for  them  the  sneering  com- 
ments of  the  critics  on  his  oriental,  otherwise  '^  old  clo' ''  origin  and 
tastes ;  (he  paid  the  critics  back — "  fellows  who  have  failed  in  literature 
and  art;'')  and  indeed,  he  does  revel  with  a  royal  revelry  in  scenes  of 
splendour.    What  of  that  %    An  actual  description  of  a  royal  drawing- 
room,  01"  a  ducal  fertility,  would,  after  all,  not  greatly  surpass  the  paint- 
ings of  Disraeli  in  his  novels.    But  no  one,  not  even  his  keenest  critics, 
can  say  that  the  riches  he  endows  his  heroes  with,  are  greater  than  are 
possessed  by  their  equals  in  England.  And  as  for  the  beauty  with  which 
he  endows  his  fair  heroines,  I  am  sure  that  no  critic  of  a  patriotic  cha- 
racter can  wish  that  its  splendour,  were  less,  or  its  fascinations  fewer. 
For  Disraeli  himself  is  loyaL    In  the  moment  of  his  highest  pride,  his 
most  abounding  vanity,  his  fullest  riches,  when  society  was  at   his 
feet,  the  young  duke  is  present  at  a  court  dinner,  and  the  author  shows 
at  once  his  loyalty  and  his  skill,  by  showing  how  this  young  man  be- 
came modest,  and  humble,  and  awed  in  the  presence  of  his  sovereign. 
In  like  manner,  a  great  many  novelists  have  won  praise  and  popularity 
during  the  present  generation  ;  but  there  are  few  among  them  who 
ghould  not  feel  inferior  and  less  brilliant,  humble  and  reverential,  in  the 
presence  of  their  master,  Disraeli 

Martin  J.  Griffin. 
Halifax,  1878. 


468 


MY  DAUGHTER'S  ADMIRERS. 

''Four  by  honours  and  fonr  by  cards  !   hat   ha  I    Count  it,  Emmy 
dear." 

'^  There  is  the  door-bell,"  says  Emmy  with  much  interest. 

"  The  door-bell  ?  You  are  mistaken,  surely  :  I  didn't  hear  it 
Deal  the  cards,  Rolf.  Eight  to  your  two,  my  boy :  perhaps  yon  would 
succeed  better  at  dominoes.  And  your  mamma  looks  quite  as  crest- 
fallen as  you  do.  I  shall  not  trouble  myself  very  much  with  regard  to 
your  future  morals,  sir :  you  will  never  get  on  at  games  of  chance.'^ 

"  I  think  perhaps  a  little  interview  with  Csesar  would  be  of  great 
assistance  to  Rolf  in  getting  on  with  Professor  Thumbscrews  to-morrow," 
interpolates  grandmamma  from  her  knitting. 

"  It  is  most  ungenerous,  grandmamma,  to  hit  a  fellow  when  he's  down," 
objects  Rolf  reproachfully.  ''  Now,  mamma,  look  alive,  and  we'll  make 
a  stand  yet." 

'^  I  was  almost  sure  I  heard  the  beD,"  says  Emmy  with  a  sigh. 

"  What,  Emmy  I  revoking  ?  "  cries  Rolf  excitedly.  •*  No,  no,  made- 
moiselle, you  cannot  come  that  sort  of  game  on  me.  Just  take  that 
trump  back  and  follow  suit  if  you  please.  I  am  confident  you  have  a 
diamond :  in  fact,  I  —I —  " 

''You  saw  it,  Rolf:  complete  your  disclosure,"  laughs  grandmamma. 

"  WeD,  grandmamma,  she  holds  her  hand  so  low  I  cannot  help  seeing. 
Play,  Emmy." 

**  There  is  a  diamond,"  says  Emmy.  "Now,  mamma — Ah,  I  knew  I 
heard  the  bell,"  continues  she  triumphantly  as  a  servant  enters  and 

hands  her  a  card. 

"  This  is  always  the  way,"  say  I  in  a  loud  voice  and  full  of  wrath : 
"  I  never  sit  down  to  a  quiet  game  of  whist  but  some  monkey  of  a  whip- 
persnapper — Who  is  it,  Emmy  ?  " 

She  hands  me  with  a  superlatively  complacent  air  two  cards:  in- 
scribed upon  one  is  "  Regulus  Lyon,"  and  on  the  other,  '*  John  C. 
OlwelL" 

"  Gracious  goodness,  Emmy !  I  don't  understand  how  you  can  tole- 
rate the  society  of  such  men  1  It  is  all  very  well  to  acknowledge  them 
as  chance  acquaintances,  to  allow  them  to  call  occasionally  in  a  formal 
way,  but  this  sort  of  thing  is  out  of  the  question.  Upon  my  word,  they 
are  establishing  themselves  upon  the  footing  of  friends  of  the  family : 
they  are  here  two  or  three  times  every  week.  I  wonder  at  their  impu- 
dence," say  I,  swelling  with  ruffled  dignity.  "  I  put  my  veto  upon  it 
at  once.  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  yourself :  I  insist  that  you  do  not 
see  them." 


MY  dauohteb's  admibers.  469 

"  Oh,  papa  ! "  says  Emmy  in  a  frightened  voice. 

**  My  dear ! "  remonstrates  her  mamma. 

"  James/'  says  grandmamma  in  an  authoritative  tone  to  the  wide- 
moathed,  astonished  servant,  "  say  to  the  gentlemen  that  Miss  Archer 
will  be  in  the  parlour  in  a  few  minutes.'' 

"  Oh,  here's  a  go  I"  enthusiastically  exclaims  Bolf  with  all  the  delight 
the  American  small  boy  feels  in  conflicts  of  any  description,  family  com- 
bats more  especially. 

I  have  no  idea  of  rebelling  against  my  mother's  mandate — she  has 
long  commanded  the  forces  of  the  entire  connection,  and  her  orders  are 
invariably  obeyed — but  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  me  from  advancing 
fiercely  upon  Rolf,  who  prudently  accelerates  his  exit  from  the  room  to 
resume  his  neglected  studies,  only  stopping  for  an  instant  at  the  door  to 
observe  his  sister  obey  grandmamma's  *^  Now,  dear  1 "  when  he  likewise 
departs. 

'*  You  are  very  unwise,"  says  my  mother  as,  much  discomfitted,  I 
resume  my  seat  by  the  fire,  "  to  have  such  a  scene  in  the  presence  of 
the  servant :  we  shall  be  the  talk  of  the  town.  Emmy  is  obliged  to  see 
people  who  are  well  received  by  every  one  else.  K  she  goes  into  soci- 
ety at  all,  she  must  do  as  other  young  ladies  do ;  and  though  I  myself 
do  not  admire  the  style  of  these  young  gentlemen,  still,  they  have  an 
excellent  position  in  the  best  circles,  and  therefore  cannot  be  ignored." 

"  It  seems  to  me  all  the  young  men  of  the  present  day  are  vastly  in- 
ferior to  those  of  my  time,"  I  remark  with  growing  discontent. 

**  The  reason  they  seem  so  is  that  you  are  getting  old.  But  were  the 
inferiority  real,  and  not  fancied,  you  cannot  expect  a  girl  of  Emmy's 
age  to  give  upjsociety  on  that  account,  settle  down  to  be  an  old  maid, 
and  content  herself  with  playing  whist  with  you  and  Rolf  in  the  even- 
ings for  her  only  entertainment.  By  the  way,  I  hope  this  interruption 
will  have  the  happy  effect  of  causing  Rolf  to  know  his  lessons  to-morrow, 
which  I  am  convinced  is  a  rare  event  in  his  annals." 

"  The  boy  does  well  enough,"  I  reply  pettishly. 

My  mother  and  wife  retire  to  their  rooms  at  an  early  hour,  and  leave 
me  the  sole  occupant  of  the  library,  reading  the  evening  paper.  I  look 
at  the  quotations,  shudder  at  the  fall  in  the  stocks  and  groan  aloud  over 
the  price  of  cotton ;  but  amid  all  my  abstruse  calculations  I  interrupt 
myself  with  doleful  cogitations  over  my  mother's  words — cm  old  maid. 

The  evening  wears  dismally  away.  The  wind  blows  furiously  and  it 
rains  in  torrents,  the  sighing  and  sobbing  of  the  disaffected  elements 
and  the  gay  voices  from  the  parlour  are  the  only  sounds  that  break  the 
dreary  monotony,  "save  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill." 

"  An  old  maid  /  "  I  repeat  vnth  distrustful  emphasis.     The  sounds  of 

elemental  war  are  usually  conducive  to  the  enjoyment  of  warm  fires  and 
5 


470  MT  DAUaHTEB's  ADMIBEfiS. 

bright  lights,  but  this  eveiUDg  no  Advantageous  contrasts  can  rescue  my 
spirits  from  the  powerful  grasp  of  the  *'  blue  devils "  into  whose 
remorseless  clutches  they  have  fallen.  Dismal  and  disconsolate  I  sit  in 
my  easy-chair,  toast  my  slippered  feet  before  the  blazing  fire,  and  refuse 
to  be  comforted. 

An  old  mend  I    It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  a  shocking  thing,  to  be  an  old 
maid :  no  living  man  or  woman  can  contemplate  that  anomaly  in  nature 
without  qualms  of  distrust  and  dismay.     I  certainly  do  not  wish  Emmy 
to  be  an  old  maid,  but  I  chuckle  inwardly  as  I  remember  that  in  all  my 
vast  experience  I  have  never  seen — ^I  have  heard  of  such  a  thing  I  ad- 
mit, but  I  have  found  it  not — a  rich  old  maid.     Ha  I  ha !     But  who  is 
the  girl  to  marry  ?    Begulus  in  the  parlour  there  I    Begulus  is  a  young 
man  of  inherited  fortune  and  handsome  exterior — ^very  handsome  in- 
deed, it  must  be  acknowledged.     Not  exactly  dissipated,  but — well,  a 
little  inclined  to  be  wild.     '*  His  driving  is  like  the  driving  of  Jehu  the 
son  of  Nimshi,"  and  his  conversation  is  like  the  comment  of  the  news- 
papers, the  day  following  a  grand  horse-race ;  in  short,  he  is  of  Uie  horse 
horsey;  turf  turfy,  and  dog  doggy.    He  boasts  himself  an  elegant  shot, 
but  has  the  grace  to  absent  himself  from  the  shooting-matches  sj  dis- 
tressingly prevalent     Ugh !    the  poor  little  pigeons !    They  actually 
shoot  at  swallows  when  pigeons  are  not  plentiful.     Now,  of  course  I  do 
not  object  to  shooting  birds  in  a  sportsmanlike  fashion  in  the  open 
fields,  giving  them  a  fair  chance  for  their  lives,  when  the  exercise,  ex- 
citement and  companionship  mitigate  the  cruelty  of  the  murderous  in- 
tent.   I  remember  some  very  delightful  autumnal  days  of  sport  when  I 
was  younger  and  lighter.  But  to  smother  a  hundred  or  two  pacific  little 
swallows  in  a  box — an  ornithological  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta,  in  which 
half  of  them  die  from  suffocation — ^turning  the  residue  out  so  confused 
and  frightened  by  the  noise  that  they  only  rise  a  few  feet  from  the  earth, 
when  they  are  gallantly  brought  down  by  a  breech-loader  of  the  newest 
and  most  expensive  style — ^is  an  amusement  the  charms  of  which  I  do 
not  appreciate.     However,  Lyon's  success  in  field-sports  is  not  always 
equal  to  his  ability :  witness  his  famous  exploit  last  fall.     He  set  out  in 
a  beautiful  new  hunting-waggon,  accompanied  by  half  a  dozen  of  his 
toadies,  with  all  his  imported  dogs  and  a  sufiicient  quantity  of  firearms 
to  equip  a  regiment,  and  returned  with  two  ducks.     Emmy  laughed  at 
him  for  a  week — called  him  "  Bootes." 

"  Who's  he,  Miss  Emmy  ?"  said  the  young  fellow  good-naturedly  as  he 
stood  before  the  fire  in  the  library, 

"  Why,  you  remember,"  said  Emmy,  "a  constellation— don't  you  knowt 
— a  mighty  hunter,  with  his  dogs  Ghara  and  Asterion,  chasing  the  Great 
Bear  around  the  pole ;  and  although  your  ambition  Is  somewhat  inferior 


MY  daughter's  admirers.  471 

to  his,  you  warring  on  ducks  and  he  on  the  Polar  Bear,  neither  of  jon 
come  up  with  your  game.     Don't  you  see  the  application  ? " 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it  ?  Thanks/'  graciously  acknowledging  the  in- 
struction. *^  I  am  glad  you  told  me,  for  really  I  don't  remember  any- 
thing about  it :  fact  is,  I  believe  I  never  knew.  I  never  read  a  book 
through  in  my  life,  Miss  Emmy,  and  have  no  more  idea  what  is  inside 
of  those  bindings,"  pointing  to  the  book-cases,  **  than  your  Ponto  has. 
Tou  see,  reading  would  destroy  all  my  originality,  wouldn't  itf" 

"  It  would  indeed,"  said  Emmy  gravely. 

"  Queer  names  for  dogs,  though,"  ponderingly — "  Chara  and — ^what  1 " 

As  to  Jack  Olwell,  he  is  merely  a  hanger-on  of  Lyon,  and  if  Lyon 
should  lose  his  money  to-morrow  would  go  over  instanter  to  the  next 
richest  man  of  his  acquaintance.  He  is  not  a  matrimonial  aspirant  at 
all,  and  only  calls  on  ladies  in  the  capacity  of  henchman  to  his  chieftain, 
taking  all  jokes  at  his  own  expense  with  the  utmost  good  nature,  and 
applauding  his  liege  lord's  wit,  or  what  does  duty  as  wit,  with  servile 
enthusiasm. 

Emmy  showed  me  a  letter  the  other  day  from  another  variety 
of  the  genus  becm,  Emma  makes  a  confidant  of  me,  and  is  very 
candid  with  regard  to  the  aspirants  to  the  honour  of  her  hand  and  for- 
tune. She  and  I  talk  them  and  their  pretensions  over  with  mutual 
frankness — with,  however,  one  mental  reservation  on  my  part,  that  I 
never  overrule  any  objections  she  makes,  whether  well  grounded  or 
groundless,  though  I  sometimes  cannot  help  chaffing  when,  after  all  my 
well-considered  reasons  have  been  laid  before  her,  she  assents,  not  re- 
duced by  the  weight  of  my  forcible  arguments,  but  from  the  recollection 
of  some  little  personal  defect  of  no  moment  or  consequence.  However, 
if  she  objects,  I  find  no  fault  Mamma,  grandmamma,  and  even  Bolf, 
view  these  confidences  with  great  disfavour,  particularly  grandmamma, 
who  prophesies  that  by  being  too  fastidious  Emmy  and  I  will  go  through 
the  wood,  and  surely  pick  up  a  crooked  stick  at  last. 

"  It  is  a  very  nice  letter,  Emmy,"  said  I — "  beautiful  chirography 
well  chosen  language,  and  most  pleasing  expressions  of  favour  toward 
you.  He  does  us  proud,  my  dear,  for  which,  no  doubt,  you  are  duly 
grateful.  Now,  Emmy,  this  man  is  superior  to  young  Mr.  Lyon  in  every 
respect ;  he  is  literary  in  his  tastes  and  habits,  a  graduate  of  an  excellent 
university,  and  a  professional  man — a  lawyer  of  some  years'  standing — 
of  graceful  and  prepossessing  appearance  and  unexceptional  morals. 
But,  Emmy,  he  has  no  energy  at  all — a  very  weak  character.  I  never  see 
him  at  his  office  :  he  attends  to  no  business,  but  spends  his  time  idling 
about,  reading  light  literature,  poetry  and  novels,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
I  do  not  suppose  he  makes  enough  to  buy  his  own  gloves  :  his  father 
must  support  him  entirely.     He  would  not  do." 


472  MY  daughter's  admirers. 

**  No/'  said  £mmyy  pensively :  he  has  a  snub  nose." 

As  if  that  was  what  I  was  trying  to  tell  her  I 

Perhaps  Emmy's  &yourite  of  her  many  friends  is  young  Sparkle^  The 
chief  charms  of  this  gentleman,  I  am  given  to  understand  by  my  daughter, 
are  his  social  ^endowments  and  accomplishments.  I  take  his  agreeable 
traits  on  trust,  for  whenever  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  talking  with  him 
his  manner  has  been  so  constrained  and  nervous,  and  his  conversation  so 
unlike  Emmy's  description,  that  I  am  fain  to  content  myself  with  her 
representations.  I  have,  however,  heard  him  sing,  and  I  must  say  his 
very  pretty  tenor  voice  sounds  to  great  advantage  in  German  and  Scotch 
ballads,  such  as  "  Gliihwiirmchen,  komm  und  leuchte  mir,"  and  "  Of  all 
the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw."  I  am  afraid  his  disposition  is  scarcely  as 
modest  and  retiring  as  he  would  like  me  to  believe,  for  once,  upon  sud- 
denly opening  the  parlour  door,  hearing  sounds  of  great  merriment  pro- 
ceeding therefrom,  I  discovered  him  in  the  act  of  haranguing  his  audience 
in  the  character  of  Eev.  Mr.  Yawn-your-head-o£f,  and  truly  I  have  never 
heard  a  hymn  read  in  the  style  he  imitated  save  by  the  worthy  gentleman 
himself;  and  I  am  ashamed  to  think  that  upon  the  next  Sabbath,  when  I 
took  my  seat  in  the  sacred  edifice,  the  respected  pastor  seemed  to  be  lu- 
dicrously burlesquing  himself.  I  glanced  around  to  observe  the  effect 
upon  my  youthful  acquaintances,  compeers  of  Mr.  Sparkle.  They  were 
all  struggling  to  suppress  their  unseemly  laughter-— even  Emmy,  who  is 
a  pious  girl ;  and  Bolf  was  compelled  to  leave  the  house  with  much  more 
celerity  than  grace.  Mr.  Sparkle  was  grafely  contemplating  the  minis- 
ter, probably  with  the  view  to  future  successful  achievements,  and  after- 
ward sang  with  great  richness  and  volume  and  most  exemplary  piety, 

How  beauteous  are  their  feet 
Who  stand  on  Si-ion's  hiU  ! 

Mr.  Sparkle  is  scarcely  so  great  a  favourite  with  the  elder  members  of 
the  family  as  with  the  younger.  Rolfs  attachment  to  him  amounts 
almost  to  a  frenzy,  and  he  is  indignant  if  any  other  gentleman  is  sug- 
gested as  a  probably  successful  suitor  for  Emmy. 

Mr.  Sparkle  has  been  all  over  the  known  world,  and  recounts  in  die 
most  delightfiil  manner  anecdotes  of  travel.  He  has  written  a  book  of 
travels  which  is  generally  understood  to  be  nearly  ready  for  the  press, 
and  which  all  his  Mends  are  most  anxious  to  see  published,  but,  some- 
how, it  is  never  finished.  Meanwhile,  he  pacifies  their  literary  hunger 
by  writing  witty  little  comedies  for  private  theatricals,  which  his  young 
ftoquaintances  act  under  his  auspices,  and  in  which  he  takes  part  with 
unrivalled  success.  He  really  plays  with  considerable  ability,  and  Emmy 
confides  to  me  with  sundry  blushes  that  he  does  the  sentimental  even,  better 
than  the  humorous ;  but  this  r6le  is  reserved  for  very  private  theatricals 
indeed.     He  has  most  beautiful  taste  in  poetry  and  li^t  literature,  and 


MY  daughter's  admirers.  473 

recites  graceful  verses,  such  as  '* Queen  and  huntress  chaste  and  fair,"  and 
*'  Tears,  idle  tears,"  with  great  effect.  He  publishes  charming  little  poems 
and  sketches,  and  when  Emmy  sees  him  in  all  the  majesty  and  grandeur 
of  print,  I  have  the  whole  ground  of  my  objections  to  go  over  again — to 
show  that  although  he  is  an  estimable  and  agreeable  gentleman  of  doubt- 
less most  unusual  accomplishments  and  abilities,  he  has  no  profession,  no 
business — has  been  everything  by  turns  and  nothing  long — a  dabbler  in 
all  and  proficient  in  none ;  no  ambition,  no  industry  ;  of  so  restless  a 
disposition  that  he  himself  admitted  that  as  soon  as  he  landed  at  Liver- 
pool he  was  wild  to  return  to  America,  and  the  instant  he  arrived  in 
New  York  he  was  cUsoU  that  he  had  not  remained  in  Europe ;  and  Emmy 
sadly  acknowledges  *'  a  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss.'' 

Mr.  Crichton  looks  down  with  great  scorn  upon  Mr.  Sparkle's  little 
warblings  and  histrionic  displays ;  and  although  he  never  acts  himself,  it 
is  understood  that  if  he  wished  he  could  compass — well,  wonders.  He 
is  exceedingly  cultivated,  reads  Oreek  tragedy  in  the  original — so  I 
hear,  and  greatly  marvel  thereat— o^  a  recreoHon.  He  speaks  half  a  dozen 
languages  with  perfect  facility,  draws  and  paints  in  a  highly  artistic 
manner,  is  a  most  successful  and  skilful  sportsman,  an  unrivalled  pedes- 
trian, of  strikingly  handsome  personal  appearance,  and  his  whiskers  are 
**  chief  among  ten  thousand  and  altogether  lovely."  His  style  of  singing 
is  of  the  best ;  his  voice  a  light  tenor  of  flexible  quality  and  excellent 
cultivation,  and  his  musical  performances  exhibit  the  most  refined  taste 
and  a  laborious  perfection  of  vocalization.  Indeed,  I  know  nothing 
more  delightful  in  the  warm  summer  evenings  than  to  sit  in  the  dimly- 
lighted  parlours  before  the  open  windows,  the  curtains  swajring  gently 
back  and  forth,  the  scent  of  the  roses  and  the  heliotrope  in  the  vases 
burdening  the  air,  watch  the  varying  shimmer  of  the  moonbeams  on  the 
dark  trees  as  the  perfumed  breeze  rustles  among  their  leaves,  and  hear, 
grandly  rising  on  the  stillness  of  the  soft  summer  twilight,  *'  Addio  per 
aempre  o  tenera." 

The  dress  of  Mr.  Crichton  is  a  thing  of  beauty,  and  consequently  a 
joy  for  ever — of  the  most  fashionable  and  costly  description,  but,  it  must 
be  allowed,  a  trifle  prononcd.  Sometimes  his  extreme  solicitude  with 
regard  to  his  appearance  is  the  occasion,  both  to  himself  and  to  others, 
of  considerable  inconvenience.  I  remember  last  summer  when  we  were 
at  the  Lake.  I  had  really  begun  to  fear  for  Emmy's  susceptibility  to 
Greek  tragedy,  when  his  own  over-anxiety  touching  externals  rendered 
my  forebodings  vain.  A  plan  for  a  little  pedestrian  tour  was  formed — 
an  all-day  affair,  take-dinner -by-a-flowing-rivulet  sort  of  idea — and  I, 
though.  Lord  knows,  opposed  to  long  tramps,  accepted  the  position  ^of 
ohaperone.  As  but  few  of  the  party  boarded  at  the  same  hotel,  it  Was 
necessary  to  appoint  a  rendezvous.    An  old  oak  tree  at  the  intersection 


474  HY  daughter's  adhibebs. 

of  several  roads  was  chosen,  and  thither  we  all  repaired  very  early  on  a 
bright,  fresh  summer  morning.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  in  the 
simplest  style  of  dress.  Even  Kegulns  Lyon  showed  himself  not  utterly 
lost  to  good  taste,  having  doffed  the  superb  attire  in  which  it  is  his 
wont  to  bedeck  himself,  and  appearing  in  a  plain  linen  suit,  palmetto 
hat,  buckskin  gloves  and  stout  boots — ^his  manners,  it  V ordinaire^  plea- 
santly boisterous.  He  was  most  uproarious  to  start  and  leave  Mr. 
Grichton,  who  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  ''  Confound  his  im- 
pudence !  What  does  he  mean  by  keeping  a  dozen  people  awaiting  his 
pleasure  ?  "  demanded  the  impatient  youth. 

"  I  wish  he  would  come,"  said  Eomiy.  "  We  have  been  standing  here 
for  more  than  half  an  hour,  and  the  sun  is  ever  so  warm." 

Another  half  hour  passed,  and  still  he  came  not  The  time  was  con- 
sumed by  the  excursionists  in  fretfiiUy  speculating  on  the  probable  cause 
of  his  detention,  in  complaining  of  the  heat  and  impatiently  changing 
their  positions  to  avoid  the  excessive  warmth  of  the  sun,  which  poured 
its  blistering  radiance  full  upon  them.  Regulus,  like  the  little  busy  bee, 
improved  the  shining  hour  by  cutting  down  all  the  tall  slender  sticks  in 
the  vicinity  to  serve  in  the  capacity  of  rustic  staves  to  assist  the  totter- 
ing steps  of  the  youthful  company  :  these  were  decorated  with  small 
pieces  of  ribbon  of  various  colours  cut  from  the  redundant  trimmings  of 
the  ladies'  hats,  and  were  presented  in  form  by  the  energetic  El^ulus  to 
each  pedestrian,  who  formally  returned  thanks  in  a  set  speech  a^r  the 
most  approved  fashion.  When  these  facetious  little  ceremonies  were 
concluded.  Sparkle,  consulting  his  watch,  observed  to  Regulus  that  we 
had  been  waiting  an  hour  and  a  half. 

''  It  is  a  perfect  shame  I "  exclaimed  Segulus.  *'  We  ought  to  go  and 
leave  him.     What  can  the  old  cove  be  doing  1 " 

'*  Probably  at  his  devotions/'  sneered  Sparkle :  *'  perhi^  he  recites 
his  orisons  in  Greek,  and  then  has  to  translate  them  for  the  benefit  of 
— whom  they  may  concern." 

'*  Perhaps  he  is  ill,"  said  one  of  the  young  ladies. 

Regulus  broke  out  injudiciously  :  *'  I  saw  him  last  night  at  two  o'clock 
playing — "  he  hesitated  at  a  signal  from  Sparkle—  '*  playing  casino  very 
cheerfully." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  ill.  Rolf,  my  boy,  cannot  you  run  back  to  the  hotel 
and  find  out  why  he  does  not  come  ?  " 

Rolf  demurred — said  it  was  too  hot  for  him,  then  interrogated  an  un- 
sympathetic public  as  to  why  h6  must  be  always  sent  on  errands.  No 
answer  given,  he  asserted  with  undeniable  logic  that  it  was  just  as  hot 
{or  him  as  for  the  others,  and  then  sat  immovable  upon  the  grass  \n\ki  a 
countenance  expressive  of  having  sustained  tie  deepest  injury.  Regulus^ 
by  way  of  bringing  him  to  abetter  frame  of  mind,  ofi'ered  to  go  himself, 


MY  dauohtbb's  admirers.  475 

upon  which  Sparkle  and  Jack  01  well  said  with  a  great  show  of  gallant 
alacrity  they  did  not  care  for  the  heat — they  would  go  with  pleasure ; 
whereupon  fiolf  relented,  laughed  a  little,  said  he  would  go  himself,  and 
they  could  ''  never  mind."  Having  recovered  his  temper  and  spirits,  he 
set  off  in  high  good-humour,  going  very  slowly  at  first,  hut  gradually 
increasing  his  speed,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  figure  very  stiff  and 
much  bent  backward,  his  feet  moving  in  measured  jerks,  his  fat  cheeks 
distended,  emitting  now  and  then  a  '^  Choo  !  choo  I " — as  excellent  an 
imitation  of  a  locomotive  as  it  is  possible,  taking  into  account  physical 
conformation,  for  a  boy  of  eleven  years  to  present.  After  half  an  hour's 
impatient  waiting,  during  which  we  thought  of  sending  some  one  after 
Rolf  and  proceeding  without  Crichton,  we  saw  Solf  in  the  dim  perspec- 
tive advancing  very  slowly :  as  he  came  nearer  we  observed  with  sur- 
prise that  he  stopped  frequently  and  occasionally  flung  both  arms  wildly 
into  the  air,  and  as  he  approached  still  nearer  we  perceived  with  dismay 
that  his  head  was  helplessly  wobbling  from  side  to  side,  his  hands  were 
tightly  pressed  to  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  from  some  reason  or  other 
he  could  only  totter,  a  few  steps  at  a  time. 

"  Good  Heavens ! "  I  exclaimed ;  **  the  boy  must  have  had  a  sunstroke 
or  a  fit." 

Emmy  started  up  with  a  little  shriek  of  apprehension  from  the  grass 
on  which  she  had  been  sitting  attentively  watching  the  curious  pheno- 
menon of  Bolfs  approach,  and  we  all  ran  hastily  to  meet  him.  When 
the  little  rascal  saw  us  coming,  he  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  road  and 
doubled  himself  up  and  unrolled  himself  out  in  an  exceedingly  intricate 
manner,  highly  creditable  to  the  excellent  gymnasium  that  has  the  hon- 
our of  training  and  occasionally  breaking  his  youthful  limbs.  When, 
breathless  from  heat,  exertion  and  fear,  we  came  up  with  him,  he  raised 
an  almost  perfectly  purple  countenance,  down  which  the  tears  coursed 
with  a  prodigal  expenditure  of  the  raw  material,  consideriug  he  had  not 
3ret  finished  the  first  book  of  Caesar,  and  his  frequent  misdemeanours  and 
the  punishment  therefor  called  daily  for  the  appearance  of  those  wit. 
nesses  of  school-boy  penitence ;  the  little  rascal  was  literally  laughing 
himself  sick. 

"  Rolf !  Rolf ! "  said  I,  emphasizing  each  mention  of  his  Christian 
name  with  a  sounding  slap  on  his  shoulders  :  ''  why,  Rolf !  what  is  the 
matter  ?     Stop  laughing  immediately,      ^y,  Rolf ! " 

By  this  time  his  contagious  laughter  had  infected  the.  entire  party, 
who,  albeit  rather  fearful  of  his  choking,  were  very  anxious  to  discover 
the  cause  of  his  excessive  merriment. 

"  What  ia  the  matter,  Rolf ) "  exclaimed  half  a  dozen  voices. 

He  raised  his  head,  steadied  himself  for  a  moment  on  Regulus*s  sup- 
porting arm,  gurgled  one  or  two  inarticulate  murmurs,  broke  out  laugh- 


476  MT  daughter's  adhirbrs. 

ing  afreeb,  and  fell  down  doubled  up  in  tbe  aforesaid  complicated  man- 
ner. By  dint  of  coaxings  tbreatening,  setting  bim  up  on  bis  extremely 
limber  legs,  off  of  wbicb  he  straightway  fell,  we  managed  to  bring  bim 
to  a  proper  frame  of  mind  and  body  to  understand  if  not  answer  Uie 
question  propounded  by  Mr.  Sparkle :  "  Where  is  Mr.  CrichtonT' 

Upon  this  he  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  discarding  the  almost 
silent  chuckles  or  sniggers  in  which  by  long  practice  he  had  perfected 
himself  for  successful  secret  indulgences  during  school  hours :  finding 
his  voice,  he  shouted  out,  rolling  over  on  the  grass,  **  curling  his  whis- 
kers with  a  pair  of  hot  curling-irons — just  like  yours,  Emmy.  You 
ought  just  to  see  him  do  it ! "  addressing  his  sister  with  all  the  comicar 
lity  of  the  small  boy,  at  which  we  roared,  drowning  Emmy's  indignant 
remonstrance. 

Seeing  the  object  of  our  laughter  hastening  toward  us  upon  the  dusty 
road,  and  realizing  the  necessity  of  receiving  him  with  grave  and  cour- 
teous faces,  we  threatened  Rolf  with  all  the  tortures  of  the  Spanish  In- 
quisition if  he  did  not  immediately  suppress  all  traces  of  his  untimely 
merriment  We  found  this  unavailing,  notwithstanding  I  cuffed  and 
scolded  him  heartily.  Emmy  attempted  to  shake  him  a  little,  Begulus 
tapped  him  smartly  on  the  head.  Jack  dwell  set  him  up  and  threatened 
mortal  combat  if  he  fell  down  again,  Sparkle  shamed  him  and  declared 
it  was  very  unhandsome  conduct,  and  all  the  rest  adjured  him  to-be- 
have  ''  himself.  So  we  told  him  to  run  on  in  advance  of  the  party, 
and,  if  he  felt  the  fit  coming  on  again,  to  t^e  to  the  woods  and  remain 
there  until  such  time  as  he  should  be  presentable  in  decent  society.  As 
Mr.  Crichton,  with  his  whiskers  in  full  curl,  approached  still  nearer, 
young  Lyon  became  fearful  lest  he  should  not  support  creditably  the 
ordeal  of  meeting  him,  and  therefore  accompanied  Rolf  in  his  social 
exile.  We  heard  the  man  and  boy  from  time  to  time  shouting  like  wild 
Indians  in  the  woods,  no  doubt  at  Rolf's  detailed  account  of  the  morn- 
ing's adventure ;  and  when  they  made  their  appearance  at  dinner  with 
very  red  faces  and  seemingly  on  excellent  terms  with  each  other,  Rolf  *s 
risibility  was  by  no  means  under  perfect  control  Whenever  he  managed 
to  preserve  a  modicum  of  gravity  for  a  few  moments,  Mr.  Crichton  by 
an  accidental  movement  would  upset  his  improved  deportment  in  an 
instant— caressing  his  handsome  whiskers  with  one  white  hand,  as  was 
his  graceful  wont  in  conversing,  or  becoming  excited  and  stroking  his 
long  silkeu«.  moustache,  which  no  matter  how  hard  he  pulled,  never 
came  out  of  curl,  and  Rolf,  knowing  the  reason  why,  would  become 
perfectly  rigid  with  suppressed  emotion. 

Crichton  and  Sparkle  dislike  each  other  extremely,  and  wb^n  they 
meet  in  society  it  Ib  quite  exhilarating  to  hear  them  spar,  as  they  lose 
no  opportunity  of  displaying  the  feelings  of  mutual  contempt  and  aver- 


MY  daughter's  admirers.  477 

sion  which  animate  them,  except  when  they  combine  their  forces  and 
make  common  cause  against  Mr.  Mendasc,  who  is  the  natural  enemy  of 
both.  To  behold  these  brethren  dwelling  together  in  unity  upon  any 
subject  or  any  terms  whatever,  is  a  beautiful  and  edifying  thing  in  a 
Christian  point  of  view. 

Now,  I  suppose  people  would  say  my  objections  to  Emmy's  admirers 
are  solely  on  account  of  an  overwrought  fancy  of  what  is  due  to  my 
daughter.  However  that  may  b^,  I  certainly  think  a  girl  pretty, 
sprightly  and  rich  deserves  better  of  matrimonial  fate  than,  for  instance, 
John  Doe,  intolerable  little  prig  that  he  is.  He  who  was,  as  I  may  say, 
born  and  bred  in  the  law — his  father,  his  grandfather,  his  great-grand- 
father, his  uncles,  his  connections  to  the  remotest  ramifications,  all 
commonplace  practitioners,  and  with  the  mental  drought,  pomposity, 
ponderous  style  and  slow  articulation  of  generations  of  stolid  minds 
condensed  in  one  person — to  undertake  the  rdle  of  fast  man  after  the 
manner  of  gay  Lothario  !  I  have  as  much  dislike  to  him  as  Bmmy  has  : 
she  avers  it  sets  her  wild  with  vexation  merely  to  hear  him  talk — his 
slow,  thick,  hesitating  speech  and  his  absurdly  weighty  compliments. 
But  his  flirting  I  Emmy  declares  it  is  like  an  elephant  dancing  on  a 
tight-rope.  He  devotes  himself  principally  to  married  ladies ;  indeed,  he 
is  a  sad  young  dog ! 

Last  week,  at  Mrs.  Fantastico's  sair^  dansante,  a  grievous  accident 
befell  our  hapless  squire  of  dames  which  greatly  entertained  and  amused 
the  spectators.  He  had  during  the  evening  paid  most  devoted  attention 
to  the  hostess,  and  as,  making  a  profound  bow,  he  took  his  seat  by  her 
side  on  a  sofa  in  one  comer  of  the  refreshment-room,  he  awkwardly 
stepped  upon  the  tightly-booted  foot  of  Mr.  Regulus  Lyon,  who  emitting 
a  short  howl  and  convulsively  stamping  the  offended  member,  inadver- 
tently dropped  the  contents  of  a  cup  of  scalding  chocolate  upon  the 
closely-fitting  inexpressibles  of  the  l^al  dandy.  A  heartrending  yelp 
of  pain  electrified  the  company. 

*'  Confounded  clumsy  ! ''  apologized  Mr.  Lyon  to  the  parboiled  Justi- 
nian, who  sat'holding  what  he  could  gather  of  his  pantaloons  as  far  as 
possible,  from  the  afflicted  portion  of  his  legs,  and  moaning  faintly. 

"  I  beg  pardon  :  I  am  very  sorry.  Did  it  hurt  you  much  ? "  exclaimed 
R^uluB  sympathetically. 

"Not— much!  It — was — not — very — hot,"  gasped  the  victim,  his 
eyes  full  of  miserable  tears,  and — 

"  What,  Emmy !  have  they  gone  at  last  ?  I  thought  they  never  would, 
my  dear." 

R.  E  Dbmbry. 


478 


THE  SPECTRE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS. 

Those  who  are  content  to  visit  Naples  in  the  fashionable  winter 
season,  and  leave  it  at  the  first  sign  of  coming  warmth,  have  no  idea  of 
the  beauty  of  a  spring  evening  on  the  Bay.  The  vines  are  just  com- 
mencing  to  adorn  themselves  in  their  dress  of  bright  green,  the  fig  trees 
also  are  waking  up,  and  the  hilk  around  are  beginning  to  look  as  the 
winter  visitors  never  see  them.  The  heat  of  the  day  is  over,  and  the 
sun,  having  done  an  uncommonly  hard  day's  work,  is  setting  over  Cape 
Misenum,  throwing  his  beams  across  the  hill  of  Posilipo,  and  lighting 
up  the  higher  parts  of  the  town  with  his  parting  rays,  as  though  after 
having  fiercely  scorched  Naples  all  day  long,  he  wished  to  make  friends 
at  last,  by  sending  a  loving  kiss  on  the  wings  of  sunbeams  in  which  there 
was  no  fierceness  left. 

Lower  sinks  the  sun,  and  further  up  the  heights  of  the  town  steal  the 
grateful  shadows ;  at  last  the  only  building  which  remains  illuminated 
is  frowning  old  St.  Elmo,  who  always  receives  the  sun*s  last  good  bye, 
as  though  he  wished  to  infuse  a  little  warmth  and  feeling  into  those 
harsh  walls.  The  stem  old  fortress  blushes  under  his  gase,  {probably,  feeling 
ashamed  of  the  sufferings  inflicted  within  his  precincts  :  for  it  was  built 
in  the  early  part  of  the  century,  when  the  Bourbons  still  polluted  the 
throne  of  Naples,  and  marked  their  path  by  blood  and  misery. 

But  our  story  does  not  relate  to  the  Bourbons.  '*  Then  why  on  earth," 
says  an  impatient  reader,  "  why  on  earth  did  you  allude  to  them?'' 
You  are  right,  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  subject,  so  we  wiU  once 
more  look  over  the  lovely  scene.     The  sun  is  now  gone  and  the  pleasant- 
est  part  of  the  day  has  commenced.    The  blue  waters  are  dotted  all 
over  with  pleasure  boats,  so  tiny  and  graceful,  that  they  look  like  fairy 
vesseb,  and  their  white  saik  like  some  magic  gossamer.    Kowing  boats 
there  are  also,  but  these    are  not  fairy-like,  rather  tub-like,  having, 
however,  the  rare  merit  in  these  waters  of  holding  several  persons. 
Being  very  safe,  and  under  a  skilful  hand,  they  go  much  faster  than 
might  be  expected.   In  one  of  these  tubs  is  a  party  of  three  persons, 
two  gentlemen  and  a  lady.    They  form  a  less  vivacious  party  than  many 
of  those  noisy  Neapolitans,  who  are  flitting  about  the  sparkling  waters, 
for  they  come  from  sober  England.     But  if  less  noisy,  they  are  not  less 
happy.     One  of  the  gentlemen  is  Sir  John  Stanley,  and  the  lovely  English 
girl  beside  him  is  his  young  wife  ;  they  are  on  their  wedding  tour  and 
see  everything  through  a  rose-coloured  halo ;  therefore  how  very  beau- 
tiful all  this  appears  to  them !    The  third  is  Mr.  Henry  Douglas,  one  of 
those  Englishmen  who  are  always  travelling  and  know  everything  about 
everything,  and  therefore  the  newly  married  pair  who  had  not  travelled 


THE  SPECTRE  GUIDB  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS.  47^ 

much,  were  very  glad,  having  met  him  further  north,  to  secure  his  com^ 
pany  so  far  as  their  paths  lay  together.  And  now,  having  come  out  to 
see  the  sunset,  we  find  them  in  the  direction  of  Posilipo,  admiring  the 
wonderful  changes  of  colour — ^yellow  and  rose,  deepening  into  amber  and 
fierce  crimson,  gireen  of  the  tenderest  hue,  blending  miraculously  with 
the  full  deep  blue  that  is  not  yet  gone,  in  facta  perfect  kaleidoscope  of 
colour,  over  which  Vesuvius  frowns,  streaming  out  his  liquid  fires  and 
seeming  to  say  to  that  thoughtless  people  "  Memento  Mori !'' 

"  You  are  fortunate,"  said  Douglas,  "  to  have  arrived  just  in  time  for 
such  a  fine  eruption,  the  lava  has  already  reached  half-way  down  the 
mountain,  and  Pasquale  here  tells  me  that  at  the  present  rate  it  must 
reach  the  sea  in  two  or  three  days  more,  the  people  at  Portici  are  get- 
ting alarmed,  and  some  are  moving  their  things.''  "  How  strange,"  said 
Sir  John,  "  that  people  should  be  so  mad  as  to  return  to  the  same  place 
again,  after  being  driven  out  so  often."  **  Oh,  they  never  think  it  will 
eome  again  in  their  lifetime,  and  so  they  risk  it,  nowhere  do  their  vines 
and  olives  grow  so  well  as  at  the  foot  of  Vesuvius  in  the  pulverized  lava^ 
so  directly  the  eruption  is  over  they  rebuild  their  ruined  houses,  and  hope 
it  will  be  somebody  else's  turn  next." 

"  Well,'*  said  Sir  John,  "  to-morrow  we  will  make  our  ascent,  but 
must  try  and  obtain  a  trustworthy  guide :  are  you  quite  resolved  to  ven- 
ture, Clara  1 "  turning  to  his  wife  who  sat  beside  him.  ''  Oh,  yes !  you 
know  I  can  walk  and  climb  any  where,  and  I  could  not  go  back  without 
ascending  that  mountain,  shall  we  be  able  to  reach  the  crater  1 "  '*  That 
depends  on  the  state  of  the  eruption,"  replied  Douglas,  '*  If  the  wind 
blows  away  the  smoke  from  the  side  by  which  we  ascend,  then  we  may 
be  aUe  to  approach  close  to  it,  but  if  the  smoke  is  sent  in  our  face  we 
cannot  possibly  go  near  it ;  but  now  I  think  it  is  time  to  return,  the 
colours  are  dying  out  from  the  hills,  and  I  know  to  my  cost  the  result  of 
being  wet  with  the  dew  in  this  part  of  the  world."  The  others  assented, 
so  the  bronzed  boatmen  were  ordered  to  turn,  and  soon  they  approached 
the  landing-place. 

It  was  now  dusk,  and  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  distant  lava  on 
Vesuvius,  began  to  throw  its  wild  reflection  over  the  bay.  "How 
grand  it  looks,"  said  Clara.  '*  Yes,"  replied  Douglas,  "  but  wait  until 
you  see  it  close  and  hear  it  boiling  in  the  chaldron,  and  then  you  will  call 
it  more  than  grand."  Here  they  touched  the  land,  and  after  a  few  inter- 
changes of  mutual  compliments  between  Pasquale  and  Douglas,  on  ac- 
count of  the  latter  only  giving  him  half  as  much  again  as  his  fare,  instead 
of  twice  as  much,  which  he  had  after  Neapolitan  fashion  demanded, 
they  hastened  to  their  hotel,  to  prepare  themselves  by  a  good  night's 
rest  for  the  ascent  on  the  morrow  of  Mount  Vesuvius. 


480  THE  SPECTRE  GUIDE  OF  MOUITr  VESUVIUS. 


CHAPTBE  n. 

At  the  time  of  our  story  there  was  no]  soch  arrangement  as  an  office 
at  which  to  procure  goides,  as  there  is  now;  and  therejwas  no  Gbzsolino, 
that  prince  of  guides,  who  now  takes  parties  up  the  mountain  and 
describes  it  with  so  much  intelligence  and  courtesy.  In  those  days 
travellers  were  obliged  to  trust  themselves  to  men  who  had  not  the 
check  upon  them  which  exists  now. 

Two  hours  later  than  the  conversation  described  above,  four  of  these 
guides  were  sitting  together  in  a  low  public  house  at  Portici,  the  vil- 
lage immediately  at  the  foot  of  Vesuvius  ;  they  were  most  unprepossess- 
ing in  appearance,  and  in  fact  as  they  sat  there,  drinking  the  sour  wine 
of  the  country,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  found  a  more  choice 
selection  of  rascally  fetces  than  were  assembled  that  evening  in  the 
**  Trattoria  del  mondo."  Three  of  them  were  talking  in  the  usual  vehe- 
ment  manner  of  the  Neapolitans,  but  the  eldest  and  worst-looking  of 
the  party  did  not  join  in  the  conversation,  he  was  very  taciturn  and 
drank  in  silence,  only  throwing  in  a  grunt  occasionally.  At  last  one  of 
the  others  said,  looking  at  him,  "  You  are  silent  to-night,  Oiaoomo, 
what  is  the  matter  f  Are  you  not  well  ?  Or  has  the  pretty  fbmaiina 
at  the  comer  declined  a  suitor  so  much  older  than  herself  f  Or  are  cus- 
tomers not  numerous  enough  t  It  seems  to  me  that  thi;s  eruption  ought 
to  put  us  in  good  humour,  for  it  brings  the  scudi  to  our  pockets,  but 
what  is  the  matter)"  "Nothing,"  growled  the  other,  ''what  is  the 
fomarina  to  me,  I  look  at  no  woman's  beauty,"  "  Per  Baccho, 
that  is  a  lie,''  exclaimed  the  youngest  of  the  party,  "  for  when  I 
was  with  her  last  night,  you  looked  in  at  the  shop-door,  and  when  she 
spoke  shortly  to  you,  having  a  younger  and  a  better  looking  man  by 
her  side,  you  scowled  like  a  demon,  and  hung  about  the  place  until  I  left 
her ;  so  never  say  that  woman's  beauty  is  naught  to  you."  ''  Diavolo," 
growled  Giacomo,  his  eyes  flashing  and  his  shaggy  brows  frowning  until 
they  met,  *'  must  I  be  derided  by  a  boy  like  you,  take  care  Francesco, 
for  you  know  my  temper  will  not  bear  it"  ''  Then  I  know  what  ails 
you,"  said  the  first  who  had  spoken,  ''  you  have  heard  that  the  spectre 
has  been  seen  again,  and  are  afraid  of  seeing  it,  lest  some  misfortune 
should  overtake  you,  as  it  has  several  of  those  who  in  years  past  have 
seen  it"  At  these  words,  Oiacomo  started  and  turned  pale,  but  replied, 
''  How !  Has  that  old  tale  revived  once  more,  I  thought  none 
were  now  so  imbecile  as  to  believe  it*'  "Believe  it,"  said  Francesco, 
"  who  can  do  otherwise ;  can  we  not  all  remember  how  poor  Guiseppe, 
one  of  our  best  guides  was,  ten  years  ago,  basely  stabbed  one  night  on 
the  mountain,  and  brought  back  here  to  be  interred ;  I  was  then  a  boy, 


THE  SPECTBE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS.  481 

but  I  remember  it  well,  how  the  body  was  found,  lying  close  to  the  lava 
stream,  which  though  then  running  rapidly  had  strangely  turned  from 
its  course,  as  though  to  leave  the  body  intact,  showing  plainly  enough 
the  power  of  the  blessed  San  Gennaro,  whose  picture  Giuseppe  carried 
hung  round  his  neck,  although  a  heretic  Englishman  did  try  to  prove 
that  the  stream  turned  aside  merely  because  of  the  unevenness  of  the 
ground,  but  no  good  Catholic  could  believe  such  a  wretched  explana- 
tion of  the  miracle.  I  remember  all  these  things,  and  how  since  then, 
he  has  often  appeared  during  eruptions,  how  many  people  have  seen 
him  just  as  he  looked  in  life,  with  his  mountain  staff,  and  I  know  also 
how  several  who  have  seen  him  have  suffered  for  it.  Did  not  one  fall 
down  the  very  next  day  and  break  his  thigh  crippling  himself  for  life. 
Did  not  another  fall  down  the  Grande  Fosse,  killing  himself  on  the  spot ; 
and  who  can  forget  Paolo  who  saw  him  and  came  home  after  wandering 
two  or  three  days  on  the  mountain,  came  home  mad,  and  died  three  days 
after  accusing  himself  of  things  that  made  men  tremble.  Madonna  pre- 
serve us  !  Who  can  pretend  to  disbelieve  these  things  ?  **  Giacomo,  dujr- 
ing  this  recital  had  grown  deadly  pale,  and  now  the  convulsive  twitching 
of  his  mouth  showed  a  great  struggle  for  self-possession.  At  last  he  said, 
''  It  is  two  years  since  he  was  last  said  to  have  been  seen,  after  so  long  a 
time  those  who  pretend  to  have  once  more  seen  him  must  be  fools."  '^Di- 
avolo,''  cried  the  younger  one,  becoming  more  excited, "  you  call  me  a  fool  ? 
I  tell  you  I  saw  him  last  night  on  the  mountain.  The  moon  shone  full  on 
him  as  he  appeared  standing  on  a  ledge  above  me,  but  I  crossed  my- 
self and  prayed  to  the  Madonna,  and  he  disappeared.''  "  Then,  according 
to  your  opinion,'*  sneered  Giacomo,  "  some  harm  will  happen  to  you  Y' 
"  No,"  cried  Francesco,  "  he  who  has  a  clear  conscience  need  fear  no 
harm,  so  Giacomo,  the  sooner  thou  leamest  to  address  the  Madonna, 
the  safer  thou  wilt  be  ;  I  fear  no  spectre,  for,  I  have  never  done  any  one 
harm.''  **  What  dost  thou  dare  to  hint,"  screamed  Giacomo,  starting  up, 
knife  in  hand,  ''  whom  have  I  harmed  1 "  "  That  no  one  knows,  but  thy- 
self," said  Francesco,  meaningly,  and  he  also  rose,  prepared  for  an  attack, 
**  Miserable  one,"  cried  Giacomo,  another  such  insult,  and  it  is  the  last, 

my  knife  shall  punish  thee,  as  it ! "  here  he  checked  himself  suddenly 

by  a  great  effort,  but  Francesco,  finishing  the  sentence  for  him,  said  with 
an  angry  laugh,  '*  As  it  did  whom  1  out  with  it,  hesitate  not,  truly  a  fine 
confession  is  coming !  Listen  friends  I  "  At  these  words,  Giacomo  could 
no  longer  control  himself;  with  a  frightful  oath  he  rushed  at  the  other, 
and  a  fearful  struggle  took  place,  the  other  two  guides  trying  to  separate 
them,  at  last  they  succeeded,  but  the  fight  would  have  been  immediately 
renewed  had  not  a  messenger  come  in  to  say  that  Giacomo  was  wanted 
at  his  own  house  and  must  come  at  once,  so  growling  forth  threats  of 
future  vengeance,  he  withdrew,  and  the  party  separated. 


482  THE  SPECTRE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS, 

On  arriving  at  home  be  found  that  his  visitor  was  one  of  the  waiters 
«t  the  hotel  where  our  English  friends  were  staying.     Hearing  that 
they  purposed  ''  doing  "  Vesuvius  he  had  recommended  Giacomo  as  a 
^ide,  being  a  Mend  of  his,  and  was  now  oome  to  tell  him  that  they 
would  be  at  his  house  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  and  that  he 
must  have  horses  ready  at  that  time  to  take  them  up  the  mountain,  as 
they  wished  to  arrange  the  ascent  so  as  to  arrive  at  the  crater  just  as  it 
became  dark.     Having  received  Giacomo's  assurance  that  they  might 
depend  on  him,  the  waiter  started  homeward.     It  was  now  ten  o'clock 
at  night  and  Giacomo,  instead  of  going  to  bed  as  any  ordinary  individ- 
ual who  purposed  passing  the  next  night  on  Vesuvius  would  have  done, 
took  his  mountain  staff^  and  after  walking  quickly  a  short  dbtance  up 
the  street,  dived  into  one  of  the  dark  by-lanes  which  lead  towards  Yesa- 
vius.     Here  he  hurried  along,  keeping  carefully  in  the  shadow  of  the 
houses,  for  the  full  moon  was  shining  in  Italian  glory  and  would  &ave 
shown  his  features  to  every  passer  by,  but  he  appeared  desirous  of 
aWding  all  recognition,  for  when  a  person  happened  to  pass  he  turned 
away  his  head  and  hurried  faster.     Soon  he  emerged  from  the  shelter 
of  the  lane  into  the  open  country  and  commenced  toiling  up  the  rugged 
sides  of  the  mountain,  which  journey  was  then  a  more  serious  affiur 
than  it  now  is,  for  at  present  you  may  drive  quite  half  way  up  on  a 
very  fair  carriage  road,  but  this  was  long  before  such  a  thing  as  a  car- 
riage up  Vesuvius  was  thought  of.     Giacomo  had,  therefore,  to  use  his 
guide's  experience  to  take  him  safely  over  the  huge  blocks  of  lava  which 
lie  scattered  about  in  all  directions,  but  he  knew  the  way  well  and  was 
soon  skirting  the  edge  of  the  Grande  Fosse,  which  was  then  a  mighty 
chasm,  nearly  two  hundred  yards  deep,  extending  up  the  side  of  the 
mountain.     Scarcely  any  trace  of  that  valley  now  remains,  for  it  was 
filled  up  by  the  great  lava  stream  which  flowed  out  in  '58,  and  which, 
after  the  lapse  of  thirteen  years,  is  still  warm  dcvm  Idow,  as  may  be  as- 
certained by  placing  the  hand  in  any  crack  in  the  surface  of  the  ground, 
when  the  warmth  is  immediately  felt.     As  Giacomo  walked  along  the 
edge  of  this  chasm  he  looked  nervously  about  him,  as  though  fearing  to 
see  the  mysterious  individual  about  whom   he  had  quarrelled  in  the 
**  Trattoria  del  Mondo  "     Certainly  an  imaginative  mind  might  have 
observed  many  strange  shapes  amongst  the  wonderful  lava  forms  as  the 
moonlight  fell  on  them,  making  grotesque  shadows  in  endless  variety. 
Some  of  the  blocks  looked  like  living  beings  of  strange  and  uncouth 
form,  some  like  imps,  twisting  serpents,  rivers  and  waves  of  the  sea, 
hardened  while  on  the  point  of  breaking,  arrested  high  in  the  air,  all 
these  things  were  there  represented  by  that  wonderful  substance,  which 
has  periodically  from  unknown  remote  ages  been  poured  from  the  many 
mouths  of  the  mountain  in  molten  streams,  leaving  the  marks  of  their 


THE  SPECTBE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS.  483 

deyastation  and  destruction  far  around.  Turning  from  these  wild  shapes 
he  looked  down  into  the  Grande  Fosse,  which  was  even  more  ghastly 
and  threatening,  its  harsh  craigs  being  thrown  into  bold  relief  by  the 
moonlight,  and  the  shadows  were  black,  and  the  bottom  was  lost  in 
obscurity  and  seemed  as  though  it  might  have  reached  to  the  centre  of 
the  earth,  where  the  surging  sea  of  lava  ever  bubbles  and  boils  and 
works.  What  wonder,  then,  if  amid  this  wild  scene,  madq  more  ter- 
rible by  the  glare  from  the  eruption,  he  looked  about  him  nervously  and 
walked  at  his  quickest  pace.  However,  he  saw  nothing  of  the  dreaded 
spectre  at  which  he  had  sneered  in  the  Trattoria,  but  with  regard  to 
which  he  entertained  very  different  feelings  now  that  he  was  alone  on 
Vesuvius.  When  he  was  about  half  way  up  the  mountain,  at  a  spot 
rather  below  where  the  Observatory  now  stands,  he  turned  off  to  the 
left  and  soon  reached  the  foot  of  Monte  Lomma,  which,  with  the  adja- 
cent peak  of  Vesuvius,  forms  a  valley  nearly  a  mile  across  at  the  bot- 
tom, completely  covered  with  debris  of  lava  from  numberless  eruptions, 
which  it  would  be  impossible  for  a  stranger  to  cross  at  night  without 
risking  a  sprain  or  fracture.  Oiacomo,  however,  by  keeping  close  to 
the  foot  of  Lomma,  avoided  this  and  continued  his  journey  until  the 
peak  of  Vesuvius  was  between  himself  and  PorticL  The  moon  was 
now  no  longer  visible,  for  the  cone  of  the  Volcano  cast  a  deep  shadow 
over  that  part  of  the  valley  where  he  now  stood,  making  the 
scene  gloomy  and  awful  in  the  extreme.  All  around  spread 
jagged,  black  lava,  the  outpouring  of  many  convulsions  of  na- 
ture, all  was  desolate  and  solitary.  An  occasional  explosion 
from  the  Crater  was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  stillness, 
and  one  would  have  thought  that  Giacomo  was  miles  from  every  human 
being.  He,  however,  knew  better,  for,  after  pausing  a  few  moments,  he 
whistled  three  times,  it  was  answered  from  a  short  distance,  and  imme- 
diately the  glimmer  of  a  lantern  was  seen  flickering  dimly  over  the 
rough  path.  J^eeting  the  man  who  carried  the  light,  they  proceeded 
some  yards  together  until  they  came  to  a  hollow  in  the  rock,  the  mouth 
of  which  was  filled  by  loose  stones,  leaving  a  place  only  just  large  enough 
to  enter  by ;  the  place  might  have  been  easily  passed,  even  by  daylight| 
without  being  observed.  Here  they  found  seated  several  men,  whose 
motley  dress,  numerous  weapons,  and  general  vagabond  appearance^ 
showed  them  to  be  a  band  of  robbers  who  invested  Vesuvius  and 
Lomma,  robbing  any  casual  travellers,  and  frequently  attacking  large 
parties  if  they  ventured  far  from  the  beaten  track.  On  the  arrival  of 
Giacomo  they  all  started  up  and  welcomed  him  in  the  most  effusive 
manner.  *'  At  last  then  you  are  come,''  said  the  one  who  appeared  to 
be  the  chief,  "  I  thought  we  were  forgotten ;  fifteen  days  since  Signor 
Giacomo  has  thought  fit  to  visit  his  poor  relations  on  Vesuvius ;  if  you 


484  THE  SPECTRE   GUIDE  OF   MOUNT  VESUVIUS. 

had  not  come  soon  I  was  thinking  of  paying  you  a  visit  at  your  Palazzo 
at  Perbici."  "  You  would  never  have  been  so  mad  as  that,  for  you, 
Pietro  Kossi,  could  not  shew  your  handsome  face  in  Portici  without 
being  recognised,  and  then  the  carabinieri  would  soon  desire  your  more 
intimate  acquaintance."  **  Oh  !  but  hunger  makes  a  man  ready  for  a  few 
perils,"  repUed  Pietro,  "  and  we  have  been  almost  starving  here  on  this 
black  fountain."  "  It  was  no  fiult  of  mine  that  our  last  enterprise 
failed,"  said  Giacomo,  "  I  tried  to  decoy  the  party  of  Germans  into  the 
spot  where  you  arranged  to  lie  in  wait,  but  they  becune  tired  and  turned 
back  on  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  lava  stream,  instead  of  going  up  to 
the  crater.  But  tomorrow  night  I  have  a  party  of  English,  who  will 
console  you  for  all  your  disappointments.  Two  gentlemen  and  a  lady, 
nobles,  for  whom  you  may  obtain  a  ransom,  as  well  as  all  they  have, 
about  them,  so  now  say  how  will  you  take  them  1 "  "  You  bring  them 
up  to  the  now  crater,"  said  Pietro,  '*  and  we  will  lie  in  wait  for  th&ok 
there,  and  seize  both  them  and  you,  thus  no  suspicion  will  fall  on  you. 
But  will  they  ascend  so  far  ? "  "  Never  fear,''  said  Giacomo,  "  they  are 
so  eager  that  they  sent  to  engage  me  this  evening,  that  all  might  be  in 
readiness,  they  are  young,  and  will  not  become  fatigued  and  give  in  as 
those  old  Germans  did ;  therefore  I  will  lead  them  up  along  the  side  of 
the  lava  stream  until  we  reach  the  crater,  then,  should  the  coast  be  clear, 
you  can  seize  us  the  moment  we  arrive,  but  should  there  be  any  one 
else  in  the  way  I  will  offer  to  take  them  home  by  another  path,  will  bring 
them  towards  this  place,  and  you  must  meet  and  take  us ;  but  remember 
my  share  of  the  booty."  "  Then  all  goes  well,"  said  the  chief,  "  and  now, 
business  being  over,  sit  down  and  drink.  Here  is  a  carafa  of  Portici,  but 
who  knows  how  long  we  shall  drink  it  in  peace  in  this  quiet  retreat ;  the 
carabinieri  seem  to  be  waking  up,  and  we  have  several  times  had  to  run 
away  and  spread  ourselves  over  the  mountain."  "  You  have  robbed  so 
many  lately,"  said  Giacomo,  "that  people  are  getting  indignant" 
"  Well  "  said  the  chief,  "  let  us  settle  this  affair  of  the  English,  and  for  a 
time  we  will  leave  our  haunts  here  until  the  excitement  has  cooled  a  little." 
One  of  the  others  now  joined  in,  and  said  :  "  Do  you  know,  Giacomo, 
that  Giuseppe  has  once  more  been  seen,  as  he  was  in  the  last  eruption, 
two  years  ago,  when  such  misfortunes  happened  to  us  T'  "  What ! 
Have  you  also  these  tales  of  fools  ? "  said  Giacomo,  "  the  people  down 
there  talk  like  that,  and  think  that  some  one  is  sure  to  die  from  seeing 
him,  but  I  thought  not  to  find  such  stupidity  here."  But,  although  he 
called  it  stupidity,  his  face  lost  its  colour,  as  it  did  in  the  Trattoria  when 
the  dead  guide  was  mentioned.  "  You  know  that  misfortune  for  some 
of  us  has  always  attended  his  coming,"  said  the  other,  "  he  has  an  evil 
eye  for  those  who  injured  him  in  life,  and  woe  to  those  who  look  on  him." 
"  No  matter,"  cried  Giacomo,  excitedly,  "  I  never  feared  him  living. 


THE  SPECTBE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS.  486 

why  should  I  begin  to  now  he  is  a  shadow ? "  "Why  should  you  fear 
him  ? "  said  Pietro,  "  who  should  fear  hhn  more  than  you,  did  not  your 
hand  strike  the  fatal  blow  ten  years  ago  ?  It  were  better  not  to  brag 
now,  but  keep  your  courage  for  the  time  when  you  meet  him."  "Truly 
all  are  in  a  league  to  make  me  mad  this  night/'  cried  Giacomo.  "  How 
dare  you,  Pietro  Bossi,  call  me  more  guilty  than  yourself ;  if  my  hand 
struck  the  blow,  your  hands  held  him,  the  eye  of  many  of  these  men  saw 
it  done ;  and  who  carried  him  down  to  where  the  advancing  lava  ought 
to  have  consumed  him  had  it  not  turned  from  its  course — ^you  call  me 
guilty,  when  I  suffer  for  the  deed  you  may  all  tremble  ;  where  would 
you  be  now  if  his  tongue  had  not  been  silenced  )  "  Having  thus  de  - 
livered  himself  with  much  vehemence  and  many  oaths,  Giacomo  i^gain 
seated  himself ;  not  however  without  casting  furtive,  nervous  glances 
around,  as  though  he  feared  to  see  the  subject  of  conversation  appear 
from  some  dark  comer.  At  last  they  succeeded  in  pacifying  him,  and, 
aftermaking  further  arrangements  for  the  prosecution  of  their  meritorious 
scheme  on  the  morrow,  Giacomo  started  homeward.  But  if  he  was 
nervous  and  watchful  in  coming,  he  was  much  more  so  in  returning ; 
the  conversation  just  recounted  having  left  a  very  unpleasant  remem- 
brance behind  it 

Guiseppe  had  been  a  guide,  but  very  different  from  Giaoomo,  brave, 
open  and  generous  ;  having  long  distrusted  the  latter,  he  at  length  found 
proofs  of  what  he  suspected,  and  very  unwisely  hinted  to  him  what  he 
knew.  The  result  has  already  been  narrated, — ten  years  before  our  story 
he  was  found  murdered ;  none  ever  found  out  by  whom ;  but  all  as- 
serted that  he  invariably  haunted  the  mountain  during  eruptions ;  and 
as  some  misfortune  always  happened  to  the  robbers  at  these  times  they 
looked  upon  it  as  a  sinister  omen  when  he  appeared.  Giacomo  made 
his  descent  almost  at  a  run,  and  it  would  certainly  have  puzzled  any 
ghost  to  have  accosted  him  with  their  customary  dignity  whilst  going  at 
such  a  speed.  He  reached  home  safely,  and  at  once  laid  down  to  pre 
pare  himself  for  the  morrow's  adventure. 


CHAPTER  III. 

During  the  night  the  weather  changed,  the  sky  became  overcast  and 

soon  the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents,  and  our  friends  woke  to  the  fact 

that  the  day  did  not  bode  well  for  their  excursion.     The  clouds  flew 

across  the  sky  impelled  by  the  angry  wind  which  came  in  gusts  as  fierce 

as  an  Italian  temper,  and  the  rain  fell  incessantly.    Sir  John  and  his 

wife  were  in  despair,  but  Douglas  consoled  them,  by  saying  that  it 

rarely  rained  in  Naples  a  whole  day,  especially  at  that  time  of  the  year, 
6 


486  THE  SPECTRE   GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS. 

and  that  it  would  probably  clear  up  about  twelve  o'clock.  "  I  am  quite 
sure/'  he  said,  '^  that  we  shall  be  able  to  go,  and  the  rain  will  lay  the 
dust  and  purify  the  air,  so  that  we  shall  not  have  quite  such  powerful 
perfumes  as  usual  from  thq  various  dwellings  on  our  road.''  He  was 
right ;  at  noon  the  clouds  began  to  break,  and  although  the  wind  was 
still  very  powerful,  and  the  sky  frequently  obscured  by  clouds  as  they 
darted  by,  they  were  able  to  start  on  their  journey.  About  three 
o'clock  they  left  the  Hotel  and  drove  towards  Portici.  Sir  John  and 
his  wife  never  having  been  here  before  fell  into  the  common  mistake  of 
picturing  Portici  in  their  minds  as  a  pretty  little  village,  to  which  they 
would  drive  through  country  roads.  To  their  surprise,  however,  they  found 
that  Naples  extended  all  the  way,  and  Naples  in  almost  its  worst  aspect ; 
the  whole  drive  was  over  paved  streets,  between  high,  miserable  houses, 
filled  with  human  beings,  hideous  in  dirt  and  misery.  Still  they  saw 
much  to  amuse  them,  for  Neapolitans  are  generally  jolly  and  noisy  under 
the  most  wretched  circumstances.  As  they  approached  Portici — and  the 
black  threatening  mountain  rose  close  over  them — Clara  said  :  "  What  a 
strange  mixture  of  feelings  Vesuvius  causes,  it  threatens  and  repels,  and 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  it  fascinates  and  draws  one  on  so  that  one  feels  im- 
pelled towards  it."  "  Exactly  so,"  replied  Douglas,  "  I  have  always  felt 
the  same  at  each  ascent,  and  at  every  step  you  take  the  feeling  grows, 
and  when  at  last  you  reach  the  foot  of  the  Grater,  you  feel  that  you 
must  approach  still  nearer,  if  possible,  and  look  over  the  edge,  and  when 
you  do  so  you  can  slightly  imagine  the  feeling  of  fascination  which  im- 
pels people  to  jump  over  precipices  into  another  world.  Most  who  visit 
Vesuvius  have  something  of  the  same  feeling,  excepting  those  happy 
beings  who  are  totally  devoid  of  feeling ;  I  have  known  such  go  up  half 
way  and  then  turn  back  saying  they  had  seen  quite  enough  and  thought 
nothing  of  it,  but  then  they  were  the  sort  of  people  who  call  Macbeth 
a  pretty  play,  and  go  into  picture  galleries  and  admire  the  frames.'' 
They  were  now  entering  Portici  and  the  coachman  pulled  up.  "Ah !" 
said  Douglas,  "  he  says  this  is  the  house  of  Giacomo,  the  guide,  whom 
the  waiter  has  engaged  for  us."  Giacomo  now  came  forward  from  his 
house,  and  Douglas,  being  the  only  one  who  spoke  Italian  well,  alighted 
from  the  carriage  to  speak  to  him.  After  a  few  minutes'  conversation  he 
returned,  and  Sir  John  said :  ''  What  a  villainous  looking  face  he  has." 
**  Yes,  they  nearly  all  have,"  coolly  replied  Douglas,  "  there  is  not  much 
to  choose,  although  I  must  say  this  one  is  about  the  most  unprepossessing 
I  have  met,  both  in  face  and  manner ;  however,  he  seems  thoroughly  to 
know  his  business,  so  I  do  not  think  we  must  throw  him  over  on  account 
of  the  irregularity  of  his  features,"  "Certainly  not,"  they  replied 
"  but  what  are  we  to  do  next  1"  "  We  mount  the  ponies  here  and  com 
mence  the  ascent,  he  also  rides,  and  a  boy  accompanies  us  to  take  care  of 


THE   SPECTBE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS.  487 

the  animals  on  the  mountain,  for  we  only  ride  about  halfway  and  climb 
the  rest,  leaving  the  ponies  in  charge  of  the  boy."  Whereupon  they  des- 
cended from  the  carriage,  the  miserable,  broken-kneed  ponies,  to  which 
they  condemn  travellers  on  Vesuvius,  made  their  appearance,  and  the 
cavalcade  started. 

After  proceeding  along  the  main  street  of  Portici,  they  turned  sharply 
to  the  left^  ascended  a  very  steep  hill  and  soon  left  the  houses  behind 
and  came  upon  the  open  mountain  side.     They  were  now  among  the 
vines  and  olives  which  fringe  the  foot  of  Vesuvius,  growing  so  luxu- 
riantly in  the  decomposed  lava  of  ancient  eruptions.     It  was  now  get- 
ting late  in  the  afternoon,  the  weather  had  partly  cleared,  but  still  the 
wind  blew  in  fierce  fitful  gusts,  and  heavy  clouds  scudded  across  the  sky. 
They  rode  straight  across  the  rugged  masses  of  hard  lava  which  extend 
almost  in  every  direction  over  the  mountain,  giving  it  a  blasted,  desolate 
appearance  which  cannot  be  described.     Their  road  was  not  that  which 
Giacomo  took  the  night  before,  his  errand  then  was  ip  a  different  part 
of  the  mountain ;  their  present  object  was  to  proceed  to  the  end  of  the 
lava  stream,  and  then  ascend  by  its  side  until  they  arrived  at  its  source 
in  a  newly  formed  crater,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  Great  Crater  at  the 
summit.     They  soon  passed  beyond  the  vines  and  olives  and  now  the 
road  assumed  a  very  dreary  appearance ;  above  towered  the  black  peak 
with  its  constant  cloud  of  smoke,  lower  down  was  the  new  crater,  look- 
ing like  a  pimple  on  the  side  of  the  cone,  and  all  around  was  black  deso- 
lation.    Douglas,  of  course,  knew  the  scene  well,  but  Sir  John  was  much 
impressed  by  the  dreary  grandeur,  and  Clara,  although  she  spoke  little, 
was  almost  overpowered  by  the  solemnity  of  the  scene.  They  still  ascended, 
rising  higher  and  higher  up  the  steep  ascent,  and  frequently  stopping  to 
rest  the  horses  ;  for  some  time  they  had  seen  the  smoking  lava  stream 
in  the  distance,  now  they  approached  it  rapidly,  and  in  a  few  moments 
more  they  stood  beside  the  half-cooled  extremity  of  the  molten  river. 
Here  they  found  standing  about,  several  idlers  and  beggars,  who  imme- 
diately began  roasting  chestnuts  and  eggs  in  the  lava,  and  putting  in 
coins  and  breaking  off  the  piece  which  adhered  to  them  ;  these  things 
were  all  offered  to  the  travellers  at  fabulous  prices  which  came  down 
after  judicious  bargaining  to  about  a  quarter  of  the  price  first  demanded. 
In  all  this,  the  guide,  instead  of  rendering  the  assistance  which  guides 
usually  give,  stood  aloof,  taciturn  and  sombre,  all  the  time  they  remained 
here,  at  last,  after  having  for  several  minutes  cast  uneasy  glances  upwards 
as  though  anxious  to  be  gone,  he  came  and  said  curtly  to  Douglas,  "  We 
must  go,  it  grows  late."  So  dismounting  from  their  horses,  they  started 
to  do  the  rest  on  foot,  there  being  no  bridle  path  further.     It  was  now 
almost  dusk,  and  the  scene  assumed  a  most  awfully  grand  appearance. 
The  lava  now  showed  a  lurid  red,  the  smoke  above  also  looked  like  fire 


488  THE  SPECTRE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS. 

and  the  moon  had  risen,  casting  weird  shadows  on  the  road  except 
when  she  was  obscured  by  the  passing  clouds.  Sir  John  now  assisted 
his  wife  in  her  trying  ascent,  for  the  guide  still  went  on  in  front  without 
offering  the  least  assistance.  Clara  became  at  every  step  more  impressed 
by  the  gloom  of  the  scene,  and  when  they  presently  waited  for  her  to 
sit  down  and  rest,  she  said  to  her  husband.  ''  How  fearful  this  moun- 
tain is  j  it  fills  me  with  horror.  I  feel  as  though  something  were  about 
to  happen  that  would  stamp  this  night  with  terror  on  our  memories  ; 
the  blood-red  fire,  the  smoke,  -and  the  awful  shapes  that  seem  to  start 
into  life  as  the  moonlight  falls  upon  the  road,  it  is  dreadful."  "  Why  my 
love  !  Is  your  courage  giving  way  ? "  said  Sir  John.  "  What  should 
you  fearl  I  am  here  to  protect  you."  "  I  know  not  what  it  is  I  fear," 
she  replied,  "  it  is  the  gloomy  feeling  with  which  this  mountain  affects 
my  mind."  '*  Would  you  like  to  return  1 "  said  Sir  John,  "  if  you  have 
the  slightest  wish  we  will  turn  back  at  once."  "  Oh,  no,"  she  replied, 
''  I  could  not  turn  my  back  on  that  crater  without  first  going  close,  it 
fiascinates  me  like  a  serpent  and  draws  me  on."  '*  Well,  then  dearest, 
we  must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  I  dare  say  we  have  not  much  further 
to  go,  it  certainly  is  dismal  since  it  became  dark ;  here  comes  Douglas, 
I  wonder  if  he  has  succeeded  in  conversing  with  our  unpleasant  guide." 
Douglas  had  for  some  time  been  walking  on  in  front  with  the  guide, 
evidently  to  the  increasing  annoyance  of  the  latter,  and  his  replies  were 
.  invariably  short  and  sulky.  He  now  returned  to  where  the  others 
were  sitting,  and  in  reply  to  Sir  John's  questions  owned  that  he 
could  extract  no  conversation  from  the  man.  "  It  is  very  strange,"  he 
said  "  for  althpugh  these  men  are  generally  bad-looking  I  have  never 
found  any  difficulty  in  getting  them  to  talk  ;  but  this  man  seems  to  be- 
come more  bearish  at  every  step."  Then  under  pretence  of  drawing  Sir 
John's  attention  to  a  curious  piece  of  lava,  he  took  him  aside,  and  said 
in  a  low  tone,  ''  The  fact  is,  there  is  something  rather  suspicious  about 
this  man,  he  is  more  than  surly,  he  is  constantly  looking  anxiously 
about  him,  he  seems  in  a  state  of  restrained  excitement  and  trembles, 
and  I  am  almost  certain  I  have  twice  seen  a  man  lurking  in  the  shadow 
of  the  rocks  beside  the  path."  "  What  then  shall  we  do  ? "  said  Sir 
John,  "  do  you  think  it  best  to  turn  back  ? "  "  Well,  no,"  said  the 
other,"  it  seems  a  pity  to  give  it  up  now  that  we  shall  so  soon  be  at  the 
end  of  our  journey ;  I  hardly  expect  that  he  is  up  to  anything  dangerous, 
the  guides  are  too  well  known  for  that,  but  if  he  should  have  any  associ- 
ate up  here,  between  them  they  might  possibly  try  to  frighten  us  out  of 
a  little  money.  I  anticipated  nothing  more  serious  than  that  at  the  worst, 
as  your  wife  seems  bent  on  finishing  the  ascent  we  had  better  proceed 
at  once ;  you  have  your  pistol, — so  have  I, — keep  yours  ready  in  case 
you  want  it." 


THE  SPECTRE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUa  4!89 

They  then  rejoined  Lady  Stanley  and  all  started  again,  the  gtdde 
going  faster  than  ever  until  checked  by  Douglas,  They  now  hurried 
on  without  speaking  a  word,  the  labour  was  too  great  to  allow  of  conyer- 
sation,  and  all  three  felt  that  excitement  which  the  ascent  causes,  a  ner- 
vous anxiety  to  reach  the  source  of  the  fire,  and  they  now  knew  that  it 
could  not  be  far  off.  The  top  was  hidden  from  their  view  by  the  curve 
of  the  mountain,  but  the  lava  stream  by  the  side  of  which  they  were 
<;limbing  had  lost  it&  red  tint,  and  was  now  a  white  molten  fire  and  by  the 
increased  speed  at  which  it  ran  they  knew  they  were  nearing  the  source. 
Hark  !  What  sound  is  that  ?  Low  in  the  bowels  of  the  mountain  a  low 
growl  is  heard  like  distant  thunder,  louder  and  louder  it  rises,  until 
with  a  crash  like  the  discharge  of  a  mortar  a  stone  is  hurled  from  the 
old  crater  at  the  summit  a  mile  above  them ;  it  forms  a  fiery  arc,  and 
then  falls  on  the  further  side  of  the  mountain.  Higher  they  go,  and  now 
another  sound  greets  them,  a  loud  bubbling,  splashing  sound,  like  no 
other  in  the  world,  the  sound  of  the  lava  boiling  in  the  catUdron, — a  few 
steps  further  and  the  ground  becomes  partly  level,  and  they  stop  simul- 
taneously awed  and  amazed.  Here  is  the  source  of  the  fire  river,  about  half 
^  mile  from  the  summit,  it  was  one  of  those  small  craters  which  open  in 
fresh  places  at  every  eruption,  it  was  about  fifty  feet  high,  being  raised 
by  the  constant  accumulation  of  lava  as  it  was  thrown  up,  the  sides  were 
very  steep  and  rugged,  and  in  one  place  the  fiery  contents  overflowed 
forming  the  commencement  of  that  molten  stream  by  whose  side  they 
had  been  so  lofng  toiling.  Well  might  they  exclaim,  "  How  grand !  How 
awful !  '*  The  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens,  at  one  moment  casting  a 
bright,  pure,  light,  contrasting  strangely  with  the  lurid  glare  of  the 
liquid  lava, — the  next  it  was  obscured  and  the  darkness  around  made 
the  scene  more  ghastly  stilL 

Douglas  was  keeping  a  sharp  look-out  on  the  guide  and  suddenly 
whispered  to  Sir  John  '^  Cock  yofwr  pistoly  there  are  two  men  prowling 
ikbout,  ril  swear  I  **  Then  advancing  to  Giacomo  who  stood  nearer  the 
crater,  he  said,  "  Can  we  approach  no  nearer  than  this  ? ''  The  guide 
turned  and  said,  sulkily,  "  no,  we  are  near  enough.*'  We  are  anxious 
to  go  as  near  as  possible,"  said  Douglas,  "  but  if  we  cannot  approach 
nearer  we  may  as  well  return,  but  are  you  sure  it  would  be  dangerous." 

'*  Look  ! "  said  Giacomo  irritably,  **  can  you  not  see  the  lava  boiling 
over  the  edge  of  the  crater,  who  is  to  go  near  that  fiery  shower,  I  advance 
no  nearer,  my  work  is  done  amd  wo  power  shall  drctw  me  on  /"  "  Very 
well,''  said  Douglas,  conquering  his  inclination  to  knock  the  fellow  down, 
**  but  just  answer  me  one  question,  who  are  those  men  I  have  seen  several 
times  to-night  lurking  about,  I  saw  one  this  moment  behind  that  rock, 
who  are  they  1 "  "  There  are  no  men  here,"  growled  Giacomo,  "  who 
should  there  be  but  ourselves  1 "   "  Well,  I  tell  you  I  know  I  saw  them, 


490  THE  SPECTTBE  GXnDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS. 

— why  see/*  he  cried,  suddenly  seizing  Giacomo  hy  the  arm, — "  There 
is  one  standing  close  under  the  crater,  and  surely  he  is  in  great  danger !" 
The  man  to  whom  he  pointed  was  dressed  like  a  guide,  and  was  stand- 
ing close  to  the  crater  leaning  on  his  staff.     The  moment  Douglas  drew 
Giacomo's  attention  to  him,  he  was  horrified  hy  the  change  which  came 
over  the  guide's  face.  Even  in  the  red  glare  of  that  gigantic  fire  he  could 
see  that  he  became  deadly  pale  and  shook  all  over,  his  knees  tottered, 
and  his  eyes  seemed  fascinated,  glued  to  the  face  of  the  man  who  stood 
in  the  fiery  shower  without  being  burnt.  He  made  two  or  three  ghastly 
attempts  to  speak,  but  his  jaw  fell  and  he  could  not  articulate,  at  last  he 
hissed  out  in  a  voice  unlike  any  human  sound,  "  Guiseppe  I  What  imnieti 
thou  here  9  **    And  now  the  figure  moved  for  the  first  time.     Raising  his 
right  hand  he  distinctly  beckoned  to  Giacomo,  and  slowly  began  to 
move  backwards  with  a  steady  gliding  motion  ;  and  his  pretematuraUy 
large  eyes  seemed  literally  to  blaze  in  the  glare  of  the  fire;  slowly  he 
beckoned,  and,  as  he  moved  backwards,  Giacomo  dragged  on  by  those 
demoniac  eyes,  as  slowly  advanced,  trying,  but  vainly,  to  turn  away  his 
eyes  and  rid  himself  of  the  spell  that  was  on  him.     Sir  John  and  his 
wife,  unable  to  understand  the  scene  had  advanced  and  joined  them,  the 
robbers,  too,  had  unseen  gathered  around  from  their  places  of  conceal- 
ment, but  all  stood  stiU  alike  spell-bound  by  the  frightful  scene  enacting 
before  them.     Slowly  the  spectre  receded,  and  began  to  glide  up  the 
side  of  the  crater,  still  dragging  on  Giacomo  by  the  power  of  his  gaze  ; 
when  the  spectre  was  half-way  up  the  rugged  incline  Giacomo  had  ar- 
rived at  the  bottom  ;  again  the  spectre  beckoned,  but  as  the  unfortunate 
guide  raised  his  foot  to  commence  the  fatal  ascent  an  agonizing  cry  burst 
from  his  lips,  as  though  he  then  became  aware  of  the  fearful  fate  await- 
ing him.     His  features  became  distorted  with  terror  and  shriek  after 
shriek  burst  from  him,  as  fascinated,  he  followed  to  his  doom.     Up  they 
went — one  beckoning,  the  other  compelled  to  advance.     At  last  the 
spectre  stood  on  the  very  brink  of  the  crater,  slowly  glided  back  and 
disappeared,  Giacomo,  attracted  moro  strongly  than  before,  dashed  up 
amidst  the  fiery  shower  that  fell  around  him — another  moment  and  the 
two  stood  on  the  brink — another  moment  he  tottered,  and  with  a  fear- 
ful heartrending  scream  he  too  disappeared  in  the  abyss  of  fire  !    All  stood 
motionless,  awed  and  petrified  by  the  terrible  scene;  Clara  had,  fortunately, 
become  insensible  before  the  sad  catastrophe.    The  robbers  appeared 
unable  to  move  although  their  prey  was  in  their  power,  thus  they  all 
remained  for  several  seconds,  speechless ;  when,  as  though  this  night's 
horror  would  never  cease,  a  black  substance  appeared  floating  out  of  the 
crater  on  the  lava  stream  and  gliding  rapidly  onwards,  t^e  charred, 
shapeless  thing  which  had  been  a  few  moments  before  Giacomo,  the  guide 


THE  SPECTRE  GUIDE  OF  MOUNT  VESUVIUS.  491 

was  brought  down  on  the  river  of  death  almost  to  the  feet  of  the  robber 
chief. 

This  broke  the  spell, — ^uttering  a  yell  of  terror,  the  whole  party  of 
robbers  turned  and  wildly  fled,  leaving  their  intended  victims — ^un- 
touched ! 

Almost  stunned  with  horror,  Stanley  and  Douglas  turned  towards 
Clara,  who  was  still  insensible,  and  endeavoured  to  bring  her  round ; 
several  minutes  had  elapsed  and  she  had  just  shown  signs  of  returning 
consciousness  when  they  heard  the  sound  of  guns  not  far  distant,  then 
angry  shouts,  and  soon  the  sound  of  many  footsteps  approaching. 
After  waiting  in  painful  suspense  for  some  minutes  longer,  they  at 
length  saw  to  their  great  joy  a  party  of  Carabinieri  approaching 
from  the  path  by  which  the  robbers  had  fled,  conducting  with  them, 
their  hands  bound,  all  the  men  who  had  laid  in  wait  for  our  Mends. 
Eapidly  advancing,  they  in  a  few  moments  halted  close  to  the  travellers 
and  the  officer  coming  forward,  offered  his  assistance ;  accordingly  Clara, 
who  was  now  partly  recovered,  was  placed  in  a  litter  extemporised  with 
poles  and  muskets  and  soon  our  friends  very  willingly  turned  their  backs 
on  the  crater  and  commenced  their  descent 

In  reply  to  the  questions  of  Douglas  as  to  the  opportune  arrival  of 
the  soldiers,  the  officer  explained  how  they  came  there  at  so  critical  a 
moment : — 

"  The  night  before,  as  a  party  of  them  were  skirting  the  lower  part  of 
Vesuvius  on  their  way  from  one  village  to  another,  they  came  upon  a 
man  lying  on  the  ground  ia  a  half-insensible  state ;  on  coming  to  him- 
self he  talked  wildly  of  having  seen  the  spectre,  and  said  he  remembered 
no  more  until  they  found  him ;  on  being  examined  as  to  his  business  he 
at  last  confessed,  finding  he  could  not  escape,  that  he  was  one  of  the 
robbers,  and  on  condition  of  pardon  for  himself,  divulged  the  plot  for 
taking  the  English  travellers.  Accordingly,  guided  by  this  man, 
they  repaired  at  the  appointed  time  to  the  place  where  he  said 
they  would  find  the  robbers,  and  they  met  them  just  as  they  were  rush- 
ing headlong  down  the  slope  towards  their  hiding  place,  almost  beside 
themselves  with  terror  at  the  fearful  scene  they  had  just  witnessed. 
Finding  themselves  outnumbered,  and  rendered  almost  powerless  by 
their  fears,  they  threw  down  their  arms  after  a  few  harmless  shots  had 
been  fired  on  both  sides." 

On  the  way  down  Douglas  heard  quite  enough  of  the  fearful  char- 
acter of  these  robbers  to  make  him  very  thankful  for  their  escape, 
and  he  resolved  never  to  trust  himself  again  in  that  place  with  so  small 
a  party.  Sir  John  was  dreadfully  shocked  by  the  night's  adventure, 
and  Clara  was  completely  prostrate.  On  their  arrival  at  the  hotel  a 
doctor  was  sent  for,  but  for  three  weeks  she  did  not  leave  her  room,  the 


492  WHEN  I  GROW  OLD. 

nerves  being  in  such  a  shattered  state.  Slowly,  however,  she  recovered, 
but  neither  she  nor  her  husband  ever  heard  mention  made  of  a  volcano 
without  a  shudder  at  the  remembrance  of  that  fearful  picture — ^the  crater, 
the  fire,  the  two  dark  figures  slowly  ascending  the  rugged  sides,  the  moon 
shining  over  all,  and  the  death-shriek  that  ended  that  human  being's 
agony.  They  never  cared  to  revisit  Vesuvius,  but  in  their  own  circle 
in  England  they  often  told  the  tale  of  that  awful  night  to  &8cinated 
audiences ;  and  whilst  narrating  their  narrow  escape  from  capture  by 
the  robbers,  they  never  forgot  to  be  grateful  for  their  rescue  by  The 
Specttrb  Guide.* 
Montreal  Giovannl 


WHEN  I  GROW  OLD. 


When  I  grow  old,  give  me 
Respite  for  music's  hours. 
Birds,  song,  and  scent  of  flowers. 

May  I  have  sight  to  see 

What  of  earth's  beauties  rare 
My  life's  last  days  may  share. 

Fresh  may  my  memory  be 

Of  all  dear  forms  and  faces. 
Bright  days,  and  well  loved  places, 
My  heart  not  dry  and  cold, 
When  I  grow  old. 

n. 

May  none  have  cause  to  say 

"  He  did  us  wrong,  unrighted," 
No  lives  may  I  have  blighted  ; 

Nor  turned  my  face  away 

From  manhood  in  the  dust ; 
Nor  weakened  faith  and  trust ; 

Nor  led  a  soul  astray. 

And  so  my  life's  poor  ending. 
Dear  love's  sweet  mantle  sending, 
May  Gk>d,  at  length,  enfold, 
When  I  grow  old. 


*  Non. — ^The  remarkable  oocnrrenoe  of  a  human  body  re-appearing  from  the  crater  Is 
no  invention  but  actually  occurred  some  years  ago,  when  a  frenchman  committed  sui- 
cide by  throwing  himself  into  a  small  crater  on  Vesuvius,  from  which  a  stream  of  lava 
was  running ;  a  few  minutes  after,  the  chaired  body  floated  out  on  the  stieam'  The 
place  was  pointed  out  to  the  Author  when  in  Naples. 


LOCKE'S  INFLUENCE  ON  CIVILIZATION.  493 

in. 

And  may  there  come  to  me 

The  sound  of  children's  voices — 

Noting  old  age  rejoices 
Like  children's  glee — 

Their  feet  upon  the  stair, 

Their  figures  by  my  chair, 
And  gathered  round  my  knee, 

With  open  eyes  of  wonder, 

And  rosy  lips  asunder. 

Hearing  old  stories  told 
When  I  grow  old. 

IV. 

So,  on  the  misty  land — 

Where  human  knowledge  ceases, 
And  faith  alone  increases, 
And  life  is  shifting  sand, 

And  all  we  have  is  nought, 
And  hope  cannot  be  bought. 
All  humbly  may  I  stand, 

With  loving  forms  beside  me. 
And  loving  hands  to  guide  me, 

And  toaity — with  loosened  hold. 
When  I  grow  old. 
Ottawa,  1878.  Fbbdebiok  A.  Dixon. 


LOCKE'S  INFLUENCE  ON  CIVILIZATION. 

DR.  0.  B.  HALL. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  seventeeoth  century,  we  find  the  earliest  rising 
of  that  school  of  sensual  philosophy,  which  was  afterwards  to  establish 
and  determine  the  bias  and  order  of  the  human  mind  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  Deeply  learned,  though  freed  from  the  prejudices  of  the  scho- 
lastic philosophy,  instructed  in  the  higher  doctrines  of  a  pure  and  finished 
mysticism,  and  knowing  neither  doubts  nor  fears,  the  justly  celebrated 
Locke  struck  out  for  himself  a  free  and  independent  course,  having  but 
one  lamp  to  guide  his  path,  and  that  lamp  was  experience,  and  but  one 
object  to  attain,  and  that  object  was  truth.  His  most  severe  critic  and 
veriest  opponent  says  of  him  :  '^  Every  where  he  addresses  himself  to 
reason,  he  starts  from  this  authority,  and  from  this  alone,  and  if  he  sub- 
sequently admits  another,  it  is  because  he  arrives  at  it  by  reason,  so  that 


494  Locke's  influence  on  civilization. 

it  is  always  reason  that  governs  him,  and  holds  in  some  sort  the  reins  of 
his  thought."  Locke  belongs  therefore  to  the  great  family  of  inde- 
pendent philosophers,  the  essay  on  the  Human  Understanding  is  a  fruit 
of  the  movement  of  independence  in  the  17th  century,  and  it  has  for- 
tified that  movement  This  character  passed  from  the  master  into  the 
whole  school,  and  was  therefore  recommended  to  all  the  Mends  of  human 
liberty,  and  we  may  add,  that  in  Locke  independence  is  always  united 
to  a  sincere  and  profound  respecb  for  every  thing  that  should  be  res- 
pected. Locke  is  a  philosopher,  and  at  the  same  time  a  Christian.  The 
first  great  rule  that  Locke  lays  down  for  our  guidance  in  the  attainment 
of  knowledge  is  method ;  without  place  or  order,  there  can  be  no  rapid 
advancement  or  any  satisfactory  conclusion — and  the  first  great  object 
to  be  obtained,  is  to  know  ourselv,es.  "  The  greatest  study  of  mankind  is 
man."  All  the  knowledge  we  can  acquire,  the  highest  as  well  as  the 
lowest,  rests  in  the  last  result  upon  the  reach  and  value  of  our  general 
faculty  of  knowing — you  may  call  it  what  you  please,  spirit,  mind, 
reason,  intelligence,  understanding,  Locke  calls  it  understanding — the 
study  of  the  human  understanding,  is  then  above,  all  things  else,  the 
study  of  philosophy — ^his  argument  is  plain — what  for  example  can  logic 
be,  that  is  the  knowledge  of  the  rules  that  should  govern  the  human 
mind,  without  a  knowledge  of  that  which  we  are  seeking  to  govern. 
What  can  morals  be,  the  knowledge  of  the  rules  of  our  actions — without 
the  knowledge  of  the  moral  agents — what  of  politics,  the  science  or  the 
art  of  government  of  social  men,  without  a  knowledge  of  man — in  a 
word,  man  is  implied  in  all  the  sciences  which  are  in  appearances  the 
most  foreign  to  him,  the  study  of  man  is,  then,  the  necessary  introduc- 
tion to  every  science  that  claims  a  separate  existence,  and  whatever 
name  we  give  it,  it  is  necessary  to  conceive  that  this  study,  though  not 
the  whole  of  philosophy,  is  its  foundation  and  point  of  departure. 

Locke  uses  the  term  idea  for  all  the  parts  of  knowledge  or  acquire- 
ments we  may  possess,  and  advises  them  to  be  received  in  a  well  planned 
and  cultivated  order,  that  they  may  be  laid  up  in  regular  places  in  the 
brain,  like  shelves  in  a  storehouse,  so  that  in  after  years  if  you  are  talk- 
ing or  writing  of  poetry,  you  have  only  to  refer  to  one  place  in  the  mind 
to  call  up  all  the  ideas  you  have  gained  on  that  particular  study,  if  of 
politics,  in  like  manner  you  turn  to  where  this  knowledge  is  stored,  and 
so  of  all  others,  referring  to  and  selecting  any  one  class  of  studies  without 
disturbing  the  remainder,  denying  the  existence  of  innate  ideas  or  any 
knowledge  in  ourselves,  but  simply  the  faculties  for  acquiring  knowledge 
and  holding  with  the  poet — 

'*  The  mind  untaught 
Is  a  dark  waste,  where  fiends  and  tempest  howl, 
As  Phoebus  to  the  world,  is  science  to  the  soul, 


LOCKE'S  INFLUENCE   ON   CIVILIZATION.  495 

And  reason  now  through  numbers  turn  and  space, 
Darts  the  keen  lustre  of  his  serious  eye 
And  learns  from  facts  compared  the  laws  to  trace, 
Whose  long  progression  leads  to  Deity." 

"  There  are  two  fountains,"  he  says,  **  of  knowledge,  from  whence  all 
the  ideas  we  have,  or  can  naturally  have,  do  spring."  Thua  the  action  of 
our  senses  upon  the  external  objects  around  us,  produce  certain  impres- 
sions on  our  minds,  and  convey  the  ideas  of  colour,  heat,  soft,  hard, 
bitter,  sweet,  and  all  other  things  we  call  sensible  qualities.  This  is  done 
by  the  operation  of  what  we  call  the  perceptive  faculties,  and  then  the 
action  of  the  mind  upon  these  ideas  thus  gathered  by  our  senses  of  tast- 
ing, feeling,  seeing,  etc.,  bring  the  other  means  of  information,  and  gives 
another  kind  of  knowledge,  such  as  thinking,  doubting,  believing,  rea- 
soning, knowing,  and  willing ;  and  that  of  the  mind  by  which  this  is 
attained  is  called  the  reflective  faculties.  Thus  Newton,  by  his  percep- 
tive faculties,  discovered  an  apple  falling  from  a  tree  to  the  ground.  By 
reflection  on  the  idea  thus  conveyed  to  his  mind,  he  found  that  the  apple 
being  inanimate  and  void  of  motion  in  itself,  could  not,  without  some 
foreign  aid,  pass  from  one  place  to  another ;  hence  the  discovery  of  grav- 
itation, and  why  the 

**  Unwieldly  planets  thus  remain, 
Amid  the  flux  of  many  thousand  years, 
That  oft  hath  swept  the  toiling  race  of  man 
And  all  their  laboured  monuments  away ; 
Firm,  unremitting,  matchless  in  their  course 
To  the  kind-tempered  change  of  night  and  day ; 
And  of  the  season's  ever-varying  round 
Minutely  faithful ;  such  the  all-perfect  hand 
That  poised,  impels,  and  rules  the  steady  whole." 

It  has  been  asserted,  however,  that  we  could  not  attain  this  knowledge,. 
as  we  have  no  way  of  knowing  ourselves  how  much  we  know.  Again 
Locke  says:  "When  we  know  our  own  strength,  we  shall  the  better 
know  what  to  undertake  with  hopes  of  success ;  and  when  we  have  well 
surveyed  the  powers  of  our  mind,  and  made  some  estimate  what  we  may 
expect  from  them,  we  shall  not  be  inclined  either  to  sit  still,  and  not  set 
our  thoughts  on  work  at  all,  in  despair  of  knowing  anything,  or  on  the 
other  side  doubt  everything  and  disclaim  all  knowledge  because  some 
things  are  not  to  be  understood.  It  is  of  great  use  to  the  sailor  to  know 
the  length  of  his  line,  though  he  cannot  with  it  fathom  all  the  depth  of 
the  sea.'*  From  the  time  when  history  first  traces  social  order  and  rules 
for  governmental  institutions,  men  ever  sought  for  freedom,  ever  strove 
to  have  a  voice  in  the  directions  of  their  own  duties,  a  will  to  say  and  to 
do.  There  was  a  show  of  freedom  when  men  wandered  from  hill  to  hill 
in  search  of  pasture  for  their  flocks,  where  each  leafy  grove  formed  a. 


496  LOCKE'S  INFLUENCE  ON  CIVILIZATION. 

coach,  and  the  starry  canopy  a  cover.  History  but  records  these  halcyon 
days  and  Elysian  abodes,  and  the  next  page  speaks  of  mad  lusts  and 
vile  corruption. 

Greece  speaks  to  us  in  chronicles  of  justice,  freedom,  and  order ;  we 
hear  Demosthenes  pouring  the  full  force  of  his  mighty  eloquence  to  urge 
•the  Athenians  to  cease  their  fears  of  Phillip,  and  pander  to  great 
names,  and  to  look  to  their  own  arms  for  the  only  prize  worth  securing, 
to  lay  aside  their  petty  jealousies  and  abate  their  fierce  contentions,  and 
make  their  homes  abodes  of  peace  and  prosperity,  and  happiness.  A 
'Solon  strove  with  sublime  dignity  to  secure,  with  firm  order  and  pru- 
dence, a  safe  anchor  for  the  state.  A  Lycurgus  taught  ^nomy,  and 
love  of  country.  A  Zenophon  brought  discipline,  obedience,  and  kindly 
fellowship  for  one  another.  Socrates  urged  to  forget  selfish  and  worldly- 
minded  thought,  and  almost  turned  the  soul  from  earth  for  heavenly 
aspirations.  Ionic  columns  rose  in  stately  grandeur  over  the  land,  and 
Corinthian  beauties  added  lustre  to  their  ornaments.  Liberty,  for  a 
season,  enjoyed  the  sweet  odour  of  this  delicious  land,  then  hastened 
away  in  search  of  a  more  congenial  abode. 

'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more.  Rome  1  Haughty,  proud 
imperial  Rome,  once  the  mighty  mistress  of  the  world,  supposed,  in 
conquering  all  else,  she  could  place  freedom  in  her  capitol.  She  really 
•could  build  walled  cities,  turn  the  coui*se  of  rivers,  assemble  all  the  dis- 
^X)rdant  elements  of  strife,  and  erect  a  temple  to  universal  idolatry.  She 
too  had  her  giant  intellects,  who  could  point  the  soul  to  scenes  beyond 
licentiousness  and  superstition ;  but  she  never  learned  that  to  be  wholly 
free,  the  mind  must  be  unchained,  thought  must  run  unburdened,  the 
will  must  know  no  other  bondage  than  obeying  the  statutes  which 
Liberty  herself  enacts.     The  sweet  songstress  says  of  her, 

**  Borne,  Borne,  thou  art  no  more, 

As  thoa  hast  been. 
On  thy  seven  hills  of  yore, 

Thou  satest  a  Queen. 
Borne,  thine  imperial  brow. 

Never  shaU  rise ; 
What  hast  thou  left  thee  now  ? 

Thou  hast  thy  skies." 

Locke  taught  each  man  to  think  for  himself,  to  weigh  carefully  his 
own  actions,  and  to  reflect  on  his  own  designs.  Then  it  was  that  the 
co-operation  of  men's  minds  effected  political  and  govemmentsil  changes. 
Then  religion  searched  daily  for  the  recorded  truths.  Then  Science 
taught  in  the  laboratory  for  the  true  origin  of  the  world's  atoms.  Then 
philosophy  began  to  seek  for  the  great  question — what  is  truth  t  Then 
.artisans  found  fault  with  the  unsatisfactory  returns  of  all  their  ezer- 


Locke's  influence  on  civilization.  497 

tions.     Then  labourers  asked  if  they  were  doing  the  greatest  amount  of 
work  for  the  least  amount  of  toil.    Then  it  was  as  the  poet  says, 

"  When  straight,  methonght,  the  fair  majestic  power, 
Of  Liberty  appeared,  not  as  of  old, 
Extended  in  her  hand  the  cap  and  rod. 
Whose  slave-enlaiging  touch  gave  doable  life ; 
But  her  bright  temples  bound  with  British  oak. 
And  naval  honours  nodded  on  her  brow. 
Sublime  of  port,  loose  o'er  her  shoulders  flowed, 
Her  sea-green  robe,  with  constellations  gay. 
An  Island  Goddess  now,  and  her  high  care 
The  Queen  of  Isles,  the  Mistress  of  the  Main ! " 

The  sensualistic  doctrine  of  Locke  was  soon  followed  by  Hume,  in 
bringing  forward  most  prominently,  the  ideal  and  sceptical 

If  the  theory  of  the  spirit  or  philosophy  of  the  age  can  be  accepted 
as  producing  its  effect  upon  the  next,  we  may  expect  to  hail  the  dawn 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  the  fullest  exercise  of  sensualism,  a  full 
development  of  the  perceptive  faculties  and  a  keen  desire  for  personal 
aggrandizement — joining  in  with  and  succeeding  to  this,  a  striving  after 
the  ideal,  or  a  laborious  effort  for  the  attainment  of  knowledge — a 
desire  to  learn — a  curious  prying  into  the  great  secrets  of  nature  and 
art — we  would  look  for  a  high  cultivation  of  the  imaginative  and  reflec- 
tive faculties,  with  a  studied  gratification  of  the  senses.  Pleasure  would 
be  sought  through  the  exercise  of  external  or  material  organs,  and  study 
would  aim  at  the  promotion  of  pleasure.  With  an  awakening  desire  for 
the  increase  of  knowledge,  there  would  be  a  sordid  desire  for  the  lusts  of 
the  flesh.  While  feeding  on  the  manna  of  intellectual  nourishment,  there 
would  be  mingled  a  remembrance  of  the  flesh-pots  of  ignorancoi  Hence 
we  might  look  for  their  literature  to  excel  in  fiction  and  poetry,  alike 
elevating  and  ennobling  to  the  soul  and  not  wholly  freed  from  much  thai 
was  vulgar  and  corrupt.  At  the  same  time  the  general  tenor  of  the 
public  mind  would  be  a  union  of  wit  and  worth  with  the  cunning  and 
sharp.  This  stage  would  be  followed  by  a  universal  scepticism,  a  general 
want  of  confidence  in  existing  institutions,  with  an  increasing  and  un- 
settled longing  for  change,  a  doubl  in  the  explanations  and  developments 
of  acknowledged  events.  Fortunately  for  mankind,  there  is  imprinted 
in  every  mind  a  sense  of  consciousness  by  which  it  can  know  its  limit 
of  doubtings,  for  as  a  French  philosopher  says,  *'  Let  anyone  doubt  of 
everything  else,  yet  he  could  not  doubt  that  he  doubts."  "  In  all  men," 
says  Cousin,  "  consciousness  is  simply  a  natural  process,"  some  elevate 
it  to  the  height  of  an  art,  of  a  method,  by  reflection,  which  is  in  some  a 
sort  of  second  consciousness,  a  free  reproduction  of  the  first,  and  as 
consciousness  gives  to  all  men  a  knowledge  of  what  passes  within  them^ 
so  reflection  can  give  to  the  scholar  a  certain  knowledge  of  everything 
that  passes  under  the  eye  of  consciousness. 


498  Locke's  influence  on  civilization. 

The  general  principles  of  pure  unfettered  liberty  of  Locke  produced  in 
the  eighteenth  century  the  most  extensive  governmental  changes  that 
had  ever  burst  upon  the  world.  These  were  revolutions  of  the  people 
striving  for  their  own  rights — their  voice  in  the  management  of  social 
affairs ;  and  most  characteristic  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  the  strug- 
gle between  the  governing  and  the  governed — between  the  class  always 
accustomed  to  obey  and  that  ever  used  to  command — and  this,  too,  the 
result  of  the  philosophy  of  Locka  The  difference  only  between  Hume 
and  Locke  was  in  the  "  one  thing  needful/'  one  was  a  Christian,  the 
other  an  Infidel ;  for  Drs.  Paley  and  Campbell,  in  their  refutation  of 
Hume's  tenets  of  religion,  acknowledge  the  philosophy  of  Locke — ^and 
Reid  and  Dugald  Stewart  only  differ  in  his  illustrations  of  the  percep- 
tive faculties — ^in  his  sensualism.  Hume  was  but  a  name  as  Voltaire 
was  a  little  later,  expressing  the  universal  doubting  of  the  age.  As  the 
human  mind  expanded  with  the  increase  of  knowledge,  it  received  the 
greater  number  of  impressions ;  and  as  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  be- 
came more  generally  spread,  so  did  a  doubting  and  unbelief  in  all  things 
past.  The  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  "  produced  more  men  of 
letters,  as  well  as  men  of  science,  than  any  epoch  of  similar  extent  in 
the  literary  history  of  England."  In  about  the  third  of.  this  period 
Pope's  pure  strain 

**  Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in  ^ain." 

The  most  distinguished  of  his  contemporaries  adopted  styles  of  their  own. 
Thomson  made  no  attempt  at  polished  satire  or  pungent  wit  His 
beautiful  descriptions  of  nature  and  warm  poetical  feeling  asserted  the 
dignity  of  inspiration.  Young,  in  his  startling  denunciations  of  death 
and  judgment,  was  equally  an  original.  Gay  and  Collins  aimed  at 
dazzling  imagery,  the  antipodes  of  Pope.  Goldsmith  blended  morality 
and  philosophy  with  beautiful  simplicity  of  expression.  Beattie  roman- 
tic and  hopeful ;  Akenside  metaphysical,  and  shows  more  of  the  spirit 
of  the  age.  One  instance  is  sufficient  to  show  the  sensualism  and  vulgar 
passions  with  which  he  was  surrounded,  as  well  as  his  refinement  of 
thought ; — 

"  That  last  best  effort  of  thy  skiU, 
To  form  the  life  and  rule  the  will, 

Propitious  Power  impart ; 
Teach  me  to  cool  my  passion's  fires, 
Make  me  the  judge  of  my  desires — 

The  master  of  my  heart, 
liaise  me  above  the  vulvar  breath, 
Pursuit  of  fortune,  fear  of  death. 

And  aU  in  life  that's  mean ; 
Still  true  to  reason  be  my  plan, 
Still  let  my  actions  speak  the  man. 

Through  every  various  scene.*' 

To  these  may  be  added  Savage,  Blair,  the  author  of  the  "  Grave,"  Dr. 
W-^tts,  Dr.  J^hiisoii,  an'^  extending  down  the  series  of  years,  the  Misses 


LOCKE'S  INFLUENCE  ON  CIVILIZATION.  499 

Lee,  the  writers  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  Hannah  Moore,  Miss  Edge- 
worth,  whose  name  Horace  Smith  rendered  a  household  word  by  his 
pun: — 

"  We  every  day  Bards  may  *  Anonymous,'  sign, 
This  refuge,  Miss  Edgeworth,  can  never  be  thine. 
Thy  writings,  where  satire  and  moral  unite, 
Must  bring  forth  the  name  of  the  author  to  light. 
Grood  and  bad  join  in  telling  the  source  of  their  birth. 
The  bad  own  the  edge  and  the  good  own  the  worth. 

Dr.  Brown,  Dr.  Paley,  Dr.  John  Hunter,  Sir  Wm.  Jones,  Rev.  Sidney 
Smith,  who  Punch  said  canonaded  the  Americans  with  the  canons  of  St. 
Paul ;  Steele,  Addison,  Bishop  Berkeley,  Rev.  Robert  Hall,  Rev.  Edwd. 
Clarke,  who  found  a  whole  town  in  one  of  the  sepulchres  of  Thebesj 
Southern,  the  first  dramatic  author,  who,  in  his  ^'Oroonocs"  called  the 
attention  of  the  world  to  the  evils  of  slavery.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to 
quote  his  touching  allusion  to  Egyptian  slavery  and  secreting  the  Great 
Prophet : 

"  So  the  sad  mother  at  the  noon  of  night. 
From  bloody  Memphis  stole  her  silent  flight. 
With  paper  flags,  a  floating  cradle  weaves, 
And  hides  the  smiling  boy  in  lotus  leaves ; 
Gives  the  white  bosom  to  his  eager  lips. 
The  salt  tears  mingling  with  the  milk  he  sips ; 
Waits  on  the  reed-crowned  brink  with  pious  guile. 
And  trusts  the  scaly  monsters  of  the  Nile." 

These  lived  in  the  age,  but  not  of  it,  others  not  less  distinguished,  such 
as  Fielding,  the  author  of  "  Tom  Jones,"  which  with  Gil  Bias  and  Don 
Quixotte  has  been  pronounced  the  first  class  novels  ever  written  ;  and 
these  all  contain  so  much  that  is  really  distasteful,  they  are  almost  be- 
coming unknown  ;  much  of  the  writings  of  Smollet,  author  of  Peregrine 
Pickle,  and  Dr.  Moore,  the  vile  author  Zeluco,  are  subject  to  the  same 
censure.  Sterne  draws  such  tender  and  touching  pictures  of  life, 
they  excite  universal  sympathy,  and  yet  are  so  often  blotted  with 
daubs  and  stained  with  impurities  that  they  cannot  be  held  up  to  public 
view.  Glay  was  perhaps  one  of  the  greatest  favourites  of  his  age,  and 
his  choice  production  was  the  Beggar's  Opera,  where  thieves  and  high- 
waymen were  the  chief  attraction.  Such  was  the  state  of  sensualism  in 
the  early  part  of  the  century,  such  the  delight  in  sensual  gratification, 
that  the  coarse  and  vulgar  of  expression  if  only  witty  and  pungent  in 
design,  were  the  favourites  in  the  highest  circles  of  society.  The  charm- 
ing Mary  Montague  was  not  wholly  free  from  faults  of  that  kind, 
though  she  was  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  finished  letter  writ- 
ers of  her  own,  or  any  other  day.  I  must  be  pardoned  for  these 
constant  quotations  from  writers  of  the  times,  it  is  the  only  way 
''  Literature  made  vigorous  shoots  by  the  aid  of  former  culture  and 
soil,  but  manners   experienced  a  woefiil   decline  and  the  arts  made 


500  LOCKE'S  INFLUENCE  ON  CIVILIZATION. 

no  advance."  Eobertson  says  *'  in  consequence  of  the  timid  but  prudent 
policy  of  the  Goyemment,  the  martial  spirit  was  in  a  manner  extin- 
guished in  England.  The  ministers  of  the  day  were  corrupt  and  selfish, 
many  of  them  were  little  better  than  money  lenders  and  brokers,  the 
corrupt  administration  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  when  every  man's  virtue 
was  supposed  to  have  its  price,  contributed  still  farther  to  dissolve  the 
manners  and  principles  of  the  nation  and  parliament  was  obliged  to 
interpose  its  authority  to  suppress  the  inordinate  use  of  spirituous 
liquors.''  Guizot  says  to  understand  thoroughly  the  predominant  in- 
fluence on  the  course  of  civilization  in  France,  we  must  study  in  the 
seventeenth  century  the  French  Grovernment,  and  in  the  eighteenth 
the  French  nation  ;  abroad,  foreign  invasion  impending ;  at  home,  the 
elements  of  government  and  society  in  a  state  of  dissolution ;  and  Disraeli 
says  :  "  In  the  eighteenth  century  free  inquiry  became  universal  in  its 
character  and  objects.  Religion,  politics,  pure  philosophy,  man  and  so- 
ciety, everything  became,  at  once,  the  subject  of  study,  doubt  and  system. 
The  ancient  sciences  were  overturned,  new  sciences  sprung  up,  it  was  a 
movement  which  proceeded  in  every  direction,  though  emanating  from 
one  and  the  same  impulse.  There  never  was  a  period  in  which  the 
government  of  facts  and  external  realities  were  so  completely  distinct 
from  the  government  of  thought.  The  separation,  of  spiritual  from  tem- 
poral affairs,  had  never  been  real  in  Europe  till  the  eighteenth  century. 
Nothing  could  have  shown  more  truly  the  mad  ungovemed  passions 
connected  with  the  French  Revolution  than  the  murder  of  the  great 
chemist  Lavoisier.  To  quote  again,  "  It  showed  a  noble-minded  and 
benevolent  man,  the  victim  of  revolutionary  rage — ^an  intelligent,  studi- 
ous and  retired  man,|obnoxious  to  the  rabble  love  of  ruin — a  mild,  gene- 
rous and  patriotic  man,  the  instant  prey  of  revolutionary  government, 
which  boasted  of  its  superiority  to  the  vices  of  kings,  of  its  homage  to 
intellect,  and  its  supreme  value  for  the  virtues  of  private  life,  yet  it  mur- 
dered Lavoisier  without  a  moment's  hesitation  or  a  moment's  remorsa'* 
Lord  Brougham  says,  "  the  lustre  which  the  labours  of  Lavoisier  had 
shed  over  the  scientific  renown  of  France,  the  valuable  services  which 
he  had  rendered  her  in  so  many  important  departments  of  her  affairs 
the  virtues  with  adorned  his  character  and  made  his  philosophy  beloved 
as  well  as  revered,  were  all  destined  to  meet  the  reward  with  which  the 
tyranny  of  vulgar  faction  is  sure  to  recompense  the  good  and  the  wise.'' 
Then  with  regard  to  the  warlike  spirit  of  the  age.  Professor  Creasy 
places  the  battle  of  Valmy  in  his  "  six  decisive  battles  of  the  world,"  and 
remarks  "  the  raw  artisans  and  tradesmen,  the  clumsy  burghers,  the 
base  mechanic  and  low  peasant  churls,  as  it  had  been  the  fashion  to  term 
the  middle  and  lower  classes  in  France,  found  that  they  could  face  can- 
non balls,  pull  triggers  and  cross  bayonets,  without  having  been  drilled 


/ 


LOCKE'S  INFLUENCE  ON  CIVILIZATION.  601 

into  military  machines)  and  without  having  been  officered  fix>m  the 
scions  of  noble  houses ;  they  awoke  to  the  consciousness  of  their  own  in- 
stinctive soldiership ;  they  at  once  acquired  confidence  in  themselves 
and  in  each  other,  and  that  confidence  soon  grew  into  a  spirit  of  un- 
bounded audacity  and  ambition."  So  with  r^ard  to  Christianity.  The 
general  toleration  which  was  the  immediate  consequence  of  the  French 
revolution,  gave  birth  to  great  freedom  of  discussion  relative  to  religious 
matters  ;  the  crowds  of  sectaries,  no  longer  held  together  by  the  common 
bond  of  persecution,  or  restrained  by  fear  from  unveiling  the  supposed 
errors  of  the  Church,  entered  into  a  bold  investigation  of  the  sublime 
mysteries  of  Christianity ;  and  the  apostles  of  each  sect  keenly  censured 
the  tenets  of  all  who  presumed  to  differ  from  them  upon  any  particular 
point.  Numberless  disputes  were  hotly  agitated  about  doctrines  of  no 
importance  to  the  rational  Christian ;  the  spirit  of  infidelity,  as  it  always 
will  in  an  enlightened  age,  kept  pace  with  that  of  enthusiasm,  as  many 
of  the  wilder  sectaries  laid  claim  to  divine  illuminations,  and  in  their 
ravings  pretended  to  prophecy.  Some  men  of  sceptical  principles  endea- 
voured to  bring  into  suspicion,  and  even  to  destroy,  all  prophecy ;  while 
others  called  in  question  the  authenticity  of  the  sacred  books,  both  his- 
torical and  prophetical.  At  the  head  of  these  sceptical  writers,  and  the 
most  dangerous  because  the  most  agreeable,  may  be  placed  Shaftesbury 
and  Bolingbroke.  To  please  the  latter  Pope  wrote  his  semi-religious 
article  on  the  order  of  Nature,  ending  with, — 

"  In  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  Reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  whatever  is,  is  right.** 

Tindal,  in  his  "  Christianity  as  Old  as  the  Creation,"  denied  the  necessity 
of  the  Grospel,  as  he  affirmed  it  promulgates  no  principle  or  precept  with 
which  mankind  was  not  formerly  acquainted.  Hume,  in  his  "  Essay  on 
Miracles,"  struck  directly  at  its  foundation,  by  attempting  to  show  that 
no  Jmma/n  testimony  is  sufficient  to  establish  the  reality  of  a  miracle ; 
and  an  author  no  less  able  or  learned  than  either,  has  written  an  histor- 
ical deduction  to  prove  Christianity  to  be  of  human  origin.  But  to 
quote  the  words  of  a  most  learned  and  beautiful  writer,  "  these  rude 
attacks  have  only  served  more  firmly  to  establish  true  religion,  while 
they  have  given  a  severe  check  to  enthusiasm."  They  have  led  divines 
to  examine  minutely  into  the  proofs  of  revelation,  and  made  them  sen- 
sible of  the  propriety  of  explaining  more  rationally  the  mysteries  in  the 
Christian  system. 

I  have  thus  selected  one  of  the  instances  when  ^'  coming  events  cast 
their  shadows  before," — instances  from  the  earliest  history  of  philosophy, 
and  existing  in  our  own  day,  when  the  philosophy  of  the  time  or  spirit 
of  the  age  trains  men's  minds  for  the  friture  realities  of  life,  so  that  when 
great  developments  are  manifested  the  world  is  prepared  to  receive  them. 


ROXY. 

BY    EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 


"wiDOWKBa  ABI  DBKADnii  PABOICDUB,   OOU>B>L." 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
THB  BULINQ  ELDBB  INTBBFEBES. 
Mr.  Hiohburt  w&b  &  PreBbjterian  of  the  Western  PenoBylvftnia  stamp. 
Generations  of  training  in  the  Calvinistic  fonnulaa  and  the  Pnebyte- 
rian  forma  had  produced  perhaps,  a  hereditary  habit  of  thought.  He 
could  not  see  anything  is  any  other  light  than  that  of  bis  traditional 
opinions.  Above  all,  these  moshroom  Methodists  who  did  nothing 
decently  or  in  order,  were  to  be  condemnod.  To  admit  that  any  la^ 
nnmber  of  them  were  really  Christian  wonld  be  to  suppose  that  God 
had  chosen  to  convert  more  people  through  unsound  doctrines  tending 
to  Pelaglanism  than  he  had  through  the  preaching  of  the  true  doctrines 
of  divine  sovereignty  and  unconditional  election.     The  fact  that^so 


ROXY.  •     503 

many  Methodists  backslid  was  to  him  evidence  beyond  question  that 
they  had  not  much  of  God's  grace  among  them. 

When  Mrs.  Highbury  had  told  him  what  Miss  Moore  had  said,  Mr. 
Highbury  felt  that  the  time  for  rebuke  and  reproof  had  come.  The 
reyival  of  the  past  winter  had  irritated  him.  The  large  numbers  that 
had  joined  the  Methodists  were  an  eye-sore  ;  for  churches  of  differing 
sects  in  a  small  town  are  very  like  rival  comer  grocers,  each  watching 
with  jealous  eye  the  increase  of  his  neighbour's  trade. 

After  debating  the  matter  for  a  day  or  two  and  growing  gradually 
warm  with  righteous  indignation  as  he  reflected,  Mr.  Highbury  put  on 
his  hat  on  Thursday  morning  and  walked  down  the  street  towards 
Lefaure's.  The  singing  locusts  were  making  their  sweet,  monotonous, 
drowsy  din  in  the  air ;  the  great  running  rose-bushes  were  climbing  up 
to  the  second-story  windows  with  their  arms  full  of  white  and  red  and 
yellow  roses ;  there  were  faint  sounds  of  the  pastoral  music  of  tinkling 
cow-bells  in  the  distance,  and  on  either  hand  the  green  hills  grew  hazy 
where  they  were  touched  by  the  blue  sky  flecked  with  light  clouds. 
But  no  sound  of  singing  locust,  of  faint  far-away  cow-bells  and  crowing 
chickens,  or  sight  of  rich  rose-trees  or  vista  of  high-wooded  hill,  and  of 
soft  white  cloud  sailing  through  the  infinite  ocean  of  deep  blue  sky, 
touched  the  soul  of  the  ruling  elder.  Highbury's  horizon  was  narrow  ; 
there  were  no  objects  within  it  but  himself,  his  family,  his  trade,  and 
his  church.  All  else  was  far  away  in  the  dim  distance  like  the 
unnotted  sound  of  the  cow-bells.  For  there  is  a  sky  in  every  man's 
soul,  and  some  souls  are  near-sighted. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Whittaker*s  sky  was  clear.  He  came  out  of 
his  room  at  nine  o'clock,  walked  along  the  porch  and  stood  looking  at 
the  hiUs  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  scanning  the  green  apples  in  the 
young  trees  near  at  hand,  and  watching  the  white  clouds,  not  in  the  sky, 
but  floating  in  the  under-sky  which  he  saw  below  in  the  waters  of  the 
wide  river.  He  heard  faintly  the  distant  crowing  of  the  cocks— even 
from  a  mile  away,  across  the  river,  he  could  hear  them.  He  heard  the 
cow-bells,  and  the  *'  chook,  chook,"  of  the  red-bird,  the  conversational 
"  can't,  can't,"  of  the  cat-bird,  whose  musical  powers  had  all  been 
exhausted  by  his  matin  song.  The  time  for  him  to  see  Roxy  again  was 
drawing  near,  and  his  spirit  was  full  of  hope.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
his  soul  was  like  the  great  wide  Ohio, — ^it  mirrored  in  its  depths  the 
glory  of  the  sky  above.  Presently  old  Jacques  Dupin — ^Twonnet's 
grandfather — came  hobbling  out  of  his  room  into  the  sunlight.  He  was 
a  picturesque  figure,  with  his  trowsers  of  antiquated  cut,  his  loose  jacket, 
and  his  red  yam  cap,  pointed  at  the  top  and  tasseled. 

Full  of  human  kindness  and  sympathy  this  morning,  Whittaker  hur- 
ried over  to  meet  the  octogenarian,  and  to  inquire  how  he  was. 


504  BOXY. 

"  Comment-YOQB  portez-voos  aujoord'hui  t ''  cried  the  minister  in  the 
deaf  old  man's  ear. 

"  TMs-bien,  very  well,  I  remercie,  M'sieur."  The  old  man  felt  obliged 
to  make  an  effort  to  speak  in  English,  out  of  coorteey  to  Whittaker's 
feeble  French. 

The  minister  assisted  the  old  man  to  a  seat  in  the  large  rocking-chair ; 
then  he  adjusted  a  stick  of  wood  under  the  rockers  so  that  the  chair 
would  not  rock,  for  the  old  man  could  not  bear  the  sense  of  insecurity 
which  the  motion  of  the  chair  gave  him. 

"  Mr.  Wittakare,"  he  began,  in  a  querulous  voice,  as  soon  as  his  feet 
had  been  placed  upon  his  foot-stool — '*  Mr.  Wittakare,  je  ne  sais  quoi — 
I  don't  know  wat  God  A'mighty  means.  Hon  fr^re — my  brothare  Guil- 
laume,  who  was  good  for  somet'in',  he  die ;  my  cousin  Bernard,  il  est 
mort  aussi,  il  y  a  deux  ans — it  ees  so  much  as  two  yare  past,  and  my 
sodur,  she  aussi  ees  gone.  Moi — I  am  not  wort'  so  much  as  a  picayune, 
and  moi — ^je  leef  on,  on,  on.  Pardi,  I  don't  know  vat  Gk>d  A'mighty  ees 
about  to  leef  te  dead  dree  vat  bears  no  pommes  at  all  and  to  cut  down 
all  de  rest     Eh  !  que  pensez-vous,  Monsieur — ^vat  you  dink  1 " 

And  then  without  waiting  for  Mr.  Whittaker  to  reply,  the  old  man 
went  on : 

**  Ven  I  vas  a  boy  in  Suisse,  I  remembare  dat " 

But  it  was  at  the  beginning  of  this  reminiscence  that  Mr.  Whittaker's 
mind  wandered  entirely  away  from  the  old  man  in  the  red  cap  sitting 
there  under  the  overhanging  vines — wandering  away  from  his  story  of 
boyhood  in  Switzerland,  his  garrulous  memories  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud 
and  of  the  simple  mountain  life  so  different  from  that  of  his  old  age  on 
the  fertile  banks  of  this  great  river.  Mr.  Whittaker  heard  him  not,  for  all 
the  time  his  mind  went  after  his  heart  to  the  home  of  the  shoemaker's 
daughter,  with  its  honeysuckle  and  morning-glory  vines,  and  to  the 
morning-glory  herself.  At  last  the  old  man  had  reached  some  sort  of 
denouement  in  his  polyglot  tale,  he  tapped  Whittaker's  knee  with  his 
trembling  hand  and  burst  into  an  old  man's  hearty  laugh — faint  and  fiiur 
down  in  the  throat  like  the  gurgling  of  subterranean  waters. 

*^  Vat  you  dink— que  pensez-vous.  Monsieur  1  Ees  it  not — ^ha-ha — 
ees  it  not — he-he — trte  drole  1 " 

''  It  is  very  funny,  no  doubt,"  answered  the  other  in  some  confusion. 
But  at  that  moment  Mr.  Highbury  was  ushered  to  the  porch  by  Twon- 
net  After  a  few  minutes  of  speech  with  the  old  man,  the  ruling  elder 
took  the  minister's  arm  and  asked  for  an  interview  in  private,  leading 
lus  companion  to  the  further  end  of  the  long  porch,  where  they  sat  down 
upon  a  bench. 

Mr.  Highbury  began  about  the  Methodists,  their  unsoundness,  their 
illiterate  preachers  and  uninstructed  laymen,  their  reception  of  all  sorts 


BOXY.  506 

of  people  without  any  discrimination.  Then  he  enlarged  on  the  neces- 
sity for  building  up  a  more  intelligent  piety  and  one  sound  in  doctrine 
and  not  running  into  wild  excitement 

Mr.  Whittaker  assented. 

But  Mr.  Highbury  thought  that  Presbyterians  should  not  associate 
too  much  with  Methodists. 

Mr.  Whittaker  did  not  say  anything. 

Mr.  Highbury  thought  that  Mr.  Whittaker  would  do  well  not  to  visit 
at  Adams's  again,  because  it  would  make  talk,  and 

But  just  at  this  critical  moment  came  Twonnet  She  had  already 
affected  to  have  much  business  in  the  room  which  opened  just  behind 
the  seat  occupied  by  the  two  gentlemen,  she  had  observed  closely  their 
countenances,  and  now  she  brought  a  tray  of  bright  striped  apples, 
insisting  in  her  most  winning  fashion  that  Mr.  Highbury  should  accept 
one.  The  ruling  elder  was  vexed  that  his  speech  should  have  been 
broken  off  just  when  he  was  drawing  it  to  a  focus,  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it.  And  besides,  he  was  human,  and  it  was  not  in  his  man's  nature 
to  be  displeased  with  such  distinguished  hospitality  from  so  cheery  a 
brunette  as  Twonnet  She  paused  after  the  gentlemen  had  taken  apples 
to  talk  a  minnte  with  the  half  impatient  Highbury,  shaking  her  brown 
curls  with  merry  laughter  and  chatter  about  nothing  at  all,  and  so  filling 
that  gentleman's  head  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  her  presence  that  he 
found  it  hard  to  resume  his  severity  when  her  merry  eyes  were  gone. 

He  gathered  up  his  dispersed  forces,  however,  and  prepared  to  return 
to  the  charge.  But  at  the  disadvantage,  now,  that  the  enemy  had  had 
time  to  put  himself  under  arms.  Whittaker  was  slow  to  arouse,  but 
while  Twonnet  talked,  he  had  been  busy  guessing  the  drift  of  the  ruling 
elder's  speech  and  in  growing  a  little  indignant. 

"  I  was  saying,  Mr.  Whittaker — ^a — ^that "  resumed  Mr.  Highbury, 

hesitantly. 

**  That  I  ought  not  to  go  to  Mr.  Adams's  so  often,"  put  in  the  minister's 
whose  nerves  were  irritable  from  the  excitement  to  which  he  had  been 
subjected  of  late ;  "  and  I,  on  my  part,  insist  that  I  have  a  right  to  go 
to  see  the  man  if  I  find  his  company  agreeable." 

Mr.  Highbury  was  silent  a  moment.  Who  could  have  dreamed  that  a 
minister  on  three  hundred  dollars  a  year  would  have  the  pluck  to  speak 
to  the  richest  man  in  his  church  as  though  they  were  at  all  equals  1  He 
would  sooner  have  expected  his  store-boy  to  show  spirit  than  Whittaker. 
What  is  the  use  of  a  moneyed  man  in  a  church,  if  he  is  not  to  control  the 
pasttrl 

"  But  perhaps  you  do  not  know,*'  continued  the  elder,  "  that  your 
going  there  so  often  has  started  a  report  that  you  are  engaged  to  Eoxy 
Adams." 


506  ROXY. 

Mr.  Whittaker  was  silent.  He  could  trathfully  say  that  he  was  not 
betrothed  to  Boxy.  But  he  felt  that  this  would  be  a  cowardly  shirking 
of  the  issue. 

"  Now,  of  course,  there  is  no  truth  in  this  report,"  continued  the 
merchant,  in  a  tone  which  indicated  his  belief  that  there  was ;  but  think 
how  much  damage  the  idea — ^the  very  idea  may  do  us.  What  a  shock 
it  is  to  our  congregation  to  think  of  you  marrjring  a  girl  who  was  never 
taught  a  word  of  the  catechism,  who  doesn't  believe  in  the  doctrine  of 
Gknl's  sovereignty,  and  the  election  of  grace,  who  sings  those  wild 
Methodist  songs,  and  prajrs  in  meeting,  and  even  makes  speeches  in 
love-feast  before  a  crowded  audience.    And  then  she        " 

But  just  here,  to  Mr.  Highbury's  vexation,  and  the  minister's  relief, 
Twonnet  came  upon  the  stage  once  more,  entering  by  way  of  the  garden 
gate,  with  a  nosegay  of  pinks,  and  roses,  touch-me-nots,  and  Johnny- 
jump-ups,  intermingled  with  some  asparagus  twigs,  and  some  old-man- 
in-green.  This  she  presented  to  the  disturbed  Mr.  Highbury,  asking 
pardon  for  interrupting  the  conversation  and  requesting  him  to  give  the 
bouquet  to  Mrs.  Highbury  for  her.  She  said  that  she  wanted  to  show 
Mrs.  Highbury  which  had  the  finest  pinks.  Then,  as  she  started  away, 
she  turned  around  to  ask  Mr.  Highbury  if  he  had  heard  about  Mrs. 
Boone,  the  poor  woman  whose  husband  was  a  drunkard. 

''  Boxy  Adams,"  she  said,  with  entire  innocency — "  Boxy  Adams 
went  down  there  two  weeks  ago  and  nursed  that  poor  creature  for  three 
days,  without  leaving  her  day  or  night,  and  without  taking  more  than 
an  hour  of  sleep  at  a  time.  I  didn't  know  anything  about  it  till  Mrs. 
Boone's  little  boy  came  up  here  and  brought  me  a  note  from  Boxy  ask- 
ing for  a  bottle  of  wine  to  keep  the  old  woinan  alive,  for  the  fever  had 
left  her  nearly  dead.  And  then  I  went  down  to  help  Boxy,  but  the  old 
creature  wouldn't  drink  a  spoonful  of  wine  and  water  out  of  my  hand. 
It  was  all  Boxy,  Boxy ;  and  Boxy  nursed  her  as  if  she'd  been  her  own 
mother.  That's  what  you  might  call  pure  religion  and  undefiled,  isn't 
it,  Mr.  Highbury  ? " 

"  Well,  yes,  if  it  came  from  faith  and  was  not  self-righteousnesa  All 
owr  righteousness  is  as  filthy  rags,  you  know.  I  have  no  right  to  judge. 
Boxy  9Ufmi  to  be  a  Christian." 

^'  Doesn't  the  Bible  say  we  shall  know  them  by  their  fruits  \ "  returned 
Twonnet.  "  For  my  part,  I  think  if  Boxy  isn't  saved  the  rest  of  Lu- 
zerne had  better  give  up.  Of  course,  though,  I  believe  in  salvation  by 
grace— there's  no  chance  for  such  as  me." 

And  with  that  the  girl  went  away,  laughing,  and  Mr.  Whittaker  won- 
dered whether  some  kind  providence  had  sent  her  to  his  rescue,  or  whether, 
after  all,  this  merciful  girl  had  not  a  depth  of  finesse  in  her  character. 


ROXY.  507 

Had  he  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  her  so  long  without  finding  out 
that  she  was  something  more  than  a  merry  superficial  chatterer ) 

Meantime  Mr.  Highbury  now  saw  that  he  must  change  his  tack.  He 
could  not  go  on  assailing  even  the  theology  of  Boxy  Adams  without 
bringing  to  an  explosion  the  gathering  indignation  of  the  cool  New 
England  parson,  whose  face  had  been  growing  redder  for  some  time. 

<'  Certainly,  what  she  says  about  Boxy  Adams  is  true.  I  wish  she  was 
a  Presbyterian.  Then  we  might  stand  some  chance  of  getting  Mark 
Bonamy.  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  dead  in  love  with  her.  And  Fm  afraid — 
you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Whittaker, — I'm  afraid  any  interference  on  your 
part  with  Mark's  prospects  there  might  drive  all  his  good  resolutions  out 
of  his  head.    But  I  must  go." 

For  just  at  that  moment  Mr.  Highbury  remembered  with  a  pang  that 
there  was  to  be  an  ''  animal  show  "  in  town  that  very  day,  and  that 
the  store  must  even  now  be  full  of  country  customers.  He  hurriedly 
bade  Mr.  Whittaker  good-bye.  He  hardly  took  time  to  shake  hands 
civilly  with  the  dreamy  old  man  in  the  red  cap  at  the  other  end  of  the 
porch.  He  left  the  pinks  and  touch-me-nots  lying  on  the  bench  where 
he  had  sat,  and  hastened  through  the  hall  out  of  the  door  and  up  the 
street,  noting,  as  he  walked,  not  the  scenery,  but  the  number  of  waggons 
standing  by  the  hitching-rails,  at  either  side  to  the  court-house  square, 
and  calculating  how  much  of  *'  bit "  caHco  and  brown  sugar,  how  many 
clocks,  and  shoes,  and  nails,  and  clothes-lines  he  might  sell  during  the 
day. 

But  the  minister  sat  still  upon  the  porch.  The  last  arrow  of  the  re- 
treating assailant  had  wounded  him.  His  life  had  been  one  of  severe 
self-denial.  For  a  few  days,  he  had  thought  that  duty  and  inclination 
lay  in  the  same  direction.  Now,  this  awful  spectre  of  the  harm  he 
might  do  to  the  eternal  welfEure  oi  Bonamy  stood  in  his  path.  In  his 
day  men  believed  in  perdition — ^heU  was  a  very  real  and  horrible  place 
of  everlasting  torture.  If,  now,  he  should  be  the  means  of  toppling 
over  poor  Mark  Bonamy  into  that  abjrss,  and  even  then  after  all  should 
be  forgiven,  what  an  awful  thing  it  would  be  for  him  to  think  about  in 
eternity,  that  he  had  wrought  endless  misery  to  a  human  soul ! 

The  birds,  the  rose-bushes,  the  singing  locusts  and  all  the  sweet  and 
drowsy  music  of  a  summer  day,  and  all  the  beauty  of  the  hills  and  the 
placidity  of  the  river  seemed  to  belong  to  another  world  now.  He  was 
a  truant  school-boy,  who  had  had  a  good  time.  But  now  he  was  brought 
back  to  take  his  flogging,  and  the  world  did  not  seem  so  pleasant  any 
more. 

Twonnet  stood  near  him  when  he  looked  up.  The  droll  girl  had  set 
her  face  into  the  very  expression  that  was  characteristic  of  Mr.  Highbury. 

*'  Don't  marry  a  Methodist,"  she  began,  mimicking  the  ruling  elder's 


508  BOXY. 

tone ;   **  don't  marry   any  singing,  shouting,  shoe-maker's  daughter ; 
marry  my  niece,  Caroline,  now,  she  is  good  and  quiet  and ** 

The  drollery  and  mimicking  of  manner  were  perfect,  but  they  jarred 
upon  Mr.  Whittaker's  present  state  of  feeling.  He  was  amazed  at  this 
sudden  revelation  of  the  real  Twonnet ;  but  he  was  in  trouble,  and  he 
wanted  sympathy,  not  diversion. 

'*  Oh,  Twonnet "  he  cried,  pathetically,  reaching  out  his  hands  in  sud- 
den impulse,  and  seizing  hers,  "  don't  make  fun,  I  am  sick.  I  have  done 
wrong.    Think  what  harm  I've  done,  may  be,  to  Mr.  Bonamy." 

"  Mark  Bonamy  !  Pshaw ! "  said  Twonnet.  But  she  went  no  further. 
For  the  minister's  voice  in  appealing  thus  to  her,  his  act  of  confidence 
in  taking  her  hands  had  touched  her  heart,  and  she  felt  again  that  old 
frightful  pang  of  love  or  jealousy  come  back.  She  longed  to  comfort 
the  good,  troubled  man.  Why  should  she  plead  for  Boxy  1  Boxy  had 
everybody  to  love  her.    But  who  loved  Twonnet  1 

The  minister  suddenly  released  her  hands,  and  went  to  his  room. 
But  all  the  drollery  was  gone  from  the  heart  of  Twonnet.  She  opened 
the  gate  through  the  fence,  went  down  between  the  currant-bushes  and 
hollyhocks  to  the  further  end  of  the  garden.  There  she  sat  down  on  a 
little  stool  beneath  a  quince-tree.  And  cried.  She  who  was  so  strong 
that  she  had  undertaken  to  deliver  her  friends  was  weak  now.  The 
voice  of  her  friend  crying  for  help  had  made  her  helpless ;  for  she  was  a 
woman.  And  much  as  she  declared  to  herself  in  this  hour  that  she  would 
never  marry  a  sober,  hesitating,  severe  minister,  her  heart  still  gave  the 
lie  to  her  thoughts  as  she  saw,  in  her  memory  his  tearful  eyes  upturned 
to  her  own,  and  heard  him  call  her  name  so  eagerly. 

Then  i^e  grew  angry  and  said :  "  What  does  he  ask  me  to  help  him 
in  his  love  affairs  for  1    I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 


CHAPTEB  XX. 

A  MILLSTONE. 

The  temptations  of  a  scrupulous  man  like  Whittaker  are  never^  gross. 
The 

"  Fierce  AnUiropophagif 
Sceptre,  diaboli. 
What  scared  St.  Anthony, 
Hobgoblins,  lemures, 
I>reams  of  antipodes, 
Night-riding  incubi 
Troubling  the  fantasy,*' 

are  not  for  him.     But  it  is  a  most  unhappy  thing  for  a  man  to  be  both 
scrupulous  and  logical.     The  combination  is  bad.     The  scrupulous  man,^ 


/ 


BOXY.  50^ 

and  especially  the  scrupaloos  woman,  whose  logic  is  defective,  is  saved 
from  a  thousand  snares.  On  the  other  hand  the  severely  logical  man 
who  is  not  scrupolons  escapes  easily.  This  is  how  it  happens  that  the 
harshest  creeds  do  little  harm.  One  man  is  saved  by  his  laziness,  another 
by  his  transparent  quibbles,  while  a  third  walks  boldly  out  the  front 
door,  having  but  a  feeble  moral  sense.  Mark  Bonamy,  for  instance,, 
would  not  have  been  troubled  by  Whittaker's  doubts.  His  easy-going 
^otism,  his  calm  confidence  that  his  own'  purposes  and  welfare  were  of 
the  first  importance  would  have  furnished  a  premise  from  which  to  draw 
any  convenient  conclusion.  But  poor  Whittaker  was  ground  between 
his  clear  logic  on  the  one  hand,  and  his  severe  scruples  on  the  other. 
He  had  an  instinctive  doubt  of  the  security  of  Mark's  religious  life.  He 
did  not  question  the  doctrine  of  final  perseverance,  but  then  he  could 
not  be  sure  of  the  genuineness  of  a  conversion.  What  if  he  should  of- 
fend one  of  these  little  ones)  It  were  better  that  a  millstone  were 
hanged  about  his  neck. 

He  did  not  dare  go  back  to  that  forbidden  logic  which  absolves  itself 
from  obligation  by  pushing  on  toward  fatalism.  He  shuddered  at  An- 
tinomianism,  for  that  is  the  extinction  of  conscience.  It  was  at  this 
point  that  the  intuitions  of  an  honest  nature  put  a  stop  to  logic. 

In  a  state  of  mind  such  as  his,  there  is  one  thing  stronger  than  rea- 
soning. It  is  the  persistence  of  ideas.  Once  mastered  by  the  notion 
that  in  wedding  Bozy  he  woidd  be  offending  against  one  of  those  who 
were  yet  but  babes  in  Ghnst :  he  could  not  shake  it  off.  The  awful 
words  "  millstone  about  his  neck  "  re-echoed  in  his  mind. 

He  tried  to  write  a  letter  withdrawing  his  offer.     He  began  :  '^  My 

dear  Boxy ''  but  decided  that  that  was  too  cordial    Then  he  wrote 

"Dear  friend "  but  that  would  not  do.     "Miss-  Adams"  was  too 

cold.  At  last  after  tearing  up  several  sheets  of  paper  he  resolved  not 
to  write  at  all.  Qood  sense,  which  is  not  exactly  either  conscience  or 
logic,  but  both  with  something  added,  began  to  revive.  Why  not  go 
to  Boxy  without  waiting  for  the  week  to  expire  and  learn  from  her  what 
was  the  exact  state  of  the  case )  It  was  nonsense  to  decide  such  a  ques- 
tion for  her.  Besides,  the  half  threat  of  Highbury  made  it  quite  neces- 
sary that  he  should  assert  his  right  to  do  as  he  thought  best. 

When  he  set  out  to  go  to  see  Boxy,  the  town  was  full  of  people  come 
to  see  the  *' animal  show.''  The  whole  stagnant  life  of  the  country 
about  was  stirred  by  the  arrival  of  a  spectacle.  Here  wore  women 
standing  by  the  hour  with  babies  in  their  arms,  waiting  to  see  the  out- 
side of  the  box  waggons  as  they  passed  along  the  streets.  Horses  were 
neighing  to  other  horses  all  about  the  open  square  in  the  middle  of  the 
town,  and  groups  of  people  formed  and  dissolved  and  re-formed  again/ 


510  ROXY. 

like  molecules  in  efferyeecence,  while  everywhere,  girls  in  new  calico  and 
lawn,  and  boys  in  cotton  dnlkng,  hurried  to  and  fro. 

When  Whittaker  neared  Eoxy's  house  he  began  to  doubt  again 
whether  he  was  acting  wisely  or  not  So  Jie  walked  on  further  till  he 
came  to  a  gate  leading  into  a  pasture.  Through  this  into  a  grass-bor- 
dered path,  along  the  path  up  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  he  travelled 
mechanically ;  then  up  the  rocky  hill-side,  through  the  patches  of 
papaw,  he  went  clambering  over  a  stone  wall  into  a  vineyard,  and 
over  another  into  a  road  on  top  of  the  ridge.  From  the  summit 
he  saw  the  whole  village  at  his  feet,  the  river,  the  distant  hills, 
and  all  the  glorious  landscape.  He  saw  as  in  a  dream,  for  he  cared 
neither  for  river  nor  sky,  hill-slope  nor  town.  He  stopped  a  moment 
to  single  out  the  log  house  in  which  lived  the  shoe-maker's  daughter. 
Then  he  strode  eagerly  onward,  at  first  along  the  open  road,  afterward 
turning  whimsically  into  a  disused  waggon-track,  almost  overgrown  now 
with  bright  May-apple  plants.  Out  of  this  he  turned  into  a  blind  cow- 
path  leading  into  a  dark  ravine  or  "  hollow."  Down  this  he  followed 
in  the  rocky  bed  of  a  dry  "  branch,"  in  the  shadow  of  beech  and  butter- 
nut trees,  and  those  noble  tulip-trees  which  they  dass  with  poplars  in 
Indiana, — until  at  last  he  came  suddenly  out  upon  the  bank  of  Indian 
Oreek.  He  had  walked  two  rough  and  rocky  miles.  He  had  meant  to 
think  when  he  started,  but  he  had  not  thought  at  alL  He  had  only  a 
sense  of  having  left  the  noisy  little  town  behind  him,  and  of  having 
marched  straight  forward  to  the  mouth  of  this  dark  hoUow.  He  had 
not  been  able  to  walk  away  from  Ids  perplexities.  He  stood  and  looked 
at  the  woods ;  he  idly  traced  the  gigantic  grape-vines  up  to  where  they 
were  interlaced  in  the  tree-boughs,  a  hundred  feet  or  so  from  the  ground ; 
he  stared  vacantly  at  the  stagnant  creek,  the  sluggish  current  of  which 
seemed  to  be  drying  up  in  the  summer  heat,  spite  of  the  protection  of 
the  dense  forest.  A  solitary  ugly,  short-tailed,  long-legged  bittern 
flapped  awkwardly  past  with  discordant  screams,  and  a  few  hoarse  bull- 
frogs croaked  in  the  margin  of  the  water.  Whittaker,  heated  and  tired, 
with  all  his  fiery  eagerness  spent,  sat  down  on  a  moss-grown  log,  and 
thought  again  what  an  awful  thing  it  was  to  have  a  mill-stone  hanged 
about  one's  neck.  Then,  from  the  mere  religious  habit  of  his  life,  he 
knelt  on  the  bed  of  leaves.  But  he  did  not  pray  ;  he  only  lay  across 
the  log  and  listened  to  the  beating  of  his  heart,  and  recalled  images  of 
Roxy  with  her  background  of  the  quaint  old  house  and  its  lonely 
interior. 

After  a  long  time  he  started  slowly  and  wearily  backward  to  Luzerne. 

Meanwhile  the  "  animal  show  "  at  the  appointed  time,  "took  up,"  as 
the  country  people  expressed  it.  It  was  a  poor  enough  show.  The 
few  beasts  looked  very  tame  and  dispirited,  but  then  the  visitors  paused 


i 


/ 


BOXY.  611 

for  only  a  brief  interview  with  the  scrawny  lion,  that  bore  but  a  weak 
resemblance  to  his  own  portrait  on  the  show-bills  as  the  "  king  of  beasts ;  ** 
they  did  not  waste  much  time  on  the  small  tiger,  from  '*  the  jungles  of 
India.''  After  giving  a  cracker  or  two  to  the  elephant,  they  assembled 
in  a  great  crowd  in  front  of  the  cage  of  grinning,  chattering  monkeys. 
In  that  steady-going  age  people  were  not  conscious  that  there  might  be 
aught  of  family  affection  in  this  attraction.  Monkeys  then  were  mon- 
keys pure  and  simple ;  one  could  look  at  them  as  one  looks  at  carica- 
tures of  nobody  in  particular ;  one  might  laugh  at  them  without  a  sense 
of  gambolling  rudely  over  the  graves  of  his  ancestors. 

Near  this  cage  stood  Twonnet,  another  girl  now  from  the  Twonnet  of 
the  morning,  laughing  in  her  free  childish  way  at  the  pranks  of  the 
monkeys.  She  had  all  the  children  with  her — Cecille,  Isabelle,  Adolphe, 
Louis  and  little  Julie,  whom  they  called  "  Teet,"  a  foreshortening  of 
Petite.  A  little  monkey  had  just  pulled  the  tail  of  the  big  ape  in  the 
next  cage,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  children,  when  who  should  come 
along  but  Jemima.  Squaring  herself  off  where  she  could  see,  she  de- 
clared that  **  them  air  monkeys  was  a  kind  of  people.  Only  needed  a 
little  dressin'  up  and  you'd  have  human  critters.  An'  they  would  be  no 
bigger  than  most  folks.  They'd  do  to  run  for  the  legislator,  Mr. 
Bonamy." 

This  last  to  Mark,  who  made  his  appearance  at  this  moment  in  com- 
pany with  Roxy. 

**  Can't  talk  well  enough  for  that,"  he  answered. 

"  Why  ! "  said  Twonnet,  always  ready  for  attack  when  Mark  was 
at  hand.  '^  I  didn't  suppose  you  Methodists  would  attend  such  a  placa 
Didn't  they  church  Wayne  Thomas  for  going  to  a  circus  last  year  1 " 

"  Yes  but  that  was  a  circus,"  said  Boxy.  *^  This  kind  of  a  show  has 
nothing  wrong  in  it.  It  gives  a  body  information.  I'm  sure  it's  better 
than  reading  Goldsmith's  '  Animated  Nature.' " 

'*  It's  right  improvin'  I'm  shore,"  said  Jemima,  with  droll  mock  gra- 
vity. **  Shouldn't  think  they'd  be  any  use  o'  your  goin'  to  Texas,  now, 
Mr.  Bonamy." 

"  Why  1 " 

"  Oh,  the  people  must  be  so  much  *  improved '  by  catamounts  and 
other  varmint  that  they  can  see  any  day  without  pay  that  missionaries 
ain't  needed.  But  J  suppose  animals — bars  an'  rattle-snakes  and  sich — 
haint  improving  to  the  mind  till  they're  put  in  cages." 

''But,"  said  Boxy  timidly,  like  a  person  caught  doing  something 
wrong,  "  it  isn't  any  harm  to  look  at  these  creatures.  They  are  God's 
works,  you  know." 

**  Yes,  but  some  of  God's  works  haint  calc'lated  to  be  admired  while 
they  are  running  'round  loose.     If  Mark — Mr.  Bonamy  here — finds  a 


512  ROXY. 

nasty,  p'ison  copperhead  snake  under  his  piller  some  night,  I  don't  'low 
but  what  he'll  up  with  a  stick  and  give  him  a  right  hard  knock  on  the 
head,  smashing  Gk>d's  works  all  to  pieces." 

<*  That  I  wUl,  Jemima,  kill  him  first  and  admire  him  afterward,"  said 
Mark  laughing  in  his  hearty,  unreserved  fashion. 

Slowly  the  people  dispersed  after  watching  the  under-fed  tiger  de- 
vour a  very  tough  piece  of  meat,  and  hearing  the  lion  roar  in  fierce 
discontent  over  a  bone  that  gave  him  little  promise  of  a  good  supper. 
Mark  and  Koxy  as  they  walked  homeward  together  did  not  meditate 
much  on  God's  works  which  they  had  seen.  They  had  also  the  misfor- 
tune to  meet  Mr.  Whittaker  returning,  hungry  and  £Eigged,  from  his 
long  tramp  in  the  woods,  and  disappointed  at  having  knocked  in  vain 
at  the  door  of  Kozy's  house.  A  sudden  pain  smote  the  girl's  heart. 
Had  he  been  to  see  her )  She  remembered  now  what  sordid  arguments 
her  aunt  had  used  in  favour  of  Mark,  and  she  could  hardly  resist  a  feeling 
that  she  was  betraying  Whittaker,  and  giving  herself  to  Mark  on  account 
of  Mark's  worldly  advantages.  Indeed,  this  very  rebellion  against  the 
aunt's  advice  had  almost  induced  her  to  decline  Mark's  invitation  to  go  to 
the  show.  And  t^en  she  remembered  that  the  time  for  her  r^ly  to 
Whittaker  was  but  two  days  off,  and  how  could  she  maintain  a  judicial 
frame  of  mind  if  she  kept  Mark's^company.  But  he  had  pleaded  that 
he  needed  some  recreation,  there  was  not  much  that  was  pleasant 
left  for  him.  And  Boxy's  heart  had  seconded  his  pleading,  for  the 
more  she  talked  to  him  of  his  plans,  and  pitied  him  in  his  prospective 
trials,  so  much  the  more  she  loved  him.  She  was  a  romancer,  like  all 
girls  of  her  age,  only  her  romances  had  a  reUgious  colouring.  If  she 
could  have  felt  a  hearty  pity  for  Whittaker,  or  painted  pictures  of  possible 
self-immolations  for  him,  she  might  have  loved  hiuL  But  he  had  never 
said  a  word  about  any  sacrifices  that  he  had  made.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  the  impulsive,  romantic,  self-pitying  Mark  should  have  made  the 
deepest  impression  %  Was  there  not  also  a  latent  feeling  that  Bonamy 
needed  her  influence  9  For  all  strong  women  like  to  feel  that  t^ey  are 
necessary  to  somebody,  and  your  pitiful  and  philanthropic  woman  wants 
somebody  to  be  sorry  for. 

Nevertheless  at  sight  of  the  fagged  and  anxious  face  of  the  young 
minister,  she  was  smitten  with  pain,  and  she  lapsed  into  a  melancholy 
from  which  Mark  could  not  arouse  her.  Once  or  twice  she  answered 
him  with  just  a  spice  of  contradictoriness.  Mark  had  meant  to  open  his 
whole  heart  to  her  that  very  afternoon.  Now  he  thought  that  he  had  in 
some  way  offended.  He  bade  her  good-bye  at  the  gate,  and  walked 
slowly  homeward  through  the  long  shadows  of  the  evening,  trying  to 
guess  what  he  had  done  to  give  offence.  U  Boxy  could  have  decided 
the  debate  in  her  heart  as  most  girls  would  have  done,  according  to  her 


/ 


ROXY.  613 

inclination,  there  would  have  been  no  more  halting.  But  the  viaion  of 
Whittaker's  troubled  face  made  her  hesitate,  and  then  the  scrupulous  habit 
of  her  mind  made  everjrthing  that  was  pleasant  seem  to  be  wrong.  Because 
she  loved  Mark  she  feared  that  she  ought  not  to  have  him.  In  imitation 
of  the  early  Methodist  saints  she  sought  to  decide  this  matter,  not  by 
using  her  judgment,  but  by  waiting  for  some  supernatural  impulse  or 
some  outward  token. 

**  Choose  my  way  for  me,  0  Lord  1 ''  she  wrote  in  her  diary  that 
evening. 

And  yet  with  all  her  praying  she  was  in  a  fair  way  to  make  her  own 
choice.  There  is  nothing  so  blind  as  love,  there  is  nothing  so  given  to 
seeing.     It  will  get  even  from  heaven  the  vision  it  seeks. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  SUMMER  STORM. 

Mr.  Whittaker  was  tired,  dispirited,  and  dinnerless,  and  where  one  is 
fagged,  hungry  and  depressed,  the  worst  seems  most  probable.    To  him 
it  was  clear  that  Bonamy  and  Boxy  were  as  good  as  engaged.    He  was 
almost  glad  that  he  had  not  found  Roxy  at  home  when  he  called  on  his 
return  from  the  woods.    What  Bonamy  could  want  with  a  wife,  or  how 
he  could  support  one,  in  his  wild  journey  to  Texas,  Whittaker  could 
not  imagine.    But  then  the  whole  proceeding  of  dispatching  an  impul- 
sive young  lawyer  without  theological  training  on  a  nussion,  was  ridicu- 
lous enough  to  the  well-regulated  mind  of  a  New  Englander.    In  New 
England  he  had  looked  to  Indiana  as  the  fag-end  of  Heathendom  itself, 
but  here  t^e  Indiana  people  were  sending  a  missionary  into  the  outer 
darkness  beyond.     For  himself,  as  yet,  he  was  by  no  means  sure  of 
Bonamy's  conversion.    But  the  question  of  the  harm  he  might  do  to 
Bonamy  was  not  the  only  one  that  touched  him  now.      Partly  from 
scruple,  partly  from  discouragement,  partly  on  account  of  a  wounded 
pride,  and  partly  from  a  sense  of  ii^ury,  he  determined  to  settle  the 
matter  once  for  aU.    To  a  man  accustomed  to  act  with  simplicity  and 
directness,  any  hesitation,    any  complexity    and    entanglement    of 
motives,  is  purgatory.     And  a  bewildered  and  badgered  human  soul 
will  sometimes  accept  the  most  desperate  alternative  for  the  sake  of 
escaping  from  perplexity.    Misery,  simple  and  absolute,  is  sometimes 
better  than  compound  suspense. 

The  tavern  bell  was  already  ringing  its  vesper  when  Whittaker  pushed 
open  the  white  gate  and  walked  up  the  gravelled  walk  in  front  of  the 
Lefaure  cottage.    He  ate  his  supper  in  a  voracious  and  almost  surly 


514  ROXY. 

silence.  When  Lefaure  remarked  that  the  heat  was  oppressive  and  that 
there  were  signs  of  a  thunder-storm,  Whittaker  roused  himself  only  at 
the  close  of  the  sentence  which  he  dimly  perceived  was  addressed  to 
himself. 

"  What  say  f  **  he  asked,  using  a  down-east  cut-off  in  his  speech  that 
seemed  almost  offensive  to  his  Mend.  The  host  repeated  his  remark 
about  the  weather  and  Whittaker,  whose  attention  had  already  lapsed, 
again  revived  himself  sufficiently  to  answer  that  he  believed  he  was  and 
went  on  eating. 

The  letter  he  wrote  in  that  sultry  evening  was  a  simple  and  unex- 
plained withdrawal  of  his  offer  of  marriage.  Whittaker  sealed  it  and' 
went  out.  The  twilight  sky  was  already  stained  with  a  black  cloud 
sweeping  upward  from  the  west ;  little  puffs  of  dust  rose  here  and  there 
in  fitful  eddies  as  the  sultry  air  anticipated  the  coming  gust  with  ner- 
vous twitchings.  But  the  young  ndniBter  cared  for  no  cloud  but  the 
one  in  his  own  heart.  He  hurried  on  through  the  deepening  gloom  past 
one  or  two  of  the  old  Swiss  houses,  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  bam- 
like  brick  dwelling  popularly  called  the  White  Hall,  which  had  been  built 
by  an  overgrown  merchant  who  had  since  failed.  Then  he  mechanicaDy 
crossed  the  open  lots  into  the  main  street  and  did  not  pause  until  he  had 
dropped  the  letter  in  the  box.  He  had  hardly  turned  toward  home 
when  there  came  a  sudden  clap  of  thunder.  The  wind  and  rain  struck 
the  village  almost  at  once ;  the  twilight  was  gone  in  an  instant  and  it 
was  with  no  little  pains  and  stumbling  that  Whittaker  at  last  found  his 
way  back  through  the  drenching  storm  to  Ids  own  room.  The  wild  ir- 
regular dashing  of  the  wind  against  the  window,  the  roaring  of  the 
summer  rain  upon  the  roof,  and  the  gurgling  rush  of  water  in  the  tin 
leaders  made  a  strange  and  stormy  harmony  with  the  minister's  per- 
turbed emotions.  The  tired  man  at  last  slept  soundly.  When  he  awoke 
in  the  gray  dawn  the  tempest  had  spent  itsell  There  were  traces  of 
the  wind  in  broken  branches  of  trees  here  and  there,  the  roads  were 
submerged  by  pools  of  water  and  the  gutters  and  gullies  were  choke 
full.  But  the  air  was  clear  and  fresh  and  Whittaker  threw  open  his 
window  and  watched  the  first  beams  of  the  sun  as  they  turned  the  gray 
clouds  to  orange  and  yellow  and  blazed  upon  the  river's  ripples  in  a  line 
of  gold. 

*'  It  is  a  pleasant  morning,"  he  said  to  Twonnet,  when  she  appeared 
in  the  yard  below  drawing  water  from  the  cistern  with  the  old-fashioned 
hook.     *^  The  storm  has  cleared  the  air." 

Something  in  his  own  words  did  him  good,  for  indeed  the  storm  had 
cleared  the  air.  Through  the  dull,  lingering  pain  which  he  felt,  there  came 
a  grateful  sense  of  relief  and  just  a  hope  of  final  victory.     He  waa  thank- 


/ 


ROXY.  515 

fuL     For  once  he  neglected  to  '^  say  his  prayers."    One  never  needs  the 
form  of  devotion  so  little  as  when  the  spirit  is  spontaneously  devout. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  for  many  a  month  a  vague  sense  of  suffering 
throughout  his  whole  being,  that  depression  about  the -nerve-centres 
which  may  come  from  any  disappointment,  but  which  is  more  aggra- 
vated in  its  form  and  persistency  when  the  disappointment  has  to  do 
with  the  affections.  Friends  of  the  sufferer  declare  the  pain  a  most  un- 
reasonable one.  Is  not  every  disease  unreasonable  )  One  would  as  well 
argue  against  dyspepsia.  Of  what  good  is  it  to  assure  a  disappointed 
lover  that  there  are  as  many  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught  1  Loving 
differs  from  fishing  precisely  in  this,  that  in  love  the  sea  has  but  the  one 
fish ;  the  rest  are  all  contemptible. 

For  weeks  Whittaker's  sermons  were  prepared  in  a  dull  way,  and 
preached  listlessly.  He  even  lost  interest  in  the  raging  battle  between 
the  old  school  and  the  new,  and,  for  a  while  he  cared  little  for  the 
difference  between  partial  atonement  and  universal  His  few  theological 
books  were  untouched.  One  symptom  of  his  disease  was  a  disposition 
to  quarrel  with  Highbury.  He  took  grounds  in  opposition  to  the  elder's 
well-known  opinions  at  every  opportunity,  saying  exasperating  thinga 
on  such  slight  occasions,  and  resenting  so  sharply  every  attempt  of  the 
elder  to  advise  him  about  anything  that  Highbury  seriously  debated 
whether  he  should  not  move  for  the  minister's  dismissal.  There  waa 
one  obstacle,  however ;  that  was  the  Board  of  Home  Missions.  It 
might  withdraw  its  assistance  in  case  of  difficulty.  But  Whittaker  did 
not  think  of  t^e  Board  of  Home  Missions,  or  anything  else  that  could 
ahield  him  from  the  elder's  wrath.  He  rather  craved  a  controversy  than 
shirked  it.  He  even  read  and  expounded  those  offensive  sayings  of 
Christ  about  the  difficulty  of  entrance  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  which 
a  rich  camel  laden  with  many  costly  burdens  is  sure  to  encounter. 


CHAPTER  XXTT. 

roxy's  decision. 

Whittaker's  letter  did  not  reach  Boxy.  Letters  without  direction  can- 
not find  their  destination.  In  his  profound  agitation  Whittaker  had 
forgotten  to  direct  it  and  it  went  wandering  away  to  the  stupid  dead- 
letter  office  of  that  day,  where,  in  a  pile  of  miscarried  love-letters, 
business  notes,  idle  epistles  and  family  bulletins,  it  was  solemnly  burned. 
Boxy  never  knew  why  Whittaker  did  not  come  to  hear  her  yes  or  no, 
but  she  was  glad  that  he  did  not. 

She  had  to  make  her  decision  in  her  own  way.    Which  was  to  fancy 


0l6  ROXT. 

lihat  the  decision  was  made  for  her.  When  she  prayed  the  image  of 
Mark  Bonamy  stood  hefore  her.  Was  not  Miss  Bosanquet  of  blessed 
memory  guided  in  the  same  way  to  the  choice  of  the  saintly  Fletcher  of 
Madeley  9  At  other  times  texts  of  scripture  were  strongly  '*  suggested  " 
to  her  mind.  The  answ^  of  Buth  to  Naomi,  the  passage  about  giving 
up  houses  and  lands  and  father  and  mother,  and  the  vocation  of  Paul — 
''  Behold  I  will  send  thee  fax  hence  unto  t^e  Gentiles '' — all  came  to  her 
mind  at  times  when  she  could  not  track  the  association  which  brought 
them.  Clearly  they  were  suggestions.  Why  should  she  be  disobedient 
to  the  heavenly  voice  ? 

Mark  came  to  see  her  on  the  next  evening  but  one  after  the  day  of 
the  menagerie.  He  found  her  teaching  Bobo.  She  had  read  some- 
where or  heard  of  the  experiments  then  beginning  to  be  made  on  the 
continent  of  Europe  in  the  education  of  the  feeble-minded.  She  had 
persuaded  her  father  to  make  her  a  board  with  a  triangular  hole,  a  round 
hole  and  a  square  one.  She  had  also  three  blocks  make  to  fit  the  three 
holes.  When  Mark  came  in  she  was  teaching  the  boy  to  set  the  blocks 
in  their  places  and  to  know  them  by  her  descriptions.  He  was  so 
pleased  with  his  success  in  getting  the  three-cornered  block  into  its 
place,  that  he  was  clapping  his  hands  with  delight  when  Mark  entered. 
Bonamy  had  that  sort  of  aversion  to  an  invalid  or  imbecile  which  inhere 
in  some  healthy  constitutions.  He  therefore  exaggerated  the  self-de- 
nial of  Boxy  in  teaching  her  cousin. 

She  blushed  a  little  when  Mark  came, — she  could  not  have  told  why, 
and  begged  that  he  would  let  her  finish  her  lesson. 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  he  answered. 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  cried  Bobo  as  he  lifted  up  and  replaced  the 
triangular  block  in  the  i^rture. 

"  Now  the  square  one,"  said  Boxy. 

"  Now  the  square  one,"  responded  the  boy,  at  the  same  time  laying 
hold  of  the  circular  block. 

"  No,"  said  Boxy. 

"  No,"  answered  the  pupil,  putting  down  the  block  and  taking  the 

ot^er. 

**  That's  the  square  one." 

'^  That's  the  square  one,"  he  cried,  tr3ring  to  force  it  into  the  round 

hole. 

"  No,  no !  the  square  hole  ! " 

<<  No,  no  !  the  square  hole ! "  And  then  he  looked  at  Boxy  vacantly. 
At  last,  catching  her  meaning,  he  clapped  the  square  block  on  the 
square  hole.  But  Boxy  had  to  take  hold  of  his  hand  and  turn  it  round 
until  the  block  fitted  to  its  place. 

**  Hurrah  !  that's  it  !  "  cried  the  teacher,  clapping  her  hands  in  great 


A 


KOXY.  617 

glee — a  demonstration  thai  was  quickly  imitated  by  the  triumphant 
papil. 

^  How  slowly  he  most  learn,"  said  Mark.  *^  It  will  take  yon  a  week 
to  teach  him  to  place  those  blocks/' 

''  I've  been  at  it  a  week  already.  It  will  take  at  least  a  month.  Ton 
see  the  first  steps  are  the  hardest.  When  he  has  learned  this  lesson  I 
shall  have  a  lot  of  blocks,  all  one  shape  but  of  different  colours.  The 
rims  of  the  holes  will  be  coloured  to  match.  When  he  has  learned  these, 
I  shall  have  both  shapes  and  colours  various.  I  was  afraid  I  could  not 
teach  him  at  all,  but  he  has  already  learned  to  know  the  round  block. 
Seel" 

With  this  Roxy  took  all  the  blocks  out  and  put  them  together. 

"  Now,  Bobo,  the  round  one." 

''  Now,  Bobo,  the  round  one,"  echoed  the  lad,  squeezing  the  fingers 
of  his  right  hand  with  his  left,  and  rocking  to  and  fro  in  indecision,  and 
knitting  his  brows  with  mental  effort.  At  last  he  reached  out,  timidly 
lifted  the  square  block,  then  timidly  took  up  the  round  one,  looked  up 
to  make  sure  that  Boxy  approved,  then,  after  hovering  awhile  over  t^e 
the  three  holes,  he  clapped  it  into  the  right  one,  receiving  a  burst  of  ap- 
plause and  a  kiss  from  his  teacher  as  a  reward. 

'*  How  tedious  it  must  be  ! "  said  Mark,  amazed  at  Roxy's  patience. 

'*  Tedious  ?    No.     I  shall  make  a  man  out  of  Bobo  yet" 

."  Make  a  man  out  of  Bobo  yet,"  chuckled  the  little  fellow,  lifting  the 
blocks  and  striving  to  fit  them  in  their  holes. 

"  I  wish  you  were  not  quite  so  good,"  said  Mark  in  a  sudden  fit  of 
humility. 

Roxy  did  not  answer.  She  had  a  desire  to  protest  against  the  com- 
pliment, but  the  shadow  of  what  Mark  was  about  to  say  fell  upon  her, 
and  she  was  silent  Bobo  looked  up  in  wonder  and  curiosity  at  her 
blushing  face,  then  he  went  up  and  caressed  her,  saying,  <<  Poor  Roxy 
musn't  cry," 

Roxy  pushed  him  away  gently,  and  Bobo  wandered  into  the  yard, 
leaving  Roxy  and  her  lover  alone. 

"  If  you  were  not  so  good  I  might  hope  to  come  back  some  day  when 
Texas  gets  to  be  a  little  better,  may  be,  and  take  you  out  to  help  me. 
Grod  knows  I  need  help.  I  don't  feel  very  sure  of  myself  without  you 
to  strengthen  me." 

It  was  the  same  old  cry  for  help.  And  all  the  more  eloquent  that  it 
was  utterly  sincere.  Was  it  that  in  this  moment  some  doubt  of  Mark's 
stability  crossed  the  soul  of  Roxy  that  she  rose  and  walked  to  the  little 
book-shelf  and  affected  to  arrange  the  few  books  that  she  might  gain 
time  ]  But  the  cry  for  help  opened  all  the  fountains  of  her  love.  Whe- 
ther Mark  was  as  good  as  she  believed  him  to  be  or  as  unsteady  as 
8 


518  ROXY. 

TwoDnet  thought  him,  she  loved  him  with  all  her  woman's  soul.  Be  he 
good  or  bad,  she  felt  now  for  the  first  time  that  she  was  his ;  that  some 
force  beside  her  will  or  judgment  had  decided  for  her.  It  was  but  a 
feeble  effort  she  could  make  in  favour  of  calmness  or  thought.  She  re- 
turned to  her  chair  trembling  and  helpless. 

'^  What  do  you  say,  Eoxy ) "  Mark  was  standing  waiting.  For  a 
minute  not  a  word  passed.  Roxy  knew  that  she  was  floating  on  a 
stream  against  which  aU  rowing  was  futile.  A  new  and  hitherto  un- 
suspected force  in  her  own  nature  was  bearing  her  away.  Neither 
praying  nor  struggling  availed.  He  already  possessed  her  but  she 
could  not  tell  him  so.  She  did  not  debate  any  longer,  she  only  floated 
in  a  dreamy,  blissful  state^  waiting  for  him  to  understand  what  she  dared 
not  confess.  At  last  he  reached  his  hand  and  lifted  hers  which  lay  upon 
the  arm  of  her  chair.  She  had  no  sense  of  volition,  but,  as  though  his 
touch  had  given  her  a  galvanic  shock,  she  closed  her  hand  en  his  and 
Mark  understood. 

Much  depends  on  the  stand-point  from  which  a  subject  is  viewed.  Go 
and  ajsk  Colonel  Bonamy,  as  he  sits  meditatively  at  his  desk,  his  long 
gray  locks  gently  fluttering  in  the  summer  wind.  He  will  tell  you  that 
Mark  is  rather  throwing  himself  away  on  a  shoe-maker's  daughter,  and 
that  the  time  may  come  when  he  will  be  sorry  for  it.  Even  the  Chris- 
tian virtues  do  not  weigh  in  all  scales  alike. 


CHAPTER  XXni. 

BONAMY,  SENIOR. 

Bonamy  the  elder  walked  up  and  down  his  office  floor.  It  was  a  week 
after  Mark's  betrothal,  and  a  hot,  still,  summer  day,  disturbed  by  nothing; 
for  the  drowsy  sound  of  the  distant  hammering  of  the  village  smith 
could  not  be  said  to  disturb  anything.  The  elder  Bonamy  was  a  broad- 
shouldered,  raw-boned  man.  His  heavy  chin  was  close-shaven,  there 
was  an  under  lip  that  indicated  stubbornness,  and'  a  certain  droop  of 
the  eyelids  over  his  black  eyes  and  a  close-shutness  of  the  mouth  that 
stood  for  a  secretiveness  which  knew  by-ways  to  an  end  where  highways 
were  obstructed.  But  over  the  firmness  and  shrewdness  of  his  character 
a  mantle  was  thrown  by  his  innate  dignity.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
treat  themselves  with  sincere  reverence.  Now  and  then  he  stopped  in 
his  solitary  pacing  to  and  fro  to  look  out  of  the  open  window  of  the 
office  at  the  brass  ball  on  the  top  of  the  court-house.  But  either  because 
the^brass  ball  blazing  in  the  summer's  sun,  did  not  give  him  the  inspira- 
Uon^ejsought,  or  for  some  other  good  and  sufficient  reason,  he  always 


ROXY.  519 

attered  between  his  teeth,  as  he  turned  away  from  the  window,  an 
ejaculation  which  is  in  the  English  tongue  accounted  profane  and  for- 
bidden to  be  put  down  in  books.  The  object  of  the  coloneVs  cursing 
was  an  impersonal  "it"  What  the  "it"  was  which  he  wished  to 
have  put  under  malediction,  an  eavesdropper  could  not  have  guessed. 

Colonel  Bonamy  was  not  an  eloquent  lawyer.  It  was  not  from  him 
that  Mark  inherited  his  outspoken  vehemence.  Secretive  men  are  good 
diplomatists,  but  a  'diplomatist  is  not  often  an  orator.  He  loved  the 
struggle  of  litigation  as  he  loved  a  game  of  poker.  He  fought  now  in 
this  way,  now  in  that  way,  now  by  sudden  and  abrupt  attack,  and  again 
by  ambuscade,  sometimes  by  cool  and  lofty  assurance,  sometimes  by 
respectful  considerateness,  but  by  this  or  that  he  managed  to  win  when- 
ever succcess  was  within  reach  without  compromise  of  his  exterior 
dignity,  which  dignity  was  with  him  a  make-shift  for  conscience.  He 
studied  the  juries,  their  prejudices  of  politics  or  religion  and  their  sus- 
ceptibilities. He  took  them  almost  one  by  one,  awing  some,  flattering 
others,  reasoning  with  others.  He  was  never  brilliant,  but  he  won  his 
suits  ;  defeat  was  the  only  thing  in  heaven  or  earth  that  he  dreaded. 

Those  who  knew  his  habits  would  have  said'  that  in  the  present  in- 
stance he  had  a  case  in  which  he  could  not  quite  see  his  way  to  success. 
This  striding  up  and  down  the  floor,  this  staring  with  half-shut  eyes  at 
the  ball  on  the  belfry,  this  short,  abrupt,  half-smothered  and  rather  un- 
charitable damning  of  the  neuter  pronoun,  betokened  a  difficult  case. 
But  there  were  certainly  no  cases  to  perplex  him  until  the  "  fail "  term 
of  the  circuit  court  should  come  round.  Neither  had  he  been  over- 
thrown in  his  tilt  at  poker  the  night  before.  None  the  less  was  he 
wrestling  with  a  hard  problem.  He  had  tried  to  "  bluff' "  Mark  and 
had  failed.  But  all  the  more  was  he  resolved  to  And  some  way  to  ac- 
complish his  purpose.  Hence  this  striding  to  and  fro,  diagonally  across 
the  office.  For  do  not  the  legs  pump  blood  into  the  brain )  And  hence, 
too,  this  staring  at  the  brass  ball,  and  this  swearing  at  some  undefined 
"it." 

The  colonel  had  just  uttered  his  little  curse  for  the  dozenth  time, 
when  the  lank  Lathers  darkened,  in  a  perpendicular  way,  the  threshold 
of  the  open  door.  Some  business  about  a  subpoena  was  the  occasion 
for  his  call.  The  aristocratic  lawyer  and  the  rude  Lathers  were  a  fine 
contrast  of  the  patrician  and  the  plebeian  in  manner  and  appearance. 
When  Lathers  had  finished  his  errand,  and  stood  again  in  the  open 
door  about  to  depart,  he  said  : 

"  Mark  don't  come  home  early  these  nights,  I  *low.  Colonel." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  diplomatic  lawyer. 

"  Seems  to  me,  Colonel, — but  then  'taint  none  of  my  business,"  and 
the  sheriff  passed  out  into  the  hot  sunshine. 


520  ROXT. 

"  Come  back,  Lathers,"  said  Bonamy,  adding  to  the  invitation  his 
half-smothered  oath,  fired  in  the  air  at  nobody  in  particular. 

'<  What  the  dickens  do  you  mean  )  Has  Mark  been  doing  anything 
worse  than  going  to  those  confounded  Methodist  meetings  9 "  And  the 
colonel  took  a  turn  toward  the  window,  and  another  pull  at  the  econo> 
mical  and  non-committal  little  curse.  It  was  a  vent  to  nervous  irrita- 
tion. 

'<  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  call  wuss  and  what  you  call  better. 
Texasand  preachings  and  girls  is  awfully  mixed  up  in  Mark's  head — a  sort 
of  jumble,  like  a  Fourth  of  July  speech,  or  the  sermon  of  a  red-hot  young 
exhauster  and  the  like  you  know.  But  I  reckon  it'll  clarify,  as  the  old 
woman  said  of  the  duck-puddle  when  she  spilled  her  eggs  into  it." 
'<  What  girls  do  you  think  of  that  Mark  likes  ) " 
"  Oh !  last  summer  it  was  that  Rirtley  witch ;  now  its  Tom  Adam's 
Boxy.    She's  t^e  very  angel  Gabriel,  and  the  like,  you  know." 

*'  Oh,  well,  I  didn't  know,  but  it  was  something  worse.  Every  young 
man  has  to  be  a  fool  about  something.  You  and  I,  we  had  our  turn. 
Major."    And  Bonamy  smiled  condescendingly. 

"  We  rekivered  mighty  devilish  airly  though.  Colonel,  and  we  haint 
had  many  relapses.  Playing  poker  with  an  old  hand  like  you  is  my 
very  worst,  Colonel  When  I  do  that  I'm  like  Samson  in  the  lion's  den." 
And  with  this  the  sheriff  departed,  smiling. 

Colonel  Bonamy  had  treated  Lathers's  communication  with  dignified 
indifference,  but  Lathers  knew  how  to  estimate  this  affectation.  He 
had  seen  the  colonel's  immovable  face  when  he  lost  and  when  he  won 
at  poker. 

"  He's  as  mad  as  a  black  bear,"  said  Lathers  to  himself.  And  when, 
half  an  hour  later,  he  saw  the  lawyer  enter  the  shop  of  Adams,  he  was 
confirmed  in  his  surmise. 

'<  What  cut  is  the  old  fellow  taking  1 "  was  the  question  Lathers 
could  not  answer.  That  Bonamy  meant  to  break  off  Mark's  attachment 
to  Boxy  he  did  not  doubt,  but  how ) 

**  He's  powerful  deep,  that  Colonel  Bonamy.  He's  deeper'n  the  Old 
Boy."  It  was  thus  he  comforted  himself  for  his  inability  to  guess  what 
was  the  old  lawyer's  line  of  attack. 

Nevertheless,  he  saw  his  opportunity  to  serve  his  own  ends.  He 
watched  for  Mark  and  took  him  aside  to  tell  him  that  the  old  man  waa 
"lookin'  after  his  love  affairs,"  and  had  been  "inquirin'  round"  about 
Mark's  attachment  to  Roxy.  For  his  part,  he  disapproved  of  "  med- 
dlin' "  and  the  like,  and  felt  bound,  as  an  old  friend  of  Mark's,  to  give 
him  a  sly  hint  and  the  like,  you  know,  that  the  old  man  had  been  over 
to  see  Adams  on  the  subject.  Whereupon  Mark,  of  course,  grew  red  in 
the  face.    Was  he  not  able  to  settle  such  matters  for  himself  I    It  is  a 


ROXY.  521 


way  we  civilized  men  have.  We  are  all  able  to  take  care  of  ourselves  in 
love  affairs  when  we  are  young,  and  when  we  get  old,  we  are  all  con- 
vinced of  the  inability  of  other  folks  in  youth,  to  look  out  for  themselves. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

BY  THE  FLANK. 

When  Lathers  had  left  Oolonel  Bonamy,  the  old  man  did  not  look  at 
the  blazing  brass  ball  any  more  but  looked  steadily  at  the  floor  as  he 
resumed  his  pacing  to  and  fro.  He  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of 
his  brown  linen  trowsers  and  laughed  inaudibly. 

"  By — George  I  '*  The  colonel  drew  the  first  word  out  to  its  fullest 
length  and  then  cut  the  other  off  short  and  sharp,  with  a  faint  inward 
chuckle  at  the  end.  It  was  his  note  of  triumph.  There  was  then  a 
road  out  of  this  embarrassment  about  a  son  who  had  the  misfortune  to 
inherit  a  streak  of  moral  enthusiasm  from  his  mother.  It  was  a  favourite 
maxim  with  the  old  lawyer :  ''  concede  small  points  to  carry  large 
ones." 

"  I  will  give  him  his  first  point  and  gain  the  suit,''  he  soliloquized. 
Then  after  awhile  he  came  out  with  an  appeal  to  some  private  deity  of 
his  own  whom  he  called  "  Godomighty."  For  the  colonel  was  rather 
full  of  such  words  for  a  man  who  was  an  ostentatious  disbeliever  in  any 
god. 

When  he  had  looked  at  his  empty  Franklin  stove  awhile  he  suddejily 
became  interested  in  his  boots.  He  lifted  his  left  foot  and  examined  the 
sole  careftdly,  then  he  looked  at  the  right  one,  then  he  took  his  beaver  hat 
from  the  mantel-piece  and  went  out  into  the  scorching  heat  of  the  sum- 
mer afternoon.  The  little  shop  of  Mr.  Adams  stood  in  the  main  street 
which  ran  toward  the  river,  there  were  higher  buildings  all  about  it  but 
it  had  held  its  place  for  more  than  a  generation,  having  been  a  store, 
and  the  only  one  in  the  town  at  the  beginning.  It  was  in  some  sense 
the  germ  cell  from  which  all  the  trade  of  the  place  had  grown.  The 
door  of  the  old  shoe-shop  was  wide  open,  the  smell  of  leather  diffused  itself 
in  the  street  without,  and  scraps  and  bits  from  the  shop  were  scattered 
as  far  as  the  gutter.  The  meditative  Adams  sat  doubled  together,  ham- 
mering vigorously  upon  a  bit  of  leather.  Did  his  trade  give  him  his 
sturdy  speech  )  Of  all  mechanical  occupations,  that  of  the  shoemaker  is 
t^e  most  favourable  to  reflection  and  to  vehement  expression.  Adams 
hammered  theories,  as  he  did  the  leather  on  his  lapstone. 

By  Adams's  side  sat  little  Ben  Boone,  an  illegitimate  child  in  a  family 
doomed  to  poverty  in  all  its  generations.    There  are*  whole  races  of 


522  BOXY. 

people  who  have  a  genius  for  wretchedness;    it  comes  to  them  as  a 
vocation. 

'^  Why  don*t  you  take  the  shoe  and  go  ? "  demanded  the  shoemaker 
sternly,  pausing  in  his  hammering. 

"  Grandmother  says  she  can't  pay  you  till " 

'^  Go  'long  with  you,  and  don't  say  another  word,"  burst  oat  the  shoe- 
maker. 

The  boy  started  out  frightened  into  silence. 

'^  Stop  r'called  the  shoemaker,  relenting.  '*Tell  your  grandmother 
when  the  shoe  gives  out  again,  to  send  it  to  me.  Don't  take  my  work 
over  to  Jim  Hone's  shop.  Here's  some  leather  to  make  a  whirligig  of. 
Go,  now.     Out  with  you  I " 

''Aha  ! "  said  Bonamy,  as  he  entered  the  shop.  "  I  didn't  know  you 
kept  charity  customers." 

**  Charity  I  pshaw  !  You  know.  Colonel,  that  I'm  a  fool  to  give  away 
time  and  good  leather  to  shiftless  people  like  the  Boones.  And  if  you 
had  the  politeness  that  people  say  you  have,  you  would  not  twit  me  with 
it.     We  all  have  our  weaknesses." 

''  I  don't  know,"  said  Bonamy,  who  was,  as  usual,  left  by  the  ambi- 
guousness  of  Adam's  tone,  in  a  perplexing  doubt  as  to  whether  he  were 
jesting  or  quarrelling — a  doubt  which  Adams  was  generally  unable  to 
solve  himself.  "  I  dont  know  about  that,  Mr.  Adams.  I  have  out-grown 
most  of  mine,  and  yours  seem  to  be  very  commendable  ones." 

Saying  this,  the  colonel  took  a  seat  on  the  vacant  bench,  which  was 
occupied  in  busy  seasons  by  a  journeyman.  He  sat  down  on  this  low 
bench,  among  bits  of  leather,  pegs,  wax,  lasts,  hammers  and  what-nots, 
with  all  of  his  accustomed  stateliness,  gently  lifting  lus  coat-tails,  and 
posing  his  tall  figure  by  the  side  of  the  stooped  and  grizzled  shoemaker, 
with  an  evident  sense  of  his  picturesqueness. 

*'  That  boot  needs  a  few  pegs  in  the  hollow  of  the  foot,  I  think." 

''  Widowers  are  dreadful  particular,  colonel  There's  nothing  much 
the  matter  with  the  boot." 

"  You  forget  that  you're  a  widower,  too.  But  the  young  folks  are 
likely  to  beat  us.     They  do  say  now  that  my  Mark  and  your  Koxy " 

'*  Are  a  couple  of  fools,"  cried  the  irascible  shoemaker,  stung  by  some- 
thing in  Bonamy's  tone  which  he  interpreted  to  mean  that  the  house  of 
Adams  ought  to  feel  very  much  flattered  by  its  present  juxtaposition,  in 
the  gossip  of  the  village,  with  the  house  of  Bonamy. 

**  I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  lawyer. 

''  For  two  fools  like  them  to  be  talking  of  going  to  Texas  to  carry  the 
Gospel  \a  an  outrage.  I  think  Texas  '11  convert  the  missionary  instead 
of  the  missionary  converting  Texas.    It's  bad  enough  for  Mark  to  make 


ROXY.  523 

a  fool  of  himself.     I  wish  he  would  go  to  Texas  and  be  done  with  it, 
and  not  turn  Eoxy's  head." 

"  Do  you  really  think  they  care  for  each  other  1  '*  put  in  the  lawyer 
diplomatically. 

"  Mark  would  be  a  fool,  sir,  if  he  didn't  like  Roxy.  And  what  does 
he  mean  by  all  his  attentions  if  he  doesn't  care  for  her  1  He  ought  to 
be  shot  if  he  doesn't  care.  I've  half  a  mind  to  interfere  and  break  it 
up.    I  would  if  I  was  the  man  I  ought  to  be." 

"  Between  you  and  me,  I  don't  think  Mark  '11  go.  I'm  glad  he  likes 
Roxy.     It  will  keep  him  at  home." 

''  She's  as  crazy  as  he  is,"  said  Adams.  ''  These  Methodists  have 
made  loons  out  of  both  of  them." 

"  Well,  we'll  see."  And  after  a  minute  the  old  lawyer  took  back  his 
boot,  in  which  a  few  pegs  had  been  tightened,  drew  it  on  and  sauntered 
out  of  the  shop,  and  thence  down  the  street  and  around  the  comer  to 
his  office.  Mark  sat  writing  at  his  own  desk  in  the  same  office,  full  of 
anger  at  what  Lathers  had  told  him. 

"  Mark  !"  said  the  father. 

"  Sir,"  answered  the  son,  using  the  respectful  word  prescribed  in  the 
code  of  manners  of  Western  and  Southern  society,  but  uttering  it  in 
anything  but  a  decent  tone. 

"  You've  really  made  up  your  mind  to  go  to  Texas  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  have." 

"  They  tell  me  you've  been  paying  attention  to  Tom  Adams's  Roxy." 

*'  I  think  you  might  speak  a  little  more  respectfully  of  a  lady  that  I 
have  paid  attentions  to." 

"  Can't  you  answer  me  in  a  Christian  spirit,  young  man  1 "  said  the 
colonel,  adding  a  gentle  blasphemy  to  this  appeal. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  can  attend  to  my  own  love  aflfairs." 

"  I  suppose  you  can," 

"But  how  in  the  name  of  the  Old  Boy,  will  you  keep  a  wife  on  a 
hundred  dollars  a  year,  on  the  Brazos  River  I  " 

"  I  don't  propose  to  take  a  wife  with  me." 

"  Then  what  in  thunder  are  you  making  love  to  Tom  Adams's — ^to 
Roxy  Adams  for  ] " 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  me  manage  my  own  affairs,"  said  Mark, 
scowling. 

"  Oh,  of  course  !  But  sometimes  an  old  man's  advice  is  worth  having, 
even  if  the  old  man  does  happen  to  be  an  infidel.  A  father  is  entitled 
to  some  respect,  even  from  Christians,  I  suppose." 

The  young  man  was  silent. 

"  Now,  I  believe  you  don't  intend  to  go  for  six  weeks  or  so.    If  you 


624        THE  ELEMENTS  AND  GROWTH  OF  TALENT. 

must  go,  marry  a  good  wife ;  Tom  Adams's  daughter — excuse  me,  Miss 
Roxy  Adams — will  do." 

''  How  can  I,  as  you  said,  on  a  hundred  a  year  1  *' 

"Why,  I  propose,  if  you  must  go  out  there,  to  take  care  of  you.  I'll 
do  hetter  than  the  church.  TU  see  'em  that  and  go  one  better.  Three 
hundred  dollars  is  a  large  sum  in  Texas.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  out 
there  and  die.  With  a  wife  you'll  stand  some  chance  of  living.  You 
can  think  it  over,  consult  the  girl  and  let  me  know."  With  that  he  took 
up  his  pen  to  begin  writing. 

Mark  was  full  of  surprise.  His  first  thought  was  that  this  offer  gave 
him  a  chance  of  escape  from  the  dire  necessity  of  leaving  Boxy.  His 
second  feeling  was  one  of  shame  that  he  had  treated  his  father  so  cav- 
alierly.    He  rose  impulsively  and  said, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  speaking  as  I  did.  You  are  very  kiiid."  And 
he  held  out  his  hand. 

But  the  elder  did  not  look  up.  He  uttered  something  about  the 
devil,  and  said  it  was  all  right,  of  course. 

Mark  left  the  office  full  of  cheerfulness.  The  gifb  horse  was  too  valu- 
able to  be  examined  closely.  Such  is  the  case  generally  in  the  matter 
of  gift  horses,  notwithstanding  the  bitter  experience  of  the  Trojans. 

The  wily  old  lawyer,  when  once  the  young  man  was  gone,  relaxed 

his  face  into  a  non-committal  smile,   and  ejaculated  the  name  of  his 

heathen  divinity  again. 

(To  be  continued,) 


THE  ELEMENTS  AND  GROWTH  OF  TALENT. 

BY  ELIHU  BURRITT. 

The  capacities  or  faculties  which  enable  men  to  impress  their  character 
deeply  and  lastingly  upon  their  age,  country,  or  their  own  community,  are 
generally  cfdled  talents.  We  hear  and  read  much  of  men  of  commanding 
talents,  of  brilliant  talents,  and  such  men  are  held  up  to  our  homage  and 
admiration  ;  and  as  any  taste  or  appetite  grows  by  what  it  feeds  upon,  so, 
in  many  cases,  such  extraordinary  talents  grow  by  the  very  admiration  and 
homage  that  tbey  win  and  feed  upon.  But  the  most  useful  men  in  every 
community  are  men  of  ordinary  talents,  who  have  tJie  heart  to  use  them  to 
their  best  capacity  for  the  common  good.  The  best,  purest,  happiest  com- 
munities are  made  up  of  men  of  common  talents,  who  employ  them  as  did  the 
borrowers  in  the  Scripture  parable,  whom  our  Saviour  held  up  to  us  as 
examples  for  imitation.  In  the  brightest  nights  we  see  few  planets  meet 
our  eyes,  while  the  heavens  are  full  of  the  soft  and  even  light  of  common 
stars. 

It  is  doubtful  if  the  term,  talents,  was  ever  applied  to  intellectual  faculties 
before  our  Saviour  employed  it  in  the  parable  referred  to.  It  is  a  term  scarcely 
ever  understood,  and  used  in  its  literal  meaning.  A  talent^  in  Latin,  Greek, 
or  Sanskrit,  means  something  lifted  in  one  scale  by  a  certain  weight  in  the 
other.     Materially  it  means  a  weighing  of  gold,  silver  or  brass.     Metaphori- 


THE  ELEMENTS  AND  GROWTH   OF  TALENT.  525 

cally,  it  means  a  certain  intellectual  force  weighed  off  to  a  person,  which  he 
is,  or  ought,  to  make  the  best  use  of  for  bis  own  good  and  for  the  good  of  other?. 
This  talent  is  never  weighed  off  to  an  individu^  alone,  as  a  solitary  allotment. 
There  are  always  other  things  ptit  in  the  same  scale  with  it,  to  enable  the  re- 
ceiver to  develop  it  and  use  it  to  the  best  advantage.  What  these  things  are 
may  be  measured  by  parallels  in  what  is  called  the  physical  or  natural  world. 
The  phenomena  of  nature  are  always  before  us  through  the  whole  long  year. 
We  are  all  familiar  with  them,  and  they  teach  us  by  beautiful  and  truthful 
illustrations  the  system  that  obtains  and  rules  in  the  moral  world. 

Now,  when  we  speak  of  nature,  we  do  not  mean  a  solitary  fact,  or  merely 
the  existence,  the  size  or  solidity  of  the  globe,  but  we  speak  of  it  as  that  ever- 
lasting form  or  force  of  vitality  which  produces  the  different  climates  and 
seasons  ;  which  clothes  the  earth  with  beauty  ;  which  fills  all  its  veins  with 
the  pulse  of  happy  life  ;  which  covers  it  with  the  green  glories  of  spring  and 
the  golden  glories  of  summer  harvests  ;  which  perfumes  it  with  flowers,  gives 
it  the  music  of  birds  and  the  music  of  running  streams  in  the  same  key  of 
gladness  ;  which  gilds  it  with  the  gold  of  the  morning  dawn,  and  hangs  it  at 
evening  with  the  purple  drapeiy  of  the  sunset  clouds.  All  this  is  nature  in 
its  work  on  the  earth  we  inhabit.  And  from  beginning  to  end  it  is  a  work. 
It  is  the  result  of  an  infinite  variety  of  forces  brought  to  bear  upon  the  sur- 
face of  our  globe.  Without  these  forces  this  earth  of  ours  would  be  as  cold, 
barren  and  bald  as  a  rock — as  a  desert  void  of  any  form  of  vegetable  or  ani- 
mal life.  There  would  be  no  such  thing  as  nature  in  the  sense  we  give  to 
that  term.  But  every  one  of  these  forces  which  give  such  life  and  beauty  to 
our  earth  comes  from,  or  is  put  in  action  by,  a  power  ninety  millions  of  miles 
distant  from  us.  The  sun  is  one  of  the  thousands  of  God's  viceroys  through 
which  and  by  which  he  governs  his  material  universe  to  its  minutest  detail 
of  life  and  motion  by  laws  he  has  established  to  act  * '  without  variableness  or 
shadow  of  turning  '*  for  ever.  The  earth,  which  we  are  so  tempted  to  think 
the  sum  and  substance  of  his  creation,  is  only  one  of  the  smaller  provinces 
which  he  has  placed  in  the  vice-regency  of  the  sun,  a  solar  empire  called  our 
planetary  system.  What  we  call  nature,  in  the  sense  of  vitalitv  and  action, 
is  only  the  sun's  immediate  work  for  us.  It  is  the  sun,  as  God  s  vice-gerent 
in  our  physical  world,  that  unfolds  the  leaf  of  every  tree,  tints  and  perfumes 
every  flower,  clothes  every  field  with  green  or  gold  ;  distils  every  drop  of  rain 
or  dew,  and  gives  to  us  every  ray  of  light  and  every  breath  of  air.  In  a  word, 
our  earth  lives  and  moves  and  has  its  breath  and  being,  under  God,  in  the 
sun,  just  as  our  spiritual  nature  lives  and  moves  and  lias  its  being  in  Him 
through  his  own  almighty  Son  who  took  and  wore  our  humanity. 

Let  us,  then,  go  to  this  administration  of  what  we  call  nature  for  a  few 
plain  and  instructive  parallels  to  the  economy  of  Divine  Providence  in  fitting 
every  man  to  be  useful  and  happy  in  this  life,  and  to  make  him  valuable  to 
the  whole  community.  Take,  as  only  one  example,  a  field  of  wheat,  in  which 
a  million  of  seed-grains  have  been  sown.  Now  nature  has  given  to  each  par- 
ticular grain  a  talent  for  growth  and  production.  And  in  giving  this  talent 
it  has  weighed  off  something  more  than  a  handful  of  soil  for  its  rootage.  The 
grain  must  have  something  more  than  mere  soil,  however  soft  and  rich  it  may 
be.  And  nature,  mindful  of  this  necessity,  weighs  off  to  it  in  her  generous 
scales  all  those  other  things  it  needs  in  order  to  ^'  put  forth  the  blade,  then 
the  ear,  and  then  the  full  com  in  the  ear."  It  needs  to  this  end  a  thousand 
varying  circumstances  and  influences.  It  needs  all  the  vital  forces  which  the 
sun  alone  can  supply.  It  needs  light  and  heat  in  all  their  spring  and  summer 
gradations.  It  needs  morning  air,  noon  air  and  night  air.  It  needs  darkness 
as  well  as  light  in  regular  alternations.  It  needs  rain  and  dew,  gases  of  vary- 
ing temperature,  electricity,  and  all  the  chemical  processes  which  solar  heat 
produces  in  the  soil  beneath  and  in  the  air  above  it.  Jt  is  the  harmonious 
co-operation  of  all  these  elements,  influences  and  opportunities  that  brings 
up  that  grain  of  wheat  throuv^h  the  blade  to  its  golden  harvest.  This  is  the 
way  that  God  through  nature  bestows  a  talent  for  growth  on  eveiy  grain  of 


526  THE   ELEMENTS  AND  GROWTH   OF  TALENT. 

wheat,  on  every  seed  of  tree,  plant  and  flower  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  ThiB 
is  the  way  that  nature  fills  her  scales  when  she  weighs  off  her  talents  to  all 
the  individuals  and  races  of  her  vegetable  kingdom. 

Now  no  teacher  of  mankind  ever  went  so  frequently  to  nature  for  analo- 
gies or  parallels  as  Christ  himself  did  to  illustrate  the  laws,  facts  and  forces 
of  the  moral  and  spiritual  world.  It  was  from  his  own  lips,  after  referring 
to  these  analogies,  that  the  question  comes  to  us  :  ^*  If  Ood  so  clothe  the 
grass  of  the  field,  which  to-day  is  and  to-morrow  is  cast  into  the  oven,  how 
much  more  will  he  clothe  you,  O  ye  of  little  faith  "  We  have  seen  how  the 
most  common  grass  and  grain  of  the  fields  are  clothed.  We  have  seen  the 
elaborate  and  careful  process  by  which  they  are  so  clothed  ;  the  elements, 
forces  and  influences  employed  in  procuring  for  every  plant,  tree,  leaf  and 
flower  its  own  peculiar  garments.  Well  might  the  Saviour  of  the  world  express 
surprise  that  anv  person  who  believed  in  him  could  have  so  little  faith  as  to 
think  that  God  had  not  made  as  ample  provisions  for  the  culture  of  their 
moral  and  spiritual  natures  as  for  the  well-being  and  end  of  the  vegetable 
creation.  But  there  is  reason  to  fear  that  nine  in  ten  in  every  community  are 
men  and  women  of  this  little  faith  in  the  talent  which  God  has  given  them, 
and  the  forces,  influences  and  opportunities  which  He  has  given  them  with 
that  talent  to  foster,  train  and  develop  it,  and  make  it  a  power  for  the 
good  of  others,  and  for  their  own  happiness  here  and  hereafter.  And  J  be- 
lieve that  this  little  faith  comes  mostly  from  fixing  their  eyes  upon  the  small- 
ness  of  the  grain  and  the  handful  of  soil  which  they  see  in  the  scales  at  the 
weighing  of  providence  in  their  favour.  Now  this  lack  of  sight  and  lack  of 
fait£  are  not  only  unfortunate  but  ungrateful  in  them,  weakening  their  lives 
for  usefulness,  and  depriving  them  of  its  enjoyment.  Providence  never 
weighs  off  a  talent  without  those  forces,  influences  and  opportunities  which 
it  needs  for  its  development,  any  more  than  nature  weighs  off  to  a  grain  of 
wheat  a  pound  of  soil  without  adding  to  it  li^ht  and  heat,  rain  and  dew,  and 
all  the  other  influences  it  needs  for  its  growth  and  fruitage. 

Let  us  see  what  is  implied  in  the  question  of  the  great  Master  :  '*  How 
much  more  will  he  clothe  you,  O  ye  of  little  faith  ?  How  much  more  1  that 
is  the  question  ;  wherein  do  the  parallels  fail  ?  How  does  God  make  greater 
provision  for  the  culture  of  the  human  mind  and  soul  than  for  the  cul- 
ture of  the  grain  and  grass  of  the  field  ?  Here  are  two  or  three  very 
essential  differences  to  begin  with.  The  grain  of  wheat  cannot  choose  or 
change  its  soil.  It  cannot  arise  out  of  its  place  and  plant  itself  on  the  bald 
rock,  or  in  the  deep,  rich  soil  of  a  distant  field.  It  cannot  choose  or  change 
its  companions.  It  must  grow  up  by  their  side  and  feed  upon  their  food  from 
the  blaae  to  the  full  com  in  the  ear.  How  different  is  this  from  the  growth 
of  human  character  !  When  a  man  has  received  his  talent  he  may  go  and 
bury  it  in  the  earth,  or  go  and  put  it  under  the  best  influences  to  stimulate 
its  development.  It  may  not  only  grow  by  what  it  feeds  upon,  but  it  may 
create  or  choose  its  own  food.  In  a  practical  sense,  it  may  create  the  forces 
and  influences  necessary  to  its  best  culture.  More  than  this  ;  it  may  create 
its  own  times  and  seasons  for  growth.  Thousands  of  men  in  different  walks 
of  life  have  done  this  very  thing.  By  taking  a  single  step  to  the  right  or  left, 
they  have  put  themselves  on  the  line  of  new  opportunities,  and  impulses 
which  would  not  have  come  in  their  way  but  for  that  first  step  asi  le  from 
their  old  track.  When  a  young  man  steps  out  into  active  life,  the  difference 
between  going  into  a  drinking  saloon  on  one  hand  and  a  reading  room  on  the 
other,  the  choice  of  a  comrade  or  the  choice  of  a  book,  may  shape  his  char- 
acter for  this  world  and  the  world  to  come.  Whichever  way  he  resolves  to 
go,  he  will  find  the  doors  of  opportunity  open  before  him,  one  after  the  other, 
up  to  the  very  gate  of  heaven,  or  to  the  very  dungeon  of  outer  darkness,  sin 
and  misery. 

I  believe  that  thousands  of  younjf  men  make  a  practical  failure  of  their 
lives  from  their  littleness  of  faith  in  the  talent  given  them  for  usefulness. 
It  seems  so  small  to  them  that  they  do  as  the  man  in  the  parable  did  ;  they 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  527 

tie  it  up  in  a  napkin  or  bury  it  in  the  earth.  Now  the  au thereof  that  para- 
ble tells  us  that  a  grain  of  mustard  seed  is  very  small,  but  that  it  has  a  woii^ 
derful  capacity  of  growth  and  expansion.  The  largest  oak  that  ever  grew 
came  from  a  single  acorn,  says  the  cradle-proverb,  fiut  another  misconcep- 
tion has  been,  perhaps,  more  detrimental  still  to  younc  men  when  startini^ 
in  life.  They  misapprehend  the  real  meaning  of  the  word  talent  They  limit 
it  to  a  single  faculty.  They  regard  it  as  exclusively  an  vnidUctual  force,  pure 
and  simple,  an  abstract  mental  power  bestowed  as  a  special  gift  upon  certain 
number  of  men  and  women,  distinguishing  them  from  the  rest  of  the  com- 
munity. Now  I  have  frequently  referred  to  the  literal  meaning  of  talent, 
that  not  one  of  those  whom  these  lines  may  reach  will  ever  hear  or  read  that 
word  without  seeing  before  his  eyes  a  pair  of  scales,  and  the  hand  that  holds 
them  and  fills  them  for  him  ;  in  short,  that  the  word  talent  will  suggest  only 
something  weighed  off  to  him  and  others  like  him ;  a  weighing  of  gold,  of 
silver,  or  of  any  other  value.  A  talent  is  any  capacity  which  one  may  culti- 
vate and  use  for  his  own  good,  and  the  good  of  those  around  him.  It  may 
be  only  a  taste  for  the  beautiful  in  nature  and  art.  It  may  be  only  a 
capacity  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  what  is  noble,  pure  and  good  in  human 
character.  It  may  be  a  single,  steady  thought  of  the  heart  fixed  upon 
the  attainment  of  some  coveted  object.  It  may  be  a  hope  that  fasten  a 
its  clear  and  sleepless  eves  on  some  future  that  looks  like  heaven  to  it. 
It  may  be  a  faith,  a  will  or  resolute  purpose.  And  whichever  of  these 
it  may  be,  it  mav  create  its  own  intellectual  force  ;  it  may  open  the 
successive  doors  of  opportunity  by  violence,  to  use  the  term  of  our  Saviour 
employed  in  regard  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Every  civilized  community 
presents  examples  of  this  kind  ;  examples  of  men  and  women  who  have  made 
the  yeriest  mustard-seed  of  intellect  grow  by  the  sheer  force  of  will  to  be  a 
great  branching  tree^  bearing  healthy  foliage  and  fruit  for  the  public  good. 
Where  one  such  example  finds  its  way  into  written  history,  a  thousand  live 
in  the  memory  or  chaiucter  of  as  many  towns  and  villages  in  Christendom.. 
One  of  these  examples  has  made  a  history  which  will  go  down  to  all  coming 
time.  It  is  that  of  the  blacksmith's  apprentice  of  Antwerp,  who  fell  in  love 
with  the  beautiful  daughter  of  a  distinguished  painter,  and  made  her  the 
idol  of  his  hopes  and  aspirations.  What  man  dare  do  he  would  do  and  dare 
for  her.  Set  the  standi^  at  any  height  that  man  might  reach,  and  he  would 
climb  to  it  for  her.  Her  father,  wearied  with  his  importunate  suit,  set  up 
the  standard  on  a  height  which  he  believed  the  young  man  would  never  at- 
tempt to  reach.  He  was  just  putting  the  last  touch  to  one  of  his  master- 
pieces. Pointing  to  the  canvas,  he  said  in  pride  and  scorn,  '*  Youn^  man, 
when  you  can  paint  a  piece  to  equal  that,  you  may  have  my  daughter,'  The 
young  man  to<^  him  at  his  word.  He  went  back  to  his  anvil,  and  from  that 
to  his  garret  day  by  day  with  one  great,  brave  purpose  in  his  soul.  He  had 
no  talent  nor  genius  for  painting.  But  the  great  sentiment  aglow  in  his 
heart  by  night  and  day  created  both  talent  and  genius.  It  gave  to  his  eye 
exquisite  perceptions  of  form,  symmetry  and  beauty.  It  gave  to  his  hard, 
rough  hand  a  touch,  a  sense  of  delicacy,  which  a  Correggio  or  a  Murillo 
might  envy.  Nature  took  him  by  the  hand  and  taught  him  the  secrets  of 
her  pencil.  The  love  and  hand  of  the  artist's  daughter  were  his  kingdom  of 
heaven^  and  the  young  man  took  it  by  violence.  And  the  painting  by  which 
he  won  the  heaven  of  his  earthly  hope  and  aspiration,  is  the  proudest  thing 
that  old  Antwerp  has  shown  to  the  world  for  centuries. 


Iwcttni  Sittraturt. 


Thb  Rev.  H.  R.  Haweis  enjoys  a  reputation  in  this  country  chiefly  as  the 
author  of  that  most  charming  and  original  book,  **"  Music  and  Morals,"  and 
those  of  his  admirers  who  may  have  wished,  perhaps,  to  know  something 


^28  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

about  him  religiously,  as  well  as  sesthetioaUy,  must  welcome  his  recent  work, 
''  Current  Coin,"^  which  shows  as  plainly  as  anything  can  show  the  author's 
stand  in  all  the  leading  questions  of  the  day.     And  it  is  a  stand  which  we 
sincerely  wish  we  could  see  taken  by  all  clergymen.     Surely  a  wise  liberality, 
a  judicious  kindliness,  and  bearing  at  least  granted  to  these  all-important 
questions,  social,  eesthetic,  scientific  and  spiritual,  ouffht  to  characterize  the 
so-called  Ministers  of  the  Gospel.     But  as  Mr.    Haweis  puts  it   in  his 
opening  paragraphs  on  ''Materialism,"  the  clergy,  like  Nero  of  old,  are 
playing  with  water-machines  when  they  should  be  awake  and  doing,  and  re- 
almn^  what  is  ^oing  on  around  them  ;  that  is,  they  are  haggling  over  Dis- 
establishment, ntual,  the  Sunday-school  system,  and  the  state  of  the  heathen, 
when  they  should  remember  that  the  evil  of  the  day  is  not  that  the  Church 
of  England  is  falling,  or  that  the  Bible  is  wrongly  read,  but  that  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  Bible  is  doubted  and  the  very  existence  of  a  God  disbelieved  in. 
Infidelity,  not  superstition,  is  the  deadly  tendency  of  the  day !    We  need 
some  such  reminder  as  the  terse  and  indignuit  candour  of  Mr.  Haweis  to  en- 
able us  to  realize  what  the  condition  of  all  classes  must  shortly  be  in  England. 
Here  we  certainly  read  all  we  can  devour  of  Tyndall,  Darwin,  and  Spencer, 
and  if  this  second-hand  communication  breeds  hundreds  of  disciples,  as  no 
-one  can  deny,  what  must  it  be  when  the  personal  influence  of  these  men  is  at 
hand,  and  when  thousands  are  beinff  converted  from  orthodoxy  and  bonda^ 
to  a  broader  and  purer  faith  througn  au  address  or  lecture  !    Therefore  it  is 
that  Mr.  Haweis  utters  a  stirring  cry  to  all  clergymen  to  realize  the  amount 
of  mischief  already  done,  for  he  believes  that  the  pulpit  must,  sooner  or  later, 
take  up  what  the  people  are  now  learning  too  fast,  and  either  accept  or  refute 
it  consistently  and  in  a  Christian  spirit.     Judging  from  the  fact  that  *'  Cur- 
rent Coin  "  is  made  up  of  extracts  from  sermons  and  lectures  delivered  at 
intervals  during  a  year  or  two,  there  is  no  danger  of  Mr.  Haweis'  ad- 
vocating the  steep  and  thorny  way  while  he  himself  treads  the   prim- 
rose  path    of  ease  and  sloth.    The   section    which  treats    of   the    Devil 
is  almost  alarming  in  its  positiveness,  originality,  and  daring.    We  are 
told  that  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  our  salvation  or  our  general  health 
to  believe  in  a  personal  devil  (although  Mr.  Haweis  cautioujsly  adds  that 
viewing  the  singularity  of  all  things  around  us  he  denies  nothing),  parti- 
cularly as  after  having  made  him  what  he  is,  if  he  so  exist,  he  might  not  feel 
quite  comfortable  about  it.     At  least,  it  amounts  to  that,  and  if  we  seem  to 
have  put  it  lightly,  listen  to  Mr.  Haweis' ''  Sketch  of  his  Life."  According  to 
him  (and  if  what  he  affirms  be  true,  all  clergymen,  must  hold  the  same  belief, 
since  it  is  a  part  of  regularly  taught  theology)  the  serpent  that  tempted 
Eve  was  not  the  Devil,  the  unfortunate  apple  which  was  made  the  instru- 
ment did  not  exist — in  short,  the  whole  well-known  story  is  to  be  taken  as  a 
myth,  one  ''  embodying  a  universal  truth,"  but  still,  only  a  myth,  signifying 
original  sin,  carnal  desires  and  death.     Nor  did  there  exist  at  this  time  awy 
power  of  evil,  and  certainly  no  Lucifer,  or  Devil,  or  Arch-Fiend,  but  Jehovah, 
the  "  God  of  the  Jews"  was  endowed  with  all  power,  he  could  and  did  pro- 
voke, harden,  falsify,  and  generally  usurp  the  functions  at  present  attributed 
to  an  evil  power  for  a  number  of  years.     However,  the  conscience  of  the 
Israelites  began  to  wax  tender  about  the  book  of  Chronicles,  and  we  find 
mention  made  of  Satan  as  a  provoker  of  David,  instead  of  the  Lord,  as  it  is 
in  Samuel ;  and  from  henceforth,  Satan,  who  had  always  been  a  favoured 
emissary  of  the  Lord,  undertaking  his  more  important  missions  (such  as  the 
trial  of  Job),  and  going  in  and  out  familiarly  amongst  mankind,  begins  to 
show  signs  of  corruption,  his  character  rapidly  deteriorates,   and  as  the 
original  author  phrases  it,  this  sort  of  work  began  '*to  tell  on  him."     We 
have  then  the  stupendous  spectacle,  truly   of    Satan   corrupted  by  man- 
kind.    We  shall  not  say  we  believe  Mr.  Haweis  ;  we  shall  not  sHy  we  stiU 
cherish  our  old  belief,  we  are  cautious  only,  uid   ''deny  nothing."    The 

*  Current  Ooln :  By  the  Rev.  H.  R.  Haweis.  C.  Kegran,  Paul  &  Co.,  London. 


MUSICAL.  520 

temptation  on  the  Mount  is  disposed  of  as  a  "Spiritual  Allegory ,"  and  the 
personal  temptation  of  each  of  us  is  so  cautiously  dealt  with  &at  it  is  well 
nigh  impossible  to  find  out  the  autholr's  meaning.  The  sections  on  crime, 
pauperism  and  drunkenness  do  not  call  for  such  original  treatment,  but  it  is 
a  treatment  we  long  to  see  made  universal,  of  clemency  and  brotherly  love, 
and  of  calm  and  Christian  wisdom.  We  have  not  space  to  criticise  at  length 
the  remaining  sections  of  the  book,  but  **  Emotion  *^  cannot  fail  to  contain 
many  gems  of  thought  and  reflection  that  a  cultivated  clergyman  is  best  able 
to  give  on  such  a  subject,  and  **  Recreation  "  is  dealt  with,  perhaps  all  too 
broadly  for  certain  narrow  sectarians  and  would-be  prescribers  for  the  people's 
good,  as  the  drama  is  brought  forward  as  perhaps  the  most  important 
means  of  elevating  and  recreating,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  tired  and  dull 
humanity.  By  this  work  the  author  places  himself  on  the  same  platform 
with  the  Revs.  Stafford  Brooke,  Baldwin  Brown,  and  other  clergymen  of  truth 
and  nobility  who  have  not  been  careful  in  this  matter  to  uphold  what  they 
know  to  be  wrong,  and  feel  to  be  uncertain  for  the  sake  of  place  and  emolu- 
ment. We  do  not  utter  a  cant  phrase  which  would,  whether  right  or  wrong, 
be  out  of  place  in  a  review,  when  we  say  that  their  present  popularity,  of 
itself  evanescent,  is  but  a  faint  reflection  of  the  reward  which  will  be  given  to 
those  who  ''  quit  them  like  men  and  be  strong." 


*  Rbadbbs  of  scholarly  literature  and  men  of  advanced  thought  will  be  glad  to 
get,  in  a  convenient  form,  this  collection  of  strong  articles  by  practised  hands* 
The  papers  are  made  up  from  the  very  cream  of  the  English  Periodical  Lite- 
rature of  the  present  day,  and  embrace  articles  on  all  the  social,  political, 
religious,  and  scientific  problems  which  have  engrossed  the  attention  of  cul- 
tured minds  everywhere.  In  the  booklet  before  us,  we  have  no  fewer  than 
nine  papers  covering  a  wide  range  of  thought,  and  betrajring  a  wealth  of 
researeh  and  originality  at  once  powerfully  suggestive  and  pertinent.  Prof, 
(roldwin  Smith's  able  disquisition  on  ^*  The  Defeat  of  the  Liberal  Party;*'  Prof. 
Clifford's  notable  review  of  "  The  Ethics  of  Religion ;"  the  paper  which  Mr. 
Frank  H.  Hill  wrote  a  few  months  ago  on  "  The  Due  de  Broglie  ;"  Mr.  G. 
Osborne  Morgan's  fine  classical  note  on  ^'Yirnl  in  English  Hexameters ;" 
Mr.  Bridges'  learned  article  on  ''  Evolution  and  Positivism,"  besides  notewor- 
thy contributions  by  Emile  de  Laveleye,  H.  H.  Strachui,  Right  Hon.  Lyon 
Playfair,  and  J.  Chamberlain,  complete  the  table  of  contents  of  a  little  work 
destined  to  be  very  popular  with  all  admirers  of  manly  English  and  vigorous 
thought. 


NOTES  AND  EXTRACTS. 

~  An  oration  on  the  subject  of  ''  Joseph,"  by  Sir  Michael  Costa  this  time,  is 
expected  to  be  produced  at  the  Birmingham  Musical  Festival  of  1879.  The 
libretto  is  by  the  composer's  former  pupil,  the  Crown  Princess  of  Prussia. 
How  will  it  compare  with  Prof.  Macfarren's  setting  ? 

An  opera  from  the  futile  pen  of  CamiUe  Saint-Saeur,  **  8am8<m  et  DelUa,** 
was  lately  brought  out  at  Weimar  with  success. 

A  symphony  by  Hadyn,  which  had  not  previously  been  performed,  was  lately 
played  at  the  annual  performance  of  the  Concert  Society  of  the  Pans  Con- 
servatoire, and  was  found  to  be  a  marvel  of  srace  and  freshness. 

M.  Offenbach  is  still  composing,  and  now  being  completely  recovered  from 
a  recent  illness,  is  going  to  Nice,  where  he  will  furnish  **  Madame  Favart,' 

*  Series  of  Selections  from  Able  Thinkers,  By  John  Moblet.  Toronto:  Bose-Belfoid 
PubHshing  Company. 


530  MUSICAL. 

the  "  Center  d'Hofl&nann,"  and  an  operetta  written  in  conjunction  with  Paul 
Ferrier  and  M.  M.  Hal^vy,  for  the  Bouffe  Theatre. 

M.  Gevaert,  the  Principal  of  the  Brussels  Conservatoire,  has  returned  to 
Belgium  from  his  mission  to  Italy,  to  report  on  the  ancient  instruments  of  that 
country.  He  discovered  at  Herculaneum,  two  curious  instruments,  an  ac- 
count of  which  he  will  publish. 

A  somewhat  famous  inventor  of  musical  instruments  has  recently  died  at 
Paris,  M.  Alexandre  Prangois  Debain.  He  worked  in  the  factories  of  Sax, 
Pape,  Mercier,  and  others  until  he  began  business  as  a  piano- forte  maker  on 
his  own  account.  He  is  best  knovm  as  the  inventor  of  the  Harmonium, 
patented  in  1840,  of  the  piano-ecran,  the  stenographone,  an  instrument  for 
producing  on  paper  the  improvisation  of  the  pianist,  and  the  piano  mecanique 
— ^perhaps  the  most  popular. 

A  Choral  Society  for  the  City  of  London,  (Eng.),  is  to  be  organized,  to 
•consist  mainly  of  those  employed  in  the  great  city  houses.  Five  hundred 
members  are  already  enrolled  and  in  due  time  a  series  of  concerts  will  be 
given  in  aid  of  city  charities. 

A  concert  consisting  of  ''  humouristique  music  "  was  lately  given  in  Glasgow, 
showing  how  much  genuine  comedy  there  is  in  music  without  resorting  to 
vulgarity.  Haydn's  Farewell  Symphony,  Mozart's  droll  Village  Symphony, 
the  Dervish  Chorus,  from  the  "  Ruins  of  Athens,'*  Cherubini's  **  Forty 
Thieves  "  overture,  and  several  funny  things  of  Strauss,  comprised  the  pro- 
gramme. M.  Gounod's  '^  Funeral  March  of  a  Marionette,"  one  of  the  wit- 
tiest echerzos  ever  written,  was  included  in  this  novel  selection  of  the  conduc- 
tor, Von  Billow.  Another  night  he  gave  them  Braham's  C  minor  symphony, 
"The  Demon,"  and  the  *  *  Danse  Macabre,"  of  St.  Saenr.  For  three  neighbour- 
ing pieces,  one  cannot  conceive  of  a  gloomier  procession. 

The  London  Athenaeum  says  that  the  musical  features  of  the  Paris  Exhibi- 
tion ought  to  be  of  extraordinary  interest  to  the  musical  world,  the  Minister  of 
Public  Instruction  and  of  the  Fine  Arts  having  issued  a  decree  for  perform- 
ances that  shall  exemplify  art  in  its  highest  forms  as  respects  both  composi- 
tion and  execution,  and  a  committee  with  M.  Thomas,  as  president,  having 
been  appointed  to  carry  the  decree  into  effect.  Gounod,  Cohen,  Dubois, 
GuUmant,  Saint  Saeur  and  Weckerlir  are  members  of  the  committee,  and 
about  950,000  have  been  appropriated  to  meet  the  pecuniary  exigencies  of  such 
an  undertaking.  Foreign  composers  are  invited  to  confer  with  the  committee 
as  to  competition,  and  to  send  compositions. 

Mr.  C.  J.  Bishenden  has  received  complimentary  letters  from  the  Queen 
and  the  Earl  of  Beaconsfield  for  presentation  copies  of  his  book.  Bow  to  sing, 

A  young  English  baritone  singing  under  the  name  of  Riccardo  Delia  Rosa, 
has  just  made  a  brilliant  d6but  at  Lucca,  as  the  King  in  "  La  Favorita.'*  His 
"  beautiful  voice,  handsome  person,  finished  and  artistic  style  of  singing," 
and  also  his  exceptionally  great  dramatic  talents  foretell  for  him  a  splendid 
career.     He  is  a  pupil  of  Alary,  of  Paris,  and  Rouconi,  of  Milan. 

M.  Faure  lately  appeared  as  Hamlet  in  Marseilles.  Anna  di  Belocca  is 
affain  in  London.  Pauline  Lucca  lately  made  a  successful  re-appearance  in 
Madrid.  With  pitiful  ignorance  the  Musical  World  has  it  that  in  Detroit 
{Canada)y  was  recently  held  a  Beethoven  Festival. 

Madl.  Matema  has  appeared  as  Ort/rvd  in  '*  Lohengrin,"  in  Prague,  and  also 
in  scenes  from  the  Goiter  ddmmerung  and  WaJMi/re,  Adeline  Patti  is  at 
Naples. 

At  a  recent  Gewandhaur  concert  in  Leipsic,  Johannes  Brahms  played  a 
piano  concerto  written  by  himself.  The  interest  evinced  in  his  playinc  waa 
ve^  great,  but  beyond  a  thorough  musicianly  style,  he  seems  to  have  nothing. 

Hans  Von  Bulow's  Notes  of  Travel,  in  the  Leipsic  Signale,  edited  by  Herr 
Seaff,  and  translated  in  the  Musical  Worldy  are  to  be  found  in  the  pages 
of  Dwight,  and  are  interesting,  though  sometimes  obscure  from  the  weakness 
of  the  translation.  About  a  performance  of  Mendelssohn's  **  Song  of  Praise," 
at  the  Crystal  Palace,  he  says : — "The  elevating  performance  of  Mendelssohn's 


MUSICAL.  631 

cantata  reaUy  deeerved  a  '  Song  of  Praise '  for  all  the  instrumentaliBt-s  and 
vocalists,  including  the  conductor,  Mr.  Manns,  the  guide  of  the  imposing 
mass,  occupied  a  high  position.  Since  the  model  performance,  never  to 
be  forgotten  by  me,  which  Prof.  Julius  Stem  got  up,  with  his  association  of 
similar  choral  works  in  the  years  of  my  Berlin  solitude,  1  have  had  to  enter 
in  the  book  of  my  thoughts  no  impressions  in  any  way  so  pure,  so  undimmed, 
and  moving  harmoniously  both  the  senses  and  the  mind  in  an  equal  degree 
as  this.  It  was  a  solemn  ^^  evocation  *'  of  that  master,  who  is,  at  the  present 
time,  misappreciated  only  by  unseasonably  Schumannizing  conservatorists, 
and  whom  Richard  Wagner  (in  conversation,  at  least)  was  accustomed  to  cha- 
racterize as  '*  the  greatest  specifically  musicaJ  genius  who  has  appeared  to  the 
world  since  the  time  of  Mozart  "  Granted  that  their  genius,  in  the  course  of 
his  development,  descended  to  the  rank  of  mere  talent  (a  paradox  of  Herr 
Felix  Draseke's  not  to  be  absolutely  rejected) ;  we  find  in  the  '*  Song  of 
Praise,"  side  by  side  with  much  that  has  grown  pale  and  is  wanting  in  in- 
spiration, plenty  of  passages  on  which  the  seal  of  genius  is  indelibly  impressed. 
How  irresistibly  does  the  first  movement  of  the  symphony  stream  forward, 
carrying  us  with  it ;  how  does  it  flow.  How  powerful  is  the  first  chorus,  how 
dramatic  the  question  of  the  tenor  solo  ;  and  the  affirmative  reply  given  first 
by  the  ethereal  whisperings  of  the  soprano  solo,  and  then  by  the  chorus  swell- 
ing up  into  ecstatic  joy  !  Enough — you  in  Leipsic  know  all  about  it  much 
better  than  I  do.'*  Surely  a  true  and  beautiful  criticism  of,  or  rather  tribute 
to,  Mendelssohn. 

REVIEWS. 

The  series  of  excellent  text-books  published  bv  Novello,  Ewer  &  Co. ,  and 
edited  by  Dr.  Staines,  called  ^*  Music  Primers,''  are  beautifully  issued,  and 
include  fifteen  of  the  best  manuals  for  the  voice,  organ,  piano,  and  other  de- 
partments, we  have  vet  seen  in  this  day  of  text-books.  We  have  studied  two 
very  carefully,  the  "Organ  "  by  Dr.  Staines,  and  the  **Piano-f oriel"  by  Ernst 
Paner^  who  contributes  in  alL  The  first  manual  of  Dr.  Staines  s  includes 
four  parts  ;  part  1st,  a  short  sketch  of  the  history  of  the  organ,  tracing  the 
gradual  growth  from  the  ancient  flute  or  fife,  through  the  successive  inven- 
tions of  air-chest,  bellows,  reed-pipes,  key- board,  manuals,  pneumatic  lever 
and  harmonious  stops,  to  the  superb  and  well-nigh  perfect  instrument  of  the 
present  day.  Part  2nd  gives  a  short,  but  cleverly  arranged  explanation  of 
the  construction  of  an  organ,  from  key  to  pallet,  from  bellows  to  pipes,  all 
clearly  and  concisely  shown  by  the  aid  of  well-drawn  diagrams.  The  third 
portion  of  the  work  treats  of  stops  and  their  management,  with  directions 
for  combinations  that  cannot  fail  to  be  attractive  and  prove  useful.  Part 
4th  called  "  Practical  Study,"  is  the  most  important  part  of  the  work  and  is 
evidently  the  result  of  long  and  sometimes  tiresome  experience  in  the  case  of 
the  writer.  The  position  of  the  body  during  pedalling,  is  clearly  explained, 
and  many  well-written  exercises  for  scale-passages,  for  independent  move- 
ment of  the  feet,  for  alternate  toe  passages,  <&c.,  are  to  be  found  in  this  por- 
tion of  the  Manual.  Five  short  pieces  by  the  author,  an  Allegretto,  an 
Andante,  a  Fantasia,  an  Adagio,  a  Prelude  and  Tughetta  form  a  useful 
appendix,  to  the  younj?  student,  "  while  his  teacher  is  selecting  a  course  of 
organ  pieces  for  him  n*om  the  works  of  the  best  authors."  All  this  for  two 
sh^lings  and  within  a  hundred  pages  ! 

Herr  Paner  says  in  the  preface  to  his  Manual  on  the  Pianoforte — "  Giving 
the  result  of  my  long  experience  as  a  teacher,  I  have  included  in  this  work 
those  phases  of  pianoforte  playing  which,  occurring  daily,  may  be  considered 
as  forming  the  basis  of  a  good,  solid,  and  correct  execution.  The  position  of 
the  performer  at  the  instrument — the  method  of  producing  by  means  of  a 
good,  distinct  touch,  a  full  and  rich,  yet  delicate  and  subtle  tone — the  prac- 
tised manner  of  studving  and  playing  the  scales — the  execution  of  the  shake 
— the  chords  firm  and  broken — the  double  passage—  part-playing — all  these 


532  MUSICAL. 

are  essential  conBtituents  of  an  efficient  and  artistic  performer,  and  to  ex- 
plain these  different  matters  in  a  clear,  yet  not  too  elaborate  manner,  has  been 
my  endeavour  throughout."  It  remains  for  the  reviewer  to  state  the  result, 
and  truly  we  have  found  Herr  Paner's  work  thoroughly  clear  and  quite  ela- 
borate enough,  to  repeat  his  own  adjectives.  Touch,  he  manages  to  divide 
into  four  classes  after  this  manner,  legatOy  stoccaio,  legcUisgimo,  and  the  par- 
tamento,  the  latter  being  a  sort  of  compromise  between  the  first  two.     There  ^ 

is  a  new  division  of  the  scales  according  to  fingering,  which  perhaps  would 
puzzle  those  who  had  been  previously  accustomed  to  the  old  way,  but  would 
certainly  be  useful  to  an  entirely  new  beginner.  Part-playing,  which  as 
Herr  Paner  expresses  it,  req^uires  an  individuality  for  each  finger,  is  dwelt  on 
at  some  length.  The  order  m  which  sonatas  should  be  studied  is  as  follows  : 
Bmanuel,  Bach,  Clemen ti,  Kuhlan,  Haydn,  Mozart,  Clementi  again,  Dassek, 
Midler,  (caprices)  Hammei,  Beethoven,  Weber,  Schubert,  and  last  to  Beetho- 
ven. A  short  history  of  the  pianoforte  and  its  predecessors,  by  Mr.  A.  J. 
Hipkins,  a  vocabulary  of  technical  terms  and  expressions  connected  with  the 
piano,  and  an  excellent  table  of  all  the  celebrated  composers  forthe  harpsichord, 
clavichord  and  piano,  arranged  in  chronological  order  under  their  respective 
countries,  complete  tliis  well-written  and  original  text-book. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 

Boston y  Mass, — **  It  is  rather  funny  to  read  in  Dwight,  which  excellent 
journal  you  get  occasionally  in  Canada  I  expect,  that  the  concerts  are  fewer 
than  usual  '^  about  this  time."  The  truth  is,  there  are  too  many,  and  one 
finds  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  discriminate  properly,  or  in  fact  to  criticise  at 
all,  in  the  presence  of  so  many  entertainments  of  sudi  undeniable  excellence^ 
that  although  we  Bostonians  have  left  behind  us  a  good  deal  of  the  spirit  which 
used  to  make  us  say  that  our  city  could  easily  rival  if  she  chose  more  than 
one  European  town,  we  still  feel  a  pride  and  sense  of  security,  musically 
speaking,  which  mav  safely  be  allowed  us. 

On  St.  Valentine  s  day,  we  had  the  seventh  Harvard  symphony  concert 
which  gave  us  some  delightful  things.  Among  novelties  (and  you  know  our 
only  fault  as  a  musical  city  is  our  too  great  f on&ess  of  catching  hold  of  novel- 
ties, and  having  them  performed  whether  or  no  we  have  the  performers)  ^  we 
had  a  piano  concerto,  played  by  Mr.  Preston,  of  Dorchester.  Have  you  had 
the  Brahms'  symphony,  the  tenth  symphony  as  it  is  called  in  Canada  ?  It  is 
a  disappointing  work.  It  is  complex,  it  is  unmelodious,  it  is  too  slow  and  it 
is  too  long.  It  seemed  to  me  and  to  many  others  that  Thomas  must  have 
taken  the  tempo  all  through  incorrectly,  for  as  the  Courier  says,  '*  such  a  chain 
of  slow  movements  can  never  have  been  intended  by  any  composer."  How- 
ever Brahms  is  known  to  prose  somewhat  in  other  things,  so  that  doubtless 
the  conductor  was  right  enough.  The  rendering  was  what  Thomas's  orchestra 
can  alone  give,  a  perfect  interpretation  of  a  work  which  although  possessing 
isolated  passages  of  much  beauty,  and  bearing  throughout  the  impress  of 
earnestness  and  culture,  is,  taken  altogether,  obscure,  ugly,  morbid,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  that  it  will  ever,  as  John  Hulhdi  said  w^truly  of 
Lohengrinf  take  hold  of  the  human  soul  as  Beethoven  alone  has  done.  Still, 
there  are  many  among  our  people,  especially  the  feminine  students  who 
characterize  it  as  '*  so  interesting  '*  so  full  of  yearning  and  restless  emotion,'' 
**  so  modem,"  etc. ,  etc,  and  also  probably  can  not  play  or  sing  a  single  classi- 
cal piece  inteUigenUy. 

We  have  been  treated  to  music  of  a  far  different  character  from  the  voioes 
of  those  Swedish  marvels  of  whom  we  never  tire  ;  their  selections  are  always 
good  and  in  some  cases  very  quaint  and  interesting.  Mr.  Ernst  Perabo  sot 
out  some  very  curious  programmes  lately  of  piano  compositions  whoUy  oy 
anonymous  composers  whi(»i  created  no  end  of  conjecture.  The  conundrums 
were  easily  guessed  in  some  cases  and  included  a  sonata  of  Schubert's  and 
several  little  pieces  by  Rubenstein. 


BELFOED'S 
MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


APEIL,   1878. 
EOXY. 

BY  EDWARD  EOGLESTOH. 


534  BOXY. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

8AINT  THE&ESA  OF  THE  HONBTSUCKLES. 

Mtstic  that  she  was,  Boxy  was  ever  looking  for  some  celestial  com- 
munication.  To  sach  a  nature,  heaven  is  all  about.  There  are  no  acci- 
dents ;  the  angels  minister  in  whatever  befalls.  So  when  Mark  came, 
he  found  her  with  the  old  gladness  shining  from  her  face,  singing  with 
irrepressible  spontaneity  and  the  delicious  melody  of  a  Virginia  wood- 
robin.  Nothing  could  be  more  inspiriting  than  the  martial  enthusiasm 
and  fire  of  fine  sincerity  with  which  she  rendered  Charles  Wesley's 
hymn,  beginning : 

'*  Jeans,  the  name  high  over  all 

In  hell,  or  earth,  or  sky. 
Angels  and  men  before  him  fall 

And  dBvils  fear  and  fly.'' 

Mark  came  into  hearing  as  she  concluded  the  singing  of  this  first 

verse,  and  he  paused  involuntarily  to  hear  the  rest.     Rojcy  omitted 

the  next  stanza,  and  struck  into  the  third,  which  exactly   fitted  her 

mood: 

''  Oh,  that  the  world  might  taste  and  see 

The  riches  of  his  grace, 

The  arms  of  love  that  compass  me 

Woold  all  mankind  embrace," 

The  rich  voice  gave  a  new  meaning  to  the  words,  and  Bonamy  eould 
see  in  her  face,  firamed  in  the  honeysuckle  that  grew  over  the  window, 
the  reflex  of  all  she  sang,  as  she  plied  her  needle  and  rocked  slowly  to 
and  fro.  Again  she  skipped — she  was  thinking  of  the  dangers  of  life  in 
Texas,  perhaps,  but  she  dropped  now  to  the  last  verse  of  the  hymn,  and 
Charles  Wesley  himself  would  have  found  new  meaning  in  his  own 
words,  could  he  have  heard  her  sing,  in  a  tone  now  soft  and  low,  but 
fiill  of  pathetic  exultation  still : 

**  Happy,  if  with  my  latest  breath, 

I  may  bnt  gasp  his  name. 
Preach  him  to  all,  and  ory  in  deatiii, 

Behold,  behold  the  Lamb !" 

While  she  sang  these  words,  Bonamy  came  softly  into  the  yard  and 
walked  up  to  the  window,  pulling  aside  the  honeysuckles.  Boxy  was 
not  startled.  Mark  had  been  so  present  in  her  imaginings  that  it  seem- 
ed to  the  rapt  girl  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  see  him 
standing  there  looking  at  her,  with  his  face  suflfUsed  with  emotion. 

<'  A  body  could  suffer  and  die,  with  you  to  strengthen,"  he  said. 


ROXT.  536 

''  Noy  with^God.  It  is  Ood  that  gives  me  this  desire  to  suffer  or  to 
die  for  him.  I  know  it  is  given  for  something,  but  I  must  wait  until  the 
way  is  open  for  me." 

"  The  way  is  opened  to-day.  Before  New-Year*s,  I  hope  that  you  and 
I  will  be  carrying  out  the  spirit  of  that  hymn  in  the  republic  of  Texas.'' 

"  Why  ?  Howt  Come  in  and  tell  me." 

Mark  went  in,  and  saluting- her  with  a  lover's  warmth,  told  her  what 
his  &ther>  had  said.  Help  from  this  quarter  was  just  the  most  miracul- 
ous thing  in  the  world.  The  Maid  of  Orleans  was  not  more  sure  of  a 
divine  vocation,  than  was  Boxy  at  that  moment.  She  pushed  her  chair 
back  from  the  window,  beckoned  Mark  to  kneel  down  with  her,  and 
then,  with  the  enthusiasm  of  St.  Theresa  when  she  sought  in  childhood 
a  martyrdom  among  the  Moors,  Boxy  poured  out  thanks  to  God  for  the 
inestimable  privilege  of  suffering,  and  perhaps  of  dying  for  the  Lord. 

Mark  left  Boxy  when  the  tavern  bell  was  ringing  its  muezzin  call  to 
supper.  He  went  away  as  he  always  left  her  presence,  in  a  state  of 
sympathetic  exaltation,  which  would  have  lasted  him  until  he  could  have 
sunned  himself  again  in  her  religious  experience,  had  it  not  been  that  in 
his  walk  towards  home,  he  passed^the  house  of  Haz  Rirtley.  The  sight 
of  the  house  disturbed  his  complacency  with  recollections  of  past  failures. 
He  had  no  fear  now  of  any  enticement  from  Nancy,  but  he  was  growing 
a  little  more  distrustftil  of  himself,  in  a  general  way.  A  lurking  feeling 
that  underneath  this  missionary  Mark  was  a  treacherous  othfer  self^ 
capable  of  repeating  the  follies  of  the  past,  troubled  him.  He  longed 
for  Texas,  not  as  of  old,  to  leave  Nancy  behind,  but  because  he  felt,  as 
who  does  not,  that  a  great  change  in  circumstances  would  help  to  make 
a  change  in  him.  He  forgot,  as  we  all  forget,  that  the  ugly  self  is  not  to 
be  left  behind.  There  is  no  way  but  to  turn  and  face  a  foe  who  must 
needs  be  mess-mate  and  bed-fellow  with  us  to  the  very  end. 

That  night,  at  supper,  Amanda,  the  elder  of  the  sisters  Bonamy  told 
Mark  that  he  would  better  learn  to  make  shoes.  This  obscure  allusion 
to  the  trade  of  Boxy's  fiither  was  meant  for  wit  and  sarcasm,  but  to 
Amanda's  surprise,  her  father  took  up  for  Mark.  Roxy  Adams  was  a 
fine  girl, — a  little  too  pious,  but  that  at  least,  was  not  a  common  fault 
with  girls.  And  Janet,  the  impulsive  younger  sister,  said  she  wished 
Mark  would  marry  Boxy.  She  had  such  a  handsome  face,  with  a  glad 
look  shining  out  from  behind. 

"What  a  little  goose  you  are  I"  said  the  dignified  Amanda ;  "  did  ever 
anybody  hear  such  nonsense  ? — a  glad  look  shining  out  from  behind  ! 
Silly  1  Fot  my  part,  I  don't  like  a  girl  that  is  always  smiling." 

"  But  she  don't  smile.    She  only  looks  glad,"  persisted  Janet 

"  As  if  anybody  could  look  glad  without  smiling !  Let's  see  you 
try." 


536  EOXT. 

"  Oh,  I  can't !  It's  just  like  before  the  san  comes  up  in  the  morning, 
— the  hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  show  the  bright  skj  through 
the  trees,  the  water  looks  like  gold,  the  houses  seem  to  stand  out  with 
light  all  around  them,  in  a  splendid  kind  of  a  way.  It's  sunshine  just 
agoing  to  come,  like  Boxy's  smile,  that  isn't  quite  a  smile,  you  know." 

The  father  laughed,  as  he  might  have  laughed  at  baby  talk.  Mark 
patted  the  young  girl  on  the  shoulder  with : 

'^  A  poet  in  the  family,  I  declare." 

"  A  goose  in  the  family,"  said  Amanda.  '*  A  smile  that  isn't  quite  a 
smile  is  a  sensible  remark  I  You'd  better  go  to  school  to  Boxy.  She's 
teaching  one  idiot  now,  and  I  don't  know  but  she's  got  two."  This  last 
with  a  look  at  Mark. 

As  for  Mrs.  Hanks,  she  was  not  quite  satisfied  when  she  heard  of  the 
arrangement  She  thought  the  colonel  should  have  insisted  on  Mark's 
staying  at  home.  But  he  would  come  to  be  somebody  yet, — a  presiding 
elder  and  may  be  a  bishop.  She  was  glad,  for  her  part,  that  Boxy  had 
taken  her  advice.  It  was  a  good  deal  better  than  marrying  a  Presby- 
terian, anyhow.  Boxy  would  have  a  good  and  talented  husband,  and  a 
Methodist,  with  real  heart  religion. 

'<  Wait  till  the  pie's  cut  before  you  say  whether  they's  blackberries,  or 
elderberries,  or  pisen  poke-berries  insides,"  said  Jemima. 

Twonnet  tried  to  think  the  best  when  Boxy  told  her.  But  the 
knowl^ge  that  Boxy  had  of  her  friend's  opinion  of  Mark  was  a  wedge 
of  estrangement  between  them.  They  visited  each  other,  but  their 
intercourse  became  more  and  more  constrained.  Each  blamed  the  other 
for  the  cooling  of  a  friendship  which  they  had  often  vowed  should  be 
eternal  In  such  gradual  dissolutions  of  eternal  Mendships,  each  party, 
feeling  herself  innocent,  is  sure  that  the  other  must  be  censurable.  They 
never  think  of  falling  out  with  those  deep  and  irresistible  currents  in 
human  nature  before  the  force  of  which  we  are  all  helpless. 

The  whole  town  was  agitated  by  the  news  of  the  engagement.  For 
it  was  news.  What  battles  and  bankruptcies  are  to  a  metropolis,  such 
are  marriages  and  deaths  to  a  village.  The  match-makers  were  gener- 
rally  pleased ;  for  there  was  romance  in  the  wild  stories  of  how  Colonel 
Bonamy  had  quarrelled  with  his  son  about  going  to  Texas,  but  had 
finally  consented  to  the  marriage  and  the  mission.  It  was  generally 
agreed  that  the  old  man  was  not  "  nigh  so  hard-hearted  since  his  wife 
died."  He  might  get  over  his  infidelity  yet,  some  day — though  he  did 
swear  dreadfully,  you  know.  Some  thought  that  he  meant  to  run  for 
Congress,  and  wanted  to  get  Mark  out  of  the  way  and  purchase  the 
favour  of  the  Methodists  at  the  same  time. 

Mr.  Highbury  was  delighted  that  his  own  words  had  weighed  with 
Whittaker,  and  Mrs.  Highbury  rocked  her  little  fat  body  to  and  iro, 


ROXY.  537 

lifting  her  toes  off  the  floor  each  time,  and  rhythmically  echoed  Mr. 
Highboiy's  opinion  that  no  man  ought  to  preach  without,  a  theological 
education. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  PANTHER 

Jim  McGtowAN,  of  Rocky  Fork,  who  had  felt  keenly  his  insecurity  in 
the  affections  of  Nancy  Rirtley  ever  since  the  advent  of  young  Bonamy 
on  his  electioneering  trip,  heard  of  Mark's  engagement  with  relief.  He 
had  brought  a  load  of  wood  to  town  and  sold  it  to  old  Mrs.  Tartrum, 
the  ideal  town  gossip,  who  assaUed  the  very  children  upon  the  street 
with  persistent  catechisms  about  the  affairs  of  their  parents,  and  whose 
love  of  hearing  was  only  equalled  by  her  love  of  telling.  In  the  absence 
of  any  other  uninformed  hearer,  she  poured  the  whole  story  of  the  col- 
onel's opposition,and  the  colonel's  arrangement  and  Amanda's  "dudgeon," 
into  the  ears  of  eager  Jim  McGrowan,  whOe  he  was  throwing  a  cord  of 
ash  wood  over  her  back  fence.  She  added  the  information  that  the 
Bonamys  were  a  regular  big  fish  family,  and  that  it  was  a  great  rise  for 
a  poor  girl. 

Jim  droye  home  in  a  state  of  glorification.  He  was  sure  that  Nancy 
would  be  humble  enough  now.  She  had  always  been  gracious  to  him  in 
proportion  to  Bonamy 's  remoteness.  Now  that  Bonamy  was  gone 
entirely,  Nancy  would  set  her  lines  for  Jim  more  carefully  than  ever. 
He  would  hold  back,  and  let  her  see  how  it  felt  to  be  kept  off.  It  was 
her  turn  to  fish  awhile.  Jim  McGk)wan  is  not  the  only  man  who  finds, 
to  his  sorrow,  just  when  he  thinks  he  understands,  that  he  has  not  begun 
to  understand  a  woman. 

Jim  was  a  little  distant  with  Nancy.  She  was  looking  her  best  in  a 
new  calico,  for  she  had  seen  him  go  down  in  the  morning.  It  was  all 
the  poor  fellow  could  do  to  keep  up  his  lofty  and  half-injured  air.  He 
wanted  to  introduce  the  news  he  had  to  tell  in  an  accidental  way,  as 
though  it  were  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him.  But  the  girl  was  so 
dazzling  that  he  could  not  well  keep  his  head. 

Nancy  Kirtley  was  a  flower  of  that  curious  poor-whitey  race  which  is 
called  "  tar-heel "  in  the  northern  Carolina,  "  sand-hiller"  in  the  south- 
em,  "corn-cracker"  in  Kentucky,  "yahoo"  in  Mississippi,  and  in 
California  "  Pike."  They  never  continue  in  one  stay,  but  are  the  half 
gypsies  of  America,  seeking  by  shiftless  removals  from  one  region  to 
iknother  to  better  their  wretched  fortunes,  or,  more  likely,  to  gratify  a 
restless  love  of  change  and  adventure.  They  are  the  Hoosiers  of  the 
4ark  regions  of  Indiana  and  Egyptians  of  southern  Illinois.     Always  in 


588  ROXY. 

a  half  barbarous  state,  it  is  among  them  that  lynchings  most  prevaO. 
Their  love  of  excitement  driyes  them  into  a  daring  life  and  often  into 
crime.  From  them  came  the  Kentucky  frontiersmen,  the  Texan  rangers, 
the  Murrell  highwaymen,  the  Arkansas  regulators,  and  anti-regulators, 
the  ancient  keel-boatmen,the  more  modern  flat-boatmen  andraftsmen  and 
and  roustabouts,  and  this  race  furnishes,  perhaps,  more  than  its  share  of 
the  "  road-agents  **  that  infest  the  territories.  Brave  men  and  genMx>as 
men  are  often  found  among  them ;  but  they  are  never  able  to  rise  above 
Daniel  fioones  and  Simon  Rontons.  Beautiful  women,  of  the  magnifi- 
cent,  swarthy,  half-oriental,  animal  sort,  spring  now  and  then  from  this 
stock,  and  of  these  Nancy  was  one, — a  perfect  gypsy-queen  of  beaufy  as 
she  stood  there  that  day  and  set  poor  McGk)wan  wild.  She  was  more 
ciNrdial  than  usual,  and  the  poor  distracted  fellow  found  himself  prone  to 
reoeive  gratefully  so  much  sunshine,  (letting  desperate,  he  came  out  at 
last  with: 

"  Nancy,  you  remember  that  air  Mark  Bonamy  that  come  foolin'  roun* 
here  last  year,  runnin  fer  the  legislater  ? " 

"  I  'low  you  ricollect  him,  Jim.  You've  been  mad  enough  about  him 
ever  since.  And  you  got  fined  over't  Republican  meetin'-house  for  dis- 
turbin'  his  meetin'.  And  I'll  bet  he  don't  forgit  me."  WiUi  that  Nancy 
tossed  back  her  abundant  dark-brown  hair  and  threw  out  her  chin  in  a 
saucy,  triumphant  fashion  that  set  her  lover  wild.  *^  I  haint  a  gal  to  be 
forgot  easy,  now  am  I,  Jim  1  And  he's  a  fellow  worth  while,"  she  add- 
ed, getting  up  and  posing  her  magnificent  figure  on  the  hearth  where 
Jmi  could  see  to  the  best  advantage  her  perfect  shape,  her  great^  black 
eyes  with  a  soft  sensuous  droop  in  them,  her  rich  complexion,  her  well 
set  red  lips  and  white  teeth. 

^*  What  a  creetur  you  air,  Nancy  ! "  cried  Jim,  leaping  forward  in  a 
frantic  state  of  mingled  love  and  despair.  **  I  was  going  to  tell  you 
some  news,  but  I  sha'n't  if  you  go  on  that  way." 

**  What  way,  Jim  ?  Don't  be  a  fool  about  Bonamy  jest  because  he's 
so  handsome.  What  about  him  1  Is  he  coming  out  here  to  see  me  t 
I  wish  he  would,    He's  as  big  a  fool  as  you  air." 

*'  I  low  I'd  better  go,"  said  Jim,  rising  with  an  air  of  offence,  but 
sure  that  his  news  would  humble  Nancy.  "  All  they  is  about  it  is  that 
Mark  Bonamy  is  goin  to  marry  shoemaker  Adams'  girl,  and  both  on  'em 
is  off  fer  Texas  in  a  month  or  two.  It  aint  no  matter  of  mine,  you 
know,  but  I  knowed  you'd  keer,  seein  you  was  so  all-fired  sweet  to 
him." 

Nancy  bridled  proudly. 

"  I'll  show  you  whether  he'll  marry  that  girl  or  not,  dog-on  her.' 
She  turned  to  the  high  mantel-shelf  and  lifted  an  old  tin  cup  which  waa 
turned  upside  down,  and  picked  up  a  watch  seal. 


ROXY.  58© 

'<May  be  yoa  don't  know  who  gave  me  thati"  she  said,  with  her 
great  black  eyes  snapping  fire  triumphantly  under  her  dark  brows. 
Then  she  seized  from  the  other  end  of  the  shelf  a  red  morocco  Testa- 
ment. ''  May  be  you  kin  read  writing  Jim.  I  can't  But  that's  his 
name.  I'm.agoin'  off  to  Luzerne  to-morrow  momin'.  And  you  look  at 
me,  Jim."  Here  she  straightened  herself  up  proudly,  and  her  swarthy, 
almost  oriental,  beauty  became  more  wonderful  when  her  whole  counte- 
nance was  lit  up  with  defiance. 

<'  How  long  kin  Roxy  Adams  stan'  agin  me  ?  Look  at  me,  Jim,  and 
say  whether  I'm  purty  or  not.  You  come  here  saying  to  yourself:  '  Now, 
when  jihat  Nancy  hears  that  Bonamy's  clean  gone  she'll  be  down  on  her 
knees  to  me.'  Jest  as  ef  I  haint  got  more  beaus  than  I  kin  count. 
Jim  McGbwan,  you  may  jest  go  to  thunder,  the  quicker  the  better." 
And  she  turned  fiercely  away. 

Jim  saw  his  defeat  too  clearly  to  tarry.  With  a  few  testy  words  of 
retort  he  made  his  way  to  his  waggon  and  started  home.  But  eyer  as 
he  drove  over  the  rough  road  of  Rocky  Fork  he  recalled  the  vision  of 
the  fierce,  dark,  magnificent  woman  standing  on  the  hearth  and  stamp- 
ing her  foot  as  she  dismissed  him.  And  over  and  over  in  his  mind  he 
compared  her  to  a  panther,  thinking  aloud  as  men  of  his  class  are  prone 

to  do. 

"  Blamed  ef  she  haint  a  painter.     A  regular  painter,  teeth  an'  claws 

an'  all,  by  hokey  !     Looked  just  like  a  painter  ready  to  spring  on  me 

and  tear  me  all  to  flinders.    And  that's  what  she  is,  painter  an'  nothin' 

else.     But  gosh  1  she's  a  splendid  creetur  !    Confound  her  picter." 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

NANCY  IN  TOWN. 

The  solitary  horse  of  the  ELirtley  family  was  in  use  in  the  corn-field. 
Only  one  more  day's  work  was  needed  to  "  lay  by  "  the  field,  but  Nancy 
had  come  to  be  dictator  ;  so  iu  stead  of  being  hitched  to  the  plough,  old 
Bob  was  side-saddled  for  Nancy.  The  old  woman  scolded,  but  the 
arrangement  suited  the  father  as  well  as  it  did  the  daughter — ^it  gave 
him  an  excuse  for  spending  the  day  at  the  grocery  in  Canaan,  a  promis- 
ed land  comprising  three  drinking-places  and  a  shoe-shop.  All  the  way 
up  and  down  the  hills  to  town  Nancy  turned  over  and  over  again  in  her 
mind  various  plans  of  attack.  To  exhibit  the  keepsakes  to  Roxy  assert- 
ing an  engagement  between  Mark  and  herself  might  serve  her  purpose 
far  enough  to  break  oflF  the  marriage  with  Roxy,  but  it  would  probably 
anger  Bonamy  and  defeat  her  main  hope.     She  was  shrewd  enough  to 


540  ROXT. 

see  that  if  she  should  threaten  Mark,  or  attack  him  in  any  way,  all,  ex- 
pedients fcr  trapping  him  would  fail.  She  therefore  resolved  to  keep 
vindictive  measures  till  the  last. 

Her  first  objective  point  was  an  interview  with  Mark,  and  to  this  end 
she  seated  herself  in  his  office,  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  awaited  his 
entrance.  When  he  appeared  on  the  door-step  she  was  offended  to  note 
that  he  drew  back  for  a  moment  as  though  he  would  fain  avoid  meeting 
her.  For  Mark  had  just  been  licensed  to  preach,  the  day  before,  and 
with  a  freshened  sense  of  his  responsibility,  not  -only  to  God  but  to  the 
public,  he  was  chagrined  to  come  upon  Nancy  lying  in  wait.  He  greet- 
ed her  as  *'  Sister  Kirtley,''  after  the  inflexible  Methodist  fashion  of  that 
day,  but  his  friendliness  went  no  further.  She  was  piqued  at  this,  and 
set  herself  to  be  attractive,  but  Mark  was  in  no  mood  to  be  attracted. 
To  dally  with  the  belie  of  Rocky  Fork  at  a  hoe-down  on  Rocky  Fork 
was  easy  enough ;  to  have  her  obtrusive  beauty  thrust  upon  him,  in  his 
own  office  in  Luzerne,  when  he  had  a  brand  new  license  to  preach  in  his 
pocket,  a  mission  to  Texas  in  his  mind  and  a  fresh  and  most  religious 
betrothal  to  a  saint  like  Roxy  Adams  in  his  heart,  was  quite  another 
thing.  Besides  he  momentarily  expected  the  advent  of  his  father. 
What  would  the  cynical  old  atheist  say  or  do  if  he  should  find  his  pious 
son  in  such  company  1  In  his  eager  desire  to  be  rid  of  her  he  was  almost 
ruda 

Entered  after  a  while  Bonamy  the  elder,  who  affected  not  to  see  the 
girl  and  who  immediately  absorbed  himself  in  writing.  But  Nancy's 
observing  vanity  had  detected  the  furtive  glance  with  which  the  sur- 
prised senior  had  taken  her  in.  She  noted  also  the  increased  constraint 
of  Mark,  who  now  answered  her  in  curt,  half-defiant  monosyllables. 

Seeing  that  she  was  gaining  nothing  by  blandishment  she  thought  to 
try  a  little  skilful  intimidation.  She  began  to  feel  for  her  handkerchief. 
But  as  a  woman  has  but  one  pocket  it  often  becomes  a  necessaiy  and 
natural  thing  for  her  to  remote  the  superimposed  strata  in  order  to 
reachHhose  below.  Nancy  first  pulled  out  the  pocket  Testament  Mark 
had  given  her  in  a  moment  of  effusive  zeal. 

"  Do  you  know  that  1 "  she  said.  "  May  be  you  don't  ricollect  Folks 
forgits  their  country  friends  mighty  easy.  I  pack  this  Testament  around 
weth  me  all  the  time."  She  saw  on  Mark's  face  signs  that  the  torture 
was  working,  and  she  was  happy. 

"  I  declar* !  ef  I  haint  got  this  weth  me  too,"  and  she  fished  out  the 
watch  seal  "  I  hadn't  oughter  keep  that  in  my  pocket.  I  wouldn't 
lose  it  fer  money,"  and  she  held  it  up  and  looked  at  it.  "  When  folks 
talks  about  your  marryin'  somebody  they  don't  know  't  I've  got  this 
purty  thing  in  my  pocket,  do  they?  " 

*'  Mark,"  said  Colonel  Bonamy,  who  had  now  heard  enough  to  guess 


ROXY.  541 

at  the  state  of  the  case,  *'  take  this  over  to  the  clerk's  office/'  handing  a 
paper.  **  See  that  it  is  fixed  up  all  right  Don't  hurry."  The  junior 
started  off.  "  Take  plenty  of  time  and  be  careful,"  the  old  man  called 
after  him. 

Mark  had  turned  toward  his  father  with  his  face  aflame  with  mor- 
tification. But  the  old  man  spoke  dryly  as  though  he  were  particularly 
interested  in  the  business  intrusted  to  his  son.  The  young  man  had  no 
doubt  that  his  father  had  some  ulterior  purpose  in  thus  sending  him 
away,  but  he  was  so  glad  to  be  rid  of  his  position  between  the  uncom- 
fortable Nancy  on  one  side  and  the  uncomfortable  parent  on  the  other, 
that  he  was  quite  willing  to  take  the  risk  of  his  father's  adroit  cross- 
questioning  of  the  girl.  He  could  not  divine  what  was  Colonel  Bonamy's 
purpose,  but  he  knew  that  all  the  information  that  Nancy  could  give 
would  be  extracted  in  the  interest  of  that  purpose.  When  he  arrived 
at  the  county  clerk's  office  he  opened  the  carefully  folded  paper,  only  to 
find  to  his  confusion  that  it  was  blank,  he  understood  that  he  had  been 
sent  out  of  the  office  to  remain  away  until  Nancy  should  depart  He 
made  a  bungling  excuse  to  the  clerk  for  having  brought  a  blank  paper, 
but  hejdrew  a  favourable  augury  from  his  father's  action. 

It  was  a  characteristic  of  the  elder  Bonamy  that  he  did  not  begin  to 
speak  at  once.  He  scratched  a  few  lines  with  the  pen,  to  put  possible 
suspicions  out  of  the  mind  of  the  witness,  then  began  with  common- 
place remarks  about  her  father  and  his  local  influence  on  Eocky  Fork, 
proceeded  with  some  very  bold  flatteries  quite  suited  to  the  palate  of 
the  girl,  who  seriously  began  to  debate,  whether,  failing  the  son,  she 
should  not  try  for  the  father.  Then  the  old  lawyer  set  her  to  talking 
about  Mark  ;  drew  from  her  first  one  and  then  another  particular  of  the 
young  man's  conduct ;  chuckled  with  her  over  her  adroitness  in  captur- 
ing the  watch-seal ;  took  her  side  in  the  whole  matter,  laughed  at  Mark's 
piety ;  got  out  of  her  an  account  of  the  transfer  of  the  Testament  to 
her;  led  her  off' on  an  unsuspecting  account  of  her  other  numerous 
triumphs ;  applauded  her  victory  over  McGowan ;  got  her  to  boast  in 
detail  of  the  arts  she  made  use  of  in  capturing  her  admirers;  drew 
out  of  her  by  piecemeal  a  statement  of  her  motives  in  getting  the  Tes- 
tament from  Mark ;  and  even,  by  espousing  her  side  of  the  case,  com- 
pelled an  implied  admission  of  her  intent  in  coming  to  town  at  that 
time. 

He  had  now  given  the  fish  all  the  line  that  seemed  best  It  was  time 
to  reel  in  as  he  could.  But  while  her  complacent  vanity  was  yet  un- 
touched by  any  suspicion  of  his  purpose  he  made  a  vain  endeavour  to 
get  possession  of  the  Testament  and  watch-seal. 

"  No  sir — no  sir-ee — no-sir-ee.  Bob  !"  cried  the  girl  with  a  you  don't- 


542  EOXY. 

catch-me  air.    She  did  not  for  a  moment  donbt  that  she  could  outwit 
any  lawyer.     She  would  ehow  him  ! 

''  Oh,  I  only  wanted  to  use  it  to  plague  Mark  with.  Tou  see  I'm  de- 
termined to  have  my  way  with  him." 

But  the  girl  was  not  at  all  sure  that  Colonel  Bonamy's  way  was  her 
way.  She  put  Ihe  keepsakes  back  in  her  pocket,  and  then  gave  ihe 
pocket  a  little  pat  with  her  hand,  as  though  she  said :  '^' Let  him  get 
them,  if  he  can."  This  little  dumb  show  did  not  escape  Bonamy's 
quick  observation,  and  he  saw  the  hopelessness  of  trying  to  replevin  Uie 
trinkets,  only  saying, 

"  You  know  what  you're  about,  don't  you ! " 

But  he  began  cautiously  to  tighten  the  line.  He  questioned  Nancy 
now  in  a  harder  tone,  putting  her  conduct  in  a  light  not  so  favourable 
to  herself.  Seizing  on  points  here  and  there,  he  grouped  them  so  that 
they  seemed  ugly.  Nancy  became  irritated  and  denied  what  she  had 
said  befora  Then  the  lawyer,  with  a  good-natured  smile,  that  had  just 
a  tinge  of  something  not  so  pleasant  as  a  smile,  pointed  out  the  contra- 
diction. It  was  vain  that  Nancy  went  into  a  passion — the  lawyer  was 
quiet,  and  even  friendly.  He  wished  to  help  her  out  of  some  vague 
legal  difficulty  and  shameful  disgrace  that  he  pretended  to  see  in  store 
for  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  afraid  to  give  vent  to  her  wrath, 
contending  as  she  never  had  before,  with  a  man  who  cared  no  more 
for  her  blandishments  than  he  feared  her  temper,  and  who  was  as 
superior  to  her  in  craft  as  in  knowledge,  with  pride  and  vanity  wounded, 
an^without  power  to  avenge  the  inju'ry,  o/certainty  e  Jl^t  th^ 
was  any  injury  to  avenge,  she  found  herself  badgered  and  hemmed  in 
on  every  side.  The  lawyer  made  her  words  seem  something  else  than 
she  meant.  She  was  not  very  scrupulous  about  telling  the  truth,  but 
Colonel  Bonamy,  without  saying  anything  discourteous,  made  her  ap- 
pear a  monstrous  liar,  by  giving  back  her  words  in  senses  different  from 
what  she  had  intended.  At  last,  in  sheer  despair  and  defeat,  she  rose  to 
go,  red  with  suppressed  irritation,  and  biting  her  lips. 

"  Don't  hurry,"  said  the  colonel  "  Sit  down.  Mark  will  surely  be 
here  soon,  and  if  he  thinks  as  much  of  you  as  you  seem  to  think  he 
does,  he*ll  be  sorry  to  have  you  go  while  he  is  away.  You  say  he  is 
fond  of  you,  and  I  suppose  it  is  so,  but  you  must  not  say  one  thing  now 
and  another  after  awhile.     Sit  down." 

Cowed  by  the  steady,  penetrating  gaze  of  the  old  man's  hard  grey 
eyes,  she  sank  back  into  the  chair,  to  undergo  again  a  process  of  mental 
and  moral  dissection,  even  more  severe  than  that  she  had  before  ex- 
perienced. Defeat  is  a  thousand  fold  worse  to  an  overbearing  person 
accustomed  to  triumph,  than  to  another,  and  Nancy  was  by  this  time  in 


1 


J 


EOXY.  54a 

a  state  of  frenzy.     She  mnst  break  oat  in  some  desperate  fashion  or 
die. 

**  Colonel  Bonamy/'  she  cried,  getting  to  her  feet,  and  looking  now 
like  a  volcano  in  eruption.  *^  What  do  you  keep  on  azin'  an'  ajdn'  sech 
questions  fer  ?  Confound  ye  lawyers'  questions !  You  set  me  crazy, 
and  make  me  out  a  liar  in  spite  of  myself.  €ro  to  thunder,  I  tell  you, 
with  yer  blamed  axin'  me  this  and  axin'  me  that  I'll  do  as  I  please, 
and  say  what  I  want  to ;  you  see  if  I  don%  dog-on  you ! " 

'*  I  would,"  said  the  colonel,  chuckling.  ''  If  I  was  pretty  like  you, 
I'd  do  as  I  pleased,  too."  And  after  a  pause,  he  added,  in  an  audible 
aside — "  if  I  went  to  penitentiary  for  it.  Those  trinkets  of  Mark's 
would  do  to  begin  suit  against  him  in  case  he  don't  marry  you,  and  I 
don't  believe  he  will  But  then,  there's  all  the  rest  that  gave  you 
things, — let's  see,  Mc€k>wan,  and  Jackson,  and  Lumbkin,  and  Billings, 
and  all  of  them.  It  might  go  awful  hard  with  you,  if  it  could  be  proved 
you  were  engaged  to  so  many  at  once.  That's  more'n  the  law  allows. 
You  know  there's  a  law  against  a  girl  being  engaged  to  so  many  at 
once.  Let's  see,  how  many  was  it  all  at  once  that  you  said  )  Mcr 
Qowan  that's  one,  and  Jackson  is  U^Oy  and " 

*'  I'm  agoin' ;  blamed  if  I  haint !  I  don't  want  no  more  jaw,  lawyer 
or  no  lawyers,  I'm  one  as  can  take  keer  of  myself,  anyhow ! " 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  you  won't  wait  longer.    Mark'U  be  back ** 

But  Nancy  was  already  going  out  of  the  door,  crying  with  vexation. 

The  colonel  went  after  her.  He  wanted  to  say  just  one  thing  more, 
he  told  her.  She  stopped,  and  he  held  her  by  his  awful  grey  eyes  while 
he  asked,  severely : 

"  Did  you  say,  or  didn't  you  say,  that  Major  Lathers  was  at  your 
house  the  night  you  say  you  danced  with  Mark  1 " 

^*  You'r  axin  questions  ag'in,  an'  I  wont  stan'  no  more  of  yer  axin 
I  tell  you  !    You  may  ax  tell  ye're  blind." 

''  You'd  better  answer  that  Bemember  I  know  all  about  these 
things,  now.     You've  told  me  yourself." 

*'  No,  you  don't  I  shan't  tell  you  whether  Lathers  was  there  or  not. 
You're  just  windin'  me  up  and  windin'  me  up,  with  yer  axin.  You  may 
ax  tell  ye're  blind." 

'<  Was  Lathers  at  your  house  the  night  you  say  you  danced  with 
Hark  ?  You  say  so.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  so  or  not  You  don't 
always  tell  the  same  story.     It  mayn't  be  true." 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  true,  you  old — you  old '* 

"Well,  what  1  Speak  right  out  It'll  do  you  good.  I'm  an  old 
what  ? " 

But  Nancy  choked  herself,  and  kept  down  her  epithets,  fearing  some- 
thing, she  could  not  tell  what. 


544 


EOXY. 


"  I  was  going  to  give  you  some  good  advice,"  proceeded  Bonamy. 
**But  it  don't  matter  to  me  what  becomes  of  you,  if  you  talk  that  way. 
I  don't  believe  now  that  Mark  danced  with  you  at  alL" 

"  You  don't,  hey  ?  You  jest  go  right  straight  and  ax  Major  Lathers. 
Didn't  he  try  to  keep  Mark  from  dancin'  with  me  1  Hell  tell  you  aU 
About  it" 

"  Oh,  that's  what  I  wanted  to  know — whether  Lathers  was  there  or 
not     You've  told  me  now." 

"  No,  I  haint,  nuther." 

"  Why,  how  could  Lathers  tell  me  about  Mark's  dancing  with  you, 
«nd  how  could  he  try  to  keep  Mark  from  dancing  with  you>  if  he  was 
not  there?  But  I  won't  tell  Lathers,"  he  added,  as  though  in  a  half 
soliloquy,  "for  I  don't  want  to  get  you  into  trouble.  You  know  he's 
sheriff,  and  the  sheriff  takes  up  people.  If  I  should  tell  him  you  were 
in  town  now .     But  you  said  he  was  there  that  night,  didn't  you  !  " 

"  I  haint  agoin'  to  talk  to  you  no  more.  You'll  make  me  tell  more'n 
I  ever  know'd,  in  spite  of  myself,  with  yer  everlastin'  talkin'  an'  taUdn', 
an'  axin  an'  axin.     Go  long  with  yer  old ." 

But  Nancy  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  Bonamy  had  cowed  her  so 
that  she  feared  she  knew  not  what  of  defeat  and  mortification  if  she 
should  say  another  word,  and  she  was  utterly  choked  with  vexation. 

Colonel  Bonamy  had  at  least  made  sure  that  Nancy  would  carry  no 
confidences  to  the  ingenious  sheriff.  His  vague  hints  had  excited  an 
undefined  fear  in  her  ignorant  mind,  already  cowed  by  the  badgering 
and  tormenting  course  of  cross-questioning  to  which  she  had  been  sub- 
jected. The  whole  machinery  of  the  law  was  incomprehensible  by  her, 
and  she  was  not  sure  but  that  Major  Lathers,  if  he  should  come  to  know 
how  many  engaged  lovers  she  had  at  one  time,  might  send  the  jury  to 
arrest  her,  whereupon  she  would  be  in  danger  of  being  trfed  by  a  lot  of 
lawyers  and  colonels,  and  then  locked  up  by  the  judge. 

She  went  back  to  Haz  Kirtley's  full  of  wrath,  but  all  her  ferocity  was 
<lammed  up  and  turned  back  in  a  flood  of  bitterness  upon  hersel£  So 
entirely  had  the  lawyer  daunted  her  that  she  even  feared  to  resort  to  her 
extreme  revenge  of  an  interview  with  Roxy.  Roxy  might  triumph  over 
her  also,  exulting  in  her  own  success.  She  sullenly  put  the  saddle  on 
old  Bob  and  rode  away  up  the  hill,  stopping  at  the  top  to  shake  her  fist 
and  threaten  that  she  would  yet  come  back  and  tell  that  good-for-nothing 
town  girl  something  that  would  make  her  hate  Mark  Bonamy. 


ROXY.  545 

CHAPTER  XXVIIl. 

BYERMOBB. 

Mbs.  Hanks  offered  to  make  a  wedding  for  Soxy.  She  was  qcdte  wil- 
ling to  increase  her  own  social  importance  by  this  alliance  of  Eozy's.  But 
the  bride  would  not  have  her  aunt's  fine  wedding.  She  did  not  want  a 
fine  wedding  at  all.  To  marry  the  hero  she  worshipped  and  then  to  start 
hand  in  hand  with  him  to  the  wildest  and  savagest  country  they  could 
.•find,  there  to  live  and  labour  for  the  rescue  of  the  souls  of  wicked  people^ 
entirely  satisfied  her  ambition. 

She  did  like  to  accept  a  wedding  from  her  aunt^  for  Roxy's  humility 
was  purely  a  religious  humility ;  her  pride  was  quick ;  to  be  poor  did 
not  trouble  her — to  be  patronized  was  intolerable,  most  of  all  to  be 
patronized  by  Mrs.  Hanks.  And  had  Rosy  been  willing.  Adams  would 
have  refused ;  all  his  native  crookedness  was  intensified  by  his  antipathy 
to  his  sister-in-law.  But  Boxy  accepted  from  her  aunt  the  loan  of 
Jemima,  whose  hands  rendered  an  energetic  assistance,  but  whose  tongue 
could  not  be  quite  stilL  Instead  of  denouncing  Mark  in  particular,  she 
now  gave  way  to  philippics  against  men  in  general.  Roxy's  dreams  of 
a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness,  with  Mark's  love  to  comfort  her  and  a 
semi-martyrdom  to  glorify  her,  were  rudely  disturbed  by  Jemima's  in- 
cessant exposition  of  the  faithlessness  and  selfishness  of  the  **  male  sect," 
as  she  called  it  '*  They  can't  no  more  be  depended  on  than  a  rotten  log 
acrost  a  crick.  Looks  all  right,  kivered  over  with  moss  ;  but  jest  try  to 
cross  it  oust  and  the  crick  ill  come  flyin'  up  in  yore  face.  I  wouldn't 
marry  the  whole  twelve  apossils  theirselves.  Jest  look  at  Simon  Peter 
and  Judas  Iscariot,  fer  instance.  I  teU  you  what  it  is  Roxy,  the  heart 
of  num  is  deceitful,  and  some  men's  hearts  is  desperate." 

Twonnet  helped  also  in  the  wedding  preparations,  and  she  was  rather 
more  comfortable  than  Jemima.  For  when  once  a  wedding  is  deter- 
mined  on,  one  ever  hopes  for  the  best.  The  parson,  when  he  blesses 
the  most  ill-starred  match,  hopes  for  impossible  good  luck  to  give  happi- 
ness to  a  couple  foreordained  to  misery.  Twonnet  showed  her  solicitude 
now  and  then  by  lapses  of  silence  quite  unusual.  Between  the  silence 
of  the  one  and  the  speech  of  the  other  of  her  helpmates,  Roxy  wished 
for  Texas. 

As  Colonel  Bonamy  considered  Mark's  marriage  with  Roxy  the 
surest  means  of  defeating  the  missionary  project,  he  wished  to  hasten 
the  wedding,  lest  something  should  happen  to  interfere  with  his  plan. 
In  particuhur  did  he  appreciate  the  necessity  for  haste  afber  his  meeting 
with  Nancy.  Nancy  might  appeal  to  Roxy,  or  Lathers  might  get  hold 
of  the  story  and  use  it  to  Mark's  discredit  and  his  father's  annoyance. 


546  ROXY. 

If  he  could  once  get  Mark  married,  he  wotdd  have  placed  him  in  a  posi- 
tion of  dependence.  However,  the  colonel  had  a  liking  for  a  good  wife 
aa  a  thing  that  was  sure  to  be  profi.table  to  a  man.  Kozy  probably  had 
no  extravagant  tastes,  would  be  flattered  by  her  marriage  into  such  a 
family  as  the  Bonamys,  and  her  influence  over  Mark  would,  after  a  while, 
be  just  sufficient  to  keep  him  sober  and  steady  at  his  work.  Besides,  he 
feared  that,  if  Nancy  had  any  real  hold  on  Mark,  she  would  find  it 
greatly  increased  in  case  both  the  marriage  with  Boxy  and  the  mission 
to  Texas  were  given  up.  So  it  happened,  through  the  planning  of  the 
colonel,  that  the  wedding  was  fixed  for  the  second  week  following  the 
raid  of  Nancy. 

There  was  little  out  of  the  ordinary  about  Rox/s  wedding.  There 
were  present  her  aunt's  family  and  Twonnet's ;  Miss  Bachel  Moore,  who 
was  to  take  her  place  as  mistress  of  the  house  the  next  week,  was  there, 
of  course,  Colonel  Bonamy  and  his  daughters,  and  as  many  besides  as 
the  old  house  would  hold  Adams  had  asked  Whittaker,  but  the 
minister  had  not  come.  Jemima  stood  in  the  background,  the  most  im- 
pressive figure  of  aU.  The  Methodist  presiding  elder,  a  venerable,  white- 
haired  man,  familiarly  called  *'  Uncle  Jimmy  Jones,"  conducted  the 
simple  service. 

I  said  there  was  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary.  But  Bobo  was  there. 
For  days  he  had  watched  the  cake-baking  and  the  other  preparations. 
He  heard  somebody  say  that  Roxy  was  to  be  married^  and  he  went  about 
the  house  conning  the  saying  like  a  lesson,  as  though  he  were  trying  to 
get  some  meaning  out  of  it. 

'*  Roxy  is  going  to  be  married,''  he  would  say  over  and  over,  from 
morning  till  night.  When  he  saw  the  company  gathering,  he  went  into 
an  ecstacy  of  confused  excitement.  And  when  at  last  Boxy  came  into 
the  room,  in  her  simple  bridal  dress,  he  broke  from  his  mother's  side  and 
seized  Boxy's  disengaged  hand.  Jemima  and  his  mother  made  an  effort 
to  recapture  him,  but  Boxy  turned  and  said,  **  Let  him  come." 

**  Let  him  come,"  echoed  Bobo,  and  walking  by  the  side  of  the  bride 
and  her  bridegroom  till  they  halted  in  front  of  the  mini^r,  he  looked 
up  at  the  stately  old  man  and  said  with  childish  glee,  ''  Boxy's  going  to 
be  married." 

This  outburst  of  Bobo's  sent  the  colour  of  Mrs.  Hanks's  face  up  to  scar- 
let. What  would  the  Bonamys  think  t  Jemima  put  her  handkerchief 
over  her  mouth  to  stifle  a  laugh,  and  Amanda  Bonamy  turned  her  head. 
Couldn't  they  keep  the  simpleton  at  home)  The  old  minister 
was  confused  for  a  moment,  but  the  smile  on  Boxy's  face  reassured 
him.  The  lad  stood  still  listening  to  the  ceremony  and  repeating  it  over 
in  an  audible  whispw.    When  the  minister  concluded  the  b^i^ction 


t 


ROXY.  547 

•with  the  words :    "  Be  with  you  evermore,"  Bobo  oaught  at  the  last 
word  and  cried  :  "  evermore,  Roxy,  evermore  ! " 

'^  Tee,  Bobo,  dear,''  said  the  bride,  turning  to  him  and  looking  down 
into  his  wistful  eyes.     "  Yes,  evermore  and  evermore." 

Perhaps  because  they  were  embarrassed  by  this  unexpected  episode, 
the  company  were  silent,  while  Bobo  for  a  moment  turned  over  in  his 
mind  the  word.  Then  by  some  association  he  connected  it  with  the 
last  words  of  the  prayer  Eoxy  had  taught  him.  He  went  in  front  of  her 
and  looked  at  her  with  the  awed  look  he  had  caught  from  her  in  repeat, 
ing  his  prayer,  he  pointed  up  as  she  had  pointed  in  teaching  him,  and 
said: 

"  Forever  and  ever,  amen." 

<'  Tes  Bobo,  forever  and  ever,  amen,  and  now  you  shall  have  the  very 
first  kiss." 

'^  The  very  first  kiss,"  chuckled  the  innocent,  as  he  turned  away  after 
Roxy  had  kissed  him. 

Through  all  this  interruption  Adams  stood  by  the  long  dock  and  held 
on  to  the  lappel  of  his  coat  firmly  and  defiantly.  He  had  a  notion  that 
the  Bonamys  thought  that  their  family  lent  a  lustre  to  Roxy  and  he 
wanted  to  knock  some  of  them  over,  but  he  kept  firm  hold  of  his  coat 
and  contented  himself  with  looking  like  a  wild  beast  at  bay. 

Mrs.  Hanks  whispered  to  her  husband  that  she  felt  as  if  she  could 
sink  through  the  floor,  and,  indeed,  she  was  quite  flustered  when  she 
came  to  wish  the  newly  married  "  much  joy,"  and  quite  thrown  out  of 
the  fine  speech  she  had  prepared  for  delivery  to  Mark.  Amanda  Bonamy 
kissed  Roxy  condescendingly  as  became  a  well-bred  girl ;  but  when  it 
came  to  Janet's  turn,  she  kissed  Roxy  first  on  one  cheek  and  then  on  the 
other,  called  her  a  dear,  dear  sister  and  said : 

'^  Wasn't  that  sweet  that  poor  little  Bobo  said  f  It  made  your  wed- 
ding so  solemn  and  beautiful — just  like  your  wedding  ought  to  be." 

And  from  that  moment  Roxy  took  the  enthusiastic  girl  into  her  heart 
of  hearts.  She  made  her  sit  by  her  at  the  wedding  dinner  to  make 
which  had  exhausted  all  the  skill  of  Roxy  and  her  helpers,  and  the 
whole  purse  of  her  father.  For  the  custom  of  that  time  did  not  aUow 
of  coffee  and  sandwiches  and  cake  passed  around  the  room.  As  for  light 
breakfasts  and  an  immediate  departure  on  a  tour  to  nowhere  in  particu- 
lar, that  only  came  in  with  locomotives  and  palace  cars.  In  the  good 
old  days  it  cost  as  much  to  get  married  as  it  does  now  to  be  buried ;  one 
must  then  feed  one's  friends  on  fried  chickens  and  roast  turkeys  and  all 
sorts  of  pies,  and  pound  cake  and  ''  floating  island,"  and  *^  peach  cob- 
bler,"— a  monstrous  dish  of  pastry  inclosing  whole  peaches,  pits  and  all 

— and  preserves  with  cream,  and  grape  jellies,  and ^but  this  it  not 

a  bill  of  fiEure. 


548  ROXY. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  IKFABE. 

There  could  be  no  wedding  in  a  Hoosier  village  thirty  or  forty  years 
ago  without  an  infare  on  the  following  day.  In  those  days  the  fwring 
into  the  house  of  the  bridegroom's  parents  was  observed  with  great  re- 
joicing. At  an  earlier  stage  of  1;he  village's  history  the  little  brass  can- 
non was  fired  in  honour  of  weddings  and  almost  the  whole  town  kept 
holiday.  On  the  day  after  Boxy's  wedding  Colonel  Bonamy  made  a 
great  infare  as  became  a  great  man  like  himself  It  was  preceded  by  a 
week  of  cooking  and  baking.  On  the  day  of  the  infare,  ''  Uncle  Billy/' 
a  skilful  old  negro,  was  imported  from  Kentucky  to  roast  the  pig  which 
hung  suspended  by  a  wire  in  front  of  the  wide  kitchen  fire-place  while 
Billy  turned  it  round  and  round,  basting  it  from  time  to  time.  For 
roast-pig  at  a  wedding  feast  was  the  symbol  of  aristocracy, — a  Bonamy 
might  lose  his  soul  but  he  could  not  be  married  without  a  pig. 

Everybody  who  could  be  considered  at  all  invitable  was  there.  Tlie 
Boones  and  Haz  Kirtley's  family  and  the  fishermen's  families  and  the 
poor-whiteys  generally  were  left  out,  but  everybody  who  was  anybody 
was  there.  Not  only  from  town  but  from  the  country  and  even  from 
the  Kentucky  shore  guests  were  brought.  Neither  age  nor  sex  was  re- 
spected. Old  Mother  Tartrum  was  there  engaged  in  her  diligent  search 
after  knowledge.  She  was  in  herself  a  whole  Society  for  the  Collection 
and  Diffusion  of  Useless  Information.  She  also  collected  various  titbits 
of  cake  off  the  supper-table  which  she  wrapped  in  her  red  silk  handker- 
chief and  deposited  in  her  pocket.  She  was  a  sort  of  animated  Diction- 
ary of  Universal  Biography  for  the  town,  able  to  tell  a  hundred  unim- 
portant incidents  in  the  life  of  any  person  in  the  place,  and  that  without 
being  consulted. 

Whittaker  had  sunk  into  a  helpless  despondency  as  Roxy's  marriage 
approached,  and  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  be  present  at  the  wed- 
ding. But  fearing  unfriendly  remark,  he  had  brought  his  courage  to 
the  point  of  attending  the  infare.  He  came  late,  however,  and  the 
house  and  grounds  were  already  filled  with  guests.  He  walked  up  be- 
tween the  long  row  of  Lombardy  poplars,  looking  at  the  brightly  illu- 
minated house  of  the  Bonamys,  which,  lying  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  combined  in  itself  something  of  the  spruceness  of  the  to^vn-house 
withrthe  isolation  of  a  farm-house.  The  house  was  a  squarish  brick 
one,  the  walks  were  of  gravel.  There  was  a  lawn  of  greensward  on 
either  hand  with  a  vineyard  and  fields  of  tasseled  com  in  the  moonlit 
background.  People  were  all  about  him  as  he  approached  the  house, 
and  many  greeted  him  as  he  passed.     But  Whittaker  was  a  man  march- 


ROXY.  549 

ing  in  his  own  funeral  procession.  Despite  his  utmost  exertion  to  ad- 
dress Mark  and  Roxy  with  cheerfulness,  there  was  that  in  his  face  which 
caused  Mark  to  say  to  Roxy  as  he  turned  away  : 

**  What  a  serious-looking  man  he  is !  " 

And  his  seriousness  had  something  infectious  about  it,  for  Roxy  did 
not  recover  a  bridal  cheerfulness  for' some  time  afterward. 

Out  of  respect  for  Mark's  and  Roxy's  scruples,  and,  too,  for  Mark's 
semi-clerical  position  as  a  "  lay  "  or  local  preacher  on  his  way  to  a  fur- 
ther promotion  into  the  ^'  travelling ''  ministry,  there  was  no  dancing. 
The  company  promenaded  in  the  halls  and  up  and  down  the  gravel 
walks  between  the  Lombardy  poplars,  and  among  the  sprucely  trimmed 
pyramidal  cedars  that  stood  about  the  house. 

Something  in  Whittaker's  gloomy  mood  made  him  averse  to  the 
throng  of  merry  people,  the  more  that,  on  account  of  the  rumours  which 
had  circulated  about  his  attachment  to  Roxy,  he  was  closely  watched. « 
About  ten  o'clock  Mother  Tartrum  met  him  and  put  him  through  his 
catechism  with  vigour.  Had  he  ever  been  engaged  to  Roxy  %  He  might 
tell  an  old  woman  like  herself  in  confidence  !  How  was  it  broken  o£f  % 
Was  it  he  that  withdrew,  or  did  Roxy  refuse  him  ?  Had  Mr.  Highbury 
given  him  a  piece  of  his  mind  7   Wasn't  he  feeling  rather  bad  to-night  % 

To  all  of  these  questions  the  minister  flatly  refused  to  reply,  and  at 
last  brusquely  walked  away,  turning  into  an  unfrequented  path  bor- 
dered by  a  privet  hedge.  This  led  him  to  the  garden,  into  which  he 
entered  by  a  gate  through  a  paling  fence.  He  went  down  under  the 
grape-arbour  that  stood,  according  to  the  unvar3dng  fashion  of  the 
country,  in  the  middle  of  the  garden.  Walking  quietly  and  medita- 
tively, he  came  to  the  other  side  of  the  garden,  where  he  turned  and 
saw  full  before  him  tbe  brilliantly  lighted  house,  and  the  company  mov- 
ing up  and  down  the  walks  and  through  the  rooms.  He  could  plainly 
see  the  figure  of  Roxy,  as  she  stood  by  her  husband,  cheerful  now  and 
diffusing  light  on  all  about  her.  Mark,  for  his  part,  was  always  cheer- 
ful ;  there  was  not  a  vein  of  austerity  in  his  composition.  He  was  too 
hopeful  to  fear  for  the  future,  and  too  buoyantly  happy  and  complacent 
to  be  disturbed  by  anything.  Certainly  he  was  a  fine-looking  man, 
standing  there  in  the  light  of  a  multitude  of  candles,  and  entering  with 
his  limitless  heartiness  into  the  merriment  of  the  throng  about  him, 
giving  back  banter  for  banter  with  the  quick  sallies  of  the  racy  humour 
of  the  country.  But  there  was  something  about  this  popular  young 
fellow,  carrying  all  before  him,  which  gave  Whittaker  a  sense  of  fore- 
boding. Does  a  rejected  lover  ever  think  that  the  woman  has  done 
quite  so  well  for  her  own  interest  as  she  might  ? 

Fast  by  Roxy  stood  Twonnet.     There  was  a  sort  of  separation  of 

feeling  between  them  now  ]  but  Roxy  was  soon  to  go  away,  and  Twon- 
2 


550  ROXY. 

net  determined  to  stand  by  her  to  the  last.  If  she  had  looked  upon 
the  marriage  as  the  town  saw  it, — as  an  ascent  for  Boxy, — she  would 
have  chosen  to  be  elsewhere ;  bat  because  Rozy  had  not  done  as  well 
as  she  might,  Twonnet  stood  by  her  with  a  chivalrous  faithfulness. 
Whittaker,  in  his  mood  of  unreason,  took  Two'nnet's  fidelity  to  Roxy 
in  umbrage,  as  a  sort  of  desertion  of  himself.  It  is  so  hard  for  us  to 
understand  why  our  friends  do  not  feel  our  wrongs  so  poignantly  as  we 

do. 

Whittaker  could  not  help  wondering  what  Adams  was  thinking  of, 
as  he  stood  defiantly  against  the  wall,  grasping  the  lappel  of  his  coat, 
as  though  he  would  hold  firmly  to  his  propriety  by  this  means. 

The  minister  had  stood  thus  more  than  a  minute,  when  the  com- 
pany were  summoned  to  supper.  The  table  was  spread  on  the  porch 
which  ran  along  the  side  of  the  L  of  the  house,  in  full  view  from  his 
stand-point.  He  could  see  the  fine-looking  bridegroom  lead  the  proces- 
sion to  the  table,  and  all  the  company  following.  He  thought  that  he 
ought  to  return  to  the  house,  lest  his  absence  should  be  observed. 

But  just  as  he  was  about  to  make  a  languid  movement  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  supper,  he  heard  a  stealthy  tread  on  the  outside  of  the  vine- 
covered  garden  fence.  He  listened  until  the  person  walking  along  the 
fence  had  passed  a  few  feet  further  on.  A  cluster  of  Ulac-bushes  inter- 
vened between  him  and  the  position  of  the  new-comer ;  but  he  could 
hear  a  suppressed  voice,  as  of  a  woman  in  soliloquy  : 

''  That's  her,  shore  as  shootin'.  She  ain't  purty,  neither,  nor  never 
was.  I'll  pay  her  up  !  See  ef  I  don't  She  thinks  she's  got  him  now. 
An'  all  that  finery  and  flummery.  I  ort  to  be  there  at  that  table. 
Folks  would  see  somebody  ef  I  was  there.  But  she's  ornery, — ornery 
as  git  out.  I  kin  git  him  away  from  her  ef  I  ever  git  half  a  chance. 
They'd  better  go  to  Texas  purty  shortly,  ef  she's  knows  what's  good  fer 
her.  I'll  show  her.  Saltpeter  won't  save  'em  ef  they  stay  here."  Then, 
after  a  long  pause ;  ''  She'll  wish  I  was  dead  afore  I'm  done.  Let  her 
lam  to  steal  my  beau.  Ef  she  packs  him  off  to  Texas,  I'll  foller,  sure. 
An'  I'll  pay  her  up,  or  my  name  haint  Nancy  Kirtley." 

To  Whittaker  the  whole  speech  was  evidently  the  thinking  aloud  of 
an  ignorant  person  full  of  suppressed  passion.  The  tone  frightened 
him,  and  he  moved  cautiously  so  as  to  get  a  view  of  the  speaker.  Her 
hair  was  pushed  back  from  her  low  forehead  in  a  dishev^ed  fashion, 
and  even  in  the  moonlight  he  could  see  the  great  eyes  and  the  large, 
regular  features,  and  could  feel  a  certain  impression  of  the  great  animal 
beauty  of  the  woman  standing  there,  not  ten  feet  from  him,  with  fists 
clenched  hard,  and  a  look  of  ferocity  on  her  countenance  that  he  had 
never  seen  on  human  face  before.  She  reminded  him  of  nothing  so 
much  as  an  old  steel-plate  print  he  had  seen  of  Judith  with  thQ  bloody 


ROXY.  551 

head  of  Holofemes.  Having  do  knowledge  of  Nancy,  Whittaker  did 
not  understand  the  meaning  of  her  words ;  but  he  could  make  out  that 
some  evil  was  intended  to  Eoxy. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  call  Colonel  Bonamy.  Then  in  his  confused 
thought  came  a  pity  for  the  poor  girl  torn  thus  by  her  evil  passions,  and 
a  sense  of  his  duty  to  her ;  he  would  go  and  try  to  exorcise  the  demon. 

Nancy  had  come  to  town  resolved  to  prevent  Mark's  marriage 
at  any  cost.  She  would  show  the  watch-seal  and  the  Testament  to 
Rozy,  and  thus  awaken  her  jealousy  if  she  could.  She  would  even 
threaten  Mark  with  exposure  of  some  sort,  or  with  slanderous  charges. 
She  would  not  be  outwitted  by  the  old  man  any  more ;  she  would  go  to 
jail,  if  she  had  to  go  to  jail ;  but  she  would  have  her  revenge.  Oreat 
was  her  chagrin  at  finding  the  wedding  already  past  and  the  infare  set 
down  for  that  very  evening.  There  was  nothing  left  for  her  but  to 
fume  and  threaten  retribution.  Her  rage  had  brought  her  here, — envy 
and  malice  are  devils  that  drive  possessed  souls  into,  the  contemplation 
of  that  which  aggravates  their  madness. 

Nancy  stood  thus  in  this  torturing  perdition  of  Tantalus, — mad*dened 
by  seeing  the  pomp  into  which  another  poor  girl'  had  come  instead  of 
herself, — ^maddened  by  the  very  sight  of  happy  faces  and  the  sound  of 
merry  voices,  while  she  was  in  the  outer  darkness  where  there  was 
weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth.  She  stood  there  with  her  fist  shut  up 
and  her  face  distorted  by  wrath — as  a  lost  soul  might  curse  the  far- 
away heaven — when  she  heard  from  the  bushes  behind  her  tke  voice  of 
Whittaker. 

'^  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  friend  1  '*  He  had  almost  said 
Judith,  so  much  was  his  imagination  impressed  by  the  resemblance  of 
the  swarthy  beauty  to  the  picture  of  that  magnificent  Hebrew  assassin. 

When  he  spoke,  Nancy  gave  a  sudden  start,  not  of  timidity,  but  of 
wrath, — as  a  wild  beast  might  start  at  an  interruption  when  about  to 
spring  upon  the  prey. 

'^  What  do  you  want  with  me  ? ''  she  muttered  in  sullen  fierceness. 

Whittaker  drew  a  little  nearer  with  a  shudder. 

"  Only  to  help  you  if  I  can.     What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  I  reckon,  unless  you  kill  that  woman." 

"  What  woman  ? " 

''That  Adams  girl  that's  gone  and  married  Mark  Bonamy." 

"  What  should  I  kill  her  for  ? " 

''  Bekase  I  hate  the  sight  of  her." 

"  What  harm  has  she  done  1 " 

''  She  stole  my  beau.  Do  you  know  that  I  had  ort  by  rights  to  stand 
there  at  that  there  table  by  Mark  Bonamy,  and  that  mean,  hateful 
huzzy's  scrouged  into  my  place— confound  her !    Now  then,  anybody 


552  BOXY. 

that  meddles  with  Nance  Kirtley  is  sorry  fer  it  afore  they're  done.  Ef 
Mark  and  the  old  man,  and  that  ugly,  good-fer  nothing  prayin',  shontin' 
Rozy  Adams  don't  wesh  they'd  never  heam  tell  of  me,  then  I'm  a  fooL 
Ton  jest  let  anybody  cross  my  path  onst  ef  they  want  to  be  sorry  fer  it." 

"  Don't  you  know  that  yon  oughtn't  to  talk  that  way  %  Boxy  didn't 
do  you  any  harm.  Tou  hadn't  any  right  to  Mark  because  you  loved 
him." 

''Stranger,  looky  there— that's  his  Testament.  He  gin  me  that  weth 
his  own  hands.  There  I  that's  his  watch-seal.  Pulled  it  off  and  gin  it 
to  me.  Now,  what  made  him  leave  me  and  go  to  that  homely,  lantern- 
jawed,  slab-sided  thing  of  a  shoe^naker's  gal !  Hey !  She  done  it 
That's  what  she  was  up  to  weth  her  prayin'  and  taltdn'  and  singin'.  Fll 
pay  her  up  yet.    See  ef  1  don't." 

At  sight  of  these  ocular  proofs  of  Mark's  attachment  to  Nancy,  Whit- 
taker  was  silent  a  moment 

''Does  Boxy  know  anything  about  these  things?"  he  said  after  a 
while. 

"  In  course  not." 

"  What  do  you  hale  her  for  ? " 

"  What  fer !  Thunder  and  blazes  I  Jes  look  at  the  blamed,  stuck- 
up,  good-fer-nothin'  thing  there  !  She's  got  my  place — why  shouldn't  I 
hate  her !  Ah-h-h  you — ugh-h-h,  you  ugly  old  thing  you — I'll  make 
you  cry  nuff  afore  I'm  done  weth  you."  And  Nancy  shook  her  fist  in 
the  directbn  of  Boxy. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  talk  in  that  way.    Don't  you  know  there's  a  God  t " 

"  Ood  or  no  God,  I'm  agoin'  to  git  even  weth  Mark  Bonamy  and  that 
hateful  wife  of  his'n.  Why  didn't  he  ax  me  to  his  infare  %  Hey  % 
Gomes  to  my  house  and  dances  with  me  the  live-long  night.  Gives  me 
presents  and  talks  as  sweet  as  sugar-water.*  Then  he  marries  old  Tom 
Adams's  girl  and  don't  ax  me  to  the  party,  nur  nothin'.  I'll  pay  him 
back  one  of  these  yer  days." 

Seeing  that  further  remonstrance  was  of  no  use  Whittaker  went  down 
the  walk  to  the  house.     Colonel  Bonamy  met  him. 

"  Why,  where  have  you  been  t  We  looked  for  you  to  say  grace," 
said  the  old  man. 

"  Colonel  Bonamy,  there's  an  infuriated  young  woman  standing  be- 
hind the  bushes  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden.  She  is  mad  about 
something  and  I'm  afraid  she  means  some  violence  to  Boxy." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  guess  I  can  tell  who  she  is.  She's  a  maniac  afber  Mark. 
Ill  go  and  see  her." 

And  while  Whittaker  went  in  to  supper  with  melancholy  suspicions 

*  The  sap  of  the  sugar-maple. 


ROXY.  553 

of  Mark,  the  colonel  walked  swifUy  round  the  outride  of  the  garden 
and  came  up  behind  Nancy. 

"  Well,  what's  all  this  about  ? " 

"  You  old  brute,  you,"  said  Nancy ;  "  why  didn't  you  give  me^an  in- 
vite 7    I'll  pay  you  all  back  yet,  see  ef  I  don't ! " 

''  Don't  talk  so  loud.    The  sheriff  might  hear  you.    He's  in  the  house." 

"  Call  him  out  here  if  you  want  to,  you  blasted  fool,"  said  the  girl, 
now  fully  roused,  and  not  fearing  any  danger  that  looked  her  fair  in 
the  face.  -« 

The  colonel  saw  that  he  must  take  another  tack. 

*'  Oh  no  !  I  won't  call  him.  Only  be  quiet^  and  come  in  and  get 
some  supper.  I  want  to  ask  you  some  more  questions  about  the  things 
we  talked  about  the  other  day." 

"  No,  you  don't.  You  don't  ax  me  nothin'.  You  want  to  wind  me 
up  and  tangle  me  up,  tell  I  don't  know  my  own  name.  No  more  of  yer 
axin  fer  me." 

"  You've  got  a  seal  of  my  son's ! " 

**  Yes,  I  have." 

'*  Did  anybody  see  him  give  you  that  seal  1 " 

"No,  they  didn't" 

"  You  are  sure  1 " 

"Yes." 

"  Did  he  give  it  to  you  1 " 

"  In  course  he  did.     How  else  did  I  get  it? " 

"  You  could  steal  it^  couldn't  you  1 " 

"  You — you — you  dum't  say  I'm  a  thief !  " 

"  Did  you  say  that  you  stole  it  t " 

"  No,  I  didn't !    You  know  I  didn't,  blast  you  ! " 

"  You  said  nobody  saw  him  give  it  to  you,  and  I  didn't  say  you  stole 
it.    But  you  just  as  good  as  say  you  did  by  getting  so  mad." 

«  You  Ue  I " 

"  He  was  on  his  horse  when  you  got  it  from  him,  wasn't  he  1 " 

"  None  of  your  axin,  I  tell  you." 

"  There  'tis  again.  You  know  you  stole  it,  or  you  wouldn't  be  afraid 
to  answer." 

"  You  lie  !  He  give  it  to  me  when  he  was  a-settin'  on  his  horse,  in 
front  of  our  house." 

"  And  your  father  didn't  see  him? " 

"  No,  he  didn't" 

"  Nor  your  mother  t" 

"  No.'' 

"  Nor  nobody  ? " 

"  No." 


554  LOVE,  THE  LITTLE  CAVALIER. 

'*  Tou  got  it  from  him  when  he  was  on  his  horse ! " 

"  Yes." 

''  How  did  it  come  off  his  chain  ? " 

"  He  unhooked  it." 

"  You  unhooked  it,  you  said  the  other  day.     Now  tell  me  the  truth." 

"  Well,  he  let  me."  The  girl  began  to  quail  under  this  steady  fire 
of  questions. 

"  You  say  you  got  it  from  him«    What's  that  but  stealing  V* 

"  He  give  it  to  me."  " 

"  You  unhooked  it." 

"  Go  'way  with  your  azin." 

And  the  girl  started  to  move  off. 

"Hold  on.    I'm  not  done  yet" 

"  Yes,  you  air,  too.  I  wont  have  no  more  of  your  fool  axin.  I'm 
agom'. 

"  Stop  !  I  say.  You're  on  my  ground,  and  I'll  call  the  sheriff,  if  you 
don't  stop." 

"  Call  him  ef  you  want  to,  an'  go  to  thunder  with  you  both  ! "  And 
with  this  she  went  sullenly  off,  the  colonel  affecting  to  detain  her. 
Nancy  was  afraid  of  nothing  in  the  world  so  much  as  of  his  fire  of  ques- 
tions, and  the  irritation  and  mortification  sure  to  ensue  from  the  confu- 
sion into  which  he  would  lead  her. 

The  terror  which  these  questions  inspired,  added  to  the  reaction  from 
her  burst  of  passion,  served  to  give  her  a  general  sense  of  fear,  that 
drove  her  away  into  the  darkness,  though  she  muttered  defiance  as  she 
slowly  retreated  into  the  corn-field. 

"  They'll  be  sorry  they  ever  crossed  my  path,"  were  the  last  ominous 
words  the  colonel  heard  from  her,  as  he  lost  sight  of  her  among  the  tall 
rows  of  tasseled  maize. 

(To  he  CofUmued,) 


LOVE,  THE  LITTLE  CAVALIEIt. 

Omi  merry  mom  in  merry  May 
Young  Love  beneath  a  rose-bush  lay  ! 
No  rose  upon  the  flowering  tree 
Was  half  so  fair  a  rose  as  he. 
''  I  droop,  I  pine  in  sadness  here," 
Said  Love,  the  Little  Cavalier* 


THE  HISTORY  AND  MISSION   OF  ARCHITECTUEE.  556 

No  rose  upon  the  fragrant  tree 
Was  half  so  fair  a  rose  as  he. 
The  gardener's  daughter,  gentle  Maud, 
Tripped  like  a  sunbeam  o'er  the  sod. 

*'  A  shining  orb  to  grace  my  sphere  ! '' 

Cried  Love,  the  Little  Cavalier. 

The  gardener's  daughter,  gentle  Maud, 
Tripped  like  a  sunbeam  o'er  the  sod  ; 
And  from  behind  a  flowering  thorn 
The  young  Earl  stepped,  as  fresh  as  mom. 

"  Another  orb,  as  I'm  a  seer  1 " 

Laughed  Love,  the  Little  Cavalier. 

And  from  behind  a  flowering  thorn 
The  young  Earl  stepped  as  light  as  mom. 
Maud's  lily  hand  the  young  Earl  took — 
Could  Love  mistake  the  dual  look  ? 

'*  Spirit  of  Truth,  appear  !  appear  !  " 

Cried  Love,  the  Little  Cavalier. 

Maud's  lily  hand  the  young  Earl  took — 
Could  Love  mistake  ihe  dual  look  ? 
Home  to  their  hearts,  with  grateful  joy, 
They  took  the  smiling,  rosy  boy. 

*'  Pray  take  me  in  without  a  fear," 

Said  Love,  the  Little  Cavalier. 

Home  to  their  hearts,  with  grateful  joy, 
They  took  the  smiling,  rosy  boy  : 
The  whitest  blossom  on  life's  stem, 
He's  all  the  world,  and  more,  to  them. 

''  We  revel  in  ambrosial  cheer," 

Sings  Love,  the  Little  Cavalier. 

Chablbs  Sanostsb. 


THE  HISTORY  AND  MISSION  OP  ARCHITECTUER 

BY  ELIHU  BURMTT. 

No  intellectual  taste  or  force  has  exerted  such  a  shaping  influence  upon 
civilization  as  architecture.  This  art  opened  up  and  handed  down  a 
normal  school  for  all  ages  and  races  of  mankind,  in  which  their  percep- 
tions of  beauty  and  ideas  of  luxury  and  happy  life,  were  educated  from 


656  THE  HISTORY  AND  MISSION  OP  ABCHITECTURE. 

stage  to  stage  of  refinement.  It  is  truly  the  mother  of  all  the  other  arts^ 
and  embraces  them  all  in  its  own  development.  It  links  the  ages  together 
more  continuously  than  any  other  human  capacity  or  attainment.  In 
Unks  two  thousand  years  long,  the  chain  of  its  histor}-  comes  down  to 
the  latest  and  grandest  edifice  built  on  earth,  from  the  foundation-stone 
of  Cain's  little  city  under  the  breaking  dawn  of  historic  time.  Through 
the  flood  it  comes :  for  the  waters  that  covered  the  earth  did  not  drown 
a  single  art  or  thought,  worth  anything  to  man,  that  lived  before  their 
deluge.  The  best  antediluvian  house  Noah  carried  fresh  in  his  memory ; 
and  in  his  ark  he  tested  on  the  flood,  and  transferred  to  all  mankind  to 
be,  the  first  conception  and  model  of  the  floating  architecture,  the  sea. 
From  his  day  to  this,  the  human  race  has  chronicled  its  ages  and  stages 
of  progress  in  this  hand-writing  of  Tubal  Cain's  iron  pens  in  wood,  brick, 
and  stone.  These  have  been  the  most  instructive  and  enduring  syllables 
that  man  has  written  upon  the  earth.  Every  village  or  hamlet  built  for  per- 
manent  residence  has  been  a  paragraph  in  his  history,  translated  into 
every  language.  The  migratory  tent  of  skins  or  cloth  had  no  civilizing 
power.  It  did  not  attach  a  single  human  heart  to  the  earth  on  which  it 
was  planted  for  the  night,  or  week,  or  month.  It  put  forth  no  spores 
nor  tendrils  of  home  to  localize  life  and  its  enjoyments,  hopes,  and 
affections  to  one  permanent  centre  of  action  and  experience.  As  the 
rolling-stone  gathers  no  moss,  so  the  moving  tent  could  not  gather  nor 
leave  any  of  .the  rime  or  radiance  of  civilization.  It  was  not  until  the 
more  intelligent  families  of  mankind  began  to  pls^t  themselves  by  com- 
munities in  houses  of  wood,  brick,  or  stone,  which  they  could  not  remove, 
that  home  life,  and  social  intercourse  and  fellowship,  could  put  forth 
those  feeble,  primitive  germs  of  taste  and  genius  that  have  been  developed 
into  the  brilliant  culture  of  the  present  day. 

The  progress  of  architecture  will  make  one  of  the  most  interesting 
studies  in  the  world  to  a  mind  given  to  historical  predilections.  One 
does  not  need  to  adopt  any  portion  of  the  Darwinian  system,  nor  to 
lower  the  starting-point  of  the  human  race,  in  recognizing  what  they 
owed  to  the  example  and  instruction  of  beasts,  birds,  fish,  and  inani- 
mate nature  in  learning  all  the  arts  that  have  come  to  their  present  per- 
fection. The  inverted  bird's  nests  evidently  served  as  the  first  suggestion 
and  model  of  the  first  conical  tent  or  hut  Caves  or  holes  in  the  brows 
of  rocky  hills  or  mountains,  partially  improved  by  wild  beasts,  supplied 
the  models  for  houses  of  stone.  The  fish  with  tail  and  fins,  and  fitness  of  its 
shape  for  swift  and  easy  movement  in  the  water,  suggested  the  best 
fashioning  and  faculties  of  a  vessel  with  rudder  and  oars.  When  the 
great  row  galley  was  found  heavy  pulling  for  men's  sinews  alone,  the 
eagle  or  the  dove  dropt  its  suggestion  into  the  human  mind,  and  two  or 
three  canvas  wings  were  given  to  the  vessel,  and  the  wind  was  caught 


THE  HISTORY  AND  MISSION  OF  ARCHITECTURE.  557 

and  tamed  and  harnessed  to  it,  like  a  horse  hroken  to  the  shafts.  Now, 
Darwin  "  to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding,"  it  does  not  lower  the  dignity 
of  man's  origin  nor  of  the  dawn  of  his  intellect,  that  he  learned  so  much 
of  heasts,  birds,  and  fish.  While  he  had  to  put  his  thoughts  to  the  school 
of  instinct,  taught  by  these  lowest  creatures,  he  was  not  a  whit  nearer 
the  ape  in  his  capacity  of  mental  ^o^e^f  than  at  this  hour.  If  any 
monkeys  existed  before  the  flood,  they  knew  as  much  then  as  the  best 
of  their  race  know  now.  The  antediluvian  birds  built  them  as  perfect 
houses  as  their  posterity  build  now.  They  spoke  the  same  language  and 
sang  the  same  tunes  as  we  hear  in  our  tree-tops. 

Nor  is  it  any  discredit  to  man's  intellect  that  he  had  to  work  slower 
by  reason  than  his  first  teachers,  the  beasts  and  birds,  workiiL  by  instinct. 
He  had  to  adopt  their  ready-made  models  by  the  apposition  of  thought 
to  thought.  It  cost  him  a  more  strenuous  mental  exercise  still  to  im- 
prove on  those  models,  and  to  improve  on  his  own  improvements,  to  use 
the  terms  common  to  modern  inventions.  But  slow  as  was  his  progress, 
it  was  sure  and  ceaseless.  Men  have  died  on  the  long  march  of  human 
life,  and  marked  it  out  into  short  stages  with  their  graves  as  mile- 
stones. But  man  has  never  died  since  Adam  was  set  a  living  soul  on  the 
earth.  As  a  being  with  such  a  soul,  he  has  lived  from  that  day  to  this, 
and  will  live  as  long  as  the  earth  exists.  The  graves  of  a  hundred  gene- 
rations, the  wrecks  and  rubbish  of  fallen  empires,  and  all  the  thick- 
strewn  mortalities  that  choke  the  pathway  of  nations,  have  not  broken 
the  continuity  of  his  existence  and  progress  as  a  being  with  a  liAong  soul 
in  him.  If  a  single  individual  of  the  race  had  lived  through  all  the 
thousands  of  years  since  Adam's  death,  and  if  he  carried  in  his  mind  all 
that  mankind  have  learned  within  the  space,  he  could  not  impart  to  us 
any  science,  art,  taste,  knowledge,  or  genius  that  we  do  not  now  possess. 
The  progress  of  all  these  faculties  of  perception  and  execution  has  been 
as  continuous  as  if  the  earth  never  took  to  its  bosom  a  human  grave. 

Sacred  history  is  the  oldest  as  well  as  the  most  authentic  record  that 
we  have  of  the  progress  of  architecture,  and  of  all  the  other  arts.  It 
gives  us  more  detailed  account  of  their  development  a^d  application  than 
perhaps  all  other  ancient  histories  put  together.  It  invests  each  and  all 
with  a  dignity  which  no  other  histories  ascribe  to  them.  It  gives  them 
a  divine  origin  or  inspiration.  It  was  God  who  "  made  coats  of  skins  " 
for  Adam  and  Eve.  It  was  God  who  gave  to  Noah  the  model  of  the  ark, 
and  every  minute  detail  of  its  structure,  even  to  pitching  it,  when  finished, 
to  make  it  water-tight.  It  was  God  who  inspired  the  builders  of  the 
tabernacle,  and  ''  filled  them  with  the  spirit  of  God,  in  wisdom,  and  in 
understanding,  and  in  all  manner  of  workmanship,  to  devise  cunning 
work^  to  work  in  gold  and  in  silver,  and  in  brass,  and  in  cutting  of 
stones  to  set  them,  and  in  carving  of  timber  to  work  in  all  manner  of 


558  THE  fflSTORr  AND  MISSION  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

workmanship."  Here  we  have  the  earliest  and  fullest  record  of  the 
mechanic  arts,  and  of  that  higher  artistry  of  genius  and  taste  that  minis- 
ters to  our  perceptions  and  enjoyment  of  beauty.  Here  they  are  all  put 
on  the  same  footing  of  divinity  in  their  inspiration.  The  mechanics  or 
artists  had  to  be  '^  tilled  with  the  spirit  of  God  "  before  they  could  design 
and  execute  these  fine  works  in  gold,  silver,  brass,  and  wood.  No  maga- 
zine devoted  to  the  useful  or  fine  arts,  ever  described  a  work  to  such 
minute  detail  of  design  and  material  as  Moses  gives  us  in  the  construction 
of  the  tabernacle.  Nothing  can  be  more  evident  than  the  fact,  that  this 
work  in  the  wilderness  did  not  only  include  all  the  progress  in  these  arts 
made  by  the  human  race  up  to  that  time,  but  that  it  was  a  long  step  in 
advance  of  t]|^t  progress ;  that  it  far  exceeded,  in  every  conception  and 
execution  of  beauty,  any  work  accomplished'  in  Egypt  or  Assyria,  or  in 
-any  other  region  of  early  civilization. 

It  is  a  fact  which  all  thoughtful  mechanics  and  artists  should  notice 
with'Special  interest,  that  the  Bible  is  the  only  book  of  ancient  date,  that 
does  any  justice  to  the  professions,  occupations,  and  genius  which  they 
represent.  It  is  full  of  minute  and  scientific  descriptions  of  architecture 
and  works  of  art,  taste,  and  genius.  Indeed,  there  is  hardly  a  human 
life,  from  Qenesis  to  Revelation,  given  us  in  such  clear,  consecutive,  and 
full  biography  as  even  the  construction  of  the  little  tabernacle  and  ark  of 
the  testimony  made  under  the  supervision  of  Moses.  It  is  doubtful  if  all 
the  literature  that  Greece  devoted  to  science  and  art  would  furnish  us 
with  such  a  list  of  materials  as  were  wrought  into  these  works  by 
Bezaleel  and  Aholiab,  who  were  ^^fiUed  with  the  spirit  of  God,"  in  pro- 
ducing from  them  such  a  master-piece  as  no  Grecian  artist  ever  accom- 
plished in  the  day  of  Pericles.  While  doing  honour  to  all  the  other  arts 
and  occupations,  architecture  seems  to  be  the  specialty  of  human  attain- 
ments to  the  Bible.  From  beginning  to  end,  it  dwells  upon  its 
achievements  and  progress,  and  shows  how  God  not  only  admits  but 
claims  both  as  the  direct  work  of  his  own  inspiration.  The  making  of  the 
tfirst  suit  of  clothes  for  man ;  the  building  of  the  ark  under  Noah ;  of  the 
tabernacle  under  Moses ;  of  the  temple  under  Solomon — ^all  these  pro- 
gressive steps  in  the  arts,  he  teaches  man  to  take,  guiding  his  feet  and 
holding  his  hand,  and  giving  it  skill  of  touch.  No  Grecian  nor  Roman 
poets  ever  sung  of  architecture  in  such  lofty  strains,  pr  drew  from  it  such 
sublime  figures  for  their  rhetoric,  as  Job,  and  John  of  Patmos,  and  other 
old  Hebrew  seers  and  saints.  If  the  artists,  mechanics,  and  builders  of 
this  country  and  age  would  like  to  see  the  fullest  history  of  their  several 
arts  and  trades  in  the  first  forty  centuries ;  or  if  they  would  know  when 
and  by  whom  these  arts  and  trades  were  most  highly  honoured,  they 
must  go  to  the  Bible,  where  they  will  find  more  on  both  branches  of  the 
subject  than  in  any  other  volume  in  the  world. 


559 


THE  VIKING'S  WARNING. 

Spake  Gonfreda  to  the  Vikiug  : 
"  Go !  an*  it  be  to  your  liking, 

Harrower  of  the  changeful  sea  ! 
Weeping  wiU  be  in  the  haveng 
When  the  long-winged  gulls  and  ravens 
Whet  their  beaks  on  wreck  of  thee  !  " 

To  Gunfreda  yelled  the  Viking  : 

''  Out,  thou  longbeard  !  prate  to  women." 

<<  Viking,  list !  on  Norca  head 
Last  night  walked  the  sheeted  dead.'' 

<'Hist  thy  camifex's  talk  ! 

Tell  thy  tale  to  girls — not  seamen, — 
Tell  the  gillemot  and  auk, — 

Let  the  grey  dead  walk  !  " 

*'  List,  lewd  Viking !  hearfthy  sentence  : 

Odin,  by  the  mouth  of  Ms, 
Dooms  that  thou,  as  past  repentance, 
Nevermore  shalt  come  from  sea  ! 
For  the  long- winged  gulls  and  ravens 
Flying  seaward  from  the  havens 
Whet  for  thee  their  beaks 
On  the  skerry  of  shrieks  ! 

''  Up  for  Iceland  !  Ship  the  ashen 
Oars  and  step  the  masts  of  pine, 
float  the  long  hulls  tempest-washen, — 
Earth  is  Odin's,— Ooean,  mine  ! " 

With  conch  horns  and  clanging  shocks 
Of  arms,  like  waves  on  ringing  rocks, 
And  with  pennons  at  the  peaks 
The  stout  hulls  passed  the  skerry  of  shrieks. 
And  the  lither  oar-shafts  groaned, — 
And  the  waves  and  the  waters  moaned. 

Bight  and  forty  times  the  tide 

Flowed  up  on  the  beach  of  stone, 
And  eight  and  forty  times  beside 

Ebbed  out  with  eerie  moan. 
Yet  of  the  Viking's  word  was  none  ! — 

The  women  grew  hollow- voiced, 

And  the  priest  of  Odin  rejoiced  : 
"  See,"  said  he,  "  what  the  €k>ds  have  done ! '' 


560  CROSS  PURPOSES. 

The  red  sun  rose  up  out  the  wold, 

Out  of  the  wold  uplifted  he 
And  flecked  the  barren  brown  with  gold, 
And  flashed  his  red  light  out  to  sea, 
Where  it  lit  on  fifteen  ships 
Kissing  the  waves  with  brazen  lips, 
With  sun  on  their  fifteen  sails 
And  shields  all  hanging  at  the  rails, — 
And  Gondolfin  of  the  Sword 
Came  sailing  into  StUrm  fiord. 

The  priest  of  Odin  gravely  nods  : 
**  O  Viking  thank  the  gods 
Who  have  given  you  lucky  odds." 

Gk>ndolfin  laughed  with  all  his  men  : 

"  Ho  !  ha  !  "  quo'  he,**  keeps't  thou  thy  tryst 

That  I  should  thank  the  gods  therefor  ? 
Poof !  for  Moon  and  Frega  and  Thor  ! 
Fig  !  for  Odin  the  black-a- vised  ! 

Skoal !  cry  I,  to  the  gold-haired  Christ ! 
Whom  111  maintain,  with  my  good  sword, 
To  be  Norroway's  only  Lord, 

And  next  to  liim,  o'er  rock  and  fiord, 
Is  Oav  the  Tiyggersen." 

HUNTEB  DirVAB. 


CROSS  PURPOSES. 


'*Now  this  is  absurd,  yon  know,"  said  Mr.  John  Dalsifer,  address- 
ing confidentially  his  image  in  the  looking  glass,  as  he  vigoronsly 
brushed  his  hair.  I  rather  think  he  came  neai"  breaking  a  command- 
ment, he  looked  so  very  much  like  a  graven  image  and  he  gazed  upon 
the  reflection  of  himself  so  fondly.  He  was  beautifully  dressed^  and  was 
giving  the  finishing  touch  to  his  hair ;  evidently  there  was  something 
special  on  the  carpet  for  this  evening.  It  is  cot  only  lovers'  love  that  is 
blind  :  Mr.  John's  mother  and  sisters  admired  him  even  more  than  be 
admired  himself.  Now,  there  cannot  be  smoke  without  some  fire,  be  it 
ever  so  little  :  Mr.  John  was  lovable  to  those  who  knew  him  welL  He 
was  kind-hearted  to  a  fault,  as  generous  as  he  was  kind-hearted^  and  bis 
vanity  hurt  no  one  but  himself,  and  did  not  hurt  him  very  much.  Why> 
then,  had  a  cruel  Fate  ordained  that  he  should  be  so  funny  9  When  a 
man  is  regarded  as  a  joker,  let  him  never  hope  that  any  one  will  &11  in 
love  with  him. 


CROSS  PUBPOSES.  561 

John's  toilet  was  finished  at  last,  and  he  backed  away  from  himself  as 
if  from  the  presence  of  royalty,  until,  bumping  his  head  against  the  bed- 
post, admiration  was  lost  in  wrath.  For  what  was  all  this  gilding  of 
his  horns  1  To  go  away  up  bis  family  tree,  he  had  a  grandmother,  and 
she  was  very  wealthy.  John  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  but  with  no 
mercenary  motives,  for  she  had  distinctly  stated  her  intention  of  leaving 
all  her  money  to  her  son,  an  uncle  of  John's,  and  one  of  those  unfortun- 
ates who,  with  the  best  intentions,  n%ver  succeed  in  anything  but  failing. 
She  was  an  old  lady  whose  manifestations  of  character  suggested  a 
descent  from  the  Medes  and  Persians,  and  ^er  peculiarities  were  well 
known  in  the  family.  But  John,  as  above  stated,  was  kind-hearted ;  he 
was  the  only  grandson,  and  he  did  many  things  to  make  the  old  lady 
comfortable  and  happy.  So,  when  the  poor  uncle  died — ^which  he  was 
more  than  willing  to  do — everybody  fixed  upon  John  as  the  probable 
heir.  But  they  were  a  little  too  fast.  His  grandmother  had  him  up 
for  a  solemn  conversation :  she  informed  him  that  it  had  troubled  her 
for  some  time  that  he  did  not  marry,  and  that  she  had  a  wife  picked  out 
for  him,  a  young  lady  who  was  all  that  a  sensible  man  could  want  his 
wife  to  be— clever,  intelligent,  lady-like,  and  moderately  pretty ;  just 
the  right  age  too — five  years  younger  than  he  was.  Seeing  no  way  out 
of  all  this  but  humility,  John  for  once  became  humble,  and  suggested 
that  it  was  not  for  the  likes  of  him  to  aspire  to  such  an  epitome  as  this. 
His  grandmother  merely  said  "  Nonsense  ! "  and  proceeded  to  unfold 
her  plan. 

This  young  woman  was  poor  and  an  orphan.  She  taught  for  her 
living,  and  taught  very  well,  too.  Now,  this  pearl  of  grandmothers— 
whom  we  will  call  Mrs.  Smith,  for  short — announced  her  intention  of 
leaving  a  comfortable  sum  to  the  maiden  unconditionally,  and  a  similar 
sum  to  John,  encumbered  with  the  trifling  condition  that  he  should 
marry  Miss  Arnott.  In  vain  poor  John  protested  that  he  could  not 
agree  to  such  a  proposition — that  it  was  humiliating  both  to  himself  and 
the  young  lady.  Mrs.  Smith  asserted  that  it  could  do  him  no  harm  to 
visit  Miss  Arnott,  who  knew  nothing  of  this  wonderful  plan,  and  would 
merely  believe  that  he  came  to  see  her  as  a  friend ;  and  at  last,  putting 
it  as  a  personal  favour  to  herself  that  he  should  do  this  much,  she  con- 
quered, and  the  victim  adorned  himself  for  the  sacrifice. 

It  wail  a  sacrifice,  for  his  vanity  did  him  no  good  when  he  was  with 
"  the  ladies  ;*'  he  was  that  strange  contradiction,  a  vain  and  at  the  same 
time  a  painfully  bashful  man,  and  an  introduction  was  a  fearful  ordeal 
to  him.     How  much  worse  to  go  and  introduce  himself  I 

But  while  Fate  was  bringing  to  the  damsel's  feet  this  reluctant  lover^ 
her  heart  was  being  steeled  against  him.  Mrs.  Smith  had  told  rather 
too  many  of  her  intimate  friends  about  her  plan — in  confidence,  of 


562  CBOSS  PDRPOSES. 

course,  but  it  had  somehow  reached  the  ears  of  the  other  rictim.  This 
was  quite  enough  had  John  possessed  the  virtues  and  graces  of  all  the 
men  who  have  ever  lived  firom  our  first  parent — who,  having  eaten  the 
apple,  charged  it  to  his  wife — down  to  the  last  glass  of  fashion  and  mould 
of  form  that  helps  to  beautiiy  the  earth.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  see 
him,  to  treat  him  with  proper  scorn,  and  let  him  know  what  she  thought 
of  him  for  being  a  party  to  such  a  bargain  ;  for  of  course  the  nanative 
had  lost  nothing  by  travelling.  A»  for  Mrs.  Smith,  this  scornful  maid 
spared  her  the  pleasure  of  a  similar  encounter  with  her  wounded  dig- 
nity only  on  account  of  the  age  and  many  kindnesses  to  herself  of  the 
transgressor. 

We  left  John  bumping  his  head.  Having  rubbed  the  injured  member 
regardless  of  his  carefully-arranged  hair,  reconstruction  became  neces- 
sary, and  the  result  was,  as  it  is  too  apt  to  be,  rather  chaotic.  But  it  was 
wa3dng  late  ;  so  with  a  last  despairing  stroke  of  the  brush,  he  left  the 
alluring  glass,  looking  even  funnier  than  usual ;  which  was  unnecessary. 
A  short  walk — too  short,  he  thought — ^brought  him  to  the  modest  board- 
ing-house where  dwelt  the  scornful  maid.  Yes,  she  was  at  home,  and 
he  sent  up  a  characteristic  card — German  text  rampant  upon  a  roseate 
field. 

It  was  a  warm  evening :  the  parlour  door  stood  open,  and  so,  uncon- 
sciously to  himself,  did  John's  mouth  as  he  listened  with  nervous  i^pi^ 
hension  for  the  sound  of  Miss  Amott's  approach.  He  heard  the  closing 
of  a  very  distant  door,  then  presently  the  sound  of  quickly  tripping  feet ; 
and  then  the  coming  woman  must  have  tripped  in  good  earnest,  for  there 
was  a  wild  exclamation,  a  sound  as  of  the  rending  of  some  frail  fabric, 
three  comparatively  light  bumps,  a  heavy  one,  and  silence.  John  started 
to  his  feet,  meaning,  of  course,  to  rush  to  the  rescue,  and  then  he  stood 
stock-still,  shocked  by  the  thought  of  self-introduction  to  a  young  woman 
who  had  just  fallen  down  at  least  half  a  flight  of  stairs  and  notoriously 
bumped  her  head.  Judging  from  the  sound,  she  must  have  landed  at 
the  foot  of  the  last  step  but  one.  Would  the  sight  of  his  face,  beheld 
for  the  first  time,  be  likely  under  the  circumstances  to  produce  a  pleasing 
impression  f  Keckoning  by  his  own  recent  sensations  in  his  encounter 
with  the  bedpost,  he  thought  not. 

While  he  stood  irresolute  another  door  opened.  Somebody  came  out 
and  picked  her  up,  uttering  words  of  pity  and  sympathy.  "  You  poor 
dear  child,  you  !"  said  the  voice — a  very  sweet  one,  by  the  way — "I 
tripped  in  that  same  abominable  hole  only  to-day,  and  nearly  broke 
my  neck.  But,  goodness,  gracious  I  youVe  a  bump  on  your  forehead 
already,  and  your  dress  is  torn  awfully,  and  you  limp.  Gracie,  is  your 
ankle  sprained  ?  YouVe  not  broken  your  leg  1 "  in  alarmed  cre- 
scendo. 


CROSS  PtTBPOSBS.  563 

John,  listeDing  anxiously,  heard  a  prolonged  "  Hu-sh  I  thai  man's  in 
the  parlour.  He's  actually  had  the  impudence  to  come,  and  I  was  going 
down  to  ^ve  him  as  large  a  piece  of  my  mind  as  I  could  spare  ;  and  now 
I  can't  do  it,  and  maybe  he'll  not  give  me  another  chance,  and  he  ought 
to  hear  just  what  I  think  of  him  for  being  such  a — such  a —  Go  down 
instead  of  me,  there's  a  darling !  and  tell  him  in  elegant  language  that 
I've  broken  my  head  and  twisted  my  leg  and  torn  my  frock ;  and  don't 
say  I  asked  him  to  come  again,  but  make  up  something  civil  yourself 
that  will  fetch  him." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  sweet  voice,  with  a  tremour  of  laughter  in 
it,  "  I'll  do  it,  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing ;  but  you  must  let  me  help 
you  up  stairs  first,  and  give  you  something  to  rub  your  head  and  leg 
with — arnica,  I  suppose." 

"  Fiddlesticks !"  rejoined  the  energetic  voice,  still  in  the  same  guarded 
manner.  '*  I  can  get  up  well  enough  by  the  balusters.  You  go  and 
make  yourself  enchanting  :  I  give  you  full  power  of  attorney." 

"  Do  I  look  all  right  1 " 

"  Lovely,  you  vain  little  thing :  go  ! " 

There  was  a  rustling  on  the  stairs,  and  John  had  barely  time  to  sub- 
side upon  the  sofa  before  the  prettiest  girl  he  had  ever  seen  entered  the 
room  with  modest  composure,  remarking,  "  Mr.  Dulsifer,  I  presume  ?  " 
John  bowed.  ^'  You  must  not  think  that  I  am  Miss  Amott,"  said  the 
vision  with  a  fascinating  smile  :  ''  I  am  only  her  intimate  friend,  and 
my  name  is  Jesins.  She  has  just  met  with  a  slight  accident,  and  will 
not  be  able  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  this  evening,  but — " 

"  She  would  like  me  to  come  again,"  interrupted  John,  with  a  bold- 
ness and  ease  for  which  he  was  never  afterward  able*  to  account.  ''  I 
am  bound  in  honour  to  tell  you.  Miss  Jesins,  and  to  request  you  to  tell 
Miss  Arnott,  that  I  heard — or  perhaps,  you  will  say  overheard — ^your 
conversation  upon  the  stairs ;  and,  in  justice  to  myself,  I  must  request 
you  to  report  my  explanation,  at  the  risk  of  boring  you  with  it."  And 
then  John  gave  a  brief  and  clear  account  of  the  state  of  affairs,  apologized 
again,  and  rose  to  withdraw. 

Miss  Jesins  had  a  very  pretty  colour  in  her  cheeks  from  the  beginning 
of  the  explanation  until  the  end  of  it,  and  when  it  was  finished  and 
John  rose,  she  came  forward  and  gave  him  her  hand.  *^  Miss  Amott 
owes  you  an  apology,"  she  said  frankly ;  "  and  I  rather  think  I  do,  too, 
for  having  accepted  her  version  of  the  story  so  unhesitatingly.  If  you 
will  call  again,  I  think  I  can  promise  you,  on  her  behalf,  if  not  the 
apology,  at  least  a  civil  reception.  I'll  not  promise  more,  for  she  is  not 
good  at  apologizing." 

"  I  will  call  again  with  pleasure,"  said  John,  "  hoping  for  your  pre- 
sence and  testimony  in  my  favour ;"  and  with  this  he  departed. 


56*  CROSS  PUBPOSES. 

First  impressions,  with  some  people,  are  everything ;  John  nerer 
again  had  an  attack  of  ease  and  cool  politeness,  but  Miss  Jesins  could 
never  be  convinced  that  he  was  bashful  or  awkward. 

It  was  rather  hard  upon  Grace  Amott  that,  in  addition  to  her  bump 
and  sprain  and  hopelessly-injured  dress,  she  had  to  endure  a  warm 
defence  of  her  enemy,  followed  by  a  lecture  upon  her  want  of  charity, 
and  her  readiness  to  think  evil  of  her  neighbours.  For  the  first  time 
during  a  long  friendship,  the  girls  parted  for  the  night  with  a  coolness 
between  them ;  and  Grace,  far  from  having  her  opinion  changed  by  her 
friend's  narrative  and  the  moral  thereof,  stuck  to  it  more  obstinately 
than  ever. 

John  happened  to  meet  Miss  Jesins  several  times  during  the  ensuing 
week,  at  the  house  of  a  common  friend,  at  the  opera,  and  finally  in  the 
Btreetj;  which  last  meeting  resulted  in  the  discovery  that  they  were  both  in 
the  habit  of  taking  long  constitutionals,  and  the  more  immediate  good  of  a 
walk  of  several  squares  in  each  other's  company.  Being  informed  that 
Miss  Amott  was  able  to  leave  her  room,  alUiough  still  slightly  lame, 
John,  with  a  sinking  heart,  prepared  for  a  second  attack,  and,  rallying  all 
his  forces,  rang  once  more  at  the  door  of  the  modest  boarding-house. 
Now,  when  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  have  a  tooth  pulled  out,  you 
like  to  find  the  dentist  at  home ;  so  that  it  was  with  a  certain  contra- 
dictory disappointment  that  he  heard  that  Miss  Amott  had  been  suddenly 
called  home  by  the  illness  of  a  member  of  her  family.  He  was  turning  to 
go,  when  a  happy  thought  struck  him ;  he  asked  for  Miss  Jesins.  She 
was  at  home,  she  was  charming,  and  John  forgot  his  grandmother,  his 
vexation,  and  very  nearly  himself.  It  had  reached  his  ears  in  some  un- 
accountable manper,  that  Miss  Jesins  had  spoken  in  praise  of  his  honesty. 
How  many  men,  she  inquired,  would  have  confessed  to  their  eaves- 
dropping, when  otherwise  it  could  not  possibly  have  been  known  1  And 
echo,  doubtless  to  her  thinking,  answered,  "  None." 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  no  sooner  does  any  one,  and  especially  any 
woman,  become  '^  engaged,''  than  she  manifests  a  curious  desire  to  see 
everybody  else  attain  a  similar  state  of  felicity.  It  may  as  well  at  once 
be  stated  that  Miss  Jesins  was  engaged ;  her  engagement  was  recent, 
and  she  was  in  that  amiable  frame  of  mind  which  love  produces  in  some 
people ;  she  thought  every  one  ought  to  be  married,  and  she  felt  a 
strong  inclination  to  devote  all  her  leisure  moments  to  the  furtherance 
of  the  good  work.  Her  first  interview  with  John  had  convinced  her 
that  it  was  her  duty  to  overcome  Grace's  prejudice,  and  bring  these  two 
young  people  together.  The  determined  opposition  manifested  by  Grace 
only  aroused  an  equal  amount  of  determination  on  her  side ;  but,  seeing 
that  open  attacks  only  produced  an  efiect  contrary  to  her  wishes,  she 
b^an  to  try  moderate  praise,  combined  with  a  judicious  amount  of  letting 


CROSS  PtJRPOBES.  566 

alone.  This,  she  was  rejoiced  to  perceive,  seemed  to  have  a  more  favour- 
able effect,  although  in  a  very  slight  degree.  What  business  had  she  to 
meddle  or  make  in  the  matter  at  all?  None  whatever,  but  other  peo- 
ple's pies  are  so  good,  how  can  we  keep  our  fingers  out  of  them  ?  As 
for  John's  feeliugs,  the  idea  that  he  might  fall  in  love  with  her  never 
once  occurred  to  her.  To  be  sure,  her  engagement  was  not  yet  announced, 
but  she  somehow  had  the  impression  that  John  must  be  aware  of  it.  So 
with  that  astounding  and  cheerful  assumption  of  the  powers  of  Fate 
which  is  common  to  all  matchmakers,  she  lost  no  opportunity  of  delicate- 
ly testifying  to  Miss  Arnott's  graces  and  virtues,  and  was  not  a  little 
piqued  at  the  coolness  and  want  of  interest  with  which  John  listened. 
Unfortunately  for  that  helpless  victim  of '  circumstances,  Miss  Jesins' 
fia/nc6  resided  in  a  distant  city,  and  hers  was  a  corresponding  engagement ; 
so  she  had  a  good  deal  of  time  as  well  as  sympathy  on  her  hands,  and 
the  frequency  with  which  these  two  met  each  other  began  to  be  both 
noteworthy  and  noticed.  There  are  none  so  blind,  however,  as  those 
who  will  not  see,  and  Miss  Jesins  persisted  in  her  little  game,  undeterred 
by  friendly  warnings,  which  were  not  wanting. 

Grace  returned  after  an  absence  of  two  weeks,  and  the  day  after  her 
return  her  friend  met  her  near  the  school-house  in  which  she  taught  and 
walked  home  with  her.  Artfully  introducing  the  subject  with  the 
utmost  apparent  want  of  art,  she  spoke  of  the  number  of  curious  co- 
incidents which  had  thrown  her  into  the  society  of  Mr.  Dulsifer  of  late, 
and  of  her  increased  liking  and  respect  for  him. 

*'  I  never  could  respect  a  man  who  brushes  his  hair  the  wrong  way  to 
hide  a  little  bald  place,''  said  Grace  scornfully :  '^  it  shows  a  want  of 
moral  courage,  to  say  the  least  of  it." 

*^  How  on  earth  did  you  find  that  out  ? "  said  Miss  Jesins,  forgetting 
her  tactics  in  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  you've  noticed  it,  have  you  1 "  asked  Grace  gleefully.  "  Why, 
I  sat  behind  him  in  church  once,  ever  so  long  ago,  before  all  this  folly, 
you  know,  and  he  struck  me  as  so  funny-looking  that  I  asked  who  he 
was." 

"  There  he  comes  now  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Jesins  with  much  apparent 
surprise. 

Alas !  he  came  and  he  saw,  but  he  did  anything  but  conquer.  One 
short  pavement  only  separated  him  from  the  two,  and  Grace  had  just 
remarked,  ^'  I  want  some  pins  :  let's  go  into  this  store  and  get  them," 
when  the  cause  of  her  sudden  fancy  disappeared  from  before  their  eyes 
like  a  man  in  a  conjuring  trick.  It  looked  rather  supernatural  at  first, 
but  the  cause  was  simple  enough  :  the  gentleman  who  owned  that  par- 
ticular pavement  had  been  getting  in  his  coal  for  the  winter — not  per- 
sonally, or  perhaps  he  would  have  closed  the  grating  as  soon  as  the  last 
3 


1 


566  .  CB08S  PURPOSES. 


shovelful  was  deposited ;  whereas  the  menial  employed  for  the  purpose 
had  paused  to  lean  thoughtfully  upon  his  shovel,  and  while  he  paused, 
Mr.  Dulsifer,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  advancing  foe,  had  walked  caholy 
down  into  the  coal^sellar. 

Grace  had  a  failing  which  had  got  her  into  trouble  more  than  onoe  : 
she  could  never  help  laughing  when  she  saw  any  one  fall,  and  although  1 

she  felt  somewhat  excused  by  the  fact  that  the  laugh  was  just  as  irresisti- 
ble when  she  fell  herself,  this  did  not  excuse  her  with  the  people  who 
saw  her  laugh  at  them.  A  little  scream  of  hysterical  laughter  eeci^>ed 
her  in  spite  of  every  effort  to  repress  it,  and  Mr.  John,  sitting  sadly  in 
the  coal,  heard  it  only  too  plainly,  aod  knew  that  it  was  not  the  voice 
of  Miss  Jesins.  That  amiable  young  person  hastened  to  the  hole  and 
called  down  in  her  sweet  accents,  *'  Mr.  Dulsifer,  are  you  hurt  1  Can 
we  do  anything  for  you  ? " 

'*  Not  at  all,  thank  you,**  replied  the  victim,  '*  but  I'm  rather  black  of 
course,  and  if  you'd  just  ask  that  fool  who  let  me  down  here  to  ring  the 
bell  and  tell  the  people  I'm  not  a  housebreaker,  I  shall  be  very  much 
indebted  to  you." 

"I  will,  with  pleasure,"  rejoined  the  sweet  voice;  and  it  quivered  a 
little  as  she  added,  ^'  Shall  we  wait  for  you  V* 

"  Not  at  aU  !  not  at  all ! "  exclaimed  poor  John  hastily.  ''  I  shall  have 
to  wash  my  hands  and  face,  and  I  wouldn't  think  of  keeping  you  so 
long." 

('Very  well :  good-bye.  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Lizzie  sympatheUcally ; 
and  then  she  and  Grace  went  on,  leaving  poor  John  to  "  clean  himself" 
at  his  leisure. 

"  There  really  does  seem  to  be  a  fate  about  it  I "  said  Lizzie  pettishly. 
"  I  wonder  if  you  and  he  are  never  to  meet  f  And  then  to  think  of  your 
laughing  that  away  I  You  really  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself^  Qrace  : 
you  are  perfectly  unfeeling ! " 

"  I  know  it,"  admitted  Grace  patiently,  '*  but  I  couldn't  have  helped 
it  to  save  my  Ufe.  And  he  must  know  that  he  looked  funny,"  she  added, 
with  another  little  scream,  in  which  Lizzie  joined,  but  in  her  secret 
heart  she  rejoiced  at  the  fact  that  Grace  had  put  herself  in  the  wrong 
by  her  ill-timed  laughter,  for  she  knew  that  in  that  upright  nature  the 
compunction  she  felt  would  be  apt  to  cause  a  little  civility  when  Grace 
should  meet  the  injured  man. 

This  meeting,  however,  did  not  seem  likely  to  occur.  Twice  in  the 
succeeding  month  did  Mr.  John  screw  his  Courage  to  the  point  of  calling 
on  "  the  ladies,"  and  twice  did  he  happen  upon  an  evening  when  Miss 
Amott  was  absent  and  Miss  Jesins  at  home.  By  the  time  the  second 
call  was  over,  and  sundry  chance  meetings  and  walks  had  taken  place, 
Mr.  John's  heart  was  hopelessly  gone,  and  he  was  eager  to  become 


V 


1 


t 


CKOSS  PURPOSES.  567 

acquainted  with  Miss  Amott,  from  a  vague  hope  that  acquaintance 
with  her  would  give  him  more  frequent  opportunities  of  meeting  her 
friend. 

He  thought  his  chance  had  at  last  arrived  when  one  golden  autumn 
afternoon,  as  he  was  riding  in  the  Park,  he  saw  the  friends  walking 
slowly  along  a  path  which  crossed  his  road  some  little  distance  ahead. 
Touching  his  horse  lightly  with  the  whip,  he  was  soon  heside  them,  and 
was  in  the  act  of  making  his  best  bow  when  his  evil  angel,  taking  the 
form  of  a  locomotive,  gave  a  heart-rending  shriek,  and  Mr.  John's  horse 
dashed  wildly  do^-n  the  avenue,  defying  all  his  efforts  to  check  or  turn 
it  until,  having  put  about  a  mile  and  a  half  between  the  unfortunate  man 
and  his  charmer,  it  suddenly  wheeled,  his  hat  flew  off,  skimmed  lightly 
along  to  the  edge  of  the  hill  here  overhanging  the  river,  trembled,  hesi- 
tated, and  took  the  plunge.  Mr.  John  thought  strongly  of  following  its 
example,  but  remembered  his  mother  and  sisters,  and  changed  his  desti- 
nation from  oblivion  to  the  nearest  hat-store. 

Of  course  he  did  not  find  them  when,  having  covered  his  discomfited 
head,  he  returned  to  the  Park.  But  he  had  the  pleasure  the  following 
week  of  missing  by  about  a  minute  a  train  which  he  had  seen  the  friends 
enter :  he  saw  them  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  church  which  he  attend- 
ed the  following  Sunday,  and  hastened  home,  when  church  was  out,  for 
umbrellas,  blessing  the  shower  which  had  come  up  during  service.  But 
when  he  again  reached  the  church  he  found  Miss  Jesius  alone,  and  in 
despair  at  the  obstinacy  of  Grace,  who  had  resisted  all  her  entreaties  to 
wait  a  while  in  the  hope  that  the  shower  might  go  as  it  had  come ;  she 
had  not  mentioned  her  other  hope,  that  Mr.  Dulsifer  might  come  as  he 
had  gone,  with  the  added  charm  of  an  umbrella ;  but  Grace  was  quite 
as  well  aware  of  the  concealed  as  of  the  expressed  hope. 

Now  all  this  time  the  carefully-studied  course  of  treatment  which 
Miss  Jesins  was  pursuing  toward  Grace  was  having  much  more  effect 
.  than  was  at  all  made  manifest  by  the  words  and  actions  of  that  obstinate 
damsel,  whose  private  opinion  was,  that  Ldzzie  was  becoming  much  more 
interested  in  John  than  was  at  all  proper  under  the  circumstances,  and 
that  John  was  developing  an  attachment  to  herself,  Grace,  manifested 
by  his  persistent  efforts  to  see  her.  Almost  unconsciously  to  herself, 
her  "  heart,  that  was  hard  and  cold  as  a  stun,"  was  softening  toward 
Mr.  John.  3he  felt  that  she  owed  nim  an  apology  for  her  ill-timed 
laughter,  and  determined  to  pay  her  debt  at  the  first  fitting  opportunity. 
She  did  not  think  him  quite  so  ridiculous  as  he  had  heretofore  appeared 
to  her :  she  had  heard  that  he  was  a  model  of  kindness  and  affection  to 
his  mother  and  sisters.  Lizzie's  judicious  and  guarded  praises  were  no 
longer  met  with  scornful  refutations ;  and  if  they  could  but  have  met, 
and  if  poor  Mr.  John's  heart  had  not  been  hopelessly  under  bonds  to 


568  CROSS  PURPOSES. 

Lizzie,  the  probabilities  are  that  Mr&  Smith  would  have  died  happy, 
leaving  her  fortune  to  be  divided  between  her  grandson  and  the  wife  of 
her  choice.  But  the  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew  them  how 
we  will,  was  lying  about  her  with  her  axe  or  her  carving-knife,  or  what* 
ever  it  is  she  does  it  with,  and  she  hewed  on  until,  to  carry  out  the  meta. 
phor,  there  was  nothing  left  but  chips. 

Miss  Jesins,  despite  her  wilful  and  obstinate  blindness,  began '  at  last 
to  see  that  in  John's  manner  and  actions  which  troubled  her  a  little, 
and  to  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  a  fitting  opportunity  of  speaking  clearly 
and  decidedly  of  her  engagement ;  for  she  became  more  and  more  un- 
comfortably impressed  with  the  thought  that  Mr.  Dulsifer  might  not  be 
aware  of  it  after  all  Miss  Arnott  had  evidently  laid  down  her  arms, 
and  it  was  high  time,  in  the  opinion  of  the  would-be  mistress  of  ceremo- 
nies, that  Mr.  John  should  take  up  his.  That  he  should  take  them  up 
against  her  Vas  not  in  her  calculations,  but  she  was  doomed  to  find  out, 
although  somewhat  later  than  most  of  us  make  the  discovery,  that  we 
'^  can't  calculate,"  or  rather  that  we  may  if  we  like,  but  that  we  usually 
get  the  answer  wrong. 

No  matter  what  poor  Mr.  John  said — the  most-self-possessed  among 
men  do  not  always  make  prize-speeches  upon  these  occasions,  we  are  told 
— ^but  he  managed  to  let  his  dismayed  hearer  know  unmistakably  that 
she,  and  she  only,  was  the  Object ;  that  for  weeks  he  had  thought  of  MIbs 
Arnott  only  as  her  friend ;  and  that  no  earthly  inducement  could  now 
make  him  agree  to  his  grandmother's  wishes.  She  was  obliged  to  tell 
him  that  she  was  engaged  to  another  man ;  that  she  never  had  loved, 
and  never  could  love  him  ;  and  that  she  had  hoped  his  interest  in  her 
was  merely  for  the  sake  of  her  friend.  He  did  not  reproach  her,  but 
when  she  had  ended  her  stammering  confession,  he  said  very  quietly, 
"  It  is  the  old  game  of  the  boys  and  the  frogs,  Miss  Jesins.  Good-after- 
noon ;"  and  he  was  gone  before  she  could  make  any  further  attempt  to 
justify  herself.  He  went  abroad  shortly  afterwards,  and  before  his 
return  Miss  Jesins  had  married  her  correspondent  and  gone  to  her  dis- 
tant home.  A  coolness  had  sprung  up  between  Miss  Arnott  and  herself 
in  the  mean  time  without  any  tangible  cause. 

Of  course,  to  make  this  an  orthodox  story,  John  and  Orace  should 
have  met  once  more,  or  rather  for  the  first  time,  after  his  return,  and 
have  made  everything  come  right  by  falling  in  love  with  each  other  at 
their  leisure  ;  but  they  did  not  Grace  still  teaches  for  her  living,  for 
Mrs.  Smith  died  without  making  a  will,  after  all,  and  Mr.  Dulsifer  regards 
her  with  a  most  unwarrantable  and  unjust  aversion.  He  still  brushes 
his  hair  the  wrong  way  to  hide  the  bald  place,  now  no  longer  "  little." 
He  goes  into  society  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  but  is  seldom  known  to 
call  twice  in  the  same  y^ar  on  the  same  lady.    And  his  mother  and 


»    . 


PARIS  BY  GASLIGHT.  569 

sisters,  while  thej  continue  to  worship  him,  think  that  poor  John  has 
grown  a  little  nervous  and  irritable  since  he  travelled  so  much. 

Margaret  Andrews. 


PARIS  BY  GASLIGHT. 


There  is  nothing  that  strikes  a  stranger  more  strongly  on  first  arriving 
in  Paris  than  the  brilliancy  and  beauty  of  its  streets  at  night  The 
Boulevards  and  the  long  arcades  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  in  particular  are ' 
dazzling  with  lustre,  and  one  can  easily  understand  the  mistake  of  the 
foreign  prince  who,  arriving  in  Paris  for  the  first  time  at  night,  imagined 
that  the  city  was  illuminated  in  honour  of  his  visit.  It  is  particularly 
impressive  to  traverse  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  toward  midnight.  The  shin- 
ing silence  of  these  long  lines  of  arcades,  brilliant  as  day  and  almost 
wholly  deserted,  with  every  door  and  every  shop-window  closed,  except 
the  tobacco-shops  which  recur  at  rare  intervals,,  reminds  one  of  the  en- 
chanted cities  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  whose  splendour  survived  when 
every  trace  of  life  had  vanished.  After  midnight  one-half  of  the  lights 
are  extinguished,  and  the  scene  then  loses  much  of  its  beauty  and  sin- 
gularity. 

The  system  of  public  illumination  which  has  been  replaced  by  the  gas- 
lamp  was  that  of  the  lantern  or  rSverbhre,  suspended  by  a  cord  stretching 
from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other.  These  r^verb^res,  which  had 
the  advantage  of  burning  oil  instead  of  candles,  and  of  having  their 
light  extended  by  reflectors,  replaced  the  ancient  lanterns  containing 
candles  in  1766.  Twelve  hundred  of  the  newly-invented  lanterns  re- 
placed eight  thousand  of  the  old  ones,  and  gave  a  much  better  light. 
Few  students  of  the  history  of  France  but  will  remember  the  sinister 
part  which  these  street-lights  were  destined  to  play  during  the  Revolu- 
tion of  1 789,  when  the  cry  of  "  A  la  lanteme  ! "  too  often  preceded  the 
summary  execution  of  some  wretched  victim  of  popular  fury,  for  whom 
the  lantern-cord  served  as  a  noose  and  its  iron  support  as  a  gallows. 
Twice  did  these  cords  bring  disorder  to  a  royal  funeral.  In  1815,  when 
the  remains  of  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie  Antoinette,  exhumed  from  the 
cemetery  of  the  Madeleine,  were  being  borne  to  their  final  resting-place 
at  St.  Denis,  the  authorities  had  neglected  to  remove  the  street-lamps,  and 
the  hearse  became  several  times  entangled  in  the  cords,  which  hung  too  low 
to  permit  its  passage.  Thereupon  the  irreverent  Parisian  crowd  laughed 
loudly,  applauded  and  cried  "  A  la  lanteme  ! "  in  the  old  revolutionary 
fashion.  An  incident  of  the  same  nature  marked  the  transferral  of  the 
remains  of  Napoleon  I.  to  the  Invalides.     Care  had  been  taken  to  re- 


570  PARIS  BT  GASLIGHT. 

move  the  cords  along  the  route  which  the  procession'  was  to  traverse, 
so  that  the  gigantic  funeral-car  arrived  without  accident  at  Lea  Invalides  ; 
but  when  the  ceremonies  were  over,  and  the  car  was  removed  to  be  taken 
to  the  d^pdt  of  the  (3ompagnie  des  Pompes  Fun^bres,  its  progress  was 
stopped  short  by  these  intrusive  cords  at  the  very  first  comer,  and  its 
guardians  were  forced  to  abandon  it  in  the  middle  of  the  Boulevard  des 
Invalides,  where  it  remained  all  night.  These  suspended  lanterns  used 
to  be  the  delight  of  the  street-boys  of  Paris  :  at  every  riot  or  revolution 
they  invariably  indulged  iu  the  simple  and  obvious  piece  of  mischief 
which  consisted  in  climbing  up  to  the  support,  cutting  the  cord,  and 
letting  the  lantern  go  smash  upon  the  pavement.  A  party  of  active 
gami/M  could  thus  in  a  few  minutes  reduce  a  whole  street  to  total  dark- 
ness. 

'Die  invention  of  the  present  system  of  gas  illumination  was  due  to 
the  genius  of  Philip  le  Bon,  a  native  of  Champagne,  born  in  1767.  He 
was  an  engineer  by  profession,  and  was  a  teacher  at  the  Ecole  des  Ponts 
et  Chauss^es  when  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  study  the  properties  of 
the  gas  produced  by  the  combustion  of  wood.  He  burned  wood  in  a 
closed  receptacle,  passing  the  smoke  so  produced  through  water,  and 
thus  obtained  a  pure  and  highly-inflammable  gas  which  burned  with  an 
intense  lustre  and  a  great  heat  He  took  out  a  patent  for  his  invention 
in  1799.  Two  years  later  he  demanded  and  obtained  a  second  patent 
for  the  construction  of  machines  moved  by  the  expansive  force  of  gas. 
He  established  himself  in  the  Rue  St.  Dominique,  St.  Germain,  where 
he  constructed  an  apparatus  called  a  thermal  lamp,  for  his  idea  was  to 
unite  the  production  of  light  and  heat.  He  made  some  public  experi- 
ments which  were  highly  successful,  the  official  report  declaring  that 
^'  the  result  had  surpassed  all  the  hopes  of  the  friends  of  art  and  science." 
But  the  inventor,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  was  not  destined  to  reap  the 
fruits  of  his  great  discovery.  On  the  day  of  the  coronation  of  Napoleon 
L,  the  2nd  of  December,  1804,  he  was  assassinated  by  some  unknown 
enemy.  An  individual  named  Winsor,  a  German  by  birth,  but  a  natu- 
ralized English  citieen,  next  tried  to  introduce  the  new  discovery,  but 
it  was  not  till  the  year  1830  that  by  the  help  of  an  English  company  the 
Parisians  could  behold  the  spectacle  of  a  street  lighted  by  gas.  On  New 
Year's  Night  of  that  year  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  was  lit  with  gas.  There 
was  strong  opposition  to  the  new  invention,  nor  was  it  confined  to  the 
ignorant  and  unthinking.  Charles  Nodier,  for  instance,  opposed  the  in- 
troduction of  the  new  light  with  extreme  violence,  contending  that  treea 
would  wither,  pictures  would  be  destroyed,  the  atmosphere  would  be- 
come vitiated,  the  cholera  would  devastate  the  city,  etc,  etc.  Fortu- 
nately the  authorities  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  these  and  similar  predictions 
and  at  the  moment  of  the  fall  of  Louis  Philippe,  Paris  possessed  over. 


^  J 


PABIS  BT  GASLIGHT.  571 

eight  thousand  gas-lights  in  her  streets.  To-daj  tiiey  number  nearly 
thirty-seven  thousand.  And  yet  the  old  and  greasy  oil-lamp,  the  r^yer- 
b^re,  has  not  wholly  disappeared.  So  lately  as  five  years  ago  the  offi- 
cial reports  stated  that  there  were  still  in  use  nine  hundred  and  fourteen 
oil-lamps  in  the  streets  of  Pans.  The  number  of  private  gas-jets  has  been 
estimated  at  a  million,  and  they  continue  to  increase.  Yet  the  Parisians 
have  proved  themselves  singularly  backward  in  adopting  the  new  light. 
In  the  newly-constructed  dwelling-houses  of  Paris  gas  is  introduced,  it 
is  true,  but  it  is  only  admitted  into  the  hall,  the  ante-diamber,  the  kit- 
chen, and  the  dining-room ;  the  library,  the  bed-chamber  and  the  parlour 
must  still  owe  their  illumination  to  lamps  or  candles.  Various  reasons 
are  given  for  this  avoidance  of  gas :  some  say  that  it  is  unhealthy,  some 
that  it  destroys  paintings  by  its  noxious  emanations,  others  that  its 
glare  is  injurious  to  the  eyesight,  that  its  smc^e  is  ruinous  to  frescoed 
ceilings  and  tapestry  or  satin  hangings,  etc  ;  and  all  agree  in  declaring 
that  the  gas  of  Paris  is  as  explosive  as  gunpowder.  A  six  months'  trial 
of  this  much-condemned  institution  has  convinced  me  that  these  charges 
are  wholly  fallacious,  and  based  on  ignorance  and  prejudice  merely. 
In  the  first  place,  the  gas  of  Paris  is  singularly  pure,  burning  with 
a  clear,  steady  flame  and  emitting  no  perceptible  smoke;  and 
as  to  its  explosive  qualities,  these  are  only  developed  when  a  leak 
occurs  or  when  an  ignorant  provincial  blows  out  the  gas-jet  and  some  un- 
lucky wight  approaches  to  investigate  the  matter  with  a  lighted  candle 
in  hand.  Of  course,  as  lamps  and  candles  abound  in  all  Parisian  apart- 
ments, the  means  of  terminating  a  leak  by  an  explosion  are  singularly 
convenient.  There  is  one  use  to  which  gas  is  put  in  Parisian  households 
'  which  is  at  once  convenient  and  economical,  and  that  is  for  culinary 
purposes.  The  little  gas-furnace,  with  its  two  round  plateava  set  with 
tiny  jets,  suffices  to  boil  water,  to  cook  vegetables  and  to  fry  or  broil 
meat,  while  the  gas-oven  supplies  the  small  kitchen  with  a  speedily- 
kindled  fireplace  for  roasting  or  baking ; — not  that  people  ever  do  any 
baking  at  home  in  Paris,  but  then  pastry,  muffins,  etc,  require  to  be 
heated.  More  than  one  family  of  my  acquaintance  has  three-fourths  of 
its  cooking  done  by  gas.  And,  as  the  little  furnace  will  bring  a  large 
kettleful  of  water  to  the  boil  in  ten  minutes,  its  use  in  cases  of  sickness 
becomes  manifest.  Some  attempts  have  recently  been  made  to  intro- 
duce pretty  gas-fires  here,  but  they  do  not  throw  out  enough  heat  to 
warm  a  room  without  the  aid  of  the  seldom-present  furnace  fire  or  calor- 
ifbre:  Some  families  have  insisted  upon  introducing  gas  into  every 
room  and  passage-way  in  their  suites  of  apartments.  The  process 
is  a  long  and  tedious  one,  and  not  particularly  ornamental  as  to  its 
results.  The  pipes  are  not  introduced  into  the  walls,  ceiling  or  flooring, 
as  with  us,  but  run  in  their  unveiled  ugliness  across  ceilings  and  down 


672  PARIS  BY  GASLIGHT. 

walls,  looking  as  clumsy  and  as  unsesthetic  as  possible.  Nor  are  French 
gas -fixtures  as  elegant  and  tasteful  as  are  ours  :  make-believe  lamps  and 
candles  abound,  while  the  simpler  styles  are  thick,  straight  tubes  desti- 
tute of  ornament  Another  very  annoying  peculiarity  connected  with 
the  use  of  gas  in  Paris  lies  in  the  fact  that  in  the  cornice  of  every  room 
into  which  it  is  introduced  there  must  be  punched  a  miserable  little 
ventilator,  about  as  large  as  a  silver  dollar,  to  avert  all  danger  of  those 
explosions  which  haunt  the  Parisian  mind  as  though  the  innocent  gas 
partook  of  the  properties  of  dynamite  or  gun-cotton.  These  ventilators 
are  very  ugly  when  made,  and  very  disagreeable  to  have  made  ;  but  that 
omnipresent  law  which  watches  over  you,  in  your  own  despite  in  this 
goodly  city  strictly  decrees  the  disfigurement  of  your  walls. 

The  process  of  having  gas  introduced  into  a  Parisian  apartment  is 
about  as  bothering  an  exemplification  of  red-tapism  applied  to  the  com- 
mon transactions  of  life  as  can  well  be  imagined.  First,  you  must  get 
your  landlord's  permission  to  do  the  dreadful  deed.  That  accorded, 
next  comes  the  architect  to  inspect  the  premises  and  decide  where  and 
how  the  direful  agent  is  to  be  introduced.  Next  comes  the  gas-fitter^ 
who  takes  plans,  measurements,  etc.,  and  proceeds  to  draw  up  the  con- 
tract. Fourthly,  you  receive  a  visit  from  the  agent  of  the  CJompagnie 
G6n6rale  for  lighting  Paris.  Fifthly,  the  workmen  arrive,  and  Pande- 
monium in  their  train.  Sixthly,  the  man  with  the  gas-fixtures  proceeds 
to  put  them  into  place.  Seventhly,  you  sign  your  name  to  some  eight 
or  ten  papers  of  unknown  purport.  Eighthly,  you  receive  the  provi- 
sional permission  of  the  company  to  have  the  gas  introduced.  NinUdy, 
the  company  aforesaid  sends  you  a  meter  of  portentous  size,  for  the  in- 
stallation and  hire  of  which  you  are  to  pay  a  fixed  price.  Tenthly,  the 
gas  is  introduced,  and  you  receive  a  provisional  permit  to  bum  it  for  a 
week.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if  you  are  very  good  and  neither  pipes 
nor  chandeliers  leak,  you  will  receive  your  final  and  formal  permit  to 
use  it  till  the  day  that  you  neglect  to  pay  your  gas-bilL  Twenty-four 
hours'  delay  in  settling  that  bill  will  settle  ^ou,  so  far  as  your  gas-lights 
are  concerned,  for  the  gas  will  be  at  once  cut  off  from  your  meter.  Ckis 
is  about  one-third  dearer  than  it  is  with  us,  but  it  must  also  be  confessed 
it  is  very  much  better. 

There  are  ten  gas-factories  that  supply  Paris,  the  largest  of  which  is 
at  La  Villette.  From  these  gigantic  establishments  the  enormous 
amount  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  million  cubic  yards  of  gas  are  annuaUy , 
distributed  throughout  the  city,  reaching  even  to  its  most  distant  sub- 
urbs. About  five  million  feet  of  pipe  are  employed.  The  city  govern- 
ment exercises  a  strict  surveillance  over  the  installation  of  these  pipes. 
They  must  not  pass  near  a  reservoir,  lest  the  water  become  tainted,  nor 
is  it  allowed  to  run  them  through  the  sewers,  lest  a  leak  shoold  take 


THE  VEIL.  573 

place  and  these  vast  subterranean  corridors  become  filled  with  gas ;  for 
should  such  an  accident  occur,  a  spark  would  suffice  to  blow  up  half  the 
city.  One  of  the  large  pavilions  of  the  Halles  Centrales  was  a  few  years 
ago  destroyed  by  fire  brought  about  by  an  accident  of  that  nature.  A 
leak  in  a  gas-pipe  Caused  the  huge  cellars  to  become  filled  with  gas  : 
this  gas  took  fire,  an  explosion  was  produced,  and  in  a  brief  space  of 
time  the  whole  edifice  was  in  flames. 

It  takes  exactly  forty  minutes  to  light  up  the  streets  of  Paris — ^a  service 
which  is  performed  by  a  body  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  lamplighters. 
At  midnight  a  certain  number  of  lights  in  the  most  brilliantly-illuminated 
quarters,  such  as  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  the  Palais  Royal  and  the  Rue 
Castiglione,  are  extinguished  :  the  rest  are  permitted  to  bum  till  broad 
daylight.  The  lighting  of  the  streets  receives  no  small  aid  from  the 
universal  white  colour  of  the  buildings,  the  light  being  thus  reinforced, 
and  not  absorbed  as  it  is  by  our  dingy  brick  and  dusky  freestona 

"  What  is  the  sight  that  has  most  pleased  you  in  Paris  f "  once  asked 
a  Frenchman  of  an  Arab  chief  to  whom  he  had  been  doing  the  honours 
'  of  the  city. 

**  The  stars  of  heaven  which  you  have  brought  down  and  set  in  your 
lanterns,"  was  the  poetic  but  undoubtedly  sincere  reply. 

At  night,  before  the  shops  are  closed,  the  bkze  of  light  along  the 
Boulevards  is  so  intense  as  to  colour  the  heavens  with  a  very  perceptible 
and  rosy  radiance,  like  that  of  a  distant  conflagration.  This  fact  has 
given  rise  to  one  of  the  most  poetic  and  pathetic  passages  in  Alphonse 
Daudet's  remarkable  novel  of  Fromeni  Jeune  et  Rialer  Aini. 

L.  H.  Hubbard. 


THE  VEIL,  * 


"  Have  you  prayed  to  night,  Deedemoim?" 

The  Sister. 

Brothebs  !  wherefore  are  ye  pining, 

Why  those  looks  so  full  of  gloom  ? 
Mournfully  your  eyes  are  shining, 

Like  the  lamps  within  a  tomb. 
Ye  have  loosed  your  crimson  sashes— 

Thrioe,  already,  in  the  shade 
Have  I  seen  the  lurid  flashes 

Of  a  half-drawn  dagger^s  blade  ! 

*  From  Lee  Orientalei  of  V.  Hugo. 


674  THE   VEIL. 

Elder  Brother. 

Speak  Sister,  say — 
Hast  thou  not  lifted  up  thy  veil  to  day  ? 

The  Sister. 

From  the  bath  I  was  retoming, 

Brother,  at  the  noontide  hour  : 
,  Closely  veiled,  to  shun  the  burning 

Glances  of  each  lawless  Giaour. 
In  my  palanquin  reposing, 

Faint  I  lay,  with  flushing  face. 
Till  I  breathed,  my  veil  unclosing 

By  the  Mosque,  a  moment's  space. 

Seoond  Broiler. 

And  thou  wast  seen — 
A  man  that  moment  pass'd,  in  caftan  green  ! 

The  Sister. 

Tes — it  may  be — still  his  boldness 

Not  one  feature  could  descry  : 
But  your  looks  are  full  of  coldness. 

And  ye  mutter  in  reply  ! 
Want  ye  blood,  my  Brothers  ?  No  man 

Gkized  into  my  eyes  to  day — 
Are  ye  men,  a  helpless  woman. 

And  a  sister,  thus  to  slay  t 

Third  Brother. 

This  eve  the  sun 
Went  down  all  blood -red,  when  his  race  was  run  ! 

The  Sister. 

Spare  me  for  sweet  pity  gasping — 

God  !  your  daggers  pierce  my  side  ! 
By  these  knees  my  hands  are  clasping — 

Oh  !  my  veil,  with  crimson  dyed  ! 
Leave  me  not  thus  stretched  so  lowly, 

Brothers  !  'tis  my  latest  breath ; 
For  mine  eyes  are  darkened  wholly, 

Darkened  by  the  veil  of  death. 

Fourth  Brother. 

A  veil  that  thou 
Canst  never  lift  from  off  thy  shameless  brow  ! 

Montreal :  Geo.  Mttrrat. 


675 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

BY  DR.    CANNHT. 

HISTORICAL  SKETCH — ^DETROIT — ^THE  FRENCH — ^INDIANS — BRITISH — 
THE  FORT — SETTLEMENT— CONQUEST— PONTIAC —DURING  AMERI- 
CAN REBELLION — LOSSES  TO  CANADA— MICHIGAN — DISTRICT  OF 
HESSE — IN  1812 — COUNTY  OF  ESSEX — HULL — BROCK — ^TECUM- 
SETH — PROCTOR— THE  FLEETS— LAST  AMERICAN  INCURSION  —  MC- 
ARTHUR — "CIVILIZED"  WARFARE. 

The  County  of  Essex,  as  well  as  Detroit,  has  a  history  of  no  little  in- 
terest  to  Canadians.  It  is  situated  at  the  south-western  extremity  of 
Upper  Canada,  in  the  form  of  a  peninsula,  presenting  somewhat  the 
appearance  of  an  oblong  square.  On  the  west  it  is  bounded  by  the 
noble  Detroit  River,  which  separates  it  from  the  State  of  Michigan.  On 
the  north  is  Lake  St.  Glair  (so  called  by  La  Salle  from  the  day  he  en- 
tered the  river,  in  1679,  with  the  Griffm,  the  first  vessel  to  sail  on  the 
lakes  above  Niagara).  St.  Clair  is  a  sheet  of  water  about  thirty  miles 
long  and  twenty-eight  wide,  along  the  south  shore  of  which  the  Great 
Western  Railway  passes  from  the  mouth  of  the  Thames  to  the  Detroit 
at  Windsor.  To  the  south  of  the  county  is  Lake  Erie,  with  Pigeon  Bay 
and  Point  Pelee  stretching  southward ;  on  the  east  is  the  County  of 
Rent. 

Long  before  the  war  of  1812,  this  region  was  known  from  its  con- 
tiguity to  the  French  fort  of  Detroit,  so  called  from  its  situation  on  the 
strait  or  de  troit  The  Indian  name  of  the  river  was  Wawaotewong. 
Here  was  established  a  French  trading  post  as  early  as  1620,  where  was- 
an  Indian  village,  and  which  became  a  military  station  and  colony  in 
June,  1701,  forming  one  of  the  links  of  the  chain  of  fort&  stretched  across 
the  country  by  the  French.  The  first  settlement  consisted  of  one  hun- 
dred Canadians,  under  an  officer,  with  a  Jesuit  missionary.  The  prime- 
val appearance  of  the  country  between  Lakes  Erie  and  Huron  on  either 
side  of  the  stream,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  first  explorers  of  the 
west.  Hennepin  says,  using  language  which  may  to  the  modern  inhab- 
itant seem  slightly  exaggerated,  ''The  banks  of  the  strait  are  vast 
meadows,  and  the  prospect  is  terminated  with  some  hills  covered  with 
vineyards,  trees  bearing  good  fruit,  groves  and  forests  so  well  disposed 
that  one  would  think  Nature  alone  could  not  have  made,  without  the 
help  of  Art,  so  charming  a  prospect.  The  country  is  stocked  with  stags, 
wild  goats,  and  bears,  which  are  good  for  food,  and  not  fierce,  as  in  other 


576  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAB  OF  1812. 

countries ;  some  think  they  are  better  than  our  pork.     Turkey-cocks  and 
swans  are  there  very  common^  and  other  beasts  and  birds  extremely 
relishing.   The  forests  are  chiefly  made  up  of  walnut,  chestnut,  plum,  and 
pear-trees,  loaded  with  their  own  fruit,  and  vines."    He  describes  the 
strait  as  a  league  broad,  and  finer  than  Niagara.     In  the  contest  for 
supremacy  between  the  English  and  French  for  a  monopoly  of  the  fur- 
trade,  both  parties  sought  to   obtain  possession  of  Detroit;  but  the 
French  succeeded  in  first  attaining  their  desire.     These  original  French 
forts  were  of  rude  construction  ;  and  had  beside  them  small  chapels, 
roofed  with  bark»  and  surmounted  by  a  cross.     Around  these  posts  clus- 
tered the  cabins  of  the  settlers,  the  converted  and  friendly  Indians : 
these  were  at  Detroit  mostly  the  Hurons,  Pottawatomies,  and  the  Otta- 
was.     The  last  of  these  had  a  village  on  the  east  side  of  the  river. 
Gradually  the  settlement  increased,  and  spread  northward  along  the  St- 
Clair  and  down  the  two  sides  of  the  river,  studding  the  shores,     lifany 
of  the  present  inhabitants  of  the  beautiful  city  of  Detroit,  and  along  the 
Canadian  side  of  the  river,  are  descendants  of  the  hardy  dauntless  race 
who  first  settled  in  the  wilderness,  though  a  number  of  disbanded  French 
soldiers  settled  on  the  Canadian  side  in  1763.   Here  the  French  element 
is  more  noticeable.     A  somewhat  recent  writer  says  of  them  that  "  their 
habits  and  language  in  their  houses,  vehicles,  and  domestic  arrange- 
ments, where  the  long  lines  of  Lombardy  poplars,  pear-trees  of  unusual 
•age  and  size,  and  umbrageous  trees,  still  remind  the  traveller  of  the 
banks  of  the  Loire."    They  are  like  the  hahitcma  of  Lower  Canada  in 
simplicity  and  love  of  a  quiet  agricultural  life.     The  early  annals  of  the 
French  colony  are  full  of  incidents  more  or  less  thrilling.     War  among 
the  Indians,  war  between  the  whites  and  Indians,  and  war  between  the 
French  and  British,  were  in  turn  here  witnessed ;  also  famine  and  disease 
were  here  encountered  by  the  French  pioneers.     Intrigue,  treachery, 
strategy,  and  ambush,  often  marked  the  course  of  events.    Here  was  seen 
a  curious  mingling  of  civilization  and  barbarism.     Indians  in  wild  garb 
from  afar,  with  fur-laden  canoes ;  half-breeds,  often  with  the  vices  of 
both  and  none  of  the  virtues  of  either  race ;  French  soldiers  of  the  garri- 
son, with  their  blue  coats  turned  up  with  white  facings  ;  Jesuits  in  their 
long  gowns  and  black  bands,  from  which  were  suspended  by  silver  chains 
the  rosary  and  crucifix,  and  priests,  mingled  and  accosted  each  other. 
The  chapel  was  a  centre  of  attraction  and  interest.     The  colonists  were 
very  faithful  in  observing  all  the  days  and  ceremonies  prescribed  for 
devotion,  and  delighted  in  adorning  the  altars  with  wild  flowers ;  not 
less  in  dancing  to  the  sound  of  the  violin  from  house  to  house,  where 
rude  pictures  of  saints  looked  down  upon  them.     Windmills  scattered 
along  the  shores  ground  the  scanty  com  raised  by  the  settlers.     Often 
the  settlers  lived  in  a  canvas  tent  provided  Jby  government.     The  oom- 


( 
J 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  57T 

mandaDt  of  the  garrison  was  the  supreme  ruler,  who  took  cognizance  of 
and  looked  after  the  welfare  of  every  souL  The  law  required  the  houses 
of  the  settlers  to  be  placed  upon  lots  with  a  front  of  only  one  and  a  half 
acres,  and  extending  forty  acres  back.  While  this  kept  the  settlers 
close  together  for  mutual  protection,  it  tended  to  prevent  back  settle- 
ment About  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  there  was  an  acces* 
sion  of  emigrants. 

We  now  approach  the  period  when  the  sceptre  was  to  be  transferred 
from  the  French  to  the  British  ;  and  one  of  the  first  events  in  connec- 
tion with  the  conquest  was  the  capture  of  Fort  Niagara,  in  1759,  by 
Gren.  Prideaux,  which  was  garrisoned  by  French  troops  from  Detroit  and 
Presque  Isle.  This  was  soon  after  followed  by  the  capture  of  Quebec. 
Immediately  thereafter.  Major  Bogers  was  detached  by  Gen.  Amherst^ 
with  a  competent  force,  to  take  possession  of  the  western  posts,  taking 
Presque  Isle  and  Detroit  on  his  way.  His  force  set  out  from  Montreal 
in  fifteen  whale-boats,  and  proceeded  to  Niagara,  and  thence  to  Lake  Erie. 
As  yet  the  garrisons  in  the  west  were  ignorant  of  the  surrender.  In 
due  time  the  force  approached  the  Detroit,  being  the  first  British  military 
expedition  to  pass  along  the  northern  shore  of  Lake  Erie.  It  was  ac- 
companied with  supplies  of  provisions  from  Niagara,  and  ^^  forty  fat 
cattle"  from  Presque  Isle.  The  force  had  reached  the  mouth  of  the 
Ghocage  river,  when  the  renowned  Pontiac  appeared  upon  the  scene  to 
arrest  their  progress.  As  the  chief  of  the  Ottawas  he  claimed  to  be  "the 
king  of  the  country/*  and  demanded  of  Major  Rogers  his  business,  and 
how  he  dared  enter  his  country.  It  was  explained  to  him  that  the  ex- 
pedition had  no  designs  against  the  Indians,  but  merely  to  secure  the 
removal  of  the  French.  After  a  day  he  expressed  his  friendship  to  the 
BritiBh,  and  offered  food  and  protection.  Major  Rogers  encamped  some 
distance  from  the  mouth  of  the  river  Detroit,  and  despatched  a  letter  to 
the  commandant  at  Detroit  informing  him  of  the  nature  of  his  mission, 
and  that  he  had  instructions  frt>m  his  chief  at  Montreal  to  him  to  surren- 
der the  fort  Indian  warriors  were  swarming  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Detroit,  and  were  passing  between  the  fort  and  Roger's  force.  By 
this  means  he  learned,  as  well  as  by  letter,  that  the  French  commander 
was  disinclined  to  believe  the  news  of  surrender,  and  intended  to  defend 
the  post  Major  Rogers  succeeded  in  conciliating  the  Indians,  and  con- 
vincing them  of  the  fact  that  the  British  had  conquered  the  French  ; 
and  continued  to  advance  toward  Detroit  Vainly  the  French  endea- 
voured to  secure  the  active  support  of  the  Indians,  who  had  hitherto 
been  friendly.  Several  letters  passed  between  Major  Rogers  and  Cap- 
tain BeUestre,  the  commandant,  before  the  surrender  was  effected. 
Meanwhile,  Major  Rogers  had  advanced  to  within  a  half-mile  of  the  fort. 
On  the  26th  Nov.,  1760,  Major  Rogers  took  possession,  and  the  French 


578  FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

commander  and  troops  were  sent  to  Philadelphia.     Captain  Campbell 
was  placed  in  command  of  the  fort. 

According  to  the  capitulation  of  Montreal,  the  French  settlers  every- 
where should  remain  in  possession  of  their  land,  and  enjoy  undisturbed 
their  civil  and  religious  rights  ;  and  at  Detroit  little,  if  any,  change  took 
place  in  the  colony.     Under  the  government  of  the  British  commandant 
everything  went  on  as  before  ;  and  the  population  continued  to  increase 
and  settlements  to  extend.    But  the  Indians  were  discontented.    The 
friendliness  of  Pontiac  had  been  assumed  to  cover  his  designs  to  destroy 
the  British,  as  soon  as  he  could  complete  his  organization  of  the  different 
bands  of  Indians.    The  conspiracy  of  Pontiac  in  1763,  which  culminated 
in  the  massacre  at  Michilimackinac,  and  the  carnage  hard  by  the  Detroit 
Fort,  known  as  Bloody  Run,  had  much  of  the  heroic  and  patriotic  to 
mitigate  its  terrible  character.     Pontiac,  an  Indian  of  unusUal  sagacity, 
and  endowed  with  many  excellent  qualities,  "  with  a  form  cast  in  the 
^nest  mould  of  savage  grace,  and  keen,  penetrating  eye,"  believed  that  it 
was  the  intention  of  the  English  to  drive  the  Indians  from  the  land ; 
and  therefore  he  employed  all  the  powers  he  possessed,  one  of  which, 
unfortunately,  was  dissimulation,  to  ctuA  the  English  at  the  several 
fortified  posts.     Although  for  a  time  successful,   eventually,  as  has 
:alway8  been  the  case  in  contests  between  the  white  and  red  men,  the 
savages  were  brought  into  subjection.     Pontiac's  residence  was  a  few 
miles  west  of  Detroit,  on  the  shore  of  Lake  St.  Clair,  and  it  was  more 
:particularly  against  that  fort  he  brought  to  bear  all  his  skill  and  valour. 
He  vainly  tried  to  enlist  the  aid  of  the  French  colony,  but  they  replied 
that  their  '^  hands  were  lied  by  their  great  father  the  Ring  of  France." 
The  garrison  of  Detroit  was  in  great  jeopardy  for  some  time ;  but  the 
arrival  of  a  fleet  of  gun-boats,  and  afterwards  of  Gen.  Bradstreet,  with 
an  army  of  3,000  men,  produced  dismay  among  the  Indians,  and  Pontiac 
retired  to  Illinois,  where  he  was  massacred  by  an  Indian  a  few  years 
later.    About  this  time  the  fort  was  reconstructed  for  defence  against 
the  Indians, — the  fort  with  which  the  names  of  Hull  and  Brock  became 
so  conspicuously  associated.    It  was  situated  on  a  hill,  about  250  yards 
from  the  river.     Its  form  was  quadrangular,  with  bastions  and  barracks, 
and  it  covered  about  two  acres  of  ground.     It  was  surrounded  by  a  de^ 
ditch,  with  an  embankment  twenty  feet  high.    Outside  the  ditch  was  a 
double  row  of  pickets.    The  fort  was  mounted  with  small  cannon. 
After  the  Indian  war  the  garrison  usually  consisted  of  200  men,  the 
commandant  acting  as  governor  of  the  settlement,  which  still  continued 
to  increase  in  number.     The  town  contained  some  two  hundred  houses. 

During  the  American  rebellion  Detroit  was  a  point  of  some  interest;  and 
not  only  the  English,  but  the  French  and  Indians  there  manifested  their 
•adherence  to  the  Empire  and  dislike  to  rebellion.     But  the  charge  whidi 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  579 

has  been  made  that  the  commaQdant  of  Detroit  paid  to  the  Indians  a 
stipulated  price  for  all  scalps  taken  from  the  American  settlements,  has 
no  foundation  in  fact,  and  is  supported  only  by  the  heated  imagination 
of  liberty-intoxicated  writers. 

The  Treaty  of  Peace  between  Britain  and  the  States  did  not  provide 
for  the  surrender  of  the  north-western  ports.  But  in  Jay's  Treaty  in 
1794,  by  means  we  will  not  attempt  to  characterize,  the  British  were  in- 
duced to  surrender  them  on  or  before  the  first  day  of  June,  1796. 

In  1788  Upper  Canada  was  divided  into  four  districts,  the  most  west- 
em  of  which  embraced  that  portion  west  of  Long  Point  on  Lake  Erie, 
including  Michilimackinac,  and  was  called  Hesse.  Each  district  had  a 
judge,  sheriff  and  other  officers  necessary  to  conduct  a  civil  Govern- 
ment Prior  to  that  the  Government  had  been  a  military  one.  In 
the  first  Session  of  Parliament  of  Upper  Canada,  an  Act  was  passed, 
changing  the  name  from  Hesse  to  Western  District ;  at  the  same  time 
it  was  provided  that  a  gaol  and  court-house  should  be  erected  in  each 
district — that  in  the  western  district  was  to  be  "  as  near  the  present 
court-house  as  conveniently  may  be.'*  Up  to  1796  the  courts  were  held 
in  Detroit.  That  year  an  Act  was  passed  ordering  the  removal  of  the 
courts  to  a  place  "  nearer  to  the  island,  called  the  Isle  of  Bois  Blanc, 
being  near  the  entrance  of  the  river  Detroit.  This  would  seem  to  be 
what  is  now  known  as  Hog  Island.  In  1798  a  new  division  of  the  pro- 
vince was  made  into  counties  and  districts  when  the  Counties  of  Kent 
and  Essex,"  with  so  much  of  the  province  as  is  not  included  in  any  other 
district  thereof  became  the  "  western  ''  district  In  1801  an  Act  pro- 
vided that  the  court  of  the  western  district  should  be  held  in  the  town 
of  Sandwich. 

The  first  scenes  in  the  war  of  1812  were  enacted  on  the  Detroit 
river.  The  soil  of  the  County  of  Essex  was  the  first  Canadian  land  to 
be  violated  by  the  invader.  Here  it  was  that  the  gallant,  precipitous, 
and  daring  Brock  achieved  his  crowning  victory,  and  made  himself  the 
hero  of  Canada.  It  was  here,  on  this  {occasion,  that  a  spirit  of  self- 
reliance  and  determination  was  begotten  among  Canadians  which,  "with 
a  loyalty  as  strong  as  the  oak  and  as  dear  as  life,  was  destined  to  carry 
them  on  to  a  glorious  issue  in  defending  their  country.  It  was  here, 
that,  on  a  bright,  lovely  Sunday  morning,  the  12th  of  July,  1812,  Gen- 
eral Hull  quietly  crossed  the  river,  landing  near  a  stone  windmill,  just 
above  the  present  town  of  Windsor.  The  crossing  was  effected  without 
opposition,  the  British  having  been  deceived  into  the  belief  by  move- 
ments of  the  enemy  the  previous  day  that  they  purposed  attacking  Am- 
herstburgjand  Fort  Maiden,  to  the  defence  of  which  they  had  been 
ordered.  It  was  here  on  the  farm  of  Colonel  Francis  Baby  the  enemy 
encamped  and  hoisted  the  American  flag.     It  was  from  Colonel  Baby's 


580  FRAGMENTS  OP  THE  WAR  OF  1812. 

unfinished  house  that  Greneral  Hull  on  the  same  day  issued  his  famous, 
or  rather  infamous  proclamation,  written  by  Colonel  Cass,  which  it  was 
thought  would  win  many  Canadians  and  terrify  the  loyalists.     Here  a 
few  days  later  was  despatched  a  force  of  a  hundred  men  under  Colonel 
McArthur,  along  the  St.  Clair  to  the  mouth  of  the  Thames  and   to  Mo- 
raviantown,  knowing  the  British  forces  were  in  the  opposite  direction, 
and  which  seized  all  the  boats  along  the  shore  to  carry  back  what  they 
called  "  the  winnings  of  the  expedition."  It  was  along  the  river  that  Hull 
sent  with  timorous  care,  his  forces  to  seek  the  way  to  Amherstburg.     It 
was  in  Essex,  at  Amherstburg,  so  called  after  General  Amherst,  that 
Brock  arrived  in  hot  haste  and  first  met  the  brave  and  noble  Tecum- 
seth.     And  not  many  days  later  here  was  witnessed  by  the  peaceably- 
minded  inhabitants  the  ignominious  recrossing  of  Hull's  valiant  army. 
Then,  along  the  Canadian  shore  took  place  the  busy  and  rapid  prepara- 
tion of  Brock  to  cross  and  capture  the  fort     How  this  was  successfully 
accomplished  we  have  learned  from  the  account  given  by  the  Rev.  Qeorge 
Eyerson.     For  another  year  Detroit  was  a  point  of  great  interest  to  the 
contending  parties.     Victory  for  a  time  continued  to  follow  the  British 
arms.    From  this  point  Colonel  Proctor,  in  January,  1813,  advanced 
to  meet  General  Winchester  with  his  army  of  the  west,  who  had  ven- 
tured to  Frenchtown,  to  be  defeated  instead  of  capturing  Detroit  and 
invading  Canada.     Beaten  in  battle  and  surrounded,  he  was  obliged  to 
surrender  his  force  on  the  22nd  January,  losing  500,  and  surrendering 
600  men.     Again  on  the  20th  April  from  Maiden,  Procter  set  out  by 
boat  for  the  Eiver  Maumee  to  encounter  General  Meigs,  when  he  won  a 
splendid  victory,  which  however,  proved  valueless  on  account  of  the 
Indians  returning  to  their  homes  to  celebrate  their  triumph. 

But  the  successes  of  the  British  arms  were  to  be  followed  by  reverses^ 
and  the  brilliant  achievement  of  Brock  dimmed  by  defeat,  retreat,  and 
the  death  of  Tecumseth.  This  primarily  arose  from  the  construction  of 
a  war  fleet  by  the  Americans,  which  ought  to,  and  might  have  been  pre- 
vented. Off  the  shore  of  Essex  sufficiently  near  to  permit  the  cannonad- 
ing to  be  heard  at  Amherstburg,  on  the  10th  of  September  the  British 
fleet,  under  Commodore  Barclay,  engaged  the  American  fleet  under  Com- 
modore Perry.  The  defeat  of  the  British,  which  elated  the  Americans 
to  an  extravagant  degree,  and  which  has  been  a  prolific  source  of  the 
tallest  sort  of  writing  and  speaking  to  the  Americans,  was  entirely 
due  to  the  fact  that  the  British  ships  were  inadequately  manned  by 
'trained  seamen,  so  that  Barclay  could  not  handle  them  aright  Hence- 
forth the  advantage  was  with  the  Americans  in  this  region.  Proctor 
lost  heart  and  his  senses  too,  it  would  seem.  |The  presence  of  the 
enemies'  fleet. undoubtedly  changed  the  aspect  of  affairs  very  greatly, 
while  Gen.  Harrison's  army  had  been  largely  augmented.     About  the 


FRAGMENTS  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  581 

28th  September  the  British  outposts  in  Michigan  were  called  in,  De- 
troit was  abandoned,  and  the  defences  at  Amherstburg,  Sandwich, 
and  Windsor,  were  dismantled.  Proctor  set  out  with  his  force  for 
Burlington  Heights,  taking  with  him  a  vast  amount  of  personal  effects 
which  hampered  his  movements,  and  leaving  all  the  advantage  gained 
by  Brock,  except  the  prestige  and  its  influence  upon  Canadians.  The 
Americans  lost  no  time  in  pursuing  Proctor,  and  overtook  him  on 
the  banks  of  the  Thames.  The  battle  of  Moravian  Town  followed, 
in  which  there  was  only  the  semblance  of  resistance  by  Proctor  and 
his  dispirited  troops ;  while  Tecumseh's  brave  warriors  heroically  met 
the  foe  until  the  fall  of  their  chief  left  them  without  hope.  This 
took  place  on  the  4th  Oct.,  1813.  After  this  no  engagement  took  place 
at  Detroit  West  of  Burlington  the  militia  only  essayed  to  protect 
themselves  and  their  homes  from  the  predatory  foe,  who  from  time  to 
time  scoured  the  country  for  spoils,  and  to  destroy  the  property  of  the 
defensless.  But  they  did  not  always  have  it  their  own  way.  The  last 
incursion  of  the  enemy  was  in  October,  1814,  after  the  defeat  of  the 
Americans  at  Lundy's  Lane.  Gen.  McArthur,  who  had  been  ordered  to 
raise  a  body  of  mounted  men  to  chastise  the  Indians  in  Michigan, 
thought  it  would  be  more  pleasant  and  less  dangerous  to  make  a  raid 
into  Canada,  knowing  that  the  militia  and  troops  were  mostly  engaged 
in  repelling  the  Americans  at  Niagara,  as  former  experience  had  whet 
his  appetite  for  the  produce  of  Canadian  farms.  He  arrived  at  Detroit 
on  the  9th  October,  and  instead  of  crossing  the  river  where  he  might 
encounter  a  force,  he  set  out  along  the  west  shore  of  St.  Clair,  thereby 
deceiving  the  Canadians.  Passing  to  the  St,  Clair  Biver,  he  crossed 
that  stream  on  the  26th  of  October,  and  made  his  easy  way  to  the 
thriving  Baldoon  Settlement,  composed  of  Scotch.  Thence  he  passed  to 
Moravian  Town,  terrifying  the  inhabitants  by  the  way  by  threats  and 
peremptory  demands.  On  the  4th  of  November  he  was  at  Oxford, 
where  he  surprised  and  took  a  few  militia,  and  paroled  them ;  at  the 
same  time  he  threatened  dire  punishment  to  any  one  who  should  give 
notice  to  any  of  the  British  posts.  But  two  Canadians  heeded  not  his 
unwarhke  threats,  and  managed  to  give  information  to  the  British  east- 
ward, for  which  their  property  was  laid  waste  and  their  houses  were 
burned.  At  Burford  they  first  met  any  one  to  contest  the  way.  The  militia 
were  entrenching  themselves  to  oppose  his  progress,  but  the  general  panic 
had  magnified  the  number  of  the  invader  to  2000  men,  and  the  Cana- 
dian militia  retired  to  Brantford.  McArthur  continued  on  to  the  Grand 
River,  but  the  sight  of  a  considerable  body  of  Indians,  militia,  and 
dragoons,  which  a  soldier,  we  might  think,  would  have  eagerly  met  after 
his  long  ride  unopposed,  was  sufficient  to  deter  the  heroic  McArthur  and 

his  raiders,  and  '*  he  concluded,''  says  an  American  writer,  '^  it  would 
4 


682  .DIVISION  NIGHT  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 


k 


not  be  prudent  to  attempt  to  go  further  eastward/'  Consequently,  he 
took  the  road  to  Long  Point,  and  gratified  his  ardent  war-spirit  by  pur- 
suing a  small  body  of  militiamen  and  shooting  them  down,  and  taking 
some  prisoners.  At  the  same  time  he  engaged  in  the  civilized  pastime 
of  burning  Malcolm's  mill,  on  the  Grand  River,  with  all  its  contents. 
Pursuing  their  safest  way  to  Dover,  he  also  destroyed  several  more  mills*^ 
At  Dover  he  was  met  with  the  unpalatable  news  that  the  American  army 
of  Brown,  which  was  to  have  made  its  headquarters  at  Burlington,  had 
been  driven  across  the  Niagara.  This  was  sufficient  for  the  redoubtable 
general,  and  he  lost  no  time  by  pillage  and  wanton  destruction  of  pro- 
perty in  hastening  towards  Detroit,  by  way  of  St  Thomas  and  the 
Thames,  and  well  for  him  he  did,  for  the  British  were  in  pursuit  On 
the  17th  November  he  was  glad  to  find  himself  at  Detroit.  There  he 
disbanded  his  lawless  company,  as  no  more  raiding  could  be  done  without 
the  possibility  of  having  to  fight 

Non.— A  few  triflinflr  eiron  in  my  iMi  paper  require  oocreetkm.  The  name  of  the  noond  iowii- 
ahlp  rarreyed  on  the  Bay  of  Quints  is  wrongly  spelled.  The  flni  tomish^  was  designated  Kix^s 
town,  in  honour  of  the  King;  the  second  was  called  Ernest  town,  after  the  eighth  child  of  the  King. 
It  was,  for  many  years,  known  as  the  second  town.  Oooasfooaily  it  was  called  the  townaUp  of 
Ernest.  In  the  publication  of  the  first  maps  of  this  ssotton  of  the  Province  the  name  is  incorrectly 
fpeHed  Bmeetown,  and  the  name  was  often  spelled  Eomestown.  Sinoe  the  publication  of  the 
"Settlement  of  Upper  Canada,"  the  correct  spdUng  has  been  retived  In  thatloeali^.  Also  lor 
*'  CoL  fioynes,**  read  CoL  Bsynes ;  for  "  Pcini  Trorerre,**  read  Point  TraTsrae.  Concerning  the 
Tankee  doctor,  instead  of  *'  a  skHful,  sly  man,**  read  a  skilful  Physician.  For  *<Capt.  Hanly,**  nad 
C^yt.  flan^.— W,  C 


DIVISION  NIGHT  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 

BY  J.  L.  STEWART. 

The  manner  in  which  debates,  which  begin  mildly  and  promise  an  early 
<ending,  increase  in  acrimony  and  develop  longevity,  is  a  striking  feature 
^f  Parliamentary  proceedings.  If  the  division  is  not  taken  after  the 
(leaders'  speeches,  there  is  no  predicting  when  it  will  be  reached.  Those 
who  .consider  themselves  next  in  rank  to  the  chiefs,  follow  in  their  wake, 
and  then  those  who  regard  themselves  as  fully  equal  in  party  authority 
and  .argumentative  ability  to  the  second-rates,  feel  called  upon  to  assert 
their  e<j[uality,  and  perhaps  prove  their  superiority,  by  rising  to  explain 
and  expoimd.  The  debate  feeds  upon  its  own  deliverances,  and  grows 
plump  And  vigorous.  Statements  are  made  which  honourable  members 
feel  called  upon  to  refute,  and  they  note  them  down.  Quotations  are 
given  from  political  speeches  and  works  on  political  economy,  and  man. 
bers  dip  into  the  works  and  select  passages  tending  to  support  a  chaige 
of  misreprfisentatioji  against  the  man  who  made  the  quotations.    Sta- 


DIVISION  NIGHT  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS.  583 

tUtics  are  arrayed  in  single  file  and  battalion^  and  statistics  to  prove  the 
exact  opposite  of  what  has  been  deduced  from  them  are  prepared  from 
blae  books  and  other  opaqae  receptacles  of  tables  of  figures  on  all  possi- 
ble subjects.  History  is  drawn  upon  for  argument,  analogy  or  illustra 
tion,  and  members  feel  called  upon  to  dispute  the  authority  of  this 
author  or  show  the  fallacy  of  the  deductions  which  have  been  drawn 
from  the  facts.  A  passing  reference,  which  may  not  be  intended  as  un- 
complimentary but  is  interpreted  as  a  sneer,  is  made  to  some  creed  or 
nationality,  and  bosoms  bum  to  "  hurl  the  insult  back  into  the  teeth 
of  the  honourable  gentleman  who  made  it"  An  incident  in  the  life  of 
a  deceased  party  leader  is  used  as  an  illustration,  and  some  old  follower 
of  the  departed  chiefbain  feels  it  to  be  his  duty  to  "  vindicate  the  memory 
of  his  illustrious  and  lamented  friend."  A  passing  reference  is  made  to 
some  locality,  and  the  member  for  it,  who  would  otherwise  have  kept 
silent,  takes  the  floor  to  explain,  describe  or  defend,  eager  to  let  his  con- 
stituents see  that  he  is  ever  ready  to  rise  when  they  are  in  any  way  con- 
cerned. Gentlemen  of  this  particular  stripe  would  content  themselves 
with  a  silent  vote  on  a  bill  for  the  deposition  and  beheading  of  the  Gh>v. 
emor-Gk^neral,  or  for  making  marriage  it  purely  civil  contract,  liable  to 
dissolution  at  will  by  the  two  parties  most  concerned  therein,  but  when 
the  building  of  a  bridge,  the  chartering  of  a  society,  or  the  establish- 
ment of  a  mail  route,  in  anywise  affecting  their  constituencies,  comes  be- 
fore the  House,  directly  or  indirectly,  even  by  way  of  illustration,  they 
find  voice  at  once.  Thus  it  is  that  the  river  of  debate  broadens  until  it 
overflows  the  banks  of  the  channel  in  which  it  began  to  flow,  and  soon 
floods  all  the  plain,  while  frail  canoes  and  skiffs,  which  would  not  have 
ventured  into  the  channel,  and  large  but  shallow  scows  which  would  not 
have  been  floated  from  their  moorings  in  the  mud  by  an  ordinary  rise  in 
the  stream,  skim  gaily  or  drift  sluggishly  over  the  watery  waste. 

But  an  end  oometh  to  all  things,  and  the  day  finally  arrives  beyond 
which  both  sides  agree  that  the  debate  is  not  to  continue.  The  whips 
fly  around  after  their  men,  bringing  them  from  dinner  parties,  taking 
them  out  of  coaches  into  which  they  have  stepped  for  a  moonlight 
drive  with  some  blooming  widow  or  buxom  maiden,  and  fetching  them 
from  ball-rooms  and  billiard  halls.  Gentlemen  who  have  to  absent 
themselves  pair  off  with  gentlemen  on  the  opposite  side.  Guardian 
angels  are  appointed  to  hover  around  members  whose  resolution  to  stick 
to  their  leader  is  known  to  be  weak,  and  prevent  their  communing  with 
the  enemy,  or  shirking  the  vote  by  desertion.  The  word  gets  abroad 
that  a  division  is  expected,  and  the  galleries  fill  up  to  their  utmost  capa- 
city.   Every  preparation  for  the  division  is  over  at  an  early  hour. 

But  the  debate  still  lingers.  Its  hold  seems  as  firm  as  ever.  It 
makes  no  sign  of  early  dissolution.    The  gentleman  who  has  the  floor 


584  DIVISION  NIOHT  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 

is  reading  extracts  from  a  speech  delivered  by  one  of  the  opposite  party 
At  some  period  in  the  past,  and  showing  the  inconsistency  of  his  speech 
in  this  debate.  The  assailed  party  intermpts  with  the  remark  that  the 
extracts  do  not  give  a  correct  idea  of  his  speech,  and  asks  that  what 
foUows  may  be  read  also.  "  I  will  read  the  whole  speech  if  the  gentle- 
man thinks  it  will  save  his  reputation  for  consistency/'  says  the  mem- 
ber who  has  the  floor,  amid  cries  of  "  No,  no,''  and  looks  of  fear  and 
distress.  The  outcry  prevents  the  acceptance  of  the  offer,  or  the  maker 
of  the  speech  knows  only  too  well  that  the  whole  is  as  bad  as  the  ex- 
tracts, and  the  orator  is  allowed  to  proceed.  And  he  does  proceed — not 
with  an  argument  against  the  proposition  that  his  opponent  laid  down, 
but  with  extracts  and  comments  to  show  that  the  orator  on  the  other 
side  once  taught  a  contrary  doctrine,  fie  lays  down  the  pamphlet^  and 
hope  whispers  that  he  will  deliver  his  perorations  and  sit  down.  Not 
so.  After  hammering  for  a  time  on  the  palm  of  his  left  hand  with  the 
forefinger  of  his  right,  he  picks  up  another  and  a  larger  volume,  opens 
at  a  place  where  the  leaves  are  turned  down,  and  confidentially  asks  the 
Bouse  to  see  what  the  honourable  member  said  on  another  occasion. 
Thus  he  goes  on  and  on  until  he  has  read  all  the  gentleman's  conflicting 
utterances,  and  then  he  sits  down 

All  eyes  are  turned  to  the  other  side  of  the  House,  as  it  is  not  usual 
for  two  gentlemen  on  the  same  side  to  follow  each  other,  and  a  member 
rises  slowly  and  says  "  Mr.  Speaker  '*  deliberately,  showing  by  these 
leisurely  movements  that  it  is  understood  that  he  is  to  have  the  floor. 
The  heap  of  manuscript  on  his  table  looks  ominous,  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  whiris  his  chair  out  of  the  way,  settles  his  necktie,  and  dean 
his  throat,  increases  the  gathering  gloom.  The  uneasy  spectator  also 
notices  that  he  has  a  fuU  glass  of  water  before  him  Then  one  feels 
the  fakity  of  Goldsmith's  assertion  that 

**  Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper*8  light, 
Adorns  and  cheers  the  ¥ray, 
And  still  fts  darker  grows  the  night 
Emits  the  brighter  ray." 

There  is  nothing  to  base  hope  on  when  a  man  makes  such  preparations 
as  these  for  speaking  at  11  o'clock  in  the  evening.  He  begins  at  the 
beginning,  and  proceeds  regularly  to  review  the  whole  question.  Others 
have  discussed  many  sides  of  it  exhaustively,  but  what  is  that  to  him  1 
Others  have  replied  vigorously  to  the  arguments  of  the  other  side,  but 
what  IB  that  to  him  1  He  feels  he  has  a  duty  to  perform  aud  he  per- 
forms it.  After  talking  an  hour  or  two,  during  which  time  the  seats 
gradually  empty  into  the  smoking-room,  reading-room  and  restaurant, 
and  the  galleries  begin  to  grow  thin,  he  concludes  a  reference  to  "  the 


DIVISIOK  NIGHT  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS.  585 

trade  returns  of  the  United  States  for  the  hundred  years  of  her  exis- 
tence/' by  promising  to  "  go  fully  into  those  returns  at  a  later  stage  in 
his  remarks.''  Now  this  is  a  confession,  a  boast  of  malice  prepense. 
We  can  forgive  a  man  whose  ideas,  struggling  for  utterance,  overcome 
the  sense  of  mercy  to  his  fellows  which  bids  him  take  his  seat,  but  what 
punishment  is  too  great  for  the  man  who  deliberately  proposes  to  inflict 
a  three  hours'  argument  on  an  exhausted  subject  and  a  weary  throng 
of  his  fellows  at  this  hour  of  the  night )  He  is  without  the  pale  of 
charity  or  mercy.  "  Who  waits  without  1  What  ho  1  slave,  the  bow- 
string 1  Away  with  him !  "  But  no  slave  waits  without.  We  are  at 
the  mercy  of  the  man  who  has  the  floor.  Even  the  members  of  the 
House  are  powerless.  They  must  take  their  punishment  like  martyrs. 
Some  lean  forward  and  rest  their  heads  on  the  desks,  some  lie  back  with 
their  heads  in  their  hands  and  their  feet  on  the  desks,  some  pose  for  the 
benefit  of  the  fair  occupants  of  the  Speaker's  Gallery,  some  read,  some 
write,  some  shoot  paper  arrows  across  the  House,  and  are  happy  when 
they  descend  with  a  graceful  sweep  on  the  shining  crown  of  a  bald- 
headed  member,  and,  sight  of  dread  significance,  two  or  three  are  taking 
notes.  He  ends  at  last  and  cries  of  "  Divide,"  "Carried,"  "  Lost,"  rise 
all  over  the  House,  and  are  kept  up  vigorously  with  the  hope  of  pre- 
venting any  one  else  from  speaking. 

The  hope  is  vain.  A  gentleman  on  the  back  benches  has  a  word  to 
say.  "  He  feels  it  to  be  his  duty  to  assign  a  reason  for  the  vote  he  is 
about  to  give,"  and  he  ^*  has  no  intention  of  occupying  the  time  of  the 
House  long  at  this  late  hour."  He  enters  into  an  argument  to  show 
that  he  cannot  possibly  vote  for  the  resolution  before  the  House,  be- 
cause it  will  enrich  the  manufacturers  at  the  expense  of  the  farmers. 
He  pauses  in  his  argument  every  few  minutes  to  assure  the  House  that 
he  has  "  only  a  few  more  words  to  say,"  and  takes  up  as  much  time  in 
such  assurances  as  his  whole  argument  need  have  taken.  But  with  a 
patience  that  must  be  born  of  political  life,  a  patience  springing  from  the 
maxim  that  he  who  waits  will  win,  the  House  endures  him  to  the  close, 
and  the  outcry  for  a  division  is  renewed. 

Then  another  gentleman  on  the  back  benches  takes  the  floor,  and  ex 
plains  that  he  cannot  vote  for  the  resolution  because  it  purposes  to  en- 
rich the  farmers  at  the  expense  of  the  manufacturers,  and  he  sits  down. 

Will  the  cry  for  a  division  be  granted  now,  we  wonder  ?  Yes ;  call 
in  the  members.  No  ;  a  stout  old  gentleman  rises  and  stubbornly  tries 
to  make  himself  heard  above  the  uproar.  Silence  soon  ensues  and  the 
gentleman  speaks.  He  is  angry  at  a  remark  which  a  previous  speaker 
made,  and  rose  because  he  could  no  longer  suppress  his  wrath.  His  lan- 
guage is  unparliamentary,  his  diction  coarse,  his  grammar  rather  old- 
Atfhioned,  and  his  sentences  ragged,  but  all  recognise  the  spirit  behind 


586  DIVISION  NIGHT  IN  THE  HOUSE  OP  COMMONS. 

the  voice,  the  passion  that  makes  the  tones  vibrate,  the  terrible  earnest- 
ness of  the  man's  desire  to  hurt  his  enemy.  Sleepers  awake,  the  list- 
less arouse  themselves,  the  occupants  of  the  galleries  (for  many  have  re' 
mained  throughout  the  whole  dull  night)  stop  whispering  and  lean  over 
the  railing,  the  reporters  jump  up  from  the  recumbent  positions  on  the 
floor  which  they  had  taken  as  their  style  of  protest  against  the  prolon' 
gation  of  the  sitting  to  so  late  an  hour,  and  members  in  the  lobbies 
catch  the  infection  and  come  trooping  in.  Cheers,  laughter,  clapping  of 
hands,  and  encouraging  cries  of  '^  hear,  hear,"  follow  the  speaker's  rough 
remarks.  He  brings  down  the  House  every  time.  He  says  unparlia- 
mentary things,  and  nobody  calls  him  to  order.  He  addresses  his  enemy 
instead  of  the  chair,  and  the  Speaker  does  not  check  him.  He  has  the 
House  on  his  side,  and  goes  on  his  way  without  interruption.  The 
polished  orator  whose  arguments  flow  forth  in  rounded  periods,  the 
rhetorical  gladiator  whose  wit  wounds  like  a  needle,  the  mighty  man-at- 
arms  who  wields  a  war-club  of  invective  befo/e  which  antagonists  go 
down  like  Philistines  before  Samson's  bony  weapon,  and  the  professional 
funny  man  who  spends  his  whole  time  in  concocting  or  purloining  ludic- 
rous images  and  comparisons,  look  on  with  wonder  and  envy  at  the 
manner  in  which  this  untaught  and  unconscious  son  of  the  soil  makes 
the  House  joii)  him  against  his  enemy.  They  wonder  at  the  ease  with 
which,  without  even  appearing  to  desire  it,  the  old  man  secures  the  at- 
tention of  every  one  within  hearing,  and  changes  profound  disgust  at 
the  sound  of  the  human  voice  into  an  eager  interest  and  a  desire  to  hear 
more.  George  Eliot,  referring  to  utterances  of  a  very  different  char- 
acter, speaks  of  the  "  fascination  in  all  sincere  unpremeditated  elo- 
quence, which  opens  to  one  the  inward  drama  of  the  speaker^s  emotions.  ** 
She  had  discovered  the  secret  by  which  man  moves  his  fellows.  Not 
the  bluff  old  farmer^s  words,  but  the  drama  of  passion  which  they  revealed 
and  interpreted,  chained  attention  and  gained  applause.  Bryant  puts 
it  in  a  different  way : — 

**  The  secret  wonldst  thoa  know 

To  touch  the  heart  or  fire  the  blood  at  will  ? 
Let  thine  own  eyes  overflow ; 
Let  thy  lips  quiver  with  the  passionate  thrill." 

This  teaches  the  possibility  of  working  up  the  necessary  feeling  for  the 
occasion,  but  the  men  who  imitate  nature  most  abominably  in  this  res- 
pect are  many,  while  those  who  succeed  are  few.  There  is  an  orator 
here  whose  rhetorical  outbursts  are  aptly  described  by  Junius  as  "  the 
gloomy  companions  of  a  disturbed  imagination,  the  melancholy  madness 
of  poetry  without  the  inspiration." 
No  one  rises  after  the  angry  farmer  sits  down,  for  he  is  one  of  the 


; 


TIME.  687 

privileged  few  who  are  never  called  to  order  and  never  replied  to  when 
they  attack,  and  the  welcome  order  goes  forth — "  Call  in  the  members.'* 
The  division  is  taken,  members  rising  as  their  names  are  called,  and  the 
resolt  is  cheered — not  by  the  side  which  wins,  becaose  they  knew  they 
would  win  before  the  vote  was  taken,  bat  by  the  side  that  lost,  because 
they  were  not  so  badly  beaten  as  on  the  previous  trial  of  strength.  The 
House  is  adjourned,  the  Sergeant-at-Arms  shoulders  the  golden  mace, 
the  Speaker  takes  his  hat,  the  members  rush  for  their  overcoats,  the  gas 
.goes  out,  and  there  is  darkness  greater  than  that  of  the  least  luminous 
■argument  of  the  debate. 


TIME. 

Speed  on,  O  Time,  thy  stay  less  chariot-wheels, 

Thou  guurdian  of  forgotten  lore,  speed  on. 

Thou,  wise  in  all  earm's  secrets,  *neath  whose  seaT 

Dim  with  the  dust  of  ages  mysteries  lie. 

Which  man  has  sought,  but  ever-vainly  sought 

To  fathom,  jealously  as  miser  guards 

His  glittering  treasures,  deep  in  murky  vault 

Where  never  ray  of  blessed  sunlight  comes 

To  gild  the  gloom,  or  the  pure  breath  of  heaven 

To  stir  the  noisome  yapours,  so  dost  thou, 

O  Time,  thy  treasures  ((uard.     Oh  !  now  relent  ; 

We  wait  to  seize  thy  spoils  ;  our  eager  hearts 

Bum  for  the  story  of  the  vanished  years. 

Unfold  the  record  of  forgotten  days. 

Of  lands  renowned  of  old,  cities  whose  towers 

And  palaces  and  gilded  fanes,  now  prone 

In  utter  ruin  on  the  barren  earth, 

Alone  remain  to  tell  us  that  they  were. 

Who  reared  those  lofty  piles  of  stately  marble  1 

Those  graceful  pillars  ?  Whose  triumphal  train 

Swept  proudly  through  those  arches,  now  defaced 

And  slowly  crumbling  into  dust  ?  Whose  voice 

In  patriot-eloquence  waked  thunder  in 

Those  halls  of  shade  ?  And  who  in  other  days 

*Mid  terrace  and  hills  now  desolate 

Dwelt  peacefully,  and  called  these  ruins  ''  home  "  ? 

Canst  thou  not  tell  ?  Perchance  from  thy  dim  page 

Their  history  has  faded,  nevermore 

The  eyes  of  man  to  greet,  till  that  great  day 

When  light  eternal,  fallinyg  on  the  scroll. 

Shall  trace  the  tale  in  living  lines  again. 

Then  guard  thy  treasures ;  place  thy  royal  seal 

Upon  the  sepulchre,  there  let  them  lie 

Till  that  great  day,  when  from  the  mount  of  God 

The  trumpet  that  shall  wake  the  dead  to  life 

Proclaims  thy  mission  ended  and  thyself  no  more. 

JSABHLLA.  SlKCLilB. 


DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

P0KCLU8I0N. 


"  KSEIM-flCIINAXtK." 

Past  the  ruins  of  Af&deDburg,  we  follow  the  Emperor  Radolpb'a  rood 
to  Spires  (German  Speyer),  whose  cathedral  is  the  WestniinBter  Abbey 
of  the  German  Empire.  The  tombs  of  emperors  and  empresses  and 
their  children — Swabaitu,  Habsburgs,  Naasaiu — line  the  Kielea  of  the 
cathedral,  whose  massive  fiomanesqoe  style  shows  throagb  the  more 
elaborate,  fanciful  and  somcnhat  disappointing  restoration  of  Loius  I. 
of  Bavaria ;  for  under  his  hands  the  old,  grim,  stately  church  has  oome 
to  wear  something  of  a  modern  look.  But  the  hietoric  recollections  are 
many,  and  in  St  Afra's  chapel  we  recognize  the  spot  where,  for  five 
years,  lay  the  coffin  of  Henry  IV.,  the  vault  where  his  forefathers  slept 
being  closed  to  his  body  by  the  ecclesiastical  censures  he  bad  incurred 
after  his  forced  reconciiliation  with  his  nobles  and  the  Church. 

And  now  comes  the  quick-fiowing  Neckar,  rushing  into  the  Rhine, 
and  bidding  us  go  a  little  up  its  course  to  where  Heidelberg,  its  castle, 
ite  university,  its  active  life  and  its  beantiful  past,  make  altogether  a  place 
that  I  should  be  inclined,  from  my  own  recollections,  to  call  the  plea- 
santest  in  Qennany,  and  which  is  certainly  not  one  of  the  least  impor- 
tant in  the  life  that  distinguishes  Germany  at  this  time.  And  what 
kind  of  impression  does  it  make  at  first  on  a  stranger  1    A  German 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  589' 

traveller  says  that  it  presented  to  him  a  marked  contrast  with  Munich, 
where,  although  it  la  an  art-centre,  a  sort  of  deadneea  to  intellectual 
conoems  cbaraoterizeB  all  but  the  art-fltodente  and  foreign  visitors. 
Even  the  Beidelheig  porters  are  lively  and  critical,  boast  of  Bnnsen 
and  Vangerow,  and  speak  proudly  of  "  our  "  professors  and  of  the  last 
examinatioDB.  They  do  more  than  merely  make  money  out  of  their 
show-city,  as  do  the  good-natured  but  slow-witted  Munichera,  but  some 
enthusiastic  Khinelanders  chum  for  this  difference  of  temperament  a 
reason  not  wholly  esthetio — v  «.,  the  inflaeuce  of  the  Rhine  wine, 


transformed  generation  after  generation  into  Rhine  blood.  The  foreign 
traveller  probably  misses  all  these  details,  and  for  him  Heidelberg  is 
the  student-city  and  the  most  renowned  ruin  in  Germany.  He  will 
find  that  all  the  beauty  he  has  read  of  is  real :  the  castle  ia  all  that  has 
been  said  and  sung  of  it,  with  its  tower  shattetod  and  crumbling  ;  its 
various  facades,  particularly  tlie  Frederichebau  and  that  named  after 
Emperor  Otto  Heniy  ;  its  courtyar-1  wiih  pointed  arches  ;  its  ivy-grown 


590  DOWN   THE  BHINB. 

fountain  ;  its  elaborate  lienaUunce  niches  and  ftrmour-dad  statnea ;  its 
modern  loungers  sitting  over  their  Rhine  wine  in  chairs  that  English 
collectors  would  give  three  or  four  guineas  apiece  for  j  its  tangle  of 
flowers  and  bushes ;  its  crimson  flush  when  English  tourists  spend  their 
money  in  illumioating  it  with  Bengal  lights ;  ita  adjacent  gardens,  where 


I,   EEIDLEBERa. 


a  nearly  perfect  band  playe  classical  music  to  critics  who  are  none  the 
less  discerning  because  they  look  lost  in  tobacco^moke  and  beer-fnmes  ; 
ita  background  of  Spanish  chestnut  woods,  where  I  saw  the  pale-green 
tassels  of  the  blossoms  still  hanging  among  the  broad  leaves  that  had 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  591 

just  reached  their  sammer  depth  of  coloar,  and  where  wild  legends 
place  a  Devil's  Den  "  and  a  Wolf  Spring,  a  brook  where  a  wolf  is  said 
to  have  torn  to  pieces  the  enchantress  Zetta ;  above  all,  its  matchless 
view  sheer  down  a  wall  of  rock  into  the  rushing  Neckar  flood,  over  the 
^  vast  plain  beyond,  and  over  a  wilderness  of  steep  roofs  of  thirteenth  and 

fourteenth-century  houses.  All  this  is  but  a  faint  description  of  the  im- 
pression Heidelberg  leaves  on  the  mind.  It  would  be  leaving  out  an 
important  *'  sight "  not  to  mention  the  famous  "  tun,"  still  stored,  but 
empty,  in  the  cellars  of  the  castle,  and  the  little  guardian  of  the  treasure, 
the  gnome  carved  in  wood,  whose  prototype  was  the  court-fool,  of  one 
of  the  Nassau  sovereigns,  and  whose  allowance  was  no  less  than  fifteen 
bottles  a  day. 

But  the  place  has  other  interests,  which  even  the  donkey-riders,  whom 
the  natives  portray  as  rather  eccentric  in  dress  and  behaviour,  must  ap- 
preciate. The  high  school,  which  has  survived  all  the  desolations  and 
wrecks  of  the  Thirty  Years*  war  and  the  still  more  cruel  French  war 
under  Louis  XIY.  and  his  marshal  Turenne,  dates  as  far  back  as  1386, 
and  the  university  into  which  it  has  grown,  has  been  since  the  begin- 
ning of  this  century  the  cause  of  the  upward  growth  and  prosperous 
restoration  of  the  town.     The  German  student-l^e  has  been  as  much 

* 

described,  though  perhaps  never  so  truly,  as  the  life  of  the  Western 
-4^  frontiers  and  prairies,  and  I  will  give  but  one  glimpse,  be<9iuse  it  is  all 

I  know  of  it,  though  that  glimpse  is  probably  but  the  outcome  of  an 
exceptional  phase  of  student-life.  The  person  who  described  the  scene 
and  saw  it  himself  is  trustworthy.  He  had  been  living  some  months 
at  Heidelberg,  on  the  steep  slope  leading  up  to  the  castle  Cthe  short  out), 
and  one  night,  on  looking  out  of  his  window,  he  saw  the  glare  of  torches 
in  a  courtyard  below,  several  houses,  perhaps  even  streets,  ofiP,  for  the 
town  is  built  on  various  levels  up  the  rock.  Here  were  several  grou^  s 
of  young  men,  evidently  students,  dancing  in  rings  and  holding  torches*, 
and  the  scene  looked  wild  and  strange  and  somewhat  incomprehensible. 
Next  day  the  spectator  found  out  that  this  was  the  peculiar  celebration 
of  a  death  by  a  club  whose  rule^  were  perhaps  unique.  It  was  an  inner 
sanctum  of  the  ordinary  student  associations,  something  beyond  the 
common  duelling  brotherhoods,  more  advanced  and  more  reckless — a 
^  club  in  which,  if  any  member  quarrelled  with  another,  instead  of  set- 

tling the  matter  by  a  duel,  the  rivals  drew  lots  to  settle  who  should 
commit  suicide.  This  had  happened  a  day  or  so  before,  and  a  young 
man,  instead  of  standing  up  as  usual  to  be  made  passes  at  with  a  sword 
that  would  at  most  gash  his  cheek  or  split  his  nose,  had  shot  himself 
through  the  head.  Even  in  that  not  too  particular  community  great 
horror  prevailed,  and  the  youth  was  denied  Christian  burial ;  so  that 
his  father  had  to  come  and  take  away  the  body  in  secret  to  convey  it  to 


692  DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

his  own  home.  This  heathenish  death  led  to  an  equally  heathenish  af- 
ter-carousal, the  torchlight  dance  winding  up  the  whole,  not  perhaps  in- 
appropriately. 

Heidelberg  has  a  little  Versailles  of  its  own,  a  prim  contrast  to  ita 
noble  chestnut-groves,  yet  not  an  unlovely  spot — ^the  garden  of  Schwet- 
zingen,  where  clipped  alleys  and  rococo  stonework  make  frames  for  masses 
of  brilliant-coloured  flowers ;  but  from  here  we  must  skim  over  the  rest 
of  the  neighbourhood — gay,  spick-and-span  Mannheim,  busy  Ludwig- 
shafen  and  picturesque,  ruin-crowned  Neckarsteinach,  where  if  it  is  au- 
tumn, we  catch  glimpses  of  certain  vintage-festivals,  the  German  form 
of  thanksgiving  and  harvest  home.  But  of  this  we  shall  see  more  as 
we  journey  downward  and  reach  the  far-famed  Johannisberg  and  Rades- 
heim.  Still,  we  cannot  forget  the  vineyard  feature  of  Rhine  and  Neckar 
and  Moselle  scenery,  for  it  follows  us  even  from  the  shores  of  the  Lake 
of  Constance,  and  the  wine  keeps  getting  more  and  more  famous,  and 
the  wine-industry  and  all  its  attendant  trades  more  important,  as  we  go 
on.  The  ruins  of  monasteries  are  sprinkled  among  the  vine-terraces, 
for  the  monks  were  the  earliest  owners,  introducers  and  cultivators  of 
the  grape — greatly  to  their  credit  at  first,  for  it  was  a  means  of  weaning 
the  Christianized  barbarians  from  hunting  to  tilling  the  earth,  though  in 
later  years  there  grew  terrible  abuses  out  of  this  so-called  ''  poetic  **  in- 
dustry. If  I  were  not  pledged  to  eschew  moralizing,  I  should  like  to 
have  my  say  here  about  the  nonsense  written  from  time  immemorial 
about ''  wine,  woman  and  song  " — rather  worse  than  nonsense,  because 
degrading  to  both  the  latter — but  in  speaking  of  the  Rhine  one  cannot 
but  glance  at  its  chief  trade,  though  one  ccm  refrain  from  rhapsodies 
about  either  the  grape  or  the  juice.  The  fEtct  is,  the  former  is  really 
not  lovely,  and  the  artificial  terraces  of  slaty  debris,  the  right  soil  and 
the  right  exposure  for  the  crop,  are  indeed  quite  unsightly.  The  beaufy 
of  the  vine  is  far  better  seen,  and  is  indeed  ideal,  in  Southern  Italy, 
where  the  grapes  hang  from  luxuriant  festoons,  cordages  of  fruit  swing- 
ing like  hammocks  from  young  poplars,  and  sometimes  young  fruit 
trees,  while  beneath  grow  com  and  wheat.  The  wine,  I  believe  is 
mediocre — and  so  much  the  better — but  the  picture  is  beautiful  In 
Northern  Italy  the  thrifty,  practical  Qerman  plan  is  in  vogue,  and  the 
ideal  beauty  of  vines  \a  lost  But  where  is  the  vine  loveliest  to  my 
mind  1  Out  in  the  forest  where  it  grows  wild,  useless  and  luxuriant,  as 
I  have  seen  it  in  America,  the  loveliest  creeper  that  temperate  dimes 
possess — a  garden  and  a  bower  in  itself. 

Following  the  course  of  the  Neckar,  and  broadening  for  forty  miles 
before  reaching  the  Rhine,  lies  the  Odenwald,  the  '*  Paradise  of  Ger- 
many ** — a  land  of  legends,  mountains  and  forests,  whose  very  name 
is  still  a  riddle  which  some  gladly  solve    by  calling  the  land  *'  Odin's 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  593 

Wood/'  his  refuge  when  Christianity  displaced  him.  Here,  under  the 
fiolemn  beedies,  the  most  beautiful  tree  of  the  Northern  forests,  with 
smooth,  gray,  column-like  trunk  and  leaves  that  seem  the  very  perfec- 
tion of  colour  and  texture,  lie  the  mottled  deer,  screened  by  those  rocks 
that  are  called  the  waves  of  a  '*  rock  ocean,"  and  lazily  gazing  at  the 
giant 'trunk  of  a  tree  that  for  many  years  has  lain  encrusted  in  the 
eartii  till  as  many  legends  have  accumulated  round  it  as  mosses  have 
grown  over  it — a  tree  that  California  might  not  disown,  and  which  is 
variously  supposed  to  have  been  part  of  a  Druidical  temple,  or  part  of 
an  intended  imperial  palace  in  the  Middle  Ages.  But  as  we  climb  up 
Mount  Melibocus,  and  look  around  from  the  Taunus  to  the  Yosges,  and 
from  Speyer  to  Worms  and  golden  Mayence,  we  see  a  ruined  castle, 
that  of  Rodenstein,  with  a  more  human  interest  in  its  legend  of  a  rival 
Wild  Huntsman,  whose  bewitched  hounds  and  horns  were  often  heard 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  always  before  some  disaster,  chiefly  a  war, 
either  national  or  local.  This  huntsman  wore  the  form  of  a  black  dog 
in  the  day-time,  and  was  the  savage  guardian  of  three  enchanted  sisterp, 
the  youngest  and  loveliest  of  whom  once  tried  to  break  the  spell  by 
ofiPering  her  love,  her  hand  and  her  wealth  to  a  young  knight,  provided 
he  could,  next  time  he  saw  her,  in  the  form  of  a  snake,  bear  her  kiss 
three  times  upon  his  lips.  He  failed,  however,  when  the  ordeal  came, 
and  as  the  serpent-maiden  wound  her  cold  coils  around  him  and  darted 
out  her  forked  tongue,  he  threw  back  his  head  and  cried  in  an  agony 
of  fear,  "  Lord  Jesus,  help  me  ! "  The  snake  disappeared :  love  and 
gold  were  lost  to  the  youth,  and  freedom  to  the  still  spell-bound  woman. 
The  legend  goes  no  further,  unless,  like  that  of  the  ruined  castle  of 
Auerbach,  it  hints  at  the  present  existence  of  the  forlorn  enchanted 
maidens,  yet  waiting  for  a  deliverer ;  for  at  Auerbach  the  saying  is  that 
in  the  ruins  dwells  a  meadow-maiden  whose  fate  it  is  to  wait  until  a  child 
rocked  in  a  cradle  made  of  the  wood  of  a  cherry  tree  that  must  have 
grown  on  the  meadow  where  she  was  first  mysteriously  found,  came 
himself  to  break  her  invisible  bonds ;  and  so  every  good  German  (and 
not  seldom  the  stranger)  that  visits  Schloss  Auerbach  does  so  with  a 
pious  intention  of  delivering  the  maiden  in  case  he  himself  may  un- 
awares have  been  rocked  in  a  cradle  made  of  the  wonder-working 
cherry-wood.  If  the  reader  is  not  tired  of  legends,  this  neighbourhood 
affords  him  still  another,  though  a  less  marvellous  one,  of  a  young  girl 
of  the  noble  Sickengen  stock,  who  lost  herself  in  a  great  wood,  and 
who,  after  being  searched  for  in  vain,  was  guided  homeward  late  at  night 
by  the  sound  of  the  convent-bell  of  St  Call's  (not  the  famous  monastery 
of  that  name) ;  in  thanksgiving  for  which  the  family  offered  for  all 
coming  ages,  a  weekly  batch  of  wheaten  loaves  to  be  distributed  among 
the  poor  of  the  parish,  and  also  made  it  customary  to  ring  the  great 


694  DOWN  THE  BHINE. 

bell  every  night  at  eleyen  o'clock,  in  remembrance  of  the  event)  and 
likewise  as  an  ear-beacon  to  any  benighted  traveller  who  might  hiqypen 
to  be  in  the  neighbourhood. 

The  old  dominions  of  Worms  had  the  poetic  name  of  Wonnegau,  or 
the  '^  Land  of  Delight ; "  and  since  the  flat,  sedgy  meadows  and  sandy 
soil  did  not  warrant  this  name,  it  was  no  doubt  given  on  account.of  the 
same  ample,  pleasant  family-life  and  generous  hospitality  that  distin- 
guishes the  citizens  of  Worms  to  this  day.  There  were — and  are — mer- 
chant-princes in  (^ermany  as  well  as  in  Genoa,  Venice,  Bruges,  Antwerp 
and  London  of  old,  and  though  life  is  even  now  simpler  among  diem 
than  among  their  peers  of  other  more  sophisticated  lands,  still  it  is  a 
princely  life.  The  houses  of  Worms  are  stately  and  dignified,  curtained 
with  grape-vines  and  shaded  by  lindens  :  the  table  seems  always  spread, 
and  there  is  an  air  of  leisure  and  rest  which  we  seldom  see  in  a  Cana- 
dian house,  however  rich  its  master.  The  young  girls  are  robust  and 
active,  but  not  awkward,  nor  is  the  house-mother  tite  drudge  that  some 
superfine  and  superficial  English  observers  have  declared  her  to  be.  We 
have  begun  to  set  up  another  standard  of  women's  place  in  a  household 
than  the  beautiful,  dignified  Hebrew  one,  and  even  the  medieval  one  of 
the  times  whence  we  vainly  think  we  have  drawn  our  new  version  of 
chivalry  toward  womankind.  But  in  many  places,  even  in  the  ''  three 
kingdoms,"  the  old  ideal  still  holds  its  place^  and  in  the  Western  High- 
lands th(d  ladies  of  the  house,  unless  demoralized  by  English  boarding- 
school  vulgarities,  serve  the  guest  at  table  with  all  the  grace  and  deli- 
cacy that  other  women  have  lost  since  they  have  deputed  all  hospitality,, 
save  that  of  pretty,  meaningless  speeches  to  servants.  In  Norway  and 
Sweden  the  old  hospitable  frank  customs  still  prevail,  and  in  all  simpli- 
city your  hostess,  young  or  old,  insists  on  doing  muoh  of  your  ''  valet- 
ing ; "  and  while  we  need  not  imitate  anything  that  does  not  "  come 
natural "  to  us,  we  should  surely  refrain  from  laughing  at  and  stigmati- 
zing as  barbaric  any  social  customs  less  artificial  than  our  own.  And 
indeed  Oermany  is  blest  in  the  matter  of  good  housekeepers,  who  are 
no  less  good  wives,  and  especially  discerning,  wise  and  sympathizing 
mothers.  A  few  of  the  lately-translated  Oerman  novels  show  us  the- 
most  delightful  and  refined  scenes  of  German  home-life,  and  now  and 
then,  though  seldom,  a  stranger  has  a  glimpse  of  some  of  these  German 
homes,  whether  rich  or  not^  but  generally  not  only  comfortable,  but  cul- 
tured. To  some  English  minds — and  we  fear  also  to  some  Canadian 
ones — of  the  *'  hot  house  "  order  there  is  something  absolutdy  incom- 
patible between  grace  and  work,  study  and  domestic  details ;  but,  letting 
practical  (Tormany  alone,  have  they  ever  read  Eugenie  de  Gu^rin's  life 
and  journal,  to  admire  which  is  almost  as  much  a  **  hall-mark"  of  cul- 
ture as  to  enjoy  Walter  Scott  and  appreciate  Shakespeare  t    And  if  they  > 


< 


DOWN  THE  RHINE. 


I,   HBIDKBna   CABTU. 


:59C  DOWN  THE  RfflNE. 

haye,  do  they  not  remember  how  the  yoang  housekeeper  sits  in  the  kit- 
chen watching  the  baking  and  roasting,  and  reading  Plutarch  in  the  in- 
tervals 1  And  do  they  not  remember  her  washing-days  )  Every  thrifty 
housewife  is  not  an  Eugenie  de  On^rin,  but  that  any  absolute  incongru- 
ity exists  between  housework  and  brainwork  is  a  notion  which  thous- 
ands of  well-educated  women  in  all  countries  must,  from  experience, 
emphatically  deny. 

Nor  is  elegance  banished  from  these  German  homes ;  if  there  are 
libraries  and  museums  within  those  walls,  there  are  also  drawing-rooms 
full  of  knick-knacks,  and  bed-rooms  furnished  with  inlaid  foreign  woods 
and  graceful  contrivances  covered  By  ample  curtains,  pretty  beds  shaped 
cradlewiso,  devoid  of  the  angles  we  seem  to  find  so  indispensable  to  a 
bed,  and  comer  closets  fluted  inside  with  silk  or  chintz  and  ornamented 
with  airy  vallances  or  bowed-out  gilt  rods.  Glass  doors  leading  into 
small  choicely-stocked  conservatories  are  not  uncommon,  or  even  that 
crowning  device  of  artistic  luxury,  an  immense  window  of  one  undi- 
vided sheet  of  plate-glass,  looking  toward  some  beautiful  view,  and  thus 
making  a  frame  for  it.  All  this  sounds  French,  does  it  not  ?  but  Aix 
and  Cologne  and  Mayence  and  Frankfort  and  Bremen  are  genuine  Ger- 
man cities,  and  it  is  in  the  burgher  houses  that  you  find  all  this.  Even 
very  superficial  observers  have  noticed  the  general  air  of  health,  pros- 
perity and  comliness  of  the  people.  Washington  Irving,  who  travelled 
in  the  Khine-land  fifty-five  years  ago,  when  critical  inquiry  into  home- 
life  was  not  yet  the  fashion  for  tourists,  speaks  in  his  letters  of  the  pea- 
santry of  the  Bergstrasse  being  '*  remarkably  well  off,"  of  their  '*  com- 
fortable villages  buried  in  orchards  and  surrounded  by  vineyards,"  of 
the  "  country-people,   healthy,  well-clad,  good-looking  and  cheerful" 

*  Once  again  he  speaks  of  the  comeliness  of  the  Rhine  peasants,  **  particu- 
larly on  th()  lower  part  of  the  Rhiae,  from  Mayence  downward,"  and 

*  elsewhere  of  the  cottages  as  so  surrounded  by  garden  and  grass-plat,  so 
buried  in  trees,  and  the  moss-covered  roofs  almost  mingling  and  blend- 
ing with  the  surrounding  vegetation,  that  the  whole  landscape  is  com- 
pletely rustic.  **  The  orchards  were  all  in  blossom,  and  as  the  day  was 
very  warm  the  good  people  were  seated  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  spin- 
ning near  the  rills  of  water  that  trickled  along  the  green  sward."  This, 
however,  was  in  Saxony,  where  the  landscape  reminded  him  much  of 
English  scenery.    Then  of  the  higher  middle  classes,  the  bankers  of 

.  Frankfort,  he  of  speaks  as  cultured,  enlightened,  hospitable,  magnificent 
in  their  "  palaces  .  .  .  continually  increasing."  And  these  are  but  cur- 
sory pencillings,  for  everywhere  he  was  rather  on  the  watch  for  the  an- 
tique than  mindful  of  human  and  progressive  peculiarities. 

On  the  shores  of  the  river  we  come  upon  purely  modem  life  again — 
the  hotels,  the  quays,  the  tourists,  the  steamers,  and  the  Bheirirschnaken, 


IK)WN  THE  RHINE.  597 

a  species  of  '^  loafer  **  or  gossip  who  make  themselves  useful  to  passeii- 
gers  when  the  boats  come  in.  These  are  often  seen  also  at  Biebrich,  the 
old  palace  of  the  Nassans,  now  become  the  property  of  the  city,  and 
partly  a  military  school,  while  the  gardens  have  become  the  fashionable 
promenade  of  Mayence.  The  formal  alleys  and  well-kept  lawns,  with 
the  distant  view  of  the  Taunus  and  the  Odenwald  on  one  side,  and  a 
glimpse  of  the  opening  Bheingau,  a  famous  gorge  of  the  Rhine,  on  the 
other,  make  it  a  beautiful  resort  indeed,  exclusive  of  the  interest  which 
the  supposed  derivation  of  its  name  gives  it — t.  6.,  the  *'  place  of  bea- 
vers," an  animal  that  abounded  there  before  man  invaded  these  shores. 
And  now  the  eye  can  follow  the  course  of  the  Hhine  (from  the  roof  of 
the  palace)  as  far  as  Ingelheim,  Ehrenfels,  the  Mouse  Tower,  Johannis- 
berg  and  Bddesheim,  and  vineyards  climb  up  the  rocks  and  fight  their 
way  into  the  sunshine ;  and  we  begin  to  feel  that  these  little  shrines  we 
sometimes  come  across,  and  huts  of  vineyard-keepers,  and  queerly-shaped 
baskets  like  some  of  the  Scotch  fish  *'  creels,"  all  force  on  our  attention 
the  fact  that  the  growing  and  making  and  selling  of  wine  are  the  most 
characteristic  features  of  Ehine  life,  at  least  outside  the  cities.  Though 
the  vineyards  are  not  as  picturesque  as  poets  insist  on  making  them, 
yet  the  vintage-season  is  full  of  picturesque  incidents.  This  is  a 
<<  movable  festival,"  and  occurs  any  time  between  the  beginning  of 
September  and  the  middle  of  November.  Wliat  applies  to  one  district 
does  not  to  another,  and  there  are  a  thousand  minute  difierences  occa- 
sioned  by  soil,  weather  and  custom ;  so  that  none  of  the  following 
observations  is  to  be  taken  as  a  generalization.  At  the  outset  it  is 
worth  notice  that  the  German  word  Weinberg  ("  Wine-hill ")  is  much 
more  correct  than  our  equivalent,  for  even  in  the  flatter  countries  where 
the  grape  is  grown  the  most  is  made  of  every  little  rise  in  the  ground. 
The  writer  of  a  recent  magazine  article  has  exploded  the  commonly- 
received  idea  that  in  this  country  alone  more  Rhine  wine  is  drunk 
than  the  whole  Ehine  wine-region  really  produces.  The  truth  is,  that 
it  is  a  problem  how  to  get  rid  of  all  that  is  made.  The  wine  is  drunk 
new  by  every  one  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  sells  at  prices  within  the 
means  of  all ;  and  this  because  there  are  vineyards  by  the  hundred 
whose  exposure  does  not  fit  them  for  the  production  of  the  fine  wines 
eagerly  bought  by  foreign  merchants,  and  also  because  many  of  the 
small  wine-growers  have  no  means  of  getting  their  wares  to  the  right 
market.  The  great  traffic  is  confined  chiefly  to  wholesale  growers,  rich 
men  who  can  tide  over  half  a  score  of  bad  years,  and  afibrd  to  sell  the 
whole  crop  of  those  years  for  next  to  nothing ;  and  their  wine  it  is 
which  with  us  represents  the  whole  Rhine  vintage.  It  is,  however, 
hardly  more  than  a  third,  and  the  rest  of  the  wine  made  on  the  Rhine 

is  to  the  untutored  taste  just  as  good  and  just  as  pleasant     It  is  said 
5 


DOWK  THE  BHINE. 


hj  coDBoisaeun  that  all  the  difference  between  the  vine  of  good  and 
bad  years  te  in  its  "  bouquet,"  and  the  juice  of  the  same  grapee  brio^ 
four  dollars  and  a  half  a  gallon  at  the  vina/ard  one  year,  and  can  be 
bought  in  another  year  for  twenty  cents.     The  wine-trade  hat  developed 


aa  odd  profession,  that  of  wine-taster,  and  these  skilful  critics  a 
high  wages  and  great  consideration.  But  of  course  each  locality  has  its 
own  knot  of  oracles,  and  the  ludicrous  gravity  with  which  these  village 
"  tasters  "  decide  on  the  merits  of  mine  host's  purchases — or  perhaps 
growths — is  a  subject  not  unworthy  the  pencil  of  Ostade,  Teniers  or 
Hogarth.    The  parish  priest  is  not  the  least  learned  among  these  local 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  699 

connoisseurs,  and  one  or  two  official  personages  generally  form,  with 
him,  the  jury  that  decides  on  the  worth  of  the  year's  crop.  Profes- 
sional buyers  and  commissioners  from  German  and  foreign  firms  crowd 
to  the  markets  where  the  wine  is  sold,  and  after  being  open  to  inspec- 
tion for  a  week,  the  crop  of  each  grower  is  generally  sold  in  a  lump  to 
some  one  firm,  probably  an  old  customer,  for  a  sum  that  sounds  fabulous ; 
but  then  the  bad  years,  when  just  as  much  expense  is  lavished  on 
the  vines,  and  no  returns  bring  the  growers  a  reward,  have  to  be 
considered  as  a  counter-weight.  Of  course  there  is  a  monstrous  deal  of 
"  doctoring,"  and  even  the  purest  of  the  wines  are  not  as  they  came 
from  Nature's  hand ;  but  in  the  bad  years  it  is  notorious  that  fortunes 
are  made  out  of  wine  sold  for  a  few  cents  a  gallon  and  exported  at  a 
profit  of  a  hundred  per  cent.  Thence,  perhaps,  comes  the  by-word 
about  our  drinking  more  wine  than  the  vineyards  produce. 

But,  leaving  the  commercial  aspect  of  the  trade,  let  us  take  a  glance 
at  the  picturesque  side.  Like  the  fisheries,  this  business,  that  looks 
commonplace  in  cellars  and  vaults,  has  its  roots  in  free,  open-air  life, 
and  is  connected  with  quaint  historical  details  and  present  customs  hard- 
ly less  novel  to  us.  The  aspect  of  the  country  in  autumn,  as  described 
in  a  letter  written  last  year,  is  lovely — "  the  exuberant  quantity  of  fine 
fruit ;  .  .  .  the  roads  bordered  by  orchards  of  apples  and  pears, 
where  the  trees  are  so  loaded  that  the  branches  have  to  be  supported 
by  stakes  lest  they  should  break ;  .  .  .  men,  women  and  children 
busy  in  the  vineyards  on  the  sides  of  the  hills  ;  the  road  alive  with 
peasants,  laden  with  baskets  of  fruit  or  tubs  in  which  the  grapes  were 
pressed.  Some  were  pressing  the  grapes  in  great  tubs  or  vats  on  the 
roadside.  In  the  afternoon  there  were  continual  firing  of  guus  and 
shouting  of  the  peasants  on  the  vine-hills,  making  merry  after  their 
labour,  for  the  vintage  is  the  season  when  labour  and  jollity  go  hand 
in  hand.  We  bought  clusters  of  delicious  grapes  for  almost  nothing,  and 
I  drank  of  the  newly-pressed  wine,  which  has  the  sweetness  of  new 
cider.  .  .  .  Every  now  and  then  we  passed  waggons  bearing  great 
pipes  of  new  wine,  with  bunches  of  flowers  and  streamers  of  ribbons 
stuck  in  the  bung."  The  last  cask  of  the  vintage  is  always  honoured 
by  a  sort  of  procession — Bacchanalia,  an  artist  might  call  it — the  three 
or  four  youngest  and  prettiest  girls  mounted  on  it  in  a  waggon,  their 
heads  crowned  with  grapes  and  leaves,  and  a  heap  of  fruit  in  their  laps. 
The  men  lead  the  horses  slowly  home,  stopping  often  to  drink  or  offer 
to  others  the  new  wine,  and  brandishing  aloft  their  clubs  for  beating  the 
firuit  with ;  the  children  run  alongside  with  armfuls  of  the  fruit,  and 
their  faces  stained  all  over  with  the  juice,  while  in  some  nook,  perhaps 
a  stone  arbour  trellised  with  vines,  sits  the  portly,  jolly  owner,  with  his 
long-jointed  pipe,  an  incarnation  of  a  German  Bacchus,  smiling  at  the 


600  DOWN  THE  RHtN£. 

pretty  maidens,  who  pelt  him  with  his  own  grapes.  Bat  before  ike  M^ 
son  a  very  different  scene  takes  place  in  the  ''  locked  "  vineyards,  closed 
by  law  even  to  their  owners,  and  where  at  night  no  one  but  a  lonely 
watchman,  with  gun  loaded  and  wolfish  dog  at  his  heels,  sits  in  a  little 
«traw-Uiatched,  tent-shaped  hut  to  ward  off  thieves  and  intruders. 
When  the  vineyards  are  declared  open,  the  best  policy  is  to  get  in  the 
harvest  at  once,  unless  you  are  rich  enough  to  have  your  crops  carefully 
watched  every  hour  for  a  week,  when  the  grapes  will  certainly  be 
better  and  the  wine  more  precious.  For  it  is  a  custom  that  after  the 
opening,  but  as  long  as  the  vintage  is  not  actually  begun  in  any  vine- 
yard, the  grapes  are  free  to  visitors.  The  guests  of  the  owner  are  pri- 
vileged to  pluck  and  eat  all  through  the  vintage ;  but  again  custom 
ordains  that  if  you  eat  only  half  a  plucked  cluster,  you  should  hang  the 
remainder  on  the  trellis,  that  it  may  not  be  trodden  under  foot  and 
wasted.  Donkeys  and  women  carrying  those  odd,  heavy  baskets  that 
decorate  the  cottages,  convey  the  grapes  to  the  pressing-vats  in  endless 
and  recrossing  processions,  and  not  one  grape  that  has  been  plucked  is 
left  on  the  ground  till  the  morrow  :  all  must  be  stowed  away  the  same 
day  before  dusk.  The  vintage-days  themselves  are  busy,  and  the  hot 
and  tired  workers  would  wonder  to  see  the  poets  and  painters  weave 
their  hard  labour  into  pictures  and  sonnets.  But  the  opening  day,  as 
well  as  the  closing  one,  is  a  festival,  often  a  religious  one,  and  a  proces- 
sion winds  its  way  where  laden  animals  tread*  all  the  rest  of  the  week. 
A  sermon  is  generally  preached,  and  after  the  ceremony  is  over,  the  day 
becomes  a  kind  of  holiday  and  picnic  affair.  Groups  of  workers  during 
the  vintage  sit  on  the  hot  slate  terraces,  shrinking  close  to  the  walls  for 
the  sake  of  a  coolness  that  hardly  exists,  save  underground  in  the  wide, 
gloomy  catacombs  that  undermine  the  hillside ;  and  these  caverns,  filled 
with  great  casks,  are  not  the  least  curious  sight  of  the  Rhine  wine-re- 
gioAS.  Above  ground,  you  come  on  little  shrines  and  stone  crosses  em- 
bowered in  fruit,  the  frame  of  the  sorry  picture  far  more  beautiful  than 
the  picture  itself,  yet  that  daub  means  so  much  to  the  simple,  devout 
peasant  who  kneels  or  rests  under  it !  The  process  of  picking  and  press- 
ing is  simple  and  quick.  The  grapes  are  picked  from  the  stalks  and 
dropped  into  little  tubs,  then  shaken  out  into  baskets  with  a  quick 
double  movement^  and  pressed  with  "juice-clubs"  on  the  spot,  where- 
upon the  load  is  quickly  carried  off  (sometimes  carted  in  large  casks) 
to  the  great  wine-presses  in  the  building  provided  for  this  purpose. 
There  is  an  overseer  to  each  group  of  workers,  who  regulates  the  rate 
and  quantity  of  fruit  to  be  thrown  at  once  into  the  first  tubs,  and  who 
takes  note  of  the  whole  day's  harvest,  which  is  reckoned  by  the  basket- 
ful When  we  come  to  the  far-famed  Johannisberg  vineyards,  whose 
origin  lies  back  in  the  tenth  century,  when  Abbot  Rabanus  cultivated 


DOWN  THE  KHINE.  601 

these  hillsides  that  are  now  partly  the  property  of  some  of  the  Metter- 
nich  family,  we  learn  the  value  of  these  basketfiils,  each  containing 
what  goes  to  make  a  gallon ;  which  quantity  will  fill  four  bottles,  at 
eight  thalers  the  bottle  among  friends  who  take  no  percentage  and  give 
you  the  pure  juice.  After  that,  does  any  one  suppose  that  he  gets 
Johannisberg,  Steinburg  or  Budesheim,  or  Brauneberg  and  Bernkasteler 
Doctor,  two  of  the  best  Moselle  wines,  when  he  pays  two  or  three  dol- 
lars a  bottle  for  this  so-called  wine  in  a  restaurant  ?  Better  call  for 
what  the  restaurant-keeper  would  protest  is  not  worth  buying,  but  which 
the  real  coimoisseur  would  agree  with  the  Rhine  peasantry  in  drinking 
and  enjoying — the  new,  undoctored  wine  that  is  kept  in  the  wood  and 
drawn  as  the  needs  of  customers  require. 

Schlangenbad,  a  less  well-known  bathing-place,  is  a  favourite  goal  of 
Wiesbaden  excursionists,  for  a  path  through  dense  beech  woods  leads 
from  the  stirring  town  to  the  quieter  "  women's  republic,"  where,  be- 
fore sovereigns  in  incognito  came  to  patronize  it,  there  had  long  been  a 
monopoly  of  its  charms  by  the  wives  and  daughters  of  rich  men,  bank- 
ers, councillors,  noblemen,  etc.,  and  also  by  a  set  of  the  higher  clergy. 
The  waters  were  famous  for  their  sedative  qualities,  building  up  the  ner- 
vous system,  and,  it  is  said,  also  beautifying  the  skin.  Some  credulous 
persons  traced  the  name  of  the  "  Serpents'  Bath  "  to  the  fact  that  snakes 
lurked  in  the  springs  and  gave  the  waters  their  healing  powers;  but  as 
the  neighbourhood  abounds  in  a  small  harmless  kind  of  reptile,  this  is 
the  more  obvious  reason  for  the  name.  I  spent  a  pleasant  ten  days  at 
Schlangenbad  twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago,  when  many  of  the  Carman 
sovereigns  preferred  it  for  its  quiet  to  the  larger  and  noisier  resorts,  and 
remember  with  special  pleasure  meeting  with  fields  of  Scotch  heather 
encircled  by  beech  and  chestnut  woods,  with  ferny,  rocky  nooks  s  uch  as 
— ^when  it  is  in  Germany  that  you  find  them — suggest  fairies,  and  with 
a  curious  village  church,  just  restored  by  a  rich  English  Catholic,  since 
dead,  who  lived  in  Brussels  and  devoted  his  fortune  to  religious  pur- 
poses all  over  the  world.  This  church  was  chiefly  interesting  as  a  speci- 
men of  what  country  churches  were  in  the  Middle  Ages,  having  been 
restored  in  the  style  common  to  those  days.  It  was  entirely  of  stone, 
within  as  well  as  without,  and  I  remember  no  painting  on  the  walls. 
The  *'  tabernacle,"  instead  of  being  placed  on  the  altar,  as  is  the  custom 
in  most  churches  now,  and  has  been  for  two  or  three  hundred  years,  was, 
according  to  the  old  German  custom,  a  separate  shrine,  with  a  little 
tapering  carved  spire,  placed  in  the  corner  of  the  choir,  with  a  red  lamp 
burning  before  it.  Here,  as  in  most  of  the  Rhine  neighbourhoods,  the 
people  are  mainly  Catholics,  but  in  places  where  summer  guests  of  all 
nations  and  religions  are  gathered  there  is  often  a  friendly  arrangement 
by  which  the  same  building  is  used  for  the  services  of  two  or  three  faiths. 


602  DOWN  THE  BHINE. 

There  was,  I  think,  one  snch  at  Schlaogenbad,  where  Catholic,  Lntbe- 
niD  and  Anglican  Bervlces  were  auccessivelr  held  every  Sunday  morn- 
ing ;  and  in  another  place,  where  a  large  Catholic  church  has  since  been 
built,  the  old  chureh  was  divided  down  the  middle  of  the  nave  by  a 
wooden  partition  about  the  height  of  a  man's  head,  and  Catholic  and 
Protestant  had  each  aside 
'i  permanently  assigned  to 
them  for  their  services. 
This  kind   of   practical 
toleration,   probably    in 
the  beginning  the  result 
of  poverty  on  both  sides, 
but  at  any  rate  credit- 
able to  its  practicers,  was 
hardly  to  be  found  any- 
where   outside  of  Ger- 
;  many.  I  remember  hear- 

I  ing  of  the  sisterG  of  one 

II  ofthepope'aGerman pre- 
lates, Monsignor  Prince 

;  Hohenlohe,     who   were 

;  Lutherans,  embroidering 

,  eccleaiastical    vestments 

and  altar-linen  for  their 

'  brother  with  aa  much  do- 

r  light  as  if  he  and  they 

■  believed  alike;    and 

t  (though  this  is  anything 

'  but  praiseworthy,  for  it 

was  prompted  by  policy 

and  not  by  toleration)  it 

was    a    custom  of   Uie 

smaller  Gennan  princes 

LUTHEBs  HOUSE  41  FSANKFOBT.  {q  briug  their  daughteTB 

up  in  the  vaguest  belief  in  vital  truths,  in  order  that  when  they  married 

they  might  become  whatever  their  husbands  happened  to  be,  whether 

Lutheran,  Anglican,  Catholic  or  Greek.   The  events  of  the  kst  few  years, 

however,  have  changed  all  this,   and  religious  strife  is  as  energetic  in 

Germany  as  it  was  at  one  time  in  Italy :  people  must  take  sides,  and 

this  outward,  eaay-going  old  life  has  disappeared  before  the  novel  kind 

of  persecution  sanctioned  by  the  Falk  laws.     Some  persona  even  think 

the  present  state  of  things  traceable  to  that  same  toleration,  leading,  as 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  603 

it  did  in  many  cases,  to  lukewarmness  and  indifferentism  in  religion. 
Strange  phases  for  a  fanatical  Oermany  to  pass  through,  and  a 'stranger 
commentary  on  the  words  of  Saint  Bemigius  to  Clovis,  the  first  Frank- 
ish  Christian  king :  '*  Burn  that  which  thou  hast  worshipped,  and  wor- 
ship that  which  thou  hast  burnt "  ! 

Schwalbach  is  another  of  Wiesbaden's  handmaidens — a  pleasant, 
rather  quiet  spot,  from  which,  if  you  please,  you  can  follow  the  Main 
to  the  abode  of  sparkling  hock  or  the  vinehills  of  Hochheim,  the 
property  of  the  church  which  crowns  the  heights.  This  is  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  Boman-named  Taunus  Mountains,  where  there  are  bath- 
ing-places, ruined  castles,  ancient  bridges,  plenty  of  legends,  and  above 
all,  dark  solemn  old  chestnut  forests.  But  we  have  a  long  way  to 
go,  and  must  not  linger  on  our  road  to  the  free  imperial  city  of  Frank- 
fort, with  its  past  history  and  present  importance.  Here  too  I  have 
some  personal  remembrances,  though  hurried  ones.  The  hotel  itself — 
what  a  relief  such  hotels  are  from  the  modem  ones  with  electric  bells  and 
elevators  and  fifteen  stories ! — was  an  old  patrician  house,  ample,  roomy, 
<iignified,  and  each  room  had  some  individuality,  notwithstanding  the 
needful  amount  of  transformation  from  its  own  sel£  It  was  a  dull,  wet 
day  when  we  arrived,  and  next  morning  we  went  to  the  cathedral, 
Pepin's  foundation,  of  which  I  remember,  however,  less  than  of  the 
great  hall  in  Bomer  building  where  the  Diets  sat  and  where  the  ^'Golden 
Bull "  is  still  kept — a  hall  now  magnificently  and  appropriately  frescoed 
with  subjects  from  Grerman  history.  Then  the  far-famed  Judengasse,  a 
street  where  the  first  Rothschild's  mother  lived  till  within  a  score  of 
years  ago,  and  where  now,  among  the  dark,  crazy  tenements,  so  delight- 
ful to  the  artist's  eye,  there  glitters  one  of  the  most  gorgeously-adorned 
synagogues  in  Europe.  A  change  indeed  from  the  time  when  Jews  were 
hunted  and  hooted  at  in  these  proud,  fanatical  cities,  which  were  not 
above  robbing  them  and  making  use  of  them  even  while  they  jeered 
and  persecuted  !  The  great  place  in  front  of  the  emperor's  hall  was 
the  appointed  ground  for  tournaments,  and  as  we  lounge  on  we  come  to 
;a  queer  house,  with  its  lowest  comer  cut  away  and  the  oriel  window 
above  supported  on  a  massive  pillar ;  from  that  window  tradition  says 
that  Luther  addressed  the  people  just  before  starting  for  Worms  to  meet 
the  Diet.  This  other  house  has  a  more  modem  look :  it  is  Goethe's 
birthplace,  the  house  where  the  noted  housekeeper  and  accomplished 
hostess,  "  Frau  Rath  " — or  "  Madam  Councillor,'*  as  she  was  called — 
gathered  round  her  those  stately  parties  that  are  special  to  the  great 
free  cides  of  olden  trade.  Frankfort  has  not  lost  her  reputation  in  this 
line :  her  merchants  and  civic  functionaries  still  form  an  aristocracy, 
•callings  as  well  as  fortunes  are  hereditary,  and  if  some  modem  ele- 


6M  DOWN  THE   RHINE 

mentB  bare  crept  in,  thejr 
hare  not  jet  superaeded 
the    oia.      The  ngattw 
and  boating    pazties  on 
.   tbe  Main  reminded  one 
of  tbe  stir  on  the  banks 
\  of  tbe  Barnes    between 
Richmond  and  Twicken- 
ham,    where    so    many 
"  city  men  "  have  lovely 
retired  homes;  bat  Frank- 
fort has  its  Rew  Gardens 
also,  where  tropical  flora, 
9  tree  ferns  and  palms,  in 
},  immense    conservatories, 
f  make  peipetnal  snnimer, 
while  tho  Zoological  Oar 
den  and  the  bands  that 
play  there  are    another 
point  of  attraction.  Still, 
I  think  one  more  willing- 
ly seeks  the  older  parts 
— the  Ash-tree  Gate,  with 
itemachicolated  tower  and 
^K-  turrets,  the  only  remnants 

of  tiie  fortifications ;  the  old  cemetery,  where  Goethe's  mother  is  buried; 
and  the  old  bridge  over  the  Main,  with  the  statne  of  Charlemagne  bearing 
the  globe  of  empire  in  hU  hand  which  an  innocent  countryman  from  the 
neighbouring  village  of  Sacbsenbausen  mistook  for  the  man  who  invented 
the  Aeppelvm,  a  favourite  drink  of  Frankfort.  This  bridge  has  another 
curiosity — a  gilt  cock  on  an  iron  rod,  commemorating  the  usual  legend 
of  the  "  first  living  thing  "  sent  across  to  cheat  the  devil,  who  had  ex- 
torted such  a  price  from  the  architect.  But  although  the  ancient  remains 
are  attractive,  we  must  not  forget  the  Bethman  Museum,  with  its  trea- 
sure of  Dannecker  Ariadm,  and  the  Stadel  Art  Institute,  both  the  lega- 
cies of  public-spirited  merchants  to  their  native  town ;  the  Bourse,  wheie 
a  business  hardly  second  to  any  in  London  is  done ;  and  the  memory  of 
BO  many  great  minds  of  modem  times — Borne,  Brentano,  Bettinavon 
Amim,  Feurbach,  Savigny,  Schlossen,  etc.  The  Roman  remains  at  Ob- 
eritzel  in  the  neighbourhood  ought  to  have  a  chapter  to  themselves 
forming  as  they  do  a  miniature  Pompeii,  but  the  Rhine  and  its  best 
scenery  calls  us  away  from  its  great  tributary,  and  we  already  b^n  to 


DOWN  THE  BHINE. 


feel  the  witchery  vrhich  a  popular  poet  has  ezpregaed  in  these  lines,  sap- 
posed  to  be  a  warning  from  a  father  to  a  wandering  aon  : 


This  is  the  Eheingau,  the  most  beautiful  valley  of  rocts  and  bed  of 
rapids  which  occurs  daring  the  whole  course  of  the  river — the  region 
most  crowded  with  legends  and  castles,  and  most  frequented  by  strangerB 
by  railroad  and  steamboat.     The  right  bank  is  at  first  the  only  one  that 


aonHB'8  KmrapuoK 


^06  DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

calls  for  attention,  dotted  as  it  is  with  townlets^  each  nestled  in  ordiards, 
l^dens  and  vineyards,  with  a  church  and  steeple,  and  terraces  of  odd, 
overhanging  houses ;  little  stone  arbours  trellised  with  grapevines ;  great 
<;rosses  and  statues  of  patron  saints  in  the  warm,  soft-toned  red  sand- 
stone of  the  country ;  fishermen's  taverns,  with  most  of  the  business 
-done  outside  under  the  trees  or  vine-covered  piazza ;  little,  busy  wharfs 
and  works,  aping  joyfully  the  bustle  of  large  seaports,  and  succeeding 
in  miniature ;  and  perhaps  a  burgomaster's  garden,  where  that  portly 
4uid  pleasant  functionary  does  not  disdain  to  keep  a  tavern  and  serve 
his  customers  himself,  as  at  Walluf. 

Taking  boat  again  at  Bingen,  and  getting  safely  through  ike  Rhine 
^'  Hell  Gate,"  the  "  Hole,"  whose  terrors  seem  as  poetic  as  those  of  the 
Lorelei,  we  pass  the  famous  Mouse  Tower,  and  opposite  it  the  ruined 
Ehrenfels ;  Assmanshausen,  with  its  dark-coloured  wine  and  its  custom 
of  a  May  or  Pentecost  feast,  when  thousands  of  merry  Bhinelanders 
spend  the  day  in  the  woods,  dancing,  drinking  and  singing,  baskets  out- 
spread in  modified  and  dainty  pic-nic  fEishion,  torches  lit  at  night  and 
bands  playing  or  mighty  choruses  resounding  through  the  woods ;  St 
Olement's  Chapel,  just  curtained  from  the  river  by  a  grove  of  old  pop- 
lars and  overshadowed  by  a  ruin  with  a  hundred  eyes  (or  windows), 
while  among  the  thickly-planted,  crooked  crosses  of  its  churchyard  old 
peasant^women  and  children  run  or  totter,  the  first  telling  their  beads,  the 
second  gathering  flowers,  and  none  perhaps  remembering  that  the  chapel 
was  built  by  the  survivors  of  the  families  of  the  robb^knights  of 
Sheinstein  (one  of  the  loveliest  of  Rhine  ruins)  and  three  other  con- 
federated castles,  whom  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg  treated,  rightly  enough, 
according  to  the  Lynch  law  of  his  time.  They  were  hung  wherever 
found,  but  their  pious  relations  did  not  forget  to  bury  them  and  atone 
for  them  as  seemingly  as  might  be. 

Bacharaoh,  if  it  were  not  famed  in  Germany  for  its  wine,  according 
to  the  old  rhyme  declaring  that 

At  WUrsbuig  on  the  Stein, 
At  Hockheim  on  the  Main, 
At  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine, 
There  grows  the  best  of  wine, 

would  or  ought  to  be  noticed  for  its  wealth  of  old  houses,  and  its  many 
architectural  beauties,  from  the  ruined  (or  rather  unfinished)  chapel  of 
St  Werner,  now  a  wine-press  house,  bowered  in  trees  and  surrounded  by  a 
later  growth  of  crosses  and  tombstones,  to  the  meanest  little  house  crowd- 
ing its  neighbour  that  it  may  bathe  its  doorstep  in  the  river — houses  that 
when  their  owners  built  and  patched  them  from  generation  to  generation, 
little  dreamt  that  they  would  stand  and  draw  the  artist's  eye  when  the 
•castle  was  in  ruins.     Similarly,  the  many  historical  incidents  that  took 


ii 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  607 

place  in  Bacbarach  have  lived  less  long  in  the  memory  of  inhabitants  and 
visitors  than  the  love-story  connected  with  the  ruined  castle— that  of 
Agnes,  the  daughter  of  the  count  of  this  place  and  niece  of  the  great 
Barbarossal  whom  her  father  shut  up  here  with  her  mother  to  be  out  of 
the  way  of  her  lover,  Henry  of  Braunschweig.  The  latter,  a  Guelph 
(while  the  count  was  a  Ghibelline)  managed,  however,  to  defeat  the 
father's  plans  :  the  mother  helped  the  lovers,  and  a  priest  was  smuggled 
into  the  castle  to  perform  the  marriage,  which  the  father,  after  a  useless 
outburst  of  rage,  wisely  acknowledged  as  valid.  The  colouring  of 
many  buildings  in  this  part  of  Rhineland  is  very  beautiful,  the  red 
sandstone  of  the  neighbourhood  being  one  of  the  most  picturesque  of 
building  materials.  Statues  aifd  crosses,  as  weU  as  churches  and  castles, 
are  built  of  it,  and  even  the  rocks  have  so  appealed  by  their  formation 
to  the  imagination  of  the  people  that  at  Schonberg  we  meet  with  a  le- 
gend of  seven  sisters,  daughters  of  that  family  whose  hero.  Marshal 
Schomberg,  the  friend  and  right  hand  of  William  of  Orange,  lies  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  honoured  as  marshal  of  France,  peer  of  Great 
Britain  and  grandee  of  Portugal,  and  who  for  their  haughtiness  toward 
their  lovers,  were  turned  into  seven  rocks,  through  part  of  which  now 
runs  the  irreverent  steam-engine,  ploughing  through  the  tunnel  that 
cuts  off  a  comer  where  the  river  bends  again. 

Now  comes  the  gray  rock  where,  as  all  the  world  knows,  the  Lorelei 
lives,  but  as  that  graceful  myth  is  familiar  to  all,  we  will  hurry  past  the 
mermaid's  home,  where  so  much  salmon  used  to  be  caught,  that  the 
very  servants  of  the  neighbouring  monastery  of  St  Goar  were  forbidden 
to  ^  salmon  more  than  three  times  a  week,  to  go  and  take  a  glimpse 
of  St.  Goarshausen,  with  its  convent  founded  in  the  seventh  century  by 
one  of  the  first  Celtic  missionaries,  and  its  legend  of  the  spider  who  re- 
medied the  carelessness  of  the  brother  cellarer,  when  he  left  the  bung 
out  of  Cdarlemagne's  great  wine-cask,  by  quickly  spinning  across  the 
opening  a  web  thick  enough  to  stop  the  flow  of  wine.  A  curious  relic 
of  olden  time  and  humour  is  shown  in  the  cellar — ^an  iron  collar,  grim- 
looking,  but  more  innocent  than  it  looks,  for  it  was  used  only  to  pin  the 
unwary  visitor  to  the  wall,  while  a  choice  between  a  "  baptism  "  of  water 
and  wine  was  given  him.  The  custom  dates  back  to  Charlemagne's 
time.  Those  who,  thinking  to  choose  the  least  evil  of  the  two,  gave 
their  voice  for  the  water,  had  an  ample  and  unexpected  shower-bath 
while  the  wine-drinkers  were  crowned  with  some  tinseled  wreath,  and 
given  a  large  tankard  to  empty.  On  the  heights  above  the  convent 
stood  the  "  Cat "  watching  the  "  Mouse  "  on  the  opposite  bank  above 
Wellmich,  the  two  names  commemorating  an  insolent  message  sent  by 
Count  John  III.  of  the  castle  of  Neu-Katzellenbogen  to  Archbishop 
Kuno  of  Falkenstein,  the  builder  of  the  castle  of  Thumberg,  "  that  he 


608  DOWN  THE  RHINR 

greeted  him  and  hoped  he  would  lake  good  care  of  hia  moaee,  that  his 
(John's)  cat  might  not  eat  it  up."  And  now  we  paw  a  chain  of  castles, 
rains  and  villages ;  rocks  with  such  names  as  the  Prince's  Head ;  lead, 
copper  and  silver  works,  with  all  the  activity  of  modern  life,  stuck  od 


BHDN'QBAFBNBTEIK. 

like  a  puppet  show  to  the  background  of  a  solemn  old  picture,  a  rooky, 
soUtary  island,  "  The  two  Brothers,"  the  twin  castles  of  Liebenstein  and 
Stembertho  same  which  Bulwer  has  immortaliBed  in  hia  PUgritru'of 
of  the  Shine,  and  at  their  feet,  close  to  the  shore,  a  modern-looking 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  609 

building,  the  former  Bedemptorist  convent  of  Bornhofen.     As  we  step 
out  there  is  a  rude  quay,  four  large  old  trees  and  a  wall  with  a  pinnacled 
niche,  and  then  we  meet  a  boatful  of  pilgrims  with  their  banners,  for 
this  is  one  of  the  shrines  that  are  still  frequented,  notwithstanding 
many  difficulties — notwithstanding  that  the  priests  were  driven  out  of 
the  convent  some  time  ago,  and  that  the  place  is  in  lay  hands ;  not, 
however^  unfriendly  hands,  for  a  Catholic  German  nobleman,  married 
to  a  Scotch  woman,  bought  the  house  and  church,  and  endeavoured,  as 
under  the  shield  of  "  private  property,"  to  preserve  it  for  the  use  of 
the  Catholic  population  of  the  neighbourhood.     Last  summer  an  English 
Catholic  family  rented  the  house,  and  a  comfortable  home  Tjras  esta- 
blished in  the  large,  bare  building  attached  to  the  church,  where  is  still 
kept  the  GnadenbUd,  or  "  Grace  image,*'  which  is  the  object  of  the  pil- 
grimage— a  figure  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  holding  her  dead  son  upon  her 
knees.     These  English  tenants  brought  a  private  chaplain  with  them, 
but,  despite  their  privileges  as  English  subjects,  I  believe  there  was 
some  trouble  with  the  government  authorities.     However,  they  had 
mass  said  for  them  at  first  in  the  church  on  week-days.     A  priest  from 
Campi  the  neighbouring  post-town,  was  allowed  to  come  once  in  a  week 
to  say  mass  for  the  people,  but  with  locked  doors,  and  on  other  days 
the  service  was  also  held  in  the  same  way,  though  a  few  of  the  country- 
people  always  managed  to  get  in  quietly  before  the  doors  were  shut. 
On  Sundays  mass  was  said  for  the  stittngers  and  their  households  only 
in  a  little  oratory  up  in  the  attics,  which  had  a  window  looking  into  the 
church  near  the  roof  of  the  chanceL     One  of  them  describes  "  our  draw- 
ing-room in  the  corner  of  the  top  floor,  overlooking  the  river,"  and  **  our 
life  .  .  .  studying  Grerman,  reading  and  writing  in  the  morning,  dining 
early,  walking  out  in  the  evening,  teansupper  when  we  come  home  .  .  . 
There  are  such  pretty  walks  in  the  ravines  and  hills,  in  woods  and  vine- 
yards, and  to  the  castles  above  and  higher  hills  beyond  !     We  brought 
one  man  and  a  maid,  who  do  not  know  German,  and  found  two  German 
servants  in  the  house,  who  do  everything.  .  .  It  is  curious  how  cheaply 
we  live  here ;  the  German  cook  left  here  does  everything  for  us,  and  we 
are  saying  she  makes  us  much  better  soups  and  omelettes  and  souffles 
than  any  London  cook."    Now,  as  these  three  things  happen  to  be 
special  tests  of  a  cook's  skill,  this  praise  from  an  Englishman  should 
somewhat  rebuke  travellers  who  can  find  no  word  too  vile  for  "  German 

cookery." 

Turning  up  the  course  of  the  Lahn,  we  got  to  the  neighbourhood  of 
a  small  but  famous  bathing-place.  Ems,  the  cradle  of  the  Franco-Prus- 
sian war,  where  the  house  in  which  Emperor  William  lodged  is  now 
shown  as  an  historic  memento,  and  effaces  the  interest  due  to  the  old 
^mbling  KursaaL     The  English  chapel,  a  beautiful  small  stone  build- 


610  DOWN  THE  RHINE. 

ing  already  ivied ;  the  old  synagogue,  a  plain  whitewashed  building, 
where  the  service  is  conducted  in  an  orthodox  but  not  very  attractive 
manner ;  the  pretty  fern-and-heather-covered  woods,  through  which  you 
ride  on  donkeyback ;  the  gardens,  where  a  Parisian-dressed  crowd  airs 
itself  late  in  the  afternoon  ;  all  the  well-known  adjuncts  of  a  spa,  and 
the  most  delightful  baths  I  ever  saw,  where  in  clean  little  chambers 
you  step  down  three  steps  into  an  ample  marble  basin  sunk  in  the  floor, 
and  may  almost  fancy  yourself  a  luxurious  Roman  of  the  days  of  Dio- 
cletian,— such  is  Ems.  But  its  environs  are  full  of  wider  interest. 
There  is  Castle  Schaumburg,  where  for  twenty  years  the  archdoke 
Stephen  of  Austria,  palatine  of  Hungary,  led  a  useful  and  retired  life, 
making  his  house  as  orderly  and  seemly  as  an  English  manor-house, 
and  more  interesting  to  the  strangers,  whose  visits  he  encouraged,  by 
the  collection  of  minerals,  plants,  shells  and  stuffed  animals  and  the 
miniature  zoological  and  botanical  gardens  which  he  kept  up  and  often 
added  to.  I  spent  a  day  there  thirteen  years  ago,  ten  years  before  he 
died,  lamented  by  his  poor  neighbours,  to  whom  he  was  a  visible  pro- 
vidence. Another  house  of  great  interest  is  the  old  Stein  mansion  in 
the  little  town  of  Nassau,  the  home  of  the  upright  and  patriotic  minis- 
ter of  that  name,  whose  memory  is  a  household  word  in  Germany. 
The  present  house  is  a  comfortable  modern  one— a  chdteau  in  the  French 
sense  of  the  word — but  the  old  shattered  tower  above  the  town  is  the 
cradle  of  the  family.  At  the  village  of  FrUcht  is  the  family  vault  and 
the  great  -man's  monument,  a  modem  Gothic  canopy,  somewhat  bald 
and  characterless,  but  bearing  a  fine  statue  of  Stein  by  Schwanthaler, 
and  an  inscription  in  praise  of  the  ''  unbending  son  of  bowed-down 
Fatherland."  He  came  of  a  good  stock,  for  thus  runs  his  father's  funeral 
inscription,  in  five  alliterative  German  rhymes.  I  can  give  it  but 
lamely  : 

His  nay  was  nay,  and  steady, 
His  yea  was  yea,  and  ready : 
Of  hia  promise  ever  mindful, 
His  lips  his  consdenoe  ne'er  belied, 
And  his  word  was  bond  and  seal 

Stein  was  born  in  the  house  where  he  retired  to  spend  his  last  years  in 
study  :  his  grave  and  pious  nature  is  shown  in  the  mottoes  with  which 
he  adorned  his  home :  "  A  tower  of  strength  is  our  God,"  over  the 
house-door,  and  in  his  library^  above  his  books  and  busts  and  gathering 
of  life-memorials,  "  Confidence  in  God,  singleness  of  mind  and  righ- 
teousness." His  contemporaries  called  him,  in  a  play  upon  his  name 
which,  as  such  things  go,  was  not  bad,  "  The  fonndaXion-atone  of  right, 
the  stumbling-8^0716  of  the  wicked,  and  the  precious  atone  of  Germany.'' 
Arnstein  and  its  old  convent,  now  occupied  by  a  solitary  pri^t :  Baid- 
uinenstein  and  its  rough-hewn,  cyclopean  looking  ruin,  standing  over 


DOWN   THE  SHIKR  gH 

the  mossy  picturesque 
water-mill ;  the  mar- 
ble  quarries  near 
Scbaumbnrg,  worked 
by  convicte ;  and  Diez 
and  its  conglomera- 
tion of  Konses  like  a 
puzzle  endowed  with 
life,— are  all  on  the 
way  to  Limburg,  the 
episcopal  town,  old 
and  tortuous,  sleepy 
and  alluring,  with  its 
shady  streets,  its  ca- 
thedral of  St.  George 
and  ita  monument  of 
the  lion-hearted  Con- 
rad or  Runo,  sur- 
named  Shortbold 
(Kurzbold),  a  nephew 
of  Emperor  Conrad, 
a     genuine     woman- 

li  but  dwarfish  height,  who  is  stud  to  hare  once  strangled  a  lion, 
and  at  another  time  sunk  a  boatful  of  men  with  one  blow  of  his  spear. 
The  cathedral,  the  same  visited  by  our  Bornhofen  friends,  has  other 
treasures — carved  stalls  and  a  magnificent  image  of  Our  Lord  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  a  Gothic  baptismal  font  and  a  richly-sculptured  tab- 
ernacle, as  well  as  a  much  older  image  of  St.  Oeorge  and  ths  Dragon, 
supposed  by  some  to  refer  to  the  legendary  existence  of  monsters  in 
the  days  when  Limburg  was  heathen.  Some  such  idea  seems  also  oot 
to  hare  been  remote  from  the  fancy  of  the  medisevat  sculptor  who 
adorned  the  brave  Conrad's  monument  with  such  elaborately  monstrous 
fignres :  it  was  evidently  no  lack  of  skill  and  delicacy  that  dictated 
such  a  choice  of  supporters,  for  the  figure  of  the  hero  is  life-like,  digni- 
fied and  faithful  to  the  minute  description  of  bis  features  and  statue 
left  us  by  his  chronicler,  while  the  beauty  of  the  leaf-border  of  the  slab 
and  of  the  capitals  of  the  short  pillars  is  such  as  to  excite  the  enry  of 
our  best  modern  carvers. 

Erin. 


612 


WORDSWORTH. 

A  CRITICISM  : — BY    PROFESSOR  LYALL. 

We  accept  the  definitioii.  of  Imagination  given  by  Professor  Wilson  of 
Edinburgh — a  competent  authority — viz.,  "  Intellect  working  under  the 
laws  of  passion."    We  would  only  substitute  the  word  emotion  for  pas- 
sion, and  we  believe  that  was  what  was  intended  in  the  definition. 
Imagination  is  ^*  ideas  seen  in  the  light  of  emotion/'  or  '^  possessed  in 
the  element  of  emotion."    In  that  state  they  generally  assume  a  figura- 
tive form — the  form  of  a  simile  or  metaphor  or  proropopeia,  &c.  Hence, 
poetry  and  poets.     And,  according  to  the  character  of  the  emotion,  will 
be  the  style  or  character  of  the  poetry.  For  example  we  have  the  poetry 
of  the  affections.  •  ^*  Poems  founded  on  the  Affections,"  is  the  title  given 
by  Wordsworth  to  certain  of  his  poems.     We  have  the  *^  Songs  of  the 
Affections,"  by  Mrs.  Hemans.     We  have  the  '^  Pla3rs  on  the  Passions," 
by  Joanna  Baillie.      Bums's  songs  are  essentially  poems  of  the  affec- 
tions ;  and  nothing  could  surpass  the  felicitous  expression  there  given 
of  all  the  varying  emotions  which  enter  into  and  constitute  the  predo- 
minating emotion,  love.      The   '^  Cotter's  Saturday  Night "    is  a  poem 
founded  on  the  affections,  and  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  delineation  of  the 
domestic  scene  that  has  ever  been  presented.    The  incident  and  imagery 
are  all  such  as  serve  most  successfully  to  portray  the  domestic  picture. 
We  have  the  patriotic  ode,  such,  again,  as  '*  Bruce's  Address  to  his  Army," 
the  "  War  Elegies,"  of  Tyrtaeus ;  the  martial  lyrics  of  Campbell ;  the 
'*  Lyre  and  Sword,"  of  Eorner ;  the  imagery  and   style  in  all  these 
strictly  follow  or  obey  the  particular  emotion.     In  Homer  the  predomi- 
nating emotion  is  undoubtedly  the  martial  and  heroic,  and  the  hurry  and 
impetuosity  of  the  description,  and  boldness  of  the  imagery  are  all  in 
accordance  with  the  animating  theme.    We  have  such  fine  things,  how- 
ever, as  that  between  Hector  and  Andromache — ^the  episode  of  Glaucus 
and  Diomede — ^the  night  scene  beside  the  camp-fires — ^the  moon  and 
stars  sailing  in  the  deep  blue  vault  of    heaven,   with  innumerable 
individual  pictures,    each    of   which    has    its    several    emotion    or 
emotions  constituting  the  individuality  and  forming  the  beauty  of  the 
delineation.    The  "  ^neid  "  is  not  so  martial,  though  in  the  account 
of  the  final  sack  of  Troy  in  the  Second  Book,  and  the  wars  with  Tumus, 
it  is  sufficiently  so.     '^  The  coming  event  casting  its  shadow  before,"  of 
Rome's  future  conquests,  is  embodied  in  the  person  of  ^neas.     "  The 
Hegemony,"  in  embryo,  is  already  contained  in  the  conquest  of  Latinm. 


J 


WORDSWORTH.  618 

The  fine  descriptions  of  the  third  and  fifth  books  are  fsuniliar  to  every 
scholar.  The  mystic  character  of  the  sixth  book  : — the  consultation  of 
the  Sibyl — ^the  descent  to  Elysium,  and  the  shadowy  forms  that  flit 
before  yon  on  these  shadowy  plains :  all  produce  a  weird  and  sublime 
effect  on  the  mind.  The  episode  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  in  the  sixth 
book,  owes  its  beauty  to  the  exhibition  of  such  noble  friendship  be- 
tween these  noble  youths,  and  the  grief  of  the  mother  lamenting 
her  dead  son,  who  would  never  be  restored  to  her  affections  again : 
the  pathetic  delineation  of  these  affections  in  the  trial  to  which 
they  were  put  has  always  made  that  episode  a  favourite  passage 
with  the  readers  of  Virgil.  The  loftier  and  sublimer  emotions  are 
those  which  distinguish  the  epics  of  Milton,  as  these  deal  with  the  grand 
tiiemes  of  Heaven  and  Hell — ^the  councils  of  Pandemonium — ^the  wars 
of  the  Angels,  before  Satan  and  his  rebel  host  were  yet  finally  cast 
down — the  Temptation — the  expulsion  from  Eden — the  Bedemptory  Act. 

"  Of  man*8  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  aU  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat. 
Sing  heavenly  muse !  " 

What  emotion  will  you  not  find  in  Shakespeare )  From  the  deep 
tragedy  of  Macbeth  and  King  Lear  to  the  rollicking  humour  of  the 
"  Merry  wives  of  Windsor,"  from  the  melancholy  of  Hamlet  to  the 
trenchant  wit  of  Beatrice  or  Benedick,  or  the  jocund  fun  of  Jaques  and 
Rosalind.  But  the  motion  of  Shakespeare  is  like  the  sea,  fathomless, 
boundles&  You  cannot  sound  its  depths,  or  measure  its  shore&  WTuU 
emotion  wiU  you  find  in  Pope  ?  and  to  the  extent  that  he  is  not  charac- 
terized by  true  emotion,  you  are  not  disposed  to  allow  him  a  place  among 
true  poets.  There  is  plenty  of  intellect ;  there  is  fine  enthusiasm ; 
there  is  splendid  antithesis ;  there  are  admirable  moral  and  critical 
maxims ;  but  there  is  little  true  or  genuine  emotion.  His  emotion  is  of 
the  more  artificial  kind,  as  he  confines  himself  for  the  most  part  to  the 
delineation  of  artificial  life ;  and  that  is  not  the  region  or  element  of 
the  highest  poetry,  if  it  is  of  any.  There  is  pathos  in  the  Epistle  of 
Eloisa  to  Abelard,  and  that,  admittedly,  is  the  part  of  Pope's  writings 
to  which  we  would  go  for  anything  like  poetry  that  would  vindicate  to 
itself  the  name.  It  is  much  the  same  with  Dryden;  and  these  two 
claimants  to  a  niche  in  the  temple  of  the  muses, — ^masters  in  their  own 
peculiar  department,  have  always  appeared  to  us  to  occupy  a  ^*  dubious 
frontier-space  "  between,  not  the  rational  and  insane,  as  Foster  said  of 
Don  Quixote,  but  between  poetry  and  elegant  prose. 


614  WOBDSWORTH. 

Bums  speaks  of  Thomson's  "  landscape  glow/'  and  in  the  same  stanza 
of  the  "  moving  flow  *'  of  Gray  ; 

Thou  oanst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  show 
To  paint  with  Thomson's  landscape  g^ow, 
Or  wake  the  bosom  melting  throe 

"With  Shenstone's  art,  -^ 

Or  pour  with  Gray  the  moving  flow 
•    Warm  on  the  heart 

The  pervading  element  of  Scott  is  the  chivalresque,  and  his  poetry  is 
steeped  in  its  spirit,  and  takes  the  mould  of  its  imagery.  The  fiercer 
and^wilder  passions  give  usfByron — as  in  the  Corsair,  Giaour,  Manfred — 
and  even  Childe  Harold ;  although  there  is  enough  of  the  generous  and 
noble  in  these  poems  to  redeem  them  from  the  charge  of  utter  misan- 
thropy. The  wierd  and  the  mystical  constitute  Coleridge.  The  secret 
of  "  Christabel "  is  still  a  secret  to  most  readers,  and  the  "  Rime  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner  **  still  needs  an  interpreter.  The  worship  of  the  Ideal, 
the  Ideal  of  Beauty,  and  the  Ideal  of  the  social  state,  fonn  the  spirit  of 
Shelley.  ^'  The  Revolt  of  Islam,''  I  dare  say,  would  be  a  great  poem  if 
one  had  patience  to  read  it,  but  it  would  require  one  to  be  smitten  with 
the  same  spirit  with  the  poet  himself,  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  so  vision- 
ary and  tedious  a  narrative.  The  spirit  of  Greek  poetry  is  transferred 
into  modem  thought  or  language  in  the  Endymion  and  especially  the  y 

Hyperion  of  Keats.    And  what  shall  we  say  of  Wordsworth  ? 

An  intense  sympathy  with  humanity  in  all  its  phases,  particularly  its 
lowlier  or  humbler  phases — the  love  of  nature — a  high  admiration  of  all 
that  is  great  and  noble  in  character  and  conduct — a  profoundly  devout 
spirit — a  deep  insight  into  the  subtler  workings  of  the  human  heart — 
with  a  philosophic  cast  of  imagination  peculiar  to  himself.  These  seem 
to  be  the  characteristics  of  Wordsworth,  or  the  more  prominent  features 
of  his  muse.  The  first  of  these  is  especially  conspicuous  in  the  *'  lyrical 
ballads,"  the  earliest  of  his  poems ;  which  were  given  to  the  world 
under  that  name,  but  are  now  published  under  a  different  desig- 
nation. It  may  be  admitted  that  these  poems  frequently  descend 
to  trivialities  which  are  unworthy  of  the  poet,  which  few  will  justify, 
and  most  will  repudiate.  When  they  first  appeared,  accordingly, 
they  were  received  with  almost  universal  derision.  Some  approved, 
others  hesitated  and  disliked;  but  seemed  to  think  that  all  was  not  as  it 
ought  to  be.  They  were  made  the  subject  of  successful  travesty,  by 
one  of  the  Smiths  in  the  "  Rejected  Addresses."  The  great  autocrat  of 
criticism  at  the  time,  Francis  JeSrey,  began  his  review  of  Wordsworth 
with  this  emphatic  oracle  :  "  This  will  never  do  1 "  And  yet,  who 
would  be  without  the  «  We  are  Seven  "  of  Wordsworth-^"  Alice  Fell," 
«  Lucy  Gray,"  even  «  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,"  "  The  Idiot  Boy," 


-  J 


WOKDSWORTH.  615 

and  80  on  ?  The  ^'  We  are  Seven  "  is  an  attempt  to  embody  the  ideas  of 
a  child  respecting  death,  unable  to  take  in  the  thought  of  its  being  any- 
thing more  than  a  temporary  separation — ^hardly  even  separation — ^far 
less  dissolution  or  utter  extinction.  The  loss  of  her  cloak,  by  AUce 
Fell,  is  a  simple  enough  incident  of  humble  life,  and  there  is  nothing  to 
object  to,  perhaps,  in  the  incident  itself :  it  is  the  way  in  which  the  poor 
tattered  garment  was  lost,  and  the  inordinate  grief  of  the  child  in  con- 
sequence, which  are  objectionable  in  the  composition.  ''  Lucy  Oray  '* 
is  an  affecting  incident  affectingly  told,  but  it  perhaps  wants  verisimiU. 
tude,  for  what  father  would  lay  this  command  upon  his  child  on  such  a 
night? 

**  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  nigfat — 
Toa  to  the  town  most  go ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  child,  to  light 
Tour  mother  through  the  snow." 

You  hardly  sympathise  with  the  father  on  the  loss  of  his  child  after 
emplojdng  it  on  such  an  errand.  ''  Gk>ody  Blake  and  Hairy  Gill,"  it 
seems,  is  a  true  story,  intended  to  illustrate  the  power  of  Imagination 
over  our  physical  state,  resulting  sometimes  in  disastrous,  even  Uie  most 
&tal  consequences.  The  story  is  told  of  a  patient  under  the  Knife  of  the 
Surgeon,  or  who  supposed  himself  under  the  knife  of  the  surgeon,  being 
told  that  his  blood  was  oozing  out  drop  by  drop,  and  that  he  could  not 
live  long,  actually  djdng  of  fear ;  it  was  a  cruel  experiment  to  see  how 
far  imagination  would  actuaUy  go.  Harry  Gill  is  the  type  of  a  Cumber- 
land farmer,  who,  taking  revenge  upon  an  old  dame,  his  neighbour,  for 
robbing  his  hedge  to  provide  herself  with  fuel  on  a  cold  winter  evening, 
and  who  was  rather  "  habit  and  repute  **  in  this  way,  becomes  the  sub- 
ject of  an  imprecation  or  minatory  prayer : 

She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing, 

While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm— 
"  Grod !  who  art  never  out  of  hearing 

O  may  he  never  more  be  warm  1  ** 

And  so  it  comes  to  pass  : 

The  oold,  oold  moon,  above  her  head. 

Thus  on  her  knees  did  Goody  pray ; 
Young  Harry  heard  what  she  had  said : 

And  icy  oold  he  turned  away. 

He  went  complaining  all  the  morrow 

That  he  was  oold  and  very  chill ; 
His  face  was  gloom,  ids  heart  was  sorrow, 

Alas  !  that  day  for  Harry  Gill ! 
♦  «  «  ♦  « 

No  word  to  any  man  he  utters, 

A-bed  or  up,  to  young  or  old ; 
But  ever  to  himself  he  mutters, 

«*  Poor  Harry  Gill  is  very  cold." 


£16  WORDSWORTH.  -- 

A-bed  or  up,  by  night  or  day ; 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chi^ter,  still ; 
Now  think,  ye  farmers  all,  I  pray, 

Of  Goody  Blake  and  H^ry  Gill ! 

T!he  *'  Idiot  Boy/'  is  a  type  of  the  idiot  boy  in  many  a  town  or  village 
in  England  and  Scotland.  We  know  not  how  it  is  in  this  part  of  the 
world.  The  mother  is  generally  more  attached  to  that  child  than  any 
other  member  of  the  family.  Notwithstanding  in  this  particolar  case 
Betty  Foy  employs  her  child  on  an  extraordinary  errand  for  such  a 
messenger — to  bring  the  doctor  from  the  town  in  an  emergent  case  of 
sickness,  which  is  not  exactly  explained : 

Old  Susan  Grale,  it  seems,  is  side. 
Old  Susan,  she  who  dwells  alone. 
Is  sick,  and  makes  a  piteous  moan, 
As  if  her  very  life  would  f aiL 

And  Betty's  husband's  at  the  wood, 

Where  by  the  week  he  doth  abide, 
A  woodman  in  the  distant  vale ; 
There's  some  to  help  poor  Susan  Grale, 

What  must  be  done  7    What  will  betide  7 

Betty  Foy  bethinks  her  of  her  poor  boy,  and  resolves  to  send  him, 
proud  even  of  his  competency,  as  she  fondly  flatters  herself  in  the  par- 
ticolar emergency, 

And  Betty  from  the  lane  has  fetched 

Her  pony,  that  is  mild  and  good ; 
Whether  he  be  in  joy  or  pain, 
Feeding  at  will  along  the  lane, 

Or  bringing  faggots  from  the  wood* 

Thus  mounted  the  poor  boy  sets  out  on  his  embassy,  proud  on  his 
part  to  be  entrusted  with  such  a  message.  He  has  not  gone  far,  however, 
before  in  the  very  exultation  of  the  moment,  forgetting  his  errand  and 
everything  else,  he  drops  the  reins,  and  lets  fall  the  "  green  bough  "  he 
held  in  his  hand  for  a  switch,  and  allows  the  pony  to  proceed  at  his 
<'  own  sweet  will"  In  such  circumstances  the  pony,  as  every  sensible 
pony  would,  makes  his  way  leisurely  to  the  nearest  pasture  we  suppose, 
which  happens  to  be  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  roaring  waterfalL  There 
the  pony  feeds  unheeding  of  the  hours,  and  there  the  poor  boy  sits  un- 
wittingly of  the  danger,  and  "  of  moon  and  stars  taking  no  heed."  And 
yet,  who  will  say  so !  Who  knows  what  is  passing  in  that  otherwise 
vacant  mind, ''  the  form  of  beauty  smiling  even  at  his  heart  V*  It  is 
more  likely,  and  the  poet  seems  to  think  so  too,  for  describing  the  var- 


WORDSWORTH.  617 

iooB  surmises  that  pass  through  the  mind  of  the  mother,  who,  anxious 
about  her  boy,  had  set  out  in  quest  of  him,  he  says : 

**  Pei^ps,  and  no  unlikely  thought ! 

He  with  his  pony  now  doth  roam 
The  diffs  and  peaks  so  high  that  are, 
To  lay  his  handit  upon  a  star, 

And  in  his  pooket  bring  it  home.** 

Whetiier  this  be  so  or  not,  the  mother,  too  glad  to  find  her  boy  safe 
where  there  was  so  much  danger,  but  where  the  boy  himself  appre- 
hended none,  exclaims : 

"  *  Oh  !  Johnny,  never  mind  the  Doctor ; 

YouVe  done  your  best  and  that  is  all,* 
She  took  the  reins  when  this  was  said. 
And  gently  turned  the  pony*8  head 

From  the  loud  waterfalL" 

Betuming  homeward  whom  should  they  meet  approaching  them  but 
Susan  Gale  herself  ? 

"  The  pony,  Betty,  and  her  Boy, 

Wind  slowly  through  the  woody  dale ; 
And  who  is  she  betimes  abroad. 
That  hobbles  up  the  steep,  rough  road? 

Who  is  it  but  old  Susan  Gale?** 

And  here  we  have  another  instance  of  the  effect  of  imagination  upon 
the  physical  frame. 

"  Long  time  lay  Susan  lost  in  thought ; 

And  many  dreadful  fears  beset  her, 
Both  for  her  messenger  and  nurse, 
And  as  her  mind  grew  worse  and  worse. 

Her  body  it  grew  better. 

"  She  turned,  she  tossed  herself  in  bed. 

On  all  sides  doubts  and  terrors  met  her 
Point  after  x>oint  did  she  discuss ; 
And  while  her  mind  was  fighting  thus. 

Her  body  still  grew  better. 

'*  'Alas  f  what  is  become  of  them? 
These  fears  can  never  be  endured, 
ni  to  the  wood.**  The  word  scarce  said. 
Did  Susan  rise  up  from  her  bed. 
As  if  by  magic  cured. 


« 


Away  she  goes  up  hill  and  down, 
And  to  the  wood  at  length  is  come ; 

She  spies  her  friends,  she  shouts  a  greeting. 

Oh,  me  i  it  is  a  meny  meeting 
As  ever  was  in  Christendom.  ** 


618  WORDSWORTH. 

Such  is  the  story,  and  it  will  be  aUowed  that  there  is  some 
poetry  in  it  It  and  the  other  piece,  *^  Pet^  Bell,  the  potter," 
are  instances  of  a  peculiar  idiosyncrasy  of  Wordsworth's  miad — a  ten- 
dency to  look  at  things  on  the  two  sides,  the  grave  and  the  gay,  the 
serious  and  the  comic,  and  to  see  these  blending  in  one,  inseparable  to 
the  mind  contemplating  them.  There  is  a  sort  of  '*  aside  "  in  these 
narratives  of  Wordsworth ;  we  might  almost  imagine  a  kind  of  grimace 
on  the  face  of  the  poet :  he  intends  to  be  serious  but  he  cannot  help 
being  comic :  the  humour  ub  of  a  dry  and  subtle  kind,  somewhat  sar- 
donic, but  kindly  withal.  There  is  a  profound  philosophy  too  in  some 
of  the  turns  of  thought,  which  was  of  the  very  essence  and  texture  of 
Wordsworth's  mind.  The  poetry  of  many  of  the  allusions  and  thoughts 
is  exquisite :  they  are  like  veins  of  gold  in  a  seam  of  quartz,  rich  gems  in 
a  rude  matrix.    Take  for  example  the  description  of  Peter  Bell : — 


<( 


He,  two  and  thirty  years  or  more, 

Had  been  a  wild  and  woodland  roTer ; 
Had  heard  the  Atlantic  snigee  roar 
On  farthest  Cornwall's  rocky  shore, 
And  trod  the  cliffs  of  Dover. 


"  And  he  had  seen  Caernarvon's  towers. 
And  weU  he  knew  the  spire  of  Samm ; 
And  he  had  been  where  Linoohi  bell 
Flings  o'er  the  fen  his  pondrous  knell 
A  far  renowned  alarum ! 

"  At  Doncaster,  at  Tork,  and  Leeds, 
And  merry  Carlisle  had  he  been ; 
And  all  along  the  Lowlands  fab, 
And  through  the  bonny  Shire  of  Ayr ; 
And  far  as  Aberdeen. 

"  And  he  had  been  at  Inverness ; 

And  Peter,  by  the  mountain  rills, 
Had  danced  Ids  round  with  Highland  lasses ; 
And  he  had  lain  beside  his  asses 

On  lofiy  Cheviot  Hills. 


« 


And  he  had  trudged  through  Yorkshire  dale. 
Among  l^e  rocks  and  winding  soars. 

Where  deep  and  low  the  hamlets  lie 

Beneath  their  liUle  patch  cf  ekg 
And  Uule  lot  of  ttare. 


"  And  all  along  the  indented  coast. 
Bespattered  with  the  salt-sea  foam ; 
Where'er  a  knot  of  houses  lay 
On  headland  or  in  hollow  bay ; — 
Sure  never  man  like  him  did  roam ! 


^ 


4( 


<l 


WORDSWORTH.  619 

Ab  well  might  Peter  in  the  Fleet, 

Have  been  fast  bonnd,  a  begging  debtor ; 
He  travelled  here,  he  travelled  there ; — 
But  not  the  value  of  a  hair 

Was  heart  or  head  the  better. 

He  roved  among  the  vales  and  streams, 

In  the  green  wood  and  hollow  deU  ; 
They  were  his  dwellings  night  and  day, — 
But  nature  ne*er  oonld  find  the  way 

Into  the  heart  of  Peter  BelL 

In  vain,  through  every  changeful  year, 

IMd  nature  lead  him  as  before ; 
A  primroee  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him 

And  it  was  nothing  more. 

Small  change  it  made  in  Peter's  heart 

To  see  his  gentle  panniered  brain 
With  more  than  vernal  pleasure  feeding, 
Wher€er  the  tender  grass  ioas  leading 

Its  earliest  green  along  the  lane. 

In  vain  through  water,  earth,  and  air. 

The  soul  of  happy  sound  was  spread. 
When  Peter  on  some  April  mom, 
Beneath  the  broom  er  budding  thorn. 

Made  the  warm  earth  his  lazy  bed. 

At  mxm,  wiien  by  the  forest's  edge 

He  lay  beneath  the  branches  high, 
The  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt 
Into  his  heart ;  he  never  felt 

The  witchery  of  the  soft  htae  sky  I 

All  this  is  serious  enough  sorely,  and  yet  it  has  its  isomic  side.    A 
mind  of  so  hard  a  grain  as  to  be  impervious  to  all  the  appeals  of  nature : 


« 


K 


ti 


*t 


A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yeUow  primrose  was  to  him. 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 


"The  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt 
Into  his  heart ;  he  never  felt 
The  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky :" 


provokes  laughter  while  it  excites  pity.  But  Peter  was  an  interesting 
character.  By  a  course  of  circumstances,  which  we  need  not  recount 
here,  and  for  which  the  machinery  of  the  poem  itself  must  be  consulted, 
Peter  became  the  subject  of  a  change  not  unconunon  among  the  lower 
population  of  England,  especially  the  north  of  England,  with  the  mining 
districts  of  Cornwall  and  Wales.  Thrown  in  upon  himself  he  bethinks 
himself  of  his  past  life ;  he  recalls  his  many  misdeeds  :  ''  he  had  a  dozen 


620  WORDSWOBTH. 

wedded  wives ;"  and  his  consdenoe  is  sore  troubled.  Jost  when  he  is 
thus  exercised,  passing  a  chapel  by  the  wayside  he  hears  the  voice  of  a 
preacher  proclaiming  in  earnest  tones  forgiveness  to  the  guiltiest,  and 
urging  to  repentance.  Peter  hears  the  words  of  expostulation  and  en- 
treaty, and  becomes  a  changed  man.  Some  further  experiences,  for 
which  again  we  must  refer  to  the  poem  itself,  work  further  changes 
upon  Peter's  heart.  It  becomes  softer  under  the  humanizing  in- 
fluences :  it  receives  a  new  impress ;  and  like  the  vessels  under  the  fires 
of  his  own  ceramic  art  takes  the  mould  which  the  great  moulder  designs 
for  all  He  would  call  into  His  service. 

There  is  profound  philosophy  in  the  piece  blended  with  quaint  humour. 
The  humour  sets  off  the  philosophy,  the  philosophy  enhances,  or  gives 
point  to  the  humour.  The  lessons  of  philosophy  may  be  best  taught 
sometimes  when  humour  points  the  moral  There  is  deep  insight  into 
the  springs  of  action,  and  set  in  a  framework  of  poetical  imagery,  these 
are  brought  out  into  striking  relief ;  and  the  whole  performance  has  a 
moral  in  it  which  impresses  itself  upon  the  heart,  or  commends  itself  to 
the  mind  of  every  reader. 

The  poems  "  Ruth,"  "  The  Thorn,"  "  The  Female  Vagrant,"  "  Her 
Eyes  are  Wild,"  touch  upon  some  of  the  saddest  and  most  tragic  experi- 
ences of  human  life,  and  they  do  this  so  delicatdy,  and  with  such  skiU 
in  the  management  of  the  poem,  that  you  recognize  the  art  of  the  true  } 

poet,  while  you  acknowledge  the  power  and  pathos  in  the  very  simpli- 
city of  the  composition.  The  story  is  the  same  with  that  of  Hood's 
''  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  only  it  is  connected  with  rural,  while  Hood's  is  con- 
nected with  town  life.  Wordsworth's  poems,  accordingly,  have  the  finer 
setting.  Hood's  are  draped  in  deeper  and  more  sombre  colours.  Words- 
worth's verses  have  all  the  poetry  of  the  accessory  and  conspiring  cir- 
cumstances to  give  them  effect ;  the  poetry  of  Hood  is  in  the  deep 
tragedy  of  the  incident  itself  In  one  of  Wordsworth's  compositions 
there  is  a  deeper  tragedy  hinted  at,  or  implied,  than  belongs  to  Hood's 
tragic  as  it  is ;  there  is  the  fate  of  an  infant  as  well  as  that  of  the 
mother  involved ;  the  mother  becomes  a  wild  and  raving  maniac,  whom 
it  is  dangerous  to  approach  in  her  fiercer  moods ;  in  Hood's  piece  the 
fatal  plunge  into  the  cold  dark  river,  contains  the  climax  of  the  story, 
and  harrowing  as  it  is,  it  is  not  so  harrowing  as  the  other,  softened 
though  that  may  be  by  the  rural  imagery  and  tender  touches  of  which 
the  composition  admits,  and  which  the  poet  knew  so  well  how  to  employ. 

Among  the  ballads  we  would  instance  further — "  Bepentance,  a  Pas- 
toral Ballad,"  "  The  Pet  Lamb,"  *-The  Star-gazers,"  "  The  Reverie  of 
Poor  Susan,"  "  The  Power  of  Music,"  "  The  Wishing  Gate,"  and  we 
stop  here  because  we  must  stop  somewhere.  These  are  all  instances  of 
the  interest  which  the  different  phrases  of  humble  life  possess  to  the 


WORDSWOETH.  621 

mind  of  the  poet  Whatever  interests  the  humblest  interests  him ;  it  is 
the  more  likely  to  do  so  in  proportion  as  the  poor  are  the  subjects  of 
more  unsophisticated  emotion  than  those  raised  abore  them  in  station. 
More  conventional  feeling  comes  into  play  as  we  rise  in  the  social  scale. 
It  IB  either  the  lowest  or  highest  in  rank  that  afford  subjects  for  poetry. 
The  higher  ranks  can  afford  to  be  unsophisticated,  and  the  vicissitudes 
that  overtake  them  often  present  the  most  picturesque  effects.  The 
lowly  cure  unsophisticated,  and  their  condition  is  already  picturesque,  or 
affords  picturesque  positions  for  description.  Wordsworth  is  the  poet 
of  humble  life — chiefly  of  rural  life ;  and  yet  "  The  Horn  of  lament 
Oastle,"  ''  Song  of  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle/'  ''  Artegal  and  Eli- 
dure,"  "  The  Armenian  Lady's  Love,"  show  that  he  can  touch  the  lyre 
as  deftly  on  these  more  ambitious  themes  as  the  most  courtly  of  the 
poets.  Wordsworth  by  no  means  descends  so  low  as  Hazlitt  makes  the 
Lake  Poets,  as  a  class,  do  ;  and  while  he  loves  his  lowly  themes,  he  can 
raise  himself  on  loftier  wing  to  the  very  highest  flight  of  poesy.  He  need 
not  fear  his  pinion,  it  will  not  melt  in  the  empyrean :  it  will  sustain  him 
at  any  elevation.  Some  of  his  odes  are  instances  of  this.  It  was  not 
for  want  of  power  that  he  sought  these  lowlier  subjects ;  it  was  because 
he  really  preferred  them  as  themes  for  his  muse.  We  might  cite  his 
verses  "  To  the  Sons  of  Bums,"  on  "  Rob  Roy's  Grave,"  "  Ellen  Irwin, 
or  the  Braes  of  Rirtle,"  "  To  a  Highland  Girl,"  as  examples  of  the  same 
predominating  tendency  in  the  poet  to  one  class  of  subject  above  all 
others. 

Wordsworth  is  essentially  a  descriptive  poet.  His  love  of  nature 
makes  him  so.  He  cannot  help  himself  He  could  not  refrain  from 
paying  homage  to  the  aspects  of  nature,  as  these  met  his  gaze  or  solicited 
his  admiration,  while,  like  a  true  artist,  he  takes  great  pleasure  in  trans- 
ferring them,  not  to  his  canvas,  but  to  his  page.  Wordsworth,  to  use 
an  expression  of  his  own,  sees  ''  more  into  the  life  of  things  "  than  do 
most  other  poets.  He  makes  them  speak.  Ue  gives  them  a  voice. 
He  interprets  their  language.  The  soul  of  nature  meets  his  soul ;  he 
brings  out  the  thought  that  is  in  a  scene,  or  an  object  Everything  has 
a  meaning  in  itself  or  by  association.  Wordsworth  at  once  penetrates 
to  that  meaning,  and  embodies  it  in  the  most  felicitous  language. 
Witness  his  "lines  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintem  Abbey," 
his  ''  Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Scotland,"  his  **  Sonnets,"  '<  Memorials 
of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent,"  with  many  a  noble  passage  in  the 
"  Excursion,"  are  plentifully  scattered  throughout  his  works.  We  can- 
not quote,  for  we  would  hardly  know  what  to  select  as  most  illus- 
trative of  the  poet's  peculiar  faculty.  Most  of  his  subjects  being  taken 
from  rural  life,  he  is  often  descriptive  when  he  is  not  directiy  or  purposely 
so.    Description  is  the  setting  of  his  compositions — their  outward 


^22  WORDSWORTH. 

framework,  the  vehicle  of  higher  designs  than  most  poets  propose  to 
themselves.  The  noblest  moral  thoughts  and  reflections  are  frequently 
conveyed  or  find  utterance  in  this  way.  Apart  from  such  thoughts  and 
reflections  a  poem  would  be  to  Wordsworth  an  idle  thing — would  not 
fulfil  the  function  of  poesy  at  all.  To  him  the  poet's  vocation  is  very 
high,  and  it  must  be  admitted  to  be  so  if  we  take  Wordsworth  himself 
as  an  example  of  his  own  canon.  Therefore  it  is  that  his  poems  are  so 
profitable  to  be  read,  and  are  a  study  to  all  who  can  peruse  them  aright, 
or  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  they  were  written.  Wordsworth  lived 
for  poetry.  It  was  to  him  like  a  profession.  He  gave  himself  to  it 
with  the  same  devotion  that  a  priest  assumes  his  sacred  vestments,  or  a 
prophet  of  old  donned  his  rougher  habiliments.  Milton  speaks  of  the 
poet  "  with  all  his  singing  robes  about  him."  Wordsworth  hardly  wore 
robes,  but  he  certainly  clothed  himself  with  poetry  as  with  a  garment 

The  identification  of  Wordsworth's  poetry  with  all  that  is  high  in 
principle  and  great  and  noble  in  character  and  action,  is  seen  in  the 
frequent  allusions  to  distinguished  names  and  illustrious  deeds  in  history, 
while  the  spirit  of  devotion  that  breathes  throughout  the  poems  makes 
them  read  in  many  places  like  a  psalm.  The  sonnets,  in  this  respect, 
are  like  a  firmament  studded  with  stars.  Witness  for  example,  the 
Sonnets  "  On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic,"  "To  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture,*'  "  Milton,  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour,"  "  Great 
men  have  been  among  us/'  "  To  Clarkson,"  "  Hoffer,"  "  Feelings  of 
the  Tjnrolese,"  "  Hail,  Zaragoza."  The  sonnet  is  a  favourite  style  of 
composition  with  Wordsworth,  and  seems  especially  suited  to  his  pecu- 
liar genius.  He  has  undoubtedly  made  it  the  vehicle  of  very  noble 
thoughts  and  fine  imaginings.  Some  beautiful  analogies  are  from  time  to 
time  struck  out,  as  the  mind,  with  its  collected  powers,  has  the  chance 
given  it  by  some  favouring  subject  of  embodying  itself  in  that  form. 
'The  Ainction  of  Imagination  to  bring  ideas  together  that  seemed  to  have 
^but  little  connexion  is  finely  seen  in  the  address  bo  a  ruined  castle : 


(« 


Belk  of  Kings  I    Wrook  of  f  oigotten  wan ! 
To  v(nd$  obmtdoned  and  the  prpfng  Man, 
Time  loves  thee  I 


Also  in  these  lines : 


^  How  clear,  howkeeiii  howmairelloTislj  bright, 
The  effolgenoe  from  yon  dist«nt  mountBiii  heftd, 
Which,  strewn  with  snow  smooth  as  the  sky  can  shed, 
Shines  like  another  sun — on  mortal  sight 
Uprimif  09  if  to  check  approaching  night; 
And  all  har  ifurinkUng  Oarg,** 


J 


WORDSWORTH,  623 

And  again  in  that  apostrophe  to  the  moon  : 

"  With  how  sad  Bteps,  O  moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky, 

'  How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  !  * 
Where  art  thou  ?    Thoti  so  often  seen  on  high 

Banning  among  the  olouds  a  wood-nymphs  raoe  ! 
Unhappy  sons,  whose  common  breath's  a  sigh. 

Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a  pace  ! " 

The  **  Address  to  Kilchnm  Oastle,  on  Loch  Awe/'  exhibits  the  same 
faculty  of  Imagination,  which  brings  ideas  the  remotest  from  each  other 
near  in  a  pleasing  and  interesting  unity. 

"  Child  of  loud  throated  war !  the  mountain  stream 
Roars  in  thy  hearing ;  but  thy  hour  of  rest 
Is  come,  and  thon  art  silent  in  thy  age ; 
Save  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  ftnd  sounds  are  caught 

Ambiguous,  neither  whoUy  thine  nor  theirs. 

♦  ♦♦*#♦ 

What  art  Thou,  from  care 
Cast  off— abcndoned  by  thy  ragged  Sire, 
Nor  by  soft  Peace  adopted ;  though  in  place 
And  in  dimension,  such  that  thou  might'st  seem 
But  a  mere  foot-stool  to  your  Sovereign  Lord, 

Huge  Cruachaa. 

*  *  *  *  ^  * 

Tet  He,  not  loath,  in  favour  of  thy  claims 
To  reverence,  suspends  his  own ;  submitting 
AH  that  the  God  of  Nature  hath  conferred. 
All  that  he  holds  in  common  with  the  stars. 
To  the  memorial  majesty  of  Time 
Impersonated  in  thy  cahn  decay ! " 

Wordsworth  transfuses  himself  over  the  external  scene ;  the  feelings 
which  are  his  he  ascribes  to  t^  as  if  it  were  animated^  and  could  be  pos- 
sessed of  the  same  feelings  which  actuate  himself.  A  fine  instance  of 
this  occurs  in  the  reference  he  makes  to  the  influence  which  nature  had 
over  him  when  yet  a  youth  : 

**  But  for  the  growing  youth 
What  soul  was  his,  when  from  the  naked  top 
Of  some  bold  headland,  he  beheld  the  sun 
Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  woiid  in  light !     He  looked— 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth' 
And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 
In  gladness  wnd  deep  joy.    The  clouds  were  touched. 
And  in  their  silent  faces  be  could  read 
Unutterable  love." 

^^  ft 

The  "gladness  and  deep  joy**  are  his,  but  he  transfers  them  to  the 
earth  and  ocean ;  the  ''  unutterable  love  "  was  in  his  own  soul,  or  in 
the  heart  of  God,  but  he  read  it  in  the  clouds  when  touched  with  light. 
This  iransAising  power  of  imagination  is  a  very  active  one ;  it  is  one 


624  W0KD8W0ETH. 

which  we  are  ever  ourselves  exerting,  but  it  \b  only  the  poet  who  pos- 
sesses it  in  the  highest  degree,  and  it  was  especially  prominent  in 
WordswortL  The  doctrine  of  a  pre  established  harmony  had  perpetual 
illustration  in  his  poetry.  Nature  and  his  mind  were  like  two  time- 
pieces which  beat  in  unison — ^the  hands  on  the  dial  of  each  did  not  ^ 
point  a  second  astray.  In  storm  and  calm,  in  cloud  and  sunshine,  in 
every  varying  mood,  they  were  as  one.  This  is  the  beauty  of  the  "  Ex: 
cursion,"  Wordsworth's  longest  poem,  and  the  "  Prelude  " — the  introduc- 
tion to  the  other — which  was  intended  to  trace  the  progress  of  the  poet's 
mind  from  the  time  of  youth  onward  to  his  matured  manhood.  The 
subtlest  shadowing  of  a  scene,  an  object  or  a  circumstance  is  faithfully 
given.  It  is  himself  he  is  describing  in  the  "  Excursion "  as  well  as 
more  directly  and  confessedly  in  the  "  Prelude."  It  is  his  own  mind 
that  is  portrayed,  and  he  is  doubly  represented  in  the  former  of  these 
poems,  for  he  is  the  third  party  in  the  drama,  while  the  principal  inter- 
locutors are  the  "  Wanderer  "  and  the  **  Solitary."  It  has  been  said 
that  Wordsworth  is  destitute  of  the  constructive  faculty,  as  shown  by 
the  plan  of  the  '*  Excursion,"  and  the  characters  he  has  chosen  for  his 
purpose  in  that  poem.  And  there  is  ground,  perhaps,  for  the  criticism. 
The  "Pedlar,"  or  "Wanderer,"  is  a  somewhat  awkward  personage 
to  pitch  upon  to  give  utterance  to  such  remarkable  wisdom  as  that  of 
which  he  is  made  the  mouth-piece.     But  we  remember  that  a  common  -; 

street-porter  was  the  founder  of  the  Alexandrian  school  of  philosophy, 
and  we  think  of  him 

**  Wha  walked  in  gloiy  and  in  joy, 
FoUowing  the  plongli  along  the  mountain  side.** 

And  why  mi^t  not  a  pedlar,   who  has  peouUar  opportunities  of 
gathering  wisdom,  and  extending  his  acquaintance  with  human  life  and 
manniua,  be  chosen  as  the  oracle  of  the  trio  who  are  madetiiespokefflnen 
of  the  poem.    But  it  is  a  small  matter  to  object  to,  for  whoever  are  the 
characters  of  the  piece  their  utterances  are  to  be  taken  for  what  them- 
selves are  worth,  and  not  to  be  estimated  by  the  parties  who  utter  them. 
The  fourth  book  of  the  poem,  "  Despondency  Corrected,"  contains  un- 
doubtedly some  of  the  noblest  passages  within  the  compass  of  English 
poetry. '  "  The  Pastor  "  and  tiie  "  Churchyard  among  the  Mountains," 
we  are  inolined  to  think,  are  a  happy  idea  to  introduce  us  to  the  varied 
experiences  of  life  in  the  very  scenes  where  the  poet  himself  had  his 
dwelling,  among  the  Cumberland  Hills.    It  is  delightful  to  have  the 
scenery  of  such  a  district  of  England  brought  so  graphically  before  your 
view,  and  to  follow  tiie  incidents  so  graphically  portrayed,  to  the  grave- 
yard itself — to  the  narrow  house  appointed  for  all  living.    There  are 
noble  outbursts  from  time  to  time  on  such  subjects  as  civil  freedom — 
religious  faith — the  Church  of  England,  it  had  not  then  shown  the  pro- 


WORDSWORTH.  625 

cliyities  Bomeward  which  it  has  done  since — education — the  moral 
virtaes — all  social  amenities.    There  is  perhaps  too  much  of  preachment 
— something  too  much  in  the  sermonizing  style — ^but  who  would,  from 
such  an  objection  consent  to  part  with  those  noble  passages,  which  are 
certainly  somewhat  out  of  the  run  of  ordinary  poetry  1  As  well  obliterate, 
for  the  same  cause,  the  whole  of  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts,"  the  "  Task  " 
of  Cowper,  or  those  magnificent  passages  in  the  *^  Paradise  Regained  "  in 
which  the  Saviour  maintains  the  high  claims  of  religions  principle 
against  the  great  Tempter.     The  poet  takes  this  mode  of  proclaiming 
the  great  truths  he  inculcates,  and  who  shall  quarrel  with  him  ?    You 
never  fail  to  pick  up  some  gem  of  thought  which  would  never  otherwise 
have  taken  shape  or  form.    The  high-toned  character  of  "  the  grey- 
haired  wanderer  "  is  itself  a  moral  lesson  which  we  would  not  willingly 
forego.     Sentiments  of  the  widest  liberality,  united  with  unbending 
integrity  of  principle  pervade  the  poem.    The  passage  in  which  the 
origin  and  growth  of  the  Greek  mythology  are  given  is  one  of  great 
beauty,  and  there  is  a  spirit  of  charity  even  towards  these  erring  myths 
— or  which  we  might  otherwise  characterize  as  idle  fables — ''delira- 
tiones  *'  .Cicero  calls  them — which  it  were  not  without' its  use  to  imbibe 
and  cherish.     A  fEuthless  and  mechanical  age  and  spirit  he  most  of  all 
deprecates,  above  all  things  denounces ;  and  he  would  welcome  any  creed 
rather  than  such  a  state  of  mind  as  that  in  which  "  soul  is  dead  and 
feeling  hath  no  place.''    The  '*  Excursion  '^  is  a  poem  which  cannot  be 
read  without  the  utmost  benefit  both  to  mind  and  heart,  while  the 
imagination  and  the  taste  will  also  be  correspondingly  improved.    I 
envy  not  the  heart  and  mind  that  would  not  derive  profit  from  the 
perusal  of  such  a  poem. 

Wordsworth  is  a  great  moral  instructor.  If  he  had  not  always 
witten  with  a  moral  aim,  his  writings  have  always  a  moral  tendency. 
His  simplest  ballads  have  a  moral  influence,  while  his  greater  poems  hse 
to  the  sublimest  heights  of  moral  teaching.  We  might  quote  passage 
after  passage  illustrative  of  this,  but  it  were  better  for  every  one  who 
can  be  induced  to  do  so  by  the  advice  of  another  to  peruse  the  poems  for 
himself,  when  he  will  find  the  recommendation  neither  ignorantly  not 
uiiadviBedly  given. 

Wordsworth  shows  himself  equal  to  the  most  difficult  achievement  of 
the  poetic  faculty,  the  Pindaric  Ode.  Different  from  the  briefer  lyric, 
it  evolves  conditions  which  only  the  few  have  mastered  or  been  able  to 
surmount  It  has  a  much  wider  sweep  than  the  ordinary  ode  3  its  lati- 
tude of  thought  is  much  greater,  while  the  links  of  connexion  through- 
out are  feebler,  more  remote  and  more  arbitrary.  The  transition  from 
theme  to  theme  may  be  the  most  unexpected,  and  in  this  very  unex- 
pectedness may  consist  much  of  the  beauty  of  the  particular  thought  or 


626  WORDSWORTH. 

thoughts.  In  ''  The  Thanksgiving  Ode/'  **  The  Ode  on  the  Power  of 
Sound,"  and  ''  The  Intimations  of  Immortaliij/'  these  conditions  are 
strikingly  illustrated,  while  the  compositions  are  characterized  by  great 
originality,  great  compass  of  thought  and  power  of  imagination.  The 
last  named  ode^  especially,  absolutely  takes  you  by  surprise  by  the 
originality  of  its  conceptions  and  the  beauty  of  its  ideas. 

<*  Laodamia  "  is  a  noble  classic  poem  of  which  the  conq>06ition  may  be 
said  to  be  almost  faultless.  The  magnanimity  of  Protesilaus  is  finely 
contrasted  with  the  affection  of  Laodamia,  and  while  the  one  imparts  a 
certain  elevation  to  the  tone  and  character  of  the  composition,  the  other 
gives  a  trembling  tenderness  which  almost  quivers  under  the  burden  of 
emotion. 

Three  other  poems  are  especial  favourites  of  our  own  :  **  Yarrow  Un- 
visited,"  "  Yarrow  Visited,'*  and  "  Yarrow  Revisited.'*  There  is  a  play- 
fulness of  imagination,  and  appositeness  of  reflection,  finely  suited  to  the 
respective  ideas  of  the  three  pieces.  The  ballad  style  of  border  song 
is  finely  imitated,  while  the  rhythm  of  the  composition^is  almost  perfect 

**  The  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  1820,'*  seen  on  the  Continent,  has  always 
struck  us  as  a  singularly  ha;ppj  composition.  It  contains  an  analogy 
which  I  have  always  regarded  the  ablest  that  could  well  be  imagined. 
Comparing  the  figures  on  Milan  Cathedral : — 

**  All  steeped  in  this  portentous  light, 
All  sn£Fering  dim  edipse.'* 

to  the  visages  of  the  angek  on  the  news  of  man's  apostacy  :  these  again 

*'  Darkening  like  water  in  the  breeze." 

a  double  analogy — the  poet  says : — 

<*  Thus  after  man  had  fallen  (if  aught 
These  perishable  spheres  have  wrought 

May  with  that  issue  be  compared) 
Throngs  of  celestial  visages, 
Darkening  like  waters  in  the  breeze, 

A  holy  sadness  shared." 

What  could  surpass  the  subtlety  of  thought  in  the  idea  of  a  shadow 
passing  over  the  faces  of  the  angels  on  the  receipt  of  such  tidings )  The 
effect  of  an  eclipse  quietiy  stealing  over  the  figures  which  crowd  the 
Cathedral  at  Milan,  saints  and  angels  as  well,  is  precisely  realized  to  you 
in  thought  by  the  comparison.  The  subtlety  of  Wordsworth's  mind 
could  not  be  more  strikingly  exemplified* 

We  would  but  weary  our  readers  by  continuing  our  subject  further. 
If  anything  we  have  said  will  have  the  effect  of  leading  thiem  to  the 
perusal  of  Wordsworth,  or  a  greater  appreciation  of  his  poetry,  we  shall 


OLDEN  TIMES  IN  THE  ANCIENT  CAPITAL.  627 

hare  our  reward.  Perhaps  too  something  may  have  been  effected  in  the 
way  of  general  criticism,  and  enabling  th^  reader  to  form  a  more  correct 
idea  of  what  poetry  is,  what  it  may  be,  and  what  it  ought  to  be.  We 
are  glacl  of  the  opportunity  of  expressing  our  own  high  idea  of  the  poet 
whom  we  have  had  the  boldness  to  bring  to  our  critical  tribunal 


OLDEN  TIMES  IN  THE  ANCIENT  CAPITAL. 

(From  the  French  of  Hon,  P.  J,  0.  Chauvecbu,) 
By  J.  M.  LeMoine,  Author  of  ''  Maple  Leaves,''  etc 

There  is  not  ouly  the  quaint  city  of  Champlain — of  Montgomery — of 
Frontenac — of  Bishop  Laval — of  Governor  de  Vaudreuil  and  Montcalm 
— of  Lord  Dorchester  and  Colonel  Dambourges  that  is  rapidly  fading 
away :  there  is  not  merely  the  grim  fortress  of  the  French  rigime,  the 
city  of  early  English  rule — disappearing  piecemeal  in  the  dissolving 
shadows  of  the  past :  a  much  more  modern  town — newer  even  than  that 
so  graphically  pictured  by  our  old  friend  Monsieur  de  Gasp6 — the  Que- 
bec of  our  boyhood — of  our  youth — ^the  Quebec  embalmed  in  the  haunted 
chambers  of  memory  prior  to  1837,  it  also  each  day  seems  retreating^ 
crumbling— evanescing. 

Where  are  those  dashing  regiments  which  every  Sunday  at  4  P.  M. 
(we  were  not  such  puritans  then  as  now)  paraded  in  the  open  space  fac- 
ing the  Esplanade  walls,  under  the  approving  eye  of  the  beauty  and 
fashion  of  all  Quebec,  assembled  from  outside  and  from  inside  of  the  walls 
— ^the  men  proud  of  their  bottle-green  or  dark-blue  coats  and  white  duck 
pants — all  the  vogue  then — whilst  the  softer  sex  and  juveniles  were  ap- 
parelled in  the  gayest  of  toilettes — ^brightest  of  colours — loudest  of 
contrasts:  white— pink — green!  How  densely  packed,  our  Espla- 
nade !  Little  boys  and  girls  crowding  in  every  corner  of  the  lovely 
precipitous  lawn  which,  amphitheatre-like^  stretches  down — ^a  hanging 
garden  of  verdure  and  beauty.  The  splendid  regimental  bands  of  music, 
tiie  gaudily  uniformed  staff  officers  curvetting  on  their  chargers,  with 
nodding  plumes  and  heavy,  glittering  epaulettes  (alas !  the  navy  now 
seems  to  have  monopolised  the  gold  lace  for  their  shoulder-straps)  and 
those  irresistible  sappers  with  their  bushy  beards,  heading  the  pageant^ 
and  those  incomparable  drum-majors,  who  could  fling  high  in  the  air 
their  haUmSy  and  catch  them  so  gracefully  in  their  descent  How  their 
glittering  coats  did  enrapture  the  crowd !  All  these  wondrous  sights  of 
our  youth,  where  will  we  now  find  them  ? 


628        .  OLDEN  TIMES  IN  THE  ANCIENT  CAPITAL. 

The  mountiDg  of  guard,  the  Oromd  Bounds  at  noon,  when  one  of  the 
regimental  bands  (there  were  here  nearly  always  two,  and  an  honourable 
rivalry  existed  between  them)  struck  up  a  martial  strain,  whilst  every 
sentry  in  the  city  was  relieved.  What  a  treat  this  was  to  eveiy  one, 
without  forgetting  the  Seminary  Extemes  (pupils)  with  their  blue  coats 
and  sashes  of  green,  or  of  variegated  tints. 

More  than  one  of  those  lithsome  youths  came  to  grief  for  having 
rushed  away  from  the  Delectus  to  those  Elysian  Fields,  ostensibly  to  hear 
the  band — possibly  to  steal  a  sly  glance  at  ''  sweet  sixteen  "  chatting 
with  the  MUikMres  off  duty.  Here,  too,  was  the  spot  where  amateurs 
came  to  hear  new  pieces  of  music — the  latest  from  London.  Durham 
Terrace  was  the  f&voured  locality  from  whence  the  new  waltz — the 
fashionable  march — the  latest  opera  was  launched  into  city  existence  ; 
from  thence,  it  found  its  way  to  the  salons  of  the  wealthy ;  such  the 
history  of  Di  tanU  palpiti  and  other  sweet  emanations  of  great  Masters. 

Where,  now,  are  those  squads  of  jolly  tars,  in  navy-blue,  irrepressible 
in  their  humours,  when  on  shore,  far  itom  the  quarter-deck  of  the  trim 
frigates  anchored  under  Gape  Diamond  :  upsetting  the  cake-stands,  the 
spruce  beer  kegs — ^helping  open-handed  to  the  contents,  the  saucy  street 
urchins  or  handing  round,  amidst  the  startled  way-farers,  pyramids  of 
horse-cakes,  trays  of  barley-sugar  and  peppermints :  like  real  princes, 
dispensing  the  coin  of  the  realm.    Where  are  those  noisy  gangs  of  swag-  J 

genng  raftsmen — those  Voyageurs  from  the  pa/ys  dUen  hatU^  with  their 
glittering  costumes — hats  festooned  with  red  or  blue  ribbons — ^sashes  of 
variegated  colours — ^barred  shirts — ^tightly  wedged,  three  by  three  in 
caleschesy  like  Neapolitans — patrolling  the  streets — ^interlarding  a  French 
song,  occasionally,  with  an  oath  tolerably  profane — at  all  times,  whether 
in  the  light  of  day  or  the  still  hours  of  night.  No  police  in  those  halcyon 
days ;  but,  with  the  thickening  shades  of  evening,  issued  forth  that  ven- 
erable brotherhood,  the  City  Watch. 

The  watch,  did  we  say  %  Where  are  now  these  dreamy  wanderers  of 
the  night,  carolling  forth,  like  the  Muezzin  in  eastern  cities,  their  hourly 
calls,  "  All's  Well  I  '*  «  Fine  Night !  "  "  Bad  Weather  ! "  as  the  case 
might  be— equally  ready  with  their  rattles  tO;Sound  the  dread  alarm 
of  fire,  or  with  their  long  batons  to  capture  belated  midnight  brawlers, 
that  is,  when  they  saw  they  had  a  good  chance  of  escaping  capture  them- 
selves. Their  most  formidable  foes  were  not  the  thieves,  but  the  gay 
Lotharios  and  high-fed  swells  of  the  time,  returning  from  late  dinners, 
and  who  made  it  a  duty,  nay,  a  crowning  glory  to  thrash  the  Watch  ! 
Where  now  are  those  practical  jokers  who  made  collections  of  door- 
knockers (the  house-bell  was  not  then  known),  exchanged  sign-boards 
from  shop^oors,  played  unconscionable  tricks  on  the  simple-minded 
peasants  on  market-days — surreptitiously  crept  in  at  suburban  balls — in 


OLDEN  TIMES  IN  THE  ANCIENT  CAPITAL.  629 

the  guise  of  the  evil  one,  and  by  the  alarm  they  at  times  created, 
unwittingly  helped  Mondefwr  le  Curi  to  frown  down  these  mundane 
junkettings. 

One  of  these  escapades  is  still  remembered  here. 

The  practical  jokers  in  our  good  city  were  numerous  and  select :  we 
might  mention  the  Duke  of  Richmond's  sons,  Lord  Charles  and  Lord 
William  Lennox ;  Col.  Denny,  71st  Highlanders  ;  the  brilliant  Yalli^res 
de  Saint  Real,  later  on  Chief  Justice ;  Petion  Christie,  P.  A.  De  Gktsp^, 
the  writer;  L.  Plamondon,  C.  Bomain,  and  other  legal  luminaries ;  re- 
calling the  days  of  Barrington  in  Ireland,  and  those  of  Henry  Colbum 
in  Scotland ;  their  petits  sowpers^  bon  motSf  boisterous  merriment  found  a 
sympathetic  chronicler  in  the  author  of  "Ths  Canadians  of  Old.' 
Facile  princeps  for  riotous  fun,  stood  R  Ogden,  subsequently  attorney, 
as  well  known  for  his  jokes  as  for  his  eloquence :  he  recently  died  a 
judge  at  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

Four  of  these  gentlemanly  practical  jokers,  one  night,  habited  in  black 
like  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  drove  silently  through  the  suburbs,  in  a 
cariole,  drawn  by  two  coal-black  steeds,  and  meeting  with  a  well-known 
citizen,  overcome  by  drink,  asleep  in  the  snow,  they  silently,  but  vigo- 
rously seized  hold  of  him  with  an  iron  grip ;  a  €(ihot  and  physical  pain 
having  restored  him  to  consciousness,  he  devoutly  crossed  himself,  and 
presto,  was  hurled  into  another  snow-drift.  Next  day  all  Quebec  had 
heard  in  amazement  how,  when  and  where,  Beelzebub  and  his  infernal 
crew  had  been  seen,  careering  in  state  after  nightfall.  Oh  !  the  jolly 
days  and  gay  nights  of  olden  times  ! 

But  the  past  had  other  figures  more  deserving  of  our  sympathy. 
The  sober  sided  sires  of  the  frolicsome  gentry  just  described :  the  re- 
spected tradesmen  who  had  added  dollar  to  dollar  to  build  up  an  inde- 
pendence— whose  savings  their  children  were  squandering  so  recklessly 
— ^those  worthy  citizens  who  had  filled  without  stipend  numerous  civic 
offices,  with  a  zeal,  a  whole  heartedness  seldom  met  with  in  the  present 
day — at  once,  church  wardens — ^justices  of  the  peace — city  fathers — 
members  of  societies  for  the  promotion  of  agriculture— of  education — 
for  the  prevention  of  fires — who  never  sat  up  later  than  nine  of  the 
clock  p.m.,  except  on  those  nights  when  they  went  to  the  old  Parlia- 
ment Building,  to  listen  in  awe  to  fiery  Papineau  or  eloquent  Bourdages 
thunder  against  the  Bweaucracy — who  subscribed  and  paid  liberally 
towards  every  work  of  religion — of  charity — of  patriotism — who  every 
Saturday  glanced  with  a  trembling  eye  over  the  columns  of  the  Official 
Gazette,  to  ascertain  whether  Grovernment  had  not  dismissed  them  from 
the  Militia  or  the  Commission  of  the  Peace— for  having  attended  a  pub- 
lic meeting,  and  having  either  proposed  or  seconded  a  motion  backing 


630  ON  THE  VU  SAN  BASIUO. 

up  Papineau  and  censuring  the  Governor.    Thrilling — jocund — simple 
warlike  day  of  1837,  where  art  thou  flown  ? 

J.  M.  L. 


ON  THE  VIA  SAN  BASIUO. 


In  Borne,  1851,  a  cold  dreary  day  in  December— one  of  those  days  in 
which  a  man's  ambition  seems  to  desert  him  entirely,  leaving  only  its 
grinning  skeleton  to  mock  him.  Depressing  as  was  the  weather  to  a 
man  who  had  cheerfulness  as  a  companion  by  which  to  repel  its  bluster- 
ing attacks,  and  raise  his  mind  above  the  despondency  it  was  calculated 
to  produce,  how  much  more  so  to  one  whose  hope  had  gone  out  as  a 
flickering  lamp  in  a  sudden  gust  of  wind,  and  the  sharp  steel  of  whose 
ambition  had  turned  to  pierce  his  own  heart  t 

Such  a  man,  on  the  day  mentioned,  was  walking  along  the  Via  San 
BasiUo.  He  was  small  in  stature,  poorly  clad,  and  so  thin,  and  even 
cadaverous,  that  the  casual  observer  might  have  been  under  apprehension 
lest  a  gust  of  wind  a  little  stronger  than  the  average  might  blow  him 
entirely  away ;  yet  his  air  and  manner  were  proud  and  haughty,  and 
what  little  evidences  of  feeling  peered  through  the  signs  of  dissipation 
too  apparent  on  his  naturally  attractive  face,  were  those  of  genuine  re- 
finement. He  was  accompanied  by  a  cicerone,  or  servant,  as  villainous- 
looking  a  fellow  as  one  often  meets,  even  in  Italy,  where  an  evil 
expression  is  so  often  seen  stamped  on  handsome  features. 

Along  the  Via  San  Basilio  the  two  men  walked  until  they  stood  oppo- 
site the  door  of  No.  51.  Sacred  ground  this,  and  historical  as  well. 
Art  had  her  votaries  here,  as  the  tourists  of  to-day  will  find  she  still  has, 
at  whose  shrines  pilgrims  from  afar  and  from  near  worshipped,  and  grew 
better  and  stronger  for  their  ministrations.  Crawford,  then  at  the  acme 
of  his  fame,  had  his  constantly-thronged  studio  in  the  immediate  vicinity, 
while  those  at  No.  51  embraced,  among  others,  that  of  Tenerani,  the 
famous  Italian  sculptor,  whose  work  is  always  in  such  fine  dramatic  taste, 
although  he  never  sacrifices  his  love  and  deep  feeling  of  reverence  for 
Nature,  combining  that  with  the  most  delightful  charms  of  Greek  art. 
Among  this  artist's  most  noted  works  will  be  remembered  his  ''  Descent 
firom  the  Gross,"  which  tourists  visiting  the  Torlonia  chapel  in  the 
Lateran  never  gaze  upon  without  a  thrill.  The  house  was  owned  and 
also  occupied  by  Bienaim^,  a  French  sculptor  who  afterward  became 
famous. 

In  the  immediate  vicinity  stands  the  famous  Palazzo  Barberini,  b^gun 
by  Urban  YIH.  (Maffeo  Barberini),  who  sat  in  the  pontifical  chair  from 
1623  to  1644,  and  finished  by  Bernini  in  1640.    This  palace  contains 


ON  THE  VIA  SAN   6ASILI0.  631 

many  paintings  of  historical  interest  by  Raphael,  Titian,  Guido,  Claude 
and  others.  The  one  by  the  first-nientioned  artist  is  a  Fornarinay  and 
bears  the  autograph  of  the  painter  on  the  armlet.  But  the  picture  that 
attracts  the  most  attention  here  is  one  of  world-wide  reputation,  copies, 
engravings  and  photographs  of  which  are  everywhere  to  be  met  with— 
Quido's  Beatrice  CencL  A  great  divergence  of  opinion,  as  is  well 
known,  exists  in  regard  to  the  portrait.  It  bears  the  pillar  and  crown 
of  the  Colonnas,  to  which  family  it  probably  belonged.  According  to 
the  family  tradition,  it  was  taken  on  the  night  before  her  execution. 
Other  accounts  state  that  it  was  painted  by  ^uido  from  memory  after 
he  had  seen  her  on  the  scaffold.  Judging  from  the  position  in  which 
the  poor  girl's  head  is  represented,  one  would  more  readily  give  credence 
to  the  latter  story,  and  think  the  artist's  memory  had  preserved  her 
look  and  position  as  she  turned  her  head  for  a  last  look  at  the  brutal, 
bellowing  crowd  behind. 

In  the  piazza  of  the  palace  is  a  very  beautiful  Cpuntain,  utilized  by 
one  of  the  oldest  Boman  statues,  representing  a  faun  blowing  water 
horn  a  conch-shell. 

But  we  must  return  to  the  Via  San  Basilio,  and  the  two  wayfarers 
we  left  standing  in  front  of  No.  51.  After  gazing  a  moment  at  the 
number  to  assure  themselves  that  they  were  right,  they  entered,  anri 
knocked  at  the  first  door,  which  was  opened  by  the  occupant  of  the 
apartment.  He  was  an  artist  and  a  man  of  very  marked  characteris- 
tics. Seven  years  later  Hawthorne  wrote  as  follows  of  him  .  '^  He  is  a 
plain,  homely  Yankee,  quite  unpolished  by  his  many  years'  residence  in 
Italy.  He  talks  ungrammatically ;  walks  with  a  strange,  awkward  gait, 
and  stooping  shoulders ;  is  altogether  unpicturesque,  but  wins  one's  con- 
fidence by  his  very  lack  of  grace.  It  is  not  often  that  we  see  an  artist 
so  entirely  free  from  affectation  in  his  aspect  and  deportment  His 
pictures  were  views  of  Swiss  and  Italian  scenery,  and  were  most  beau- 
tiful and  true.  One  of  them,  a  moonlight  picture,  was  really  magical 
•—the  moon  shining  so  brightly  that  it  seemed  to  throw  a  light  even  be- 
yond the  limits  of  the  picture ;  and  yet  his  sunrises  and  sunsets,  and 
noontides  too,  were  nowise  inferior  to  this,  although  their  excellence  re- 
quired somewhat  longer  study  to  be  fully  appreciated.'* 

After  this  introduction  by  our  sweet  and  quaint  romancer,  the  reader 
will  hardly  need  be  told  that  the  two  strangers  stood  in  the  presence  of 
America's  now  illustrious  artist,  George  L.  Brown.  But  one  seeing 
him  then,  as  he  stood  almost  scowling  at  the  two  strangers,  would 
hardly  have  idealized  him  into  the  artist  whose  pencil  has  done  so  much 
of  late  years  to  give  American  art  a  distinctive  name  through  his  poet- 
ical delineations  of  the  rare  sun-tinted  atmosphere  that  hovers  over 
Italian  landscapes.    However,  our  apology  for  him  must  be  that  the 


632  ON  THE   VIA  BAN  BASILIC. 

day  was  raw  and  blustering,  and  that  he  had  no  sooner  caught  sight  of 
the  men  through  his  window,  as  they  hesitatingly  entered  the  door, 
than  his  suspicions  were  aroused. 

The  Italian  acted  as  spokesman,  and  inquired  if  there  were  any 
rooms  to  let  in  the  building.  Brown,  thinking  this  the  easiest  way  of 
ridding  himself  of  the  visitors,  went  in  search  of  the  landlord,  who 
came,  and  after  a  moment's  conversation  the  whole  party  entered  the 
studio,  much  to  its  owner's  displeasure. 

The  cicerone  did  most  of  the  talking,  though  now  and  then  the  other 
made  a  remark  or  two  in  .broken  Italian.  But  this  was  only  for  the 
first  few  moments.  He  soon  became  oblivious  of  all  save  art,  of  which 
one  could  see  at  a  glance  he  was  passionately  fond.  One  of  Mr.  Brown's 
pictures — a  large  one  he  was  then  engaged  on — particularly  attracted 
his  attention.  He  drew  closer  and  closer  to  the  canvas,  examining  it 
with  a  minuteness  that  showed  the  connoisseur,  and  finally  remarked : 
**  It  is  very  fine  in  celour,  sir,  and  the  atmosphere  is  delicion&  Why 
have  I  not  beard  of  you  before  ? "  examining  the  comer  of  the  canvas 
for  the  artist's  name,  but  speaking  in  a  tone  and  with  an  air  that  gave 
Brown  the  impression  he  was  indulging  in  the  random  flattery  so  cur- 
rent in  studios.  So,  ignoring  the  question,  he  asked  with  a  slight  shrug 
of  the  shoulders,  "  Are  you  an  artist  1 " 

"  1  paint  a  little,"  was  the  reply,  with  an  air  of  modesty  which  Brown 
mistook  for  the  bashful  half-assertioii  of  some  daubing  amateur. 

Just  then  the  cicerone  came  forward  and  announced  that  the  bargain 
was  completed  and  the  room  ready  for  occupancy. 

**  I  shall  be  happy — no,  happy  is  not  a  good  word  for  me— I  shall  be 
glad  to  see  you  in  my  studio  when  I  have  moved  in,  and  perhaps  you 
may  see  some  things  to  please  you." 

So  saying,  the  stranger  departed,  leaving  Brown  not  a  whit  better 
impressed  with  him  than  at  first. 

The  next  morning  the  two  called  again,  when  the  gentleman  made 
an  examination  of  the  room  selected  the  day  before,  having  met  Mr. 
Brown  in  the  hall-way  and  invited  him  in.  On  entering,  the  new  occu- 
pant took  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of  chalk  and  a  compass  and  made  a 
number  of  circles  and  figures  on  the  floor  to  determine  when  the  sun 
would  shine  in  the  room.  Brown  watched  him  with  a  certain  d^ree 
of  curiosity  and  amusement,  and  finally,  concluding  he  was  half  crazy, 
returned  to  his  own  studio. 

The  next  day  the  cicerone  called  alone  to  see  about  some  repairs, 
when  Brown  hailed  him  :  "  Buono  giorrw.  Che  i  qttesto  ?  "  ('*  Oood- 
day.    Who  is  that  1 ") 

"iVim  sapetef*  (Don't  you  know?"),  was  the  Italian's  response. 
"  Why,  that  is  the  celebrated  Brullof." 


ON  THE  VIA   SAN  BASILIC.  633 

Brown  started  as  though  shot  First  there  flashed  through  his  brain 
the  remembrance  of  how  cavalierly  he  had  treated  the  distinguished 
artist  and  then  a  quick  panorama  of  his  recent  history,  which  had  been 
the  gossip  of  studios  and  art-circles  for  some  time  back.  ^*  I  must  go 
to  him/'  he  said,  ''  and  apologize  for  not  treating  him  with  more  def- 
erence." 

"  Non  signorey**  was  the  cicerone's  response.  "  Never  mind  :  let  it  rest 
He  is  a  man  of  the  world,  and  pays  little  heed  to  such  things.  Besides, 
he  is  so  overwhelmed  with  his  private  griefs  that  he  has  probably  no- 
ticed no  slight'' 

However,  when  the  great  Russian  artist  took  possession  of  his  studio, 
his  American  brother  of  the  pencil  made  his  apology,  and  received  this 
response  :  "  Don't  waste  words  on  so  trivial  a  matter.  Do  I  not  court 
the  contempt  of  a  world  that  I  despise  to  my  heart's  core  1  Say  no 
more  about  it.  Run  in  and  see  me  when  agreeable  ;  and  if  you  have 
no  better  callers  than  such  a  plaything  of  fate  as  I,  maybe  you  will  not 
refuse  me  occasional  admittance." 

The  Russian  artist  now  shunned  notoriety  as  he  had  formerly  courted 
it  Little  is  known  of  his  history  beyond  mere  rumour,  and  that  only 
in  artistic  circles.  He  was  bom  at  St.  Petersburg  in  1799  or  1800,  and 
gave  himself  to  the  study  of  art  at  an  early  age,  becoming  an  especial 
proficient  in  colour  and  composition.  One  of  his  most  widely-known 
works  is  ''  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,"  which  created  great  enthusiasm  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago.  This,  however,  was  painted  during  his  career 
of  dissipation,  and  its  vivid  colouring  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  from 
a  soul  morbid  with  secret  woes  and  craving  a  nepenthe  which  never 
came. 

The  young  artist  was  petted  and  idolized  by  the  wealth  and  nobility 
of  St  Petersburg,  where  he  married  a  beautiful  woman,  and  became 
court-painter  to  the  Czar  Nicholas  about  the  year  1830.  For  some  years 
no  couple  lived  more  happily,  and  no  artist  swayed  a  greater  multitude 
of  fashion  and  wealth  than  he ;  but  scandal  began  to  whisper  that  the 
Czar  was  as  fond  of  the  handsome,  brilliant  wife  of  the  young  court- 
painter  as  the  cultivated  people  of  St  Petersburg  were  of  the  husband's 
marvelously  coloured  works ;  and  when  at  last  the  fact  became  known 
to  Brullof  that  the  monarch  who  had  honoured  him  through  an  intelli- 
gent appreciation  of  art  had  dishonoured  him  through  a  guilty  passion 
for  his  wife,  he  left  St  Petersburg,  swore  never  again  to  set  foot  on 
Russian  soil  or  be  recognized  as  a  Russian  subject,  and,  plunging  head- 
long into  a  wild  career  of  dissipation,  was  thenceforth  a  wanderer  up 
and  down  the  continent  of  Europe. 

It  was  when  this  career  had  borne  its  inevitable  fruit,  and  he  was  but 
a  mere  wreck  of  the  polished  gentleman  of  a  few  years  previous^  that 


634  ON  THE  VIA  SAN  BASIUO. 

Brallof  came  to  the  Via  San  Basilio,  where,  as  soon  as  the  fact  became 
known,  visitors  began  to  call.  Among  the  first  were  the  Russian  am- 
bassador and  suite,  who  were  driven  up  in  a  splendid  carriage,  with 
liveried  attendants ;  but  after  the  burly  Italian  had  announced  to  his 
master  who  was  in  waiting,  the  door  was  closed,  and  with  no  message 
in  return  the  representatives  of  the  mightiest  empire  on  the  globe  were 
left  to  withdraw  with  the  best  grace  they  could  muster  for  the  occasion. 
Similar  scenes  were  repeated  often  during  the  entire  Roman  season.  He 
saw  but  few  of  his  callers — Russians,  never. 

The  Russian  and  the  American  artists  became  quite  intimate  during 
the  few  months  they  were  thrown  together,  and  Mr.  Brown  has  acknow- 
ledged that  he  owes  much  of  the  success  of  his  later  efforts,  to  hints 
received  firom  the  self-eziled  dying  Russian. 

'^  Mr.  Brown,"  he  said  on  one  occasion,  while  examining  the  picture 
on  the  artist's  easel,  "  no  one  since  Claude  has  painted  atmosphere  as 
you  do.  But  you  must  follow  Calami's  example,  and  make  drawing 
more  of  a  study.  Draw  from  nature,  and  do  it  faithfully,  and  with  your 
atmosphere  I  will  back  you  against  the  world.  That  is  bad,''  pointing  to 
the  huge  limb  of  a  tree  in  the  foreground,  "  it  bulges  both  ways,  you 
see.  Now,  nature  is  never  so.  Look  at  my  arm,"  speaking  with  in- 
creased animation,  and  suddenly  throwing  off  his  coat  and  rolling  up  his  j 
shirt-sleeve.  "  When  you  see  a  convexity,  you  will  see  concavity  oppo- 
site.   Just  so  in  Nature,  especially  in  the  trunks  and  limbs  of  trees." 

This  criticism  made  such  an  impression  on  Brown  that  it  decided  him 
to  go  into  more  laborious  work,  and  was  the  foundation  of  his  habit  of 
getting  up  at  daybreak  and  going  out  to  sketch  rocks,  trees,  and  cattle, 
until  he  stands  where  he  now  does  as  a  draughtsman. 

The  painting  which  Brullof  had  first  admired,  and  which  had  induced 
him  to  compare  Brown  to  Claude  in  atmospheric  effects,  was  a  view  of 
the  Pontine  Marshes,  painted  for  Crawford  the  sculptor,  and  now  in 
possession  of  his  widow,  Mrs.  Terry,  at  Rome. 

During  this  entire  season  the  penuriousness  exhibited  by  Brullof  is 
one  of  the  hardest  phases  of  his  character  to  explain.  Though  he  was 
worth  at  least  half  a  million  of  dollars,  his  meals  were  generally  of  the 
scantiest  kind,  purchased  by  the  Italian  cicerone,  and  cooked  and  eaten 
in  his  room.  Yet  a  kindness  would  touch  the  hidden  springs  of  his 
generosity  as  the  staff  of  Moses  did  the  rock  of  Horeb. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  Roman  season,  Brullof,  growing  more  and 
more  moody,  and  becoming -still  more  of  a  recluse,  painted  his  last  pic- 
ture, which  showed  how  diseased  and  morbid  his  mind  had  become.  He 
called  it  *^  The  End  of  all  Things,"  and  made  it  sensational  to  the  verge 
of  that  fiexible  characteristic  It  represented  popes  and  emperors  tum- 
bling headlong  into  a  terrible  abyss,  while  the  world's  benefactors  were 


NOVELS.  635 

ascending  in  a  sort  of  theatrical  transformation-scene.  A  representation 
of  Christ  holding  a  cross  aloft  was  given,  and  winged  angels  were 
hovering  here  and  there,  much  in  the  same  manner  as  corypMes  and 
lesser  auxiliaries  of  the  ballet.  A  capital  portrait  of  G^rge  Washington 
was  painted  in  the  mass  of  rubbish,  perhaps  as  a  compliment  to  Brown. 
In  contradistinction  to  the  portrait  of  Washington,  were  seen  promin- 
ently those  of  the  czar  Nicholas  and  the  emperor  Napoleon ;  the  former 
put  in  on  account  of  the  artist's  own  private  wrong,  and  the  latter  be- 
cause at  that  time,  just  after  the  coup  iUai^  he  was  the  execration  of 
the  liberty-loving  world. 

In  the  spring  the  Russian  artist  gave  up  his  studio,  and  went  down 
to  some  baths  possessing  a  local  reputation,  situated  on  the  road  to 
Florence,  where  he  died  very  suddenly.  Much  mystery  overhangs  his 
last  days,  and  absolutely  no  knowledge  exists  as  to  what  became  of  his 
vast  property.  His  cicerone  robbed  him  of  his  gold  watch  and  all  his 
personal  effects  and  disappeared.  His  remains  lie  buried  in  the  Pro- 
testant burying-ground  outside  the  walls  of  Rome,  near  the  Porto  di 
Sebastiano.  His  tomb  is  near  that  of  Shelley  and  Keats,  and  the  monu- 
ment erected  to  his  memory  is  very  simple,  his  head  being  sculptured 
upon  it  in  (kUo  rdievo^  and  on  the  opposite  side  an  artist's  palette  and 
brushes.  Earl  Marble. 


NOVELS. 

The  story-tellers  continue  to  shine  in  the  forefront  of  literature.  They 
fill  the  lion's  share  of  the  catalogues  on  the  shelves.  The  railroad  train, 
in  which  our  people  are  coming  to  live  as  the  continental  Europeans  do 
in  the  theatre  and  the  restaurant,  is  wholly  theirs,  and  their  ubiquitous 
and  untiring  acolyte,  the  train-boy,  widens  and  strengthens  their  domi- 
nion every  day.  Other  books  may  be  the  pleasure  and  the  solace  of  the 
parlour  and  the  study,  and  meet  them  on  something  like  equal  terms  in 
that  retirement,  but  only  theirs  go  abroad  over  the  land  and  are  read  in 
motion.  They  radiate,  bright  in  yellow  and  vivid  in  red  and  blue,  from 
the  bookstores,  and  are  ''  dealt  *'  like  cards,  right  and  left,  into  the  laps 
of  travellers.  Could  an  active  Asmodeus  at  any  given  hour,  whisk  off 
the  roofs  of  some  thousands  of  railway  coaches,  he  would  disclose  a  hun- 
dred thousand  travellers  busied  in  warding  off  or  placidly  succumbing 
to  this  literary  deluge.  The  more  railways  and  the  more  passengers,  the 
heavier  this  downfall  of  paper-covered  novels,  and  the  more  overshadow- 
ing the  empire  of  romance.  There  is  no  escape  from  it  at  home  or 
abroad,  in  motion  or  at  rest.  The  popular  taste  is  assailed  on  every  side 
and  in  every  form.     We  have  the  novel  in  all  shapes  and  sizes,  bound 


636  NOVELS. 

and  unbound,  cut  up  into  instalments  and  doled  out  through  a  certain  or 
uncertain  number  of  weeks  or  months,  or  administered  in  a  single  dose, 
compressed  into  the  dime  size  or  expanded  into  three  volumes.  So  with 
subjects.  The  range  is  infinite  in  theme  and  style.  The  historic  novel 
has  itself  many  grades  between  slightly-embellished  history  and  the 
borrowing  of  nothing  actual  but  a  great  name  or  an  important  event 
Another  stately  type  is  the  religious  novel,  assailing  us  from  a  Cath- 
olic, a  Jewish,  a  High-Church,  an  Evangelical,  a  Cameronian,  or 
a  Universalist  standpoint,  and  illustrating  all  known  dogmas  in  all 
known  ways.  Then  comes  the  metaphysical  novel,  devoted  to  the 
minute  sifting  and  dissection  of  human  character  and  action,  as  repre- 
sented in  a  carefully  made-up  collection  of  lay  figures.  For  the  novel  of 
society,  which  outnumbers  all  the  rest,  every  nook  and  comer  of  Chris- 
tendom is  ransacked  for  studies,  and  every  conceivable  idiosyncrasy  and 
situation  depicted  with  great  painstaking,  if  not  always  with  clearness 
and  e£fect  Camp-followers  of  the  host  of  fiction  troop  forward  in  tales 
of  war,  the  chase,  and  the  sea,  wherein  the  sensational  rages  unchecked 
and  undisguised.  All  tastes,  all  ages,  and  both  sexes  are  catered  for. 
We  know  grave  clergymen  and  old  lawyers  who  are  insatiate  of  novels. 
Macaulay  read  all  that  came  in  his  way,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent  Nine 
books  out  of  ten  called  for  at  the  bookseller's  counter  or  the  public 
library  are  novels. 

Generally  speaking,  productions  of  this  class  have  a  short  life.  They 
rarely  survive  the  century,  and  we  know  little  or  nothing  of  the  ro- 
mances or  the  romance-readers  of  a  period  so  near  as  two  hundred  years 
ago.  The  home-life  of  the  eighteenth  century  remains  pictured  for  us 
in  the  still  cherished  pages  of  Defoe,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Richardson  and 
D'Arblay,  but  the  undergrowth  which  swarmed  around  the  trunks  of 
these  trees  is  long  since  cleared  away  into  oblivion.  Leaving  out  Scott, 
the  surviving  novelists  of  the  early  part  of  this  centnry  are  females,  and 
they  are  not  many.  The  flood  came  within  the  last  fifty  years.  That 
period  has  been  the  harvest-time  of  the  romance-writer. 

As  his  fund  of  material  does  not  increase  like  that  of  the  writer  on 
science,  travel,  history,  etc.,  his  productiveness  becomes  marvellous.  In 
the  old  days,  when  stories  were  preserved  only  by  tradition  or  manu- 
script, a  very  few  of  them  went  a  great  way.  These  were  varie4  and 
borrowed  between  one  period  and  language  and  another.  The  nations 
interchanged  their  stock  of  tales.  A  good  romaunt  ran  all  over  Europe^ 
and  a  good  fable  over  Europe  and  Asia.  They  were  short  and  simple* 
Most  of  those  which  have  descended  to  us  are  turned  over  to  the  nursery, 
grown  people  now-a-days  demanding  something  much  more  elaborate  and 
complicated.  And  the  facility  with  which  this  demand  is  met,  and  more 
than  met — crammed  so  that  it  grows  incessantly — is  surprising.     Where 


CUBRENT  LITERATURE.  637 

the  unfailing  and  enormous  crop  of  plot,  incident  and  character  comes 
from  is  a  marvel  to  all  but  novel-writers.  This  fecundity  does  not  ex- 
tend to  the  stage.  The  plots  of  the  old  dramas  have  been  revamped 
and  patched  till  they  are  threadbare ;  which  makes  it  the  stranger  that 
the  novelists  have  not  long  ago  written  themselves  out  We  should  ex- 
plain it  by  the  circumstance  that  they  draw  from  the  life  direct,  and  that 
life  is  exhaustless  in  incident  and  aspect,  but  for  the  fact  that  so  few  of 
their  characters  live  in  popular  memory.  Perhaps  a  score  of  the  novel- 
ists of  the  half  century  have  produced  one  or  more  personages  whom  we 
all  know,  and  shall  for  a  long  time  to  come  name  as  familiarly  as  we 
name  our  living  friends.  But  these  are  the  exceptions.  Speaking  gen- 
erally, we  never  remember,  and  do  not  expect  to  remember,  anything 
about  the  novels  we  read.  They  seem  to  have  the  property  of  blunting 
one's  memory.  Their  glib  descriptions  of  comprehensible  and  not  whol- 
ly impossible  people  and  scenes  flow  on  too  smoothly.  There  is  no  in- 
equality, as  in  real  life,  for  the  mind  to  take  hold  of.  We  accept  it  all 
without  thinking.  We  doubt  as  little  as  we  do  in  a  dream,  and  recollect 
as  little. 

It  is  encouraging  that,  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  this  enormous 
mass  of  fiction,  it  is  pervaded  by  decorum.  The  endless  hosts  of  shadowy 
beings  that  dance  through  its  pages  are  at  least  decent  and  presentable. 
Dicken's  rag-pickers  are  less  offensive  in  their  language  than  Boccaccio's 
gentlemen  and  ladies.  And  in  this  respect  the  tendency  is  still  further 
to  improve.  Of  the  tons  of  stereotype-plates  which  threaten  us  with 
resurrection  &om  the  publishers'  cellars,  those  are  least  apt  to  oxidize  in 
undisturbed  damp  which  bear  least  of  the  improper  and  the  openly  im- 
moral. In  that  feature  we  have  gained  on  the  Arabian  Nights  and  the 
Bound  Table.  E.  C.  Beaty. 


Thi  two  portly  voliunes  before  us  cover  the  history  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury down  to  the  year  1760,  when  the  third  George  ascended  the  English 
Throne.*  Those  who  have  read  Mr.  Lecky's  previous  works  on  ^'  Rational- 
ism," **  European  Morals  "  and  "  The  Loaders  of  Public  Opinion  in  Ireland,'* 
will  be  prepared  to  welcome  this  new  effort  of  his  fertile  pen.  His  merits  as 
a  writer  are  very  considerable.  He  possesses,  in  an  eminent  degree,  that  ju- 
dicial spirit  which  is  the  prime  qualiiication  of  an  historian.  Industrious  as 
Macaulay  in  the  collection  of  facts  from  all  sources,  he  never  strives  to  piece 


*  A  Hittory  qf  England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century.     Br  WiLLiAif  Edward  Habtpolb  Lkkt. 
Vols.  I.  &  IL    New  York :  P.  Appleton  St  Go.    Toronto  :  Roso-Belford  PublishiDg  Co. 


638  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

them  into  a  teaselated  pavement,  the  plan,  contour,  and  oolonr-dutribntion 
of  which  have  been  arranged  in  advance  ;  nor  like  Froude,  who  is  equally 
indnstriooB,  does  he  warp  and  distort  the  facts  to  his  purpose.  The  amount 
of  curious  information,  illustration  of  tiie  social  life  and  manners  of  the  cen- 
tury is  really  astonishing.  Whether  it  be  England,  Ireland  or  Scotland  of 
which  he  treats,  our  author  seems  equally  at  home,  and  no  distinctive  feature 
of  the  time  seems  to  have  escaped  him.  It  is  this  remarkable  power  of  revi- 
vifying the  dead  Ufe  of  tiie  past  and  projecting  himself  into  its  feelings, 
opinions,  aims  and  aspirations  which  gives  tiie  principal  charms  to  Mr« 
Lecky's  writings.  The  table  of  contents  give  one  the  notion  that  this  woriL 
is  disjointed  and  lacks  cohesion  or  continuity,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
this  first  impression  is  not  altogether  dissipated  by  a  persual  of  the  wt»k. 
Yet,  after  all,  the  transition  from  one  scene  to  another  in  the  great  drama  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  imparts  an  air  of  life  and  variety  to  the  whole,  which 
heightens  the  interest  and  rivets  the  unflagging  attention  of  the  reader.  The 
wars  and  party  politics  of  the  time  are  subordinated  to  their  places  as  mere 
passing  phenomena  of  importance  in  so  far  as  they  influence  the  social, 
moral  or  inteUectual  condition  of  the  people,  but  yet  not  of  supreme  impor- 
tance. Mr.  Lecky's  strong  point  is  not  narrative,  but  portraiture  of  men 
and  manners,  and  no  matter  how  completely  he  may  be  out  of  sympathy  with 
them,  he  always  endeavours,  and  usually  with  complete  success,  to  present 
an  honest  picture,  witiiout  flattery  on  the  one  hand  or  caricature  on  the 
other. 

Did  space  permit,  it  would  be  instructive  as  well  as  interesting  to  contract 
Mr.  Lecky's  stand-point  with  that  of  Mr.  Buckle  in  that  splendid  fragrant, 
his  History  of  CvoUizaHon,  Both  historians  are  stnmgly  opposed  to  dogmatic 
rigidity  in  theology ;  both  are  eager  to  expose  what  they  believe  to  be  inordi- 
nate sacerdotal  power  and  both,  as  it  seems  to  us, — ^though  Mr.  Lecky  does 
not  go  so  far  as  Buckle,  —fail  to  seiise  fully  the  real  significance  of  the  great 
religious  movements  of  England  and  Scotland.  Here,  however,  the  diver- 
gence begins,  and  it  is  well  marked  and  complete.  Buckle  was  an  adherent 
of  the  sensational  or  utilitarian  school  of  ethics  ;  Lecky  devoted  much  space 
in  his  Europecm  Morals  to  the  defence  of  intuitionism  as  against  the  school  of 
Paley,  Bentham  and  Mill.  Buckle  rejected  morality  as  a  factor  in  civilisa- 
tion, because,  as  he  contended,  it  did  not  admit  of  progress  and  development ; 
Lecky's  views  may  be  given  in  his  own  words  from  the  work  before  us  ; — 
*'  The  true  greatness  and  welfare  of  nations  depends  mainly  on  the  amount 
of  moral  force  that  is  generated  within  them.  Society  never  can  continue  in 
a  state  of  tolerable  security  when  there  is  no  other  bond  of  cohesion  than  a 
mere  money  tie,  and  it  is  idle  to  expect  the  different  classes  of  the  commun- 
ity to  join  in  the  self-sacrifice  and  enthusiasm  of  patriotism  if  all  unselfish 
motives  are  excluded  from  their  several  relations."  (ii  ;  693).  Buckle  was 
the  slave  of  statistics,  and,  because  he  found  that  a  certain  number  of  mur- 
ders and  suicides  are  annually  committed — a  number  which  may  be  predicted 
with  fatal  exactness,  he  believed  that  men  are  the  creatures  of  circumstanced, 
''  conscious  automata "  moved  hither  and  thither,  the  sport  of  wind  and 
waves  upon  the  sea  of  time.  His  scheme  of  human  life  was  itself  dead  and 
lifeless  ;  the  forces  which  specially  animate  society  and  form  national  and  in- 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  639 

dividuftl  character  were  to  him  as  if  they  were  not.     Intellect  alone  had  any 

real  potency,  and  thus,  in  a  more  melancholy  sense  than  with  Hamlet,  our 

earthly  lot 

*'  Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  away, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action." 

To  Mr.  Lecky,  on  the  contrary,  the  currents  of  force  which  giye  to  national 
or  social  action  all  their  meaning,  nay  their  very  being,  are  moral  and  spiri- 
tual. It  is  marked  divergence  at  the  outset  which  severs  the  two  historians 
irreconciliably.  The  one  presented  us  with  the  cold  marble  def  Qy  sculptured 
so  far  as  it  went ;  yet,  maimed  and  fragmentary,  it  lacked  the  symmetrical 
completeness  of  Greek  art  and  seemed  rather  a  torso  than  a  statue.  The  ob- 
ject of  the  other,  as  we  have  seen,  is  to  *'  catch  the  manners,  living  as  they 
rise  "  or  rose^  and  to  delve  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  mystery,  where  the 
springs  of  human  volition  and  human  action  are  at  work  as  vital  and  efficient 
forces  in  ^'  the  chambers  of  imagery  within."  It  is  his  abiding  sense  of  the 
important  cohesive  power  of  sympathy  that  causes  him  to  lament  the  separa- 
tion of  classes  brought  about  by  the  accumulation  of  i^ealth  in  England,  and 
it  is  his  conviction  of  the  paramount  value  of  morality  and  spirituality  which, 
despite  his  aversion  to  their  positive  do^^atism  and  emotional  excesses, 
brings  him  so  largely  en  rapport  with  the  early  Methodists  and  Evangelical 
Churchmen.  No  greater  contrast  can  be  imagined  than  that  between  the 
eager  rage  with  which  Buckle  assails  the  tyranny  of  the  Kirk  and  the  meas- 
ured sobriety  of  Mr.  Lecky  when  he  has  occasion  to  deal  with  the  weak  points 
of  those  great  religious  movements  with  which  he  has  to  do.  In  the  one  case, 
there  is  all  the  indiscriminating  fervour  of  a  denunciatory  rhetoric  which  we 
cannot  appreciate  ;  in  the  other,  simply  the  calm  and  uncoloured  expose  of 
those  sinster  phases  of  spiritual  energy  which  could  not  be  ignored  consis- 
tently with  an  honest  regard  to  historic  truth. 

The  eighteenth  century  was  pregnant  with  momentous  results  to  humanity, 
and  the  inevitable  result  followed  that  its  true  significance  has  been  mistaken 
even  by  those  who  have  not  designedly  perverted  it  through  partizan  zeal, 
religions  or  political.  The  barest  summary  of  the  great  events  of  this  period 
and  of  the  potent  influences  sent  forth  upon  their  mission,  can  never  fail  to 
excite  the  depest  interest  Apart  from  the  great  wars  and  upheavab  of  the 
time,  there  are  upon  the  record  of  the  century  the  evidences  of  singular  en- 
ergy in  every  department  of  thought  and  action  ;  in  the  new  birth  of  physical 
science  no  less  than  the  revival  of  religion,  in  the  vigorous  outburst  of  liter- 
ary activity,  the  growth  of  invention  skill  and  manufacturing  industry,  the 
rapid  changes  in  social  life  and  manners,  and  all  the  other  marks  of  a  transi- 
tional period  when  old  things  were  passing  away  and  all  things  were  becom- 
ing new.  On  the  great  stage,  the  names  of  Louis  XIV.,  Marlborough,  VVal- 
pole,  Frederick  the  Great,  Voltaire,  Chatham,  Washington,  Robespierre, 
Napoleon,  are  names,  each  of  which  though  linked  in  a  chain  of  sequence 
with  all  the  rest,  serves  as  the  key-note  to  an  independent  symphony  in  a 
Babel  of  discordant  notes  and  perplexing  figures.  It  is  not  surprising  that 
so  troubulous  and  yet  fruitful  a  period  should  not  hitherto  have  been  treated 


640  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

■ 

philosophically.  Our  fathers  lived  too  near  that  puzzling  era,  and  were  too 
helplessly  befogged  in  prejudice,  to  take  in  its  full  meaning,  and  it  is  only 
within  a  comparatively  recent  period  that  the  materials,  as  well  as  the  fitting 
stand-point  have  been  secured.  Of  late  years  this  important  century,  which 
was  long  regarded  as  a  breach  in  the  continuity  of  history,  has  begun  to  be 
appraised  at  its  real  value.  Amongst  the  many  worxs,  perhaps  the  moat 
complete  are  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hunt's  work '  on  the  religious  side,  Mr.  Leslie 
Stephen's  valuable  history  of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,  and 
this  masterly  review  of  the  entire  history  of  the  period  in  all  its  phases  by 
Mr.  Lecky. 

The  style  is  exceedingly  easy  and  graceful  at  all  times,  occasionally  rising 
to  the  dignity  of  true  eloquence,  and  if  our  readers  are  induced  to  take  up 
these  volumes,  they  will  not  fail  to  derive  that  pleasure  and  profit  they  have 
yielded  to  the  reviewer.     '*  The  political  history  of  England  in  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century,"  says  Mr.  Lecky,  "  falls  into  two  great  divisions.      After  a 
brief  period  of  rapid  fluctuations,  extending  over  the  latter  days  of  William 
and  through  the  reign  of  Anne,  the  balance  of  parties  was  determined  on  the 
accession  of  George  I."     The  Whigs  acquired  the  ascendency  and  main- 
tained it  *^  without  intermission,  and  almost  without  obstruction,  for  more 
than  forty-five  years."      At  the  accession  of  George  III.,  the  elder  Pitt 
was  left  out  in  the  cold  and  Bute  and  his  feeble  successors  ruled  for  ten 
years.     In  1770,  Lord  North  established  the  Tory  supremacy  which  was 
only  temporarily  broken  by  the  Fox-North  Coalition,  down  to  the  time 
of  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832.     During-  the  century,  as  to  a  large  extent 
even  now,   the  country-gentry  and   clergy  were    Tories;    the    Dissenters 
and  commercial  classes,  Whigs.      Mr.  Lecky  notices  a  plausible  contention 
skilfully  used  by  Lord  Beaconsfield,  that  the  Whigs  of  Queen  Anne  and  the 
first  two  (Georges  resembled  the  modem  Tories,  whilst  the  Tories  of  that  day 
were  akin  to  the  Whigs  of  the  nineteenth  century.     In  1711,  the  Tories 
swamped  their  opponents  in  the  Lords  as  Grey  and  Brougham  proposed  to 
do  in  1832.  The  Tories  advocated  Free  Trade  at  that  time ;  the  Whigs  oppo- 
sed it.     The  Tories  had  some  Catholic  sympathies  ;  the  Whigs  were  the  chief 
authors  of  the  penal  laws.     Finally  the  Tories  were  for  short  Parliamenta 
and  the  restriction  of  corrupt  influence  on  the  part  of  the  Crown  ;  the  Whigs 
carried  the  Septennial  Act  and  opposed  all  place  and  pension  bills.     The  pre- 
tended resemblance,  however,  was  extremely  superficial.      The  Tories  were 
mainly  Jacobites ;  the  Whigs  were  the  champions  of  a  Parliamentary  dynasty 
as  opposed  to  the  Divine  right  theory  urged  in  honour  of  a  Catholic  jnnnce. 
The  Septennial  Act,  by  which  a  Parliament  prolonged  its  own  existence,  was 
certainly  an  anomaly,  but  it  was  passed  because  the  Whigs  apprehended 
danger  to  the  Protestant  succession  from  a  dissolution  just  after  the  accession 
of  George  I.  and  the  rebellion  of  1715.    The  Free  Trade  policy  of  the  Queen 
Anne  Tories  was  never  **  distinctively  *  Whig,' "  since  Hume  and  Tudcer 
among  its  writers,  and  Pitt  and  Huskisson  among  its  statesmen,  were  Tories  ; 
and  the  attacks  of  the  Whigs  against  the  French  commercial  treaty  in  1713 
*'  were  scarcely  more  vehement  than  those  which  Fox  and  Grey  directed  on 
the  same  ground  against  the  commercial  treaty  negotiated  by  Pitt  in  1786." 
The  truth  is  that  in  the  18th  century,  the  commercial  and  manufacturing 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  641 

classes  descried  that  their  trade  and  industries  should  be  fostered  ;  whereas 
the  Tory,  **  church  '*  or  "  country  party  "  felt  that  the  interests  of  the  agri- 
culturalist lay  in  the  opposite  direction.      In  the  latter  part  of  the  first  half 
of  the  19th  century  the  relative  positions  of  town  and  country  were  reversed 
and  their  interests  naturally  changed  their  attitude  on  fiscal  questions.    This 
view,  however,  he  does  not  urge  at  all,  though  he  certainly  might  have  done 
so.      As  for  corruption,  the  Tories  were  naturally,  for  the  time,  opposed  to 
places  and  pension  they  did  not  share,  as  parties  in  disfavour  are  at  all  times. 
Mr.  Lecky's  first  two  chapters  cover  the  period  to  the  accession  of  Walpole 
to  power  under  George  I.  after  the  collapse  of  the  South  Sea  Bubble  in  1720. 
Into  the  military  history  or  political  changes  of  that  restless  time,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  enter  here  ;  for  although  Mr.  Lecky  enters  into  them  so  far  as 
may  be  necessary  for  his  purpose,  his  account  of  the  various  classes  of  society, 
the  inner  life  of  England,  religious,  social  and  industrial  is  of  greater  impor- 
tance.    Regarding  the  theological  aspect  of  the  time  and  the  political  attitude 
of  the  churches,  he  is  particularly  full,  and  the  information  afforded  in  this 
work  is  of  great  value.      After  tracing  the  connexion  between  the  literary 
activity  of  the  period  and  its  religious  tendencies,  we  have  a  fair  and  judi- 
cious account  of  the  non- jurors  (i.  93)  preceded  by   a  rapid  but  ample  ac- 
count of  the  Latidudinarian  party  with  which  Mr.  Lecky  is  most  in  sympathy, 
(p.  87)  William  HI.  was  himself  *'  head  "  in  his  theology  and  the  intolerant 
legislation  of  the  time  was  singularly  distasteful  to  him.    The  **  head  "  school 
was  headed  by  Bishop  Burnet,  whose  life  and  opinions  Mr.  Lecky  sketches 
with  his  usual  felicity.     The  school  of  Locke  and  Ohillingworth  was  the  par- 
ent of  the  Cambridge  movement  in  the  same  direction  and  was  espoused  by 
Cudworth,  Henry  More,  Wilkins,  etc,  Eling  William's  new  Bishops,  after 
the  expulsion  of  the  non-jurors  were  chosen  from  this  party  ;  Patrick,  Cum- 
berland, Stillingfleet  and  Tillotson  are  names  not  yet  altogether  forgotten. 
During  Anne's  reign  the  terms  High  and  Low  Church  came  into  vogue  and 
the  Church  was  torn  by  angry  dissensions.     The  non-jurors  Brett,  Dodwell 
and  Lesley  held  the  most  extravagant  sacerdotal  notions.  Baptism  with  them 
was  essential  to  salvation.      '*  Our  Souls,  Dodwell  thought,  are  naturally 
mortal  but  become  immortal  by  baptism  if  administerted  by  an  Episcopalian 
clergyman.     Pagans  and  unbaptized  infants  cease  to  exist  after  death ;  but 
Dissenters  who  have  neglected  to  enter  the  Episcopal  fold  are  kept  alive  by  a 
special  exercise  of  the  divine  power,  in  order  that  they  may  be  after  death 
eternally  damned.''  (p.  195).  Li  the  second  chapter  the  position,  dogmatically 
anil  politically  is  described  (p.  119)  the  decline  of  the  ecclesiastical  spirit 
the  growth  of  scepticism  with  an  account  of  the  Bangorian  controversy  in  the 
Trinity  also  find  their  place  (pp.  269-274).     In  the  same  place  we  have  a  very 
full  account  of  the  Whig  penal  laws  against  the  ('atholics  and  Protestant 
Dissenters  (pp.  274-339).     The  minute  care  with  which  Mr.  Lecky  has  ex- 
amined all  accessible  materials  is  evident  from  his  account  of  the  Irish  Be- 
gium  Donum,  of  the  Quakers,  of  the  Jewish  Naturalization  Act,  of  the  witch- 
craft laws  and  the  royal  touch  for  the  king's  eviL      The  positions  of  the 
aristocracy  and  of  the  commercial  classes  were  separately  treated. 

The  sketch  of  Walpole's  life  and  public  career  is  one  of  Mr.  Lecky's  most 
complete  and  characteristic  portraits.      The  great  Whig  statesman  had  very 


642  CURRENT   UTERATXJRE. 

grave  faults  of  temperament  and  character ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has 
been  much  maligned.  Unlike  Harley,  Gknlolphin,  Bolingbroke  and  Temple, 
he  was  not  a  patron  of  letters,  nor  did  he  care  anything  about  literature.  A 
truly,  full-blooded,  high-living  and  hard-riding  squire,  he  was  impervious  to 
ridicule  and  cared  nothing  for  the  assaults  of  the  press.  His  political  honour 
was  not  high  and  his  behaviour  not  always  decorous,  and  he  must  stand 
chargeable  with  having  aggravated  existing  political  corruption .  Still,  Mr.  ^ 
Lecky  urges,  *'  it  may  be  fairly  urged  that  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  man- 
age Parliament  without  it,'*  (p.  399).  He  was  systematically  slandered  by 
Bolingbroke  and  other  unprincipled  writers  in  the  Craftsman  and  in  innum- 
erable paniphlets  and  pasquinades.  His  remark  referring  to  the  Patriots 
under  Carteret  and  Pulteney,  ''  All  these  men  have  their  price ''  was  tor- 
tured into  **  Every  man  has  his  price,*'  which  is  still  quoted  as  Walpole's 
dictum  at  the  present  day  here  in  Canada.  Mr.  Lecky  thinks  tiiere  was 
probably  some  truth  in  another  saying  ascribed  to  him,  **  that  he  was  obliged 
to  bribe  members  not  to  vote  against,  but  for,  their  consdenoes.^  Still,  our 
author  admits  that  the  great  Whig  Minister  is  fairly  chargeable,  not  with 
having  bribed  on  a  larger  scale  than  former  Ministers,  but  with  resisting 
every  reform,  even  although  public  opinion  was  in  its  favour,  and  all  the 
power  was  securely  in  his  own  hands.  After  making  every  abatement  on 
the  score  of  fault  or  foible,  Robert  Walpole  was  a  great  statesman  even 
though  he  can  hardly  be  called  an  exemplary  man.  Mild  and  placable  in 
disposition,  a  fervent  lover  of  peace,  he  gave  England  res  tand  what,  she 
sorely  needed — an  interval  for  recuperation,  Louis  XIY.  and  his  ambitions 
were  buried  in  the  same  grave,  and  it  is  not  going  too  far  to  say  that  the  J 

mighty  efforts  by  which  Canada  and  India  were  secured  under  Pitt  the  fatiier, 
and  the  deadly  struggle  with  revolutionary  and  military  Franoe  begun  under 
his  son,  could  never  have  been  maintained  but  for  the  opportunity  to  nurse 
and  husband  her  strength  England  obtained  through  Walpole's  settled  polii^ 
of  peace.  Under  him  Jocobitism  died  away,  manufactures  arose,  and  the 
wealth  of  England  began  to  accumulate.  The  noble  Queen  Caroline,  with 
characteristic  sagacity,  supported  him  until  the  hour  of  her  death,  as  the 
firmest  support  to  the  royal  house,  and  the  progress  and  prosperity  of  the  na- 
tion. When  Walpole  shelved  himself  in  the  tiouse  of  Lords  he  is  said  to 
have  exclaimed  to  Pulteney,  Earl  of  Bath,  '*  Herein  are,  my  Lord,  the  two 
most  insignificant  men  in  the  kingdom,"  and  it  is  singular  that  the  elder 
Pitt  should  have  bartered  his  immense  popularity  as  the  Great  Commoner 
for  the  empty  honours  of  the  peerage.  Of  the  statesmen  of  the  eighteenth 
century  down  to  Pitt,  six  "  went  up  stairs,"  and  now  only  two  have  repre- 
sentatives, Bolingbroke,  who  was  made  a  Viscount,  and  Walpole,  Earl  of 
Oxford.  Harley,  Earl  of  Oxford  ;  Pulteney,  Earl  of  Bath  ;  Carteret,  Earl 
Granville^*  and  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham  obtained  peerages  which  no  longer  ex- 
ist.    Vanitas  vanitatum  omnia  vafUtas, 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  further  the  political  or  nulitaiy  history  of 
the  time  even  to  dwell  upon  the  illustrious  name  of  the  elder  Htt.    Hia 

*  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  mention  that  the  present  Earl  Granville  is,  like  the  Duke 
of  Sutherland,  a  Leveson-Grower,  and  that  his  title  only  dates  from  1833. 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  64f3 

name  is  so  firmly  enahrined  in  the  national  heart  that  to  follow  with  Mr. 
Lecky  the  brilliant  career  of  England  daring  his  administration  would  be  a 
work  of  supererogation.     It  seems  better  to  follow  the  bye-paths,  after  noting 
one  or  two  of  the  characteristic  bits  of  biographical  touch  which  occur  at  in- 
tervals throughout  these  interesting  volumes.    To  enumerate  all  the  noted 
men  limned^  either  at  full  length  or  by  a  striking  dash  of  the  pencil  would  be 
to  attempt  too  much.    It  must  suffice  to  mention  a  few  of  them.     Of  Atter- 
bury,  he  writes,  that  he  "  was  a  mere  brilliant  incendiary,  tainted  with  the 
guilt  of  the  most  deliberate  perjury  ;*'  of   Swift,  that  he  "  was  evidently 
wholly  unsuited  to  his  profession,  and  his  splendid  but  morbid  genius  was 
fatally  stained  by  coarseness,   scurrility  and  profanity ; ''    while  praising 
Burnet's  real  honesty  and  indomitable  courage,  kind,  generous  and  affec- 
tionate nature,  fervent  piety,  wide  sympathies  and  rare  tolerance,  he  impar- 
tially remarks,   "  No  one  can  question  that  he  was  vain,  pushing,  boisterous 
indiscreet  and  inquisitive,  overflowing  with  animal  spirits  and  superabundant 
energy,  singularly  deficient  in  tiie  tact,  delicacy,  reticence  and  decorum  that 
are  needed  in  a  great  ecclesiastical  position."    And  yet  Burnet  is  evidently 
a  favourite  of  his,  as  was  also  Cardinal  Elberoni  into  whose  portrait  the  dark 
or  weak  touches  are  faithfully  placed.     Pelham,  an  eminently  useful  and 
practical  minister,  and  a  man  of  whom  Mr.  Lecky  speaks  in  terms  of  discri- 
minating praise  as  the   warm   friend   of  Hardwicka  and  the  leader  who 
attracted  Pitt  and  Chesterfield,  to  his  side  was  ''a  timid,  desponding,  and 
somewhat  fretful  man,  with  little  energy  either  of  character  or  intelleot. " 
The  Duke  of  Newcastle,  as  might  be  expected,  fares  hardly  with  him  and. 
even  Pitt  is  exposed  on  his  weak  side.     It  is  not  a  gracious  task  to  speak  of 
the  vanity,  ostentation,  love  of  pomp  and  rhetorical  artifice  in  a  popular  hero, 
yet  it  is  a  necessary  one.     Mr.  Lecky  does  not  hesitate  to  say  in  his  sketch 
of  the  great  statesman,  '^  he  never  unbent.      He  was  always  acting  a  part 
always  self-conscious,  always  arriving  at  a  false  and  unreal  dignity.      He 
was  always  strained  and  formal,  assuming  postures,  studying  effects  and  ex- 
pressions.     Of  all  great  Englishmen,  he  is  perhaps  the  one  in  whom  there 
was  the  largest  admixture  of  the  qualities  of  a  character."    Compare  the  en- 
tire sketch  of  Chatham's  character  and  career  (ii  508-530  and  557-564)  with 
the  admirable  and  sympathetic  account  of  Marlborough  (L  125).    The  esti- 
mate of  Swift  is  contained  in  several  places  especially  at  p.  170  of  the  first 
volume.     All  the  statesmen  of  the  first  half  of  the  century  are  separately 
treated,  as  are  Berkeley,  Hutcheson  and  other  prominent  men  in  philosophy 
and  ethics.     Of  the  English  Deists,  Mr.  Lecky,  notwithstanding  his  national 
tendencies,  speaks  almost  with  contempt.     With  the  exception  of  fiume, 
Gibbon  and  Middleton,  he  states  that  they  have  left  nothing  of  enduring 
value.     ''  Bolingbroke  is  a  great  name  in  politics,  but  the  pretentious  and 
verbose  inanity  of  his  theological  writings  fully  justifies  the  criticism  '  leaves 
without  fruit,'  which  Voltaire  is  said   to  have  applied  to  his  style.'*    So 
Shaftesbury  ''  is  a  considerable  name  in  ethics,  and  he  was  a  writer  of  great 
beauty,  but  his  theological  criticisms,  though  by  no  means  without  value, 
were  of  the  most  cursory  and  incidental  character.     Woolston  was  probably 
mad.     Chubb  was  almost  wholly  uneducated  ;  and  although  Collins,  Tindal 
and  Goland  were  serious  writers,  who  discussed  grave  questions  with  grave 


64}4j  current  literature. 

arguments,  they  were  inferior  in  learning  and  ability  to  several  of  their 
opponents.'*  (p.  675).  In  England,  they  never  excited  any  great  influence  ; 
it  was  across  the  Channel  that  English  Deism  reaped  its  most  remarkable  and 
enduring  triumphs.  The  last  chapter  of  the  second  volume  treats,  in  a  mas- 
terly manner,  '*  The  Religious  Revival,'*  and  is,  taken  altogether,  the  most 
interesting  in  the  work.  The  coldness  and  undogmatio  teaching  of  the  cen- 
tury and  the  effort  to  base  the  evidences  of  religion  upon  reason  are  ably  un- 
folded. The  sketch  of  Methodism,  with  exceedingly  full  biographies  of 
Wesley,  Whitefield  and  the  early  Methodists  should  be  attentively  studied. 
No  where  else  so  accurate  a  judgment  upon  the  strength  and  also  the  weak- 
nesses of  the  movement  is  so  well  and  impartially  given,  and  it  is  followed  by 
an  equally  interesting  account  of  the  Evangelical  revival  in  the  Church. 
Whilst  Mr.  Lecky  has  not  thought  it  honest  to  suppress  the  facts  regarding 
the  credulity  of  John  Wesley  and  his  somewhat  imperious  character,  he  does 
hitn  ample  justice.  Not  the  least  tribute  to  the  value  of  Methodism  is  Mr. 
Lecky's  firm  conviction  that  the  dif^ision  of  religion  amongst  the  humble 
classes,  under  the  auspices  of  Wesley  and  Whitefield  was  one  prominent 
cause  for  the  escape  of  England  from  the  contagion  of  the  French  revolution. 
The  whole  chapter  is  admirable  in  tone  as  well  as  for  the  information  it  con- 
tains and  should  be  attentively  read. 

There  are  three  subjects  in  the  second  volume  on  which  we  should  like  to 
enlarge — those  on  the  Colonies,  on  Scotland  and  on  Ireland.  The  first  we 
may  pass  by  because  it  is  extremely  slight,  and  the  second  is  not  as  full  as  it 
should  have  been,  if  the  country  were  to  be  treated  of  at  all.  Mr.  Lecky 
gives  an  appreciative  view  of  the  Highlanders  and  their  clan  system,  although, 
of  course,  he  finds  much  fault  with  their  predatory  warfare  and  their  general 
want  of  civilization.  After  all,  however,  he  thus  concludes,  after  praising 
liheir  uncomfortable  fidelity,  hospitality,  grace  of  manner  and  generous  toler- 
ance : — ^*  It  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  Highlands  contri- 
buted nothing  beneficial  to  the  Scotch  character.  The  distinctive  beauty 
and  the  great  philosophic  interest  of  that  character  spring  from  the  veiy 
lingular  combination  of  a  romantic  and  chivalrous,  with  a  practical  and  in- 
dustrial spirit.  In  no  other  nation  do  we  find  the  enthusiasm  of  loyalty 
blended  so  happily  with  the  enthusiasm  for  liberty,  and  so  strong  a  vein  of 
poetic  sensibility  and  romantic  feeling  qualifying  a  type  that  is  essentially 
industrial.  It  is  not  difiScult  to  trace  the  EUghland  source  of  this  spirit.*' 
(p.  99).  In  this  portion  of  the  chapter  there  are  also  descriptions  of  Edin- 
burgh, Inverness  and  Aberdeen,  with  much  curious  and  interesting  informa- 
tion regarding  the  social  life  of  Scotland.  The  poverty  and  riotous  disposi- 
tion of  the  people  in  the  Lowlands  are  portrayed  with  a  passing  reference 
to  the  Porteous  and  other  disturbances.  Mr.  Lecky  then  shows  by  what 
means  and  with  what  rapidity  the  evils  under  which  Scotland  laboured  were 
corrected.  The  conditions  of  the  Highlanders  was  sensibly  improved  from 
the  time  when  the  elder  Pitt  found  out  their  value  as  soldiers  ;  roads  were 
projected,  serfdom  was  gradually  abolished,  agriculture  improved  and  men- 
dicancy declined.  The  four  great  agents  in  revolutionizing  Scotland  were 
the  establishment  of  the  Kirk — ^the  religion  of  the  majority— in  William's 
reign  ;  the  establishment  of  parochial  schools,  *^  finally,  generally  and  effica- 


^  CURRENT  LITERATUHE.  645 

doualy,"  in  1696 ;  the  abolition  of  hereditary  jnrisdiotions  in  1746  by  the 
Pelham  Ministry,  and  the  establiahment  of  free  trade  with  England  by  the 
commercial  clauses  of  the  Act  of  Union,  1707.  The  Union  was  intensely  un- 
popular amongst  the  Scotch  people  who  may  be  properly  excused  for  not 
foreseeing  the  inestimable  benefits  they  were  destined  to  reap  from  it.  Mr 
Lecky  obviously  intends  his  remarks  on  this  point  to  be  the  prelude  to  his 
long  chapters  on  Ireland.  He  points  out  that  "  the  political  absorption  of  a 
small  into  a  larger  nationality  can  very  easily  be  effected  without  irritating 
the  most  sensitive  chords  of  national  feeling.  The  sentiment  of  nationality 
is  one  of  the  strongest  and  most  respectable  by  which  human  beings  are  ac- 
tuated. No  other  has  produced  a  greater  amount  of  heroism  and  self-sacri- 
fice, and  no  other,  when  it  has  been  seriously  outraged,  leaves  behind  it  such 
enduiing  and  such  dangerous  discontent ."  In  Scotland  there  were  the  an- 
cient hostility  between  the  English  and  Scotch,  bitter  memories  touching  re- 
ligion, their  great  ditference  in  wealth,  and  the  great  national  debt  of  England 
to  aggravate  the  difficulty. 

The  valuable  chapters  on  Ireland,  forming  more  than  half  the  second  vol- 
ume, should  be  read  by  every  one  who  desires  U*  know  the  truth  regarding 
the  history  of  that  interesting,  but  unfortunate  country.  Mr.  Lecky's  view 
is  neither  that  of  the  rabid  native  writers  on  the  one  hand,  nor  of  the  men- 
dacious and  savage  work  of  Mr.  Froude  on  the  other.  All  the  information 
one  could  desire  concerning  the  national  resources,  the  social  life,  the  religion, 
the  manufactures,  etc.  of  the  Emerald  Isle  are  fairly  given,  and  the  inferences 
drawn  from  the  facts  are  scrupulously  fair  and  just.  Mr.  Froude's  English 
in  Ireland  is  treated  rather  roughly  but  not  more  so  than  it  obviously  de- 
serves. Its  author  has  been  so  often  under  the  critical  harrow  for  garbled 
quotations,  false  statements  and  fallacious  reasoning  that  he  must  be  pachy- 
dermatous by  this  time.  Mr.  Lecky  takes  up  the  four  remedial  measures 
which  ameliorated  the  condition  of  Scotland  and  shows  how  a  precisely  con- 
trary policy  was  pursued  from  the  beginning  in  Ireland.  He  denies  that 
either  religion  or  race  or  both  combined  were  adequate  causes  of  the  distresses 
of  Ireland.  The  history  as  related  by  our  author  is  a  terrible  record  of  con- 
fiscation, outrage  and  vindictive  brutality  ;  and  to  the  work  itself  we  can  only 
commend  the  reader. 

The  most  attractive  feature  in  Mr.  Lecky'a  History  will  undoubtedly  be 
found  by  most  readers  in  those  portions  which  illustrate  society  and  the  com- 
mon life  of  England.  Of  course,  it  is  out  of  the  question  to  give  any  idea  of 
the  value  and  interest  of  this  department  of  the  work.  The  position  of  the 
Jews  in  England,  the  valuable  element  of  the  industrial  population  which 
was  provided  by  the  immigration  of  Flemish  and  French  refugees,  the  rise 
of  gin-drinking,  the  Mohocks  or  roughs,  the  street  robberies,  the  old  watch- 
men, the  bad  lighting  of  the  streets,  the  bad  London  bricks,  the  Catholic  *'  cou- 
ple-beggars "  of  Ireland,  the  Irish  and  Scotch  abductions  of  heiresses,  are  a  few 
of  the  out-of-the-way  subjects  illustrating  the  social  life  of  the  people.  The  last 
chapter  in  the  first  volume  is  entirely  devoted  to  the  social  subjects,  the  growth 
of  the  press,  gambling,  gardening,  architecture,  painting,  music,  including 
epera  and  oratorio,  with  an  admirable  account  of  Handel,  the  drama,  includ 

• 

8 


646  CURRENT  LITERATURK        ^ 

ing  a  sketch  of  Garrick,  sporta,  sea-reaorts,  faahionable  hours,  domestic  ser- 
vice, <&c. 

These  volumes  have  afforded  us  much  pleasure  in  the  readings  and  we  cor- 
dially recommend  them  to  the  reader.  Unlike  Stanhope's  histories,  this 
work  is  emphatically  a  history  of  the  people  ;  and  although  not  so  brilliant 
or  as  well  digested  as  Macaulay,  it  is  more  trustworthy.  'Whai  complete  it 
will  certainly  be  the  best,  most  graphic  and  truthful  account  of  the  ei^teenth 
century. 

In  the  early  part  of  1876  Sir  Alex.  Gait  published  two  pamphlets,  entitled, 
"  Civil  Liberty  in  Lower  Canada  "  and  '*  Church  and  State  "  respectively. 
Their  purpose  was  to  show  the  danger  which  menaced  the  free  working  of  oar 
civil  institutions  from  the  arrogant  assumptions  of  the  ecclesiastical  party  in 
Quebec.    Mr.  Lindsey,  in  the  work  before  us,*  gives  an  elaborate  account  of 
the  new  Ultramontane  aggression  from  its  inception  down  to  the  conciliatory 
mission  of  the  Papal  Ablegate,  Mgr.  Conroy,  Bishop  of  Armagh.    It  is  need- 
less to  remark — or  perhaps  we  should  say,  it  ought  to  be  needless  to  state — 
that  Mr.  Lindsey  does  not  approach  this  subject  from  the  side  of  tiieological 
polemics.     With  Roman  Catholic  dogma  he  is  not  at  all  concerned,  except 
in  so  far  as  its  practical  application  touches  upon  the  rights  and  Ubertiea  of 
the  State  or  the  people,  and  makes  war  upon  cherished  institutions.     Ultra- 
montanism  has  been  objected  to,  as  applied  to  an  extensive  party  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  because,  it  is  said,  since  the  meeting  of  the  Vatican 
Council,  all  Catholics  are  obliged  to  assent  to  the  cardinal  principle  of  what 
was  Ultramoutanism — the  personal  infallibility  of  the  Pope  when  pronoun- 
cing tx  cathedrd  on  matters  of  faith  and  morals.     This  is  true  but  only  mea- 
surably, since  it  is  not  the  whole  truth.  Religious  Ultramontanism  triumphed 
at  Rome  in  1871,  and  has  ceased  to  be  the  name  of  a  theological  party, 
because  the  Church  has  adopted  the  dogma  for  which  that  party  contended. 
At  the  same  time  the  definition  of  infallibility  is  susceptible  of  diverse  inter- 
pretations, and  it  will  hardly  be  contended  that  Archbishop  Strossmayer,  who 
opposed  the  dogma.  Bishop  Dupanloup,  who  only  gave  in  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, Dr.  Newman,  who  deprecated  its  introduction,  or  Cardinal  Schwar- 
zenberg,  now  Camerlengo  under  Leo  XIII.,  who  voted  against  the  dogma  in 
1871,  accept  it  in  the  same  sense  as  the  entourage  of  Pius  IX.,  including  that 
distinguished  ''  pervert "  Cardinal  Manning.     Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  import- 
ant to  bear  in  mind  that  by  Ultramontanism  is  meant  not  a  theory  of  Chns- 
tian  doctrine,  but  a  view  of  human  affairs  which  inevitably  leads  to  aggression 
upon  the  State,  upon  rulers  and  judges,  as  well  as  upon  the  rights  and  liber- 
ties of  the  people.     Its  aim  is  to  subordinate  the  State  to  the  Church,  or 
rather  to  absorb  the  one  in  the  other,  and  to  transmute  our  free  English  sys- 
tem of  government  into  a  pinchbeck  theocracy.     The  Vatican  phrase  '^  faith 
and  morals  "  is  made  elastic  enough  to  include  politics,  social  and  juridical 
regulations — indeed  everything  quidquid  agunt  hommes — ^until  neither  State 
nor  individual  retains  a  vestige  of  independence  in  thought  or  action.     This 
is  the  Ultramontanism  against  which  Mr.  Gladstone,  Sir  A.  Gait,  Mr.  Gold- 

*  Rome  in  Canada :   the  Ultramontane  Struggle  for  Supremacy  over  the  Civil  Au- 
thor Up,    By  Charles  Lindsey.    Toronto  :  Lovell  Brothers. 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  647 

win  Smith  and  Mr.  lindsey  have  protested,  and  their  namesi  as  statesmen 
or  UUiSrcUeurs,  are  a  sufficient  guarantee  that  not  sectarian  bigotry,  but  an 
earnest  love  ol  civil  liberty,  has  prompted  them  to  speak.  No  men  are  less 
amenable  to  the  charge  of  theological  prejudice  ;  on  the  contrary,  from  first 
to  last,  they  have  been  the  ardent  champions  of  Roman  Catholic  rights  in 
England,  Ireland  and  Canada.  It  is  absurd  to  pretend  for  a  moment  that 
the  outrageous  utterances  of  bishops,  priests,  pamphleteers  and  sacerdotal 
editors  quoted  by  the  score  in  the  work  before  us  represent  the  settled  opin- 
ions of  the  Church,  or  its  most  faithful  adherents,  clerical  or  lay.  Political 
Ultramontanism  is  in  fact  the  attempt  of  a  fanatical  minority  to  strain  the 
sufficiently  wild.notions  conveyed  in  the  Syllabus  Errorum  to  the  uttermost ; 
to  supplement  them  by  glosses  and  corollaries  never  contemplated  even  by 
Pius  IX. ;  and  to  cany  them  into  practice  in  the  Province  of  Quebec  by  coer- 
cing the  conscience  of  the  elector,  denouncing  toleration  in  any  form,  anathe- 
matizing the  highest  courts  in  the  Province  and  Dominion,  and  practically 
abolishing  the  freedom  of  the  press. 

^'  Rome  in  Canada  '*  is  an  invaluable  repertory  of  facts,  and  an  exhaustive 
account  of  all  the  points  at  issue  between  British  freedom  and  hierarchical 
pretence  and  aggression.  Apart  from  the  great  advantage  of  having  the  real 
state  ol  affairs  in  Quebec  presented  in  manageable  shape,  it  was  fully  time 
that  Eogtish-speaking  people,  who  either  have  no  acquaintance  with  the 
French  language,  or  to  whom  the  French  joumab  and  literature  of  the  Pro- 
vince are  not  accessible,  should  fully  understand  the  true  nature  of  the  Ul- 
tramontane conspiracy  and  the  lengths  to  which  the  conspirators  have  gone  or 
are  prepared  and  eager  to  go.  Mr.  Lindsey  alone  has  made  an  effort  to  en- 
lighten the  English  population  of  Canada  upon  the  subject,  and  the  industry 
he  has  exhibited  in  collecting  materials  and  presenting  them  in  English  dress 
is  worthy  of  the  highest  commendation.  No  one  who  has  been  temporarily 
deluded  by  the  soothing  lullaby  of  our  political  Delilahs  into  a  disbelief  in  the 
truth  of  the  complaints  which  have  come  from  Quebec,  should  fail  to  read 
*'  Rome  in  Canada  ;"  if  that  fails  to  open  the  eyes  even  of  the  purblind  to 
the  facts  of  the  case,  it  is  impossible  that  they  should  be  convinced  '^  though 
one  rose  from  the  dead. "  In  addition  to  th'^  vast  amount  of  research  evident 
in  this  work  there  is  a  commendable  absence  of  the  odwim  theologiotMn  through- 
out. With  dogmas,  as  we  have  already  said,  Mr.  Lindsey  does  not  meddle, 
and  there  is  nothing  like  acerbity  or  uncharitableness  in  his  tone.  In  short, 
there  is  little  or  nothing  in  this  formidable  indictment  against  the  Quebec 
hierarchy  and  its  accessories  which  may  not  be  read  with  satisfaction  and 
abo  with  profit  by  any  intelligent  Roman  Catholic  who  loves  his  country  and 
its  freedom  as  well  as  his  creed. 

It  would  be  obviously  impossible  within  the  limits  at  our  disposid  to  give 
a  full  account  of  all  the  branches  of  the  subject  iareated  of  in  this  volume  ;  it 
must  suffice,  therefore,  if  we  select  a  few  points  and  endeavour  in  that  way 
to  give  a  partial  idea  of  the  scope  of  the  work.  Its  arrangement  is  not  unex- 
ceptionable perhaps,  and,  no  doubt,  it  might  be  recast  with  advantage  ;  still 
the  chapters  are  complete  and  self-contained,  and  the  headings  serve  as  a 
rough  guide  to  the  contents.  But  we  must  protest  against  the  publication  of 
A  book  like  this — ^in  which  so  much  depends  on  quotation,  and  the  various 


648  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

topics  spread  out  into  so  many  perplexing  ramifications — without  an  index. 
It  is  annoying  to  the  reviewer  and  a  serious  inconyenience  to  readers  who 
desire  to  use  the  volume  hereafter  as  a  book  of  reference.  Mr.  lindsey 
should  not  have  forgotten  Archbishop  Whateley's  desire  to  make  this  sin  of 
omission  a  penal  offence.  The  chapter  on  **  The  Rise  of  the  New  School  '* 
will  strike  most  English  readers  like  the  unfolding  of  a  fresh  revelation. 
One  reason,  doubtless,  why  journalists  in  Ontario  and  the  Maritime  Provinces 
have  persistently  denied  the  existence  of  this  **  School "  is  that  they  knew 
nothing  of  the  facts  and  did  not  care  to  ascertain  them.  The  notion  that  the 
Church  has  only  one  policy  touching  public  afiairs  and  one  attitude  towards 
the  State  in  all  countries  has  perhaps  lead  many  people  astray.  It  is  clear 
the  position  of  the  Vatican  towards  Germany  and  Italy  as  contrasted  with  its 
treatment  of  Austria,  which  is  also  in  partial  rebellion,  and  the  policy  in  Eng- 
land as  compared  with  that  in  Belgium  or  Spain  are  sufficiently  diverse  to 
suggest  doubts  of  the  validity  of  the  theory.  Moreover,  the  liberality  of  the 
lamented  Archbishop  Conolly,  of  Halifax,  and  the  tolerant  maxims  of  Arch- 
bishop Lynch,  of  Toronto,  have  raised  doubts  as  to  the  reported  sajongsand 
doings  of  Bishop  Bourget  and  his  congeners  in  the  Quebec  hierarchy.  Mr. 
1  .indsey's  work  will  serve  as  a  rude  awakening  from  this  sleep  of  hlae  se- 
curity. 

It  was  Bishop  Bourget  who  gave  the  Quebec  sacerdotal  party  the  distinc- 
tive title  of  *^  the  New  School."  Its  characteristic  principle  is  ^'  unlimited  de- 
votion to  the  Pope. ''  Its  Aleves  are  they  "  who  accept  without  question  all 
his  teachings  ;  who  approve  of  everything  he  approves  and  condemn  every- 
thing he  condemns  ;  who  reject  liberalism,  philosophy,  Cadsansm,  rational- 
ism and  other  errors  which  are  described  as  gliding  like  venomous  serpents 
in  all  ranks  of  society  "  (p.  12).  Amongst  them  are  young  men  of  intellect 
and  social  position — a  sort  of  non-militant  Papal  Zouaves,  engaged  in  a  cru- 
sade against  the  authority  of  the  State,  the  supremacy  of  the  law  and  the 
rights  of  the  subject.  ''  In  a  few  years,  it  is  predicted,  their  number  will  be 
strong  enough,  by  the  aid  of  the  Church,  to  force  open  the  doors  of  the  Le- 
gislature and  to  take  possession  of  the  judicial  bench.'*  Behind  them  is  an 
army  of  ecclesiastics,  such  as  the  Abb6  Paquet,  the  Abb^  Pelletier,  the  Jesuit 
Braun,  Binan  and  others,  who  ply  their  pens  assiduously  in  the  press  until,  in 
addition  to  contributions  to  journalism,  they  have  "  within  the  last  four  years 
produced  a  pyramid  of  worthless  but  not  innocuous  literature,  which  proba- 
bly contains  not  less  than  a  hundred  separate  publications  '*  (p.  14).  To  this 
class  of  crusaders  belong  also  Alp.  Villeneuve  and  the  Bishop  of  Birtha.  The 
New  School  teaches  that  Protestantism  is  not  a  religion  and  has  no  rights  : 
that  the  laws  of  the  Church  are  universal  and  are  binding  on  heretics  ;  thai 
no  one  Catholic  or  Protestant  has  a  right  to  read  any  book  of  any  kind  with- 
out the  special  permission  of  the  Bishop  ;  and  that  the  civil  laws  regarding 
marriage  are  null  and  void.  The  late  Bishop  (Bourget^  of  Montreal  assailed 
*<  every  branch  of  the  civil  power,  legislative,  executive  and  judicial,  and 
strove  to  intimidate  the  judiciary."  Amongst  other  *' rusty  weapons  fur- 
bished up  "  from  the  mediaeval  armoury  for  use  in  free  Canada  and  in  the 
19th  century  are  such  as  these  : — *^  That  the  Church  has  the  power  to  depose 
sovereigns  and  to  release  subjects  from  the  oath  of  allegiance ;"  that  the  Ro- 


CURRENT   LITERATURE.  649 

man  Oatholio  epiacopate  is  as  much  above  the  civil  power  as  the  supernattiral 
is  superior  to  the  natural ;  that  the  Church  contains  the  State  ;  that  every 
human  being  is  subject  to  the  Pope  ;  that  the  Pope  has  the  right  to  command 
the  obedience  of  the  king  and  to  control  his  armies  ;  that  the  civil  authority 
can  place  no  limit  to  the  ecclesiastical  power,  and  it  is  a  ^  pernicious  doc- 
trine '  to  allege  that  it  has  not  the  right  to  do  so  ;  that  to  deny  the  priests  the 
right  to  use  their  spiritual  authority  to  control  the  elections  is  to  exclude 
God  from  the  regulation  of  human  affairs  (sermon  by  Bishop  of  Birtha) ; 
that  civil  laws  which  are  contrary  to  the  pretensions  of  Kome  are  null  and 
void,  and  that  the  judiciary  has  no  power  to  interpret  the  true  sense  of  laws 
so  passed,  which  are,  in  fact,  not  laws  at  all ;  that  civil  society  is  inferior  to 
the  Church  (p.  21),  and  that  it  is  contrary  to  the  natural  order  of  things  to 
pretend  that  the  Church  can  be  cited  before  the  civil  tribunals  ;  '*  as  if,"  re- 
marks Mr.  Lindsey,  '*  Pope  Pius  IX.,  in  the  concordat  with  Austria,  had  not 
agreed  that  the  secular  judges  should  have  cognizance  of  the  civil  causes  of 
clerks  "  (p.  22).  As  for  the  freedom  of  the  press,  hear  Bishop  Bourget : — 
*'  The  '  liberal  journal '  is  that  which  pretends  to  be  liberal  in  religious  and 
political  opinions.''  *^  No  one,'*  he  says,  *^  is  allowed  to  exercise  freedom  in 
his  religious  or  political  opinions ;  it  is  for  the  Church  to  teach  its  children 
to  be  good  citizens  as  well  as  good  Christians."  He  further  contends  that 
every  journal  pretending  to  be  free  in  its  religious  or  political  opinions  is  in 
error,  and  that  liberty  of  opinion  is  nothing  else  than  liberty  of  error,  which 
causes  the  death  of  the  soul,  which  conducts  society  as  well  as  individuals  ibo 
ruin  and  to  death.  Every  attempt  at  independent  journalism  is  immediately 
crushed.  Le  Pays  was  twice  denounced  by  Bishop  Bourget,  and  killed,  as 
was  Le  lUveil,  a  liberal  non-religious  journal.  The  cur^s  in  the  country 
parishes  "  denounce  in  the  church  every  journal  which  is  displeasing  to  them 
on  political  grounds,"  anathematize  the  paper  and  threaten  to  withhold  the 
sacraments  from  any  who  read  it  (p.  26). 

The  legal  proceedings  to  upset  elections  on  account  of  clerical  intimidation 
or  undue  influence  must  be  fresh  in  the  reader's  recollection.  The  Ultra- 
montane view  of  the  sanctity  of  the  judicial  oath  to  administer  faithfully  the 
law  of  the  land  is  '*  that  any  law  passed  by  the  civil  power  with  a  view  of 
preventing  an  abuse  of  ecclesiastical  authority  is  null  and  void,  and  that  it 
would  be  the  duty  of  the  judges,  if  asked  to  interpret  it,  to  refuse  to  recog- 
nize as  a  law  what  has  no  other  than  an  imaginary  existence. "  Certainly,  as 
our  author  remarks,  if  we  allow  that  the  Church  is  superior  to  the  State,  this 
conclusion  is  inevitable,  and  thus  both  the  legislature  and  the  judiciary  are 
to  be  crushed  beneath  the  sacerdotal  heel.  The  pastoral  of  the  Quebec  epis- 
copate (Sept.  22,  1875^  sufficiently  expounds  the  hierarchical  assumptions 
(ch.  xiii. ,  p.  252).  According  to  this  document  the  State  is  in  the  Church 
and  not  the  Church  in  the  State.  Directions  are  given  to  cur6s  about  the 
part  they  *'  are  to  play  in  politics — that  they  are,  in  certain  cases,  of  which 
they  are  necessarily  the  judges,  to  direct  the  electors  how  to  vote  under  pain 
of  spiritual  censures  "  (p.  254).  "  They  may  and  ought,"  runs  the  pastoral, 
^*  to  speak  not  only  to  the  electors  and  candidates  but  to  the  constituted  au- 
thorities," and  as  to  ^*  speak  "  means  to  command  obedience  by  divine  right 
from  Sovereign,  Parliament^and  subject,  we  may  gauge  the  enormity  of  the 


650  CURRENT  TJTEJIATURE: 

assumption.  Bishop  Bourget's  disqualifications  of  candidates  are  too  long  to 
quote  (p.  255),  but  amongst  them  are  those  advocating  the  separation  of  Church 
and  State  and  sustaining  propositions  condemned  by  the  Syllabus !  Let 
everyone  who  supposes  that  no  change  has  come  over  the  Quebec  hierarchy 
since  Confederation  (see  Sir  A.  T.  Gait's  second  pamphlet)  compare  the  above 
with  the  words  of  the  late  Bishop  Baillargeon,  of  Quebec,  in  1867  : — "  You 
ought  to  vote  in  accordance  with  your  own  conscience  and  not  that  of  an- 
other "  (p.  260).  Archbishop  Lynch,  in  his  letter  to  the  Hon.  Mr.  Mackenzie 
(Jan.  20, 1876),  clearly  proves  that  he  is  not  of  the  New  School  of  political 
Ultramontanes.  His  words  are,  '*  they  (the  priests)  are  not  to  say  to  the 
people  from  the  altar  that  they  are  to  vote  for  this  candidate  and  reject  the 
other.  It  would  be  very  imprudent  in  a  priest  whose  congregation  is  com- 
posed of  Liberals  and  Conservatives  to  become  a  warm  political  partizan  of 
either  political  party. "  That  is  sound  common  sense  as  well  as  legal  and 
constitutional  teaching,  but  it  is  not  that  of  the  dominant  sacerdotal  party  in 
Qnebec ;  indeed  the  Archbishop  has  received  a  smart  rap  on  the  knuckles 
from  the  Abb^  Pelletier  for  writing  this  letter.  In  the  Bonaventure  and  the 
Charlevoix  cases  the  supremacy  of  the  law  has  been  asserted  in  clear  and  un- 
equivocal terms.  Mr.  Lindsey  gives  a  full  account  of  the  position  of  the 
Ultramontanes,  and  also  of  the  firm  attitade  of  the  Bench.  Of  the  principles 
of  British  law  touching  undue  sacerdotal  influence  there  can  be  no  doubt 
Our  law  is  substantially  the  English  law,  and  that,  as  laid  down  by  Sir  Sam- 
uel Bomilly,  is  this  : — ''  Undue  influence  will  be  used  if  ecclesiastics  make 
use  of  their  powers  to  excite  superstitious  fears  or  pious  hopes  to  inspire,  as 
the  object  may  be  best  promoted,  despair  or  confidence  ;  to  alarm  the  con- 
science by  the  horrors  of  eternal  misery,  or  support  the  drooping  spirits  by 
unfolding  the  prospect  of  eternal  happiness. "  In  fact  spiritual  influence  does 
more.  It  debauches  the  conscience  and  depraves  the  whole  man.  The  awful 
sanctions  of  religion,  instead  of  reinforcing  and  invigorating  the  voice  of 
conscience,  is  arrayed  against  it.  In  effect  the  wielder  of  spiritual  wei^ns 
compels  the  elector  to  choose  between  violating  his  conscience  and  acting 
counter  to  his  honest  and  deliberate  convictions  in  political  matters,  and  eter- 
nal damnation.  If  he  palters  with  his  conscience  and  votes  dishonestly  he 
will  be  saved  ;  if  he  votes  as  ho  sincerely  thinks  he  should  vote  he  will  be 
damned.  The  effect  of  this  "  spiritual  terrorism  "  amongst  a  simple-minded 
religious  population  may  be  readily  conceived.  At  thQ  Charlevoix  trial  one 
witness  said  upon  oath,  **  I  really  believed  that  if  I  voted  for  M.  Tremblay 
my  soul  wotdd  be  lost."  The  Supreme  Court  has  impressed  the  stamp  of  il- 
legality upon  clerical  intimidation,  and  those  who  have  been  tempted  to 
speak  lightly  of  it  should  peruse  chap.  xiv.  and  xv.  of  "  Home  in  Canada." 
Akin  to  this  branch  of  the  subject  is  that  of  clerical  inmiunity  (xv. )  On 
this  point  the  Quebec  pastoral  of  1875  already  mentioned  leaves  no  room  for 
hesitancy.  The  Church  has  ecclesiastical  tribunals  and  no  one,  therefore, 
has  a  right  to  cite  a  priest  before  a  lay  court,  to  answer  not  only  for  his 
doctrine  but  his  acts.  The  bishops  quote  the  bull  of  Pius  IX. ,  Apostolicfe 
Sedis,  of  October,  1869,  in  which  he  declares  **  to  be  under  the  excommimica- 
tion  major  all  who  directly  or  indirectly  oblige  lay  judges  to  cite  before  their 
tribunal  ecclesiastical  persons  contrary  to  the  dispositions  of  the  canon  law.'* 


CURRENT   LITERATtJRE.  651 

(p.  294).  The  msaning  of  fchia  is  that  in  free  Canada  no  man  may  sue  a  priest 
or  prosecute  him  for  an  offence  in  the  legal  tribunals,  and  that  if  he  does  so 
he  incurs  the  major  excommunication.  The  courts  of  Quebec  are  of  a  differ- 
ent opinion  (see  the  cases  cited  in  Mr.  Lindsey's  work,  p.  281-309),  particu- 
larly the  clear  and  trenchant  utterance  of  Mr.  Justice  Taschereau  in  the 
Charlevoix  election  case  (p.  308).  The  Judge  Routhier,  whose  judgment  was 
overruled,  had  already  distinguished  himself  in  favour  of  clerical  immunity 
in  the  case  of  Darouiu  v.  Archambault,  in  adjudicating  which  his  chief  au- 
thority was  the  Syllabus.  As  for  the  canon  law  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that, 
like  the  disciplinary  decrees  o'  the  Council  of  Trent,  it  has  never  been  in 
force  in  Canada,  French  or  English.  It  may  be  remarked,  by  the  way,  that 
in  a  quotation  from  M.  B^dard  (p.  149)  is  contained  a  pretended  quotation 
from  St.  Augustine — "  Orders,"  he  is  made  to  say,  "  have  come  to  us  from 
the  Apostolic  See  ;  the  cause  is  finished. '^  Mr.  Lindsey  does  not  seem  to  be 
aware  that  this  is  a  fraudulent  gloss  upon  a  fraudulent  interpolation.  As 
ordinarily  quoted  the  passage  runs,  ''  Roma  locuta  est,  catisa  Jinita  est " — 
Rome  has  spoken ;  the  cause  is  finished.  Now  the  IQustrious  Bishop  of 
Hippo  never  uttered  the  first  three  words  at  all,  and  he  certainly  never 
dreamed  of  '*  orders  "  from  any  Apostolic  See.  Fears  were  at  that  time  ex- 
pressed that  Innocent  I. ,  Bishop  of  Rome,  would  yield  to  the  Pelagian  her- 
etics ;  he,  however,  was  kept  in  the  orthodox  path  by  Augustine.  These  are 
his  words  : — *^  The  transactions  of  two  councils  concerning  this  matter  have 
been  sent  to  the  Apostolic  See  (i.e.,  to  keep  it  straight),  and  a  favourable 
answer  has  been  received.  The  controversy  is  ended ;  would  that  the  error, 
too,  were  at  an  end," — causa  finita  est,  tUinam a^iquando  error  finiatur.* 

Mr.  Lindsejr's  chapter  on  the  celebrated  Programme  Catholique  of  1871  is 
of  interest  as  an  additional  link  in  the  chain.  This  document  was  not  osten- 
sibly published  with  the  episcopal  imprimatur  upon  it ;  still  it  was  merely  an 
expansion  of  a  pastoral  by  the  Bishop  of  Three  Rivers,  was  never  repudi- 
ated by  the  hierarchy,  and  was  accepted  as  of  authority  by  the  New  School 
and  the  people.  In  point  of  fact  the  Programme  merely  emphasized  the 
pastoral  and  gave  it  the  necessary  practical  application.  It  was  the  fore- 
runner of  the  united  pastoral  of  Sept.,  1^75,  and  had  the  unqualified  appro- 
val of  Bishop  Bourget.  The  question  has  been  raised  whether  by  ^'  Catholic 
Liberalism  "  the  Bishops  mean  a  religious  or  a  political  party  or  both.  It  has 
been  contended  that  it  merely  refers  to  loose  or  heterodox  religious  views  ;  but 
it  is  not  so  used  by  the  New  School.  Usually  it  is  another  term  for  Galli- 
canism  in  the  first  place,  and  then  for  Liberal  opinions  generally,  political  as 
well  as  religious.  Catholic  Liberalism  and  Liberal  Catholicism  are  not  dif- 
ferent things,  but  at  most  different  aspects  of  the  same  hydra,  cobra  or  ser- 
pent, as  it  is  variously  called.  *'  Liberalism  tends,"  says  the  Bishop,  '^  al- 
ways to  subordinate  the  rights  of  the  Church  to  the  rights  of  the  State,  by 
prudent  and  sagacious  means,  and  even  to  separate  the  Church  from  the 
State,  desiring  to  have  a  free  Church  in  a  free  State "  (Cavour's 
phrase,  p.  191).  This  was  the  solemn  dictum  of  the  Quebec  hier- 
archy twenty  years  after  the  Provincial  Parliament  had  deliberately    de- 

*  See  Mwnan  Catholicism^  Old  and  New,  from  the  Standpoint  of  the  Infallibility  Doc- 
trine,   By  Dr.  Sohultb,  Rector  of  Port  BurwelL    Toronto,  1876. 


652  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

Glared  in  the  preamble  of  an  Act  of  Parliament  that  it  was  desirable  i^  sem- 
blance of  connection  between  Church  and  State  should  be  done  away.  That 
the  hierarchy  have  very  loose  ideas  regarding  the  sphere  of  the  Church  is 
evident  by  their  ordering  the  electors  to  reject  any  candidate  who  did  not 
pledge  himself  to  labour  for  an  amnesty  for  Riel  and  Co. — a  question  sacer- 
dotal ingenuity  could  not  distort  into  a  religious  one.  They  also,  with  char- 
acteristic ignorance  on  public  afiBBurs,  demanded  from  the  Dominion  Parlia- 
ment a  New  Bi-unswick  School  Law,  which,  as  Mr.  Lindsey  remarks,  they 
should  have  known  to  be  uUra  virea.  Their  attitude  on  "  the  marriage  rela- 
tion *'  is  examined  at  some  length  in  chap.  xi.  (p.  221),  and  here,  as  in  other 
matters,  such  as  education,  the  domineering  and  dictatorial  ammus  of  the 
party  is  evident.  The  marriage  relation  is  one  which  the  civil  power  must 
have  under  control  or  abrogate  all  its  functions.  It  is  so  solemn  in  its  char- 
acter, so  far-reaching  in  its  consequences,  so  unspeakably  valuable  to  the 
well-being  of  our  social  state  that  the  law  could  not  and  dare  not  leave  it 
either  to  hap-hazard  or  to  the  fickle  fancies  of  theologians.  Marriage  is  the 
very  basis  of  the  social  fabric  and  all  that  relates  to  it  is  and  of  right  ought 
to  be  one  of  the  chief  concerns  of  the  State.  Religion,  corrupted  and  abused, 
gave  England  the  Fleet  marriages  ;  Lord  flardwicke's  Act  asserted  the  su- 
premacy of  the  civil  power  in  a  matter  upon  which  the  very  existence  of  civi- 
lized society  depends. 

There  is  no  space  at  our  command  to  deal  with  those  chapters  of  '^  Rome 
in  Canada  "  in  which  Mr.  Lindsey  traces  the  history  of  the  Gallican  Church 
in  France  and  in  Canada,  and  the  influence  of  the  Jesuits,  the  Index  and  the 
Inquisition.  It  may  be  remarked  that  it  would  have  been  of  advantage  in 
chap.  iiL  if  our  author  had  marked  the  different  stages  of  the  controversy  by 
the  names  of  the  French  Kings  rather  than  the  Popes.  Those  who  desire 
fiurther  information  will  naturally  turn  to  Martin  or  Quizot's  History  of 
France  rather  than  to  an  ecclesiastical  history.  Moreover  the  French  Prag- 
matic Sanction  is  apt  to  be  confounded  with  the  Imperial  one  to  secure  the 
Austrian  succession — ^the  reference,  slight  in  itself,  not  giving  any  account  of 
it,  and  omitting  all  mention  of  Charles  VII.  or  Louis  XI.  in  connection  with 
it.  Mr.  Lindsey  concludes  with  a  reference  to  the  mission  of  Dr.  Conroy, 
the  Papal  Ablegate.  He  is  of  opinion  that  ^Hhe  recoil''  is  only  *'at  one 
point  of  the  line  ;  everywhere  else  the  old  attitude  is  preserved  "  (p.  407). 
Liberals  are  under  the  same  condenmation  as  before,  and  the  hierarchy  has 
only  retreated  *'  before  the  menaced  penalties  of  a  parliamentary  enactment'' 
For  our  part  we  hope  that  this  indicates  a  resolution  to  stop  *^  the  entire  ag- 
gressive movement ;"  yet  it  may  only  be  a  temporary  halt.  The  same  ele- 
ments are  in  store  for  a  new  outburst  of  intolerant  assumption  whenever  the 
fitting  season  seems  to  have  arrived  ;  and  a  perfect  acquaintance  with  the 
assumptions  and  aggressions  of  the  last  few  years  is  the  best  preparative  for 
any  future  sacerdotal  onslaught  the  future  may  have  in  store  for  us.  Mr. 
Lindsey 's  interesting  work  is  not  merely  the  best  but  the  only  one  in  which 
the  facts  are  carefully  massed  together  and  presented  in  English  dress  for 
the  general  reader,  and  it  ought  to  be  studied  with  care,  since  it  supplies 
abundant  food  for  earnest  and  solemn  reflection. 


.CURRENT   LITERATURK.  653 

Mr.  Stewart's  new  book*  ifl  likely  to  be  popular,  for  he  has  been  fortunate 
enough  to  cast  his  sketches  of  prominent  living  authors  in  a  mould  which  is 
at  once  readable  and  instructive.  The  first  *'  Evening  "  deals  with  Carlyle, 
but  with  that  exception  the  book  is  devoted  to  an  analysis  of  the  writings 
and  genius  of  living  American  authors. — Emerson,  Holmes^  Lowell,  Long- 
fellow, Whittier,  Bryant,  Howells  and  Aldrich.  Our  author  in  his  title  page 
describes  his  sketches  as  ''bits  of  gossip  about  books  and  those 
who  write  them,"  but  it  remains  for  us  to  add  that  they  are  something 
more  than  mere  gossip,  that  they  discover  an  admirable  vein  of  appreciative 
criticism.  For  instance,  he  very  happily  distinguishes  between  Carlyle  and 
Emerson  in  a  single  sentence  : — ''  Emerson's  imagination  is  more  delicate 
{than  Carlyle's),  Ms  language  is  less  harsh,  his  imagery  is  more  rounded, 
more  perfect."  Mr.  Stewart's  estimates  are  very  correct,  and  while  we  might 
perhaps  not  quite  agree  with  him  when  he  states,  that  in  England,  Lowell 
holds  equal  rank  as  an  essayist  with  Matthew  Arnold ;  and  agaii\  when  he 
places  Howells  **  in  the  first  rank  of  poets  "  on  the  strength  of  a  few  melod- 
ious and  striking  poems,  yet  we  doubt  not  but  that  he  will  find  very  many 
students  of  literature  willing  and  eager  to  agree  with  him.  The  book  abounds 
in  fresh,  breezy  and  intelligent  criticism  and  discussion.  The  points  are 
ably  and  cleverly  made,  and  the  personal  reminiscences  are  delightful  features 
in  a  work  destined  to  enjoy  a  large  and  popular  sale.  ''  Evenings  in  the 
Library  "  is  an  admirable  introduction  to  current  literature,  and  must  prove  a 
delightful  guide  to  the  student  of  modem  literature .  Mr  Stewart  has  a  hap- 
py way  of  introducing  his  subjects  and  of  telling  us  just  what  sort  of  books 
we  should  read  and  how  and  when  we  should  read  them.  Not  the  least  en- 
joyable part  in  the  book  is  the  portion  which  treats  of  the  origin  of  some  of 
the  great  poems  and  prose  writings  of  the  eminent  authors  where  works  come 
under  review.  Gossip  about  Inen  and  books  is  always  pleasant  reading,  and  the 
reader  will  find  a  good  deal  of  it  in  Mr.  Stewart's  new  book.  ''  Evenings  in 
the  Library  '*  is  a  bright  and  intelligent  work. 

The  Rev.  Joseph  Cook's  first  series  of  Monday  Lectures  delivered  in  Boston 
has  been  fated  to  receive  pretty  sharp  criticism,  not  only  from  those  who 
adhere  to  the  doctrines  which  it  has  been  Mr.  Cook's  business  to  hold 
up  to  ridicule,  but  from  his  own  side — the  side  of  dogmatic  theology — as 
well. 

In  this  second  series  of  his  Monday  Lectures,  Mr.  Cook  forsakes  the  con- 
fines of  exact  science,  and  betakes  himself  to  a  discussion  of  the  Christian 
doctrine  of  intuitive  truth,  sin  and  the  trinity,  including  a  defence  of  Theism 
aud  of  Biblical  revelation,  together  with  an  onslaught  on  Theodore  Parker. 
On  all  of  these  except  the  latter,  he  seems  to  be  no  more  at  home  than  he  was 
on  science.  German  tutored  as  he  professes  to  be,  metaphysical  subtleties 
are  too  much  for  him.  We  will  give  one  example  of  many,  to  be  found 
throughout  the  volume.      Mr.  Cook  adopts  an  almost  entirely  abandoned 


*Eveningiin  the  Library.    By  Gsorob  Stbwart,  Jr.    Toronto :  Rose-Belford  PiibliahiDg  Co. 

Boiton  Monday  Lectures,     By  Joskph  Cook.     Boston  :  Jamea  R.  0%ood  &  Co.     Toronto  : 

A.  FUdiogtou. 


654  CURRENT   LITERATURE.    ' 

argnment  -  that  Space  and  Time  are  attributen,  are  qualities  of  something ; 
consequently  there  exists  an  ** infinitely  perfect  being."  ''If  they  are  atin- 
butes,  they  are  the  attributes  of  a  Being,  that  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come.'' 
We  should  like  to  see  some  logical  support  for  all  this.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
no  logical  support  can  be  given.  Of  course,  Space  and  Time  as  entities, 
things,  might  be  made  to  lead  up  to  the  argument  from  creation,  or  the  argu- 
ment from  design  ;  but  never  to  the  argument  from  attribute  to  substance. 
What  tyro  in  metaphysics,  would  infer  from  Space  and  Time  as  attributes  to 
the  'infinitely  perfect'*  Being  God  as  substance,  involving  as  it  does  a 
metaphysical  and  logical  absurdity  ?  No  absurdity,  however,  seems  too  great 
to  be  swallowed  by  our  learned  lecturer. 

Enough  has  been  said  elsewhere  of  Mr.  Cook's  peculiar  style  ;  and  his 
faults  of  taste,  his  lack  of  exact  scholarship,  his  vain  self-sufficiency  need 
not  again  be  minutely  characterized.  His  offences  in  these  matters  have 
been  scarcely  venial,  and  have  already  brought  a  storm  about  his  ears, 
which  he  will  find  no  easy  matter  to  ignore.  In  this  review  we  shall 
simply  mark  the  attitude  he  has  assumed  towards  Theodore  Parker,  that 
brave,  eloquent  and  noble  worker,  who  occupied  the  foremost  rank  in  the 
anti-slavety  cause,  and  whose  whole  earnest  life  exhibits  in  a  superlittive 
degree,  his  simplicity  and  purity  of  heart,  and  his  consistent  integniy  of 
purpose,  in  striving  to  give  his  hearers  the  fullest,  richest  faith  in  the  infi- 
nite love  and  goodness  of  God,  and  infuse  a  holier  and  purer  life  into  their 
souls.  Mr.  Parker,  though  strong  in  his  convictions  was  no  dogmatist,  and 
assumed  no  robes  of  infallibility.  He  nowhere  claims  that  his  system  is  per- 
fect and  wholly  true  and  consistent  in  all  its  parts,  and  we  are  not  aware 
that  his  followers  claim  it  for  him.  Why  then,  we  may  ask,  should  he  be 
selected  and  made  the  scape-goat,  whereon  the  enlightened  and  luminous  (!) 
expounder  of  the  ''  results  of  the  freshest  German,  English  and  American 
scholarship,''  can  vent  his  carping  and  cavilling  ?  Mr.  Cook  reminds  one  of 
a  man  who  sets  himself  a  talking,  unmindful  of  the  subject,  so  long  as  it  is 
bitter  enough  to  injure  somebody,  and  give  as  much  offence  as  possible  to  the 
greatest  number.  It  is  a  pity  for  his  own  sake,  as  weU  as  for  the  cause  he 
represents,  that  this  Boston  Monday  Lectureship  is  not  conducted  in  that 
humility  of  spirit,  that  largeness  of  heart  which  so  eminently  characterized 
the  public  services  of  Theodore  Parker — a  man  whose  very  shoe  strings,  the 
Rev.  Joseph  Cook  has  shown  himself  unworthy  to  tmloose. 

We  have  no  special  love  ourselves  for  the  doctrines  inculcated  by  Parker, 
and  are  therefore  not  liable  to  be  misled  by  any  prejudice  in  their  favour, 
whilst  endeavouriug  to  estimate  his  character.  We  must  confess,  however, 
the  result  of  the  endeavour  has  been  to  throw  into  strong  contrast,  the  broad 
unselfish  humanity  inherent  in  Parker,  with  the  narrow  cavilling  proclivities 
displayed  by  his  critic. 

Mr.  Cook  begins  his  estimation  of  Parker  in  the  following  strain  :'*... 
he  began  his  public  career  by  launching  himself  upon  what  has  proved  to  be 
only  a  reactionary  eddy,  and  not  the  gulf  current  of  scholarship  " — ^to  wit : 
the  "gulf  current"  which  is  at  the  present  time  bearing  onward  Mr.  CooL 
What  follows  is  very  characteristic.  "  When  I  compare  the  structure  that 
Theodore  Parker  erected  here  in  Boston  on  a  fragment  of  this  adamant  of  axio- 


CURRENT  LITERATURE.  655 

matic  truth,  it  seems  to  me  a  oareless  cabin,  as  contrasted  with  Jolius  Miiller's 
palatial  work.  What  your  New  York  palace,  appointed  in  every  part  well, 
is  to  that  wretched  squatter's  tenement,  standing,  it  may  be,  face  to  face  with 
it  in  the  upper  part  of  Manhattan  Island  yonder,  such  is  the  complete  intui- 
ional  religious  philosophy,  compared  with  Theodore  Parker's  absolute  reli- 
gion." Not  yet  satisfied  with  what  he  has  said  in  depreciation  of  Mr .  Parker, 
he  strikes  him  again:  ''  Theodore  Parker's  chief  intellectual  fault  was  inade- 
quate attention  to  definitions.  As  a  consequence  his  caricatures  or  miscon- 
ceptions of  Christian  truth  were  many  and  ghastly."  *'  In  addition  to  his 
failure  to  distinguish  between  i/ntmUon  and  instinct,  and  between  inapmxtion 
and  Ulurnvnation,**  we  are  told  by  way  of  climax:  "  He  did  not  carefully  dis- 
tinguish from  each  other  inspiration  and  dictation,**  We  are  almost  sorry  for 
Mr.  Cook,  that  this  screwed  up  culmination  failed  to  elicit  the  usual  applause 
— ^it  was  indeed  too  bad  that  such  an  effort  was  not  fully  appreciated  and 
testified  to.  Seeing  his  grand  effort  was  a  failure,  the  lecturer  rests  for  a  few 
moments,  then  gallantly  returning  to  the  charge,  he  thunders  :  "  Theodore 
Parker's  absolute  religion  is  not  a  Boston,  but  a  West  Roxbury  creed."  He 
has  done  it — he  has  touched  their  sensibilities  to  the  quick,  and  his  reward  is 
their *** applause" — applause  from  "the  representatives  of  the  broadest 
scholarship"  and  **  the  profoundest  philosophy." 

These  few  extracts  will  be  more  than  enough  to  show  the  calibre  of  the  much 
talked  of  Boston  Monday  Lecturer.  We  do  not  mean  to  imply,  however,  that 
this  latest  volume  of  Mr.  Cook's  contains  nothing  good.  On  the  contrary, 
the  reader  will  find  in  a  few  places  a  wealth  of  description  and  metaphor, 
and  a  keenness  of  logic  truly  excellent,  but  this  fact  alone  cannot  redeem  work 
which  has  been  trumpeted  with  such  extravagant  assumption  to  the  world. 

As  far  as  we  can  judge,  Mr.  Cook's  utterances  are  not  always  distinguished 
by  that  supreme  honesty  of  purpose,  so  eminently  characteristic  of  some  of 
the  men  whom  he  has  raved  over  and  belittled  in  every  possible  way.  He  is 
always  striving  after  effect,  and  cares  little  about  the  means,  so  long  as  they 
help  towards  his  main  purpose. 

It  seems  to  us,  that  more  real  good  would  be  acocmplished,  if  the  modem 
"exponent  of  axiomatic  truth"  exhibited  a  greater  desire  to  "ascend  into 
God's  bosom,"  even  if  he  be  compelled  to  adopt  some  other  way  than  that, 
through  the  "  focus  of  the  four  quadrants  "  he  speaks  of,  rather  than  to  re- 
main in  his  position  on  this  mundane  sphere,  exposing  himself  and  his 
enthusiastic  Boston  audience,  to  the  well  merited  ridicule  of  all  who  under- 
stand the  difference  between  that  '*  power,  not  ourselves,  which  makes  for 
righteousness,"  and  that  which  makes  for  sheer  pugnacity. 

So  great  is  the  interest  taken  in  the  question  of  the  extent  and  duration  of 
future  punishment,  that  any  work  bearing  upon  the  subject  is  read  with 
avidity  by  men  and  women  of  all  classes.  That  of  Canon  Farrar*  is  especi- 
ally interesting,  as  setting  forth  the  views  of  an  earnest  and  learned  man, 

*  Eternal  Hops  :  Five  Sermons  preached  in  Westminster  Abbey,  November  and 
December,  1877.  By  the  Rev.  F.  W.  Farrar,  D.  D.,  F.  E.  S.,  Canon  of  Westminster. 
New  York :  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.    Toronto  :  Rose-Belford  Publishing  Ca 


666  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

who  is  undoubtedly  a  sincere  believer  in  the  Christian  religion^  and  the  in- 
spiration of  scripture,  and  yet  who  is  unable  after  a  careful  study  of  the 
subject,  as  found  in  the  Bible,  or  as  revealed  by  the  voice  of  Crod  in  his  own 
heart,  to  accept  the  idea  that  the  soul  passes,  at  death,  at  once  into  a  state 
of  happiness  or  misery,  which  is  everlasting  and  unchangeable. 

The  publication  of  this  work  was  caused  by  what  he  considered  perversions 
of  his  real  views,  which  were  prevalent  among  those  who  had  not  heard  the 
sermons,  but  only  heard  of  them,  as  they  were  imperfectly  or  erroneously 
reported.  Wishing  to  make  his  sermons  at  Westminster  Abbey  bear  upon 
those  thoughts  which,  he  says,  *'  since  they  are  so  prominent  in  literature, 
must  also  be  prominent  in  the  minds  of  many  of  those  miscellaneous  hun- 
dreds who  compose  our  ordinary  congregations,''  he  took  up  subjects  which 
greatly  interest  thinking  men  and  women,  and  which  he  thought  were  either 
misunderstood  by  Christians,  or  misrepresented  by  unbelievers. 

As  regards  style,  and  manner  of  handling  his  subject,  Canon  Farrar's  ser- 
mons can  scarcely  be  considered  equal  to  Canon  Siddon's,  as  addressed  to  an 
intellectual  audience.  Yet  such  a  comparison  would  hardly  be  a  fair  one,  as 
the  writer  says  they  were  never  intended  for  publication  ;  nor  from  the  very 
nature  of  his  plea,  and  the  mixed  character  of  the  congregation  he  was  ad- 
dressing, could  he  be  severely  intellectual.  Indeed  the  emotional  very  largely 
predominates  throughout,  and  often  carries  him  to  such  lengths  that  at  times 
he  becomes  almost  contradictory,  making  appeals  which  if  logically  carried 
out,  and  conversely  applied,  would  tell  equally  against  him. 

In  his  first  sermon — **  What  Ueaven  is  " — there  is  nothing  that  the  most 
orthodox  could  object  to,  as  regards  conclusions ;  although  the  mode  <rf 
arriving  at  them  may  not  always  be  satisfactory  to  a  logical  mind.  Speaking 
of  the  difficulty  of  convincing  the  sceptical  mind  of  the  truth  of  spiritual 
things,  he  says  : — **  If  he  demand  a  kind  of  proof  which  is  impossible,  and 
which  God  has  withheld,  seeing  that  it  is  a  law  that  spiritual  things  can  only 
be  spiritually  discerned,  and  that  we  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, — if,  in 
short,  a  man  will  not  see  God  because  clouds  aud  darkness  are  round  about 
Him,  although  righteousness  and  judgment  are  the  habitation  of  His  seat  : 
then  we  can  do  no  more.  He  must  believe  or  not  believe, — he  must  bear  or 
must  forbear,  as  seems  him  best.  We  cannot  argue  about  colour  to  the  blind. 
We  cannot  prove  the  glory  of  music  to  the  deaf.  If  a  man  shuts  his  eyes 
hard,  we  camiot  make  him  see  the  sun.'''  Now  though  this  may  in  a  general 
way  be  true,  it  is  very  dangerous  when  applied  to  any  particular  doctrine. 
Canon  Farrar  uses  it  as  an  argument  for  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  but 
how  if  it  were  used  in  favour  of  universalism  t  How  are  we  to  meet  the  man 
whose  **  true  inwardness  "  tells  him  not  only  that  God  has  given  him  a  soul, 
but  that  He  has  certainly  destined  that  soul  for  everlasting  happiness  ? 

It  is  impossible  not  to  observe  how  the  religious  leanings  of  most  people 
depend  upon  their  phrenological  development ;  and  how,  unless  they  allow 
their  minds  to  be  balanced  by  a  sober  acceptance  of  revelation,  their  idea  of 
the  character,  attributes,  and  as  a  consequence  the  actions,  of  their  Creator, 
is  formed  by  their  convictions  of  what  would  be  appropriate.  So  that  while 
we  would  freely  acknowledge  the  force  of  all  such  arguments,  as  showing  the 


J 


CURKENT  LITERATURE.  657 

reasonableness  of  Canon  Farrar's  views,  we  cannot  accept  them  necessarily  as 
proof. 

Much  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  second  sermon — ''  Is  life  worth  living?'' 
—where  he  endeavours  to  show  that  if  the  majority  of  mankind  are  to  be  lost, 
or  even  if  there  is  no  existance  beyond  the  grave,  the  comparatively  small 
amount  of  happiness  to  be  attained  by  the  great  majority  of  mankind,  especi- 
ally in  this  intellectual  age,  would  not  make  life  worth  living,  and  that  with 
most  men,  as  with  Judas,  it  were  better  that  they  had  never  been  bom. 
Here  again  the  subjective  must  be  measured  by  the  objective,  and  therefore 
such  reasoning  could  only  carry  weight  when  the  reasonable  probability  that 
it  is  in  accordance  with  God's  revealed  will,  is  also  shown.  In  the  third  and 
fourth  sermons — **  Hell,  what  it  is  not,"  and  "  Are  there  few  that  be  saved? " 
as  well  as  in  the  Preface  and  Ezcurses,  the  writer  comes  directly  to  his  own 
peculiar  views,  and  (although  the  subjective  treatment  of  the  subject  pervades 
the  whole  volume),  gives  us  his  reasons  for  believing  that  they  are  sustained, 
or  at  least  not  contradicted  by  Scripture.  They  depend  mainly  upon  the 
translation  of  three  Greek  words — r^cwo,  Kpltris  and  oi»i'*oi ;  which  he  objects 
to  rendering  as  **  hell,"  "  damnation,"  and  "  everlasting,"  for  the  reason,  he 
says,  that  as  '*  English  words  they  have  utterly  lost  their  original  significance ; 
that  by  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of  every  thousand  they  are  imder- 
stood  in  a  sense  which  I  see  to  be  demonstrably  unscriptural  and  untrue  ;  and 
that  they  attribute  to  the  sacred  writers,  and  to  oru*  blessed  Lord  Himself, 
meanings  such  as  they  never  sanctioned,  language  such  as  they  never  used." 
Upon  this  point  we  are  neither  prepared  nor  disposed  to  say  much  ;  for  the 
opinion  of  any  one  individual  upon  a  point  where  learned  men  differ,  could 
be  neither  of  interest  nor  value  to  anyone.  Tittva,  he  seems  to  think,  should 
simply  be  rendered  Gehenna ;  and  a  distinction  made  between  the  three 
words  which  are  in  the  English  version,  indiscriminately  translated  Hell.  In 
this  we  believe  most  scholars  agree  with  him,  as  also  upon  the  word  Kp(<ris, 
and  its  compound,  icaraitptffis,  which  should  be  rendered  "judgment,'*  or 
condemnation,  '*  and  if,"  he  adds,  "  the  word  *  damnation  '  has  come  to  mean 
more  than  these  words  do  —as,  to  all  but  the  most  educated  readers,  is  notori- 
ously the  case — then  the  word  is  a  grievous  mistranslation,  all  the  more  serious 
because  it  entirely  and  terribly  perverts  and  obscures  the  real  meaning  of  our 
Lord's  utterances  ;  and  all  the  more  inexcusable,  at  any  rate  for  us  with  our 
present  knowledge,  because  if  the  word  '  damnation '  were  used  as  the  render- 
ing of  the  very  same  words  in  multitudes  of  other  passages  (where  our  trans- 
lators have  rightly  translated  them),  it  would  make  those  passages  at  once 
impossible  and  grotesque,"  And  in  another  part  of  the  book  he  gives  as  an 
illustration,  John  viii,  10,  where  our  Saviour  might  be  made  to  say,  **  Woman, 
where  are  those  thine  accusers?  hath  no  man  damned  thee  ?"  Butin  regard  to  the 
word  oMrtos,  he  does  not  to  otu:  mind  make  out  nearly  so  clear  or  satisfactory 
a  case.  It  may  be  quite  true  that  the  word  originally  signified  age,  lasting  ; 
but  then  there  is  no  word  in  the  Greek  which  absolutely  signifies  everlasting, 
and  had  our  Lord  wished  to  convey  such  an  idea,  he  could  scarcely  have  done 
more  that  said,  as  He  did,  **  for  ages."  Again,  this  same  word  is  admitted  by 
Canon  Farrar  to  be  practically  equivalent  to  everlasting,  when  speaking  of  the 
life  of  happiness  hereafter  ;  and  his  reasons  for  not  giving  it  the  same  full 


658  CURRENT  LITERATURE. 

meaning  in  every  case,  but  modifying  it  to  suit  the  context,  are  scaroely  aatiB- 
factory.  Nevertheless  there  is  a  good  deal  in  what  he  says,  even  apon  this 
point,  well  worth  considering,  and  the  numerous  passages  of  Scripture,  which, 
taken  by  themselves,  imply  the  redemption,  and  even  the  salvation  of  the 
whole  of  mankind,  are  not  to  be  overlooked.  A  great  number  of  these  are 
placed  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  and  require  diligent  study  and  careful  com- 
parison to  estimate  their  true  value. 

In  conclusion,  our  readers  would  perhaps  like  to  know  what  views  as  to  the 
future  state  the  writer  deduces  from  all  these  premises.  The  keynote  may 
be  found  in  the  title — '*  Eternal  Hope.''  He  hopes,  rather  than  is  certain, 
that  the  mercy  of  God  will  prevail  over  every  other  quality,  and  that  all,  or 
nearly  all  men  may  eventually  be  saved.  That  all  punishment  is  remedial 
rather  than  vindictive,  he  feels  tolerably  certain,  and  abo  that  there  is 
room  for  repentance  beyond  the  grave.  To  our  mind,  without  wishing  to 
misrepresent  Canon  Farrar,  his  views  are  almost  identical  with  the  Catholic 
doctrine  of  Purgatory,  divested  of  all  purely  Roman  accretions — but  he  would 
extend  it  much  more  widely,  and  trust  that  in  the  end  there  may  be  very 
few  who  will  not  be  restored  to  purity  and  holiness  through  its  influence. 
He  rejects  OniversaUsm,  *' partly  because,''  he  says,  'Mt  is  not  clearly  re- 
vealed to  us,  and  partly  because  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  estimate  the  hard- 
ening effect  of  obstinate  persistence  in  evil,  and  the  power  of  the  human  will 
to  resist  the  law  and  reject  the  love  of  God."  He  is  also  unable  to  aooept  the 
theory  of  Conditional  Immortality ;  but  in  rejecting  the  Koman  doctrine  of 
Purgatory,  he  admits  it  in  substance  but  rejects  the  name,  lie  tells  us,  ^*  not 
because  we  are  averse  to  the  acceptance  of  such  truths  as  the  word  involves, 
from  whatever  quarter  they  may  come  to  us,  but  because  it  is  inextricably 
mixed  up  with  a  number  of  views  in  which  we  cannot  at  all  believe." 


i 


TBVST  MK   DABLINO  AQAIH. 


059 


Trust  Me  Darling  Again. 


-'^'♦'^^ 


Xi  Xi  ^ID 


Words  by  DAVID  PRICE. 


Musie  by  HENRY  WHISH. 


litm:' 


X.  Can  you  doubt        it,  darling    mine.  That  my  heart  is   wholly 

2.  Can  you  doubt        it,  darling    mine,  That  my  heart  is   wholly 

3.  Can  you  doubt        it,  darling    mine,  That  my  heart  is   wholly 


66U 


TRUST   ME   DARLIXO  AGAIN. 


# 


i 


^^^^^^=t£^^i,-^=^m 


thine  ?  Can  you  doubt       it  when  you  know, 

thine  ?      Though  at  timet       it  seems  to    vou, 
thine  ?     Though  I   prett'd      up  -  on  thy  brow, 


Ev-er   lince       that  long  a  - 
That  my  heart         is    not  so 
Warmer  kiss    •     es  then  than 


§ 


m 


T 


^ 


lc:»: 


^i 


go,  When  for  love  I  wedded      you 

true;    Though  cold  it         may  seem  to      be 
now,  Yet  my  heart     each  year  by    year, 


Vowing       al    -    ways  .c    be 
Yet  it        whol    -    ly  beats  for 
Still  is        in        thy    keeping. 


^£ 


1 


:zl- 


•#L_1  ^P^^-     ^ 


^ 


P 


^ 


true 
thee— 
dear — 


rail. 


^m^^^^^^^^ 


That  my  heart 
Can  you  doubt 
Can  you  doubt 


is  wholly  thine  ? 
it,  darling  mine? 
it,  darling    mine? 


That  my  heart 
Can  you  doubt 
Can  yoa  doubt 


m^^^^^ 


0 

-I- 


Ped. 


i»  wholly 
it  dariiitg 
it  daiUng 


♦ 


i 


sr=^ 


thine  ? 
mine  ? 
mine  ? 


»      l^e.  ^ 


^i 


t=^rp 


« 


a  tempo. 
0         Ped. 


I=i— 


i 


BELFORD'S 
MONTHLY  MAGAZIN^E. 


THE  OCKLAWAHA  IN  MAV. 

BT   SIDNEY   LANIER. 


Fob  a  perfect  journey  Crod  gave  us  a  perfect  day.     The  little  Ocklawaha 
steamboat  Marion — a  Bteamboat  which  is  like  nothing  in  the  world  so 


STABTDIQ-PLACE— nLATSA. 


660  THE  OCKLAW-AHA  IN   MAY. 

much  as  a  Pensacola  gopher  with  a  preposterously  exaggerated  back — 
had  started  from  Pilatka  some  hours  before  daylight,  having  taken  on 
her  passengers  the  night  previous  ;  and  by  seven  o'clock  of  such  a  May 
morning  as  no  words  could  describe,  unless  words  were  themselves  May 
mornings,  we  had  made  the  twenty-five  miles  up  the  St.  John's  to  where 
the  Ocklawaha  flows  int4«  that  stream  nearly  opposite  Welaka. 

Just  before  entering  the  mouth  of  the  river  our  little  gopher-boat 
scrambled  alongside  a  long  raft  of  pine  logs  which  had  been  brought  in 
separate  sections  down  the  Ocklawaha,  and  took  off  the  lumbermen,  to 
carry  them  back  up  the  stream  for  another  descent,  while  this  raft;  was 
being  towed  by  a  tug  to  Jacksonville. 

That  man  who  is  now  stepping  from  the  wet  logs  to  the  bow-guards 
of  the  Marion,  how  can  he  ever  cut  down  a  tree )  He  is  a  slim,  melan- 
choly native,  and  there  is  not  bone  enough  in  his  whole  body  to  make 
the  left  leg  of  a  good  English  coal-heaver  :  moreover,  he  does  not  seem 
to  have  the  least  suspicion  that  a  man  needs  grooming.  He  is  dishev- 
elled and  wry 'trussed  to  the  last  degree ;  his  poor  weasel-jaws  nearly 
touch  their  inner  sides  as  they  suck  at  the  acrid  ashes  in  his  dreadful 
pipe ;  and  there  is  no  single  filament  of  either  his  hair  or  his  beard  that 
does  not  look  sourly  and  at  wild  angles  upon  its  neighbour  filament 
His  eyes  are  viBcidly  unquiet ;  his  nose  is  merely  dreariness  come  to  a 
point ;  the  corners  of  his  mouth  are  pendulous  with  that  sort  of  suffer- 
ing which  involves  no  particular  heroism,  such  as  gnats,  or  waiting  for 
the  corn-bread  to  get  done,  or  being  out  of  tobacco ;  and  his —  But, 
poor  devil !  I  withdraw  all  that  has  been  said  :  he  has  a  right  to  look 
disheveled  and  sorrowful ;  for  listen  :  "  Well,  sir"  he  says,  with  a  dilute 
smile  as  he  wearily  leans  his  arm  against  the  low  deck  and  settles  him- 
self so,  though  there  are  a  dozen  vacant  chairs  in  reach,  "  ef  we  didn' 
have  ther  sentermentalest  rain  right  thar  on  them  logs  last  night,  I'll  be 
dadbusted  ! "     He  had  been  in  it  all  night. 

I  fell  to  speculating  on  his  word  sentermenkdt  wondering  by  what 
vague  associations  with  the  idea  of  "centre  " — e,  g,,  a  centre-shot,  pei^ 
haps,  as  a  shot  which  beats  all  other  shots — he  had  arrived  at  such  a 
form  of  expletive,  or,  rather,  intensive. 

But  not  long,  for  presently  we  rounded  the  raft,  abandoned  the  broad 
and  garish  highway  of  the  St.  John's,  and  turned  off  to  the  right  into 
the  narrow  lane  of  the  Ocklawaha,  the  sweetest  water-lane  in  the  world 
— a  lane  which  runs  for  a  hundred  miles  of  pure  delight  betwixt  hedge- 
rows of  oaks  and  cypresses  and  palms  and  magnolias  and  mosses  and 
manifold  vine-growths ;  a  lane  clean  to  travel  along,  for  there  is  never  a 
speck  of  dust  in  it,  save  the  blue  dust  and  gold  dust  which  the  wind 
blows  out  of  the  flags  and  the  lilies ;  a  lane  which  is  as  if  a  typical 
woods-ramble  had  taken  shape,  and  as  if  God  had  turned  into  water  and 


THE  OCKLAWAHA  IN   MAY. 


trees  the  reculietCion  of  Gome  meditative  i-lroll  through  the  lonely  seclu- 
sions of  hia  own  soul. 

As  we  advanced  up  the  stream  our  wee  craft  se^-med  U>  emit  her  steam 
in  more  leisurely  vrhiffs,  as  one  puffs  one's  cigar  in  a  contemplative  walk 
through  the  forest.  Dick,  the  poleman — a  man  of  marvellous  fine  func- 
tion when  we  aha!!  presently  come  to  the  short  narrow  curvea^lay  asleep 
on  the  guards.in  great  peril  of  rolling  into  the  river  over  the  three  inches 
that  intervened  between  his  length  and  the  edge ;  the  people  of  the 
boat  moved  not,  spoke  not ;  the  white  crane,  the  curlew,  the  limbkin, 
the  heron,  the  water-turkey  were  scarcely  disturbed  in  their  several  avo- 
cations as  we  passed,  and  seemed  quickly  to  persuade  themselves  after 
each  momentary  excitement  of  our  gliding  by  that  we  were  really,  after 
all,  DO  monster,  but  only  a  mere  day-dream  of  a  monster.  The  stream, 
which  in  its  broader  stretches  reflected  the  sky  so  perfectly  that  it  seemed 
a  ribbon  of  heaven  bound  in  lovely  doublings  upon  the  breast  of  the 
land,  now  began  to  narrow :  the  blue  of  heaven  disappeared,  and  the 
green  of  the  overleaning  trees  assumed  its  place.  The  lucent  current 
lost  all  semblance  of  water.  It  was  simply  a  distillation  of  many-shadetl 
foliages,  smoothly  sweeping  along  beneath  us.  It  was  green  trees  fluent. 
One  felt  that  a  subtle  amalgam  iit. ion  and  mutual  give-and-take  had  been 
effected  between  the  nnlures  of  water  and  of  leaves.  A  certain  sense  of 
pellucidness  seemed  to  breathe  coolly  out,  of  the  woods  on  either  side  of 
us,  while  the  glassy  dream  of  a  forest  over  which  we  sailed  appeared  to 
send  np  exhalations  of  balms  and  stiraulent  pungencies  and  odours. 

"  Look  at  that  snake  in  the  water  !  "  said  a  gentleman  as  we  sat  on 
deck  with  the  engineer,  just  come  up  from  his  watch. 


662  THE  OCKLAWAHA  IN  MAY. 

The  engineer  smiled.     "  Sir,  it  is  a  water-turkey,"  he  said  gently. 

The  water-turkey  is  the  most  preposterous  bird  within  the  range  of 
ornithology.  He  is  not  a  bird  ;  he  is  a  Neok«  with  such  subordinate 
rights,  members,  appurtenances  and  hereditaments  thereunto  appertain- 
ing as  seem  necessary  to  that  end.  He  has  just  enough  stomach  to  ar- 
range nourishment  for  his  Neck,  just  enough  wings  to  fly  painfully  along 
with  his  Neck,  and  just  enough  l^s  to  keep  his  Neck  from  dragging  on 
the  ground ;  and  as  if  his  Neck  were  not  already  pronounced  enough  by 
reason  of  its  size,  it  is  further  accentuated  by  the  circumstance  that  it  is 
light-coloured,  while  the  rest  of  him  is  dark. 

When  the  water-turkey  saw  us  he  jumped  up  on  a  limb  and  stared. 
Then  suddenly  he  dropped  into  the  water,  sank  like  a  leaden  ball  oat 
of  sight,  and  made  us  think  he  was  certainly  drowned,  when  presently 
the  tip  of  his  beak  appeared,  then  the  length  of  his  neck  lay  along  the 
surface  of  the  water,  and  in  this  position,  with  his  body  submerged,  he 
shot  out  his  neck,  drew  it  back,  wriggled  it,  twisted  it,  twiddled  it? 
and  spirally  poked  it  into  the  east,  the  west,  the  north  and  the  south 
with  a  violence  of  involution  and  a  contortionary  energy  that  made  one 
think  in  the  same  breath  of  corkscrews  and  of  lightning. 

But  what  nonsense  !  All  that  labour  and  perilous  asphyxiation  for  a 
beggarly  sprat  or  a  couple  of  inches  of  water  snake  !  Yet  I  make  no 
doubt  this  same  water-turkey  would  have  thought  us  as  absurd  as  we 
him  if  he  could  have  seen  us  taking  our  breakfast  a  few  minutes  later. 
For  as  we  sat  there,  some  half  dozen  men  at  table  in  the  small  cabin,  all 
that  sombre  melancholy  which  comes  over  the  average  American  citizen 
at  his  meals  descended  upon  us.  No  man  talked  after  the  first  two  or 
three  feeble  sparks  of  conveasation  had  gone  out ;  each  of  us  could  heu* 
the  other  crunching  his  bread  in  /aticibus,  and  the  noise  thereof  seemed 
to  me  in  the  ghastly  stillness  like  the  noise  of  earthquakes  and  of  crash- 
ing worlds.  Even  our  furtive  glances  toward  each  other's  plates  were 
presently  awed  down  to  a  sullen  gazing  of  each  into  his  own :  the  silence 
increased,  the  noises  became  intolerable,  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  over  me. 
I  felt  myself  growing  insane,  and  rushed  out  to  the  deck  with  a  sigh  as 
of  one  saved  from  a  dreadful  death  by  social  suffocation. 

There  is  a  certain  position  a  man  can  assume  on  board  the  Marion 
which  constitutes  an  attitude  of  perfect  rest,  and  leaves  one's  body  in 
such  blessed  ease  that  one's  soul  receives  the  heavenly  influence  of  the 
voyage  absolutely  without  physical  impediment.  Know,  therefore,  tired 
friends  that  shall  hereafter  ride  up  the  Ocklawaha — whose  name  I  would 
fiedn  call  Legion — that  if  you  will  place  a  chair  just  in  the  narrow  pas- 
sage-way which  runs  alongside  the  cabin,  at  the  point  where  this  passage- 
way descends  by  a  step  to  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  pilothouse,  on 
the  left-hand  side  as  you  fiace  the  bow,  you  will,  as  you  sit  down  in  your 


THE   OCKLAWAHA   IN  MAT.  fi63 

chair,  perceive  a  certain  slope  in  the  railing  where  it  descQfids  by  a  gentle 
angle  of  some  thirty  degrees  to  accommodate  itself  to  the  step  just  men- 
tioned ;  and  this  slope  should  be  in  such  a  position  that  your  left  1^ 
UDConsoionuly  stretches  itself  along  the  same  by  the  pure  insinuating 
solicitations  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  straightway  dreams  itself  oS 
into  Elysian  tranquillity.  Tou  should  then  tip  your  chair  in  a  slightly 
di^onal  direction  back  to  the  side  of  the  cabin,  so  that  your  head  will 
rest  there-against,  your  right  arm  will  hang  over  the  chair-back,  and 
your  left  arm  will  repose  along  the  level  ruling.  I  might  go  further 
and  arrange  yonr  right  1^,  bnt  upon  reflection  I  will  give  no  specific 
instmctions  for  it,  because  I  am  disposed  to  be  liberal  in  this  matter, 
and  to  leave  some  gracious  scope  for  personal  idiosyncrasies,  as  well  as 
a  margin  of  allowance  for  the  accidents  of  time  and  place.  Dispose, 
therefore,  your  right  leg  as  your  own  heart  may  suggest,  or  as  all  the 
precedent  forces  of  time  and  of  the  universe  may  have  combined  to  re- 
quire yon. 

Having  secured  this 
attitude,  open  wide  the 
eyes  of  your  body  and  of 
your  sonl ;  repulse  with 
heavenly  suavity  the 
conversational  advances 
of  the  natty  drummer 
who  fancies  he  might 
possibly  sell  you  a  bill 
of  white  goods  and  no- 
tions, as  well  as  the  far- 
off  inquiries  of  the  real- 
estate  person,  who  has 
his  little  private  theory 
that  you  desire  to  pur- 
chase a  site  for  an  orange 
grove ;  thus  sail,  sail, 
sail,  through  the  cyp- 
resses, through  the  viner , 
through  the  May  day, 
through  the  floating  sug- 
gestions of  the  nnntter- 
oble  that  come  up,  that 
sink  down,  that  waver 
and  sway  hither  and 
cTPBEEs  BVAUp.  tHithsr;   so    shall  you 

have  revelations  of  rest 


664  THE  OCKLAWAHA  IN  MAY. 

and  80  shall  your  heart  for  ever  afterward  interpret  Ocklawaha  to  mean 
repose. 

Some  twenty  miles  from  the  month  of  the  Ocklawaha,  at  the  right- 
hand  edge  of  the  stream,  is  the  handsomest  residence  in  America.    It 
belongs  to  a  certain  alligator  of  my  acquaintance,  a  very  honest  and 
worthy  saurian,  of  good  repute.     A  little  cove  of  water,  dark-green  un- 
der the  overhanging  leaves,  placid,  pellucid,  curves  round  at  the  liver- 
edge  into  the  flags  and  lilies  with  a  curve  just  heartbreaking  for  the  pure 
beauty  of  the  flexure  of  it.     This  house  of  my  saurian  is  divided  into 
apartments — little  subsidiary  bays  which  are  scalloped  out  by  the  lily- 
pads  according  to  the  sinuous  fantasies  of  their  growth.     My  saurian, 
when  he  desires  to  sleep,  has  but  to  lie  down  anywhere :  he  will  find 
marvellous  mosses  for  his  mattress  beneath  him ;  his  sheets  will  be  white 
lily-petals  ;  and  the  green  disks  of  the  lily-pads  will  rise  above  him  as 
'  he  sinks  and  embroider  themselves  together  for  his  coverlet.     He  never 
quarrels  with  his  cook,  he  is  not  the  slave  of  a  kitchen,  and  his  one 
house-maid,  the  stream,  for  ever  sweeps  his  chambers  clean.     His  con- 
servatories there  under  the  glass  of  that  water  are  ever  and  without 
labour  filled  with  the  enchantments  of  strange  under-water  growths  :  his 
parks  and  his  pleasure-grounds  are  bigger  than  any  king's.     Upon  my 
saurian's  house  the  winds  have  no  power,  the  rains  are  only  a  new  de- 
light to  him,  and  the  snows  he  will  never  see  :  regarding  fire,  as  he  does 
not  employ  its  slavery,  so  he  does  not  fear  its  tyranny.     Thus,  all  the 
elements  are  the  friends  of  my  £»aurian*8  house.     While  he  sleeps  he  is 
being  bathed :  what  glory  to  awake  sweet  and  clean,  sweetened  and 
cleaned  in  the  very  act  of  sleep  !     Lastly,  my  saurian  has  unnumbered 
mansions,  and  can  change  his  dwelling  as  no  human  hoiiseholder  may. 
It  is  but  a  mere  fillip  of  his  tail,  and,  lo  !  he  is  established  in  another 
palace,  as  good  as  the  last,  ready  furnished  to  his  liking. 

For  many  miles  together  the  Ocklawaha  is,  as  to  its  main  channel,  a 
river  without  banks^  though  not  less  clearly  defined  as  a  stream  for  that 
reason.  The  swifb  deep  current  meanders  between  tall  lines  of  forests  : 
beyond  these,  on  both  sides,  there  is  water  also — a  thousand  shallow  run- 
lets lapsing  past  the  bases  of  multitudes  of  trees.  Along  the  immedi- 
ate edges  of  the  stream  every  tree-trunk,  sapling,  stump  or  other  pro- 
jecting coign  of  vantage  is  wrapped  about  with  a  close-growing  vine- 
At  first,  like  an  unending  procession  of  nuns  disposed  along  the  aisle  of 
a  church  these  vine-figures  stand.  But  presently,  as  one  journeys,  this 
nun-imagery  fades  out  of  one's  mind :  a  thousand  other  fancies  float 
with  ever-new  vine-shapes  into  one's  eyes.  One  sees  repeated  all  the 
forms  one  has  ever  known,  in  grotesque  juxtapositions.  Look  !  here  is  a 
graceful  troop  of  girls,  with  arms  wreathed  over  th^ir  heads,  dancing 
down  into  the  water  ;  here  are  high  velvet  arm-chairs  and  lovely  green 


THE  OCKIAWAHA  IN    MAY.  665 

fauteuils  of  divers  patterns  and  of  softest  cushionment ;  now  the  vines 
hang  in  loops,  in  pavilions,  in  columns,  in  arches,  in  caves,  in  pyiamids, 
in  women's  tresses,  in  harps  and  lyres,  in  globalar  mountain-ranges,  in 
pagodas,  domes,  minarets,  machicolated  towers,  dogs,  belfries,  draperies, 
fish,  dragons  yonder  is  a  bizarre  congress — ^Una  on  her  lion,  Angelo's 
Moses,  two  elephants  with  howdahs;  the  Laocoon  group ;  Arthur  and 
Lancelot  with  great  brands  extended  aloft  in  combat ;  Adam  bent  with 
love  and  grief,  leading  Eve  out  of  Paradise;  Caesar  shrouded  in  his 
mantle,  receiving  his  stab ;  Greek  chariots,  locomotives,  brazen  shields 
and  cuirasfies,  columbiads,  the  twelve  apostles,  the  stock  exchange  :  it  is 
a  green  dance  of  all  things  and  times. 

The  edges  of  the  stream  are  further  defined  by  flowers  and  water 
leaves.  The  tall  blue  flags ;  the  ineffable  lilies  sitting  on  their  round 
lily-pads  like  white  queens  on  green  thrones ;  the  tiny  stars  and  long 
ribbons  of  the  water-grasses ;  the  cunning  phalanxes  of  a  species  of 
barnet  which,  from  a  long  stem  that  swings  off  down  stream  along  the 
surface,  sends  up  a  hundred  graceful  stemlets,  each  bearing  a  shield-like 
disk,  and  holding  it  aloft  as  the  antique  soldiers  held  their  bucklers  to 
form  the  teatvdo  in  attacking, — all  these  border  the  river  in  infinite  va- 
rieties of  purfling  and  chasement. 

The  river  itself  has  an  errant  fantasy  atid  takes  many  shapes.  Pre- 
sently we  came  to  where  it  seemed  to  branch  into  four  separate  curves, 
like  two  opposed  S*s  intersecting  at  their  middle  point  "  Them's  the 
Windin'  Blades,"  said  my  raftsman. 

To  look  down  these  lovely  vistas  is  like  looking  down  the  dreams  of 
some  young  girl's  soul ;  and  the  gray  moss-bearded  trees  gravely  lean 
over  them  in  contemplative  attitudes,  as  if  they  were  studying,  in  the 
way  that  wise  old  poets  study,  the  mysteries  and  sacredness  and  tender 
depths  of  some  visible  reverie  of  maidenhood. 

And  then  after  this  day  of  glory  came  a  night  of  glory.  Down  in 
these  deep-shaded  lanes  it  was  dark  indeed  as  night  drew  on.  The 
stream,  which  had]been  all  day  a  ribbon  of  beauty,  sometimes  blue  and 
sometimes  green,  now  became  a  black  band  of  mystery.  But  presently 
a  brilliant  flame  flares  out  overhead  :  they  have  lighted  the  pine-knots 
on  top  of  the  pilot-house.  The  fire  advances  up  these  dark  sinuosities 
like  a  brilliant  god  that  for  his  mere  whimsical  pleasure  caUs  the  black 
chaos  into  instantaneous  definite  forms  as  he  floats  along  the  river- 
curves.  The  white  columns  of  the  cypress  trunks,  the  silver-embroid- 
ered crowns  of  the  maples,  the  green  and  white  galaxies  of  the  lilies, — 
these  all  come  in  a  continuous  apparition  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  dark- 
ness and  retire  again  :  it  is  endless  creation  succeeded  by  endless  obliv- 
ion. Startled  birds  suddenly  flutter  into  the  light,  and  after  an  instant 
of  illu  uinated  flight  melt  into  the  darkness.     From  the  perfect  silence 


666  THE   OCKLAWAHA -IN  MAT. 

of  these  short  ftighta  one  derives  a  certain  aenee  of  awe.  The  mjstery 
of  this  enormous  blackness  which  is  on  either  hand  appears  to  be  aboot 
to  utter  herself  in  these  suddenly-articulate  forms,  and  then  to  charge 
her  mind  and  die  back  into  mystery  again. 

Now  there  is  a  mighty  crack  and  crash  :  limbs  and  leaves  scrape  and 
scrub  along  the  deck  ;  a  bell  tinkles  below ;  we  stop.  In  turning  t 
short  curve  the  boat  has  run  her  nose  smack  into  the  right  bank,  and  a 
projecting  stump  has  thrust  itself  sheer  through  the  starboard  side.  Oat 
Dick  I  out  Heury  !  Diek  and  Henry  shuffle  forward  to  the  bow,  thrust 
forth  their  long   white  pole  agunst  a  tree-trunk,  strain  and  push  and 


THE   OCKLAWAHA  IN   MAY: 


667 


bend  to  the  deck  as  if  th^  were  salaaming  the  god  of  night  and  adver- 
sity.    The  bow  slowly  rounds  into  the  stream,  the  wheel  turns,  and  we 

puff  quietly  along. 

Somewhere  back  yonder  in  the  stern  Dick  19  whistling.  You  should 
hear  him !  With  the  great  aperture  of  his  mouth  and  the  rounding 
vibratory  surfaces  of  his  thick  lips  he  gets  out  a  mellow  breadth  of  tone 
that  almost  entitles  him  to  rank  as  an  orchestral  instrument.  It  is  a 
genuine  plagal  cadence.  The  syncopations  in  the  tune  are  charac- 
teristic of  negro  music  I  have  heard  negroes  change  a  well-known 
air  by  adroitly  syncopating  it  in  this  way,  so  as  to  give  it  a  barbaric 
effect  scarcely  imaginable ;  and  nothing  illustrates  the  negro's  natural 
gifts  in  the  way  of  keeping  a  difficult  tempo  more  clearly  than  his 
perfect  execution  of  airs  thus  transformed  from  simple  to  complex  times 
and  accentuations. 

Dick  has  changed  his  tune  :  allegro  !  Da  capo,  of  course,  and  da  ca/po 
indefinitely :  for  it  ends  on  the  dominant.  The  dominant  is  a  chord  of 
progress :  there  is  no  such  thing  as  stopping.  It  is  like  dividing  ten 
by  nine,  and  carrying  out  the  decimal  remainders :  there  is  always  one 

over. 

Thus  the  negro  shows  that  he  does  not  like  the  ordinary  accentua- 
tions nor  the  ordinary  cadences  of  tunes  :  his  ear  is  primitive.  If  you 
will  follow  the  course  of  Dick's  musical  reverie — which  he  now  thinks 
is  solely  a  matter  betwixt  himself  and  the  night  as  he  sits  back  there  in 
the  stern  alone — presently  you  will  hear  him  sing  a  whole  minor  tune, 
without  once  using  a  semitone  :  the  semitone  is  weak,  it  is  a  dilution, 
it  is  not  vigorous  and  large  like  the  whole  tone  :  and  I  have  heard  a 
whole  congregation  of  negroes  at  night,  as  they  were  worshipping  in 
their  church  with  some  wild  song  or  other,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  with 
the  ecstacy  and  the  glory  of  it,  abandon  as  by  one  consent  the  semitone 
that  ahwdd  come,  according  to  the  civilized  Tuodus,  and  sing  in  its  place 
a  big  lusty  whole  tone  that  would  shake  any  man's  soul.  It  is  strange 
to  observe  that  some  of  the  most  magnificent  effects  in  advanced  modern 
music  are  produced  by  this  same  method — notably  in  the  works  of  Asger 
Hamerik  of  Baltimore,  and  of  Edward  Greig,  Copenhagen.  Any  one 
who  has  heard  Thomas's  orchestra  lately,  will  have  no  difficulty  in  re- 
membering his  delight  at  the  beautiful  Nordishe  Suite  by  the  former 
writer  and  the  piano  concerto  by  the  latter. 

As  I  sat  in  the  cabin  to  note  down  Dick's  music  by  the  single  candle 
therein,  through  the  door  came  a  slim  line  of  dragon-flies,  of  a  small 
white  species,  out  of  the  dark  towards  the  candle-flame,  and  proceeded 
incontinently  to  fly  into  the  same,  to  get  singed  and  to  fall  on  the  table 
in  all  varieties  of  melancholy  may-hem,  crisp- winged,  no-legged,  blind, 
aimlessly-fluttering,  dead.    Now,  it  so  happened  that  as  I  came  down 


668  THE  OCKLAWAHA  IN    MAY. 

into  Florida  out  of  the  North  thia  spring,  I  passed  jnst  such  a  file  of 
human  moths  flying  towards  their  own  hurt ;  and  I  could  not  help  mor- 
nliziug  on  it,  even  at  the  risk  of  voting  myself  a  didactic  prig.  It  was 
in  the  early  April  (though  even  in  March  I  should  have  seen  them  all 
the  same),  and  the  Adam-insects  were  all  running  back  northward — 
from  the  St.  John's,  from  the  Ocklawaha,  from  St.  Augustine,  frcm  all 
Florida — moving  back,  indeed,  not  toward  warmth,  but  toward  »cold 
which  equally  consumes,  to  such  a  degree  that  its  main  effect  is  called 
-consumption.     Why  should  the  Florida  visitors  run  back  into  the  cat- 


THE  OCKLAWAHA   IN   MAY.  669 

arrhal  North  in  the  early  spring  1  What  could  be  more  unwise  ?  In 
New  York  is  not  even  May  simultaneously  warm  water  and  iced 
vinegar  1  But  in  Florida  May  is  May.  Then  why  not  stay  in  Florida 
till  May  1 

But  they  would  not.  My  route  was  by  the  "  Atlantic  Coast  Line,**  which 
brings  and  carries  the  great  mass  of  the  Florida  pilgrims.  When  I  ar- 
rived at  Baltimore  there  they  were  :  you  could  tell  them  infallibly.  If 
they  did  not  have  slat-boxes  with  young  alligators  or  green  orange-sticks 
in  their  hands,  you  could  at  any  rate  discover  them  by  the  sea-beans 
rattling  against  the  alligator's  teeth  in  their  pockets  :  when  I  got  aboard 
the  Bay  Line  steamer,  which  leaves  Baltimore  every  afternoon  at  four 
o'clock  for  Portsmouth,  the  very  officers  and  waiters  on  the  steamer  were 
talking  alligator  and  Florida  visitors.  Between  Portsmouth  and  Wel- 
don,  I  passed  a  train-load  of  them  :  from  Weldon  to  Wilmington,  from 
Wilmington  to  Columbia,  from  Columbia  to  Augusta,  from  Augusta  to 
Savannah,  from  Savannah  to  Jacksonville,  in  passenger-cars,  in  parlour- 
cars,  in  sleeping-cars,  they  thickened  as  I  passed.  And  I  wondeied  how 
many  of  them  would  in  a  little  while  be  crawling  about,  crippled  in  lung, 
in  liver,  in  limbs,  like  these  flies. 

And  then  it  was  bed-time. 

Let  me  tell  you  how  to  sleep  on  an  Ocklawaha  steamer  in  May.  With 
a  small  bribe  persuade  Jim,  the  steward,  to  take  the  mattress  out  of  your 
berth,  and  lay  it  slanting  just  along  the  railing  that  encloses  the  lower 
part  of  the  upper  deck,  to  the  left  of  the  pilot-house.  Then  lie  flat- 
backed  down  on  the  same,  draw  your  blanket  over  you,  put  your  cap  on 
your  head  in  consideration  of  the  night-air,  fold  your  arms,  say  some 
little  prayer  or  other,  and  fall  asleep  with  a  star  looking  right  down 
your  eye. 

When  you  awake  in  the  morning,  your  night  will  not  seeni  any  longer^ 
any  blacker,  any  less  pure,  than  this  perfect  white  blank  in  the  page, 
and  you  will  feel  as  new  as  Adam. 

At  sunrise,  when  I  awoke,  I  found  that  we  were  lying  still,  with  the 
boat's  nose  run  up  against  a  sandy  bank,  which  quickly  rose  into  a  con- 
siderable hill.  A  sandy-whiskered  native  came  down  from  the  pine- 
cabin  on  the  knoll.  "  How  air  ye  ? "  he  sang  out  to  our  skipper,  with 
an  evident  expectation  in  his  voice.     '^  Got  any  freight  for  me  ? " 

The  skipper  handed  him  a  heavy  parcel  in  brown  wrapper.  He  ex- 
amined it  keenly  with  all  his  eyes,  felt  it  over  carefully  with  all  his  fin- 
gers :  his  countenance  fell,  and  the  shadow  of  a  great  despair  came  over 
it.     "  Look  a-here  !  "  he  said,  "  hain't  you  brought  me  no  terbacker  1 " 

"  Not  unless  it's  in  that  bundle,"  said  the  skipper. 

**  Hell ! "  said  the  native  :  *'  hit's  nuthin'  but  shot ;  "  and  he  turned  ofi* 


670  THE  OCKLAWAHA  IN   MAY. 

toward  the  forest,  as  we  shoved  away,  with  a  face  like  the  face  of  the 
apostate  Julian  when  the  devils  were  dragging  him  down  the  pit 

I  would  have  let  my  heart  go  out  in  sympathy  to  this  man — ^for  the 
agony  of  his  soaked  soul  after  "  terbacker ''  during  the  week  that  most 
pass  ere  the  Marion  come  again  is  not  a  thing  to  be  laughed  at — had  I 
not  believed  that  he  was  one  of  the  vanilla-gatherers.  You  must  know 
that  in  the  low  grounds  of  the  Ocklawaha  grows  what  is  called  the  va- 
nilla-plant, and  that  its  leaves  are  much  like  those  of  tobacco.  This 
*'  vanilla ''  is  now  extensively  used  to  adulterate  cheap  chewing  tobacco, 
as  I  am  informed,  and  the  natives  along  the  Ocklawaha  drive  a  consider- 
able trade  in  gathering  it.  The  process  of  their  commerce  is  exceedingly 
simple,  and  the  bills  drawn  against  the  consignments  are  primitive.  The 
officer  in  charge  of  the  Marion  showed  me  several  of  the  communications 
received  at  various  landings  during  our  journey,  accompanying  ship- 
ments of  the  spurious  weed.     They  were  generally  about  as  follows : — 

"  Dear  Sir  :  i  send  you  one  bag  Verneller,  pleeze.  fetch  one  par  of 
shus  numb  8  and  ef  aoy  over  fetch  twelve  yards  hoamspin. 

"  Yrs  truly, 

The  captain  of  the  steamer  takes  the  bags  to  Pilatka,  barters  the  va- 
uilla  for  the  article  specified,  and  distributes  them  on  the  next  trip  up 
to  their  respective  owners. 

In  a  short  time  we  came  to  the  junction  of  Silver  Spring  Run  wit^ 
the  Ocklawaha  proper.  This  run  is  a  river  formed  by  the  single  out* 
flow  of  the  waters  of  Silver  Spring,  nine  miles  above.  Here  new  as- 
tonishments befell.  The  water  of  the  Ocklawaha,  which  had  before 
seemed  clear  enough,  now  showed  but  like  a  muddy  stream  as  it  flowed 
side  by  side,  unmixing  for  a  little  distance,  with  this  Silver  Spring 
water. 

The  Marion  now  left  the  Ocklawaha  and  turned  into  the  run.  How 
shall  one  speak  quietly  of  this  journey  over  transparency )  The  run  is 
in  many  places  very  deep  :  the  white  bottom  is  hollowed  out  in  a  con- 
tinual succession  of  large  spherical  holes,  whose  entire  contents  of  dart- 
ing fish,  of  under-mosses,  of  flowers,  of  submerged  trees,  of  lily-stems,  of 
grass-ribbons,  revealed  themselves  to  us  through  the  lucid  fluid  as  we 
sailed  along  thereover.  The  long  series  of  convex  bodies  of  water  filling 
these  great  concavities  impressed  one  like  a  chain  of  globular  worlds 
composed  of  a  transparent  lymph.  Great  numbers  of  keen-snouted, 
long-bodied  garfish  shot  to  and  fro  in  unceasing  motion  beneath  us :  it 
seemed  as  if  the  under-worlds  were  filled  with  a  multitude  of  crossing 
sword-blades  wielded  in  tireless  thrust  and  parry  by  invisible  arms. 

The  8hores,[too,  had  changed.     They  now  opened  into  clear  savannas 


THE   OGKLAWAHA    IN    MAY.  671 

overgronn  with  broad-leafed  grass  to  a  perfect  level  of  two  or  three  feet 
above  the  water,  stretching  back  to  the  boundaries  of  cypress  and  oak ; 
and  occasionally,  aa  we  passed  one  of  these  expaases  curving  into  the 
forest  with  a  diameter  of  half  a  mile,  a  single  palmetto  might  be  seen  in 
or  near  the  centre — perfect  type  of  that  lonesome  solitude  which  the  0«r. 
man  calls  Ein&amkeit — one-some-ness.  Then,  agiun,  the  palmettoes  and 
cypresses  would  swarm  toward  the  stream  and  line  its  banks. 

Thus  for  nine  miles,  counting  our  gigantic  rosary  of  water-wonders 
and  lonelinesses,  we  fared  on.  Then  we  ronnded  to  in  the  very  bosom 
of  Silver  Spring  itself,  and  came  to  wharf.  Here  there  were  warehouses) 
a  turpentine  distillery,  men  running  about  with  boxes  of  freight  and 
crates  of  Florida  vegetables  for  the  Northern  market,  country  stores  with 
wondrous  assortments  of  goods — physio,  fiddles,  groceries,  school-books^ 
what  not — and,  a  little  farther  up  the  shore  of  the  spring,  a  tavern.  I 
learned  in  a  hasty  way  that  Ocala  was  five  miles  distant,  that  I  could 
get  a  very  good  conveyance  from  the  tavern  to  that  place,  and  that  on 
the  next  day,  Sunday,  a  stage  would  leave  Ocala  for  Qainesville,  some 


SILTEB   S)-]UirO. 

forty  miles  distant,  beii^  the  third  relay  of  the  long  stage-line  which 
runs  three  times  a  week  between  Tampa  and  Gainesville  vi&  Brooksville 
and  Ooala. 

Then  the  claims  of  scientific  fact  and  of  guidebook  information  could 
hold  me  no  longer.  T  ceased  to  acquire  knowledge,^  and  got  me  back  to 
the  wonderful  spring,  drifting  over  it  face  downwEurd  as  over  a  new  world- 
It  is  sixty  feet  deep  a  few  feet  off  shore,  they  say,  and  covers  an  irrega- 
lar  space  of  several  acres ;  but  this  sixty  feet  does  not  at  all  represent 


672  THE  0CKIJ^.WAHA  IN   MAY. 

the  actual  impression  of  depth  which  one  gets  as  one  looks  through  the 
superincumbent  water  down  to  the  bottom.  The  distinct  sensation  is, 
that  although  the  bottom  down  there  is  clearly  seen,  and  although  all 
the  objects  in  it  are  about  of  their  natural  size,  undiminished  by  any 
narrowing  of  the  visual  angle,  yet  it  and  they  are  seen  from  a  great  dis 
tanca  It  is  as  if  Depth  itself,  that  subtle  abstraction,  had  been  com- 
pressed into  a  crystal  lymph,  one  inch  of  which  would  represent  miles  of 
ordinary  depth. 

As  one  rises  from  gazing  into  these  quaint  profundities,  and 
glances  across  the  broad  surface  of  the  spring,  one's  eye  is  met  by  a 
charming  mosaic  of  brilliant  hues.  The  water-plain  varies  in  colour  ac- 
cording to  what  it  lies  upon.  Over  the  pure  white  limestone  and  shells 
of  the  bottom  it  is  perfect  malachite  green  ;  over  the  water-grass  it  is 
a  much  darker  green :  over  the  moss  it  is  that  rich  brown-and-green 
which  Bodmer's  forest  engravings  so  vividly  suggest ;  over  neutral  bot- 
toms it  reflects  the  skies'  or  the  clouds'  colours.  All  these  hues  are  fui^ 
ther  varied  by  mixture  with  manifold  shades  of  foliage  reflections  cast 
from  overhanging  boscage  near  the  shore,  and  still  further  by  the  angle 
of  the  observer's  eye.  One  would  think  that  these  elements  of  colour- 
variation  were  numerous  enough,  but  they  were  not  nearly  all  Presently 
the  splash  of  an  oar  in  some  distant  part  of  the  spring  sent  a  succession 
of  ripples  circling  over  the  pool.  Instantly  it  broke  into  a  thousandfold 
prism.  Every  ripple  was  a  long  curve  of  variegated  sheen  :  the  funda- 
mental hues  of  the  pool  when  at  rest  were  distributed  into  innumerable 
kaleidoscopic  flashes  and  brilliancies  ;  the  multitudes  of  fish  became  mul- 
titudes of  animated  gems,  and  the  prismatic  lights  seemed  actually  to 
waver  and  play  through  their  translucent  bodies,  until  the  whole  spring, 
in  a  great  blaze  of  sunlight,  shone  like  an  enormous  fluid  jewel  that 
without  decreasing  for  ever  lapsed  away  upward  in  successive  exhalations 
of  dissolving  sheens  and  glittering  colours. 


TEIE  GRANDMOTHER.  673 


THE  GRANDMOTHER.* 


<< 


To  die ;  to  sleep. '*—Siuk«pbakk. 


BY   QEOROB  MURRAY. 


**  Dear  Mother  of  our  Mother  !  dost  thou  sleep  ? 
Thy  voice  was  wont  to  marmur  many  a  tone 
Of  rapt  devotion  e'en  in  slumber  deep  : 
Breathless,  this  eve  thou  liest  here  alone. 
With  lips  all  motionless,  a  form  of  stone. 

"  Why  on  thy  bosom  droops  thy  wrinkled  brow  ? 
What  have  we  done  to  cause  that  seeming  ire  ? 
The  lamp  burns  dim — the  ashes  glimmer  low — 

And  shouldst  thou  answer  not,  the  smotdd'ring  fire^ 
The  lamp,  and  we,  thy  two,  will  all  expire  ! 

*  *  By  the  dim  lamp  thy  children  soon  will  die — 
And  thou,  by  slumber's  spell  no  more  opprest, 
Wilt  call  on  those  who  may  not  hear  thy  cry  : 
And  thou  long-time  wilt  fold  us  to  thy  breast, 
And  strive,  with  prayer,  to  stir  us  from  our  rest. 

**  In  our  warm  hands  thy  chilly  fingers  place — 
Sing  lays  of  Troubadours,  dead  long  ago  : 
Of  warriors  aided  by  the  Fairy  race. 
Who  chanted  Love  amid  the  battle's  glow. 
And  decked  their  Brides  with  trophies  from  the  foe. 

''  Tell  us  the  signs  that  scatter  ghosts  in  flight — 

What  hermit  viewed  Hell's  swift-careering  Lord — 
Tell  of  the  Gnome-king's  rubies  sparkling  bright, 
And  if  the  psalms  of  Turpin  are  abhorr'd 
By  the  black  demon  more  than  Roland's  sword . 


*  From  Victor  Hugo's  Odea  et  Balladea. 


*74  THE  GRANDMOTHER. 

"  Show  UB  thy  Bible,  filled  with  pictures  fair, 

Saints  robed  in  white,  who  guard  each  hamlet  low, 
Virgins,  with  golden  glories  round  their  hair— 
Or,  read  the  pages,  where  we  long  to  know 
Each  mystic  word  that  breathes  to  God  our  woe. 

"  Soon  from  all  light  thy  children  will  be  shut — 

Round  the  black  hearth  the  frolic  shadows  dance. 
And  airy  shapes  may  steal  within  the  hut : 
Thou  frightest  us — thy  love  is  changed,  perchance— 
Oh  !  cease  thy  prayer,  awaken  from  thy  trance  ! 

* '  Unseal  those  eyes — Oh  !  God,  thine  arms  are  cold  ! 
Oft  hast  thou  told  us  of  the  glorious  sky, 
Of  the  damp  grave,  and  life  that  wazeth  old. 
And  oft  of  Death — what  is  it  then  to  die  ? 
Tell  us,  dear  Mother  :  thou  dost  not  reply  l** 

With  plaintive  voices  long  they  wailed  alone— 
The  sleeper  woke  not  when  the  morning  shone. 
The  death-bell,  slowly  tolling,  seemed  to  grieve, 
And,  through  the  door,  a  passer-by  at  eve 
By  the  still  couch  and  pictured  Bible  sees 
Two  little  children  praying  on  their  knees. 


676 


GEORGE     ELIOT. 

BY  J.  L.  STEWART. 

Therb  are  many  varieties  of  the  novel  family.  We  are  all  familiar  with 
several  types.  The  good-little-boy-who-died-young  kind  was  dear  to  us 
when  we  depended  on  the  village  Sunday-school  library  for  our  fiction, 
and  the  solitary-horseman-might-have-been-seen  kind  came  when  we 
patronized  the  circulating  library,  followed  by  tales  of  chivalry,  the  heroes 
of  which  live  on  horseback  and  overthrow  all  their 'enemies;  stories  of 
social  life,  ending  in  happy  marriages  and  millionaire  inheritances; 
political  novels,  which  show  how  kings  are  governed,  pariiaments  swayed, 
and  great  national  convulsions  controlled ;  and  military  romances,  with 
their  charges,  sieges,  rescues,  and  wonderfully  rapid  promotion.  These 
are  but  a  few  of  the  varieties,  and  each  has  its  own  charm.  But  the 
novel  that  takes  the  firmest  hold  of  the  cultivated  intellect  of  modem 
times  belongs  to  none  of  these, — not  to  the  drum-and-trumpet,  the 
forum-and-cabinet,  the  small-talk-and-millinery,  the  tournament-and- 
crusade,  or  the  consumption-and-grace  variety.  Even  small  children  have 
grown  to  see  something  ludicrous  in  the  story  of  George  Washington 
and  his  little  hatchet,  the  sentimental  fiction  which  ends  in  millionaire 
marriage  is  left  to  weak-minded  young  ladies,  school  boys  alone  toe 
able  to  believe  in  armed  knights  jousting  for  the  right  to  name  the 
Queen  of  Beauty,  and  those  who  delight  in  fictitious  scalprabing  and 
bowie-knife  duelling  are  set  down  as  belonging  to  that  inferior  order  of 
beings  who  count  for  nothing  in  discussions  on  the  intellectual  forces 
and  tendencies  of  the  age.  The  psychological  novel  has  risen  to  the 
highest  place  in  fictitious  literature.  The  finest  order  of  intellect  is 
employed  in  its  creation,  and  all  the  science,  philosophy  and  theology 
of  the  world  hail  its  coming  with  delight,8can  its  pages  with  interest,  and 
discuss  its  teachings  with  critical  acumen.  It  supplies  most  of  the  meta- 
physics, part  of  the  theology,and  a  large  portion  of  the  moral  philosophy, 
which  find  entrance  into  fashionable  society.  It  turus  the  eye  inward, 
arouses  doubts  of  the  worthiness  of  the  petty  aims  of  life,  and  sets  a  loftier 
ideal  before  the  mind  than  the  pursuit  of  gain  or  the  craving  for  applause 
and  power.  This  ideal  varies  from  that  set  up  in  other  novels  in  being 
attainable.  It  is  not  an  early  and  happy  death  caused  by  consumption, 
and,  therefore,  mature  age  and  robust  health  do  not  despair  at  the  out- 
set ;  not  the  prize  of  the  Usts  or  the  rescue  of  dragon-guarded  virgins, 

and  so  the  consciousness  of  cutting  as  poor  a  figure  as  Don  Quixote  in 
2 


<j76  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

the  character  of  knight-errant  does  not  craelly  cut  away  our  hopes  ;  not 
success  in  war,  love,  diplomacy  or  finance,  in  all  of  which  we  have 
failed  or  know  we  should  fail  if  we  tried.  We  do  not^  in  order  to 
understand  its  details  and  sympathice  with  its  aims,  need  to  revire  a 
slumbering  interest  in  the  crusades,  or  restock  our  minds  with  historical 
fa#ts  which  have  been  forgotten.  A  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  is  not 
necessary  for  catching  a  glimpse  of  its  ^'  local  colour.''  The  human  soul 
IB  the  country  in  which  its  plot  is  laid,  the  place  where  its  most  thrilling 
incidents  occur,  the  scene  of  the  catastrophe  that  causes  desolation,  or 
the  denouement  that  secures  present  and  prospective  bliss. 

All  novels  are,  of  course,  more  or  less  psychological,  but  only  those 
of  a  few  authors  are  worthy  of  that  distinctive  title.  Hawthorne  attained 
true  greatness  in  this  walk,  his  "  Scarlet  Letter "  being  a  marvellous 
study  of  the  iyier  workings  of  a  soul  struggling  with  secrets  that 
•  cried  for  daylight,  and  torn  by  conflicting  impulses.  His  works  are 
among  the  best  examples  of  this  class  of  fiction  in  English  literature. 

Since  the  death  of  Hawthorne  there  has  been  no  one  to  dispute  the 
throne  with  George  Eliot.  No  one  else,  so  completely  as  she,  makes 
mental  development  the  chief  movement  of  the  story,  and  conquest  of 
self  the  event  upon  which  a  happy  ending  hinges.  Others'  heroes  are 
entangled  in  difficulties  from  without,  while  hers  struggle  with  their 
own  conflicting  impulses.  Their  favourite  creations  are  happy  when  they 
attain  the  brides  they  have  sought  and  the  fortunes  they  have  waited 
for,  but  hers  know  no  peace  except  they  have  placed  themselves  in 
harmony  with  the  immutable  moral  law  of  the  universe,  and  made  full 
atonement  for  their  transgressions  against  its  canons.  Not  that  her 
villains  are  never  prosperous,  or  her  selfish  people  as  content  with  the 
world  as  men  and  women  commonly  are.  She  leaves  them  to  enjoy 
their  gains,  to  riot  in  their  revelry,  to  exult  over  the  ruins  they  have 
wrought  3  but  her  reader  feels  that  their  sins  must  find  them  out.  She 
lays  bare  the  hearts  of  her  favourites,  exposes  the  weaknesses  of  her 
beloved,  shows  how  difficult  salvation  is  for  the  children  of  her  choice. 

Greorge  Eliot  is  an  inspired  heathen.  Without  faith  in  the  evangelical 
scheme  of  redemption — without  any  acknowledgment  •f  Christ  as  a  di- 
vinely sent  messenger — she  teaches  the  essence  of  Christianity  both 
directly  and  indirectly.  If  she  believes  in  Jesus  of  Nazareth  at  all,  it 
is  only  as  the  personification  of  duty.  Forsake  all  and  follow  duty. 
Love  thy  neighbour  better  than  thyself.  These  two  sentences  contain 
the  foundation  of  her  creed.  We  find,  from  first  to  last,  that  her  teach- 
ings have  been  consistent  with  these  fundamental  commands.  To  begin 
with  "  Adam  Bede,"  the  first  of  her  works  to  become  famous,  the  first 
that  was  marked  with  the  characteristics  on  which  her  reputation  rests, 
we  see  how  violation  of  this  law  brings  the  inevitable  puoishmenL 


GEOBGE  ELIOT.  677 

Hetty,  with  her  dainty  figure,  infantile  beauty  and  rosy  lips,  is  painted 
with  a  loving  hand — painted    so  as  to  inspire  others  with  much  of  the 
*  dmiration  she  excites  in  Adam  Bede  and  Arthur  Donnithome.     She  is 
without  malice,  without  guile,  without  evil  inclination.    But  she  is  vain 
—charmingly  vain  ;  she  is  ambitious — naturally  ambitious.    We  look 
on  these  qualities  as  virtues  rather  than  vices  in  so  sweet  a  creature, 
the  self -consciousness  which  vanity  inspires  making  beauty  piquant  with 
coquetry ;  the  love  of  admiration  securing  us  an  acknowledgment  that 
our  homage  is  welcome.    But  Qeorge  Eliot  looks  with  other  eyes.     She 
sees  that  the  love  of  admiration,  and  the  aspiration  to  be  in  a  higher 
station  of  Hfe,  are  serpents  among  the  flowers  of  this  maiden  Paradise- 
serpents  that  will  blight  its  joys,  destroy  its  innocence,  banish  its  peace. 
We  ask  for  mercy  for  the  tender  little  thing,  whose  sweet  simplicity 
seems  excuse  enough  for  her  yielding  to  temptation,  but  Qeorge  Eliot  is 
as  inexorable  as  the  moral  law  itself,  and  punishment^  cruelly  harsh, 
comes  to  the  frail  creature,  who  has  sinned  because  of  a  vain  desire  to  be 
the  bride  of  a  gentleman.     Arthur,  too,  is  painted  with  an  appreciative 
hand.    What  a  picture  he  is  of  glorious  young  manhood,  of  enthusiastic 
youth,  of  eager  aspirations  after  popularity  to  be  won  by  frankness, 
justice,  politeness  and  generosity  !    But  his  goodness  is  superficial,  his 
kindness  to  inferiors  requires  no  effort^   his  generosity  is  based  on  no 
principle.    And,  of  course,  wH^n  temptation  comes  he  3rield8  to  it,  and 
has  to  suffer  the  penalty.     Adam  Bede,  with  all  his  goodness  of  heart 
and  earnest  seeking  for  the  right,  suffers,  as  the  necessary  sequence  of 
the  evil  deeds  of  others,  but  the  events  which  pain  him  save  him  from 
a  union  in  which  he  would  have  found  uo  troe  happiness,  and  bring  to 
his  heart  and  home  the  one  woman  of  all  the  world  who  could  have 
advanced  his  spiritual  growth  and  promoted  his  earthly  happiness.     In 
**  Silas  Mamer  "  we  see  the  same  law  illustrated.    Godfrey  Cass  leaves 
his  hated  wife  in  obscurity,  and  does  not  acknowledge  the  child  that 
wife  leaves  when  she  perishes  on  her  way  to  his  home.     He  will  watch 
over  it,  he  says,  and  see  that  it  never  wants.     He  will  be  a  father  to  it 
without  its  knowledge  for  the  present,  and  will  one  day  claim  it  as  his 
own  and  restore  it  to  its  birthright.     He  loves  a  pure-minded  maiden 
who  would  be  shocked  at  the  knowledge  of  the  low  marriage  from  which 
death  has  relieved  him,  and  he  dare  not  do  his  duty  as  a  father  for  fear  of 
losing  his  chance  of  winning  the  bride  of  his  choica     It  is  likely  that, 
if  he  had  honestly  owned  the  truth,  the  prim  and  pretty  Nancy  Lam- 
meter  would  have  ultimately  forgiven  him  and  married  him.    She  loved 
no  ouA  else,  and  her  love  would  have  returned  with  greater  force  after 
her  indignation  had  worn  away.   But  Godfrey  was  cowardly,  he  violated 
the  moral  law  by  shrinking  from  this  confession,  and  saw  the  child  that 
his  heart  yearned  for  cherished  by  those  on  who;n  it  had  no  natural 


678  GEOBGE  ELIOT. 

claim.  But  he  meant  to  do  rights  of  coarse.  Sixteen  yean  passed  away 
and  no  child  came  to  bless  his  home.  Then  the  truth  was  told,  and  lus 
wish  to  claim  his  daughter  was  changed  to  resolve  by  the  ready  acqui- 
escence of  his  wife.  His  heart  was  light  once  more.  The  burden  of 
guilt  was  lifted.  The  wrong  he  had  done  his  only  child,  which  had 
been  punished  by  the  absence  of  children  from  his  hearth  and  home, 
would  be  amply  atoned  for.  Arm  and  arm  went  forth  the  pair  to  daim 
their  own — went  to  the  rude  cottage  of  the  weaver  of  Baveloe,  disclosed 
to  the  lovely  Effie  the  secret  of  her  birth,  and  offered  her  the  splendid 
position  which  she  would  have  as  their  heiress.  Now  we  see  the  inevi- 
table punishment,  the  impossibility  of  recovering  a  treasure  that  has 
once  been  cast  away,  the  irrevocability  of  the  law  that  forbids  our  en- 
jojrment  of  a  blessing  when  we  have  shrunk  from  the  toil  by  which  it  is 
perfected.  (George  Eliot,  inexorable  as  the  law  of  gravity,  bids  the 
maiden  reject  this  luxurious  home,  shrink  from  this  neglectful  faUier, 
and  cling  to  the  old  man  who  has  protected  her,  the  rude  cottage  of 
which  sfie  has  from  babyhood  been  the  mistress,  and  the  young  work- 
man whom  she  loves  and  intends  to  marry.  Godfrey  Oass  could 
not  undo  the  wrong  he  had  done  sixteen  years  before.  The  universe 
had  taken  that  wrong  to  its  bosom  and  made  it  part  of  itself.  The 
broken  law  avenged  itself  amply  on  the  man  who  had  trampled  upon  it 
She  whom  Godfrey  had  rejected  in  her  helplessness,  rejected  him  in  her 
strength  of  affection  for  the  way  of  life  and  the  people  she  was  used  to. 
He  went  back  to  his  childless  home,  sadder  than  before,  because  he 
realized  for  the  first  time  the  utter  impossibility  of  atonement.  In 
^*  Bomola"  we  find  this  law  of  retribution  for  straying  from  the  thorny 
path  of  duty,  and  choosing  the  flowery  ways  of  self-indulgence,  illus- 
trated actively  instead  of  passively.  Baldassarre  is  the  personification 
of  the  law,  and  its  graceful  and  easy-going  violator  does  not  escape 
him.  Tito  Melema's  crime  is  his  forgetfulness  of  this  old  man — a  man 
with  claims  on  his  attention  that  cannot  be  neglected  without  doing 
violence  to  laws  which  the  heart  of  man  recognizes  everywhere  as 
binding — and  he  dies,  after  escaping  other  perils,  with  the  old  man's 
hands  on  his  throat.  The  result  of  his  sin,  instead  of  being  a  bleeding 
Banquo  ever  rising  at  the  feast,  was  a  pursuing  fiend  that  hunted  him 
to  deatL  Mrs.  Transome,  the  central  figure  in  the  secondary  plot 
which  many  critics  regard  as  pabfuUy  superfluous  in  "Felix  Holt,*' 
stoops  to  accept  the  devotion  of  the  handsome  young  man  who  writes 
poems  in  her  praise  and  ministers  to  a  love  of  homage  which  is  not 
gratified  in  her  own  household.  Her  sin  is  not  discovered,  and  the  man 
marries  a  wife  and  leaves  her  sorrowing.  Their  boy  grows  up  to  man- 
hood, and  then  the  wretched  mother  is  stricken  down,  when  the  love 
and  respect  of  that  son  are  all  that  is  left  to  her  in  the  world,  by  the 


GEOKGE  EUOT.  679 

reyelation  of  her  shame.    In  the  '*Mill  on  the  Floss/'  the  divinely 
good  Maggie  Tnlliver,  the  best  beloved  of  all  the  women  whom  this 
author  has  given  falMength  portraits  of,  whom  she  petted  as  a  child 
and  watched    with  tenderness  and  approval  as  she  developed  into  a 
womanhood  of  pure  aspirations  and  gentle  consideration  for  all  around 
her,  sins  but  in  thought,  and  yet  there  is  no  escape  for  her  from  the 
life  of  misery  which  this  entails,  no  escape  but  death,  and  the  bubbling 
waters  of  the  angry  river  are  wrapped  around  her  as  a  shroud,  and 
her  beautiful  eyes  are  closed  for  ever.    George  Eliot  gave  her  all  the 
consolation  she  could — ^gave  her  the  forgiveness  of  the  cold  stern  bro- 
ther whom  she  loved  so  tenderly — ^before  her  death.     Even  she,  the 
creator,  could  do  nothing  more  for  the  loved  one,  because  the  laws  of 
the  moral  universe  are  inexorable,  and  she  had  sinned  against  them. 
In  "  Middlemarch  "  the  fate  of  Bulstrode,  who  is  driven  into  what  is 
morally  murder,  after  years  of  penitence  and  good  works,  in  the  hope  of 
keeping  the  knowledge  of  his  base  acquisition  of  wealth  from  the  public, 
is  a  very  different  but  no  less  striking  illustration  of  the  same  law. 
Lydgate,    also,  '^  feeling  the  hampering   thread-like  pressure  of  small 
social  conditions,  and  their  frustrating  complexity,"  does  violence  to 
his   high  sense   of    right,    and   suffers   humiliation  accordingly.     In 
"  Daniel  Deronda  "  the  same  law  of  retribution  is  triumphant.     The 
hapless  Gwendolen,  that  spoiled  child  of  weak- minded  affection,  growing 
up  without  consideration  or  thought  for  any  one  but  herself,  shrinks 
from  duty  when  it  presents  itself  in  the  disagreeable  form  of  becoming 
a  governess,  and  marries,  contrary  to  her  promise,  the  man  she  does 
not  love— the  man  she  knows  to  be  morally  bound  to  another — marries 
him  for  money  and  position — fancying  that  she  can  order  her  life  as  she 
will,  and  make  some  recompense  to  the  woman  she  displaces.     But 
how  terrible  is  the  awakening  from  this  self-indulgent  dream  I     How 
galling  are  the  golden  chains  with  which  she  has  bound  herself !    How 
helplessly   she   sinks    into    the    hell    of     murderous  wishes,    seeing 
nothing  but  death  as  a  relief  from  the  hated  tyranny  to  which  she  is 
subjected  1     She  is  punished  indeed.     The  very  breaking  of  the  chains 
that  bind  her  raises  a  ghost  in  her  memory  that  will  haunt  her  waking 
and  sleeping — "  a  dead  face — I  shall  never  get  away  from  it" — remorse 
preventing  perfect  peace.     She  hears  the  man  she  loves  say  he  is  to 
marry  another,  and  go  away  to  another   land,  and  cries  out  in  the 
anguish  of  her  soul,  '*  I  said  I  should  be  forsaken.     I  have  been  a  cruel 
woman.     And  I  am  forsaken."     Grandcourt  himself,  that  wonderfully 
drawn  incarnation  of  refined  selfishness,  meets  his  just  deserts,  drowning 
within  reach  of  the  aid  for  which  he  unavailingly  cries  to  the  victim  of 
his  love  of  domination.     Mrs.  Glasher  fails  to  attain  the  marriage  which 
would  have  lessened  her  sense  of  humiliation,  although  the  innocent 


680  GEOBQE  ELIOT. 

children  of  her  lawless  union  gain  their  natural  inhmtance.  When 
she  is  passed  without  a  sign  of  recognition  by  the  man  for  whose  sake 
she  deserted  her  husband,  a  beautiful  bride  sitting  in  the  place  she 
has  sacrificed  all  with  the  hope  of  reaching,  she  must  fed  the  full  foroe  of 
the  law  that  decrees  pain  as  the  penalty  for  selfish  pleasure,  for 
abandonment  of  duty,  for  seeking  happiness  by  causing  another  sorrow. 

Several  characters  in  these  novels  illustrate  the  truth  of  the  author's 
remark,  that  **  love  does  not  make  all  things  easy,  as  conunonly  stated, 
but  makes  us  choose  that  which  is  hard."  Will  Ladislaw  sccHmfuUy  re- 
jects the  fortune  which  Bulstrode  offers  him,  feeling  that  it  ^ould  be 
impossible  for  him  ever  to  tell  Dorothea  that  he  had  accepted  it  He 
does  not  dream  of  ever  winning  her,  he  has  no  intention  of  seeking  her 
as  his  wife,  and  yet  his  love  forces  him  to  reject  a  fortune  that  would 
make  him  less  worthy  of  her  in  his  own  esteem.  Dorothea  abandons 
the  estates  of  Lowio,  and  braves  the  opposition  of  the  relatives  she  loves, 
to  marry  the  penniless  man  to  whom  her  heart  has  been  given,  leaving 
rank,  wealth,  patronage  and  land  for  his  sake.  Esther  Lyon's  choice  is, 
perhaps,  harder  still.  She  abandons  her  right  to  an  estate,  a  more  difiS- 
cult  thing  for  one  to  do  who  has  longed  for  wealth  >vith  the  sense  of 
being  able  to  enjoy  it — with  the  consciousness  of  tastes  which  only 
wealth  can  gratify — than  for  one  who  is  possessed  of  it  and  finds  more 
pain  than  pleasure  in  the  possession — that  she  may  marry  a  man  who 
has  vowed  always  to  be  poor.  It  is  not  her  love  of  riches  alone  that  she 
tramples  upon  when  she  makes  her  choice,  but  the  esthetic  tastes  which 
she  inherited  from  her  forsaken  mother  and  has  cultivated  instinctively. 
Felix  Holt  is  poor,  but  Esther  is  used  to  poverty.  It  is  not  so  hard  for 
her  to  get  over  that.  But  he  disregards  the  artificial  refinements  of 
life,  goes  without  a  waistcoat,  forswears  neckties,  and  sets  his  faoe 
sternly  against  a  high  doorstep  and  a  brass  knocker.  But  her  inbred 
repugnance  to  all  that  yields  to  the  longing  of  her  soul  for  union  with 
his  soul,  she  chooses  him  rather  than  Harold  Transome,  and  goes  with 
him  to  the  humble  home  which  he  shares  with  that  ridiculous  piece  of 
verbose  vulgarity,  his  pill-mixing  mother,  instead  of  to  the  mansion  of 
which  she  would  have  been  mistress,  with  or  without  Harold  Transome 
as  a  husband.  The  mother-in-law  is  almost  too  much.  It  is  difficult, 
it  requires  the  strengthening  of  imagination  by  a  glance  into  the  society 
around  us,  to  believe  that  even  love  could  make  Esther  accept  her.  We 
should  feel  more  comfortable  if  the  widow  of  the  departed  mixer  of 
Holt's  Elixii*,  Pills,  and  Oure,  who  knew  a  text  of  scripture  which  was 
''just  as  if  it  was  a  riddle,  and  Holt's  Elixir  was  the  answer,"  had  given 
signs  of  paralysis  of  the  tongue,  but  are  left  to  trust  that  her  confidence 
in  her  own  nostrums  will  work  a  retribution  at  an  early  day. 

G^tge  Eliot's  difference  from  other  writers  of  fiction  is  shown  in  the 


r 


GEORQE  EUOT.  681 

character  of  the  rewards  which  she  bestows  on  those  she  would  make 
happj.  Instead  of  riches,  titles  and  power,  she  gives  them  love,  work, 
content,  and  a  belief  in  the  necessity  of  looking  for  happiness  for  them- 
selves In  striving  to  lighten  the  burdens  which  oppress  their  fellows. 
Romola  is  shown,  in  her  double  widowhood,  finding  peace  by  caring 
for  the  unsophisticated  woman  and  innocent  children  who  had  been  left 
helpless  by  the  death  of  her  husband.  Effie  clings  to  her  foster-father, 
her  young  lover,  and  their  humble  sphere  in  life,  and  we  feel  that  she 
will  be  happy.  Fortunes  come  to  George  Eliot's  heroes  and  heroines,  and 
splendid  offers  of  matrimonial  alliances,  just  as  they  come  to  other  favour- 
ites of  fiction,  but  they  are  rejected,  and  we  feel,  in  spite  of  our  prejudices 
in  favour  of  wealth  and  rank,  that  the  rejection  is  wise. 

There  is  an  element,  often  lending  a  saddening  tone  to  these  books, 
which  is  commonly  called  fate.  '^  She  is  a  fatalist,"  says  the  flippant 
critic  who  sees  the  young  and  innocent  drawn  gradually  into  the  vortex 
of  sin,  the  proud  plunged  into  the  mire  of  humiliation,  and  the  lovely  and 
lovable  drifting  helplessly  and  heedlessly  into  situations  that  will  for- 
ever destroy  their  peace.  The  arms  of  destiny  are  open,  and  the  poor 
pilgrim  cannot  escape  them.  It  seems  as  if  shame  has  been  prepared 
for  that  sweet  maiden  from  the  foundation  of  the  world,  and  that  escape 
is  impossible.  We  see  the  web  of  sorrow-laden  circumstance  woven 
around  one  whose  life  is  without  reproach,  whose  purposes  are  pure, 
whose  power  of  endurance  is  small,  and  the  first  impulse  is  the  aboriginal 
one  of  attributing  it  to  supernatural  forces.  But  we  see,  after  sufficient 
fitudy,  ''  the  orderly  sequence  by  which  the  seed  brings  forth  a  crop 
after  its  kind,"  and  feel  that  no  other  result  could  have  been  produced 
by  the  events  which  preceded  it.  Her  heroines  are  subjected  to  this  law 
with  unrelenting  steadfastness.  Their  dreams  are  shown  to  be  as  base- 
less as  those  of  other  people.  Bomola  sees  all  that  is  noble  in  the  olive 
cheeked  Tito,  and  is  driven  away  from  him  by  her  horror  of  his  falsity 
and  selfnseeking.  Dorothea  dreams  of  a  life  of  devotion  to  her  pedantic 
lord, ''  who  enjoys  that  kind  of  reputation  which  precedes  performance." 
and  lives  to  look  upon  his  notes  for  a  Key  to  all  Mythologies  as  a  mass 
of  useless  rubbish,  under  which  her  own  life  was  in  danger  of  being 
buried.  Every  step  which  selfish  ambition  prompts,  every  elevation 
which  pride  leads  up  to,  every  good  which  is  not  to  be  shared  with 
others,  becomes  a  source  of  unhappiness  rather  than  of  pleasure.  It  is 
only  the  unselfish  seeker  who  finds  aright,  and  not  always  he. 

No  mere  doctrinal  deliverance  would  show  so  strongly,  to  many 
minds,  her  disbelief  in  evangelical  theories  of  salvation  as  the  heart  his- 
tory of  those  whom  she  rescues  from  ruin  and  places  on  the  right  path. 
Those  whom  she  would  save  are  not  converted  at  a  revival  meeting,  and 
turned  at  once  from  the  wicked  ways  in  which  they  have  delighted. 


682  GEOBOE  ELIOT. 

They  are  not  peisnaded  by  an  eloquent  preacher  to  arise  from  Uie  flowery 
beds  on  which  they  lie,  take  the  pilgrim  staff  in  hand,  and  set  out  over 
a  dangerous  road  for  the  Celestial  City.  But  the  flowers  on  which  they 
lie  turn  to  thistles,  the  honey  which  is  sweet  in  the  mouth  becomes^ 
bitter  in  the  belly,  the  jewels  with  which  they  adorn  themselves  tarn 
into  serpents  and  sting  them.  "  The  emptiness  of  all  things,  from  poli- 
tics to  pastimes,  is  never  so  striking  as  when  we  fail  in  them."  The 
ruined  merchant,  the  deserted  maiden,  the  despised  wife,  see  the  path 
of  duty  through  their  tears,  learn  from  their  own  misery  that  hearts 
are  aching  around  them,  are  taught  by  their  longing  for  consolation 
how  much  human  beings  can  do  to  lighten  the  burden  for  each  other^ 
and  thus  they  begin  the  new  life,  fighting  bravely  against  evil  habits, 
selfish  indulgence,  and  vain  desires.  Silas  Mamer's  heart  was  as  dead 
to  humanity  as  though  it  had  been  a  petrifacation,  his  soul  was  as  utterly 
lost  to  all  fellowship  with  his  kind  as  though  it  had  already  passed  into 
some  lower  animal,  according  to  the  doctrine  of  transmigration.  No 
preaching  would  have  aroused  him,  no  kindness  would  have  touched 
him.  He  had  lost  his  faith  in  man,  his  trust  in  woman,  his  belief  in 
religion,  when  an  unjust  charge  drove  him  from  Lantern  Yard.  He  had 
but  one  passion  left — the  passion  for  hoarding  gold.  His  creed,  with 
the  God^he  had  worshipped  through  the  forms  it  prescribed,had  been  falsi- 
fied when  the  casting  of  lots  resulted  in  the  confirmation  of  a  false 
charge  against  himself.  This  hoard  was  the  object  of  his  worship.  His 
friend  had  falsely  accused  him.  His  gold  was  the  only  object  with 
which  he  felt  sympathy.  His  betrothed  had  deserted  him.  His  money 
was  the  only  bride  h^  cherished.  But  the  money  was  stolen,  the  golden 
c^  vanished,  and  the  bereaved  miser  was  once  more  thrown  on 
human  sympathy  and  fellowship.  He  was  again  a  man  among  men. 
His  heart  was  opened,  and  Effie  kept  it  open  ever  afterwards. 

Other  novelists  have,  in  common  with  G^rge  Eliot,  the  faculty  of 
seeing  beneath  the  rough  exterior  and  appreciating  the  fine  qualities 
beneath.  They  can,  with  a  power  equal  to  her  own,  make  a  workman 
dignified,  and  the  worshipper  of  strange  gods  devout  But  they  have 
not  her  power  of  making  the  rough  work  itself  seem  noble,  and  the 
false  gods  divine,  of  lifting  lowly  classes  to  a  higher  sphere,  of  spiritualis- 
ing and  enobling  doctrines  for  those  who  despise  them.  Other  authors 
make  rough  workmen  appear  presentable,  and  believers  in  heterodox 
creeds  rational,  by  making  them  better  than  their  brethren,  but  she 
places  her  readers  in  such  perfect  sympathy  with  other  minds,  making 
them  look  at  things  from  the  same  standpoint,  that  classes  and  creeds 
which  they  have  been  accustomed  to  look  upon  as  without  the  pale  of 
their  sympathies,  become  respectable  in  their  eyes.  We  break  bread 
with  Daniel  Deronda  in  Ezra^Cohen's  back  parlour,  on  Friday  evening 


GEOBOE  ELIOT.  683^ 

after  the  pawn-shop  shatters  are  up,  and  never  again  look  upon  a  huck- 
stering Jew  except  as  a  man  and  a  brother.  There  is  no  smiling  mock- 
ery, no  latent  sarcasm,  no  patronizing  tolerance  in  her  treatment  of 
religious,  national  and  social  phases.  Dinah  Morris's  street  preaching 
and  Savonarola's  pulpit  prophecies  of  coming  woe  are  treated  alike 
with  reverence.  Even  the  Lantern  Yard  sect's  resorting  to  the  casting 
of  lots  for  the  purpose  of  learning  God's  will  is  described  without  a 
touch  of  disrespect,  expressed  or  implied.  She  looks  at  the  bended  knee, 
the  bowed  head,  the  scourged  flesh,  the  form  emaciated  by  fasting  in 
the  midst  of  plenty,  the  penitent  crawling  with  unprotected  limbs  over 
rough  ground,  and  enters  into  the  feelings  of  the  man  without  the 
slightest  reference  to  the  creed  whose  dictates  he  is  obeying.  We  see  a 
graven  image  before  the  prostrate  worshipper,  but  she  shows  us  God  in 
his  heart.  Others  have  divested  themselves  of  their  prejudices  until 
they  appeared  equally  indifferent  to  all  creeds,  a  comparatively  easy 
task ;  but  she  is  equally  reverent,  equally  tender,  equally  S3rmpathetic> 
with  them  all. 

Does  she  believe  in  the  saving  virtue  of  all,  or  reject  them  all  as  of 
no  account  except  for  the  momentary  satisfaction  they  produce  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  trust  in  them  1  She  says  in  **  Romola  "  that  **  the 
human  soul  is  hospitable,  and  will  entertain  conflicting  sentiments  and 
contradictory  opinions  with  much  impartiality."  She  thanks  Heaven, 
in  "  Adam  Bede,"  that  "  it  is  possible  to  have  very  erroneous  theories 
and  very  sublime  feelings."  The  religious  beliefs  of  her  characters  appear 
to  have  but  little  influence  on  their  lives.  Does  she  declare  with  her 
Mr.  Snell,  landlord  of  the  Rainbow,  "  You're  both  right  and  you're 
both  wrong,  as  I  say,"  or  what  is  her  belief  ?  That  she  is  no  bigot, 
either  for  or  against  any  particular  creed,  is  self-evident,  but  it  is  not 
easy  to  penetrate  into  her  mind,  or  fasten  many  positive  or  negative 
doctrinal  convictions  on  her.  The  reader  gains  the  conviction  that  she 
believes  in  God  as  an  unfathomable  mystery,  and  reverently  bends  the 
knee  at  every  apparent  manifestation  of  his  power.  Her  idea  of  Heaven 
is  rather  subjective  than  objective.  Justice,  she  says,  "is  like  the 
kingdom  of  Gk)d — it  is  not  without  us  as  a  fact,  it  is  within  us  as  a 
great  yearning."  Again,  she  says  that  "  our  conviction  in  its  keenest 
moment  passes  from  expression  into  silence,  our  love  at  its  highest  flood 
rushes  beyond  its  object,  and  loses  itself  in  the  sense  of  divine  mystery.'^ 
This  doctrine,  applied  to  religion,  implies  that  silence  is  the  only  fit  ex- 
pression for  exalted  spiritual  feelings.  She  is  clearly  rather  uncertain 
in  her  beliefs,  com])ared  with  the  clear  convictions  of  dogmatic  theology, 
but  she  is  not  necessarily  hopeless  because  she  fails  to  find  a  resting 
place  in  any  theological  system,  for  she  speaks  of  "  a  mixed  condition 
of  things  as  the  sign,  not  of  hopeless  confusion,  but  of  struggling  order.'' 


^684  OEOBGS  ELIOT. 

What  could  be  more  natural  than  that  a  woman  thus  grasping  for  tiie 
light,  getting  glimpses  into  the  Infinite,  but  unable  to  accept  any  of  the 
•creeds  which  profess  to  bring  the  soul  of  man  and  the  Soul  of  the  Uni- 
verse into  harmony — should  accept  a  Positivist  like  Lewes  as  the  com- 
panion of  her  solitude  and  the  confidant  of  her  doubts  ?  He  was  as- 
sured where  she  was  uncertain.  He  was  not  troubled  by  disturbing 
reflections  on  the  ^mysterious  dealings  of  Qod  with  his  people.  He 
could  talk,  at  that  time,  about  ensuring  the  repose  of  a  life  by  the  care- 
ful reading  of  Kant.  He,  the  Positive  Philosopher,  entertained  doubts 
only  to  remove  them  by  applying  the  tests  of  the  Objective  Method, 
and  escaped  from  the  questionings  which  stirred  her  soul  in  the  ethe- 
rial  regions  of  contemplation  by  sticking  complacently  to  earth.  The 
flights  which  lead  to  such  unrest  are  reached  in  the  study  of  Metaphy  * 
sics  :  therefore,  stick  to  Science.  "  Metaphysical  Philosophy  is  con- 
demned, by  the  very  nature  of  its  impulses,  to  wander  for  ever  in  one 
tortuous  labyrinth,"  he  says,  and  makes  it  abundantly  clear  that  every- 
thing to  which  scientific  reasoning — the  Method  of  Verification— can 
not  be  applied,  is  classed  as  metaphjrsicaL  ''  No  progress  can  be  made 
because  na  certainty  is  possible.''  He  professes  to  remove  inquiries  into 
the  heights  and  depths  of  man's  nature,  and  the  grander  generalities  on 
Life,  Destiny,  and  the  Universe,  to  the  domain  of  Science,  where  they 
will  be  subjected  to  verification  at  each  stage  of  the  process — ^the  gua- 
ranteeing of  each  separate  point,  the  cultivated  caution  of  proceeding 
to  the  unknown  solely  through  the  avenues  of  the  known.  He  despises 
the  philosopher  who  sees  a  co-ordinate  correspondence  between  his  in- 
tuitional reason  and  nature,  and  lacks  positive  proof  of  the  truth  of  lus 
oonviction.  **  Philosophy,  dealing  with  transcendental  objects  which 
cannot  be  present,  and  employing  a  method  which  admits  of  no  verifi- 
cation (or  reduction  to  the  test  of  fact)  must  be  an  impossible  attempt." 
Everything  must  descend  to  his  own  level  and  be  tried  :  — ''It  is  only 
possible  to  take  the  first  steps  in  Philosophy  by  bringing  transcendental 
subjects  within  the  sphere  of  experience,  ».«.,  making  them  no  longer 
transcendental"  He  has  no  faith  in  any  mode  of  reasoning  other  than 
''  the  Objective  Method  which  moulds  its  conceptions  on  realities  by 
closely  following  the  movements  of  the  objects  as  they  severally  present 
themselves  to  Sense,  so  that  this  movement  of  Thought  may  synchronize 
with  the  movement  of  Things,"  and  will  have  nothing  to  do,  in  any 
range  of  speculation,  with  "  the  Subjective  Method  which  moulds  real- 
ities on  its  conceptions,  endeavouring  to  discover  the  order  of  Things,  not 
by  step  by  step  adjustments  of  the  order  of  ideas  to  it,  but  by  the  anti- 
<;ipatory  rush  of  Thought,  the  direction  of  which  is  determined  by 
Thoughts  and  not  ooniroUed  by  Objects."  He  \b  never  weary  of  show 
4ng  the  untrustworthiness  of  any  reasoning  except  that  which  he  finds 


QBORGE  ELIOT.  685 

within  his  own  mental  grasp.  ''  The  sabjeetive  current,  disturbing  the 
clear  reflection  of  the  objectiye  order,  is  the  main  source  of  error/'  he 
says  in  one  place,  and  caps  the  climax  of  depreciation  by  saying :  '^  The 
Subjective  Method  takes  up  an  inference  and  treats  it  as  a  &ct,  and  thus 
gives  its  own  fictions  the  character  of  reality. ** 

Nothing  could  show  more  clearly  than  these  extracts  that  Mr.  Lewes 
is  evOTything,  intellectually  speaking,  which  his  wife  ia  not.  It  is  the 
subjective  £Eumlty,  not  the  objective,  which  ^lables  one  to  write  great 
dramas  of  life.  He  who  is  only  capable  of  reasoning  from  external 
objects  must  have  a  wide  experience  indeed  to  be  fitted  for  such  work, 
— such  an  experience  as  no  one  can  have.  It  is  the  despised  Intuitional 
Beason  that  perceives  the  drama  of  passion  in  the  human  soul  and 
reveak  it  to  the  consciousness  of  mankind.  It  is  the  same  faculty,  in  a 
minor  degree,  which  enables  the  world  to  recognize  the  truth  of  the 
revelation.  What  would  Shakespeare  have  written  without  the  subject- 
tive  current?  Our  scientist  builded  better  than  he  knew  when  he 
sneered  at  the  Subjective  Method  giving  its  own  fictions  the  character 
of  reality.  That  is  its  strength,  not  its  weakness;  its  glory,  not  its 
shame.  If  he  had  subjected  his  theories,  his  conceptions,  to  the  method 
of  verification,  if  he  had  '<  simply  co-ordinated  the  materials  furnished 
by  his  own  experience,  introducing  no  new  materials,"  if  he  had  enter- 
tained no  conceptions  except  those  moulded  on  the  realities  of  his  own 
life,  there  would  be  no  present  disputation  on  the  spelling  of  his  name. 
The  divine  afflatus  is  subjective,  not  objective.  Heaven  is  not  reached 
by  climbing  lofty  mountains,  and  building  towers  of  Babel  on  their 
tops.  It  is  by  going  out  of  his  experience,  rising  above  and  sinking 
below  it,  that  the  poet  or  the  noveUst  gains  his  clearest  conceptions.  If 
George  Eliot  had  depended  upon  experience,  and  entertained  Mr.  Lewes' 
contempt  for  intuition,  how  many  of  the  characters  who  live  and  breathe 
and  have  their  being  in  her  works — as  real  to  us  as  the  men  and  women 
of  our  acquaintance,  because  we  intuitively  know  them  to  be  fashioned 
of  the  same  clay  as  ourselves — would  have  been  created  ? 

So  far  as  George  Eliot  has  allowed  her  husband's  system  of  verifica- 
tion to  unsettle  her  faith  in  her  inspired  intuitions,  and  traces  of  this 
may  be  found  in  her  later  writings,  the  union  has  been  intellectually 
injurious.  The  pure  aspirations  of  a  little  child  have  more  truth  in  them 
than  a  library  of  theological  works,  and  the  intuitions  of  George  Eliot  are 
truer  than  the  logical  climaxes  of  jG.  H  Lewes's  scientific  reasoning  from 
observatbn.  But  it  is  possible  that  she  found  partial  pause  from  her 
speculative  unrest  on  the  great  questions  of  theology,  by  communion 
with  so  placid  and  assured  a  faith  as  his.  It  makes  us  courageous  to 
be  in  contact  with  those  who  have  no  fear,  even  though  we  know  they 
have  as  much  reason  to  tremble  as  ourselves.  This  repose,  if  it  did  jiot 


686  OEOBQE  ELIOT. 

promote  her  spiritnal  growth,  gave  a  calmness  and  content  that  were 
essential  to  healthy  intellectual  effort  Tendencies  that  mi^t  have 
become  morbid,  speculations  that  might  have  grown  too  subtle  for  man- 
kind to  follow  with  intelligent  interest,  were  arrested.  Taking  Lewes 
for  a  fair  type  of  the  intellectual  world  for  which  she  wrote,  she  saw  the 
necessity  of  keeping  her  flights  within  the  range  of  his  vision.  '*  Daniel 
Deronda"  shows  some  signs  of  having  been  conceived  on  different 
principles  than  its  predecessors.  There  is  just  a  trace  of  the  blight  on 
it  which  novel  writing  for  a  purpose  carries  with  it  The  space  which 
is  given  to  Jewish  aspirations,  and  the  work  which  the  good  boy  of  the 
tale  undertakes  at  the  close,  seem  to  come  not  so  much  from  the  neces- 
sities of  the  situation,  as  from  the  predetermination  of  the  author. 
Deronda,  Mirah  and  Mordecai  are  so  perfect,  morally  and  inteDectually, 
that  their  natural  mental  development  must  have  been  restricted  by  the 
author's  too  vivid  consciousness  of  the  ends  for  which  they  were  created. 
The  best  beloved  as  they  are,  they  pass  before  the  reader's  eye  almost  as 
unnoticed  as  lay  figures.  Deronda,  the  hero,  is  a  piece  of  wax-work  that 
melts  in  our  memory  before  the  fierce  light  of  Grandcourt,  and  Mirah 
is  extinguished,  in  comparison  with  Gwendolen,  as  the  stars  vanish  in 
the  sunlight.  They  were  formed  for  the  expression  of  Jewish  aspira- 
tions for  a  new  national  existence,  and  had  to  be  kept  on  their  good 
behaviour  until  their  time  came. 

It  is  impossible  to  form  any  estimate  of  the  genius  of  George  Eliot 
without  taking  into  account  the  simplicity  of  the  raw  materials  with 
which  her  effects  are  produced.  It  is  with  naturally  drawn  people  in 
the  middle  walks  of  life,  and  engaged  in  ordinary  occupations,  that  she 
deals.  It  is  with  the  thoughts,  the  mental  struggles,  of  these  people 
that  we  sympathise  so  strongly.  The  villains  are  not  guilty  of  crimes 
whose  very  blackness  makes  them  morbidly  fascinating,  the  heroes  do 
not  grapple  for  crowns,  nor  discover  El  Dorados.  It  is  by  adjusting  the 
bUss  or  the  burden  to  the  aspirations  or  the  endurance  of  her  creations 
that  she  gives  us  an  idea  of  their  happiness  or  misery.  Her  characters 
illustrate  for  us  the  truth  that  **  what  to  the  mass  of  men  would  be 
only  one  of  many  allowable  follies  is  to  another  a  spiritual  convulsion  ;  ** 
that  *'  what  to  one  man  is  the  virtue  which  he  has  sunk  below  the  possi- 
bility of  aspiring  to,  is  to  another  the  backsliding  by  which  he  forfeits  his 
spiritual  crown  ; "  that  "  sliding  into  a  pleasureless  yielding  to  the  small 
solicitations  of  circumstance  is  a  commoner  history  of  perdition  than 
any  single  momentous  bargain  ;  "  that  we  "  feel  the  hard  pressure  of 
our  common  lot,  the  yoke  of  that  mighty  resistless  destiny  laid  upon  us 
by  the  acts  of  other  men  as  well  as  our  own  ;  *'  that  ^'  the  eager  theoris- 
ing of  ages  is  compressed,  as  in  a  seed,  in  the  momentary  want  of  a 
single  mind  ; "  that  *'  the  most  powerful  of  all  beauty  is  that  which  reveals 


QEOBOE  ELIOT.  687 

itself  after  sympathy  and  not  before  it ; "  that  <'  Natorey  that  great 
tragic  dramatist,  ties  us  by  our  heart-strings  to  the  beings  that  jar  us  at 
every  movement ; "  that  '*  we  are  apter  to  be  kinder  to  the  bmtes  that 
love  us  than  to  the  women  that  love  as ; "  that  ''  oar  dead  are  never 
dead  to  as  antil  we  have  forgotten  them ; ''  that  '*  haman  feeling  is  like 
the  mighty  rivers  that  bless  the  earth, — it  does  not  wait  for  beauty, — ^it 
flows  with  resistless  force  and  brings  beauty  with  it ; "  that  '<  a  great 
deal  of  life  goes  on  without  strong  passion,  without  the  zest  arising 
from  a  strong  desire ; ''  that  "  without  good  and  sufficient  ducts  of  habit 
our  nature  easily  turns  to  mere  ooze  and  mud,  and  at  any  pressure 
yields  nothing  but  a  spurt  or  a  puddle/'  We  are  taught  to  be  generous, 
to  be  loving,  to  be  forgetful  of  self,  to  be  free  from  false  pride,  to  hate 
shams,  to  be  true  to  the  inmost  promptings  of  duty,  to  guard  zealously 
against  the  solicitations  of  ease.  Her  claim  to  a  high  place  in  the  ranks 
of  noveUsts  rests  on  the  skill  with  which  she  has  used  materials  so 
simple  in  enforcing  teachings  so  old. 

Her  eternal  aspirations  find  voice,  and  a  glimpse  of  her  religious  fiEuth 
is  given,  in  one  of  her  neglected  poems.  Those  who  love  her  can  claim 
for  her  no  more  spirituality  than  it  breathes ;  those  who  condemn  her 
cannot  justly  charge  her  with  more  materialism,  infidelity,  deism,  heter- 
odoxy, or  whatever  they  choose  to  call  dissent  from  what  is  commonly 
called  orthodoxy  in  Christian  lands,  than  is  consistent  with  its  spirit. 
Bead  and  judge : 

'*  O  mfty  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortftl  dead  who  lire  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  preeenoe  :  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night—like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence,  urge  man's  search 

1^0  vaster  issues. 

"  So  to  Hye  is  heaven. 
•  .  •  « 

'*  So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 

For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonised. 

With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 

"This is  life  to  come, 
'  *  Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.    May  I  reach 
lliat  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardour,  feed  pure  love. 
Beget  the  smiles  that  leave  no  cruelty- 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible. 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world." 


Wanderings  with  viroil. 

BY  EDWARD  C.   BBUCB. 


Fkoh  this  our  modem  upstart  Und  of  Atlaotis  there  pass  every  year  to 
the  circling  shores  of  the  great  Central  Sea,  in  search  of  knov  ledge,  health 
or  pleasure,  more  voyagers  by  far  than  embarked  with  ^neas  in  his  tveo- 
ty  ships  built  from  the  woods  of  Phrygia  Ida,  and  saw  the  last  peak  of 
fatberknd  sink  into  the  eastern  shadows  of  twilight  behind  Tenedos. 
They  would  ontnumber,  a  score  or  two  to  one,  the  little  remnant  that 
disembarked  with  him  from  one  ship  at  Latium,  and  gave  to  the  world 
the  Latin  race  and  the  Alban  fathers  and  the  lofty  walls  of  Some.  Add  to 
them  the  reinforcements  Irom  the  ancient  edge  of  the  globe,  Britain  and 
North-weetem  Europe,  and  the  host  of  sigbt-seers  will  exceed  the  army 
that  Agamemnon,  king  of  men,  marshalled  under  the  walla  of  Ilinm,  for 
the  long  fight  that  will  rage  for  ever. 

Among  all  these  there  exists,  doubtless,  a  full  share  of  latent  heroism, 
dormant  devotion  and  capacity  for  manifestation  of  the  bi^est  qualities 
cff  mortals.  The  "  pink  parasol  by  the  Pyramids  "  probiUily  shades  as 
fair  a  face,  and  as  much  of  "  tme  womanly "  in  form  and  heart  as  did 
the  golden  coif  of  Briseis ;  and  its  escort  would  promptly  and  graoefally 
pick  up  the  glaive  of  Achillea,  or  go  with  Jason  wool-ga^iering  to  the 
Crimea— nn  exploit  the  latter,  in  fact,  which  Mr.  Kinglake   and  his 


WANDblRINGS   WITH   VIRGIL.  eSd- 

British  readers  think  a  mere  bagatelle  to  the  victory  of  lukermann. 
But,  for  all  that,  none  of  them  will  personify  beauty  and  valour  in  the 
eyes  of  the  poet  and  the  painter  of  thirty  centuries  hence.  They  will 
sink,  life  and  memory,  into  the  mass  of  what  the  dyspeptic  Carlyle  calls 
seventeen  millions  of  bores,  and  might  as  justly,  had  he  chosen  to  ex- 
tend the  characterization  to  his  own  bailiwick,  have  caUed  seventy  mil- 
lions. Is  it  that  the  disproportion  between  actualities  and  probabilities 
is  86  immense ;  that  gifts  and  opportunities  so  seldom  come  together  -,, 
that  the  conditions  of  the  required  result  are  so  numerous  and  involved  ; 
that  Nature,  prodigal  and  wasteful  in  the  moral  and  intellectual,  as  in 
the  physical  senUna  rerum,  refuses  to  innumerable  individuals  and  long 
cycles  of  time,  their  just  and  normal  development,  like  the  immeasure- 
able  majority  of  codfish  eggs  that  never  hatch  ?  Or  is  it  that  a  long 
list  of  special  elements  combines  t«  give  to  this  amphitheatre  of  the 
world,  an  attracting  and  inspiring  charm  no  other  region  will  ever  pos- 
sess ? 

Volumes  have  been,  and  volumes  more  might  be,  written  on  the  fea- 
tures which  make  the  Mediterranean  a  unique  field  for  all  human  activi- 
ties. Its  axis  running  with  latitude  and  not  with  longitude,  its  climate 
has  still  the  entire  range  of  the  temperate  zone.  Alpine  glaciers  over- 
hang its  northern  rim,  while  its  southern  waves  lap  the  tawny  sands  of 
the  Lybian  desert.  Its  waters  reflect  the  fir  and  the  palm,  the  ibex  and 
the  camel  Tideless  and  land-locked  ;  with  a  coastline,  counting  the 
islands,  equal  to  that  of  the  Atlantic ;  its  sinuosities  presenting  harbours 
to  every  wind,  often  but  a  few  hours',  and  rarely  more  than  two  days', 
sail  apart ;  endowed  with  a  wonderful  variety  of  commodities  of  its 
own,  besides  those  which  drift  to  it  by  the  Don,  from  the  Arctic  plains, 
by  the  Nile  from  Capricorn,  and  by  the  Straits  of  Hercules  from  the 
Main, — it  has  from  all  time  enjoyed  the  civilizing  influence  of  commerce. 
To  vessels  which  seldom  lost  sight  of  the  stars  by  night,  and  could  not 
be  driven  more  than  two  or  three  days  fiom  land,  the  compass  was  not 
an  essential.  The  three  great  voyages  which  have  left  us  their  logs — 
those  of  Ulysses,  JSneas  and  Paul — were  indeed  circuitous  enough,  but 
from  design  mainly  in  the  first  two  cases,  while  the  apostle  seems  to 
have  been  unfortunate  in  his  selection  of  skippers ;  and  it  is  clear,  from 
his  own  account,  that  they  ascribed  their  extraordinary  bad  luck  to  an 
equally  unfortunate  choice  of  a  passenger. 

From  a  period  undreamed  of  by  Niebuhr  or  Deucalion — the  close  of 
the  Glacial  Period,  when  the  Lapp  slid  northward  with  the  seal,  leaving 
the  hairy  elephant  to  die  in  Italy,  and  determine,  perhaps,  the  site  of 
Some,  by  bequeathing  his  caput  to  the  Capitol — this  vestibule  of  three 
continents  must  have  been  the  life-seat  of  the  nations,  the  lungs  of  the 
globe.    From  north,  east  and  south,  peoples  and  languages  struggled 


«90  WAMDEaiNOS  WITH   VIUQIL. 

thither.  They  groped  instinctiTely  toward  the  daylight,  u  Bunt* 
yearns  for  Conatautinople,  and  Pniaeia  for  the  Scheldt  They  found, 
among  the  erer-blooming  ielanda  and  peninBnlas  of  that  sunny  sea,  the 
seeds  of  the  highest  style  of  man.  The  insular  spirit  of  mingled  enter- 
prise and  independence  fostered  political  liberty  and  free  thought.  A 
«warm  of  little  empires  sprang  up,  alike  in  blood,  habits  and  traditions. 
Near  enough  to  communicate,  but  not  to  be  absorbed,  their  relations  ran 
through  an  intricate  dance  of  alliance  and  war,  the  two  conditions 
«quaUy  tending  to  make  common  property  of  the  advances  in  culture  of 
«ach  state.  Merchant-ship  and  war-g&Iley  bare  fructification  from  islaod 
to  island  bke  so  many  bees,  stinging  and  stingleas,  transporting  poUen 
from  flower  to  flower.  There  arose  a  singular  balance  of  unity  in  divw- 
sity  in  mental  character,  art,  religion  and  social  and  political  institutions. 
We  read  of  a  multitude  of  lawgivers — Solon,  Dnco,  Lycurgus,  Hinoe, 
etc.,  each  imposing  his  rigidly-drawn  system  for  an  unchanged  duration 
of  centuries  on  his  particular  people.  CodiGers  they  should  more  pro- 
perly be  called,  like  Justinian  and  Alfonso ;  not  creating  whoUy  new  and 
arbitrary  schemes  of  jurisprudence,  but  collating,  pruning  and  defining 
for  better  practical  service  the  customs  which  had  grown  up  in  the  ages 
before  them.     Some  of  these  men  were  deified,  simply  because  they 


seemed  to  embody  the  national  genius,  or  were  convenient  historical 
starting-points.  In  those  pantheistic  days,  air,  land  and  sea  weresnpo^ 
saturated  with  divinity.  It  floated  on  the  winds,  spoke  in  the  thunder, 
lurked  in  the  shadows  of  the  woods,  sank  into  the  centre  of  the  earth 
.  and  pervaded  the  deep.   Its  manifestations  were  everywhere,  and  rested 


WANDERINGS  WITH   VIRGIL.  691 

on  the  hamblest  objects.  Worshippers  who  ascribed  divine  attributes 
to  their  chimney-pieces  and  boundary-stones  might  not  unnaturally  de- 
tect them  in  their  attorneys. 

Ancient  history,  so  called,  is  modem.  What  are  the  nine  hundred 
years  during  which  the  Spartans  boasted  of  having  adhered  to  the  in- 
junctions of  their  first  lawgiver,  or  the  three  or  four  centuries  to  the 
back  of  that  since  the  immortals  saw  fit  to  overset  the  Asian  realm  and 
the  derelict  race  of  Priam,  and  Neptune's  Troy  lay  smoking  on  the 
ground,  to  the  succession  of  fossil  dominions,  here  two  or  three,  there 
five,  six,  seven  deep,  revealed  to  us  on  these  shores,  by  those  unpretend 
ing  and  uncritical  investigators,  the  shovel  and  the  pick  ?  Herculaneum 
partly  disinterred  last  century,  and  mostly  re-abandoned  to  the  mould 
in  this,  is  known  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  ancient  Greek  cities  in 
Italy.  The  tufa  that  enshrouds  it  is  a  duplicate  of  the  tufa  on  which 
it  stands,  and  beneath  that  is  a  soil  full  of  the  clearest  traces  of  tillage 
which  must  have  been  bestowed  upon  it  before  the  beginning  of  tradi- 
tion, since  the  eruption  of  A.D.  79  was  the  first  recorded  of  Vesuvius. 
Behind  the  £truscans,  who  antedate  Rome,  and  whose  language,  as  in- 
scribed upon  their  lateIy*opened  tombs,  remains  uninterpreted,  was  at 
least  one  civilization  of  as  high  an  order  as  theirs,  represented  by  nu- 
merous remains.  And  still  beyond  that,  we  shall  doubtless  be  soon 
perusing,  or  attempting  to  peruse,  new  leaves  of  the  buried  volume,  older 
and  more  valuable  than  the  lost  books  of  the  Sibyl.  Troy  herself  speaks 
in  this  way  literally  from  her  ashes,  and  tells  a  tale  we  should  not  have 
gathered  from  all  that  has  been  written  of  her.  In  the  debris  of  her 
citadel,  sixty  feet  deep,  not  less  than  six  successive  and  distinct  series 
of  occupants  are  traced,  each  raised,  by  the  ruin  of  its  predecessor,  to 
a  loftier  stronghold  and  a  broader  view  over  the  rich  historic  plains. 

These  strata  of  pre-historic  history  carry  us  to  a  region  through  which 
we  have  no  other  guide.  As  we  emerge  from  it  into  the  mist  of  myths, 
the  half-light  of  tradition,  or  the  light,  often  equally  uncertain,  of  the 
earlier  historians,  we  get  at  least  names,  events,  and  some  dates,  more  or 
less  confused  and  contradictory.  Hardly  so  far  back  as  this  does  Virgil 
pretend  to  carry  his  readers.  The  poet  romances  less  than  the  historian,^ 
and  content^  himself  with  ground  where  a  firmer  footing  may  be  had- 
There  he  grows  quite  circumstantial,  and  throws  together  statements, 
obviously  the  result  of  long  and  close  research,  that  have  been  too  un- 
sparingly pooh-poohed  by  critics  possessed  of  but  microscopic  fragments 
of  the  authorities  that  guided  him. 

Hard  fact  is  coming  daily  to  the  rescue  of  the  classic  annalists  in  verse 
and  prose  from  the  merciless  skepticism  dealt  out  to  them  in  our  times. 
The  ground  we  tread  upon  is  made  to  testify  in  their  behalf.     Wit- 
nesses for  the  dead  rise  from  beneath  the  feet  of  the  living.    A  few 
3 


692  WANDEKINGS  WITH  VIRGIL. 

strokes  of  the  mattock,  and  we  stand  in  the  Sciean  gate,  on  the  stones 
that  Hector  trod.  A  few  more,  and  we  lift  from  the  smoke-stained  rain 
of  a  wall  hard  by  a  clump  of  Priam's  treasure,  saved  from  *^  the  red 
pursuing  Greek  "  by  the  wreck  he  had  wrought — double-lipped  cups, 
images  of  the  Penates,  chains,  armlets  and  other  decorations.  The  de- 
bris we  throw  aside,  is  filled  with  the  bones  and  armour  of  dead  warriors. 
If  we  have  not  here  the  exact  studies  from  which  Homer  drew,  we  have 
at  least  th<)se  from  which  he  might  have  drawn  with  strictly  identical 
results.  If  his  is  a  phantom  Troy,  what  is  the  reality  before  us  I  The 
field  of  Waterloo  is  at  this  day  more  difficult  to  identify  by  those  who 
may  have  fought  there,  or  by  others  who  depend  on  contemporary  de- 
scriptions, if  we  shut  out  the  Belgian  monument,  than  this  marvellous 
photograph,  in  palpable  stone,  metal  and  ashes,  of  a  mythical  city,  and 
conflict  described  with  the  most  pains-taking  minuteness  by  a  mythical 
poet  in  writings  that  have  been  public  property  for  twenty- five  centuries 
It  may  not  have  been  Troy,  but  it  must  have  been  a  Troy.  Homer  may 
t)e  but  a  collective  term  for  a  lot  of  unknown  rhapsodists,  who  all  wrote 
in  the  same  dialect  of  the  same  language,  in  perfectly  sequent  style,  of 
a  single  series  of  events  participated  in  by  the  same  group  of  men  on 
the  same  ground.  But  the  foundation  of  probabilities  so  laid  b  stronger 
than  that  sustaining  many  recognized  facts  of  history. 

It  is  noteworthy  that,  as  a  rule,  each  new  achievement  of  the  modem 
explorer  adds  to  the  vindication  of  ancient  accuracy.  Within  the  past 
generation  merely,  the  Pygmies  have  been  detected  in  the  Nyam-  Nyams ; 
the  sources  of  the  Nile  have  been  found  to  be  as  laid  down  by  Ptolemy ; 
''  Memnon's  statue  that  at  sunrise  played ''  is  shown  by  scientific  demon- 
stration to  have  been  actually  vocal,  without  the  aid  or  need  of  sacer- 
dotal jugglery ;  that  arrant  empiric  and  contemner  of  induction,  Aris- 
totle, has  been  proved  right  on  certain  points  in  zoology  utterly  obscure 
to  our  naturalists  j  excavations  have  dispersed  a  doud  of  Teutonic  the- 
ories on  the  original  substructures  of  Rome ;  the  temple  of  Ephesian 
Diana  has  had  its  pavement  and  pillars  brought  to  light,  and  found  to 
correspond  like  a  **  working  draft "  to  the  dimensions  and  design  handed 
down  to  us ;  and  generally  it  may  be  said  that  the  light  thrown  by 
Pompeii  on  the  domestic  life,  is  not  more  sharp,  clear  and  awakening 
than  that  shed  from  many  other  fields  of  enquiry  on  the  literary  con- 
scientiousness of  the  Greeks  and  Itomans. 

We  may,  then,  yield  to  the  temptation  of  crediting  the  Mantuan  with 
a  broader  and  more  solid  foundation  of  facts  than  the  critics  have  al- 
lowed him — such  a  one,  perhaps,  as  that  of  Scott's  historic  novels  and 
Shakespeare's  historic  plays.  For  his  supernatural  machinery,  it  was 
the  fashionable  decoration  of  the  day.  It  does  not  exceed,  in  proportion 
to  matter  of  fact,  the  same  element  in  Macbeth^  nor  excel,  in  either  {»o- 


WANDKRINOS   WITH  VIBOIL.  693 

portion  or  extr&vBganee,  the  like  embellishmeuts  in  the  Luaad  or  the 
Genualemme.  It  is  notorious  that,  deft  at  adornment  and  iUnstration, 
he  vaa  not  atrong  in  inrention.  Thoroughly  master  of  the  traditions 
and  records  bearing  on  his  subject,  supplied  him  bj  study  and  travel, 
these  the  character  of  his  mind  gave  him  small  power  of  amplifying, 
even  had  there  been  more  necessity  for  it>  In  fact,  there  was  very  little. 
They  were  abundant  and  romantic.  They  were  accepted  by  everybody 
around  him.  They  ran  back  hardly  as  far  as  the  Heptarchy  lies  from 
us,  and  the  monuments  of  them  were  iocomparably  more  various  and 
complete  than  we  have  of  Saxon  times.  The  language  in  which  they 
were  mostly  delivered  had  remained  practically  unchanged  from  a  period 
long  prior  to  the  alleged  date  of  the  events,  and  was  still  vernacular. 
So  with  the  terminology  of  men  and  places. 

Compared  with  j^neas,  Arthur,  the  one  hero  of  pre-Saxon  Britain, 
the  central  figure  in  the  poetry  of  him  whose  place  in  ftitare  literary 
fame  the  England  of  t<Mlay  fondly  dreams  will  be  far  above  Virgil,  and 
name-giver  to  one  of  Victoria's  sons,  sinks  into  the  mistiest  of  shadows. 


We  cannot  say  that  we  know  any  more  of  him  than  of  the  sword  where- 
with he  wrought  such  miracles  of  homicide,  the  Round  Table  at  which 
he  entertfuned  the  lovers  of  his  wife,  the  Holy  Graal  in  the  vain  pursuit 
whereof  he  spent  so  much  valuable  time,  or  the  fobulons  battles  in  which 
he  was  so  regularly  beaten. 

Unhappy  Dido  is  also  quite  an  historical  personage.     Her  colonizing 
tonr,  starting  &om  a  point  on  the  same  coast,  preceded  by  a  few  years 


694  WANDERINGS  WITH  VIRGIL. 

that  of  her  *^  pious  "  deserter.  Under  her  true  Phoenico-Hebraio  name 
of  filisa,  she  is  handed  down  to  us  as  a  fourth  or  fifth  cousin  of  oar  inti- 
mate and  equally  unfortunate  friend  Jezebel.  Josephns,  a  standard 
authority,  had  access  to  the  T3rrian  state-paper  office^  and  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  tracing  her.  The  Ethbaal  of  Scripture,  or  Ithobalus,  father-in- 
law  of  Ahab,  was,  we  are  told,  great-grandfather  to  Elisa  the  ''beautiful  ** 
or  the  "  wanderer,"  whichever  Bido  means.  And  sensible  sister  Anna 
— is  it  Bluebeard  we  are  referring  to  1 — how  homely  and  familiar  the 
name) 

Dismissing  the  quarrelsome  rabble  of  gods  who  made  all  the  mischief 
^ven  the  lovely  Venus,  avertens,  rosea  cervice — we  find  our  taip  with 
the  Trojan  refugees,  divested  of  its  heavenly  and  hellish  incumbrances, 
a  pleasant,  tangible,  every-day  circumnavigation  of  the  eastern  half  of 
the  Mediterranean.  A  yachtsman  of  the  nineteenth  century  might 
follow  the  Yirgilian  itinerary  with  advantage.  Thrace,  his  first  land, 
would  not  prove  particularly  attractive,  but  he  would  not  have  to  fear 
the  ghost  of  Polydorus,  or  the  police  of  acer  Lycurgua,  A  short  stay  on 
this  coast  served  JEneaa,  and  with  even  diminished  drawbacks  a  still 
shorter  would  satisfy  his  successor. 

Striking  into  the  blue  bosom  of  the  Cyclades,  he  lands  on  rocky 
Delos,  a  '*  fast-anchored  isle ''  now  as  in  the  days  of  ^neas,  whatever 
may  have  been  its  turn  for  locomotion  in  hoar  antiquity,  when  those 
foam-born  beauties  of  islets  rose  from  the  deep,  and  are  fabled  to  have 
floated  about  for  a  space  in  search  of  good  holding-ground.  The  process 
of  isle-building  along  those  volcanic  coasts  is  still  going  on  in  what  may 
be  termed  a  normal  and  regular,  as  well  as  in  a  catadysmal,  way ;  at 
least  one  island,  comparable  in  size  to  the  Lesser  or  sacred  Delos,  hav- 
ing been  suddenly  erupted  not  many  years  since.  This  one  floated, 
moreover,  but  only  in  a  disintegrated  state,  a  scum  of  pumice  having 
been  all  that  remained  of  it  after  a  few  months'  existence.  €k)od  King 
Anius  will  not  meet  him  at  the  pier,  if  only  because  there  is  no  pier  ; 
nor  will  the  oracle  be  heard  from  the  rock-seated  temple  of  Apollo,  where 
the  pedestal  of  the  god's  colossal  statue,  inscribed  with  the  words  of 
dedication,  is  said  still  to  be  visible.  But  he  may  fancy,  as  he  recalls 
the  still  tremendous  power  of  the  Vatican,  that  the  prophecy  yet  holds 
good,  that  the  house  of  ^neas,  his  sons'  sons  and  their  descendants, 
shall  rule  over  every  land. 

Among  the  architectural  remains  which  cover  the  island,  the  visitor 
may  stumble  over  stones  laid  at  least  five  centuries  before  Solomon,  in- 
termingled with  similar  contributions  from  sixty  subsequent  generations 
of  devotees,  for  the  island  lost  its  sanctity  only  'with  the  decadence  of 
the  old  religion.  Hadrian,  the  most  tireless  of  imperial  builders,  mated 
he  temple  of  Apollo,  with  others,  to  Neptune  and  Hercules.   Although 


WANDERINGS   WITH   VIRGIL.  695 

the  standing  prohibition  against  being  born  or  djring  on  the  island, 
must,  one  would  suppose,  have  kept  its  population  down,  the  residents 
and  visitors  were  numerous  enough  to  require  a  spacious  marble  theatre. 
The  Naumachia,  two  hundred  and  eighty-nine  feet  by  two  hundred,  still 
admits  four  feet  of  water — deep  enough  to  float  any  craft  small  enough 
to  manseuvre  in  so  confined  a  space.  The  religious  trade  of  the  island 
overflowed  into  the  suburb,  more  capacious,  of  Great  Delos,  less  noted, 
but  a  mass  of  ruins,  among  them  one  hundred  and  twenty  altars,  as 
counted  by  Tournefort.  Numbers  of  tombs  with  I'hoenician  inscriptions 
attest  its  antiquity  as  a  resort. 

Submissively  sharing  the  blunder  of  his  guide,  our  supposititious  voy- 
ager follows  him  to  Crete,  in  search  of  the  wrong  ancestor.  He  will 
make  better  time  thither,  unable  though  he  be  to  say  modbJupUeradtit. 
Steam  beats  Jove,  and  the  three  days  Virgil  considered  a  fast  trip  would 
be  dawdling  now.  Two  or  three  years  ago  the  voyage  would  have  been 
longer,  for  the  irrepressible  Greek  spirit  was  in  one  of  its  throes,  and  the 
barbarians  held  the  isle  of  a  hundred  cities  in  military  and  naval  quar- 
antine. They  have  again  beaten  down  the  Danaids — ^for  the  time — and 
will  welcome  you  to  the  wilderness  they  call  peace.  But  you  will  not 
wait  for  the  plague  to  drive  you  away,  tired  of  tracing  the  vast  and  un- 
chronicled  ruins  of  old  among  the  contemporary  desolation  wrought  by 
fimaticism.  Taking  the  chances  of  foul  weather,  like  that  which  made 
Palinurus,  unable  to  discern  the  sky  by  day  or  night,  confess  himself  in 
a  double  sense  at  sea,  the  tourist  steers  for  the  roost  of  those  fouler  fowls 
the  Harpies,  the  buzzards  of  Olympus,  off  the  west  coast  of  the  Morea. 

Making  the  briefest  possible  stay  amid  such  unsavoury  recollections, 
the  traveller  skirts  the  '*  currant  islands,''  as  they  may  most  characteris- 
tically be  styled  for  their  contribution  to  the  national  dish  of  their  late 
protector,  John  Bull.  Giving  the  domain  of  "  fierce  Ulysses  "  a  wide 
berth,  he  sails  over  the  wrecks  of  Actium  to  do  religious  service  on  an- 
other sacred  isle,  consecrated  in  the  old  days  by  a  temple  of  Apollo,  and 
to  modem  minds  by  the  despair  of  Sappho.  It  was  from  a  great  white 
rock  that  gave  the  island  its  name,  that  the  poetess  tried  the  final  cure- 
all  for  an  acute  case  of  love-sickness.  Virgil  reserves  his  pathos  for  the 
next  landing,  and  displayed  it  in  one  of  the  finest  passages  of  the  poem — 

Hectoris  Andromach*,  P3rrrhm'  connabia  servas  ? 

exclaims  the  indignant  exile  to  the  sad  captive  still,  though  the  spouse 
of  a  Trojan  and  the  sharer  of  a  Greek  throne^  She  disarms  him  by 
tears  for  the  lord  of  her  youth  and  by  her  declared  envy  of  her  dead 
sister  Polyxena,  a  sacrifice  to  the  fury  of  Achilles. 

The  next  incident  of  note  is  less  diffusely  and  dramatically  treated — 
the  death  of  Anchises.    One  would  have  expected  the  writer  or  his  hero 


696  WANDEHIK06   WITH  VIBOIL. 

to  exhaust  upon  this  scene  his  utmost  powers  in  elegiac  ait.  But  they 
both  dismisB  the  old  gentleman  somewhat  abruptly.  To  both  he  w» 
becoming  a  cumbroas  pitce  of  property — a  clog  alike  on  halliards  and 
hexameters.    So  he  is  dropped  at  Drepannm,  now  Tiepani,  under  the 


(UODERK  TKKPUJl). 

western 'promontory  of  Sicily.  Strabo,  not  hampered  in  his  transporta- 
tion faoilitiea  by  verse,  canies  him  all  the  way,  and  lands  him  comfort- 
ably— but,  we  may  be  allowed  to  surmise,  a  little  stricken  with  the 
rheumatics — in  Italy.  The  present  inhabitants  of  Trepani  settle  the 
qnestion  by  showing  his  tomb.  From  this,  of  course,  there  can  be  no 
appeal.  Aphrodite,  his  widow,  we  dare  say,  still  keeps  the  sepulchre 
decked  with  wreaths  of  asphodel,  little,  little  comfort  as  she  hronght 
him  during  life. 

It  is  somewhat  singular  that  we  are  given  so  slight  an  explanation  of 
what  brought  the  wanderer  to  Carthage,  the  most  important  intennedi 
ate  point,  historically  and  poetically,  of  his  voyage.  He  simply  informs 
Dido  that  a  god  brought  bim  to  her  shores.  It  was  apparently  but  a 
hit  of  maternal  design  on  the  part  of  the  professional  matchmaker  and 
unmaker  of  the  skies.  Yenus  had  an  eye  on  the  Fhcenician  widow  aa 
a  u^ital  parti  for  her  son,  so  ofben  defeated  in  his  efforts  to  settle  him- 
self. She  renovated  his  storm-beaten  fonn  and  features,  and  sent  him 
to  court  with  a  fresh  outfit  of  good  looks.  She  breathed  upon  him,  and 
lo  !  his  locks  were  of  gold,  his  complexion  the  rose,  and  bis  eyes  agUtter 
with  the  light  of  pride  and  joy.  Poor  Elisa  1  In  this  first  transaction 
between  the  representatives  of  the  two  great  rival  powers,  Punic  faith 
was  not  on  the  Punic  side  :  the  Latins  record  their  own  faithlessness. 


WANDERINQS  WITH   YIRQIL. 


It  is  fair  to  preeume  that  the  balance  of  right  iaclined  the  same  way  on 
many  of  the  Bubsequent  occasions  where  the  blame  was  all  thrown  on 
Carthaginian  treachery.    Two  thousand  incriptions,  in  two  forme  of 


the  Phcenician  or  Hebrew  character,  lately  exhumed  upon  the  apot, 
against  less  than  a  dozen  found  prior  to  the  last  half  century,  may  assist 
in  adjusting  the  long  uneven  scales. 

Antagonism  of  maritime  interests  is  not  enough  to  account  for  tbe 
peculiar  intensity  of  the  hatred  which  existed  between  Carthage  and 
Rome.  Differences  of  race  must  have  had  much  to  do  with  it.  What- 
ever the  «ause,  from  the  day  when  Hannibal  took  his  oath  of  lifelong 
warfare  with  the  Eomans  to  that  when  the  Senate  pronounced  its  decree 
of  extermioatioD  against  his  city,  the  long  conflict  was  marked  by  bitter- 
ness we  do  not  find  in  the  other  wars  of  either  combatant.  Carthage 
was  destroyed — that  is,  the  original  city  was  overthrown — and  its  inhabi- 
tants shun  or  dispersed,  but  the  commercial  advantages  of  the  locality 
were  such  as  to  ensure  its  revival.  The  attempt  of  Gracchus,  with  a 
colony  of  six  thousand,  to  rebuild  it,  was  defeated,  according  to  a  legend 
like  that  connected  with  the  effort  to  restore  the  walls  of  Jerusalem,  by 
supernatural  interference.  Augustus,  however,  fired  perhaps  by  the 
stiaioB  of  bis  favoarite,  renewed  the  undertaking  with  more  sucoesa— 
so  much,  indeed,  that  within  Cwo  centuries  after  its  destruction  it  had 
risen  to  be  considered  the  metropolis  of  Africa.  As  Africa  did  not  in- 
clude Egypt,  this  does  not  imply  that  it  excelled  Alexandria,  much  less 
that  it  had  regained  its  praitine  magnificence,  with  seven  hundred 
thousand  Inhabitants  and  an  arsenal  containing  two  hundred  ships  of 


698  WANDERINGS  WITH  VJRGIL. 

war.  A  centary  later  the  famous  Tertullian  ruled  the  city  as  Calvin  did 
Geneva.  To  still  unconverted  Rome  he  boasted  that  Carthage  was 
almost  entirely  Christian,  only  the  cobwebbed  temples  being  left  to 
mark  the  decrepit  survival  of  the  old  religion.  But  the  new  creed  ob- 
viously missed  the  advantage  of  outside  pressure.  It  fell  into  sects  and 
feuds  of  the  wildest  description,  which  were  finally  wound  up  in  431 
A.  D.  by  Genseric  the  Wend,  a  countryman  of  Bismarck's.  This  inaug> 
urator  of  the  bltU^Tid-eisen  system  of  settling  civil  and  religious 
misunderstandings  left  the  ancient  city  in  about  its  present  condition. 

From  the  summit  of  the  Byrsa,  or  citadel — ^interpreted  by  Virgil  to 
mean  the  space  enclosed  by  a  bulFs  hide  slit  into  shoestrings,  according 
to  the  original  grant  to  the  Phoenicians,  but  considered  by  Hebraists  to 
be  identical  with  Bosra,  "  a  fortified  place  " — the  eye  roams  over  a  vast 
expanse  flecked  with  ruins  pretty  thoroughly  comminuted.  Of  the 
aqueduct,  which  strode  fifty  miles  across  the  desert,  a  few  arches  only 
remain,  sixty  or  seventy  feet  high,  with  massive  piers  sixteen  feet  square. 
Parts  of  the  great  cisterns  remain,  with  broken  sewers,  sculptured  blocks, 
tesselated  pavements,  etc.  Many  sculptured  gems  have  been  discovered. 
The  explorations,  owing  to  the*  arid  character  of  the  country  and  its 
remoteness  from  the  chief  highways  of  men  and  traffic,  have  been  slight 
and  desultory  until  now.  The  Turks  and  Arabs  have  scratched  the 
surface,  as  they  do  for  wheat,  but  they  do  not  go  deep  enough  for  the 
harvest  Ruin  has  protected  ruin.  The  inscriptions  having  generally 
been  placed  in  the  lower  parts  of  the  edifices,  were  preserved  by  the  fall 
of  the  upper.  The  very  thoroughness  of  Scipio's  demolition  may  thns 
have  been  the  means  of  handing  down  to  us  some  of  the  most  valuable^ 
as  being  the  most  instructive,  parts  of  the  Phoenician  structures.  He  may 
thus  have  provided  us  with  a  new  reading  of  the  history  of  the  Punic 
wars,  and  secured  his  enemies  a  fairer  hearing  by  the  very  steps  hie  took 
to  prevent  it.  And  thus  doth  the  whirligig  of  time  bring  round  its 
revenges. 

But  the  gentle  bard  of  Mantua  turns  from  the  spectacle  of  Rome's 
mightiest  foe,  not  only  in  the  dust,  but  a  part  of  the  dust,  with  no  tou^e 
of  the  bitter  feeling  that  possessed  those  who  had  seen  Hannibal  sweep 
consular  armies  from  the  soil  of  Italy  like  summer  flies.  The  same  re- 
trospective glance  took  in  a  sadder  and  a  newer  wreck— the  wreck  of 
the  republic.  The  Rome  of  his  own  youth,  the  Rome  whose  bright  and 
dewy  dawn  he  was  limning  with  the  richest  tints  of  poesy,  was  fret 
Rome.  His  attachment  to  his  friend  and  benefetctor  Augustus  never 
caused  him  to  disown  his  r^ets,  however  it  may  have  led  him  to  stifle 
their  expression.  Recognizing,  as  nine-tenths  of  his  countrjrmen  had 
recognized,  the  inevitableness  of  the  great  change,  and  luxuriating  with 
them  in  the  repose  that  followed  the  stormy  throes  of  the  dying  com- 


WANDERINGS  WITH   TIROIL. 


moawealtb,  he  had  no  word  of  eril  for  the  past.  Hie  political  sym- 
pathtea  were  not  with  despotism,  and  he  could  not,  with  his  brother 
Horace,  have  jested  over  campaigning  experiences  in  the  army  of  Bnituc. 
Had  his  genius  been  of  the  same  cast  with  that  of  the  stem  and  vehe- 
ment, if  sometimes  extravagant,  Lncan,  he  would  have  been  more  apt 
to  join  him  in  exclaiming — 

Victrii  causa  Diis  placnit,  sed  viota  Catoni. 

As  it  w^j  he  sought  not  to  fire,  but  to  cheer  his  countrymen.  If  patri- 
otism were  capable  of  nothing  more  than  euthanasia,  he  laboured  to 
secure  it  that.  On  its  wrongs  he  would  not  dwell.  "  Let  ns  not  speak 
of  them,"  he  might  have  said,  in  the  words  of  another  Italian  bard  who 
a  thousand  years  later  invoked  his  shade.to  guide  him  through  another 
limbo  of  horrors — 

Non  ngionam'  di  lor',  nut  goordft  e  p*au. 
Yet  wheu,  having  finally  brought  his  hero  to  the  shores  of  Italy  and  un- 
rolled before  him  the  scroll  of  the  future,  he  is  compelled  to  note  this 
blot  upon  it,  his  few  words  have  no  uncertain  sound : — 


To  present  indeed,  such  subjects  to  the  contemplation  of  his  country- 
men, would,  without  regard  to  his  pohtical  sentiments,  have  been  less 
in  harmony  with  the  taste  and  temperament  of  Virgil  than  to  depict  for 
them  the  natural  and  pastoral  charms  characteristic  of  their  land,  which 
had  survived  all  vicissitudes  of  human  and  elemental  strife,  and  were 


700  WANDERINGS  WITH  VIBGIL. 

not  less  fresh  than  when  they  first  met  the  eye  of  the  Trojan  founder. 
In  the  seven-twelfths  of  the  jEneid  devoted  to  Italy  we  have  plenty  of 
hard  fighting,  though  rather  of  the  stage  variety,  clashing  to  slow  music ; 
and  in  the  other  five  adventure  to  excess.  But  the  artist,  defective 
in  the  discrimination  of  character  and  a  bad  figure-drawer,  is  ob- 
viously a  landscape  painter.  We  have  his  true  soul  in  the  Gkor^ics  and 
Bucolics, 

It  is  rather  odd  that  so  placid  and  amiable  a  writer  should  have  been 
surrounded,  during  the  Middle  Ages,  with  something  of  superstitious 
glamour.  The  sories  Virgiliance  were  in  almost  as  high  repute  as  the  sorieM 
Biblicce,  His  employment  of  the  sensational  device  of  a  descent  into 
Hades  may  have  been  a  cause  of  it.  More  may  have  been  due  to  his 
association,  in  life,  writings  and  place  of  sepulture,  with  CumsD,  the  re- 
treat of  the  Erythraean  Sibyl,  the  chief  of  all  her  class.  To  his  citation, 
in  the  opening  lines  of  the  fourth  Eclogue,  of  the  Cumsexn  prophecy  of  a 
new  era  of  the  world,  to  arrive  in  his  day,  about  the  time  of  the  birth  of 
Christ,  a  certain  theological  significance  was  ascribed.  In  the  first  stanza 
of  the  finest  of  the  monkish  hymns,  David  and  the  Sibyl  are  appealed  to 
as  co-ordinate  authorities.  It  is  a  curious  circumstance,  in  this  connec- 
tion, that  the  destruction  of  the  Cumaean  grotto,  maintained  in  full 
splendour  for  at  least  two  centuries  after  VirgiVs  time,  and  long  after 
shattered  by  the  engineering  operations  of  Narses  against  the  Gothic 
fortress  on  the  superjacent  hill  should  have  been  caused  by  an  earthquake 
in  1539,  in  the  heat  of  the  Reformation.  It  was  coincidence  enough  to 
remind  contemporaries  of  the  alliance  which  had  so  long  subsisted  in  the 
popular  imagination. 

The  poet's  witchery  lay  in  his  limpid  numbers.  Their  spell  is  as 
potent  as  ever.  It  leads  us  over  blue  waters  and  glowing  sands ;  under 
white  cliffs  and  volcanic  smoke  ;  past  islets  bathed  in  an  atmosphere  so 
clear  and  yet  so  deep  as  to  make  fact  seem  fancy  and  fancy  fact ;  to 
spots  haunted  by  the  most  entrancing  or  the  most  momentous  memories 
where  Nature  seems  to  have  collected  for  supreme  exertion  all  her 
mightiest  forces,  spiritual  and  material.  They  bring  us  in  contact  with 
typical  men  and  events,  and  will  delight  as  long  as  mankind  shall  appre- 
ciate classic  story  and  classic  taste. 


701 


GOD'S  TENEMENT  HOUSES  -THEIR  AGE,  NUMBER,  AND  IN^ 

MATES. 

BY  EUHU  BURRITT. 

No  one  who  believes  in  the  existence  of  the  God  the  Bible  reveals, 
doubts  that  he  was  the  same  in  one  period  of  eternity  as  another ;  that 
he  was  the  same  in  infinite  power,  wisdom,  and  goodness  before  he  cre- 
ated our  earth  as  he  is  now.  But  the  belief  seems  to  have  taken  fast 
hold  of  the  majority  of  the  Christian  world  that,  up  to  the  time  of  this 
creation,  God  spent  the  whole  of  antecedent  eternity  in  perfect  inactivity 
as  far  as  his  creative  power  was  concerned  ;  that  up  to  this  time  his  uni-^ 
verse  was  one  boundless  blank  of  non-existence ;  that  he  had  not  built  a 
house  for  any  created  being ;  that  not  a  sun,  star,  or  planet  had  shown 
a  point  of  light  in  the  darkness  of  universal  nothing  ;  that  not  a  being 
of  flesh  and  blood  in  all  this  lifeless  expanse  was  found  to  lift  up 
his  hands  and  eyes  to  an  almighty  Creator,  and  say,  "  Our  Father  in 
heaven." 

Now  this  belief  seems  hardly  reverent  to  an  almighty  Creator.  It  im 
plies  that  up  to  the  creation  of  our  solar  system  he  lived  alone,  filling 
the  boundless  solitude  of  the  universe  with  his  own  self;  that  for  all  this 
past  eternity  he  did  not  exert  his  creative  power,  but  let  it  lie  inactive ; 
that  he  did  not  care  to  have  the  homage  and  love  of  happy  human  beings 
on  their  own  account  or  his  own  ;  that  none  such  existed,  and  that  he 
did  not  construct  any  habitations  for  such  beings.  Then  this  old  belief 
seems  to  ascribe  a  human  weakness  to  the  Creator,  or  a  change  of  mind 
and  purpose.  It  implies,  to  speak  in  human  phrase,  that  he  became 
tired  of  living  alone  ;  that  he  resolved  to  create  a  race  of  human  beings 
on  whom  he  would  bestow  his  love  and  receive  theirs  in  return ;  that  he 
carried  out  this  purpose  for  the  first  time  at  the  date  and  in  the  manner 
that  Moses  gives  for  "  the  creation  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth."  Sure- 
ly this  belief  must  be  founded  in  a  narrow  view  of  his  almighty  power 
and  of  his  purpose  and  plan  of  creation.  It  ascribes  to  him  what  we 
should  not  regard  as  wisdom  or  benevolence  in  man.  It  almost 
charges  him  with  inactivity,  or  a  disuse  of  the  faculties  of  his  omnipo- 
tence. 

Let  us  now  come  to  another  general  impression  of  the  Christian  world 
which  seems  to  do  less  honour  still,  to  the  wisdom,  goodness,  and  power 
of  the  Creator.  This  is  a  belief  which  a  full  faith  in  the  facts  which  sci- 
ence has  brought  to  light  has  not  weakened  even  in  the  minds  of  enlight- 
ened men.     Whatever  theories  have  been  accepted  or  rejected  in  regard 


702  god's  tenement  hottses, 

to  the  fixed  stars,  nearly  everybody  now  believes  what  accurate  science 
has  established  in  regard  to  our  own  solar  system.  Our  school  children 
comprehend  and  fully  believe  it  embraces  a  certain  number  of  planete, 
great  and  small,  that  revolve  round  the  sun.  Astronomy  and  geometry 
have  absolutely  measured  these  bodies,  and  the  rate  and  direction  of  their 
movements.  Science  has  gone  farther  still,  and  shown  us  by  the  spec- 
trum analysis  the  character  and  proportion  of  their  minerals,  in  a  word, 
their  whole  physical  constitution.  Children  can  tell  us  how  small  is  the 
«ize  of  the  earth  compared  with  Jupiter,  Saturn,  and  HerscheL  Yet  of 
all  the  planets  that  revolve  round  our  sun,  it  is  probable  that  ninety-nine 
Christian  minds  in  a  hundred  feel  almost  bound  to  believe  that  our  earth 
alone  was  created  for  intelligent  human  beings  and  alone  peopled  by 
them ;  as  if  all  the  other  bodies  were  mere  make- weights  to  regulate  the 
motions  of  our  planet  in  its  orbit,  or  as  a  brilliant  cortege  of  honour  to 
grace  its  triumphal  march.  Then  this  belief  consequently  implies  that  no 
heavenly  bodies  outside  our  solar  system  are  inhabited  by  beings  who 
need  material  habitations ;  that  even  if  there  be  millions  of  globes  in  the 
universe  larger  than  ours,  they  were  only  created  by  Gk)d  to  show  his 
power ;  that  they  are  all  empty  houses,  though  lighted,  warmed,  swept, 
and  garnished  for  the  occupation  of  beings  who  might  rejoice  in  his  love 
and  fatherly  care. 

Let  us  find  a  parallel  to  the  logic  of  this  common  idea.  Here  is  a  ten- 
acre  meadow  flecked  with  a  million  daisies,  every  one  having  its  yellow 
orb  surrounded  by  a  white  ring,  like  one  of  the  great  planets.  This  orb 
is  peopled  by  a  living  multitude  of  beings  of  a  race  which  we  will  caU 
the  mitekind,  which,  small  as  they  are,  we  will  suppose  capable  of  thought 
and  speech.  One  of  them,  given  to  speculation,  creeps  out  to  the  white 
rim  of  his  little  world  and  looks  off  upon  the  sidereal  universe  spread 
out  before  him,  all  alight  and  bespangled  with  its  stars  of  various  size 
according  to  their  distance^  He  sees  broad  milky  ways  of  them  crossing 
the  field  of  his  vision.  He  knows  that  they  are  all  worlds  like  his  own, 
43ome  much  larger  even,  and  equally  well  made  and  beautiful.  But  in  a 
most  important  respect  they  differ  from  his  own  yelbw  globe.  His,  he 
believes  is  the  only  one  of  the  myriads  inhabited  by  mitekind.  All  the  rest 
are  empty  worlds.  They  only  exist  to  do  honour  to  his  own,  and  to  show 
that  it  is  the  only  one  that  has  any  practical  object  for  its  creation. 
Now  would  not  this  idea  of  a  reasoning  mite  be  as  logical  as  the  idea  of 
a  reasoning  man  who  believes  that  the  earth  he  inhabits  is  the  only 
world  in  the  universe  peopled  with  human  or  intelligent  beings,  conscious 
of  an  almighty  Creator  and  capable  of  his  love  and  worship  I  The 
reasoning  mite  knows  that  all  the  yellow,  white-rimmed  orbs  of  the 
great  expanse  before  him  are  daisies  like  his  own  habitation.  He 
knows  that  the  little  speck  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  field  may  be  as  large 


god's  tenement  houses.  703 

a  globe  as  his  ovrn,  aad  that  it  is  only  t^e  interveiuDg  distance  that 
makes  it  seem  less.  The  reasoning  man  knows  by  the  same  sense  aud 
evidence  that  the  minutest  point  of  light  in  the  sidereal  heavens  is  a 
material  body  like  the  earth  on  which  he  dwells ;  that  if  it  does  not  look 
to  him  as  large  as  the  moon,  it  is  only  because  it  is  so  much  farther  from 
him  than  that  body.  Then  he  knows  that  not  a  star  has  moved  an  ap 
arent  inch  from  its  fixed  place  in  the  constellations  so  familiar  to  him, 
such  as  the  Great  Bear,  Orion  and  Pleiades  3  that  each  is  as  fixed  and 
stationary  as  our  own  sun,  and  if  it  has  any  practical  use  it  must  also  be 
as  a  centre  and  source  of  light  and  heat  to  smaller  bodies  revolving 
around  it,  or  planets  like  those  of  our^  solar  system.  Admitting  all 
these  facts,  as  an  intelligent  man  does  and  must,  it  seems  strange  that 
he  can  believe  that  the  earth  is  the  only  habitation  of  human  or  intelli- 
gent beings  among  the  countless  millions  of  tenement  houses  that  Grod 
has  built  in  his  boundless  universe. 

There  is  another  impression  which  perhaps  a  great  migohty  of  Chris- 
tian people  think  that  they  are  bound  to  hold  as  an  orthodox  faith.  It 
is  this,  that  whatever  be  the  number,  magnitude,  and  uses  of  these 
countless  myriads  of  heavenly  bodies,  they  were  all  created  simulta* 
neously,  or  at  the  same  time.  Now  there  is  nothing  in  Moses's 
acoonnt  of  the  creation,  nor  anything  in  the  laws  and  teachings  of 
nature,  to  justify  this  impression,  any  more  than  there  is  in  history 
that  all  the  cities  of  habitation  on  the  earth  were  built  at  the  same  time. 
It  would. seem  the  dictate  of  common  sense  to  believe  that  God  built  all 
these  tenement  houses,  to  speak  humanly,  just  as  they  were  needed  for 
the  tenants  he  purposed  to  occupy  them.  We  know  that  this  was 
the  case  with  our  earth — that  it  was  made  expressly  for  mankind,  and 
they  were  introduced  into  it  aa  soon  as  it  was  fully  prepared  for  their  re- 
ception. Astronomers  tell  us  that  since  the  birth  of  Christ  more  than 
a  dozen  fixed  stars,  all  the  centres  of  solar  systems,  have  disappeared — 
of  course  with  all  the  planets  that  revolved  around  them.  This  very 
year  we  read  of  such  a  fixed  star  or  sun  blazing  forth  suddenly  and  bum 
ing  itself  out  into  darkness.  Some  watchful  and  watching  astronomer 
discovered  the  phenomenon  with  his  telescope.  It  wa3  a  mere  accident 
that  any  human  being  saw  it  at  alL  Perhaps  in  every  century  since 
our  earth  was  fitted  for  human  habitation,  some  solar  system  as  large  as 
ours  has  disappeared  from  among  God's  creations,  and  one  equally  large 
has  been  introduced  into  their  goodly  fellowship,  and  both  events  have 
taken  place  unseen  by  human  eyes.  It  must  soften  down  the  presump- 
tion of  the  man  who  believes  that  the  house  he  lives  in  is  the  only  in- 
habited one  of  all  the  millions  that  God  has  built,  to  be  made  to  feel 
that  it  might  be  burned  down  to  colourless  vapour,  and  yet  its  blaze 
would  not  be  seen  from  the  window  of  the  nearest  of  those  tenements 
he  conceives  were  made  to  remain  empty  forever. 


704 


BERTHA  KLEIN. 

A  STORY  OF  THE  ULHN. 
BT  W.  J.  FLOBBNOB. 

Doctor,  will  you  hear  my  story  t 

Thank  you. 
'  I  was  a  student  at  the  University  of  Bonn,  and  during  my  vacations, 
•often  went  fishing  up  the  Lahn.  The  Lahn,  yon  know,  is  a  charming 
river  that  empties  into  the  Rhine  opposite  Gapellen  and  the  beautiful 
castle  of  Slolzenfels.  During  these  excursions  I  made  my  headquarters 
at  the  '*  Drei  Kronen,"  a  delightful  little  Carman  inn,  situate  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  river,  a  few  miles  above  Lahnstein,  and  kept  by  one 
Caspar  Lauber.  From  Caspar  I  learned  where  were  to  be  found  the  best 
fishing-spots,  and  after  our  day's  sport  we  would  sit  under  the  vines  and 
tell  stories  of  the  past.  He  related  anecdotes  of  the  Austrian  campaign, 
— he  had  been  a  soldier ;  I  would  speak  of  my  American  home,  far  away 
on  the  Ohio :  and  as  we  watched  the  smoke  curling  from  our  meerschaums 
of  canaster,  we  would  intermingle  the  legends  with  staves  of  "  Die  Wacht 
am  Rhein  '*  and  '*  Tramp  !  tramp !  the  boys  are  marching/'  I  had  been 
two  summers  thus  passing  my  holidays  between  Nassau  and  Lahnstein, 
doing  duty  with  rod  and  reel,  when  one  day,*  while  at  my  fskvourite  pas- 
time, I  became  aware  I  had  a  companion ;  for  above  me  on  the  bank 
stood  a  pretty  girl  intently  watching  my  endeavours  to  hook  a  Barbillion 
that  had  evaded  my  attempts  to  land  him. 

"  0,  so  near !  't  is  too  bad  ! "  said  she  with  a  pretty  Nassaun  accent." 
"  If  the  Herr  try  his  luck  over  there,  above  the  ferry-boat,  he  will  have 
fine  sport"  And  then,  as  if  she  felt  ashamed  at  having  spoken  to  a 
stranger,  she  dropped  her  eyes,  while  a  blush  at  once  overspread  her 
face. 

*'  Thank  you,  pretty  one,"  said  I.  '^  I  supposed  I  had  known  all  the 
fEivourite  fishing  spots  on  the  river  ]  but  if  the  Fraulein  will  conduct  me, 
I  will  go  and  try  above  the  ferry-boat." 

"  Philip  Becker  always  fishes  there  when  he  visits  Fachbach,  and 
never  without  bringing  in  a  well-filled  pannier ;  "  this  in  a  half-timid 
half-sad  voice." 

"  Well,  show  the  way,  Fraulein."  She  led  the  way  to  the  place  indi- 
cated, when  I  ventured  to  ask  her  name. 

''  Bertha  Klein,"  she  said. 

"  And  do  you  live  near,  Fraulein  ? " 


BEBTHA   KLEIN.  705 

**  Yes,  over  there  near  the  Lahneck.  Father  works  at  the  £isenBineltz. 
I  am  returning  from  there  now.    I  bring  him  his  dinner  at  this  hour." 

"  Every  day  at  this  hour  you  cross  the  ferry  with  papa's  dinner,  do 
you  ?  *' 

"  Yes,  Herr." 

*^  And  who  is  Philip  Becker,  of  whom  you  spoke  a  moment  since  ? " 

"  Philip,  he  lives  at  Nassau  with  Keppler  the  chemist"  And  at  pro- 
nouncing Philip's  name  I  thought  I  saw  a  dark  shadow  pass  over  Bertha's 
pretty  face.  '*  Philip  is  coming  to  Fachbach  next  week,  so  papa  tells 
me."    And  Bertha's  pretty  face  again  grew  darkly  sad. 

She  was  of  the  blond  type  of  German  girl,  blue-veined,  with  large 
bright  eyes,  fringed  with  silken  lashes,  long  and  regular,  while  her  golden 
hair  hung  down  in  twin  braids  at  her  back. 

"  Good  day,  sir." 

''  Grood  day.  Bertha."  And  she  tripped  quickly  up  the  bank  and  dis- 
appeared. 

The  evening  found  me  at  the  Drei  Kronen,  with  a  well-filled  basket 
of  carp  and  barbel. 

"  There,  landlord,"  said  I,  "  you  may  thank  the  pretty  Bertha  Klein  for 
my  luck  to-day.     She  it  was  who  told  me  where  to  throw  my  line." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  Have  you  seen  Bertha  ?  She  is  one  of  the  prettiest  girls 
in  the  Duchy,  and  good  as  she  is  beautiful."  And  then  Caspar  gave  me 
a  history  of  her  family.  Her  father  was  foreman  at  the  Eisensmeltz,  or 
furnace.  Bertha  was  an  only  child.  Philip  Becker,  a  chemist's  clerk 
at  Nassau,  was  a  suitor  for  her  hand  ;  and  although  Philip  was  an  ill- 
favoured,  heavy  lout.  Bertha's  mother  thought  him  every  way  worthy 
of  her  child.  '*  I  do  not  think  the  girl  likes  him,"  said  the  landlord, 
**  nor  should  daughter  of  mine  wed  him."  And  we  drank  a  glass  of 
Ashmanshauser  to  the  health  of  the  pretty  Bertha  Klein. 

Day  after  day  Bertha  would  stop  a  moment  to  speak  a  few  words  to 
me  as  she  journeyed  to  and  from  the  furnace.  Our  acquaintance  ripened 
into  friendship,  friendship  into  —  Well,  you  will  see,  doctor.  One  day^ 
while  climbing  the  hillside  together  picking  wild  flowers,  stopping  ever 
and  anon  to  listen  to  the  rushing  of  the  river  at  our  feet,  or  the  loud 
roaring  of  the  iron  furnace  across  the  stream.  Bertha,  suddenly  stooping, 
cried,  "  0  Albert,  see  here  !   Look  1  oh,  look  !  Here  is  the  TodeablumeJ'* 

"  The  Todesblume !    Where,  Bertha  ? " 

*^  Here  at  my  feet ;  and,  see,  the  mountain-side  is  full  of  them.    Do 
you  know  the  legend  of  this  flower  ? " 
"  No,  darling,  tell  it  me." 

We  seated  ourselves  on  a  large  mass  of  stone,  portions  of  the  fallen 
ruin  of  the  old  castle  Lahneck,  that  towered  for  a  hundred  feet  above 

*  Deftth-flower. 


706  BERTHA  KLEIN. 

our  heads ;  and  while  Bertha's  clear  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  mystery  and  eamestuees,  and  betimes  referring  to  the  bunch 
of  small  white  flowers  in  her  hand,  she  related  to  me  the  Legend  op 

THE  TODBSBLUME. 

"  This  old  castle  up  there  behind  us  was  once  the  stronghold  of  the 
famous  old  freebooter,  Baron  Rittenhall,  who,  although  considered  a 
wicked,  reckless,  wild  man  by  the  world  in  general,  yet  loved  his  young 
and  beautiful  wife^with  the  greatest  possible  affection.  And,  indeed,  't 
was  said,  the  immense  treasures  he  had  levied  from  vessels  passing  up 
and  down  the  Lahn,  were  spent  in  jewels,  trinkets,  and  precious  stones 
to  decorate  the  person  of  his  lovely  wife,  the  Lady  Rittenhall. 

"  One  day  a  pilgrim  passing  the  castle,  begged  for  alms.  The  pious 
Baroness  gave  him  succour,  while  he,  in  return,  gave  her  a  single  sprig  of 
green.  '  This,'  said  the  holy  man,  '  if  planted  in  early  spring,  will  bear  a 
small  white  flower,  which  is  of  rare  virtue,  for  on  St.  Anne's  day  the  pos- 
sessor of  this  little  flower  may  summon  from  the  dead  the  spirit  of  his 
departed  love.' 

*•  *  The  spirit  of  one's  departed  love  1 '  echoed  the  Baroness. 

'^ '  Yes,  daughter,'  rejoined  the  friar,  '  at  midnight,  on  St.  Anne's  day, 
whoever  will  dissolve  this  flower  in  a  goblet  of  Emser  red  wine,  while 
repeating  these  words, — 

'*  From  earth,  from  sea. 
From  brook,  from  fen, 
From  haunt  of  beast, 
From  homes  of  men, 
Form  of  one  I  loved  most  dear, 
By  Todesblume,  appear  !  appear  !" 

shall  bring  to  earth  the  loved  departed  one.  Eemember,  daughter,'  con- 
tinued the  pilgrim,  '  't  will  require  a  brave  heart  to  summon  from  the 
grave.'     And  blessing  her,  he  took  his  leave. 

^'  On  the  following  day  the  Lady  Rittenhall,  with  her  own  white 
hands,  planted  the  sprig  in  a  pretty,  bright  spot,  near  where  we  are  now 
sitting,"  said  Bertha ;  and  her  pretty  voice  grew  sweetly  tremulous  as 
though  it  had  tears  in  it. 

^'  Day  after  day  would  the  beautiful  l^ady  of  Lahneck  watch  the  little 
flowers  budding  from  the  stems,  until  they  seemed  to  grow  under  the 
sunlight  of  her  eyes,  so  that  when  the  Baron  returned  from  an  incursion 
among  the  neighbouring  mountains,  he  found  the  hillside  whitened  with 
them. 

'* '  This  is  thy  work,  dear  one,'  said  the  Baron,  as,  descending  from 
his  saddle  at  the  drawbridge,  he  pointed  proudly  to  the  carpet  of  white 
flowers  at  his  feet. 

"  '  I  knew  't  would  please  thee,'  smilingly  replied  she ;  and  leading  to 


BEBTHA  KLEIN.  707 

the  dining-hall  while  the  Baron  and  his  retainers  washed  '  their  draughts 
of  Rhenish  down/  she  related  the  story,  as  told  her  by  the  pilgrim. 

"  *  By  my  falchion/  said  the  Baron,  '  't  is  a  well-told  tale ;  and  here  I 
pledge  me^  should  fate  or  fortune  take  thee  from  me,  bride  of  mine,  I 
swear  by  my  sword  to  summon  thee  to  earth  again.  In  token  of  the 
promise,  I  drink  this  goblet  to  the  table  round.' 

"  That  night,  when  the  Baron  held  high  revel  with  his  brother  troop- 
ers in  the  dining-hall,  the  Lady  Bittenhall  sat  trembling  in  her  chamber ; 
a  strange  dread  seemed  to  possess  her,  a  belief  that  she  should  be  doomed 
by  fate  to  test  the  powers  of  the  Todesblume.  A  cold  hand  seemed  to 
clasp  her  heart,  and  scarcely  had  her  maids  been  summoned  to  her  apart- 
ment, before  the  good  lady  was  a  corpse. 

"  The  Baron,  once  so  wild  and  reckless,  now  became  sad  and  morose. 
He  was  inconsolable.  Now  clasping  in  his  arms  the  form  of  his  once 
beautiful  wife,  now  pacing  the  long  corridors  of  the  castle  that  echoed 
gloomily  his  stifled  sighs,  he  was,  indeed,  broken  in  heart  and  spirit. 

"  Scarce  had  they  laid  the  body  in  the  grave  before  the  BarOn  again 
remembered  his  pledge  to  test  the  death-flower.  St.  Anne's  day  was 
now  fast  approaching,  and  his  oath  must  be  fulfilled."  Here  Bertha 
stopped,  and  looking  quietly  about  her,  asked  me  if  I  did  not  hear  a 
footstep. 

** No,  darling,"  said  I ;  "go  on  with  your  story ;  there  is  no  one 
near  us." 

"  1  am  sure,  Albert,  I  heard  a  footfall  in  the  bushes  behind  us,"  con- 
tinued she ;  and  her  voice  again  grew  tremulous  and  tearfiiL 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Bertha,"  said  I,  reassuring  her.  "  Let  me  hear 
your  story  out." 

"  Well,  the  Baron  shut  himself  up  in  the  very  chamber  where  his  lady 
had  breathed  her  last,  and  on  the  morning  of  St.  Anne's  day  was  found 
lying  dead,  while  on  the  table  stood  a  goblet  of  Emser  red  wine,  in 
which  floated  the  broken  petals  of  the  Todesblume  ;  and  they  do  say," 
whispered  Bertha,  "  that  a  small  white  dove  was  seen  flying  from  the 
upper  window  of  the  castle  at  midnight  of  St  Anne's  day." 

"  Very  well  told.  Bertha,"  said  I.  And  my  boyish  heart  was  filled 
with  a  wild  desire  to  test  the  maiden's  love.  "  I  would  do  as  much  for 
you,  my  Bertha,  should  you  be  taken  from  me.  I  would  call  you  back 
to  earth  if  it  were  possible,  and  here  I  swear  it,"  said  I,  rising  to  my 
feet. 

"  0  Albert,  do  not,  I  implore  you  !  '*  cried  Bertha  wildly,  throwing 
her  arms  about  my  neck. 

"  Very  pretty  !  very  pretty  ! "  growled  a  rough  voice  behind  us, — 
**  very  pretty ;  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  your  love-song,  Fraulein."     And  a 
heavy,  thick-set  young  man,  with  stooping  shoulders,  and  straight  long 
4 


708  BERTHA   KLEIN. 

h^,  pat  back  behind  his  ears,  came  oat  of  the  bashes  at  oar  back, 
eyes  heavy,  and  leaden-coloared,  seemed  half  closed,  while  he  hissed  hia 
words  between  two  rows  of  singularly  white  and  even  teeth. 

**  Pardon,  Herr  American.  Bertha's  mother  sent  me  in  quest  of  her. 
Tis  near  sunset,  and  the  gossips  at  Fachbach  might  say  evil  things  of 
the  Fraulein  if  they  knew — " 

*'  Philip  Becker,  stop !  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  cried  she.  "  Do 
not  insult  me.    Tell  my  mother  I  will  come." 

"  She  bade  me  fetch  you,"  hissed  Philip  Becker,  while  his  eyes  slowly 
closed  their  lids  as  if  they  were  too  heavy  to  keep  open, — "  to  fetch  you, 
Fraulien  ! — ^fetch  you." 

''  Hark  you,  friend,"  said  I.  ^*  You  have  delivered  your  message. 
Your  presence  is  no  longer  needed.  I  will  accompany  Miss  Beitha 
home." 

"  I  spoke  not  to  yow,"  said  Philip,  fairly  yellow  with  rage. 

"  But  I  spoke  to  you,  sir !  You  see,  you  frighten  the  girl  Take 
your  dark  shadow  hence,  or  I  will  hurl  you  into  the  river  at  my  feet." 

With  a  wild  yell  the  chemist's  clerk  sprang  at  my  throat,  and  would 
have  strangled  me,  but  with  a  sudden  jerk  I  struck  him  full  in  the  face 
with  my  head,  and,  throwing  him  off  his  feet  at  the  same  moment,  I 
sent  him  spinning  down  the  hill-side ;  nor  did  he  stop  till  he  reached 
the  river,  from  whence  I  saw  him  crawl,  dripping  wet. 

"  Very  pretty,  Fraulein  !  Very  pretty,  Herr  American  ! "  shouted 
Philip,  as  he  shook  his  clinched  fist  at  me,  and  disappeared  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  Bertha,  who  had  screamed  and  hid  her  face,  now  became 
alarmed  for  my  safety.  "  He  will  do  you  some  fearful  harm,  I  know  he 
will ;  he  is  vipdictive  and  relentless.  0  Albert !  it  is  all  my  fault," 
sobbed  the  pale  girl ;  and,  picking  up  her  flowers,  we  journeyed  toward 
the  village.  "  I  did  not  know  he  had  arrived  from  Nassau,''  said  she, 
''  though  mother  told  me  he  was  coming  soon.  I  hate  him,  and  I  shall 
tell  him  so,  though  I  am  sure  he  knows  it  already." 

We  had  reached  the  garden  of  the  Drei  Kronen,  when  Bertha  said, 
"  Come  no  farther  with  me.  Leave  me  here,  Albert.  I  must  go  on 
alone,  now ;  't  is  best"  And  giving  me  the  sprig  of  the  Todesblume, 
she  tripped  away  towards  her  home. 

Placing  the  flowers  in  my  letter-book,  I  strolled  into  the  tavern,  where 
I  found  the  landlord  endeavouring  to  dry  the  dripping  Philip  Beck^ 
with  a  flask  of  Ashmanshauser.  The  moment  Philip  saw  me  enter,  he 
dropped  his  glass,  and  with  a  curse  on  his  heavy  lip,  darted  out  of  the 
door. 

*'  He  has  told  me  all  about  it,''  said  the  landlord,  roaring  with  laugh 
ter  'j  "  and  it  served  him  right.  Egad,  I  wish  I  had  been  there  to  see 
it."    So  we  took  our  pipes,  and  after  I  had  related  the  story  of  my 


BERTOA  KLEIN.  709 

straggle  with  Philip  on  the  hillside,  took  my  candle  from  the  stand  and 
went  to  bed,  of  course  to  dream  of  Bertha  Klein. 

Day  after  day  during  the  long  summer  would  we  meet  at  the  foot  of 
the  Lahneck,  there  to  renew  our  vows  of  eternal  constancy.  Philip 
Becker  had  gone  back  to  Nassau,  vowing  vengeance  on  the  entire  Ameri- 
can nation,  and  myself  in  particular.  Bertha  and  I  would  often  laugh 
at*  the  remembrance  of  poor  Philip's  appearance  dripping  on  the  river- 
bank,  and  with  a  prayer  for  his  continued  absence,  we  would  again  pick 
Todesblumes  at  the  old  trysting-place. 

Thus  matters  went  till  near  the  month  of  September,  when  I  wa» 
summoned  home  to  America.  My  mother  was  dying  with  a  sorrowing 
heart,  and,  torn  between  love  and  duty,  I  broke  the  news  to  Bertha. 

"  And  must  you  gol"  cried  Bertha.     "  0  darling,  I  shall  die  !  " 

''  I  shall  return  in  the  spring,  my  beloved,  if  God  will  spare  me.  The 
time  will  pass  quickly  ;  you  will  hear  from  me  by  every  mail,  I  promise 
you ;  and  here,  where  I  first  listened  to  your  words  of  love,  I  again 
pledge  my  fietith.''     So  kissing  Bertha,  I  tore  myself  away. 

"  I  will  never  see  you  again,  my  own,  my  only  love,"  were  the  last 
words  that  caught  my  ear ;  and,  looking  back,  I  saw  poor  Bertha,  with 
her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  at  the  foot  of  the  tower,  where  she  first 
told  the  story  of  the  death-flower. 

With  all  speed  I  returned  to  Bonn,  where  I  found  letters  awaiting  me. 
I  must  at  once  return  to  the  States.  So,  bidding  my  fellow-students 
adieu,  I  took  my  departure  for  Liverpool,  and,  securing  passsage  by  a 
Cunarder,  in  ten  days  reached  New  York ;  four  more  days  brought  me 
to  my  mother's  bedside.  She  had  been  very  ill,  but  now  gave  promise 
of  a  slow  recovery.  Days,  weeks,  months,  passed  away,  and  I  was  con- 
stantly in  receipt  of  letters  from  Bjrtha.  The  same  old  trusting  love, 
the  same  pure,  innocent  sentiments,  filled  her  pages,  while  an  occasional 
small  white  flower  would  recall  our  meetings  on  the  hillside  at  the 
Lahneck.  **  Here,"  Bertha  would  write,  "  is  the  Todesblume,  to  remind 
you  of  the  little  girl  who  awaits  your  return  on  the  banks  of  the  flow- 
ing Lahn." 

It  had  been  arranged  that  I  should  return  to  Germany  in  the  spring  ; 
and  as  my  mother's  health  was  fast  returning,  I  looked  forward  to  the 
date  of  my  departure  with  great  joy,  when  suddenly  Bjrtha  ceased  to 
write  to  me.  Several  weeks  elapsed,  the  holidays  passed,  and  still  no 
letter  from  my  heart's  idol.  Can  Bartha's  mother  have  insisted  upon 
her  marrying  Philip  Becker  ?  Perhaps  she  is  ill  Can  she  have  forgot* 
ten  me  t  These  and  a  thousand  other  surmises  filled  my  brain,  and  I 
was  in  despair,  when  one  day  the  postman  brought  me  a  letter  with  a 
Crerman  post-mark,  but  the  address  was  not  in  Bertha's  handwriting.  I 
hastily  tore  it  open ;  it  was  from  Caspar  Lauber,  landlord  of  the  Drei 
Kronen. 


710  BEBTBA  KLEIN. 

Great  Gkxl !  Bertha  had  been  murdered !  found  dead  with  three 
cruel  stabs  in  her  neck  and  breast ;  and  there  at  the  very  spot  where  I 
had  left  her  on  the  hillside  was  the  deed  committed.  Suspicion  had 
Mien  on  Philip  Becker,  who  had  fled  the  country,  while  a  reward  was 
offered  for  his  apprehension.  I  could  read  no  further,  but  with  a  groan 
fell  fainting  to  the  floor.  A  long  and  serious  illness  followed,  and  for 
months  I  lay  just  flickecing  between  life  and  death.  In  my  moments  of 
delirium  I  would  often  call  for  Bertha  IQein,  and  with  a  maddened 
scream,  vow  vengeance  on  the  chemist's  clerk.  My  dreams  were  of  the 
river  Lahn  and  its  vine-covered  hills.  Then  my  fancy  would  picture 
Bertha  struggling  with  Philip,  and  while  he  plunged  the  knife  into  her 
pure  heart,  I  was  held  by  a  stalwart  demon,  who  spat  upon  me  and 
mocked  my  frantic  efforts  to  free  her  from  the  murderer's  grasp.  Then 
Uie  old  castle  of  the  Lahneck  would  fill  my  disordered  vision,  and  at  its 
foot,  among  the  vines,  I  saw  two  youthful  forms, — the  one  a  taD,  dark- 
haired  youth,  the  other  a  blue-eyed  German  girL  In  her  hand  she  held 
a  small  white  flower,  and  as  she  looked  through  tears  of  joy  into  the 
young  man's  face,  the  figure  of  a  low-browed,  wild,  misshapen  man  arose 
behind  them.  Noiselessly  he  crept  to  the  maiden's  side,  and  with  a 
hissing,  devilish  laugh,  dashed  headlong  down  the  mountain-side  into 
the  river  below,  leaving  the  loving  pair  transfixed  with  fear  and  wonder. 
When  the  bright  spring  days  came,  I  grew  somewhat  better,  but  the 
physicians  said  my  recovery  would  be  a  slow  one. 

My  attendants  would  tell  me  of  my  ravings,  of  my  constantly  calling 
Bertha ;  and,  to  humour  my  caprices,  had  brought,  at  my  request,  a 
small  box  containing  Bertha's  letters  and  the  various  love-tokens  she  had 
given  me.  In  my  porte-monnaie  I  found  the  little  flower, — Bertha's 
gift,  when  she  related  the  story  of  the  Todesblume.  It  was  pressed 
between  two  small  cards,  and  indeed  seemed  almost  as  fresh  as  when 
the  Fraulein  gave  it  me.  *'  This  flower,"  said  I,  "  will  bring  her  back 
to  me  for  a  moment  at  least ;  and  when  I  am  grown  strong  and  well, 
rU  try  the  spell." 

The  last  day  of  June  found  me  sufficiently  recovered  to  journey  to 
Saratoga,  at  the  recommendation  of  my  physician.  I  reached  New  York 
City,  when  I  determined  to  go  no  farther  until  I  tested  the  power  of 
the  death-flower. 

To  this  end  I  put  an  advertisement  in  the  paper :  '*  A  gentleman  de- 
sirous of  making  some  experiments  in  chemistry  would  like  an  un- 
furnished apartment  in  the  upper  portion  of  the  city.  The  advertiser 
would  prefer  such  apartment  in  a  house  not  occupied  as  a  residence. 
Apply,"  etc.,  etc,  etc. 

The  third  day  after  my  advertisement  appeared,  an  elderly  German 
gentleman  waited  on  me  at  my  lodgings.     He  had  just  the  apartment  I 


BEBTHA  KLEIN.  711 

desired,  over  a  druggist's  shop ;  in  fact  the  apper  floor  of  a  three-story 
house,  unoccupied  save  by  the  old  gentleman,  who  kept  the  drug-store 
beneath,  and  situated  in  a  quiet  up-town  street,  near  one  of  Uie  avenues. 

I  at  once  engaged  the  rooms,  and  on  the  following  day  made  an  in- 
spection of  the  premises.  I  found  the  upper  story  to  consist  of  two 
rooms  of  equal  size.  One  room  was  entirely  empty,  and  the  other  con- 
tained a  long  table,  three  wooden-bottomed  chairs,  while  a  large  glass 
mirror  over  the  mantel  completed  the  furniture  of  the  apartment. 

"  I  have  occupied  this  house  but  a  few  weeks,"  said  the  old  Oerman  ; 
"  and  as  I  am  alone  here,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  your  company ;  so,  if 
the  Herr  will  take  the  apartments,  he  shall  have  them  at  his  own  price." 
And  the  old  druggist  bowed  to  the  very  ground  in  Teutonic  politeness. 

"  What  door  is  this  1 ''  said  I,  pointing  to  a  small  trap  in  the  wall, 
about  two  feet  wide,  and  just  large  enough  to  admit  a  man,  stooping. 
This  door  had  been  concealed  by  the  back  of  one  of  the  chairs,  and  I 
thought  the  old  gentleman  seemed  startled  at  my  diBcovering  it 

"  I  do  not  know  for  what  purpose  that  door  could  have  been  con- 
structed," said  the  old  man ;  '^  but  you  see  it  leads  to  the  other  room.*' 
And  passing  through  we  found  ourselves  in  the  empty  i^Mtrtment 

After  a  word  or  two  of  necessary  agreement,  I  hired  the  apartments 
for  one  month  from  date,  and  on  the  following  Friday,  St.  Anne's  day^ 
I  determined  to  try  the  potency  of  my  magic  flower. 

At  midnight,  on  the  26th  of  July,  1869, 1  sat  alone  in  that  chamber. 
Upon  the  table  stood  a  silver  goblet  filled  with  Emser  red  wine.  At  the 
head  of  the  table  I  had  placed  a  chair,  while  I  occupied  another  at  the 
foot.  The  clock  of  St  Michael's  Church  commenced  to  strike  the  hour 
of  midnight ;  at  the  first  stroke  I  extinguished  the  light,  and  dropping 
the  fljwer  into  the  goblet,  slowly  spoke  the  words, — 

"  From  earth,  from  sea, 
From  brook,  from  fen, 
From  haunt  of  beast, 
From  homes  of  men, 
Form  of  her  I  love  most  dear. 
By  Todesblume,  appear !  appear !  " 

As  the  echoes  of  the  last  stroke  of  twelve  died  upon  my  ear,  a  thin 
cloud  of  vapor  rose  from  the  goblet ;  at  first  it  was  of  a  violet  hue,  when 
suddenly  it  changed  into  bright  crimson  colour,  and,  growing  gradually 
dense  and  heavy,  soon  filled  the  room,  while  through  the  misty  veil  I 
saw  globes  of  golden  pearl  dancing  before  my  astonished  vision,  strange 
soft  music  played  in  sweetest  strains  about  my  ears,  and  growing  giddy 
at  the  sound,  I  felt  I  was  falling  from  the  chair.  With  a  determination 
to  resist  the  power  that  was  pressing  on  my  brain  I  held  fast  to  the 
^able,  and  cried  again,  "  Appear  !  appear !  " 


712  DIES  IR^. 

The  mist  was  now  fast  disappearing,  and  while  the  room  grew  bright 
as  though  lighted  by  a  thousand  candles,  I  saw  seated  in  the  chair  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  dressed  in  the  cerements  of  the  grave,  the  ghost 
of  Bertha  Klein ;  her  golden  hair  no  longer  braided  down  her  back,  but 
hanging  loosely  about  her  face  ;  her  eyes  pure  and  blue  as  of  old,  but 
sad  and  weeping.  A  clot  of  blood  upon  her  neck  marked  the  spot  where 
the  murderer's  knife  had  entered.  Frozen  with  horror  at  the  sight, 
sat  motionless  for  an  instant ;  but  her  pitiful  face  and  sorrowful  look 
seemed  to  ask  for  words  of  compassion. 

'*  Speak  to  me  Bertha ;  let  me  hear  your  voice,"  cried  I. 

Quick  as  a  flash  she  rose,  and  with  a  cry  of  horror  that  chilled  me 
to  the  heart's  core,  she  screamed,  ^*  Look  behind  you  quick,  Albert ! 
quick  1 " 

I  turned  just  in  time  to  save  my  life;  for  the  old  druggist  had 
stealthily  entered  through  the  trap-door  in  the  wall,  and  was  about  to 
plunge  a  large  dirk-knife  in  my  back,  when  I  caught  his  arm ;  in  the 
struggle  that  ensued^  I  tore  the  wig  from  his  head,  and  making  one 
desperate  blow,  I  sent  the  knife  intended  for  me  into  the  heart  of  Philip 
Becker, 

Now,  doctor,  I  thank  you  for  your  attention.  I  have  but  one  more 
favour  to  ask.  Won't  you  speak  to  the  chief  physician  ?  Appeal  to  my 
friends  to  have  me  released  from  this  asylum,  for  I  assure  you  I  am  no 
more  a  lunatic  than  you  are. 


DIES  IRM, 

[Translation.] 

I. 

Day  of  Wrath.     O  Day  of  Blaming  ! 
In  red  ashes  Earth  fades  flaming : 
David's,  Sibyl's  truth  proclaiming. 

II. 
O  dread  time  of  heart-quake  looming, 
When  the  Judge  shall  come  in  glooming. 
Unto  all  to  deal  stem  dooming. 

III. 

Trumpet  hurling  sound  of  wonder 
Through  the  tombs,  the  whole  world  under, 
Drives  all  'fore  the  Throne  with  thunder. 


DIES   IRiE.  718 

IV. 

Death  shall  swoon  and  Nature  sicken, 
When,  from  dust,  mankind  shall  quicken, 
God  to  answer,  conscience-stricken. 

V. 

Lo  the  fault-filled  Book  extended ! 

In  which  all  is  comprehended, 

By  which  Earth  is  judged  and  ended. 

VI. 

Therefore,  when  the  Judge  shall  seat  Him, 
Whatso  hides  shall  spring  to  greet  Him : 
Nothing  unavenged  shall  meet  Him. 

VII. 

What  my  plea  in  tribulation  ? 
What  friend  call  in  mediation  ? 
When  the  Just  scarce  grasp  salvation. 

VIII. 

King  robed  in  glory  dread  to  see. 
Who  savest  whom  Thou  savest,  free  : 
0  Fount  of  Pity  save  Thou  me ! 

IX. 

Loving  Jesus  keep  before  Thee 
That,  for  me.  Thy  Mother  bore  Thee  : 
In  that  Day  lose  not :  restore  me. 


X. 


Me  Thou  sought*st,  though  faint  to  dying, 
Bought'st  with  throes  of  crucifying : 
Are  not  such  pangs  satisfying  ? 


714  DIES  IRM, 

XI. 

0  just  Judge  who  vengeance  taketh  I 
Ere  that  Day  of  Doom  awaketh, 
Show  that  love  Thine  anger  slaketh. 

xn. 

Great  my  crime,  I  firosm  confessing:. 
Bums  my  face  for  Wtransgreesii : 
Spare  me,  God,  for  pardon  pressing. 

xni. 

Thou  who  Mary  hast  forgiven. 

Who  the  thief  hast  heard  and  shriven, 

Didst  give  me,  too,  hope  of  heaven. 

XIV. 

Prayers  of  mine  are  worth  but  spuming ; 
Yet,  Thou,  good  for  ill  returning. 
Pluck  me  from  eternal  burning. 

XV. 

'Mongst  the  sheep  a  place  prepare  me. 
From  the  goats  in  mercy  bear  me, 
At  Thy  right  hand  set  and  spare  me. 

XVI. 

Whilst  the  wicked,  from  Thee  driven, 
To  tormenting  flames  are  given  : 
Call  me,  with  Thy  Saints,  in  heaven. 

XVII. 

1  do  pray,  beseeching,  bending, 
Broken  heart  with  ashes  blending : 
Let  Thy  love  enfold  my  ending. 


S.  J.    WATSON. 


715 


LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER 

BY  E.   L.  MURDOCH. 


Lady  Arthur  Eildon  was  a  widow ;  she  was  a  remarkable  woman,, 
and  her  husband,  Lord  Arthur  Eildon,  had  been  a  remarkable  man.  He 
was  a  brother  of  the  Duke  of  Eildon,  and  was  very  remarkable  in  his 
day  for  his  love  of  horses  and  dogs.  But  this  passion  did  not  lead  him 
into  any  evil  ways ;  he  was  a  thoroughly  upright,  genial  man,  with  a 
frank  word  for  every  one,  and  was  of  course  a  general  favourite.  "He'll 
just  come  in  and  crack  away  as  if  he  was  ane  o'  oorsels,"  was  a  remark 
often  made  concerning  him  by  the  people  on  his  estates ;  for  he  had 
estates  which  had  been  lefb  to  him  by  an  uncle,  and  which,  with  the 
portion  that  fell  to  him  as  a  younger  son,  yielded  him  an  ample  revenue,, 
so  that  he  had  no  need  to  do  anything. 

What  talents  he  might  have  developed  in  the  army  or  navy,  or  even- 
in  the  Church,  no  one  knows,  for  he  never  did  anything  in  this  world 
except  enjoy  himself;  which  was  entirely  natural  to  him,  and  not  the 
hard  work  it  is  to  many  people  who  try  it.  He  was  in  Parliament  for  a 
number  of  years,  but  contented  himself  with  giving  his  vote.  He  did  not 
distinguish  himself.  He  was  not  an  able  or  intellectual  man  ;  people 
said  he  would  never  set  the  Thames  on  fire,  which  was  true ;  but  if  an 
open  heart  and  hand  and  a  frank  tongue  are  desirable  things,  these  he 
had.  As  he  took  in  food,  and  it  nourished  him  without  further  inter- 
vention on  his  part,  so  he  took  in  enjoyment  and  gave  it  out  to  the  peo- 
ple round  him  with  equal  unconsciousness.  Let  it  not  be  said  that  such 
a  man  as  this  is  of  no  value  in  a  world  like  ours :  he  is  at  once  an 
anodyne  and  a  stimulant  of  the  healthiest  and  most  innocent  kind. 

As  was  meet,  he  first  saw  the  lady  who  was  to  be  his  wife  in  the 
hunting-field.  She  was  Miss  GaVscube  of  Garscube,  an  only  child  and 
an  heiress.  She  was  a  fast  young  lady  when  as  yet  fastness  was  a  rare 
development — a  harbinger  of  the  fast  period,  the  one  swallow  that  pre- 
sages summer,  but  does  not  make  it — and  as  such  continually  in  the 
mouths  of  the  public. 

Miss  Gkirscube  was  said  to  be  clever — she  was  certainly  eccentric — 
and  she  was  no  beauty,  but  community  of  tastes  in  the  matter  of  horses 
and  dogs  drew  her  and  Lord  Arthur  together. 

On  one  of  the  choicest  of  October  days,  when  she  was  following  the 
hounds,  and  her  horse  had  taken  the  fences  like  a  creature  with  wings, 


716  LADY   ARTHIFR   EILDON's  DYING   LETTER, 

he  came  to  one  which  he  also  flew  over,  but  fell  on  the  other  side, 
throwing  off  his  rider — on  soft  grass  luckily.  But  almost  before  an  ex- 
clamation of  alarm  could  leave  the  mouths  of  the  hunters  behind,  Miss 
Garscube  was  on  her  feet  and  in  the  saddle,  and  her  horse  away  again, 
as  if  both  had  been  ignorant  of  the  little  mishap  that  had  occurred. 
Lord  Arthur  was  immediately  behind,  and  witnessed  this  bit  of  presence 
of  mind  and  pluck  with  unfeigned  admiration ;  it  won  his  heart  comple- 
tely ;  and  on  her  part  she  enjoyed  the  genuineness  of  his  homage  as  she 
had  never  enjoyed  anything  before,  and  from  that  day  things  went  on 
and  prospered  between  them. 

People  who  knew  both  parties  regretted  this,  and  shook  their  heads 
over  it,  prophesying  that  no  good  could  come  out  of  it.  Miss  Garscube's 
will  had  never  been  crossed  in  her  life,  and  she  was  a  "  clever ''  woman  : 
-Lord  Arthur  would  not  submit  to  her  domineering  ways,  and  she  would 
winoe  under  and  be  ashamed  of  his  want  of  intellect.  All  this  was  fore- 
told and  thoroughly  believed  by  people  having  the  most  perfect  con- 
fidence in  their  own  judgment,  so  that  Lord  Arthur  and  his  wife  ought 
to  have  been,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  a  most  wretched  pair.  Buty 
as  it  turned  out,  no  happier  couple  existed  in  Great  Britain.  .Hieir 
<][ualities  must  have  been  complementary,  for  they  dovetailed  into  each 
other  as  few  people  do ;  and  the  wise  persons  who  had  predicted  the 
<x>ntrary  were  entirely  thrown  out  in  their  calculations — a  fact  which 
they  speedily  forgot ;  nor  did  it  diminish  their  faith  in  their  own  wis- 
dom, as,  indeed,  how  could  one  slight  mistake  stand  against  an 
array  of  instances  in  which  their  predictions  had  been  verified  to  the 
letter  ? 

Lord  Arthur  might  not  have  the  intellect  which  fixes  the  attention  of 
A  nation,  but  he  had  plenty  for  his  own  fireside — at  least,  his  wife  never 
discovered  any  want  of  it — and  as  for  her  strong  will,  they  had  only  one 
strong  will  between  them,  so  that  there  could  be  no  collision.  Being 
thus  thoroughly  attached  and  thoroughly  happy,  what  could  occur  to 
break  up  this  happiness  ?  A  terrible  thing  came  to  pass.  Having  had 
perfect  health  up  to  middle  life,  an  acutely  painful  disease  seized  Lord 
Arthur,  and  after  tormenting  him  for-more  than  a  year  it  changed  his 
face  and  sent  him  away. 

There  is  nothing  more  striking  than  the  calmness  and  dignity  with 
which  people  will  meet  death— even  people  from  whom  this  could  not 
have  been  expected.  No  one  who  did  not  know  it  would  have  guessed 
how  Lord  Arthur  was  suffering,  and  he  never  spoke  of  it,  least  of  all  to 
his  wife ;  while  she,  acutely  aware  of  it  and  vibrating  with  sympathy, 
never  spoke  of  it  to  him  ;  and  they  were  happy  as  those  are  who  know 
^hat  they  are  drinking  the  last  drops  of  earthly  happiness.  He  died 
with  his  wife's  hand  in  his  grasp  :  she  gave  the  face— dead,  but  with  the 


LM>Y  ARTHUR  EILDON'S   DYING  LETTER.  717 

appearance  of  life  not  vanished  from  it — cne  long,  passionate  kiss,  and 
left  him,  nor  ever  looked  on  it  again. 

Lady  Aithur  secluded  herself  for  some  weeks  in  her  own  room,  see- 
ing no  one  but  the  servants  who  attended  her ;  and  when  she  came 
forth  it  was  found  that  her  eccentricity  had  taken  a  curious  turn  :  she 
steadily  ignored  the  death  of  her  husband,  acting  always  as  if  he  had 
gone  on  a  journey  and  might  at  any  moment  return,  but  never  naming 
him  unless  it  was  absolutely  necessary.  She  found  comfort  in  this  sim- 
ulated delusion  no  doubt,  just  as  a  child  enjoys  a  fairy-tale,  knowing 
perfectly  well  all  the  time  that  it  is  not  true.  People  in  her  own  sphere 
said  her  mind  was  touched :  the  common  people  about  her  affirmed 
without  hesitation  that  she  was  '^  daft."  She  rode  no  more,  but  she  kept 
all  the  horses  and  dogs  as  usual.  She  cultivated  a  taste  she  had  for  an- 
tiquities ;  she  wrote  poetry — ballad  poetry — which  people,  who  were 
considered  judges,  thought  well  of;  and  flinging  these  and  other  things 
into  the  awful  chasm  that  had  been  made  in  her  life,  she  tried  her  best 
to  fill  it  up.  She  set  herself  to  consider  the  poor  man's  case,  and  made 
experiments  and  gave  advice  which  confirmed  her  poorer  brethren  in 
their  opinion  that  she  was  daft ;  but  as  her  hand  was  always  very  wide 
open,  and  they  pitied  her  sorrow,  she  was  much  loved,  although  they 
laughed  at  her  zeal  in  preserving  old  ruins  and  her  wrath  if  an  old 
stone  was  moved,  and  told,  and  firmly  believed,  that  she  wrote  and 
posted  letters  to  Lord  Arthur.  What  was  perhaps  mpre  to  the  purpose 
of  filling  the  chasm  than  any  of  thjdse  things,  Lady  Arthur  adopted  a 
daughter,  an  orphan  child  of  a  cousin  of  her  own,  who  came  to  her  two 
years  after  her  husband's  death,  a  little  girl  of  nine. 

IL 

Alice  Garscube's  education  was  not  of  the  stereotyped  kind.  When 
she  came  to  Garscube  Hall,  Lady  Arthur  wrote  to  the  head-master  of  a 
normal  school  asking  if  he  knew  of  a  healthy,  sagacious,  good-tempered, 
clever  girl  who  had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  elementary  branches 
of  education  and  a  natural  taste  for  teaching.  Mr.  Boyton,  the  head- 
master^ replied  that  he  knew  of  such  a  person  whom  he  could  entirely 
recommend,  having  all  the  qualities  mentioned ;  but  when  he  found 
that  it  was  not  a  teacher  for  a  village  school  that  her  ladyship  wanted, 
but  for  her  own  relation,  he  wrote  to  say  that  he  doubted  the  party  he 
had  in  view  would  hardly  be  suitable :  her  father,  who  had  been  dead 
for  some  years,  was  a  workingman,  and  her  mother,  who  had  died  quite 
recently,  supported  herself  by  keeping  a  little  shop,  and  she  herself  was 
in  appearance  and  manner  scarcely  enough  of  the  lady  for  such  a  situa- 
tion.    Now,  Lady  Arthur,  though  a  firm  believer  in  birth  and  race,  and 


718  LADY  AKTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER. 

by  habit  and  prejudice  an  aristocrat  and  a  Tory,  was,  we  know,  eccen- 
tric by  nature,  and  Nature  will  always  assert  itself.  She  wrote  to  Mr. 
Boyton  that  if  the  girl  he  recommended  was  all  he  said,  she  was  a  lady 
inside,  and  they  would  leave  the  outside  to  shift  for  itself.  Her  lady- 
ship had  considered  the  matter.  She  could  get  decayed  gentlewomen 
and  clergymen  and  officer's  daughters  by  the  dozen,  but  she  did  not  want 
a  girl  with  a  sickly  knowledge  of  everything,  and  very  sickly  ideas  of 
her  own  merits  and  place  and  work  in  the  world  :  she  wanted  a  girl  of 
natural  sagacity,  who  from  her  cradle  had  known  that  she  came  into 
the  world  to  do  something,  and  had  learned  how  to  do  it 

Miss  Adamson,  the  normal-school  young  lady  recommended,  wrote 
thus  to  Lady  Arthur  : 

**  Madam  :  I  am  very  much  tempted  to  take  the  situation  you  offer 
me.  If  I  were  teacher  of  a  village  school,  as  I  had  intended,  when  my 
work  in  the  school  was  over  I  should  have  had  my  time  to  myself ;  and 
I  wish  to  stipulate  that  when  the  hours  of 'teaching  Miss  Garscube  are 
over  I  may  have  the  same  privilege.  If  you  engage  me,  I  think,  so  far 
as  I  know  myself,  you  will  not  be  disappointed." 

"  I  am,*'  etc.  etc. 

To  which  Lady  Arthur  : 

**  So  far  as  I  can  judge,  you  are  the  very  thing  I  want.  Come,  and 
we  shall  not  disagree  about  terms,"  etc.  etc. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Miss  Grarscube  was  unusually  lucky  in  the 
matter  of  her  education  and  Miss  Adamson  in  her  engagement.  Al- 
though eccentric  to  the  pitch  of  getting  credit  for  being  daft.  Lady  Ar- 
thur had  a  strong  vein  of  masculine  sense,  which  in  all  essential  things 
kept  her  in  the  right  path.  Miss  Adamson  and  she  suited  each  other 
thoroughly,  and  the  education  of  the  two  ladies  and  the  child  may  be 
said  to  have  gone  on  simultaneously.  Miss  Adamson  had  an  absorbing 
pursuit :  she  was  an  embryo  artist,  and  she  roused  a  kindred  taste  in 
her  pupil ;  so  that,  instead  of  carrying  on  her  work  in  solitude,  as  she 
had  expected  to  do,  she  had  the  intense  pleasure  of  sympathy  and  com- 
panionship. Lady  Arthur  often  paid  them  long  visits  in  their  studio  : 
she,  herself,  sketched  a  little,  but  she  had  never  excelled  in  any  single 
pursuit  except  horsemanship,  and  that  she  had  given  up  at  her  husband's 
death,  as  she  had  given  up  keeping  much  company  or  going  often  into 
society. 

In  this  quiet,  unexciting,  regular  life  Lady  Arthur's  antiquarian  tastes 
grew  on  her,  and  she  went  on  writing  poetry,  the  quantity  of  which  was 
more  remarkable  than  the  quality,  although  here  and  there  in  the  mass 
of  ore  there  was  an  occasional  sparkle  from  fine  gold  (there  are  few 
voluminous  writers  in  which  this  accident  does  not  occur).     She  super- 


LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  719 

intended  excavations,  and  made  prizes  of  old  dust  and  stones  and  coins 
and  jewellery  (or  what  was  called  ancient  jewellery  :  it  looked  ancient 
enough,  but  more  like  rusty  iron  to  the  untrained  eye  than  jewellery)  and 
cooking  utensils  supposed  to  have  been  used  by  some  noble  savages  or 
other.  Of  these  and  such  like  she  had  a  museum,  and  she  visited  old 
monuments  and  cairns  and  Roman  camps  and  Druidical  remains  and 
old  castles,  and  all  old  things,  with  increasing  iifterest  There  were  a 
number  of  places  near  or  remote  to  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  mak- 
ing periodical  pilgrimages — places  probably  dear  to  her  from  whim  or 
association  or  natural  beauty  or  antiquity.  When  she  fixed  a  time  for 
such  an  excursion,  no  weather  changed  her  purpose  :  it  might  pour  rain 
or  deep  snow  might  be  on  the  ground  :  she  only  put  four  horses  to  her 
carriage  instead  of  two,  and  went  on  her  way.  She  was  generally  ac 
companied  in  these  expeditions  by  her  two  young  friends,  who  got  into 
the  spirit  of  the  thing  and  enjoyed  them  amazingly.  They  were  in  the 
habit  of  driving  to  some  farmhouse,  where  they  left  the  carriage  atid  on 
foot  ascended  the  hill  they  had  come  to  call  on,  most  probably  a  hill 
<  with  the  marks  of  a  Roman  camp  on  it — there  are  many  such  in  the 

south  of  Scotland — hills  called  "  the  rings  "  by  the  people,  from  the  way 
in  which  the  entrenchments  circle  round  them  like  rings. 

Dear  to  Lady  Arthur's  heart  was  such  a  place  as  this.  Even  when  the 
ground  was  covered  with  snow  or  ice  she  would  ascend  with  the  help  of 
a  stick  or  umbrella,  a  faint  adumbration  of  the  Alpine  Club  when  as  yet 
the  Alpine  Club  lurked  in  the  future  and  had  given  no  hint  of  its  ex- 
istence. On  the  top  of  such  a  hill  she  would  eat  luncheon,  thinking  of 
the  dust  of  legions  beneath  her  foot,  and  drink  wine  to  the  memory  of 
the  immortals.  The  coachman  and  the  footman  who  toiled  up  the  hill 
bearing  the  luncheon-basket,  and  slipping  back  two  steps  for  every  one 
they  took  forward,  had  by  no  means  the  same  respect  for  the  immortal 
heroes. .  The  coachman  was  an  old  servant,  and  had  a  great  regard  for 
Lady  Arthur  both  as  his  mistress  and  as  a  lady  of  rank,  besides  being 
accustomed  to  and  familiar  with  her  whims,  and  knowing,  as  he  said, 
,  "  the  best  and  the  warst  o'  her ;  '*  but  the  footman  was  a  new  acquisi- 

tion and  young,  and  he  had  not  the  wisdom  t-o  see  at  all  times  the  duty 
of  giving  honour  to  whom  honour  is  due,  nor  yet  had  he  the  spirit  of 
the  born  flunkey ;  and  his  intercourse  with  the  nobility,  unfortunately, 
had  not  impressed  him  with  any  other  idea  than  that  they  were  mor- 
tals like  himself ;  so  he  remarked  to  his  fellow-servant,  ^*  Od !  ye  wad 
think,  if  she  likes  to  eat  her  lunch  amang  snawy  slush,  she  might  get 
enough  of  it  at  the  fut  o'  the  hill,  without  gaun  to  the  tap.'' 

"  Weel,  I'll  no  deny,"  said  the  older  man,  "  but  what  it's  daftlike, 
but  if  it  is  her  leddyship's  pleasure,  it's  nae  business  o'  oors." 

"  Pleasure  !  "  said  the  youth  :  "  if  she  ca's  this  pleasure,  her  friends 
should  see  about  shutting  her  up :  it's  time." 


720  LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S   DYING   LETTER. 

"  She  says  the  Eomans  once  lived  here,"  said  John. 

"  If  they  did,"  Thomas  said,  "  I  daur  say  thei/  had  mair  sinse  than  sit 
down  to  eat  their  dinner  in  the  middle  o'  snaw  if  they  had  a  house  to 
tak  it  in." 

"  Her  leddyship  does  na'  tak  the  cauld  easy/'  said  John. 

"  She  has  the  constitution  o'  a  horse/'  Thomas  remarked. 

"  Man/'  said  John^"  that  shows  a'  that  ye  ken  about  horses  :  there's 
DO  a  mair  delicate  beast  on  the  face  o'  the  earth  than  the  horse.  They 
tell  me  a'  the  horses  in  London  hae  the  influenza  the  now." 

•'  Weel,  it'll  be  our  turn  next/'  said  Thomas,  ^*  if  we  dinna  tak  some- 
thing  warm." 

When  luncheon  was  over  her  ladyship  as  often  as  not  ordered  her 
servants  to  take  the  carriage  round  by  the  turnpike-road  to  a  given 
point,  where  she  arranged  to  meet  it,  while  she  herself  struck  right  over 
the  hills  as  the  crow  flies,  crossing  the  burns  on  her  way  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  Israelites  crossed  the  Bed  Sea,  only  the  water  did  not 
stand  up  on  each  side  and  leave  dry  ground  for  her  to  tread  on  ;  but  she 
ignored  the  water  altogether,  and  walked  straight  through.  The  young 
ladies,  knowing  this,  took  an  extra  supply  of  stockings  and  shoes  with 
them,  but  Lady  Arthur  despised  such  effeminate  ways  and  drove  home 
in  the  footgear  she  set  out  in.  She*  was  a  woman  of  robust  health,  and 
having  grown  stout  and  elderly  and  red-faced,  when  ^t  on  the  tramp 
and  divested  of  externals  she  might  very  well  have  been  taken  for  the 
eccentric  landlady  of  a  roadside  inn  or  the  mistress  of  a  luncheon-bar ; 
and  probably  her  young  footman  did  not  think  she  answered  to  her  own 
name  at  all. 

There  is  a  divinity  that  doth  hedge  a  king,  but  it  is  the  king's  wis* 
dom  to  keep  the  hedge  close  and  well  trimmed  and  allow  no  gaps :  if 
there  are  gaps,^eople  see  through  them  and  the  illusion  is  destroyed. 
Lady  Arthur  was  not  a  heroine  to  her  footman  ;  and  when  she  traversed 
the  snow-slush  and  walked  right  through  the  bums,  he  merely  endorsed 
the  received  opinion  that  she  wanted  "  twopence  of  the  shilling."  If 
she  had  been  a  poor  woman  and  compelled  to  take  such  a  journey  in 
such  weather,  people  would  have  felt  sorry  for  her,  and  have  been  ready 
to  subscribe  to  help  fcer  to  a  more  comfortable  mode  of  travelling  ;  but 
in  Lady  Arthur's  case  of  course  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
wonder  at  her  eccentricity. 

But  her  ladyship  knew  what  she  was  about.  The  sleep  as  well  as  the 
fi>od  of  the  labouring  man  is  sweet,  and  if  nobility  likes  to  labour,  it 
will  partake  of  the  poor  man's  blessing.  The  party  arrived  back  among 
the  luxurious  appointments  of  Oarscube  Hall  (which  were  apt  to  pall  on 
them  at  times)  legitimately  and  bodily  Hred^  and  that  in  itself  was  a 
sensation  worth  working  for.     They  had  braved  difficulty  and  disoom- 


LADY   ARTHUR  EILDON's   DYING   LETTER.  721 

fort,  and  not  for  a  nonsensical  and  fruitless  end,  either ;  it  can  never  be 
fruitless  or  nonsensical  to  get  face  to  face  with  Nature  in  any  of  her 
moods.  The  ice-locked  streams,  the  driven  snow,  the  sleep  of  vegeta- 
tion, a  burst  of  sunshine  over  the  snow,  the  sough  of  the  winter  wind, 
Earth  waiting  to  feel  the  breath  of  spring  on  her  face  to  waken  up  in 
youth  and  beauty  again,  like  the  sleeping  princess  at  the  touch  of  the 
young  prince, — all  these  are  things  richly  to  be  enjoyed,  especially  by 
strong,  healthy  people  ;  let  chilly  and  shivering  mortals  sing  about  cozy 
fires  and  drawn  curtains  if  they  like.  Besides,  Miss  Adamson  had  the 
eye  of  an  artist,  upon  which  nothing,  be  it  what  it  may,  is  thrown 
away. 

But  an  expedition  to  a  hill  with  ''  rings  *'  undertaken  on  a  long  mid- 
summer day  looked  fully  more  enjoyable  to  the  common  mind  :  John, 
and  even  the  footman  approved  of  that,  and  another  individual,  who 
had  become  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  hall,  approved  of  it  very  highly 
indeed,  and  joined  such  a  party  as  often  as  he  could. 

This  was  George  Eildon,  the  only  son  of  a  brother  of  the  late  Lord 
Arthur, 

Now  comes  the  tug — well,  not  of  war,  certainly,  but,  to  change  the 
figure — now  comes  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  which  is  to 
obscure  the  quiet  sunshine  of  the  regular  and  exemplary  life  of  these 
three  ladies. 

Having  been  eight  years  at  Garscube  Hall,  as  a  matter  of  necessity 
and  in  the  ordinary  course  of  Nature,  Alice  Garscube  had  grown  up  to 
womanhood.  With  accustomed  eccentricity,  Lady  Arthur  entirely 
ignored  this.  As  for  bringing  her  ''  out,"  as  the  phrase  is,  she  had  no 
intention  of  it,  considering  that  one  of  the  follies  of  life  :  Lady  Arthur 
was  always  a  law  to  herself.  Alice  was  a  shy,  amiable  girl,  who  loved 
her  guardian  fervently  (her  ladyship  had  the  knack  of  gaining  love,  and 
also  of  gaining  the  opposite  in  pretty  decisive  measure),  and  was  en 
tirely  swayed  by  her  ;  indeed,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  have  a  will 
of  her  own,  for  her  nature  was  peculiarly  sweet  and  guileless. 

HI 

Lady  Arthur  thought  George  Eildon  a  good-natured,  rattling  lad, 
with  very  little  head.  This  was  precisely  the  general  estimate  that  had 
been  formed  of  her  late  husband,  and  people  who  had  known  both 
thought  George  the  very  fac-simile  of  his  Uncle  Arthur.  If  her  lady- 
ship  had  been  aware  of  this,  it  would  have  made  her  very  indignant :  she 
had  thought  her  husband  perfect  while  living,  and  thought  of  him  as 
very  much  more  than  perfect  now  that  he  lived  only  in  her  memory. 
But  she  made  George  very  welcome  as  often  as  he  came  :  she  liked  ta 
have  him  in  the  house,  and  she  simply  never  thought  of  Alice  and  him 


722  LADY  ARTHUK   EILDON*S  DYING  LETTER. 

in  connection  with  each  other.     She  always  had  a  feeling  of  pity  for 
'^Creorge. 

**  You  know/'  she  would  say  to  Miss  Adamson  and  Alice — "  you  know, 
George  was  of  consequence  for  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life ;  it  was 
thought  that  his  uncle  the  duke  might  never  marry,  and  ho  was  the  hm ; 
but  when  the  duke  married  late  in  life  and  had  two  sons,  G^rge  was 
extinguished,  poor  fellow !  and  it  was  hard,  I  allow." 

'*  It  is  not  plfsasant  to  be  a  poor  gentleman,''  said  Miss  Adamson. 

'^  It  is  not  only  not  pleasant."  said  Lady  Arthur,  '^  but  it  is  a  false 
position,  which  is  very  trying,  and  what  few  men  can  fill  to  advantage. 
If  George  had  great  abilities,  it  might  be  different,  with  his  connection, 
but  I  doubt  he  is  doomed  to  be  always  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse." 

''  He  may  get  on  in  his  profession  perhaps,"  said  Alice,  sharing  in 
Lady  Arthur's  pity  for  him.  (Qeorge  Eildon  had  been  an  attach^  to 
some  foreign  embassy.) 

"  Never,"  said  Lady  Arthur  decisively.  "  Besides  it  is  a  profession 
that  is  out  of  date  now,  Men  don't  go  wilily  to  work  in  these  days  ; 
but  if  they  did,  the  notion  of  poor  George,  who  could  not  keep  a  secret 
or  tell  a  lie  with  easy  graje  if  it  were  to  save  his  life — the  notion  of 
making  him  a  diplomatist  is  very'  absurd.  No  doubt  statesmen  are 
better  without  original  ideas — their  business  is  to  pick  out  the  practicid 
ideas  of  other  men  and  work  them  well — but  George  wants  ability, 
poor  fellow  !  They  ought  to  have  put  him  into  the  Church  :  he  reads 
well,  he  could  have  read  other  men's  sermons  very  effectively,  and  the 
duke  has  some  good  livings  in  his  gift." 

Now,  Miss  Adamson  had  been  brought  up  a  Presl^yterian  of  the 
Presbyterians,  and  among  people  to  whom  "  the  paper  "  was  abhorrent : 
to  read  a  sermon  was  a  sin — to  read  another  man's  sermon  was  a  sin  of 
double-dyed  blackness.  However,  either  her  opinions  were  being  cor- 
rupted or  enlightened,  either  she  was  growing  lax  in  principle  or  she 
was  learning  the  lesson  of  toleration,  for  she  allowed  the  remarks  of 
Lady  Arthur  to  pass  unnoticed,  so  that  that  lady  did  not  need  to  ad- 
'vance  the  well-known  opinion  and  practice  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  to 
prop  her  own. 

Miss  Adamson  merely  said,  "  Do  you  not  underrate  Mr.  Eildon's 
abilities  ?  " 

**  I  think  not.  If  he  had  abilities,  he  would  have  been  showing  them 
by  this  time.  But  of  course  I  don't  blame  him  :  few  of  the  Eildons 
have  been  men  of  mark — none  in  recent  times  except  Lord  Arthur — but 
they  have  all  been  respectable  men,  whose  lives  would  stand  inspection ; 
and  George  is  the  equal  of  any  of  them  in  that  respect.  As  a  clergyman, 
he  would  have  set  a  good  example." 

Hearing  a  person  always  pitied  and  spoken  slightingly  of  does  not  pre- 


LADY  ARTHUK  BILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  723 

dispose  anyone  to  fall  in  love  with  that  person.  Miss  Oarscube's  feel- 
ings of  this  nature  still  lay  very  closely  folded  up  in  the  bud,  and  the 
early  spring  did  not  come  at  this  time  to  develop  them  in  the  shape  of 
G^rge  Eildon  ;  but  Mr.  Eildon  was  suffisiently  foolish  and  indiscreet 
to  fall  in  love  with  her.  Miss  Adamson  was  the  only  one  of  the  three 
ladies  cognizant  of  this  state  of  afifairs,  but  as  her  creed  was  that  no  one 
had  any  right  to  make  or  meddle  in  a  thing  of  this  kind,  she  saw  as  if 
she  saw  not,  though  very  much  interested.  She  saw  that  Miss  Oarscube 
was  as  innocent  of  the  knowledge  that  she  had  made  a  conquest  as  it 
was  possible  to  be,  and  she  felt  surprised  that  Lady  Arthur's  sight  was 
not  sharper.  But  Lady  Arthur  was — or  at  least  had  been — a  woman  of 
the  world,  and  the  idea  of  a  penniless  man  allowing  himself  to  fall  in 
love  seriously  with  a  penniless  girl  in  actual  life  could  not  find  admis- 
^ion  into  her  mind  :  if  she  had  been  writing  a  ballad  it  would  have  been 
different ;  indeed,  if  you  had  only  known  Lady  Arthur  through  her 
poetry,  you  might  have  believed  her  to  be  a  very  romantic,  sentimental, 
unworldly  person,  for  she  really  was  all  that—on  paper. 

Mr.  Eildon  was  very  frequently  in  the  studio  where  Miss  Adamson 
and  her  pupil  worked,  and  he  was  always  ready  to  accompany  them 
in  their  excursions,  and,  Lady  Arthur  said,  "really  made  himself  very 
useful." 

It  has  been  said  that  John  and  Thomas  both  approved  of  her  lady- 
ship's summer  expeditions  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  or  whatever  else 
she  might  take  it  into  her  head  to  look  for  ;  and  when  she  issued  orders 
for  a  day  among  the  hills  in  a  certain  month  of  August,  which  had  been 
a  specially  fine  month  in  point  of  weather,  every  one  was  pleased.  But 
John  and  Thomas  found  it  nearly  as  hard  work  climbing  with  the  lunch- 
eon-basket in  the  heat  of  the  midsummer  sun  as  it  was  when  they  climb, 
ed  to  the  same  elevation  in  midwinter  ;  only  they  did  not  slip  back  so 
fast,  nor  did  they  feel  that  they  were  art  and  part  in  a  "  daftlike  "  thing, 

*'  Here,"  said  Lady  Arthur,  raising  her  glass  to  her  lips--"  here  is  to  the 
memory  of  the  Romans,  on  whose  dust  we  are  resting." 

"  Amen  ! "  said  Mr.  Eildon  ;  "  but  I  am  afraid  you  don't  find  their 
dust  a  very  soft  resting-place  :  they  were  always  a  hard  people,  the 
Romans." 

''They  were  a  people  I  admire,"  said  Lady  Arthur.     ''  K  they  had  not 

been  called  away  by  bad  news  from  home,  if  they  had  been  able  to  stay 

our  civilization  might  have  been  a  much  older  thing  than  it  is. — What 

do  you  think,  John  1 "  she  said,  addressing  her  faithful  servitor.     «  Less 

tlum  a  thousand  years  ago  all  that  stretch  of  country  that  we  see  so 

richly  cultivated  and  studded  with  cozy  farm-houses  was  brushwood  and 

swamp,  with  a  handful  of  savage  inhabitants  living  in  wigwams  and 

dressing  in  skins." 
5 


724  LADY  ABTHrR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER. 

''It  roay  be  so/'  said  John — "no  doubt  yer  leddyship  kens  beet — but 
I  have  this  to  say  :  if  they  were  savages  they  had  the  makin'  o'  men  in 
them.  Naebody  '11  gar  me  believe  that  the  stock  yer  leddydiip  and  me 
cam  o'  was  na  a  capital  gude^stock/' 

"  All  right,  John,"  said  Mr.  Eildon,  "  if  you  include  ma" 

"  It  was  a  long  time  to  take,  surely,"  said  Alice — "  a  thousand  je»n 
to  bring  the  country  from  brushwood  and  swamp  to  com  and  bums 
confined  to  their  beds.'' 

"  Nature  is  never  in  a  hurry,  Alice/'  replied  Lady  Arthur. 

"  But  she  is  always  busy  in  a  wonderfel  quiet  way,"  said  Miss  Adam- 
son.  "  Whenever  man  begins  to  work  he  makes  a  noise,  but  no  one 
hears  the  corn  grow  or  the  leaves  burst  their  sheaths  :  even  the  donds 
mdve  with  noiseless  grace." 

"  The  clouds  are  what  no  one  can  understand  yet,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr. 
Eildon,  "  but  they  don't  always  look  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  their 
mouths,  as  they  are  doing  to-day.     What  do  you  say  to  thunder  ? " 

''  That  is  an  exception  :  Nature  does  aU  her  best  work  quietly." 

"  So  does  man,"  remarked  George  Eildon. 

''  Well,  I  daresay  you  are  right,  after  all,"  said  Miss  Adamson,  who 

was  sketching.     "  I  wish  I  could  paint  in  the  glittw  on  the  blade  of  that 

reaping-machine  down  in  the  haugh  there  :  see,  it  gleams  every  time  the 

sun's  rays  hit  it.     It  is  curious  how  Nature  makes  the  most  of  everything 

to  heighten  her  picture,  and  yet  never  makes  her  bright  points  too  plen. 

tiful." 
Just  at  that  moment  the  sun's  rays  seized  a  small  pane  of  glass  in  the 

rodf  of  a  house  two  or  three  miles  off  down  the  valley,  and  it  shot  out 

light  and  sparkles  that  dazzled  the  eye  to  look  at. 

''  That  is  a  fine  effect,"  cried  Alice  :  *'  it  looks  like  the  eye  of  an  arch- 
angel kindling  up." 

"  What  a  flight  of  fancy,  Alice  ? "  Lady  Arthur  said.  "  That  reaping- 
machine  does  its  work  very  well,  but  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  it 
gathers  a  crust  of  poetry  about  it  :  stopping  to  clear  a  stone  out  of  its 
way  is  different  from  a  lad  and  a  lass  on  the  harveet-rig,  the  one  stop- 
ping to  take  a  thorn  out  of  the  finger  of  the  other." 

<<  There  are  so  many  wonderful  things,"  said  Alice,  '<  that  one  gets 
always  lost  among  them.  How  the  clouds  float  is  wonderful,  and  that 
with  the  same  earth  below  and  the  same  heaven  above,  the  heather 
sliould  be  purple,  and  the  com  yellow,  and  the  ferns  green,  is  wonderful ; 
but  not  so  wonderful,  I  think,  as  that  a  man  by  the  touch  of  genius 
should  have  made  every  one  interested  in  a  field-labourer  taking  a  thorn 
out  of  the  hand  of  another  field-labourer.  Catch  your  poet,  and  he'U  soon 
make  the  machine  interesting." 

"  Get  a  thorn  into  your  finger,  Alice,"  said  George  Eildon, "  and  I'll 
take  it  out  if  it  is  so  interesting." 


LADY  ABTHtm  BILDON*S  DYIKG  LBTTBR.  726 

**  You  could  not  make  it  iateiiBSting/'  she  said. 

"Just  try,"  he  said. 

**  Bat  trying  won't  do.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  there  are  things 
no  trying  will  ever  do.  I  am  trying  to  paint,  for  instance,  and  in  time  I 
shall  copy  pretty  well,  but  I  shall  never  do  more."  r. 

**  Hush,  hush  !"  said  Miss  Adamson.  "  I'm  often  enough  in  despair 
myself,  and  hearing  you  say  that,  makes  me  worse.  I  rebel  at  having 
got  just  so  much  brain  and  no  more  ;  but  I  suppose,"  she  said  with  a 
sigh,  "  if  we  make  the  best  of  what  we  have,  it's  all  right ;  and  if  we  had 
well-balanced  minds  we  should  be  contented." 

**  Would  you  like  to  stay  here  longer  among  the  hills  and  the  shoep  1 " 
said  Lady  Arthur.  ''  I  have  just  remembered  that  I  want  silks  for  my 
embroidery,  and  I  have  time  to  go  to  town  :  I  can  catch  the  afternoon 
train.    Do  any  of  you  care  to  go  I " 

^*  It  is  good  to  be  here,"  said  Mr.  Eildon,  **  but  as  we  can't  stay  always, 
we  may  as  well  go  now,  I  suppose." 

And  John,  accustomed  to  sudden  orders,  hurried  off  to  get  his  horses 
put  to  the  carriage. 

Lady  Arthur,  upon  the  whole,  approved  of  railways,  but  did  not  use 
them  much  except  upon  occasion ;  and  it  was  only  by  taking  the  train 
she  could  reach  town  and  be  home  for  dinner  on  this  day. 

They  reached  the  station  in  time,  and  no  more.  Mr.  Eildon  ran  and 
got  tickets,  and  John  was  ordered  to  be  at  the  station  nearest  Garscube 
Hall  to  meet  them  when  they  returned. 

Embroidery,  being  an  art  which  high-born  dames  have  practised  from 
the  earliest  ages,  was  an  employment  that  had  always  found  favour  in 
the  sight  of  Lady  Arthur,  and  to  which  she  turned  when  die  wanted 
change  of  occupation.  She  took  a  very  short  time  to  sdect  her  ma- 
terials, and  they  were  back  and  seated  in  the  railway  carriage  ftiUy  ten 
minutes  before  the  train  started.  They  beguiled  the  time  by  looking 
about  the  station :  it  was  rather  a  different  scene  from  that  where  they 
had  been  in  the  fore  part  of  the  day. 

*'  There's  surely  a  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Eildon,  pointing  to  a  large  pic- 
ture hanging  on  the  wall  of  three  sewing-machines  woriced  by  three 
ladies,  the  one  in  the  middle  being  Queen  Elizabeth  in  her  ruff,  the  one 
on  the  right  Queen  Victoria  in  her  widow's  cap :  the  Princess  of  Wales 
was  very  busy  at  the  third.  "  Is  not  that  what  is  called  anachronism, 
Miss  Adamson )  Are  not  sewing-machines  a  recent  invention  f  There 
were  none  in  Elizabeth's  time,  I  think  f " 

"  There  are  people,"  said  Lady  Arthur.  "  who  have  neither  common 
sense  nor  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous." 

'*  But  Uiey  have  a  sense  of  what  will  pay,"  answered  her  nephew. 
'*  That  appeals  to  the  heart  of  the  nation— that  is,  to  the  masculine  heart. 


726  LADY  ARTHUK  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTEK. 

If  Queen  Ellzabeih  had  been  handling  a  lancet,  and  Queen  Victoria 
pounding  in  a  mortar  with  a  pestle,  assisted  by  her  daughter-in-law,  the 
case  would  have  been  different ;  but  they  are  at  useful  womanly  work, 
and  the  machines  will  sell.  They  have  fixed  themselyes  in  our  memo- 
ries already ;  that's  the  object  the  advettiser  had  when  he  pressed  the 
passion  of  loyalty  into  his  service." 

<<  How  will  the  strong-minded  Tudor  lady  like  to  see  herself  revived 
in  that  &shion,  if  she  can  see  it ) "  asked  Miss  Gbrscube. 

''She'll  like  it  well,  judging  by  myself/'  said  G^rge:.  ^'that's  true 
fame.  I  should  be  content  to  sit  cross-legged  on  a  board,  stitching  puL 
pit-robes,  in  a  picture,  if  I  were  sure  it  would  be  hung  up  three  hundred 
years  after  this  at  all  the  balloon-stations  and  have  the  then  Miss  Gv- 
scubes  making  remarks  about  me." 

"  They  might  not  make  very  complimentary  remarks,  perhaps,"  said 
Alice. 

''  If  they  thought  of  me  at  all  I  should  be  satisfied/'  said  he. 

^*  Couldn't  you  invent  an  iron  bed,  then ) ''  said  Miss  Adamson  look- 
ing at  a  representation  of  these  articles  hanging  alongside  the  three 
royal  ladies.  **  Perhaps  they'll  last  three  hundred  years,  and  if  you 
could  bind  yourself  up  with  the  idea  of  sweet  repose — " 

"  They  won't  last  three  hundred  years,"  said  Lady  Arthur — "  cheap 
and  nasty,  new-fangled  things  ! " 

''  They  may  be  cheap  and  nasty,"  said  George,  "  but  new-fangled  they 
are  not ;  they  must  be  some  thousands  of  years  old.  I  am  afraid,  my 
dear  aunt,  you  don't  read  your  Bible." 

**  Don't  drag  the  Bible  in  among  your  nonsense.  What  has  it  to  do 
with  iron  beds  1 "  said  Lady  Arthur. 

''  If  you  look  into  Deuteronomy,  third  chapter  and  eleventh  verse,'' 
said  he, ''  you'll  find  that  Og,  king  of  Bashan,  used  an  iron  bed.  It  is 
probably  in  existence  yet,  and  it  must  be  quite  old  enough  to  make  it 
worth  your  while  to  look  after  it ;  perhaps  Mr.  Cook  would  personally 
conduct  you,  or  if  not  I  should  be  glad  to  be  your  escort" 

**  Thank  you,"  she  said ;  ''  when  I  go  in  search  of  Og's  bed  I'll  take 
you  with  me." 

"  You  could  not  do  better ;  I  have  the  scent  of  a  sleuth-hound  for 
antiquities." 

As  they  were  speaking  a  man  came  and  hung  up  beside  the  queens 
and  the  iron  beds  a  big  white  board  on  which  were  printed  in  large 
black  letters  the  words  ''  My  Mother  and  I " — ^nothing  more. 

"  What  can  the  meaning  of  that  be  1 "  asked  Lady  Arthur. 

<'  To  make  you  ask  the  meaning  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Eildon.  "  I  who  am 
skilled  in  these  matters  have  no  doubt  that  is  the  herald  of  some  sooth- 
ing syrup  for  the  human  race  under  the  trials  of  teething."    He  was 


LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  727 

standiDg  at  the  carriage-door  till  the  train  would  start,  and  he  stood 
aside  to  let  a  young  lady  and  a  boy  in  deep  mourning  enter.  The  pair 
were  hardly  seated  when  the  girl's  eyes  fell  on  the  great  white  board 
and  its  announcement  She  bent  her  head  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief;  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess  that  she  had  very  recently 
parted  with  her  mother  for  ever,  and  the  words  on  the  board  were  more 
than  she  could  stand  unmoved. 

Miss  Adamson  too  had  been  thinking  of  her  mother,  the  hard-work- 
ing woman  who  had  toiled  in  her  little  shop  to  support  her  sickly  hus- 
band and  educate  her  daughter — the  kindly  patient  face,  the  hands  that 
had  never  spared  themselves,  the  footsteps  that  had  plodd/dd  so  inces* 
santly  to  and  fro.  The  all  that  had  been  gone  so  long  came  back  to 
her,  and  she  felt  almost  the  pang  of  first  separation,  when  it  seemed  as 
.  if  the  end  of  her  life  had  been  extinguished  and  the  motive-power  for 
work  had  gone.  But  she  carried  her  mother  in  her  heart ;  with  her  it 
was  still  "my  mother  and  I." 

Lady  Arthur  did  not  think  of  her  mother :  she  had  lost  her  early^ 
and  besides,  her  thoughts  and  feelings  had  been  all  absorbed  by  her 
husband. 

Alice  Oarscube  had  never  known  her  mother,  and  as  she  looked  gravely 
at  the  girl  who  was  crying  behind  her  handkerchief  she  envied  her — she 
had  known  her  mother. 

As  for  Mr.  Eildon,  he  had  none  but  bright  and  happy  thoughts  con- 
nected with  his  mother.  It  was  true,  she  was  a  widow,  but  she  was  a 
kind  and  stately  lady,  round  whom  her  famOy  moved  as  round  a  sun  and 
centre,  giving  light  and  heat  and  all  good  cheer ;  he  could  a£Ebrd  to  joke 
about  "  my  mother  and  I." 

What  a  vast  deal  of  varied  emotion  these  words  must  have  stirred  in 
the  multitudes  of  travellers  coming  and  going  in  all  directions ! 

In  jumping  into  the  carriage  when  the  last  bell  rang,  Mr.  Eildon  mis- 
sed his  footing  and  fell  back,  with  no'^greater  injury,  fortunately,  than 
grazing  the  skin  of  his  hand. 

"  Is  it  much  hurt  1 "  Lady  Arthur  asked. 

He  held  it  up  and  said :  "Who  ran  to  help  me  when  I  fell  1 " 

"  The  guard,'Vsaid  Miss  Garscube. 

"  Who  kissed  the  place  to  make  it  well  1 "  he  continued. 

"  You  might  have  been  killed,"  said  Miss  Adamson. 

"  That  would  not  have  been  a  pretty  story  to  tell,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
need  to  wait  till  I  get  home  for  the  means  of  cure :  '  my  mother  and  I ' 
will  manage  it.     YouVe  not  of  a  pitiful  nature.  Miss  Ckirscube." 

"  I  keep  my  pity  for  a  pitiful  occasion,"  she  said. 

"  If  you  had  grazed  your  hand,  I  would  have  applied  the  prescribed 


cure." 


728  LADY  AETHUB  EILDON'S  DYINO  LSTTEB, 

'*  Well,  but  I'm  very  glad  I  h&ye  not  grazed  my  baad/' 

<'So  am  V  he  said. 

<<  Let  me  see  it,"  she  said.  He  held  it  out  "  Would  something  not 
need  to  be  done  for  it  1 "  she  asked. 

'*  Yes.    Is  it  interesting — as  interesting  as  the  thorn  f " 

"  It  is  nothing/'  said  Lady  Arthur :  "  a  little  lukewarm  water  is  all 
that  it  needs ; ''  and  she  thought,  ^*  That  lad  will  never  do  anything 
either  for  himself  or  to  add  to  the  prestige  of  the  family.  I  hope  his 
cousins  have  more  ability." 

IV. 

But  what  these  cousins  were  to  turn  out  no  one  knew.  They  held 
that  rank  which  gives  a  man  what  is  equivalent  to  a  start  of  half  a  life^ 
time  over  his  fellows,  and  they  promised  well ;  but  they  were  only  boys 
as  yet,  and  Nature  puts  forth  many  a  choice  blossom  and  bud  that  never 
comes  to  maturity,  or,  meeting  with  blight  or  canker  on  the  way,  turns 
out  poor  fruit.  The  eldest,  a  lad  in  his  teens,  was  travelling  on  the 
Continent  with  a  tutor :  the  second,  a  boy  who  had  been  alwa]^s  deliotte/ 
was  at  home  on  account  of  his  health.  Qeorge  Eildon  was  intimate 
with  both,  and  loved  them  with  a  love  as  true  as  that  he  bore  to  Alice 
Garscube :  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  they  had  come  into  the  world 
to  keep  him  out  of  his  inheritance.  He  would  have  laughed  at  such  an 
idea,  lilany  people  would  have  said  that  he  was  laughing  on  the  wrong 
side  of  his  mouth ;  the  worldly  never  can  understand  the  unworldly. 

Mr.  Eildon  gave  Miss  Garscube  credit  for  being  at  least  as  unworldly 
as  himself :  he  believed  thoroughly  in  her  genuineness,  her  fresh  un- 
spotted nature  ;  and,  the  wish  being  very  strong,  he  believed  that  she 
had  a  kindness  for  him. 

When  be  and  his  hand  got  home  he  found  it  quite  able  to  write  her 
a  letter,  or  rather  not  so  much  a  letter  as  a  burst  of  enthusiastic  aspira- 
tion asking  her  to  marry  him. 

She  was  startled  ;  and  never  having  decided  on  anything  in  her  life, 
she  carried  this  letter  direct  to  Lady  Arthur. 

''  Here's  a  thing,''  she  said,  "  that  I  don't  know  what  to  think  of 

"  What  kind  of  thing,  Alice  1 " 

"A  letter." 

'*  Who  is  it  from  1" 

*'  Mr.  Eildon." 
'    '^  Indeed  !  I  should  not  think  a  letter  from  him  would  be  a  complicated 
affair  or  difficult  to  understand." 

"  Neither  is  it :  perhaps  you  would  read  it  1 " 

'<  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it."  When  she  had  read  the  docupaent,  she 
said,  "  WeU,  I  never  gave  George  credit  for  much  wisdom,  but  I  did 


LADY   ARTHUR   EILDON'S   DYING  LETTBR.  729 

not  thing  he  was  foolish  enough  for  a  thing  like  thia ;  and  I  never  sus- 
pected it.  Are  you  in  love  too  V*  and  Lady  Arthur  laughed  heartily  : 
it  seemed  to  strike  her  in  a  comic  light . 

"  No.  I  never  thought  of  it  or  him  either/'  Alice  said,  feeling  queer 
and  uncomfortable. 

''Then  that  simplifies  matters.  I  always  thought  George's  only 
chance  in  life  was  to  marry  a  wealthy  woman,  and  how  many  good, 
accomplished  women  there  are,  positively  made  of  money,  who  would 
give  anything  to  marry  into  our  family  1 " 

"  Are  there? "  said  Alice. 

**  To  be  sure  there  are.  Only  the  other  day  I  read  in  a  newspaper 
that  people  are  all  so  rich  now  money  is  no  distinction  :  rank  is,  how- 
ever. You  can't  make  a  lawyer  or  a  shipowner  or  an  ironmaster  into 
a  peer  of  several  hundred  years'  descent" 

''No  you  can't,"  said  Alice;  "but  Mr.  Eildon  is  not  a  peer  you 
know." 

"  No,  but  he  is  the  grandson  of  one  duke  and  the  nephew  of  another  ; 
and  if  he  could  work  for  it  he  might  have  a  peerage  of  his  own^  or  if  he 
had  great  wealth  he  would  probably  get  one.  For  my  own  part,  I  don't 
count  much  on  rank  or  wealth  "  (she  believed  this),  "  but  they  are  privi- 
leges people  have  no  right  to  throw  away." 

"  Not  even  if  they  don't  care  for  them  1 "  asked  Alice. 

"  No  :  whatever  you  have  it  is  your  duty  to  care  for  and  make  the 
best  of." 

"  Then,  what  am  I  to  say  to  Mr.  Eildon  1 " 

"  Tell  him  it  is  absurd ;  and  whatever  you  say,  put  it  strongly,  that 
there  may  be  no  more  of  it.  Why,  he  must  know  that  you  would  be 
beggars." 

Acting  up  to  her  instructions,  Alice  wrote  thus  to  Mr.  flildon : 

"  Dear  Mr.  Eildon  :  Your  letter  surprised  me.     Lady  Arthur  says 

it  is  absurd ;  besides,  I  don't  care  for  you  a  bit.     I  don't  mean  that  I 

dislike  you,  for  I  don't  dislike  anyone.     We  wonder  you  could   be  so 

foolish,  and  Lady  Arthur  says  there  must  be  no  more  of  it ;  and  she  is 

right     I  hope  you  will  forget  all  about  this,  and  believe  me  to  be  your 

true  friend. 

"AucE  Garscube. 

"P.S.  Lady  Arthur  says  you  haven't  got  anything  to  live  on  ;  but 
if  you  had  all  the  wealth  in  the  world,  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference. 

"A.G." 

This  note  fell  into  George  EilJon's  mind  like  molten  lead  dropped  on 
living  flesh.     "  She  is  not  what  I  took  her  to  be,"  he  said  to  himself, 


730  LADY  ABTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER. 

**  or  she  never  could  have  written  that,  even  at  Lady  Arthur's  sugges- 
tion ;  and  Lady  Arthur  ought  to  have  known  better." 

And  she  certainly  ought  to  have  known  better ;  yet  he  might  have 
found  some  excuse  for  Alice  if  he  had  allowed  himself  to  think,  but  he 
did  not :  he  only  felt,  and  felt  very  keenly. 

In  saying  that  Mr.  Eildon  and  Miss  Qarscube  were  penniless,  the 
remark  is  not  to  be  taken  literally,  for  he  had  an  income  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred pounds,  and  she  had  five  hundred  a  year  of  her  own ;  but  in  the 
eyes  of  people  moving  in  ducal  circles  matrimony  on  two  thousand 
pounds  seems  as  improvident  a  step  as  that  of  the  Irishman  who  marries 
when  he  has  accumulated  sixpence  appears  to  ordinary  beings. 

Mr.  Eildon  spent  six  weeks  at  a  shooting-box  belonging  to  hiB  unde 
the  duke,  after  which  he  went  to  London,  where  he  got  a  post  under 
government — a  place  which  was  by  no  means  a  sinecure,  but  where 
there  was  plenty  of  work  not  overpaid.  Before  leaving  he  called  for  a 
few  minutes  at  Garscube  Hall  to  say  good-bye,  and  that  was  all  they 
saw  of  him. 

Alice  missed  him :  a  very  good  thing,  of  which  she  had  been  as  un- 
conscious as  she  was  of  the  atmosphere,  had  been  withdrawn  from  her 
life.  Oeorge's  letter  had  nailed  him  to  her  memory ;  she  thought  of  him 
very  often,  and  that  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  a  young  lady  to  do  if  she 
means  to  keep  herself  entirely  fancy  free.  She  wondered  if  his  work 
was  very  hard  work,  and  if  he  was  shut  in  an  office  all  day ;  she  did  not 
think  he  was  made  for  that ;  it  seemed  as  unnatural  as  putting  a  bird 
into  a  cage.  She  made  some  remark  of  this  kind  to  Lady  Arthur,  who 
laughed  and  said,  **  Oh,  George  won't  kill  himself  with  hard  work." 
From  that  time  forth  Alice  was  shy  of  speaking  of  him  to  his  aunt. 
But  she  had  kept  his  letter,  and  indulged  herself  with  a  reading  of  it  oc- 
casionally ;  and  every  time  she  read  it  she  seemed  to  understand  it  bet- 
ter. It  was  a  mystery  to  her  how  she  had  been  so  intensely  stupid  as 
not  to  understand  it  at  first.  And  when  she  found  a  copy  of  her  own 
answer  to  it  among  her  papers — one  she  had  thrown  aside  on  account 
of  a  big  blot — she  wondered  if  it  was  possible  she  had  sent  such  a  thing, 
and  tears  of  shame  and  regret  stood  in  her  eyes.  '*  How  frightfully 
blind  I  was  ! "  she  said  to  herself.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it :  the 
thing  was  done,  and  could  not  be  undone.  She  had  grown  in  wisdom 
since  then,  but  most  people  reach  wisdom  through  ignorance  and  folly 

In  these  circumstances  she  found  Miss  Adam^on  a  very  valuable 
friend.  Miss  Adamson  had  never  shared  Lady  Arthur's  low  estimate  of 
Mr.  Eildon  :  she  liked  his  sweet  unworldly  nature,  and  she  had  a  regard 
for  him  as  having  aims  both  lower  and  higher  than  a  "  career."  That 
he  should  love  Miss  Garscube  seemed  to  her  natural  and  good,  and  hap- 
piness might  be  possible  even  to  a  duke's  grandson  on  such  a  pittance 


LADY  AETHUR  KILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  731 

as  two  thoosaDd  pounds  a  year  was  an  article  of  her  belief :  she  pitied 
people  who  go  through  life  sacrificing  the  substance  for  the  shadow. 
Yes,  Miss  Gkirscube  could  speak  of  Mr.  Eildon  to  her  friend  and  teacher, 
and  be  sure  of  some  remark  that  gave  her  comfort 

V. 

A  YEAR  sped  round  again,  and  they  heard  of  Mr.  Eildon  being  in  Scot- 
land at  the  shooting,  and  as  he  was  not  very  far  off,  they  expected  to 
see  him  any  time.  But  it  was  getting  to  the  end  of  September, 
and-  he  paid  no  visit,  when  one  day,  as  the  ladies  were  sitting  at 
luncheon,  he  came  in  looking  very  white  and  agitated.  They  were  all 
startled :  Miss  Oarscube  grew  white  also,  and  felt  herself  trembling. 
Lady  Arthur  rose  hurriedly  and  said,  ^'  What  is  it,  George )  what's 
the  matter  1  ** 

**  A  strange  thing  has  happened,"  he  said.  '*  I  only  heard  of  it  a  few 
minutes  ago:  a  man  rode  after  me  with  the  telegram.  My  cousin 
Oeorge — Lord  Eildon — has  fallen  down  a  crevasse  in  the  Alps  and  been 
killed.  Only  a  week  ago  1  parted  with  him  full  of  life  and  spirit,  and 
I  loved  him  as  if  he  had  been  my  brother ; "  and  he  bent  his  head  to 
hide  tears. 

They  were  all  silent  for  some  moments  :  then  in  a  low  voice  Lady 
Arthur  said,  "  I  am  sorry  for  his  father." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  them  all,"  Oeorge  said.  *'  It  is  terrible ;"  then  after  a 
little  he  said,  *'  Youll  excuse  my  leaving  you  :  I  am  going  to  Eildon  at 
once ;  I  may  be  of  some  service  to  them.  I  don't  know  how  Frank  will 
be  able  to  bear  this." 

After  he  had  gone  away  Alice  felt  how  thoroughly  she  was  nothing 
to  him  now :  there  had  been  no  sign  in  his  manner  that  he  had  ever 
thought  of  her  at  all,  more  than  any  other  ordinary  acquaintance.  If 
he  had  only  looked  to  her  for  the  least  sympathy !  But  he  had  not 
''  If  he  only  knew  how  well  I  understand  him  now  1  '*  she  thought 

*'  It  is  a  dreadful  accident,"  said  Lady  Arthur,  "  and  I  am  sorry  for 
the  duke  and  duchess."  She  said  this  in  a  calm  way.  It  had  always 
been  her  opinion  that  Lord  Arthur's  relations  had  never  seen  the  mag- 
nitude of  her  loss,  and  this  feeling  lowered  the  temperature  of  her  sym- 
pathy, as  a  wind  blowing  over  ice  cools  the  atmosphere.  "I  think 
Greorge's  grief  very  genuine,"  she  continued :  ^*  at  the  same  time  he 
can't  but  see  that  there  is  only  that  delicate  lad's  life,  that  has  been 
hanging  so  long  by  a  hair,  between  him  and  the  title." 

"  Lady  Arthur  ! "  exclaimed  Alice  in  warm  tones. 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  you  are  thinking  me  very  unfeeling,  but  I  am 
not :  I  am  only  a  good  deal  older  than  you.  George's  position  to-day 
is  very  different  from  what  it  was  a  year  ago.  If  he  were  to  write  to 
you  again,  I  would  advise  another  kind  of  answer." 


732  LADY  AETHUB  EILDOK*S  DYING  LETTER. 

*'  He'll  never  write  again/'  said  Alice,  in  a  tone  which  struck  the  ear  of 
Lady  Arthur,  so  that  when  the  young  girl  left  the  room  she  turned  to 
Miss  Adamson  and  said,  *'  Do  you  think  she  really  cares  about  him  ? " 

"  She  has  not  made  me  her  confidante,"  that  lady  answered,  "  but 
my  own  opinion  is  that  she  does  care  a  good  deal  for  Mr.  Eildon." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  T'  exclaimed  Lady  Arthur.  "  She  said  she 
did  not  at  the  time,  and  I  thought  then,  and  think  still,  that  it  would 
not  signify  much  to  George  whom  he  married  ;  and  you  know  he  would 
be  so  much  the  better  for  money.  But  if  he  is  to  be  his  uncle's  suc- 
cessor, that  alters  the  case  entirely.  I'll  go  to  Eildon  myself  and  bring 
him  back  with  me." 

Lady  Arthur  went  to  Eildon  and  mingled  her  tears  with  those  of  the 
stricken  parents,  whose  grief  might  have  moved  a  much  harder  heart 
than  hers.  But  they  did  not  see  the  state  of  their  only  remaining 
son  as  Lady  Arthur  and  others  saw  it ;  for  while  it  was  commonly 
thought  that  he  would  hardly  reach  maturity,  they  were  sanguine  enough 
to  believe  that  he  was  outgrowing  the  delicacy  of  his  childhood. 

Lady  Arthur  asked  G^rge  to  return  with  her  to  Gkurscube  Hall,  but 
he  said  he  could  not  possibly  do  sa  Then  she  said  she  had  told  Miss 
Adamson  and  Alice  that  she  would  bring  him  with  her,  and  they  would 
be  disappointed. 

"  TeU  them,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  very  little  time  to  spare,  and  I 
must  spend  it  Mrith  Frank,  when  I  am  sure  they  will  excuse  me." 

They  excused  him,  but  they  were  not  the  less  disappointed,  all  the 
three  ladies ;  indeed,  they  were  so  much  disappointed  that  they  did  not 
speak  of  the  thing  to  each  other,  as  people  chatter  over  and  thereby 
evaporate  a  trifling  defeat  of  hopes. 

Mr.  Eildon  left  his  cousin  only  to  visit  his  mother  and  sisters  for  a 
day,  and  then  returned  to  London  ;  from  which  it  appeared  that  he  was 
not  excessively  anxious  to  visit  Garscube  Hall. 

But  everything  there  went  on  as  usual.  The  ladies  painted,  they 
went  on  excursions,  they  wrote  ballads ;  still,  there  was  a  sense  of  some- 
thing amiss — the  heart  of  their  lives  seemed  dull  in  its  beat 

The  more  Lady  Arthur  thought  of  having  sent  away  such  a  matrimonial 
prize  from  her  house,  the  more  she  was  chagrined  ;  the  more  Miss  Gar- 
scube tried  not  to  think  of  Mr.  Eildon,  the  more  her  thoughts  would 
tun  upon  him  ;  and  even  Miss  Adamson,  who  had  nothing  to  regret  or 
reproach  herself  with,  could  not  help  being  influenced  by  the  change  of 
atmosphere. 

Lady  Arthur's  thoughts  issued  in  the  resolution  to  re-enter  society 
once  more  ;  which  resolution  she  imparted  to  Miss  Adamson  in  the  first 
instance  by  saying  that  she  meant  to  go  to  London  next  season. 

"  Then  our  plan  of  life  here  will  be  quite  broken  up,"  said  Miss  A. 


LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  733^ 

*'  YeSf  for  a  time." 

''  I  thought  you  diBliked  society ) " 

'^  I  don't  much  like  it :  it  is  on  account  of  Alice  I  am  going.  I  may 
just  as  well  tell  you :  I  want  to  bring  (George  and  her  together  again,  if 
possible.'' 

*'  Will  she  go  if  she  knows  that  is  your  end ) '' 

''  She  need  not  know." 

**  It  is  not  a  very  dignified  course,"  Miss  Adamson  said. 

"  No^  and  if  it  were  an  ordinary  case  I  should  not  think  of  it" 

<*  But  you  think  him  a  very  ordinary  man  f " 

''A  duke  is  different     Consider  what  an  amount  of  influence  Alice- 
would  have,  and  how  well  she  would  use  it;  and  he  may  marry  a  vain,, 
frivolous,  senseless  woman,  incapable  of  a  good  action.     Indeed,  most 
likely,  for  such  people  are  sure  to  hunt  him." 

**  1  would  not  join  in  the  hunt,"  said  Miss  Adamson.  "  If  he  is  the 
man  you  suppose  him  to  be,  the  wound  his  self-love  got  will  have  killed 
his  love ;  and  if  he  is  the  man  I  think,  no  hunters  will  make  him  their 
prey.  A  small  man  would  know  instantly  why  you  went  to  London,  and 
enjoy  his  triumph." 

**  I  don't  think  George  would  :  he  is  too  simple ;  but  if  I  did  not 
think  it  a  positive  duty,  I  would  not  go.  However,  we  shall  see  :  I 
don't  think  of  going  before  the  middle  of  January." 

Positive  duties  can  be  like  the  animals  that  change  colour  with  what 
they  feed  on* 

VI. 

When  the  middle  of  January  came.  Lady  Arthur,  who  had  never  had 
an  illness  in  her  life,  was  measuring  her  strength  in  a  hand-to-hand 
struggle  with  fever.  The  water  was  blamed,  the  drainage  was  blamed, 
various  things  were  blamed.  Whether  it  came  in  the  water  or  out  of 
the  drains,  gastric  fever  had  arrived  at  Garscube  Hall :  the  gardener 
took  it,  his  daughter  took  it,  also  Thomas  the  footman,  and  others  of 
the  inhabitants,  as  well  as  Lady  Arthur.  The  doctor  of  the  place  came 
and  lived  in  the  house ;  besides  that,  two  of  the  chief  medical  men 
from  town  paid  almost  daily  visits.  Bottles  of  the  water  supplied  to 
the  hall  were  sent  to  eminent  chemists  for  analysis  :  the  drainage  was 
thoroughly  examined,  and  men  were  set  to  make  it  as  perfect  and  inno- 
cuous as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  drainage  to  be. 

Lady  Arthur  wished  Miss  Adamson  and  Alice  to  leave  the  place  for 
a  time,  but  they  would  not  do  so :  neither  of  them  was  afraid,  and  they 
stayed  and  nursed  her  ladyship  well,  relieving  each  other  as  it  was  ne- 
cessary. 

At  one  point  of  her  illness  Lady  Arthur  said  to  Miss  Adamson,  who- 


734  LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON's  DYING  LETTER. 

was  alone  with  her,  "  Well,  I  never  counted  on  this.  Oar  familj  have 
all  had  a  trick  of  living  to  extreme  old  age,  never  dying  till  they  could 
not  help  it ;  but  it  will  be  grand  to  get  away  so  soon." 

"  Miss  Adamson  looked  at  her. 

**  Tes,"  she  said,  "  it's  a  poor  thing,  life,  after  the  glory  of  it  is  gone, 
and  I  have  always  had  an  intense  curiosity  to  see  what  is  beyond.  I 
never  could  see  the  sense  of.  making  a  great  ado  to  keep  people  alive 
after  they  are  fifty.  Don't  look  surprised.  How  are  the  rest  of  the 
people  that  are  ill )  "  She  often  asked  for  them,  and  expressed  great 
satisfaction  when  told  they  were  recovering.  **  It  will  be  all  right,"  she 
said,  ''  if  I  am  the  only  death  in  the  place ;  but  there  is  one  thing  I 
want  you  to  do.  Send  off  a  telegram  to  George  Eildon  and  tell  him  I 
want  to  see  him  immediately  :  a  dying  person  can  say  what  a  living  one 
can't,  and  I'll  make  it  all  right  between  Alice  and  him  before  I  go." 

Miss  Adamson  despatched  the  telegram  to  Mr.  Eildon,  knowing  that 
she  could  not  refuse  to  do  Lady  Arthur's  bidding  at  such,  a  time,  al- 
though her  feeling  was  against  it.  The  answer  came  :  Mr.  Eildon  had 
just  sailed  for  Australia. 

When  Lady  Arthur  heard  this  she  said,  "I'll  write  to  him."  When 
she  had  finished  writing  she  said,  **  You'll  send  this  to  him  whenever 
you  get  his  address.  I  wish  we  could  have  sent  it  off  at  once,  for  it 
will  be  provoking  if  I  don't  die,  after  all ;  and  I  positively  begin  to  feel 
as  if  that  were  not  going  to  be  my  luck  at  this  time." 

Although  she  spoke  in  this  way,  Miss  Adamson  knew  it  was  not  from 
foolish  irreverence.  She  recovered,  and  all  who  had  had  the  fever 
recovered,  which  was  remarkable,  for  in  other  places  it  had  been  very 
fatal. 

With  Lady  Arthur's  returning  strength  things  at  the  hall  wore  into 
their  old  channels  again.  When  it  was  considered  safe  many  visits  of 
congratulation  were  paid,  and  among  others  who  came  were  George 
Eildon's  mother  and  some  of  his  sisters.  They  were  constantly  having 
letters  from  Oeorge :  he  had  gone  off  very  suddenlj',  and  it  was  not  cer- 
tain when  he  might  return. 

Alice  heard  of  Oeorge  Eildon  with  interest,  but  not  with  the  vital 
interest  she  had  felt  for  him  for  a  time :  that  had  worn  away.  She  had 
done  her  best  to  this  end  by  keeping  herself  always  occupied,  aiul  many 
things  had  happened  in  the  interval ;  besides,  she  had  grown  a  wo  nan, 
with  all  the  good  sense  and  right  feeling  belong  to  womanhood,  and  she 
would  be  ashamed  to  cherish  a  love  for  one  who  had  entirely  forgotten 
her.  She  dismissed  her  childish  letter,  which  had  given  her  so  much 
vexation,  from  her  memory,  feeling  sure  that  George  EUdon  had  also 
forgotten  it  long  ago.  She  did  not  know  of  the  letter  Lady  Arthur  had 
written  when  she  believed  herself  to  be  dying,  and  it  was  well  she  did 
not. 


LADY  AKTHUB  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  735^ 

VII. 

EviBT  one  who  watched  the  sun  rise  on  New  Year's  morning  1875, 
will  bear  witness  to  the  beauty  of  the  sight.  Snow  had  been  lying  all 
over  the  country  for  some  time,  and  a  fortnight  of  frost  had  made  it  hard 
and  dry  and  crisp.  The  streams  must  have  felt  very  queer  when  they^ 
were  dropping  off  into  the  mesmeric  trance,  and  found  themselves  stopped 
in  the  very  act  of  running,  their  supple  limbs  growing  stiff  and  heavy 
and  their  voices  dying  in  their  throats,  till  they  were  thrown  into 
a  deep  sleep,  and  a  strange,  white,  still,  glassy  beauty  stole  over  them 
by  the  magic  power  of  frost  The  sun  got  up  rather  late,  ho  doubt — 
between  eight  and  nine  o'clock — probably  saying  to  himself,  ''These 
people  think  1  have  lost  my  power — that  the  Ice  King  has  it  all  his  own 
way.    Ill  let  them  see  :  I'll  make  his  glory  pale  before  mine." 

Lady  Arthur  was  standing  at  her  window  when  she  saw  him  look 
over  the  shoulder  of  a  hill  and  throw  a  brilliant  deep  gold  light  all  over 
the  land  covered  with  snow  as  with  a  garment,  and  every  minute  crys- 
tal glittered  as  if  minute  little  eyes  had  suddenly  opened  and  were 
gleaming  and  winking  under  his  gaze.  To  say  that  the  bosom  of  Mother 
Earth  was  crushed  with  diamonds  is  to  give  the  impression  of  dullness 
unless  each  diamond  could  be  endowed  with  life  and  emotion.  Then  he 
threw  out  shaft  after  shaft  of  colour — scarlet  and  crimson  and  blue  and 
amber  and  green — which  gleamed  along  the  heavens,  kindling  the  cold 

white  snow  below  them  into  a  passion  of  beauty :  the  colours  floated  and 
changed  form,  and  mingled  and  died  away.    Then  the  sun  drew  his 

thick  winter  clouds  about  him,  disappeared,  and  was  no  more  seen  that 

day.     He  had  vindicated  his  majesty. 

Lady  Arthur  thought  it  was  going  to  be  a  bright  winter  day,  and  at 
breakfast  she  proposed  a  drive  to  Cockhoolet  Castle,  an  old  place  within 
driving  distance  to  which  she  paid  periodical  visits :  they  would  take 
luncheon  on  the  battlements  and  see  all  over  the  country,  which  must 
be  looking  grand  in  its  bridal  attire. 

John  was  called  in  and  asked  if  he  did  not  think  it  was  going  to  be  a 
fine  day.  He  glanced  through  the  window  at  the  dark  suspicious-look- 
ing clouds  and  said,  "  Weel,  my  leddy.  Til  no  uphaud  it."  This  was 
the  answer  of  a  courtier  and  an  oracle,  not  to  mention  a  Scotchman.  It 
did  not  contradict  Lady  Arthur,  it  did  not  commit  himself,  and  it  was 
cautious. 

'<  I  think  it  will  be  a  fine  day  of  its  kind,"  said  the  lady,  ''  and  we'll, 
drive  to  Cockhoolet,  have  the  carriage  ready  at  ten." 

'*  If  we  dinna  wun  a'  the  gate,  we  can  but  turn  again,"  John  thought 
as  he  retired  to  execute  his  orders. 

"  It  is  not  looking  so  well  as  it  did  in  the  morning,"  said  Misa  AdamT 


736  LADY  ARTHTTR  EILDON'S  DTINQ  LETTBB. 

son  as  they  entered  the  carriage,  '*  but  if  we  have  an  adventare  we  diall 
be  the  better  for  it." 

^*  We  shall  have  no  such  luck/'  said  I^ady  Arthur  :  "  what  ever  hap- 
pens out  of  the  usual  way  now  t  There  used  to  be  glorious  anow-storms 
long  ago,  but  the  winters  have  lost  their  rigour,  and  there  are  no  such^ 
long  summer  days  now  as  they  were  when  I  was  young.  Ndther  per- 
sons nor  things  have  that  spirit  in  them  that  they  used  to  have ; "  and 
she  smiled,  catching  in  diought  the  fact  that  to  the  young  the  world  is 
still  as  fresh  and  £air  as  it  has  hi^pened  to  all  the  successive  generations 
it  has  carried  on  its  surface. 

<<  This  is  a  wiselike  expedition,"  said  Thomas  to  John. 

'<  Ay,"  said  John.  *'  Tm  mista'en  if  this  is  no  a  day  that'll  be  heard 
tell  o'  yet ; "  and  they  mounted  to  their  respective  places  and  started. 

The  sky  was  very  grim  and  the  wind  had  been  gradually  rising. 
The  three  ladies  sat  each  in  her  ocmier,  saying  little,  and  feeling  that 
this  drive  was  certainly  a  means  to  an  end,  and  not  an  end  in  itselfl 
Their  pace  had  not  been  very  quick  from  the  first,  but  it  became  gra- 
dually slower,  and  the  hard  dry  snow  was  drifting  past  the  windows  in 
cloudbs.  At  last  they  came  to  a  stand  altogether,  and  John  appeared  at 
the  window  like  a  white  column  and  said, ''  My  leddy,  we'll  hae  to  stop 
here." 

"  Stop  I  why  1  " 

*'  Because  it's  impossible  to  wun  cmy  farrer." 

^*  Nonsense !    There's  no  such  word  as  impossible." 

"  The  beasts  might  maybe  get  through,  but  they  waed  leave  the  car- 
riage ahint  them." 

"  Let  me  out  to  look  about,"  said  Lady  Arthur. 

"  Ye  had  better  bide  where  ye  are,"  said  John,  '*  there's  naettiing  to 
be  seen,  and  ye  wad  but  get  yersel'  a'  snaw.  We  might  try  to  gang 
back  the  road  ye  cam." 

*'  Decidedly  not,"  said  Lady  Arthur,  whose  spirits  were  rising  to  the 
occasion  :  *^  we  can't  be  far  from  Oockhoolet  here  t " 

*<  Between  twa  and  three  mile,"  said  John  dryly. 

*'  We'll  get  out  and  walk,"  said  her  ladyship,  looking  at  die  other 
ladies. 

"  Wi'  the  wind  in  yer  teeth,  and  sinking  up  to  yer  cuits  at  every 
step  t  Ye  wad  either  be  blawn  ower  the  muir  like  a  feathe,  or  planted 
amang  the  snaw  like  Lot's  wife.  I  might  maybe  force  my  way  through, 
but  I  canna  leave  the  horses,"  said  John. 

Lady  Arthur  was  fiilly  more  concerned  for  her  horses  than  herself: 
she  said,  '^  Take  out  the  horses  and  go  to  Oockhoolet :  leave  them  to 
rest  and  feed,  and  tell  Mr.  Ormiston  to  send  for  us.  We'll  ait  here 
very  comfortably  till  you  come  back :  it  won't  take  you  long.  Thomas 
will  go  too,  but  give  us  in  the  luncheon  basket  first" 


LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  737 

The  men  being  refreshed  from  the  basket,  set  off  with  the  horses, 
leaving  the  ladies  getting  rapidly  snowed  up  in  the  carriage.  As  the 
wind  rose  almost  to  a  gale,  Lady  Arthar  remarked  *'  that  it  was  at  least 
better  to  be  stack  firm  among  the  snow  than  to  be  blown  away." 

It  is  a  grand  thing  to  suffer  in  a  great  cause,  but  if  you  suffer  merely 
because  you  have  done  a  **  daftlike  "  thing,  the  satisfaction  is  not  the 
same. 

The  snow  sifted  into  the  carriage  at  the  minutest  crevice  like  fine 
dust,  and,  melting,  became  cold,  clammy  and  uncomfortable.  To  be  set 
down  in  a  glass  case  on  a  moor  without  shelter  in  the  height  of  a  snow- 
storm has  only  one  commendation :  it  is  an  uncommon  situation,  a  novel 
experience.  The  ladies— at  least  Lady  Arthur — must,  one  would  think, 
have  felt  foolish,  but  it  is  a  chief  qualification  in  a  leader  that  he  never 
acknowledges  that  he  is  in  the  wrong :  if  he  once  does  that,  his  prestige 
is  gone. 

The  first  hour  of  isolation  wore  away  pretty  well,  owing  to  the  novelty 
of  the  position  ;  and  the  second  also,  being  devoted  to  luncheon ;  the 
third  dragged  a  good  deal ;  but  when  it  came  to  the  fourth,  with  light 
beginning  to  fail  and  no  word  of  rescue,  matters  looked  serious.  The 
cold  was  becoming  intense — a  chill,  damp  cold  that  struck  every  living 
thing  through  and  through.  What  could  be  keeping  the  men  9  Had 
they  lost  their  way,  or  what  could  possibly  have  happened  t 

*'  This  is  something  like  an  adventure,''  said  Lady  Arthur  cheerily. 

"  It  might  pass  for  one,"  said  Miss  Adamson,  "  if  we  could  see  our 
way  out  of  it.     I  wonder  if  we  shall  have  to  sit  here  all  night  9 " 

"  If  we  do,''  said  Lady  Arthur,  "  we  can  have  no  hope  of  wild  beasts 
scenting  us  out  or  of  being  attacked  by  banditti" 

*'  Nor  of  any  enamoured  gentleman  coming  to  the  rescue,"  said  Miss 
Adamson  :  '^  it  will  end  tamely  enough.  I  remember  reading  a  story 
of  travel  among  savages,  in  which  at  the  close  of  the  monthly  instalment 
the  travellers  were  left  buried  alive  except  their  heads,  which  were 
above  ground,  but  set  on  fire.  That  was  a  very  striking  situation,  yet 
it  all  came  right ;  so  there  is  hope  for  us,  I  think." 

**  Oh,  don't  make  me  laugh,"  said  Alice :  '*  I  really  can't  laugh,  I  am 
so  stiff  with  cold." 

'^  It's  a  fine  discipline  to  our  patience  to  sit,"  said  Lady  Arthur.  **  If 
I  had  thought  we  should  have  to  wait  so  long,  I  would  have  tried  what  I 
could  do  while  it  was  light" 

VIII. 

At  length  they  heard  a  movement  among  the  snow,  and  voices,  and 
immediately  a  light  appeared  at  the  window,  shining  through  the  snow- 
blind,  which  was  swept  down  by  an  arm  and  the  carriage-door  opened. 


788  LADY  ABTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER. 

*'  Are  you  all  safe  t ''  were  the  first  words  thej  heard. 
''In  the  name  of  wonder,  George,  how  are  you  herel    Where  are 
John  and  Thomas  t "  cried  Lady  Arthur. 

**  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  after/'  said  G^rge  Eildon  :  "  the  thing  is 
to  get  you  out  of  this  scrape.     I  have  a  farm-cart  And  pair,  and  two 
men  to  help  me :  you  must  just  put  up  with  roughing  it  a  little." 
"  Oh,  I  am  so  thankful ! "  said  Alice. 

The  ladies  were  assisted  out  of  the  carriage  into  the  cart,  and  settled 
among  plenty  of  straw  and  rugs  and  shawls,  with  their  backs  to  the 
blast  Mr.  Eildon  shut  the  door  of  the  carriage,  which  was  left  to  its 
fate,  and  then  got  in  and  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  ladies.  Mr.  Ormiston's 
servant  mounted  the  trace-horse  and  Thomas  sat  on  front  of  the  cart,  and 
the  cavalcade  started  to  toil  through  the  snow. 

"  Do  tell  us,  C^rge,  how  you  are  here.  I  thought  it  was  only  heroes 
of  romance  that  turned  up  when  their  services  were  desperately  needed.'' 
"  There  have  been  a  good  many  heroes  of  romance  to-day,"  said  Mr. 
Eildon.  ''  The  railways  have  been  blocked  in  all  directions ;  three 
trains  with  about  six  hundred  passengers  have  been  brought  to  a  stand 
at  the  Drumhead  Station  near  this ;  many  of  the  people  have  been  half 
frozen  and  sick  and  fainting.  I  was  in  the  train  going  south,  and  very 
anxious  to  get  on,  but  it  was  impossible.  I  got  to  Cockhoolet  with  a 
number  of  exhausted  travellers  just  as  your  man  arrived,  and  we  came 
off  as  soon  as  we  could  to  look  for  you.  You  have  stood  the  thing 
much  better  than  many  of  my  fellow-travellers." 

"  Indeed  1 "  said  Lady  Arthur,  ''  and  have  all  the  poor  people  got 
housed  ? " 

''  Most  of  them  are  at  the  station-house  and  various  farm-houses.  Mr. 
Forester,  Mr.  Ormiston's  son-in-law,  started  to  bring  up  the  last  of 
them  just  as  I  started  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  have  enjoyed  it,"  Lady  Arthur  said,  "  but  how 
are  we  to  get  home  to-night  9 " 

"  You'll  not  get  home  to-night :  you'll  have  to  stay  at  Oockhoolet, 
and  be  glad  if  you  can  get  home  to-morrow."   * 

**  And  where  have  you  come  from,  and  where  are  you  going  to  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  I  came  &om  London — I  have  only  been  a  week  home  from  Australia 
and  I  am  on  my  way  to  Eildon.    But  here  we  are." 

And  the  hospitable  doors  of  Cockhoolet  were  thrown  wide,  sending  out 
a  glow  of  light  to  welcome  the  belated  travellers. 

Mrs.  Ormiston  and  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Forester — who«  with  her 
husband,  was  on  a  visit  at  Cockhoolet — received  them  and  took  them  to 
rooms  where  fires  made  what  seemed  tropical  heat  compared  with  the 
atmosphere  in  the  glass  case  on  the  moor. 


LADY  AKTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  739 

Miss  Oarscube  was  able  for  nothing  bat  to  go  to  bed,  and  Miss  Adam- 
son  stayed  with  her  in  the  room  called  Queen  Mary's,  being  the  room 
that  unfortunate  lady  occupied  when  she  visited  Cockhoolet. 

Ou  this  night  the  castle  must  have  thought  old  times  had  come  back 
again,  there  was  such  a  large  and  miscellaneous  company  beneath  its 
roof.  But  where  were  the  knights  in  armour,  the  courtiers  in  velvet  and 
satin,  the  boars'  heads,  the  venison  pasties,  the  wassail  bowls )  Where 
were  the  stately  dames  in  stiff  brocade,  the  shaven  priests,  the  fool  in 
motley,  the  vassals,  the  yeomen  in  hodden  gray  and  broad  blue  bon- 
net )    Not  there,  certainly. 

No  doubt.  Lady  Arthur  Eildon  was  a  direct  descendant  of  one  of 
"  the  Queen's  Maries,"  but  in  her  rusty  black  gown,  her  old  black  bon- 
net set  awry  on  her  head,  her  red  face,  her  stout  figure,  made  stouter 
by  a  sealskin  jacket,  you  could  not  at  a  glance  see  the  connection.  The 
house  of  Eildon  was  pretty  closely  connected  with  the  house  of  Stuart, 
but  George  Eildon  in  his  tweed  suit,  waterproof  and  wideawake,  looked 
neither  royal  nor  romantic.  We  may  be  almost  sure  that  there  was  a 
fool  or  fools  in  the  company,  but  they  did  not  wear  motley.  In  short, 
as  yet  it  is  not  difficult  to  connect  the  idea  of  romance  with  railway 
rugs,  waterproofs.  India-rubbers  and  wideawakes  and  the  steam  of  tea 
and  coffee  :  three  hundred  years  hence  perhaps  it  may  be  possiUe.  Who 
knows  ?  But  for  all  that,  romances  go  on,  we  may  be  sure,  whether 
people  are  clad  in  velvet  or  hodden  gray. 

Lady  Arthur  was  framing  a  romance — a  romance  which  had  as  much 
of  the  purely  worldly  in  it  as  a  romance  can  hold.  She  found  that 
George  was  on  his  way  to  see  his  cousin,  Lord  Eildon,  who,  within  two 
days,  had  had  a  severe  access  of  illness.  It  seemed  to  her  a  matter  of 
certainty  that  George  would  be  Duke  of  Eildon  some  day.  If  she  had 
only  had  the  capacity  to  have  despatched  that  letter  she  had  written, 
when  she  believed  she  was  dying,  after  him  to  Australia !  Could  she 
send  it  to  him  yet  9  She  hesitated  :  she  could  hardly  bring  herself  to 
compromise  the  dignity  of  Alice,  and  her  own.  She  had  a  short  talk 
with  him  before  they  had  separated  for  the  night 

"  I  think  you  should  go  home  by  railway  to-morrow,**  he  said.  ^^  It 
is  blowing  fresh  now,  and  the  trains  will  all  be  running  to-morrow.  I 
am  sorry  I  have  to  go  by  the  first  in  the  morning,  so  I  shall  probably 
not  see  you  then." 

"  1  don't  know/^  she  said :  "it  is  a  question  if  Alice  will  be  able  to 
travel  at  all  to-morrow." 

*<  She  is  not  ill,  is  she  ?  "  he  said.  ^'  It  is  only  a  little  fatigue  from 
exposure  that  ails  her,  isn't  it  f " 

*'  But  it  may  have  bad  consequences,"  said  Lady  Arthur :  "  one  never 
can  tell ; "  and  she  spoke  in  an  injured  way,  for  George's  tones  were 
6 


740  LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER. 

not  encouraging.  "  And  John,  my  coachman — I  haven't  seen  him — he 
ought  to  have  been  at  hand  at  least :  if  I  oould  depend  on  any  one,  I 
thought  it  was  him.'' 

"  Why,  he  was  overcome  in  the  drift  to-day  :  your  other  man  had  to 
leave  him  behind  and  ride  forward  for  help.  It  was  digging  him  oat  of 
the  snow  that  kept  us  so  long  in  getting  to  you.  He  has  been  in  bed 
ever  since,  but  he  is  getting  round  quite  well.'' 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  that  sooner,"  she  said. 

''  I  did  not  want  to  alarm  you  unnecessarily.'* 

''I  must  go  and  see  him  ; ''  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to  say  good- 
night. "  But  you'll  come  to  Gkrscube  Hall  soon :  I  shall  be  anxious  to 
hear  what  you  think  of  Frank     When  will  you  come  ?" 

"  ril  write,"  he  said. 

Lady  Arthur  felt  that  opportunity  was  slipping  from  her,  and  she 
grew  desperate.  "Speaking  of  writing,"  she  said,  **I  wrote  to  you 
when  I  had  the  fever  last  year  and  thought  I  was  dying :  would  you  like 
to  see  that  letter  1 " 

"  No,"  he  said :  "  I  prefer  you  living." 

<*  Have  you  no  curiosity  t  People  can  say  things  dying  that  they 
could'nt  say  living,  perhaps." 

"  Well,  they  have  no  business  to  do  so,"  he  said.  ^^  It  is  taking  an 
unfair  advantage,  which  a  generous  nature  never  does ;  besides,  it  is 
more  solemn  to  live  than  die." 

"  Then  you  don't  want  the  letter  1 ' ' 

**  Oh  yes,  if  you  like." 

"  Very  well :  I'll  think  of  it.  Can  you  show  me  the  way  to  John's 
place  of  refuge  1 " 

They  found  John  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  Mrs.  Ormiston  ministering 
to  him  :  the  remains  of  a  fowl  were  on  a  plate  beside  him,  and  he  was 
lifting  a  glass  of  something  comfortable  to  his  lips. 

"  I  never  knew  of  this,  John,"  said  his  mistress,  '*  till  just  a  few 
minutes  ago.    This  is  sad." 

*'  Weel,  it  doesna  look  very  sad,"  said  John,  eyeing  the  plate  and  the 
glass.  *'  Yer  leddyship  and  me  hae  gang  mony  a  daftlike  road,  but  I  tiiink 
we  fairly  catched  it  the  day." 

*'  I  don't  know  how  we  can  be  grateful  enough  to  you,  Mrs.  Ormis- 
ton," said  Lady  Arthur,  turning  to  their  hostess. 

<'  Well,  you  know  we  could  hardly  be  so  churlish  as  to  shut  our  doors 
on  stormHBtayed  travellers  :  we  are  very  glad  that  we  had  it  in  our  power 
to  help  them  a  little." 

'<  It's  by  ordinar'  gude  quarters/'  said  John  :  ''  I'veraiUy  enjoyed  that 
hen.  Is  't  no  time  yer  leddyship  was  in  yer  bed,  afto  docan  a  day's 
wark  1 '- 


LADY  ARTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER.  741 

''  We'll  take  the  hint,  John/'  said  Lady  Arthur ;  and  in  a  little  while 
longer  most  of  Mrs.  Ormiston's  unexpected  guests  had  lost  sight  of  the 
day's  adventure  in  sleep. 

IX. 

By  dawn  of  the  winter's  morning  all  the  company,  the  railway  pil- 
grims, were  astir  again — not  to  visit  a  shrine,  or  attend  a  tournament, 
or  to  go  hunting  or  hawking,  or  to  engage  in  a  foray  or  rieving  expedi- 
tion, as  guests  of  former  days  at  the  castle  may  have  done,  but  quietly 
to  make  their  way  to  the  station  as  the  different  trains  came  up,  the 
fresh  wind  having  done  more  to  clear  the  way  than  the  army  of  men 
that  had  been  set  to  work  with  pickaxe  and  shovel.  But  although  the 
railway  and  the  tweeds  and  the  India  nibbers  were  modem,  the  castle 
and  the  snow  and  the  hospitality  were  all  very  old-fashioned — the  snow 
as  old  as  that  lying  round  the  North  Pole,  and  as  unadulterated ;  the 
hospitality  old  as  when  Eve  entertained  Raphael  in  Eden,  and  as  true, 
blessing  those  that  give  and  those  that  take. 

Mr.  Eildon  left  with  the  first  party  that  went  to  the  station ;  Lady 
Arthur  and  the  young  ladies  went  away  at  midday  ;  John  was  left  to 
take  care  of  himself  and  his  carriage  till  both  should  be  more  fit  for 
travelling. 

Of  the  three  ladies,  Alice  had  suffered  most  from  the  severe  cold,  and 
it  was  some  time  before  she  entirely  recovered  from  the  effects  of  it. 
Lady  Arthur  convinced  herself  that  it  was  not  merely  the  effects, of  cold 
she  was  suffering  from,  and  talked  the  case  over  with  Miss  Adamson, 
but  that  lady  stoutly  rejected  Lady  Arthur's  idea  ;  '*  Miss  Garscube  has 
got  over  that  long  ago,  and  so  has  Mr.  Eildon,"  she  said  drily.  "  Alice 
has  far  more  sense  than  to  nurse  a  feeling  for  a  man  evidently  indifferent 
to  her."  These  two  ladies  had  exchanged  opinions  exactly.  George 
Eildon  had  only  called  once,  and  on  a  day  when  they  were  all  from  home : 
he  had  written  several  times  to  his  aunt  regarding  Lord  Eildon's  health, 
and  Lady  Arthur  had  written  to  him  and  told  him  her  anxiety  about  the 
iiealth  of  Alice.  He  expressed  sympathy  and  concern,  as  his  mother 
might  have  done,  but  Lady  Arthur  would  not  allow  herself  to  see  that 
the  case  was  desperate. 

She  had  a  note  from  her  sister-in-law,  Lady  George,  who  said  '*  that 
she  had  just  been  at  Eildon,  and  in  her  opinion  Frank  was  going,  but 
his  parents  either  can't  or  won't  see  this,  or  G^rge  either.  It  is  a  sad 
ease — so  young  a  man  and  with  such  prospects — but  the  world  abounds 
with  bad  things,"  etc>,  etc.  But  sad  as  the  world  is,  it  is  shrewd  with  ^ 
wisdom  of  its  own,  and  it  hardly  believed  in  the  grief  of  Lady  George 
for  an  event  which  would  place  her  own  son  in  a  position  of  honour  and 


742  LADY   ARTHUB  EILDON*S  DYING  LETTER. 

affluence.  But  many  a  time  George  Eildon  recoiled  from  the  people 
who  did  not  conceal  their  opinion  that  he  might  not  be  broken-hearted 
at  the  death  of  his  cousin.  There  is  nothing  that  true,  honourable,  un- 
worldly natures  shrink  from  more  than  having  low,  unworthy  feelings 
and  motives  attributed  to  them. 

X. 

Lady  Arthur  Eildon  made  up  her  mind.  "  I  am  supposed/'  she  said 
to  herself,  "  to  be  eccentric  :  why  not  get  the  good  of  such  a  character  ! " 
She  enclosed  her  dying  letter  to  her  nephew,  which  was  nothing  leas 
than  an  appeal  to  him  on  behalf  of  Alice,  assuring  him  of  her  belief  that 
Alice  bitterly  regretted  the  answer  she  had  given  his  letter,  and  that  if 
she  had  it  do  over  again  it  would  be  very  different.  When  Lady  Arthur 
did  this  she  felt  that  she  was  not  doing  as  she  would  be  done  by,  but  the 
stake  was  too  great  not  to  try  a  last  throw  for  it.  In  an  accompanying 
note  she  said,  "  I  believe  that  the  statements  in  this  letter  still  hold  trua 
I  blamed  myself  afterward  for  having  influenced  Alice  when  she  wrote  to 
you,  and  now  I  have  absolved  my  conscience."  (Lady  Arthur  put  it 
thus,  but  she  hardly  succeeded  in  making  herself  believe  it  was  a  case  of 
conscience :  she  was  too  sharp-witted.  It  is  self-complacent  stupidity 
that  is  morally  small.)  *^  If  this  letter  is  of  no  interest  to  you,  I  am  sure 
I  am  trusting  it  to  honourable  hands.'' 

She  got  an  answer  immediately.  '^  I  thank  you,"  Mr.  Eildon  said, 
<'  for  your  letters,  ancient  and  modem :  they  are  both  in  the  fire,  and  so 
far  as  1  am  concerned  shall  be  as  if  they  had  never  been." 

It  was  in  vain,  then,  all  in  vain,  that  she  had  humbled  herself  before 
George  Eildon.  Not  only  had  her  scheme  failed,  but  her  pride  suffered, 
as  your  finger  suffers  when  the  point  of  it  is  shut  by  accident  in  the 
binge  of  a  door.  The  pain  was  terrible.  She  forgot  her  conscience,  how 
she  had  dealt  treacherously — for  her  good,  as  she  believed,  but  still  trea- 
cherously— with  Alice  Oarscube :  she  forgot  everything  but  her  own 
pain,  and  those  about  her  thought  that  decidedly  she  was  very  eccentric 
at  this  time.  She  snubbed  her  people,  she  gave  orders  and  counter, 
manded  them,  so  that  her  servants  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  leave 
undone,  and  they  shook  their  heads  among  themselves  and  remarked 
that  the  moon  was  the  full 

But  of  course  the  moon  waned,  and  things  calmed  down  a  little.  In  the 
next  note  she  received  from  her  sister-in-law,  among  other  items  of  news 
she  was  told  that  her  nephew  meant  to  visit  her  shortly—"  Probably," 
said  his  mother,  "  this  week,  but  I  think  it  will  only  be  a  calL  He  says 
Lord  Eildon  is  rather  better,  which  has  put  us  all  in  good  spirits." 

Now,  Lady  Arthur  did  not  wish  to  see  Geoi^  Eildon  at  this  time— 


LADY  ARTHUR   EILDON'S   DYING  LETTER.  743 

not  that  she  oould  not  keep  a  perfect  and  dignified  composure  in  any  cir- 
cumstances, but  her  pride  was  still  in  the  hinge  of  the  door — and  she 
wentfromhome  everyday.  Three  days  she  had  business  in  town  :  the  other 
days  she  drove  to  call  on  people  living  in  the  next  county.  As  she  did 
not  care  for  going  about  alone,  she  took  Miss  Adamson  always  with  her, 
but  Alice  only  once  or  twice :  she  was  hardly  able  for  extra  fatigue 
every  day.  But  Miss  Grarscube  was  recovering  health  and  spirits,  and 
looks  also,  and  when  Lady  Arthur  left  her  behind  she  thought,  "  Well, 
if  Greorge  calls  to^ay,  he'll  see  that  he  is  not  a  necessary  of  life  at  least." 
She  felt  very  grateful  that  it  was  so,  and  had  no  objections  that  George 
should  see  it 

He  did  see  it,  for  he  called  that  day,  but  he  had  not  the  least  feeling 
of  mortification  :  ho  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  Alice  looking  so  well, 
and  he  had  never,  he  thought,  seen  her  look  better.  After  they  had 
spoken  in  the  most  quiet  and  friendly  way  for  a  little  she  said,  **  And 
how  is  your  cousin.  Lord  £ildon  1 " 

"  Nearly  well :  his  constitution  seems  at  last  fairly  to  have  taken  a 
turn  in  the  right  direction.  The  doctors  say  that  not  only  is  he  likely 
to  live  as  long  as  any  of  us,  but  that  the  probability  is  he  will  be  a  ro- 
bust man  yet.'' 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  of  it — I  am  heartily  glad  of  it." 

"  Why  are  you  so  very  glad  ? " 

"  Because  you  are  :  it  has  made  you  very  happy  —you  look  so.** 

"  I  am  excessively  happy  because  you  believe  I  am  happy.  Many 
people  don't :  many  people  think  I  am  disappointed.  My  own  mother 
thinks  so,  and  yet  she  is  a  good  woman.  People  will  believe  that  you 
wish  the  death  of  your  dearest  friend  if  he  stands  between  you  and 
material  good.  It  is  horrible,  and  I  have  been  courted  and  worshipped 
as  the  rising  sun  ;"  and  he  laughed,  "  One  can  afibrd  to  laugh  at  it 
now,  but  it  was  very  sickening  at  the  time.  I  can  afford  anything,  Alice  : 
I  believe  I  can  even  afford  to  marry,  if  you'll  marry  a  hard-working  man 
instead  of  a  duke." 

*•  Oh,  George,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  ashamed  of  that  letter  I  wrote." 

^'  It  was  a  wicked  little  letter,"  he  said,  "  but  I  suppose  it  was  the 
truth  at  the  time  :  say  it  is  not  true  now." 

"  It  is  not  true  now,"  she  repeated,  **  but  I  have  not  loved  you  very 
dearly  all  the  time  :  and  if  you  had  married  I  should  have  been  very 
happy,  if  you  had  been  happy.  But  oh,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  "this  is  far  better." 

**  You  love  me  now  1 " 

"  Unutterably." 

"  I  have  loved  you  all  the  time,  all  the  time.  I  should  not  have  been 
happy  if  I  had  heard  of  your  marriage." 


744  LADY  ABTHUR  EILDON'S  DYING  LETTER. 

**  Then  how  were  you  so  cold  and  distant  the  day  we  stuck  on  the 
moor  ? " 

"  Because  it  was  excessively  cold  weather :  I  was  not  going  to  ivarm 
myself  up  to  be  frozen  again.  I  have  never  been  in  delicate  health, 
but  I  can't  stand  heats  and  chUls.'' 

"  I  do  believe  that  you  are  not  a  bit  wiser  than  I  am.  I  hear  the 
carriage  :  that's  Lady  Arthur  come  back.     How  surprised  she  will  be  !  '* 

'*  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that/'  George  said.  "  Til  go  and  meet  her." 
When  he  appeared  Lady  Arthur  shook  hands  tranquilly  and  said, 
"  How  do  you  do  1 " 

**  Very  well,"  he  said.  "  I  have  been  testing  the  value  of  certain  docu- 
ments you  sent  me,  and  find  they  are  worth  their  weight  in  gold." 

She  looked  in  his  face. 

*^  Alice  is  mine,"  he  said,  and  '*  we  are  going  to  Bashan  for  our  wed- 
ding-tour. If  you'll  seize  the  opportunity  of  our  escort,  you  may  hunt 
up  Og's  bed." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said :  "  I  fear  I  should  be  de  trap" 

"  Not  a  bit ;  but  even  if  you  were  a  great  nuisance,  we  are  in  the 
humour  to  put  up  with  anything." 

"  ril  think  of  it.  I  have  never  travelled  in  the  character  of  a  nui- 
sance, yet — at  least,  so  far  as  I  know — and  it  would  be  a  new  sensation  : 
that  is  a  great  inducement." 

Lady  Arthur  rushed  to  Miss  Adamson's  room  with  the  news,  and  the 
two  ladies  had  first  a  cry  and  then  a  laugh  over  it.  "  Alice  will  be  a 
duchess  yet,"  said  Lady  Arthur :  <'  that  boy's  life  has  hung  so  long  by 
a  thread  that  he  must  be  prepared  to  go,  and  he  would  be  far  better 
away  from  the  cares  and  trials  of  this  world,  I  am  sure  j  "  which  might 
be  the  truth,  but  it  was  hard  to  grudge  the  boy  his  life. 

Lady  Arthur  was  in  brilliant  spirits  at  dinner  that  evening.  **  1  sup- 
pose you  are  going  to  live  on  love,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  work  for  my  living,"  said  Greorgie. 

"  Very  right,"  she  said ;  ^*  but,  although  I  got  better  last  year,  I  can't 
live  for  ever,  and  when  I'm  gone  Alice  will  have  the  Garscube  estates  : 
I  have  always  intended  it." 

"  Madam,"  said  George,  *'  do  you  not  know  that  the  great  lexico- 
grapher has  said  in  one  of  his  admirable  works,  *  Let  no  man  suffer  his 
felicity  to  depend  on  the  death  of  his  aunt '  1 " 

It  is  said  that  whenever  a  Liberal  ministry  comes  in  Mr.  Eildon 
will  be  offered  the  governorship  of  one  of  the  colonies.  Lady  Arthur 
may  yet  live  to  be  astonished  by  his  ''  career,"  and  at  least  she  is  not 
likely  to  regret  her  dying  letter. 


745 


A  WILD  NIGHT  IN  PARLIAMENT. 

BY  A  GALLERY-MAN. 

Sabiuel,  said  the  elder  Weller — in  a  language  which  I  am  unable  to 
spell  with  propriety,  and  therefore  prefer  to  use  mere  English — Samuel, 
when  yon  are  married,  you^l  know  a  great  many  things  you  don't  know 
now,  but  whether  'tis  worth  while  going  through  so  mfieh  to  learn  so 
little  is  more  than  I  can  tell. 

What  has  Sam  Weller  to  do  with  Parliament  1  Nothing,  directly, 
that  I  know  of;  but  in  the  tangled  chain  of  circumstances  in  this  world, 
things  of  different  character  become  oddly  connected  at  time&  Besides, 
as  one  claims,  with  the  Qreek  poet,  to  be  merry  on  a  merry  subject,  so 
one  has  a  distinct  right  to  be  confused  on  a  subject  of  confusion,  and 
to  be  chaotic  in  describing  chaos.  Having  thus,  I  trust,  to  the  reader's 
satisfaction,  quite  conclusively  proved  my  right  to  be  incoherent  if  I 
choose,  I  propose  to  show  that  I  am  not  incoherent  at  all,  and  that  Sam 
Weller's  wise  observation  has  quite  as  much  to  do  with  the  Canadian 
Commons  as  everybody  knows  the  steeple  of  St.  Paul's  has  with  the 
Goodwin  Sands.  And  when  I  say  that  it  seemed  to  me  at  the  time,  as 
it  seems  now  to  a  good  many  people,  that  the  Canadian  Comn&ons,  on 
the  night  of  Friday,  the  twelfth  day  of  April,  A.D.  1878,  went  through 
a  good  deal  of  suffering  to  accomplish  very  little  result,  good,  bad,  or 
indifferent,  I  suppose  that  I  shall  have  proved  at  once  the  keenness  of 
my  intellectual  perceptions,  and  the  strength  of  my  logical  deductions. 

Twenty-four  hours  before  war  "  leaped  out  of  hell  **  in  1870,  the 
European  skies  were  as  silent,  as  serene,  as  the  blue  heavens  above  our 
western  wilds.  But  in  twenty-four  hours  Peace  had  ceased  to  pipe  from 
her  pastoral  hillock;  the  clash  of  arms  was  heard  in  every  camp  in 
Europe ;  and  across  the  French  frontiers  went  trooping  the  big  batta- 
lions ^  Berlin, 

So  twenty-four  minutes  before  the  storm,  now  so  memorable,  broke 
out  in  Parliament,  no  man  could  have  suspected  the  existence  of  a  camu 
hML  But  we  are  told  of  certain  choleric  natures  that  greatly  do  find 
quarrel  on  a  strain  at  times,  and  so  come  endless  struggles  and  disagree- 
ments among  friends,  followers,  supporters,  retainers.  So  out  of  a  little 
obstinate  petulance  at  half-past  two  of  the  clock  on  the  aforesaid  morn- 
ing, there  rose  a  very  memorable  Parliamentary  struggle. 

Nothing  is  so  long  as  Parliamentary  memory.  School  and  college 
traditions  are  long ;  village  traditions  have  lost  their  continuity  by  emi- 
gration ;  but  Parliamentary  tradition  is  long  and  strong  and  perfect  in 


746  A  WILD  NIGHT  IN  PARLIAMENT. 

'  its  way.  The  traditions  of  the  British  ParliameDt  are  fresh,  quite  fresh 
and  bright,  back  as  far  as  the  day  when  Burke  flung  his  dagger  on  the 
floor,  his  knife—"  without  the  fork ! " — ^back,  indeed,  as  far  as  that 
Duke  of  Newcastle  who  did  not  know  that  Cape  Breton  was  an  isUind ; 
back  as  far  as  old  Walpole,  who  slept  in  his  chair,  and  then  got  up  and 
answered  everything  that  everybody  had  said  on  the  occasion  of  the 
protracted  debate.  And  all  one  has  to  do  in  order  to  test  the  length, 
strength,  and  continuity  of  the  chain  of  tradition  in  the  Canadian  Par- 
Uament,  is  to  get  up  and  say  something  uncivil  to  Sir  John  about  the 
"  Baldwin  "  days,  or  to  Mr.  Masson  about  "  '37,*'  or  to  Mr.  Mackenzie 
about  who  fought  for  constitutional  government  1  Then  you  may  look 
out  for  a  rush  of  facts  to  your  head.  Have  you  ever  pulled  the  string 
of  the  shower-bath  just  a  second  sooner  than  your  nerves  were  braced 
for  the  shock  f  That  is  how  one  feels  when  the  fountains  of  Parliamen- 
tary memory  are  opened  on  one's  head  by  an  injudicious  expression  or 
an  incautious  attack. 

Now  Parliamentary  memory  in  Canada  includes  very  few  "  all  night" 
sessions,  and  particularly  such  sessions  as  took  place  on  the  occasion 
referred  to. 

How  did  it  arise  t 

All  in  a  minute — like  a  spring  hail-storm ;  but  it  lasted  longer. 

The  debate  on  the  resolutions  offered  to  the  Commons  by  Sir  John 
A.  Macdonald  had  lasted  from  four  in  the  afternoon  of  Thursday,  with 
intermissions  for  business,  till  nearly  midnight  on  Friday  night  It 
was  hardly  est^cted  that  a  division  would  take  place  before  Sunday. 
A  grave  constitutional  question  was  under  discussion.  It  was  known 
that  many  members  would  speak.  The  Quebec  members  in  particular 
were  naturally  expected  to  speak  at  length ;  and  as  they  are  modest  and 
courteous,  as  well  as  able  and  cultivated  men,  they  would  be  lis- 
tened to  with  patience,  of  course.  Sir  John  A.  Macdonald  had  spoken 
in  his  grandest  pai*liamentary  manner,  his  star-and-Tiband  manner.  Mr. 
Mackenzie  had  replied,  if  not  in  his  best,  at  least  in  an  effective  way, 
from  a  party  point  of  view.  Masson  and  Langevin  and  Laurier  had  de- 
voted their  energies  to  the  discussion  of  the  constitutional  point  from 
not  only  a  Canadian,  but  also  from  a  Parisian  point  of  view.  Brooks, 
of  Sherbrooke — a  legal  gentleman  with  the  air  of  a  eolonel  of  dragoons 
— ^had  spoken  for  three  hours  with  the  learning  of  a  Lord  Chancelkur 
and  the  manners  of  a  grand  seigneur.  And  all  night  long,  on  Friday 
night,  the  noise  of  battler  rolled  along  the  benches  in  the  Commons' 
house,  till  Hector — name  of  prophetic  import,  waiiike  name ! — Hector 
Cameron  had  closed  an  able  reply  to  an  able  tirade  from  Mr.  Devlin,  of 
Montreal  Centre.  After  him  there  came  Mr.  McDougall,  of  Three 
Bivers — legal  man  not  much  given  to  parliamentary  duties,  but  one  of  *i 


A   WILD  NIGHT  IN   PARLIAMENT.  74T 

the  best-read  men,  and  with  the  aptest  faculty  for  conversation,  in  the 
House — arose  in  his  place  to  speak,  as  he  solemnly  stated  for  not  more 
than  twenty  minutes. 

It  was  here  that  the  war  broke  out 

It  is  always  well  to  settle  our  points  of  departure. 

It  was  about  McDougall,  of  Three  Rivers,  that  the  riot  arose.  He 
will  do  for  the  body  of  Patroclus ;  the  rival  parties  fought  over  his^ 
body.     He  was  not  much  injured,  I  believe. 

Mr.  McDougall  wanted  the  debate  on  this  pure  constitutional  question 
postponed  to  another  day,  as  the  hour  was  late  ;  he  was  not  well ;  and 
other  French  members  wanted  to  speak.  Mr.  Mackenzie  did  not  want 
to  consent  to  an  adjournment ;  he  refused,  perhaps  not  with  the  grace 
which  makes  a  refusal  almost  as  flattering  as  an  acceptance  or  a  kind- 
ness. 

Mr.  McDougall  got  stubborn,  and  went  on  to  speak.  He  was  greeted 
with  *'  noises,"  that  is  a  combination  of  every  possibly  unpleasant  sound 
which  about  fifty  or  sixty  gentlemen  well  disposed  to  noise  can  make 
when  they  try  hard.  After  he  had  proceeded  "  amid  much  interrup- 
tion," as  a  well-bred  reporter  would  put  it,  for  an  hour,  it  was  remem- 
bered that  he  had  moved  the  adjournment  of  the  debate,  and  it  was  held 
that  therefore  he  could  not  speak  to  the  motion. 

At  this  point  we  pause  to  reflect.  The  meaning  of  things  is  import- 
ant    It  is  by  reflection  we  get  at  the  meaning  of  things. 

There  is  in  every  Parliament  a  volcanic  element.  In  some  Parlia- 
ments it  is  stronger  than  in  others.  In  the  French  Chamber  this  ele- 
ment is  strong.  Last  century  it  flung  up  a  guillotine.  This  century  it 
has  overturned  several  "  Constitutions."  In  the  English  Parliament  it 
only  causes  noises,  and  turns  "  strangers  "  out  of  the  gallery.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  tell  when  this  volcanic  element  will  break  out.  It  is  not  a 
periodical  force.  But  it  will  break  out  on  the  slightest  pretence  some- 
times. It  matters  little  to  Vesuvius  whether  an  army  is  marching  or  a 
herd  grazing  at  the  base ;  it  erupts  all  the  same.  That  is  the  irony  of 
nature.  She  cares  as  much  for  a  cow  as  for  a  man,  as  much  for  a  herd 
as  for  an  army. 

Well,  the  volcanic  element  broke  out  over  McDougall,  of  Three  Rivers. 
He  was  temporarily  put  down  ;  but  Mr.  Cimon  came  to  his  rescue.  Mr. 
Cimon  made  a  speech,  a  long  speech,  in  which  he  moved  the  adjourn- 
ment of  the  House.  This  gave  Mr.  McDougall,  of  Three  Rivers,  his 
chance  and  his  speech  ;  the  chance  was  taken  and  the  speech  spoken. 

During  all  this  time  there  was  a  continued  series  of  noises  of  the  most 
extraordinary  character.     A  n  amateur  negro  Minstrel  troupe  that  has^ 
been  in  constant  practice  all  the  session,  under  the  charge  of  two  accom- 
plished and  dexterous  handlers  of  the  bones  and  tambourine,  performed 


748  A  WILD  NIGHT  IN  PARLIAMENT. 

tricks  in  a  variety  of  ways.  Revolutionary  members,  led  by  the  "Bod" 
Cheval,  sang  the  Marseillaise.  I  beg  to  say  that  they  sang  it  well ;  and 
Mr.  Bourassa  is  none  too  old  to  go  on  the  stage,  or  I  woald  advise  him, 
on  the  decline  of  talent,  in  the  old  age  of  Brignoli  and  the  rest  of  the 
sweet  singers,  to  betake  himself  to  singing  as  a  profession.  If  the  Mar- 
seillaise failed  to  excite  the  souls  of  honourable  members,  at  least  "  Auld 
Lang  Syne ''  did  not  fail  to  awaken  tender  memories ;  nor  was  it  less 
effectual  in  disturbing  the  debate.     And  still  the  debate  went  on. 

It  had  become  necessary  for  the  Opposition  to  keep  up  the  debate. 
Mr.  Mackenzie  would  not  consent  to  an  adjournment  The  Opposition 
wanted  to  speak ;  and  some  of  their  friends  were  away.  I  suspect,  too, 
that  both  sides  rather  wished  to  steal  a  march.  The  Government  wanted 
the  Commons  vote  to  be  taken  before  Sunday,  so  that  the  good  tidings 
of  great  joy  might  be  taken  to  the  shepherds  who  were  watching  their 
flocks  in  Quebec.  The  Opposition  probably  wanted  to  prevent  that  un- 
necessary consummation  till  the  vote  of  the  Senate,  which  might  be  the 
other  way,  would  also  go  with  it.  No  matter  what  Uie  reasons  were, 
we  suppose  that  both  parties  were  within  their  constitutional  and  par- 
liamentary rights,  or  they  would  not  have  been  tolerated  by  the  Speaker 
in  their  proceedings. 

The  Speaker  deserves  a  word  of  praise.  His  conduct  in  the  chair 
was  very  good.  He  did  not  exert  his  prerogative  power  strictly,  while 
at  the  same  time  he  made  occasional  efforts  to  keep  up  the  tradition  of 
parliamentary  propriety  of  which  there  had  been  a  solution  of  continuity. 
At  a  late  hour,  worn  out  with  watching,  he  left  the  chair  for  a  moment, 
calling  Mr.  De  Veber  to  his  place.  Mr.  De  Veber  was  but  a  moment  in 
the  chair  when  some  one  shouted,  "  call  in  the  members.''  Mr.  De 
Veber  echoed  "  call  in  the  members.''  The  Sergeant-at-Arms  started 
for  the  mace,  but  an  indignant  protest  from  Haggart,  who  was  to  dis- 
tinguish himself  at  a  later  stage  of  the  "  debate,''  called  Mr.  Speaker 
De  Veber  to  his  senses  and  the  order  was  recalled.  The  "  debate"  con- 
tinued. Mr.  Plumb,  of  Niagara,  spoke  for  a  long  time,  amid  such  a  storm 
of  various  noises  as  has  seldom  greeted  a  Speaker,  even  from  the  pit  of 
a  cheap  theatre.  Not  long  before — a  few  days  before— the  House  had 
been  on  tip-toe  with  the  idea  of  defending  its  '^  dignity  "  against  the  at- 
tacks of  newspaper  correspondents.  And  one*  of  these  correspondents 
wrote  to  the  Ottawa  Citizen  to  say  that  the  dignity  of  Parliament  was 
best  defended  and  manufactured  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  and  that  if 
the  members  themselves  did  not  respect  the  dignity  of  the  House,  no 
one  else  would  respect  it.  "  I  have  seen,"  said  this  correspondent,  "  the 
House  of  Commons  prostrate  its  dignity  in  the  dust  with  as  much  reck- 
lessness as  Sandwich  Islanders  exhibit  in  thrashing  a  fetish  out  of  favour. 
I  have  seen  scenes  in  the  Commons  Chamber  that  would  have  disgraced 


A  WILD  NIGHT  IN  PARLIAMENT.  749 

a  college  wine  party  at  two  in  the  morning.  I  have  heard  language  in 
the  Commons  Chamher  which  would  have  heen  deemed  disgraceful  |in  an 
assemblage  of  the  Jacquerie.  And  yet  these  gentlemen  talk  as  if  it  was 
the  press  which  was  degrading  the  '  dignity '  of  Parliament/' 

One  wonders  if  the  gentlemen  on  the  floor  of  the  House  remembered 
these  words — they  attracted  some  little  attention  at  the  time — when  the 
*'  wee  sma'  hours  ayont  the  twal' "  were  passed  amid  a  babel  of  discor- 
dant sounds  and  noises  as  from  the  rabble  rout  of  Comus  broken  loose 
into  the  Commons  Chamber,  and  in  full  career  of  revelry. 

After  the  real  Speaker's  reappearance,  several  cups  of  the  berry  that 
cheers  but  not  inebriates,  appeared  on  the  desks  of  Ministers  amid  timid 
suggestions  of  "  more  '*  from  Parliamentary  Oliver  Twists  who  had  been 
shut  out  in  the  coffeeless  cold.  The  storm  of  songs  and  cries,  slamming  of 
desks,  scraping  of  boots,  shrieking  of  toy-whistles,  continued  straight 
along  till  the  latest  hour  of  night.  On  a  sudden,  something  seemed  to 
have  changed  in  the  Chamber.  The  air  which  had  been  clear  seemed 
to  get  cooler.  The  light  which  had  been  dull  and  yellow  got  mixed 
somehow  with  something  else.  And  in  a  little  time  there  came  pouring 
into  the  painted  windows  the  glorious  light  of  the  blessed  dawn,  and 
over  all  that  scene  and  over  all  the  world, 

**  God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn." 

Outside  of  the  building  the  mists  rose  white  above  the  dark  of  the 
river.  The  sky  trembled  in  its  early  beauty.  The  roar  of  the  great 
falls  came  freshly  on  the  ear.  The  tender  green  of  the  eacly  grasses 
showed  up  bright  in  the  morning  dews.  Fresh  breezes  blew  with  re- 
freshing coolness  to  fan  the  fever  from  the  cheek,  and  soothe  the  eyes 
of  those  who  had  watched  and  waited  through  the  wild  night,  the 
comical  night,  the  saddening,  maddening  exhibition. 

At  the  same  time  inside  some  forms  were  sleeping  and  some  lolling  in 
indifferent  discomfort  on  the  unpitying  chairs.  From  after  six  till  after 
seven  Mr.  Methot  had  been  speaking  in  French,  and  speaking  too  with 
immense  energy  and  freshness  and  spirit  After  him  rose  Mr.  Domville, 
a  rarely  tried  Opposition  member.  Mr.  Domville  does  not  rank  high 
as  a  parliamentary  speaker,  and  his  manner  in  the  House  is  not  always 
dignified  ;  but  there  are  few  young  men  in  Canada  who  carry  on  such 
slight  shoulders  and  with  such  a  fragile  form,  so  enormous  a  load  of 
business  responsibility.  That  spare,  sparkling,  indifferent  young  gentle- 
man has  a  perfectly  enormous  business  capacity,  and  before  you  put  him 
down  as  an  inefficient  Parliamentarian,  please  talk  with  him  for  half  an 
hour  and  then  you  will  come  away  prepared  to  admit  that  the  slight 
shoulders  carry  the  head  of  a  Vanderbilt  and  that  underneath  all  the 
apparent  levity  there  is  the  earnestness  of  a  great  man  of  business.  Mr. 


750  A  WILD  NIGHT  IN   PARLIAMENT. 

Domville  on  this  occasion  had  been  dining  on  Friday  night  and  was 
kept  in  the  House  all  night  in  his  dress  suit.  When  he  began  to  speak 
about  half-past  seven  or  eight,  he  looked  pretty  bad,  for  a  man  who  is 
unshaven,  and  whose  white  necktie  has  stood  a  long  night's  lounging, 
does  not  usually  present  a  pretty  sight  in  the  early  morning.  Mr. 
Domville  makes  a  very  fair  speech.  He  reads  some  constitutional  doc- 
trine from  a  book,  and  then  pathetically  appeals  to  Mr.  Mills  to  know 
if  the  people  of  Keewatin  would  not  revel  in  the  reflections  suggested 
by  that  consoling  and  cheering  constitutional  theory.  But  Mr.  Mills  is 
too  far  gone  in  weariness  for  fun,  and  his  smile  is  like  the  smile  of 
Cossins — 

"  He  smiles  in  such  a  sort 
As  if  he  scorned  himself  and  checked  his  sport 
That  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  anything.** 

But  Mr.  Mills  has  not  been  idle  all  night  He  and  Mr.  Dymond  have 
been  taking  turns  in  leading  the  "  tuneful  choir  *'  with  that  pretty  and 
amiable  young  gentleman  of  indifferent  ability,  Mr.  Casey.  These  three 
have  greatly  contributed  to  the  humours  of  the  night  But  all  three  are 
now  pretty  well  worn  out  by  breakfast  time,  and  are  literally  laid  out  in 
discomposed  bulk  on  their  chairs.  Mr.  Dymond,  it  is  true,  still  keeps 
enough  energy  to  fling  an  occasional  taunt  across  the  House.  Mr.  Dy- 
mond will  disappear  from  this  earthly  scene  in  a  state  of  protest — be 
sure  of  that  He  reminds  one  of  the  woman  whose  husband  drowned 
her  for  saying  "  scissors  " — for  what  purpose  I  quite  forget — but  who, 
when  she  could  no  longer  articulate,  crossed  her  fingers  and  made  scis- 
sor-like motions  with  her  hand  as  she  sank  beneath  the  water.  If  Mr. 
Dymond  were  to  be  spoken  to  death  by  wild  Conservatives,  his  last 
words  would  be  hurled  in  protest  *  against  the  Right  Honourable  mem- 
ber for  Kingston  and  his  too  numerous  followers. 

Some  of  the  scenes  of  the  night  were  objectionable  from  any  point  of 
view ;  but  we  feel  sure  that  on  reflection,  a  portion  of  the  press  will 
have  reason  to  regret  the  tone  of  the  despatches  sent  concerning  the 
events  of  the  debate.  Some  reckless  partizans  have  been  hurling  charges 
of  *'  drunkenness  "  about ;  but  let  us  first  say,  that  a  charge  of  this  kind 
is  pretty  easily  brought  against  any  assemblage  of  two  hundred  men 
sitting  up  all  night,  and  in  a  state  of  the  highest  excitement ;  but  if 
charges  of  that  sort  are  brought  against  one  side,  they  can  with  equal 
force  be  used  against  the  other.  For  my  part,  I  saw  no  striking  scenes 
of  drunkenness  and  very  little  disorder  arising  from  drinking.  The 
soberest  men  in  the  House  were  the  noisiest  The  gravest  were  the 
most  disorderly.  It  was  a  high  parliamentary  revel.  And  teUing  tales 
out  of  school  is  no  portion  of  a  journalist's  business,  though  some  irre- 


A  WILD  NIGHT  IN   PARLIAMENT.  751 

sponsible  correspondents  seem  to  think  that  they  are  at  liberty  to  send 
to  their  papers  items  of  news  which  would  not  be  tolerated  even  in  club 
conversation. 

After  breakfast  and  up  to  ten  o'clock,  the  debate  continued  with  some 
degree  of  gravity.  About  this  time,  the  civil  service  and  the  town  gen- 
erally came  to  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  the  House  had  been  sitting 
all  night.  The  galleries  soon  filled.  The  earliest  visitors  were  ladies, 
whose  fair  sweet  faces  were  as  refreshing  to  one's  tired  eyes  as  flowers 
in  the  desert,  as  soothing  to  the  weary  brain  as  music  after  long  labour. 
One  by  one,  members  went  home  to  breakfast,  and  came  back  bathed, 
shaved,  dressed,  and  vigorous. 

Mr.  Costigan,  of  New  Brunswick,  spoke  for  an  hour  or  more,  making 
an  admirable  speech  from  his  point  of  view,  as  he  always  does  whenever 
he  rises  in  his  place.  Mr.  Ouimet,  an  amiable  young  giant  from  Quebec, 
spoke  for  over  an  hour  in  French.  Mr.  Eonleau,  a  fluent  young  gentle- 
man, also  spoke  at  length.  Hon.  Mr.  Smith  contributed  his  mite  to  the 
debate.  The  gaUeries  continued  to  fill.  The  members  became  more 
refreshed.  And  till  af  l«er  lunch  the  fight  continued  without  much  inter- 
ruption. But  after  lunch  and  towards  three  o'clock  there  rose  Mr. 
Haoqart. 

Now  Mr.  Haggart  is  a  ponderous  young  man,  with  a  roguish  twinkle 
ill  his  eye,  and  a  touch  of  humour  in  his  moustache.  He  does  not  often 
speak,  but  when  he  does,  it  is  in  a  very  slow  and  very  ponderous  fa- 
shion, but  at  the  same  time  very  forcible  and  apt.  He  was  just  the  man 
to  speak  against  time,  and  his  rising  was  the  signal  for  the  outbreak 
again  of  the  Parliamentary  volcano — ^the  sign  for  the  re-opening  of  the 
season  of  the  negro  minstrel  troupe  led  by  Mr.  Mills  and  Mr.  Dy- 
mond,  with  Mr.  Cheval  for  orchestra,  and  Mr.  Casey  for  prompter,  and 
a  wondering  world  for  their  astonished  audience. 

Mr.  Haggart  was  received  with  a  wild  chorus  of  noises  of  all  kinds. 
"  Call  in  the  members !  "  "  Question !  "  "  Sit  down  I  "  and  so  on.  But 
he  was  not  to  be  dismayed.  He  reassured  the  honourable  gentlemen  on 
the  ministerial  benches  that  he  had  some  forty-five  points  on  which  he 
would  dwell,  and  as  a  grave  constitutional  question,  on  which  volumes 
had  been  and  volumes  might  be  written,  could  hardly  be  discussed  in 
less  than  seven  or  eight  hours,  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  give  them  his 
peroration  by  eight  or  nine  o'clock  that  night — if  they  would  listen  pa- 
tiently. And  when  Mr.  Haggart  went  on  with  his  point  first,  one  un- 
consciously thought  of  the  parson  in  the  "  One  Hoss  Shay." 


i* 


The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday  text, 
He  had  got  to  sixthly,  and  stopped  perplexed, 
At  what  the Moses,  was  coming  next.** 


752  A  WILD   NIGHT  IN   PARUAMENT. 

Mr.  Haggart  made  a  quotation  from  Mr.  Bagehot's  work  on  '^  The 
British  Constitution,"  and  some  one  cried  out,  "  what  page  1 "  Then 
Mr.  Haggart  kindly  read  out  the  name  of  the  book,  the  name  of  the 
publishers,  the  year  of  publication,  and  the  profession  of  the  author, 
adding  that  the  book  was  ''  the  only  one  in  the  country,  and  was  pre- 
sented to  his  and  my  friend,  the  honourable  member  for  Ni-a-ga-ra,"  all 
in  a  very  slow  and  grave  tone,  whereupon  the  honourable  member  for 
Niagara,  the  genial,  scholarly,  and  gentleman-like  Plumb,  bowed  his 
acknowledgment  of  the  compliment,  and  the  House  li^ughed  most  con- 
sumedly.  Then  Mr.  Haggart  went  on  with  his  quotations  from  Bage- 
hot  in  the  midst  of  noise  and  interruptions.  It  is  impossible  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  unfathomable  fun  of  the  grave  speech  of  Mr.  Haggart.  Now, 
a  boy  would  come  in  staggering  under  a  load  of  books  from  the  Library 
and  solemnly  lay  them  down  before  him,  and  retire  with  a  wonderful 
expression  of  countenance  as  if  he  expected  Mr.  Haggart  was  going  to 
speak  till  the  day  of  judgment.  Then  Mr.  Oheval  would  lead  off  his 
orchestra,  playing  on  an  imaginary  piano  with  much  empressemenL  Then 
the  Speaker  would  stop  the  "  debate,"  and  in  the  midst  of  the  deepest 
silence  and  with  a  face  as  grave  as  possible,  would  read  out  the  rules  of 
the  House  concerning  decency  and  "  order,"  and  of  course  inform  the 
members  that  these  sacred  rules  ought  to  be  sacredly  kept  Whereupon 
he  would  be  greeted  with  the  most  reverential  "  hear,  hears,"  and  the 
fellows  who  had  made  the  most  noise  would  profess  the  most  profound 
veneration  for  the  **  chair,"  and  then — why  then  they  would  proceed 
with  their  circus  and  be  worse  than  ever. 

Meantime  Mr.  Haggart  would  continue  his  quotations  from  Bagehot. 
**  My  favourite  author,  Mr.  Speaker,  and  I  may  say  that  this  book  is 
the  only  copy  in  the  country,  and  was  presented  by  the  author  to  his 
and  my  friend,  the  honourable  member  for  Ni-a-ga-ra."  OccasionaUy  a 
quotation  would  be  interrupted  too  badly,  and  then  Mr.  Haggart,  with 
a  due  regard  for  the  value  of  extracts  from  a  book  presented  by  the 
author  to  the  honourable  member  for  Niagara,  would  insist  on  reading 
it  all  over  again  ;  and  Mr.  Blake  would  wriggle  on  his  chair,  and  Mr. 
Holton  would  look  as  if  chaos  had  come  again,  and  the  end  of  the  world 
reached. 

'*  Thy  band,  great  Anarch,  lets  the  curtain  fall. 
And  universal  darkness  buries  alL'* 

Here  a  quotation  would  be  arrived  at  which  had  been  read  before^ 
but  as  Mr.  Haggart  would  profoundly  declare  had  not  been  read  by  mem* 
bers  with. that  due  regard  for  elocution  which  was  necessary  in  case  of 
an  extract  from  a  work  *'  presented  to  his  and  my  friend  the  honourable 
member  for  Ni-aga-ra "  by  the  very  distinguished  author ;  and  Mr. 
Haggart  would  go  on  to  read  the  extract  with  the  proper  degree  of  elo- 


A   WILD  NIGHT  IN  PARLIAMENT.  75S 

cutionary  skill,  but  still  amid  the  wildest  interruptions  from  the  Negro 
Minstrel  Troupe  of  Messrs.  Cheval,  Mills,  Dymond  and  Casey,  while  Mr. 
McDougall,  of  Elgin,  would  occasionally,  with  a  degree  of  spirit  which 
his  spareness  of  flesh  rendered  easy,  clatter  his  bones. 

Then  Mr.  Speaker  would  proceed  to  read  out  the  order  of  Parliament 
in  regard  to  '*  naming  "  members,  and  point  out  to  the  House  the  ob- 
vious fact  that  under  the  circumstances  he  could  not  name  ail  the  offen- 
ders without  calling  over  the  division  list,  a  fact  which  would  be  re- 
ceived with  immense  reverence  by  the  most  notorious  offenders.  After 
a  reverent  pause  of  three  seconds,  the  Parliamentary  devil  would  break 
loose  again.  This  thing  of  "  naming  "  the  members  recalls  a  story  of 
the  British  House  of  Commons.  An  Irish  member  had  made  himself 
conspicuous  by  his  noise,  and  at  length  the  worried  Speaker  said,  "  I 
will  have  to  name  the  honourable  gentleman." 

The  Commons  grew  silent  at  this  awful  threat. 

"  And  what  will  happen  then,  Mr.  Speaker  ? "  asked  the  peccant  Irish- 
man. 

"  The  Lord  only  knows, '*  was  the  muffled  and  melancholy  reply  of  the 
Speaker. 

So  nobody  was  named,  and  nobody  was  arrested,  and  the  Lord  only 
knows  what  would  have  happened  if  anybody  had  been. 

About  half-past  four  o'clock.  Her  Excellency,  attracted  by  the  news  of 
the  long  sitting,  arrived  in  the  House,  and  took  seat  at  the  side  of  the 
Speaker.  The  noise  continued,  and  Mr.  Haggart  continued  his  speech. 
He  developed  the  theory  of  the  origin  of  man,  and  of  Government,  and 
pointed  his  remarks  by  apt  quotations  from  scientific  authors  in  French 
and  English.  It  was  something  delightful  to  hear  Mr.  Haggart  regret 
the  absence  of  the  honourable  member  for  Levis,  the  elegans  nascitur 
nonJU — Frechette,  whose  interest  in  the  elegant  translation  of  the  de- 
bates would  assure  him  that  a  correct  translation  of  Mr.  Letellier*s 
paper  had  been  put  before  the  House. 

"  The  House,"  meantime,  got  up  a  "  circus  "  for  Her  Excellency,  the 
Marseillaise  being  sung  with  true  radical  spirit  by  the  revolutionary 
Cheval  and  the  temporary  Communist  Bourassa ;  and  this  being  fol- 
lowed by  a  verse  or  two  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Scotch  members.  After  an  hour  or  so  of  this  kind  of  fun,  during  which 
Mr.  Haggart  continued  gravely  pleading  for  constitutional  freedom,  and 
reading  extracts  from  the  valuable  work,  ''  Presented  by  the  author  with 
his  kindest  regards  to  his  and  my  friend  the  honourable  member  for 
Ni-a-ga-ra,"  Her  Excellency  rose  to  depart.  Then  occurred  a  scene  which 
is  unprecedented  in  Canadian  or  any  other  history.  Some  inspired 
Frenchman  got  up  and  gave  out  a  bar  of  "  God  Save  the  Queen  !  "  It 
was  a  revolution.    The  whole  House  jumped  up ;  the  galleries  rose  with 


754  A  WILD  NIGHT  IN  PARLIAMENT. 

a  bound  ;  the  newspaper  men  jumped  to  their  feet  Even  Messrs.  Blake 
and  Mackenzie,  after  a  moment's  natural  hesitation,  rose  up  ;  and  aU 
sang  ^*  God  Save  the  Queen."  Her  Excellency  was  quick  to  catch  the 
meaning  of  it,  and  remained  near  enough  to  be  seen,  and  to  let  menci- 
^  bers  know  that  she  saw  the  scene  and  felt  the  meaning  of  it     After  the 

song,  came  three  magnificent  cheers  for  Her  Excellency,  and  then  she 
<:arried  away  her  grace  and  beauty,  her  kindliness  and  womanliness,  out 
of  that  disorderly  Assembly,  but  she  could  not  carry  away  from  the 
House  or  from  Canada  the  memories  of  her  many  charms  and  her  rare 
tact,  and  her  beautiful  example  to  all  the  mothers  and  wives  in  this 
Canada  of  ours.  Hereafter,  in  the  times  of  other  Governors,  one  feels 
quite  certain  that  no  other  lady  will,  in  Her  Excellency's  position,  re- 
call the  triumphs  and  popularity  of  the  Countess  of  Dufferin  without 
feeling  and  saying  that  little  broken  line  of  the  poet — 

*'  She  shines  me  down." 

In  the  great  picture  gallery  of  fair  faces  and  kind  faces  of  which  every 
nation  is  possessed,  and  which  Canada  possesses  too,  the  face  of  Her 
Excellency  the  Countess  of  Dufferin  will  always  be  fixed  in  a  prominent 
place,  like  some  protective  saint,  the  central  figure  of  the  scene. 

After  this  another  equally  unprecedented  scene  arose.  Sir  John  had 
retired  to  rest  about  eight  o'clock,  after  a  long  and  weary  night  At 
five  o'clock  he  returned,  looking  as  cheery  as  ever,  and  as  ready  for  the 
parliamentary  fray,  and  as  he  entered,  the  Opposition  benches  rose  up 
as  one  man  and  cheered  him,  "  hats  i'  the  air  and  hearts  at  his  feet^*'  to 
the  echo.  It  was  an  inspiring  sight,  and  to  one  in  the  gallery  there 
came  back  the  memory  of  student  days,  and  a  cry  from  a  Boman  viUa 
to  a  hero  coming  home  ! 


*t 


Divis  orte  bonis,  optima  Komulte 
Cnstos  gentis,  abes  jam  nimiuro  diu  ; 
Maturum  reditum  poUioituB  Patmm 
Sancto  concilio  redi 


"  Lncem  redde  tuse  dux  bone  patrise  : 
Inetar  reris  enim  roltuB  ubi  tuns 
Affulsit  populo,  gratior  it  dies 
Et  soles  melius  nitent." 


It  seems  to  me  that  the  cheer  of  a  Parliament  or  of  a  people  is  the 
finest  sound  in  the  world.  There  is  a  high  excitement  in  a  grand 
steeple  chase,  and  in 

"  The  glory  of  the  gallop,  forty  minutes  over  grass  ;" 

there  is  an  excitement  in  a  grand  boat-race,  for  the  rower ;  but  for  the 
loftiest  sort  of  excitement,  the  noblest  emotions,  the  ringing  cheers  <rf  a 


A  WILD  NIQHT  IN  PARLIAMENT.  755 

crowd,  whether  it  be  a  '^  mob  of  gentlemen/'  or  an  assemblage  of  people, 
is  the  most  glorioos  stimulant 

Meantime  Mr.  Haggart  still  continnes  his  immense  oration.  At 
times  a  gentle  ripple  of  fun  will  run  over  his  moustache ;  at  times  his 
eyes  will  twinkle  with  the  humour  of  the  occasion ;  at  times  he  will 
laugh  as  he  reads  an  extract  from  **  mj  favourite  author/'  Mr.  Bagehot, 
whose  book  was  "  presented  by  the  author  to  his  and  my  friend,  the 
honourable  member  for  Ni-a-ga-ra,"  who,  at  each  mention  of  the  book 
and  the  owner,  gravely  bows  his  compliments  and  thanks.  Mr.  Haggart,. 
finally,  is  a  little  tired  and  b^ns  to  give  it  up.  He  regrets  that  only 
two  or  three  of  his  forty-five  points  have  been  touched  upon.  He  re- 
grets  that  time  will  not  permit  him  to  deal  more  fully  with  this  impor- 
tant question.  He  declares  that  perhaps  he  will  take  another  occasion, 
later  in  the  debate,  of  renewing  his  remarks  so  that  the  country  may^ 
have  them  in  /mZ?,— (cries  of  "  Oh  don't ! "  "  Spare  us ! ")  He  thanks 
Honourable  Members  for  the  ''  patient !  "  hearing  that  has  been  given 
him  during  his  long  and  necessarily  tedious  speech,  and  then  he  sita 
down  amid  the  applause  of  his  own  side,  and  the  good*humoured  regards 
of  even  Mr.  Blake. 

Mr.  Haggart  had  done  a  difficult  thing.  He  had  spoken  against  time 
with  no  manifest  impropriety.  He  had  made  a  humorous  speech  with- 
out being  at  all  ridiculous.  He  had  shewn  ability  in  a  humorous 
fashion ,  and  after  he  had  concluded,  and  for  twenty-four  hours  after, 
the  House  and  the  galleries  talked  of  nothing  but  Haggart's  speech , 
which,  without  detracting  anything  from  his  reputation  as  a  sensible  man-^ 
had  given  him  a  new  reputation  as  a  humorist. 

After  Mr.  Haggart  had  finished,  Mr.  Mackenzie  Bowell  began  an 
innings,  but  a  proposition  had  been  made  again  for  an  adjournment,  and 
was  accepted  by  the  Premier ;  and  the  House,  after  sitting  constantly 
for  twenty-seven  hours,  adjourned. 

It  was  a  memorable  scene ;  few  who  saw  it  will  ever  forget  it ;  and 
fewer  still  will  remember  it  without  regret.  But  under  a  system  of 
Parliamentary  government  such  scenes  are  always  likely  to  happen.  In 
the  British  House  of  Commons  a  somewhat  similar  scene  took  place  a 
year  ago,  and  disturbed  the  public  mind  for  a  long  time,  and  engaged 
the  attention  of  publicists  in  an  unusual  degree.  We  have,  after  all, 
but  very  faintly  photographed  this  remarkable  occurrence ;  a  dozen  of 
comical  occurrences  rise  up  before  us  as  we  close  this  hastily  written 
paper ;  but  we  cannot  spare  the  time  to  reproduce  them. 

A  few  remarks  on  the  manner  in  which  the  events  of  the  session 
were  retailed  in  the  press,  may  not  be  out  of  place,  in  view  of  the  dis* 
cussion  which  took  place  on  the  17th  April  on  the  subject    Some  news- 
papers at  once  proceeded  to  remark  that  such  and  such  members  were 
7 


756  A  WILD  NIGHT  IN  PABUAHBNT. 

"  druiik/'  and  attention  was  called  to  it  in  Parliament,  and  emphalic 
contradiction  given  to  the  statements,  by  members  who  were  present  on 
the  occasion.  Now,  it  maj  be  tairlj  said  that  during  a  long  pariia* 
mentary  night-session,  disorders  of  the  kind  described  in  this  sketch,  are 
inevitable  in  any  body  of  men  under  sixty  years  of  age ;  and  no  one 
should  be  disposed  to  find  fault  witJi  such  exhibitions  when  not  too 
grossly  insulting  to  those  who  are  the  victims  of  them.  It  would  be 
far  better  if  the  press  were  to  take  Parliament  in  charge,  as  it  were,  for 
that  time,  and  care  for  its  reputation,  fling  the  cloak  over  it  as  it  weie, 
and  not  call  on  all  creation  to  witness  the  disorder  of  the  national  as- 
sembly. But,  on  the  other  hand.  Parliament  has  its  dignity  in  its  own 
keeping,  and  each  member  has  the  privil^;e  of  being  the  curator  of  that 
dignity.  There  has  been  growing  up  during  two  or  three  sessions  past 
a  phase  of  ill-feeling  between  the  press  and  the  Commons ;  and  it  will 
be  very  lamentable  if  such  ill-feeling  should  continue  to  grow.  In  the 
course  of  the  session  there  were  several  debates  on  the  subject  of  the 
press,  and  even  those  who  were  least  disposed  to  quarrel  with  the  press 
were,  by  the  unskilful  use  of  language,  drawn  into  an  indiscriminate 
condemnation  of  the  fourth  estate.  Members  of  Parliament  ought  to 
know  enough  to  understand  that  there  are  degrees  in  the  press  as  well 
as  in  the  professions ;  that  there  is  a  difference  of  standing  in  the  press 
as  well  as  in  Parliament ;  and  that  the  men  who  are  the  leading  writos 
on  the  press,  and  who  make  the  Literature  of  Politics,  should  not  be 
classed  and  included  in  a  general  condemnation  with  those  who  have 
neither  standing  nor  character,  neither  skill  nor  ability,  but  who  may  be 
temporarily  or  permanently  engaged  in  the  distribution  of  news.  It  is 
the  misfortune  of  the  press  that  so  many  such  men  are  engaged  on  it, 
as  it  is  the  misfortune  of  the  professions  that  so  many  unworthy  men 
creep  into  them,  and  as  it  is  the  misfortune  of  the  House  of  Commons 
that  so  many  members,  quite  unfitted  by  nature  and  education,  secure 
election  to  that  body. 

But  the  greatest  misfortune  of  all  is,  when  in  such  quarrels  as  may 
arise  the  leading  members  in  the  press  and  in  Parliament  come  into  a 
collision  which  is  not  intended,  and  which  is  injurious  to  the  interests 
of  both ;  a  littJe  more  consideration  on  the  part  of  the  press  and  of  the 
House,  a  little  courteous  recognition  of  the  degrees  which  exist  in  news- 
paper as  well  as  in  Parliamentary  life,  would  probably  tend  to  a  better 
state  of  feeling  between  the  two  greatest  Intellectual  Forces  in  thb 
country. 


767 


MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER. 

BY  W.   J.   E. 

Whatever  sins  of  omission  or  commission  may  be  fairly  laid  to  the 
charge  of  our  age  and  generation,  indifference  to  the  momentoas  prob- 
lems of  human  life  and  destiny  is  not  one  of  them.  The  methods  em- 
ployed by  scientific  or  philosophic  thinkers  may  be  incomplete,  and  the 
results  at  which  they  arrive  vague  and  unsatisfactory ;  still  no  one  can 
impeach  the  honesty  or  earnestness  of  their  speculations.  Men  are  far 
too  seriously-minded  in  their  search  after  truth — ^far  too  religious  in  fact, 
even  when  they  are  not  so  in  theory — to  treat  the  solemn  questions  which 
persistently  obtrude  themselves  for  solution  on  every  age,  with  levity, 
8com  or  a  flippant  superficiality.  That  this  is  a  time  of  transition  in  theo- 
logy and  philosophy^  can  hardly  be  denied.  The  discoveries  of  science,  the 
unfolding  of  natural  laws,  and  the  gradual  extension  of  the  sphere 
of  law  over  universal  nature,  apart  from  the  results  of  destructive  criti- 
cism in  other  departments  of  thought,  cannot  fail  to  exercise  a  modifying 
influence  upon  the  beliefs  of  men,  and  eflect  a  gradual  revolution  in  a 
sphere  where  men  have  been  accustomed  to  speak  with  unswerving 
confidence  and  dogmatise  in  peremptory  and  authoritative  tones.  There 
is  no  permanent  advantage  either  in  denying  facts,  or  ignoring  their  drift 
and  significance,  much  less  in  imputing  sinister  motives  to  those  who 
doubt,  or  in  assailing  them  with  opprobrious  epithets  or  violent  invec- 
tive. Those  who  have  an  abiding  faith  in  the  power,  intelligence  and 
wisdom  of  a  Being  who  created  and  sustains  "  the  round  world  and  they 
that  dwell  therein,"  ought  surely  to  manifest  its  power  by  boldly  facing 
difficulties,  frankly  conceding  truths,  however  unwelcome,  and  leaving 
consequences  to  the  unerring  guidance  of  Him  in  whom  they  have 
believed. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  whence,  the  what,  and  the  whither 
form  a  perplexing  trinity  of  questions  which  are  not  now  sprung  upon 
humanity  for  the  first  time.  Indeed  they  occupied  men's  thoughts,  in- 
spired their  poetry  and  controlled  their  lives,  long  before  they  were 
consciously  formulated  into  philosophies  or  theologies.  When  Mr. 
Herbert  Spencer  says,  **  A  religious  creed  is  definable  as  an  ^  priori 
theory  of  the  universe,''  he  no  doubt  speaks  correctly,  if  by  ''  religious 
creed''  we  are  to  understand  a  theosophy — the  net  result  of  rational  and 
philosophic  speculation  upon  the  primary  elements  of  religion ;  but  not 
otherwiM.  Religion,  whatever  its  origin,  was  not  primarily  a  <'  ^eory  " 
at  all ;  not  the  result  of  reasoning — ^but  the  spontaneous  outcome  of 
man's  nature,  an  inslinot,  an  intuition,  in  ike  progress  of  natoral  de- 


758  ICAK  HEBE  AND  HEKEAFTEB. 

velopmenty  if  70U  choose.  All  the  primitive  faiths  of  the  world  were 
diigalarl  J  simple  in  character,  and  not  at  all  logical  or  systematized  in 
their  mode  of  expression.  When  Mr.  Mill,  Mr.  Spencer,  and  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold  cavil  at  the  notion  of  a  manlike  artificer,"  '<a  magnified  man^^and 
so  forth,  they  are  not  demolishing  religion  at  all,  bat  the  attempts  made 
by  man  to  give  definite  and  comprehensive — in  other  words  scientific 
or  philosophic — ^form  to  antecedent  religions  conceptions.  Man  believed 
in  "  a  Power  not  ourselves  "  long  before  his  faith  became  anthropomor- 
phic, and  ages  before  he  peopled  Olympns  with  deities.  And  his  child- 
like &ith  in  continued  existence  was  long  prior  in  time  to  any  notions 
about  eternity  or  annihilation.  The  poet  expresses,  as  poets  have  done 
more  clearly  than  scientists,  philosophers  or  theologians,  the  abiding 
belief  of  humanity,  when  he  says : — 

"  Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust  : 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why  ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 
And  Thou  hast  made  him  :  Thou  art  just" 

As  Mr.  Fairbaim  justly  observes  in  his  '^  Studies  in  the  Philosophic  0/ 
Religion  and  History"  (p.  68) : — " Religion  is  not  a  science,  or  any  con- 
structive or  reasoned  system  of  thought  that  can  be  opposed  to  it.  It  is 
simply  spirit,  expressing  in  symbol  its  consciousness  of  relations  other  and 
higher  than  physical  and  social.  Religion  is  a  permanent  and  universal 
characteristic  of  man,  a  normal  and  necessary  product  of  his  nature. 
He  grows  into  religion,  but  works  into  theology  ;  feds  himself  into  the 
one,  thinks  himself  into  the  other.  He  is  religious  by  nature,  theological 
by  art."  Belief  in  an  intelligent  Creator  of  the  universe,  a  Power  of 
inconceivable  might,  that  lies  behind  and  above  all  which  man  perceives 
through  and  with  this  bodily  senses,  comes  first;  '*  h  pnon theories  about 
the  universe,"  or  about  anything  else,  are  reached  long  after.  When, 
therefore,  religion  and  scientific  philosophy  are  opposed  to  each  other,  it 
is  well  to  remember  that  for  "  religion "  we  must  read  the  systems, 
philosophical  or  theological,  based  upon  it ;  and  also  that  scientific  specu- 
lations into  inscrutable  causes  are  not  science,  but  hypotheses  built  upon 
science. 

In  the  intellectual  jargon  of  the  day  even,  there  is  ample  evidence  re- 
maining of  the  primitive  Theism.  ''  The  unconditioned  reality,"  ^  abeo* 
lute  force,"  "  the  power  by  which  we  are  acted  on,**  "  the  Inscrutable," 
'<  the  Unknown  and  Unknowable,"  <'  the  Uhiversum,**  and  such  other 
expressions  of  Agnosticism  as  must  be  fiimiliar  to  the  reader,  are  merely 
confessions  that  man  cannot  by  reasoning  on  material  facts,  or  ''by 
searching,  find  out  Gk)d.**  Philosophy  does  not  help  us,  any  more  than 
science.  Yet  even  those  who  doubt,  may  admit  with  Mr.  Mill,  that 
there  is  evidence  of  an  intelligent  Being  in  the  phenomena  of  nature ; 


MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER.  759 

and  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer's  oonclasion  is  that  "  the  order  of  nature  is 
doubtless  very  imperfect,  but  its  production  is  more  compatible  with 
the  hypothesis  of  an  intelligent  will,  than  with  that  of  blind  mechan- 
ism." Tyndall  even  conceded  that  ^'  the  theory  that  the  system  of 
nature  is  under  the  control  of  a  Being  who  changes  phenomena  in  com- 
pliance with  the  prayers  of  men  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  perfectly  legitimate 
one.''  Probably  the  learned  Professor  would  not  go  so  far  as  this  now ; 
but  he  distinctly  admits  the  postulates  of  natural  religion  in  his 
latest  utterances.  Nothing  indeed  is  more  striking  than  the  vacillat- 
ing attitude  of  scientific  men,  the  facility  with  which  they  occasionally 
admit  propositions,  which  in  their  dogmatic  moments  they  strenuously 
assert  to  be  not  merely  unproveable,  but  absolutely  unthinkable.  The 
reason  is  not  far  to  seek,  if  we  remember  the  purpose  and  scope  of 
physical  science.  To  it,  as,  Mr.  Mill's  system  clearly  admits,  the  princi- 
ple of  causation  must  be  an  insoluble  enigma ;  assuming  mere  sense  per- 
•ceptions  and  our  inferences  from  them  to  constitute  the  sum  of  human 
knowledge,  then  it  is  certain  that  *'  ultimate  or  efficient  causes  are 
radicaUy  inaccessible  to  the  human  faculties,"  always  supposing  reason 
to  be  the  sum  of  all  those  faculties. 

The  failure  of  science  upon  the  ground  it  has  seemed  ambitious  to 
occupy  of  late,  was  inevitable.  Dr.  Martineau  well  remarks  that  ^'science 
discloses  the  method  of  the  world  but  not  its  cause ;  religion  discloses  the 
•cause  of  the  world,  but  not  its  method.  There  is  no  conflict  between 
them  except  when  either  forgets  its  ignorance  of  what  the  other  alone 
•can  know."  When  Professor  Tjrndall  speaks  from  the  head  and  as  a 
4Mnentist,  he  speaks  as  a  materialist ;  when  his  heart  breaks  through  the 
«rust,  he  is  ready  to  admit  that  **  The  facts  of  religious  feeling  are  to  me 
as  certain  as  the  facts  of  physics."  Mr.  Mill,  in  his  essay  on  Theism, 
in  another  connection,  says  "Feeling  and  thought  are  not  merely 
different  from  what  we  call  inanimate  matter,  but  are  at  the  opposite 
pole  of  existence,  and  analogical  inference  has  little  or  no  validity  from 
the  one  to  the  other.  Feeling  and  thought  are  much  more  real  than 
anything  else ;  they  are  the  only  things  which  we  directly  kcto w  to  be  real 
'*  *  Mind,  (or  whatever  name  we  give  to  what  is  implied  in  conscious- 
ness of  a  continued  series  of  feelings)  is,  in  a  philosophical  point  of  view, 
the  only  reality  of  which  we  have  any  evidence ;  and  no  analogy  can  be 
recognized  or  comparison  made  between  it  and  other  realities  because 
there  are  no  other  known  realities  to  compare  it  with.  That  is  quite 
consistent  with  its  being  perishable ;  but  the  question  whether  it  is  so 
•or  not  is  res  irUegra,  untouched  by  any  of  the  results  of  human  knowledge 
and  experience."  Such  being  the  case  how  could  a  scientific  analysis  of 
mind  be  other  than  material,  and  its  "  unconditioned  reality,"  a  Power 
^'  unknown  and  unknowable  **  ? 


760  MAN  HERE  AND  HEBBAFTEB.  } 

Mr.  Buckle,  in  the  coodading  yolome  of  his  brilliant  Hiatory  of  Givili- 
zation — a  magnificent  but  unsatisfactory  fragment— laments  tiiat  men  of 
science  are  so  engrossed  in  their  inquiries  into  the  nature  and  propertiea 
of  matter  and  force,  as  to  forget  that  man  has  a  history,  not  altogether 
physical,  and  also  that  the  reasoning  fiiculty  is  not  the  whole  of  man. 
In  referring  to  Leslie's  remark  that  he  owed  much  of  his  insist  into  the 
philosophy  of  heat  to  the  poets,  Buckle,  who  certainly  was  no  slave 
to  the  imagination  or  the  emotions,  points  out  how  feeble  and  halting 
even  physical  science  must  needs  be,  when  it  ignores  these  elements  in 
the  constitution  of  man  ;  and  he  does  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  the 
contemporary  scientific  school  of  England  can  never  find  a  sound  basis 
for  philosophy  so  long  as  it  is  so  contracted  in  its  vision.  From 
the  earth-bound  fluttericgs  of  our  modem  philosophers  on  God  and 
mind,  let  us  turn  to  a  brilliant  and  inspiring  flight  from  the  pen  of 
one  who  was  snatched  away  too  soon  from  a  world  which  was  offended 
with  his  crudities,  and  never  knew  of  the  angelic  visitation  antil  the 
waves  had  hidden  it  from  sight.  In  his  unfinished  "  Essay  on  Chris- 
tianity," Shelley  was  banning  to  emerge  out  of  the  cloud  when  he 
said  : — 

"  We  live  and  move  and  think ;  but  we  are  not  the  creators  of  our 
own  origin  and  existence.  We  are  not  the  arbiters  of  every  motion  of 
our  complicated  nature ;  we  are  not  the  masters  of  our  own  imaginations, 
and  moods  of  mental  being.  There  is  a  Power  bv  which  we  are  sur- 
rounded, like  the  atmosphere  in  which  some  motionless  lyre  is  suspend- 
ed, which  visits  with  its  breath  our  silent  chords  at  wilL  Our  most 
imperial  and  stupendous  qualities — ^those  on  which  the  majesty  and  the 
power  of  humanity  is  erected — ^are,  relatively  to  the  inferior  parts  of  its 
mechanism,  active  and  imperial ;  but  they  are  the  passive  slaves  of  some 
higher  and  more  omnipotent  Power.  Tina  Power  is  God;  and  thoee 
who  have  seen  Gk)d  have,  in  the  period  of  their  purer  and  more  perfect 
nature,  been  harmonized  by  their  own  will  to  so  exquisite  a  consen- 
taneity of  power  as  to  give  forth  divinest  melody,  when  this  breath  of 
universal  being  sweeps  over  their  frame." 

This  passage  is  Pantheistic  and  necessitarian  in  tone,  doubtless  ;  not 
more  so,  however,  than  passages  which  might  be  quoted  from  theChristiaD 
Fathers,  frt>m  F^n^on  and  John  Calvin ;  at  all  events,  it  is  pitched  in  a 
.  nobler  key  than  any  strain  from  sensational  philosophy  or  scientific  Agnoa- 
ticism.  It  certainly  shows  the  force  of  Buckle's  caveat  against  the  modem 
school  of  science,  with  its  pendent  philosophy,  and  warrants  the  warm 
protest  of  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  against  its  grovelling  and  materiaUatie 
tendencies.  What,  let  us  now  ask,  are  the  points  of  divergence  between 
science  and  faith,  and  are  the  two  absolutely  irreconcilable  1  It  must 
be  borne  in  mind,  in  approaching  this  question,  that  our  immediate  con- 
cern is  with  the  axioms  of  natural  religion  alone,  and  not  with  Uie 
diverse  aspects  these  assume  under  the  various  systems  of  ihedc^gy. 


MAN  HEBE  AND  HEREAFTER.  761 

When,  and  only  in  so  far  as  these  systems  approve  themselves  to  the 
heart  and  conscience  of  man,  they  are  religious  in  our  present  sense  of  the 
term.  If  there  be  a  revelation  or  revelations  of  religious  truth,  their 
validity  must  rest  upon  the  notions  which  men  entertain  of  the  Supreme 
Power.  The  antecedent  probability  of  any  such  revelation  is  worthless, 
unless  it  be  based  upon  the  theistic  postulate — that  there  is  an  intelli- 
gent Being — whom  we  necessarily  term  Personal,  because  of  the  inade- 
quacy of  language — to  whom  His  creatures  may  look  up  with  awe  and 
reverence,  and  with  whom  they  can  recognize  their  ties  of  relationship 
by  gratitude  and  devotion.  A  deity  who  is  like  the  GU>d  of  pure  Panthe- 
ism, a  part  of  His  own  universe,  is  practically  no  god  at  all  in  the 
human  sense  of  that  awesome  word;  and  the  modem  *' Leviathan '^ 
which  man  is  asked  to  worship  under  the  name  of  Humanity  is  too  gross 
and  doubtful  a  Being,  uppossing  him  to  exist  save  as  a  Positivist  chimera, 
for  devotional  or  reverential  purposes.  Man  is  too  well  acquainted  with 
*'  the  chambers  of  imagery  within  '*  his  own  heart,  to  multiply  himself 
by  untold  millions  and  fall  down  before  that  huge  conglomerate  of  human 
strength  and  infirmity— of  good  and  evil — and  worship  it  as  God.  Hu- 
man emotion  may  be  a  fickle  agency  ;  but  it  will  neither  enlist  itseli 
under  the  banner  of  a  Cosmos  which  has  ordered  itself,  or  of  a  "  Hu- 
manity "  which  neither  hears  nor  heeds  its  prayers.  We  shall  have 
occasion  hereafter  to  deal  with  these  phases  of  pseudo-religionism ;  in 
the  meantime,  the  case  on  behalf  of  religion,  cannot  be  better  illustrated 
enpassanif  than  by  a  reference  to  the  poetry  of  one  of  its  fashionable 
counterfeits.  We  quote  from  Walt  Whitman  and  Algernon  Swinburne 
as  their  lines  are,  in  all  seriousness,  embalmed  in  a  paper  by  Professor 
Clifford  on  "  Cosmic  Emotion.**  It  is  interesting  to  note  what  a  grave 
mathematician  mistakes  for  the  divine  afflatus.  This  is  from  seer 
Whitman : — 

"  There  is  no  stoppage,  and  never  can  be  stoppage  ; 
If  I,  you,  and  the  worlds,  and  all  beneath  or  upon 
Their  surfaces  were  this  moment  reduced  back  to  a 
Float,  it  would  not  avail  in  the  long  run  ; 
We  shall  surely  bring  up  again  where  we  now  stand, 
And  as  surely  go  as  much  farther — and  farther,  and  farther, 
-  A  few  quadrillions  of  eras,  a  few  octillions  of  cubic  leagues, 
Do  not  hazard  the  space,  or  make  it  impatient ; 
They  are  but  parts — anything  is  but  a  part — 
See  ever  so  far,  there  is  limitless  space  outside  of  that ; 
Count  ever  so  much,  there  is  limitless  time  around  that." 

Except  the  difficulty  in  comprehending  infinite  space  or  time^-which 
after  all  is  quite  as  possible  as  to  conceive  of  a  time  when  there  shall  be 
no  time  or  space  beyond  which  there  is  no  space— this  bedlam  fustian 


762  MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTEB. 

i8  worthy  of  the  Cosmic  ereed.  If  tbe  reader's  attention  has  not  been 
sufficiently  wearied  to  ''  make  it  impatient,"  like  Whitman's  **  space,"  he 
will  perhaps  listen  to  another  apostie  of  the  new  evangel,  Mr.  Swinburne  : 

"The  earth-god  Freedom,  the  lonely 

Face  lightening,  the  foot-print  imahod. 
Not  M  one  man  cradfied  only 

Nor  soouiged  with  bat  one  life*e  rod ; 
The  Mnd  that  is  fubttanoe  of  nations, 
Be-incamate  with  fresh  generations ; 

The  great  god  Man,  which  is  Ood.*' 

lo  triumphe!  There  is  no  Gk>d  bat  Man,  with  a  capital  letter,  and 
Walt  Whitman  and  Swinburne  are  his  prophets !  Religion  man  most 
have,  we  are  told ;  but  he  ought  to  worship,  not  the  God  who  created  man, 
but  the  Universum,  the  Cosmos^  or  the  Man  who  created,  nay  is,  Qod" 
''These  be  thy  gods,  0  Israel  I"  in  the  halcyon  era  of  Positivism,  Agnos- 
'  ticism  and  the  countless  isms  which  are  to  follow  and  reign  upon  the 
vacant  throne  of  the  despised  Gralilean !  Those  of  us  who  are  not 
ashamed  to  answer  Strauss'  momentous  question  '<  Are  we  still  Ohiis- 
tians  ?  "  in  the  affirmative,  can  only  wonder  and  tremble  in  pity  and 
amazement  at  this  melancholy  exhibition  of  blasphemous  self-conceit  and 
verbose  inanity. 

How  far  Positivism  is  entitled  to  the  name  of  religion  would  hardly 
have  been  worth  discussing,  but  for  the  amount  of  deceptive  veneering 
with  which  its  rotten  wood-work  has  been  covered  ;  but  of  that  anon. 
In  considering  the  antagonism,  real  or  imaginary,  between  religion  and 
science,  we  exclude  all  pseudo-religions  and  take  Theism,  as  the  basis  of 
religion,  with  the  immateriality  of  spirit  as  a  corollary  from  it — ^both 
being  primary  truths  posited  by  the  "practical  Keason  ;"  in  plain  lan- 
guage, they  are  truths  perceived,  not  demonstrated.  Now,  where  a  reve- 
lation commends  itself  to  the  religious  instinct,  it,  of  course  imparts,  as 
well  as  receives,  confirmation  ;  but  it  jnay  also  be  the  source,  in  a  lesser 
degree,  of  weakness,  when  logical  tests  are  applied  to  the  resulting  belief 
The  first  difficulty  which  confronts  the  religious  man  is  the  doctrine  of 
inexorable  and  immutable  law,  according  to  which  everything  in  nature 
is  pre^letermiiied  without  any  possibility  of  change  or  variation.  Tlus 
scientific  dogma — ^for  which  there  is  no  scientific  proof  in  the  strict  sense 
of  the  term — is  used  against  particular  theological  beliefs  such  as  mira- 
cles, special  providences,  and  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  Now,  as  we  have 
already  said,  it  is  not  within  the  purpose  of  these  general  remarks  on  re- 
ligion to  allude  to  any  difficulties  connected  with  particular  forms  of 
faith.  At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  apparent  that  a  Power,  which  is 
''unknowable"  though  we  may  concede  that  it  possesses  inteUigenoe,  but 
which  has  contrived  by  the  agencies  at  its  command  so  to  frame  the  uni- 


MAN  HSfiE  AND  HEBBAFTKB.  763 

verse  as  to  have  rendered  ita  own  ezistenoe  in  all  time  coming  a  super- 
flaity,  cannot  be  an  object  of  worship.  A  God  who  once,  to  use  the  words 
of  a  contemporary  writer,  made  a  madiine,  and  after  winding  it  up,  now 
stands  apart  and  contents  himself  with  seeing  it  go,  without  either  the 
power  or  inclination  to  do  anything  more,  is  in  fact  no  Gkxl  at'all.    And 
what  is  worse— because  it  at  once  settles  man's  place  in  the  scale  of  in- 
telligent beings— if  by  uniformity  of  nature  is  meant  the  blind  rule  of 
necessity,  then  man  is  not  even  a  conscious  automaton,  but  a  bundle  of 
nerves  and  fibres  acted  upon  by  inexorable  law,  and  there  is  room  no 
longer  for  religion  or  morality  in  his  career  than  in  the  life  of  a  gorilla, 
an  oyster,  or  an  amosba.    Now  what  do  we  mean  by  law  in  this  connec- 
tion t    Simply  an  inference  drawn  from  experience  during  a  finite  time 
over  a  limited  portion  of  the  universe.  Says  Mr.  Mill,  in  his  Logic^  ''  The 
uniformity  in  the  succession  of  events    .    .    .    must  be  received,  not  as 
a  law  of  the  universe,  but  of  that  portion  only  which  is  within  the  range 
of  our  immediate  observation,  with  a  reasonable  degree  of  extension  to 
adjacent  cases ;"  or  to  use  Prof.  Tyndall's  expression,  '*  there  is  an  un- 
erring order  which,  in  our  experience,  knows  no  exceptions."  But  surely 
generaliz  itions  of  this  sort  can  be  of  no  avail,  when  volition  is  introduced 
as  a  factor  in  the  reckoning.    To  postulate  that,  so  far  as  we  know,  mat- 
ter as  affected  by  force,  is  uniform  in  its  character  and  follows  unalter- 
able laws,  however  valuable  as  a  working  hypothesis — or  even  the  only 
working  hypothesis — in  physics,  is  a  very  inadequate  basis  for  a  philo- 
sophy, mental,  moral,  or  "  cosmic"    Mr.  Buckle,  Prof.  Sidgwick,  and 
a  host  of  others,  whilst  they  admit  that  the  logical  proof  of  necessity  is 
irrefragable,  deny  its  validity  at  all  as  opposed  to  man's  consciousness 
that  within  certain  limits,  he  is  free.    As  Buckle  observes,  it  only  serves 
to  show  that  the  scientific  synthesis  is  faulty,  its  generalization  founded 
on  an  imperfect  induction  from  a  partial  acquaintance  with  the  facts,  and 
therefore,  S3rmmetrical  though  it  may  be  as  an  argument,  it  must  be  set 
aside  at  once  when  we  come  to  deal  with  man  as  he  has  been,  and  as  we 
feel  and  know  ourselves  to  be.    It  has  been  well  remarked  that  '^  this 
is  a  point  on  which  consciousness  has  aright  to  speak ;  and  Mr.  Spencer 
tellis  us  that  belief  of  it  is  a  necessary  condition  to  all  knowledge.  Skep 
ticism  on  one  point  here  involves  skepticism  on  all     If  a  man  doubted 
his  own  consciousness,  he  must  doubt  everything,  and  science  is  impos- 
sible. But  if  consciousness  must  be  held  veracious  when  it  testifies  to  the 
existence  of  an  outer  world,  the  obligation  to  believe  is  much  greater, 
when  it  speaks  to  what  is  known,  not  in  symbol,  but  in  itself.  Now,  if  there 
is  one  point  on  which  the  consciousness  of  universal  man,  as  expressed  in 
universal  language,  has  been  more  unanimous  than  another,  it  has  been 
in  testifjdng  to  his  freedom,  and  because  of  it,  judging  as  to  the  charac- 
ter and  quality  of  his  actions."    (Fairbaim,  p.  94.)    If  man  is  nothing 


764  MAN  HERB  AND  HEBEAFTEB. 

more  than  "  the  transferred  activities  of  his  molecules,"  he  cannot  be  free 
and  thus  the  physicid  hypothems,  when  pr(^>08ed  as  a  psychological  prin- 
ciple, contradicts  consciousness,  and  therefore  must  be  a  partial  and  de- 
fective account  of  human  nature. 

The  doctrine  of  the  correlation  of  forces,  or  conservation  or  persistence  of 
energy,  again,  is  no  stumbling-block  to  spiritual  truth.  It  may  be  briefly 
stated  thus :  All  the  forces  at  work,  the  effects  of  which  we  perceive  in  the 
universe  are  correlatives,  one  of  another ;  each  may  be  toansmuted  into 
any  other ;  the  amount  of  force  in  the  universe,  like  the  amount  of  mat- 
ter, is  always  the  same,  and,  underlying  the  various  forms  it  assumes,  there 
is  a  substantial  unity  or  identity  etemaUy  persisting.  Now,  man  is 
absolutely  unacquainted  with  the  nature  of  force,  in  the  first  place ;  and, 
in  the  second,  we  derive  our  notions  of  its  character  from  its  effects  in 
nature,  as  compared  with  effects  we  can  ourselves  produce.  A  few 
authorities  will  make  this  clear.  Mr.  Spencer  (First  Principles) :  "  Ex- 
periences of  force  are  not  derived  from  anything  else  .  .  .  and  the 
force  by  which  we  ourselves  produce  change,  and  which  serves  to  sym- 
bolize the  cause  of  changes  in  general,  \b  the  final  disclosure  of  all  ana- 
lysis." Again :  "  By  the  persistence  of  force  we  really  mean  the  persis- 
tence of  some  cause  which  transcends  our  knowledge  and  conception. 
In  other  words,  asserting  the  persistence  of  force  is  asserting  an  uncon- 
ditioned reality,  without  beginning  or  end."  Mr.  Justice  Grove  {Corre- 
lation and  Gonservation  of  Physical  Forces)  : — Force  "  is  a  subtile,  mental 
conception,  and  not  a  sensuous  perception  or  phenomenon  " — *'  a  postu- 
late of  reason  applied  to  nature ;"  '*  all  we  know  or  see  is  the  effect,  we 
do  not  see  the  force."  £ven  in  Prof.  Tyndall's  hands  matter  ceases  to 
be  matter  at  all  in  the  ultimate  analysis  and  "  behind  the  veil "  there 
is-  an  *'  outside  entity "  whose  "  real  nature,"  he  tells  us,  *'  we  can 
never  know  "  and  which  while  manifested  in  evolution  must  remain  *'  & 
power  absolutely  inscrutable  to  the  intellect  of  man."  No  doubt  he  is 
justified  in  confining  his  assertion  to  the  domain  of  intellection.  Now, 
mark  the  natural  progress  from  Agnosticism  up  to  Theism  in  the  quota- 
tions following.  Ghallis  {Mathemalical  Principles  of  Physics) : — ^'  Force 
dissociated  from  personality  and  will  must  be  forever  incomprehensible 
to  us ;  because  it  would  be  something  contradictory  to  our  conscious- 
ness." Force,  therefore,  so  far  as  we  know  anything  of  it,  is  associated 
with  intelligent  volition.  It  then  becomes,  in  Dr.  Carpenter's  words, 
*'  that  universal  and  constantly  sustaining  agency  of  the  Deity  which  is 
recognized  in  every  phenomenon  of  the  universe."  Finally,  Dr.  Whewell 
{Astronomy  and  Physics) : — "The  laws  of  nature  are  the  laws  whidi  Gknl 
in  his  wisdom  prescribes  to  His  own  acts.  His  universal  presence  is  the 
necessary  condition  of  any  course  of  events.  His  universal  agency  is  the 
origin  of  all  efficient  force."    Thus  the  doctrine  of  the  conservation  of 


MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER.  765- 

6Qerg7i  80  far  from  invalidating  our  Theistic  belief,  is  itself  n6t  only 
"  inscrutable,"  bat  absolutely  unthinkable,  unless  we  predicate  intelli- 
gence and  volition  as  its  efficient  cause.  That  cause,  that  Being,  that, 
all-pervading  Power,  in  the  words  of  Shelley,  "  is  God.*' 

The  theory  of  evolution  again,  which  has  taken  so  strong  and  firm  a 
grasp  upon  the  thought  and  culture  of  this  age,  is  not  at  all  at  variance 
with  natural  religion.  It  may,  or  may  not,  be  reconcilable  with  the 
Mosaic  cosmogony  ;  but,  instead  of  making  a  conscious,  intelligent  and 
all-powerful  Deity  unnecessary  in  a  new  theory  of  the  Universe,  it  fur- 
nishes corroborative  testimony,  of  the  most  cogent  kind,  to  His  existence. 
The  old  theological  argument  from  ends,  or  from  evidences  of  design  in 
nature,  must  be  transformed,  no  doubt,  but  only  to  be  spiritualized,  ele- 
vated  to  a  serener  air,  and  grounded  upon  a  more  secure  foimdation. 
Mr.  Mill  has  said  that  ''  Teleology,  or  the  doctrine  of  Ends,  may  be 
termed,  not  improperly,  a  principle  of  the  Practical  Reason,"  borrowing 
that  phrase  from  the  system  of  Kant  Prof.  Huxley,  in  his  review  of 
Haeckel  and  in  his  address  at  Glasgow,  denies  that  there  is  any  antagon- 
ism between  theology  and  evolution,  and  admits  that  the  latter  leaves 
the  argument  from  design  practically  where  it  was.  That  is,  if  we  un- 
derstand him  aright,  it  does  not  weaken  its  force,  although  it  has  ren- 
dered necessaiy  its  reconstruction.  The  discovery  of  a  different  method 
in  creation,  does  not  at  all  affect  the  question  of  cause.  As  a  recent 
writer  remarks,  a  theory  based  upon  ''  the  survival  of  the  fittest "  in  a 
''  stru^le  for  existence,"  only  deepens  and  broadens  the  causal  inquiry. 
Whence  the  *'  existence  "  to  survive  and  what  impressed  upon  matter  its 
tendency  to  conserve  ''  the  fittest  ?  **  Even  *were  it  proved  that  man 
himself,  so  far  as  his  body  is  concerned,  must  be  the  ultimate  outcome  of 
developed  bioplasm  or  protoplasm,  the  origin  of  life  would  be  as  inex- 
plicable as  ever.  Moreover,  the  gradual  development  in  plan  is  sufficient- 
ly clear ;  but  the  genealogical  descent  of  later,  from  earlier,  and  ultimate- 
ly from  primitive,  forms  is  unproved  and  perhaps  unprovable.  Without- 
referring  to  other  writers,  one  or  two  sentences  frt)m  Agassiz  and  Owen 
may  suffice  on  this  h^ad : — ''There  has  been  a  manifest  progress  in  the 
succession  of  beings  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.  This  progress  consists, 
in  an  increasing  similarity  t^  the  living  fauna  and,  among  the  vertebrates 
especially,  in  their  increasing  resemblance  to  man.  But  this  connection 
is  not  the  consequence  of  a  direct  lineage  between  the  fauna  of  different 
ages.  .  .  The  link  by  which  they  are  connected  is  to  bo  sought  in  the 
thought  of  the  Creator  Himself,  whose  aim  in  Ibrming  the  earth,  in 
allowing  it  to  pass  through  the  successive  changes  which  G^logy  has- 
pointed  out,  and  in  creating  successively  all  the  different  types  of  ani* 
mals  which  have  passed  away,  was  to  introduce  man  upon  the  surface  of 
the  globe.    Man  is  the  end  toward  which  all  the  animal  creation  has. 


766  MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER. 

tended."  Professor  Owen  says : — '<  The  recognition  of  an  ideal  exem[dar 
in  the  vertebrated  animals  proves  that  the  knowledge  of  such  a  being  as 
man  existed  before  man  appeared ;  for  the  Divine  Mind  which  planned 
the  archetype  also  foresaw  all  its  modifications.  The  archetypal  idea 
"was  manifested  in  the  flesh  long  prior  to  the  existence  of  those  animal 
species  that  actually  exemplify  it."  He  further  concludes  that  this 
■^^  unity  of  plan  testifies  to  the  oneness  of  the  Creator."  It  is  true  that 
Prof.  Owen,  like  many  other  distinguished  naturalists,  has  been  carried 
from  bis  moorings,  yet  in  his  latest  work,  he  says,  *'  I  believe  (he  horse 
to  have  been  predestinated  and  prepared  for  man.  It  may  be  a  weak- 
ness j  but  if  so,  it  is  a  glorious  one,  to  discern,  however  diyily,  across  our 
'finite  prison-wall,  evidence  of  the  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends,  abuse 
the  means  as  we  may."  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  note  the  straw  at  which 
some  writers  have  snatched — ^the  theory  of  '^  unconscious  intelligence." 
Mr.  Alfred  Bussell  Wallace,  an  evolutionist,  remarks  that  "  the  hypothsis 
has  the  double  disadvantage  of  being  both  unintelligible  and  incapable  of 
any  kind  of  proof"  The  expression,  says  Mr.  St.  Qeorge  Mivart  wiU, 
-^^  to  many  minds  appear  to  be  little  less  than  a  contradiction  in  terms ; 
the  very  first  condition  of  an  intelligence  being,  that  if  it  know  anything, 
it  should  at  least  know  its  own  existence." 

Evolution,  so  far  from  invalidating  the  theistic  convictions  of  mankind, 
•adds  force  to  those  convictions — is  corroborative,  not  infirmative.  Mr. 
Darwin  himself,  the  greatest  living  naturalist  and  the  high  priest  of  the 
development  hypothesis,  concluded  his  first  great  work  in  these  words  : 
-''  There  is  grandeur  in  this  view  of  life,  with  its  several  powers,  having 
been  originally  breathed  by  the  Creator  into  a  few  forms  or  one ;  and  that 
while  this  planet  has  gone  cycling  on,  according  to  the  fixed  law  of  gravity, 
from  so  simple  a  beginning,  endless  forms,  most  beautiful  and  most  wonder- 
ful, have  been,  and  are  being  evolved."  But  once  eliminate  the  Creator,  in 
theory,  from  the  universe,  and  what  becomes  of  the  transcendent  sublimity 
of  Mr.  Darwin's  view  ?  Every  element  of  complexity  introduced  into  the 
original  scope  of  the  creative  plan,  or  even  the  simplification  of  its 
modus  operandi,  only  adds  intricacy  to  physical  phenomena — makes 
the  necessity  of  the  theistic  conception  only  the  more  imperative.  It  thus 
becomes  more  and  more  incredible  that  matttr  can  have  been  the  efficient 
<cause  of  all  the  phenomena  of  thought,  feeling,  volition,  imagination,  &c, 
which  we  class  as  moral  and  spiritual.  There  can  be  no  effect  admitted 
as  flowing  from  a  cause  which  was  not  originally  in  that  cause.  The 
Teason  of  the  universe,  as  a  writer  already  quoted  observes,  **  must  be 
-expressible  in  the  forms  and  terms  supplied  by  the  last  and  highest, 
i:«therthan  the  first  and  lowest,  development  in  nature.  .  .  The  be- 
ginning marks  the  process  as  an  ascent  or  descent ;  the  end,  by  exhibit- 
ing the  highest  product,  determines  the  kind  and  quality  of  the  pro- 


I 


MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER.  76T 

dacing  factors."    In  Platonic  phrase^  the  ''idea  "  must  have  existed  in 
Deity,  before  it  could  have  unfolded  that  '<  promise  and  potency/'  to 
use  Prof.  Tyndall's  expression,  "  of  all  terrestrial  life  "  which  modern 
science  discerns  in  matter.    As  the  schoolmen  put  it,  there  can  be  na 
effect  in  the  naiura  naiurata  which  was  not  antecedently  in  the  natura 
ruUurans — in  other  language,  a  stream  cannot  rise  higher  than  its  source. 
The  evolution  hypothesis  is  no  new  cosmic  theory.    It  was,  as  Mr. 
Mivart  has  shewn  in  the  twelfth  chapter  of  his  Genesis  of  Spedes,  held 
distinctly  by  St.  Augustine,  Thomas  Aquinas,  and  Suarez  centuries  ago ;, 
in  modern  times  it  was  the  property  of  philosophy  long  before  the 
physicists  laid  hold  of  it    Kant,  Groethe  and  Hegel  were  its  apostles  be- 
fore natural  science  claimed  it  as  its  own  and  added  to  the  weight 
of  probability  by  experimental  research.    It  must  never  be  forgotten 
that,    however    grand    this  and  other  notable   scientific    discoveries- 
of  the  age  may  be,  they  are  metaphysical,  not  physical,  where  they 
profess  to  deal  with  causes  which  transcend  experience.    There  the^ 
necessary  laws  of  thought  must  reign  supreme,  and  the  result  may  be  put 
in  the  form  of  argument  in  Hume's  celebrated  thesis  on  miracles  :-*It 
is  contrary,  not  only  to  experience,  but  to  the  necessary  laws  of  the  mind 
and,  therefore,  absolutely  incomprehensible  that  force  should  originate 
anywhere  but  in  will,  or  that  a  complex  plan  of  procession  in  life  and 
being  should  exist  without  having  for  its  author  an  intelligent  and  all- 
powerful  Being  who  could  see  and  forecast  the  end  from  the  beginning  • 
but  it  is  not  contrary  to  our  experience,  and  easily  conceivable,  that 
scientific  hypotheses  should  be  false.    If  the  immense  and  bewildering 
periods  of  time,  recorded  in  the  stony  volume  of  nature,  have  led  up  to 
man ;  what  must  he  himself  be,  if  not,  like  his  Almighty  Creator,  at  least 
spiritual,  though  clothed  upon  with  a  material  garment  and,  though  finite 
in  hiB  origin,  destined  to  live  when  the  earth  and  all  that  is  therein  shall 
have  "  shrivelled  like  a  parched  scroll,"  or  been  congealed  into  eternal 
rigidity,  bereft  of  life  and  being,  thought  and  intelligence  ?  From  the  uni- 
verse we  learn,  then,  the  wisdom  and  the  power  of  its  ''  great  Original "  ; 
and  from  His  workings  on  earth  we  have  some  clue  to  the  elevation  and 
the  natural  dignity  of  man  in  the  scale  of  being.     When  those  who  are 
unencumbered  by  subtly  woven  hypotheses,  scientific,  philosophic  or 
theological,  speak  of  man  they  mean  a  living  soul,  a  being  who  has  Gk>d 
for  his  Father  and  upon  whom,  therefore,  the  sacred  relationship  has 
imposed  duties  which  his  love  and  gratitude  alike  suggest  and  which 
are  feebly  expressed  in  the  reverence,  devotion  and  obedience  of  the  crea- 
ture.   Our  views  of  man  here,  and  more  especially  our  beliefs  in  hia 
hereafter,  depend  for  their  vitality  and  substance  upon  the  truth  of 
Theism,  and  it  is  at  once  the  back-bone  of  religion,  natural  or  revealed ;. 
the  key-stone  in  the  arch  of  humanity ;  the  ultimate  basis  of  moral 


768  MAN  HEBE  AND  HEREAFTEB.  j 

•obligation  ;  the  pole-star  to  wearied  voyagers  on  this  dark  and  mjrster- 
ious  sea  of  life ;  and  the  sheet-anchor  of  the  soul  when  it  glides  at  last  in- 
to that  quiet  harbour — ^the  final  rest  for  the  weary — which  is  known  to 
mortals  as  death. 

I'he  subject  of  man  and  his  final  destiny  was  discussed  in  the  form 
of  a  Platonic  *'  symposium  "  by  various  writers  in  the  pages  of  the 
Mneieenih  CetUury^  and  this,  with  another  "  symposium,"  which  prece- 
ded it  in  order  of  time,  has  been  re-published  by  the  Bose-Belford 
Publishing  Co.,  in  an  exceedingly  neat  volume,  and  at  a  reasonable 
price.*  These  discussions  certainly  deserve  a  more  prolonged  existence 
than  that  which  even  a  monthly  periodical  can  confer,  and  we  sincerely 
recommend  this  little  volume  to  all  earnest  readers  as  the  best  risunUoi 
the  state  of  thought  and  opinion,  current  amongst  reflecting  men  on 
its  respective  subjects.  The  work  begins  with  two  introductory  pj4>er8 
by  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  the  eloquent,  earnest,  and  even  fervent 
apostle  of  Positivism.  Then  follow  the  " symposia*'  proper  in  which 
Profs.  Huxley  and  Clifford  take  part  on  behalf  of  scientific  Agnosticism, 
Mr.  Greg  on  the  side  of  literary  Agnosticism,  and  a  large  number  of 
others  in  support  of  views  which  come,  more  or  less  strictly,  under  the 
common,  but  somewhat  iudividious,  name  of  orthodoxy.  To  this  edition, 
moreover,  is  prefixed  an  able  and  thoughtfully  written  preface,  which 
seems  to  require  more  than  a  passing  reference,  because  it  appears  to  view 
pending  controversies  regarding  religious  truth  from  what  some  of  us  re- 
gard as  an  insecure  standpoint  It  has  already  been  admitted  that  our 
theological  beliefs  are  undergoing  changes ; "  our  little  systems  have  their 
day ''  and,  having  enjoyed  it,  there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not 
"  cease  to  be,"  so  soon  as  they  give  an  inadequate  or  false  expression  to 
the  basic  truths  underlying  them  all.  Truth  is  eternal ;  but  our  know- 
ledge of  it  and  the  isms  and  ologies  constructed  upon  the  facts  at  our 
command,  are  necessarily  imperfect,  because  not  only  does  our  know- 
ledge widen,  but  the  insight,  mental  and  spiritual,  of  the  race  deepens 
and  so  out-grows  the  provisional  creeds  and  systems  of  other  times.  This 
is  true  in  other  spheres  of  thought,  no  less  than  in  the  religious  world 
of  man.  Science,  phUosophy,  economics,  sociology,  even  our  methods  of 
writing  history  or  biography,  and  the  form  and  spirit  of  literature  are  in 
•  a  state  of  flux  and  transition ;  why  should  our  theological  systems  fare 
better,  after  they  have  served  their  temporary  purpose,  outgrown  their 
usefulness,  and  ceased  to  embody  fully  or  accurately  the  spiritual  needs 
and  aspirations  of  the  time )  In  such  vicissitudes  as  have  marked  the 
history  and  progress  of  human  thought,  theology  has  had  its  share ;  bat, 
in  this  respect,  it  has  suffered  in  comnK>n  with  sdenoe  and  philoec^hy. 

*  A  Modtm  SympMimn.   Sa^Jeoto :  Hm  Soul  and  Fatora  UfcL  and  Hm  InflmMa  imoii  MonOttar 
of  a  DedhM  In  Beli«ioas  B«ltel    ^  Tarioa  Writon.    Toronto :  Rote-Belord  PabUWilnr  Oo.,  U98. 


MAN  HEBE  AND  HEREAFTER.  769 

Dogmatism  is  not  peculiar  to  theologies — indeed,  in  our  age,  we  most 
seek  otherwhere  for  salient  iUastrations  of  it — but  is  begotten  of  intel- 
lectual pride  upon  imperfect  knowledge,  and  brings  with  it  the  here- 
ditary doom  of  failure  and  destruction.  Ever  and  anon  there  is  a  vio- 
lent upheaval  in  the  mental  devices  of  humanity,  signifying  ''  the  remo- 
ving of  those  things  which  are  shaken,  as  of  things  that  are  made,  that 
those  things  which  cannot  be  shaken  may  remain."  The  steep  and 
rugged  path  on  which  mankind  have  toiled  painfully  upwards  towards 
the  light  and  the  truth,  is  strewn  with  the  ddbria  of  creeds,  theories, 
hypotheses  and  systems  of  all  sorts,  and  the  retrospect  ought  surely  to 
teach  a  lesson  of  humility  even  to  the  self-sufficient  confidence  of  the  age 
in  which  we  live. 

Not  now,  for  the  first  time,  has  Reason  vainly  hoped  to  *'  do  its  work 
thoroughly  "  by  *'  digging  down  to  the  very  foundations  of  religion,"  and, 
after  aU  its  delving,  neither  stirred  a  stone  nor  caused  perceptible  vibra- 
tion through  its  massive  stability.  Religion,  whatever  its  origin,  is  a 
possession  of  the  race, — a  heritage  which  depends  upon  the  results  of  no 
legal  or  logical  argument  for  its  validity.  Systems  about  the  origin  or 
basis  of  our  beliefs  are  made  and  perish  ;  religion  has  grown  and  been 
made  more  perfect  by  development.  If,  as  modem  science  teaches, 
there  can  be  no  breach  of  continuity  in  the  material  world,  it  is  equally 
certain,  perhaps  more  sure,  that  there  can  be  none  in  the  progress  of  the 
race,  spiritual,  moral,  mental,  social  or  political  The  days  that  are 
past  are  linked  with  the  present,  and  it  will  be  bound  to  the  future,  by 
a  chain  which  neither  time  nor  strength  may  rend  or  destroy.  Man 
cannot  ''break  with  the  past  "  even  if  he  would ;  but  must  "walk in  the 
old  paths ''  onwards  whithersoever  they  may  lead  him,  or  cease  to  pro. 
gress  at  all.  Those  who  would  make  each  age  a  sort  of  ideal  Sisyphus, 
so  far  as  fundamental  beliefs  are  concerned,  may  be  wise  and  sanguine, 
but  they  are  unsafe  guides  in  the  journey  upwards. 

The  distinction  between  Reason  and  Authority  and  the  radical  an- 
tagonism supposed  to  exist  between  them  in  the  preface,  may  be  truly 
or  falsely  put,  according  to  the  sense  in  which  those  much  over-worked 
terms  are  used.  Like  the  Dean  of  St  Paul's,  when  speaking  of  the 
subject  of  the  second  discussion  (p.  221)  we  may  be*  permitted  to  ask 
here,  What  and  whose  Reason,  and  what  Authority  are  intended  ? 
Reason  has  been  employed  in  so  many  senses,  that  perplexity  and  hesi- 
tancy here  may  be  excused.  Is  it  a  faculty  of  the  mind,  say  the  judgment, 
or  a  consensus  of  the  mental  faculties,  or  the  method  of  investigation  as 
distinguished  from  feeling,  intuition  or  inspiration,  or  simply  a  plea  that 
man  should  believe  nothing  for  which  he  cannot  give  reasons  satisfactory 
at  least  to  himself  t  Whose  reason  is  to  be  supreme,  mine  or  yours,  or 
the  collective  reason  of  the  race,  acquired  hereditarily  through  the 


770  KAN  HBRE  AND  HEREAFTER. 

measareless  past,  and  imparted  in  a  measare  to  erery  man  t    Again,  if 
by  Authority  be  meant  the  imposition  by  some  external  power  of  a 
rigid  sjTstem  of  belief  in  the  shape  *^  of  iron  clad  creeds  and  confessions 
of  faith,  made  three  or  four  hundred  years  ago,  by  Mible  mortals  like 
ourselves  "—in  fact,  that  sort  of  authority  which  settles  matters  by  ex- 
claiming '^  the  Church  has  said  it  and  it  must  be  so,"  there  can  be  no 
objection  to  the  statement  referred  to.     But,  then,  that  is  a  very  narrow 
and  inadequate  definition  of  Authority,  as  much  so  as  the  sphere  of 
Reason  is  unduly  widened,  and  its  actual  inflaence  over  mankind  exag- 
gerated.   Let  any  one  try  to  eliminate  roughly  all  that  he  supposes  he 
has  derived  from  reason  in  his  beliefs,  opinions  or  knowledge,  and  then 
analyze  the  evidence  upon  which  he  has  deliberated,  the  rules  by  which 
he  has  weighed  that  evidence,  and  the  various  warpings  of  bias  which 
have  swayed  his  judgment,  and  he  will  be  convinced  that  the  real  sphere 
of  rational  operations  is  exceedingly  limited.    Reason  is  but  a  fiallible 
guide,  it  is  true,  but  as  a  test  of  the  value  of  authority,  and,  in  the  issue, 
the  arbiter  between  conflicting  opinions  demanding  assent,  it  must  be 
supreme.     But  still  reason  is  no  detis  e  machind :   it  is  an  inherited 
faculty,  and  must  have  some  material  to  work  upon.    It  does  not  make 
mental  bricks  without  straw,  and,  for  that,  it  must  look  to  some  author- 
ity.    *'  Authority,*'  says  Sir  James  Stephen,  "  is  the  evidence  of  ex- 
perts 'y*  but  as  Prof.  Wace  observes,  it  is  a  great  deal  more.    It  is  die 
net  result  of  the  struggle  of  the  race  towards  sound  knowledge,  just 
views  and  correct  beliefs.     Our  fundamental  axioms  in  morals,  religion 
and  everything  else  must  be  accepted  before  we  can  reason, — indeed 
Reason  accepts  them  as  indisputable,  and  they  are  adopted  as  premises 
before  a  single  inference  can  be  drawn.  These  are  the  cUUa  of  conscious- 
ness, and  their  "authority  "  is  paramount     To  give  an  instance  :   Mr. 
Herbert  Spencer  argues  that  our  moral  judgments  have  their  origin  in  a 
"  sense  of  interest"    That  may,  or  may  not,  have  been  the  case  at  the 
outset,  it  is  certainly  not  so  now,  and  therefore,  seems  after  all,  but  a 
subordinate  inquiry.    Sir  John  Lubbock — who  will  hardly  be  stigma- 
tized as  a  sheep  from  "  those  submissive  flocks  who,  in  all  times  and 
countries,  have  i;^joiced  the  hearts  of  all  priesthoods  "-—contends  that 
for  *'  sense  of  interest "  should  be  substituted  "  deference  to  author- 
ity" inherited  at  birth,  or  imposed  by  our  environment      Author- 
ity then,  whether  as  it  speaks  from  within,  or  without,  is  primdfaew 
to  be  received ;  reason  is  simply  the  touch-stone  which  distinguishes 
the  sterling  from  the  base,  in  the  current  coin  of  the  time.    The 
real  question,  after  all,  for  every  man  in  most  subjects,  and  for  the 
overwhelming  majority  in  all,  is  not  whether  Reason  or  Authority  is  to 
be  followed  ;  but  what  Authority  commends  itself  at  once  to  the  head, 
the  heart  and  soul  of  man  ?  We  all  have  idols,  before  which,  consciously 


KAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER.  771 

or  unconscioasly  the  knee  is  bent,  and  towards  which  our  jadgment  is 
biassed,  and  our  feelings  and  affections  unceasingly  incline,  be  its  name 
Catholicism,  Protestantism,  Bationalism,  Agnosticism,  or  any  of  the 
other  dii  nUnarum  gentium  in  the  Pantheon  of  the  day.  From  the  mo- 
ment man  emerges  upon  this  troublous  scene,  until  he  finds  rest  in  the 
grave,  be  he  ever  so  rational  or  sceptical,  he  is  mainly  the  creature  of 
authority,  and  will  continue  to  be  so  until  an  infant  Robinson  Crusoe  is 
dipped  in  some  Lethe  which  washes  away  every  inherited  influence,  and 
he  is  left  to  survive  on  his  desert  island,  with  such  Reason  as  he  may 
possess  for  his  man  Friday. 

In  briefly  noticing  the  first  discussion  in  ''  The  Modem  Symposium," 
that  on  *'  The  Soul  and  Future  life,"  it  seems  necessary  to  remark  that 
Positivism  forms  the  text  proper,  and  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  is  the  fer 
vent  and  eloquent  preacher,  whose  sermon  is  criticised  from  various 
points  of  view,  by  the  other  writers.    The  two  papers  which  make  up 
this  discourse,  deserve  to  be  attentively  read  and  digested.     They  con- 
stitute the  latest  word  of  soidiaarU  scientific  philosophy,  as  opposed  to 
the  cherished  convictions  of  the  race — the  most  promising  attempt  to 
evoke  enthusiasm  on  behalf  of  a  pseudo-religion  which  ^has  Humanity 
for  its  God,  '*  a  consensus  of  the  human  faculties,"  as  the  Soul,  and  parti- 
cipation '*in*the  glorious  future  of  the  race"  as  ''a  life  beyond  the 
grave,"  when  all  sense  of  individuality  is  lost,  and  man,(with  his  hopes 
and  fears,  lies  buried  in  the  dust.    The  "  imaginative  glow  and  rhe- 
torical vivacity,**  and  ''  passionate  earnestness,"  which  Messrs.  Hutton 
and  Baldwin  Brown  cheerfully  recognize,  are  manifest  in  these  papers 
unquestionably ;  but  the  creed  Mr.  Harrison  propounds  must  inevitably 
appear  to  the  vast  majority  of  readers,  dreary  and  cheerless  in  the  ex- 
treme.    Let  us  endeavour,  inadequate  and  perhaps  unfair  as  such  an 
attempt  may  be,  to  strip  Positivism  of  its  attractive  plumage  and  pre- 
sent its  claims  upon  the  confidence  and  enthusiasm  of  man,  as  they  ap- 
pear from  a  mere  synopsis  of  these  essays.    The  Positive  method  then, 
''would  base  life  and  conduct,  as  well  as  knowledge  upon  such  evidence 
as  can  be  referred  to  logical  canons  of  proof,  and  would  place  all  that 
occupies  man  in  a  homogeneous  system  of  law.    On  the  other  hand,  this 
method  turns  aside  from  hypotheses  not  to  be  tested  by  any  known  logi- 
cal canon  familiar  to  science,  whether  the  hypothesis  claims  support 
from  intuition,  aspiration,  or  general  plausibility."   (p.  20. )  *'  Science," 
Mir.  Harrison  very  properly  declines  to  restrict  to  that  branch  of  it 
called  ''  physical,"  treating  it  as  inclusive  of  ethics  and  sociology.     But 
whilst  he  appears  justified  in  protesting  against  the  attempt  of  physi- 
cists to  monopolize  that  word,  he  is  guilty  of  a  graver.offence,  when 
he  uses  words,  which  have  a  well-defined  meaning  in  common  parlance, 

in  a  Comtist^  if  not  a  Pickwickian,  sense.   To  speak  of  a  ''  soul "  and  of 
8 


772  MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTKR. 

"  spiritnality  "  when  he  denies  the  existence  of  anything  bat  matter  and 
its  functions  is  surely  paltering  with  language,  and  when  he  treats  of 
humanity  in  the  mass,  with  all  the  good  and  evil  pertaining  to  it,  as  a 
Being,  and  of  an  immortality  which  is  not  life  at  all,  but  only  the  influ- 
ence, beneficent  or  the  contrary,  which  survives  a  dead  man,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  Prof.  Huxley  protests  against  this  absurd  travesty  of 
popular  belief  and  ridicules  the  Positivist  for  preaching  ''  a  soulless 
spirituality  and  a  mortal  immortality." 

On  page  37,  we  find  a  passage  which  seems  almost  marvellous,  when 
taken  in  connection  with  what  precedes  and  follows  it.  Speaking  of  the 

Positivist,  Mr.  Harrison  says: — "As  a  fact  every  moral  faculty  of 
man  is  recognized  by  him  just  as  much  as  by  any  transcendentalisL 
He  does  not  limit  himself  any  more  than  the  theologian  does  to 
mere  morality.  He  is  fully  alive  to  the  spiritual  emotions  in  all  their 
depth,  purity  and  beauty.  He  recognizes  in  man  a  yearning  for  a  power 
outside  his  individual  self,  which  he  may  venerate,  a  love  for  the  author 
of  his  chief  good,  the  need  for  sympathy  with  something  greater  than 
himself.  All  these  are  positive  facts  which  rest  on  observation,  quite 
apart  from  any  explanation  of  the  hypothetical  cause  of  these  tenden- 
cies in  man.  There,  at  any  rate,  the  scientific  observer  finds  them ;  and 
he  is  at  liberty  to  give  them  quite  as  high  a  place,  in  his  scheme  of  human 
nature,  as  the  most  complete  theologian.  He  may  possibly  give  them  a 
higher  place,  and  bind  them  far  more  truly  into  the  entire  Xissue  of  his 
whole  view  of  life.  .  .  With  the  language  of  spiritual  emotion,  he  is 
perfectly  in  unison.  The  spirit  of  devotion,  of  spiritual  communion  with 
an  ever-present  power,  of  sympathy  and  fellowship  with  the  living 
world,  of  awe  and  submission  towards  the  material  world,  the  sense  of 
adoration,  love,  resignation,  mystery,  are  at  least  as  potent  with  the  one 
system  as  with  the  other.  He  can  share  the  religious  emotion  of  every 
age,  and  can  enter  into  the  language  of  every  truly  religious  heart." 

Here  we  have  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  "  Power,  not  ourselves,  which 
makes  for  righteousness;"  the  Comtist  religion,  like  his,  appears  to  be 
**  morality  touched  with  epiotion  ;"  "  the  author  of  man's  chief  good"  is 
*'an  ever-present  power,"  which  (not  Whom)  he  may  venerate,  and  he  finds 
scope  in  "  awe  and  submission  towards  the  material  world,"  and  "  sym- 
pathy and  fellowship  with  the  living  world"  for  "adoration,  love,  resigna- 
tion "  and  so  on,  through  the  entire  devotional  vocabulary.  The  soul 
like  the  deity  of  this  stupendous  creed,  is  no  "  immaterial  entity,"  and 
yet  it  is  not  permitted  us  to  explain  "  the  spiritual  side  of  life  by  physi- 
cal, instead  of  moral  and  spiritual,  reasoning "  (p.  26),  because  that 
would  be  "  materialism,"  a  system  from  which  Mr.  Harrison  shrinks 
with  a  horror  which  appears  perfectly  genuine  and  unfeigned.  Still  he 
insists  that  all  the  manifestations  of  our  moral  and  spiritual  being  are 
functions  of  the  organism.  Of  course,  if  he  means  by  his  italiciied  pro- 
position— "every  moral  phenomenon  is  in  functional  relation  with 
some  physical  phenomenon  "  (p.  161),  that,  in  humanity,  as  we  know  it 


MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER.  773 

ander  existing  conditions,  mind,  soul  and  body,  are  intimately  connected 
together  in  the  complex  being  called  man,  and  that  we  have  no  experi-' 
ence  of  soul  apart  from  body,  there  was  scarcely  any  reason  for  stating 
it  so  explicitly.  Quis  negavU  ?  as  Prof.  Huxley  puts  it.  If  our  moral 
and  spiritual  nature  is  not  material  and  not  '^  an  immaterial  entity,'' 
pray,  what  is  it )  The  body  is  certainly  material,  and  its  fiinctions  are 
corporeal ;  if  the  moral  and  spiritual  part  of  the  soul  differs  from  its 
physical  part  in  character — and  all,  it  must  be  remembered,  go  to  make 
up  the  Positivist  "  soul " — then,  whether  there  be  "  an  heterogeneous- 
entity  "  or  not,  there  must  be  a  heterogeneous  something.  What  is  it,- 
and  what  is  its  nature,  or  has  it  any  existence  but  a  '^  hypothetical  one  V 
Byron,  misunderstanding  the  philosopher,  exclaims,  ''  when  Berkeley 
said  there  was  no  matter,  it  was  no  matter  what  he  said ;"  in  point  of  fact, 
the  distinguished  Irish  prelate  simply  contended  *'  that  what  we  directly 
perceive  are  not  external  objects,  but  our  own  ideas."  **  He  did  not  deny 
the  validity  of  perception,  nor  of  consciousness  ;  he  affirmed  the  reality 
of  all  that  either  the  vulgar  or  philosophers  really  perceive  by  their 
senses,  and  denied  only  what  was  not  a  perception,  but  a  rapid  and  un- 
conscious inference.  (Mill's  Essay  an  Berkeley,)  But  what  would 
either  the  poet  or  the  philosopher  have  said  of  a  theory,  essentially 
physical,  which  terms  the  soul  "  a  consensus  of  the  human  faculties," 
corporeal  and  all,  and  yet  speaks  of  ''a  moral  and  spiritual  nature,"  which 
is  neither  material  nor  spiritual  1  Mr.  Harrison  concludes  that  such  a 
nature  exists,  because  the  fact  is  clearly  apparent  in  the  history  and  pro- 
gress of  the  race ;  but  why  state  that  fact  in  terms  which  traverse  the 
clearest  affirmations  not  only  of  individual,  but  collective,  human  con- 
sciousness ?  As  philosophical  idealism  has  clearly  shewn,  it  would  be 
much  easier  to  disprove  the  existence  of  body,  than  of  mind. 

With  regard  to  **the  hereafter,"  Mr.  Harrison  holds  the  bizarre 
opinion  that,  whilst  there  is  an  immortality,  "  a  life  beyond  the  grave," 
it  consists  not  in  a  prolongation  of  conscious  personal  identity  at  all. 
He  denies  that  '*  when  the  brains  were  out  the  man  would  die  and  there 
an  end,"  but  his  so-called  "life  "  is  in  fact  death  in  the  terrible  form  of 
annihilation,  and  it  is  only  by  the  survival  of  his  influence,  which  may 
be  infinitesimal,  and  of  doubtful  benefit,  that  an  individual  can  partici- 
pate "  in  the  glorious  future  of  the  race,"  which,  as  Mr.  Huttonremarks» 
may  before  long  be  cut  short  by  the  cooling  of  the  sun  (p.  68).     And 
yet  Positivism  admits  as  a  fact  in  consciousness  to  be  taken  into  account^ 
"  the  sense  of  identity,  and  the  longing  for  perpetuation  of  that  iden- 
tity "  (p.  38) ;  and  elsewhere  he  states  the  religious  problem  to  be 
**  where  is  he  (man)  to  find  the  object  of  his  yearnings  of  spirit  ? "    On 
the  other  hand,  he  asserts  in  defiance  of  both  the  "  yearning  of  spirit  '* 
and  the  sense  of  identity  that  he  regards  a  "  perpetuity  of  sensation  as 


774  MAN  HERE  AMD  HEREAFTEB. 

the  true  helL''  Mr.  Harrison  proposes  '^  the  conviction  of  posthumous 
activity  (not  of  posthumous  fame) "  or  "the  consciousness  of  a  coming 
incorporation  with  the  glorious  future  of  his  race  "  as  a  sufficient  future 
for  man.  He  mentions  the  name  of  Danton  ;  but  these  were  his  words  : 
"  My  abode  will  soon  be  annihilation ;  but  my  name  will  live  in  the 
Pantheon  of  history.''  So  the  Epicurean  Horace,  in  the  Ode  (iiL  30)  in 
which  he  gloiies  in  having  *^  finished  a  monument  more  enduring  than 
brass",  boasts  non  omnia  mariar — "  I  shall  not  all  die; "  and  both  Danton 
and  the  poet  were  evidently  yearning  after,  not  posthumous  activity, 
but  posthumous  fame.  To  the  mass  of  humanity,  such  a  scheme  of 
immortality  can  only  seem  a  mockery,  in  comparison  with  which  even 
''the  eternity  of  the  tabor "  or  the  "  ceaseless  psalmody  "  which  consti- 
tutes Mr.  Harrison's  idea  of  the  Christian  heaven  must  appear  real  and 
desirable.  To  humanity  clamouring  for  spiritual  bread,  Mr.  Harrison 
proffers  a  stone,  and  maintains  that  it  is  no  stone  at  all,  but  bread  ;  and 
when  the  guests,  at  his  Barmecide  feast,  insist  upon  its  true  character, 
he  is  amazed  and  offended  at  their  obstinate  and  invincible  ignorance. 
"  Religion,"  he  tells  us,  ''  and  its  elements  in  emotion — attachment, 
veneration,  love— are  as  old  exactly  as  human  nature"  (p.  41).  True ; 
but  it  certainly  never  entered  into  the  head  or  heart  of  man  to  conceive 
of  attachment  to  a  magnified  Humanity,  adoration  of  it  or  of  the  material 
world,  or  love  for  a  philosophical  abstraction,  until  Comtism  invented 
the  deity  and  the  cult.  The  hope  of  immortality  may  be  as  ''  selfish  " 
as  Mr.  Harrison  contends — and  it  is  certainly  not  wholly  so — ^yet  there 
it  is,  enshrined  in  the  heart  of  man,  and  not  to  be  expelled  by  a  fanci- 
ful paradise,  which  we  may  view  from  the  Pisgah  of  Positivism,  but 
can  never  enter,  except  by  proxy,  represented  by  our  posthumous 
activity. 

It  is  not  intended  to  follow  out  the  "  symposium  "  in  detail ;  still  some 
reference  must  be  made  to  the  views  advanced,  both  in  favour  of  the 
orthodox  and  agnostic  opinions.  Mr.  R.  H.  Hutton,  the  able  and  ear- 
nest editor  of  the  Spectator^  is  of  the  Liberal  Anglican  school, — a  Broad 
Churchman  in  common  parlance — and  his  criticism  is  specially  directed 
to  the  caricature  of  the  Christian  heaven  drawn  by  the  Positivist,  and 
the  absolute  inanity  of  his  notions  regarding  immortality.  A  few  pas- 
sages may  be  sufficient  to  indicate  its  general  scope.  Speaking  of  Mr. 
Harrison's  defective  view  of  the  '<  orthodox  "  position,  he  weU  remarks  : 
"  I  fear  that  the  Positivists  have  left  the  Christian  objects  of  their  criti- 
cism so  far  behind,  that  they  have  ceased  not  merely  to  realize  what  Chris- 
tians mean,  but  have  sincerely  and  completely  forgotten  that  Christians 
ever  had  a  meaning  at  all.  That  Positivists  should  r^;ard  any  belief  in  the 
''beatific  vision'  as  a  wild  piece  of  fanaticism,  J  can  undersUnd ;  but  that, 
entering  into  the  meaning  of  that  fanaticism,  they  should  describe  the 


1 


MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTER.  776 

desire  for  it  as  a  gross  piece  of  selfishness,  I  camiDt  anderstand  ;  and  I 
think  it  more  reasonable,  therefore,  to  assume  that  they  have  simply  lost 
the  key  to  the  language  of  adoration  "  (p.  64). 

Mr.  Hntton's  eloqaent  description  of  the  spiritual  conception  of  a 
future  life,  is  too  long  for  quotation ;  certainly  there  is  no  trace  of 
selfishness  in  the  aspirations  he  cherishes.  As  he  well  remarks,  the  hope 
could  only  be  "  selfish  "  if  one's  own  ^'  personal  immortality  could  or 
would  interfere  with  any  other  being's  growth."  Again,  directing  his 
attention  to  Mr.  Harrison's  constructive  side :  ''My  posthumous  activity 
will  be  of  all  kinds,  some  of  which  I  am  glad  to  anticipate,  and  much  of 
which  I  anticipate  with  absolute  indifference.  Even  our  best  actions  have 
bad  effects,  as  well  as  good  "  (p.  67) ;  to  which  may  be  added  the  import- 
ant consideration  that  this  "  posthumous  activity,"  so  far  as  it  is  in  any 
proper  sense  a  voluntary  and  purposed  activity,  may  perhaps  be  exactly 
contrary  to  what  we  intended,  and  therefore  a  result  which  we  cannot 
at  the  present  time  anticipate  with  satisfaction.  Once  gone  from  us,  our 
thoughts  and  deeds,  even  in  life,  cease  to  be  parts  of  our  being,  and  we  lose 
control  of  them  even  while  we  are  in  the  body.  Mr.  Hutton  declines  to 
contemplate  his  "  coming  incorporation  "  with  the  "  future  of  our  race — 
glorious,  or  the  reverse,"  with  any  rapture  of  satisfaction ;  and  he  con- 
tinues, *  - 1  do  not  quite  see  why  the  Positivist  thinks  it  so  glorious,  since 
he  probably  holds  that  an  absolute  term  must  be  put  to  it,  if  by  no  other 
cause,  by  the  gradual  cooling  of  the  sun."  The  glorious  future,  even  at 
•best,  is  *'  a  very  patchwork  sort  of  affair,  indeed,  a  mere  miscellany  of 
bad,  good  and  indifferent,  without  organization  and  without  unity  " 
(p.  69). 

A  very  different  type  of  critic  now  appears  in  the  person  of  Prof.  Hux- 
ley, whose  remarks  are  not  merely  pungent,  but  caustic  and  trenchant. 
Positivism  has  at  least  this  merit  in  it,  that  it  takes  up  the  cudgels 
against  materialism  ;  whether  it  uses  them  effectively  or  not,  is  another 
question.  The  scientist  is  naturally,  and  to  our  view,  justifiably  angry 
with  Mr.  Harrison  for  denouncing  natural  science,  and  then  assuming 
its  axioms  as  the  ground-work  of  his  pseudo-philosophy.  Mr.  Harrison's 
discourse,  he  remarks,  ''  has  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  famous  essay 
on  the  iSnakes  of  Iceland.  For  its  purport  is  to  show  that  there  is  no  sou), 
nor  any  future  life,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  these  terms.  With  death, 
the  personal  activity  of  which  the  soul  is  the  popular  hypostasis  is  put 
into  commission  among  posterity,  and  the  future  life  is  an  immortality 
by  deputy."  (p.  71.)  In  short,  he  advocates  "  soulless  spirituality  and 
mortal  immortality,"  and  the  Professor,  with  many  others  besides,  would 
like  to  know  how  this  "  is  consistent  with  the  intellectual  scorn  and  moral 
reprobation  which  he  freely  pours  out  upon  the  irrational  and  debasing 
physicism  of  materialism  and  materialists."    To  an  outsider,  it  certainly 


} 


776  MAN  HERE  AND  HEBEAFTEB. 

appears  marvellous  to  begin  new  building  operations  on  the  temple  of 
natural  science  by  blowing  up  the  foundation.   Prof.  Huzley  is  extremely 
anxious  to  repudiate  the  extreme  views  of  Biichner;  so  is  Prof.  Tyndall, 
when  he  exclaims  **  there  is  no  rank  materialism  here;*'  and  Prof.  Fiske,  in 
the  I^orth  American  Review  (Jan.-Feb.,  1878),  where  he  defends  this 
critique  of  Prof.  Huxley's.    But  even  accepting  the  Professor's  pleas  put 
forth  here  pro  hdc  vice^  one  has  only  to  turn  to  his  ''  Physical  Basis  of 
Life  *'  and  **  Man's  Place  in  Nature/'  to  find  plenty  of  propositions  ma- 
terialistic enough.    It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  scientific  men 
should  shrink  from  the  name ;  the  astonishing  feature  is  the  nonchal- 
ance with  which  they  coquet  with  the  reality.    Prof.  Uuxley  is  really 
strong,  and  not  a  little  pitiless  in  his  stern  logic,  when  he  plucks  the 
spiritual  feathers  from  the  Positivist  crow;  yet,  after  all,  it  is  not  of  much 
importance  that  the  Comtist  and  Agnostic  find  themselves  at  last  birds 
of  a  feather.     There  is  no  escaping  the  awkward  predicament  certainly 
into  which  Prof  Huxley  drives  his  opponent     If  it  be  a  *'  corrupting 
doctrine  "  to  hold  *'  that  devotion  is  a  definite  molecular  change  in  this  or 
that  convolution  of  gray  pulp,"  and  yet  true  that  "  every  factor  of  will  and 
feeling  is  in  functional  relation  with  kindred  molecular  facts,"  then  devo- 
tion must  be  the  outcome  of  molecular  motion,  unless  there  be  some- 
thing to  exert  force  — '*  a  heterogeneous  entity,"  which  is  not  material 
Relation  implies,  at  least,  two  things  which  are  in  relation ;  molecular 
motion  is  one  term ;  what  is  the  other  in  its  nature  and  essential  char- 
acter ?    "  If,"  says  Prof.  Huxley,  "  it  be  true  that  *  impaired  secretions ' 
deprave  the  moral  sense  and  make  hope,  love,  and  faith  reel,  surely  the 
religious  feelings  are  brought  within  the  range  of  physiological  inquiry.'' 
If  the  moral  and  spiritual  fall  under  the  same  category,  are  subject  to 
the  same  laws  as  the  corporeal  part  of  the  organism,  and  if  everything 
from  **  the  finest  spiritual  sensibility  down  to  a  mere  automatic  contrac- 
tion, falls  into  a  coherent  scheme  "  which  excludes  heterogeneity,  then, 
as  body  is  material,  so  must  that  consensus  of  the  human  faculties, 
called  the  "  soul,"  be.     "  Mr.  Harrison,"  says  Prof  Huxley,  "  is  not  an 
impatient  theologian — indeed,  no  theologian  at  all,  unless,  as  he  speaks 
of  *  soul '  when  he  means  certainly  bodily  functions,  and  of  *  future  life,' 
when  he  means  personal  annihilation,  he  may  make  his  master's  grand 
Hre  supreme  the  subject  of  a  theology,"  and  that  is  true,  doubtless,  as  well 
as  telling  against  the  florid  ornamentation  with  which  (jomtism  has 
decked  the  portals  of  the  tomb.     It  is  Ghaumette's  **  Death  is  an  eternal 
sleep"  in  holiday  costume,  with  all  the  gew-gaws  of  ecclesiastical  para- 
phernalia, sitting  on  the  altar  of  N6tre  Dame — a  fraud  for  a  deity — the 
goddess  of  Reason  in  the  person  of  a  lady  of  the  ballet. 

Mr.  Harrison's  '' posthumous  activity"  is  treated  by  Mr.  Huxley 
thus,  *'  Throw  a  stone  into  the  sea,  and  there  is  a  sense  in  which  it  is 


MAN  HERE  AND  HEREAFTEE.  777 

true  that  the  wavelets  which  spread  around  it  have  an  effect  through 
all  space  and  time.  Shall  we  say  that  the  stone  has  a  future  life  ? " 
{p.  83.)  It  will  not  answer  to  urge,  as  Mr.  Harrison  does  in  his  reply, 
(p.  179)  '<  Has  a  stone  a  life  at  all  1  Because,  if  it  has  no  present  life,  I 
cannot  see  why  it  should  have  a  future  life.  How  is  any  reasoning 
about  the  inorganic  world  to  help  us  hereiu  reasoning  about  the  organic 
world  ? ''  It  may  be  true  that ''  a  man,"  so  long  as  he  lives,  **  is  wholly 
different  from  a  stone ; "  but  what  is  the  differentiating  element  in  a 
dead  man  ?  If  a  dead  man  survives  in  his  influence,  it  must  also  be 
conceded  that  a  stone  acquires  life  when  force  is  applied  to  it.  Passing 
natural  phenomena,  suchas  clouds,  comets,  storms,  earthquakes,  are  as  capa- 
ble of  activity,  posthumously,  if  we  may  use  the  expression,  and  in  the 
moral  and  spiritual  life  of  man  too,  centuries  hence,  as  a  dead  man  is, 
if  he  be  but  dust  and  ashes,  or,  even  in  Hamlet's  phrase,  the  **  quint- 
'essence  of  dusf  Bat,  in  the  organic  world,  has  no  one  ever  heard  of 
the  fabulous  or  real  agency  of  animals  f  What  of  the  she-wolf  that 
suckled  Eomulus  and  Remus,  the  geese  that  saved  the  Ci^itol,  the  cock 
that  smote  the  conscience  of  Peter,  the  spider  that  nerved  Robert 
Bruce  1  They  had,  or  may  have  had  life,  and  they  enjoy  ^*  posthumous 
activity  ;  "  are  they  immortal  1  Prof.  Huxley  is  only  weak,  when  he 
tries  to  make  out  his  physical  theory  about  religion  and  morals.  So  far 
as  the  material  part  of  man's  organism  is  concerned,  he  is  sure  of  his 
ground ;  but  when  he  attempts  to  treat  matters  which  are  beyond  {he 
purview  of  his  own  study,  where  he  is  facile  princeps,  all  is  darkness. 
The  fatal  blindness,  which  besets  minds  warped  by  a  particular  branch 
of  knowledge,  however  valuable,  has  ensnared  Prof.  Huxley  and  his 
illustrious  brother  in  science,  Prof.  Tyndall.  *'  Physiologists,"  says  John 
Stuart  Mill,  and  the  remark  applies  to  natural  philosophers  also,  '^  have 
had  in  full  measure  the  failing  common  to  specialists  of  all  classes :  they 
have  been  bent  upon  finding  the  entire  theory  of  the  phenomena  they 
investigate  within  their  own  speciality,  and  have  too  often  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  any  explanation  of  them  drawn  from  other  sources.''  So 
far  as  Mr.  Harrison  exposes  this  peculiar  illusion  or  Baconian  *'  idol," 
he  is  a  universal  benefactor  and  deserves  higher  credit  than  can  be 
claimed  for  him  as  the  apostle  of  an  unfruitful,  because  it  is  a  hybrid, 
creed.  The  "  consequences  of  men's  actions,"  so  far  as  they  appear  in 
earthly  results,  will  doubtless,  to  use  Prof.  Huxley's  argument, "  remain 
the  same  "  whether  man  be  material  or  immortal,  but  the  causes  and 
motives  of  action  would  vary,  and  the  sanctions  of  morality  would 
fluctuate  accordingly.  With  the  Professor's  feeling  of  regret  that  he 
cannot  find  evidence  of  the  soul  and  the  future  life,  where  it  is  vain  to 
.seek  it,  we  may,  or  may  not,  sympathize ;  but  most  people  will  agree 
with  him  that  <'  it  is  not  worth  while  to  have  broken  away,  not  without 


778  MAN  HERE  AND  HEBEAFEEB. 

pain  and  firief,  from  beliefs  which,  tme  or  false,  embody  great  and 
fruitfal  conceptions,  to  fall  back  into  the  arms  of  a  half-breed,  between 
science  and  theology,  endowed,  like  most  half-breeds,  with  the  faults  of 
both  parents,  and  the  virtues  of  neither."     (p.  83.) 

This  article  has  far  surpassed  its  proper  limits,  and  any  reference  to  the 
admirable  papers  of  Lord  Blachford  and  his  fellow  believers  in  immor- 
tality must  be  omitted.  To  the  discussion  itself  we  refer  our  readers, 
especially  directing  attention  to  the  despairing  Agnosticism  of  Mr.  Greg, 
and  the  *^  robust  faith  "  of  Dr.  Ward,  the  editor  of  the  Boman  Oatholie 
DvhUn  Refoiew,  The  second  discussion  upon  the  relation  of  religion 
to  morality  must  be  passed  over.  It  only  remains  to  remark  that  in 
this  struggle  regarding  man  and  his  nature  and  destiny,  the  validity  of 
the  facts  attested  by  consciousness,  whether  innate,  inherited  or  ac- 
quired, remains  intact.  From  the  concessions  of  Messrs.  Mill,  Spencer, 
Tyndall,  Gomte,  Harrison,  Huxley  and  the  rest  of  the  thinkers,  scientific 
or  philosophical,  who  have  left  their  impress  upon  the  intellect  and  sen- 
timent of  the  time,  we  could  readily  reconstruct  the  fabric  of  natural 
religion,  were  it  possible,  even  for  an  hour,  to  remove  it  from  its  foun- 
dation in  the  soul  of  man.  The  theologies  of  the  past,  and  to  some 
extent  of  the  present,  are  chargeable  with  much  of  the  perplexity  which 
harasses  men  to-day.  In  the  words  of  Principal  TuUoch,  in  the  collec- 
tion of  papers  on  *' Future  Punishment ''  reprinted  also  by  the  pub- 
lishers of  the  "  Modem  Symposium : "  "  The  definiteness  which  medie- 
val and,  hardly  less,  Protestant  theology  sought  to  carry  into  questions 
which,  by  their  professed  nature  allowed  of  no  adequate  definition,  has 
recoiled  upon  it  disastrously,  till  its  right  to  be  a  branch  of  knowledge 
at  all  has  been  disputed ;  and  the  spiritual  sphere  within  which  alone 
it  finds  its  function  has  been  denied  any  reality.  So  extreme  a  recoil  aa 
this  will  in  the  end  bring  its  own  redress ;  but  there  may  be  *  a  bad  time ' 
before  the  balance  of  thought  swings  round  again,  and  theology  is  glad 
to  be  content,  like  other  sciences,  with  its  own  sphere  of  facts,  and  its 
own  order  of  generalizations."  That  sphere,  continues  Dr.  TuUoch,  is 
<*  at  least  as  real  in  human  experience  as  any  physical  or  mental  series 
of  facts,  and  claims,  no  less  recognition  and  scientific  explanation.''  At 
all  events  there  will  be  no  grand  hcvleversemerU  in  religion ;  theology  must 
suffer  for  its  own  sins  of  dogmatic  presumption,  whilst  religion,  purified 
from  the  ooze  and  slime  of  the  material  channel  through  which  it  has 
passed,  will  emerge  at  last,  like  the  celestial  stream  of  the  Apocalyptic 
vision,  "  a  pure  river  of  the  water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal,  proceeding 
out  of  the  throne  of  God.*'  W.  J.  R. 


] 


779 


ROXY. 

BY  EDWARD  EGGLEST05i. 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

LOVE  AND  GRAMMAB. 

On  the  day  following  Roxy's  infare,  Mr.  Adams  took  Mr.  Whittaker 
down  to  Miss  Rachel  Moore's  rooms,  and,  in  defiance  of  all  the  customs  of 
the  time,  was  married  privately,  with  no  witnesses  bat  Mark  and  Roxy. 
Miss  Moore  would  have  liked  a  little  more  of  ceremony,  a  few  friends, 
and  some  little  show.  But  when  Mr.  Adams  told  her  that  people  of 
their  age  would  better  be  married  without  any  nonsense,  she  answered, 
"  Very  likely,  very  likely,  my  dear  Mr.  Adams  !  che-he-he." 

On  the  night  of  the  infare  at  Bonamy's,  some  of  the  young  fellows^ 
who  were  not  invited,  showed  their  wit  by  perpetrating  a  transposition 
— that  joke  that  is  as  old  as  sign-boards  themselves.  No  doubt  in 
Babylon  sign-boards  were  changed  round  at  night  so  as  to  make  good 
Assyriac  puns  and  other  such  jokes. 

And  what  mischievous  boys  probably  did  in  Babylon  in  B.C.  1841, 
that  they  certainly  did  in  Luzerne  in  A.D.  1841.  For  Mr.  Adams,  on 
the  morning  on  which  he  was  to  be  married,  found  over  his  shoe-shop 
door  a  sign  which  read,  "  Miss  Moore,  Millinery  and  Mantua-maker/' 
and  Rachel  Moore  came  near  snickering  her  head  off  with  mingled 
shame  and  pleasure  to  find  "T.  Adams,  Boot  and  Shoe-maker,''  at 
her  place  of  business.  It  was  characteristic  of  Adapis  that  he  let  the 
signs  remain  as  they  were  that  day.  Only  he  had  the  wedding  earlier 
in  the  day,  telling  Rachel  that  when  they  were  married  the  joke  would 
be  spoiled.  To  which  she  replied  that  she  thought  it  very  likely  indeed. 
At  any  rate  she  willingly  conspired  to  spoil  the  joke. 

But  the  old  man  was  resolved  that  the  joke  should  go  no  further. 
Hearing  that  he  was  to  be  shivereed  that  night,  accordins;  to  the  usage 
by  which  widowers,  and  old  maids,  and  all  whose  weddings  are  eccen- 
tric, are  serenaded  with  skillet  lids,  and  ** dumb-bulls,"  and  "horse- 
fiddles,"  and  bells,  and  tin  pans,  he  put  a  stop  to  it  in  his  own  fashion. 
He  borrowed  a  double-barrel  shot-gun,  and  carried  it  ostentatiously 
down  the  main  street.  When  Tom  Pilman,  the  rough  who  led  all  such 
serenading  parties,  saw  him  pass,  and  hailed  him  with  :  '*  Hello,  Adams  I' 
What  you  going  to  do  with  that  gun  ? "  he  made  answer  "  We're  going 
to  have  a  serenade  at  our  house  to-night,  and  a  coroner's  inquest  in  the 


780  BOXY. 

morning.''  The  empty  gun  stood  peacefully  in  a  corner  that  night,  and 
there  was  no  shiveree. 

Mrs.  Eachel  wanted  to  continue  her  business,  and  Adams  gave  con> 
4sent.  There  was  a  dignity  and  authority  about  her  position  as  modiste, 
which  she  did  not  like  to  surrender.  She  thought  she  would  rather 
keep  ''  help  "  to  do  the  work  at  home,  and  go  on  as  usual,  dealing  in 
ribbons,  and  bonnets,  and  general  intelligence.  Only  her  husband  stipu- 
lated that  her  sign  must  be  changed. 

"  *  Millinery  and  Mantua-maker,' "  he  said,  sneeringly.  **  Why,  you 
aren't  for  sale,  Rachel,  are  you  ?  " 

''  Very  likely,  Mr.  Adams,"  she  said,  in  a  blissful  and  absent-minded 
•titter. 

"  Why,  Rachel,  you  must  have  lost  your  wits ! " 

"Very  likely.     Che-he-he!" 

"  But  the  sign  must  be  changed  so  as  to  read  '  Milliner  and  Mantua- 
maker.*    Don't  you  think  it  ought  to  be  changed  !  " 

"  Very  likely.  The  *  Miss '  ought  to  be  changed  to  '  Mrs.'  now. 
€he-he-he ! " 

Poor  Miss  Moore  had  dreamed  so  long  of  that  change. 

**That  would  make  you  Mrs.  Moore,"  said  Adams.  "Aren't  you 
l^oing  to  take  my  name  ? " 

"  Oh  yes !  I  forgot.  I'm  Mrs.  Adams.  It  seems  so  strange  to 
<:hange  a  lady's  name— che-he — for  the  first  time,  you  know.  Now 
you're  used  to  it,  you  know.  Oh  !  I  forgot — che-he-he  —men  don't^ — 
che-he-he — change  their  names,  do  they  ?  " 

Adams  gave  up  making  her  understand  his  scruples  of  grammar,  at 
least  until  she  should  recover  from  the  idiocy  of  her  honeymoon.  He 
had  the  sign  changed,  however,  and  Mrs.  Rachel  Adams  read  it  ev^y 
time  she  approacl^ed  the  little  shop,  in  a  glad  endeavour  to  impress  it  on 
her  own  mind  that  her  reproach  among  women  was  taken  away,  and 
that  she  was  an  old  maid  no  longer,  but  on  a  par  with  any  other  "  Mrs." 
in  town. 

In  the  matter  of  finding  a  help,  Mr.  Adams  consulted  Jemima,  whom 
he  met  in  the  street     Did  she  know  anybody  that  he  could  get  f 

**  Yes,  I  'low  I  do,"  she  answered. 

'''  A  real  good-tempered  person,  and  trustworthy  ?  "  asked  Adams. 

^*  Awful  trustworthy,  and  crusty  enough  to  keep  you  company  any 
day,  Mr.  Adams." 

"  Well,  who  is  it  1 "  asked  the  shoe-maker.     "If  she'll  only  quarrd 

with  me,  I  don't  care.     I'd  like  a  little  quarrelling,  and  you  can  no  more 

quarrel  with  Rachel  than  you  can  with  sunshine  itself.     Who  is  it  that 
you  mean  1 " 

"  The  fust  letters  of  her  name's  Jemima  Dumbleton,  and  she's  got  a 


EOXY.  781 

powerful  dislike  to  the  male  sect  in  parti  calar,  and  to  most  men  in 
general*' 

"  Would  you  leave  Henrietta  1" 

''  I'd  ruther  leave'r  not.  I  dislike  the  male  sect,  but  Henrietta  I 
dislike  on  her  own  particular  account     She's*  too  good  for  me." 

Adams  was  pleased  to  get  Jemima,  and  immensely  gratified  at  having 
a  chance  to  defy  Mrs.  Hanks  at  the  same  time.  Poor  subdued  Mrs. 
Rachel  was  shocked.  To  brave  Mrs.  Hanks  was  too  much.  But  Adams 
told  her  that  now  she  was  his  wife,  she  must  hold  up  her  head  and  show 
her  independence,  or  Henrietta  would  run  right  over  her.  "  You're  a 
married  woman  now,  Eachel,"  he  concluded. 

At  which  Rachel  smiled  audibly,  and  answered,  "  Very  likely,  my 
dear." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

AN  ATTEMPT  TO  FORECLOSE. 

The  little  teapot  of  Luzerne  society  had  been  agitated  during  the  two 
weeks  of  preparation  for  the  marriage  by  surmises  in  regard  to  the 
ulterior  purpose  of  Colonel  Bonamy  in  consenting  to  Mark's  wedding 
Rozy,  and  even  offering  him  help  conditioned  on  his  marriage.  To 
pious  people  it  seemed  a  special  interference  of  Providence  in  favour  of 
Texas.  But  not  so  to  the  sage  and  sagacious  Lathers.  He  knew  noth- 
ing about  Providence — ^he  felt  distinctly  his  moral  inability  to  under- 
stand God's  way  of  doing  things,  though  if  he  thought  about  God  at  all 
it  was  doubtless  as  one  who  was  a  good  deal  shrewder  in  carrying  his 
selfish  ends  than  men  were  in  achieving  theirs.  To  him  God  and  the 
devil  were  playing  a  series  of  games,  and  though  the  former  might  now 
and  then  let  the  latter  gain  a  few  points,  it  was  only  for  the  sake  of 
making  the  play  interesting,  and  of  finally  beating  the  devil  into  utter 
bankruptcy  and  locking  him  up  in  perdition  for  a  thousand  years.  But 
if  Lathers  could  not  see  through  the  ways  of  Providence  so  well  as  some 
of  his  townsmen,  he  thought  he  did  know  something  about  Colonel 
Bonamy. 

*'  I  say,  watch  out  fer  the  devil  when  he  is  playiu'  possum,"  said 
Lathers.  "  But  what  the  dickens  Colonel  Bonamy's  doin'  now,  I  can't 
see.  Him  help  the  missionary  work  ?  Not  him.  That  aint  his  side  of 
the  question.  Wait  till  you  see  this  game  out.  Wait  till  he  begins  to 
play  the  aces  he's  got  up  his  sleeve.  Now,  liker'n  not  the  old  man's 
goin'  to  git  married  to  some  young  wife,  er  run  fer  Congress,  and  he 
wants  Mark  away  off  among  the  Eg}'ptians  in  the  land  of  Babylon,  an' 
the  like.     I'm  purty  good  at  guessin',  now, — ^I've  knowed  Colonel  Bon- 


^ 


783  BOXY. 

amy  nigh  onto  twenty-four  year,  an'  he's  powerful  de^.  Now  yon 
jest  watch  out  fer  him,  will  you,  and  see  ef  he  don't  do  somethin'  like  I 
say/' 

But  Lathers  was  far  out  of  the  way.  Colonel  Bonamy  began  to  urge 
first  on  Mark  and  then  on  Boxy  that  they  should  postpone  their  journey. 

''  Better  put  it  off  till  New-Year's.  It  isn't  safe  going  to  that  climate 
so  early,"  he  said. 

But  the  enthusiastic  Elozy  was  hard  to  manage.  Mark  was  impatient 
to  be  away,  as  any  active  minded  young  man  is  impatient  to  set  out 
upon  the  achievement  of  his  purposes.  He  would  have  yielded  readily 
enough,  however,  notwithstanding  his  impatience ;  for,  since  his  father's 
management  of  Nancy,  he  felt  a  certain  confidence  in  the  Mendliness  of 
his  purposes.  But  the  dire  danger  of  souls  without  a  shepherd  op- 
pressed the  soul  of  Boxy.  It  was  pleasant  to  her  to  enjoy,  here  in  her 
own  town,  the  devotion  of  Mark,  the  fine-looking  young  husband  of 
her  heart ;  but,  because  it  was  pleasant,  the  austere  girl  was  eager  to 
surrender  it.  Perhaps,  too,  there  was  in  her  mind  some  latent  dread 
lest  an  easy  temper  like  Mark's  might  not  hold  firmly  fixed  a  severe  re- 
solution not  immediately  put  into  execution.  So  she  resisted  energeti- 
cally, and  with  success,  the  influence  of  Colonel  Bonamy's  persuasions 
on  the  mind  of  Mark.  If  he  did  not  go  at  the  time  appointed,  Boxy 
urged,  the  Bishop  would  not  want  him  at  all.  Indeed,  this  uncertainty 
and  complexity  of  motive  drove  the  straightforward  Boxy  into  an  irrita- 
ble energy  of  temper  which  was  a  surprise  to  herself.  She  longed  to  be 
where  she  could  act  again  directly  toward  a  definite  aim. 

All  the  time  that  this  discussion  was  being  waged,  and  Colonel  Bon- 
amy was  seeking  some  means  of  detaining  Mark  without  a  point-blank 
refusal  to  keep  his  agreement  in  the  matter  of  furnishing  money,  Mark 
was  supposed  to  be  engaged  in  studies  preparatory  to  his  ministrations 
among  the  Texans.  Wesley's  "  Sermons,"  and  Watson's  "  Institutes  of 
Theology,"  were  especially  prescribed  ;  but  to  a  man  of  Mark's  animal 
spirits  and  glowing  feelings,  the  clear-cut  and  severely  unrhetorical  sen- 
tences of  Wesley  seemed  uninteresting,  while  the  long-linked  reasoning 
of  WatsoD,  by  which  it  was  clearly  demonstrated  that  foreknowledge 
was  not  fore-ordination,  even  where  God  himself  was  the  foreknower, 
was  decidedly  dry.  He  liked  better  a  copy  of  Maffit*s  '*  Sermons,"  then 
fresh  from  the  press,  and  full  of  far-resounding  bombast  about  the  stage- 
fixings  of  the  day  of  judgment.  But  he  managed  to  get  on  in  tiie 
arduous  task  of  reading  Wesley  and  Watson,  by  dint  of  reclining 
laboriously  on  the  bed,  while  Boxy  sat  by  the  window  and  read  to 
him,  putting  something  of  the  fire  of  her  own  enthusiasm  into  Wesley's 
grave  and  simple  diction,  and  changing  Watson's  abstruse  speculations 
almost  into  poetry  by  the  illumination  of  her  imagination. 


ROXY.  .  783 

On  Sundays,  Mark  exercised  himself  in  preaching  in  the  country 
school-houses.  The  young  missionary  was  quite  the  lion,  and  the  crovrds 
of  listening  people  that  came  to  hear  him,  and,  above  all,  the  eyes  of  his 
young  wife,  stimulated  him  to  addresses  of  much  warmth.  They  seemed 
to  Mark  far  better  than  Wesley's. 

Meantime  Colonel  Bonamy  drew  the  reins  tighter  on  his  son.  Now 
that  Mark  was  married,  he  could  not  go  to  Texas  on  the  pittance  the 
church  would  pay,  and  the  father  had  some  difficulty  in  remembering 
that  he  had  made  any  definite  promise  in  the  matter.  At  most,  he 
could  not  raise  the  money  before  midwinter,  and  as  he  did  not  believe 
in  their  going  to  the  South  until  January,  he  was  not  going  to  hurry 
himself.  People  who  were  going  to  be  dependent  should  not  be  too 
domineering  about  it 

Slowly,  as  the  old  colonel  began  to  hint  that  preaching  in  Indiana 
would  do  just  as  well,  Mark  perceived  his  duplicity  ;  and  by  degreea,  he 
came  to  understand  that  his  father  had  not  intended  to  have  him  go  to 
Texas  at  all.  No  man  of  Mark's  spirit  likes  to '  be  managed,  and  when 
once  the  scheme  by  which  he  had  been  encouraged  to  marry  for  the  sake 
of  keeping  him  at  home  dawned  upon  him,  all  his  pride  and  combative- 
ness  were  carried  over  to  Roxy's  side  of  the  question. 

"  I  am  going  to  start  to  Texas  by  the  '  Duke  of  Orleans,' "  he  said  one 
day,  with  great  positiveness.  "  She  will  leave  Cincinnati  about  the  mid- 
dle of  October." 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  whining  drawl,  under  which  he  always 
covered  any  expression  of  defiance — "  Well,  if  you  go  in  the  middle  of 
October,  instead  of  waiting  until  the  time  I  have  set^  you  must  not  ex- 
pect me  to  keep  you  from  starving.  You'll  have  to  look  out  for  your- 
selves." 

"  That's  just  what  we've  made  up  our  minds  to,"  rejoined  the  son. 
"  If  we  can't  live  on  what  missionary  money  we  are  to  have,  we  will 
scratch  for  a  living,  like  other  poor  emigranta" 

"  Yon  can't  pay  your  travelling  expenses  out  there,"  said  the  old  man. 
«  By  selling  my  horse,  and  some  other  things  I  can  get  thera" 
"  And  ride  afoot  when  you  get  there,  eh  1 " 
''  Well,  I  going.     That's  the  long  and  short  of  it" 
'<  Well,  you  can  go  to  the  devil,  for  all  of  me,"  said  the  old  man,  turn- 
ing sharply  away. 

Mark  was  resolved  not  to  be  the  dupe  of  his  father,  and  Roxy,  for  her 
part,  was  rather  pleased  with  the  prospect  of  extreme  poverty  in  the 
mission  work.  It  filled  her  ideal.  Indeed  Colonel  Bonamy  was  in  every 
way  disappointed  in  Boxy.  She  did  not  seem  at  all  afraid  of  him,  nor 
in  the  least  conscious  that  she  had  married  above  her  station,  and  she 
showed  a  resistanoe  to  his  domineering  will  that  was  beyond  anything 


784  BOXY. 

he  bad  imagined  possible.  His  interviews  in  private  with  bis  daughter- 
in-law  were  a  succession  of  defeats.  She  even  showed,  on  occasion  a 
temper  that  seemed  to  him  quite  inconsistent  with  her  general  saint) iness. 

But  Colonel  Bonamy  had  not  yet  "  played  out  his  game,"  as  he 
phrased  it. 

"  Mark/'  be  b^;an,  as  they  two  sat  together  in  the  office  one  day, 
"  yon  never  asked  me  bow  I  came  out  with  your  Rocky  Fork  girl." 

"  She's  none  of  mine/'  said  Mark. 

'*Sbe  shows  rather  strong  proofs  of  your  liking  for  her.  Tou  don't 
give  your  watch-seals  and  Testaments  to  every  young  convert,  do  you  { 
Now,  if  Nancy  were  to  bring  a  suit  for  breach  of  promise  of  marriage, 
these  things  might  play  the  deuce  with  you.  And  she  would  have  done 
it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me.  I  kept  the  facts  out  of  Latbers's  bands,  and 
I  had  hard  work  to  keep  her  from  coming  in  and  making  a  row  at  the 
infare.  If  you  and  Mrs.  Boxy  are  too  stubborn,  I  don't  know  but  that 
rd  better  just  let  things  take  their  course.  I  think  you'd  haiidly  set  out 
on  a  mission  to  Texas  with  such  charges  against  you."  The  old  man 
emphasized  this  with  a  sinister  laugh,  very  provoking  to  the  other. 

"  You'd  look  well,  setting  such  charges  a-going  against  your  own  son," 
retorted  Mark,  reflecting  that  his  father's  family  prido  was  protection 
enough  from  the  execution  of  that  threat. 

But  he  was  not  at  ease.  Secretly  he  feared  Nancy.  Since  his  wedding, 
ho  had  twice  seen  her  at  a  distance  in  Luzerne,  and  had  turned  out  of 
his  way  to  keep  from  meeting  her.  This  fear  of  Nancy  was  alone  enough 
to  determine  him  to  get  away  to  Texas  by  the  next  New  Orleans  boat. 
But  at  the  same  time,  he  dreaded  an  open  break  with  his  father.  He 
knew  the  old  man's  love  of  mastery,  and  he  did  not  know  how  far  it 
might  carry  him.  He  no  longer  insisted  that  he  was  going,  whether  or 
no.  The  senior  was  lulled  into  security  by  his  silence,  believing  that 
the  enemy  wavered,  and  that  he  should  yet  carry  the  day.  And  as  days 
went  by,  with  no  visible  preparations  for  bis  son's  departure,  the  colonel 
thought  that  be  was  gaining  time ;  and  since  the  other  did  not  speak  of 
it,  he  treated  the  matter  as  though  it  were  tacitly  settled  as  he  wished. 

But  Mark  had  secretly  sold  his  horse,  and  had  sent  word  by  a  friend  to 
the  captain  of  the  steam  boat  **  Buke  of  Orleans,"  then  lying  at  Cincinnati, 
asking  him  to  stop  at  Luzerne  to  take  him  and  bis  wife  aboard.  Roxy'a 
preparations  were  all  made  but  she  did  not  like  the  secrecy  which  Mark 
enjoined.  She  could  not  bear  to  do  right  as  though  she  were  doing  wrong. 

As  the  time  approached  for  him  to  depart,  Mark  felo  that  Uie  storm 
would  be  all  the  more  severe  when  it  did  burst  upon  him,  and  that  he 
could  not  much  longer  keep  the  matter  a  secret^  for  all  the  brethren  in 
the  church  wanted  to  know  about  it,  and  they  would  wish  to  hold  a  fare- 
well meeting  on  the  coming  Sunday.     But  he  was  relieved  of  all  debate^ 


BOXY.  785 

on  the  way  in  which  he  should  oonimunicate  the  matter  to  his  father,  hy 
the  accident  that  Lathers  heard  of  the  sale  of  his  horse,  and  forthwith 
sauntered  into  Colonel  Bonamy's  office. 

"  Is  Mark  reely  goin',  Colonel  ? "  he  began. 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  yourself  ? "  retorted  the  old  man,  with  a  sudden 
suspicion  that  Lathers  knew  more  than  he  did. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  said  the  sheriff.  ''  Sometimes  it  seems^ 
like  as  ef  he  wuz,  and  then  ag'in  more  like  as  ef  he  wuzn't.'' 

"  I'd  a  little  rather  he'd  stay.  Major,  but  I  suppose  he'll  go,"  said 
Bonamy,  affecting  indifferenca 

"Did  you  know  he'd  sold  his  boss  and  saddle  ?  *' 

This  was  a  thunder-clap  to  the  colonel,  but  ho  did  not  let  Lathers  se& 
the  inward  start  it  gave  him. 

"  I  l^lieve  he  has  sold  several  things.  He  didn't  consult  me,  and  I 
haven't  asked  who  bought  it." 

"Done  kind  o'  on  the  sly,  wuzn*  it  ? " 

"  He's  a  fool  if  he  does  things  on  the  sly  from  me.  He'll  have  to  de- 
pend on  me  when  he  gets  out  there." 

"  Well,  I  heerd  Ben  Plunkett  sajrin'  that  he'd  bought,  but  wuzn't  ta 
say  anything  about  it  till  the  time  come.  An'  I  thought  a  father  ought 
to  know  what's  goin'  on  in  his  own  family." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  know  pretty  well,  Major,  how  the  land  lies.  If  they 
will  be  fools,  let  'em.     It's  no  lookout  of  mine." 

Lathers  left  the  office,  but  he  was  gratified  to  observe  from  the  next 
street-comer,  on  which  he  had  taken  up  a  stand  of  observation,  that  the 
colonel  went  home  soon  afterward. 

VMark'U  ketch  it  now,"  he  chuckled,  all  his  innate  love  of  mischief 
being  tickled  by  the  consciousness  of  having  exploded  a  mine  at  a  safe 
distance  from  himself. 

Colonel  Bonamy  was  bitterly  disappointed  at  having  all  his  ambitious 
hopes  of  Mark  overturned,  and  doubly  chagrined  that  the  whole  village 
had  now  guessed  out  his  motive  in  consenting  to  Mark's  wedding  Tom 
Adams's  daughter.  In  conceding  so  much,  and  in  employing  all  his  ait 
to  defeat  Nancy  Kirtley,  he  had  only  rendei'ed  his  own  humiliation  the^ 
more  complete. 

He  found  Mark  and  Boxy  in  their  own  room,  in  the  midst  of  prepara- 
tions for  going,  and  poured  upon  them,  for  half-an-hour,  the  fiercest  and 
most  sarcastic  things  he  could  say,  all  uttered  in  his  irritating,  whining, 
drawl.  Mark  was  a  coward,  the  colonel  snarled.  He  had  meant,  if  they 
must  go,  to  keep  his  promise.  But  a  man  guilty  of  sneaking  disobedience 
and  ingratitude  toward  his  fieither,  wasn't  fit  to  be  a  missionary.  He 
would  corrupt  the  people  of  Texas.     It  was  in  vain  that  Boxy  tiied  to 


786  BOXY. 

take  the  blame  upon  herself;  the  coloners  aristocratic  gallantry  did  not 
forsake  him  for  a  moment.  He  gently  waved  her  aside,  and  continued 
to  berate  Mark ;  for  indeed  he  knew  well  that  a  wife  would  rather  be 
scolded  than  have  her  husband  denounced.  Mark  did  not  receive  ibis 
lecture  in  the  meekest  way.  Even  Boxy  could  not  restrain  him,  and  he 
replied  with  a  vehemence  that  brought  both  the  sisters  into  the  room. 

Seeing  that  he  prevailed  nothing,  and  having  wrought  himself  into  a 
passion  that  put  diplomacy  outof-doors.  Colonel  Bonamy,  who  gave  him- 
self credit  for  his  dignified  forbearance  in  not  speaking  a  rude  word  to 
his  daughter-in-law,  did  not  mind  saying  words — sometimes  with  a 
keener  edge  for  her  than  a  personal  insult  would  have  had. 

^*  It  was  of  much  use  that  I  interfered  to  keep  that  Eirtley  girl  from 
giving  you  trouble,"  he  said  to  Mark.  *'  She  would  have  stopped  your 
wedding  if  I  had  let  her.  Didn't  she  stand  out  behind  the  gar^n  and 
storm  at  you  and  Eoxy  by  the  hour  on  the  night  of  the  infare,  ana  didn't 
it  take  both  Whittaker  and  myself  to  quiet  her  1 " 

Mark  turned  pale  at  this,  but  extreme  anger  generally  puts  on  an  ap- 
pearance of  calmness. 

**  You  know  there  is  no  truth  in  what  she  says,  and  yet  you  throw 
out  innuendoes  here  in  the  presence  of  my  wife  and  my  sisters.  We 
will  leave  your  house  right  off,  sir,  and  never  sleep  here  again." 

But  here  Janet  caught  hold  of  Mark,  and  then  of  her  father,  and  then 
of  Boxy,  and  begged  them  not  to  part  in  that  way.  She  carried  her  tears 
and  sobs  round,  and  they  were  effectual  For  if  a  man  wUl  not  listen  to 
a  crying  woman's  entreaty  out  of  pity,  he  may  yet  yield  because  he  hates 
a  scene.     See  for  example,  the  story  of  the  unjust  judge. 

"  Mark's  going  away  forever,"  pleaded  the  tender-hearted  Janet.  **Now, 
don't  send  him  off  this  way.  Don't  go  to-night  Mark.  Please,  Boxy, 
don't  you  let  him  go,"  And  then  she  stopped  and  sobbed  on  Boxy's 
neck,  and  Boxy  began  to  feel  that  her  burden  was  more  than  she  could 
bear.  She  had  strengthened  herself  against  poverty  and  barbarism ;  but 
what  are  poverty  and  barbarism  to  scolding  men  and  crying  women  f 

'*  I  didn't  send  him  away,"  said  the  old  man.  '*  It's  only  his  way  of 
treating  his  father."  Then,  softening  a  little,  he  said :  "Come,  li^k, 
don't  let's  quarrel  anymore.  Of  course  I  know  the  Elirtley  stoiy  is  all  a  lie. 
I  oughtn't  to  have  mentioned  it,  but  you  are  so  stubborn.  Don't  leave 
the  house ;  it'll  make  trouble." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Colonel  Bonamy  went  out^  reflecting, 
with  coDsiderable  satisfaction,  that,  go  where  she  would,  Boxy  would  be 
nettled  by  thoughts  of  Nancy  Kirtley,  and  that  the  knowledge  that 
Whittaker  had  heard  Nancy's  story,  would  multiply  the  trouble.  The 
more  he  meditated  on  it,  the  more  did  he  think  his  allusion  to  the  Kirt 


•  r 


ROXY.  787 

ley  mattor  a  master-stroke.     "  She'll  be  sorry  she  ever  crossed  me/'  he 
said. 

Still,  he  could  not  but  see  that  he  had  lost  ground  by  his  passion. 
He  had  set  all  his  son's  pride  and  anger  in  favour  of  going,  and  he  had 
given  the  stubborn  Boxy  new  motives  for  seeking  a  mission  in  Texas 
without  delay. 

CHAPTER  XXXn.  • 

THE  OVERTHROW  OF  BOTH. 

The  oldest  son  of  the  Bonamy  family,  the  namesake  of  the  father,  had 
*^  turned  out  bad,"  as  the  village  phrase  ran.  He  was  vicious  from  the 
beginning.  Much  money  and  many  beech  switches  were  wasted  in  vain 
attempts  to  beat  the  Latin  paradigms  into  him  against  his  iqclination.  He 
was  sent  away  to  boarding-Eohool  after  awhile,  but  the  education  he  got 
there  only  made  matters  worse.  When  at  last  Colonel  Bonamy  stopped 
giving  him  money  in  order  to  throw  him  on  his  own  resources,  he  pre- 
ferred to  live  on  other  people's  resources  and  so  became  a  gambler,  in 
New  Orleans,  the  Sodom  of  that  day ;  after  shooting  a  fellow-blackleg 
in  an  affray  he  sailed  thence  to  Brazil  and  was  never  afterward  heard 
from.  The  second  son,  a  lad  of  promise,  died  in  childhood.  It  would 
be  hardly  fair  to  say  that  all  the  old  man's  affection  had  centered  itself  in 
Mark.  All  his  family  pride  and  fierce  ambition  were  concentrated  in 
the  boy.  He  rejoiced  to  discover  in  him  as  he  grew  up  a  fine  force  and 
fire  in  declamation,  which  was  lacking  in  himself.  He  was  sure  that 
with  his  own  knowledge  of  law  and  his  shrewd  "  management "  he 
could,  by  the  help  of  Mark's  eloquent  delivery,  maintain  his  ascendency 
at  the  bar  to  the  last,  and  bequeath  to  his  son  the  property  and  distinc- 
tion of  the  family.  This  was  his  whole  dream  of  immortality.  He  had 
looked  on  Mark's  Whiggery  as  rather  a  good  thing — both  parties  would 
be  represented  in  the  firm.  He  was  rather  glad  of  his  sudden  religious 
turn  for  the  reason  assigned  in  Watt's  hymn,  that  it  would  save  him 
^'from  a  thousand  snares,  to  mind  religion  young."  When  he  got  old  he 
could  take  care  of  himself.  At  present  Colonel  Bonamy  thought  it  a 
good  thing  in  that  it  would  check  a  tendency  to  dissipation  that  had 
given  him  uneasiness.  He  had  thought  favourably  of  Boxy  in  turn  as 
an  antidote  to  the  Texan  fever,  and  as  one  likely  to  make  an  economi- 
cal wife,  and  restrain  all  wrong  tendencies  in  her  husband.  For  Colo- 
nel Bonamy  hated  all  sin  that  interfered  with  success  and  no  other. 
But  now  this  Texas  fool's-errand  was  a  rook  likely  to  wreck  all  his  hopes 
and  send  him  into  old  age  disappointed  and  defeated. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  during  the  last  week  before  the  coming  of  the 
<<  Duke  of  Orleans,"  every  sort  of  persuasion,  scolding,  contention,  per- 


788  ROXY. 

cdstent  worrying  and  continual  badgeiing  were  put  in  force  against  the 
young  people,  to  weary  them  oat  of  their  purpose  t  Offers  of  prop^ty, 
persuasions  by  Mrs.  Hanks,  coaxings  by  Janet,  remonstrances  by  Mr. 
Adams,  were  brought  to  the  front  through  the  scheming  of  the  coloneL 
But  in  vain.  Boxy  would  not  disobey  the  heavenly  voice  for  any  en- 
treaty ;  and  Mark  also  good-naturedly  credited  himself  with  much  mar- 
tyr-like endurance.  He  had  gone  too  far  to  jdeld  now.  Though,  indeed, 
lying  lazily  there  in  the  quiet  coolness  of  the  old  brick  house,  listening 
to  the  rustle  of  the  poplar  leaves,  hearing  the  old  long  clock  ticking 
slowly  its  sixty  beats  a  minute,  soothed  by  the  '^  chook,  chook  ! "  of  the 
red'bird  under  the  window,  and  the  distant  music  of  the  blue-bird  on 
the  fence-stakes,  flattered  by  the  loving  devotion  of  the  most  superb  wo- 
man he  had  ever  known,  there  were  times  when  he  wished  that  he 
and  Boxy  might  give  over  the  hardness  of  Texas  and  remain  in  the 
comfort  and  dignity  that  surrounded  them.  He  might  even  have  pro- 
posed the  matter  tentatively  to  Boxy,  had  it  not  been  for  a  fear  of  annoy- 
ance from  Nancy  Kirtley.  He  was  young,  active  and  at  times  zeal- 
ous. Toil  and  hardship  he  could  endure^  but  annoyance,  entanglement 
and  perplexity  were  grievous  to  him. 

As  for  Boxy,  she  was  in  ever-deepening  trouble.  Her  father's  scold- 
ings and  persuasions  disturbed,  her  aunt's  preachment  angered  her.  She 
could  not  look  at  Bobo,  whose  education  must  now  be  arrested  entirely, 
without  the  bitterest  regret  The  poor  fellow  seemed  to  have  caught 
some  vague  notion  of  the  impending  trouble,  from  words  he  had  heard. 

"  What  will  Bobo  do  when  Boxy's  gone  ? "  she  heard  him  repeat  de- 
jectedly, but  whether  he  fully  understood  a  saying  that  he  echoed  in  this 
way  she  could  not  tell.  Sometimes  a  sharp  pang  of  doubt  crossed  her 
mind  whether  it  were  her  duty  to  leave  the  little  garden  of  Bobo's  mind 
to  cultivate  an  unpromising  patch  in  the  great  wilderness  of  heathen- 
dom. But  then  the  great  thought  of  soul-saving  perplexed  her  logic  as 
it  has  that  of  many  another.  Bobo  would  go  to  heaven  anyhow,  but 
how  about  the  people  in  Texas  ?  Then,  too,  there  was  Mark's  ability  of 
which  she  more  and  more  felt  herself  the  keeper.  She  must  not  thwart 
his  great  destiny.  But  in  all  these  perplexities  she  had  to  stand  alone. 
She  could  not  support  herself  on  Mark ;  his  heroic  resolutions  leaned 
more  and  more  for  support  upon  her.  She  could  not  go  to  Twonnet 
There  was  no  one  to  ask. 

Colonel  Bonamy  was  restrained  by  his  conventional  gallantry  from 
scolding  Boxy,  but  no  gallantry  kept  him  from  scolding  at  her.  And 
no  gallantry  checked  the  innuendoes  of  Amanda,  who  held  Boxy  a  sort 
of  intruder  in  the  family.  But  Amanda  heartily  hoped  that  Mark  would 
take  himself  off  to  Texas  if  he  Wanted  to  go.  She  did  not  care  to  have 
either  him  or  his  wife  at  home  to  interfere  with  her  mastery  of  things^ 


Koxv.  78£^ 

And,  indeed,  the  haughtiness  of  Amanda  did  not  disturb  Roxy  so  mud?^ 
as  the  tearful  entreaties  of  Janet,  whom  she  loved  now  with  her  whole 
girl's  heart  Janet  came  into  the  place  that  Twonnet  had  occupied* 
She  had  so  taken  her  colour  from  Roxy  that  she  had  even  braved  her 
sister's  scorn  in  making  an  attempt  to  take  up  the  teaching  of  Bobo. 
But  no  patience  or  tact  less  than  Rox/s  could  effect  that  ^ 

Along  with  all  of  Roxy's  other  troubles  she  found  herself  a  prey  to  ' 
what  seemed  to  her  a  mean  feeling,  and  this  was  a  new  and  bitter  ex>- 
perience  for  one  struggling  to  lead  the  highest  and  most  ideal  life.  She 
was  unable  any  more  to  think  of  that  dark  Kirtley  girl  with  composure. 
It  pained  her  to  recall  how  lustrous  were  her  block  eyes,  how  magnifi- 
cent her  tout  ensemble.  What  truth  was  there  behind  Colonel  Bonamy's 
hints  ?  Had  Nancy  Kirtley  any  claim  on  Mark  1  Her  growing  know- 
ledge of  the  vain  and  self-indulgent  element  in  her  husband's  disposition 
did  not  re-assure  her.  The  only  feeling  in  her  heart  that  rivaled  her  re- 
ligious devotion  was  her  passionate  love  for  Mark,  and  in  proportion  to 
her  love  was  her  desire  to  be  sure  of  her  entire  possession.  Lurking  in 
a  dark  comer  of  her  mind  into  which  she  herself  was  afraid  and  ashamed 
to  look,  was  a  suspicion  that  served  as  a  spur  to  her  pious  resolution  to 
carry  the  Texas  n^ssion  into  execution  at  once. 

The  farewell  meeting  was  duly  appointea  to  be  held  on  the  last  Sun- 
day that  Mark  -was  to  be  in  Luzerne,  but  on  Saturday  morning  Haz 
Kirtley's  dray  rattled  up  in  front  of  Colonel  Bonamy's  door.  The  dray- 
man called  Mark  out  and  told  him  that  '*  the  w'arf-master  had  just 
heerd  from  the  *  Duke.'  She  laid  all  last  night  at  Warsaw  takin*  on  a 
hundred  bar'ls  of  whisky,  and  would  be  down  this  evenin'  about  four 
o'clock." 

So  the  farewell  meeting  must  be  given  up.  Haz  was  to  call  for  the 
boxes  and  trunks  at  two  o*olock  that  afternoon. 

As  for  Nancy,  she  was  not  capable  of  forming  any  plan  for  detaining 
Mark  except  that  of  trying  to  regain  her  influence  over  him,  and  this 
seemed  impossible  since  he  steadily  avoided  meeting  her,  and  she  waa 
dreadfully  afraid  on  her  port  of  a  collision  with  the  Colonel.  But  when 
at  last  she  heard  that  Mark  was  about  going  she  determined  at  least  to 
gratify  the  resentment  of  wounded  vanity.  She  put  the  Testament  and 
the  watch-seal  in  her  pocket  and  took  her  stand  on  the  wharf-boat  at 
noon.  When  all  the  curiosity-seekers  and  all  the  church  members 
should  stand  around  to  tell  Brother  Bonamy  good-bye,  she  would  make 
her  speech,  exhibit  her  trophies  and  thus  ^'  send  that  hateful  Adams 
girl  away  with  the  biggest  kind  of  a  bumble-bee  in  her  bonnet."  And 
so  for  hours  she  paced  up  and  down  the  wharf  waiting  for  the  arrival  of 
the  "  Duke  of  Orleans." 

The  persistent  Colonel  Bonamy  had  not  shown  his  usual  self-control 


790  ROXY. 

in  his  present  defeat  Perhaps  this  was  because  it  was  the  most  notable 
and  exasperating  overthrow  he  had  known  ;  perhaps  some  oncoming 
nervons  weakness — some  gradual  giving  way  of  brain-texture — in  a 
man  of  sixty,  whose  life  had  been  one  of  continual  strain  and  excite- 
ment, had  something  to  do  with  it.  At  any  rate  he  now  lost  all  self- 
,  restraint ;  and  what  was  the  more  remarkable,  even  something  of  his 
sense  of  conventional  propriety.  He  stormed,  and  at  last  raved,  at  both 
Mark  and  Roxy. 

**  Never  expect  me  to  help  you.  Never  expect  me  to  write  to  you. 
Never  come  back  here  again.  I  will  not  have  anything  to  do  with  you. 
You  are  no  son  of  mine.     I  renounce  you,  now  and  forever  1 " 

"  Ob,  please,  sir,"  said  Roxy,  "  please  don't  feel  that  way.  We  are 
only  trying  to  do  our  duty.  Mark  loves  you,  and  I  love  you.  Please 
forgive  us  for  giving  you  so " 

*'  Begone  !  *'  She  had  taken  hold  of  his  arm  in  her  earnestness,  and 
he  now  shook  off  her  hand  as  though  it  W(*re  a  snake.  For  either  be- 
cause there  was  a  possibility  of  feeling  on  his  part,  or  becanse  there  was 
not,  Colonel  Bonamy  could  not  endure  to  have  any  appeal  made  to  his 
emotions.  "  Br  gone  !  I  don't  want  to  see  or  hear  of  you  again.  Get 
out  of  the  house  at  once  ! " 

It  was  alrearly  time  to  go.  Mr.  Adams  stood  gloomily  on  the  wharf- 
boat,  waiting  to  see  his  Iphigenia  sacrificed.  He  would  not  go  to 
Bonamy's,  because  he  thought  the  family  had  a  sense  of  condescension 
toward  him.  Mrs.  Hanks  had  taken  Bobo  to  the  river  to  see  Koxy 
leave.  Jemima  was  there.  So  was  T  won  net,  with  her  little  brothers 
and  sisters  ;  Adolphe  was  throwing  sticks  into  the  water,  in  order  to 
hear  Bobo  chuckle  at  seeing  these  tiny  rafts  float  away  on  the  bitMul 
current.  There  was  an  ever-increasing  crowd  on  the  wharf  to  see  Mark 
leave.  Mr.  Dale,  the  Methodist  preacher,  and  the  chief  brethren  were 
there  ;  and  Lathers  stood  alongside  the  melancholy  and  abstracted  Mr. 
Whittaker,  explaining  to  that  gentleman  the  good  Presbyterian  influen- 
ces under  which  he  had  been  reared,  and  how  his  mother  had  raised 
him  in  the  nursery  and  admonition  of  the  Lord,  like  Mary  Ann,  the 
mother  of  Moses,  and  the  like,  you  know.  And  ever  as  the  crowd  in- 
creased the  Rooky  Fork  beauty,  with  that  precious  bumble-bee  in  her 
head  which  she  meant  to  put  in  Roxy's  bonnet  when  the  time  came, 
slunk  away  down  one  of  the  aisles  between  a  row  of  bales  of  hay,  where, 
half  hidden  in  the  obscurity,  she  could  keep  a  good  watch  for  the  arrival 
of  Mark  and  his  wife.  And  several  people  in  the  crowd  busied  them- 
selves with  suggesting  that  Colonel  Bonamy  would  not  come  to  the 
w'arf.  Grandma  Tartrum  had  been  seized  that  very  day  with  an  attack 
of  "  the  rheumatics,"  and  had  to  deny  herself  the  fun  of  seeing  the  de- 
parture.   But  she  bad  sent  a  faithful  reporter  in  the  person  of  her  little 


ROXY.  791 

grandson,  Zeb,  whose  naturd  gift  for  eavesdropping  and  noising  had 
been  much  sharpened  by  judicious  training. 

The  last  struggle  almost  overcame  even  Roxy*s  constancy.  What 
right  had  a  son  to  tear  himself  away  from  an  old  father  ?  Ic  was  a  hard 
law  that  a  man  must  hate  father  and  mother  for  the  Lord's  sake.  It 
was  to  her  like  performing  an  amputation.  All  her  strength  was  gone, 
and  there  was  yet  the  awful  parting  from  her  own  father,  and  the  fare- 
well forever  to  Bobo  and  to  Twonnet,  in  store  for  her.  She  hesitated. 
Mark  was  not  so  much  affected  ;  he  was  accustomed  to  suspect  an  ulterior 
aim  in  all  that  his  father  did,  and  he  doubted  the  reality  of  his  anger. 
It  was  but  for  a  moment  that  the  heart  of  Roxy  faltered ;  then  the  duty 
of  leaving  all  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven's  sake^  the  Macedonian  cry  of 
lost  souls  in  the  wilderness,  the  loyalty  to  her  Christ-service,  all  came 
back  to  fortify  her  resolution.  Meantime  Colonel  Bonamy,  having 
given  lein  to  his  passion,  could  not  or  would  not  restrain  himsdf  but 
raved  like  a  man  demented. 

"  Tell  me  good-bye,  won't  you  I "  pleaded  Roxy,  going  up  to  him  at 
the  very  last  moment,  with  the  assurance  of  one  who  was  born  to  exert 
an  influence  on  people. 

"I  will  not!  Out  with  you  I'*  cried  Colonel  Bonamy  in  a  hoarse 
staccato. 

Bidding  Amanda  and  Janet  farewell,  Roxy  turned  to  Mark,  who  had 
become  calmer  as  his  fathef  grew  more  stormy.  Mark's  intellect  always 
grew  clearer  and  his  will  more  direct  io  a  time  of  trial.  With  perfect 
quietness  he  took  leave  of  his  sisters  and  started  out  the  door,  never  so 
much  as  looking  at  his  father.  The  carriage  had  been  ordered  back  to 
the  stable  by  the  wrathful  colonel,  and  there  was  nothing  now  for  the 
young  people  but  to  walk  to  the  landing. 

"Oood-bye,  father  Bonamy,"  said  Roxy,  turning  her  head  regretfully 
toward  him  as  she  reached  the  door. 

The  old  roan  turned.  Whether  he  meant  to  speak  kindly  or  fiercely 
Roxy  could  not  tell.  He  only  said  '*  Roxy  i "  and  came  toward  her. 
Mark,  knowing  his  father's  pertinacity,  trembled  inwardly,  with  a  fear 
of  some  new  form  of  attack.  Would  the  old  man  say  more  about  that 
Kirtley  matter  1  But  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Roxy,  he  reeled. 
Mark  ran  toward  him  too  late.  He  fell  at  full  length  upon  the  floor, 
unconscious.  Mark  lifted  him  to  the  bed,  and  Roxy  stood  over  him, 
with  a  remorseful  feeling  that  she  bad  somehow  struck  him  down  herself. 


792  BOXY. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  "DUKE  OF  ORLEAN&" 

At  a  little  before  four  o'clock  the  "  Buke  of  Orleans  "  came  around  the 
head  of  the  island.  She  was  one  of  the  typical ''  lower  country  "  boats 
of  that  day.  The  mail  boats  were  built  light  of  draught,  and,  for  that 
time,  swift  of  speed ;  the  stern-wheelers  and  the  insignificant,  old. 
fashioned  "  chicken-thieves  "  were  stUl  lighter.  But  the  lower  country 
boat  was  heavy  in  build,  deep  in  draught,  slow  in  the  revolution  of  her 
wheels  ;  with  a  sturdy  bull-dog  look  when  seen  in  front,  and  an  elephan- 
tine solemnity  of  motion  when  viewed  at  broadside,  the  wheels  seeming 
to  pause  at  each  semi-revolution.     The  lower  country  boat  of  that  day 

defied  all  time-tables.  She  started  whenever  she  was  ready,  and  she 
stopped  as  often  andas  long  as  she  found  occasion.  The  arrival  of  a 
New  Orleans  boat  at  the  wharf  of  one  of  the  river  towns  at  this  time 
of  the  year  was  a  great  event  It  was  only  in  an  exceptional  season 
that  there  was  water  enoug'h  in  tlie  channel  for  such  craft  above  the 
falls  of  the  Ohio  in  October. 

Now  that  the  boat  had  actually  come  around  the  island,  the  fact  that 
Mark  and  Roxy  were  not  anywhere  yet  to  be  seen  was  a  great  disap- 
pointment to  people  on  the  wharf.     They  were,  perhaps,  to  be  cheated 
out  of  their  spectacle ;  they  would  not  see  Roxy*s  tears,  nor  any  of  the 
other  entertaining  things  they  had  a  right   to  expect.    Mr.   Adams 
moved  testily  to  and  fro,  fearing  he  knew  not  what.     Twonnet  strained 
her  eyes  up  Ferry  street  in  vain ;  Granny  Tartrum's  boy,  Zeb,  was  ex- 
ceedingly active  in  the  effort  to  find  out  what  it  all  stood  for ;  and  Uie 
wharf  master's  little  brown  dog  dashed  about  in  a  wav  that  showed  how 
keenly  he  also  felt  that  a  crisis  had  come,  and  that  something  ought  to 
be  done.     The  "  Duke  "  approached  with  majestic  tardiness,  her  captain 
ringing  the  great  bell  on  the  hurricane  deck  in  a  slow  and  imperious 
fashion.     He  rang  five  great  taps,  which  were  echoed  faintly  in  the 
distant  hills.     If  he  had  stopped  at  three,  it  would  have  signified  that 
he  intended  only  to  send  out  the  yawl  for  his  passengers ;  but  the  five 
solemn  tolls  were  the  Rign  of  a  landing.     Then  the  boat  '*  rounded  to,** 
— brought  her  bow  round  so  as  to  point  her  head  upward  against  the 
stream.     The  line  was  thrown  out  to  the  wharf-boat  and  caught  by  the 
wharf- master,  who,  with  Haz  Kirtley's  help,  quickly  took  a  turn  with  it 
round  the  check-post     This  important  operation  was  vigilantly  superb- 
tended  by  the  little  brown  dog,  who,  with  tail  in  the  air,  ran  round  the 
check-post  till  the  line  was  made  fast,  and  then  dashed  away  to  attend 
>lo  the  running  out  of  the  "  walk-plank.'' 

Here  was  the  boat  and  here  the  baggage ;  but  the  passengers  were 


BOXY.  798 

not.  But  DOW  came  galloping  down  tbe  street  an  old  negro,  appendage 
from  time  immemorial  of  the  Bonamy  family,  who  rode  his  plongh- 
faorse  to  a  most  unwonted  speed  as  he  sat  with  legs  projecting  forward 
and  outward,  holding  to  the  reins  of  his  bridle  with  one  hand,  while  he 
gripped  the  mane  with  the  other  to  keep  himself  from  being  thrown  by 
the  awkward  plunges  of  the  stiff  old  animal.  This  spectacle  set  all  the 
«mall'  boys  laughing  at  Uncle  Bob,  and  the  attention  of  the  crowd  was 
divided  between  the  negro  and  the  steamboat  Reining  his  horse  in  the 
very  edge  of  the  river,  the  old  man  called  out : 

'*  I  say,  dah  I     Is  de  doctah  on  boa'd  dah  1  ** 

The  doctor  was  soon  brought  to  the  front  of  the  crowd  on  the  wharf- 
boat 

^  I  say,  dah !  Doctah  !  de  cunnel's  done  had  a  stroke,  or  sumpin. 
Tumbled  right  down  in  middle  ob  de  flo'.  Oit  on  heah  and  go  quick. 
Be  mighty  spry  now,  I  say,  else  you  won't  see  no  cunnel  when  ye  git 
dah.     He  done  be  dead  afo'  ye  git  dah." 

The  doctor  took  the  negro's  place,  and  the  horse  was  soon  charging 
back  again  through  the  town,  while  the  steamboat  captain  with  reluct- 
ance pulled  in  his  line  and  left  without  his  passengers.  The  crowd  felt 
that  a  serious  illness  on  the  part  of  Colonel  Bonamy  repaid  them  but 
poorly  for  their  disappointment ;  but  they  fell  at  once  to  making  the 
most  of  it,  by  disputing  whether  it  was  Colonel  Bonamy  who  had  been 
struck  by  Mark,  or  Mark  who  bad  been  struck  by  apoplexy.  Granny 
Tartrum's  little  boy  ran  home  breathkss  to  tell  about  it;  and,  rheu- 
matics or  no  rheumatics,  the  old  lady  felt  herself  called  upon  to  hobble 
into  the  street  and  assail  the  passers-by  with  all  sorts  of  questions  about 
the  case.     Who  struck  whom  t     What  .was  it  ?    Was  he  likely  to  live  f 

As  the  fact  came  to  be  known  with  clearness,  some  folks  thought  it  a 
sin  and  a  shame  for  a  son  to  disobey  his  father,  and  be  the  death  of  him 
in  that  way.  Pretty  Christian  he  was,  wasn't  he,  to  be  sure,  now,  for 
certain. 

Some  of  the  more  lugubrious  were  sure  that  it  was  a  judgment 
Wasn't  Uzzah  slain  for  putting  his  hand  upon  the  ark  of  Ood  1  Didn't 
Ananias  and  Sapphire  die  for  lying  ?  Colonel  Bonaroy'd  learn  not  to 
oppose  Grod,  and  it  was  good  for  him,  and  served  him  right  besides,  and 
was  no  more  than  he  deserved,  over  and  above. 

Nancy  went  home,  carrying  the  bumblebee  with  her,  but  vowing 
ahe'd  pay  'em  up.  She  somehow  looked  upon  Colonel  Bonamy's  stroke 
as  one  of  the  means  taken  to  defeat  her  by  the  family.  But  she'd  pay 
'em  up,  yet  Oive  her  half  a  chance,  and  she'd  git  Mark  away  from 
that  Adams  girL  Roxy  Adams  wasn't  no  great  shakes  that  all  the 
town  should  turn  out  to  see  her  off,  now.     It  might  better  have  been 


794?  ROXY. 

herself  than  Roxy.     She  wouldn't  have  minded  gnng  to  Texas  with 
Mark. 

And  Whittaker,  who  had  observed  Nancy's  carious  behaviour  on  the 
wharf-boat,  went  home,  putting  this  and  that  together,  troubling  him- 
self with  forebodings  about  Sozy's  future,  and  with  griefs  about  his 
own  disappointment,  and  with  questions  whether  he  had  done  quite 
right  or  not.  He,  at  least,  had  a  bumble-bee  in  his  head  for  he  walked 
the  floor  of  the  upper  porch  half  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A  MONITOR  IN   MASK. 

The  next  day  after  the  passage  of  the  '*  Duke  of  Orleans  "  being  Sun- 
day, Mother  Tartum  contrived  to  keep  the  most  conflicting  rumours  a- 
going  in  regard  to  the  condition  of  Colonel  Bonamy.  She  stood  at  the 
gate  all  day,  hailing  the  negro  messenger,  the  doctor  going,  Uie  doctor 
returning,  and  everybody  else,  in  turn,  hearing  where«they  had  infor- 
mation or  thought  they  had,  and  telling  her  latest,  where  they  had 
none. 

On  Monday  morning  Whittaker  rose,  after  a  sleepless  night,  and 
thought  it  his  duty  to  call  at  Colonel  Bonamy*6,  and  inquire  after  his 
health.  If,  perchance  he  were  dead  of  apoplexy,  the  minister  could 
condole  with  the  family,  and  if  he  were  better,  he  might  sympathize 
with  the  patient.  Anyhow,  he  would  have  a  chance  to  speak  with 
Mark  about  his  plans  of  life,  and*  he  might  happen  to  meet — say  Aman- 
da, or  Janet,  or — or  well,  yes^  but  that  wp-  not  to  be  desired  at  all ; 
though  he  might,  by  some  strange  accident,  e  Boxy  herself*  He  did 
not  admit  to  himself  that  the  dull  agony  th  .  had  kept  him  awake  the 
livelong  night,  promised  to  be  quieted  a  liti  • ,  if  that  he  could  but  look 
into  the  face  of  Boxy  and  hear  her  voice. 

It  was  Boxy  whom  he  met  at  the  door,  and  who  was  startled  at  the 
wan  look  of  his  face.  She  asked  him  to  sit  on  the  vine-covered  front  porch, 
and  she  told  him  in  answer  to  his  enquiries,  that  Colonel  Bonamy  was  ly- 
ing quietly  asleep  in  his  room  at  the  right ;  thkt  he  had  had  a  stroke  of 
pv^ysis  from  apoplexy ;  that  his  right  side  was  quite  powerless,  but 
they  hoped  he  would  recover.  She  was  dressed  in  a  fresh  calico,  and 
her  exertions  for  the  sick  man  had  brought  back  a  little  of  the  wonted 
look  of  peace,  benevolence  and  hopefulness  to  her  face.  When  she 
could  act  in  the  direction  natural  to  her,  she  was  happy — when  her 
energetic  spirit  was  thwarted  it  became  an  energetic  temper ;  and  Uie 
conflict  between  her  irritability  and  her  conscience  produced  the  most 


ROXY.  795 

morbid  fitfulness  of  disposition.  But  now  she  oould  act  with  certainty 
and  in  straight  lines  again. 

'"You  will  not  go  to  Texas  yet  1 "  said  Mr.  Whittaker. 

"  We  do  not  know  anything  about  the  future.  Our  duty  is  very  plain 
for  the  present."  And  Roxy  put  an  emphasis  on  the  last  words  that  ex- 
pressed her  content  at  the  present  release  from  the  complexities  of  her 
life  since  her  marriage. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Whittaker/'  said  Janet.  "  Papa  is  awake  now, 
and  we  can't  understand  what  he  wants.  Boxy,  you'll  have  to  come. 
He  says  he  wants  '  Eoly,'  or  something  of  the  sort." 

With  hasty  "  excuse  me,"  and  a  "  good  morning,"  Roxy  disappeared 
through  the  hall  into  the  room  of  the  sick  man. 

"  Poor  pappy  I  "  said  Janet,  adhering  to  the  older  speech  of  the  coun- 
try in  saying  "  pappy  "  "  he  is  unable  to  speak  plain,  and  he  forgets  the 
names  of  things.  But  Roxy  guesses  what  he  wants,  and  he  won't  have 
anybody  about  him  but  her.  I  suppose  he  meant  her  when  he  said 
*  Roly  '  just  now.  He  calls  me  *  Jim.'  But  the  doctor  thinks  he'll  get 
well.     If  he  does,  it  will  be  from  Roxy's  nursing." 

Mr.  Whittaker  rose  to  depart,  but  just  then  Mark  came  out,  and  the 
two  walked  down  between  the  Lombardies  together.  They  were  a  fair 
contrast, — Whit  taker's  straight  form,  rather  light  complexion,  studious 
and  scrupulous  look,  with  Mark's  well-nourished  figure,  waving  black 
hair,  and  face  that  betokened  a  dangerous  love  of  ease  and  pleasure.  He 
told  Whittaker  that  this  stroke  of  his  father's  would  perhaps  do  away 
entirely  with  the  project  of  going  to  Texas.  He  would  have  to  take 
<;harg6  of  his  father's  business  until  his  recovery. 

"  Yon  will  probably  enter  the  ministry  here  in  Indiana  then?"  said 
Whittaker. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

Whittaker  thought  he  saw  that  Mark's  plans  were  already  turning  to 
other  things.  For,  indeed,  Mark  felt  that  now  he  was  relieved  from 
any  committal  to  the  public  or  to  Roxy  in  the  matter  of  ministerial 
-work,  he  would  rather  enter  upon  the  tempting  field  of  activity  opened 
up  by  the  passing  into  his  hands  of  his  father's  business. 

The  sight  of  Roxy  had  b<>en  a  pleasure  to  Whittaker,  but  five  minutes 
in  the  sunshine  only  makes  a  coal-pit  the  blacker.  He  went  home, 
thinking  that,  after  all,  paralysis  of  the  body  was  better  than  his  own 
paralysis  of  heart  and  purpose.  But  to  shake  off  his  lethargy  was  a 
difficult  thing.  His  congregation  was  small,  and  did  not  occupy  his  time. 
His  efforts  at  study  were  vague  and  vain.  He  had  been  fond  of  dab- 
'  bling  in  langaage-stady,  bat  even  his  love  of  languages  had  died  within 
him,  and  he  turned  the  leaves  of  his  dictionaries  and  thought  of  ^xy, 
4ind  dreamed  of  might-1'.ave-beens  without  number. 


1 


796  ROXY. 

Od  the  afternooD  of  this  same  day,  he  sat  with  his  head  leaning  oat 
of  the  window.  There  was  a  copy  of  Bossaet's  "Orabons  Fun^ 
bres ''  by  his  side,  but  even  that  funeite  reading  could  not  attract 
his  attention.  He  had  too  real  a  sense  of  the  fact  that  life  was  in- 
deed nSant,  n^ant,  to  care  for  Bossnet's  pompous  parade  of  its  mag- 
nificent nothingness.  For  Bossuet  manages  to  make  nothingness 
seem  to  be  something  grand  and  substantial — even  royal  One  would 
be  willing  to  be  a  king,  for  the  sake  of  feeling  this  sublime  nothingnesa 
and  vanity  that  he  deBoribes  so  picturesquely. 

Whittaker  was  leaning  thus  out  of  the  window,  and  dreamily  gazing 
at  the  pale  green  sycamores  that  will  grow  nowhere  but  fast  by  the 
river  of  waters,  when  there  lighted  on  his  head  with  a  sudden  blow,  a 
paper  ball.  He  started,  looked  upward.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen 
but  the  ^rret  window  in  the  gable  above.  But  he  had  hardly  looked 
away  before  another  ball  descended  upon  him.  He  knew  very  well  what 
sprite  had  thrown  them.  He  looked  away  again,  this  time  with  a 
smile ;  then  turning  his  eyes  upward  again,  he  caught  the  third  paper 
missile  full  on  the  nose,  and  caught  sight  of  the  mischief-fuU  face  of 
Twonnet,  just  as  it  was  disappearing,  with  a  sharp  little  cry  of  **  Oh  !  ** 
at  seeing  where  the  ball  had  struck. 

**  You  are  caught,"  he  said,  and  then  the  blushing  face  re-appeared,^ 
looking  exceedingly  sweet,  draped  as  it  was  by  long  curls  hanging  for- 
ward  as  she  leaned  out  of  the  window,  like  Dante  Rossetti's  "  Blessed 
Pamozel  "  looking  out  of  heaven. 

**  I  wouldn't  have  done  it,"  she  said,  "  but  you  looked  so  like  a  fune- 
ral to-day.     I  don't  like  to  see  you  that  way." 
"  How  can  I  help  it,  Twonnet  ? " 
Her  face  was  serious  a  moment.     Then  she  laughed. 
*'  To  think  that  you  would  ask  advice  of  such  a  giddy  rattle-pate  as 
me.     Everybody  knows  that  I'm  only  a  mischievous  little  fool  with  a 
shallow  head,  and  besides  I'm  only  a  child,  as  you  know.     See  here  !  "^ 
She  held  a  doll  out  of  the  window.     "  I've  never  quite  given  up  doU- 
babies  yet.     I  keep  this  old  thing  hid  away  in  this  end  of  the  garret 
where  nobody  else  ever  comes,  and  I  slip  up  here  sometimes  and  play 
with  it  till  I  feel  like  a  goose,  and  then  I  go  down-stairs  and  try  to  be 
a  woman.     I  wish   I  had  sense  enough  and  I  would  give  you  some 
advice." 

"  You've  got  more  sense  than  you  pretend  to  have.  It  might  have 
been  better  for  two  or  three  people  if  I'd  followed  your  advice  and  not 
Highbury's,  before.  If  you  wont  hit  me  with  any  more  paper  balls  111 
listen  to  anything  you  say.  Some  things  are  revealed  to — litUe  children.*' 
<<  There,  you  call  me  a  babe !  That's  worse  than  all  Now  the 
advice  I  have  to  give  is  serious  and  I'm  not  ready  yet.     You  ought  to 


iioxY.  797 

hear  it  from  some   one  older  than   I  am.'*    And  she  withdrew  her 
head. 

Whittaker  wondered  what  she  meant.  Was  she  waiting  to  frame 
into  words  what  she  had  to  say  ?  Or,  was  she  trying  to  get  courage  to 
say  what  she  thought  ?  Or,  was  she  making  game  of  him  as  she  had  of 
Highbury  ? 

In  a  minute  there  appeared  at  the  garret  window  the  face  of  an  old 
woman  in  frilled  white  cap  and  spectacles  and  a  red  neckerchief.  The 
face  seemed  wrinkled  and  the  voice  was  quivering  and  cracked.  The 
words  were  uttered  slowly  and  solemnly  and  with  a  pronunciation  a 
little  broken  with  a  French  accent. 

"  You  must  not  think  about  her  now.  It  is  very  bad.  It  will  do  harm 
to  everybody.  Get  to  work,  and  put  far  away  these  evil  thoughts  and 
wishes  that  can  do  no  good.  She  is  his,  and  you  must  not  think  about 
her." 

The  head  had  disappeared  before  Whittaker  could  realize  that  it  was^ 
but  Twonnet  in  masquerade.  He  felt  vexed  to  think  she  had  guessed 
the  secret  of  his  thoughts.  Then  he  was  lost  in  wonder  at  the  keen 
penetration  and  deep  seriousness  hidden  under  this  volatile  exterior ; 
and  he  was  annoyed  that  she  had  ventured  to  rebuke  him,  a  minister,, 
and  to  imply  that  he  was  likely  to  go  wrong.  Then  he  honestly  tried  to 
see  the  truth  of  what  she  said.  At  any  rate  he  resolved  to  think  no- 
more  of  Roxy. 

But  when  the  human  mind  gets  down  hub-deep  into  a  rut  of  thinking 
it  is  hard  to  lift  it  out.  He  could  not  study,  or  walk,  or  talk,  without 
this  numb  paralysis  of  wishing  and  thinking  creeping  over  him.  It  was 
in  vain  that  he  studied  the  tables  of  Italian  definitions  hung  about  his 
room ;  he  could  not  remember  them.  He  preferred  reading  Petrarch's 
sonnets  to  Lady  Laura,  which  he  had  forbidden  himself.  This  struggle 
went  on  for  two  days.  Twonnet  did  not  take  any  notice  of  it.  She 
laughed  and  sang  French  rondeaux  and  English  songs,  and  gambolled 
with  the  children,  and  chatted  in  superficial  fashion  with  Mr.  Whittaker,. 
and  scolded  at  things  about  the  house  that  went  wrong,  until  he  was 
more  than  ever  puzzled  by  this  doubleness.  He  could  not  explain  it, 
and  he  contented  himself  with  calling  her  in  his  thoughts  '^  that  witch  of 
a  girl."  He  would  have  been  yet  more  perplexed  had  he  known  that 
after  her  merriest  laughter  and  her  wildest  frolics  with  the  children,  and 
her  most  bubbling  and  provoking  banter,  she  would  now  and  then  elude 
the  little  sister  "  Teet "  in  some  dark  corner,  and  escape  to  the  garret, 
where  she  could  have  a  good  cry  under  the  rafters.  Then  she  would 
take  up  the  old  doll  and  caress  it,  saying,  as  the  tears  slowly  dropped 
upon  it : 

**  Nobody  cares  for  me.    Everybody  loves  Roxy  because  she  is  good  ;. 


798 


BOXY. 


but  nobody  loves  Twonnet — poor,  wild,  foolish,  empty-headed  Twroniiolii 
Nobody  loves  me  but  you,  old  dolly." 

And  all  this  in  the  teeth  and  eyes  of  the  fact  that  Dan  Barlow,  Afi 
newly-arrived  young  lawyer,  had  walked  home  with  her  from  chorch  jdw 
Sunday  evening  before,  and  that  more  than  one  other  would  have  crfTarol 
her  company  at  any  time  if  there  had  not  been  a  sly  twinkle  in  her  qf^ 
that  made  them  afraid  of  Twonnet's  ridicule.  But  she  cried  in  tbia  in- 
consistent fashion,  and  declared  that  nobody  loved  her.  And  £▼• 
minutes  after  she  would  be  dashing  about  the  house,  broom  in  hmid, 
singing  in  a  wild,  reckless,  cat-bird-Uke  cheerfulness : 

'*  Every  lassie  has  her  laddie 
Ne*er  a  ane  hae  I." 

But  beneath  all  this  mirth  and  banter  of  the  girl,  Whittaker  kiiQV 
now  that  there  lay  the  deep  seriousness  of  the  woman.     How  deep  wbA 
serious  her  nature  might  be  he  could  not  tell.     Conscience,  shrewdness^ 
courage — these  he  had  seen.     What  else  was  there  ?    At  any  rate  hve  . 
knew  that  Twonnet  was  expecting  something  of  him.     The  vivacionSt 
incomprehensible  Swiss  prattler  had  become  a  monitor  to  the  grav#.- 
minister,  all  the  more  efficient  that  she  said  no  more  than  enough.    S% 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  soul  of  the  man  awoke,  and  said  to  itself^ 
*^  Whittaker,  you  are  bad.     You  are  thinking  and  dreaming  about  Mh- 
other  man's  wife  and  what  might  have  been.     This  is  a  good  way  to  fai  - 
worthless  or  wicked.     You  must  get  to  work." 

And  after  a  good  lecture  to  himself  he  said  to  Twonnet : 

"  I  am  going  to  start  a  school.'' 

'<  That's  good ;  I  will  go.     But  I  am  a  dull  scholar.     I  hate  arithmetio^ 
and  all  my  teachers  hate  me." 

That  was  all  the  response  he  got 

(  The  remainder  of  this  Story  wiU  appear  in  the  Rose-Belford's  CanAIOAV- 

Monthly  and  National  Review.) 


r 


M^ 


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CONTENTS  FOB  MAROH.  1878 


L  Glimpses  of  Constantiiiople SAeiUi  //ale.  405 

n.  Shakspere's  "  Henry  VI." z.  c  AiHson,\M.B.  295 

IIL  How  Ham  was  Cored                                               JennU  WopdmUc  450 

IV.  BeaUi  of  Tecmnseh            .  -    .      -                   c,  E,  jakeway,  m,d.  45* 

V,  msraeli's  Horek  -        - Martin  J.  Griffin  459 

VL  My  Daoghter's  Admirers /^^  B.  J>emhry.  if& 

Vn.  The  Spectre  Gnide  of  Mount  Vesavins GwvannL  47S 

vni.  When  I  Grow  Old F^ederUk  A,  Dixon,  49s 

IX.  Locke's  Influenee  on  Civilization     -                          /)r.  c  B.  Haii.  493 

X.  Rosy.    Chapters  XIX,   XX,  XXI,  XXII,  XXIII,  XIV.  Et/ward  Eg^Usim.  5« 
Illastrated. 

XL  The  Elements  and  Growth  of  Talent                            Eiihu  BurHtt,  524 

XIJ.  Current  Uteratnre.     Current  Coin — Series  of  Selections  from  Able  Thinkers  527 

Xm.  Mnsical 5^9 


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I  ^  I 


THE    STORY   OF; 

THE  LIFE  OF  POPE  PWiS  IX. 

'       By  T.  ADOLPHUS   TROLLOPS,  of  ifonaA.^  ^  * 

Crown  8vo.    400  Pages.    Cloth  extra  $1.50. 


The  world  has  been  eagerly  waiting  for  some  years  for  a  Life  of 
Pope  Pius  the  Ninth,  and  here  we  have  it  It  is,  as  the  Author  remarks 
in  his  opening  chapter,  the  history  of  the  Pope,  and  not  of  the  man. 

Mr.  Trollope's  hand,  as  we  have  long  known,  is  imcramped ;  and 
the  work  before  us  gives  no  evidence  of  contracted  ef^timen^  It  is 
written  with  a  freedom  and  fearlessness,  tempered  with  such  an  evident 
desire  to  be  just,  that  it  cannot  fail  to  command  readers  of  all  shades  of 
opinion  in  regard  to  the  patriarchal  occupant  of  the  PohtifiCal  CWr. 

It  can  be  safely  recommended  to  all  classes  of  reaa^  as  cert^  to 
afford  much  exact  information  and  entertainment         ' '      -  '    -        ' 

'•  * '   h-  ■ '    "/  ' 


EVENINGS  IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

By  Geo.  Stewart,  Jr.,  author  of  "  The  Story  of  U^e  Great^  Rre.  in 
St  John,"  etc.     Cloth,  $1. 

"  Evenings  in  the  Library"  contains  graphic  descriptions  and  criti- 
cisms of  the  following  well-known  celebrities : — Carlyl4,  Bryant,  Long- 
fellow, Whittier,  Holmes,  Emerson  and  others.  :    .•   .  / 


IIiDRZSD. 


By  Mary  J.  Holmes,  author  of  **  Edith  Lyle,"  "  Darkness  and 
Daylight,"  "Lena  Rivers,*'  etc,  etc.  Cloth,  $1.00;  Paper,  50  cents. 
No.  4  of  Belford's  Selection  of  American  Authors.        .•  •  !     \ 


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The  Fortnightly  Review 


EDITED   BT 


JOHN    MORLEY. 


.  (^CONTENTS  OF  THE  FEBRUARY  NUMBER. 

I,  English  Foreign  Policy.     By  Emile  de  Laveleye. 
U,  William  Harvey.    By  Professor  HuxtEV. 

III.  Kafir  Lrand.     By  Anthony  Trollope. 

IV.  Lord  Melbourne.    By  Lord  Houghton. 

V.  The  Christian  "Conditions.*    By  the  author  of  Supematwal 
Religion. 

VI.  Victor  Cherbuliez.     By  George  SainTsbury. 

VII.  Ceremonial  Government.    II,    By  Herbert  Spencer. 

VIIL  Florence  and  the  Medici.    By  J.  A  Symonds. 

IX.  Home  and  Foreign  Affairs, 

X«  Books  of  the  Month. 


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MAR  2  5    ^943